The Leopard

by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa

  The latter was in high good humour and sincerely amiable; he and his wife had alighted to express their thanks, and against the tempestuous music of Verdi and the crashing of bells embraced the mayor and shook hands with all the others. The crowd of peasants stood there silent, but their motionless eyes emitted a curiosity that was in no way hostile, for the poor of Donnafugata really did have a certain affection for their tolerant lord who so often forgot to ask for their little rents of kind or money; also, used as they were to seeing the bewhiskered Leopard on the palace façade, on the Church front, above the baroque fountains, on the majolica tiles in their houses, they were glad to set eyes now on the real animal in nankeen trousers, distributing friendly shakes of the paw to all, his features amiably wreathed in feline smiles. “Yes, indeed; everything is the same as before, better, in fact, than before.” Tancredi, too, was the object of great curiosity; though everyone had known him for a long time, now he seemed to them transfigured; no longer did they see him as a mere unconventional youth, but as an aristocratic liberal, companion of Rosolino Pilo, wounded hero of the battle of Palermo. He was swimming in this noisy admiration like a fish in water; these rustic admirers were really rather fun; he talked to them in dialect, joked, laughed at himself and his wounds; but when he said “General Garibaldi” his voice dropped an octave and he put on the rapt look of a choir-boy before the Monstrance; then to Don Calogero Sedàra, of whom he had vaguely heard as being active during the period of the liberation, he said in booming tones, “Ah, Don Calogero, Crispi said lots of nice things to me about you.” After which he gave his arm to his cousin Concetta and moved off, leaving everyone abuzz.

  The carriages, with servants, children and Bendicò, went on to the palace; but according to ancient usage, before the others set foot in their home they had to hear a Te Deum in the Duomo. This was anyway only a few paces off, and they moved there in procession, the new arrivals dusty but imposing, the authorities gleaming but humble. Ahead walked Don Ciccio Ginestra, the prestige of his uniform cleaving a path; he was followed by the Prince giving an arm to the Princess, and looking like a sated and pacified lion; behind them came Tancredi with on his right Concetta, who found this walk towards a church beside her cousin most upsetting and conducive to weepiness: a state of mind in no way alleviated by the dutiful young man’s strong pressure on her arm, though its only purpose, alas, was to save her from potholes and ruts. The others followed in disorder. The organist rushed off so as to have time to deposit Teresina at home and be back at his resonant post at the moment of entry into the church. The bells were clanging away ceaselessly, and on the walls of the houses the slogans of “Viva Garibaldi”, “Viva King Vittorio”, “Death to the Bourbon King”, scrawled by an inexpert brush two months before were fading away as if wanting to merge back into the walls. Squibs were exploding all round as they moved up the steps, and as the little procession entered the church Don Ciccio Tumeo, who had arrived panting but in time, broke impetuously into the strains of Verdi’s Amami, Alfredo.

  The nave was packed with curious idlers between its squat columns of red marble; the Salina family sat in the choir, and during the short ceremony Don Fabrizio got up and made an impressive bow to the crowd; meanwhile the Princess was on the verge of swooning from heat and exhaustion; Tancredi, pretending to brush away flies, grazed more than once Concetta’s blonde head. All was in order and after a short address by Monsignor Trottolino, they all genuflected to the altar, turned towards the doors and issued into the sun-dazed square.

  At the bottom of the steps the authorities took their leave, and the Princess, acting under instructions whispered to her during the ceremony, invited the mayor, the arch-priest and the notary to dine that same evening. The arch-priest was a bachelor by profession and the notary one by vocation, so that for them the question of consorts did not arise; the invitation to the mayor was rather languidly extended to his wife; she was some peasant woman, of great beauty, but considered by her own husband as quite unpresentable in public for a number of reasons; thus no one was surprised at his saying that she was indisposed; but great was the amazement when he added, “If Your Excellencies will allow I’ll bring along my daughter Angelica, who’s been talking for the past month of nothing but her longing to be presented to you now that she’s grown up.” Consent was, of course, given; and the Prince, who had seen Tumeo peering at him from behind the others’ shoulders, called out to him, “You come too, of course, Don Ciccio, and bring Teresina.” And he added, turning to the others, “And after dinner, at nine o’clock, we shall be happy to see all our friends.” For a long time Donnafugata commented on these last words. And the Prince, who had found Donnafugata unchanged, was found very much changed himself; for never before would he have issued so cordial an invitation: and from that moment, invisibly, began the decline of his prestige.

  *

  The Salina palace was next door to the Mother Church. Its short façade with seven windows on the square gave no hint of its vast size, which extended three hundred yards back; the buildings were of different styles, but all harmoniously grouped round three great courtyards ending in a large garden. At the main entrance in the square the travellers were subjected to new demonstrations of welcome. Don Onofrio Rotolo, the family’s local steward, took no part in the official greetings at the entry of the town. Educated under the rigid rule of the Princess Carolina, he considered the “vulgus” as non-existent and the Prince as resident abroad until the moment when he crossed the threshold of his own palace. So there he stood, exactly two steps outside the gates; very small, very old, very bearded, with a much younger and plumper wife standing beside him, flanked by lackeys and eight rangers with golden Leopards on their caps and in their hands eight shot-guns of uncertain damaging power. “I am happy to welcome Your Excellencies to your home. And I beg to hand back the palace in the exact state in which it was left to me.”

  Don Onofrio Rotolo was one of the rare persons held in esteem by the Prince, and perhaps the only one who had never cheated him. His honesty bordered on mania, and spectacular tales were told of it, such as the glass of rosolio wine once left half-full by the Princess at the moment of departure, and found a year later in exactly the same place with its contents evaporated and reduced to a state of sugary lees, but untouched. “For it is an infinitesimal part of the Prince’s patrimony and must not be dispersed.”

  After a proper exchange of greetings with Don Onofrio and Donna Maria the Princess, who was on her feet still only by sheer strength of will, went straight to bed, the girls and Tancredi hurried off to the tepid shade of the gardens, while the Prince and his steward went on a tour of the vast apartments. Everything was in perfect order; the pictures were clear of dust in their heavy frames, the old gilt bindings emitted discreet gleams, the high sun made the grey marbles glitter round the doorposts. Everything was in the state it had been for the last fifty years. Away from the noisy turbine of civil dissent Don Fabrizio felt refreshed, full of serene confidence, and glanced almost tenderly at Don Onofrio trotting along beside him. “Don Onofrio, you’re like one of those djinns standing guard over treasure, really you are; we owe you a great debt of gratitude.” In an earlier year the sentiment might have been the same but the words themselves would never have come to his lips; Don Onofrio looked at him in gratitude and surprise; “My duty, Your Excellency, it’s just my duty,” and to hide his emotion he scratched the back of his ear with the long nail on the little finger of his left hand.

  After this the steward was put to the torture of tea. Don Fabrizio had two cups brought, and with death in his heart Don Onofrio had to swallow one. After this he began to recount the chronicles of Donnafugata: he had renewed the lease for the Aquila land two weeks before, on rather worse terms; he had had to meet heavy expenses for the repairs of the roof in the guest wing; but in the safe, at His Excellency’s disposal, was the sum of three thousand two hundred and seventy-five ounces of gold, after paying all expenses, taxes and his own salary.

 
; Then came the private news, all of which turned round the great novelty of the year: the rapid rise to fortune of Don Calogero Sedàra; six months ago a mortgage arranged by the latter with Baron Tumino had fallen in, and he had gained possession of the estate; thus by the loan of a thousand ounces of gold he now owned a property which yielded five hundred ounces a year; in April Don Calogero had also been able to buy, for practically nothing, a certain piece of land which contained a vein of much sought-after stone that he intended to exploit; he had also made some very profitable sales of grain at the period of confusion and famine after the landings. The voice of Don Onofrio filled with rancour. “I’ve totted it up roughly on my fingers: Don Calogero’s income will very shortly be equal to that of Your Excellency’s here at Donnafugata.” With riches had also grown political influence. He had become head of the liberals in the town and also in the districts round; when the elections were held he was sure to be returned as deputy to Turin. “And what airs they give themselves; not he, who is far too shrewd to do that, but his daughter who’s just got back from college in Florence and goes around town in a crinoline with velvet ribbons hanging from her hat.”

  The Prince was silent; the daughter, yes, that must be the Angelica who would be coming to dinner to-night; he was curious to see this dressed-up shepherdess; it was not true that nothing had changed: Don Calogero was as rich as he was! But deep down he had foreseen such things; they were the price to be paid.

  Don Onofrio was disturbed by his master’s silence, and imagined he had put the Prince out by telling him petty local gossip.

  “Excellency, I ordered a bath to be prepared for you, it should be ready by now.” Don Fabrizio suddenly realised that he was tired; it was almost three o’clock, and he had been up and about for nine hours under that torrid sun and after that ghastly night. He felt his body covered in dust to the remotest creases. “Thank you, Don Onofrio, for thinking of it; and for everything else. We shall meet to-night at dinner.”

  He went up the internal staircase, passed through the tapestry hall, through the blue, the yellow drawing-rooms; lowered blinds filtered the light; in his study the Boulle clock ticked away discreetly. “What peace, my God, what peace!” He entered the bathroom: small, white-washed, with a rough tiled floor and a hole in the middle to let the water out. The bath itself was a kind of oval trough, vast, of enamelled iron, yellow outside and grey in, propped on four heavy wooden feet. Hanging on a nail was a dressing-gown; fresh linen was laid out on a rush chair; and on another a suit which still showed creases from packing. Beside the bath lay a big piece of pink soap, a brush, a knotted handkerchief containing bran which would emit a sweet scent when soaked, and a huge sponge, one of those sent by the Salina agent. Through the unshaded window beat the savage sun.

  He clapped his hands; two lackeys entered, each holding a pair of quivering pails, one of cold, the other of boiling water; they went to and fro a number of times; the trough filled up; he tried the temperature with a hand; it was all right. He ordered the servants out, undressed, got in. Under his huge bulk the water brimmed over a little. He soaped himself, rubbed himself; the warmth did him good, relaxed him. He was almost dozing off when he heard a knock at the door; Mimi, his valet, entered timidly. “Father Pirrone is asking to see Your Excellency at once. He is waiting outside for Your Excellency to leave the bathroom.” The Prince was surprised; if there had been some accident he had better know at once. “No, no, let him come in now.”

  Don Fabrizio was alarmed by this haste of Father Pirrone; and partly from this and partly from respect for the priestly habit, he hurried to leave the bath expecting to get into his bath-robe before the Jesuit entered; but he did not succeed, and Father Pirrone came in at the very moment when, no longer veiled by soapy water, not yet shrouded by his bath-sheet, he was emerging quite naked, like the Farnese Hercules, and steaming as well, while water flowed in streams from neck, arms, stomach, and legs like the Rhône, the Rhine, the Danube and the Adige crossing and watering Alpine ranges. The sight of the Prince in a state of nature was quite new to Father Pirrone; the Sacrament of Penance had accustomed him to naked souls, but he was far less used to naked bodies; and he, who would not have blinked an eyelid at hearing the confession, say, of an incestuous intrigue, found himself flustered by this innocent but vast expanse of naked flesh. He stuttered an excuse and made to back out; but Don Fabrizio, annoyed at not having had time to cover himself, naturally turned his irritation against the priest. “Now, Father, don’t be silly; hand me that bath-robe, will you, and help me to dry, if you don’t mind.” Then suddenly he remembered a discussion they had once had and went on: “And take my advice, Father, have a bath yourself.” Satisfied at being able to give advice on hygiene to one who so often gave it to him on morals, he felt soothed. With the upper part of the bath-robe in his hands at last he began drying his hair, whiskers and neck, while with the lower end the humiliated Father Pirrone rubbed his feet.

  When the peak and slopes of the mountain were dry, the Prince said, “Now take a seat, Father, and tell me why you’re in such a hurry to talk to me.” And as the Jesuit sat down he began some more intimate moppings on his own.

  “Well, Excellency, I’ve been given a most delicate commission. One who is very dear to you indeed has opened her heart to me and charged me to tell you of her feelings, trusting, perhaps wrongly, that the consideration with which I am honoured . . .” Father Pirrone hesitated and hovered from phrase to phrase.

  Don Fabrizio lost patience. “Well, come on, Father, who is it? The Princess?” And his raised arm seemed to be threatening: in fact he was drying an armpit.

  “The Princess is tired; she’s asleep and I have not seen her. No, it is the Signorina Concetta.” Pause. “She is in love.” A man of forty-five can consider himself still young till the moment comes when he realises that he has children old enough to fall in love. The Prince felt old age come over him in one blow; he forgot the huge distances still tramped out shooting, the Gesummaria he could still evoke from his wife, his freshness now at the end of a long and arduous journey. Suddenly he saw himself as a white-haired old man walking beside herds of grandchildren on billy-goats in the public gardens of Villa Giulia.

  “Why ever did the silly girl go and tell you such a thing? Why not come to me?” He did not even ask who the man was; there was no need to.

  “Your Excellency hides his fatherly heart almost too well under the mask of authority. It’s quite understandable that the poor girl should be frightened of you and so fall back on the family chaplain.”

  Don Fabrizio slipped on his long drawers and snorted; he foresaw long interviews, tears, endless bother. The silly girl was spoiling his first day at Donnafugata with her fancies.

  “I know, Father, I know. Here no one really understands me. It’s my misfortune.” He was sitting now on a stool with the fuzz of fair hair on his chest dotted with pearly drops of water. Rivulets were snaking over the tiles, and the room was full of the milky smell of bran and the almond smell of soap. “Well, what should I say, in your opinion?”

  The Jesuit was sweating in the heat of the little room, and now that his message had been delivered would have liked to go but he was held back by a feeling of responsibility. “The wish to found a Christian family is most agreeable to the eyes of the Church. The presence of Our Lord at the marriage of Cana . . .”

  “Let’s keep to the point, shall we? I wish to talk about this marriage, not about marriage in general. Has Don Tancredi made any definite proposal, by any chance, and if so, when?”

  For five years Father Pirrone had tried to teach the boy Latin; for seven years he had put up with his quips and pranks; like everyone else he had felt his charm. But Tancredi’s recent political attitudes had offended him; his old affection was struggling now with a new rancour. He did not know what to say. “Well, not a real proposal, exactly, no. But the Signorina Concetta is quite certain: his attentions, his glances, his remarks, have all become more and more open and frequent and qui
te convinced the dear creature; she is sure that she is loved; but, being an obedient and respectful daughter, she wishes me to find out from you what her answer is to be if a proposal does come. She thinks it imminent.”

  The Prince felt a little reassured; how ever did a chit of a girl like that think she had acquired enough experience to be able to judge so surely the behaviour of a young man, particularly of a young man like Tancredi? Perhaps it was just imagination, one of those “golden dreams” which convulse the pillows of schoolgirls? The danger might not be so near.

  Danger. The word resounded so clearly in his mind that he gave a start of surprise. Danger. But danger for whom? He had a great affection for Concetta; he liked her perpetual submission, the placidity with which she yielded to the most unwelcome of paternal suggestions: a submission and placidity, incidentally, rather overvalued by him. His natural tendency to avoid any threat to his own calm had made him miss the steely glint which crossed her eyes when the whims she was obeying were really too vexing. Yes, the Prince was very fond of this daughter of his. But he was even fonder of his nephew. Conquered for ever by the youth’s affectionate chaff he had begun during the last few months to admire his intelligence too; that quick adaptability, that worldly penetration, that innate artistic subtlety with which he could use the demagogic terms then in fashion while hinting to initiates that for him, the Prince of Falconeri, it was only a momentary pastime; all this amused Don Fabrizio, and in people of his character and standing the fact of being amused makes up four-fifths of affection. Tancredi, he considered, had a great future; he could be the standard-bearer of a counter-attack which the nobility, under changed trappings, could launch against the new social state. To do this he lacked but one thing; money; this Tancredi did not have, none at all. And to get on in politics, now that a name counted less, would need a lot of money; money to buy votes, money to do the electors favours, money for a dazzling style of living. Style of living . . . And would Concetta, with all those passive virtues of hers, be capable of helping an ambitious and brilliant husband to climb the slippery slopes of the new society? Timid, reserved, bashful as she was? Wouldn’t she always remain just the pretty schoolgirl she was now, a leaden weight on her husband’s feet?