Anyone deducing from this attitude of Angelica that she loved Tancredi would have been mistaken; she had too much pride and too much ambition to be capable of that annihilation, however temporary, of one’s own personality without which there is no love; apart from that she was too young and inexperienced to be able as yet to appreciate his genuine qualities, all subtle nuances: but although she did not love him, she was in love with him, a very different thing; his blue eyes, his affectionate teasing, certain suddenly serious tones of his voice gave her, even in memory, quite a definite turn, and just then her one longing was to be enfolded by his hands; once enfolded she would forget and substitute them, as in fact happened, but for the moment she yearned for his clutch. So the revelation of this possible love-affair (which was, in fact, non-existent) gave her a twinge of that most absurd of tortures, retrospective jealousy; a twinge soon dissipated, however, by a cool appraisal of the advantages, erotic and otherwise, of her marriage to Tancredi.
Don Fabrizio went on praising Tancredi. In his affection he got to the point of talking about him as a kind of Mirabeau. “He’s begun early and well,” said he, “and will go far.” Angelica’s smooth forehead bowed in assent. Actually she did not care at all about Tancredi’s political future; she was one of the many girls who consider public events as part of a separate universe and could not even imagine that a speech by Cavour might in time, through thousands of minute links, influence her own life and change it. She was thinking, “We’ve got the money and that’s enough for us; as to going far . . .” Such youthful simplicities she was to discard completely when years later she became one of the most venomous string-pullers for Parliament and Senate.
“And then, Angelica, you have no idea yet how amusing Tancredi is! He knows everything, sees an unexpected side everywhere. When one’s with him and he’s on form, the world seems even funnier than it usually does, sometimes more serious, too.” That Tancredi was amusing Angelica already knew; that he was capable of revealing new worlds she not only hoped but had some reason to suspect ever since that 25th of September last, day of that famous kiss, the only one officially noted, in the shelter of that treacherous laurel hedge, for it had been something much subtler and tastier, entirely different from the only other sample in her experience, one given her over a year before by a gardener’s boy at Poggio Cajano. But Angelica cared very little about the wit or even the intelligence of her fiancé, far less in any case than did sweet old Don Fabrizio—really so sweet, though so “intellectual” too. In Tancredi she saw her chance of gaining a fine position in the noble world of Sicily, a world which to her was full of marvels very different to those which it contained in reality; and she also wanted him as a lively partner in bed. If he was superior in spirit too, all the better; but she on her part didn’t bother much about that. There was always amusement to be had. In any case those were ideas for the future; for the moment, whether witty or stupid, she would have liked to have had him there, stroking at least her neck under the tresses as he had once done.
“Oh God, oh God, how I wish he were with us now!”
The exclamation moved them all, both by its evident sincerity and the ignorance that caused her to make it, and brought that very successful first visit to an end. For shortly afterwards Angelica and her father made their farewells: preceded by a stable lad with a lighted lantern the uncertain gold of whose gleams set alight the red of fallen plane leaves, father and daughter returned to their home, entry into which had been prevented for Peppe “Mmerda”, by bullets tearing into his kidneys.
Now that Don Fabrizio felt serene again, he had gone back to his habit of evening reading. In autumn, after the Rosary, as it was now too dark to go out, the family would gather round the fire waiting for dinner, and the Prince, standing up, would read out to his family a modern novel in instalments, exuding dignified benevolence from every pore.
These were just the years when novels were helping to form those literary myths which still dominate European minds today; but in Sicily, partly because of its traditional impermeability to anything new, partly because of the general ignorance of any language whatsoever, partly also, it must be said, because of a vexatious Bourbon censorship working through the Customs, no one had heard of Dickens, Eliot, Sand, Flaubert or even Dumas. A couple of Balzac’s volumes had, through various subterfuges, it is true, reached the hands of Don Fabrizio, who had appointed himself family censor; he had read them and then lent them in disgust to a friend he didn’t like, saying that they were by a writer with a talent undoubtedly vigorous but also wild and “obsessed” (to-day he would have said monomaniac); a hurried judgment, obviously, but not without a certain acuteness. The level of these readings was therefore somewhat low, conditioned as it was by respect for the girls’ virginal shyness, the Princess’s religious scruples and the Prince’s own sense of dignity, which would have energetically rejected letting his united family hear any “filth”.
It was about the 10th of November and getting towards the end of their stay at Donnafugata. The rain was pouring down and a gale slapping gusts of rain angrily on the window panes; in the distance could be heard a roll of thunder; every now and again a few drops found their way down the primitive Sicilian chimney, sizzled a moment on the fire and dotted with black the glowing brands of olive wood. He was reading Angiola Maria and that evening had just reached the last few pages; the description of the heroine’s journey through the icy Lombard winter froze the Sicilian hearts of the young ladies even in their warm armchairs. All of a sudden there was a great scuttle in the room next door, and in came Mimi the footman panting hard. “Excellency,” he cried, forgetting all his style. “Excellency, Signorino Tancredi’s arrived! He’s in the courtyard seeing his luggage unloaded. Think of it! Madonna, in this weather!” And off he rushed.
Surprise swept Concetta into a time which no longer corresponded with reality, and “Darling!” she exclaimed. But the very sound of her own voice led her back to the comfortless present and, of course, such a brusque change from a secret warm climate to an open frozen one was most painful; luckily the exclamation was submerged in the general excitement and not heard.
Preceded by Don Fabrizio’s long steps they all rushed towards the stairs; the dark drawing-rooms were hurriedly crossed; down they went; the great gate was flung wide on to the outer stairs and the courtyard below; the wind rushed in, making the canvases of the portraits quiver and sweeping with it dampness and a smell of earth; against a sky lit by flashes of lightning the trees in the garden swayed and rustled like torn silk. Don Fabrizio was just about to pass through the front door, when on the top step outside appeared a heavy shapeless mass; it was Tancredi wrapped in the huge blue cloak of the Piedmontese Cavalry, so soaked that he must have weighed a ton and looked quite black. “Careful, Nuncle; don’t touch me, I’m a sponge!” The light of the lantern on the stairs showed a glimpse of his face. He came in, undid the chain which held the cloak at the collar, and let fall the garment which flopped on the floor with a squelch. He smelt like a wet dog; for the last three days he had not taken off his boots; but to Don Fabrizio, embracing him, he was the lad more beloved than his own sons, for Maria Stella a dear nephew basely calumniated, for Father Pirrone the sheep always lost and always found, for Concetta a dear ghost resembling her lost love. Even Mademoiselle Dombreuil kissed him with her mouth, so unused to caresses, and cried, poor girl, “Tancrède, Tancrède, pensons à la joie d’Angelicà,” so few strings had her own bow, forced as she always was to echo the joy of others. Bendicò also found again its dear comrade in play, one who knew better than anyone else how to blow into a snout through a closed fist; but it showed its ecstasy in its own doggy way by leaping frenziedly round the room and taking no notice of its beloved.
It was a moving moment, this grouping of the family around the returned youth, all the dearer as he was not really a member of it, all the happier as he was coming to gather both love and a sense of perennial security; a moving moment —but a long one too. When t
he first transports were spent, Don Fabrizio noticed that on the threshold were standing two other figures, also dripping and also smiling. Tancredi noticed them too and began to laugh. “Excuse me, all of you, but the excitement quite made me forget. Aunt,” he said, turning to the Princess, “I’ve allowed myself to bring a dear friend, Count Carlo Cavriaghi; anyway, you know him, he used often to come up to the villa when he was with the general; and this other is Lancer Moroni, my servant.” The soldier smiled all over his dull, honest face, and stood there at attention while the water dripped from the thick cloth of his overcoat down on to the floor. But the young Count did not stand at attention; taking off his soaking shapeless cap he kissed the Princess’s hand, smiled and dazzled the girls with his little blond moustaches and his unsuppressible slurred “r”. “And to think they told me that it never rained down here! Heavens, the last two days we might have been in the sea itself.” Then he became serious, “But, Falconeri, where is the Signorina Angelica? You’ve dragged me all the way here from Naples to show me her. I see many a beauty, but not her.” He turned to Don Fabrizio. “You know, Prince, according to him she’s the Queen of Sheba! Let’s go at once to worship this creature formosissima et nigerrima. Come on, you stubborn oaf!”
By such talk he brought the language of the officers’ mess into the proud hall with its double row of armoured and beribboned ancestors; and everyone was amused. But Don Fabrizio and Tancredi knew how things stood: they knew Don Calogero, they knew his Beautiful Beast of a wife, the incredible state of that rich man’s home; things unknown to candid Lombardy.
Don Fabrizio intervened. “Listen, Count; you thought it never rained in Sicily and now you can see it’s pouring. We wouldn’t like you to think there isn’t pneumonia in Sicily too, and then find yourself in bed with a high temperature. Mimi,” he said to the footman, “light the fire in the Signorino Tancredi’s room and in the green room of the guest wing. Prepare the little room next door for the soldier. And you, Count, go and get thoroughly dry and change your clothes. I’ll send you up some punch and biscuits. And dinner is at eight, in two hours.” Cavriaghi was too used to military service not to bow at once to the voice of authority; he saluted and followed meekly behind the footman. Behind him Moroni dragged along the military boxes and curved sabres in their green flannel wrappings.
Meanwhile Tancredi was writing, “Dearest Angelica, I’ve come, and for you. I’m head over heels in love, but also wet as a frog, filthy as a lost dog, and hungry as a wolf. The very minute I’ve cleaned myself up and consider myself worthy of appearing before the loveliest creature in the world, I will hurry over to you; in two hours. My respects to your dear parents. To you . . . nothing for the moment.” The text was submitted to the approval of the Prince; the latter had always been an admirer of Tancredi’s epistolary style; he laughed, and approved in full. Donna Bastiana would have plenty of time to catch some other imaginary disease; and the note was at once sent opposite.
Such was the general zest and jollity that a quarter of an hour was enough for the two young men to dry, clean up, change uniforms and meet once again in the “Leopold Room” around the fire; there they drank tea and brandy and let themselves be admired. At that period nothing could have been less military than the families of the Sicilian aristocracy; no Bourbon officers had ever been seen in the drawing-rooms of Palermo, and the few Garibaldini who had penetrated them gave more the impression of picturesque scarecrows than real military men. So those two young officers were in fact the first the Salina girls had ever seen close to; in their double-breasted uniforms, Tancredi’s with the silver buttons of the Lancers, Carlo’s with the gilt ones of the Bersaglieri, the first with a high black velvet collar bordered with orange, the other with crimson, they sat stretching towards the embers legs encased in blue cloth and black cloth. On their sleeves were the silver and gold stars amid twirls and dashes and endless loops; a delight for girls used only to severe frock-coats and funereal tail-coats. The edifying novel lay upside down behind an arm-chair.
Don Fabrizio did not quite understand; he remembered both the young men in lobster red and very carelessly turned out. “But don’t you Garibaldini wear red shirts any longer?”
The two turned on him as if a snake had bitten them. “Garibaldini, Garibaldini indeed, Uncle! We were once and now that’s over! Cavriaghi and I, thanks be to God, are officers in the regular army of His Majesty, King of Sardinia for another few months, and shortly to be of Italy. When Garibaldi’s army broke up we had the choice: to go home or stay in the King’s army. He and I and a lot of others went into the real army. We couldn’t stand that rabble long, could we, Cavriaghi?”
“Heavens, what dreadful people! Good for ambushes and looting, that’s all! Now we’re with decent fellows, and we’re proper officers!” And he plucked at his little moustache with a grimace of adolescent disgust.
“We had to drop rank, you know, Nuncle. They didn’t seem to think much of our military experience. From captain I’ve become lieutenant again, as you see!” And he showed the two stars on his shoulder straps. “He from being lieutenant is now second lieutenant. But we’re as happy as if we’d got promotion. With these uniforms we’re now respected in quite another way.”
“I should think so,” interrupted Cavriaghi, “people aren’t afraid we’ll steal their chickens.”
“You should have seen what it was like from Palermo here, when we stopped at post stations to change horses! All we had to say was ‘Urgent orders on His Majesty’s service’ and horses appeared like magic; and we’d show them our orders, which were actually the bills of the Naples hotel wrapped up and sealed!”
Having had their say on military changes, they passed on to more general subjects. Concetta and Cavriaghi had sat down together a little apart and the young count showed her the present which he had brought her from Naples: Aleardo Aleardi Canti magnificently bound for the purpose. A princely crown was deeply incised in the dark blue leather with her initials, C.C.S. beneath. Below that again, in large, vaguely Gothic, lettering, were the words Sempre sorda—For ever deaf.
Concetta was amused and laughed. “Why deaf, Count? C.C.S. hears perfectly well!”
The face of the young count flamed with boyish passion. “Deaf, yes, deaf, Signorina, deaf to my sighs and deaf to my groans! And blind, too, blind to the begging in my eyes! If you only knew what I suffered when you left Palermo to come here; not a wave, not a sign as the carriage vanished down the drive. And you expect me not to call you deaf! ‘Cruel’ is what I really should have written.”
His somewhat literary excitement was chilled by the girl’s reserve. “Count, you must be very tired after your long journey; your nerves are not quite in order: calm yourself. Why not read me a nice poem?”
While the Bersagliere was reading out the gentle verses in a voice charged with emotion and amid pauses full of distress, Tancredi in front of the fireplace was taking from his pocket a small blue satin box. “Here’s the ring, Nuncle, the ring I’m giving to Angelica; or rather the one you’re giving her via me.” He pressed the clasp and there was a dark sapphire cut in a clear octagon and clustering close round it a multitude of tiny pure diamonds. A slightly gloomy jewel, but in close harmony with the funereal taste of the times, and one obviously worth the two hundred gold ounces sent by Don Fabrizio. In reality it had cost a good deal less; in those months of fleeing and sacking, superb jewels were to be picked up cheap in Naples; from the difference in price had come a brooch, a memento for Schwarzwald. Concetta and Cavriaghi were also called to admire it, but did not move, as the young count had already seen it and Concetta was putting off that pleasure till later. The ring went from hand to hand, was admired, praised, and Tancredi congratulated on his foreseeable good taste. Don Fabrizio asked, “But what about the measurements; we’ll have to send the ring to Girgenti to have it cut to the right size.” Tancredi’s eyes glittered with fun. “There’s no need for that, Nuncle; the measurement is exact; I’d taken it before.” And Don Fabrizio
was silent; here, he recognised, was a master.
The little box had done the whole round of the fireplace and come back to the hands of Tancredi when from behind the door was heard a subdued “May I?” It was Angelica. In the rush and excitement she had snatched up, to protect her from the pouring rain, one of those huge peasants’ capes of rough cloth called scappolare. Wrapped in its stiff dark blue folds her body looked very slim; under the wet hood her green eyes looked anxious, bewildered, and voluptuous.
The sight of her, and the contrast between the beauty of her face and the rusticity of her clothes, was like a whip-lash to Tancredi; he got up, ran to her without a word and kissed her on the mouth. The box which he held in his right hand tickled her bent neck. Then he pressed the spring, took the ring, put it on her engagement finger; the box dropped to the ground. “There, darling, that’s for you, from your Tancredi.” Then irony broke in, “And thank Nuncle for it, too.” Then he embraced her again; sensual anticipation made them both tremble; the room, the bystanders, seemed very far away; and he felt as if by those kisses he were taking possession of Sicily once more, of the lovely faithless land which now, after a vain revolt, had surrendered to him again, as always to his family, its carnal delights and golden crops.
As the result of this welcome arrival the family’s return to Palermo was put off and there followed two weeks of enchantment. The gale which had accompanied the journey of the two officers had been the last of a series. After it came the resplendent St. Martin’s summer which is the real season of pleasure in Sicily; weather luminous and blue, oasis of mildness in the harsh progression of the seasons, inveigling and leading on the senses with its sweetness, luring to secret nudities by its warmth. Not that there was any erotic nudity at the palace of Donnafugata, just an air of excited sensuality all the sharper for being carefully restrained. Eighty years before the Salina palace had been a meeting place for those obscure pleasures which appealed to the dying eighteenth century; but the severe regency of the Princess Carolina, the neo-religious fervour of the Restoration, the straightforward sensuality of Don Fabrizio had eventually caused its bizarre extravagances to be forgotten; the little powdered demons had been put to flight; they still existed, of course, but only as sleeping embryos, hibernating under piles of dust in some attic of the vast building. The lovely Angelica’s entry into the palace had made them stir a little, as may be remembered; but it was the arrival of two young men in love which really awoke the instincts lying dormant in the house; and these now showed themselves everywhere, like ants woken by the sun, no longer poisonous, but livelier than ever. Even the architecture, the rococo décor itself, evoked thoughts of fleshly curves and taut erect breasts; and every opening door seemed like a curtain rustling in a bed-alcove.
The Leopard Page 15
