From the room next door, open on to the same balcony, Concetta’s voice reached him, “We simply must; he’s got to be called. I should never forgive myself if he weren’t.” He understood at once; they were talking of a priest. For a moment he had an idea of refusing, of lying, of starting to shout that he was perfectly well, that he needed nothing. But soon he realised how ridiculous all that would be: he was the Prince of Salina and as a Prince of Salina he must die with a priest by his side. Concetta was right. Why should he avoid what was longed for by thousands of other dying people? And he fell silent, waiting to hear the little bell with the Last Sacraments. It soon came; the parish church of the Pietà was almost opposite. The gay silvery tinkle came climbing up the stairs, flowed along the passage, became sharp as the door opened; preceded by the hotel manager, a Swiss, flustered at having a dying man on his hands, in came Father Balsamo, the parish priest, bearing the Blessed Sacrament in a leather-sheathed pyx. Tancredi and Fabrizietto raised the arm-chair, bore it back into the room; the others were kneeling. He signed more than said, “Away, away.” He wanted to confess. Things should be done properly or not at all. Everyone went out, but when he was about to speak he realised he had nothing to say; he could remember some definite sins, but they seemed so petty as not to be worth bothering a worthy priest about on a hot day. Not that he felt himself innocent; but his whole life was blameworthy, not this or that single act: and now he no longer had time to say so. His eyes must have expressed an uneasiness which the priest took for contrition; as in fact in a sense it was. He was absolved; his chin seemed to be propped on his chest, for the priest had to kneel down to place the Host between his lips. Then there was a murmur of the immemorial syllables which smooth the way, and the priest withdrew.
The arm-chair was not pulled back on to the balcony. Fabrizietto and Tancredi sat down next to him and held each of his hands; the boy was staring at him with the natural curiosity of one present at his first death agony and no more; this dying person was not a man, he was a grandfather, which is a very different thing. Tancredi squeezed his hand tightly and talked to him, talked a great deal, talked gaily; he explained projects with which he was associated, commented on political developments; he was a Deputy, had been promised the Legation in Lisbon, knew many a secret and savoury tale. His nasal voice, his subtle vocabulary sketched a futile arabesque over the ever noisier surging away of the waters of life. The Prince was grateful for the gossip; and he squeezed Tancredi’s hand with a great effort though with almost no perceptible result. He was grateful, but did not listen. He was making up a general balance sheet of his whole life, trying to sort out of the immense ash-heap of liabilities the golden flecks of happy moments. These were: two weeks before his marriage, six weeks after; half an hour when Paolo was born, when he felt proud at having prolonged by a twig the Salina tree (the pride had been misplaced, he knew that now, but there had been some genuine self-respect in it); a few talks with Giovanni before the latter vanished (a few monologues, if the truth were told, during which he had thought to find in the boy a kindred mind); and many hours in the observatory, absorbed in abstract calculations and the pursuit of the unreachable. Could those latter hours be really put down to the credit side of life? Were they not some sort of anticipatory gift of the beatitudes after death? It didn’t matter, they had existed.
Below in the street, between the hotel and the sea, a barrel-organ had halted and was playing away in the avid hope of touching the hearts of foreigners who, at that season, were not there. It was grinding out You who opened Your Wings to God from “Lucia di Lammermoor”. What remained of Don Fabrizio thought of all the rancour mingling with all the torture, at that moment, throughout Italy, from mechanical music of this kind. Tancredi, intuitive as ever, ran to the balcony, threw down a coin, waved for the barrel-organ to stop. The outer silence closed in again, the clamour within him grew huge.
Tancredi. Yes, much on the credit side came from Tancredi; that sympathy of his, all the more precious for being ironic; the aesthetic pleasure of watching him manoeuvre amid the shoals of life, the bantering affection whose touch was so right. Then dogs; Fufi, the fat pug of his childhood, the impetuous poodle Tom, confidant and friend, Speedy’s gentle eyes, Bendicò’s delicious nonsense, the caressing paws of Pop, the pointer at that moment searching for him under bushes and garden chairs and never to see him again; then a horse or two, these already more distant and detached. There were the first few hours of returns to Donnafugata, the sense of tradition and the perennial expressed in stone and water, of time congealed; a few care-free shoots, a cosy massacre or two of hares and partridges, some good laughs with Tumeo, a few minutes of compunction at the convent amid odours of must and confectionery. Anything else? Yes, there were other things: but these were only grains of gold mixed with earth: moments of satisfaction when he had made some biting reply to a fool, of content when he had realised that in Concetta’s beauty and character was prolonged the true Salina strain; a few seconds of frenzied passion; the surprise of Arago’s letter spontaneously congratulating him on the accuracy of his difficult calculations about Huxley’s comet. And—why not?—the public thrill of being given a medal at the Sorbonne, the exquisite sensation of one or two fine silk cravats, the smell of some macerated leathers, the gay voluptuous air of a few women passed in the street, of one glimpsed even yesterday at the station of Catania, in a brown travelling dress and suède gloves, mingling amid the crowds and seeming to search for his exhausted face through the dirty compartment window. What a noise that crowd was making! “Sandwiches!” “Il Corriere dell’ Isola.” And then the panting of the tired breathless train . . . and that appalling sun as they arrived, those lying faces, the crashing cataracts. . . .
In the growing dark he tried to count how much time he had really lived. His brain could not cope with the simple calculation any more; three months, three weeks, a total of six months, six by eight, eighty-four . . . forty-eight thousand . . . √840,000. He summed up. “I’m seventy-three years old, and all in all I may have lived, really lived, a total of two . . . three at the most.” And the pains, the boredom, how long had they been? Useless to try and make himself count those; the whole of the rest; seventy years.
He felt his hand no longer being squeezed. Tancredi got up hurriedly and went out . . . Now it was not a river erupting over him but an ocean, tempestuous, all foam and raging white-flecked waves. . . .
He must have had another stroke for suddenly he realised that he was lying stretched on the bed. Someone was feeling his pulse; from the window came the blinding implacable reflection of the sea; in the room could be heard a faint hiss; it was his own death-rattle, but he did not know it. Around him was a little crowd, a group of strangers staring at him with frightened expressions. Gradually he recognised them: Concetta, Francesco Paolo, Carolina, Tancredi, Fabrizietto. The person holding his pulse was Doctor Cataliotti; he tried to smile a greeting at the latter but no one seemed to notice; all were weeping except Concetta; even Tancredi, who was saying: “Uncle, dearest Nuncle!”
Suddenly amid the group appeared a young woman; slim, in brown travelling dress and wide bustle, with a straw hat trimmed with a speckled veil which could not hide the sly charm of her face. She slid a little suède-gloved hand between one elbow and another of the weeping kneelers, apologised, drew closer. It was she, the creature for ever yearned for, coming to fetch him; strange that one so young should yield to him; the time for the train’s departure must be very close. When she was face to face with him she raised her veil, and there, chaste but ready for possession, she looked lovelier than she ever had when glimpsed in stellar space.
The crashing of the sea subsided altogether.
VIII
RELICS
* * *
MAY, 1910
ANYONE PAYING A visit to the old Salina ladies would be apt to find at least one priest’s hat on the hall chairs. All three were spinsters and their household had been rent by secret struggles for power, so that each one, a strong char
acter in her own way, wanted a separate confessor of her own. It was still the custom in that year, 1910, for confessions to take place at home, and these penitents’ scruples required frequent repetition. Add to this little platoon of confessors the chaplain who came every morning to celebrate Mass in the private chapel, the Jesuit in charge of the general spiritual direction of the household, the monks and priests who came to draw alms for this or that parish or good work, and it will be readily understood why there was such an incessant coming and going of clerics, and why the antechamber of Villa Salina was often reminiscent of one of those Roman shops around Piazza della Minerva which display in their windows every imaginable ecclesiastical headgear, from flaming red for Cardinals to cindery black for country priests.
On that particular afternoon of May 1910 the parade of hats was quite unprecedented. The presence of the Vicar-General of the Archdiocese of Palermo was announced by his huge hat of fine beaver in a delicate shade of fuchsia, placed on a separate chair, with next to it a single glove, the right hand one, in woven silk of the same delicate hue; his secretary’s of gleaming long-haired black plush, the crown circled by a narrow violet cord; those of two Jesuit Fathers, subdued tenebrous felts, symbols of modesty and reserve. The chaplain’s headgear lay on an isolated chair, as was proper for a person undergoing inquiry.
The meeting that day was no unimportant matter. In accordance with Papal instructions the Cardinal Archbishop had begun an inspection of the private chapels of his archdiocese, to reassure himself about the merits of those allowed to hold services there, the conformity of liturgy and decoration with the canons of the Church, and the authenticity of relics venerated in them. The Salina chapel was the best known in the city and one of the first which his Eminence proposed to visit. And it was in order to arrange for this event, fixed for next morning, that Monsignor the Vicar-General had called at Villa Salina. Unfortunate rumours about that chapel, seeped through many a filter, had reached the archiepiscopal Curia; not, of course, anything about the merits of the owners or of their right to carry out their religious duties in their own home; such subjects were beyond discussion. Nor was there any doubt thrown on the propriety or continuity of services held there, for these were as near perfection as may be, except perhaps for an overwhelming and perfectly comprehensible reluctance on the part of the Salina ladies to let anyone be present at the sacred rites who was outside their close family circle. The Cardinal’s attention had been drawn to a picture venerated in the Villa, and to the relics, the dozens of relics, exposed in the chapel. There were the most disturbing rumours about the authenticity of these, and it was desired that their genuineness be proved. The chaplain, an ecclesiastic of some culture and high hopes, had been reprimanded severely for not having kept the old ladies sufficiently on the alert; he had had, as it were, a “dressing-down of the tonsure”.
The meeting was taking place in the main drawing-room of the Villa, the one of the monkeys and cockatoos. On a sofa covered with blue material interwoven with pink, a purchase of thirty years earlier that clashed with the evanescent tints of the precious wall-hangings, sat the Signorina Concetta with Monsignor the Vicar-General on her right; on each side of the sofa in two similar arm-chairs were the Signorina Carolina and one of the Jesuits, Father Corti, while the Signorina Caterina, whose legs were paralysed, was in a wheel chair, and the other ecclesiastics had to be content with chairs covered in the same material as the walls, which seemed then far less valuable than the envied arm-chairs.
The three sisters were all around seventy, and Concetta was not the eldest; but the struggle for power which has been hinted at earlier had ended some time ago with the rout of her adversaries, so no one would now have dared contest her functions as mistress of the house.
She still showed the vestiges of past beauty; heavy and imposing in her stiff clothes of black watered silk, she wore her snow-white hair raised on her head so as to show her almost unfurrowed brow; this, together with contemptuous eyes and a resentful line above her nose, gave her an air that was authoritarian, almost imperial; so much so that a nephew of hers, having caught sight in some book or other of a picture of a famous Czarina, used to call her in private “Catherine the Great”; an unsuitable name made quite innocent by the complete purity of Concetta’s life and her nephew’s total ignorance of Russian history.
The conversation lasted an hour, coffee had been taken and it was getting late. Monsignor reassumed his arguments: “It is His Eminence’s paternal wish that Mass celebrated in private should conform to the purest rites of Holy Mother Church, and that is why in his pastoral care he is visiting your chapel first, for he knows your house to be a beacon for the laity of Palermo and he desires that the authenticity of all objects venerated there should bring even more edification to yourselves and to all devout souls.” Concetta was silent, but Carolina, the elder sister, exploded, “Now we’re to appear as accused before our friends, are we? This idea of inspecting our chapel, excuse me for saying so, Monsignor, should never have so much as passed through His Eminence’s head.”
Monsignor laughed, amused. “Signorina, you cannot imagine how gratifying your vehemence is to me; as the expression of a simple and absolute faith, most acceptable to the Church and certainly to Our Lord Himself; and only in order to make this faith flower yet more abundantly and to purify it has the Holy Father recommended these inspections, which have already been taking place for some months throughout the Catholic world.”
The reference to the Holy Father was not, actually, very opportune; Carolina was one of those Catholics who consider themselves to be in closer possession of religious truths than the Pope himself; and a few moderate declarations of Pius X, the abolition of some secondary feast days in particular, had already exasperated her. “This Pope would do better to mind his own business.” Then she began to wonder if she hadn’t gone too far, crossed herself and muttered a Gloria Patri.
Concetta intervened. “Don’t let yourself be drawn into saying things you don’t think, Carolina. Or what sort of impression will Monsignor take away with him?”
The latter was actually smiling more than ever; here before him, he was thinking, was a little girl grown old in narrow ideas and arid acts of piety. Benignly he indulged her.
“Monsignor will take away the impression of having been in the company of three devout ladies,” said he.
Father Corti, the Jesuit, tried to relax the tension. “I, Monsignor, am among those who can best confirm your words; Father Pirrone, whose memory is venerated by all that knew him, often used to tell me when I was a novice of the devout atmosphere in which the ladies grew up: the name of Salina should anyway be a guarantee for that.”
Monsignor wanted to get down to facts. “Well, Signorina Concetta, now everything’s clear, I should like, with your permission, to visit the chapel in order to prepare His Eminence for the marvels of faith he will see to-morrow morning.”
In Prince Fabrizio’s time there had been no chapel in the Villa; the whole family used to go out to church on feast days, and even Father Pirrone had to walk quite a step every morning to say his own Mass. But after the death of Prince Fabrizio, when, as a result of various complications of inheritance which would be boring to narrate, the Villa became the exclusive property of the three sisters, they at once thought of setting up their own oratory. They chose an out-of-the-way drawing-room, which with its half columns of imitation granite stuck into the walls was vaguely reminiscent of a Roman basilica; they obliterated an unsuitable mythological fresco from the centre of the ceiling; decked up an altar. And all was ready.
When Monsignor entered, the chapel was lit by the late afternoon sun, which fell full on the altar and the picture above so venerated by the Salina ladies. It was a painting in the style of Cremona, and represented a slim and very attractive young woman with eyes turned to heaven and an abundance of brown hair scattered in gracious disorder on half-bare shoulders; in her right hand she was gripping a crumpled letter, with an expression of anxious
expectancy not unconnected to a certain sparkle in her glistening eyes; behind her was a green and gentle Lombard landscape. No Holy Child, no crowns, no snakes, no stars, none in fact of those symbols which usually accompany the image of Mary; the painter must have trusted that virginal expression as being enough to recognise her by. Monsignor drew nearer, went up one of the altar steps and stood there, without crossing himself, looking at the picture for a minute or two, his face all smiling admiration as if he were an art critic. Behind him the sisters made signs of the Cross and murmured an Ave Maria.
Then the prelate came down the steps again, turned round and said, “A fine painting that; very expressive.”
“A miraculous icon, Monsignor, most miraculous!” explained Caterina, poor ill creature, leaning from her ambulating instrument of torture.
“It has done so many miracles!” Carolina pressed on. “It represents the Madonna of the Letter. The Virgin is on the point of consigning the holy missive invoking her Divine Son’s protection on the people of Messina; a protection which has been gloriously conceded, as is shown by the many miracles during the earthquake of two years ago.”
“A fine picture, Signorina; whatever it represents it’s a pretty thing and should be treated carefully.” Then he turned to the relics; seventy-four of them, they completely covered the two walls on each side of the altar. Each was enclosed in a frame which also contained a card with information about it and a number referring to the documents of authentication. These documents themselves, many voluminous and hung with seals, were locked into a damask-covered chest in a corner of the chapel. There were frames of worked and smooth silver, frames of bronze and coral, frames of tortoiseshell; in filigree, rare woods, box-wood, in red and blue velvet; large, tiny, square, octagonal, round, oval; frames worth a fortune and frames bought at the Bocconi stores; all collected by those devoted souls in their religious exaltation as custodians of supernatural treasures.
The Leopard Page 24
