The Leopard

by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa

  Meanwhile Angelica and the Senator were driving the short distance back to Villa Falconeri. Tassoni was worried: “Angelica,” he said (they had had a very short affair thirty years before, and kept the intimacy, for which there is no substitute, conferred by a few hours spent between the same pair of sheets), “I’m afraid I disturbed your cousin in some way; did you notice how silent she was towards the end of the visit? I hope I didn’t, she’s such a dear.”

  “I should think you have hurt her, Vittorio,” said Angelica, exasperated by a double though imaginary jealousy, “she was madly in love with Tancredi; but he never took any notice of her.” And so a new spadeful of soil fell on the tumulus of truth.

  The Cardinal of Palermo was a truly holy man; and even now after he has been dead a long time his charity and his faith are still remembered. While he was alive, though, things were different; he was not a Sicilian, he was not even a southerner or a Roman; and many years before he had tried to leaven with nordic activity the inert and heavy dough of the island’s spiritual life in general and the clergy’s in particular. Flanked by two or three secretaries from his own parts he had deluded himself, those first years, that he could remove abuses and clear the soil of its more flagrant stumbling-blocks. But soon he had to realise that he was, as it were, firing into cotton-wool; the little hole made at the moment was covered after a few seconds by thousands of tiny fibres and all remained as before, the only additions being cost of powder, ridicule at useless effort and deterioration of material. Like everyone who in those days wanted to change anything in the Sicilian character he soon acquired the reputation of being a fool (which in the circumstances was exact) and had to content himself with doing good works, which only diminished his popularity still further if they involved those benefited in making the slightest effort themselves, such as, for instance, visiting the Archiepiscopal palace.

  So the aged prelate who set out on the morning of the fourteenth of May to visit Villa Salina was a good man but a disillusioned one, who had in the end assumed towards those in his own diocese an attitude of contemptuous pity (which was sometimes, after all, unjust). This made him adopt brusque and cutting ways that dragged him even farther into the swamps of unpopularity.

  The three Salina sisters were, as we know, deeply offended by the inspection of their chapel; but, childish and above all feminine in mind, they also drew a certain undeniable satisfaction from the thought of receiving in their home a Prince of the Church, at being able to show him the grandeur of the Salina which in good faith they thought still intact, and above all at seeing a kind of sumptuous red bird moving round their rooms for half an hour and admiring the varied and harmonising tones of its differing purples and heavy shot silk. But the poor creatures were destined to be disappointed even of this last modest hope. When they, having descended the external staircase, saw His Eminence alight from his carriage, they realised that he was in informal dress. Only the tiny purple buttons on the severe black cassock indicated his high rank; in spite of his expression of injured goodness, the Cardinal was no more imposing than the Arch-priest of Donnafugata. He was polite but cold, mingling almost too ably a show of respect for the Salina name and the individual virtues of the ladies themselves with a contempt for their inept and formalised devotions. To the Vicar-General’s exclamations about the beauty of the decorations in the rooms they passed he did not answer a word; he refused to accept any of the refreshments prepared for him (“Thank you, Signorina, only a little water; to-day is the eve of my Holy Patron’s feast-day”), he did not even sit down. He went to the chapel, bowed a second before the Madonna of Pompeii, made a hurried inspection of the relics. Then he blessed with pastoral benignity the mistresses of the house and the servants kneeling in the entrance hall, and said to Concetta, who bore on her face the signs of a sleepless night, “Signorina, for three or four days no Divine Service can be held in the chapel, but I will see that it is reconsecrated as soon as possible. It seems to me that the picture of the Madonna of Pompeii could well take the place of the one now above the altar, which can join the fine works of art I have admired while passing through your rooms. As for the relics, I am leaving behind Don Pacchiotti, my secretary and a most competent priest; he will examine the documents and tell you the results of his researches; and what he decides will be as if I had decided it myself.”

  Benignly he let everyone kiss his ring, then climbed into the heavy carriage together with his small suite.

  The carriages had not yet reached the Falconeri turning before Carolina, with cheeks taut and darting eyes, exclaimed “This Pope must be a Turk,” while Caterina had to be given smelling salts. Meanwhile Concetta was chatting calmly to Don Pacchiotti, who had in the end accepted a cup of coffee and a baba.

  Then the priest asked for the keys of the case of documents, requested permission and withdrew into the chapel, after first taking from his bag a small hammer and saw, a screw-driver, a magnifying glass and a couple of pencils. He had been a pupil of the Vatican School of Palaeography; and he was also Piedmontese. His labours were long and meticulous; the servants who passed by the chapel door heard the knocks of a hammer, the squeak of screws, and sighs. Three hours later he re-emerged with his cassock full of dust and his hands black, but with a pleased look and a serene expression on his bespectacled face. He apologised for carrying a big wicker basket. “I took the liberty of appropriating this to put in what I’d discarded; may I set it down here?” And he placed his burden in a corner; it was overflowing with torn papers and cards, little boxes containing bits of bone and gristle. “I am happy to say that I have found five relics which are perfectly authentic and worthy of being objects of devotion. The rest are there,” he said, pointing at the basket. “Could you tell me, Signorina, where I can brush myself down and wash my hands?”

  Five minutes later he reappeared and dried his hands on a big towel on whose border pranced a Leopard in red thread. “I forgot to say that the frames are all laid out on the chapel table; some of them are really lovely.” He said good-bye. “Ladies, my respects.” But Caterina refused to kiss his hand.

  “And what are we to do with the things in the basket?”

  “Just whatever you like, ladies; keep them or throw them on the rubbish heap; they have no value whatsoever.” And when Concetta wanted to order a carriage to drive him back, he said, “Don’t worry about that, Signorina; I’ll lunch with the Oratorians a few steps away; I don’t need a thing.” And putting his instruments back into his bag off he went on light feet.

  *

  Concetta withdrew to her room; she felt no emotion whatsoever; she seemed to be living in a world familiar yet alien, which had already ceded all the impulses it could give and consisted now only of pure forms. The portrait of her father was just a few square inches of canvas, the green cases just a few square yards of wood. Later she was brought a letter. The envelope had a black seal with a big coronet in relief.

  “Darling Concetta, I’ve heard of His Eminence’s visit and am so glad a few relics could be saved. I hope to get the Vicar-General to come and say the first Mass in the reconsecrated chapel. Senator Tassoni is leaving to-morrow and recommends himself to your bon souvenir. I’ll be coming over to visit you soon. Meanwhile a warm embrace to you and to Carolina and Caterina too. Ever, Angelica.”

  Still she could feel nothing; inner emptiness was total; but she did sense an unpleasant atmosphere exhaling from the heap of furs. That was to-day’s distress: even poor Bendicò was hinting at bitter memories. She rang the bell. “Annetta,” she said, “this dog has really become too moth-eaten and dusty. Take it out, throw it away.”

  As the carcass was dragged off, the glass eyes stared at her with the humble reproach of things discarded in the hope of final riddance. A few minutes later what remained of Bendicò was flung into a corner of the yard visited every day by the dustman. During the flight down from the window its form recomposed itself for an instant; in the air there seemed to be dancing a quadruped with long whiskers, its
right foreleg raised in imprecation. Then all found peace in a little heap of livid dust.

  THE END

  APPENDIX

  * * *

  AFTERWORD

  * * *

  The Discovery of “The Salina Canzoniere”

  In 1968, in an interview with La Fiera Letteraria (XLIII, no. 12, 21 March), I alluded to the presence of other matter in The Leopard. I mentioned that the author had written a number of poems, attributed to Don Fabrizio, and that in these he had revealed his love for Angelica. Among the items that have come to light there is a previously unpublished fragment of a piece of the novel, entitled “The Salina Canzoniere”. In the surviving text, Don Fabrizio’s love for Angelica is not apparent but “The Salina Canzoniere” was intended to end with a revelation embodied in the last sonnets, and the sonnets were to be dedicated to Angelica. The ode by Father Pirrone is an erudite parody based on a Canzonetta written by the actual Father Pirrone for the wedding of Lampedusa’s grandfather. The Canzonetta written by the real Father Pirrone will furnish a clue to the poem’s burlesque approach.

  TO THE DUKE OF PALMA ON THE EIGHTH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS MARRIAGE

  A supplicant I stood before the altar,

  My urgent prayers to heaven I was addressing:

  Among pure spirits here confined on earth

  Allot me one, as an abundant blessing.

  Select for me, nor let me be denied

  The most enchanting bride.

  And with the heartiest, eager appetite

  I found myself revisiting in my mind

  All homes where dwelt the most engaging ladies

  Possessed of every trait that was refined,

  Exciting passions lurking unconfessed

  In each patrician breast.

  When all at once, descending from on high,

  By cherubs surrounded, in a glimmering haze,

  I now beheld the Mother of the Elect

  Apparelled in the purest ethereal rays:

  My own sweet Mother of compassionate mien –

  Mary, our Heavenly Queen.

  “O happy scion of the Tomasi house,

  Your eyes henceforth should be no more directed

  To perishable things of earth,” she said;

  “A far superior bride has been selected.

  She is, by will of the Eternal Mind,

  Into your hands consigned.

  Behold now one who is an ethereal spirit

  Which yet within a mortal frame’s bestowed.

  Do but observe the generous profusion

  Of graces wherewith her gracious heart’s endowed.”

  Then she with gentle love and shyness blended

  To me her arms extended.

  And now the sun its annual round’s completed

  Fully eight times since gladly first I heard

  The message of the Blessed Virgin Mary

  Whereby so great a blessing was conferred

  Upon me; and, since hearing words like these,

  I live in wedded ease.

  20 April 1875

  The Canzonetta is included in a blue exercise book containing “Father Pirrone Pays a Visit”, “A Society Evening” (Part VI which, in the 1957 version was to be called “A Ball”) and “The Salina Canzoniere”. “A Society Evening” and “The Salina Canzoniere” are numbered in sequence, the last two written on sheets which form part of those included in the original binding of the exercise book, even if they have been removed. In the 1957 draft, the first two texts were inserted and the third one dropped, which suggests a precise intention on the author’s part. At all events the chapter ends up incomplete. The two sonnets feature in two added pages, each one containing a first and second draft with variants. The ode, on the other hand, features as a fair copy and follows the author’s handwritten page numbering.

  Gioacchino Lanza Tomasi, 2006

  FRAGMENT A

  * * *

  (TO PRECEDE PART IV)

  When the nature of his master’s distress is but a vague glumness, a metaphysical distress, so to speak, then a dog can bring true relief with his affection. But when the vexation has a clearly defined occasion (a painful letter to write, a cheque no longer negotiable, an unpleasant meeting to face) no amount of tail-wagging will do; the poor creatures try again and again, continue unremittingly to make their presence felt, but all to no purpose; their devotion appeals to an overreaching, generic region of human affection, and against specific misfortunes what they have to offer will fall short. A wolfhound to fondle is no consolation when there’s a nettle to be grasped.

  So one of the first signs that Don Fabrizio had recovered his good humour was his resumption of a brotherly rapport with Bendicò; it was possible once more to admire the sight of the giant of a man going for a walk around the garden accompanied by the outsize dog. The dog was hoping to induct the man into a taste for superfluous activity, to inculcate in him some part of his own energy; the man could have wished that the animal, by virtue of being loved, might appreciate if not abstract speculation, at least the pleasure of tasteful, gentlemanly idleness; neither of them, of course, achieved anything, but they were content nonetheless because happiness consists in seeking for an end in view rather than in attaining it; or so we are told.

  FRAGMENT B

  * * *

  (TO INSERT BETWEEN PARTS VI AND VII)

  “The Salina Canzoniere”

  During the years immediately following the foundation of the Kingdom of Italy, and before 1866, the year that saddled the Kingdom with its first crisis, heralding greater ones to come, the Prince of Salina’s family achieved that modicum of stability that is permitted in this fluid world.

  In 1863 Don Fabrizio turned fifty and, as was the sage custom of the day, considered himself an old man, put out to grass beyond recall, a man clearly past it, that is, when it came to matters erotic, social and scientific; but where the term related to the family imperium, this was enhanced rather than diminished, precisely thanks to the narrowing of the salient.

  In this respect, too, Princess Maria-Stella followed her husband’s example, indeed she followed it to the point of dressing up in the uniform of elderly ladies in those days; she was only to be seen in smoke-grey or autumnal silks practically disappearing beneath ample festoons of black lace. A youthful spark still gleamed in her eyes, but her face was forever framed within the broad ribbons of the capote, the certificate of good birth supplied by the fashion houses, and which was the equivalent to the ensign that warships lower when enemy fire has left them rudderless.

  The eldest son, Paolo, Duke of Querceta, seemed to have abandoned his kith and kin, where affections were concerned, and had himself adopted by his own horses; the names of these were gradually changing from the chivalric Norman ones that obtained under the Bourbon crown to new ones with an Anglo-Saxon ring to them. “Rufus”, an appellation at once regal and English, marked the transition; after him “Swiftsure”, “Destroyer” and “Lady-Fair” vied with each other in the young nobleman’s affections. Beneath altered trappings and names they were still the same arrogant, unaccommodating beasts, of less than certain pedigree and, forgetful of Paolo’s filial attentions, they proved a threat to their child’s very life on more than one occasion. It was during those years, too, that Paolo began to pay court to one of his Màlvica cousins, Annina, a courtship which may have won the approval of the horses, but by no means that of Don Fabrizio, who on that occasion manifested the Sicilian prejudice against any sort of marriage for his sons, a prejudice reinforced this time by the irritation that the very name of Màlvica had for some time been exercising on the parental nerves. The courtship did, nonetheless, eventually achieve its sluggish outcome in a wedding contracted some years later.

  The other boys were growing up, and the elder ones became adults and risked timid little orgies in Palermo or, at a pinch, in Naples. The girls, however, pretty as they were, and with the bloom of youth, started to acquire that impalpable bluish patina, redolent of warm ash, t
hat points to spinsterhood.

  After an extended engagement, whose duration was justified by the extreme youth of Angelica, Tancredi did eventually marry. Freighted with little canvas bags, as also with the duplicate blessings accorded by the Leopard and Sedàra clans, he travelled for a year, with his bride, all over Europe: Paris, Baden-Baden, Venice, London, and Spa beheld this intriguing and extravagant couple. The beauty, truly exceptional, of the young princess assured her the conquest, platonically speaking, of many a fastidious heart; the bridegroom, with his upper-class mischievousness and his wit, induced many a lady – countesses and chambermaids alike – to less platonic capitulations.

  Meanwhile great restoration work was in progress at Villa Falconeri, overseen by Don Fabrizio and financed by Don Calogero, and on their return the lovebirds found a nest in which the plush sofas and Minton figurines did not quite manage to conceal the nobility of the ancient proportions but did put to flight once and for all the spectres of legatees and bailiffs which had for too long bedevilled the place. Tancredi was still too young to aspire to any particular government office, but his energy and his fresh supply of funds made him indispensable wherever he went. He campaigned in that highly profitable grey area of “The extreme left of the extreme right”, a magnificent springboard that was later to allow him to perform some admirable and much-admired acrobatics. However, he wisely masked his intense political activity with a nonchalance, a levity of expression, that left everyone disarmed.