The Viceroys

by Federico De Roberto

  ‘Why don’t you come, you know father gets annoyed.’

  ‘’Cause I’m busy, I’m writing, I can’t lose the thread …’

  ‘Stop writing then, to please him, dear! You have so much time to study! Otherwise it would look as if you were doing it on purpose, had something against him … or against mother.’

  ‘I haven’t anything against anyone. Can’t you see I’m writing.’ In fact the writing-table was covered with sheets of paper and open books.

  When finally he did come to table the prince slowly swelled with rage at seeing his son taciturn and pensive as a new Archimedes.

  ‘I’ll eat alone rather than see that funereal face! Frowning like that all day long! He has the Evil Eye! My food will go down the wrong way! It’ll choke me!…’

  Teresa, as the only one capable of exercising an influence over her brother, would go to Consalvo again, take his hands, beg him to be good, talk to him of his filial duties, and he, mute and motionless, let her have her say. But once when among other arguments she produced that of gratitude owed to his father and stepmother he replied with cold and cutting irony:

  ‘A great deal, in truth … My father has always loved me, hasn’t he, since he kept me shut up for ten years in the Novitiate, as he kept you at college for six? We both of us ought to be grateful, oughtn’t we, for his not letting six months pass after our mother’s death before putting another in her place?… She too, from paradise, must be grateful to him for the respect, love and care with which he surrounded her …’

  ‘Quiet! Quiet!’ exclaimed Teresa.

  ‘Why should I be quiet? You know, don’t you, what they made the poor thing suffer? But you were in Florence, you couldn’t know anything …’

  ‘Quiet, Consalvo!’

  ‘Well, what d’you want? Tell me what I must do to please him! When I was out of the house all day, amusing myself in my own way and spending money, it was “no, sir, you must change your life!” Now that I’m always indoors, studying, is he going to badger me still?’

  Consalvo was studying political economy, constitutional law and administration. People who did not know what he was doing but could see a radical change in him, attributed it to his lengthy travels, to the common sense which all young men must get into their heads one day sooner or later. The journey in fact had been the origin of the young prince’s conversion, his great lesson.

  The struggle with his father had disgusted him with his home and also with his native town, where lack of money and weight of paternal authority prevented him doing all he wanted; so he had greeted with joy the idea of leaving and seeing a bit of the world. But the first impression he felt as soon as he got out of Sicily was that which a real king must feel on his way into exile. The day before, although he could not gad as he liked, he had yet been an important person, the most important person in his own town, where everyone from high to low doffed their hats and took an interest in him and his affairs; quite suddenly he woke up to find himself a nobody in the midst of a crowd which did not notice him. Had he seen no-one it might have been better, maybe, but the letters of introduction with which he was furnished put him into touch at Naples, Rome, Florence and Turin with the other nobles of those parts, and he then realised that there were people even more important than he was. The name of the young Prince of Mirabella had lost its virtue, become that of a noble among thousands. The real luxury, as opposed to his father’s mediocre one, the sumptuous taste and elegant splendour of which he had been unable to form an idea in that corner of Sicily away from the highways of the world where he had lived, forced him to recognise his own inferiority. The Club at Catania was almost a family affair with himself enthroned there. In Naples or in Florence he could obtain a membership card for only a few days; had he stayed longer he would have had to expose himself to a vote, to being recommended, to run, why, even risk of blackballing! A revolution had taken place in his head.

  Suffering deeply in his pride, in his ‘Viceroys’ ’ vanity when he went to pay visits in palaces four times as big as his ancestral one, in which, instead of shops let out were galleries vast as museums and full of art treasures, he had ceased to frequent such acquaintances and refused to make new ones. To assert his own wealth in some way he flung money about on hiring carriages, in cafés, theatres, or shops, where he would buy quantities of useless things simply in order to leave his address, the Prince of Mirabella, Hotel such and such—the most expensive in town. It was not so bad in Naples, where Spanish tradition equal in every way to that of Sicily drew an ‘Excellency’ even from unknowns who professed themselves his ‘servants’. But in Florence, in Milan, he just got a plain ‘Signore’, and in vain did Baldassarre, who was always beside him, lavish his Your Excellency, or dialect Voscenza; people would smile or look amazed at the major-domo’s extravagant expressions.

  To avoid these mortifications the young prince left Italy much earlier than he had intended. In foreign countries the greater riches and power of members of his own caste did not wound him so much. But another discomfort awaited him. With his poor, ill-pronounced French he felt quite an outsider in Vienna, Berlin and London, while in Paris he made people smile as Baldassarre had done in Italy. But meanwhile Sicily, his native town, his own home, where his former consideration and primacy still awaited him, were becoming ever pettier and more squalid in his eyes. How could he resign himself to returning there after having seen the great life of big cities? And how could he hold a mediocre position in a capital? He must be first among the first then.

  And once Consalvo got this idea into his head he began to consider ways of carrying it into effect. Would his father consent to his going away for ever? That was doubtful enough; but one thing was quite sure—that he would allow him as little money as possible, and even that with humiliating bonds such as on this journey, when all expenses had to be paid out personally by the major-domo! So he would not be able to achieve his aims while his father was alive; and the prince might live to a hundred like so many of those Uzeda, all tough as leather unless the old blood disintegrated before its time …

  Then Consalvo, coldly reasoning, taking all factors into account and calculating about his father’s death as an event necessary to his own happiness, considered another side of the matter; that the whole of his paternal inheritance, on the day when he was its only master, would not be enough to give him the satisfactions he was seeking. Great for Sicily and anywhere else too for one without immoderate desires, the Prince of Francalanza’s fortune was to Consalvo little more than mediocre—for Rome. His father’s death was therefore useless to him; he would have to seek another means. And there, in the capital as he passed through on his way home, he found it.

  His uncle the duke had among other letters also given him some for colleagues in Parliament. On his first way through, he had seen for a moment the Honourable Deputy Mazzarini, a young lawyer from the province of Messina, who was in politics while carrying on his profession at the same time. On his way back Consalvo was thinking of everyone except this man, for whom he felt deep class contempt, when one evening the Deputy came up to him in the street.

  ‘In Rome again, prince? On your way back of course? Why didn’t you tell me of your arrival? I’d have come to visit you, it would have been a pleasure. You’ve had a good time, there’s no need to ask you that!’ He was talking away, gesticulating, calling him by the confidential voi, even touching him. And Consalvo, chilly towards demonstrations of intimacy, drew back, disgusted at the contact. But the Deputy, although he kept on saying how busy he was and had in fact left a circle of people surrounding him, kept him talking, and before leaving him said, ‘We’ll meet tomorrow; I’ll come and visit you at the hotel.’

  So astounded was Consalvo that he had no time to put him in his place. And next day Mazzarini came to fetch him, invited him out to dine and dragged him off to the Morteo café. Numbers of other Deputies were there, surrounded by groups of clients. Mazzarini himself, before sitting down, had to rid himself of four o
r five people awaiting him, and for the whole length of the meal he talked of all the things he had to do, of political combinations, of public business. A telegraph boy brought him two wires for which he signed the receipts as he chewed, marking inkstains on the napkin which he wore tucked into his collar. People crossing the café greeted him, and he replied, interrupting himself and calling out, ‘Cavaliere!…’ or an ‘Ah, my dear Commendatore!…’ By the fruit course he had a little court round him, to whom he was talking with great animation, of Rome, of what must be done to make it worthy of its destiny, affirm its Italian status, keep the Vatican in check. When lunch was over, a little tipsy, he took the arm of Consalvo, who trembled at the contact. But the Deputy, with a smile which was intended to be discreet and was actually beaming, exclaimed, ‘A tough life, politics, particularly if one has to earn one’s living too, but when all’s said and done it does have its satisfactions … And you, prince, haven’t you ever thought of taking up public life?’

  Words thrown out at random just to go on talking; but Consalvo was dazzled. Tired, bored, revolted by the Deputy’s chatter, by the presumption with which the man was treating him, by the squalid luncheon which he had to swallow down in spite of himself, he suddenly saw opening before him, straight and easy, the way he was searching for, one which made a little busybody like Mazzarini into an important, revered and courted figure; which would let him reach fame and supremacy, not only in one region or over only one class but throughout the whole nation and over everyone. A deputy, a minister—‘Excellency!’ ‘President of the Council’, a true Viceroy! What was needed to obtain such posts? Nothing, or not much. Mazzarini had talked of his hard struggles in his constituency, but did the Duke of Oragua not possess a feudal constituency which he would naturally pass on to his nephew? The attorney, to get himself known, had had to create a clientele round him patiently and carefully; the Prince of Mirabella had one ready-made. As to knowledge or capacity he did not give that a thought; if an ignoramus like his uncle could be a deputy, he considered himself capable of ruling the nation’s destinies. A clear memory, facility in speech, self-assurance before a crowd, qualities whose lack had tortured the duke all his life and increased his poverty of mind, all these were possessed by Consalvo. At San Nicola, before gorging monks or crowds listening to Christmas sermons, later in city streets, in taverns, surrounded by every kind of person, he had made play with his eloquence. Looks fixed on him, the silence of an expectant audience had never worried him. What else was needed?

  He had promised his aunt to kiss not only Francis II’s hand but also the Holy Father’s feet. The second visit he suppressed, as it suited him to change not only his ways but also his ideas. Till that moment he had been a convinced pro-Bourbon and so pro-clerical, though not a believer and in fact so sceptical about matters of religion as not even to go to Mass—another ground for accusation by his bigot father. Now to embark upon and succeed in his new life he would have to be a Liberal and a priest-eater like Mazzarini. He did go to visit his uncle Lodovico, however. Monsignore Lodovico greeted him with his usual unctuousness and cold expressions of sentiment borrowed for the occasion. The former Prior of San Nicola seemed preserved in vinegar, bone-thin, with a smooth face and not a single white hair; no one would have guessed him to be over fifty. When his nephew asked if he would be returning to Sicily his eyes glittered as he replied quietly and modestly:

  ‘Not for the moment. My new duties will keep me even more in Rome …’

  ‘What duties, uncle?’

  He lowered his lids and said:

  ‘The Most Holy Father wishes, from no merit of mine, to raise me to the Sacred Purple.’

  A sly one, that! He got where he wanted by slyness!… Consalvo decided to take him as model. Now instead of avoiding Mazzarini he sought him out, got him to act as guide round the Chamber and Senate in order to examine his field of future action at once. He then realised that if all he lacked to occupy a Deputy’s seat now was age, he needed something more to get higher. That was why, when he got back home, he seemed changed beyond recognition. Convinced he ought to study, he began to buy book after book, of every kind and size. He devoured them from beginning to end, or took nibbles at them, making notes, full at first of good intentions, ready to take it all really seriously. All this material required no teacher; all he needed was the superficial preparation he already had and his natural intelligence. The monk’s Latin, whose study he had loathed now stood him in good stead. Later, with the fervour of a neophyte and the presumption of an Uzeda who recognised no obstacles, he bought Spanish, English and German grammars and readers to learn those languages by himself.

  The news of his conversion soon spread. Amazed, suspicious, or pleased, his relations, his former friends, even his servants said he was spending all day at his desk. He joined the Reading Circle. He, founder of the aristocrats’ club, went to discussions on politics and administration, criticised or praised men and ideas, named authors and quoted books. One evening when Giulente and the duke in the latter’s house were discussing consumer taxes and if it was better for the Commune to farm them out or collect them on their own, Consalvo produced an opinion with a great show of erudition. Benedetto when leaving exclaimed on a bantering, patronising note:

  ‘We’ll make you Town Councillor as soon as you’re old enough …’

  ‘What? Why? No!…’ exclaimed he. ‘Oh! And how does one set about it?’

  ‘Why? To take part in representing your country! As to “how” that’s quite simple.’

  First of all he introduced him to the National Club. Some members there made a few difficulties. Was he a Liberal or a reactionary Uzeda? Some were sure he was as pro-Bourbon as his aunt Ferdinanda, that in Paris he had even gone to visit Francis II. But Giulente stood surety for his nephew’s Liberal sentiments. He had paid a visit to the ex-King, it was true, but only because forced by his parents; the visit was a pure formality anyway and did not involve him in any way. Till that moment he had been a mere boy not responsible for any ideas he might have expressed; now if he was asking to join the club, that meant that he approved of its programme. Anyway, it wouldn’t do to refuse him, as otherwise he might throw his lot in with the reactionaries.

  The hesitant contented themselves with these assurances, murmuring even so that according to one version of his audience the young prince had told the dethroned King that he hoped to see him back in the Royal Palace at Naples. When Consalvo heard this rumour was going round he protested vehemently that it was an out-and-out lie, whose origin he didn’t understand. But when alone with the major-domo, the only person who could have put the rumour about, he bawled at him:

  ‘You idiot, it was you wrote home that I told Francis II I hoped to meet him in Naples! Wasn’t it, devil take you?’

  Baldassarre, embarrassed and confused, replied:

  ‘Yes, Excellency …’

  ‘And who told you such a silly tale?’

  ‘I was told by Father Gerbini, who heard Your Excellency say it …’

  Raising a threatening arm, Consalvo went on:

  ‘Another time you repeat such nonsense you’ll feel the weight of my hand, d’you understand?’

  He was elected to the club unanimously. Donna Ferdinanda was worth hearing then! Already getting wind of this apostasy she had seized her nephew by an arm and shouted at him, ‘Take care or I’ll never look you in the face again! Take care or you’ll never have a cent from me!’ And Consalvo had pretended ignorance, protested his own innocence, ‘What has Your Excellency been told?’ But one fine day Lucrezia came and brought her the news of her nephew’s election to the club. She too was fuming with indignation; but really she was denouncing Consalvo to his aunt in order to wrench him out of her old heart, and talking ill of him to enter the old woman’s good graces herself and revenge herself on the princess.

  ‘Ah, what a race!… Ah, what Jesuits!… He told me it wasn’t true!…’

  What the old woman could not tolerate, she said, was the lit
tle popinjay trying to deceive her so barefacedly.

  ‘Oh, the devil take them! I’d like to see them dead, the lot of ’em!’

  And as she had ten years ago at Lucrezia’s marriage, she went to fetch the usual sheet of paper which she kept in a wardrobe, and tore it into a thousand pieces in her niece’s presence.

  ‘Not a cent! Like this!’

  Chiara too, as her husband drew gradually closer to Liberal ideas, breathed fire at her nephew and husband. Don Blasco, on the other hand, by now a Liberal of almost ancient date, approved his nephew’s conversion. Consalvo let all those mad folk have their say and made his maiden speech in the club one evening when the assembly was discussing commercial treaties. In the narrow hall people were crowded together and chairs were touching. To avoid contact Consalvo pulled his chair out of a row, ruining its order. He was listening with an air of grave attention, chewing his moustaches. But when the chairman announced, ‘If no one wishes to speak, I will put the sub-committee’s conclusions to the vote,’ the young prince got to his feet.

  ‘I wish to speak.’

  Deep silence fell at once, and all eyes were turned towards Consalvo. With his shoulders against the wall and facing so that the audience was to one side, the platform to the other, he began.

  ‘Gentlemen, I must first of all ask you to excuse me for the hardihood of which you will accuse me at seeing the last to arrive among you dare to speak about a grave matter, the object of much careful examination on the part of members whom, wishing but unable to call my colleagues, I must and wish to call my masters.’

  The laborious phrase was produced with such confidence, came out so smoothly, was so able and opportune, touching the vanity of preceding orators, coming so unexpectedly from the mouth of a young man till that moment known only for his prodigality and vices, that many murmured ‘Bravo!… Good!…’