‘All the better,’ rejoined the young prince, cold as ice. ‘You’d be doing me a favour …’
Suddenly the prince went pale as if about to faint, then purple as if about to have an apoplectic fit, and finally broke into a bark like a dog.
‘Get out!… Out of my house … Now this instant, throw him out!…’
In rushed, pale and terrified, the princess, Teresa and Baldassarre. Frothing at the mouth, the prince was dragged off by his wife and the major-domo.
Teresa then went up to her brother, clasping her trembling hands and exclaimed in a voice of anguished reproof:
‘Consalvo!… Consalvo!… how can you do such a thing!’
‘D’you defend him?’ replied the young man, still calm but in a voice that was slightly strident. ‘Go on then, defend him, defend them, our mother’s murderers.’
‘Oh!’
She hid her face in her hands. When she looked round she was alone. Servants were rushing to and fro throughout the house. A doctor was called, ice-packs applied to the prince’s forehead. She fell on her knees before the statue of the Blessed Virgin. After that horrible scene, after her brother’s terrible words, remorse was seizing her for not having offered her love, her hopes of joy as sacrifices, so that the violent quarrel and terrible accusation could have been avoided. She asked the Virgin to forgive her for her selfishness, begged for comfort and help, trembling with fear, swaying as if the floor were shifting beneath her knees. She was still kneeling when she was surprised by the princess coming to call her to her father’s bedside.
‘Daughter! Daughter!… what a daughterly heart!… Yes, beg Our Lady for peace to return. She alone can do that miracle now … Your father won’t see him any more, won’t have him in the house; and he doesn’t budge … But you no! You no!…’
And between kisses and tears she talked of someone else, of him, and gave her the news that he had left.
‘It was the best thing for him to do. You may have found him attractive; I don’t blame you for that; we’ve all been girls in our time and know how these things are. But you’d never have been happy with him, and your father, whose one thought is your happiness, did not want him … I’d never have talked to you of this but for all this trouble, and if I didn’t know you were sensible enough to realise that your father only wishes what is for your own good. Isn’t that true, my daughter?…’
The first time that the prince heard his son’s name after that scene he yelled:
‘Don’t mention that name again, he’s got the Evil Eye! Don’t ever mention him again. Or I’ll send the lot of you away …!’
The break was definite. The duke, on being told of what had happened, came to fetch Consalvo and took him off for some weeks to the country. On their return it was decided that the young prince should go and live in a house belonging to his father down by the sea. The young man asked for nothing better. He did up an apartment to his own taste and moved in, happy as a king. Now he could be his own master, no longer went to Mass, saw whom he liked, invited home big-wigs from the club to show them two large rooms full of printed paper. The advantages were legion. At the palace he had been unable to show his Liberal leanings by putting out lights and flags for patriotic celebrations. Now on the 14th March and on Constitution Day he put out a flag as big as a curtain and had the balconies arranged with rows of lamps which shone out sadly in the dark and deserted quarter. Now he could stay in his study as long as he liked and take his meals at any unusual hour. He was studying the Popular Encyclopaedia, memorising articles about questions of the day, and then astounding the Assembly with his erudition by saying ‘So-and-so and so-and-so have written on this subject, etc., etc.’ As once he had thrust his four-horsed carriages into the mob so now he crushed it with the weight of his knowledge. And people who had drawn aside at one time to avoid his horses’ hooves while still exclaiming ‘What a fine turnout!’, now listened to him, bemused by his eloquence, muttering, ‘What a lot he knows!’
The native Spanish arrogance of his ignorant and overbearing stock, the need to adapt to democratic times, were thus linking up inside him all unknown to himself. Nothing would stop him from reaching his goal, the hardiest enterprises never deterred him. He read the heaviest books, even a treatise on advanced calculus, as if they were novels. From all this study he drew mediocre profit—the only one possible; he acquired a smattering of information about many things, all sorts of odds and ends, contradictory ideas, much heavy and indigested knowledge. But amid the ignorant mass of local nobles he gained the reputation of being ‘well-informed’, and when working folk heard the young Prince of Mirabella named they would all say ‘You mean the one who’s gone literary?’
One fine morning, amid the printed matter which the post brought him in cascades, he received from Palermo the first instalment of The Sicilian Herald, an Historico-Noble Work by the Cavaliere don Eugenio Uzeda of Francalanza and Mirabella. Besides him, all relations, subscribers and clubs were sent copies. The ‘Historico-Noble’ work began with Short amplified notes about the dynasties which had reigned in the island: the Royal Norman House, the Royal Swabian House, the Royal House of Anjou, and so on till the Royal House of Savoy—for the cavaliere had recognised the new monarchy in order to sell copies of his book to the State libraries. The Short amplified notes amused Consalvo, the Royal House of Savoy infuriated Donna Ferdinanda, although the old woman was already in a permanent state of rage because of the still undecided law case. But her fury against the prince’s family was a natural growth, since the advances given by the prince to Don Eugenio had made the printing of that ‘filth’ possible.
Having promised two thousand lire, however, the prince had only given five hundred, for which his uncle had had to give him an I.O.U. with a blank date. But after Don Blasco’s death financial relations between uncle and nephew soon took a dangerous turn. Don Eugenio, first amiably, then threateningly, wrote to his nephew asking for more money, otherwise he would join Ferdinanda in impugning their brother’s Will. The prince, on his side, tried to keep his uncle in hand by using the I.O.U. When the printing of the book was under way one day the cavaliere suddenly appeared from Palermo, looking more sordid and starving than ever. After long negotiations the prince handed out another two thousand lire, against which Don Eugenio renounced by signed deed all that would be due to him in a division of the monk’s property and agreed to his nephew becoming owner of a thousand copies of the book.
The prince had realised that this publication was not as crazy an enterprise as everyone else thought. The first instalments, beginning the story of each family, went like hot cakes. Don Eugenio, in truth, restricted himself to transcribing Mugnòs and Villabianca and scattering about a few remarks out of his own head. But those books were unprocurable or very expensive, and anyway almost impossible to read with their out-of-date print and dry, yellow, dusty paper, while Don Eugenio’s edition was most handsome, and the pages with coloured coats-of-arms stood out in red-lead and gold. Furthermore the compiler had recourse to the simple artifice of suppressing certain details, so that three, four or five families which happened to bear the same surname without any relationship at all could believe that the story of the only one authentically noble was their own. In Palermo, Messina and the whole of Sicily, he thus found numbers of would-be gentle families and so of subscribers. Some hinted that he was also taking bribes to add here and there ‘a branch of this armigerous family flourishes in the ancient town of Caropepe, etc.…’
Donna Ferdinanda, however, was going purple with indignation, and Consalvo too had a deep contempt for this relative of his who not only prostituted himself so but discredited the whole family.
But, contrary to his aunt, the young prince kept his feelings to himself, and only showed them when they were useful. He was trying to behave in politics as he had seen his father do at home, keep in with all, and accept the madnesses of all except for a kick or so at those who could no longer harm him. He now adopted this method and made himself plea
sant to all parties. That of his uncle the duke was still in power. Actually, during the four years that had gone by since the solving of the Roman Question, popular favour had gradually begun to veer away from the Deputy, as the latter, forgetting the danger he had been through, sure of having consolidated his own position and no longer fearing revolts and sudden changes, had begun to show a partisan side again, to look after his own affairs and those of his friends rather than of the town, and treat his parliamentary seat as his own private property.
But if lesser folk were beginning to mutter, the greater ones on the other hand, such as the heads of the Camarilla were all for their Honourable Member and no-one else, because of his sane moderate principles. In November of that year, ’74, he was re-elected with no demonstrations but no opposition, unanimously. And so, when with this uncle and his friends, Consalvo would praise their solid faith and the good conservative principles ‘on which the health of Italy depends’; but when he happened to be with any of their adversaries, he would affirm the need for progress and for the Left to try its hand at governing too. For ‘as the celebrated So-and-so said, Parties in power should alternate’. If with two people of opposing opinions he would be silent or agree with both and disagree with neither. Except in the great aristocratic principle of deep contempt for the mob, in the certainty of being truly made in another mould, in his compulsive urge to order the human flock about as his ancestors had done, he was ready to concede anything at all. He had no scruple even in saying the very opposite to what he really thought, if it was necessary to hide his own ideas and express others. The words ‘republic’ and ‘revolution’ sent quivers of terror down his spine, but in order to be in with the current fashion for democracy and get his rank forgiven he ingratiated himself with the extremists.
At the National Club a good number of members, though accepting current institutions, honoured Mazzini and Garibaldi above all men of the Risorgimento. Other associations, particularly popular ones, celebrated the 19th March, St. Joseph’s day, in their honour. On that occasion he too put out his big flag and lights and sought out the most noted republicans in order to tell them, ‘I don’t understand why some people are so exclusive; without Mazzini the sacred flame would have gone out; and without Garibaldi, why, Francis II might even be in Naples still!’
He had no belief in the sincerity of other people’s faith either. Monarchy or republic, religion or atheism, for him they all just depended on material or moral advantage, immediate or future. In the Novitiate he had seen many an example of out-and-out licence by monks who had vowed before God to renounce all; at home and in the outside world he had seen everyone trying to feather their nests above all else. So to him there was nothing apart from self-interest, and to satisfy his self-love he was ready to use every means at hand. The hereditary sense of his own superiority prevented him from recognising the evil of this sceptical egotism of his; the Uzeda could do what they liked! Count Raimondo had ruined two families; the Duke of Oragua had enriched himself at public expense, Prince Giacomo by robbing his own relations; the women had done wild things that were on the verge of madness; and if sometimes he realised himself to be wrong according to the morality of most, he would think that after all he did less harm than all those others.
IT TOOK Prince Giacomo some time to recover completely from the stroke brought on by that last discussion with his son. Threatened by cerebral congestion, in his terror of sudden death he condemned himself to a starvation diet which affected his blood. Weak, irritable, he became more than ever the terror of the household and, attributing his own illness more and more to his son’s noxious influence, would not even hear him named. At first, if Baldassarre or any of the hangers-on or servants happened to mention the young prince, he would seize that ignoble amulet of his, grip it tight as if about to drown, and exclaim:
‘God help us!… God help us!’, imploring them to be silent, to stop at once, red in the face as if dying from suffocation. Hearing him talk of his supernatural terror, of his unnatural aversion, they would make the Sign of the Cross. Teresa suffered more than anyone else. As her brother could not come to the palace any more she went to visit him herself, in the company of the princess, for whom Consalvo now felt an indifference that was almost serene and urbane, little removed from affability. Without the prince knowing, the stepmother sent the young man much of the produce brought by their agents from the country, and although she herself controlled very little actual cash she put her own purse at her stepson’s disposal. Consalvo thanked her but refused to accept anything; his father made him an allowance, and Baldassarre would bring round the money on the first of every month. It was not much but he did his best to make it suffice by suppressing his expensive habits and mortifying his luxurious tastes. And he did not suffer, or if he did, it was like a painful and necessary cure to regain health. As for the prince, his son did not seem to exist for him any more; if forced to mention him, he no longer called him ‘my son’ or ‘Consalvo’ or ‘the young prince’, but ‘God save us!’ He would say, for instance, to Baldassarre, ‘Take his monthly money to “God save us!” Or in some rare moment of good humour he would ask the princess, ‘What does that swine “God save us!” have to say?…’
Teresa no longer thought of Giuliano, forgot her own sorrows in her horror of this dreadful hatred. She no longer read, no longer sat at the piano, with that gloomy thought always preying on her mind. Her brother’s exile weighed on her. But why had he roused their father’s anger? What had he dared blame him for? Suppose Consalvo was right to blame him? Suppose it was true …? Then she would hide her face in her hands as she had at that ghastly moment of revelation, so as not to think, so as not to remember. Could she not recall her stepmother acting as mistress in her poor mother’s house? Did she not remember her pain at the announcement of her father’s marriage to another woman a few months after her sainted mother’s death … No! No! To switch her mind away from her memories, to overcome her dreadful thoughts, she made the Sign of the Cross, prayed and felt fortified by prayer. It was blameworthy to dwell on such thoughts, to continue that enquiry; all she owed her father was respect, obedience and love. And thinking it her duty to make up to him for Consalvo’s rebellion, she obeyed blindly and served him humbly.
The prince showed no gratitude for that inexhaustible goodness of hers. If at times she felt sad and to raise her oppressed spirits for a moment sat down at her piano, the sounds would irritate him and he told her to stop. Concentrating more than ever on money, he would quarrel about the price of her clothes. Teresa accepted it all. But from a mere whim to criticise, to exercise his authority regardless, and also from a kind of envy aroused in him who had always been clumsy, by the ability with which she made a modest little dress look like a luxurious robe, he would carp at her continually about her dressmaking and her patterns.
One day, unlike his usual behaviour, he noticed his daughter’s dress not to reprove its elegance but to say it was too simple.
‘Haven’t you something prettier to wear today?’
It was a Sunday in summer, and the princess and Teresa were about to drive out as usual to take ices and then pause a little by the gates of the public gardens to watch the crowd of pedestrians entering, in their middle-class way, while the concert was in progress. But just after leaving the palace Donna Graziella, still buttoning her gloves, said to Teresa:
‘Let’s go and visit Aunt Radalì. Today is her Saint’s day.’
It was some time since she had been taken there, but the princess and the duchess greeted each other as if they had met the day before. Her two sons, the duke and the baron, were there, and other relations; refreshments were served, and the party broke up very late.
The duchess returned the visit together with her sons, and the two families began seeing much more of each other than before. The duke Michele, half bald, fat, asthmatic, careless in his dress, was awkward and unhappy in company. Giovannino, on the other hand, cut a very good figure. When he greeted his cousin and s
at down by her to chat, he did it all most gracefully and also, apparently, eagerly. The elder son, grosser and more ignorant, only opened his mouth to talk of quails and rabbits, fishing in the Biviere and Pantano rivers, dogs and shot-guns. Teresa, polite and friendly to both, gradually felt a growing admiration for her cousin’s looks. She had forgotten Biancavilla, but there was a void in her heart; it was filled by the thought of Giovannino. After long mortification her soul was opening again to love. Song flowered on her lips once more, the piano became her confidante, poetry books her inspiration.
The intimacy between the two families became closer and closer. There was a constant exchange of presents, and rumours of Teresa’s engagement to one of her cousins gained fresh credence, but neither the prince nor the princess let out a word. Baldassarre, however, was triumphant; the match destined by himself for the Signorina Teresa was the one preferred by his master and mistress themselves. And to his intense pleasure and delight he saw mutual attraction between the signorina and the baron growing day by day. The duke Michele would give quantities of game to the Uzeda family, but Giovannino, whose main interest was floriculture, sent huge bouquets of flowers which all ended in Teresa’s room, or rare and delicate plants which she would lovingly tend. The elder son was a great trencherman and always slightly bemused from food and drink; if any of the company danced he would doze away in an armchair, while Giovannino took the floor with Teresa. One of the things which gave the young princess most pleasure was hearing her brother mentioned in that house where he was never named; to hear his praises sung, his intelligence and the earnestness of his conversation lauded, were the best means to his sister’s heart. And Giovannino, remembering the days of the Novitiate and their pranks at San Nicola, would prophesy the best of futures for Consalvo and pay him visits on purpose to tell Teresa that he had found him intent on study.
The Viceroys Page 55
