With eyes tight shut she fell on her knees, overwhelmed, trembling, beside herself with terror. A voice beside her murmured:
‘Pray to her for your father … promise her that you will be good like her …’
And from fear, to get away at once, to avoid seeing that horror, she replied, with tight-shut eyes:
‘Yes …’
More time passed. The prince’s health improved and relapsed, the duchess came to the palace with her elder son, the network of advice, persuasion and inducement grew tighter round Teresa. Her stepmother told her that Giovannino, so as not to be an obstacle to his brother’s happiness, had given an example of obedience and gone off to Augusta where he had settled to look after his properties. Teresa considered herself as bound by her vows to the Saint; and she consented. Only one condition did she make. To her stepmother she said:
‘I’ll do what you wish on condition that father promises me one thing. That he’ll make peace with my brother and agree at least to see him, even if he doesn’t want him to live here again. That he’ll end the quarrels with my uncle and aunt and come to an agreement. It won’t be difficult to conclude if each gives way in something. With your permission, I will talk to my aunt and uncle myself.’ Her voice was grave, her eyes lowered.
‘What a saint!’ exclaimed Donna Graziella. ‘Your dear mother must be inspiring you! Thus shall we see peace return among us!… I’ll talk to your father at once and we’ll obtain what you wish.’ Next day in fact she announced:
‘Your father agrees. Consalvo will come here on the day when your future husband does. We will go and invite your uncle and aunt ourselves. And let’s hope for a settlement of the quarrel.’
Three months later the duchess came to present the duke Michele to the home of his future bride. Consalvo was already at the palace, and Teresa, taking him by the hand, led him to her father’s room.
‘Father,’ she said, ‘here is your son coming to kiss your hand.’
The prince, keeping his left hand in his pocket, held his right out to be kissed, and at his son’s question, ‘How is Your Excellency?’ he replied, ‘Very well,’ dropping his voice a little and not asking ‘And you?’ in reply. But before they had exchanged four words Donna Ferdinanda’s carriage clattered noisily into the courtyard. The princess kissed the old woman’s hand and embraced her sister-in-law Lucrezia, who was wearing a most elegant robe: apricot satin with pistachio trimmings. She had told everyone that the quarrel with her brother was being made up and that she would now be giving her dressmaker many orders for the wedding of ‘my niece the young princess with my nephew the duke’. She was heavily in debt with her dressmaker, her modiste, her jeweller. Her administration of her husband’s affairs was getting more and more chaotic, but the portion of Don Blasco’s inheritance due to her would settle things up.
Then all the other relatives arrived: the Duke of Oragua, Giulente, the marchese, without his wife, who refused to leave the Belvedere, where the little bastard, getting older and more and more spoilt by her upbringing, was now hitting her freely. The prince greeted his relations, looked at Consalvo out of the corner of his eye, and never took his left hand from his pocket. Finally the bridegroom-to-be arrived with his mother. The duke was almost elegantly dressed and did not put up too bad a show, and seemed truly happy. His mother had explained that Teresa was in love with him and that Giovannino’s glooms derived from the boy’s getting a fixed idea about marrying his cousin, without either the girl or her family or she herself, his own mother, who ought after all to count for something, agreeing. So he had gone off to Augusta; there he would realise how much he was in the wrong. Consequently the duchess was triumphant; the work of her whole life was being brought to a happy conclusion: her elder son was marrying and continuing the family. The younger son, after and because of that failed love of his, would surely not disturb her any more. As to the princess, she was aglow with satisfaction; Teresa’s wedding was all her own work. The girl, it was true, had been most submissive and she kept on kissing her every quarter of an hour before the whole company, but it was she herself who had given good advice and found persuasive reasons, was it not? She had done so for her dear daughter’s happiness, for her husband’s satisfaction, for the family peace …
Even the prince looked quite amiable in spite of disquiet inspired by his son and traces of recent illness. The arrangements about Don Blasco’s inheritance were reasonable; the house was to go to Donna Ferdinanda and the income to the duke, who had made two big gifts of money to Lucrezia and Chiara; one hundred and twenty onze a year would go to Garino; and the Cavaliere estate, with its new land—biggest and best mouthful—to the prince himself.
So there was general peace, and only Donna Ferdinanda looked askance at Consalvo because of the apostasy with which he had stained himself. But Teresa, after having reconciled her brother and her father, now took Consalvo by the hand and led him before their aunt.
‘Aunt,’ she said, ‘Consalvo wishes to kiss your hand.’
He bowed quickly to take the wrinkled hand and hide the laugh rising in his throat. This old woman, who had no scruples about laying hands on Church property herself after inveighing against others as sacrilegists, was against him because he had changed his politics in words and nothing else. And as he made a great effort over himself to bring her hand close to his lips she was drawing it back, thinking to do something disagreeable, and grunting a cold ‘All right, all right …’ He turned his back on the mad old woman. But what to call Teresa then? Consalvo laughed to himself at the zeal with which she was bringing the recalcitrant relations together. To sow peace among those who would begin quarrelling again next day, to show her obedience to that rascally father and stepmother and be called a model daughter, she had renounced Giovannino’s love, was marrying that oaf of a duke!
‘Are you pleased?’ he could not prevent himself asking, when they were alone a moment.
‘Yes,’ she replied, and on her brow the veil of sadness for her sacrifice melted to serenity at duty done.
As this happened in the Yellow Drawing-room, Baldassarre, alone in the antechamber, was talking to himself in a fury.
‘Well, fancy that! I’d never have thought it. Now she too! Are they all mad then?… No, they oughtn’t to have done this to me …’
No, till the very last he had refused to believe that the whole city had said, ‘It’s the duke! She’ll marry the duke!’ No, he had answered everyone with a pitying smile, like one who sees farther than others. Now, seeing all those people reunited, the duke Michele sitting next to his young mistress, his young mistress receiving compliments from all, his head began to spin. The Uzeda blood awoke in him again. After fifty years of unlimited devotion, blind obedience and suppressed will, he had expressed an opinion, announced an event. Everything had made him think it inevitable, and when the prince opposed it he had trusted the young people’s wishes. Instead of which the baron had gone off to Augusta and the young princess was smiling at the young duke. Did that mean that because of a whim of theirs, because of their madness, his, Baldassarre’s word, meant nothing? Was he worth less in that house than the handle of a broom?
And he went on talking to himself, never heeding the ring of bells, forgot his orders, made mistakes in the service; but when people began leaving, he was suddenly animated by a febrile impatience. He almost pushed the guests out by his glances, could not keep still a moment, and finally, when he thought there was no-one left, entered the Red Drawing-room.
‘Excellency …’
The young prince was still there. On seeing the major-domo enter, Consalvo got up and kissed his father’s hand. No sooner had he turned his back to join Teresa and the princess, than the prince at last took his left hand from his pocket where he had always kept it the whole time, and made the sign against the Evil Eye. But Baldassarre’s voice called him again.
‘Excellency.’
‘Yes, what d’you want?’
‘Excellency,’ said the major-domo, ‘I
’m leaving.’
‘Where for?’ asked the prince, thinking that he had given some commission which he had forgotten.
‘I’m going away, I wish to offer Your Excellency my resignation.’
The prince looked at him a moment, thinking he had not understood.
‘Resign? For what reason?’
‘For no reason, Excellency. I’ve been in Your Excellency’s home forty years, and now I wish to leave. Your Excellency can’t keep me by force, what? In your own house Your Excellency can give what orders he likes, who can complain of that?… And I’m master in my own house too. Your Excellency can find himself another major-domo better than me … There’s no lack; I’ll be off on the first of the month.’
‘Have you gone mad?’
‘There’s no lack … Your Excellency is master in his own house … Do as you wish. I’m off … on the first of the month.’
ONE of the first measures by the young Mayor, immediately after his installation at the Town Hall, was building a ‘hall’ for meetings of the Town Council. The previous room was now exchanged for a grand hall with two banks of seats gradually sloping up from floor-level to form an amphitheatre, with three rows of seats in each bank. At the end of the hall was what looked like a huge high pulpit holding, below to the right, places for the Council, above for the Scrutators and the Prefect’s armchair, to the left places for secretaries, and in the middle on a high dais a gilt and sculptured mayoral throne, with a cushion which the usher took away and locked up when the young prince adjourned a meeting and left. In the middle of the hall was a big bench for deputations, beyond, tables for ‘the Press’, and opposite the mayor’s pulpit the public gallery.
‘A parliament in miniature!’ said those who had been to Rome, and the meetings of the Town Council, under Consalvo’s presidency, now took on a truly parliamentary character. The Order of the Day, which before was just written out and tacked on a door, was now distributed in print to all councillors. A series of rules laid down by the Mayor gave the procedure to be followed in open debate. Orators were not to speak more than three times on the same subject. The Secretary was rigorously forbidden to speak, even to answer Councillors’ questions, and if any of these happened to complain about filth in the streets or dogs without muzzles, the young prince would call from his throne, ‘Notice of that question is required.’
The new administration turned its attention first to public works. The Mayor, in a speech which referred to the Appian Way ‘linking Rome to the Adriatic’, showed the great need for attending to the streets. The city was flung into confusion, and considerable sums spent on indemnifying owners who suffered damages, but the striking results brought considerable praises to the young Mayor.
As well as streets the Mirabella administration, as everyone called it, set about building a big market place, a big theatre, a big slaughter-house, a big barracks and a big cemetery. New buildings sprang up everywhere and work never ceased, the town was transformed, praises for the young prince rang to the skies. Some did timidly observe that all these things were fine, but what about money? Was there enough?… Then Consalvo answered that the budget of a city in constant development ‘presented such elasticity’ as to allow not only those expenses but even greater ones.
Being so popular, he did what he liked with the Assessors; if they showed any hint of contradiction he would stifle it by arousing dissension among those united in opposition; or if matters became more serious, by threatening to resign. That would quieten everyone. For whatever went well he took all the credit himself; for what obtained no popular approval he threw the blame on the Council. The meetings of the Council had become a spectacle to which, thanks to the public gallery, people came crowding as to a play or a show of juggling. The members of the Nobles’ Club, the young prince’s ex-companions in his revels, would go up every now and again with the intention of making fun of him; but Consalvo’s serious, weighty, authoritative mien was so imposing that they scarcely even risked a quip to each other. Did anyone still remember the first phase of his life? His success made him proud, his power astounded him. Was he not almost certain now of getting wherever he liked?
‘He’ll be a deputy, they’ll send him to Rome when he’s old enough; there’s the makings of a minister in him!’ they were beginning to say in town. But if he heard such things, he shrugged his shoulders with a smile half pleased and half modest, which almost meant ‘Thanks for your good opinion of me, but I need more than that!’
So he kept on good terms with all, and gathered praises from all sides. Those who realised what he was up to and denounced him were either not believed or suspected of envy or malice, or if they found anyone to believe them would get a reply of ‘It’s what all do in these days of cut-throat competition! The young prince has the advantage of being rich and not having to make his money out of us!’ But there were livelier opponents too.
As the town was transformed materially, so it also took on a new direction morally. The old duke’s popularity was melting away from day to day; the National Club, which he had always dominated, lost more and more credit. The new popular societies had not any yet, but would get it from the reforms promised by the Left. Meanwhile there now took part in discussions on public affairs classes and persons who would have been incapable of understanding a thing about them before. The Press was bolder too, if not freer, and treated its ancient overlords with little regard. The young prince sniffed the wind and to the democrats made a great show of his ideas on democracy. According to him the liberty and equality written in the laws were still myths; people were lulled by the idea of ancient barriers being broken down, but privileges still existed and were merely of another kind. They had broadened the right to vote, and that had seemed a revolution; but how many enjoyed this right? So a new revolution, a ‘legal and moral’ one, must take place to extend the right to all.
The word ‘revolution’ set his lips aquiver and his heart atremble, and his deep, sincere and ardent desire was for double the number of police to citizens. But as the wind was blowing from another direction he sought out the best-known radicals and said to them, ‘A republic is the ideal régime, the sublime dream which will be a reality one day since it presupposes perfect men and adamantine virtues, and the constant progress of humanity makes us look ahead to the day of its fulfilment.’ And he would declare, ‘I am a monarchist from necessity in this transitional period. But can millions and millions of free men voluntarily acknowledge and boast of being subjects of a man like themselves? I have no master!’ And in this he was sincere, for he wanted to be master of others.
The duke and his reactionary friends, stubbornly supporting the Right and awaiting the return of Sella and Minghetti like that of Our Saviour, had created a Constitutional Association, of which, however, the Honourable Deputy himself refused to be head. He too in his heart now realised that it was a cul-de-sac; but he was now nearing seventy, he was tired, he had nothing more to do. In under twenty years he had put together a fortune of some millions, the administration of which would absorb the whole of his remaining activity. Though he had now decided to withdraw from public life he had one last ambition, to be named senator. So in order to keep in with public opinion, till the end, he considered it best not to abandon brusquely the Party to which he had linked himself ever more closely since 1876, and not to come out too openly against the Left Wing from which he expected to receive a seat at Palazzo Madama. So he had Benedetto Giulente made president of the Constitutional Association, with himself as only a simple member.
Meanwhile, in opposition to this there had been formed a Progressive Association, of which Consalvo became a member. ‘Uncle and nephew in opposite camps? Youth rebelling against age?’ they said in the squares. But the usual malicious tongues hinted that it was in friendly agreement, that the duke was pleased at his nephew being in the opposite camp, just as the young prince took advantage of his uncle’s credit with the Conservatives. Anyway, although a member of the Progressives, he declared to t
hem that the Left had not yet any ‘financier of Sella’s calibre’ or as ‘eloquent an orator as Minghetti’. But to those who showed their disillusionment with the Constitutional régime he freely declared that ‘the mistake was ever to think it could yield good results. Flocks have always needed shepherds, sticks and sheepdogs …’ He even agreed with the few who regretted the old days of Sicilian autonomy. ‘Let’s say it frankly between ourselves; maybe we’d be better off today.’ He would have had no difficulty in conceding to his aunt Ferdinanda that the Bourbon Government was the only decent one, but as the old woman could be of no use to him he let her talk on. In fact he made use of her opposition as well as of the break with his father. He knew that many were laughing incredulously at his proclamation of democratic faith, and exclaiming, ‘He, Prince of Mirabella, future Prince of Francalanza, descendant of the Viceroys? Oh, come off it!…’ So he would affirm, ‘For this faith and these principles of mine I have quarrelled with my father, renounced my aunt’s inheritance, and would endure even greater adversity!’
In the Council a quarrel would sometimes break out between aristocratic conservatives and progressive radicals. Then he would exclaim, ‘We mustn’t talk politics here …’ But once when the discussion became too lively, he was dragged in. Rizzoni, an extreme radical, cried:
‘Let us ask the young prince if the future is not ours, if he isn’t a democrat too …’
‘My nephew?…’ replied Benedetto Giulente, ‘Aristocracy incarnate?…’
When forced to reply, he smiled, stroked his moustaches, and said:
‘The ideal of democracy is aristocratic’
‘What’s that? Listen to this!… Really new!… What the devil!…’ all exclaimed.
He let them have their say, then repeated:
‘What, in fact, does “democracy” mean? That all men are equal! But equal in what? In poverty and subjection maybe? Equal in their duties, in their strength, in their power …’ And as after a second of amazement exclamations broke out again, he quickly changed the subject by saying, ‘Now we can move on to the next item on the agenda: a petition to the Government for the construction of a dry-dock …’
The Viceroys Page 59
