TERESA’S second child, another boy, was born a year after the first, and everyone said to husband and wife ‘So you’re losing no time!’ She had suffered little at the first birth, and this one she scarcely noticed; worthy reward for her purity. The baptismal ceremony was a modest one this time partly because it was for a younger son, a little baron, and partly for another more distressing reason. The prince, scratching the nape of his neck one day between the shoulder blades because of a strong itch, had broken the skin and drawn a little blood. At first he took no notice of it, but after a time just where he had scratched there formed a kind of tumour which grew until it irked his movements and prevented him from lying on his back in bed. Everyone attributed this to excessive scratching. Even so, as the uncomfortable growth did not go, a surgeon had to be called.
The doctor confirmed that it was of no importance, but added that it would not heal without a small incision. At this announcement the prince went pale and refused to submit to the operation, But, ever since Teresa bore her first child, the tumour had grown more and given so much trouble that he had consented to its being cut. The operation lasted longer than was expected, and the prince was confined to house for many days. Meanwhile, the baptism of the little Baron of Filici took place without pomp. Mayor Consalvo was godfather and Giovannino came from Augusta for the ceremony. During the year he had made two or three visits to his godson, according to his promise; brief visits, of one or two days. It was said that at Augusta on his estate of Costantina he had a farmer’s daughter, a well-set-up pink and white peasant girl, for whose sake he never stayed very long in Catania. The duchess his mother was very pleased about this, as the surest guarantee against his marrying. The duke Michele was pleased to hear of his brother enjoying himself. And Teresa, in spite of being prevented in honesty from approving that relationship, yet showed her brother-in-law sisterly affection and always made a great fuss of him. When he sent commissions from Augusta for his mother to do she would often carry them out herself. Usually he asked for linen and objects of domestic use, but every now and again also for lengths of cloth for women’s dresses, corsets and silken kerchiefs … Were they for the farmer’s daughter?
Every time he returned to his maternal home his face was browner, his beard shaggier, the skin on his hands harder. But in that face like a desert Arab’s the white of his eye was very gentle. Teresa would thank the Lord for the wisdom inspired in him, for the health accorded him, but in her heart she asked herself how a young man who had been so elegant, so avid of pleasures, of fine rich things, could resign himself to leading a tough country life, to living with a peasant girl amid peasants?… Was she herself not the cause of that transformation? And at once, as if to exculpate herself in her own eyes, she thought, ‘I’m quite changed too!…’ Where, in fact, were those poetic inspirations, those winged fantasies of hers now?
She had been married for two years and was already starting her third pregnancy. When she had dreamt of Giuliano Biancavilla, of Giovannino, did the thought ever occur to her of becoming a mere machine for producing children?… And she struggled hard against thoughts which must surely have been suggested to her by the spirit of temptation. Biancavilla, back from his travels, had also forgotten and taken a wife. One day she met him face to face; for a moment she quivered, but an hour after the meeting had forgotten it. Giovannino was her brother-in-law; no, nothing more remained of those old dreams. Was she sorry? No! she thought. ‘What do I lack for happiness? I’m young, pretty and rich, everyone loves me, everyone praises me, I have two angelic little sons. What have I to complain of?’ Had she not done the right thing in the measure of her own ability. Would her mother up there not bless her? Would the Blessed Ximena not be pleased with her distant descendant?
The spirit of temptation used subtle means to disturb her in this serenity. Perhaps it was books, poetry, novels which, at certain times when she felt most calm and sure and was smiling with greatest content, suddenly produced a sort of cloud in the clear sky of her mind and gave her an obscure sense of discomfort, a faint rancour at happiness lost before she had been able to reach it. Was it a sin to read those books, to allow those visions? Her confessor, the priests who surrounded her, said it was, that they were dangerous; but maybe they recognised at the same time that such a danger was more distant for her, with her upright soul and healthy mind and pure conscience? And then … she had renounced so much: if she ever renounced living in her imagination what would she have left?
Giovannino read a lot too. Every time he came from Augusta he would ask her, ‘Sister-in-law, have you any books to lend me?’ and take cases of them away among the household things he had come to fetch. Was that how he killed time when there was no work to be overseen on the land, no vintage, sowing, or harvest?… Whenever he came to town he also laid in a stock of sulphate of quinine. Malaria reigned at Costantina, and on his land at Balata and Favarotta. During the dangerous season, it was true, he would go off to Melilli on the Hyblean hills, where the air was healthy; but it was a good thing never to lack that sovereign remedy either for himself or for his workers.
One fine summer evening Teresa and her mother-in-law, leaving the little heir at home in custody of a nurse-maid and taking the younger boy with its nurse in their carriage, were going for their usual drive. The unweaned baron, rocked by the gentle movement of the carriage, was sleeping amidst a cloud of gauze on his nurse’s lap. Teresa was wearing for the first time a sumptuous robe which had arrived from Turin a few days before. She saw all the ladies whose equipages crossed hers turn round and look her over in admiration. The carriage drove on up to Our Lady of Graces. There mother, daughter-in-law and nurse alighted, entered the narrow chapel and knelt before the altar. Teresa’s eyes were lowered to avoid the sight of the walls covered with those horrid ex-voto, of the charnel-house which disgusted her now as it had horrified her in childhood. But, gazing at the statue of the Virgin she poured out all her gratitude for the graces showered on her. For some time now she had been feeling so calm; almost happy! It was long since anything had perturbed her; she had no favour to ask of the Madonna. Yes, her father’s still uncertain health, the black mood that gnawed him after his surgical operation. Glum, grim, taciturn, impelled more than ever to get at someone, he had begun turning over in his head again the idea of finding Consalvo a wife. Though he did not speak to and seemed to take no notice of that Evil-Eyed son of his, he was plagued by the thought of his family ending if the fellow did not take a wife. And he had sought out a new match in Palermo, a match said to be quite outstanding. But Consalvo said no once again, and the prince broke off relations with him more violently than ever.
Teresa prayed longer because of this; then she crossed herself and rose to her feet. Her mother-in-law had already got up. The nurse, a humble peasant holding in her arms the fruit of Teresa’s womb, ended her prayers. The baby, awakened by the clatter of feet and the muttering of blind beggars, was staring at the flaming altar half delighted and half bemused. After distributing to the poor all she had in her purse Teresa got back into the carriage. The old duchess ordered the coachman to drive on as far as the Café di Sicilia.
There the waiter had not yet brought them out their ices when an excited cry was heard behind the carriage.
‘Teresa … Mamma …’
It was Michele, unrecognisable, his shirt awry from sweat, pale as a corpse. They asked in consternation:
‘What is it?… Michele!… What’s the matter?…’
Michele turned to the coachman.
‘Home!’ he ordered, ‘Drive home at once …’ and he opened the door, got in and flung himself down next to the nurse.
‘My father?… the baby?’ Teresa was exclaiming already, seizing one of his hands. But he cried:
‘No, no …’
And while the whipped-up horses started amid sparks from the cobbles he finally explained.
‘Giovannino … a telegram from his agent … pernicious malaria!… I rushed to the doctor then to the ra
ilway station … I’ve been searching for you everywhere … I’m leaving tonight by special train …’
At the first moment, Teresa felt almost a sense of relief. Stunned at her husband’s aspect, terrified by his obscure words, she had thought of the ghastliest catastrophies: her father’s death, a sudden threat to her other son. Assured that none of her own blood were in danger, she did not take her brother-in-law’s illness very seriously. Now with Michele losing his head, and her mother-in-law suddenly full of tenderness for the son she had so neglected, frantically talking of leaving, of rushing to call other doctors, she felt that her duty was to keep her head. On reading the agent’s telegram her confidence was reaffirmed. The telegram read: ‘Your Excellencys’ brother found in bed high fever stop Fearing pernicious malaria immediately given quinine stop Request member family with doctor.’ Michele had paid no attention to the doubt in the wording of this communication. She encouraged them all, offered to accompany them, but the old duchess, who kept exclaiming every two minutes ‘My son!… my son!…’ wanted her to stay. Then she prepared her husband’s and her mother-in-law’s baggage, forgot nothing, asked them not to leave her without news, and assured them that even with malignant fever the quinine already administered and the care of the Catania doctor would surely triumph.
At seven o’clock in the evening Michele and the duchess left. When she was alone in the house her confidence began waning. Had things not been serious the telegram, the request for another doctor, the calling of relatives would have been unnecessary. And why had he not signed the telegram himself?… Holding her children tight against her breast she prayed in her heart, ‘Oh Lord, oh Lady of Graces, please may there not be a tragedy …’
And why by dawn, when Michele and the duchess must have reached his bedside, why was there no news?… She said to herself to give herself courage, ‘No news is good news!’ … and tried to imagine her husband’s and mother-in-law’s happy faces at finding Giovannino smiling at them, reassuring them. Then why did they not reassure her too? Did they not know that she was worried also?… How she regretted now the cruel selfishness which had almost made her rejoice at hearing it was her brother-in-law in danger! Was he not almost a brother to her? Did she not love him with sisterly love? The memory of that other love she had nourished for him was lost and cancelled now! Now he remained only a friend, a relation, one who had held her baby at the font of redemption.
There was still no news. People came to ask, relations, friends; she could give none. The marchese Federico, shaking his head, mentioned having heard that the imprudent young man had slept some night on the Balata land in the middle of the malarial zone. ‘I’m afraid this is the serious kind; worse than a whiff of grapeshot!’ Princess Graziella protested. ‘Nonsense! New diseases come with the wind!… If he’s taken quinine in time, there’s no danger!’
By midday nothing had come. She wanted to send a telegram herself asking for a reply, but when she suggested doing so to her stepmother, the latter replied that it did not seem necessary, that it was better to wait.
In the afternoon she was alone again. Sad thoughts assailed her once more. To combat them, to thrust them out, she began praying. And as she prayed she thought of the Blessed Ximena, of the votive lamps burning in her chapel. In the clothes she was wearing, throwing only a shawl over her shoulders, with her maid she had herself driven by closed carriage to the Capuchin convent. Beneath the altar lay as usual the centuries-old coffin, object of her terrors. She gazed at it, joined hands, begged her saintly ancestor for poor Giovannino’s health, and told the sacristan to light a perpetual votive lamp. On getting home, she found nothing, but a ring at the bell made her start. Perhaps it was the telegram? But no, it was a messenger from the Town Hall sent by Consalvo, for the latest news … She needed air, and opened a window. On returning to her room, she fell on to a chair with her face in her hands. He must be dead. Michele was not giving her the news because of her condition. And suddenly the past all came back to her memory; she saw him again as she had known him, as she had loved him. She heard his gentle tone when he asked her, ‘Teresa, Teresa, d’you love me?…’ and with arid eyes, with a catch in her throat, she acknowledged, ‘Yes, it was I who killed him!… For me he changed his life … went to bury himself down there … to find death!’
She rose to her feet. Had anyone heard her? The babies were asleep and she was alone. And the torturing, terrible thoughts assailed her once again. It had not been she alone, it had been all those others even more! Her stepmother, her father, his mother, all those hard, ruthless, implacable people, all those who had kept happiness from him, and from her too. For she had not been happy, no, never! And they praised her for loving her husband. But not for a second had she loved him. He came near to revolting her! She despised his ignorance, his vulgarity! And they had sacrificed her from pride, caprice, worship of titles, idolatry of vain words. Mad and malign; Consalvo was right. He had done right to rebel. It was she who had been stupid in obeying blindly. Her fault! Hers too! Just in order to obey, to respect, to content; whom? ‘Our mother’s murderers!…’
With eyes starting, she held her breath. Had the baby heard?… He was looking at her, with his clear, calm eyes gleaming like stars in the evening twilight … She did not rush to him. In the half-darkness the silver of the Crucifix, the glass on the picture of Our Lady were gleaming too. Why then did They allow such things? Did They not know? Did They not see them? Could They not prevent them?
The door opened; her maid came in exclaiming:
‘Excellency, the telegram!’
She read. ‘Doctors assure final attack overcome stop Recovering consciousness stop We feel calmer.’
Then she burst into tears.
Michele returned a week later. His brother was then convalescent, but the day of their arrival they had found him at his last gasp. In a fit of delirium he had tried to throw himself off the balcony; four men had scarcely been able to hold him back: it was a real miracle he was saved. As soon as he was in a fit state to travel he would be brought home to ensure his recovery by a change of air.
In fact a few days later the dowager, who had stayed at his bedside, wrote calling her elder son to help her transport the sick man. When Teresa saw him arrive, bent, thin, with a straggly beard on his yellow face, she scarcely recognised him. Now peace had returned to her soul. For a second she had despaired of Divine help, and just as she was doubting, as she was almost accusing the Lord of forgetting her, the poor man had been saved by a miracle. She recognised the intervention of Blessed Ximena, and she raised her most fervent thanks to heaven. Now the votive lamp burnt day and night in the chapel, and the news of the miraculous intervention increased the Saint’s fame.
All trace of the storm had left her. Before Giovannino’s weak, haggard trembling, she felt nothing but great compassion and prayed for nothing but his recovery. As she looked after him in every way, like a nun, she was thinking, ‘How ugly he’s got! He’s unrecognisable!’ And he let himself be tended like a child, without strength, without will, without memory. The terrible blow had dazed him, blood was gradually flowing back into his fibres, but his mental faculties took much longer to return. The strong doses of quinine had taken away most of his hearing; often he thought himself still in Augusta and called people in his household there. Only rarely did words come to his lips. At moments his tired, fixed stare seemed like a blind man’s.
A month later the doctors advised his removal to the mountains. His mother went with him to Tardarìa. During their absence, which lasted three months, Teresa had another baby boy. In November, as it was too cold to stay up in the woods any longer, the old duchess returned with the convalescent. Giovannino was now completely recovered, his face full of healthy colour; but his mind was still weak. His slight deafness made him restless and irritable. One moment he longed to go out and see people, the next he shut himself into his room and avoided all. Often he would lose his temper, speak rudely at some little contradiction or unimportant observat
ion by his mother or brother; sometimes he screamed with hands to head, ‘D’you want to send me mad?…’
Only Teresa seemed to exercise a pacifying influence on his sick spirit. As if by virtue of some finer sense he always understood all that Teresa said, almost read her words in her looks, in the movements of her lips. And very gradually, through her beneficent influence, he grew better, recovered, took up his former habits again, began to dress with care once more, to take an interest in what he saw and heard. One day he had his beard cut off. It was a transformation, like one to be seen in a theatre; in a second he was young again and the handsome young man of before reappeared.
‘That’s the way!’ said Consalvo, who often came to visit him when his duties as Mayor left him free.
The latter was now at the apogee of popularity; everyone talked of his intelligence and shrewdness, the good he was doing to the town; the Government had nominated him Commendatore of the Order of the Crown of Italy. Often he would get into discussion with Giovannino, for the latter observed that this system of spending money freely on works of varying utility would expose the once flourishing finances of the Commune to the risk of collapse.
‘When there’s money spend it!’ replied Consalvo. ‘Après moi le déluge …’
‘They’ll get into debt if you go on at this rate …’
‘Someone’ll pay up. My dear fellow, I’m out to make myself popular, and I use whatever means I find. D’you think this mob realises what I’m worth? One must throw dust in their eyes!’
Teresa and Giovannino would talk about him constantly and agree entirely in their judgment of him. That contempt of his for all and sundry grieved them. It was, of course, a sign of strength in a way, but would it not do him harm in the long run? Teresa, in particular, believed true strength to be more modest, more considerate, more timid. Giovannino agreed with her judgments, but he would excuse Consalvo and attribute all that was least fine-in him to the political system. What caused her most sorrow was that her brother had no firm faith, agreed with all and laughed at all. He no longer practised his religion and this was an infinite sorrow to her; but she would have preferred a frank negation to the subterfuges which he used. On the Feast of Saint Agatha he attended Pontifical High Mass at the head of the Town Council, in black suit and decorations, before thousands crammed into the cathedral. Afterwards he declared, ‘The masquerade’s over.’
The Viceroys Page 61
