Consalvo did not bother about him; he despised him to such an extent that at times he almost pitied him. Realising the need of getting to work soon, he put forward the actuation of a resolve already in his mind for some time: to resign from his office as Mayor. He needed to be free, and he wanted to avoid the danger of a prolongation in office losing him the advantage obtained and changing it into irreparable harm. The whole edifice was beginning to creak, in fact. His wild expenditure had exhausted the exchequer, and the last budget had closed with a considerable deficit which he had only been able to hide by a series of artifices. But the situation was no longer tenable. Either taxes had to be imposed or debts contracted, and he did not want to have to face the unpopularity of such provisions. So he seized the first excuse to beat a retreat.
One day the Council accountants were discussing again how to get dues paid, as the contract system had not produced good results. In private conversation, he declared that he considered a return to direct payment a mistake and that it was a matter of correcting the current system’s defects and of not abandoning the system itself. He did not breathe a word of this at meetings and let the majority give their opinion. The majority voted to change the system. That same night on going home he wrote two letters, one to the Prefect resigning his office, the other collectively to all the Assessors announcing that ‘for reasons of delicacy’ he had already sent in his resignation to the Prefect.
It was a thunderbolt from a clear sky. ‘Delicacy?…’ exclaimed Giulente, whom all the others asked for an explanation. ‘What delicacy? I don’t understand!…’ And the Town Council in a body went to call on him, while the news rapidly spread throughout the civic offices.
‘Can you explain?’ said Benedetto to him on behalf of his colleagues. ‘What does this letter mean?’
‘It means,’ replied the prince, looking in the air, ‘that I did not wish to exercise pressure, and as your way of seeing things is contrary to mine I am resigning in order to leave your hands free.’
‘But about what?… The dues?…’
‘About the dues and other things …’
Knowing that these people were come to induce him to withdraw his resignation he cut short any chance of their insistence. He said that for some time, in a number of matters, in hundreds of little daily affairs, he had observed that there were no longer the same good relations between them all as before. Now he could neither renounce his own ideas nor impose them on others; so the best thing was to go.
‘You might have said so before! And not leave us in the lurch! What a way of doing it!…’
In a confused way they realised the trick played on them, the mess in which he was leaving them. Giulente alone insisted:
‘Well, we can set things to rights, we’ll go back on our decisions; the Council itself has not yet examined them. We’ll do as you wish …’
‘It’s useless for you to insist,’ declared Consalvo. ‘My decision is irrevocable. And please realise that I’m not made of iron. I have worked for a number of years on behalf of my city; now I need a rest. Anyway, it’s time I gave a little thought to my family affairs, now that I have them to look after … Thank you for your concern,’ he added to the fuming Assessors, ‘but believe me, I can’t. No-one is necessary. You have as much experience as I; I leave the administration in good hands …’
Benedetto went to ask the Prefect to intervene; wasted breath. The Town Council met in Giulente’s house to deliberate. Some of them, wanting to avoid embarrassments, maintained that the Mayor’s resignation should be followed by that of all the Assessors; but would that not seem like desertion? Would that not show up their incompetency and give credit to those who called them puppets moved by the Mayor as he liked?
‘It’s a betrayal!’ cried the most outspoken. ‘A black betrayal! We’ve let this rascal trick us!’
‘Calm, please!… Why a betrayal?… What interest would he have?…’ said Giulente.
‘What interest?’ they bawled at him. ‘Don’t you realise?… Don’t you realise he wants to be a Deputy, and that he’s dropping us now he sees the whole edifice is in danger, after he’s made full use of the situation? Now that he has other interests with elections imminent?’
Giulente went pale, looked round with an air of bewilderment, as the truth dawned on him. Just recently he had actually realised that his nephew also had ambitions to become a Deputy, but he was sure that Consalvo was not presenting himself at once and would step aside at least the first time. In any case how could he ever have suspected such a trick, to be left with a mess of taxes, debts and hatred on his hands? He ceased to protest against his colleagues’ recriminations and ejaculations against the ex-Mayor. ‘Deceit … Betrayal … Cheating!… Deserves a knife in the ribs …’ the words echoed in his thoughts. He realised they were justified, understood at last that this knave whom he had himself initiated into public life was snatching from him the post he had awaited so long, and giving kicks as thanks. What about the duke? The duke, who had so often promised to leave his political inheritance to him when he retired?… The duke, to whom he hurried, said:
‘It’s true I promised you my support, but in other times, when I could not foresee actual development … Now that Consalvo is presenting himself as candidate you can surely understand what an embarrassing situation I’m in …’
‘So it’s true? He’s a traitor too, worse than his nephew, is he?’ thought Benedetto. But out loud he said:
‘Your Excellency must surely be aware that Consalvo is of the Left and belongs to the Progressives, while Your Excellency …’
‘Still thinking of Right and Left, are you?’ laughed the duke, who had in his pocket a formal promise of a seat at the Senate. ‘Don’t you see that the old parties are finished? There’s a revolution, don’t you know? Who can say what the voting booths will say now they’ve let in the mob? A real leap in the dark! If I presented myself for election,’ now, at last, in self-justification he acknowledged the truth, ‘I’d be left far behind. D’you expect the electors to listen to what I say? The support I could give is purely idealistic … it could be a stone round the neck which would sink the candidate.’
Then Giulente hurried to Consalvo, in a state of violent exasperation. With the old man he had not dared drop his former respect, but he felt the need to let himself go, to tell this knave what he thought of him.
‘You’ve done … you’ve done what you’ve done for your own ends, to leave me holding the bag, haven’t you?… To ruin me?… To take my job?…’
Consalvo gave him an ambiguous smile and pretended not to understand. ‘What’s the matter?… Calm yourself! I don’t understand …’
‘Is it true you’re putting up as candidate?’
‘Perhaps, if there’s any chance of my getting in …’
‘And didn’t you know … don’t you know it’s my seat? That I’ve been waiting for it all these years? That your uncle promised it to me?’
‘Seat?’ exclaimed Consalvo with the same air of simple amazement. ‘What seat? With the revision of the electoral register there won’t just be one seat, but three.’
‘So you’re laughing at me too? Jeering at me too? After taking my seat by treachery!’
The smile vanished from Consalvo’s face.
‘I must observe that you are over-heated and not thinking of what you are saying.’
‘Aha, not thinking, aren’t I?’
‘This isn’t a matter of seats in a theatre, where anyone sits who’s paid for a ticket. I’ve taken nothing from you, for the very simple reason that you have no seat to take. If you think that you can get in there’s nothing to prevent your putting up. If I happen to think I can, I’ll put up too. We’re not such close relatives as to make us incompatible. There is no pledge between us; each is free to do what he wishes.’
‘And you’re also free to leave us in the lurch, now that you see the abyss yawning in front …’
‘There’s no abyss. There are some difficulties to be overco
me. That means you will have a chance of showing your abilities.’
The blood rushed to Benedetto’s head.
‘You’re all the same, you lot!’ he shouted suddenly. ‘A bunch of arrant scoundrels!’
Consalvo looked him for a moment in the whites of the eyes. Suddenly he let out a laugh in his face, turned his back and vanished.
As Giulente left he did not answer servants’ greetings, did not hear what the major-domo said to him. They thought he had gone mad, seeing him rush off, flushed in the face, with arms raised and fists clenched, talking to himself. ‘Cheats, liars, traitors … The revolution! A leap in the dark!… They fall on their feet though … the uncle’s arranged things for himself!… Now the nephew!… A leap in the dark … Pro-Bourbon to the bones!… He should have been strung up in 1860!… And I, like a fool, have served them both!… Those good wishes to Francis II!… Now he’s on the Left!… A fool I’ve always been, a fool!’
Bitterly, torturingly, there suddenly awoke in him a realisation of how he had been used and kept under, of the contempt with which they had treated him. ‘We’re not such close relatives!’ That little swine had spat that out in his face!… Relatives? Had they ever been relatives to him? All, yes all of them had looked at him from above, as an intruder, as unworthy of them! First they had despised him for his studies, the ignoramuses, for the ‘ignoble’ degree he had obtained. And they had been the only ones for whom he had exercised his profession at all in order to help their intrigues; the old woman, the prince, Raimondo … ‘Who are they anyway?… A bad brew of Spanish adventurers enriched by robbery. I’d like to wipe my feet on them!’ But actually what he had done was serve them, court them, flatter them. Had he not magnified their presumption, encouraged their madness, approved their rascalities? ‘Fool! Fool! I’ve always been a fool!’
He reached home without knowing how he got there. He tore at the bell, entered like a man possessed. Lucrezia, who was lounging in an armchair with her hands in her lap, looked at him with some curiosity and then said:
‘What’s the matter?’
He stood there in front of her, with eyes starting from his head.
‘What’s the matter?… What’s the matter?… The matter is that you’re all a bunch of filthy traitors …’
‘Who?’
‘Who? Your uncle, your nephew, your relations, that evil race. Cursed be the hour and the day …’
She was still looking at him as if he were a strange ridiculous object. More amazed than angry, she interrupted:
‘What the devil are you saying?’
‘What am I saying? What I’ve got to say. Are you defending them? Or taking their part?’
‘What an imbecile you are!’ she exclaimed, rising to her feet.
Then Benedetto lost his temper. He seized her by an arm and yelled:
‘It’s true, isn’t it?… You’re right to say so!… I am an imbecile!…’ and he gave her a terrific slap which caught her full on the cheek and rang like a bullet shot. Then suddenly he left her to go and lock himself into his room.
The servants, having seen their master enter in that unusual state, had been listening; none of them dared let out a breath. When the scene was over the maid peeped every now and again through the door which was still open, to see what her mistress was doing. Lucrezia was standing motionless by the window, her cheek flaming red and swollen. She was still in the same position an hour later. Then suddenly she began walking up and down, looking in the air as if to catch flies, at the ground as if to search for some lost object, stopping suddenly in the middle of the room as if taken suddenly by an idea, then starting to pace again as if following someone. When servants came asking for orders she gave brief though not angry answers. Her cheek had become less swollen and was gradually whitening. From time to time she touched it with her hand.
‘Excellency,’ they came to ask her, ‘shall we serve dinner?’
‘Wait,’ she replied, and went and knocked at her husband’s door.
Benedetto had flung himself on the bed, with clothes unbuttoned and head still aflame. Seeing his wife enter, he said nothing. Lucrezia went up to him.
‘How d’you feel?’ she asked him.
‘All right,’ replied Giulente, without looking at her.
‘D’you want to dine?’
‘As you like.’
‘Or d’you think it’s early?’
‘As you think.’
‘Then shall I tell them?’
He nodded indifferently. Lucrezia gave orders for the meal to be served. Then she went back to her husband’s room.
‘Why are you staying in bed? Is anything the matter?’
‘No, nothing.’
He got up, but only to fling himself into an armchair. He had regretted his brutality, but could not express his sorrow. And he was continually ruminating his rancour, considering possibilities open to him, uncertain which to try.
‘What did you decide in the Town Hall?’ asked Lucrezia again.
‘I know nothing …’ he burst out. ‘I never want to hear another word. They can all go to the devil! If a single one of your family comes here I’ll throw him headlong down the stairs.’
‘You’re right,’ replied his wife.
The day before, from behind the door, she had realised from the Assessors’ discussion the trick played on her husband by Consalvo, and she had realised that Benedetto could not be a Deputy. At once there had sprung up in her again the old aversion for her nephew, for these Uzeda who seemed sworn to thrust her aside and take everything for themselves. But she did not know yet quite whom to blame. Was it really Consalvo’s fault and not that ass Benedetto’s? Was what the Assessors said true? Would the duke not set things to rights?… She had not been convinced by her husband’s distraught air on coming home or by his violent words against Consalvo and the duke; he could have talked for a whole day without convincing her. What had converted her was the slap. As if her torpid brain needed a material shock to function properly she had at once said to herself, ‘He’s right!’ During the two hours she had spent in the other room, looking at the street without seeing it, walking up and down like a caged animal, she had repeated mentally, ‘He’s right!… It’s Consalvo … It’s uncle … They want to crush me!… What do they think they are?… Masters of everything?’ And now at Benedetto’s last outburst she repeated, ‘You’re right! You’re right!’ During dinner they were both silent. Giulente scarcely tasted the food and left his knives and forks on his plate. ‘Are you feeling ill?… Would you care for something else?… Would you like to go to bed?…’ She was prodigal with every kind of attention, stopped eating when her husband ate no more. Suddenly Benedetto got up. He felt really ill, his head was going round, and he went to bed. She helped him undress, shook up his pillows, prepared his coffee.
‘Would you like to be alone? Would you like to rest?’
‘Yes.’
She went away. But scarcely had she shut the door when she re-opened it.
‘Don’t torture yourself,’ she came back and told her husband. ‘There’ll be more than one Deputy. You put up as well. We’ll see who’s stronger, him or us!’
THE situation in the constituency was this. Now that the business and conservative stronghold that had supported the Duke of Oragua for twenty years was dismantled, the Constitutional Association dispersed, and even the Progressive group in dissolution, the flourishing and belligerent workers’ societies at last found, in the vote, a weapon with which to enter the lists. While among the middle classes the former moderates, admirers of Lanza and Sella, were forced to hide, new phalanxes of electors spoke freely of more liberty and radical reforms, of republic and of socialism. But such words, terrifying timid progressives and pushing them into the conservative ranks, gave new life to the all but expiring moderates. Thus the most advantageous position was between Progressives and Radicals. This Consalvo of Francalanza took up at once. His adherence to the party of the Left, his break with his uncle after the ‘Parliame
ntary revolution’ of 1876, legitimised, as it were, the ultra-Liberal programme which he announced.
Immediately on relinquishing the Town Hall he set to work outside the city, in the rural wards. Out there peasants and villagers were awakening to politics. There were workers’ societies, agricultural clubs, ordered and disciplined democratic groups, with which he must come to terms. Nobles, middle-class and the well-to-do were won over at once. Accompanied by friends or admirers who came forward spontaneously, he began touring the constituency. The local mayor, the chief landowner or the most influential person in each place would give a dinner or reception in his honour and invite other leading characters. Elections were not mentioned, but the prince was affable to all, informed himself about local needs, listened to everyone’s complaints, took notes in a notebook and left people enraptured by his polite ways, dazed by his eloquence and pleased as if he had actually written a decree for the construction of a railway, the repairing of a road, or the transfer of a local police chief.
But after a banquet or refreshments, after a visit to notables, Consalvo would go and visit local workers’ groups. There, in squalidly furnished rooms, crowded by poor men with calloused hands, he went through torture. He shook those gloveless hands, mingled with those humble folk, sat among them, accepted the refreshments they offered him, and did not by the movement of a muscle reveal the agony of this propinquity. Briefed beforehand, he made long speeches about village needs, about the wine crisis, or fruit crops, or the tax-load, promised laws to protect agriculture, guaranteed tax reliefs, scattered promises of rewards and incentives of all kinds. His theory was of progress; ‘never-ending progress …’
When he saw portraits of Garibaldi, of Mazzini on the walls he would insist on the urgency of ‘ampler liberties demanded by the spirit of the times’; when he saw those of the royal family, he recognised the need ‘to move with leaden feet’. Nearly always he found someone to act as guide. But sometimes there was no one to introduce him to more intransigent circles, and then he would just appear, ask for the ‘president’, announce that he happened to be passing by and much wished to visit ‘this group so worthy of the village’.
The Viceroys Page 65
