‘No, sir, I am Roman,’ replied the Father.
‘You’ve been here some time?’
‘Only a few months.’
‘Such a pleasure …’ muttered the prince, getting to his feet.
The priest rose and bowed a second time. Teresa excused herself and accompanied her brother.
‘Well?’ insisted Consalvo. ‘What must one do to obtain the duchess’s support?’
‘But I’m worth nothing!’ protested Teresa with a quiet smile.
‘Must one swear loyalty to Charles, to the Great Monarch? Is there no other way? But he’s still to come, isn’t he? Anyway, goodbye for now … And this one here, where did you fish him from? Who is he?’
‘One of the most cultivated priests of the Society of Jesus.’
‘Time wasted! Time wasted!… There’s nothing to be done with these Uzeda! The best, those who seem the wisest, suddenly show they’re mad as the others! Now this one is calling Jesuits into her home, believing in silly prophecies and alleged miracles, and becoming a blind instrument of priests! Where was the girl of once upon a time, so graceful and sweet, gentle and poetic, pious but not bigoted, believing but not blinded? Even physically she had lost her elegance of carriage, was growing fatter, unrecognisable. Madness was gaining on her too, taking a religious form, becoming mystical hysteria! All the same, the lot of them!’ He alone esteemed himself wise, strong, prudent, immune from hereditary taint, master and judge of himself and others … And when the decree closing the Parliamentary session appeared in the Official Gazette, he flung himself head first into the struggle.
Night and day his home became like a public square, a public market, where delegates called from the rural wards and town electors came and went, discussing, bartering, yelling, with hats on their heads and staffs in their hands. On his instructions, his canvassers dragged up to the palace, luring them with marsala, cigars, and curiosity at entering the Viceroys’ palace, individuals of all classes, puffed up with sudden importance, shopkeepers, clerks, ushers, innkeepers, barbers, and people humbler still, servants, scullions, all the scum who, by writing a signature before a notary, now held in their hands a fraction of sovereign power. He shook all their hands, greeted them all with a ‘thanks for your support’, called everyone lei. They went off enchanted, alight with enthusiasm, protesting, ‘And they called him proud! Such an easy-going gentleman!…’
One evening as Consalvo was going round the rooms he saw a new face which seemed very like … like whose?… Like Baldassarre, their former major-domo! But the mutton-chop whiskers had vanished, and instead on his former servant’s shaven lips now grew a great pair of dyed moustachios the hue of riding-boots.
‘Thanks for your support,’ said Consalvo to him, shaking his hand.
‘Not at all!… Duty …’ stuttered Baldassarre.
On leaving the prince’s the major-domo had gone into politics, embraced the democratic faith, and now presided over a workers’ mutual aid society. Since the young prince—Baldassarre still adopted the diminutive for his former young master—was presenting himself on a democratic programme, he had induced his fellow members to support him. Thus he re-entered the palace which he had left a servant, with all the importance of a bearer of a big block of votes. Seated on one of those satin chairs which once he had moved forward for the gentry, he looked around and listened with the gravity of a former major-domo, more serious and imposing than most others there. A country mayor sitting beside him said to him:
‘With us it’s a foregone conclusion. And how do things go here, professor?’
‘Excellently!’ said Baldassarre with a nod of the head. That evening members of the committee were giving the names of friendly electors whom they had induced to write their names on lists. The farmer servant went up to Consalvo.
‘Prince’—from democratic reasons he no longer used the ‘Excellency’—‘our society has fifty electors’ names written down. They’re all ours!’
‘Thank you. I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Not at all, please, my duty! We’re sure to win! Victory is ours!’
‘Thank you with all my heart for your good wishes.’
Baldassarre, forgetting the wrong done to him by the dead prince, now made such efforts to ensure the young prince’s triumph that in a short time he became one of his chief lieutenants. He reported to Consalvo, received his instructions, sometimes gave him advice. Master and servant vanished, they sat side by side at the same table, the prince passed pen and paper to his former dependant, and they called each other lei like two diplomats drafting a treaty.
Meanwhile the struggle was sharpening. Consalvo made tentative approaches to the clerical leaders, but the latter replied that his alliance with Lisi and Giardona ruled out any accord. Giulente was gasping for breath. To save the Town Council he had been forced to impose new taxes, increase old ones, dismiss employees, stop public works not yet finished, reduce all expenses; and complaint was unanimous against him for unpopular taxation and systematic meanness. That long aspiration of his to the old duke’s political inheritance, even his liver complaint were thought a bit ridiculous: his wife completed his ruin by vaunting his patriotism after having derided it. ‘He nearly lost a leg on the Volturno!…’ and by asking everyone she saw, shop assistants, hawkers, ‘Aren’t you an elector?… Then go and write your name …’ And she had finally handed over the accounts of her administration, in worse confusion than the Town Council’s.
The other candidates however did not admit defeat, the ones with the least chance being the most stubborn, falling back on every available means, bargaining for votes and loosing violent accusations against their luckier rivals, particularly the prince. ‘We have no nephews being educated by Jesuits, or uncles who are Cardinals of Holy Church, or reactionary relations. We don’t rely on support from all classes, nobles to mob …’ Consalvo ignored them, hurried into the country, returned to town, enlarged his circle of adherents.
Baldassarre’s agents, on their side, went about preaching the prince’s democracy in taverns, buying drinks for all who promised a vote. One night, though, there was a nasty discussion between the prince’s supporters and opponents who called him ‘Demagogue, Jesuit and traitor’. Words turned to blows, chairs and bottles flew, knives gleamed, serious threats were uttered. Then Consalvo fell back on his former companions in revelry, on those with whom he had once gadded in taverns and brothels. Cut-throat faces, pallid pimps with scar-marked visages, kept guard on his palace and person. They spread around in places of ill repute, threatened, warned … ‘Francis II’s candidate has loosed the Mafia in the constituency to terrorise honest citizens,’ denounced opposition news-sheets. But in the heat of battle even the most ferocious accusations had lost all reality, were attributed to partisan hatred, to bitterness by those feeling ground giving way beneath their feet. The name of Francalanza was on all mouths, no one doubted the prince’s election now. He began preparing his electoral speech.
The event was announced by great multi-coloured placards stuck all over the town: ‘ELECTORAL MEETING. Citizens! On Sunday, 8 October 1882, at 12 Midday, in the Gymnasium (ex-Benedictine Monastery), the PRINCE OF FRANCALANZA will announce his political programme to voters of the first constituency.’ Then followed signatures of his Committee: that of the chairman, a retired magistrate well thought of by all parties and so put in that position by Consalvo, and of six vice-chairmen, more than five hundred members, eight secretaries and twenty-four assistant-secretaries.
Such programme speeches were a novelty. Elections could no longer be arranged on the quiet, in the family as it were, as in the Duke of Oragua’s day. Each candidate had to present himself to the electors, render them an account of his ideas, discuss questions of the day. ‘At least it’s certain that only those with the gift of the gab will go to Parliament …’ But to hear the Prince of Francalanza making a speech in public like a travelling quack would be a truly extraordinary spectacle. The other candidates gave their sp
eeches in theatres, but for Consalvo’s there was so much anticipation, such a deluge of requests for seats, such masses of representatives coming in from the country, that no theatre seemed sufficient. The Gymnasium, which was actually the inner cloister of the San Nicola monastery, was big as a public square, and had, with its arches, columns and terraces, a certain air of an amphitheatre; it was the vastest, noblest, and best-adapted setting to the greatness of the event. Consalvo, who had made this choice, knew what he wanted.
He went to direct preparations personally. But while decorators were busy putting up clusters of flags and festoons of ivy and curtains and portraits, the prince looked round in a daze, suddenly swept by memories of boyhood. The vast, noble monastery, the grandiose home of festive monks, the aristocratic college of his youth was unrecognisable. The corridors which had once stretched as far as the eye could reach had vanished, shut off by walls and gates, converted into school-rooms. The refectory was transformed into the Technical Institute’s art-studio, cluttered with easels, hung with prints and plaster casts; the night Choir was full of nautical equipment; over the doors of rooms, in the place of great pictures were stuck placards inscribed ‘CLASS ONE’, ‘MANAGEMENT’, or ‘HEADMASTER’. Down in the courtyard, store-rooms were transformed into barracks. Generations of soldiers and students succeeding each other since 1866 had devastated the cloisters, broken the benches, damaged the balustrades. The walls were covered with obscene figures and remarks, and inkpots hurled as missiles from exasperation at failed exams or delight at promotion had printed great splotches of ink all over the walls.
Faced with this devastation, Consalvo now felt a sense of regret at the death of that monastic world which he had witnessed with such glee. But then—how well he remembered!—he was fifteen years old and impatient to take the place awaiting him in the world. Had he been told then that one day he would return to San Nicola to make a speech there about social equality and lay thought!… No, he could not accustom himself to the democratic ideals against which his upbringing and his very blood protested.
There at San Nicola, perhaps more than at his own home, he had been infused with the pride of nobility, become used to consider himself of different clay from the common herd … Where was his room? He looked for it in the Novitiate, and could not find it. Perhaps it was where there was a notice ‘PHYSICS ROOM’. A janitor, acting as his guide, was describing the magnificence of the monastery, the sumptuous fetes, the number of guests, the nobility of the Fathers, and regretting the sight of present ruin. ‘Here lived the novices, all sons of the very top barons! Fine times! Now cobblers’ sons come.’ The prestige of nobility and wealth must really be undying if this poor devil spoke thus of a reform advantageous to his own class. Consalvo wanted to reply, ‘You’re right …’ but the hammering from the courtyard reminded him of the need to hide his own feelings, to play the part he had assumed. There, in those walls, he had joined the ‘rats’ ’ party, whose tails Fra’ Cola had wanted to cut off. Might someone not blame him for that remote past … Bah! Who ever remembered a boy’s monkey-tricks? Giovannino was dead, he could not return from the next world to contradict him! And even if he did?
Preparations were nearing completion. On the Sunday of the meeting all was ready. The courtyard looked magnificent. Two thousand seats had been arranged neatly in the arena, and there still remained space for standing spectators. On the southern part of the arcades reserved for committee and associates stood a big table surrounded by armchairs and flanked by smaller tables for press and stenographers. The other three sides were for guests: authorities, nobles, representatives. The whole terrace, like the arena, was for ordinary spectators. To protect their heads from the sun great awnings of tricolour muslin had been stretched across. Clusters of flags covered the columns, with a portrait in the middle of each cluster. To right and left of the balustrade from which the candidate was to speak were portraits of Umberto and Garibaldi, then Mazzini and Victor Emmanuel, then Queen Margherita and Cairoli; and so on, round with Amedeo, Bixio, Cavour, Crispi, Lamarmora, Rattazzi, Bertani, Cialdini, the family of Savoy and of Garibaldi, Monarchy and Republic, Right and Left.
By ten o’clock crowds were beginning to throng but the doors were well guarded by numbers of committee members, recognisable by great tricolour cockades pinned on their chests. Down in the outer courtyard workers’ societies were gathering around their flags and banners to receive the candidate and accompany him to the Gymnasium. Three bands arrived one after the other, with numbers of hangers-on and crowds of curious spectators behind them, and a buzz rose to the sky as torrents of people flowed through the wide-open doors of the Royal Staircase. Band instruments glittered like mirrors in the gay autumn sunshine, pennants and flags waved in the breeze, multi-coloured placards shone bright on monastery walls.
Baldassarre, in frock-coat and tall hat with a cockade as big as a mill-wheel, was coming and going, sweating and puffing, as he had done twenty-eight years before when he had organised the aristocratic ceremonial for the old princess’s funeral. Then he had been a wage-earning servant, now he was a free citizen at a democratic meeting, lending his support to the prince not for money but for an ideal. To the crowd, trying their best to enter, he was saying, with raised hands, ‘Gentlemen, please, a little patience, there’s plenty of time … another hour …’ Could this mob be let in before the guests?… But by half-past eleven further resistance was impossible. He gave his dependants orders to defend reserved places at least, and allowed the terrace and arena to be opened. In a second the human wave swept over all. These were still an anonymous crowd of ordinary people, but gradually more respectable folk began appearing, elegant ladies and gentlemen before whose carriages another crowd in the outer courtyard opened way. In the arena Baldassarre was pointing ladies to their places, while turning round now and again towards his companions. ‘Tell the bands to come here, and take their places! Or there’ll be no music at the candidate’s arrival …’ The fools could not get hold of a single one of them! It was impossible to fetch the bands, even after shouting for an hour. In the end he had to run round calling them himself, ‘What are you doing there? That isn’t your place! Come on inside!…’ He was no longer a major-domo, but could not bear seeing things badly organised. Had one of the Committee not said that the band must play at the prince’s arrival? He bawled, ‘He’s being received in the Gymnasium, not in the courtyard. D’you want to teach me?…’ And he put the bands in their places and ordered them to play the ‘Royal March’ and the ‘Garibaldi Anthem’ …
Now the Gymnasium offered a truly extraordinary spectacle. The arena was a sea of heads, the rows of chairs full, the standing spectators packed like sardines. On the terrace was a multi-coloured crowd, above which flowered the sunshades of many ladies who had found no place down below. But the most splendid aspect was that of the arcades. There all the best society was gathered, ladies in front rows, men behind, with a buzz like a beehive rising all round of elegant chatter, prophecies on the election results and political gossip, but also exclamations of impatience, sporadic impatient clapping as at the theatre, which made all turn their heads and take out their watches.
It was already midday, and the great bell of San Nicola was ringing the first chimes, when there came a distant clamour. ‘He’s here! He’s here!… He’s coming!… It’s starting!’ Now could be distinctly heard the cry, ‘Hurrah for Francalanza!… Hurrah for our Deputy!…’ and outbursts of clapping which grew, echoed around the passages, made the window panes quiver and awoke all the dimmed echoes in the monastery. Those in the Gymnasium had risen to their feet, necks outstretched, eyes fixed on the entrance arch. Suddenly as the first flags appeared, the first notes of the ‘Royal March’ rang out, played by the three bands, and a great shout, a hurricane of applause, of hurrahs, of confused cries rose from the vast enclosure and re-echoed tempestuously amid the other crowd surrounding the candidate.
Consalvo advanced, very pale, thanking with slight nods, deafened, dazzled, ove
rwhelmed by the spectacle. Behind him new torrents of people were pouring on to the terraces, under the arcades, into the arena, overcoming resistance by first occupants. And meanwhile thousands of other hands were applauding, waving handkerchiefs and hats; the ladies stood on chairs, saluting with fans and sunshades, forming picturesque groups against the dark background of the great masculine crowd. The ovation was prolonged, shouts and sharp cries went up as the march started again, and hand-claps crackled like a violent hailstorm on tiles. Here and there little groups of opponents and indifferents remained silent, but from above all that multitude seemed but a single mouth shouting, two arms applauding, ‘One … two … two and a half … three minutes …’ some counted, watch in hand, and others could be seen with tears of emotion in their eyes. Many lost their voices. Tired of waving handkerchiefs, they tied them to red, sweating necks.
‘Enough … Enough …’ Consalvo was saying in a low voice with a sense of real alarm before that yelling sea; and from far away Baldassarre, unable to cross the living wall now tight all round him, made desperate signs to the music. Finally the players understood, the music stopped, applause and shouting died down. But, suddenly, as the President of the Committee moved towards the balustrade to introduce the candidate, out rang the notes of the ‘Garibaldi Anthem’, a new quiver ran through the crowd, frenzy started up again.
Consalvo, overcoming his second of fear, was now distributing thanks to left and right more frankly and smiling, sure of himself, his heart aswell with pride and confidence. The music stopped once more, the crowd went silent. Flags propped against the columns of the arcade formed a new decoration; officials, journalists and stenographers sat down at their tables, secretaries pulled paper out of their briefcases. One of these rose to his feet, and amid a solemn silence began to read out in a strident voice the list of adherents’ names. But people got bored, the words were lost in general mutter. A group of jesting students were now animatedly discussing if the candidate would begin with the aristocratic ‘Gentlemen’ or the republican ‘Citizens’. Affirmed one, ‘What’s the betting he says “Gentlemen and citizens”?’ But enthusiasts were sending severe glances towards these sceptics and demanding silence. Finally the litany ended. One hand on the velvet-draped balustrade, Consalvo waited, turned aside. At a sign from the Chairman, he turned round to the crowd.
The Viceroys Page 67
