The Viceroys

by Federico De Roberto

  The date came when it was due and still Giacomo did not pay, with the excuse of public disquiet, hold-up in business, scarcity of crops and impossibility of marketing them. And Don Blasco was infuriated to hear that his nieces and nephews, forgetting any reasons, had even accepted the constant delays and the prince’s canny excuses. That potty Federico and his wife in particular now refused to listen to anyone, being in the seventh heaven with hope for a child—as if the Messiah himself was to come from Chiara’s belly!—and that booby Ferdinando was reducing his garden to a stinking charnel-house from a sudden mania for embalming animals—without realising that he himself was the most animal of the lot! Then that other wretch Lucrezia was living in the clouds, sillier than ever, going pale at the mention of Giulente, a beardless, complaining youth who also chattered away about constitution and liberty! Finally there was this business about Raimondo not wanting to move and his wife longing to go; Don Blasco, from hatred for the intruder, took the side of the nephew he most loathed.

  ‘Leave? To go where? What about the earthquake in Florence? These aren’t times to leave one’s own parts!’

  Raimondo adduced the same reason, and the others repeated it; Matilde felt a plot tightening ever more closely around her. She had to be content now with going to and from Milazzo every month to see her daughters, as she could no longer endure the Uzedas’ ill-treatment of them. Her father seemed to have forgotten about Raimondo and was going round Sicily on pretence of business, but actually on work against the Government. Don Blasco and Donna Ferdinanda would amuse themselves by predicting he would be thrown into prison any day, as that made the intruder weep. The duke, on the other hand, spoke well of the baron, and had long interviews with him when he passed through Catania. Now he was exalting the genius of Cavour and the triumph of his policy; when his old criticisms about the Crimea expedition were brought up, he denied having ever made them. Francis II’s line of conduct he considered mistaken; the king should have made an alliance with Piedmont, not with Austria, granted a constitution and avoided stirring up the patriots, for Napoleon had said clearly, ‘Italy must be free from the Alps to the Adriatic …’ Hearing such opinions made Don Blasco want to vomit, and he would champ with rage, unable to attack his eldest brother directly. But the day that the news came of the peace of Villafranca he nearly had a stroke from delight. Along the corridors of San Nicola, before the monks of the other party quietly tucking their tails between their legs, he went shouting triumphantly:

  ‘Oho, so what about the great Cavour? And the great Piedmont? Where are they now? Why don’t they go on with the war alone? What about the Adriatic? And the Tyrrhenian? And that fellow who was always making pronouncements and for ever shouting NABBOLEONE! As if Napoleon would ever have told him what he wanted to do! They thought they’d got him right in their pocket, Napoleon!…’

  ‘But aren’t you against him for not keeping to his own manger?’

  ‘What? When? Nonsense! The spree’s over!… What a king, Francis II! What a king! A worthy son of his father!…’

  He could not have been more arrogant or looked down on people more if they had made him king himself. And he let himself go at the palace too, seeing his brother shaking his head and murmuring that the last word was not yet said.

  ‘Last word indeed! The great CAVURRE can shut up shop! The legitimate princes are all coming back! You’ve backed the wrong horse, can’t you see?’

  Every day he would ask if the duke had made any preparations for departure; that brother of his weighed on him like a stone in the belly, and he longed for him to return to Palermo, as if there could be no peace in town until he had gone. At the monastery he insulted those who still dared to contradict him and discussions nearly ended in blows. Even the Abbot had to ask Fathers Dilenna and Rocca to let him have his say so as to avoid a scene. The Prior, on the other hand, kept away from such matters; no one knew what way he thought. If anyone talked to him of politics he would listen, shake his head and reply, ‘Such matters do not concern me … Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s …’

  In the Novitiate, strife between the two parties was sharpening. The young prince, on Don Blasco’s passing the word, now also took on an air of triumph, jeering at Giovannino Radalì, head of the revolutionaries, calling him a ‘baron without a barony’ and a ‘loony’s son’. The Duke Radalì had in fact died in raving delirium, and so his widowed duchess had arranged for the second son Giovannino to take the vows. This was another argument used by Consalvo to crush his cousin, ‘I’ll leave, and you’ll always stay here …’ Giovannino, in spite of their differing political ideas, liked him and put up with his jeers. But sometimes he went into a dangerous frenzy too; blood would rush to his head, his eyes flash. Flinging himself on his cousin, he would knock him down and hit him hard until Fra’ Carmelo ran up with hands on high.

  ‘For the love of God … What ways are these?… Can’t you keep quiet? Think of some other amusement!’

  When the two boys made it up they did amuse themselves. The cousins were yearning to smoke. Giovannino had obtained a few tobacco seeds from Fra’ Cola in great secrecy, and planted them in a corner of the garden; the plants were growing fast and soon they could make cigars from them. Meanwhile they played from morn till night, with a few minutes of study sandwiched in between and a few hours of religious ceremonies.

  For the Feast of St Agatha in August they were free all day and watched the procession, the sung Mass in Piazza degli Studi, and with more pleasure the race of barbary horses, called by Raimondo barbarian. This they did along the Corso, between two living hedges of spectators, on whom the horses often flung themselves, distributing kicks and bruising ribs. The winning horses then returned down the street at walking pace, preceded by grooms calling out every now and again to the balconies:

  ‘Come out, oh princes and barons,

  ’Tis the King of Beasts who passes.’

  And from the crowds came ‘Olè …’

  Consalvo’s attention was riveted by the Spanish ceremonial of such festivals. The city Senate, in a state coach as big as a house, preceded by outriders and standard-bearers and catapans playing drums, passed on its way to fetch the Royal Intendant, who was waiting at his gates. The youngest senator then had to put a foot on the step as if about to alight, but the representative of the Government came forward, with arms outstretched to prevent him touching the ground. These were prerogatives of the city. The Senate had long contests with other authorities about positions to be occupied in the cathedral during great religious functions; to avoid more dissension a line of marble which no one could cross had been set in the floor.

  When the Feast of St Agatha was over, novices and lay-brothers at San Nicola prepared for that of the Holy Nail, awaited every year with high anticipation.

  King Martin had always worn that relic round his neck, and presented it to the monks in 1393; it was one of the nails with a piece of wood of the True Cross. On the 14th of September the golden orb encrusted with jewels containing the sacred relic was exposed to the adoration of the faithful, while the Abbot, surrounded by all the monks in cowls, celebrated pontifical High Mass to the accompaniment of the great organ.

  But the real festival took place that night, when the big open space in front of San Nicola seemed transformed into a drawing-room, with torches everywhere, and chairs arranged for ladies who came in carriages from the Trinità and the Crociferi to watch the procession. This issued to the sound of bells and a band, between two rows of soldiers, from the main door of the church which seemed aflame with light. The Abbot held the gold reliquary, followed by a long procession which returned inside again after making the round outside. Then began the fireworks—rockets, catherine-wheels, luminous fountains, and a great final display which changed shape and colour four times and ended with a stunning crackle of continuous fireworks while hundreds of shining snakes uncoiled in the dark air …

  The young prince, next to his parents, had no time to watch them all, so
busy was he, acting host, because the people in the square and throughout the district were guests of the Benedictines. The whole city had turned up there, the ladies in pretty summer dresses, which they were wearing for the last time, as this celebration marked the end of the season. Donna Mara Fersa, with her daughter-in-law and the latter’s relatives from Palermo, were on the opposite side of the square to the Uzeda; Don Mario was in the country. Now they scarcely greeted each other before the eyes of the world; Donna Isabella had been forbidden to go to Donna Ferdinanda’s any longer, or to any other of the count’s relations. People had gradually stopped gossiping on that subject. Even Raimondo seemed resigned; he was no longer to be seen rushing after Donna Isabella, and she was not quarrelling any more with her mother-in-law or playing the victim as she had before. That evening she was wearing such a sumptuous robe and so many jewels that all eyes were on her. When the crowd began to thin out, Father Gerbini, always gallant, accompanied her to a carriage and, as by chance, the Fersa and the Francalanza coachmen had put their carriages alongside each other, Raimondo and the prince as they drove off took their hats off to the ladies, to which only Donna Isabella and her uncle from Palermo replied.

  The very next day after that festa, from mouth to mouth throughout the city ran an amazing, an astounding, an incredible piece of news: Donna Mara Fersa had thrust her daughter-in-law from the house!… Was it true? Surely not!… Had they not been together the night before at San Nicola?… What? Why? Everything had seemed over!… But the well-informed said it was not over at all and that the bomb had burst that very night because of Don Mario’s absence. Donna Mara, after having driven her daughter-in-law’s relations to their hotel, returned home and fallen asleep, had heard a sound in Donna Isabella’s room. On entering it she found her daughter-in-law half-naked, with a window open and a man’s hat on the floor. Had she been a moment earlier she would have caught them in the act, but he had escaped in a flash by the balcony giving on to the stable roofs. Without any need to name names, all understood that he was the count … Donna Isabella went pale as a corpse, they said, when her mother-in-law cried hoarsely, ‘Get out of my house!…’ just like that, as she was! In slippers, without giving her time to put on a pair of shoes! She had gone, with her maid holding a bag, to the hotel of that uncle who had providentially come from Palermo. ‘Suppose he hadn’t been there? Where would she have gone? What about the husband, Don Mario?…’

  Don Mario arrived at dawn at breakneck speed, called by express message. And how he sobbed! Like a child! How devoted he’d been to his wife! And to the count too! That was his mistake! Not his mother’s though; the friendship of the Uzeda had not gone to her head. Since the very beginning she realised the turn things were taking. Had it not been for her the crisis would have happened a long time before, and Raimondo need not have taken so many precautions. For he was risking his life every time. Whenever Fersa went off to the country the count entered Donna Isabella’s room, having bribed all the servants; but from the stable gates, which the coachman opened, he had to get up on to the coachhouse roof, climb over the balcony and enter his mistress’s room from there … It was a miracle that he had not been caught before! The last night, as he was escaping without a hat, he had met the nightwatchmen, who were about to arrest him; but hearing that he was the Count Uzeda, they let him go.

  The incredulous and curious went so far as to ask the police, but were sent packing. And that very day everyone saw young Count Raimondo at the Nobles’ Club gambling and chattering away the same as ever. Could he really flout public opinion to that point? Or was the story going around to be doubted? Already versions favourable to Donna Isabella were circulating. Her being up at midnight? She had been unable to sleep! And the open window? Because of the great heat. And the hat on the floor? An old one of the coachman’s, which she had been amusing herself throwing about that afternoon!… If all these things had not been made clear at once, it was due to that old harridan Donna Mara. She loathed her daughter-in-law, everyone knew how she had ill-treated her! Who had even mentioned the count? What had the count to do with it? Who had seen him? He was in his own home, where he had returned immediately after the procession of the Holy Nail; the prince, the princess, the whole family, all the servants could attest that! Perhaps it was because he had paid Donna Isabella a few visits some time ago? But he had soon stopped, seeing how such an innocent friendship was being taken in ill stead! How right he was to want to leave Catania, to rebel against the malice of his own fellow-citizens … Gradually those voices acquired credit; it was even said that Fersa had quarrelled with his mother for not having given the accused woman time to prove her innocence.

  The whole town discussed, commented, weighed every piece of news about this affair, got more worked up about it than about a kingdom’s fall. Some were on the count’s side, protesting that a family man like him would never upset another family; some judged him capable of this or that, to satisfy a whim. Had he not led a wild life as a bachelor? And when a married man had he not made his poor wife suffer a lot? Luckily when all this happened she was away with her father in Milazzo.

  Three days later Raimondo’s defenders triumphed; he left for Milazzo to join his wife and daughters. Donna Isabella, meanwhile, had left with her uncle for Palermo. Who dared still affirm there had been anything wrong between them? That fool of a Donna Mara Fersa had put her foot in it!… The incredulous went to the Francalanza palace and the hotel to see if the departures were true. They were; Donna Isabella and Raimondo had left, one for Milazzo and the other for Palermo; the prince was making ready to go off to the Belvedere; Fersa with his mother was already at Leonforte.

  During that autumn in the country the story was discussed ceaselessly.

  There was much talk of it at Nicolosi among the Benedictine fathers. Father Gerbini among others was a paladin of Donna Isabella’s innocence, encouraged in this by the fact that Raimondo had gone from Milazzo to Florence, where he was now settled with his family. Don Blasco, though, did not open his mouth on this subject. He seemed to have forgotten about his relations’ affairs, busy as he was breathing fire at the news of public events, the votes by Romagna and Emilia for annexation to Piedmont, Farini’s dictatorship, and particularly the Treaty of Zürich, which kept him on the rampage for the whole autumn and winter. With the Liberal monks he would plunge into tempestuous discussions which threatened to end in blows, about Cavour’s return to office, the plebiscites of central Italy and all the symptoms of radical change. But when Nice and Savoy were ceded to France he was as delighted as if they’d been given to him; after the abortive attempt at revolt in Palermo on 4th April he crowed victory, shouting:

  ‘Aha, you’re done, can’t you see? Down with those hands now! Talk and shout and bawl as much as you like, but you don’t break anything! Who breaks pays, and the plates aren’t yours!’

  ‘It’s you who can’t see! You can’t see it’s not like ’48 now!’

  ‘Eh? Ah? Oh? Why not? What’s so new then?’

  ‘What’s new is that Piedmont is strong … That France is helping her secretly … that England … that Garibaldi …’

  ‘Who?… When?… France?… Fine help! Garibaldi? Who’s Garibaldi? Never heard of him …’

  He heard of him on the 13th of May, when the news of the landing at Marsala burst like a bomb. But this time he did not shout, or spit curses; he merely shrugged his shoulders and affirmed that at the first shot from the Neapolitans, the ‘brigands’ would disperse. The Murat, Bandiera, Pisacane affairs, were proof of that.

  ‘It’s another tune now!’ said Father Rocca in his face after the defeat of Calatafimi.

  Don Blasco burst out:

  ‘But, you bunch of cadgers, why on earth are you rubbing your hands so? Have you had a win on the lottery? Or d’you think that Garibaldi will come and make Popes of you all? Don’t you see, ye cretins, that you’ve a lot to lose and nothing to gain?’

  He was beside himself; the Garibaldini’s victorious advance exas
perated him; the formation of rebel squads, the ferment reigning in the city and country infuriated him. But his rage was most violent against the duke, who was now definitely siding with the revolutionaries and leaving the sinking ship. The monk said things against his brother which would have made a cavalryman blush, called all the authorities traitors because, instead of repressing the movement, they waited, scratching their bellies, to see if Garibaldi entered Palermo or not.

  ‘Palermo? Lanza’ll fling him out! There are twenty thousand troops in Palermo! But examples must be made! Raise the gibbet in the Fortress square!’

  Instead of which the rebel squads all linked up around the city, Liberals talked out loud, the police pretended not to hear, and ‘decent folk’ had to go into hiding! And that swine General Clary, with three thousand men under his orders, would not leave the Ursino castle and make a clean sweep, he just let the ‘decent folk’s’ panic increase. On the night of the 27th, amid ill-concealed jubilation by the revolutionaries, arrived news of Garibaldi’s entry into Palermo; the bands threatened to come down into Catania and attack Clary’s troops. But the duke recommended calm and assured all that the Neapolitans would leave without firing a shot. Giacomo, in spite of the imposing and protective air he now put on with the family, as if he controlled wind and rain, decided, just in case of trouble, to make arrangements for their safety at the Belvedere. Lucrezia, seeing those preparations for departure, fretted at the idea of leaving Giulente, who wrote to her, ‘The hour of trial is at hand: I rush to the post where duty calls me, with Italy’s name and yours on my lips!’ But at the news that all procrastination was over and the squads were about to enter the city the prince went to San Nicola to put his son in the care of the Abbot, the Prior and Don Blasco, had his carriages harnessed and left with his whole party except Ferdinando, who would not leave his own place even for plague or revolution. Then the duke, so as not to remain alone in the deserted palace, went and stayed at the monastery where his nephew the Prior gave him a room in the guest wing. Don Blasco on seeing him in there thought he was a ghost; at first he could not bring out a word, then rushed among the monks of his set, shouting: