The Viceroys

by Federico De Roberto

  ‘I wish to regulate the situation of the other legatees also. Either they are all right or they are all wrong; does that not seem logical and just to Your Excellency? As we have to make out a legal document, let us get it all over and done in one. Why does Your Excellency not talk to the others and get them to agree?’

  Chiara and the marchese did not have the same reasons for bowing their heads to the prince’s conditions, but it was a propitious moment to try to induce those to the transaction too, as they lived only in expectation of their child and their joy at the imminent event was such that it must dispose them to pass over all other interests. And so when the duke told them that Lucrezia was to marry and had come to a settlement, they approved, considering only that to keep the interest back as compensation for maintenance did the prince little honour. But if she was happy about that then they all were.

  ‘And now you too must settle things up!…’ added the duke, in a tone of affectionate insistence allowed him not so much in his position as uncle as from having accepted the holding of the new-born child at the font.

  The marchese exchanged glances with his wife and replied:

  ‘If Your Excellency so wishes …’

  ‘Chiara’s account is of course the same as Lucrezia’s but there is no question about the interest with her and Giacomo will pay it to the last.’

  ‘I took my dear Chiara for the love I bear her and not for money …’ and bowing over his wife, Federico kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘But what about my uncle the Canon’s legacy? And the dowry?’ she reminded him, to prevent her generous husband being swindled.

  ‘Giacomo does not intend to recognise them, and I do not know if he is right or wrong … But anyway this must be settled now once and for all! A few thousand onze makes no difference to you for the moment; I will make up for them to my godson in time …’

  So that was decided, to the great joy of husband and wife. There remained Ferdinando, from whom the prince demanded 2,000 onze of debt. Lucrezia was the only one with any influence over the Booby, but instead of talking to her brother she took to her bed and refused to see anyone, alleging mysterious sufferings. The Booby, on hearing of his sister’s illness, came to visit her every day, but Lucrezia seemed to be particularly averse to seeing him. Her maid had told her, and she herself realised, that Giacomo was squeezing her; but in order to triumph over her relatives she would have ignored much more. Now she felt the harm she was herself doing her younger brother, the only one who loved her, by inducing him to strip himself of part of his meagre inheritance, the least of all the portions. But in her head the parts were inverted; the fault was Ferdinando’s for not taking an interest in her, not asking her what was wrong, not removing the last obstacle to the conclusion of the marriage.

  Ferdinando on the other hand knew nothing about anything and was open-mouthed when the duke, to get this last little sacrificial lamb over and done with, told him:

  ‘There is a chance of a good match for your sister … Benedetto Giulente, you know, that intelligent young man who’s done so well …’

  ‘Oh, yes! Fine, I’m pleased …’

  ‘But of course first Giacomo wants to arrange all your various interests and conclude the division which is still unsettled. Lucrezia has agreed and Chiara too; now your brother wants to arrange matters pending with you, since it’s all the same question … That is what Lucrezia’s illness is …’

  ‘Why didn’t she mention it to me before?’

  He hurried to his sick sister’s bedside and said to her:

  ‘Silly girl! You aren’t worried about that, are you? Our uncle told me all … if you agree, aren’t I right to agree too? We must tell him so at once! Does that please you?’

  The day of the election drew near. The two Giulente, particularly Benedetto, had wormed out every elector and gone through all the formalities of registration. Morning and night people came to visit the duke and declare they would vote for him; the two Giulente were always present. On the eve of the voting, while the candidate was giving audience to his supporters, a servant came hurrying over from the marchese to call the prince and princess, as Chiara was about to give birth. When Giacomo and Margherita reached her home they found Federico in a frenzy of anxiety, unable to be with the suffering woman, but every instant calling the maid or Cousin Graziella or one of the three midwives who were taking turns at the future mother’s bedside. The prince stayed with him while the princess entered Chiara’s room. In spite of the agonies of labour she had a serene air and, smiling between her spasms, asked them to reassure her husband.

  ‘Tell him I’m not suffering … You go yourself … Margherita … Ah … Poor man … he’s on tenterhooks …’

  The desire of all those years, her most ardent longing, was now about to be realised! At this idea the pains decreased; at the thought of her husband’s distress she scarcely suffered any more … When the princess returned to the room, the midwife exclaimed:

  ‘We’re there!… We’re there!…’

  ‘Is it showing its head?’ asked Cousin Graziella, holding the marchesa by the shoulders in her final spasm.

  ‘I don’t know … Courage, signora marchesa … What is it?’

  Suddenly the midwife went pale, seeing her hopes of rich tips vanish; from the bleeding womb came a piece of formless flesh, an unnameable thing, a beaked fish, a featherless bird; this sexless monster had one eye, three things like paws, and was still alive.

  ‘Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!’

  Chiara, luckily, had fainted as soon as she was freed. The princess, who had been wandering round the room without touching a thing, incapable of giving the suffering woman any help, now turned away her head in disgust at the sight. And the midwives, Graziella and the maids looked at each other in consternation exclaiming:

  ‘Who will give her husband the news?’

  Just then the marchese, hearing no sound, called out:

  ‘Cousin!… Donna Agata!… How’s it going? Cousin! Is no one coming?’

  Donna Graziella had to go out to him and prepare him for the blow:

  ‘Cousin, be of good heart … Chiara is freed …’

  ‘Is it a boy? Is it a girl?… Cousin!… why don’t you speak?’

  ‘Courage!… The Lord has not wished … Chiara is well; that is the important thing …’

  The prince, entering to see the abortion whose single eye was now lifeless, tried to prevent his frenzied brother-in-law from entering the room too, but he could not succeed. Before the monster which the appalled midwives had put on a heap of baby-clothes the marchese stood rooted to the ground, his hands in his hair. Meanwhile his wife was coming to and, looking around at those standing by.

  ‘Federico! Is it a boy?…’ were the first words she gasped out.

  ‘Stay quiet now!’ enjoined the women together, moving in front of the abortion so as to prevent her noticing it. ‘Let’s not say anything to her for the moment …’

  ‘Federico!’ exclaimed the mother.

  ‘Chiara!… How are you?’ exclaimed the marchese, running up to her. ‘Have you suffered much? Are you still suffering?’

  ‘No, nothing … Our son?’

  ‘Chiara, be comforted! It’s a little girl,’ announced her cousin hurrying up to her, ‘What does it matter!… She’s so pretty!’

  ‘A pity!’ sighed she. ‘Are you sorry?’ she asked her husband then, seeing his gloomy face.

  ‘No! No!… All children are just as dear.’

  ‘Where is she?… Bring her here!…’ she exclaimed with another sigh.

  At that point a maid, on the princess’s orders, was taking away the foetus wrapped in a cloth, trying not to be noticed.

  ‘There!…’ exclaimed Chiara. ‘I want to see her.’

  All were speechless with confusion. Federico, stroking her hands and kissing her forehead, said to her:

  ‘Courage, my dear … You must be brave … I’m resigned too you see! The Lord does not wish it.’

  ‘Is
she dead?…’ asked she, going pale.

  ‘No … it was born dead … Courage, my poor dear … As long as you’re all right … the rest is nothing. May the Lord’s will be done!’

  ‘I want to see her.’

  Everyone surrounded her, trying to dissuade her; it was dead after all! Why torture herself by the sight? She must take care of herself; the important thing now was her own health!

  ‘I want to see her,’ she answered sharply.

  There was nothing for it but to do what she wanted. She did not cry, she showed no disgust at examining that abomination. She said to her husband:

  ‘He was your son!…’ and ordered it not be taken away for the moment. Meanwhile other relatives were arriving; Don Eugenio, Donna Ferdinanda, the Duchess Radalì, the marchese’s cousins. All condoled but wished them better luck next time. Towards evening the duke also arrived to express his regrets, but he remained only a short time, as the Giulente were awaiting him below to tell him the latest news about the electorate’s dispositions. Benedetto was like Garibaldi saying to Bixio, ‘Nino, tomorrow we’ll be in Palermo!…’

  Next day in fact he rushed all round the constituency, into voters’ houses, urging the erection of voting-booths, interpreting an electoral law new to all, inciting people to place the name of Oragua in the urns. Meanwhile in Chiara’s house, as if in sign of protest against this last madness of the duke’s, were met all the pro-Bourbon Uzeda except for Don Blasco, who since the transactions by his nephews and nieces and the arrangement of Lucrezia’s wedding and his brother’s candidature, seemed to have gone really quite off his head.

  Chiara was more or less re-established in health and taking her misfortune with some resignation. The marchese never left his wife’s bedside and would lean over to talk in her ear. Neither of the two listened to Donna Ferdinanda’s ferocious remarks against her brother, or the cavaliere’s historico-critical discourses to the young prince, who also came to visit his aunt together with the Prior and Fra’ Carmelo. Chiara had sent for Ferdinando and was awaiting him impatiently. When he appeared she called him to her bedside and talked to him in a whisper for a long time. Then she called her maid, took a bunch of keys from beneath her pillow and gave them to him, ordering him amid the clatter of conversation:

  ‘You know the glass jar for lard in the store cupboard?… The big one?… Get it, empty it and wash it out … carefully, now. Better use hot water.’

  When the jar was ready, Ferdinando went to see her.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Now we need spirit.’

  Chiara ordered someone to go out and buy it. Then amid a circle of astounded relatives, the foetus, yellow like wax, was brought out, washed, dried and then introduced by Ferdinando into the glass jar which he filled with spirit and then corked up.

  ‘Is there some tallow … or clay?’

  ‘There’s my ointment, if that’s any use … said the marchese.

  With the ointment, whose stink filled the room, Ferdinando stuck down the edges of the cork so that no air should enter the jar. Chiara followed the operation attentively. Consalvo, with eyes starting out of his head, looked at that piece of fat swimming in spirit. Suddenly he said to Don Lodovico:

  ‘Uncle, doesn’t it look like the goat in the museum?’

  In the Benedictines’ museum there was another abortion, an animal’s, a lump of flesh with paws, like a ghostly bladder with limbs; but Chiara’s creature was more horrible still.

  Don Lodovico did not answer; after a short visit to his sister he left. The others gradually went off too, leaving Chiara alone with her husband gazing almost contentedly at that lump of anatomy, latest product of the Viceroy’s race.

  The prince was in a hurry to get back to his uncle the duke and in order to please him took his son along, though it was the usual time for the boy to return to the monastery. Scarcely had the family reached the palace than confused sounds were heard in the distance; claps, shouts, trumpet-calls and bangs on a big drum. A citizens’ demonstration of all classes with banners and music, headed by the two Giulente, was on its way to acclaim the first deputy for the constituency, the notable patriot, Don Gaspare. The porter, seeing a yelling crowd drawing near, made to close the gates, but Baldassarre, sent down by the duke, told him to leave them wide open. The crowd was crying, ‘Long live the Duke of Oragua! Long live our deputy!’ while the band played Garibaldi’s Anthem and urchins did somersaults to the music. The Giulente, the Mayor, and another eight or ten of the most important citizens were parleying with Baldassarre and asking to go up and compliment the people’s choice.

  The duke was upstairs in the Yellow Drawing-room and there the major-domo led them. As soon as Benedetto Giulente entered he saw Lucrezia standing by the princess, still with her hat on. The duke came towards his fellow-citizens and shook everyone’s hand, prodigal with thanks, while from the street came the din of shouts and applause. The prince, seeing a man with the reputation of the Evil Eye in the group, went pale and muttered, ‘Save us! Save us!’ The newly elected deputy, meanwhile, was presenting Giulente to his nieces and nephews. The young man bowed and exclaimed, radiant:

  ‘Signora, princess, signorina, I am indeed happy and proud to present to you for the first time my homage on this happy day, which is an occasion of rejoicing for your family as it is for the entire city.’

  ‘Hurrah for Oragua!… Out with the duke!… Hurrah for the deputy!…’ they were yelling below.

  Benedetto flung open the balcony as if he were in his own house. Then the duke went even paler than his nephew; now he would have to talk to the crowd, finally open his mouth, say something. Clinging to Benedetto he stuttered:

  ‘What is it?… What shall I say?… Help me, I’m all confused …’

  ‘Say that you thank the people for this flattering demonstration … that you feel the responsibility of their mandate, that you will concentrate all your strength on carrying it out … animated by the trust, upheld by the …’ Then as the shouts redoubled he pushed him towards the balcony.

  As soon as the deputy appeared, a louder clamour than ever rose from the antshill of heads in the street. They were waving hats, handkerchiefs, flags, and shouting ‘Evviva! Evviva!…’ Yellow as a corpse, hanging on to the balustrade with both hands, grim-faced, rigid all over, the Honourable Member began:

  ‘Citizens …’

  But his voice was lost in the vast and incessant tumult, the stunning chorus of applause; from the deputy’s attitude they did not realise that he was about to talk. Benedetto raised an arm. And as if by magic obtained silence.

  ‘Citizens!’ began the young man. ‘In the name of you all, in the name of the sovereign people, I have informed the illustrious patriot …’ (‘Hurrah for Oracqua!… Hurrah for the duke!…’) ‘of the superb, the unanimous affirmation of the whole constituency … To the many proofs of his self-sacrifice for his native city …’ (‘Hurrah! Hurrah!…’) ‘the Duke of Oragua now adds this: once again he bows to the wish of his fellow-citizens to represent them in that august assembly where for the first time there will meet the sons …’

  But he could not finish. Acclamations and applause drowned his words. They were shouting, ‘Hurrah for Italian unity! Long live Victor Emmanuel! Long live Oracqua! Long live Garibaldi!…’ Others added ‘Long live Giulente! Hurrah for the wounded hero of the Volturno!’

  ‘The enthusiasm which I see animating you,’ he went on, ‘is the finest confirmation of the voting-urns’ response … Those urns from which once more comes liberty … the sovereign will of a people who are now their own masters … Citizens! On the 18th February 1861, amid the representatives of our newly-arisen nation we shall have the supreme good-fortune of seeing the Duke of Oragua take his seat. Hurrah for our deputy! Hurrah for Italy!’

  Out thundered a final crash of applause, and the crowd began to disperse. A second time, in a hoarse voice, with no gesture or movement, the duke began, ‘Citizens!…’, but they did not hear him, did not understand he was about to spea
k. Then, turning towards those crowding the balcony, he said:

  ‘I just wanted to add a few words … but they’re leaving … We can go inside …’

  He was smiling, drawing breath at last, as if freed from a nightmare, shaking everyone’s hands, Benedetto’s particularly hard as if trying to break it off.

  ‘Thanks!… Thanks!… I shall never forget this day …’

  He guided the young man into the next room to make his farewells to the ladies, and then accompanied all to the top of the stairs. When he returned, the prince, also freed of the incubus of the Evil Eye, began complimenting him again and pointing him out to his son as an example.

  ‘D’you see? D’you see how much they respect your uncle? How the whole city is for him?’

  The boy, stunned slightly by the din, asked:

  ‘What does “deputy” mean?’

  ‘Deputies,’ explained his father, ‘are those who make laws in Parliament.’

  ‘Doesn’t the King do that?’

  ‘The King and the deputies together. The King can’t do everything, can he? D’you see what an honour your uncle is to the family? When there were Viceroys, we were Viceroys; now there is a Parliament, our uncle is a deputy!’

  BOOK II

  WHEN it was known in town that Count Raimondo had suddenly arrived at the Uzeda palace from Florence, unexpected, alone, baggage-less, with a grip in which he had just thrust a change of linen for the journey, the muttering and exchanging of comments and suppositions, of curious and insistent questions were enough for a grave public event. First mouth-to-mouth news said that the count had deserted his wife once and for all. The well-informed knew that after the revolution Donna Isabella Fersa had gone to Florence from Palermo. Was not that fact alone enough to explain all? The only doubt was if she had joined the count on her own initiative or by arrangement. Some said that she had gone on the mainland to amuse herself, and forgotten all about young Uzeda; but then why choose the very city where he was? She had very little to lose herself. What hope had she of being taken back by her husband after two years of separation? That was quite impossible while her mother-in-law was alive. Don Mario might of course be weak enough to forgive, as he still loved his wife and mourned her night and day more than if she were dead; but his mother was watching him.