The Viceroys

by Federico De Roberto

  ‘Didn’t your wife tell you?… I’ve come to get my book printed. I won’t hand it over to anyone, not for twenty thousand lire. But I haven’t the money to start printing. Shall we do it together? Let’s split the profits, like good relatives and friends.’

  Giulente hesitated a little, then asked: ‘What did Lucrezia say?’

  ‘Your wife? She said “yes”, as long as you were sure it was a good thing. Just look here,’ and beside himself with delight at having finally found someone who did not refuse him he thrust some signed forms in front of him. ‘All right, all right, if Lucrezia approves …’

  ‘Even if she changes her mind, after all, we don’t need her consent!’

  Benedetto hesitated a little, then said:

  ‘No, it’s necessary … for now she keeps all the money!’

  ‘What! The money? Haven’t you a thousand lire or two to dispose of?’

  ‘No, Excellency. Public affairs have been taking so much of my time that I’ve handed over all accounts to her …’

  THE prince’s return with his uncle the duke, his wife and his daughter, at the beginning of winter, gave new food for public curiosity. Everyone was longing to see the face of this little princess whose beauty had been so much talked of. But though exaggerated advance praise had made people rather sceptical, yet the reality left imagination far behind. The girl’s white skin and fair hair, her delicate, exquisite, almost vaporous beauty were unparalleled in the family of the Viceroys. The old Spanish race, mixed in the coarse of centuries with island stock part Greek, part Saracen, had gradually lost its purity and nobility of form. Who, for example, could have distinguished Don Blasco from any fat friar of peasant stock, or Donna Ferdinanda from any old spinning woman? But just as in the preceding generation there had been the exception of Count Raimondo, so now Teresa too seemed to have come from some old cell of pure Castilian blood left intact.

  Tall, narrow-shouldered, with a waist round which her hands could almost reach, making the curve of her hips more pronounced, Teresa had a natural elegance, a noble grace of bearing, not wholly freed from the awkwardness of a college girl who had been in an ill-fitting uniform a few months before. At first when she drove out in a carriage with her stepmother, people would stop on the pavements or wait by the palace gates, to stare at her open-mouthed. She seemed not to notice this blatant curiosity, and never in fact looked at anyone.

  At home, naturally, the first to come and visit her were her uncles and aunts. Lucrezia now almost hung round her niece’s skirts, accompanied her everywhere, gave her advice, enjoying a chance to exercise her own mania for authority. Her the princess let be, but she did not even return Chiara’s visit, because of the little bastard. How could a girl like Teresa, just out of school, go to a house where such things went on? To all and sundry, servants, relations and acquaintances, she would say with elaborate gestures and rolling of the eyes, ‘Can I allow my daughter to know such things? I can’t help it if Chiara takes offence.’ And Chiara did take offence. She had now broken off connection with all her relations from love for the maid’s son, who had become so spoilt that he ordered her about as he liked, called her tu and even hit her when he felt like it. But she let him be, and if the marchese said a word of protest there would be shouts, threats, hell let loose. On hearing of her sister-in-law and cousin’s scruples she railed loudly against her, particularly when by Giacomo’s orders Donna Graziella took Teresa to kiss the hand of her uncle Don Blasco. So she could go to the monk’s, who kept that Cigar-woman and his three daughters at home, could she, and not to her? ‘Yes, of course, it’s because they’re hoping the monk will leave ’em something …’

  Don Blasco lived like a lord nowadays. Apart from his house and two estates, he had also put aside quite a bit of money, and the prince paid him respect because of this. The Benedictine let him visit as he did Lucrezia and Chiara; he never went out to anyone as he could no longer get upstairs. But he laid down the law to nieces and nephews, used them in every way, and if any of them made him angry would take out a sheet of paper like Donna Ferdinanda and tear it to pieces. ‘Not a cent from me!…’ His niece Teresa’s visit gave him much pleasure; his daughters did not appear, and the princess explained to the girl that Donna Lucia was her uncle’s ‘housekeeper’.

  Such precautions were anyway quite wasted on Teresa. She had no improper curiosity and when she realised that her elders had something to say to each other would move away, go to tidy her room or look after her own little affairs. Not only was she quite outstandingly beautiful, but also full of talents and more accomplished than a good many men. She could draw and paint, speak French and English fluently, write verses and compose music; with all this she was remarkably modest, simple, good and affectionate. On returning to her childhood home where she had left her mother who was now no longer there, she had to be supported and her eyes were two springs of welling tears; but her cult of her dead mother did not prevent her respecting and loving her father and stepmother. She was devout too, with some prayer-book always in her hand when not working at her embroidery, drawing or music. They were gilt books, covered in velvet and scented leather; Months of Mary, Litanies of the Blessed Virgin, lives of saints, holy pictures at every page, all prizes from the Convent of the Annunciation.

  But this devoutness and piety did not prevent a love of worldly pleasures and the latest fashions proper to a girl of her years. When she had to dress for making visits or receiving them, or for driving or the theatre, she would linger like other girls before her mirror, and she had a way all her own of wearing the simplest dresses which made her look as if she were going to a ball. When stuffs or trimmings or ornaments had to be chosen at a milliner’s or dressmaker’s, she would show great taste in selecting the most elegant, sweetly influencing her aunt Lucrezia, who since keeping the money keys got herself a new dress every fortnight, each worse chosen than the last, though expecting her taste to be praised. The princess on the other hand let her stepdaughter do as she wanted and choose what she liked, even referring to her for her own clothes. ‘What taste that girl of ours has! What a model daughter!’ She praised her particularly for sweetness of character and goodness of heart, kissed and embraced her in front of everyone even at parties, and watched over her like a real mother.

  She was very scrupulous too, and did not allow her stepdaughter to read anything but religious books in case she got ideas in her head, or let certain things be talked about in front of her, for fear of words contaminating thoughts. So she was on tenterhooks when her sister-in-law Lucrezia gossiped about mistresses, conjugal separations, illegitimate births. She would begin coughing then to give that tactless woman a hint, and if coughing was not enough would change the subject brusquely in a way all her own, which seemed done on purpose to call attention to the very things she wanted passed over. But Lucrezia noticed nothing at all, and was even tactless enough to keep on saying to her niece, with or without any connecting thread but most often when complaining of Benedetto, ‘Take care who you marry, dear, won’t you?…’ or ‘Keep your eyes open when you’re married, won’t you?…’ The princess would change colour, raise her eyes to the ceiling, making heroic efforts to contain herself, not to say what she thought to this mad-woman whom the Lord had quite rightly deprived of daughters if that was how she thought girls should be brought up. ‘Sister-in-law!… Lucrezia!…’ But nothing was of any use, and once the princess put her cards on the table.

  ‘Excuse me, cousin, but such subjects seem quite out of place. Teresa will get married at the proper time, her father will see to that, don’t you worry. I don’t care for these modern fashions of talking about such things to young ladies.’

  Teresa, with eyes lowered and hands in her lap, did not seem to be listening. Lucrezia was speechless and left shortly after without bidding anyone goodbye. But there was another person also who often talked scandal and had to be kept under control by the princess: the Cavaliere Don Eugenic. As soon as the latter heard of his brother’s and niece
’s arrival, he hurried off to them to begin all over again about The Sicilian Herald. The duke, without Don Blasco’s shouts or Donna Ferdinanda’s play-acting, had given him a straight answer. ‘My dear fellow, no one has ever made money with books; you’ll make even less than others, as you’ve never learnt how to anyway. If you want to print the book no one can prevent you, but I haven’t the money to throw away on such schemes.’ Don Eugenio accepted the reproof with bowed head, as if recognising he deserved it, bearing himself flatteringly and humbly before this intriguer who mouthed pompous judgements after enriching himself at public expense, when all was said and done, by manipulating State grants in all sorts of underhand ways!

  ‘At least,’ insisted Don Eugenio, ‘you’ll see the book is bought by the State libraries, won’t you? That won’t cost you anything, you’re so influential … All you have to do is say a word.’ To this praise the Deputy listened with half-closed eyes, basking in it. Yes, the good days had returned for him. Since his new attitude about the Roman question he had taken on a new lease of life; the election of November ’70 had been another triumph. A word from him would certainly have been enough to help his brother. Even so to the other’s importunity he replied that he would see, would have to think it over as he had scruples on the matter. ‘What would people say? That I’m using my influence to get favours for my family?…’

  Then Don Eugenio turned to the prince. The latter had avoided as best he could saying anything at first, but eventually found it difficult to insist on a crude refusal, for he was not familiar enough with his uncle to send him packing, nor could he plausibly adduce lack of money. So he let a promise be squeezed from him to advance a couple of thousand lire, waiting until subscriptions had reached a hopeful stage before paying out.

  Meanwhile Don Eugenio, elated by this promise, began coming to the palace almost every evening, to the great mortification of the princess, who could not endure the sight of his famished face and wretched clothes, and felt like a soul burning in purgatory when he began telling stories about Palermo society. ‘Sasà is marrying off his daughters … Cocò’s wife has had another of her … Nenè’s son ran off with a dancer …’ Cocò was the Prince of Alì, Sasà the Duke of Realcastro, Nenè the Baron Mortara, and nobody could name anyone in Palermo without Don Eugenio’s assurance that this person was ‘like a brother’ to him … Every time he described his apartment the number of rooms grew; it had now reached fifteen and as he could not reasonably increase them any more he began adding ‘Apart from stables and coachhouses …’ The prince let him talk on, but made him pay for his attention and promise of money by using him as a servant, sending him here and there with letters or messages, though still from a certain human respect calling him ‘Excellency’. He never mentioned any of his own affairs or made him any sort of confidence. The cavaliere was curious by nature and yearned to know whom they thought of marrying Teresa to, and what Consalvo was doing, when he would be back, but he never managed to learn a thing, particularly about the young prince, who only wrote to Donna Ferdinanda.

  News about the young man got back to the palace through Baldassarre, who wrote to the prince every two days with details of his young master’s life. These letters would draw ringing laughs from Teresa, written as they were in a fantastic language peculiar to the major-domo. ‘His Excellency be well and is enjoying himself … today we went to the Buà di Bologna, where there was great passing of carriages and gentlemen and ladies on horseback …’ Every day the major-domo announced the programme for the next, ‘Tomorrow we go to the Ussaburgo … tomorrow we leave for Fontana Bu to see the Royal Palace …’ Donna Ferdinanda was awaiting the account of a far more important visit: that to His Majesty Francis II. Before Consalvo left she had made him promise when he passed through Paris to ‘kiss the King’s hand’, and as soon as she heard that her nephew was in the French capital she reminded him to keep his promise at once.

  Father Gerbini, now Chaplain at the Madeleine in Paris, who frequented the houses of all the legitimatist nobles and had access to the ex-King as one of his intimate circle, requested an audience for the young Sicilian, laying timely emphasis on the loyalty of most of the Uzeda family to the Bourbon cause. In a long letter, which Donna Ferdinanda read out amid a circle of relations, Consalvo described the affectionate greeting of their former sovereign, the concern with which he had asked after the whole family and the gift he had made before dismissing him after a long conversation: his own portrait with an autographed dedication. ‘Her Majesty the Queen was unwell, so he had been unable to be received by her too, but the “King” had told him he would like to see him again before his departure!…’

  Then too came a letter from Baldassarre describing the visit to ‘So Maistà Francisco Secundo, together with So Paternità don Placido Gerbini. So Maistà talked to So Eccellenza about Sigilia and the Sigilian gentry he had met in Naples and Pariggi. So Eccellenza kissed his hand and So Maistà gave him his portrait, saying that we must come back another time to be presented to So Maistà the Queen.’ In fact before master and servant left Paris both announced this second audience, but this time the major-domo’s letter to his master contained a detail of which there was no word in Consalvo’s letter to his aunt. ‘So Maistà made a great fuss of So Eccellenza, and when they shook hands he said who knew when we would meet again; and So Eccellenza, as So Paternità told me, answered, “Maistà, we’ll meet again in Naples, in So Maistà’s palace!” …’

  From Paris the young man finally returned to Italy, stopped for a short time in Turin and Milan, and passed on to Rome, the last stop on his journey. There he remained some time. But after a couple of letters to his aunt no more was heard from him. Donna Ferdinanda had also recommended him to ‘kiss the Pope’s foot’, and Baldassarre had at the beginning announced that ‘Monsignori Don Lotovico’ was to take his nephew to the Vatican, but then did not say if the visit had taken place. One day, quite unexpectedly, he announced by telegraph their imminent return.

  Met at the station by Donna Ferdinanda and by Teresa—for the prince had stayed in the palace and ordered his wife to do so too—Consalvo made a kind of triumphal entry between two rows of servants and estate employees, who admired their young master’s excellent bearing, hailed his return and did all they could to help Baldassarre unload the great quantity of trunks, suitcases, portmanteaux and hat-boxes which filled the carriage and a hired cart. The prince, part-dignified and part-affable, was waiting in the Red Drawing-room and gave him a hand to kiss. And the princess did the same, but with more demonstration of loving concern, ‘Have you had a good time? Was the sea calm? Have you all your things? Your rooms are quite ready.’

  Travel weariness, bemusement on arrival naturally explained Consalvo’s lack of loquacity in those first few hours. In fact that evening, after sending to his father’s, sister’s, and stepmother’s rooms various presents, he chattered away, described his impressions, told some comic anecdotes about Baldassarre, who knowing no language abroad had often got into trouble, and started quarrels with people at whom he mouthed Sicilian swear-words; once in Vienna he had nearly spent the night on a guardroom floor.

  Next day Consalvo went on talking about his journey, particularly about Paris; but gradually, as this subject came to an end, the young man took no further part in the conversation. If the princess told some story, or the prince discoursed on family affairs, he just sat and listened and replied with a ‘Yes, Excellency’ or a ‘No, Excellency,’ now and again. At table he would sit with his nose in his plate and never look at anyone, often without uttering two consecutive words. The prince for his part began sniffing and dropping into silences, though he sometimes made remarks which did not augur well at all. The princess raised her eyes to the ceiling in consternation, and Teresa, tortured by the chilly atmosphere, even began losing appetite. As he got up from table when his son left the prince burst out with:

  ‘Here we go again! You’ll just see, we’ll have it all over again! What’s wrong with the young foo
l? He’s been travelling for more than a year, had everything he wanted and this is his thanks, sulking, ruining my meals day after day!…’

  It could not be said that the ‘young fool’ was mute from lack of desire to talk, for in the presence of strangers he would go on and on telling of his travels, of the great things he had seen, of novelties not even a rumour of which had yet reached Sicily. With Benedetto Giulente in particular and with people more or less in public affairs, he discoursed to their amazement about the organising of city police, maintenance of public gardens, systems of watering streets or illuminating theatres. Why on earth did he bother about such things? To show people he had been abroad? No, not at all; for as well as talking on quite different subjects from before, he was even changing his way of life. He scarcely saw his old wild companions, no longer sought them out, seemed in fact to avoid them. His passion for horses seemed to have quite passed; he never went into stables, never talked to ostlers. No women, no gambling; now he spent his time shut in his own room, where no one knew what on earth he was up to. When he went out he made frequent visits to his uncle the duke and talked to him of serious matters, or was seen in company of people whom before he had avoided like the plague: pundits, politicians of the Reading Circle, frequenters of pharmacies, public place-holders, all the Deputy’s retinue. Every day the post brought him a pile of Italian and French newspapers, and every week arrived a big packet of books chosen and ordered by himself.

  ‘What other nonsense is he getting up to now?’ the prince said to his wife in ever more acid tones.

  ‘What are you complaining of?’ she would reply in conciliatory tones. ‘He’s quite unrecognisable, he might be a different boy. Let’s bless that journey for changing him from black to white!’

  Some days Consalvo did not come to table at all; to the lackey sent to call him he replied from behind the door that he was busy. Then the prince flung down his napkin, ground his teeth, almost burst out in front of the parasites present at the meal. At a sign from the princess, Teresa went to visit her brother, and insisted with gentle voice and loving persuasion on his opening the door.