The Viceroys

by Federico De Roberto

  ‘You know, cousin,’ he said to her one evening, ‘Consalvo …’

  ‘Ssh …’ exclaimed Teresa in a low voice, clasping her hands, ‘Papa …’

  In fact the prince was at that moment passing near them on his way to Giovannino’s mother.

  ‘They want Consalvo as Town Councillor,’ went on Giovannino in his cousin’s ear. ‘You’ll see he’ll turn out one of the first …’

  Benedetto Giulente had carried out his promise and been the candidate’s sponsor, never suspecting that he was preparing the ground for a rival. To him it seemed that a job in civic representation would be enough for his nephew’s activity and ambition; at the most Consalvo might take part, later, in municipal administration, be elected Assessor, even perhaps Mayor one day. That he actually aspired to Parliament, Benedetto neither suspected nor thought possible. First of all his uncle the duke had assured him, Benedetto, so many times that on retiring from active politics he would hand him over his seat. This retirement, in view of the Honourable Member’s age, could not be very long delayed; perhaps the seat would be vacant by the next parliament, when Consalvo would not even be legally of age. Anyway, the boy lacked so much else, chiefly experience of public life or repute for patriotism. In the eyes of Benedetto, who had been yearning for so many years to get into the Chamber of Deputies, the fact of having taken part in the battles for unity and independence, of having paid tribute in blood, was the best title for aspiring to public office. Now Consalvo had not only been a child when he himself was battling on the Volturno, but until two years before had been quite open about his affection and regret for the old régime. Believing his nephew’s conversion to be in great part due to himself, Giulente was naturally proud of it, thinking himself destined to guide the Uzeda heir in public life for a long time still; and the young man’s flattering attitude confirmed him in this.

  His eyes were not opened by the results of the administrative elections. He was a candidate himself, having finished his five years’ term, and Consalvo was presenting himself for the first time. Consalvo was elected second, immediately after his uncle the duke, who still headed the poll, and Giulente tenth …

  At the first meeting of the re-elected Council the young prince was severely dressed in a frock-coat of English cut with dark cravat and top-hat. When all were seated he was still moving round the narrow meeting hall greeting acquaintances, chatting with the Mayor, questioning the Secretary and turning now and again to half-a-dozen bystanders near the door. On finally sitting down in a corner to avoid neighbours, he began turning over the budget report in gloved hands and taking notes, sending ushers hurrying around with messages to right and left, as he had seen done in Parliament at Montecitorio. As soon as there was a chance to speak, he seized it. The matter in hand was street-sprinkling, which was done with too primitive methods. He asked to speak and explained what he had seen abroad. He recommended the London system, and suggested the Mayor should write to ‘the “Lord Mayor”—as the highest civic dignity in the English capital is called.’ While at it he added that the Town Council might also consider organising a fire brigade. ‘In my travels I never saw a town, however small, without an institution of the kind, the need of which I do not have to put forward to my honourable colleagues on the Council.’ Even so, to illustrate how useful this service was, he enumerated the number of houses burnt in Constantinople on an average every year. ‘Of course—we are not in Turkey …’ and he paused briefly to give his colleagues time to laugh at his little joke, ‘but just think, honourable members of the Council, of the great sulphur deposits heaped all round us within the town precincts.’ Then he explained that sulphur ‘is a highly combustible substance and even part of gunpowder itself, and its precipitation, slowly, with oxygen, in factories, is much used in industry and commerce under the name of sulphuric acid. A too speedy precipitation would send our town up in flames …’

  This speech was a great success. Few observed that this fledgling had talked as if he were lecturing them; almost all admired his facility of speech and considered that the young Prince of Mirabella was really a very ‘well-informed’ young man. He went on talking every day. In the debate on the budget he made thirty harangues, each more amazing than the last; on the matter of the grant to the Municipal Theatre he brought in Sophocles and Euripides, the Odeons of Greece and Circuses of Rome; when speaking on the hospital he gave a little medical course distinguishing all diseases which needed separate wards; on fishing he cited Darwin and The Origin of Species ‘as the moon-fish which is served at our tables and the sardines which feed our people all descend from the same protozoa’. At a meeting about the cemetery he risked the idea ‘I would really not be against the concept, more aesthetic historically and more rational scientifically, of cremation …’ but unanimous and lively protests from pro-clerical councillors made him realise he had taken a wrong turning.

  There and in the town altogether the pro-clericals were a force to be propitiated. They had already noticed that the young prince, having put out flags and lit up his house for all constitutional and democratic celebrations, took no notice of religious festivals, particularly the Feast of St Agatha. This was always celebrated twice a year, in February and in August, but the new free-thinking majority on the Council, judging that one spree was enough, had suppressed in their budget an allotment for the summer festa. This was the signal for a kind of civil war. From pulpits, in confessionals, in sacristies, the priests rallied the faithful to counter-attack. The Liberals held stubbornly to their proposal, the indifferent were forced to take sides, and things were threatening to go badly. The Town Council was called in to decide. Unusual crowds attended the tempestuous meetings: sacristans, vergers, contractors and petty tradesmen interested in the festa for what profit they could get from it; self-appointed journalists were busy taking down verbatim reports on the debate for spreading around later.

  The Liberal champions made a great show of eloquence but were whistled down, while the pro-clericals, though mostly poor orators, received ovations. The Duke of Oragua did not speak, for he never spoke, but it was known that he would be voting in favour. Giulente in his heart was contrary, but to flatter the duke would vote with him. Which side would the young prince be on? Curiosity was great, so the day he spoke a crowd three times bigger than usual crammed the little hall and strained to hear from outside. He began speaking amid a deep silence. His preamble increased curiosity, consisting as usual in laudatory repetition of everything said by ‘my distinguished predecessors’. Then he went on. ‘But, gentlemen of the Council, allow me to leave aside the question under discussion for a moment and ask myself a question which may not seem to have direct bearing on it, but in fact has.’ (The journalists noted down: Signs of attention.) ‘The question is this: do the representatives of the town come to the Council Chamber to sustain any ideas which happen to pass through their heads, however provident and just, or to carry out the mandate given them by the sovereign people?… Surely to look after the interests and satisfy the needs of those they are representing. Now take this matter we are dealing with now, has the city any wishes on the matter? Yes, and what are they?… Gentlemen of the Council, it would be vain to hide it; the city or at least the great part of the city wants the festa!’ The religious silence kept till that point was broken by a shout of approval. ‘Hurricanes of applause,’ noted pro-clerical journalists, while free-thinking councillors shook their heads, made signs of protest, asked leave to speak.

  Calm amid the tempest, glancing at some papers in front of him, he went on, his strident voice dominating the hubbub. ‘Let us consider for the moment as certain that the city is for the festa; what other obligation have we, its delegates, but to translate it into action? My colleagues in those seats (pointing at the most advanced Liberals) must excuse me, but I can understand all others rebelling at this concept except they, who take the Categorical Imperative as one of the more salient points of their programme!…’ And in the silence now re-established he then began
a lesson on free will, quoting the ‘celebrated Aristotle’, the ‘illustrious Scottish school’, and naming great English, German or French authorities every half minute. The audience was quite crushed by the weight of this speech, but now he had already gained the mob’s heart, his erudition could not but be another reason for admiration. Even so to soothe representatives of radical ideas, on finishing his lesson, he added, ‘Nor does anyone invested with a mandate abdicate his own principles by carrying out the will of the mandator. I have heard the cry of clericalism raised in this hall against all those who will vote for the festa; but gentlemen of the Council, who could dare to read the conscience? Or do we wish to return to the unhappy days of Torquemada? You know that here there are sitting men whose patriotism is above all discussion’—the flattery was aimed at his uncle the duke—‘men who, by voting for the festa, in no way intend to cancel out a past which history has written in letters of gold on imperishable annals!… I will vote for the festa too. (Formidable burst of applause) But my vote will not affect my principles. (Renewed applause) For those I am responsible before my own conscience, and I do not compound with my own conscience! (‘Excellent’) Nor would I ever advise my honourable opponents to compound with theirs. But, gentlemen of the Council, there may in this hall be Clericals, Catholics, Atheists, Protestants … Jews, Turks, if you will (laughter)—and are you quite certain I do not myself follow the doctrines of Mohammed? (renewed laughter) I have read the Koran, which is the Gospel of Islam, and if a paradise of houris really does exist then many of us would be quickly converted to the Ottoman faith! (Burst of general laughter) But even a Turk, you can be sure, if he came into this hall on a mandate from our citizens who want the festa, would vote for it too!… If I tell the agent who looks after my estates to carry out a certain job, I’d find it odd, to say the least, if he refused because it was against his principles! (laughter, applause) If he did refuse, d’you know what’d happen? I’d send him packing! And if we refuse the festa, d’you know what the town will do? Elect other Councillors who will re-establish the grant!’

  By now every sentence was greeted with a hail of applause, and when he began describing the various ‘legitimate, proper, and honest’ reasons why all classes of the population wanted the festa, ovation changed to triumph; the pro-festa party nearly carried him shoulder high through the streets; even his opponents were forced to recognise his ability. For the festa his balconies were lit bright as day and, as the Saint’s procession happened to pass right under his house, he arranged for a number of rockets and squibs to be let off.

  The day before this the Council elected him Assessor.

  For this same festa prince Giacomo gave a big reception. Among the first to arrive were the Duchess Radalì with her sons; and Giovannino, taking Teresa aside, gave her the news of her brother’s nomination. She could not enjoy it because the prince was in a terrifyingly black mood. That morning the Courts had given out their decision about Don Blasco’s Will; this, as the result of expert examination, was declared to falsify the last wishes of the Benedictine—God rest his soul. This setback, coinciding with Consalvo’s becoming Assessor, had seemed to the prince a new proof of the necromantic powers of ‘God save us!’, and he had been in a frenzy all day. Now, lest people say he was taking it too hard, he was trying to show indifference and talk of other subjects. But however he twisted and turned everything he said ended in an outburst against corrupt experts and rascally judges. ‘They’ve been paid to declare black as white. Had I bribed them by now the decision would be the opposite …’

  Teresa was helping her stepmother serve the guests. The Duke Radalì did not need to be asked twice, always ready as he was to eat and drink, but Giovannino was waiting for Teresa to finish in order to serve her himself. She had scarcely touched the ice offered her by the young man. With her father in such a mood she had no heart to amuse herself, to enjoy the party or Giovannino’s company. The latter never took his eyes off her, and seemed to be looking for a chance to stay by her.

  ‘What’s the matter, cousin?… Aren’t you happy?…’ he said to her as the crowd of guests began looking out of the windows to watch the procession pass.

  ‘No, it’s nothing … why?’

  ‘There’s a look about you … No fault of mine, I hope?’

  ‘Of course not!… Come along and watch the procession.’

  Thus she broke off every time conversations which threatened to take a dangerous turn. It was her duty to do so, not that her cousin’s tender words and loving looks displeased her. The other brother, less sensitive and with no kind word, was apt to paw her and embrace her, turning it into a joke afterwards and making people laugh, thus preventing any complaints from her. But Giovannino’s secret and timid attempts perturbed her like something forbidden, a real sin.

  On the balcony crowded with ladies, she could scarcely get a peep at the procession. Giovannino came and stood beside her, also pretending to look.

  From the street came a buzz like a beehive, so vast was the crowd, and the great bell of the cathedral with its slow, grave stroke seemed to beat time for the bells of the abbey, and of the Collegiate and Minorite churches. ‘Hurrah for Saint Agatha!’ … All the ladies knelt. Teresa, prostrate, her head low, her eyes fixed on the Saint, made the Sign of the Cross. Then began fireworks paid for by the prince. In the midst of smoke as from a battlefield gleamed sharp and frequent flashes like shots from a regiment of soldiers, the shouts of ‘hurrah!’ were lost amid crashing explosions, and all that could be seen were handkerchiefs waving over the sea of heads like swarms of frenzied doves. Teresa wept hot tears in her emotion, praying the glorious Martyr to give peace back to her family, to compose all their quarrels, to bring happiness to her father, to her brother and stepmother, her uncle and aunts—to them all, them all … Suddenly she felt her right hand taken and pressed. It was Giovannino, kneeling beside her. She had not the heart to break away. The Saint seemed to be blessing this union, promising them all her help. And the crackle of rockets and squibs, the clamour of bells and human cries became more deafening. Amid this din she seemed to hear gentle words, his voice murmuring:

  ‘Teresa … Teresa … do you love me?’

  All of a sudden the fireworks ceased and ‘hurrahs’ filled the sky. Then, sweetly, slowly, after giving Giovannino an answering squeeze, she freed her own hand … In the silence gradually re-establishing was heard a voice calling:

  ‘Have you all gone deaf?’

  It was the Cavaliere Don Eugenio, that moment arrived. He seemed even more starving than when he left. His suit, all blotched and mended, drooped over him, his shoes had seen no wax for ages, and his cravat was like a piece of string. At the sight of his uncle, the prince’s face, already dark, went quite black. First that adverse court decision, now this scarecrow! And Don Eugenio had in fact journeyed from Palermo in order to ask for more money.

  ‘I have an idea; since the Herald …’

  ‘You want some more money, do you?’ … shouted the prince in his face, dropping the ‘Excellency’. ‘That’s cool! Isn’t all you’ve had enough? Now instead of paying it back, you’re asking for more, are you …?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to pay back: your only right is to the copies!’

  ‘Well, I want those!’

  ‘After my renouncing those rights?’

  ‘Many thanks for the renunciation! The Will’s been judged false, d’you understand? Go off and draw your share now, go on…!’

  The money scraped together from The Sicilian Herald had not helped the cavaliere much. First of all the people he sent around to collect the money for the instalments kept a good half for one reason or another, and certain of them even made off with the whole price. When he tried collecting on his own all his earnings went on travelling expenses. The paper-makers, the engraver and printer had been paid only in part. They had therefore arranged to have all copies of the book sequestrated and freed only on payment, so that if Don Eugenio sold a copy he had to pay for it at cost price a
nd make only a lira or two’s profit. The sums paid by ‘cadet branches’ of ‘noble families’ had gone in a day or two of good living, and now he was again flung into indigence. To raise himself he tried another coup: The New Herald or a Supplement to the Historico-Noble Work.

  Having less shame and more hunger now than before he intended putting in it not only forgotten families, but also new nobles, those who were not to be found in Mugnòs or Villabianca, people who got themselves called ‘Cavaliere’ without having any real title, who made a great show of more or less imaginary coats-of-arms. But for this he needed more money … Seeing that he could expect nothing from the prince he went to Consalvo, who might give him help in his quality as Assessor. But the young prince had now taken another step forward in his political ideas.

  On the 16th March of that year, 1876, after sixteen years the party of the Right had finally collapsed, to the amazement of the local moderates and the utter delight of the progressives. In the crash, the enemies of the duke prophesied that the great patriot, following his usual tactics, would turn against his own friends in favour of the new winners; but the prophecy did not come true. The duke, who had not been going to the capital for some time, was not aware of the reasons and importance of this Parliamentary revolution, refused to believe in its success and duration, and so stuck to his own ideas more than ever. This was his salvation, for the triumphant progressives had no voice in affairs as yet, while almost the whole of the governing class of the country were against the vaunted novelty.

  On the dissolution of the Chamber, a lawyer called Molara dared to put up against the duke, with a near-revolutionary programme which mentioned the ‘fifteen years of misgovernment’, of rights ‘trampled underfoot’, of ‘imminent’ vindication, not to speak of ‘redde rationem’. The duke’s supporters all drew close around him, feeling themselves threatened with him. In reply to Molara’s ‘challenge’ Oragua produced, after five legislatures, a ‘Letter to my electors’. This was written by Benedetto Giulente, who was still waiting for a chance to make a programme of his own. It enumerated the reasons why the right wing could expect the gratitude of the Italian nation, whose unification was all due to that party; if errors had been committed those had origins in circumstances and not intentions. Don Gaspare was thus re-elected with over two hundred votes; Molara could scarcely scrape together a hundred. One of the Reparation Ministers passing through Catania was greeted with whistles.