Nowadays Consalvo paid occasional visits to his father. He no longer felt any aversion to him; the zeal, the enthusiasm with which he busied himself with public affairs, the concentration of all his energies on achieving his new aim, left no place for any other feeling either of hatred or love. As for the prince, his son’s visits made him quiver with terror, and as soon as he heard him announced by the new major-domo (for Baldassarre, stubborn as a true Uzeda, really had left) he would plunge his left hand into his pocket and only draw it out to spread it open in the sign against the Evil Eye behind his son’s back as the latter was leaving. Their talk was always of indifferent matters, as between strangers. The prince pretended not to know that Consalvo was the highest civic magistrate. But on the whole now they were behaving civilly to each other.
Teresa, now Duchess Radalì, saw this as the compensation of her own sacrifice. Except for the very first period, when the memory of Giovannino was not quite dead in her heart and his superiority over his brother seemed greater to her than ever, she had not suffered as much as she had feared. The duke Michele not only treated her well and left her full liberty, but showed her in his own rather gross way a lively and sincere affection. His mother too, from pleasure at seeing her own plans fulfilled, made a great fuss of her and even let her take part in the running of the house. The baron was at Augusta, busy with rustic pursuits, and wrote two or three times a month to his brother or mother, ending his letters with ‘greetings to my sister-in-law’.
The calm reigning at her new home, the peace re-established in her old one, her husband’s affection, Consalvo’s triumphs, the praises gathered by herself—for she had at once taken first place among the young matrons of the town—made smiles come more and more readily to her lips. It was true she no longer felt like composing music or poetry, but she still often sat at her piano for exercise, and maybe took even more trouble about her appearance than she had before.
Now she was free to read the books she liked most, and when she had nothing to do, devoured novels, plays and poetry. But the stimulant of this reading never prevented her from attending to her religious devotions with zeal and fervour. To the Radalì palace came Monsignor the Bishop himself, the Vicar-General and the same prelates who frequented the prince’s; all pointed to the young duchess as a model of domestic and Christian virtues.
Soon pregnancy made her entirely forget her past dreams and drew her closer to present reality. She suffered little discomfort, and time flew by fast amid all her many cares and thoughts. The birth went off well; all expected a son and a son was born, a big, florid baby who might have been a year old. ‘How could it be otherwise?’ said everyone. ‘With a daughter and wife as good as her, protected by a Saint in heaven?…’ Preparations for baptism were sumptuous. The duke wanted his brother to be godfather. His mother approved; Teresa, on her nuptial bed, where she stayed more from contented indolence than from any need, said that of course there could be no better choice. Giovannino was rather tardy in replying, but when begged by the duke in the name of his mother and also of his wife, arrived on the eve of the ceremony.
He seemed a different man; he had become stronger, the sun had bronzed him, his beard gave him a more manly air, as attractive as his old one but in a different way. He shook his sister-in-law’s hand, asked most solicitously for news of her health, and wanted to see his little nephew, whom he found a darling and kept on kissing again and again. She, even calmer and more serene than he, greeted him like a friend whom she had not seen for a long time. After the ceremony of baptism, to which were invited all relations close and distant, all acquaintances, half the city, Giovannino announced that he was going back. They all did their best to hold him, but he declared that there was a great deal for him to do in the country and went off promising to return soon and see his little godson again.
At the baptism, many of the guests who had not frequented the Uzeda before asked about a haggard flabby-looking old man in a brand-new suit, worn-out shoes, a filthy old hat and with silver-knobbed cane.
It was the Cavaliere Don Eugenio. The printing of the New Herald, a supplement, had brought him another moment of prosperity. He had spent money wildly and still had a little left. But the scandal he had made was appalling, for he had attributed titles of nobility and coats-of-arms and coronets to whoever paid him; grocers, shoemakers, barbers were making great show in their shops of gilt-framed pictures with, beneath crowns, helmets and multi-coloured draperies, shields containing lions, eagles, snakes, cats, hares, rabbits and every kind of beast and bird; and also castles, towers, pillars, mountains; and stars of all sizes, and silver moons, full and crescent; golden suns and comets; all the colours of the spectrum, all the metals, all the mantles. No scruples or difficulties had stopped him; one with a name meaning ‘baker’ was given a blazing oven ‘on a field or’ one meaning ‘cauliflower’ a big bunch of greenery ‘on a field argent.’ And so his enterprise brought him in quite a good sum, but, as at other times, most of this had gone on the way. He had however bought back the edition of the first Herald which the printer had sequestrated, and had returned to his home town with a thousand copies of this to sell and live by.
But he made his calculations without the prince. The latter, once the law case was settled, had regretted their agreement and complained of being defrauded, of being left empty-handed while Don Blasco’s inheritance should all have gone to him. The ill-humour, the lack of appetite, the weakness he had suffered from before, began tormenting him again. In dumb irritation, unable to say he was ill from a superstitious fear of his ills growing by admitting them, he blamed his daughter for imposing the transaction on him and declared he had been stripped like a piece of wood. As soon as he saw his uncle Don Eugenio return and heard that he had a little money, he asked him forthwith for the repayment of his loan. When Don Eugenio mentioned his renunciation of rights on Don Blasco’s Will, he shouted:
‘What rights, what wrongs? I’ve been stripped! Everything! I gave you money; give me it back now that you have some.’
Seeing things look bad, Don Eugenio confided:
‘I haven’t any! I swear to you I haven’t any! Just a few cents to live on; if I give you two thousand five hundred lire, how do I eat?’
‘Give me the copies then,’ replied Giacomo promptly.
‘But they’re my only revenue! If you take them away where can I lay my head? What does a bit of dirty paper matter to you?… You who are so rich. It’s bread and butter to me … I’ll sell them off gradually and so just manage to rub along.’
Inflexible, the prince insisted on having the whole edition of the Sicilian Herald and of the Supplement as security for his loan.
Although half Sicily was flooded with this publication, Don Eugenio would often manage to place a copy or two, whereupon he went and fetched them from the palace, promising the prince to bring him back the money and divide it. But no money ever came, and one day the nephew lost patience and declared:
‘The joke seems to me to have gone on long enough. From now on, if you want more copies you’ll pay for them beforehand.’
So when the money brought from Palermo came to an end, the ex-Gentleman of the Bedchamber’s difficulties began once more. Like a bookshop tout he climbed up and down stairs, his feet swollen with gout, dragging himself painfully, to offer his Herald and show specimen pages; and when he managed to find a buyer he ran and begged the prince to hand him over a copy, swearing and forswearing himself that he would return at once with the money. But the prince would say harshly, ‘Bring the money beforehand!’ Not knowing where to turn, the old man stopped relations and mere acquaintances in the street to lend him the thirty lire required. Having scraped these together, he took them to his nephew, who let the copy go only after having pocketed the money. But, once handed the price from the buyer, Don Eugenio forgot to pay off the debts, so that the operation became more difficult every time. Recently too the cavaliere had found the market much harder; people to whom he had never suggested the Heral
d now replied, ‘What, again? I’ve got it already!’ Were they saying that to send him away?… One day, just to make sure, he asked one of these how he had got it! ‘How d’you think? I bought it, of course! Someone came on behalf of your family; aren’t you the prince’s uncle?’
The old man banged his forehead. That rascal Giacomo!… Not content with taking nine thousand lire’s worth of property off him in exchange for the two thousand five hundred of the loan, not content with having made his own sales impossible by demanding the price beforehand, he was now selling copies on his own account! ‘Ah, thief!… Ah, the thief!…’ But composing his features into his usual look of amiability, he hurried to the palace.
‘If you’ve sold copies too, let’s make up our accounts,’ he said to the prince.
‘What accounts?’ replied the latter, as if in amazement.
‘You’ve been selling the book! By now my debt must be paid off!’
‘If only it were! We’ll do our accounts when I’ve time.’
Don Eugenio returned assiduously, but his nephew either said that he was busy or had a headache or was just going out. His uncle did not lose patience; he came back every day to remind him of his promise. Then one bad morning, flinging himself on a chair, he said:
‘Listen, we can make up our accounts at your convenience, but today I’ve nothing in my pocket and am tired out. Lend me something.’
‘What? You want change?’ exclaimed the prince, going pale. ‘D’you think we’re quits? Half a dozen copies or so have been sold! And you have the face to ask for more money?’
‘I don’t know what to do!’ confided the cavaliere, looking famished and staring him straight in the eyes.
‘And you come to me? What right have you? Why should I give you money to eat? Why have you spent everything? Why haven’t you ever thought of the future?’
‘I need something to eat, d’you understand?’ repeated the cavaliere in the same tone of voice, and his eyes seemed to be eating his nephew up.
‘Go to your brother, to your sister … they have an obligation to help you … why come to me?’
Then, alarmed by the old man’s expression, he turned his back.
When he heard him go, he called the porter and ordered him never to let the old man in again.
This order had the unanimous approval of the servants; that cavaliere was really no honour to the family, not so much for what was said about him as for the state into which he had fallen. The new major-domo confessed, ‘I’m ashamed every time I have to announce him to the master …’
All the old man’s attempts to get into the palace were vain. He could go on declaring, ‘My nephew is waiting for me, he told me he’d be at home,’ or, ‘I saw him coming in,’ or, ‘There he is behind that window …’; the porter, the ostlers, the retainers all said in his face, ‘Your Excellency had better go, it’s just a waste of time.’ They called him ‘Excellency’ as in carnival time they did the street-sweepers dressed up as barons. He tried to force his way in, but then they seized him and pushed him out. ‘Excellency; so roughly?… Those are not ways for Excellencies like you!…’
One day, he sat down in the porter’s lodge and declared he would not move until his nephew passed. At first the porter joked about it; then he tried friendly persuasion and touching his pride. ‘This isn’t the place for Your Excellency … a gentleman like Your Excellency sitting with a porter! Aren’t you ashamed?’ But the old man did not move, did not reply, sat there grim and hungry as a wolf. Then the porter began losing patience and suddenly stopped the ‘Excellency’. ‘Are you going, yes or no?…’ and as Don Eugenio sat nailed into his chair the other finally lost his temper, even stopped calling him Lei, and seizing him by the shoulders, pulled him to his feet and kicked and pushed him outside, yelling:
‘Out with you, I say, the devil take you!’
Donna Ferdinanda thrust him out as if he were a mangy cur; the duke gave him a small sum, making him realise that he could rely on no more alms from him. The best thing to do was find him work, which he himself wanted; so Benedetto Giulente, who had also given him money, mentioned this to Consalvo.
‘What job d’you suggest?’ answered the young prince. ‘He’s an old fool, can’t do a thing. D’you want the Mayor’s uncle to act as usher or dog-catcher?’
It was clear that there was nothing doing in the Town Hall because of the young prince’s understandable pride. Giulente went to the duke and suggested he should be put in some office at the Provincial or Prefect’s headquarters; then the duke, to avoid other demands for financial help, arranged a post for him as copyist at the Provincial Archives, the best that could be found. But when the old man was told this he went red as a poppy.
‘Me a scribbler’s job? Who d’you take me for?’
‘But you see …’ Benedetto suggested respectfully, ‘Your Excellency has no academic degrees … and is not so young … Public administration is demanding, work …’
‘And you suggest making me a copyist?’ cried the cavaliere, ‘me, Eugenio Uzeda of Francalanza, Gentleman of the Bedchamber to Ferdinand II, author of the Sicilian Herald?… Why don’t you take on the job yourself, you little donkey?’
So the old man began asking for money again. But the duke, to punish him for refusing that post, shut the door in his face, and Lucrezia, after judging him worthy of the highest offices simply to put her husband to shame, refused to have him sniffing round her house either. One day the cavaliere, in ever more wretched and bedraggled condition, went to his niece Teresa. The porter did not recognise him and would not let him pass. When he eventually reached the young duchess, who wrung her hands at seeing him in such a state, he began complaining:
‘You see how your father’s reduced me? He stole my book, the rascal? He’s a thief who …’
‘Uncle, please!’ exclaimed Teresa. And she emptied her purse into the hand of the old man, trembling with greed at sight of the money. He appeared again and again at the Radalì palace, but the dowager duchess, to avoid the servants’ comments, declared that Teresa could help him if she wished, but was not to let him into the house again.
And so that door was shut on him too.
What he expected was a post as professor or accountant paid enough to live a gentlemanly life and do no work, but as this was not forthcoming he took to stopping people he knew in the street and giving them an account of his circumstances.
‘They’ve despoiled me, reduced me to poverty, they have! My brother the Benedictine left me five hundred onze, and they tore up his Will and made a false one! My nephew the prince stole my great work the Sicilian Herald!… And they shut their gates in my face! On me, Eugenio of Francalanza! Gentleman of the Bedchamber! President of the Academy of the Four Poets!… Do they know who I am? If you come to my house I’ll show you my medals and diplomas—a whole shelf full …’
His megalomania grew from day to day, with his wretchedness, his difficulties and humiliation. He would announce:
‘The Government has invited me to Rome for a Chair in Dante Studies. But I’m not going! I’d be mad to! I’d far rather go to Germany where they know all my famous books and where learning is respected!… The Prefect told me that the King wants me to be his son’s tutor. Me, a pedagogue? What do they take me for? If he’s called Savoy, I’m called Uzeda. Ah, Don Umber to, don’t you know …?’ Then, in a whisper, ‘Could you lend me five lire? I’ve left my purse at home …’
He would be given two or one, even a half-lira; and he accepted anything. His relations, warned of this scandal, shrugged their shoulders or said, ‘We must see to it’ without doing anything. Giulente and Teresa did, secretly, help him as best they could, but he had now got into the habit of seeking alms; it was pleasant and easy and the passage of money from others’ pockets to his own seemed quite natural to him. Also a deep instinct of revenge against his relatives urged him to go on putting them to shame.
And one day the news went through the city:
‘Have you heard? The C
avaliere Don Eugenio is begging in the streets!’
He was now literally begging. Even if he had a few lire in his pocket he would go up to unknown passers-by, hold out a hand and say:
‘Please will you give me a little money? Just a cent to buy myself a cigar?’
He snatched at the money as if it were prey, thrust it into his pocket and then went up to another:
‘Please, a coin?’
Teresa, accompanied by her husband, went to visit him in the garret to which he had been reduced, and threw herself at his feet.
‘Uncle, we’ll give you whatever you want, as long as you don’t do this any more! A person like you to lower yourself so!’
‘Yes, yes …’
And he took the money they offered him. And next day began again. Now it was an obsession; the habit had become a disease and ended by bemusing his weak Uzeda brain. Ragged as a real beggar, his dirty white beard straggling over his haggard face, his feet in floppy cloth slippers, he went around leaning on a stick and asking:
‘A coin, please!… just this once!…’
And to earn his money he would make a show of madness. Some asked who he was, wasn’t he the Cavaliere Uzeda? Then he would cry:
‘Eugenio Consalvo Filippo Blasco Ferrante Francesco Maria Uzeda of Francalanza, Mirabella, Oragua, Lumera, etc., etc.… Gentleman of the Bedchamber (with functions) to His Majesty, a real King!…’ and he doffed his hat. ‘Ferdinand II; decorated by His Highness the Bey of Tunis Nisciam-Ifitkar; President of the Academy of the Four Poets, Corresponding Member of numerous scientific-literary-volcanological societies, of Naples, London, Paris, Caropepe, Petersburg, Paulsburg, New York and Forlimpopoli, author of the celebrated, historico-heraldic-blasonic-noble-chronological work entitled the Sicilian Herald with supplement … Please … a coin to buy myself a cigar …’
The Viceroys Page 60