The Viceroys

by Federico De Roberto

  Almost everywhere he gained sympathies and votes. The very fact that Don Consalvo Uzeda, Prince of Francalanza, was paying them a visit, disposed these humble folk in his favour. His handshakes, homely speeches, resounding phrases and promises converted the most restive. Even though there were a number of recalcitrants, he achieved the effect of creating schism where before had been accord. A dozen societies elected him on the spot as their honorary president. And he thanked them for ‘the great honour of which I would be unworthy were it not a pledge of my limitless devotion for the workers, whose improvement, welfare, and happiness have been and will aways be the aim of my life’. After official speeches he added, ‘When you need me, when you come to town, remember that my house is yours …’

  And still he never mentioned the election. Having carried out this first part of his programme he went on to the second, an accord with other candidates. For three seats there were a dozen or so aspirants. Apart from those whose claims were absurd, such as Giulente, there were, apart from his own, four serious candidatures: Vazza, a lawyer with a very wide clientele who presented himself under a ‘liberal’ programme without indicating any parliamentary party; Professor Lisi, formerly president of the Progressive Party, and thus of left-wing tendencies; Giardona and Marcenò, Radicals. Consalvo got in touch with the first of these latter two, the milder one, with a view to common action. Did the other’s watered-down Radicalism and his own advanced Liberalism differ so much that they could not come to an understanding? Even so, Giardona’s supporters wanted explicit promises. He bound himself to vote for all the reforms, particularly social reforms, demanded by the other’s Party. He went among them and said, ‘I am a socialist. After a study of Proudhon I am convinced that all property is theft. Had my ancestors not robbed I would have had to earn my living by the sweat of my brow.’

  Yet those declarations were not found completely satisfactory. Advanced radicals supporting Marcenò turned against him. A little news-sheet called The Rasp came out with an attack on him, called him ‘The noble prince, Sire de Fancalanza’ alluding to his pro-Bourbon relatives, and affirmed that an aristocrat like him, descendant of Viceroys, could not be sincere in such show of democratic faith. Then he had a news-sheet published called The New Elector. Every number, from beginning to end, was full of him, of his achievements as Mayor, of his claims on the town’s gratitude. The daily papers also bore leading articles exalting ‘The young patrician who is a democrat in deeds not in mere words.’

  Having made his pact with Giardona, he now had to choose between Lisi and Vazza to form the triad. He wanted to go with the latter, who was the stronger, but Giardona threatened to spoil this, as Vazza, who proclaimed himself ambiguously ‘liberal’, was the most moderate of the lot and well thought of even by the Curia. An alliance with Lisi, who was nearer their ideas, was the only natural one and he recognised this as suitable. Agreement was reached, but each set to work on his own account.

  The electoral reform law was still before the Senate when already people were flocking to the prince’s every night: noble relatives, civic employees, elementary schoolmasters, lawyers, brokers, contractors. It was like a subscription ball. The state apartments were opened to the public. He did not relegate his electors to the dark little administrative offices as his uncle had done; he flung open the grand Yellow and Red Drawing-rooms, the Hall of Mirrors, the Portrait Gallery. All were animated by the liveliest enthusiasm. Petty tradesmen, who came to the palace for the first time and sat on satin armchairs under the Viceroys’ immobile gaze would have let themselves be cut to pieces for this candidate who promised them earth and heaven, general and particular good to each single voter. A land surveyor composed a pamphlet entitled, Consalvo Uzeda Prince of Francalanza, Short Biographical Notes and presented it to him. He had it printed in thousands of copies and distributed throughout the constituency. The absurdity of this publication, the crudeness of the praise filling it, did not bother him, sure as he was that for one elector who would laugh at it a hundred would believe in it all, like articles of faith. He felt an infinite contempt for that mob, and a violent rancour against whoever tried to bar his way.

  As excitement grew, attacks by The Rasp news-sheet became sharper, and a quantity of broadsheets and manifestoes and electoral bulletins, supporting this or that candidate, or speculating on the curiosity that induced people to fling money away on bits of dirty paper, began attacking him morning and night, belabouring him with every kind of insult. He laughed at these before others. But inside he raged. Had he been able he would have put a gag on those libellists, banished, imprisoned them.

  But the accusation that wounded him most and made him really bleed was one beginning, ‘Electors, the candidate we present to you has no feudal estates or coats-of-arms, no gold with which to corrupt consciences; but you, citizens, can show your conscience to be a treasure too big for a handful of money to buy’. It was untrue, for he had spent money only on printing, postage and transport. But this lie could gain more credence than the others; and he wanted to be elected because of his proved aptitude for public life, because of the culture he had tried so hard to acquire.

  Then, remembering his determination to keep calm, to let people have their say, he shrugged his shoulders, dominated his gusts of anger when touched on the raw, and said to himself, ‘What does it matter if they do elect me for my coats-of-arms and my estates? As long as they elect me!’ And to his intimates, who grew angry on his behalf at seeing him thus attacked, he said with a smile, ‘They’re right! My chief title for election is that of prince!’

  What he said in jest was in fact true. ‘Prince of Francalanza’: those words were the passport, the talisman that worked the miracle of opening all doors. He knew that declarations of democracy could do him no harm with electors of his class, as the latter did not consider them sincere and felt sure of having him on their side at the proper time. On the other hand he felt that accusations of aristocracy did him no great harm with the majority of a people brought up for centuries to respect and admire nobles and even to take pride in their scale of living and their power. For him such people as let themselves be won over from the Viceroys had been perverted by false doctrine and silly flattery. He was sure that if he had a heart-to-heart talk with those crying out most for ‘Liberty and Equality’ and said to them, ‘Now, if you were in my place, would you shout that?’, the proud republican would be in a fix. The point was, said some, that such eminent positions and privileged situations should not now exist. Then Consalvo would smile pityingly. As if, even admitting the possibility of abolishing all social inequalities by a stroke of the pen, they would not be created anew next day, men being naturally different and the clever being always, at all times, under whatever régime, sure to down the simple, the bold to override the timid, the strong to subdue the weak!

  Even so he bowed down and conceded all, in words, to the spirit of the new times. The angry little news-sheets lunged at him tenaciously with accusations of ‘Spanish’ arrogance, of ‘ingrained’ pride. To the electors who called him ‘Your Lordship the Prince’ all the time he said, ‘I’m not called Lordship the Prince, I’m called Consalvo Uzeda …’ He seemed now almost eager to denude himself of all that could offend feelings of human equality, no longer spoke of ‘my travels’ or ‘my estates’, seemed to be trying to excuse himself for his title and riches, to be almost ashamed of the great coat-of-arms over the arch of the palace gates, of the arms-rack in his vestibule, of the portraits of his ancestors, as marks and proofs of unworthiness. But this he did at suitable times and places, before sincere radicals and pure republicans. Most of the time he knew himself to be amid those who by calling him ‘Prince’ and appearing in his company believed they were in some way partaking of his lustre.

  He worked very hard paying visits, writing letters, directing his canvassers, presiding over committee meetings. At night he could scarcely get to sleep; his hand was burning so with the contact of dirty, sweating, rough, calloused, infected hand
s, his mind inflamed so with anxiety about the outcome. Would he succeed? At moments he had an intimate and definite certainty of it; the Government was for him; Mazzarini, who had reached power and was now Minister of Public Works, had sent from Rome copies of all his letters recommending him to the Prefect. But he was not content with mere success, he wanted outstanding success, to be first among those elected, to assure himself a stable constituency with a unanimous, plebiscite-like vote. The agreement with Giardona had certainly helped him, but that with Lisi may have been an error.

  Vazza’s situation on the other hand was very strong, and according to many he would come out top. He was gathering adherents everywhere, and the clergy in particular, without upholding his cause in public, were working for him secretly but very efficaciously. Consalvo had made a real mistake in renouncing this alliance and preferring Lisi. To compensate for this and take advantage of the sacristy influence he thought of having recourse to his sister.

  It was some time since he had seen her, but he knew that her severe almost austere life, her total renunciation of worldly occupations and pleasures since her mourning, her edifying piety, had put her even more into the good graces of the Monsignori. So he went to visit her. When just about to enter her drawing-room he heard a high-pitched voice saying:

  ‘I’ve said it to all, and I’ll never tire of repeating it! May Samson fall with all the Philistines!’

  It was his Aunt Lucrezia. He stopped to listen.

  ‘Your Excellency must forgive me,’ came Teresa’s gentle tones, ‘but to say such a thing against your own nephew …’

  ‘My nephew?… No nephew of mine!…’ cried the other. ‘Then how could he allow himself to treat my husband so? But it’ll be tit for tat, as they say. Benedetto won’t get in, but neither will he. We’ll see! But I must say I’m rather surprised at that pig the Bishop!…’

  ‘Aunt!’

  ‘That pig the Bishop refusing to support my husband. Instead of playing Vazza’s game he should be supporting Benedetto, who’s always been a moderate and so much closer to the clergy! And I’m even more surprised at you refusing to say a word on your uncle’s behalf!… But I’ll talk to him! I have a tongue in my head and can talk on my own! If all abandon Benedetto, I’m still here! I won’t abandon him! I’ve only him in the world!… Do you know it’s given him a bad liver? Those murderers, they’d like to kill him off! But he laughs best who laughs last!’

  Containing his laughter, Consalvo entered. As soon as she saw him, Lucrezia got up.

  ‘Well, goodbye, I’ve things to do,’ she said to her niece. And without looking at him, as if she had not noticed him, but raising her voice and passing by him with a haughty stiff air, she repeated, ‘He laughs best who laughs last!’

  Consalvo burst into a roar of laughter.

  ‘That mad-woman has it in for me!… What the devil did she expect? What wrong has she been done?’

  ‘Poor thing, don’t talk ill of her,’ replied Teresa with pitying indulgence.

  ‘Anyway it’s lucky you don’t agree with her! Does she want me to renounce my own future just for the sake of her husband? Now all of a sudden she’s afire with love for the husband whom she did nothing but revile before …’

  Teresa made no reply, but gave a gesture of deep compassion.

  ‘And what did she want from you? Was she talking to you about the election?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She wanted your vote, ha ha.’

  ‘No, she thought I could help them.’

  ‘And what did you reply?’

  ‘That I can do nothing.’

  ‘For me either?’ added Consalvo quickly.

  ‘For no-one, brother. I take no part in such things.’

  ‘What about your Monsignori?’ he exclaimed with a smile.

  ‘Neither they nor I speak of such things.’

  ‘What do you speak of then, tell me?’

  At Consalvo’s slightly mocking tone Teresa shut her eyes a moment, as if gathering strength to meet contradictions, as if praying for the unbeliever.

  ‘We have been talking in these last few days of a great miracle permitted by the Lord. Have you heard no mention of the Servant of God?’

  He knew something, vaguely, about an alleged miracle that had occurred to a peasant woman of Belpasso. But Teresa went on without awaiting his reply:

  ‘She’s a humble peasant girl who lives in a hut with her father and mother, out in the country at Belpasso. She’s always been very religious, but signs of Grace have shown in her recently. Every Friday, after she’s been on her knees three hours, there appear on her body Our Lord’s stigmata; she exhales an odour of sweet incense and from her lips …’

  ‘Is that what you call signs of Grace? They’re hysterical phenomena!’

  Teresa was silent a little, with the expression of indulgence one accords to poor ignorant sinners.

  ‘If they were hysterical phenomena, doctors would be able to cure her. Instead of which none of those who’ve seen her have been able to explain these manifestations, and all the remedies they’ve tried have been useless.’

  ‘Then they’ve merely called in stupid doctors.’

  ‘No, the most reputable!… On her forehead appears a red mark in the form of a cross, and on her side one in the shape of a lily …’ In a low voice she added, ‘His Lordship the Bishop is about to visit her.’

  ‘Will he visit her side?’

  She drew back with a look of contemptuous reproof.

  ‘Consalvo! You know that you grieve me by talking like that …’

  ‘Oh nonsense! Can’t one make a joke?… But you seriously believe it, do you?’

  ‘I believe it,’ she replied shortly.

  He considered her a little. What he wanted to say was, ‘Who d’you think you’re talking to?… Are you off your head like all the rest of our family?’ But he had not come for that.

  ‘So you never talk of the elections, you say?’

  ‘No. I don’t understand such things; and then the Church takes no part in these struggles.’

  ‘Neither elected nor electors, eh? And yet your spiritual Fathers are making a great deal of fuss about a certain lawyer …’

  ‘The Holy Father has ordered Catholics not to vote as a party …’

  ‘Aha … Then you know there’s a distinction between an organised party and single citizens?’

  ‘It’s not difficult to understand that.’

  ‘All right, all right! And as single citizens, what are Catholics doing?’

  ‘They sometimes support whoever is closest to them.’

  ‘That being?’

  ‘Whoever believes.’

  The two words meant, ‘You’re not among them and that’s why I can do nothing for you.’ But Consalvo pretended to be ingenuous and replied:

  ‘Whoever believes in what?’

  ‘In the eternal principles of truth, first of all!’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘In the Church’s triumph.’

  ‘Do you too?…’ began Consalvo, on the point of protesting, of saying what he thought to this silly woman. But he held himself in once more. What did such nonsense matter? The important thing was to know if he had any chance at all of her intercession. ‘Oh, fine!…’ he went on in a different tone. ‘The Church’s triumph … Over whom is it to triumph, may I ask?’

  ‘Over its enemies and persecutors.’

  ‘And who are they? Where are they? In Italy? In France? Go on, tell us. What must we do? Restore Rome to the Pope, eh? Give him all Italy, all the world? Let’s hear, let’s have an explanation once and for all, so I know where I am and see how far we can agree …’

  She said, seriously:

  ‘It’s useless for you to take that tone. Sooner or later right will triumph.’

  ‘How? When? Where?’

  She raised her head and half shut her eyes, as if inspired.

  ‘There will be born,’ she said, ‘a great monarch, in direct descent from St Louis of Fra
nce, who will be called Charles. He will make seven kingdoms in Europe, and put the Holy Father back on the Chair of Peter …’

  This time Consalvo could not restrain his laughter.

  ‘Ha ha ha … So he’s to be called Charles, is he? Why not Philip, or Ignatius, or Epaminondas? Where the devil d’you get such nonsense from?’

  ‘If it’s nonsense why bother about it? I’m sorry you laugh at such things … I’ve told you many times that we each have our own convictions …’

  ‘Yes, yes … But where d’you get this one from? Where have you heard that all these nice things are going to happen?’

  She stretched out an arm towards a shelf full of books and took down a small volume bound in black leather with gilt edges. Consalvo read on the frontispiece, ‘Liberated Europe, or The Triumph of the Church of J.C. over all Usurpers and Heretics. Echo of the Prophets and the Fathers …’ Suddenly she turned her head, hearing a lackey announce from the threshold as he drew back the door curtains:

  ‘Father Gentile, Excellency.’

  In came a tall, thin, priest, with strong glasses on a beaked nose.

  ‘My brother, the Prince of Francalanza,’ Teresa introduced, ‘Father Antonio Gentile …’

  The priest gave a deep bow. Consalvo looked him over from top to toe. Another one! This house was becoming a positive sacristy!

  ‘Father,’ added Teresa, turning to her brother, ‘is good enough to direct my children’s education …’

  ‘I am very happy,’ replied the ecclesiastic, ‘to be able to serve the duchess.’

  ‘You’re not a Sicilian, are you?’ asked Consalvo, to say something, so as not to seem to be leaving at once, but impatient to get away since realising he had already wasted too much time.