The Viceroys (44 page)

‘Ah, his paternal love, eh?, his love for his children, eh?, the blood he poisoned on that innocent creature …' and in a flood of crude, rending, rushing words he told her of Raimondo's unworthy life, of what she did not know, what he himself had not known for a long time, lulled by vanity, by silly pride at connection with one of the ‘Viceroys'

‘You want to implore him as well, now, do you …? Want me to go and ask pardon on your behalf, on mine, on those innocents'! Isn't this ten years' experience enough for you, silly girl? D'you want to begin trembling before him again? D'you think I don't know what you've suffered?' And as her shoulders hunched and she gave a shiver he shouted, ‘Doesn't all that matter to you? Could you still love him?…'

Yes, it was true. She was not weeping for her children's future, she was not indignant at the memory of her own agonies; if she had suffered in silence, if she had done no more than accuse her rival, if she had never said a word in reproval of Raimondo, the one and only reason was her love for him.

‘After what he's done to you?… Can't you realise that he's never returned your love? That he'd ask for nothing better than
get rid of you, you fool. Yet you love him like a dog licking the hand that hits it?'

Yes, yes, just like that! The love of a dog for its master, the devotion of a slave for a being of another race, stronger, taller, rarer. Yes, the submission of a dog to its master; for even after the extreme shame he had inflicted on her, in spite of his brutal revelations, in spite of her father's righteous anger, she still thought she could not live away from Raimondo, could not leave him to that other woman.

So she spent long, endless days of inner anguish; the baron treated her with open coldness, seemed not to notice her tears. But she was waiting, yearning and praying for something; not Raimondo's return, which would have been too great a joy, but at least a letter of regret from him, or a message from one of his family … The child had recovered; at the Madonna's feet she implored pardon for an abominable thought: had Lauretta got worse she could have called him …

Instead of which she herself fell ill. Seeing her weeping in her fever too, the baron burst into the railing tone he put on when yielding:

‘So you won't put an end to it? He's even to have the pleasure of being begged as well? Take heed though …' he added threateningly, ‘from the day you return together you'll have to consider me as no longer existing … Choose between us two. Don't imagine I can have anything in common with him!' Poor father! Rough, unbending and hot-tempered with all, yet he had always given way to his daughters, trying to put a bold face on it, making decisions dictated by his violent character but prevented by his inexhaustible goodness of heart from carrying them out in the long run. So he wrote to the duke, and after accompanying her to Milazzo, went with him to join Raimondo, whom he then led back to her.

Not a word passed between her and her husband in connection with the past; if he did go back to live with her would she ever be able to remind him of the wrong he had done? On his part he never asked pardon or said a good word to her; he came to meet her as indifferently as if he had left her the day before. Nor did she hope for more than this. What had once been a dream of love and happiness had melted from day to day; now,
resigned to the sadness of reality, she asked for nothing but quiet. As long as Raimondo loved his children, as long as he did not leave them again, she was ready to endure anything.

Now, at the prince's, where they had then come for Lucrezia's marriage, leaving the children at Milazzo, his relatives were treating her better. The bride, beside herself with delight at the marriage being so near, was full of demonstrations of affection for her, asked her advice exclusively about wedding clothes and final details of the trousseau. The princess, always timid and detached, showed her more sympathy than before. Even Don Blasco and Donna Ferdinanda, who had begun coming to the palace again every day, also seemed a little subdued, for instead of picking at her they took no notice of her at all. What did that matter! They were like that; they had to be taken as they were. As long as Raimondo did not leave her once again! As long as those ghastly days of his desertion never returned! She even became almost resigned to being so far from her children!

Her little niece Teresa's company made things more tolerable. How like the prince's daughter was to her own Teresa! The same fine blonde beauty, the same grace, the same sweetness of voice and of look. Their characters were also like each other really, though her own child showed an almost restless vivacity while her little cousin was quieter and more obedient. How much of this was due to her father's authority? While Raimondo took no notice of his daughter, Giacomo watched almost too heavily over the little princess. He was educating her to mortify her desires, to repress her wishes. He made her spend whole days with the nuns of San Placido so that she should get used to obedience and monastic discipline. Poor little girl! Every time they put her on the wheel which passed her into the convent through the impenetrable walls segregating the nuns from the world, she stretched out her arms to her mother and to her aunt with a look of terror in her wide-set eyes. But the princess had orders from her husband, who considered the child as a kind of mute ambassadress to soothe the Abbess's and Sister Maria's discontent, so she would persuade her daughter to be good and not to be frightened. The little girl would say ‘Yes' again and again, sending her mother kisses as the wheel turned
deep in the wall and passed her through on to the other side, into the big cold grey room with a great, black, bleeding, Crucifix taking up an entire wall. Her mother, the nuns, all and everyone praised the wisdom she showed; to gain this praise, not to displease her father, she did what they wanted. The countess felt that her own Teresa, in spite of her apparent vivacity, was sweet and good at heart too. Was Lauretta not even quieter and more obedient than her own cousin? And as she thought of her little angels she longed for Lucrezia's marriage to be over so that she could get back to them soon.

All was ready. In the bride and groom's future home, an apartment next to Don Paolo Giulente's but separate from it, the last touches were being given to arrangement of furniture; all had been done with great expense and much taste. The family notary had already drafted the marriage settlement, on the basis of the prince's transactions and under his dictation. Benedetto, to ingratiate himself with his brother-in-law, had let him do what he liked and been content with five thousand
onze
for the moment instead of eight thousand, as the prince said that he had not the whole sum to hand. Gradually from that first meeting with the monk and the old spinster he had succeeded in getting them to take a little more notice of him every day, by continuing to nod like a puppet at everything they said.

As to politics, Don Blasco and his sister worked themselves up more than ever, shouting outrages and insults against the Liberals; then the young man would pretend not to hear and turn away, letting them say what they liked, as if their waves of abuse did not crash over him too. But in all other circumstances, in every other discussion, he would take their part and agree with them at all costs, watching for a look, a nod or a word.

Just at that time one of Donna Ferdinanda's debtors, a certain Calafoti, had declared himself bankrupt and let it be understood that his property had been either sold or mortgaged. The spinster was screeching like a hen plucked alive against the ‘thief', the broker who had proposed the affair, and the Prince of Roccasciano, who had approved it. But Benedetto, hearing her talking, said:

‘I know this man Calafoti. If Your Excellency cares I can go and have a word with him. The laws he is adducing are all null and void; by threatening to sue him we can bring him to heel.'

She did not wait to be asked again for the required permission. After a week of discussing and dealing Benedetto obtained a special mortgage. In exchange Donna Ferdinanda did not come to the palace on the wedding day. Nor did Don Blasco. Business was one thing; so was talk!; to approve, by their presence, the alliance of an Uzeda with the
Affocato
Giulente was quite another. But apart from those two not a single one of the other relations was absent, either at the Town Hall in the morning or at the cathedral in the afternoon.

The Marchesa Chiara accompanied the pair wherever they went. She was exhausted but went on moving up and down stairs and refused to call anyone in. On the afternoon of the wedding, tired by constant coming and going, she flung herself fainting on to a chair next to Donna Eleonora Giulente. Perhaps it was just over-tiredness, but she really did not feel at all well, had dull aches and sharp twinges of pain. With her elbows propped on the chair arms to keep her womb free and erect, she was pressing her lips together a little at each spasm, but when her husband came hurrying up and asked her anxiously what was the matter, she replied:

‘Nothing, I am all right,' lest he called in midwives.

She got up and went round the room. There were great numbers of guests, all the relations, all the nobility, and then the duke's new friends the authorities, the Mayor, the Prefect whom he had invited to show the Liberal character of the alliance. And while the pro-Bourbon nobility was grouped in the hall or in the Red and Yellow Drawing-rooms, the Deputy held a democratic circle in the portrait gallery, where he was being complimented on arranging this fine marriage, and discussing public business. Don Paolo Giulente, finding no chance of getting into conversation with the nobles, came in to listen, open-mouthed, almost beside himself with joy at becoming a relative of the great man. His brother Don Lorenzo was wearing for the occasion the green cravat of an Order which his friend the Deputy had arranged for the Turin Government to
grant, together with some substantial contracts for posts and military transport.

A good number of lesser requests to him were actually beginning to be carried out; the Honourable Member had got jobs, subsidies and Orders of St Maurice granted to patriots of '48 and '60, seen that the pension rights of old veterans of the Sicilian revolution were recognised and that Garibaldi volunteers were admitted into the regular army, and had urged on cases of damage by Bourbon troops to those noted for patriotism. Such clients, satisfied or about to be satisfied, stood listening to him as if he were an oracle, proud of having him as a friend and of being admitted into the home of the Viceroys, of finding themselves served by footmen in sumptuous liveries.

Baldassarre, in full dress, was moving around at the head of a procession of these footmen carrying trays laden with ices, iced drinks and cakes, serving the picture gallery after the drawing-rooms, but with the same etiquette, following the example of the prince, who made the same bow to all; though, to tell the truth, around His Excellency the duke there were certain types that had sprung from goodness-knew-where. They would take the little plates of ices and throw their spoons on the floor, or gulp down the crushed fruit-drink as if it were fresh water, or snatch cakes in handfuls as if they had never eaten any before that evening. With the Viceroys looking down from high on the walls! Enough; his job was to carry out his master's orders!

Just then Cousin Graziella, apart in a group with the Duchess Radalì and the Princess of Roccasciano, was saying to the young prince, who had got a special permission to stay out at night for his aunt's wedding:

‘We'll have to choose the bride for him ourselves! There'll be plenty of choice!'

She did not know how to point out to the Giulente that this wedding was being forced on them against the wills of the majority of the family. But Donna Eleonora noticed nothing; sitting next to the princess and the Countess Matilde she was smiling beatifically as bride and groom passed, their faces, particularly Lucrezia's, glinting with the joy of triumph. Anyway, though Donna Ferdinanda and Cousin Graziella might snub her, the princess was all courtesy and the Countess Matilde
all sympathy with a mother's happiness. Even Chiara came to fling herself down beside Donna Eleonora once more.

‘Are you tired, marchesa?'

‘Me? Oh no! I'm fine.' The stabs of pains were becoming more frequent, almost taking her breath away; she would have happily had her baby right there on that sofa.

Ferdinando, trussed up in formal clothes which he had put on for the second time in his life, was going round like a soul in purgatory, knowing nobody, having led a Robinson Crusoe life for so long. He had come to act as witness for his favourite sister and was longing for the ceremonies to end so as to get back home.

In God's good time the procession moved down the grand staircase, distributed itself into carriages, and moved off to the cathedral. The ceremony itself took place in the bishop's private chapel, conducted by Monsignor in person. All the guests bore torches, bride and groom stood before the glittering scented altar, Donna Eleonora Giulente was sobbing like a fountain.

‘Most moving, most moving' the duke was saying quietly to the Prefect beside him. Suddenly there was a commotion; Chiara had been incapable of standing another moment and dropped on to a stool. Everyone surrounded her, but she reassured them with a smile. Even Monsignor the Bishop smiled, knowing her to be in an interesting condition. The marchese dragged her off to their carriage while the rest of the party went on to the Giulentes' house, where there was almost a more sumptuous display even than that of the prince's; endless refreshments, ices melting on trays for lack of consumers. Finally the bride and groom got into a carriage and went off to the Belvedere.

Next morning there drove up to visit them, one after the other, Giulente husband and wife, Don Lorenzo and the duke, the princess and even Chiara, looking fresh as a rose; the pains had vanished and she was determined to go to her sister's. That afternoon bride and groom were not expecting anyone else when,
drlin, drlin
, a tinkle of harness-bells and Donna Ferdinanda's carriage, covered with dust, stopped at the villa gates. The old spinster, as if she had left them the evening, before, as if they had been married for ten years, gave her hand for her niece to kiss and as soon as she sat down said to Benedetto: