The Viceroys (56 page)

The Prior, on the other hand, had stayed in town at the episcopal palace, where Monsignor the Bishop had received him with open arms. All his relations' begging and invitations had been unable to make him take flight; his place, he said, was by the beds of the sick, with Monsignor. The one to insist most had been the prince, who maintained, as always, that in grave and solemn moments the family should keep together, so he was sorry to leave one of his relations in the midst of danger. What would people say? That he thought of nothing but himself?… But just as he had not succeeded in moving the Prior, so he had also failed with Ferdinando, who, having acquired a taste for town life, would not hear of taking refuge even at Pietra dell'Ovo. Lucrezia had already left for the Belvedere that morning with her husband, father-in-law and mother-in-law. As for their uncle, the duke, he was in Florence near his niece Teresina, and since the cholera did not rage there or terrify people as much as in Sicily he was quite serene. To the Cavaliere Eugenio, still in Palermo, no one gave a thought.

At the Belvedere began again the gay country life of autumn, so much so that the alarm spread by the first news of the pestilence soon seemed unjustified; in the city there had been a suspected case now and again. The young prince, having finally doffed his habit for clothes like everyone else's, began tasting the enjoyments which he had yearned for. First of all he went shooting with a real gun on Mounts Elce and Urna, exterminating rabbits, hares, partridges and even sparrows, if he found nothing else. Then every day he had horses harnessed to learn driving, and soon his gig became the terror of those on country roads, always running into carts and carriages, rushing at full tilt to pass all other vehicles, at the risk of overturning, crashing or killing someone. When not driving he would be in the stables watching horses being groomed and learning the special language of coachmen, ostlers and farriers, criticising the horses of other nobles who had taken refuge at the Belvedere or near by, or so-and-so's recent purchase, or someone else's carriages. And Donna Ferdinanda, hearing him speak with ever-growing competence on such gentlemanly subjects, would say to him admiringly, ‘Those are the things to learn!…'

The princess too, though still sorrowing at Teresina's departure
so far away, was proud of her son's progress; Graziella, even prouder, was prodigal of caresses to the boy, though Consalvo never replied with equal effusion but did his best to avoid her. He had not forgiven her for opposing his return to the paternal roof earlier, and now on seeing her as much at home there as one of the family and taking his mother's place, his antipathy grew. Donna Graziella really was behaving more as mistress of the house than as guest, particularly in the evenings when there was company and she did the honours of the house, all the more if the princess felt indisposed. And this often happened. Without having any definite illness Donna Margherita, after her daughter's departure, felt a bout of dim malaise coming over her, headaches, and difficulties in digesting. And, glad to avoid a crowd, infectious contact, contagious handshakes, she would go off to bed leaving her guests in the drawing-room conversing animatedly, gambling and playing charades. Leaving the Giulente villa, Lucrezia was now helping her cousin in running the house. She who at home never even put a finger into fresh water came to lend a hand from pride at having a place again in the home of her brother the prince.

Chiara was busy spoiling the little bastard, fussing over him much more than did the marchese, who always felt uncomfortable and ashamed at recognising his parenthood publicly, while his wife almost gloried in it. If the princess or Donna Ferdinanda or some other relation did not put themselves out to be nice to the baby, Chiara would look offended and might even not set foot in the villa for a week if she got it into her head that anyone was criticising her adoption of the child.

Vice versa, she was now of one mind with her uncle Blasco, who, as he was staying with her, implicitly approved.

At the news of the law for suppressing monasteries, the monk, during his last period in the cloister and first months at his nephew's, had been frenzied, like a devil loosed from hell. The newly coined swear-words, curses, imprecations against the Government that he spat out at San Nicola, the palace, the Cigar-woman's, in pro-Bourbon chemists and even in the streets, were beyond counting; his vituperations against his brother the Deputy, who had voted for the law, were far more violent than anything else that had ever come from his mouth.

As if this monstrosity were too big, too stunning, he soon reduced himself to fuming silence, from which he was roused only by rumours repeated in his presence about the division of the monastery's savings and the four thousand
onze
due to each monk. Then he would begin thundering, ‘Division, my foot! Due, my backside! Not a sausage is there for distribution. And if there were, no one would touch it! Us become accomplices of those thieves? Of that refuse of the galleys? Of those out-and-out brigands?'

So he spoke before strangers, people of no consequence, and servants; in the family, among intimates, he would admit the division but reduce his own share to a few hundred
onze
, a couple of spoons and a pair of sheets, just enough to avoid destitution. He had come away from San Nicola with two chests, the keys of which he never let out of his possession. The prince in town had glanced them over as if weighing and judging them, with a new respect for this uncle, who now owned something; but all efforts to get a look inside the chests had been in vain, as the monk bolted himself into his room every time he rooted about in them.

At the Belvedere, even Chiara and Federico often talked to each other of all this money that Don Blasco must now have. The marchese, fearing its being wasted on the Cigar-woman, would have suggested means of making it secure, of using it to get income, had the monk been anyone else, had Don Blasco not attacked him every half-year when his dividends fell due, and nagged and prophesied the shares' collapse. The inflation, the war, the cholera, every public calamity, had been causes of jubilation for the monk, who would rub his hands together every time and shout to his nephew, ‘Goodbye to your dirty paper! It's done for, your Government is! You wouldn't listen to me; all right!…' But the marchese always drew his dividends to the very last cent on the day arranged. When the danger of cholera had stopped entirely, one day he went down into town on business and also to draw his half-yearly payment. On his return to the Belvedere, when taking his walk on the terrace after dinner, as Chiara played with the little bastard, he mentioned to his uncle what he had done that day.

‘I drew my money from the coupons too … Now they pay
in advance, because of the exchange. If I sent them to Paris I'd draw as many Napoleons again … I've ordered another lot of shares. We'll take them with a number of friends … as today there's no other way of laying out money …'

He wanted to insist on what a good chance this was, but fell silent as Don Blasco suddenly stopped and stared at him hard, as if about to burst:

‘Can you let me have ten thousand lire's worth?'

At first the marchese thought he had not heard properly.

‘Let you have … How d'you mean? For Your Excellency?'

‘I'm asking if you can sell me ten thousand lire of shares, d'you understand or don't you?'

‘But I think … of course … ten thousand lire of capital you mean … Yes, Excellency, I can write another letter at once, to make quite sure, if Your Excellency wishes.'

‘When will you write?'

‘Tomorrow.'

‘And will they come at once?'

‘By return of post.'

The monk turned his back and walked off a little, then returned, planted himself there in front of him again and went on:

‘Listen, while you're at it, ask for twenty thousand lire's worth.'

‘Yes, Excellency, however many Your Excellency likes …'

As soon as he was alone the marchese rushed off to his wife and said, agasp with amazement:

‘D'you know what?… d'you know what?… Uncle wants to buy shares!—twenty thousand lire's worth of shares! He's commissioned me! I can scarcely believe it! I must be dreaming.'

Chiara replied calmly, with a little shake of the shoulders:

‘Why are you so amazed? Don't you know my family's all mad?'

Once again, in whispers behind each other's backs, the Uzeda were all calling each other mad. Was not Chiara mad for treating her maid like a sister and the girl's bastard like her own son? Wasn't Lucrezia mad for maltreating that poor devil Benedetto in every way? And what about Donna Ferdinanda, who, with no advantage to herself, interfered in the affairs of the whole family? And what was to be said of the prince, who,
after having forgotten his cousin Graziella for so many years, now linked himself to her right under his son's eyes. Perhaps that was the reason which made Graziella more and more antipathetic to Consalvo. He contradicted her on everything, in front of- other people. He avoided remaining alone in her company, and affected to treat her like an intruder when servants mentioned her. This, though, was the only feeling he showed, for he was at home as little as possible, rode out on horseback when he was not driving his carriage, straddled every peasant's donkey, and held converse with every carter. The cook, from the kitchen window, whence the gardens were in sight to the end of the olive groves, would see him going after women collecting bundles of old vine-twigs. One afternoon the factor nearly caught him in the hayloft with the wife of a farmer, Rosario Farsatore. He did not seem in the least put out, and when the matter came to Donna Ferdinanda's ears it raised him in the old spinster's esteem. The prince pretended to know nothing; he seemed to have decided to let his son run wild a bit, as if to make up for the last years of enclosure in San Nicola.

‘What about Fra' Carmelo?' Donna Ferdinanda or the princess, or Lucrezia would ask every now and again. ‘What news of him?' But the young prince neither knew nor bothered to find out what had happened to his former protector. At San Nicola, while he gnawed at the bit and awaited the suppression law as his only salvation, it had amused him to torment Fra' Carmelo by predicting the disbandment of the monks and the closing of the monastery, but the other used to shake his head and smile incredulously, not understanding how any monks could believe such a thing. ‘Send them away? Sell the estates? Words, gossip, today as before! Who would dare to? What about the Pope's excommunication? The Catholic powers? The reaction of the whole of Christendom?…' And nothing could shake his security, neither the news in the papers, nor the preparations for evacuation, nor the novices' departure. After that Consalvo had no more news of him.

One morning, at the Belvedere, while the family was rising from table after luncheon, Baldassarre came and announced:

‘Excellency, Fra' Carmelo is here.'

‘Fra' Carmelo?'

No-one recognised in the figure advancing towards the prince with arms raised, the lay-brother of the fat pink and white face, jovial air and round tummy.

‘They've thrown me out … they've thrown me out …'

In a few months he had lost half his weight, and in his yellow flabby face his eyes which had once been laughing, now had a strange expression of disquiet, almost of fear.

‘Excellency, they've thrown me out! Excellency, they've thrown me out!…' and he looked at all the gentlemen, at all the ladies, as if trying to arouse reaction to the horror of it.

‘So it was true! Is there nothing to be done about it? You who've power … You let those rascals rob St Nicolas, St Benedict, all the saints in paradise …'

‘What can we do about it?…' exclaimed Consalvo, rubbing his hands. And Donna Ferdinanda added:

‘You wanted a Liberal government, didn't you? Now enjoy its fruits!'

‘Me?… Me, Excellency?… As if I knew a thing about Liberals or non-Liberals!… I minded my own business!… Sixty years I was in there!… No-one had dared touch it in all the revolutions I'd seen, '37, '48, '60 …'

‘A fine trio of lottery numbers!' exclaimed the young prince, and as Baldassarre had come to tell him his gig was harnessed, he got up, exclaiming under the lay-brother's nose:

‘Now there's the law, my good man …'

‘But is it a just law? The property of the Church?… Can I come into Your Excellency's house and take anything I like? Can a law be made like that?…' and he began a confused account of what had happened at the actual spoliation … ‘That delegate, for the hand-over … The Abbot refused to be present, and he was right; a shameful thing like that! The man went and slept in His Paternity's bed, the rascal; beyond belief … The Prior came and gave him all the keys, Excellency; of the church, the sacristy, the storerooms, the museum, the library … everything has been sold at public auction; tables, chairs, plates, wool, wine, beds, as if they were no-one's … And the candlesticks in the choir, that robber thought they were of gold and took them away by night! They tied ‘im up, those others, even bigger robbers than he! Now there's nothing left!
… Just walls! They've thrown me out!… they've thrown me out!…'

The princess tried to comfort him with gentle words; the prince offered him a drink; but he refused and began going over the same story again, getting more confused than before. Then he went off to the marchese's villa, to Don Blasco, and began once more:

‘They've thrown me out … and Your Paternity's doing nothing?… Your nephew, the Prior? Monsignor the Bishop?… Why don't they write to Rome?… Must it end like this?'

Don Blasco, who had drawn his dividends the day before, boomed:

‘How do you expect it to end? When I yelled at those ruffians, “Mind your own business! Don't play with fire! You'll pay for it!…” they called me mad, didn't they? And they just hid their heads in the sand, the fools did, saying the Government wouldn't touch them or would give them a good pension if it did. And what about those companions of yours playing the revolutionary? That pig Fra' Cola, for instance, distributing bulletins to the novices? That other twister, my nephew, making up to Bixio and to Garibaldi? That clumsy fool the Abbot scratching his mangy pate, not knowing what to do, like a chick in stubble?… Now what d'you expect?… You've been your own enemies … The Government is a thief, and had to do its thief's job; why's that a surprise? The fault is with those blockheads who helped it on and suggested, “Come along and rob me!” and even opened up the doors … Didn't they once tell me they wanted some liberty? Well, they've got it now! The lot … No one'll stop 'em!…'