The Viceroys (67 page)

So Don Eugenio had a walk for nothing.

But he did not lose heart. From distant relatives he passed to friends, mere acquaintances, people he met in the street whom he stopped under pretence of seeing and greeting again. He would begin by recounting as if he'd had it directly the news of the prince and of Consalvo learnt from Lucrezia, regret the quarrel between father and son, announce the return of the young princess, whom he said he had seen in Florence. ‘What a beauty!…' Then he talked of his sojourn in Palermo, described the apartment of ten rooms in which he lived on the Cassaro, all the while draped majestically in filthy ragged clothes which told only of poverty, hunger and squalid promiscuity. He would also mention his journey to Tunis, the decoration he had received from the Bey, without explaining quite why he had obtained it and what precisely he had done at His Highness' Court. After thoroughly bemusing people with all this he would ask point blank:

‘Did you get my leaflet?'

And again he explained the scope of the book, enumerated the subscribers he had got. These grew in numbers every time; the signatures of private citizens went up from two to three
hundred, to four, five hundred; those of Town Councils from fifty, to sixty, to ninety; libraries multiplied from one moment to another. A thousand subscribers were already certain, another thousand more or less definite. And he would offer a part share, ask for less and less money down, and finally declare that he would be quite content with twelve signatures, with six, even with one. To get away from him people made ambiguous promises. But he noted down their names in a grimy dog-eared notebook, stuffed only with circulars and application forms which he redistributed, thrusting them into the pockets of anyone who made to refuse them, and asking them to put them around and fill one up as soon as possible. After a day of work, just as he was about to go into his hotel again, he met Benedetto coming out.

‘Excellency!… how are you?… I came to visit you; I'm so sorry for not being at home yesterday.'

Somewhat embarrassed, Don Eugenio invited him up to his room. It had a sagging floor, two strips of white cotton acting as curtains on the window, a basin on a chair and a jug on the floor.

‘I had to come here as the Grand Hotel was all full up. How uncomfortable one is in this town. At Palermo I had a twelve-roomed apartment. The staircase was really superb!…'

And in spite of Lucrezia's refusal he pulled the circulars from his pocket and got down to business at once.

‘Didn't your wife tell you?… I've come to get my book printed. I won't hand it over to anyone, not for twenty thousand lire. But I haven't the money to start printing. Shall we do it together? Let's split the profits, like good relatives and friends.'

Giulente hesitated a little, then asked: ‘What did Lucrezia say?'

‘Your wife? She said “yes”, as long as you were sure it was a good thing. Just look here,' and beside himself with delight at having finally found someone who did not refuse him he thrust some signed forms in front of him. ‘All right, all right, if Lucrezia approves …'

‘Even if she changes her mind, after all, we don't need her consent!'

Benedetto hesitated a little, then said:

‘No, it's necessary … for now she keeps all the money!'

‘What! The money? Haven't you a thousand lire or two to dispose of?'

‘No, Excellency. Public affairs have been taking so much of my time that I've handed over all accounts to her …'

T
HE
prince's return with his uncle the duke, his wife and his daughter, at the beginning of winter, gave new food for public curiosity. Everyone was longing to see the face of this little princess whose beauty had been so much talked of. But though exaggerated advance praise had made people rather sceptical, yet the reality left imagination far behind. The girl's white skin and fair hair, her delicate, exquisite, almost vaporous beauty were unparalleled in the family of the Viceroys. The old Spanish race, mixed in the coarse of centuries with island stock part Greek, part Saracen, had gradually lost its purity and nobility of form. Who, for example, could have distinguished Don Blasco from any fat friar of peasant stock, or Donna Ferdinanda from any old spinning woman? But just as in the preceding generation there had been the exception of Count Raimondo, so now Teresa too seemed to have come from some old cell of pure Castilian blood left intact.

Tall, narrow-shouldered, with a waist round which her hands could almost reach, making the curve of her hips more pronounced, Teresa had a natural elegance, a noble grace of bearing, not wholly freed from the awkwardness of a college girl who had been in an ill-fitting uniform a few months before. At first when she drove out in a carriage with her stepmother, people would stop on the pavements or wait by the palace gates, to stare at her open-mouthed. She seemed not to notice this blatant curiosity, and never in fact looked at anyone.

At home, naturally, the first to come and visit her were her uncles and aunts. Lucrezia now almost hung round her niece's skirts, accompanied her everywhere, gave her advice, enjoying a
chance to exercise her own mania for authority. Her the princess let be, but she did not even return Chiara's visit, because of the little bastard. How could a girl like Teresa, just out of school, go to a house where such things went on? To all and sundry, servants, relations and acquaintances, she would say with elaborate gestures and rolling of the eyes, ‘Can I allow my daughter to know such things? I can't help it if Chiara takes offence.' And Chiara did take offence. She had now broken off connection with all her relations from love for the maid's son, who had become so spoilt that he ordered her about as he liked, called her
tu
and even hit her when he felt like it. But she let him be, and if the marchese said a word of protest there would be shouts, threats, hell let loose. On hearing of her sister-in-law and cousin's scruples she railed loudly against her, particularly when by Giacomo's orders Donna Graziella took Teresa to kiss the hand of her uncle Don Blasco. So she could go to the monk's, who kept that Cigar-woman and his three daughters at home, could she, and not to her? ‘Yes, of course, it's because they're hoping the monk will leave 'em something …'

Don Blasco lived like a lord nowadays. Apart from his house and two estates, he had also put aside quite a bit of money, and the prince paid him respect because of this. The Benedictine let him visit as he did Lucrezia and Chiara; he never went out to anyone as he could no longer get upstairs. But he laid down the law to nieces and nephews, used them in every way, and if any of them made him angry would take out a sheet of paper like Donna Ferdinanda and tear it to pieces. ‘Not a cent from me!…' His niece Teresa's visit gave him much pleasure; his daughters did not appear, and the princess explained to the girl that Donna Lucia was her uncle's ‘housekeeper'.

Such precautions were anyway quite wasted on Teresa. She had no improper curiosity and when she realised that her elders had something to say to each other would move away, go to tidy her room or look after her own little affairs. Not only was she quite outstandingly beautiful, but also full of talents and more accomplished than a good many men. She could draw and paint, speak French and English fluently, write verses and compose music; with all this she was remarkably modest, simple, good and affectionate. On returning to her childhood home
where she had left her mother who was now no longer there, she had to be supported and her eyes were two springs of welling tears; but her cult of her dead mother did not prevent her respecting and loving her father and stepmother. She was devout too, with some prayer-book always in her hand when not working at her embroidery, drawing or music. They were gilt books, covered in velvet and scented leather; Months of Mary, Litanies of the Blessed Virgin, lives of saints, holy pictures at every page, all prizes from the Convent of the Annunciation.

But this devoutness and piety did not prevent a love of worldly pleasures and the latest fashions proper to a girl of her years. When she had to dress for making visits or receiving them, or for driving or the theatre, she would linger like other girls before her mirror, and she had a way all her own of wearing the simplest dresses which made her look as if she were going to a ball. When stuffs or trimmings or ornaments had to be chosen at a milliner's or dressmaker's, she would show great taste in selecting the most elegant, sweetly influencing her aunt Lucrezia, who since keeping the money keys got herself a new dress every fortnight, each worse chosen than the last, though expecting her taste to be praised. The princess on the other hand let her stepdaughter do as she wanted and choose what she liked, even referring to her for her own clothes. ‘What taste that girl of ours has! What a model daughter!' She praised her particularly for sweetness of character and goodness of heart, kissed and embraced her in front of everyone even at parties, and watched over her like a real mother.

She was very scrupulous too, and did not allow her stepdaughter to read anything but religious books in case she got ideas in her head, or let certain things be talked about in front of her, for fear of words contaminating thoughts. So she was on tenterhooks when her sister-in-law Lucrezia gossiped about mistresses, conjugal separations, illegitimate births. She would begin coughing then to give that tactless woman a hint, and if coughing was not enough would change the subject brusquely in a way all her own, which seemed done on purpose to call attention to the very things she wanted passed over. But Lucrezia noticed nothing at all, and was even tactless enough to keep on saying to her niece, with or without any connecting thread but
most often when complaining of Benedetto, ‘Take care who you marry, dear, won't you?…' or ‘Keep your eyes open when you're married, won't you?…' The princess would change colour, raise her eyes to the ceiling, making heroic efforts to contain herself, not to say what she thought to this mad-woman whom the Lord had quite rightly deprived of daughters if that was how she thought girls should be brought up. ‘Sister-in-law!… Lucrezia!…' But nothing was of any use, and once the princess put her cards on the table.

‘Excuse me, cousin, but such subjects seem quite out of place. Teresa will get married at the proper time, her father will see to that, don't you worry. I don't care for these modern fashions of talking about such things to young ladies.'

Teresa, with eyes lowered and hands in her lap, did not seem to be listening. Lucrezia was speechless and left shortly after without bidding anyone goodbye. But there was another person also who often talked scandal and had to be kept under control by the princess: the Cavaliere Don Eugenic. As soon as the latter heard of his brother's and niece's arrival, he hurried off to them to begin all over again about
The Sicilian Herald.
The duke, without Don Blasco's shouts or Donna Ferdinanda's play-acting, had given him a straight answer. ‘My dear fellow, no one has ever made money with books; you'll make even less than others, as you've never learnt how to anyway. If you want to print the book no one can prevent you, but I haven't the money to throw away on such schemes.' Don Eugenio accepted the reproof with bowed head, as if recognising he deserved it, bearing himself flatteringly and humbly before this intriguer who mouthed pompous judgements after enriching himself at public expense, when all was said and done, by manipulating State grants in all sorts of underhand ways!

‘At least,' insisted Don Eugenio, ‘you'll see the book is bought by the State libraries, won't you? That won't cost you anything, you're so influential … All you have to do is say a word.' To this praise the Deputy listened with half-closed eyes, basking in it. Yes, the good days had returned for him. Since his new attitude about the Roman question he had taken on a new lease of life; the election of November '70 had been another triumph. A word from him would certainly have been enough to help his
brother. Even so to the other's importunity he replied that he would see, would have to think it over as he had scruples on the matter. ‘What would people say? That I'm using my influence to get favours for my family?…'

Then Don Eugenio turned to the prince. The latter had avoided as best he could saying anything at first, but eventually found it difficult to insist on a crude refusal, for he was not familiar enough with his uncle to send him packing, nor could he plausibly adduce lack of money. So he let a promise be squeezed from him to advance a couple of thousand lire, waiting until subscriptions had reached a hopeful stage before paying out.

Meanwhile Don Eugenio, elated by this promise, began coming to the palace almost every evening, to the great mortification of the princess, who could not endure the sight of his famished face and wretched clothes, and felt like a soul burning in purgatory when he began telling stories about Palermo society. ‘Sasà is marrying off his daughters … Cocò's wife has had another of her … Nenè's son ran off with a dancer …' Cocò was the Prince of Alì, Sasà the Duke of Realcastro, Nenè the Baron Mortara, and nobody could name anyone in Palermo without Don Eugenio's assurance that this person was ‘like a brother' to him … Every time he described his apartment the number of rooms grew; it had now reached fifteen and as he could not reasonably increase them any more he began adding ‘Apart from stables and coachhouses …' The prince let him talk on, but made him pay for his attention and promise of money by using him as a servant, sending him here and there with letters or messages, though still from a certain human respect calling him ‘Excellency'. He never mentioned any of his own affairs or made him any sort of confidence. The cavaliere was curious by nature and yearned to know whom they thought of marrying Teresa to, and what Consalvo was doing, when he would be back, but he never managed to learn a thing, particularly about the young prince, who only wrote to Donna Ferdinanda.