The Viceroys (8 page)

‘Why, my son Salvatore wouldn't offer them his Mass! Better have it played gratis for the souls in purgatory. At least there's some earning for the soul!'

And he turned his back furiously, to leave as the music struck up a
Tuba mirum
filched from Palestrina … Like him, all those were in church who had rushed to the palace to offer their services in the first moments, but those who had left empty handed were now spreading round tales of the avarice and petty meanness of this family whose luxury was only on the surface: had the princess not once sued her shoemaker for the price of an unsatisfactory pair of shoes? And in the kitchen hadn't the cook orders to drain off the oil still in the saucepan after frying, and hand it back to his mistress?

‘The richer they are, those swine, the meaner they get!'

An imperious ‘sssh' stopped all the chatter. The orchestra was intoning the
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
and the people who were listening to the music did not want it disturbed. But conversations started up again a moment later. Some groups of Liberals were vaunting the patriotism of the Duke Gaspare, but in low voices, and looking round for fear some spy might hear.

‘They get it both ways!' exclaimed Don Casimiro, next the stoup. ‘In this family some play the revolutionary and some the pro-Bourbon; so they are sure to be all right whatever happens! Isn't the girl Lucrezia playing the Liberal for love of that ass Benedetto Giulente …?'

Baron Carcaretta, joining the evil tongues, protested:

‘Surely they'll never give an Uzeda to a Giulente?'

And Don Casimiro:

‘That's why I say Giulente's an ass …'

‘Silence, there they are!'

In fact the young man entered that moment with his uncle Don Lorenzo, a celebrated Liberal satellite of the duke's.

‘Well?' asked Don Casimiro. ‘When will you be having this revolution of yours?'

‘We won't be telling you, in any case!' replied Benedetto with a smile.

The other then turned to the uncle:

‘What about your friend the duke? His sister-in-law is dead, his nieces and nephews awaiting him, why didn't he leave at once? What's he cooking up there?'

‘What does it matter to you?'

‘To me? Not a fig! I'm no one's dish-washer!'

‘Dish-washers, let me tell you,' replied Don Lorenzo, ‘I've always kept to my kitchen …'

‘Silence, we're in church.'

The hieratic prayer was at
inter oves locum praesta.
But Don Casimiro refused to recognise that his resentment at no longer enjoying the Uzeda's intimacy was animating him against them.

‘Fools!' he exclaimed as the two Giulente moved away. ‘I'd just like to see how those swine treat 'em in the end!'

The Prince of Roccasciano, who had been round the church, tossed about by the crowd, was now pushed into the middle of the group. His whole person, so small and thin that it seemed an economy model, expressed amazement:

‘My dear sirs, what a funeral! What an expense!… There must be at least a hundred
onze's
worth of wax! And all the decorations! And the sung Mass! I may say that for my father's funeral, God rest his soul, I spent sixty-eight
onze
and thirteen
tarì
, and what did they do?… Nothing!… Here, I tell you, there's a hundred spent on lights alone …'

‘Sssssssh!… The
Lux aeterna
 …'

Every new part of the Mass produced a reshuffle in the crowd. Some tried to leave, most changed their places, moved round the catafalque, went to read the inscriptions. Don Cono had one
still to check. Don Casimiro stuck to his side, followed by various others of the group.

‘Excellent!' exclaimed Don Casimiro. ‘The stock is illustrious indeed; they descend direct from Anchises. People weep, d'you see their tears?' And he pointed to the silver tears scattered over the funeral draperies. ‘Even the orphanage girls are weeping … thinking they'll now end as maidservants to the illustrious prince …'

‘It seems unbecoming …' objected Don Cono.

‘I can assure you they're all in despair at this death, in the family who all love each other so much! Poh! Not a day can they let pass without embracing and kissing each other …'

‘It seems unbecoming …'

‘Prudence, my dear sirs, we're in church!'

Just then the repeat of the
Dies irae
deafened them all. The friars came down towards the catafalque and blessed it; the music intoned the
Libera me
, took up the phrases of the start, implored at the
Requiem
. ‘Is it over?… God willing!…' There was a general movement. Those who had been stuck far from catafalque and inscriptions started towards them; many, who from exhaustion could no longer stand, moved towards the doors. But there the confusion started up again worse than ever, for all the people who had stayed outside thinking that it would be easy to enter when Mass was over were crowding round tumultuously, knocking against those wanting to come out, stumbling over the halt, blind and maimed who were again risking an outstretched hand to passers-by. ‘Careful! My feet!… What behaviour!…' and dominating that buzz of voices from the square came an incessant clatter of horses: the carriages
of the funeral procession filing off one after the other.

The Prince of Roccasciano, as he came out on to the terrace, began enumerating them:

‘Seven four-horsed carriages, sixty-three private carriages, twelve hired,' said he when the last passed. Then he totted them up. ‘At twelve
tarì
each, apart from the private ones, that makes thirty-four
onze
!…'

Then the crowd of spectators began to disperse. The poor who had stayed crouched along the walls could drag themselves to their places at last, but now no one passed.

T
OWARDS
dusk, as the servants gathered in the courtyard, still commenting on the funeral's magnificence, from the Messina road arrived Count Raimondo with the Countess Matilde. Baldassarre, hearing the tinkle of harness bells, rushed down the main stairs and reached the carriage just at the moment when it stopped and its master jumped out.

‘Who's here?' asked the young count, abruptly cutting short Baldassarre's ceremonious greetings and pointing to the carriages lined up in the court.

‘Visitors for the Signor Prince, Excellency …' and the major-domo at once took on the sad and grave air suitable to the mournful circumstances.

The count moved off up the great stairs without bothering about wife or baggage. Baldassarre, with bent head, offered his elbow to the countess, but she alighted without his support.

‘Lovelier than ever!' judged the women, drawing respectfully near her. ‘Though maybe a little thinner …' The porter's wife also observed, ‘She looks sadder than the young count …' And how sweet was her voice as she asked them to bring up the trunks and night bags, and answered the ‘Welcome, Excellency' of the servants, finding out about their health, and asking Giuseppe if his child was well and Donna Mena if her daughter had married …

Upstairs in the antechambers, the prince and Lucrezia came to meet their brother and sister-in-law. Raimondo let himself be kissed by his sister and shook the hand which Giacomo held out to him, then entered the Yellow Drawing-room, crowded with people as was the Red one; for now that entry was no longer
refused to any but close relations, processions of fourth and fifth cousins, of connections and friends were coming to condole on the tragedy. All, at the appearance of the Countess Matilde, rose to their feet except Don Blasco and Donna Ferdinanda. The latter, as her niece kissed her hand, stuttered out a very cold, ‘Good evening.' As for Don Blasco, he did not even reply. He was shouting, amid gesticulations:

‘So they want more, do they? Ah, they want more, do they? If they want more all they have to do is ask for it …'

The meeting between the Prior and Raimondo was observed by all. The Prior, who was sitting next to Monsignor the Bishop with the Vicar-General and various canons, at the sight of his brother, got up and opened his arms. Raimondo allowed himself to be embraced once more, but these demonstrations of affection plainly bored him. Then the prince led him away and all returned to their places and interrupted conversations.

In a group of bigwigs, including among others the President of the High Court, the General and some city counsellors, Don Blasco was continuing to breathe fire and sword against the revolutionaries and men of '48 who were threatening to raise their heads. Had that lesson given them by Satriano not been enough? Did they want more? Then they'd have it at once!

‘But whose fault d'you think it is most, the revolutionaries' or that man Cavour's? It's those ruffians', who with their positions ought to be supporting the Government instead of throwing in their lot with beggars!'

He was particularly furious at his brother the duke, who had got it into his head to act the Liberal, he, the second son of a Prince of Francalanza! The Marchese of Villardita was nodding approvingly, judging though that the revolutionaries, with or without the help of certain gentry, would lie low for another half-century at least; the city still bore the signs of the terrible repression of April '49; traces of arson and sacking had not altogether vanished, and half the population was still mourning those dead, condemned to life imprisonment, or exiled.

The Prior, having sat down next to the Bishop again in the group of black cassocks, was also deploring, in a low voice, the iniquities of the times in the shape of the Piedmontese laws
against religious Orders, while Don Blasco, in the group opposite, was shouting:

‘Now they're going to war without money! By robbing the Church of Christ! That man D'Azeglio! Have you read his effusion?…'

In the women's place, the princess sat in a corner, a little apart, to avoid contacts. Donna Ferdinanda, sitting by the Prince of Roccasciano, was talking to him of business, crops, the price of victuals, while the Princess of Roccasciano was describing to the Baroness Cùrcuma how her mother had appeared to her in a dream with three lottery numbers in her hand—6, 39 and 70—on which she had put 12
tarì
, without her husband knowing. The Mortara and Costante girls, friends of Lucrezia, were talking to the latter about clothes to distract her, although she was not listening and replied distractedly as was her habit. But Cousin Graziella kept the conversation going brightly all by herself, turning to all and each, passing from one room to another, chatting about clothes, dressmakers, the Crimea, Piedmont, the war and the cholera. The Countess Matilde, tired from her journey, spoke little, waiting to retire to her rooms. Don Cono, who had come to sit by her, was reciting all the epigraphs he had composed for the funeral. ‘A variation has occurred to me. I should much value the countess's opinion …' and the Cavaliere Don Eugenio was saying how poor modern funerals were compared to those of yore. ‘In 1692 there was even a decree to prevent excessive show in ceremonies for the dead!'

All rose to their feet at the appearance of Donna Isabella Fersa, with her husband Don Mario and Father Gerbini. The Benedictine was gallantly carrying one of the lady's veils on his arm. She kissed all the Uzeda women, except the princess, who drew back and introduced:

‘My sister-in-law Matilde …'

Donna Isabella warmly shook the countess's hand and sat down beside her with a sigh.

‘What a tragedy!… But God's will be done!… You've been in Florence?… We were there last year too … but you were both at Milazzo then … Only one child so far?… The count will be hoping for a boy, of course. Lucky you to have a daughter. I envy you, you know, countess.'

Father Gerbini was meanwhile doing the round of the ladies, talking at length with the youngest and prettiest, saying gallant and forbidden things. He took their soft white hands, held them a little in his equally white and beringed ones, and kissed them. When he saw the prince re-enter the room with his brother, he left the ladies to lead Raimondo up to Donna Isabella.

‘The Count of Lumera … Donna Isabella Fersa … the loveliest lady in the realm …'

‘Don't you believe it, he says that to everyone,' claimed she with a smile. ‘I am sorry to be meeting you,' she went on in another tone and squeezing his hand, ‘in these sad circumstances …' She sighed a little, then began again:

‘The countess was just telling me that you've come from Florence …'

‘Directly. We scarcely stopped at Messina …'

‘To leave the child with your father-in-law. You were quite right! What is this place Milazzo like?'