The Viceroys (83 page)

Did her father think of these things? Did he realise he had been deceived? She must not judge him; but why then did all the accusations which she had heard repeated against him return to her mind? Of his having been hard, false, violent, of his robbing sisters and brothers, and falsifying the monk's Will, and leaving his uncle to die a beggar, and embittering the life and hastening the end of his wife, of her own mother?… Were these things true? Had he been so bad?… If he had been calumniated by envy and malice, was not the world much worse? What a sad and horrible world, in which hatred could thrive between father and son!… He still refused to see Consalvo;
so her sacrifice had been in vain. He would die without seeing him, cursing and sobbing. What a world of sorrow, what a world of misery!… Then, quickly, as if the horses drawing her were transporting her backwards in time, she thought of the convent, where she had felt oppressed when a girl, as a secure refuge, a port sheltered from storm. Blessed indeed was her aunt the nun, who spent days, every one the same, amid her prayers and the simple cares of that holy house, out of sight of evil, safe from temptations, errors and faults. She thought, ‘Why was I afraid of the convent?… If only I had entered it for ever!…'

Now her aching mind realised that the truth was there, in that silence, in that solitude, in that renunciation. ‘Would you enter it now?' she asked herself, and replied, ‘Now, this instant!' What was life but a waiting for death? Why should she have any repugnance for the solitude, renunciation, silence of cloistral life if she now felt so alone, terrifyingly alone, if she had renounced so many things close to her heart, if the world was now all sadness and pain. ‘If only I weren't born?…'

A chill quiver shook her as the carriage stopped in the courtyard of her home. What about her children? Had she forgotten her children? When she pressed them tight to her her long agitation of spirit melted into tears. And at that second she heard a voice, a bright, sweet, pitying voice.

‘Teresa, what's the matter?… How did it go? Is he bad?'

She could not answer; sobs prevented her.

‘Teresa!… For the love of God, don't torture yourself so! You who are so strong … Wasn't the operation a success? Yes?… Well then? Come, Teresa, be reasonable. He'll recover, you'll see. Oh, you poor thing … How right … But enough now! Enough, Teresa. Listen to me … tell me … Didn't Michele come with you?…'

She replied with shakes of the head. She wanted to tell him to be quiet, as that sweet voice, those gentle words increased her storm of sobbing, as that sweet pity laid bare her own misery. No, she was not strong; she was weak, timid, fragile; she could give no help to others; she needed help and support herself.

And the warm voice said again:

“Poor little thing! Poor little thing!… Take courage.
Here are your children, look how lovely they are … for love of these little angels, do not fall ill yourself … And my mother isn't here!… Would you like your brother? Would you like me to send for him?… Tell me what you want; here I am …'

And his arm went round her, his temple brushed hers. She was still crying, but from tenderness, not pain. After the horrors she had seen, after the gloom of her thoughts, her mind needed comfort, and those comforting words slid into her heart as sweetly as balsam. She, who had thought herself alone in the world, with no one to understand her, now abandoned herself with the trembling enjoyment of weakness to that strength, this sympathy. He dried her eyes, smoothed the disordered locks on her forehead. His hand was trembling.

‘Like this …' he murmured … ‘There … like this.'

His arm went around her waist again, and he took one of her hands. The sobs racking her agonised breast made their embrace closer. He kissed her on the forehead.

She freed herself from the embrace and rose. The dowager was arriving.

From that moment each read blame in the other's eyes. They avoided looking at each other but the thought persisted. If the hand or clothes of one brushed those of the other, their foreheads flushed and their minds clouded. She no longer thought of her father, who was dying, or of her children. Of temptation only, always. She went to throw herself before the Blessed Ximena; the votive lamp burnt ceaselessly, like the flame in her heart. Prayers were no use; no one heard her. Nothing was any use. She thought, ‘It will be today … or tomorrow …'

Her husband once said to her:

‘Giovannino rather worries me … he's gone strange again, as after his illness, have you noticed?'

She had seen nothing. She was amazed no one had yet noticed her own confusion of mind.

‘He doesn't speak, he doesn't laugh; it must be that fixation tormenting him again … what can we do?'

What could they do?

One day, at table, Giovannino announced:

‘I'm leaving for Augusta.'

This is salvation, she was thinking, salvation, while the dowager and Michele exclaimed:

‘Again? To have a relapse? At this season?… We won't let you leave here!'

This is salvation, she was thinking. And when Michele asked her, ‘It's true he can't leave, isn't it?'

‘It's unwise …' she replied.

He raised his eyes to hers. They had not looked straight at each other for so long. Then she was afraid: those staring, flaming, terrible eyes, those eyes of a madman, were repeating to her, ‘D'you want to send me insane then?'

And he stayed. But he became wild. She noticed his madness at once, for it was turned against her. He avoided her, never said a word to her. When the babies were handed to him he pushed them away, as if he were touching herself in touching the flesh of her flesh. A terrible misanthropy assailed him, he no longer left the house. One day, when made to go out, he never came home. Next day he returned. No one knew where he had been.

The same day she was called at dawn by the princess. Prince Giacomo was in his death agony; the poisoned blood was gradually spreading gangrene over the whole body. The morning before, to everybody's amazement, he had sent for Consalvo. He wanted to make a last effort to induce him to take a wife; fear of the Evil Eye ceded before the supreme necessity of ensuring a descendant. To his superstitious mind, weakened still more by illness, his son's marriage was now the only means of wresting that dreadful power from him. Married, established in a home of his own, master of a bank-account and of his wife's dowry, he would have no reason to wish his father short life.

Consalvo came at once, asked anxiously after his health, and sat at his bedside. The prince explained:

‘I've called you to say something … It's time you took a wife.'

‘Your Excellency must think of recovery,' exclaimed Consalvo. ‘Then we'll talk about such matters.'

‘No,' insisted the prince. ‘You must take a wife now …' He did not add ‘because I'm going to die'.

Consalvo controlled a movement of irritation.

‘But what does Your Excellency fear? That our family will die out? Don't worry about that … I'll take a wife, I promise you that. But leave me a little time. Would you like me to give you a written assurance?' he added smiling. ‘I'm ready … Will that please you?'

The sick man was silent a moment. Then he went on in a sharper tone:

‘I want you to lose no time. It must be done now.'

‘Now, at once, this minute?' … replied Consalvo in the same jesting tone.

‘Now … or you'll regret it.'

Consalvo had great difficulty in hiding a movement of rebellion.

‘But by God's goodness, why is Your Excellency in such a hurry? It isn't as if I were a girl getting older and running the risk of not finding a husband. I'm just twenty-nine; I can still wait, make a good choice. In Your Excellency's time boys of eighteen were given wives—now ideas are different. I don't say that by the old system they turned out bad husbands and fathers … but I suppose it's thought today, and I myself think, that one should have acquired a wide experience, be in the prime of life oneself before giving life to others. I may be mistaken, but if I took a wife now I can assure you I'd make my partner unhappy and be unhappy myself. I'd regret having listened to Your Excellency. I would like to please you, but that obedience to your wishes might bring consequences too grave to me and others.'

While his son was speaking, showing off his eloquence, the prince said not a word. When Consalvo left he seized the bell and rang furiously. The princess, the servants hurrying in, found him in a state that terrified them. Pale as if already dead, with taut cheeks and contracted jaw, the counterpane tight in his emaciated hands:

‘The notary! The notary! The notary!' he was bellowing. At every word from his attendants asking him what was the matter, trying to calm him, he bayed like an angry dog:

‘The notary!… The notary!… The notary!…'

In this state Teresa found him. He would not calm down until the notary came. Then he disinherited his son. Only under
the impetus of fury, to take revenge, had he been able to force himself to dictate his last wishes. And cutting short with raucous cries the remarks of the old notary, who could not believe his own ears and was trying to recall him to reason and prevent this monstrous act, he dictated:

‘I nominate universal heiress of all my patrimony, of all my patrimony, my daughter Teresa Uzeda, Duchess Radalì … with the obligation that she give her children my family surname and call them Uzeda-Radalì of Francalanza … So for all her descendants for ever …'

‘Excellency …'

‘Write!… I leave to my wife Graziella, Princess of Francalanza, my ancestral palace … with the express obligation, express, express, write, express, that she live in it alone during her natural life …'

‘My lord Prince!…'

‘Write!…' and he continued to dictate legacies to servants, to relatives for mourning expenses, to churches for Masses, to priests for charities; and not a single word, not a hint of that son. He ordered that his funeral be celebrated with the pomp proper to his name, that his body be embalmed. But gradually as he expressed these wishes his voice became hoarse and his vital energies left him; when he ended, the notary thought that the last moment had come. Then the sick man revived, took the sheet of paper, read it word by word and signed it. When the last formalities were done and the Will was sealed, that violent agitation of his suddenly ran down. He had spoken of his own death! He had dictated his last wishes! He had made arrangements for his funeral! He had cast the Evil Eye on himself! Nothing now remained for him but to die! No one got another word out of him. Motionless, grim, he shut his eyes, waiting.

The notary had already hurried off to the Duke of Oragua.

‘The young prince is disinherited! Put out of his home! His daughter sole heiress! The palace to the stepmother! Was ever such a thing seen? Is the House of Francalanza at an end?… Do something!… Prevent the scandal!… Persuade that madman …'

The duke was very busy in those days; the Thirteenth Parliament had ended and electoral committees were to meet on the
26th May. Though he had decided to retire once he obtained nomination as senator, he was presenting himself for re-election again because the nomination did not come through. And what with the devotion of old friends, and the disillusioned indifference of those who pinned their faith on the promised electoral reform to get rid of him, his candidature was going no worse than at other times. Giulente, who had thought himself on the point of obtaining the post, went back to canvassing for the duke. In spite of his preoccupations, on hearing the notary's news the duke hurried off to the palace, but the prince had left orders that not a soul was to be allowed inside. Then he went to search out Consalvo. The latter was at the Town Hall, where he was presiding in the Council Chamber over a meeting of engineers for some new public works he had thought up, the building of big aqueducts destined to supply the town with water. On hearing that his uncle was calling for him, he asked those present to excuse him and went to receive him in his private office.

‘Do you know what's happened?' exclaimed the duke in a low voice but with an air of grave disquiet. And he told all.

‘Well?' replied Consalvo, twirling his moustaches.

‘What d'you mean “well”?… Go and throw yourself at his feet!… Ask his pardon … Surrender just this once …'

‘Me?… Why?…' And with an ambiguous smile he added, ‘Can he take from me what is mine by law? No, he can't. He can do what he likes with the rest!'

His uncle stood there looking at him, in amazement, not understanding. Was it really true then? Was this Uzeda here different from all the others? When the others were quarrelling and scuffling with each other, riding roughshod over all scruples and laws so as to make money, did this one here remain indifferent, even smiling at hearing himself disinherited?

‘But you don't realise what you're losing!… The palace left to his wife to prevent your having it! Don't you understand that? Aren't you sorry?…'

Consalvo let his uncle have his say. Then he answered:

‘Has Your Excellency finished? May I say that my portion by law, that is a quarter of the patrimony, is enough for me, in fact too much? As for the palace …' He was silent for a moment as
that did really rather bother him; the prince had known where to get his blow in. ‘As for the palace, there's no lack of houses, and with money a finer one than ours can be set up. Now if Your Excellency will allow me; the deputation is waiting.'

The news spread throughout the city. And with one voice the prince was blamed by high and low. Antipathy, hatred for his son, there might be. But surely not to such a point? One's soul to God and one's property to whoever had the right to it!… Did he not remember that his mother the old princess had hated him too but even so had treated him as she did her favourite?… Such a thing was only possible in that cage of madmen. Mad the father and mad the son! But the young prince's partisans exclaimed: ‘You see how disinterested he is?… Though being a man of character and not budging, he loses a fortune and doesn't care a rap!'