Authors: Giuseppe Di Lampedusa
The Prince was silenti the daughter, yes, that must be the Angelica who would be coming to dinner tonight; he was curious to see this dressed-up shepherdess; it was not true that nothing had changed: Don Calogero was as rich as he was! But deep down he had foreseen such things; they were the price to be paid.
Don Onofrio was disturbed by his master's silence, and imagined he had put the Prince out by telling him petty local gossip.
"Excellency, I ordered a bath to be prepared for you, it should be ready by now." Don Fabrizio sud denly realized that he was tired; it was almost three O'clock, and he had been up and about for nine hours under that torrid sun, and after that ghastly night. He felt his body covered in dust to the remotest creases. "Thank you, Don Onofrio, for thinking of it; and for everything else. We shall meet tonight at dinner."
He went up the inner staircase; passed through the Tapestry Hall, through the Blue Salon, the Yellow Salon; lowered blinds filtered the light; in his study the Boulle clock ticked away discreetly. "What peace, my God, what peace! " He entered the bathroom: small, whitewashed, with a rough tiled floor and a hole in the middle to let the water out. The bath itself was a kind of oval trough, vast, of enamelled iron, yellow outside and gray in, propped on four heavy wooden feet. Hanging on a nail was a dressing gown; fresh linen was laid out on a rush chair; it still showed creases from the packing. Beside the bath lay a big piece of pink soap, a brush, a knotted handkerchief containing salts which would emit a sweet scent when soaked, and a huge sponge, one sent by the Salina agent. Through the unshaded window beat the savage sun.
He clapped his hands; two lackeys entered, each carrying a pair of palls filled to the brim, one with cold, the other with boiling water; they went to and fro a number of times; the trough filled up; he tried the temperature with a hand; it was all right. He ordered the servants out, undressed, got in. Under his huge bulk the water brimmed over a little. He soaped himself, rubbed himself; the warmth did him good, relaxed him. He was almost dozing off when he heard a knock at the door; Mimi, his valet, entered timidly. "Father Pirrone is asking to see Your Excellency at once. He is waiting outside for Your Excellency to leave the bathroom." The Prince was surprised; if there'd been some accident he had better know at once. "No, no, let him come in now." Don Fabrizio was alarmed by this haste of Father Pirrone; and partly from this and partly from respect for the priestly habit, he hurried to leave the bath, expecting to get into his dressing gown before the Jesuit entered, but he did not succeed; and Father Pirrone came in at the very moment when, no longer veiled by soapy water, he was emerging quite naked, like the Farnese Hercules, and steaming as well, while the water flowed in streams from neck, arms, stomach, and legs like the Rhone, the Rhine, the Danube, and the Adige crossing and watering Alpine ranges. The sight of the Prince in a state of nature was quite new to Father Pirrone; the sacrament of penance had accustomed him to naked souls, but he was far less used to naked bodies; and he, who would not have blinked an eyelid at hearing the confession, say, of an incestuous intrigue, found himself flustered by this innocent but vast expanse of naked flesh. He stuttered an excuse and made to back out; but Don Fabrizio, annoyed at not having had time to cover himself, naturally turned his irritation against the priest: "Now, Father, don't be silly; hand me that towel, will you, and help me to dry, if you don't mind." Then suddenly he remembered a discussion they had once had and went on: "And take my advice, Father, have a bath yourself." Satisfied at being able to give advice on hygiene to one who so often gave it to him on morals, he felt soothed. With the upper part of the towel in his hands at last he began drying his hair, whiskers, and neck, while with the lower end the humiliated Father Pirrone rubbed his feet.
When the peak and slopes of the mountain were dry, the Prince said, "Now sit down, Father, and tell me why you're in such a hurry to talk to me." And as the Jesuit sat down he began some more intimate moppings on his own.
"Well, Excellency, I've been given a most delicate commission. One who is very dear to you indeed has opened her heart to me and charged me to tell you of her feelings, trusting, perhaps wrongly, that the consideration with which I am honored . . ." Father Pirrone hesitated and hovered from phrase to phrase.
Don Fabrizio lost patience. "Well, come on, Father, who is it? The Princess?" And his raised arm seemed to be threatening: in fact he was drying an armpit.
"The Princess is tired; she"s asleep and I have not seen her. No, it is the Signorina Concetta." Pause. "She is in love." A man of forty-five can consider himself still young till the moment comes when he realizes that he has children old enough to fall in love. The Prince felt old age come over him in one blow; he forgot the huge distances still tramped out shooting, the "Gesummaria" he could still evoke from his wife, how fresh he now was at the end of a long and arduous journey. Suddenly he saw himself as a white-haired old man walking beside herds of grandchildren on billy goats in the public gardens of Villa Giulia.
"Why ever did the silly girl go and tell you such a thing? Why not come to me? " He did not even ask who the man was; there was no need to.
"Your Excellency hides his fatherly heart almost too well under the mask of authority. It's quite understandable that the poor girl should be frightened of you, and so fall back on the family chaplain."
Don Fabrizio slipped on his long drawers and snorted; he foresaw long interviews, tears, endless bother. The silly girl was spoiling his first day at Donnafugata with her fancies. "I know, Father, I know. Here no one really understands me. It's my misfortune." He was sitting now on a stool with the fuzz of fair hair on his chest dotted with pearly drops of water. Rivulets were snaking over the tiles, and the room was full of the milky smell of bran and the almond smell of soap. "Well, what should I say, in your opinion? "
The Jesuit was sweating in the heat of the little room, and now that his message had been delivered would have liked to go, but he was held back by a feeling of responsibility. "The wish to found a Christian family is most agreeable to the eyes of the Church. The presence of Our Lord at the marriage in Cana . . ."
"Let's keep to the point, shall we? I wish to talk about this marriage, not about marriage in general. Has Don Tancredi made any definite proposal, by any chance, and if so, when?" For five years Father Pirrone had tried to teach the boy Latin; for seven years he had put up with his quips and pranks; like everyone else, he had felt his charm. But Tancredi's recent political attitudes had offended him; his old affection was struggling now with a new rancor. He did not know what to say. "Well, not a real proposal, exactly, no. But the Signorina Concetta is quite certain: his attentions, his glances, his remarks, have all become more and more open and frequent and quite convinced the dear creature; she is sure that she is loved; but, being an obedient and respectful daughter, she wants me to find out from you what her answer is to be if a proposal does come. She thinks it imminent." The Prince felt a little reassured; however, did a chit of a girl like that think she had acquired enough experience to be able to judge so surely the behavior of a young man, and particularly of a young man like Tancredi? Perhaps it was just imagination, one of those "golden dreams" which convulse the pillows of schoolgirls. The danger might not be so near. Danger. The word resounded so clearly in his mind that he gave a start of surprise. Danger. But danger for whom? He had a great affection for Concetta; he liked her perpetual submission, the placidity with which she yielded to the slightest hint of a paternal wish: a submission and placidity, incidentally, which he rather overvalued. His natural tendency to avoid any threat to his own calm had made him miss the steely glint which crossed her eyes when the whims she was obeying were really too vexing. Yes, the
Prince was very fond of this daughter of his. But he was even fonder of his nephew. Conquered for ever by the youth's affectionate banter, he had begun during the last few months to admire his intelligence too: that quick adaptability, that worldly penetration, that innate artistic subtlety with which he could use the demagogic terms then in fashion while hinting to initiates that for him, the Prince of Falconeri, this was only a momentary pastime; all this amused Don Fabrizio, and in people of his character and standing the faculty for being amused makes up four fifths of affection. Tancredl) he considered, had a great future i he would be the standard-bearer of a counterattack which the nobility, under new trappings, could launch against the new social State. To do this he lacked only one thing: money; this Tancredi did not have; none at all. And to get on in politics, now that a name counted less, would require a lot of money: money to buy votes, money to do the electors favors, money for a dazzling style of living. Style of livino, And would Concetta, with all those passive virtues of hers, be capable of helping an ambitious and brilliant husband to climb the slippery slopes of the new soc ety? Timid, reserved, bashful as she was? Wouldn't she always remain just the pretty schoolgirl she was now, a leaden weight on her husband's feet?
"Can you see Concetta, Father, as ambassadress in Vienna or Petersburg?"
The question astounded Father Pirrone. "What has that to do with it? I don't understand." Don Fabrizio did not bother to explain i he plunged back into his silent thoughts. Money? Concetta would have a dowry, of course. But the Salina fortune would have to be divided into seven parts, unequal parts at that, of which the girls' would be the smallest. Well, then? Tancredi needed much more: Maria Santa Pau, for instance, with four estates already hers and all those uncles priests and misers; or one of the Sutera girls, so ugly but so rich. Love, Of course, love. Flames for a year, ashes for thirty. He knew what love was. . . . Anyway, Tancredi would always find women falling for him like ripe pears. Suddenly he felt cold. The water on him had evaporated, and the skin of his arms was icy. The ends of his fingers were crinkling. Oh dear, what a lot of bothersome talk it would all mean. That must be avoided. . . . "Now I have to go and dress, Father. Tell Concetta, will you, that I'm not in the least annoyed, but that we'll talk about all this later when we're quite sure it's not all just the fancy of a romantic girl. Au revoir, Father."
He got up and passed into the dressing room. From the Mother Church next door rang a lugubrious funeral knell. Someone had died at Donnafugata, some tired body unable to withstand the deep gloom of Sicilian summer had lacked the stamina to await the rains. "Lucky person," thought the Prince, as he rubbed lotion on his whiskers. "Lucky person, with no worries now about daughters, dowries, and political careers." This ephemeral identification with an unknown corpse was enough to calm him.
"While there's death there's hope," he thought; then he saw the absurd side of letting himself get into such a state of depression because one of his daughters wanted to marry. "Ce sont leurs affaires, apr~s tout,"' he thought in French, as he did when his cogitations were becoming embarrassing. He settled in an armchair and dropped off into a doze. An hour later he awoke refreshed and went down into the garden. The sun was already low, and its rays, no longer overwhelming, were lighting amiably on the araucarias, the pines, the lusty plane trees which were the glory of the place. From the end of the main alley, sloping gently down between high laurel hedges framing anonymous busts of broken-nosed goddesses, could be heard the gentle drizzle of spray falling into the fountain of Amphitrite. He moved swiftly toward it, eager to see it again. The waters came spurting in minute jets, blown from shells of Tritons and Naiads, from noses of marine monsters, spluttering and pattering on greenish verges, bouncing and bubbling, wavering and quivering, dissolving into laughing . Little gurgles; from the whole fountain, the tepid water, the stones covered with velvety moss, emanated a promise of pleasure that would never turn to pain. Perched on an islet in the middle of the round basin, modelled by a crude but sensual sculptor, a vigorous smiling Neptune was embracing a willing Amphitrite; her navel, wet with spray and gleaming in the sun, would be the nest, shortly, for hidden kisses in subaqueous shade. Don Fabrizio paused, gazed, remembered, regretted. He stood there a long while.
"Uncle, come and look at the foreign peaches. They've turned out fine. And leave these indecencies, which are not for men of your age." Tancredi's affectionate mocking voice called him from his voluptuous torpor. He had not heard the boy come; he was like a cat. For the first time he felt a touch of rancor prick him at sight of Tancredi; this fop with the pinchedin waist under his dark blue suit had been the cause of those sour thoughts of his about death two hours ago. Then he realized that it was not rancor, just disguised alarm: he was afraid the other would talk to him about Concetta. But his nephew's approach and tone was not that of one preparing to make amorous confidences to a man like himself. Don Fabrizio grew calm again; his nephew was looking at him with the affectionate irony which youth accords to age. "They can allow themselves to be a bit nice to us, as they're so sure to be free of us the day of our funerals." He went with Tancredi to look at the "foreign peaches." The graft with German cuttings, made two years ago, had succeeded perfectly; there was not much fruit, a dozen or so, on the two grafted trees, but it was big, velvety, luscious-looking, yellowish, with a faint flush of rosy pink on the cheeks, like those of Chinese girls. The Prince gave them a gentle squeeze with his delicate fleshy fingers. "They seem quite ripe. A pity there are too few for tonight. But we'll get them picked tomorrow and see what they're like."
"There! That's how I like you, Uncle; like this, in the part of
agricola pius-
appreciating in anticipation the fruits of your own labors, and not as I found you a moment ago, gazing at all that shameless naked flesh."
"And yet, Tancredi, these peaches are also products of love, of coupling."