The Viceroys (48 page)

‘The mistress doesn't want to stay in town,' declared the maid. ‘All her relations have gone, even the poor are getting to safety, why should she be the only one to remain in danger?'

‘What danger? Lucrezia, is that what's bothering you? But there's no danger at all! What are you afraid of? Am I not here? They won't do anything to me, in any case! If there was even the remotest danger, would I keep you here? We'll leave if things look bad; do I have to promise you that?'

After he had gone on talking for a quarter of an hour she muttered:

‘I want to go away to my relations.'

‘But Holy God, why? You were so calm this morning! What on earth can have happened?'

This is what had happened; the wife of Orazio, the prince's coachman, had visited her former young mistress and announced, panting through her teeth, that she too was escaping to the Belvedere.

‘One can't stay here, Excellency. Don't you know what happened today? The Piedmontese soldiers still in hospital marched off to join the other troops in the fort, the Garibaldini tried to make them prisoners. And then, oh Jesus and Mary, the lieutenant ordered bayonets to be fixed! I was just passing with my babies … I'm still atremble with the terror of it! I've made a bundle of some clothes, and tonight I'm off …'

If the coachman's wife was going away, was she, the prince's sister, less than the coachman's wife? This idea had not come into her head suddenly. When struggling to marry Giulente, she had sworn she would never have anything more to do with the Uzeda; all the reasons given by them for denigrating Benedetto and his family had only confirmed her more in her determination. But once she had triumphed over opposition and began to think over, in the long hours of idleness and inertia, those arguments used by her Aunt Ferdinanda, by Giacomo, by the confessor, a conviction that she had come down in the world by marrying Benedetto struggled for a little with her former obstinacy. Having quarrelled with her brother, the torture of being unable to enter the house of the Viceroys any more, of feeling herself almost exiled by her relations, had gradually begun to preoccupy her while she still went on inveighing against them. At the beginning of the public disturbances the general flight of nobles and rich had filled her cup of misery to the brim, and now she had even forgotten what she had said against Giacomo, the coldness that had grown up between them, her firmness and determination not to give way; she wanted to go off to the Belvedere if even the coachman's wife had gone …

Giulente was still trying to persuade her when the post arrived. Among the newspapers there was a letter from the duke at last. The duke said that he had received no more letters which, particularly in these moments of agitation, he was awaiting with impatience. The news from Sicily had made him quite feverish and he felt like packing his bags at once, but unfortunately he was prevented by many and serious matters ‘all of interest to the constituency and to Sicily.' He particularly wanted to be among his fellow-citizens so as to warn them not to let themselves be drawn along by Garibaldi. ‘So I tell this to you who can get the hotheads to understand; the more insistence there is on Utopian principles the surer becomes a shipwreck. Anyway the Government is firmly decided to oppose such aberrations in every way. And I think they're quite right; in fact they've been losing time about it. Garibaldi should be stopped by force; one cannot allow a nation of twenty-seven million to be put in turmoil by a man who has distinct merits of course but seems sworn to get them forgotten by conduct
which …' And here came two whole pages against Garibaldi. ‘And anyway, let's face it, even the Government isn't free and we must not count too much on non-intervention; there's France making a fuss, and Napoleon now says … Austria is just waiting for an excuse … all Europe watches …' Here came another page of grave considerations on the international situation. ‘And so I do ask you to make these truths plain to our friends, and even plainer to our opponents. A serious disaster to our country must be avoided and all must be persuaded of the dangers in the situation. I beg of you to talk and if need be write on these lines; in fact I am certain that you in your quick-witted way have already been doing this …'

Thus for the third time in three hours one of his relations was urging him along a road that he found repugnant. The duke was writing, language apart, just as Don Blasco was talking; the pro-Bourbon monk was at heart in agreement with the Liberal deputy; and his wife was shut in her room sulking and plotting with her maid to induce him to desert his post.

That evening, at a tempestuous meeting of the National Club, when the Garibaldino and Government parties had almost come to blows, he got up to speak. In the embarrassment overwhelming him, the most opportune arguments seemed those suggested by Don Blasco. Nobody could doubt, he said, his devotion to the General, nor did his conscience allow him to agree with those who wanted to take sides against the Liberator of Sicily, but he should be told, with due respect, of the danger to which the town was exposed. There were two possibilities only; either he was acting by agreement with the Government, in which case there was no reason for him to remain in Catania; or the Government was opposed to him, in which case he should search his own heart lest he inflict the horrors of civil war on a populous and flourishing city. And such actually was the case, for the Government had decided to oppose him …

This speech shocked his old friends, but, taking them on one side one after the other when the meeting was adjourned without decision, he exhorted them to bow to crude naked truth, to the news given him by the duke. ‘Why doesn't he come himself then?' he was asked. ‘What's he staying in Turin for, when there's a crisis here?' And Giulente justified the duke's conduct,
and announced that he would be starting his journey south as soon as possible, but meanwhile a deputation must be sent to the General asking him to evacuate the area …

This propaganda achieved the desired effect. Till now suspicions had been mounting about the party hostile to Garibaldi, since pro-Bourbons and frightened people with no faith were with it, but now that a proved Liberal was advising not resistance, but respectful explanation of their danger, this point of view made headway. Even so, Benedetto had not quite the courage to go to the General personally to explain his new opinion; he let others go. Forced to take his wife up to the Belvedere, he returned to town alone, awaiting events and writing and telegraphing to the duke to come.

A few days passed without any change in the situation. From the top of the dome of San Nicola Garibaldi often scrutinised the horizon with a telescope, or studied his plans, bent over maps, or received the people and deputations that came to visit him. Finally he embarked with all his volunteers, for an unknown destination, maybe Greece, maybe Albania. But after his departure, a residue of discontent was left in the city, a subdued unrest which people of influence and even the National Guard could not succeed in placating. Now the movement was turning against the gentry, against the rich. Giulente harangued rioters but no one listened to him any more; and once again the duke wrote that he could not come, that he was unwell, that the heat had affected his digestion …

One afternoon Don Blasco was risking a visit to the Cigar-woman, where he was talking away fanatically again about how he hoped Garibaldini and Piedmontese would exterminate each other, when Garino arrived, yellow as a corpse.

‘The revolution!… the revolution!… They're burning the Nobles' Club!…'

In fact demonstration had turned to riot, and flames were licking round the club of the aristocracy. The monk, it goes without saying, went and locked himself up in the monastery again and did not leave it until the town was reoccupied by regular troops. But the excitement produced by the incident of Aspromonte, the terrors, the dangers, did not seem to have stopped. The prince did not move from the Belvedere and Giulente once
again began begging the duke to show himself, to bring peace to the town. The duke did not come. Again he replied that his doctors had forbidden him to return to Sicily. ‘I am in despair at not being among you as I should and would be, not only because of all that you tell me about Catania, but also of what is happening in Florence.'

Benedetto did not know what he was alluding to; at that moment it did not occur to him that Raimondo was in Tuscany. A few days later he realised what this meant, when the count and Donna Isabella Fersa arrived together and put up at the hotel, still together as if they were husband and wife.

T
HIS
event made such an impression that suddenly Garibaldi and Rattazzi, Rome and Aspromonte, all passed into second place. Count Uzeda with Donna Isabella! At the hotel together, like two lovers who had eloped to force their families' hands! What about the countess? And the baron? How ever had they all got into such a tangle? How would it all end?

Pasqualino Riso, back from Florence with his master, was besieged with questions. He looked just like a gentleman himself, did Pasqualino; a suit of latest cut, fine linen, rings on his fingers, polished shoes, and had it not been for his clean-shaven face, anyone might have called him ‘Cavaliere'. In porters' lodges, stables, coachmen's cafés, in the antechambers of his master's relations, he gave all explanations asked. That the young count couldn't last long with his wife he'd foreseen for some time, as anyone could have the year before, when Signor Don Raimondo had run away from the woman who was embittering his life.

Everyone knew he loved Donna Isabella; what should the countess have done had she been anyone else? Been prudent for her children's sake! Instead of which, no sir; sobs, screams, accusations, threats, her father always on the spot; only a stucco statue could have put up with it!

But although the poor young count had lost patience once, yet he had given way—that proved he wasn't in the wrong!—forgotten the past, and resigned himself to going back to her, because of the children of course. Men can't always stay sewn to women's skirts, and the young count had done no more than all husbands. Wise women, those with the tiniest bit of
brain, understand these things, shut an eye and do God's will. Instead of which that poor holy little countess, after promising to be reasonable, had began all over again. Why, worse even than before! Her husband couldn't go for a breath of air without her making a scene; whenever he went to the
Glubbo
to meet friends, or out for a drive, there were suspicions, sobs and reproofs at once. And the scenes about his drives in the
Cassine
Gardens!

The young count, on horseback, used to meet Donna Isabella in her carriage and of course stop to greet her; at that very moment clip, clop, and what should appear but the mistress's carriage!… Poor woman, if she was so put out, why not go to the
Popoli
Gardens which were just as pretty!… And why with her children? That eldest girl understood as much about lots of things as a grown-up woman. The children should have been left with the English
Missa
whom the young count had taken on for that very purpose!…

Then in the evening, at home, it was hell! With the young count always patient, so help me!… When the mistress wasn't following him around, she'd try other tactics; shut herself up in her room for a fortnight together, never put her nose outside or listen to reason or requests, never consider the youngest child, who needed air and refused to go out if her mother stayed indoors! And the count, all holy patience he'd been!… As it was his own wife that was putting him in this predicament, the master never said a word.

But one day what did the countess do but call her father, settle him in the house and encourage open war between father-in-law and son-in-law! She must have gone mad! She could interfere in the young count's affairs up to a point, but not her father! Who was her father anyway? An outsider, a dressed-up rustic and a busybody to boot! Things should be said frankly: first of all he'd no manners; think of it, he'd taught his daughters to call him
tu
! Then urged on by the countess, he'd become an absolute animal in spite of holy baptism, and the count had to put up with the man's impertinence in his own home! One day, just because the count said that he'd be prevented from accompanying his wife to the theatre, the rustic baron even dared threaten him with his stick! Holy God of
love, that was really too much! The young count had only said one single word: ‘Carter!' … just what was needed! Then he took up his hat and went off, for ever, this time. Could anyone honestly advise him to go back and forgive? His daughters would have to go off to college, or if the mistress wanted to keep them with her, the master would let her. Even so … even so … For the oddest thing, sirs, was this; that while the countess was playing the jealous wife she was also amusing herself out in society! Not that anything happened. No, in conscience that couldn't be said, nor would the master have kept his hands in his belt if it had, but she had a mania for going to balls and the theatre, and the grand clothes she wore when she had a party, for men mainly, bachelors, among others a certain Count Rossi, their landlord …