The Viceroys (55 page)

On the day of departure the princess sobbed convulsively and embraced her daughter frenziedly. Cousin Graziella had red eyes too, but was encouraging everyone with: ‘Teresina will be back in a few years, and we'll all go and visit her every autumn, won't we, Giacomo?… I'll come too, would you like that?… Then you'll see when you return properly educated, trained, how you'll be the envy of all!… Margherita you'll see too, how proud you'll be of my little god-daughter!…' Then the child bowed her head, dried her eyes, and said to her mother, now serious and composed again as usual. ‘Don't worry, mother dear, we'll write to each other every day, we'll see each other soon … You see how reasonable I am?…' An adorable daughter! Fine blood of the Viceroys!

Then the Cavaliere Don Eugenio left for Palermo too. The reason for this departure was not very clear. The cavaliere had said that some great families of Palermo had invited him to join them in some new, large-scale speculations that would earn a lot of money in a short time. But evil tongues, which are never silent, hinted that he had run away because, having spent the money obtained from the sulphur company on credit by I.O.U.'s which he could no longer pay, he was in danger of getting into very deep water. Whatever the reasons, the fact is that after all these left, peace reigned in the family once more.

Cousin Graziella, always affectionate, came morning, noon and night to keep the princess company and lend her a hand, and Donna Margherita was most grateful for so much attention. Other relations also came, no longer as bitter as before. They would complain, it's true, every now and again; Don Blasco, for example, at the suppression of the monasteries announced in the programme for the new parliament, or Donna Lucrezia against her husband and all liberals; but nothing very positive. The prince, for his part, looked after his affairs without tiring himself too much on them and without those former interminable sittings with Signor Marco.

One day, on the 31st December 1865 to be exact, Baldassarre hurried to answer a call by his master, who was in his study with the notary.

‘Take the notary to Signor Marco and hand him this letter,' the master said to him.

‘Excellency,' replied Baldassarre, ‘he went out half an hour ago.'

‘Good; then put the letter on his table. If you, notary, would be so good as to wait a little … Go and get a piece of cardboard with “To Let” written on it like the signs for shops; there must be some down in the storeroom. And hang it out on the balcony of Signor Marco's sitting-room.'

Baldassarre, in spite of his habitual passive obedience, stood there a moment staring.

‘A “To Let” sign on the sitting-room balcony, d'you understand?' repeated his master, who did not like having to say things twice.

‘At once, Excellency.'

The major-domo rushed off to fetch the board, ran up the stairs to the offices four at a time, entered Signor Marco's little rooms and, leaving the note on the table, opened the window and began to attach the ‘To Let' sign. He had no very clear idea what this order meant, or what was happening, but he felt worried. Just as he had finished tying up the board, down in the street appeared Signor Marco. He stopped a second to look up, then began to gesticulate and ask the butler what the devil he was doing. Baldassarre answered by pointing at their master's
windows to show he was obeying orders. Suddenly Signor Marco broke into a run, and arrived a few minutes later, pale and panting.

‘What are you doing? Why “To Let”? Who the devil told you to …?'

‘The prince, the Signor Prince … there's a letter too … there, on the table.'

When Signor Marco read the note, his hands and his lips began trembling as if he were about to have a stroke. Baldassarre, alarmed, drew back a little, ready to call for help. Then, tearing the paper with some difficulty, the other shouted with a break in his voice.

‘Me … Dismissal?… Like a scullion? The end of the month? Dirty thief! Pig of a prince!'

‘Don Marco!…' stuttered Baldassarre in terror.

‘Dismissal?… Me to hand over to the notary?… Does he think I wanted to take some of his money?… All the money he's stolen from his brothers and sisters? Or his papers? The proofs of his thefts? Of his deceit? Thief, thief, thief! The more pig I for having helped him! Now he's sending me packing as he's no one else to fleece …'

With hands to head, Baldassarre was begging, ‘Don Marco!… Signor Marco!… Please!… They can hear you!' But the other, quite beside himself, trembling with rage, was spewing out all he had in him against his master and the whole brood.

‘Ten years!… ten years of trying to rob his relations! Those other crafty mad rogues! He couldn't eat, drink or sleep for studying how to snare them, playing the moralist, pretending affection, respect for his mother's wishes; more Jesuitical than that Saint Ignatius of a Prior, dirtier than that other swine Don Blasco! D'you think people don't know what a pig he is, with his mistress in the house now he's no one else to rob, with his mistress under his wife's eyes, under his daughter's eyes too till the other day.'

‘Don Marco!' cried Baldassarre, now at last driven to threats too, in an attempt to stop this flow of vituperation which no begging gestures and show of alarm had been able to stop. And Signor Marco looked at him, almost out of his mind, as if just noticing his presence.

‘I'm amazed at you!' went on the major-domo firmly and coldly. ‘Will you stop now once and for all!'

Then the other gave a bitter sneer.

‘Be quiet, you! Taking your brother's side, are you, you bastard?'

At that moment appeared the notary from the prince's apartments.

‘Signor Marco …' but the other did not let him say a word.

‘You've come for the hand-over, have you?' he began booming again. ‘What d'you want handed over? Your master's false papers? The extorted deeds, the forced transactions? Here they are, take 'em!' and he began to fling in the air all he found in the desk, on the shelves. ‘Are you afraid I'll take them away? I don't need them. Everyone knows what a cheat, thief and forger your prince is! You know he robbed his sister the nun and the convent by that quibble about royal approval, and his mad sister by consenting to her marriage, and the Booby because he's a booby, and the young count by backing him during those other scandalous goings-on!… You yourself know better than I all the plots he laid, those old I.O.U.'s paid off by the mother and repaid twice over, first by the legatees, then by the co-heir; and the presumed debts; the extorted power-of-attorney …'

‘Please, Signor Marco … control yourself!'

‘Control myself! I'm quite under control, I assure you! Or d'you think I'm sorry to lose my job?… I'll find another, don't doubt that!… I'll be treated better anywhere than by these harlequins and false princes here … Or maybe they're afraid I've been stealing from them, eh?… That I've enriched myself at their expense?… That swine of a monk said so once; d'you think I wasn't told?… I who had to pay up out of my own pocket? For if they found themselves one cent out, they'd complain a whole month … A truly munificent family to set up a nest in!' and, flinging open cupboards and drawers, he went on, ‘Here! Take it all, I'll hand you over the lot! Come and look under the bed to see if the pot's still there!… Search me in case I'm taking anything away … Here, catch these; they're the keys of the cupboards and chests. Tell him to …' and he dropped them on the floor. Suddenly he noticed in the open cupboard, hanging on a brass hook, the key of the princess's
catafalque, except for snuff-boxes, the only legacy from his defunct mistress after nearly thirty years of service. In a second he seized it and flung it against the wall.

‘Take this with the rest!' he shouted with a swear word strong enough to make the dead woman blush down in the Capuchin catacombs.

A
LONG
dusty roads, under a fiery sky, drove endless rows of carts crammed with household goods. Wheels squeaked, bells tinkled, and carters sitting on shafts or crouching on top of loads would turn their heads every now and again if a more frequent clatter or livelier tinkle announced a carriage passing. Then the row of carts moved right over to the side of the road, and the carriage passed amid clouds of dust and cracking whips while at the windows appeared terrified faces of refugees.

‘The scourge of God!… Punishment for our sins!… More than ten years we've been left in peace!… Those murderers in the Government!' The poor followed on foot, drawing handcarts with a few thin palliasses and one or two broken-down chairs; and in short halts to regain breath and dry the sweat pouring down their grimy foreheads, they exchanged comments on the cholera, its origins, the universal flight emptying the city.

Most believed in evil spells or poison spread by orders of the authorities, and would rail against the ‘Italians' who spread such poisons as much as the Bourbons. In '60, the patriots had hinted that there would be no more cholera, since King Victor Emmanuel was no enemy of the people like King Ferdinand. And now here it was starting all over again! Then what was the use of a revolution? Just to have pieces of dirty paper in circulation instead of the fine gold and silver coins which were at least a pleasure to eye and ear under the other Government? Or to pay income tax and death duties, unheard-of diabolic inventions of the new Parliamentary thieves? To say nothing of conscription, the flower of youth torn from their families, dying in war, although Sicily had always been exempted by ancient privilege
from military tribute? Were these then all the advantages brought by a united Italy? And the most discontented and enraged cried, ‘How right the Palermitans were to take to their rifles …' But the Palermo revolt had been defeated. In fact, according to the few with no belief in poisoning, it was thence the pestilence came, borne by soldiers hurriedly brought in to pacify the rebellious city …

And on heaps of stones by the roadsides, in narrow shadows thrown by walls from whose tops sprouted the spiky crests of prickly pears, refugees sat and discussed these matters, while past them filed carriages, carts, and pedestrians who were not yet tired out.

The poorest of these had loaded all their things on donkeys, and men, women and children followed the slow patient beasts on foot with bundles of rags on their heads or under their arms or thrust on sticks. Acquaintances would stop each other, strangers exchange news and comments with the solidarity of danger in common misery. The womenfolk repeated what they had heard said by priests: cholera was a punishment for the sinful times. Had the excommunicated not warred on the Pope? Was the Church not persecuted? And, to fill the measure, now came a law despoiling convents and monasteries! The end of the world! The year of calamity! Who would ever have thought it! So many poor monks flung into the middle of the street? Holy places desecrated? Where would it all end?

All nonsense, judged the menfolk on the other hand, ‘The monks had been spoilt and done nothing! Except eat! If monastery walls could speak they would have some fine tales to tell. It was high time their frolics were put an end to! The one good thing this government has done!…' But think of all the saintly Fathers—and there were some—forced to live on a lira a day! The Benedictines, for instance, would be hard put to make do on a lira a day, after having led the life of kings! ‘Ah yes, but what about the splitting up of the monastery funds, eh?'

News of this had been circulating for some time and people gave details as if they had been present themselves; savings made during recent years, in expectation of the law, had been distributed variously all round; every monk had drawn no less than four thousand
onze
in gold and silver coin. Then they had
divided up the table silver and all other valuables and, when the moment to leave drew near, sold the vast quantities of provisions accumulated in the storerooms: big barrels of wine, huge jars of oil, great sacks of corn and vegetables. So much the more money in their pockets—and even so the storerooms still seemed full! ‘They'd done right! Why should they leave cash as well to those Government thieves?'

And the little caravans would start off on their march again, heads whirling at the thought of the millions of
onze
that would go into Victor Emmanuel's pocket from selling the contents of San Nicola and all the other communities. Many beggars took advantage of the great mass of people surging by, stretching out hands from heaps of stones on which they were lying. Ragged children with them ran behind carriages in case some passenger dropped a coin into the dusty road. Those on foot recognised fleeing nobles, repeated their names, horror-struck at the emptying town. ‘The Prince of Roccasciano! The Duchess Radalì! The Curcuma! The Grazzeri! There won't be one left!…'

Towards evening, when the heat of the day lessened, three big family coaches, one behind the other, raised great clouds of dust on the road from Catania to the Belvedere. In the first was the Prince of Francalanza, Donna Ferdinanda and Cousin Graziella, the latter invited to the family villa as she could not be alone at La Zafferana. The young prince Consalvo was on the box. He was brandishing a whip triumphantly though still wearing a Benedictine habit, as his father had decided to bring him home at the very last moment when the monks were dispersed; Don Blasco and the Prior had also asked for hospitality at the palace. In the second carriage was the princess, without anyone sitting beside or opposite, just her maid in a far corner. Contact with a shoulder would have given her convulsions, so she had declared herself only too pleased for the prince to travel with his cousin. But the other carriage was crammed; there was the marchese and Chiara, Rosa with baby, and finally Don Blasco. The latter had refused the prince's hospitality in the country and accepted the marchese's, so as to avoid his sister Ferdinanda. His aversion did not cede to the danger of cholera and made him prefer even the little bastard's company.