The Viceroys (64 page)

The latter's debts had been finally paid, which was widely attributed to Donna Ferdinanda. But in fact the old spinster had not herself paid a cent. She would have died of a stroke if she'd had to pay out sixty lire, let alone six hundred, or six thousand! The money had really been paid by the prince, whom Princess Graziella, with a generosity that edified all, had persuaded
to pardon her stepson. Surely the Prince of Mirabella's signature could not be cited? That would never happen while she was alive! Why if Giacomo was stubborn enough to go on saying ‘no' she'd pay out of her own pocket! Yes, for Consalvo as for Teresina, she felt a true mother's love, though she had not borne him in her womb and her stepson repaid her so ill! ‘But what can I do? No-one commands the heart, do they? Ah well, one day or other he'll realise I should not be treated like this …' She had induced the prince to pay the I.O.U., and also found the expedient of hinting that it was the spinster's generosity, lest Consalvo presume on the paternal weakness in future.

Aversion between father and son was meanwhile growing daily. To avoid the prince's company and at the same time seem victimised, Consalvo deserted the paternal house. But instead of going with friends to café or club, he went to his uncle Ferdinando's where he bought papers and read out the political news. The sick man took a passionate interest in the threatened war, which was the only subject that could loosen his tongue. Don Blasco, on finally coming to visit his nephew, also discussed this subject with him passionately, repeating the teacher's arguments; but the duke assured everyone that it was all a false alarm and there'd be no war, with as convinced an air as if this had been secretly confided to him by Napoleon.

When the news of the declaration of war did finally burst on them, the great man exclaimed that Bismarck and William must have lost their heads. Or were they joking? To attack Napoleon? The French Army, the first in the world, would rout, mince, pulverise the Prussian, and take Berlin in two weeks at the most. Instead of which came cables announcing German victories.

Then the Deputy's adversaries began to ridicule him with more zest. That nincompoop with the air of a reborn Cavour was not even capable of understanding the most obvious things. Contradicted by facts, he held stubbornly to his silliness, announced new French plans, then imminent retaliation, intervention by the Powers.

Ferdinando, from deep in the armchair which he now never left because his legs did not hold him, would listen to those speeches as anxiously as if his health depended on them. Trembling with fever, his forehead aflame, he let a new obsession
overwhelm his weakened brain now: Napoleon's victories, which he yearned for. Buying a map of the Rhine, he spent his days sticking big pins in all the French positions and small pins in the Prussian ones. War bulletin in hand, he studied the operations of the two armies, changed his signs according to the real changes, and as the small pins advanced and the big pins withdrew his illness got worse. In raucous, cavernous tones he explained what the French should have done to regain their lost positions. He improvised strategic plans, plotted out every day numerous
theatres of war
, disposed divisions and regiments arbitrarily, exclaiming, ‘This one here, that one there …' until, exhausted, overwhelmed, he fell back with hands dangling and head awry, eyes shut and mouth open as if on the point of expiring.

Meanwhile the duke, feeling the opposition to him growing and the ground shrinking beneath his feet, had realised he must do something in order to restore his prestige, and was preparing an unexpected move. Fear of war was increasing general discontent; the Government's adversaries were taking advantage of this to shout and threaten louder. Members of the opposition, drawn from different parties and social orders with varying roots and opposing aims, were momentarily agreed on demanding Rome. The worse the situation of France became, the more accusations of weakness and cowardice poured on the Government from all sides; threats of taking over power seemed about to become action at any moment. Now, while those with nothing to complain of were keeping malcontents at bay, advising prudence and steering between two currents, one night the duke, who had been away on his estates, went to the National Club where battle was joined day and night, and expressed his opinion unhesitatingly; the moment had come to act! If the Government let this chance escape it would never be excused in the nation's eyes! He had always opposed the impatience of the progressive party, for though it might be warm-hearted, it could do the country great harm. But now times were ripe and any delay would be an inexcusable fault. If those in Florence didn't do their duty he threatened ‘to go out into the streets with a rifle, as in '60 …'

‘Ah, the buffoon … ah, the old fox …' they exclaimed in the enemy camp. But in spite of his denigrators the duke's new opinions, so frankly professed and repeated daily to whoever wanted to listen or not, did sustain his shaky credit. Benedetto Giulente had been amazed to hear them as, foreseeing his uncle following a temporising policy till the last, he had done so himself. He was even more surprised when the duke came to see him and said they must begin republishing the news-sheet
Italia risorta
to urge the Government along the road to Rome; the time was ripe, by not following the current they risked being overwhelmed by it.

Benedetto, though spending all day at the Town Hall, got together an editorial staff of municipal clerks and elementary schoolmasters, and published the news-sheet. Lucrezia ranted against this husband of hers who now wanted Rome, if you please, ‘as if he could put it in his pocket or carry it off to sell at a fair!' But Benedetto's inflamatory articles, announcing that the duke was on the people's side and ready to leave for Florence if the Government refused to listen to the country's voice, obtained a new wave of popularity for the Deputy.

The day when the news came of Victor Emmanuel's letter to the Pope, there also arrived an unexpected guest from Rome, Don Lodovico. He had sent news of himself to his family only once a year or so, intent as he was on the duties of his office and the forwarding of a career which was now well advanced. Already, in little more than three years, he was Secretary of Propaganda, Archbishop of Nicea, and held in high esteem by Pius IX. To the prince, who looked at him at first as if he had dropped from the moon, he said in a tone of gentle reproval:

‘Ferdinando is at death's door, and you merely wrote to say he was unwell! Had it not been for Monsignor the Bishop, I'd not have known the truth!'

And he went and settled by his sick brother's side. The latter no longer left his bed; when he shut his eyes his green, emaciated face was like a corpse's, but he refused all treatment more obstinately than before. As his body decayed the last gleams of his obscured reason dimmed too; now he sent out every day for dozens upon dozens of boxes of pins and reams of paper and packets of pencils. These were for tracing plans of campaign,
putting in signs for forts, encampments and headquarters; but he forgot what he bought them for, and went on ordering more and more and shouting and raving if he was not obeyed. With evangelical patience, with untiring zeal, with admirable abnegation, Don Lodovico watched over the sick man and complied with his every mania. Meanwhile—this was driving Baldassarre to despair—evil tongues were saying that he had come to Sicily not for the love of the Booby, to whom he had never given a thought, but to avoid being in Rome at such a critical moment, and take council later from events!…

These events were moving fast. Italian troops got orders to advance into the Roman States. There was a feverish wait for news. The duke was now at the Prefecture all day, opening the Prefects' telegrams and then spreading the news in them as if he had received it direct from Lanza.

‘It's the end of the world!' cried the old spinster at Ferdinando's, where the whole family were now meeting in a room far from that of the dying man, who refused to have anyone near him. The prince shook his head and the Princess Graziella made the sign of the Cross, while Monsignor Don Lodovico murmured with eyes to the ground:

‘We must forgive them for they know not what they do.'

Lucrezia was viper-like against her husband, and no-one mentioned the duke, whose conduct was so shameful. But Donna Ferdinanda, unshakable in her faith, launched out particularly against Don Blasco, who was now booming more loudly than ever round the pharmacies:

‘I always said so. Pius IX' (he no longer called him ‘The Holy Father') ‘should have seen it in time when he was master of the situation. What does he expect now? He's made his bed and must lie on it!'

He had joined the Reading Circle and went there every day with his teacher friend to get news and reassure himself about the chances of having to hand back the San Nicola land. He would also bawl abuse at the tepid of heart, vigorously support his brother and read Giulente's fiery articles out loud, approving them, admiring them.

‘Ha! How well my nephew writes! That's what I call writing!'

But Don Blasco's recent apostasy, the duke's longstanding betrayal, did not withdraw the esteem of purists from the Uzeda; with the Curia, particularly, their conduct, loyalty to sane principles, constant devotion to the good cause made them favourite children. One day in spite of bad weather Monsignor the Bishop went to visit Ferdinando in order to repay a visit made by Don Lodovico, to have news of the sick man and console the afflicted family. All went to meet the prelate and kiss his hand. The princess had tears in her eyes from emotion.

‘What news of our dear sick?'

‘Not good, Monsignore,' replied Lodovico, sighing sadly. ‘We've even had to send a message to our brother Raimondo.'

‘But is there no remedy whatsoever?'

‘We've tried everything; Lourdes water, Loretto medals …'

‘Good, good. But have you called a doctor? What medicines have you been giving him?'

‘Alas!…' Lodovico seemed to mean by opening wide his arms, ‘our poor brother's life is no longer in the hands of man …'

He did not say that Ferdinando had gone completely off his head. Mute distrust of his brothers, secret suspicions that discounted any possible connection between their over-zealous care of him and any affection, were growing daily and had so taken charge of his mind that he could accept no other idea. He, who for thirty-nine years had given such proof of disinterest as to be called ‘Booby' by his mother and let everyone rob him, suddenly revealed his Viceroy side by absurd, mad suspicion, now that he had nothing more to leave. As his body grew weaker and his brain darker, his suspicion grew, until with the arrival of his brother Raimondo it became raging certainty.

The count arrived with his wife and young son. She looked thirty years older, did poor Donna Isabella; unrecognisable as once her predecessor had been unrecognisable too. In the five years they had been away, in Palermo, Milan, Paris, wherever her husband's whims had taken them, rumours had from time to time reached Sicily that she was paying bitterly for the harm done to the first countess, that Raimondo, thoroughly tired of
this woman whose acquisition had cost him so much, and unable to consider breaking this second chain which he had so stupidly put round his own neck, had taken to gadding more than before, bringing fresh girls into his marriage bed, maltreating in every way his new wife, whose prudence, patience, submission and humility, were never enough to avert the rancour, spite, almost hatred, of her husband. But although these rumours were not incredible in view of Raimondo's character, they had as yet found little credit, for they might have been put around by people envious of Donna Isabella, by the count's enemies or by the usual evil tongues.

With Raimondo's arrival, no more doubt was possible. He stayed at the hotel as he had seven years before after finally leaving his first family, but this time he was accompanied by four or five women, governesses,
bonnes
, and maids, all young, each prettier than the last, Swiss, Lombard, English, an international harem. He had a room apart from his wife, and when relations came to visit they heard him calling her
voi
, and could read Donna Isabella's expiatory sufferings in her face. She had changed, not only in appearance but in manner. She talked slowly, avoided looking at her husband, seemed afraid of displeasing him even by her presence. And Raimondo did not hide his own feelings towards her. That
voi
had been eloquent enough, but he affected not to address a word to her, not to hear what she said. When he went to visit his sick brother he said to her in front of all his relations: ‘You needn't come too.'

Now the Booby, already out of his mind, went into panic-stricken frenzy at sight of his brother. With eyes starting from his head, hair all tumbled over his haggard terrifying face, he shrieked:

‘Murderers!… Murderers!… Help!… The Prussians!… They want to poison me!'

He shouted in delirium the whole night through. But when the crisis was over the same idea remained, fixed and irremovable. Such was his persecution mania that he refused to open his mouth for fear of poison. Every time anyone came near him with food he clenched his teeth, screamed, and found enough strength in his scraggy arms to thrust off attempts to make him swallow a sip of milk or soup.

‘Help!… Bismarck! Murderer!'

Lucrezia sat beside him, took him by the hand and asked:

‘But what are you frightened of? Don't you recognise us?… D'you think I want to poison you? or Giacomo? or Raimondo?…'

The madman smiled incredulously, but when they tried once more to get him to take a mouthful, prolong his life for a day or two, avoid his dying of hunger, he began shouting again. ‘Murder!… Help!… Murderer!'

One night, as Don Blasco was about to leave home in the teacher's company the prince's coachman came up, panting hard.