INTRODUCTION TO THE
PRINCE
MAY, 1860
NUNC ET IN HORA MORTIS NOSTRAE. AMEN.
…Toward down, however, the Princess had occasion to make a
sign of Cross
Next morning the sun lit on a refreshed Prince. He had taken
his coffee and was shaving in front of the mirror in a red and black flowered
dressing gown. Benedico was leaning a heavy head on one of his slippers. As he
shaved his right cheek he noticed in the mirror a face behind his own, the face
of a young man, thin and elegant, with a shy, quizzical look. He did not turn
around and went on shaving. “Well, Tancredi, where were you last night?”
“Good morning, Uncle. Where was I? Oh, just out with
friends. An innocent night. Not like a certain person I know who went down to Palermo for some fun!”
The Prince concentrated on shaving the difficult bit between
lips and chin. His nephew’s slightly nasal voice had such youthful zest that it
was impossible to be angry; but he may allow himself a touch of surprise. He
turned and with his towel under his chin looked his nephew up and down. The
young man was in shooting kit, a long tight jacket, his leggings. “And who was
this person, may I ask?”
“Yourself, Uncle, yourself. I saw you with my own eyes, at
the Villa Airboldi block post, as you were talking to the sergeant. A fine
thing at your age! And a priest with you, too! You old playboy!”
Really, this was a little too insolent. Tancredi thought he
could allow himself anything. Dark blue eyes, the eyes of his mother, his own
eyes, gazed laughingly half-closed lids. The Prince was offended: the boy
didn’t know where to stop; but he could not bring himself to reprove him; and
anyway he was quite right. “Who are you dressed like that, though? What’s going
on? A fancy-dress ball in the morning?”
The youth became serious; his triangular face assumed an
unexpectedly manly look. “I’m leaving, Uncle, leaving in an hour. I came to say
goodbye.”
Poor Salina
felt his heart tighten. “A duel?”
“A big duel, Uncle. A duel with little King Francis. I’m
going into the hills at Ficuzza; don’t tell a soul, particularly not Paolo.
Great things are on the offing, and I don’t want to stay home. And anyway I’d
be arrested at once if I did.”
The Prince had one of his visions: a savage guerrilla
skirmish, shots in the woods, and Tancredi, his Tancredi lying on the ground
with his guts hanging out like that poor soldier. “You’re mad, my boy, to go
with those – people! They’re all in the mafia, all troublemakers. A Falconeri
should be with us, for the King.”
The eyes began smiling again. “For the King, yes, of course.
But which King?” The lad had one of those sudden serious moods which made him
so mysterious and so endearing. “Unless we ourselves take a hand now, they’ll
foist a republic on us. If we want things to stay as they are, things will have
to change. D’you understand?” Rather moved, he embraced his uncle. “Well,
goodbye, for now. I’ll be back with a tricolor.” The rhetoric of those friends
of his had touched Tancredi a little too; and yet no, there was a tone in that nasal
voice which undercut the emphasis.
What a boy! Talking rubbish and contradicting it at the same
time. And all that Paolo of his was probably thinking of at that moment was
Guiscard’s digestion! This was his real son! The Prince jumped up, pulled towel
from his neck, and rummaged in a drawer. “Tancredi, Tancredi, wait!” He run
after his nephew, slipped a roll of gold pieces into his pocket, and squeezed
his shoulder.
The other laughed. “You’re subsidizing the Revolution now!
Thank you, Uncle, see you soon; and my respect to my aunt.” And off he rushed
down the stairs.
Benedico was called from following his friend with joyous barks
through the villa, the Prince’s shave was over, his face washed. The valet came
to help him into shoes and clothes. “The tricolor! Tricolor indeed! They fill
their mouths with these words, the rascals. What does that ugly geometric sign,
that aping of a the French mean, compared to our white banner with its golden
lily in the middle? What hope can those clashing colors bring them?” It was now
the moment for the monumental black satin cravat to be wound around his neck: a
difficult operation during which political worries were best suspended. One
turn, two turns, three turns. The big delicate hands smoothed out the folds,
settled the overlaps, pinned into the silk the little head of Medusa with ruby
eyes. “A clean waistcoat.
Cant you see this one’s dirty?” The valet stood on tiptoe to
help him slip on a frock coat of brown cloth; he proffered a handkerchief with three drops of bergamot. Keys, watch and
chain, money, the Prince put in a pocked himself. Then he glanced in a mirror;
no doubt about it, he was still a fine-looking man. “Old playboy indeed! A bad
joke, that one of Tancredi’s. I’d like to see him at my age, all skin and bone
that he is!”
His vigorous steps made the window tinkle in the rooms he
crossed. The house was calm, luminous, ornate; above all it was his own. On his
way downstairs he suddenly understood that remark of Tancredi’s, “If we want
the things to stay as they are…” Tancredi would go a long way: he had always
thought so.
The estate of office was still empty. Lit silently by the
sun through closed shutters. Although the scene of more frivolity than anywhere
else in the villa, its appearance was on calm austerity. On whitewashed walls,
reflected in a waxpolished tiles, hung enormous pictures representing the
various Salina estates; there, in bright colors contrasting with the gold and
black frame, was Salina, the island of two mountains, surrounded by sea of white-flecked
waves on which pranced beflagged galleons; Querceta, its low houses grouped
around the rustic church on which were converging groups of bluish-colored
pilgrims; Ragattisi, tucked under mountain gorges; Argivocale, tiny in contrast
to the vast plains of corn dotted with hard working peasants; Donnafugata, with
its baroquew palace, goal of coaches in scarlet and green and gilt, loaded with
women, wine, and violins; and many others, all protected by a taut reassuring
sky and by the Leopard grinning between long whiskers.
...
(copyright Giussepe Di Lampedusa)
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