Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part one, chapter 5

Italiano

English

Father Bonaventura had to use all his eloquence, his insistent persuasion, the prestige of his name, to persuade the city captain who, despite appearances, Blasco da Castiglione was a gentleman and who, after all, had been hit and had almost been thrown to the ground by the two knights. Warm and young head, he did not know how to use caution; but, go! it was not necessary to arrest him. The city captain agreed in everything: but how could he not give a satisfaction to those two knights, who were not dark citizens? Was he kidding? They were a Branciforti and a Centeglies: two gentlemen!... And then beating the Corporal and the birri? But was that young man a devil?

"He is a valiant man, like his father," the friar objected. "In his veins blood of good race flows... no matter how out of divine and human laws... You have to excuse him. The young man was entrusted to me; if I could have predicted nothing would have happened, and I would not be bothering your lordship. As for those gentlemen, I will go to them, and persuade them. Leave it to me.

The city captain opposed other "but," not too cut and categorical, and eventually surrendered, and assured his father Bonaventura that Blasco from Castiglione would not be harassed, but... He cast off the latter will have, like a menace suspended high on the young man's head.

Father Bonaventura himself went to see Blasco from the little church where he was conversing with Master Michele and accompanied him to the inn of Messinese, where the young man was welcomed with signs of joy and admiration, as a hero led by a feat. From the shops and the "cattodas," artisans and workers went out to congratulate, and the friar remade on their own the story of the batons to the birri with some outline.

"You had to see him! A paladin even!... Was she related to his reverence? He could have been proud of it."

Master Barabino said to him: "Listen to me; you have a nice personal, and you will make a fine figure. With this dress you will be laughing, here in Palermo, and with your character you will be forced to beat your hands every moment. What are you kidding? Palermo is a city where you have to appear well... You must make a dress of fashion, of good cloth... I do not say silk; although you are worthy to dress of damask rolled, or of golden cloth... Am I right, Father Bonaventura?..."

Master Michele said all these things with an extraordinary speed, without giving time to the answers. Father Bonaventura looked at the young man's clothing, as if he realized then the strangeness and anachronism of those garments, and absent. Actually, he couldn't say that Blasco dressed like the last one.

"I do not say to do my advantage," Master Barabino said; "but because I understand that having to introduce you to society, you need to appear well... Otherwise you won't get lucky..."

Father Bonaventura thought of some possible presentation because he had to find the young man an office, a job to live decently, thus satisfying part of the vow of the death; and perhaps he had the idea to present it to relatives: to the new head of the house, who was finally uncle, and who, for the honor of the house, should have provided for his grandson.

He said, "Master Michael is right."

Blasco exclaimed, "Who says otherwise, Bacchus; do you think that I am going around in these clothes of my own taste? But necessity knows no laws... These are the clothes I found in the wardrobe of the king of Tunis..."

"How, Tunis..."

"Exactly; but it's a long story I'll tell later. Let's go to us, Master Barabino or little Barabbas, who does the same: find me a dress, here are two doublons of Spain."

He drove his fingers into the wide belt that the farchet was hiding completely and dug out two gold coins, which he had danced on the tailor's hand, adding: "This is also the money of his Majesty the king of Tunis, that the devil may have in glory!... But be careful: I want to be dressed like these ganimedi that I saw on horseback on the promenade..."

"Let me do it."

When Master Michele Barabino was gone, Father Bonaventura said, "When you dress properly, I'll see some ladies."

"Hey."

"Yes," the friar repeated, "is it necessary; how would you like to have a state without the protection of a lord?"

Blasco thought of his mother. What good would that presentation have done him now? What did he care now about having one name rather than another? A state would have found it for itself. However, he showed no objection. Perhaps the idea of being able to trace his relative, and to know his father's house, to know his features in a portrait, to be able to see the new Baron's face, did not make him reject the friar's proposal. Maybe still, but more remotely, he blew the idea of being able to search for those two gentlemen who wanted to have him arrested and, presenting themselves as a relative of theirs, to be justified in the face.

A few hours later Master Michele wore a full outfit that, he said, seemed made for Blasco, but that, in any case, would be fixed: they were not new clothes, but still blazing.

"What do you think? These come out of the wardrobe of the prince of Cattolica; a gentleman, who, when he has worn three or four times a dress, gives it to his master of the house, who sells it. Look at the trines of the sleeves! A marvel!... What about the cloth? What about this charade? Catania silk of the best!... Why not pair used clothes, we could change the silk of riots and buttons; a thing from Nothing; I can do it here, before you... But try the "Jamberg" in the meantime.

He helped him, commenting: "Well done!... You just have to tighten your hips a little... you have the slenderest life... So... you have to buy silk socks, boots... A sword..."

"Oh, that's not it, Master. I will never leave my sword...

"Oh, you want to go around with that Durlindana that makes you breathe?"

"Of course. I've been needing it for seven years, and it's done me a lot of service, that I'd be a pain in the ass if I abandoned it... Besides, go find me a blade like that! Toledo, and the best!... No swords, no lark skewers!..."

"As you wish. But gloves... at least three pairs of gloves, shredded handkerchiefs... and a curly wig..."

"No wig!..."

"But everyone uses it: how do you want to appear without the wig?"

"Oh, that maybe I have bald head?"

Blasco shook her long, thick hair, which swayed, spread like a ray.

"Do I need a fake hair?"

"But wigs are curly, you know..."

"And we'll curl our hair!... I'm gonna sleep with the pavigliotti. Rather, I need shirts and lace ties..."

"I brought these: don't you see? I'm also a prince... But now let me do it. Let's see the sides... The cloth is brick-colored, the straw silk, or green pea... what do you think? Let me do it!"

At twenty-two hours in Italy, now in which the walk was fervent, Blasco from Castiglione came out of the transfigured inn, between the amazement and the admiration of the neighborhood, who could not persuade himself how that beautiful knight, elegant and unleavened, could be that poor "kingdom" with the funny dress; one thing only had in common the two figures: pride.

You are not young and beautiful for nothing, and Blasco also had that amount of vanity that is indispensable to let himself be admired without having the air. Now that he had a nice dress, he wanted to carry it around and indulge himself in the satisfaction of looking with greater disdain, indeed, with provocative flaunting, all those superb swollen of their elegance, like so many turkeys. Exit the road of the Cintorinai, he went up to Cassaro, to go outside Porta Nuova, where there was a walk at that time.

His bold air, the male beauty of his appearance made people turn, who could not rest from admiring him: "Here is a beautiful young man!"

The critics, however, who seek the fur in the egg, hastened to moderate the first admiration, finding that the sword, that formidable sword of other times, blazed with the impeccable elegance of the dress, but the women did not cling to the misery of a sword: the man was beautiful.

Blasco crossed the floor of the Royal Palace, when at the old and unfinished Hospital of the Spanish he saw a rich carriage and a knight at the door, who seemed to converse ceremoniously with someone who was inside; another carriage, more sober, in front of whose door a lackey was impaled, was also not far away. Evidently it was the knight's.

Blasco had the impression of something already seen: he slowed down the pace, looking carefully at the group; he did not see the faces of the people who conversed, nor did he recognize the serious coachman and the stirrups of the one and the other carriage; but yet that complex image did not succeed him new. Little by little something cleared up in his brain: he recognized the color of the liveries and the set of the carriage, at whose door the knight stood, and a wave of blood laid on his face.

Then he hastened his step and stopped at the other door, so that he could see the woman inside and the face of the knight, who spoke to her and whom he had before him.

He cared more about that.

His shadow called back the knight's eyes. Did they recognize each other?

Of course, the knight's eyes frowned; the woman followed the ray with curiosity, turned around, she also saw that proud young man, with his fist on his hip, looked at him for a moment, and, turning to the knight, asked, "Do you know that young man?"

Blasco heard the words, and waited for the answer of the knight, who evasively said: "I don't remember ever seeing him, but, please, do not take away the comfort of these delicious moments, for a stranger..."

The woman turned again to look at Blasco, who then believed her duty to take off her hat and make a nice bow.

"Supposing humbly forgiveness, ma'am, if I dare answer you instead of the gentleman... My name is Blasco from Castiglione, and I would be delighted if I could receive the honor of offering you my bondage... As for Mr. Nonsochi, I hope to have refreshed his memory."

He bowed again, apologizing for the trouble, and with neither slow nor hasty pace, he took the road, satisfied with himself and curious about two things: knowing who that lady and that knight were, and what these would do now.

"The woman is beautiful, forget it!... if that knight walks around her like a butterfly, he is not wrong. Who wouldn't do the same?" thought Blasco.

He was struck by the idea if this last question could also be asked to him; and this possibility made him blush and smile at complacency and complacency together. Oh yes, just him, poor and unknown seed lost in the world!... She had to make a lady of quality, judging by the beauty of her four white horses, the gilding of the chariot and the richness of the liveries; all things that turned her away from the ignoble crowd, from the nameless ones, which made her appear as an intangible object for other hands than those consecrated by the old feudal diplomas.

But he too could have been a privileged one: that mysterious father, of whom the friar did not want to name him, was he not a lord of fiefs?

Again the anger of his birth resumed him, as if the stigmata of illegitimacy appeared to him on his face; but the natural gaiety, which did not give him the time to stop on melancholy, resumed him; shook his head, and murmured: "Hey go! I am an idiot to embarrass me for such nonsense. Come on, Blasco!"

But a thunderous chirping of four horses behind him turned him around; it was the four white horses who came with a beautiful majestic step, under the skilful guide of the coachman throned on the velvets of his box. He stopped. The carriage passed in front of him. The beautiful woman looked at him. Blasco blushed and felt obliged to greet her. It seemed to him, or it was an illusion, that she smiled. He was almost abducted, following with his eyes the carriage, assaulted by a tumult of ideas, troubled by certain crazy thoughts, not resolving to resume the journey, he was there with the desire to see the lady wondering if she really had a smile, and why she had a smile, having always impressed in the mind the image of that smile.

From this state came another carriage: it was the one of the knight, who came to the pass. The knight, on foot, went toward him, frowning and threatening, followed by two lackeys.

"Lord," he told him with his teeth closed, when he was before him, "this is the second time you come between my feet, and I warn you that they are not used to tolerate bothers..."

"Good habit, sir," said Blasco, "good habit, and I commend you..."

"And I don't even admit my peers to taking the freedom to joke."

"Good one too. The times are so serious, it is not permissible to joke..."

"Sir!..."

Blasco looked at him, and to that cry, which was a threat, he replied coldly: "If instead of sending me the birri, something unworthy of a gentleman, you had given me this speech before, I would have answered you: "Lord, in that corner of the square two gentlemen have all the comfort of sticking themselves: outside that weapon, and let's finish it; but you will understand that now I can no longer treat you like this, without my detriment"...."

The knight bit his lips, and, red and trembling with anger, cried out to the servants: "But in short, cast this man away!..."

The altercation had stopped the people, who were silently waiting for the solution; some other carriages, some carriers had also arrested: from afar other people came, curious to see the crowd. All this had increased the wrath of the knight and infused a certain goodness to the servants, who had advanced in the order of the master. But before they had had time to put their hands on Blasco, he had violently ghermited them by the breast, and, when spread out and closed his arms with a prodigious effort, he had beaten them against one another, and pesti, stumps, threw them upon their master, who had almost been overwhelmed by it.

This had happened so quickly, so lightly, that neither the servants, nor the knight had the time to think of defending themselves; and he had aroused a real admiration for that beautiful elegant young man, who laughed at the dismay, the shame of the lackeys, the wrath of the knight, with the same tranquility as if he had been a spectator.

The knight puffed; other knights friends or acquaintances had approached him; some people surrounded the two lackeys who pale, yearning for revenge, repaired the disorder of their clothing.

From among the crowd, the knight threatened: "He'll pay for it!..."

Blasco threw him one last frizz.

"It pains me that I have wreaked so beautiful liveries, sir; but I will send my tailor to you: he is a valiant man..."

The crowd laughed: the lords tried to steal the knight from the ridicule he was exposed to.

"Go, prince, it is not your equal... Come on, get in the carriage."

They pushed him. He, who perhaps did not seek better, resisted, still threatening, insulting Blasco with derogatory nicknames of which the citizens of the capital rewarded the kingdoms: "These "uncreated feet" that descend from the mountains to haunt the city, bandits! Inquire at least if he is noble!" roaring; "inquire if he is noble to be able to do so challenge."

The view of the four white horses, coming back, could more than any suggestion. The "prince" hastened to mount on his carriage, after making sure that his friends would think of saving his dignity.

A young man of fine and graceful appearance, meanwhile, had approached Blasco, smiling with admiration: "Bravo, sir; you have a beautiful strength and greater coldness and readiness of spirit..."

Blasco smiled and put his hand to the young man and said to him: "My name is Blasco da Castiglione."

"Heroic novel name!" answered the knight of Floresta; "If I may be of use to you I will be glad... Now come, there's too many people... I have my carriage here..."

He drew him with him, crossed the crowd, while on the other side they led the "prince" and forced him to mount in a carriage. At that point the four white horses passed by them; the knight of Floresta bowed deeply to the lady.

"Sorry, who is that lady?" asked Blasco.

"The Duchess of Motta."

"Ah!"

"Did you know her?"

"No; but the fief of Motta is adjacent to that of Castiglione.

And that gentleman I had to say to?"

"The Prince of Iraki."

"Ah, a prince? All the better..."

The carriage had set in motion.

"Where do you want to be led?" asked the knight of Floresta.

"If you don't mind, at the convent of San Francesco dei Chiovari... But, since you are so kind, please listen to me: I will tell you, on the way, the reasons of the altercation..."

"On the contrary, I wanted to beg you, because it is good to see how to resolve this issue. You will understand well that the prince of Iraki is of the first nobility, which requires a special consideration, even in cavalry matters. If he offended you, he may refuse to give you a satisfaction with arms, unless you are a prince of nobility equal to his... Let us therefore hear."

And they started talking.