Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part one, chapter 17

Italiano

English

From the dawn of December 21, the city was celebrating: the roll of drums and the meow of the pipers of the bodyguards, of the Swiss regiment and of the Piedmontese dragons, who went out Porta Felice, to side on the beach and to guard the gate and the royal pavilion erected in Sant'Erasmo, had raised the citizens, who moreover, and for the greed of the new and solemn spectacle, and for the national exultation, and for the preparations of the feast, to whose magnificence everyone competed as they could, had slept little that night.

Fiumane di popolo descended from the alleys and roads that sprang on the Cassaro, spread through the ancient and noble road, artery from which public life spread throughout the city. He who had knowledge, went up to some house; but the minute people took over the long and straight way: he occupied the steps of the churches, the protruding stalls of the shops, the vain porticoes of which still remained some vestiges. The most anticipated had provided themselves with benches and chairs, and stood there on rights, waiting for the procession behind the ranks of the soldiers who had lined up from here and beyond the road. Throughout the length of the Cassaro waved that indistinguished and confused noise of thousands of steps and thousands of voices, similar to the sinking of the tide, which now went up, now fell, to recover shortly after with a sudden burst, as driven by a breath of wind. Suddenly, news started from a point of the Cassaro, spread away along the length of the road: all the heads swam, turned, waved.

He passed the ride of the nobility, with at his head the two first titles of the kingdom, the prince of Butera and the prince of Trabia; the magistrates, the Senate in his magnificent carriage, great, all gold and silk, surrounded by the usual pump of heralds, deckers, musicians, conestable, in the colors of the city, red and yellow, the prelates; and each group, every procession, although usual and seen, always aroused the same curiosity, the same admiration.

As long as it was, the Cassaro had a magnificent appearance, which he had never seen. The long line interrupted by the triumphal arches divided it into large galleries, which shone with colors and light. From the balconies, from the windows hanged carpets and tapestries; festoons of fronds joined together and adorned the outlets of the alleyways; a whole festival of colors clothed the prospects of the houses, revived by the sun, that day, almost to share in the common joy, spread on the clear sky the glory of its rays.

Around noon he ran through all the mouths a word: "They come, they come!"

Almost at the same time from the Castellamare thundered the artillery, and immediately afterward from the bulwarks, from the vessels, other salons filled the air with rumbles. The bells of St. Nicholas of the Greeks rang.

Vittorio Amedeo from the 17 hours of Italy, with the queen, with Prince Thomas, with the only gentlemen of the room and the ladies of Court, in private form, on the external streets he had gone to the pavilion in St. Erasmus, where throughout the royal pump had taken place on the throne. Then the great chamberlain introduced Don Nicolò Placido Branciforti, prince of Butera, first title and great of Spain, who on his knees manifested the jubilation of the kingdom for a prince so valiant and wise, that Divine Providence had given to Sicily.

The king listened with pleasure, and stood up, and took the king's banner out of the hand of the great squire, and gave it to the prince, saying, "Prince, to you, as the first title of the kingdom, I entrust the banner of my weapons, show it to my vassals, that they may all know that I am the king, whom all must serve, obey and love with all their heart."

Then they thundered the artillery and began the ride.

Don Vincenzo Bongiovanni had also run, greedy of performances like a child, and from the loggia of the convent of the Chain, at Porta Felice, he eagerly waited for the appearance of the procession. He had led with him Pellegra and Emanuele, whom he regarded as a son, not imagining, in his fatuity, what feeling it was already in the hearts of the two boys. Don Girolamo wasn't with them. He advised his grandson not to mingle with the crowd, and to use caution, and he was promised by the painter that he would keep an eye on the boy. He had given a meeting to some friends, and then he had to be in the vicinity of the Duomo with the governors of the Hospital. The two young men had placed themselves at the corner of the loggia, leaning on the stone parapet, massive and deformed and they were so, close, with the heart divided between the joy of being together and the pleasure of that magnificent and solemn spectacle. And they whispered, like two sparrows on a roof. But the voice of Don Vincenzo silenced them.

"Here they are, here they are! Look, it's the Piedmont dragons."

In fact the dragons opened the procession: they marched in order with Colonel Serio to the head, beautiful in their turquoise uniform. Behind them came on the side of the valets of the king and the queen, and then on horseback with their governor.

"Now ours are coming."

Ours were the magistrates of the kingdom and of the city, the Marquis of Regalmici, the executioner captain of the city, with the judges of the court pretoriano, before all, and then, the purification of the kingdom, with his dealer, his officers; the governors of the Table, or public bench, the nobility, wonderful for wealth of clothing, for beauty of horses splendor of bearding, magnificence of staffieri and lacche; a true superb ghostage, which for itself was worth all the show, and which made the Court itself appear poor and humble. The confrontation inflated with joy and pride the citizens forget that the excessive wealth of those garments, of those harnesses, of those liveries, on which they and the gems were spread, meant the misery and servitude of the whole island.

They followed the rational heritage, the tax prosecutors of the Grand Court, the four secretaries of the kingdom, the protonotary of the Queen's Chamber and then the captain of the Grand Court, and then the parliamentary prelates, who had seats in parliament as members of the clergy, and next to them the royal council. The ride never ended. The Dealers of the Palermo Senate were coming, around which there was a great riot of people, as if a sudden access of madness took the crowd. It was to him that the general treasurer of the kingdom, from two hanging sacks from here and beyond of the saddle, threw on the people handfuls of silver tarì, with the effigy of Vittorio Amedeo, for the first time coined in the mint of Palermo. The greedy hands rose up to grasp the small shining disks in flight; the brisk fists contended with them; over the same coin they wandered in three, in four, bumping, beating themselves, shouting; the ride proceeded ahead, stirring that storm and leaving behind the convulsive shudder, tame just by the clangor of the trumpets of the heralds regi, who came after, before the knights of the King's Court, gentlemen of mouth and chamber, elephants, butlers, shields, wardrobe, the prime minister: and then the prince of Butera with the royal banner, Prince Thomas, and immediately the royals.

The king and queen rode under a magnificent canopy of flame, supported by the senators of the city; before them held by squires and court palafreniers, the horse offered by the city proceeded: a haughty horse of the stables of the Branciforti, richly guarded with gold. The king and queen mounted white horses; to the king's staff went Don Ottavio Lanza prince of Trabia, to the staff of the queen the prince of Scordia, to the house Branciforti, the city's praetor; and behind them the great squire with the naked sword, the knights of honour, the offices of the Savoy Court, the ladies and bridesmaids of the Court. A double row of bodyguards and Swiss, from here and there flanked all this group that was the main one, and held back the crowd, beating hands, and responded with a formidable scream to the shout launched from time to time by the prince of Butera.

"Sicily! Sicily for Vittorio Amedeo!"

A first stop had been made by the royals at Porta dei Greci, under the first triumphal arch, where in procession the archbishop had met them with the chapter and with the clergy of the cathedral. They had come down from the horse to kiss the cross that the prelate offered them; a second stop had taken place at Porta Felice. There the priest, detached from the staff of the queen, made a sign to the city's major sergeant, to the commander of the city militias, who carried a silver basin, took from this the keys of the city and, on his knees, offered them to the king, saying:

"Lord, with the greatest joy and will, Palermo, the head of this kingdom, submitted himself to the foot of M. V. By my hands he delivered to the glorious right hand of V. M. the keys of his gates, and at the same time those of the most faithful heart of all citizens, ready with life and blood to the greatest service of your real Crown."

The king took the keys, saying that he had confidence in his vassals and in the fidelity of the city of Palermo, and returned them later to the praetor, adding that he kept them at the service of the royal crown.

Then the artillery blew up, and the shouting came up, from the street to the highest windows; and all the city seemed to be delirium, and never, perhaps, was there a greater fusion of spirits... No one thought that it would not be five years, and the facts would disperse greetings and vows and cancel every memory of that solemn event.

The crowd reverenced on the road, behind the last carriages of the procession, to follow him; it was known that at the Four Songs the musicians of the theater of St. Cecilia would sing a dialogue of the secretary of the Senate Don Pietro Vitale, and another dialogue would sing in piazza Bologna, from the balconies of the palace of the prince of Villafranca.

Don Vincenzo Bongiovanni said to his daughter: "Let's go listen to the singing."

The procession proceeded slowly. Don Vincenzo left the Dogana Gate, sided the Cala for a while, and returned to Porta Carbone thinking that, to be those roads, in that hour and on that occasion, almost deserted, he could take advantage of the procession. It was his usual tactic, whose success, however, was entrusted to his legs. He ran, dragging behind the two young men, for whom the race was a new fun. Holding hands and laughing, they followed the painter, who occasionally turned to incite them.

"Now, let's go!..."

Walking along a line of streets and alleys, the axis of which extended parallel to the Cassaro, he intended to reach the Conciatori district, and from there, along the Maqueda road to reach the Quattro Canti. But despite the race, when tired, pierced, they got to the goal, the dialogue had begun a long time ago, and was about to end.

"Because of you!" mumbled Don Vincenzo. "Let's go to the Bologna plan; at least we'll hear that one. But let's hurry."

Running through parallel roads, he finally succeeded on Cassaro, in front of the Bologna plan, which was also full of people, who thickened behind the ranks of the soldiers. The balconies of the Palazzo Villafranca were richly decorated with tapestries and velvet; in the middle, under a canopy, was the portrait of the king, at the sides of whom two stages for the musicians had been improvised. All the other balconies were full of ladies, invited by the prince; their carriages surrounded by lackeys and flyers waited in the plane behind the statue of the emperor Charles V, and put in the gray of the walls the vivid note of the gilded and white and red plumes.

Don Vincenzo slit his heels furiously with elbows, to reach under the balconies and hear better: the bell of the nearby church of St. Joseph, and the burst of applause warned him that the royals had resumed the journey; in a few minutes they would arrive in the plan. With the eye he chose the best place, spending among the carriages with the risk of collapsing against the horses, rejected back by the lackeys, with their usual insolence.

Pellegra looked up in the balconies at the ladies in superb dresses of gems: "Look, Emanuele," she said to the young man "on the corner of the second balcony, that lady dressed in amaranth brocade... Is it not the lady who was in the carriage, when the king came? That servant's mistress... remember?"

"Ah, the Duchess of Motta?"

"Exactly!"

"I don't remember; I didn't look at her well then... Will there be that knight who wanted to scare me?... I'd like to see that..."

"You can't see it; there are too many ladies... He'll be in the back, maybe..."

The applause distracted them. The king and queen came to the level: from the balconies the small orchestra, composed of a few stringed instruments and breath, as it was used in those times, gave the first chords: on all mouths a formidable silence, which seemed to be a snare, imposed silence; the dialogue began with a choir:

"Lire grate, Muse belle,

of the triumphs the high cry

of the Oreto on the shore

today make resound.

Sweet auras, as well as stars

in Vittorio that laurels

his hair is surrounded

not cease to aspirate..."

The poet had adapted to the circumstance a five-voice dialogue sung ten years earlier for the Christmas of Philip V; from one king to another, both new, both strangers and not linked to the island by any memory, by any event, the difference was nothing; the praises rendered to the one and the hopes conceived for this, could well be worth for the other, since the courtiery has only one vocabulary that adapts to any diadem.

But those old sentences, expressed with trills and gorges, as well as to the aesthetic taste, responded at that time to the general feeling, and seemed new and beautiful and raised new enthusiasms. At the end of the singing, the square repeated the final choir, as an expression of his soul:

"With plausi and trumpets

of auras julive

the sound resounds

our sky, the earth, the sea.

Vague fortunes

of glad days

in our people

Vittorio only has to hope."

They were stupid and logical verses in a cheesy music; but who was watching us? The king smiled satisfied, under the canopy of vermilion supported by the senators, and that smile seemed to be a thanksgiving, a absenteeism, a promise.

The procession moved on.

Don Vincenzo Bongiovanni was ecstatic, like a child, repeating: "Beautiful! beautiful! beautiful!..."

Slowly followed the crowd, which broke now the line of the soldiers fell into the Cassaro behind the carriages. From the palace Villafranca came down some lady, mounted in his carriage to return to home or to go to the Duomo, forcing the crowd to bend, beating and getting confused tumultuously.

"Look, look, Emanuele," said Pellegra, who held hands with the young man; "here is the carriage of that Duchess."

The carriage had in fact approached the large gate of the palace, flanked with statues. He was just a few steps away from them. Emanuele approached to see if there was that knight. In his memory Blasco's gesture was as dense as a nail and nothing seemed as mortifying as the air and the tolerant words of that gentleman, who had treated him like a child. Shame and wrath put his face on him. He wanted to see Blasco again, to show him that he was not afraid, with the stubbornness and arrogance of a spoiled boy.

Don Vincenzo, who went ahead, step by step, humming with blessed air the last choir, "With plausis and trumpets," did not notice what Emanuele did; but suddenly a cry of Pellegra, made him leap.

"Mr. Father!... Help... Emanuele!..."

He turned around and saw Emanuel surrounded by three or four lackeys, who held him by their arms, trodden him with fists, while the young man, furious, defended himself desperately.

He remained almost bald for a moment, then began to shout frightened: "Leave him!Leave him!..."

And there came a great multitude round about that rabid group: and some of the people fell into the midst, to take the young man out of the hand of those servants that were angry even more from the strength of Emanuel. They were the lackeys of the duke of Motta; one of them, who two months before had been thrown by Emanuele under the feet of the horses, had recognized the young man, had pointed him out to his companions, and all together had suddenly fallen upon him, to avenge himself of the affront and to teach him a lesson.

Almost the Bologna plan did not turn into a battlefield.

To the intervention of the people, others lackeys, believing that they wanted to take the part of Emanuele, they advanced threatening in defense of their companions, for solidarity of caste; shouts, screams, swayings, confusion: Don Vincenzo, increasingly frightened for Emanuele, shouted:

"Leave him!... leave him!... I'll go call the guards..."

But they beat and Emanuele defended himself heroically, like a little dog boar. Suddenly an imperious voice dominated the tumult: "Ah, cowards!.."

It was seen in the air swirling a bat decorated with ribbons and falling like a lightning on the shoulders of the lackeys; a true storm of blows, unexpected, powerful, who in a moment threw those scoundrels and freed Emanuele. It was Blasco, who came out of the palace at that point, accompanying the Duchess in a carriage, rushed to the cry, recognized the boy.

"Vigliacchi!" cried out; "Many against one! Against a boy!... Return to your place..."

With their shoulders and arms still sparkling for the blows, the lackeys mortified, like a pack of dogs sent from the whip to the bed, they went towards the carriage, where the duchess, amazed by the cry and the race of Blasco, ignoring what had happened interrogated the coachman.

A minute later the square resumed its festive tranquillity; the carriages went away, followed the procession, or went down through the Cassaro; from the alleys came out porterina and flying chairs, which had waited for the clearance of the road; of the small accident no one spoke; it had been lost in the noise of the feast: only Pellegra, who saw the bruises on the face of Emanuele, accused his father:

"What was the need to get into the carriages? The music could hear it from afar... In the meantime, what will Mr. Don Girolamo say?..."

"Yeah!" said the painter, not knowing what to say; "What will Don Girolamo say?"

Even the Duchess was talking about that accident. He wanted to know what it was. Blasco told him.

"I'm really sorry I beat your lackeys, but I couldn't stop myself... You will not believe that he would wrong your house..."

The Duchess raised her shoulders with a movement of graceful carelessness, and murmured: "It is not the livery of La Grua..."

Up until a few months before she was indifferent to her husband, she was now beginning to feel that aversion against him that is so close to hatred. Blasco, while loving her deeply and demonstrating her devotion, had not abused her privileged position, and had imposed a course full of reserve: but precisely this wounding her heart as a woman in the most ardent desires of the awakened senses, in the need of all the fullness of passion, had caused her to sprout in her soul and nourished there that deaf feeling of fierce hostility, against the man who appeared to her as an obstacle, like a nightmare. Even towards Blasco she now held a rather cold, but sad attitude, and avoided any intimacy, any allusion, any return to that moment of joy that she had just tasted. Something had come upon them, and while preventing them from separating, it at the same time prevented their souls from approaching and merging.

Blasco continued to accompany her and serve her as a good knight, always waiting for Don Raimondo to confide to him the secret of the mysterious enmities that surrounded him; and he had accompanied her to the Palazzo Villafranca, that day of celebration, with the same devoted and affectionate concern, the same reserve, which cost him a painful effort. Now the words so meaningful of woman Gabriella marveled at him. It was the first time that he surprised in his mouth an almost disgusting accent for his husband. It thrilled.

They didn't say a word on the street.

A few hours later, Don Raimondo called Blasco in his studio.

"What then has happened," he asked with a cold countenance, which hid anger badly, "why did you go so far as to beat people who wear the livery of my house?"

Blasco raised his head with that act of pride that was in him a sign of his resentment.

"Nothing else," he replied, "that this: your servants committed cowardice, and for your sake I believed to call them to respect."

"Truly," replied Don Raimondo, "it was not for you to judge the conduct of my servants, and I had not yet given you the power to punish them..."

"It is true sir, but when I see cowardice I do not have the habit of asking permission from anyone, I, to prevent them... Which is why, Your Excellency, I no longer believe my presence in this house to be compatible."

And made a nice bow, Blasco left the studio; a few hours later, collecting his stuff, he left the palace. Putting his foot out, he breathed in full lungs, but at the same time raised his eyes to the Duchess' window, and sighed with pain.

The same night a hand of birri went to arrest Don Girolamo Ammirata and Emanuele.