The Leopard (23 page)

His sister raised her head; her eyes now showed another fear, no longer the animal one of the knife thrusts, but a more restricted, a keener one which the brother could not for the moment place.

"It was Santino Pirrone! Turi's son! And he did it out of spite, spite against me, against our mother, against our father's memory!

I've never spoken to him; they all said he was a good boy-but he's a swine, a true son of that father of his. I remembered afterward: I always used to see him passing here in November with two friends and a red geranium behind his ear. Red of hell, that was, red of hell!"

The Jesuit took a chair and sat down next to the poor woman. Obviously he would have to be late for Mass. Thia was serious. Turi, the father of the seducer Santino, was, an uncle of his; the brother, in fact the elder brother, of his dead father. Twenty years ago he had worked together with the dead man in his job as overseer, just at the moment of the latter's greatest and most meritorious activity. Later the brothers had quarrelled, one of those family quarrels we all know with deeply entangled roots, impossible to cure because neither side speaks out clearly, each having much to hide. The fact was that when the dead man acquired the little almond grove, his brother Turi had said that half of it really belonged to him because half the money for it, or half the work, he had put in himself i but the deeds bore only the name of the dead Gaetano. Turi stormed up and down the roads of San Cono foaming at the mouth; the dead man's prestige was in danger, friends intervened, and the worst was avoided; the almond grove remained Gaetano's property, but the gulf between the two. branches of the Pirrone family became unbridgeable; Turi did not even go to his brother's funeral and was just called the "swine," that was all, in his sister's house. The Jesuit had been told of all this by letters dictated to the parish priest, and had formed some ideas of his own about it which he did not express from filial reverence. The little almond grove now belonged to Sarina.

It was all quite obvious; no love or passion played any part: just a dirty trick to revenge another dirty trick. But it could be set right; the Jesuit thanked Providence for having brought him to San Cono at that very time. "Listen, Sarina, I'll settle all this in a couple of hours, but you've got to help me; half of Chibbaro" (that was the almond grove) "must go as 'Ncilina's dowry. There's no other way out of it; the silly girl has been the ruin of you." And he thought of how the Lord, to bring about His justice, can even use bitches in heat.

Sarina lost her temper. "Half of Chibbaro! To that swine, never! Better dead!"

"All right. Then after Mass I'll go and talk to Vicenzino. Don't be afraid, I'll try to calm him down." He put his hat back on his head and his hands into his sash, and waited patiently, sure of himself.

Any edition of Vicenzino's furies, even though revised and expurgated by a Jesuit priest, were always illegible to the unhappy Sarina, who began weeping for the third time; gradually her sobs lessened and then stopped. She got up: "May God's Will be done; you fix it, it's beyond me. But our lovely Chibbaro! All that sweat of our father's!" Her tears were just about to start again, but the priest had already gone.

After celebrating the Divine Sacrifice and accepting coffee from the parish priest, the Jesuit went straight to his Uncle Turi's home. He had never been there before but knew it was a shack at the very top of the village near Mastro Ciccu the blacksmith's. He soon found it, and as there were no windows and the door was open to let in a little-sun, he stopped on the threshold; in the darkness inside he could see heaps of mules' harness, saddlebags, sacks; Don Turi earned his living as a mule driver, now helped by his son.

"Dorazio!" called Father Pirrone. This was an abbreviation of the form of Deo gratias (agamus) used by clerics asking permission to enter. An old man's voice shouted, "Who is it?" and someone got up at the back of the room and came toward the door. "It's your nephew, Father Saverio Pirrone. I wanted to talk to you if I may."

It was not much of a surprise to Turi; a visit by Father Pirrone or some representative must have been expected for at least two months. Uncle Turi was a vigorous straightbacked old man baked through and through by sun and hail, with the sinister furrows on his face which trouble traces on people who are not good.

"Come in," he said without a smile. He stood aside and even went grudgingly through the action of kissing the priest's hand. Father Pirrone sat down on one of the big wooden saddles. The place looked very wretched indeed: two chickens were grubbing away in a corner, and everything smelled of manure, wet washing, and evil poverty.

"Uncle, we've not met for years, but that's not all my fault; I'm seldom at home, as you know, but you never come near my mother, your sister-in-law; I'm sorry to hear that."

"I'll never set foot in that house again. Just passing it turns my stomach! Turi Pirrone never forgets an injury, even after twenty years!"

"Oh yes, of course, yes indeed. But here I am today like the dove from Noah's Ark, to assure you that the flood is over. I'm very glad to be here and I was very happy yesterday when they told me at home that your son Santino is engaged to my niece Angelina; they are two fine young people, I'm told, and their union will put an end to the quarrel between our families which, if I may say so, has always grieved me."

Turi's face expressed a surprise too obvious not to be false. "If it weren't for your habit, Father, I'd say you were lying. You must have been listening to tales from those females of yours. Santino has never even mentioned Angelina to me; he's far too good a son to go against his father's wish."

The Jesuit admired the old man's astuteness and the smoothness of his lying.

"Apparently, Uncle, I've been misinformed; why, they told me that you'd agreed on the dowry and would both be coming to our place today to make it official. But the nonsense these idle females talk! Even if it's not true, though, it does show what's in those good hearts of theirs. Well, Uncle, there's no point in my staying here; I'm going straight home to reprove my sister. And excuse me, won't you; I'm very pleased to find you so well."

The old man's face was beginning to show a certain greedy interest. "Wait, Father. Give us another laugh with this gossip of yours; what dowry were the females talking of?"

"Oh, I don't know! I think I heard something about half of Chibbapo! 'Ncilina, they said, was very dear to them and no sacrifice was too much to ensure peace in the family! "

Don Turi stopped laughing. He got up. "Santino!" he began bawling as louddy as if calling a recalcitrant mule. And as no one came he shouted louder still, "Santino, Blood of the Madonna, where are you?" Then when he saw Father Pirrone quiver he put a hand over his mouth with a gesture unexpectedly servile.

Santino was seeing to the animals in the little yard. He entered shyly with a whip in his hands. He was a fine-looking lad of twenty-two, tall and slim like his father, with eyes not yet embittered. He had seen the Jesuit pass through the village the day before, as had everyone else, and he recognized him at once. "This is Santino. And this is your cousin Father Saverio Pirrone. You can thank God the Reverend Father is here, or I'd have cut your ears off. What's all this love-making without your own father knowing? Children are born for their parents and not to run after skirts."

The young man looked ashamed, perhaps not because of disobedience but because of his father's past consent, and did not know what to say; he got out of the difficulty by putting his whip on the floor and going to kiss the priest's hand. The latter showed his teeth in a smile and sketched a benediction. "God bless you, my son, though I don't think you deserve it." The old man continued, "As your cousin here has gone on begging me, I've given my consent in the end. Why didn't you tell me before, though? Now clean yourself up and we'll go down to Angelina's now."

"A moment, Uncle, just a moment." It occurred to Father Pirrone that he ought to say a word to the "man of honor," who knew nothing as yet. "Back home they'll be sure to want to get things ready; anyway, they told me they'd be expecting you at seven this evening. Come then, and it'll be a pleasure to see you." And off he went, after embracing father and son. When Father Pirrone got back to the little square house he found his brother-in-law Vicenzino already home, so all he could do to reassure his sister was wink at her from behind her proud husband's back; but as they were both Sicilians that was quite enough. Then he told his brotherin-law that he wanted to talk to him, and the two went off to the scraggy little arbor at the back of the house. The swaying edge of the Jesuit's cassock traced a kind of uncrossable mobile frontier around him; the fat buttocks of the

"man of honor" waggled, perennial symbol of threatening pride. Their conversation was actually quite different from what the priest had foreseen. Once assured of the imminence of 'Ncilina's marriage, the "man of honor" showed complete indifference about what her behavior had been. But at the first mention of a dowry his eyes rolled, the veins in his temples swelled, and the rolling of his gait became more marked; from his mouth came a gurgle of low obscene oaths and announcements of murderous intentions; his hand, which had not made a single gesture in defense of his daughter's honor, began clutching the right pocket of his trousers to show that in defense of his almond trees he was ready to spill the very last drop of other people's blood. Father Pirrone let the stream of abuse run out, merely making quick signs of the Cross at the frequent curses; of the gesture announcing a massacre he took no notice at all. During a pause he put in, "Of course I want to contribute to a general settlement too. You know the private agreement ensuring me the ownership of whatever was due to me from our father's estate? I'll send that back to you from Palermo, torn up."

This balm had an immediate effect. Vicenzino, intent on computing the value of the anticipated inheritance, was silent; and through the cold sunny air came the cracked notes of a song which had suddenly burst from 'Ncilina as she swept out her uncle's room.

In the late afternoon Uncle Turi and Santino came to pay their visit, quite spruced up and wearing very white shirts. The engaged couple sat on chairs side by side and broke out now and again into loud wordless giggles in each other's faces. They were really pleased, she at "settling" herself and having this big handsome male at her disposal, he at following his father's advice and now owning not only half an almond grove but a slave too. And no one now found the red geranium he had put in his buttonhole to be any reflection of hell.

Two days later Father Pirrone left to return to Palermo. As he was jolted along he went over impressions that were not entirely pleasant: that brutish love-affair come to fruition in St. Martin's summer, that wretched half almond grove reacquired by means of calculated courtship, seemed to him the rustic poverty-stricken equivalent of other events recently witnessed. Nobles were reserved and incomprehensible, peasants explicit and clear; but the Devil twisted them both around his little finger all the same. At Villa Salina he found the Prince in excellent spirits. Don Fabrizio asked if he had enjoyed his four days away and if he had remembered to give his mother his, the Prince's, greetings. He knew her, in fact; she had stayed at the villa six years before and pleased both Prince and Princess by her serene widowhood. The Jesuit had entirely forgotten about the greetings and was silent; then he said that his mother and sister had charged him with bearing His Excellency their respects, which as an invention was less grievous a sin than a lie. "Excellency," he added then, "I wanted to ask you if you could give orders for me to have a carriage tomorrow; I must go to the Archbishopric to ask for a dispensation i a niece of mine has got engaged to her cousin."

"Of course, Father Pirrone, of course, if you wish; but I have to go down to Palermo myself the day after tomorrow; you could come with me; or are you really in such a rush?"

6

A Ball

Going to a ball - The ball; entrance of Pallavicino and of the Sedaras - Don Fabrizio's discontent - The ballroom - In the library -
Don Fabrizio dances with Angelica - Supper; conversation with Pallavicino - The ball fades; the return home
NOVEMBER, 1862

The Princess Maria Stella climbed into the carriage, sat down on the blue satin cushions, and gathered around her as many rustling folds of her dress as she could. Meanwhile Concetta and Carolina were also climbing in; they settled down facing her, their identical pink dresses exhaling a faint scent of violets. Then a heavy foot on the running board made the barouche heel over on its high springs; Don Fabrizio was getting in too. The carriage was crammed: waves of silk, ribs of three crinolines, billowed, dashed, entwined almost to the height of their heads; beneath was a tight press of stockings, girls' silken slippers, the Princess's bronze-colored shoes, the Prince's patent-leather pumps; each suffered from the others' feet and could find nowhere to put his own.

The mounting steps were folded, the footman received his orders. "To Palazzo Ponteleone." He got back onto the box, the groom holding the hors& bridles moved aside, the coachman gave an imperceptible dick of his tongue, and the barouche slid into motion.