«You tell me you have to deal with so many expenses, but how do you manage on the little you had when you left Genoa? Are you using the money you impounded at Marsala?»
«That was small change. No, no, as soon as we arrived in Palermo, the general sent Crispi to draw money from the Bank of the Two Sicilies.»
«Yes, I heard. There was talk of five million ducats …»
At that point the poet became the general’s trusted deputy once again. He gazed up at the sky. «They say all sorts of things, you know. But you must remember the donations from patriots throughout Italy and, I should say, throughout Europe—and write that in your newspaper in Turin, for those who haven’t been keeping up with events. But the most difficult business is keeping the books in order, because when this officially becomes the Kingdom of Italy I’ll have to hand everything over to His Majesty’s government, accounting for every cent.»
And what will you do with those millions from the English Masons, I thought to myself. Or perhaps you, Garibaldi and Cavour are all agreed—the money’s there but not to be talked about.
Then again, perhaps the money’s there and you know nothing about it—you’re the front man, the virtuous little fellow whom they (whoever they are) are using as a cover, and you imagine all these battles have been won by the grace of God alone. I still wasn’t clear about the man. The only note of sincerity I found in his words was his bitter regret that while, over those weeks, the volunteers had been heading, victory after victory, toward the eastern coast and preparing to cross the strait into Calabria and on to Naples, he had been ordered to remain behind the lines, keeping the accounts in Palermo, and he was champing at the bit. Some people are like that. Instead of being thankful that fate had offered him fine sherbets and pretty women, he wanted his cloak to be peppered with more bullets.
I have heard it said that over a billion people inhabit this earth. I don’t know how anyone could count them, but from one look around Palermo it’s quite clear that there are too many of us and that we’re already stepping on each other’s toes. And most people smell. There isn’t sufficient food. Just imagine if there were any more of us. We therefore have to cull the population. True, there are plagues and suicides, capital punishment, those who challenge each other to duels and who get pleasure from riding at breakneck speed through woods and meadows. I’ve even heard of English gentlemen who go swimming in the sea and, of course, drown. But it is not enough.
Wars are the most effective and natural way imaginable for stemming the increase in human numbers. Once upon a time, when people went off to war, didn’t they say it was God’s will? But to do so, you need people who want to fight. If no one wants to fight, no one will die. Then wars would be pointless. So it’s vital to have men like Nievo, Abba and Bandi who want to throw themselves in the line of fire. Others like me can then live without being harassed by so many people breathing down our necks.
In other words, although I don’t like them, we do need noble-spirited souls.
Next I called on La Farina, presenting my letter of introduction.
«If you’re expecting me to give you some good news to send to Turin,» he said, «you can forget it. There’s no government here. Garibaldi and Bixio think they’re in charge of Genoese people like them, not Sicilians like me. In a country that has no conscription, they actually thought they could call up thirty thousand men. In many towns there were serious revolts. They’ve decreed that all former royal officials are disqualified from local councils, but they are the only ones who can read and write. The other day some rabid anticlericalists suggested burning down the public library because it had been founded by Jesuits.
The governor of Palermo is a youngster called Marcilepre, of whom no one’s ever heard. In inland areas, crimes of every kind are being committed, and those who should be keeping order are often murderers themselves—control is now in the hands of out-and-out brigands. Garibaldi is an honest man but unable to see what is happening under his nose. From a single consignment of horses requisitioned in the province of Palermo, two hundred have disappeared! Permission to assemble a battalion is given to anyone who asks, so we have some battalions, complete with brass band and officers, with only forty or fifty soldiers at most! The same job is given to three or four people.
All of the judges in Sicily have been sacked, and the civil, criminal and commercial courts have been replaced with military commissions that judge everything and everyone, as in the time of the Huns. Crispi and his band say that Garibaldi doesn’t want civilian courts because judges and lawyers can’t be trusted, that he doesn’t want a parliament because its members use the pen rather than the sword, that he doesn’t want a police force because citizens must arm and defend themselves. I have no idea whether this is true—I’m no longer able to confer with the general.»
On the 7th of July I heard that La Farina had been arrested and sent back to Turin on Garibaldi’s orders, evidently urged on by Crispi. Cavour no longer has an informer. All will depend, then, on my report.
It’s pointless now to dress as a priest to collect information: there’s plenty of gossip in the taverns, and it’s sometimes the volunteers themselves who complain how badly things are going. I hear that around fifty of the Sicilians who enlisted with Garibaldi’s men when they arrived in Palermo have deserted, some taking their weapons with them. «They’re peasants who flare up like straw and quickly tire,» explains Abba. The council of war passes death sentences on them but then lets them wander off where they choose, provided it’s far away. I try to understand the true feelings of these people.
The excitement that prevails throughout Sicily is entirely dependent on the fact that this land is godforsaken, sun-scorched and waterless (apart from the sea), with a few prickly fruits. Then, in a country where nothing had happened for centuries, Garibaldi and his followers arrive. It’s not that the people support him, or that they still support the king whom Garibaldi is overthrowing. They are simply intoxicated by the fact that something different is going on—and everyone interprets «different» as they please. Perhaps this great wind of change is just a south wind that will lull everyone back to sleep.
(30th July) Nievo, with whom I have now become quite friendly, confides in me that Garibaldi has received a formal letter from Vittorio Emanuele ordering him not to cross the strait. But the order is accompanied by a secret message from the king, saying more or less: «I wrote the first message to you as king, but now I’m advising you to reply that you’d like to follow my advice but your duty to Italy prevents you from making any effort not to help the people of Naples when they appeal to you to liberate them.» The king is double bluffing, but against whom? Against Cavour? Or against Garibaldi himself, whom first he orders not to cross to the mainland, then encourages to cross…and after he has done so, the king will punish him for his disobedience by marching his troops from Piedmont down to Naples?
«The general is too naive, he’ll fall into a trap,» says Nievo. «I’d like to be with him, but it’s my duty to stay here.»
This man is highly intelligent, but I’ve realized he too is fired by adoration for Garibaldi. In a moment of weakness he let me see a slim volume of his poetry that had just arrived, titled Amori garibaldini, printed up north without his being able to check the proofs.
«I hope my readers will allow me in my role as hero to be a bit of a brute. Here they’ve done all they can to demonstrate this by leaving a number of shameful printing errors.»
I read one of his compositions, dedicated to Garibaldi, and have come to the conclusion that Nievo must indeed be a bit of a brute:
In his eyes such strange appeal
It fills each mind with splendor
That people feel the urge to kneel
And incline their heads in prayer.
Around the crowded city squares,
Courteous, human as he passes
Tending his hand left and right
To the assembled lasses.
Everyone here is going mad over this bowlegged little man.
In his eyes such strange appeal / It fills each mind with splendor / That people feel the urge to kneel / And incline their heads in prayer.
(12th August) When I visit Nievo to ask whether it is true what they say about Garibaldi and his men having landed on the coast of Calabria, I find him in low spirits, almost in tears. News has reached him from Turin that there are unpleasant rumors
