The Leopard

If someone visited the Salina sisters in 1910, they would probably find a priest’s hat sitting on one of the hall chairs. They are all strong-willed spinsters struggling for household dominance, and each insists on having her own confessor. They also have a private chaplain who celebrates daily mass in their home chapel, a Jesuit who oversees the ladies’ spiritual direction, and regular visits from other alms-seeking priests and monks.

One afternoon in May, there are more hats than usual. An official from the Archdiocese of Palermo is there, along with his secretary, two Jesuits, and the chaplain. The Pope has recently ordered that the archdiocese’s chapels be inspected. This is to ensure that the priests are up to par, that the liturgy is being celebrated properly, and that the relics venerated are actually authentic. The Salina sisters’ chapel is renowned in Palermo, and it’s the first in the Archdiocese to be visited. Rumors have circulated concerning a particular image and dozens of relics, and the chaplain has been reprimanded for not alerting the sisters to possible problems.

The meeting is taking place in the villa’s drawing room, the one with the ornate decorations. Concetta sits on a couch with the Monsignor, while Carolina and Caterina (the latter in a wheelchair) and assorted priests sit nearby. The sisters are all over 70. Though not the eldest, Concetta is the most formidable and still has traces of youthful beauty, as well as an authoritarian demeanor. The conversation takes an hour. Carolina is offended that the Salina chapel will be examined first, and a reference to the Pope doesn’t placate her; she quietly suspects that she is more pious than him. The Monsignor and the priests, smiling, praise the sisters’ childlike faith and the holy atmosphere in which they were raised, thanks to the saintly Father Pirrone.

After the Prince’s death, the villa had become the property of the three sisters. They decided to establish an oratory in the drawing room, because its columns made it look a bit like a basilica. (They got rid of the pagan fresco on the ceiling.) When the Monsignor goes inside, in order to preview the chapel’s contents for the Archbishop, he immediately sees the subject of some of the rumors: a painting above the altar. It features an attractive brunette woman with bare shoulders gazing heavenward, holding a crumpled letter in her hand, in front of an Italian landscape. There’s no infant Jesus, or any other symbols normally associated with the Virgin Mary. The Monsignor praises the painting’s beauty but refrains from crossing himself. Carolina claims that the painting is miraculous: it shows Mary holding a holy letter invoking Christ’s protection over the people of Messina. She says that miracles during a recent earthquake prove the existence of this protection.

The Monsignor then turns to the 74 relics covering the walls beside the altar. Each is framed along with documentation of its authenticity. The sisters, especially Carolina, have spent years collecting them, dealing with a woman named Donna Rosa who collects the relics from old churches and families and then re-sells them; she always provides meticulous proof of authenticity written in Latin or (she claims) Greek or Syriac. The Monsignor hurriedly praises the collection and leaves with the other priests. The Monsignor rides in a carriage with Father Titta, the chaplain. After a while, the Monsignor asks the chaplain if he has truly been saying Mass in front of that painting, which he must know is not a holy image. The chaplain defends himself that it isn’t easy to go against Carolina.

Concetta retreats to her neat, orderly bedroom. Though a visitor wouldn’t notice, Concetta feels that the room is stuffed with “mummified memories.” Four big cases contain Concetta’s unused wedding trousseau, now grown yellowed and damp. The paintings and photographs show people and places no longer known or loved, including properties sold off. And the ragged rug on the floor, if one looks closely, is actually the stuffed remains of Bendicò, who died 45 years ago. The servants have been begging her to throw it out, but she won’t—it’s the only family artifact with no upsetting associations.

Concetta understands the Monsignor’s implications. It doesn’t really bother her if the relics are removed; she’d always bought them to appease her more devout sisters. But she knows that this will mean a decline in the Salina family’s reputation in the eyes of the Church and the whole city. Her name no longer has prestige, and the family no longer has much money, but the Salinas had held onto their reputation for piety.

A maid informs Concetta that the Princess Angelica has arrived for a visit, so Concetta gathers herself and greets her friend and cousin warmly. Angelica, almost 70, is still beautiful and vibrant. She tells Concetta about her service on the committee to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the March of the Thousand, in Tancredi’s memory. She has gotten Fabrizietto to agree to march in the parade, representing the Salinas. Angelica also has an invitation for a grandstand seat, which she gives to Concetta, since she was Tancredi’s favorite cousin.

Angelica says that Senator Tassoni, Tancredi’s old friend and fellow soldier, is visiting for the festivities; he wants to stop by to meet Concetta, since Tancredi spoke of her so often. Concetta falls silent, remembering Tassoni’s presence at the dinner table in Donnafugata. He’d been mentioned in Tancredi’s crude joke about breaking into the convent—what she considers to have been the turning point in her life.

Soon after, Senator Tassoni arrives, a handsome, energetic, wealthy old man who’s never lost his soldier’s bearing. He greets Concetta warmly, saying that meeting her is a dream come true; he feels he already knows her, since Tancredi spoke of her so often. Shyly, Concetta asks what sorts of things Tancredi used to say. Tassoni says that, to Tancredi, Concetta was the very image of love. In fact, 10 years ago, Tancredi had confided in him an “unpardonable sin” he’d once committed against her—telling her a made-up war story. Concetta’s indignation, Tancredi had said, made him want to kiss her.

The conversation goes on, but Concetta remembers little of it. Slowly, the story begins to sink in, and her heart suffers as a 50-year-old wound reopens. Since that summer at Donnafugata, she had always felt wronged and resentful. Now those feelings collapse; it was she who had been wrong because of her Salina pride. If this is true, she’s spent her life resenting the Prince and hiding pictures of Tancredi for no reason. Concetta had misunderstood Tancredi’s desire to enter the convent—he’d been making a loving overture to her, but she’d been blind to it.

The Cardinal of Palermo, a holy man, is not a Sicilian. He has struggled for years against the abuses he finds in Palermo. Eventually, he realizes that his efforts are for nothing; it’s foolish to try to change the stubborn, sluggish Sicilian character, which he finds constantly resistant to change or effort. He has become disillusioned. When the Cardinal visits the Salina villa, the sisters are disappointed by his cold politeness; they can tell that he doesn’t respect their devotions. After a quick examination of the chapel, the Cardinal informs Concetta that it must be reconsecrated, and the painting removed. He leaves behind his secretary to study the rest of the relics collection. Concetta takes the news calmly, while Carolina is enraged and Caterina grows faint.

The cardinal’s secretary, Don Pacchiotti, is a scholar of paleography. He takes his time examining the relics and their documentation, emerging hours later covered with dust and looking satisfied. He carries a basket filled with the inauthentic relics, which have no value; five of these, he says, are legitimate.

After the priest leaves, Concetta retires to her room, feeling numb. A little later, she receives a warm letter from Angelica, conveying Tassoni’s greetings. Still feeling blank, Concetta summons her maid. The smelly, moth-eaten remains of Bendicò are bothering her as never before; she tells the maid to get rid of the thing at last. Soon, the rug is flung into a corner of the courtyard. Mid-air, it briefly looks like a whiskered leopard with one foreleg raised, as if cursing someone. Then it falls at last into a heap of dust.