This little surprise drove away his boredom. “Here,” thought he to himself, “is a fine-looking fellow, for whom I shall be asked God knows what favours—all and any that are at my disposal. He has just arrived; he must feel some emotion. I’ll try a little Jacobinism, and we shall see what kind of answers he’ll give.”
After the first few gracious words spoken by the prince, “Well, monsignore,” said he to Fabrizio, “are the inhabitants of Naples happy? Is the King beloved?”
“Most Serene Highness,” replied Fabrizio, without a moment’s hesitation, “as I passed along the streets I used to admire the excellent demeanour of the soldiers of his Majesty’s various regiments. All good society is respectful, as it should be, to its masters; but I confess I have never in my life permitted people of the lower class to speak to me of anything but the labour for which I pay them.”
“The deuce!” thought the prince; “what a priestling! Here’s a well-trained bird! The Sanseverina’s own wit!” Thoroughly piqued, the prince used all his skill to draw Fabrizio into talk upon this risky subject. The young man, stimulated by the danger of his position, was lucky enough to find admirable answers. “To put forward one’s love for one’s king,” said he, “is almost an insolence. What we owe him is blind obedience.” The sight of so much prudence almost made the prince angry. “This young man from Naples seems to be a clever fellow, and I don’t like the breed. It’s all very well for a clever man to behave according to the best principles, and even to believe in them honestly—somehow or other he is always sure to be first cousin to Voltaire and Rousseau!”
The prince felt there was a sort of defiance of himself in the correct manners and unassailable answers of this youth just leaving college; things were by no means turning out as he had foreseen. In the twinkling of an eye he changed his tone to one of simple good-nature, and going back, in a few words, to the great principles of society and government, he reeled off, applying them to the occasion, certain sentences from Fénelon which had been taught him in his childhood for use at public audiences.
“These principles surprise you, young man,” said he to Fabrizio (he had addressed him as monsignore at the beginning of the audience, and proposed to repeat the title when he dismissed him, but during the course of the conversation he considered it more skilful and more favourable to the development of the feelings to use a more intimate and friendly term), “these principles, young man, surprise you. I confess they have no close resemblance with the slices of absolutism (he used the very words) which are served up every day in my official newspaper. But, good God! why do I quote that to you? You know nothing of the writers in that paper!”
“I beg your Most Serene Highness’s pardon. Not only do I read the Parma newspaper, which seems to me fairly well written, but I share its opinion, that everything which has been done since the death of Louis XIV in 1715, is at once a folly and a crime. Man’s foremost interest is his own salvation—there can not be two opinions on that score—and that bliss is to last for all eternity. The words liberty, justice, happiness of the greatest number, are infamous and criminal; they give men’s minds a habit of discussion and disbelief. A Chamber of Deputies mistrusts what those people call the ministry. Once that fatal habit of distrust is contracted, human weakness applies it to everything. Man ends by distrusting the Bible, the commands of the Church, tradition, etc., and thenceforward he is lost. Even supposing—and it is horribly false and criminal to say it—this distrust of the authority of the princes set up by God could insure happiness during the twenty or thirty years of life on which each of us may reckon, what is half a century, or even a whole century, compared with an eternity of torment?”
The manner in which Fabrizio spoke showed that he was endeavouring to arrange his ideas so that his auditor might grasp them as easily as possible. He was evidently not repeating a lesson by rote.
Soon the prince ceased to care about coping with the young man, whose grave and simple manner made him feel uncomfortable.
“Farewell, monsignore,” he said abruptly. “I see that the education given in the Ecclesiastical Academy at Naples is an admirable one, and it is quite natural that when these excellent teachings are sown in so distinguished an intelligence, brilliant results should be obtained. Farewell!” And he turned his back on him.