here is of Italian subtlety.
A whole year has passed since first I set eyes on veiled Umberto. And
Umberto is still veiled.

And veiled for more than a whole year, as I now know, had Umberto been
before my coming. Four years before that, the municipal council, it
seems, had voted the money for him. His father, of sensational memory,
was here already, in the middle of the main piazza, of course. And
Garibaldi was hard by; so was Mazzini; so was Cavour. Umberto was
still implicit in a block of marble, high upon one of the mountains of
Carrara. The task of educing him was given to a promising young sculptor
who lived here. Down came the block of marble, and was transported to
the studio of the promising young sculptor; and out, briskly enough,
mustachios and all, came Umberto. He looked very regal, I am sure, as
he stood glaring around with his prominent marble eyeballs, and snuffing
the good fresh air of the world as far as might be into shallow marble
nostrils. He looked very authoritative and fierce and solemn, I am sure.
He made, anyhow, a deep impression on the mayor and councillors, and
the only question was as to just where he should be erected. The granite
pedestal had already been hewn and graven; but a worthy site was to
seek. Outside the railway station? He would obstruct the cabs. In the
Giardino Pubblico? He would clash with Garibaldi. Every councillor had a
pet site, and every other one a pet objection to it. That strip of waste
ground where the fishermen sat pottering? It was too humble, too far
from the centre of things. Meanwhile, Umberto stayed in the studio.
Dust settled on his epaulettes. A year went by. Spiders ventured to
spin their webs from his plumes to his mustachios. Another year went
by. Whenever the councillors had nothing else to talk about they talked
about the site for Umberto.

Presently they became aware that among the poorer classes of the town
had arisen a certain hostility to the statue. The councillors suspected
that the priesthood had been at work. The forces of reaction against the
forces of progress! Very well! The councillors hurriedly decided that
the best available site, on the whole, was that strip of waste ground
where the fishermen sat pottering. The pedestal was promptly planted.
Umberto was promptly wrapped up, put on a lorry, wheeled to the place,
and hoisted into position. The date of the unveiling was fixed. The
mayor I am told, had already composed his speech, and was g