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