by Felix Salten
“Perhaps he does know you?” the Archduke enquired more sharply.
“How could he possibly know me?” she exclaimed in amusement.
“Well,” continued the Archduke dubiously, “the brute disappears every other moment and no one knows where he goes.”
Peretti had now come up and made a stiff bow to the company. Captain Ercole da Moreno followed slowly behind, while Peppina stood glancing with laughing eyes from one to the other, her pretty face seeming to say: “I know a thing or two!” A little further off stood Caligula, the mulatto.
Niccolo Torricella pointed carelessly to Peretti, without even looking at him. “This gentleman here, Your Imperial Highness,” his apathetic voice was heard to say, “is Count Alessandro Peretti.”
Peretti again bowed stiffly and was on the point of saying something. But the Archduke, not deigning to look at him, turned to the Captain.
“Were you not dining with us the other day?” he asked. “I seem to have met you before, in Madrid. Am I not right? At the Infanta’s. I was only a child in those days.”
Ercole da Moreno nodded, a smile, as usual, playing about his handsome ruddy face and dark eyes. He gave a military salute, holding out his hat at arm’s length, but as he did so, he staggered and almost fell, as the dog, overjoyed at seeing him, ran between his legs.
“Cambyses!” cried the Archduke. The dog immediately dashed back, and stood quivering with excitement. Boisterously wagging his tail from side to side, he stood in front of Claudia and the Captain, looking affectionately up at them.
“How do you come to know Cambyses?” the Archduke enquired suspiciously of the Captain.
“Your Grace,” exclaimed Claudia, coming forward and interrupting, “I think I understand the dog. Cambyses, isn’t he?—a lovely name.” She was standing close to the Archduke, looking into his eyes as she spoke, as though they were alone. “I think I understand Cambyses. He is exceptionally intelligent, more intelligent than any dog I have ever known. Of course he does not know either the Captain or me, but he does know who is welcome to his master . . .” and she cast a quick disdainful glance at Count Peretti.
A faint flush slowly spread over the Archduke’s gaunt cheeks. He was breathing through his mouth, with his face close to Claudia’s, while a film seemed to spread over his watery blue eyes. “You are indeed very welcome to me,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Although surrounded by their retinue the two were now to all intents and purposes alone. For the others held aloof so as not to overhear what the Archduke was whispering in Claudia’s ear.
“What a magnificent dog!” exclaimed Peretti at the top of his voice to each of the gentlemen in turn. “What a perfectly wonderful dog! I have never seen such a dog in my life. I don’t believe such a dog has ever been seen in Italy before!”
Niccolo Torricella was gazing beneath his bored half-closed lids toward the Arno while Ugolino glanced in stupefaction from Peretti to the dog and from the dog to Peretti. But the latter had no intention of holding his tongue. It was all too plain that he was trying to divert the attention of the party from the Archduke and Claudia and was doing his best to conceal the humiliation of his own presence among them.
“Where are such dogs to be found?” he enquired, turning to Count Waltersburg. “I should be extremely interested to know where your master got this beautiful dog.”
“Cambyses comes from Russia,” replied Waltersburg with a polite and condescending smile at Peretti. “Possibly from Persia—I am not quite sure.”
“Do call him, please. I should like to have a closer look at him.”
“Cambyses!” cried Waltersburg. But the dog did not seem to have heard.
“Apparently he does not think much of you!” exclaimed Peretti with an ill-natured laugh.
Waltersburg lost patience. “Pointner!” he cried, turning toward the place where the horses were standing, “make the dog come here.”
Pointner whistled, without approaching the Archduke, and brought the dog forward as soon as he had timidly obeyed his summons.
Clumsily Peretti began patting the dog’s back. But with a snarl the animal raised his lip, making wrinkles in his nose, and showed his teeth in such a savage manner that Peretti stepped back terrified. Seeing the others smiling, he gave an embarrassed laugh. “Will he go into the water?” he asked, suddenly picking up a stick he found lying on the bank.
Waltersburg glanced at Pointner.
“I don’t know,” replied Pointner.
“Do make him fetch this stick out of the water!” begged Peretti.
Pointner took the stick and went down the side of the bank, calling the dog. But the animal refused to follow him.
“Fetch it, Cambyses! Fetch it!” cried Pointner, waving the stick. But the dog stood still, refusing to take any interest, while Pointner held the stick to his nose, spat on it and continued to wave it about.
“Well, throw it!” insisted Peretti.
And Pointner flung it far into the water. It flashed through the air, splashed down into the water, and floated slowly away with the current. The dog had craned his neck to watch the stick as it flew through the air, and then stood still on the edge of the bank, looking anxiously at it floating away. Pointner pushed him along, catching hold of his hind quarters and shoving him forward to drive him into the water; but the dog, stiffening his forepaws, resolutely refused to budge.
Casting dignity to the winds, Peretti lost his temper. “You let the dog make fools of you all!” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh.
“Fetch it, Cambyses!” cried Pointner angrily.
“Such a huge dog and frightened of going into an inch of water!” cried Peretti scornfully. “It’s ridiculous!”
“You damned rascal, go in, will you!” growled Pointner.
“Seize him by the scruff of the neck and fling him in!” roared Peretti.
Waltersburg waved toward the place where the horses were standing and two grooms hurried up.
The dog was lying flat on the ground. Pulling him up roughly, they swung him like a sack and flung him far into the river. He turned a somersault, saw the world about him—the river, the bank, the people on it, and everything—turn round and round, and was suddenly swallowed up as he fell in a dark, gurgling abyss. He struck out with his paws, rose to the surface, and swam, but was carried away by the current. Nevertheless, dazed though he was, terrified out of his wits, and struggling for breath, he managed to reach the bank. He clambered exhausted up the slope, shook himself, sending a cloud of spray flying all round him, and dropped shivering on the grass.
“Again!” shouted Peretti, “do it again! He didn’t bring the stick back!”
The grooms were just going to fetch the dog, who was lying a little way off, at the spot where he had come ashore, when Ercole da Moreno called out, “No, that will do!”
Everybody looked round at him, but Peretti went on shouting and blustering: “Quick, over there! What are you staring at? Quick, run . . . ! Throw him in again!”
“No, that will do!” repeated the Captain calmly.
“He shall bring back that stick! I insist!” spluttered Peretti, his thick neck bulging with indignation.
The Captain glanced at him without turning his head.
“Quick! That stick! I insist!” cried Peretti, his voice growing louder as his anger rose.
“Go and fetch it yourself!” The words were calm enough, but the tone in which they were uttered was low and fierce.
“What did you say, Moreno?” exclaimed Peretti, whisking round sharply and making a dash at the Captain. What little serenity he had left had vanished. He was purple in the face.
Count Waltersburg watched the two men with polite interest. Niccolo Torricella turned apathetically away, while an expression of stupefaction spread over young Ugolino Corsini’s fat face.
“What did you say, M
oreno?”
The Captain looked down at Peretti. There was an angry flash in the eyes beneath the bushy white eyebrows.
“I say that will do! . . . for the last time!” Suddenly turning pale to the lips, Peretti gave a short laugh and left the spot without wishing anyone farewell.
• • •
Brother Serafio stopped painting. In front of him, on the platform, stood the cherubic boy who was posing as a model for the youthful John the Baptist. But the monk was looking at Lucas, who was sitting beside him, lost in thought. After he had looked at him for a few minutes in silence, Brother Serafio went on painting. Then he stopped again. “All right, Giuseppe,” he said to his model, “I’ll call you again later on.” The boy sprang down from the platform and immediately busied himself about the studio. Lucas had noticed nothing.
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
Lucas made a faint movement as though he were waking out of sleep. There was something in the ring of the monk’s voice that brought comfort to his soul. He had not grasped what he said; the tone of voice alone had caught his ear, and his heart opened out to him.
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” Serafio repeated.
Lucas nodded.
“Can I help you?”
Lucas shook his head.
“Is life such a burden to you, Lucas?” the gentle voice continued.
“I am not living a life,” whispered Lucas with a break in his voice.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I am waiting . . .” replied Lucas as though he were talking to himself.
“What are you waiting for?”
“Waiting to be allowed to be a man again.” As the words left his lips Lucas felt overcome with despair.
“But what are you now?”
“An animal!” he burst out, but immediately shrank back in terror, pressing his hand nervously to his mouth.
Serafio gazed long and anxiously at him. “Listen, Lucas,” he said at last. As the young man did not answer, he added: “Will you listen to what I have to say?”
Lucas was still holding his hand to his mouth, as though to dam a flood of confidences.
“Don’t you wish me to speak to you?”
“Yes, go on!” groaned the other in anguish.
“Well then, Lucas,” continued the monk, “if your trouble should ever become greater than you can bear, come to me. And come to me too if your heart feels lighter. You are alone. Treat me as a brother and come to me.”
The soft note of tenderness in the monk’s voice soothed Lucas. “Reverend brother . . .” he stammered.
“No, not reverend,” interrupted Serafio, “just brother . . . and come whenever you like.”
He began to paint again.
The silence that ensued was suddenly interrupted by the sound of Cesare Bandini’s voice. “Rossellino! What happened at Claudia’s last night?”
Lucas pricked up his ears. The monk buried himself in his work. Rossellino went on modelling with wild violent movements. “Have you heard already?”
“Filippo was talking about it a moment ago in the garden,” replied Bandini carelessly. “I happened to catch something as I passed.”
“Apparently they fell out only yesterday afternoon,” said Rossellino with a gruff laugh, “out there along the Arno. The Archduke was there and Claudia too. They say they came to blows over the Archduke’s dog. I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“But you were there in the evening, weren’t you?” enquired Bandini.
Rossellino flung on the wet clay with a resounding smack. “Yes, by God! It was gorgeous! Peretti was more self-assertive than ever—you know what he is! Ercole sat as still as a statue. We were waiting for his song. But he did not sing. Then all of a sudden he called out, ‘That’ll do!’ in a tone of command. Everybody looked at him. Peretti, who was just going to kiss Claudia, shrunk back as if he had been stung. Ercole nodded in his direction. He sat there quite calmly and nodded at him. ‘Yes, I mean you, Peretti. . . . We’ve had enough of you. Clear out!’ He spoke quite calmly. But everybody could see that he was boiling over. We were all terrified out of our wits and Claudia went pale as death.”
Bandini whistled.
“Peretti went pale too,” Rossellino continued. “‘Are you mad?’ he bawled at the Captain, or rather, he tried to bawl, but his voice gave way. ‘No, I’m not mad,’ said Ercole. ‘I say we’ve had enough of you! Clear out! We’ve put up with you too long, you dirty beast!’ That was frank enough, Bandini, frank enough in all conscience . . . and we all felt a cold shudder go down our spines. Claudia burst into loud sobs, and Peretti . . . well, the whole thing happened in a flash. Peretti seized the table and was just going to jump across it and fall upon Ercole when suddenly the Captain flung his goblet at his face and struck him square between the eyes. Peretti dropped like a felled ox, and lay stiff as a board across the table. They had to carry him away—Caligula and the others.”
Again Bandini whistled. “Good!” he exclaimed. “Excellent!” And he roared with laughter. “But Ercole had better look out now,” he added after a while, clicking his tongue. And he burst out into fresh roars of laughter. “Splendid! I wish I had been there to see it!”
Lucas was burning with excitement. The monk was buried in his work.
“Dirty beast!” exclaimed Bandini in high delight. “Yes, that’s the word . . . that’s . . .”
“Hush!” growled Rossellino. “The Captain’s here!”
The glass door was gently opened, and greeting everybody with an air of complete innocence, Ercole da Moreno went over to his chair and quietly took his seat. Giuseppe immediately hurried up to him with paints, brushes and a palette.
For some minutes all was quiet. Then suddenly there was a murmur of voices all speaking at once in the garden. “Claudia’s coming!” cried little Giuseppe in high glee from a corner of the studio.
Lucas closed his eyes. He could see himself on the moonlit terrace, and he felt hot all over as he had done two days previously, when Claudia had waited for him, and he had been forced to go. He did not notice that the monk at his side had left his work and vanished. All he could hear was Bandini calling out in delight, “I wonder whether Peretti is with her today. What do you think, Ercole?”
The Captain made no reply.
But for Caligula, the mulatto, who remained outside the door, Claudia was alone. She was wearing a dark dress and a subdued colored cloak, and her expression as she advanced toward Bandini was quiet and timid.
“Let me stay here a little while,” she begged. “I want to be near you . . . today. . . .”
Her eyes fell on Lucas, who gazed up beseechingly at her. But she only drew herself up proudly and her sweet face hardened into an expression of angry contempt. Turning haughtily round she wandered slowly in and out among the statues, easels and furniture. By a roundabout course she at length, and apparently quite by chance, reached the Captain’s armchair.
“My friend,” she whispered, stopping behind it, “my friend. . . . He’ll never come to me again. . . . He ought never to have been allowed to come at all. . . . This morning I sent him word that he was never to let his face be seen in my house again. Do you hear . . . my friend?”
Leaning back, the Captain looked up at Claudia and smiled. She glided up to him and kissed him on his ruddy brow just where his thick tuft of snow-white hair shot up. Then she quickly left his side.
Stopping at the door, she turned her head to Lucas, her eyes flashing. “As for you, sir,” she exclaimed haughtily, “I want a word with you.”
Lucas sprang up and followed her with leaden feet. All he heard as he left the studio was a short whistle from Bandini.
Claudia crossed the courtyard and went into the garden without looking round. Lucas followed. They passed by the others. Filippo Volta looked up from his work to gaze acro
ss at them. The mulatto, Caligula, followed slowly some distance behind.
When they were under the thick overhanging foliage of the pergola, Claudia turned round so suddenly that Lucas almost fell into her arms as he staggered forward.
“You!” she cried in shrill tones, panting audibly. Her burning face was quite close to his. “You! So you spurned me, did you?”
Lucas could read the uncertainty beneath her threatening tone. It was not her anger that upset him, but this painful uncertainty which, despite her efforts to conceal it lurked in her eyes and the corners of her mouth.
Dropping on his knees, he buried his head in her dress and sobbed aloud, his despair making him oblivious of all else.
Claudia bent over him aghast.
“Hush, for heaven’s sake!” she murmured in frightened tones, putting her hand over his mouth. “Child! . . . Hush!”
Lucas pulled himself together, but his shoulders and back were still heaving. She raised him to his feet. “Now tell me!” she said, speaking more gently, though she was still puzzled and astonished. “I waited for you—why did you not come?”
“I can’t tell you,” he replied, gazing at her, his features distorted with woe. “I really cannot.” He was beside himself and his whisper sounded like a shriek of agony. “I really cannot tell you . . . but I am dying of love for you!”
She clasped him to her bosom. He could feel her kiss on his lips, and holding her close in his arms he forgot all else.
“When will you come?” she asked.
He kissed her shoulders and her neck. “Today,” he whispered between the kisses, “Today!” She struggled to release herself and afraid that the movement meant a refusal, he held her fast. “Today—today!” he implored.
Gently Claudia freed herself from his embrace. “No, not today,” she said, smiling graciously at him. “It cannot be today . . . but tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” And the light went out from his eyes.
She tried to comfort him. “Well then . . . the day after tomorrow . . .” and she gazed at him in astonishment. . . . “Either the day after tomorrow or at any rate soon. Good-bye.” And opening the little gate in the garden wall, she slipped out into the street.
