‘I was in love, or thought I was in love.’
‘You weren’t thinking of her dowry?’
‘No.’
‘And why didn’t you marry?’
‘She didn’t love me.’
‘Ungrateful wretch.’
‘It wasn’t her fault.’
‘How magnanimous!’
‘And also . . .’ He hesitated.
‘What?’
‘It was for the best.’
‘And do you still love her?’ Paola put the question intently: again, looking directly into his eyes.
‘No. And she is now married to someone else.’
*
Paola had changed since Scarpia had first met her; though she still walked with the bouncy gait of an adolescent, her slightly scrawny form had filled out and her eyes, skin and hair were all flawless. She seemed to disdain fine and fashionable clothes, but nonetheless wore them, and appeared at the grander conversazioni bejewelled and with intricately dressed hair. It was the consensus among the Roman matrons who sat in judgement on matters of this kind that she was among the three most beautiful girls available for a young nobleman looking for a wife. Even Letizia di Comastri, who did not think of herself as a matron but certainly contributed towards the consensus, remarked on how Paola di Marcisano’s looks had improved. ‘Don’t you think so?’ she asked Scarpia.
‘Yes, she has grown from a girl into a woman.’
‘You seem to go quite frequently to the Palazzo Marcisano.’
‘Only in the hope of seeing you there.’
‘Last Thursday, you knew I wouldn’t be there, yet you went all the same.’
‘I like Ludovico.’
‘Of course, Ludovico. I am sure. And Paola has nothing to do with it.’
‘Nothing. Though she is sometimes amusing.’
‘And I am not?’
‘You are far more amusing and experienced.’
‘Experienced! You mean old!’ As she said this, Letizia pulled up the sheet to cover her breasts because the two were lying naked on a bed in a small apartment provided by the contessa’s cicisbeo buono, Prince Paducci. The breasts were in fact a perfect shape and size; Letizia had not risked deforming them by feeding her two children herself; but it was true that Scarpia had, once or twice, compared the slightly looser skin and faint lines of her face with the fresh figure and features of a younger woman such as Paola di Marcisano. He had found that, with love, l’appétit vient en mangeant, and was attracted to other women; but he considered it would be dishonourable to betray Letizia, and could not envisage a more delightful lover – affectionate, animated and, as he had so ineptly put it, experienced – deftly, discreetly and, without any overt immodesty, guiding his hands and lips to different parts of her body – intimating, with gentle gestures, what pleased her most.
Scarpia did not like to think about the source of this experience, but once asked her, after she had introduced him to a variation on the standard act of love, whether she had learned it from her husband.
‘Alfredo? No . . . at least, yes, because he had of course had lovers before we were married.’
‘And since?’
‘I do not ask. And nor does he. It is not done.’
‘But you must be curious, surely, where his appetites are satisfied if not at home?’
‘His appetites . . . Oh, you know, he’s now quite an old man. He doesn’t bother me, I can assure you, if that’s what you’re worried about. But really, Vitellio, you shouldn’t put such questions. It shows you’re not a Roman.’
Scarpia reined in the jealousy that posed as curiosity, but could not prevent himself raising questions in his own mind, even if they were not put to Letizia. That quick change from a ‘no’ to a ‘yes’ after he asked if her experience had come from her husband: a ‘no’ would mean, of course, that it had come from someone else, but who? He had heard of no previous cicisbeo credible in the role of her lover. Had the Chevalier Spinelli been demoted from il bello to il brutto? Unlikely, unless his preference for young men was a recent development. And what of il buono, Prince Paducci, who paid Letizia’s gambling debts, gave her expensive trinkets and, without any exchange of words, had given Scarpia the key to the beautifully furnished apartment with bamboo-patterned wallpaper where he and Letizia now met? Scarpia could not believe that even a Roman would arrange a love nest for a successor. No, Prince Paducci was the same age as Letizia’s father. He admired her as he might a painting or a china figurine, and his affection for her was avuncular.
Yet even if Scarpia acknowledged that, as Letizia had reminded him, he was a provincial, unacquainted with the subtle, sometimes paradoxical and even mysterious bonds between sophisticated Romans, he nevertheless remained perplexed by that which existed between his mistress and her elderly admirer. Why, if the Count di Comastri was so rich, did his wife need money from the prince to pay her debts? Why, if he got nothing in return, did he give her an amethyst ring on her name day or a small gold-framed looking glass without even the excuse that the gift was to mark a special occasion? And why, on receiving these expensive trinkets, did Letizia do so with such a bad grace?
‘You don’t seem to like the prince,’ he once said to her.
‘Oh, he’s all right. I feel sorry for him. He hates his wife and children and they hate him. Life has disappointed him. All that money, and nothing to spend it on . . . except me!’ She darted a smile at Scarpia. ‘But old people . . .’ She wrinkled her nose.
Scarpia could better understand why Letizia enjoyed the attentions of the Chevalier Spinelli, il brutto: he came with all the latest gossip; he amused her; and he would chatter away about fashion. Like a eunuch in a sultan’s harem, Spinelli had the kind of privileged access to Letizia’s boudoir at times when it was denied to both the count and Scarpia: she did not mind him seeing her with bleary eyes and a crumpled complexion, and he could advise her on what she should wear that morning or how she should dress her hair. On occasions, waiting for Letizia to emerge from her morning toilette, Scarpia would hear cries of ‘No, no, no . . .’ as Spinelli castigated the dressmaker or hairdresser, or threw into the outer darkness an evening gown or new pair of shoes; or ‘Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes . . .’ as Letizia put on something of which he approved. He also made her laugh – an irritating laugh – but nonetheless an accomplishment since, Scarpia noticed, Letizia had no real sense of humour.
Once the toilette was completed, and Letizia was ready like a refitted galleon to sail out into the world, Spinelli would be at her side – the pilot to guide her out of port. He accepted that Scarpia might also walk with her, though he rarely greeted him, scarcely acknowledged his presence and never looked him in the eyes. He would sometimes glance disparagingly at what Scarpia was wearing, give an involuntary ‘humpf’ of disapproval and then either look down at his own exquisite tunic or, if a mirror happened to be there, glance with admiration at his own reflection.
Spinelli was always in the Comastris’ box at the opera, knew by heart both the music and libretto of most productions and was considered by all to be an expert whose judgement was final. Since this was Rome, female roles were sung by castrati, many of whom Spinelli knew well. Just what his relations were with some of these eunuchs was not clear, though in the intimacy of their love nest Letizia would whisper the names of one or two whom she believed had been Spinelli’s lovers. ‘And what do they do together?’ she wondered. ‘Do you think they do this . . . or this, or, this?’
As it would have been bad form for Letizia to ask Spinelli about his relations with his friends among the castrati, so it would have been bad form for Spinelli to ask Letizia for details of her relations with Scarpia; but clearly he, like Prince Paducci, knew that they had progressed from the usual duties of a cicisbeo. It was not that either Letizia or Scarpia gave anything away: in public they behaved with the expected decorum. But a young man cannot disguise a certain swagger when he is master of one of the most beautiful and prized women in Rome; nor a woman in her prime th
e flushed and healthy hue of her skin that comes with regular bouts of making love. Also the chevalier could not but be aware that there were moments of the day when Letizia indicated that she would rather he made himself scarce. If this enhanced his jealousy, he did not show it, treating Scarpia as just one among other minions and tradesmen who saw to the contessa’s different needs.
The count, too, seemed to sense that his wife was now sleeping with Scarpia. If he thought it was regrettable and a breach of taste, he did not show it. Quite to the contrary – his pride demanded that he cover for his wife’s infidelity by seeming to treat Scarpia almost as an adopted son. Scarpia was always made welcome by the count, but, while the words were warm, their tone was not; and when on rare occasions his eyes met Scarpia’s, their look was contemptuous and cold.
Scarpia was so intoxicated with his passion for Letizia that he did not notice the count’s coldness or the signs of misgivings in others. Ludovico, who seemed to have heard rumours of Scarpia’s promotion from the Contessa di Comastri’s cicisbeo bello to her lover, blushed if her name came up in conversation, or if he ran into Scarpia in her company at some ball or conversazione. Spoletta, whom Scarpia thought would have been proud of his master’s triumph, remained oddly reticent, once referring to the matter obliquely in disparaging remarks, as he was shaving Scarpia, about the deviousness of the Romans and their ‘over-sophistication’, in contrast to the honesty and directness of Sicilians, who would ‘put a knife into the heart of a man who put his cock into the cunt of his wife’. To which Scarpia replied, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do,’ the words mumbled through soapy foam.
In his intoxication, it did not occur to Scarpia that while no doubt there were Romans who did as he was doing, there were others who did not. His confessor Dom Simone, when Scarpia first confessed this sin of the flesh, gave a deep sigh. For a moment he remained silent, then counselled Scarpia on the virtue of chastity – the lily of the virtues, even for men – but seemed to regard the sin as somehow inevitable, and therefore venial, and was lenient in the penance he imposed. It was only after he had absolved Scarpia that he added a worldly addendum to the spiritual advice: ‘Take care, Scarpia. Letizia is wilful. I have known her since she was a child.’
3
Father Simone’s leniency towards Scarpia in the confessional was, he thought, consistent with Christ’s treatment of the woman taken in adultery: ‘Let him who has not sinned cast the first stone.’ True, Jesus had told the woman ‘to sin no more’, and the priest too had told Scarpia to sin no more, but was aware of how a penitent’s firm purpose of amendment can evaporate as soon as he – or she – leaves the musty confessional and comes out into the open air. In such cases, in the view of the Oratorian priest, repentance was what mattered, not simply the avoidance of sin. Father Simone was devout, but he was no Jansenist. He did not think that only the few would be saved. He firmly believed in the visions of St Margaret Mary Alacoque in Burgundy, who had seen Jesus pointing to his sacred heart, aflame with love for all humanity – saints and sinners alike. Did the father cease to love the Prodigal Son when he was cavorting with women in the fleshpots of Egypt? No, he loved him even as he sinned and patiently awaited his return. As with the Prodigal Son, so with Vitellio Scarpia.
This understanding of the frailty of human nature was not confined to a single priest, the Oratorian Simone Alberti; it had taken root in the culture of Catholic countries throughout the world. Over the centuries the Roman pontiffs had sanctioned periods of indulgence as well as penitence – a mix of feasting and fasting that sustained both body and soul. The main period of fasting was Lent – the forty days that preceded the commemoration of the crucifixion of Christ on Good Friday: then, in Rome, the theatres were closed, fiestas were forbidden and all good Catholics fasted and abstained from eating meat. However, it had long been established by the Roman pontiffs that the best way to induce a mood of penitence in the populace was to permit a brief period of orgiastic excess before the start of Lent – the eight-day carnival during which all laws were suspended, and, as the German poet Goethe observed when visiting Rome at around this time, ‘Anyone can play the fool as much as he likes, and everything is permitted short of murder and violence.’
The Roman carnival baffled not just Goethe but other visitors from northern Europe. Even for Scarpia, who had been absent on military service and so had yet to experience the carnival, the mounting excitement in the Palazzo Comastri as it approached was beyond anything he had known in Palermo. Though Letizia kept her assignations as before, Scarpia found himself banned from her quarters, ‘Because there is something I want to be a surprise.’ The Chevalier Spinelli was allowed to attend on her, and unusually – presumably under orders from the contessa – advised Scarpia on the kind of costume he should wear at the forthcoming festivities, and offered to obtain a suitable mask.
The carnival started with the ringing of the bell on the Capitol – something otherwise reserved for the death of a pope. The opening ceremony took place around the statue of Marcus Aurelius, after which civic leaders of the city led a procession from the Piazza Venezia along the via del Corso to the Piazza del Popolo – the palaces bedecked with tapestries and carpets hung from the windows, the pavements packed tight with masked spectators in exotic costumes – Turkish janissaries, English sailors, Barbary pirates, Jewish money-lenders, fairy-tale princes, bloodstained banditti, pagan gods, hairy satyrs, innumerable Punchinelli – the hooked-nosed hunch-backed figure from the commedia dell’arte – and Harlequins in their black-and-white garb. Only the costume of a priest or a monk was prohibited, and only Jews, prostitutes and priests were forbidden to wear masks.
Behind the civic leaders of the procession down the Corso came a loud brass band, then fantastical floats decorated by fraternities, academies and some of Rome’s princely families. Scarpia watched the parade with the Count di Comastri, Prince Paducci, the Chevalier Spinelli and other friends of the family on the stand erected outside the Palazzo Ruspoli, and he now realised what all the excitement had been about; for, seated in a glade of potted palm trees, fronds of sycamore and trellised ivy on a sumptuously decorated float drawn by plumed horses was Letizia di Comastri dressed as the pagan goddess Diana. She wore a short, white, belted tunic which showed a large portion of her elegant legs, and around her sat three cherubs – restless toddlers with their mothers, scantily dressed nymphs. In one hand, the goddess held a bow and arrow, while the other held onto the collar of a whippet. Her alabaster limbs were as still as those of a statue, and her face was fixed in a serene smile, as befitted a deity. Only when the float drew level with the Palazzo Ruspoli, did Diana turn her head and wave to her husband, her lover and her friends.
Behind the floats came the coaches of the Roman nobility, then those of the rich Borghese, and closing behind them like the waters released by an opened sluice gate, the delirious crowd, masked and in fancy dress. All behaved with a cheerful impudence and indiscretion. Women carried switches to fend off unwelcome familiarities, or tickle the men whose attention they desired. False lawyers held disputes which others joined in, charging men with grotesque crimes and listing for women their lovers. All joined in the joke; everyone was ready with repartee. There was no respect for rank, which anyway was impossible to discern beneath the costumes and behind the masks. Marchesas and contessas mingled with shop girls and fishwives; princes and dukes with grooms and coachmen. The carnival, wrote another visitor from northern Europe, Madame de Staël, threw ‘all mortal men together, turning the nation upside down as though there were no social order any more’.
Gender, too, was thrown into doubt. Men dressed as women and women as men – slim girls in Harlequin costumes, indistinguishable from adolescent boys; older women covering their more mature figures in the garb of a Punchinello; while men of all classes, with plucked eyebrows and powdered cheeks, thrust through the crowd with straw busts beneath their décolleté dresses. ‘They caress the men they meet,’ wrote Goethe, ‘and allow themselves all
the familiarities with the women they encounter, as being persons the same as themselves, and for the rest do whatever humour, wit or wantonness suggest.’ His disgust weakened in the face of women dressed as Harlequins: ‘in this hermaphrodite figure, it has to be said, they often strike me as particularly charming’.
*
When the float driven by the Comastris’ coachmen reached the Palazzo del Popolo, the goddess Diana descended from her throne and returned with her nymphs and cherubs to the Palazzo Comastri, where she was joined by the party from the stand outside the Palazzo Ruspoli for some refreshment. Friends, cousins and of course the cavalieri serventi all bombarded the contessa with compliments, which she received with a beatific smile and pouting lips.
The meal did not last long: the carnival was continuing and the whole party sallied out once again. Now the crowds on the Corso had been pushed back onto the pavements and space cleared for the climax of the day’s celebrations – the race of the fierce Barbary horses. Seats on stands were hawked by those who built them: ‘Luoghi! Luoghi avanti! Luoghi nobili! Luoghi padroni!’ The Count di Comastri and his party, now accompanied by the contessa with Scarpia at her side, returned to their places on the stand outside the Palazzo Ruspoli. A general of the pontifical army led a troop to clear the course. The horses were taken by their grooms to the starting line by the obelisk on the Piazza del Popolo. The rope was dropped, and the horses tore off down the Corso, cheered on by the excited crowd. Scarpia, who felt he had a good eye for horses, could not judge this Barbary breed. The horses flashed past in a moment. Hurrahs were heard from the Piazza di Venezia, and the winning horse, adorned with its prize, the gold-embroidered palio, returned in triumph down the Corso.
In the evening came the masked balls, either in the palazzi or in the Alibert theatre, dazzlingly lit up for the occasion. The Comastris went from one to another and Scarpia noticed that when it came to the cotillion or the minuet, Letizia was quite as happy, perhaps happier, to dance with her cicisbeo brutto, the Chevalier Spinelli, because like all Romans he took pride in his balletic talent while Scarpia, though he knew the steps, was a Sicilian who thought it effete and affected to emulate the kind of dancer one might see onstage. He did not mind: there were other partners to be seized from the crowd – some known, some unknown, masked women who laughed and flirted and whispered witty inanities, even daring to comment, as they watched the contessa and Spinelli, that while the cicisbeo brutto might serve her better on the dance floor, the cicisbeo bello was no doubt to be preferred in the arbour of love.
Scarpia Page 11
