Scarpia

by Piers Paul Read

  So agitated was Tosca – so taut were her nerves, so vivid her imagination – that the suspicion became a certainty and she determined to confront her fickle lover and his new mistress where she was sure to find them – in the church. With the help of her maid – the same young girl from the Veneto whom Scarpia had met in Venice – she prepared herself for the encounter, choosing a simple dress of beautiful blue velour, full at the hips and tight at the bust. Deft dabs of powder and a touch of French rouge concealed the lines and shadows that agitation had brought onto her face; and she inserted a tortoiseshell comb and three hairpins to hold up her thick-plaited hair – the last being the long pearl-topped silver stiletto with which she could defend herself or, in this context, take revenge on a rival and faithless lover.

  Tosca walked with her maid the short distance to the Theatine church of Sant’Andrea della Valle and at the entrance told the girl to wait outside. She pushed back the heavy leather curtains behind the open door and went alone from the bright summer sunlight into the sumptuous baroque gloom. There was no congregation, but she could hear singing from behind the altar.

  Tibi omnes Angeli;

  tibi caeli et universae Potestates;

  Tibi Cherubim et Seraphim

  incessabili voce proclamant . . .

  An old man in a black cassock stood at the back of the church.

  ‘Is this a Mass?’ Tosca asked him.

  ‘No, the Te Deum.’

  ‘Why a Te Deum?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Bonaparte has been defeated at Marengo.’

  Tosca had heard; her maid had woken her with the news, but such were her other preoccupations that it meant nothing to her.

  ‘And where is the chapel of the Magdalene?’ she asked the sextant.

  He nodded towards the right side of the church. ‘But it is under scaffolding. It is being restored.’

  Tosca made a deep genuflection towards the high altar, then walked down the aisle towards the chapel. It was hidden from view by a wall of sackcloth attached to scaffolding. She went to the pillar to the right and silently pulled back the sackcloth. A shaft of sunlight from the stained-glass window illuminated the fresco of St Mary Magdalene. Beneath it, Tosca could see two figures – a man and a woman – the woman as tall as the man. The man was Cavaradossi; he was whispering in the woman’s ear.

  ‘Traitor!’ she cried, advancing on Cavaradossi.

  Cavaradossi turned. ‘Floria! You! Here!’

  ‘You betray me with this whore!’ – the exclamation sounded all the more vehement for being in the dialect of the Veneto. Tosca pointed scornfully at the woman but saw first that she was ugly and then that she was not a woman but a man.

  ‘Floria. This is my friend, the cavaliere Angelotti.’

  ‘Angelotti? Mario, I thought . . .’

  Cavaradossi stepped forward and took her in his arms. ‘You silly girl. You thought I no longer loved you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course I love you, but I had to save my friend. The vile Scarpia seized him. He was held in Castel Sant’Angelo, condemned to death. His sister begged me to save him.’

  ‘His sister?’

  ‘My model, the marchesa. Only that could keep me from answering your note.’

  ‘Ah, Mario,’ she said again, tears coming into her eyes.

  Over the sound of the voices singing the Te Deum, there came the boom of cannon.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ said Angelotti. ‘It means my escape has been discovered. And one of the first places they will look for me is here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cavaradossi, ‘we must leave.’ He looked at Tosca. ‘I am taking Cesare to the farm. He can hide there until we can smuggle him out of Rome. When he is gone, my life will be yours. I promise you, Floria. My life will be yours.’

  After a last ardent kiss, Cavaradossi pulled himself away from Tosca and led Angelotti, a shawl over his head, through the opening in the hessian out of the chapel and into the church. Tosca, overwhelmed with joy and relief, fell to her knees in front of the altar to give thanks to Mary Magdalene, the patron saint of fallen women. She raised her eyes and met the demure gaze of the half-naked woman, her long blonde hair draping her breasts, kneeling in a way that revealed long, luscious flanks. It was in the realist style of David – Cavaradossi was one of his pupils – and, though greatly inferior to the work of the master, managed to suggest that, while the saint might be repentant, she could still provoke a man’s desire.

  As she gazed at the mural, Tosca remembered that his model was the Marchesa Attavanti, and she remembered, too, the rumours picked up by her servants that she was not just his model but his mistress as well. She tried to dismiss her suspicions; had not Cavaradossi just kissed her and assured her of his love? But she knew quite well that men are fickle, and the more she looked at the expression on the face above the altar, the more she became convinced that the look was of promise, anticipation, acquiescence. She glared at the blonde hair, blue eyes, long legs and curved breasts and, in a moment of self-doubt, compared them unfavourably to her own black hair, short legs and heavy bosom. A terrible rage rose within her. What she had at first simply suspected now became certain.

  There were sounds behind her. She turned. Four men had entered the chapel – two in uniform, two wearing frock coats and breeches. The first came towards her. He stopped as he recognised her. ‘Tosca!’

  She stood and curtsied. ‘Baron Scarpia.’ She was taken aback by how much older he seemed, and the look of weariness on his face.

  The second man wearing a frock coat – shabbier and uglier than Scarpia – came up behind him. ‘Is this the marchesa?’ he asked Scarpia.

  ‘No, this is Floria Tosca.’

  ‘La Tosca!’ He looked at her scornfully. ‘A funny place to rehearse.’

  ‘I was praying.’

  ‘Of course.’ The scornful tone remained in his voice.

  Scarpia said to the man, ‘Look behind the altar and in the confessionals.’

  Spoletta gestured to the two sbirri to follow him.

  ‘Did you come here to see Cavaradossi?’ Scarpia asked Tosca.

  Tosca blushed. ‘I came to see the mural . . .’

  Scarpia smiled – a sad smile. ‘Of course. But also the artist, perhaps . . .’

  ‘He isn’t here.’

  ‘No, he isn’t here,’ Scarpia repeated.

  ‘What do you want of him?’ asked Tosca.

  ‘He must answer some questions.’

  ‘About what? His opinions? I can answer them for you.’

  ‘About the escape of Angelotti.’

  ‘Who is Angelotti?’

  ‘A Jacobin. An enemy of the state.’

  Tosca turned away. ‘I know nothing about politics.’

  Scarpia looked up at the mural. ‘So you came here to see this. You have not seen Mario Cavaradossi or Cesare Angelotti.’ He said this as if summarising her answers to questions he had not in fact put to her, and with no apparent expectation that she should make a reply. Tosca remained silent.

  Spoletta returned from his search behind the altar holding a fan and a woman’s chemise. ‘The artist’s model seems to have left these behind,’ he said. Then, with a leer at Tosca, he added: ‘And there is a straw paillasse behind the altar which suggests that our Jacobin’s model did more than pose.’

  Tosca blushed.

  ‘Perhaps it was for the painter’s siesta,’ said Scarpia. He nodded towards orange peel and an apple core on the step of the altar. ‘It would appear that he ate here at midday.’

  ‘Perhaps they took a siesta together,’ said Spoletta, holding up the chemise with another smirk at Tosca.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Scarpia, ‘if our bird was here, he has flown.’

  ‘And the painter too,’ said Spoletta.

  Scarpia signalled to Spoletta and the two sbirri to leave the chapel. He then turned to Tosca and asked in a low voice: ‘Are we still friends?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You are not
performing tonight, I think. Would you care to dine with me at the Palazzo Farnese?’

  Tosca hesitated. Would she not be with Cavaradossi? Or would he remain at the farm with Angelotti? There was no way of knowing, but nothing was lost by keeping on good terms with Scarpia. She curtsied. ‘I should be delighted.’

  Scarpia turned as if to go, then looked back at Cavaradossi’s unfinished mural. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It is a fine painting.’

  Scarpia smiled. ‘It is perhaps better than it might have been. He is not a talented artist.’

  ‘Then why was he chosen?’

  ‘It was commissioned as a gesture of reconciliation.’

  ‘I am sure they will be pleased with the result.’

  ‘I am told the fathers find the portrait of the Magdalene too . . . realistic.’

  Tosca laughed. ‘Yes, for priests.’

  ‘Clearly,’ said Scarpia, with the detached manner of a critic, ‘the artist wishes to convey that the penitent Magdalene remains a desirable woman. There is even a touch of irony in the depiction, perhaps, as if the painter is saying through the very sensuality of his model that chastity is absurd. His own desire is projected into his painting.’

  Tosca frowned and said nothing.

  ‘And clearly from the expression in her eyes, one can deduce that the model feels the same desire . . .’

  ‘In the painting, perhaps,’ said Tosca.

  ‘And, knowing Domenica Attavanti as I do, we may assume in life.’

  ‘You want to torment me.’

  ‘Torment you? No, Floria. You can love whom you like. But do not deceive yourself. Do you imagine a man could paint a woman in such a pose and not wish to possess her? I tell you, artists always sleep with their models.’

  Scarpia left the chapel. Tosca waited, then went out into the nave of the church. She went to the statue of the Virgin Mary, took a gold ducat out of her purse, put it into the metal strongbox by the altar, took a candle from the bucket beneath it and, after lighting it from another candle, placed it on the stand. She then fell on her knees. Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help or sought thine intercession was left unaided . . . But her thoughts were not with her prayer. Her mind seethed with the terrible certainty that what Scarpia had said was true. The model was his mistress. But yet she loved him. She must find him. Warn him. Confront him. Reclaim him. She would go at once to the Casa di Ferruto, not in her finery in her own carriage but incognito in a humble two-wheeled, two-seated cart – a sediola.

  3

  King Ferdinand’s viceroy, Prince Naselli, governed Rome from the Palazzo Farnese, the embassy of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. The prince might have resided at the Quirinale Palace like the French commander, General Garnier, or even at the Vatican, because both remained unoccupied during the period of sede vacante; but had he done so, it might have seemed to the Romans and to the allies – the Russians, the English and the Austrians – that King Ferdinand had plans to make his rule permanent and annex the Papal States to his kingdom. If there ever had been such plans, they had been abandoned. The cardinals had already arrived in the city and the newly elected Pope, Pius VII, was expected in two weeks’ time.

  The prospect of this imminent transfer of power had put great pressure on Prince Naselli. The new Pope, when Bishop of Imola, had shown himself sympathetic to the cause of democracy; he was likely to pardon those who had been conspiring against him and would certainly not permit further executions. Time, then, was short, and the wretched Prince Naselli, who himself lacked his monarchs’ vindictive streak, was pelted by letters from King Ferdinand and Acton in Palermo, and Queen Maria Carolina in Livorno en route to Vienna, insisting that active Jacobins, and particularly those responsible for the judicial assassination of Valentino, should be dealt with before the transfer of power. Naselli had passed on these instructions to Baron Scarpia, relieved that, if things did not turn out as his king expected, there would be someone else to blame. He was delighted when Angelotti was arrested, but then dismayed when he escaped. He had impressed upon Scarpia the overriding importance of finding the fugitive and executing the sentence already passed of death.

  The Palazzo Farnese was large and had many magnificent rooms on the piano nobile, but there were equally spacious if less ornate rooms above and it was in a suite of these rooms that Baron Scarpia worked to hunt down Jacobins. So pressing was the work that he often stayed there overnight, only returning to the Villa Larunda when time allowed. The Palazzo Farnese was therefore both a temporary home as well as his office, and he was well tended by servants, among them a major-domo to whom, on his return from the church of Sant’Andrea della Valle, he gave instructions to prepare dinner for a single guest.

  Scarpia sat down at his gilded desk and, with a bemused smile on his face, thought about his unexpected encounter with Tosca. When they had parted at Taormina, she had said addio – intimating that they were unlikely to meet again. She had told him not to fall in love with her – a command that had been unnecessary because his desire, too, had been a matter of the moment, an intoxication brought on by the sound of her voice. Certainly, the memory of the moment lingered, but with the passing of time it had grown feebler, and finally had faded altogether, driven out of his mind by the horrors of the sanfedista crusade.

  Coming across Tosca in the church of Sant’ Andrea della Valle, Scarpia had noticed only that she seemed to have grown stouter and had not lost her coarse Venetian accent. He had been told of her passion for Cavaradossi, and had seen at once how he could take advantage of it to find Angelotti. He suspected she was lying; that she knew where her lover had gone and, with him, Angelotti. He had stimulated her jealousy by pointing to the lascivious pose of the Marchesa Attavanti, anticipating that she would then rush to confront him. He had given orders that she was to be followed when she left the church.

  4

  When Floria Tosca reached the Casa di Ferruto in her hired sediola, she asked the driver to wait under an umbrella pine, then rang the bell at the gate. Cavaradossi himself came to open it and, when he saw Tosca, a look of displeasure came onto his face.

  ‘What are you doing here? This is madness. You will have been followed.’

  Tosca frowned. This was not the welcome she had anticipated. ‘I have come to warn you and I am disguised. Look . . .’ She pointed at the simple dress she had borrowed from her maid.

  ‘Even so.’ Cavaradossi looked up and down the road, and seeing no one other than the driver of the sediola, opened the gate and let her in. He embraced her cursorily, making clear that now was not the time for love, and so, despite the jealousy of the Marchesa Attavanti that seethed within her, Tosca decided it was not the moment either to take her lover to task about his relations with his model. As he led her into the living room which held such sweet memories for Tosca, she managed to drop the role of a jealous mistress and adopt that of a courageous patriot. She was thus able to meet the look of annoyance that came onto the face of Angelotti when he rose from a chair by the fire. He made no attempt to greet her politely but looked angrily at Cavaradossi. ‘What is she doing here?’

  ‘I have come to warn you,’ said Tosca. ‘The sbirri came to the church. With them was Baron Scarpia.’

  ‘You know Scarpia?’ asked Angelotti.

  Tosca blushed. ‘Know him? No. How should I know him? A man who drinks blood out of skulls! But he told me who he was and he questioned me. He knows that Mario arranged your escape. They searched the chapel. They found the fan, the women’s clothes, the remains of your lunch. The baron asked me if I had seen you, and if I knew where you had gone. I said that I did not. That I too was looking for Mario. Why else would I be there? To look at the painting?’ Involuntarily, Tosca darted an angry look at Cavaradossi.

  Cavaradossi did not notice her glance: he was preoccupied. ‘If he knows that I helped you escape,’ he said to Angelotti, ‘then he may search my house and my studio
, but no one knows about this farmhouse. It belongs to a friend.’

  ‘But if la signorina Tosca was followed?’ asked Angelotti.

  ‘I was not followed,’ said Tosca angrily. ‘No one would recognise me, Tosca, dressed like a servant and riding in a sediola.’

  ‘There is a hiding place,’ said Cavaradossi to Angelotti, ‘where even if they come here they would never find you.’ He turned to Tosca. ‘You, Floria, must go back to Rome. I will hide Cesare in the well and then set up my easel. They can arrest me, but what can they prove? And when Angelotti is gone, my dearest Floria, I will send for you and all will be as it was before.’

  5

  Tosca arrived at the Palazzo Farnese in a flustered state. After another uncomfortable half-hour in the sediola listening to the tedious talk of the driver, she had had only a short time to take a bath, rest, change and eat a handful of nuts and raisins before setting off again, this time in her own coach, to dine with Baron Scarpia.

  Had Scarpia had time to take a bath and rest? Certainly, Tosca noticed, he had taken some trouble over his appearance, but then so had she. He wore an embroidered blue coat and waistcoat, black breeches, white stockings and silver-buckled shoes; she, a long dark red silk dress with bows beneath the low-cut bodice. Her hair had been dressed by her maid; Scarpia’s was tied back in a pigtail. He was sitting at a leather-topped desk when she entered, but rose and ushered her to a chair. Pointing to the papers piled on his desk, he apologised for the disarray. ‘I am afraid this room must also serve as my office.’

  The footman who had shown her in returned with two glasses of chilled white wine on a silver tray. Scarpia sat down opposite her and turned his glass in his fingers as if looking for words to compose a toast.

  ‘To happier times,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘To happier times.’

  They both drank from their glasses.