Don Riccardo descanted on their beauty and had no words fair enough for one-for her eyes and hair and her legs which he showed to the Prince though she tried to stop him; but then he turned to the other and praised her in equally flattering terms so that she should not feel left in the cold. “All women are beautiful!” he cried. “They are the source of all the sweetness of life! But sweetest of all is the courtesan whose life is dedicated to love and who never plays it false.” His behavior was so idiotic and tasteless that even I, who have always regarded him as the stupidest of vulgarians, would never have believed him capable of such grotesque buffoonery.
They drank a great deal of wine and gradually it took effect. Don Riccardo became sickly sentimental and began to babble of love and recite reams of appalling poetry, mostly love sonnets, to somebody whom he called Laura, so that the women’s eyes filled with tears. He and the Prince lay with their heads on the laps of these trollops who tenderly stroked their hair and sighed sweetly as they listened to Don Riccardo’s flummery. He had chosen the prettier of the two, and I could not avoid seeing the peculiar way in which the Prince looked at him both then and later on during the evening, when the stupid women seemed most bewitched by him and his antics. Women always prefer the silliest and most insignificant men, because they remind them of themselves.
But suddenly he sprang up and declared that now they had had enough of lachrymose lyrics, now they were going to drink and be merry 1 This marked the beginning of an orgy of wine-bibbing and jesting and laughter and indecent gestures and foul stories of a coarseness that I cannot reproduce. When the carousal was at its height the Prince raised his glass and toasted Don Riccardo: “Tomorrow you shall be my standard-bearer in the battle!” The other was delighted at this unexpected honor and his eyes glittered. “I hope it will be dangerous!” he exclaimed, preening himself before the women so that they should see how brave he was. “One never knows, it may well be,” replied the Prince. Don Riccardo seized his hand and kissed it in humble gratitude like a squire before his liege lord. “Beloved Prince, remember what you have promised me in the midst of the festal gaiety.” “Rest assured that I shall not forget it.”
The courtesans found all this Very impressive and looked on with eager eyes, but their first glance was for him who should bear the standard in the battle.
After this interlude they went on with their disgusting orgy and their behavior became more and more offensive and shameless, so that I who was forced to witness it was filled with confusion and nausea. They kissed and hugged each other, with flushed faces, hot and panting with lust. It was indescribably nasty. Despite the women’s pretended resistance, they pulled down their dresses, exposing their naked breasts. The prettier had rose pink nipples with a mole beside one of them, not very big, but it was impossible to avoid noticing it. When I came forward to serve her I was nauseated by the smell of her body which was just the same as that of the Princess when she lies in bed in the morning, though I have never been so close to her. When Don Riccardo took hold of her breasts I felt such a distaste and hatred for the lecher that I would fain have throttled him with my bare hands or killed him with my dagger so as to drain the prurient blood from his body and stop him from ever embracing a woman again. I stood there filled with sick loathing and pondered over the offensive-ness of mankind. May all these beings end up in the fires of hell!
At last Don Riccardo had one of his idiotic ideas. He had been most with the prettier, for she would not leave him in peace, but now he proposed that he and the Prince throw dice to see which one should have her. Everybody approved of this, including the Prince, and the woman shrieked with laughter and wriggled her naked torso in her delight at being the object of such a duel. I found her disgusting and I could not understand how they could consider her beautiful and desirable, or how they could compete for such a repulsive prize. She was blonde and fair-skinned with great blue eyes and quantities of hair in her armpits. I found her loathsome. I have never known why it is people have hair under their arms, and I feel squeamish when I see it, particularly if it is moist. We dwarfs have nothing like that and we find it nasty and offensive. If I had hair there or on any part of my body except my head, where hair is meant to grow, I should feel intensely ashamed.
I had to fetch the dice, and the Prince threw first and turned up a six and a one. She was to go to the one who first reached fifty. They went on turn and about, and the women hung over them, deeply interested in the result and commenting on the fluctuations of the game with shameless remarks, squeals and guffaws. The Prince won, and they all arose, screeching and laughing at each other.
Immediately afterward they flung themselves upon the women, each on his chosen one, dragged off their clothes and began to behave in such an incredibly abhorrent fashion that I could bear it no longer, but rushed out of the tent and had scarcely passed its door before I vomited the soul out of my body. I was cold all over and my skin felt granulated like that of a plucked chicken. Shaking violently, I huddled down in the hay between the cook and the horrible groom who stinks of horses and always kicks me in the morning when he gets up. I don’t know why; he says that he likes kicking me just then.
I cannot understand the love that human beings feel for each other. It merely revolts me. All that I have witnessed this evening has revolted me.
It may be because I am another kind of being, subtler, more sensitive, and therefore I react against many things which do not appear to affect them. I do not know. I have no experience of what they call love, nor do I wish to try it. Once they offered me a female dwarf, a lovely woman with small penetrating eyes like mine and a withered face and body like ancient parchment, exactly as a human being should be. But she aroused no passion in me, though I could see that there was nothing repellent about her beauty, that it was not like theirs. It may have been because it was the Princess who offered her, wanting to bring us together like any old procuress, for she hoped that we would produce a dwarf child for her, and at that moment she had set her heart on having one. It was before Angelica was born and she wanted something to play with. She said that she thought a dwarf child would be so amusing. But I had no wish to pander to her whims, nor would I degrade our tribe by falling in with her shameful proposal.
Incidentally, she was wrong when she thought we would give her a child. We dwarfs beget no young, we are sterile by virtue of our own nature. We have nothing to do with the perpetuation of life; we do not even desire it. We have no need to be fertile, for the human race itself produces its own dwarfs, of that one may be sure. We let ourselves be born of these haughty creatures, with the same pangs as they. Our race is perpetuated through them, and thus and thus only can we enter this world. That is the inner reason for our sterility. We belong to that race and at the same time we stand outside it. We are guests on a visit. Ancient wizened guests on a visit which has lasted for thousands of years.
But my reflections have carried me away from the subject of my present narrative. I did not mean to write about all that.
Sure enough, next morning Don Riccardo bore the princely standard. There has been a great deal of talk about the events connected with this and certain circumstances in the battle, but, of course, I have my own opinion about all this and what there may be behind it. They say that by an unaccountable order the Prince unnecessarily jeopardized Don Riccardo’s life, that at one time it was taken for granted that he must be killed when, with his comparatively small troop of horses, he was forced into an extremely perilous situation. And they say that he fought with the utmost gallantry, though I do not believe a word of that. He is said to have assembled his few remaining men around the standard and defended it against the superior enemy forces. But when the fighting took such a dangerous turn the Prince rushed there, cither because he could not resist the lure of such hazardous play, or for some other reason. Followed by a handful of men he plunged into the midst of the enemy surrounding Don Riccardo as though to succor him, when suddenly his horse received a pike in the ribs and
fell to the ground. The Prince was thrown and lay there in the thick of the melee. This inspired Don Riccardo to such frenzy and “courage” that he and his men broke their way out of the ring and, with the strength of despair and the aid of the Prince’s horsemen, contrived to hold the adversary in check until they were relieved by fresh troops. By then Don Riccardo was covered with wounds. It is insinuated that he must have realized that the Prince wanted him to be killed, but nevertheless he acted as he did and saved his master’s life.
That is the report which I do not believe. In many respects, it seems most unlikely, and I merely relate it, because it is the version of this morning’s dramatic events which is current here. I have a very different opinion which is principally grounded on my detailed personal knowledge of Don Riccardo. I know him better than anyone else; he is not like that.
The report is obviously colored by the general notion of Don Riccardo and his own conceit of himself. It has become a kind of legend, which nobody troubles to investigate, that he is the embodiment of courage and that all his acts are noble and magnificent. The sole ground for all this is his inimitable talent for showing off and attracting all attention to himself. His absurd vanity is as apparent in his soldiering as in his general behavior, and the recklessness which they all admire is part of his stupidity. They confuse foolhardiness with courage.
If he really is as brave as he says and really is always exposing himself to every conceivable danger, why doesn’t he get killed? One may well ask. Nobody would miss him, at least not I.
Now he is said to be wounded in many places. One cannot tell if it is true, but I doubt it. Nothing very dangerous anyhow, mere scratches I should say, but in any case I have been spared the sight of him since then.
On the other hand, I believe it to be true that he had the impudence to wear the Princess’ colors in the fray, which she is said to have chosen for him before we set out; that he flaunted them in his helm that morning, fighting in the sight of all men for his chosen lady. Thus, when he was warring so gallantly beneath the Prince’s banner he was actually fighting for his beloved; when he saved the Prince’s life he was still really fighting for her. And shortly before he had been in the arms of another woman, and presumably went straight from her couch to the battle, decking himself with the colors of his great passionate love! His true love blossomed like a wondrous flower above his chivalrously raised visor, while his body was still hot with the lust of betrayal. Certainly human love is a puzzle; it is small wonder that one cannot understand it.
Another puzzle is the relationship between these two men who are both bound to the same woman. Does that form the basis of a secret understanding? Sometimes it almost looks as if it did. Did Don Riccardo really save the Prince’s life, as they say? I do not believe it, but he may have done so from sheer vanity, thus taking knightly revenge on the Prince who wished his death, and showing everybody what a magnanimous hero he is. That would be just like him. And did the Prince really mean to rescue Don Riccardo when he rode forward to help him in his mortal danger, although he had just been hoping he would die? I do not know. I cannot quite grasp it all. Surely one cannot hate and love a person at the same time?
I remember his expression that night, and it boded death. But I also recall his moist dreaming eyes as he lay and listened to Don Riccardo discoursing on love, the great boundless love which fills us with its fire until our entire body is inflamed and consumed. Is love merely a beautiful poem containing nothing, at least nothing definite, but which everybody likes to listen to when it is well and feelingly recited? I do not know, but it is not quite impossible. These human beings are strange dissemblers.
I was also amazed at the Prince’s behavior with the prostitute that night, for I had always held him to be above such things; not that it has anything to do with me, I am accustomed to his sudden transformations into someone quite different from what I had imagined. I mentioned it tactfully to a cameriere the next day, expressing my astonishment over what had happened, but he did not share my feelings. He said that the Prince always had mistresses, ladies of the court or the town, sometimes famous courtesans; just at present he favored the Princess’ damigella, Fiammetta. He likes variety, explained the cameriere, laughing at me because I did not know it.
I cannot think how this can have escaped my customary acuteness. My uncritical admiration for my lord must have blinded me.
I do not care whether he has betrayed the Princess, for I hate her and ask nothing better than that she be betrayed. Besides, she is in love with Don Riccardo; it is to him that she addresses her glowing love letters, the ones which I have to carry next my heart. I sincerely hope he may be killed.
AT LAST it has stopped raining.
Today when we came out of the tent the sun shone brightly and the mountains rose in sharp outline around us, dripping with moisture, of course, and everywhere one heard the rushing of freshets which had not been there before. It was a crisp refreshing day; above, the sky was clear, and before us lay Montanza’s old brigand city on its hill. We had almost forgotten what it looked like, but now one could distinguish every house within the walls and every arrow slit in the ancient keeps and even the small gilded crosses on the churches and belfries. Everything was much more clear-cut after the rain. Now it will not be long before the city is captured and finally obliterated from the face of the earth.
Everybody is very pleased at being able to come out into the fresh air, enlivened by the fine weather and longing for action. All discouragement and despondency have vanished and they are all anxious to fight again. I was mistaken when I thought that rain could spoil an army’s morale. Its stupefying effect does not outlast its own duration.
There is life and movement in the tent lanes. The jesting soldiers polish their weapons, the squires rub their masters’ armor till it shines, the horses are groomed and ridden to the watering places in the purling brooks which abound in the olive slopes, everybody is busy preparing for the coming battle. The camp is itself again, and the war has recovered the glamour and pageantry which so become it. Everything glitters in the sunlight-the soldiers in their gay accoutrements, the knights’ armor and the gorgeous silver harness of the horses.
I have closely studied the town, the object of our campaign. It looks strong, almost impregnable, with its walls and fortresses, but we shall capture it, thanks not least to the valuable help contributed by Messer Bernardo. I have seen his new battering rams and catapults, his grappling irons and terrifying unsurpassed siege artillery: no fortress in the world can stand up against these. We shall smash our way through, blowing up and grinding everything to powder. We may even blast holes in the wall, using a subterranean passage in the way described that evening; we shall fight, with every conceivable weapon, with everything that his great genius has created for us, and storm the town, spreading death and destruction as we pass through its streets. It will be burned and plundered and utterly obliterated from the face of the earth. Not one stone will be left upon another, and its population of pirates and brigands will at last receive their just punishment: they will be exterminated or taken away as prisoners and only smoking ruins will remain as a memorial of Montanza’s erstwhile power and might. I am convinced that the Prince will crush his ancestral foes under an iron heel, and I dare not even think of how Boccarossa’s men will conduct themselves. It will be our last, decisive triumph.
But first we must wipe out the forces which lie between us and the town. At a glance one can see that their number has been considerably increased, just as I foretold. Some say that it is an immense army, nearly as large as our own and Boccarossa’s combined, but that is an exaggeration. It covers a much greater area than before, but to call it immense is to my mind to let oneself be unduly impressed by the enemy. The Prince’s brow clouded somewhat at the first sight of it, but then he changed and seemed quite exhilarated as he watched it, patently rejoicing like a true soldier at the thought of the coming settlement of accounts and the long-awaited chance of a really good
tussle. Not for one moment does he doubt our ultimate victory, nor, as far as I know, do any of his generals.
It will be delightful to take part in the storming of a city. Never before have I had such an opportunity.
I AM IN my usual seat in the dwarfs’ apartment, and there, at the desk which forms part of the furnishings and which fits me very well and is very comfortable to write at, I shall continue with my memorandum of the strange and fateful happenings about me. This may sound unexpected, but a very simple explanation is forthcoming.
We won the battle. We knew it in advance, and also that it must involve considerable losses. The casualties on both sides were heavy, but presumably the enemy came off worse. In future it will be very difficult for them to put up any effective resistance, but for us also it was a serious bloodletting. The second day in particular was gory in the extreme. But what are soldiers for if not to be used? It was not nearly so bad as some maintain.
The reason for our presence here is that the Prince must return home to organize all his forces in order to bring the war to a victorious conclusion. And my inquiries have told me that it was also to obtain the requisite funds for the same object. Such an undertaking must consume huge sums of money. The Prince is said to be negotiating with the Venetian Signoria with a view to procuring them. Those hucksters have more than enough and soon the business will be settled. Then we shall take the field again.
The Dwarf Page 7
