Love in a Bottle

AJÁNDOK’S BETROTHAL

IT WAS ST JOHN’S NIGHT, the night of St John of the Flowers, the shortest night of the year, when darkness crouches low on its ankles before rising slowly, slowly, to its full height once again.

The wagon of the Great Bear had already been wheeled out, freshly washed, into the sky, and the entire village, both young and old, in all their festive finery, flocked up the hill to where the statue of the Blessed Virgin stood wreathed in flowers. At its feet they made a pile of straw and brushwood and, at the appointed hour, set it alight in the time-honoured fashion. The straw flickered with a young, skittering flame, as did the glowing cheeks of young Lidi as she was led into the centre, and soon the brushwood followed, slow and hesitant, like the dancing of the older women, and the fire of flowery St John was fully ablaze.

The next instant, from every hilltop far and near, answering fires flashed out greetings to one another, like so many kings of the summer throned in radiance above the wide plains.

Along one side of the conflagration sat the worthy elders, among them the miller, as proud as if the whole summer were his own, for the entire harvest was piled high in his barn. On the other side the venerable older women, including the miller’s mother — renowned for her wisdom in seven villages — sat looking across to where the comely younger women were seated. With these was her oldest granddaughter, the same Lidi, whose gaze was directed in turn to where the handsome young men of the village were seated. Among them was Bálint, the miller’s foreman, her secret sweetheart.

The boys all carried long sticks with lengths of straw attached to the ends. These were now set alight and brandished overhead in waving, snake-like movements, leaping nightmarishly in all directions, while the girls threw their fresh flowers onto the fire. The young people shouted and danced, until the blaze finally settled down to burn with a gentle, steady flame (St John’s bonfire never did last very long) and then the games began. A handful of the girls set the song in motion, and the rest quickly followed:

villog, nap ragyog

hunyor a személye,

rózsa nyílik

és utána liliom

Fire burns, sun shines

incarnate in the hellebore,

the rose opens before it

and after it the lily

and Lidi said to Bálint, and Bálint said to Lidi: “You are my treasure,” and all the young people shrieked with laughter, as if hearing this news for the first time. Bálint muttered something under his breath, then rose to his feet, as did the furiously blushing Lidi, and there they stood, side by side, an acknowledged couple. They waited while the girls sang the wooing song, then jumped, hand in hand, through the fire. The miller just smiled and smiled, thinking of his grandchildren as budding ears of corn in God’s great field — there would be so many children, a happy family in the old windmill, and he would be prouder than the Emperor himself when the guard paraded before him.

The embers clung to their waning life, and the couples leapt through it one after another in response to the changing lines of the song. Then when everyone had taken St John’s blessing, the lads came to a stop facing the girls. One of the younger girls would now have to run between the lines shouting, “Lidi Miller’s house is burning, put it out, put it out”. She would then be followed by all the publicly acknowledged couples, starting with the last in line, the girl running ahead of the boy. But when the boys got themselves in position to set off down the line, they realised that none of the younger girls were where they should have been. They had all been sent home to bed, in order not to lose face. The only ones left standing opposite their partners and waiting to run were those already betrothed. Just one unattached girl remained on the scene, a mere child, the miller’s youngest daughter, aged fifteen. Her grandmother had sent her over with instructions to run down the line shouting the required words so that the couples would not be disappointed. She approached with a smile on her face that was a joy to see — but as she grew closer, and cast her eye over the many fine young men standing there with their partners, she burst into tears and ran away, sulking.

Few of the villagers, being all (the women especially) so busy with their plans and dreaming up little love nests for the couples, can have spared a thought for that one little girl among all the others, now wandering somewhere out of sight, alone. The song and the games continued, nor did the miller’s old mother forget to bake the ceremonial herbs over the flames, and the revels went on until suddenly it was very late, and with the next day’s labours in mind they all set off homewards.

Ajándok — for that was the little girl’s name — was the late-born child of elderly parents. She wandered through the gardens, not bothering to dry her weeping eyes, her lips red from sulking and her mouth turned down, reluctant to venture as far as the main road. It was a wonderfully clear night, full of palpitating stars, with not a single cloud in all its pathless expanse. Peering through hedges, she could make out, here and there, broken-down old people sitting in the porches in front of their houses, their faces gazing up at the shining galaxies. Even the dogs were silent. Perhaps they had all gone off to celebrate in some other place, where their kind have a seat at their masters’ bone-covered tables. At the far end stood the windmill, its huge four-armed sails motionless, as under a spell, with not a whisper of wind to drive them.

“Perhaps I should just throw myself in the river,” the child thought sadly. “The fishermen would haul me up in their nets before dawn, with golden fishes in my hair, and lay my body out in the market square, and everyone would come and cry over me, and a rich and powerful man would take me back to the village in a golden coach, and my parents would wail and weep, and say: ‘She was such a little thing when she was alive, and now she’s dead, and she was the most beautiful of all of them.’ And a hundred young men would come and stare at me, but it would be too late, my mouth would be cold and white, and I would be all cold and white, as white as a lily.”

Ajándok was indeed beautiful, as beautiful as fairy gossamer, soft and supple, with long golden hair. But she was still very young, not yet marriageable, not at all ready to be led away as a bride. And she was as solitary as a river by night. She gazed long and thoughtfully at her barely rounded arms, thinking of the future bridegroom she would one day cradle in them — the young man who had only now set out across unimaginably distant seas, his road beset by every sort of terror — and she grieved that the lamp in her eyes could never cast its beam to that faraway place because it was running out of oil and, one night soon, would die out altogether.

She had now reached the silent mill. It lay in darkness. The sight of its mute sails deepened her loneliness and made the far-off stranger seem even more hopelessly remote. Somewhere in its kitchen darkness was preparing dinner, and oh! she wished, if only the mill could suddenly launch itself into the sky above the fields, like a terrifying bird of the night, clanking and rattling as it flew, and reach heaven by dawn! In heaven, among the golden clouds… that was where she would find her rest.

A merry din was heard as everyone — the miller, his mother, Lidi, Bálint, the serving girls and the young workmen — came banging their way up the wooden stairs and into the mill. The long table was already laid and waiting. There was to be a double celebration that night, for the moment they arrived at the front door Bálint had gone up to the miller, doffed his cap and asked for Lidi’s hand in marriage. There had been none of the customary sending of an apple, or a woman with two oven mops, or the man with the flask of wine: this suitor had no need of such tokens — the couple had understood one another quite long enough. Nor was there any of the ritual wrangling between the families, just handshakes all round, the men crowding round Bálint to pump his hand and the women showering Lidi with kisses. Ajándok went over, fell on her older sister’s neck in tears, then promptly ran out of the room.

After waiting a suitable length of time for her to calm down and become more amenable, her grandmother went to see how she was. She tracked her down to the woodshed, where she was sitting on a pile of logs.

“Why are you crying, my pretty flower? Tell me why.”

Ajándok made no answer. She did not know what to say. She just clung to her granny’s shoulder while the sobs shook her like a winnowing sieve.

“My little one, my blessed girl, don’t cry. Haven’t you got a lovely father to guide your thoughts, and your beautiful older sister, see, who’s now become engaged? Who ever saw anyone cry on such a wonderful day? You have everything you could possibly want. You’ve got your pussy-cat Mirók, the little scamp, with a silk ribbon round his neck, and your lovely shock-headed doll Faraj. Nobody sends you out into the fields at dawn to sweep up the gleanings. You live like the fairy Ilona. You aren’t like any of the other girls. You have lovely blonde hair, my angel, and the colour of the ever-faithful forget-me-not in your eyes. Your skin is finer, your bones are more delicate than other people’s, and we take such good care to shelter you from the sun, and the wind, and nasty words that put a curse on you — so you really mustn’t cry.”

Ajándok replied: “It’s no use — not even if Mirók and Lidi, and Faraj, and all the treasures of the fairy Ilona were tucked under my pillow… Granny, I’m so alone in this big wide world.”

“Ah, now I see. So the little girl would like to be a big girl, is that right, my little lily-of-the-valley? I know only too well what a bitter thing it is to be single on flowery St John’s Night and not have a young man. At times like this a girl is like a look-out tree. There she stands, all alone, naked to the wind, gazing around the wide meadow for days on end, waiting for the time for when she will finally be fed with the sweet food of the heart… and then, just before dawn, she hears the neighing of horses telling someone: ‘That’s where the miller’s beautiful daughter lives’—and the bridegroom enters, with dust on his boots, and a diamond-studded whip in his hand.”

“Granny… if you really know everything… tell me when he will come, and what sort of man he will be.”

The old lady became serious.

“You are asking me a very big thing, my flower. It’s not for us to look for short cuts to find out what the future will bring in its own good time. But you know there is a way to do it, and it’s lucky that you ask me this question on St John’s Night, because it’s the best time for every sort of magic. So keep your ears open, my girl, and make the sign of the cross, in case some passing evil spirit should overhear our conversation and draw near.”

Ajándok did as she was told. She could feel the magic of the night, and the dark air closing in around her filled with unseen presences, all just waiting for her to turn her back or shut her eyes for a second, when they would poke their fearsome great heads out at her.

“Now listen carefully, my girl. You must go up to the very top of the mill, to the wheel that drives the sails. There, at the bottom of a large chest, you will find all the lengths of ceremonial herbs and grasses I have dried over the fire on previous St John’s Nights. Gather them up into a little bundle and bring it down with you. On the stroke of midnight, you must leave the mill and, whatever happens to you then, do not look behind you but go straight to the old ruined well. There, you must say three Hail Marys over the water, lie down beside the rim, and place the bundle under your head. You will then fall asleep, and you will sleep just as you would in your own bed. Pay very careful attention to your dreams, because the person you see in your dreams will be the bridegroom you long for. Do as I say, and be sure to forget none of what I have told you.”

Ajándok wiped away her tears and set off for the attic at the top of the mill. She had never liked going up there, not even by day: but this was St John’s Night, after all. It was a fearful place. Here, it was said, the mad young mill-worker Gergely had hanged himself. The winding staircase seemed to go on for ever in the darkness, twisting and turning all the way. At every landing it was as if someone had been sitting there just a moment before and then fled noisily up another flight. After countless turnings and twistings she reached the round window, the huge Cyclops eye of the mill. She thought of those evenings in her childhood, all those times when on her way home from the fields she had seen some creature stick its terrifying head out of the window, then draw it back… perhaps someone was lurking there now? But she gathered up her strength and peered out through it. Down below lay the empty fields. Between the clusters of pitch-black trees, and as far as the most distant seas, the world was utterly deserted. As she sat there, on the staircase that went on for ever, the little girl’s heart beat in total isolation.

Then, just a few steps higher, stumbling and very close to tears, she felt a wave of dizziness. She snapped her mouth shut, and suddenly — she nearly screamed — she bumped into something. It was the attic door. After an awkward scraping it gave way to the pressure of her hands. As she entered her nose was assaulted by the smell of musty old jumble. She was surrounded by unfamiliar objects, each demanding its due, its toll of pure terror.

“Courage, Ajándok. The heroines of fairy stories have faced far more terrifying ordeals on the path to the diamond-studded gates.” It was an altogether different Ajándok, now defiant and sinister to behold, who ran unsteadily over the creaking floorboards in the blue light shed by the thin, fruitless ploughings of the moon that added to her fear. An unseen joist blocked her way, almost jumping up at her, and she had to step over it as over a dead animal. It was followed by what looked like another. Seeing it, she leapt back and sat down hard on the joist. Something was hanging from this second beam, a black, lumpish mass. Her heart fluttered like the wings of a lost bird, as her tearful eyes slowly made out that this object, the source of so much alarm, was nothing more than a haunch of ham hung up to be smoked.

Without knowing how she managed it, she eventually found herself at last in the centre of the boarded space where the great chest stood. She rummaged through the pile of old clothes, calendars and household jumble, gathered up the herbs in her trembling hands, stuffed them into her bag, gave a deep sigh and started on her way back. Fear gripped her once again, even though the situation was now a little less desperate. At what seemed an immense distance down below she could now make out the light from the fireplace, signalling that there would at some point be an end to her frightful journey. But she was still a good few paces from the door when her feet froze in terror, rooting her to the spot.

She had heard a whirring, rustling sort of noise, and it made her flesh creep the way it does when someone stares at us from behind. But she dared not turn round. She was incapable of movement. The moon held her body trapped between its narrow spikes, and she stood there like a person bewitched. Very slowly, as in a nightmare, she managed to force herself round, and immediately clapped her hand to her eyes. This was no dream. Beneath the cloth sail of the windmill stood the pitch-black figure of a man, with something held tight under his arm. Ajándok screamed. The mysterious figure gave a sudden start, flitted away between the sails, and vanished.

Still clutching her bundle, Ajándok ran back down to her room. People begged, demanded, to know what had happened. But she had no words to describe her terror.

Now they were all seated around the table. The vapour from the warm wine had lifted everyone’s spirits, and the sight of the two keys, one for the bride’s old home and one for the new, had driven away all thoughts of night. Kindliness shone in everyone’s eyes, and their laughter wore festive garments.

There was a knocking at the door. Silence fell, and people were still trying to decide who this very late visitor might be when he finally entered. The unexpected caller was a figure clad in black, his boots covered in dust, with a large book bound in pigskin clutched under his arm. His cloak — which looked wide enough to drive clouds along with — hung down all round him, like the folded wings of a raven. Indeed his whole aspect was that of a great wind-blown bird, and his voice, when he spoke, was low and hoarse with the dust of the highways of seven counties.

“My name is Máté the Scholar. I am one of the paupers of the famous order of St Lazarus. I am a wanderer, good people, and exhausted from a long journey. I must ask you for a place to sleep this fine night, and a little milk, and a loaf of bread, since I cannot pay you for them.”

The miller was a hospitable and jovial man, and he made the pauper of St Lazarus take his seat at the table, though he did not particularly relish this sort of visitor. And indeed, although the scholar filled his place at a corner of the table quietly enough, there was little about him of the cheerfulness that filled his neighbours. It was as if his black cloak cast its shadow over the entire table, like some huge-winged buzzard hovering over the courtyard killing the joy of the merry chickens, and after his arrival the conversation became rather subdued. The talk was all of plans for the wedding, finding a best man who would also be a skilful rhymester, and calculating just how much wine would have to be ordered. They tried to draw the wandering scholar in, but to no avail. He heard them out, but in a manner that suggested he had never known what the words ‘wedding’, ‘bride’ or ‘happiness’ might mean.

For all that, the old lady took good care of him. She set down a fresh, uncut loaf of bread before him, and a full mug of milk. It was St John’s Night, and she knew what she was doing. He fell to, but ate very strangely, not as a Hungarian would. He scrutinised the loaf from one side and then the other, and sniffed the milk cautiously before every sip, as if afraid that they were about to poison him. Meanwhile he spoke not a word, and looked to neither left nor right.

Nor did he notice that there was someone who never stopped staring at him. It was his immediate neighbour, Ajándok. From the very first glance the little girl’s heart had taken pity on the wandering scholar — this poor, uncouth, abandoned vagrant with thorns clinging to his clothes from his wanderings in distant forests. Finding a creature beside her who seemed even more of an orphan than she felt herself to be, sad little Ajándok’s sorrow began to dissolve, and her kindly heart longed to comfort him.

The scholar finally noticed her when she leant over to him to put some sugar in his milk. His first response was to cover the mug with his hand in terror; but then he acquiesced, and even thanked her.

“No one ever puts sugar in my milk,” he observed plaintively. “I always have it without. But sugar is very good, if you can get it.”

“But if you want it, why don’t you ask?”

“Me, ask for sugar? I’m afraid that wouldn’t go down well with the master.”

“But when you find a good master, who looks kindly on you?”

“I’ve met very few of those. I know I look like a scarecrow. But I don’t ask for much. All I want is a bite to eat and somewhere to lay my head. When people oblige I never thank them, and if they don’t they live to regret it. I just keep moving on — there are plenty of other villages and my legs are long. I never sit anywhere long enough to warm my seat.”

Sensing the miller’s gaze fully upon him, he stopped.

“So where are you from, master scholar?” was the question. The scholar behaved as if he hadn’t heard.

Soon enough, people lost interest in him, their thoughts full of their own happy plans.

But Ajándok fussed around him even more devotedly, finding a cushion for him to sit on, as if he were a specially honoured guest, cutting his bread for him and pouring his milk into her own ornately decorated mug. He even managed to thank her, in his scarcely audible voice. She blushed at this display of magnanimity, and gazed at him with such a loving look that he reddened slightly in return — the faint glowing of embers beneath a layer of ash.

“Have you come very far?” she suddenly asked, timidly.

“I certainly have,” he replied. “Through seven forests, from the land of seven cities. In Transylvania I studied up to the thirteenth grade… I lived in a cave with twelve companions… a dark cave, with bears and owls… we were barely human ourselves… and the nights were bitter cold… Then we moved on… crossing over flimsy footbridges… carrying torches… up into the heart of the mountain.”

His speech came in fragments, as if he wanted to drop the subject at every turn but was unable to withstand Ajándok’s loving gaze. “In the heart of the mountain we came upon a threshing wheel… we stopped before it, all thirteen of us… we knew one of us would have to die… either myself or one of the others… so we all climbed up and stood on it… and it started to turn… then suddenly, ‘Jaj!’—my best friend fell… he screamed at us as he lay there among the whirling blades… it was all up for him… But we survived… twelve of us now… and now we could go… anywhere in the world we wanted… for whatever foolish reason. But this is not a fit story for you, my little sister. It’ll give you bad dreams.”

“Never mind that — tell me more. Where did you go after that?”

“Where did I go? I couldn’t tell you the number of countries — you would be an old maid, my dear little sister, by the time you’d heard it all. As King Solomon said: ‘To grow in wisdom is to grow in suffering.’ The fact is, since I first held this book under my arm I’ve not had a moment’s rest. The breeze starts to rise just before dawn, and I think, perhaps on the slopes of some faraway hill there’ll be a fountain of wine to quench my thirst; or in some snowy cave of ice, who knows? perhaps I might at last have my wish and get some sleep, and find what I need — a longboat waiting for me on the shore of the Óperencián sea to take me to my rest on the eternal waves. So long as there are country roads under my feet, I shall never find rest.”

Ajándok asked, rather petulantly, why he had come there if the world was so much wider elsewhere.

“Everyone who goes wandering, my little sister, does so because there’s somewhere he wants to get to. The end of the world is just that, the end of the world, and they say that once you get there you will be able to find rest. When I finally reached this wide plain I saw this mill standing in the distance and I felt happier than I had for years. My dear little sister, you are a miller’s daughter, you can never have known how wonderful it is to be no longer pursued by the wind, when you have lost the power of your wings and are sleeping under the open sky… and suddenly there stands the mill, with its sails.”

It had grown very late. Wishing one another a peaceful good night, people rose from the table. Lidi’s cheeks burnt in anticipation of the promised kisses that the autumn would bring, and everyone knew that her dream of Bálint would be one of roses. All that awaited Ajándok was the cold bed of a child.

The old lady led the scholar Máté to his sleeping place, a bench covered with sheepskin. He stretched himself out along it, pulled his cloak over him, and in that manner fell instantly and soundly asleep.

Silence pervaded the entire mill. The chairs and long table could now stretch out and rest too. Soft, rustling sounds were heard. The happy dreams of warm bodies came to life. Down the cracked and crannied chimney, over the hearth, in and out of the mountains of grey ash, those dreams, the miracles and nightmares of flowery St John’s Eve, glided silently.

Then the great bell tolled. It seemed determined to flood the whole plain with its outpouring. Twelve o’clock.

Ajándok rose, pulled on her dress, took out the bundle, and tiptoed out of the mill.

The moon was so bright it was like a second day, in a whiter, more silent world where the flowers were less lush. But she did not look behind her, and as she stepped out she no longer felt afraid, and her grief melted away. She felt sure that on just such a moonlit night, in a landscape sent down from another world, the person she was expecting would be sure to appear.

And there stood the well. Inside its crumbling rim the frogs croaked their ancient watery songs. It was said that the well was as ancient as the mill, and the mill was so old that even to think how old it was would take for ever.

She said the three Hail Marys, put the bundle down beside the well, rested her head on it and savoured the smell of the dried herbs. And there she lay for a long, long time, in great peace, as if on her own bed. On her white brow the nimble fingers of tiny dreams spun a bridal wreath… until, after who knows how long, or when she became aware of it… there was a man standing next to the well, a tall, pitch-black figure, his eye raised heavenwards in rapture. The moon stroked his face with its soft hands, and made him as handsome as the prince of some far-off Western land.

She stood up. She knew. This man was her bridegroom.

It was the scholar.

She went up to him, and without knowing what she was doing — she was still in a dream — took his hand. With unhurried deliberation, like someone taking a vow, she declared: “You are my betrothed.”

He gave a start, then stared at her as if she were a miraculous being risen from the well. “Is that what you want, Ajándok?”

“It’s not I who want it. I don’t want anything. It was the magic that brought me to you, by night, on flowery St John’s Night. You are the man I was told I would see. My husband-to-be.”

“As you say, Ajándok. It is true. It was no chance wind that brought me to this place. But all the same — do you know who I am?”

“You are a wanderer, and a weary one, seeking rest. I know that you are my bridegroom.”

“But think about this carefully, Ajándok, and may God bless you. You see this book under my arm? In it you may read terrible things. And I am the one who frightened you earlier, in the attic — it was my way into the house.”

“God bless that moment!”

“But I am not an ordinary person. No girl has ever loved me. I am a vagrant. I don’t know how to live in one place!”

“You are my husband: I shall follow you everywhere.”

“Ajándok, wonderful things do happen in this world. The wind racing by will sometimes turn and send a bunch of flowers spinning to the ground; hurricanes will crouch down and play among the corn stalks, like children. And,” he shouted, “I do believe that you are my betrothed, that you will stay with me for ever, and I shall never wander again.” He fell to his knees and kissed the hem of her dress.

“All my wanderings have been for your sake, Ajándok, my betrothed. Because of you I have carried the dust of the road of every land on my shoes. You are the clearing, the open glade in which I can rest at last. You are the long-lost palace to which I am now returning, the bed in which I shall finally sleep; the scarf that will seel my ever-watchful eyes; the little nest that will calm my beating wings; the golden chain that will fetter my flying feet. I have finally found what I have always been looking for, and now the mill will always be there for me, the mill and its sails!”

Ajándok could only listen in silence and let the kisses fall on her happy hand. She was in another world, where one drank the fragrant milk of moon-white cows.

Then the scholar drew himself up and said, almost fearfully: “I have one last journey to make, Ajándok, through the village. Thus it is written in my book. And then… I shall throw away the book and never travel again. Will you come with me on that one last journey, my betrothed?”

“Of course I shall.”

Hand in hand they raced down the little hill on which the mill stood, and into the village. From house to house, courtyard to courtyard, they ran in silence, nor did the dogs bark at them. Then the scholar began to exercise his miraculous craft. The moment he reached a farmyard he would lift up his book and begin to read (he could see the words even in the dark). In it was written the name of the owner, and what sort of man he was — according to which the scholar proceeded to reward or punish him. There was one who was envious and quarrelsome: the scholar blew behind the left ear of his cow, and from then on its calf would drink blood along with its milk, and in no time at all his entire young stock was destroyed. At the next place the owner was a good man, and there the scholar blew behind the cow’s right ear, and thereafter the milk would be rich, the calf it suckled would grow well, and the faces of his children would be ruddy with health. He also wrought justice by means of the pigs. The bad farmer’s pig had its tail twisted slightly, and no bacon or ham ever came from that pig, for by the autumn it was dead. If he made a baleful sign on a fruit tree, it would be impossible to rid it of caterpillars: the sign simply brought forth wave after wave of new ones. But where he left a favourable sign the tree would produce fine fruit, so lush you could hardly bear to sink your teeth into it. The bad farmer’s land he scattered with salt, and it became saline and produced nothing. Over the good man’s land he made a sign with his staff, whereupon the mice gave it a wide berth and hail never struck it. Thus he went from house to house, like a nocturnal bishop on his rounds.

Meanwhile, in the intimate language of plighted lovers, the two of them built up their plans for their future life together. The was no doubt in the scholar’s mind that the miller would grant him his daughter’s hand, and he took it for granted that he would be rich. He knew that out in the marshland there was a hidden treasure, guarded by black dogs. He was the only person who understood their tongue, and they would allow him access to it. They agreed that the house of Máté the scholar would be built directly opposite the mill. It would not be an ordinary house, but a tower with a flat roof, and on it the two of them would sit out, on evenings just like this, and smile as they talked about times past, when the scholar was still a vagrant wandering the highways and Ajándok was a young girl, playing with her dolls and too young for marriage. Their cows would have glass bells hanging from their necks; they would never have to shout at their servants — when summoned they would obey in perfect silence; Ajándok would walk on tiptoe round the bedroom, and the door wouldn’t squeak; when their saucepans banged together they would make music, and Mirók the kitten would sit in pride of place on a tower of cushions. Their front door would be forever open, and all sorts of vagrants would come and stay with them, but because of these visitors they would often not leave the house for weeks, and on Sundays they would do nothing but just sit there gazing at each other, and Ajándok would say: “See, here I am at home, the children are growing up, and when my beloved comes back they will be as tall as he is,” and Máté the scholar would add: “See, here I am at home. The country roads were bumpy and hard going, but now the earth has grown soft and rich, the highways are behind me, and I can rest.”

Thus, in a shared waking dream, they built their house of air: the vagrant looking to have a roof over his head and his betrothed, the child Ajándok; and both believed they really would live in it. Confidently they made their way through the sleeping village, and the scholar brought blushes from his bride’s cheek by talking of the little one they would one day have. His hair would be blond, like his mother’s. He would not come into the world, as his father had, with all his teeth full-grown: in fact he wouldn’t be like him at all, but calm and church-going, and the blessing of the holy water of baptism would shine on his brow for ever. The old ladies of the village would dandle him on their knees, and angels would sing to him. He would be truly beautiful, the king of all his little companions.

In the heart of the village, just outside the church, they stopped, Máté the scholar and Ajándok, to exchange tokens. Ajándok was still too young to own a beautiful embroidered scarf, so she simply gave him the ribbon she tied in the hair of Faraj her doll.

“But what can I give you, Ajándok? I had a veil, made of gossamer, which I once bought from a peddler who was two hundred years old, and other little knick-knacks too, but I used the gossamer to bind a wound, and I gave the knick-knacks away in one place or another on my way here, before I got to you, and now I have nothing to give my betrothed. Do you know what, Ajándok? I shall give you this book. You don’t yet know how to use it; I am the only one who knows how to do that. But… when I have a home, what need will I have of it then, and what will my loss of wisdom mean to anyone? I shall give it to you — when we get to the end of the village.”

The child waiting to be born rushed up to them, his tiny hands raised in the air. The cheerful babble filled their hearts with a feeling of benevolence, and they stood there, the pride and joy of the village.

But the night was waning, and they still had a way to go. Here and there the first faint colours were already dappling the white walls of the houses, and the air was chill.

They went on to within a stone’s throw of the end of the village. There they stopped outside a house with a fearsome reputation. The owner was a wicked man, drunk and boorish, the associate of thieves. Ajándok drew closer to her betrothed. She no longer felt anger now towards the malefactor because, in her dream, she knew her husband would take good care of her; and they now had a child, a beautiful child with large, beautiful eyes.

Then the scholar opened his book, and studied it for a long time. Slowly the colour drained from his face. He slumped against the sharp fence, beat his brow and looked distraught for what seemed an age, then he suddenly seized the terrified Ajándok by the shoulder and demanded: “Ajándok, what shall we call our child?”

In her terror she could not reply.

“His name will be Never Was, because we never shall have children. Get up. Clear off out of here. We shall never see each other again!”

Then he collapsed in misery against the fence. Ajándok just stood there, wringing her hands. She felt everything slipping away through her fingers.

The scholar looked up at her. “Are you still here, Ajándok? It’s no use. It’s written here. I can’t help it. And even if I tried, it would be no use. There are even more terrible things in this book, and even worse things inside me. Off you go, Ajándok, and pray for my soul. Pray for the damned.”

Ajándok stood shivering in the chilly dawn, then buried herself in his arms: “I shall never leave you, I shall never ever leave you!”

And though her blood froze in her veins when she saw what would have to be, she did not move from his side. But he never spared her a glance. Pulling his cloak around him, he stepped quietly up to the window of the house. Inside lay the child, sleeping open-mouthed in its cot. The scholar pressed his deathly pale face against the window and stared boldly into the room: his glance was so terrible and so fierce that Ajándok steeled herself to place her hand in front of his eyes to protect the child, before she realised that that terrible look would have bored right through her bloodless fingers. Dreadful minutes passed while he continued to stare; then the child woke and gazed at the window in wide-eyed astonishment. Suddenly its two eyes darkened, and it burst into a faltering, abandoned cry. The cry produced sounds of movement inside the house, the scholar seized Ajándok and hauled her after him as he ran. They ran like murderers being driven off with pitchforks.

The rim of the sky was already pale, and a great cloud was passing solemnly overhead, like a dragon emerging from a swamp, as they do at the approach of sunrise. The air was heavy, as before a storm, when the trees dare not move but huddle with hunched shoulders, awaiting judgement. They finally stopped a little way beyond the village, where the marshland began. The scholar sat down on a boundary stone and spoke:

“See, I pass back and forth over the land like a hailstorm. I am a thing of ill omen, the secret horror of whispered prayers. Ajándok, many times in the past you have been terrified by the mere sound of my name, but to set eyes on me is a truly fearful thing. People cross themselves when they see me. So you should know: I am a garabonciás, a wandering scholar with occult powers. People drive me away with long whips. I do not want to do what I do, and perhaps it would be better if I didn’t, in truth, because, my God! sometimes my lungs are left gasping for breath. So, poor little Ajándok, do you still love me?”

She answered: “You are my betrothed!”

Filled with sadness, he continued: “Look, Ajándok, it is already dawn. The wind is rising. There will be a storm, and I am awaited. No mortal girl has ever loved me. Ajándok, let us exchange a kiss, just once, so that I know how it tastes, and through it I shall hold you in my memory for ever. For who knows whether we shall ever see each other again.”

“We cannot exchange kisses before we have exchanged tokens. Give me your book. I shall lock it well away, and look after it carefully, in a safe, safe place. Tell me you will never wander more; that we will make our home in the tower-house, as you promised, and be the pride and joy of the village.”

“Dear little Ajándok, ask whatever you want — the golden lamb of the imperial princess, the diamond ring from the ear of the shaman’s horse, Sleeping Beauty’s enchanted bed — I shall set any one of these down before you for the sake of a single kiss. But I cannot give you the book. I know that now, and everything else is a lie. The book must always be mine. I can no more be free of it than I can be free of what I am.”

“You must give me either the book, or nothing!”

“Well, then… yes… I see, that’s how it must be — I shall never know what it is to be kissed by a mortal girl. But the tower-house, and the idea of living in it… how could I ever have believed that? The sun is coming up — gentle St John’s Night is over. Thank you for coming with me on this one journey, Ajándok.”

She burst into tears. So far her tears had been those of a child, without real meaning. Now the child Ajándok wept every one of her grown woman’s tears.

“Ajándok, don’t cry,” he said. “You see, I am the one who should be crying. It is far better for you this way. I cannot share my life with anyone. I might blind you by looking you too fiercely in the eye; your frail skeleton would shatter in my embrace; our children would have been changelings, born with beards. It was cruel misfortune that we ever met, and there is nothing we can do about it. For sure, the wanderer will never find a home, or the orphan a mate.”

Then the wind started up again. Something — a mass of something crouched low, a ball with a foot in the shape of a thorn bush — came scuttling down the highway, whipped along by the wind.

“See, the Devil’s chariot!” he shouted. “My faithful companion, my one true friend, here you come again, sent as a messenger by the storm! The open road, the joys of the full gallop, await me! I feel my wings growing back; by evening I shall have reached the city. I shall sleep at the top of the church tower and at midnight I shall ring the bells and make my escape on the back of a bull I have made mad, then I shall plunge into the swamp and tomorrow I shall be in Mauritania, under a blazing sun.”

The wild windstorm gave its answer, throwing the dust from the nearby road in his eyes. But every speck of dust that flew into them struck a spark as from flint. His body expanded with every gust of air, straining to leave the earth behind, like the flames that hover flickering over the bonfire of someone possessed by the devil. And, like an organ freed into sound by a master, his voice boomed out, edged with sardonic laughter, terrible to hear.

“See, Ajándok, see! They’re turning! The sails of the windmill are turning, driven by the wind! Let it drive me away, too, for I am a wandering scholar possessed by the devil, the son of a witch, raised by dragons, and this is my home, under stormy skies.”

A mighty cloud of dust enveloped the huge black figure, as he ran off whooping down the highway, pursuing the battle that raged, howling, in the heavens.

Ajándok rose, wiped away her tears, and set off homewards. Her face was calm, serious — the face of one whose heart has been pierced by seven daggers. The storm tore at her frail body but could not break the flower of love in her, a flower that would never wilt.

That day, and for many years after, there was much talk in the village of the wandering scholar who put the wind in the windmill’s sails, who went through the village on St John’s Night and bewitched the heart of the poor little outlawed girl. Miraculous things were told of him even after he had left. There were those who met him on the highway, galloping along in his horseless chariot; others caught sight of him sitting on his long black cloak as he flew above the fields; and one old grandmother swore blind that the garabonciás had charmed the dragon out of the swamp, saddled it and flown off to Mauritania, where it was so hot that the natives died if they didn’t slip a piece of dragon’s meat under their tongues to keep them cool, and when he got there the wandering scholar intended to slay the dragon, weigh out the meat, and return home one day, heaped with treasure.

The mill was seldom still. The work continued apace, and the wealth of the old miller and the young one alike grew steadily. But Ajándok never again left its confines. She hardly ever spoke. She died within a year, from some mysterious internal disease. Over her grave grows the ever-faithful forget-me-not.

1922

THE WHITE MAGUS

IN THE DAYS of the Byzantine Empire in which our tale is set, many stories were told of the Princess Zoë. The only daughter of Emperor Constantine the Great, her beauty and goodness were renowned throughout Christendom, and people came from the far ends of the land to catch a glimpse of her, in her long dress that trailed stiffly behind her, on her way to church, where she would bow deeply before disappearing behind the great portal. The poor who turned to her always found her compassionate, and when she raised her slender hands in prayer some invisible blessing seemed to flow into her. It was said she could even heal the sick.

One day Princess Zoë boarded a sailing ship and spent the day at sea. It was spring, the sea was as blue as the sky, the sky was as deep as the sea, and where they met soft breezes caressed the fledgling waves. The Princess stood singing in the prow of the ship, her hair flying free. “How beautiful life is,” she exclaimed, “and how young I am!”

When she returned, towards evening, the whole city was out on the seafront waving to welcome her back. The shopkeepers stood outside their shops, women crowded in windows and mothers held their children aloft. “Welcome back, Princess Zoë,” they shouted. “God has brought you home safely from the kingdom of salt!” For the heart of the stone city, even as it cooled, beat inside her too, and in her face shone the classical beauty of ancient Greece, in its final and most haunting form.

When she reached the Palace news was brought to her that a little girl, the dearest to her of all her little friends, had died while she had been at sea. The cause was a long-standing but totally mysterious condition. The Princess was filled with self-reproach. Somehow she thought that had she remained by the side of her beloved little friend she might have kept her alive. From then on some inexplicable influence took possession of her. The happiness of her days darkened and gave way to the tearful melancholy of deep compassion.

The next day a throng of women came to her complaining that their children too were sick. The symptoms of the illness were always the same. The children became very cold and inexpressibly sad; they were full of longing, but for what could never be established because by this stage they could no longer speak. They did not cry, nor would they eat. Their little bodies grew steadily colder, while their faces took on a startling beauty, and by the time they died they had come to resemble the old statues of gods that householders in those days still sometimes found in their cellars. People were almost certain that through death the children were finding a way back to the happier, sun-blest lands of ancient Hellas. The doctors could find no cure, and ransacked their Galens in vain to find a name for this strange affliction.

The calamity that had struck Byzantium weighed heavily on Princess Zoë. She loved its children above everything. She felt truly at home among them and personally knew almost every child in the city. As the strange epidemic spread she busied herself night and day, going from house to house visiting the sick, comforting them and helping out wherever she could. The moment she drew near, the patient’s condition would take a turn for the better. At the touch of her hand a warmer life would flow into them. They were able to laugh again, and they joined her in chanting little rhymes. When she came and sat on their beds, those who had difficulty sleeping enjoyed happy dreams, filled with wonderful and inexplicable images of the past.

But Zoë was just one person, and the sick children were many. Moreover, the moment she left the condition would return. As soon as the child was alone again, the chill took an even firmer hold. The streets of Byzantium filled with long, slow processions of tiny blue coffins.

Zoë was indefatigable, loyally accompanying every grieving mother on these last journeys. But not one of those distraught parents knew the depth of pain that she did. With every child that went to the grave, part of her own life was being buried. It was not just the mothers’ tears that burnt into her heart. It was also the nameless, mysterious grief that had claimed the children, and her earnest desire to understand the fatal secret in their eyes, as they slowly faded into death.

One evening she was making her way home with her ladies-in-waiting, ostensibly to take some nourishment herself, though really she was more concerned about the fact that her women, tired as they were, had refused to leave her on her own. Along the way they called in on yet another sick little child, when she suddenly remembered that an especially dear little one, who lived at the other end of the city, was due to enter the critical phase of his illness that day. She persuaded her women to carry on without her, then she borrowed a simple, ordinary dress from the sick child’s mother, not wanting the citizens to see her in the street without her attendants. If news of that reached the ears of the Court they would be punished for her misdemeanour.

She hurried through the town, almost running, but even so she arrived late. At first the parents failed to recognise her. They asked her, rather rudely, who she thought she was and why she was bothering them so late at night, and told her to mind her own business. It took some time to persuade them that she was indeed Princess Zoë, and that they should let her in to see the dead child. She placed a flower in the little boy’s clenched hand and bade him a silent farewell.

Slowly, wearily, she made her way back towards the Palace. Suddenly she felt her face starting to burn, and the chilling words of farewell she had so often heard took on a fresh meaning for her, as a peculiar sensation of coldness such as she had never felt before took hold. In the dark and unfamiliar streets the wind seemed to blow with an even greater sharpness, and she glanced around apprehensively. This was a new Byzantium. She noticed, for the very first time, that everything was made of stone. The houses and public fountains were of stone, the streets were paved with stone. Wherever she went, stone temples and stone archways weighed down over her head, and the footsteps of people hurrying home clattered and rang in the street. Every one of them was a complete stranger, and the weary, indifferent glances falling on her seemed to come from an immense distance, dressed as she was in someone else’s clothes, covered by a headscarf and not in the least beautiful. Zoë had only ever seen these people when they lined the streets through which her carriage was passing. On those occasions there seemed a sort of glow on their faces, some lingering glimmer of an antique radiance, and she had thought that they too were children, children who had simply grown older. But now she saw that this was not true, that on their pallid brows they carried the mark of the stone city, and it was only their constant motion that made them seem alive. She tried to fill her mind with thoughts of the sea, and the huge blossoms in the vast imperial gardens, and then it struck her that in all the windows of the city there was not a single flower to be seen — nor could there possibly be. She saw that flowers never could grow in this place — the cold withered them in the root, just as it blighted her dear ones, the children — and that she herself was the last, lonely blossom, the forgotten relic of a long-dead summer.

The road home was very long, and when she finally arrived at the Palace to find that yet more women had come to beg for a visit, she was filled with such a stupor of weariness that she sent them away without even a word of comfort. Though longing for sleep, she was so tired she could barely undress.

Her bed was icy cold, the blanket immensely heavy. Its folds seemed to have been sculpted from solid marble. Her limbs felt no less heavy, and sleep claimed her instantly.

The next morning another throng of grieving women were there waiting for her to awaken. She attempted to rise but, held down by the weight of the blanket, her frozen limbs refused to budge. She tried to explain that she was very tired, she would not get up that day but the day after — but the words simply circled round in her head, malevolently, in some strange foreign tongue, and she could not utter them. She folded her hands over her breast and simply waited for night to come.

Thus she remained for several days. Everyone who saw her during that time was astonished by how much more beautiful she had become. She was now so beautiful that it no longer gave rise to feelings of pleasure but rather of fear and horror, as at some supernatural visitation.

And they knew that she too had been struck down by the same mysterious disease that had carried off the children of the town.

The Palace was plunged into mourning. The Emperor Constantine began to neglect his duties of state. Prayers for the young Princess were said in every church in the city. Doctors came and doctors went, but there was no known cure for this condition. With the death of each child something of Zoë’s own life had gone to the grave.

And then — after Thessalian prophetesses had read the signs and pronounced in vain; hermits had come out of the deserts to make the sign of the cross, to no avail; long-bearded Jews had hung up strange stones to work their influence for her, without result; Arab holy men had danced ululating beneath her window, to no effect; madmen and dwarves had turned cartwheels, and made no difference; two-headed animals bred specifically to brighten faces such as hers, had all failed — for her mysterious affliction simply grew ever deeper, more silent, more death-like — someone finally thought of the White Magus.

The White Magus had not been seen for seventy years. He lived alone, up in the north, at the top of a high mountain in the Carpathians. Since then he had renounced everything to do with the world and devoted his life to studying the eternal verities. It was said that he knew all the deepest secrets of nature and of human life. He, if anyone, would surely be able to help the little Princess.

A delegation was quickly drawn up, with the Archilogothetos at its head, with instructions to seek out the White Magus, if he were still alive, up in the Carpathian mountains.

The emissaries had to battle against many obstacles on the way. Melting snow had washed away the roads that ran between the peaks; the Danube was in flood, and crossing it proved fraught with danger. In the forests of the snow-covered lowlands wild Slavic tribesmen lay in wait for them with poisoned arrows.

At last they arrived at the permanent snowfields. They had come to a terrain into which no one had ever before ventured. This abode of tranquillity and silence had remained undisturbed in the shadow of the snow for many thousands of years. Those of the party who were versed in the lore of dreams and omens realised, trembling, that they were now very close to the White Magus.

One day they came to a stream beneath whose waters drifted strange flowers of frozen crystal, and they knew that this must be the mountain on whose peak he lived. They continued their painful journey upwards, picking their way between fields of snow and rivers of ice. One by one the mules collapsed. The weakest members of the party became ill or suffered from terrifying hallucinations, and the group began to break up.

It was already night when its remaining members reached the Magus’ ice gardens. In the astonishingly bright light of the stars they could see across enormous distances to the other peaks. Immense fields of ice stretched out before them, gleaming palely in the darkness. The cold was terrible. A blue light emanating from the palace itself flickered back and forth across the garden.

When they reached the top of the slippery stairway the Magus appeared at his gate to greet them. His austere, distinguished face made all petty thoughts seem shameful, and their bent, weary backs straightened as if under a reproach.

After listening attentively while the Archilogothetos explained the reason for their coming, he promised to visit the little Princess and do everything in his power to help her. It would be hard indeed to leave his astronomical tower and return to the bustling, petty-minded world from which he had grown so remote, but he respected both the moral code that required him to help all who turned to him and the law that made the Emperor the ruler of the world. While he remained in that world he would always follow his duty.

However, on that particular night certain very special events were about to be played out in the heavens, events to be witnessed only once in a hundred years, and which set the pattern for the next hundred, and he felt obliged to spend that one last night in his tower. Towards dawn, with a heavy heart, he bade farewell to the eternal stars.

The next day they set out for Byzantium. With the Magus at their side, the road was now very easy. He knew of pathways that led between the snowfields, and the Danube meekly allowed his longboat to ride on its back. Along the way he gladly dispensed advice to all who sought his counsel, treating everyone with the same kindliness and respect.

When they reached Drinapolis word came that Princess Zoë was on her deathbed. Alarmed and concerned, the Magus increased the pace of the journey. But by the time they arrived at the city walls of Byzantium the bells were already tolling. The Princess was dead.

The Emperor Constantine who received the Magus was a man broken by grief.

“If you had arrived just a few hours earlier, you might have saved her!”

“I am to blame,” replied the crestfallen Magus. “If I had set out immediately I would have been here in time. Eternal shame upon my head!”

He entered the room where the body lay and examined it carefully. When he returned his expression was even more sombre.

“I do not believe I could have helped her while she was alive,” he declared. “Your daughter must have been a very special person, my lord. It takes a most exceptional character to die of that most helpless form of love — pity. She froze to death because the children of the city were dying of cold, in their yearning for the lost sunlight of ancient Greece. It is a perilous thing to allow yourself to face life with a bared heart, not knowing, as one should, the need to abstract oneself from the world. You see, up there in my astronomical tower I can foretell every misfortune that blows down onto the world from the fateful stars. Should I ever allow pity to overwhelm me, if only for a moment, I would be dead within the hour. But the eternal winter of the Carpathians shields my heart. The sea of life cannot reach my tower, other than as a pure and rarified vapour. I could have done nothing for your daughter while she was still alive; and now that her heart is cold… But I have never yet made a wasted journey…”

Deep in thought, he wandered through the Palace gardens.

During the night he called again on the Emperor, who had remained beside his daughter’s bier.

“My lord, I cannot leave with this business unfinished,” he began. “I have decided to resort to the very greatest, and most dangerous, of all forms of magic, something a magus can work only once in his life — the art of raising the dead. I cannot reveal its many secrets and difficulties to you, but there is one problem you will have to find a way round by some means or another. You know that in this vale of woe everything comes at a price, just as the great mystery of birth requires both pain and the shedding of blood. If I am to bring a dead person back to life there must be an exchange with someone still living. My lord, if I am to revive your daughter I shall need a volunteer for sacrifice.”

“I am sure a great many people,” the Emperor replied, “would be prepared to give their lives for her. The heart of the entire city beat in her breast. I would willingly die myself, but unfortunately affairs of state require my continuing existence.”

The next day heralds let it be known throughout the town that they were looking for someone to lay down his or her life for the sake of the little Princess. “The life of the body is transient, but this person’s name will live in grateful memory for ever.”

But in all that city of stone, no one came forward. The fact that Zoë had died, and would never again be seen going to church in her long, trailing dress, did not concern them, and they probably did not even notice that their lives had become even more impoverished and oppressed than before.

The Magus had expected no less. He knew the people. He knew that their drab lives were so limiting they were incapable of giving anything for the sake of a greater cause.

He saw too that there was only one person, someone not caught up in petty concerns, whose life was indeed worthy of such a sacrifice, and that person was himself. It did not seem to him unreasonable or unfair that he should surrender his life for someone else, someone he did not know and whose existence had so far been a matter of perfect indifference to him. It was not as if he were someone who would one day be important. He too would have to die one day, and death was not something he feared. He had lived twice as long as people usually did. He already knew all there was to know, and more than was permitted to man. The world had no unredeemed promises left in store for him.

He communicated his decision to the Emperor, who was so astonished he was quite unable to find words to thank him.

A long-abandoned building in the Palace gardens was fitted out for the Magus. Guards were stationed all around so that no animal or human could come near. There he spent the night in acts of sorcery. The guards were convinced they could hear all sorts of voices inside. According to some of them, just before dawn the building was bathed in a strange blue light.

As soon as he woke the next morning, the Emperor called on the Magus. He found him sitting in a vast armchair in the middle of the empty room, a broken man. In a barely audible voice he announced:

“My lord, the great spell has done its work. Everything on earth and in heaven has assisted its aims. All that remains is for me to die.”

“And what is your last wish, Magus?” the Emperor asked.

“I have no last wish, just as I had no first one. But my final instructions are these: to place the body of the little Princess on a white bier, clad in the full ceremonial robes of a lady of royal birth, and carry it at midday down to the square outside the Cathedral. There you must set down my body too, on a black bier, and that is where the miracle of life and death will take place. Live happily, my lord.”

All routine work in the city came to a halt. Too inflamed with curiosity even to eat, the citizens put on their finest clothes. With trembling hands Zoë’s former attendants dressed her corpse in the formal, pure-gold coronation robes a woman was permitted to don just once in her life. On her head they placed the huge, heavy diadem. In inexpressible excitement, the Emperor knelt before the crucifix.

All this time the Magus had remained sitting in his armchair. When the final moment came, he dispatched his soul to its last and greatest exaltation. One after another, his vital organs failed, and with them faded all the soft sensory impressions, the sounds, scents and images of the transient world. Then even the sense of weariness ceased, and the soul unfurled its wings on a loftier, freer, plane. An irresistible lightness carried it ever upwards, ever higher and higher — the light grew ever brighter, the boundaries of the soul ever wider. It now floated on a sea of light, the one men call the Sea of Forgetting, for when the soul comes there it can no longer remember that it was ever anywhere else, the Eternal Present floods it with a wondrous sense of peace, and the hideous shackles that constitute the sense of ‘I am’ fall away.

And then his soul stood trembling on the final shore. It had come this far before, but always fallen back again, able to proceed no further. Normally this moment of pause would occur in the same instant as the soul’s ascent and be immeasurably brief, since the strength and desire that had propelled it on its way were great enough for it to break through the boundary, taking it on to a second sea, the one men call Death.

Meanwhile the body the Magus had left behind had been washed and laid out, according to his instructions, on a black bier, and the procession set off on its way to the accompaniment of slow dirges.

But his soul continued its upward flight, leaving immensities incomprehensible to human understanding far below. And now it was no longer alone. All round it appeared a multitude of spirits clad in light, and the sun’s coach, with its wheel of golden spokes, stood glittering before it.

The soul of the White Magus stepped up into the coach, in which were gathered before him a host of other sages, magi and masters of the lore of the stars. They thronged around him, rejoicing, holding him in place, and he was able briefly to rest.

Then the soul moved to the very edge of the sun coach and looked back at the way it had come, across immeasurable distances all the way down to the earth. There it lay, a grey, lax, languid, motionless object, far, far below. It was not a comforting sight, and the soul prepared to journey further on.

Then suddenly, from one particular spot on the Earth, a sort of luminosity flared up. It was quite unlike the celestial radiance of heaven, but worldly, opaque, and deeply disturbing. As the soul’s vision slowly adjusted to the distance, it realised that the light was coming from the city of Byzantium.

It saw a great multitude standing before the cathedral, around a white bier, and on the bier lay the miraculous form of a young woman, the source of the strange earthly radiance. Then, very slowly, the girl sat up, then stood fully erect. The ceremonial golden robes that enveloped her, denoting her high birth, glowed like a chalice. Now she was all the Magus’ soul could see. It watched as her arms began slowly to move, like the arms of a person walking in sleep. Never before had it beheld anything like this.

Then suddenly it could see everything, as the earthly light spread out in all directions, enveloping the whole world as it slept in the midday sun, its radiant face adorned with a million triumphantly verdant trees and flowers… and the sea was as blue as the sky, the sky was as deep as the sea, and where they met the breezes softly caressed the fledgling waves.

And the Magus’ soul was filled with sorrow that it had never seen any of these things before. It leant out over the edge of the sun’s coach. The running board was made of gold and very slippery, the distance below was beyond measuring, the soul was overcome with vertigo and fell headlong, plunging ever downwards towards earth. Liberated from the body, it was driven by a single gravitational force — desire.

The soul of the White Magus hurtled down through myriad worlds, back into his abandoned body. In the tower of the great cathedral known as the Hagia Sophia, the bells were tolling twelve.

The crowd standing around the little Princess watched as, very slowly, the royal maiden held up a hand in front of her, as if to fend off the sunlight. She was alive!

Suddenly someone gave a great shout and pointed in horror to the other bier, the black one, on which lay the body of the Magus. And then everyone gazed in awe as the right hand of the dead Magus slowly stroked his brow. In the same instant the little Princess’ right hand fell back, under its own dead weight.

The silence, and the horror, were indescribable. Slowly, very slowly, the White Magus raised his head, with its huge crown of white hair, and at the same time Princess Zoë’s head drooped, like the head of a broken lily. Slowly the Magus sat up, as the maiden sank to her knees. Like a ghost or supernatural apparition, he rose to his feet, while she lay down on the white bier. He gave a great sigh and spread his arms out wide, as the Princess clutched her hands to her breast, like a statue on the lid of a coffin. His eyes opened fully, and his appalled gaze met that of the Princess — in its very last half-second of life. Then her eyes closed for ever.

The great bells tolled. In the stunned silence of the pitiless midday sun the crowd fell to their knees and beat their breasts, though none knew why. Very few noticed that the Magus had leapt down from his bier, thrown himself on the ground, and was sobbing like a child.

As the little Princess lay on her bier, the diadem slowly slipped from her forehead, and the eternal sun of ancient Greece wove flowers of gold in her radiant hair.

1923

THE TYRANT

DUKE GALEAZZO’S new Commander-in-Chief came marching at the head of his army through the triumphal arches of Milan. To welcome their returning soldiers the city had put on display some of the prodigious wealth that had accumulated under the Duke’s sagacious rule. The clothes worn by the burghers were worth fortunes. Banners hung from balconies, fluttering proudly in the wind. At banqueting tables across the city the poor were to be Galeazzo’s guests.

The King of France’s younger daughter, who was passing through on her way to a nunnery in Rome, could only marvel at the unparalleled splendour. But she was sorry that the Duke, whom she had never seen, was not there in person. The gossip was that there was another purpose to her visit, and certainly the French court would have welcomed a connection with the powerful Duke of Milan. But so far he had lived a life of confirmed celibacy, and the chronicles of scandal had never managed to link his name with any sort of bedfellow. It was said that he kept himself aloof from love in order not to be blinded by passion and fall prey to the wiles of a woman.

The procession had now reached the market square, where the crowd was at its greatest and most distinguished. Strange rumours were circulating. Their source was unknown, but everyone was convinced that the day of celebration was about to witness something that had never happened before — the Duke would come down into the city and make his appearance in the square before his triumphant general. Everyone looked forward to his coming with intense curiosity, not least because very few people had any idea what he looked like — not the colour of his hair, or even how old he was. This was because since infancy he had not once, in all his extremely long reign, set foot outside his castle, and had never visited the city he ruled with such great prudence and care.

The Commander-in-Chief, a stout, powerfully built military man, halted his horse before the cathedral. He was still unfamiliar with the customs of the Milanese Court and imagined that the Duke would now ride out to meet him, clap him on the shoulder in front of the assembled crowd and invite him to a princely feast in the castle; the wine would flow until dawn, he and the Duke would be on first-name terms, and they would live as true friends ever after.

A fanfare of trumpets sounded and the Duke’s feared personal guard, clad from head to foot in steel, rode into the square. Many of them were huge, grim-faced Hungarians and Germans, men who had no dealings with the citizenry.

The guard fanned out in line. Now everyone was certain that the Duke would step forward, and thousands of eyes focused on one point. But the person they saw was an emaciated old Benedictine, the Duke’s Chancellor. The monk made a humble bow, informed the Commander that the Duke was unable to be present, and that he had come instead, as his representative. He would receive his report and give him his instructions for the rest of the day. The arrangement was that that the Commander and the leaders of the mercenaries were to be feasted in the Council House.

The Commander’s triumphant face instantly darkened, his head dropped, and he followed the little old man into the Council House. The French King’s daughter left the same day.

The banners were rolled up and trundled off, and the flowers given away. People pulled their hats down over their eyes and took no pleasure in the free canteens. The old feeling of hatred that seemed to have been briefly forgotten was back again. If two pairs of eyes met over a raised glass, it was to drink silently to the Duke’s demise. If a sixteen-year-old burnt with a nameless ardour, it was because he saw himself as a future tyrannicide, while the older folk simply regretted that the time for that great day was not yet ripe. Once again, the dark shadow of the invisible tyrant lay across the city.

But the Duke, who never knew a single day’s rest, and who had never tasted wine in his life, had risen at dawn that morning and worked away at his never-ending tasks of administration. Only for a moment had he glanced out of the window and then, with a small smile of total indifference, he had turned to his Chancellor and observed: “What a lot of people! And every one of them a taxpayer of mine, while I pay taxes to no one…”

His entourage, ageing churchmen grown grey-haired in their studies and black servants alike, had heard this many times before. Not one of them was a Milanese. Galeazzo thought of the people’s hatred as a sort of endemic disease that the children of the city carried with them from the cradle and of which not one of them would ever be cured. He knew that — setting aside the blood of conspirators and those sacrificed in his perennial wars of defence — no stain of tyrannical behaviour, however construed, or of cruelty, was attached to his name. And yet there was not one person born in Milan in the last forty years who had not come into the world under the sign of the tyrannicide.

As the huge crowd broke up and despondently drifted away, a rather different sort of ceremony was taking place inside the Court. This was the day when Ippolyto turned sixteen. Ippolyto (known affectionately as Lytto) was a pageboy of noble birth assigned to the Duke’s inner cohort of attendants, and the one person, it seemed, for whom Galeazzo felt any personal warmth. To mark the occasion he had presented the boy with a finely worked dagger, which seemed to signify that so far the page had served him with a boyish devotion but from now on he would be expected to defend his lord and master by arms and manly strength. Lytto was thrilled, not so much by the gift itself but by the fact that he had been given it at all, and he kissed the Duke’s cold, ring-studded hand with a totally spontaneous ardour. His radiant delight brought a smile to the Duke’s lips, and he stroked the boy’s head. That action, more than anything else, made it Lytto’s happiest hour. He could not remember anyone ever touching his long golden hair so gently before.

The fact was that Ippolyto had come into the world some sixteen years earlier as the child of a guilty love. His mother was a high-ranking lady intimately connected with the Duke’s inner circle, and his arrival, it seems, had caused a considerable scandal. No way could be found to conceal the situation from the all-seeing, endlessly gossiping Milanese people, and Galeazzo had decided to have the boy brought up at his side, shielded from prying eyes by a veil of invisibility. The years passed, and his plans for his protégé developed further. He came to see that this young man, who had grown up in the chilling, rarified air of the Court, without parents, a proper home or family tradition, was a real treasure, and he felt that if he could keep him away from the maniacal ideas of the Milanese people during these highly impressionable years and instil in him the disciplined ethos of the court and something of his own rather cold personal charisma, then thoughts of treason would never take hold of him. The boy would become his faithful follower, someone he could trust whatever the circumstances — the sort of adherent he had never previously had.

This scheme, like everything else, he carried out precisely and with great circumspection. Thus from the age of ten little Lytto had set aside his childish toys and spent his days in the Duke’s service. He was a serious young man, conscientious by nature, and he performed his duties well. Galeazzo jokingly called him “my walking memory” for his habit of politely drawing his attention to anything he forgot. By now the Duke was beginning to age. Not only was his memory weaker but his body was becoming more susceptible to cold, and Lytto was always to hand with a pillow, a fur coat or a soft footstool for his easily chilled limbs. The strain of too much mental work had made the Duke surprisingly delicate: he could no longer tolerate bright light, or noise, or any kind of slovenliness and dirt; and during his hours of rest only Lytto was allowed near him. With his silent, cat-like tread, his pale young figure that proclaimed both his outer purity and inward innocence, and the comforting gaze of his large eyes with their permanent expression of wonder, his entire person seemed to have been woven from the ‘dim religious light’ of the holy church itself.

And Galeazzo, who dealt with everyone with the same cool, refined affability, knowing that the fixed smile of ceremonial courtesy would instil a sense of his superhuman, Byzantine power in all who met him, was distinctly more courteous to Lytto than anyone else. He would joke with him every morning, offer him something sweet to eat at midday, and ask him every evening to remember him in his youthful prayers. This gave the impression that of all people Lytto was closest to his heart. In fact Galeazzo behaved in this way simply because he realised that the boy would respond only to gentleness, and in that sense this affectionate treatment differed little from his usual system of government. He felt no greater love for the boy than for anyone else, nor would he permit himself such a love, knowing as he did how dangerous it was for a ruler to have a favourite.

And so this little celebration came to its end. Thereafter the days were filled with a formal, ceremonious monotony. They rose at dawn, to the calling of birds. Everyone had his prescribed duties. The only variety in Lytto’s life came through his studies, his tutors being the Duke’s learned secretaries. To Galeazzo’s great delight, he mastered the Latin language in an astonishingly short time, then the Greek, and became an inspired and enthusiastic student of the classics. These studies made him even more serious than before — what had previously been instinctive in him, his religious piety, his humility and his profound respect for the Duke, were turning into the altogether deeper qualities of a well-educated young man.

A consequence of all this study was that his eyes began to open, and he became aware of things inside himself that he could not understand. For some time now he had been assailed by strange feelings. Galeazzo was a great lover of music, and sitting listening to it at his master’s side drove Lytto into a state of irrational agitation and distress. He loved to gaze down from the arched windows of the castle at the city below, lying there silent under the stars in all its unknown, forbidding splendour. He shed tears over the story of Nysus and Euralia. He yearned for some strange and thrilling adventure involving heroic deeds, and was haunted in his dreams by the twin stars of friendship. His loneliness tormented him and served only to deepen his feelings of tenderness towards Galeazzo, the only person (since he was uniformly ignored by the morose inhabitants of the court) who ever took any trouble with him. He never ceased hoping to be able to show some sign of his affection.

And then at last his opportunity came, albeit a melancholy one. As a result of sitting up through the long winter nights, continuous work and a refusal to spare himself, the Duke became ill. He fell prey to nightmares, and his doctors feared for his life. But while everyone else tiptoed round the sickbed in despair, these were wonderful days for Lytto. He was with the patient at all times, cheerfully sacrificing his nights and his beloved studies. He carefully measured out Galeazzo’s medicines (a single drop too many might prove fatal), prepared his poultices, and delighted in the fact that the man who had never before depended on anyone now found him indispensable. For the Duke could not bear any sort of woman near him — gossips and poisoners every one! Only from the boy’s gentle, love-inspired, womanlike care could he hope for cure. And with time everyone came to feel the same way. Lytto had won limitless power in the curtained sickroom, where Galeazzo’s peevishness made it impossible for anyone else to enter. And he wore his new power modestly, the sole, if double-edged, reward for his loving.

In the castle chapel Mass was said for the Duke’s recovery. Wearily, unfeelingly, the courtiers counted their beads, while the mercenary guardsmen stood by in grim rows. Lytto went there too for a while, to supplicate the spirit of Divine Love. When the host was raised he summoned all his strength to pray, to appeal to the Presence on the altar from the very bottom of his heart. To add a genuine inwardness to his devotions, he pictured Galeazzo in his mind as already dead and lying stretched out in full armour, surrounded by his bodyguard. Next, his thoughts turned to the Duke’s great armchair, in which no one would ever again sit as he had, swaddled in furs. And his whole future life stood before him — without purpose, meaningless and lonely as the sea. He burst into loud sobbing. He saw, in his grief, that without love there could be no true life for him; never again would he enjoy the miraculous taste of Love’s feast, for if, in all the endless, empty universe, there were nothing to love, then perhaps God’s spirit, that is to say, God’s love, might never again hover over him.

He continued to pray through his tears. Soon afterwards, Galeazzo’s fever began to abate, and under Lytto’s careful nursing he started to recover his strength. On many a bright and sunny winter’s afternoon the two would sit together out on the terrace. To the accompaniment of his lyre, the boy would sing deeply poignant Italian love songs, and every now and then Galeazzo’s sunken face would turn languidly towards him with an expression that could almost be mistaken for warmth. For all his frailty, the Duke could still tell amusing tales of students, artists and merry widows, none of whom he had ever met in the flesh but whom he knew of with all the hopeless yearning of those who read books. He was now a stooping, heavily wrapped figure. After so much self-neglect, he looked like an old man.

Meanwhile the city down below bathed in the sunlight, in its petty day-to-day business and its seething hatred. For Lytto, it was as if those people did not exist. He inhabited a different, more silent world, almost as lonely as Galeazzo himself. Except that he had someone to love, and that love was enough to link him with all those others down there, dashing about with their own busy loves and hates. Galeazzo had foreseen everything but this: that in time Lytto would come to love him. In that respect, his plan had failed.

Around this time the police arrested Orlondhi and his eleven accomplices in a plot against the tyrant’s life. Galeazzo condemned them all to death. Lytto went down to the courtyard in the castle where the executions were to take place. Ever since childhood he had been told of attempts to assassinate the Duke and of those involved being executed, and he had heard the story so often he had come to accept it as normal. Now for the first time he began to wonder why it should be, and who these people were — what sort of deep-dyed criminal would want to end the life of such a benevolent ruler? In considerable trepidation, like someone about to witness a supernatural horror, he dragged himself to a corner of the courtyard and prepared for the worst.

To his extreme surprise, up the steps of the gallows the executioners led twelve fine-looking young men, their heads held high. As they came forward to place their heads on the block, every one of them, by prior agreement, shouted out for all to hear: “Long live freedom! Death to the Tyrant of Milan!”

Profoundly troubled, Lytto made his way as quickly as he could back to his room, his eyes fixed on the ground, like a little boy who feels ashamed of his father and doesn’t know why. Having been used since childhood to the fact that other people took no interest in his purely personal feelings, he sought advice from no one. Instead, he locked the door and spread out his books, his little silent senate, on the table. Above all else, he needed to understand why, and how, those twelve young men could plot the murder of an old man and then mount the scaffold, not trembling and downcast, with the distracted, faraway look of assassins being thrust forward at every step into the arms of the devil, but looking around in triumph, their faces radiant, victorious unto death.

His books supplied the answer. The tyrannicide was not a malefactor; rather he was to be ranked with the greatest of heroes. Heroes of this stamp he found in the stories of Pelopidas and his young companions, and of Timoleon, the liberator of Sicily. Livy conjured up for him the proud figure of Mucius Scaevola, pointing with his one remaining arm to the long line of his successors. He even came across the Greek verses that had so inspired the youth of Milan:

When, like Harmodius and Aristogeiton,

I have dispatched the usurper

And made Athenians equal under the law

I shall garland my sword with myrtle leaves.

“But those people were pagans,” he reflected. He opened the scriptures and found the book of Judith, who, though but a weak and feeble woman, killed a man and achieved eternal fame. Even the holy and austere St Thomas Aquinas — who was himself eventually poisoned by a French despot — condoned tyrannicide. Ordinary people and philosophers alike agreed that the death of a tyrant was pleasing to God. Soon even Lytto could see that such a person was a pernicious figure, and the enemy of all mankind. But who, or what exactly, was a ‘tyrant’?

Tacitus and Suetonius told him what he needed to know about the way such people behaved. He gobbled up their pages, scarcely able to wait for long-needed Vengeance to glut itself on the bloody Nero. Now there was a tyrant! He set fire to Rome, poisoned his relatives, murdered his mother and put Christians to the torch. He was mad — and more loathsome than any monster. But Galeazzo? How could he be a ‘tyrant’. The hideous, bestial image that the word conjured up for Lytto seemed in no way to describe the gentle, refined, almost monkish figure of the Duke. Since childhood, standing at his place behind Galeazzo’s chair, Lytto had been present at all the important discussions of affairs of state. He had never taken much interest in them, but he knew all the secrets of the way Milan was governed. And he knew perfectly well that Galeazzo had never perpetrated any of the things those monstrous dictators had. In everything he did as a ruler he had been honourable and humane.

Lytto began to think that there must be some unfathomable, Satanic madness driving the youth of Milan to their death, like moths to the candle.

Then his hand fell on the history of Julius Caesar, that greatest of all rulers, who was slain as a tyrant, in the name of liberty, by his closest friends. Why? Once again everything became confused in his mind.

For many days he carried these burning questions around in his head. But for that very reason he performed his duties all the more punctiliously, and his placid gaze, with its permanent air of wonder, troubled no one. Galeazzo had taught him well: no one could see what lay in the depths of his soul.

One evening they were sitting together in front of the fire. Galeazzo, still convalescent and finding sleep difficult, was ensconced in a large armchair swathed in furs, with Lytto at his feet, lyre in hand. The cosy, dancing half-light would have been enough to stir up memories of younger days and past loves in anyone, but neither of them had any such to call on. However Galeazzo’s face was more languid than usual, and he felt at ease with himself. He was enjoying the soft, exquisite singing, the gentle warmth, and the self-indulgent wanderings of the convalescent mind. But above all, he enjoyed having Lytto at his side. He would have protested fiercely against any suggestion that he might love the boy so very much, but he was certainly receptive to everything that was beautiful, and he took real delight in Lytto’s noble, upright character as he sat there with his head inclined gracefully over his instrument, and his long hair trailing across his face. Galeazzo felt the need to talk, to embrace the boy with words, the way you might caress a beautiful statue with your eyes.

“I have often thought, young Lytto,” he said after a protracted silence, “how strange it is that you never show any desire to get away from this castle, with its permanently cold floors, and that you never seem to be bored beside such a silent person as myself. But you know, I’d be quite happy now to tell you something about my life — not that there is anything to tell… On winter evenings… I always used to sit here in front of the fire… in summer it was in the loggia… I spent my free time in the library. Sometimes I’d watch the guardsmen drilling… and I had so much to do. So much work. I tell you, sometimes I loved just watching the birds taking to the air… and then suddenly the years had all flown away with them, and I was old. Now there’s a boring tale for you.”

Lytto’s fingers trembled on the lyre. No one had ever heard the Duke speak like this before.

“When you were young, my lord, did you never go down into Milan?”

“Never, my boy. If I had, they would have killed me within the hour.”

“But what about your bodyguards?”

“Lytto, perhaps you think I am some sort of coward. Well, perhaps. Who can say he truly knows himself? But then, a man who holds the lives of hundreds of thousands of people in his hands, and would put all that in jeopardy, is probably exempt from the charge. No, Lytto, I’m not afraid of the assassin’s dagger, believe me, nor do I think I shall escape it in the end. What does horrify me is the depth of hatred — you know — the loathsome atmosphere of the hatred of slaves. It would smother me, down there. I begin to wonder if this isn’t my greatest achievement, that no man was ever so deeply hated as I am.”

The words burst from Lytto’s mouth:

“My lord, in the name of all the saints, why do they hate you, who are so good, so virtuous in your life, and always act for the best?”

Galeazzo shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know, and I’m not really interested. The hatred is in them, not in me. My soul will be found pure on the Day of Judgement. I’m incapable of hatred, myself.”

Lytto leapt to his feet.

“My lord, I shall go right now and tell them they are wrong!”

Galeazzo’s smile was a sharp as a razor.

“Calm yourself down, my boy, and then we can continue the discussion. No more of these loud words and wild gestures, if you please. Believe an older man, Lytto, there’s no helping this hatred until these people change, and change totally, and become like you, and me, and everyone else. The fact is, they hate themselves in me.”

“I don’t follow you, my lord.”

“I’m not surprised, and it isn’t important that you should. Every living thing strives for power, Lytto — for domination. Some consciously, some not. The Lord Mayor orders the heads of guilds about, the guildsman lords it over the bootmaker, the bootmaker bullies his apprentices, the apprentice no doubt has younger siblings who torture the cat, the cat torments the mouse, and no doubt even the mouse isn’t at the bottom of this ghastly hierarchy. So the mouse hates the cat, the cat hates the children, and everyone hates me, because I am the one with power.”

“Is the possession of power worth all the hatred, my lord?”

“I could declaim in poetical tropes, Lytto, how one minute of power is equal to a thousand years of hell. Of course power isn’t an end in itself. It is simply an instrument. But it is absolutely necessary.”

“Then what is its purpose?”

“Go and ask the meanest beggar in Milan and he will tell you — freedom. That is what glitters at the bottom of the well of their dreams. It’s all they worship, and for its sake they will struggle for power, hating whatever power is greater than their own. And yet not one of these people has any idea what freedom is. They are bound by a thousand shackles, these unfortunates: wives, children, relatives, the state of the country, the ceaseless urgings of the body. And everyone is dependent on everyone else. Beat one of them and others will be sure to suffer. If the judge’s wife sprains her little finger you can’t guarantee that the next day six children won’t weep for a father languishing in prison. What they call freedom is a squalid, meaningless lie, because if they did kill me they’d get someone a thousand times worse around their necks. They’ve got so used to all this they can’t live without it. I could even argue that when I do away with these conspirators I do so in their own best interests… but how odd it is, that I should be the only one who knows what freedom means,” he added, rising to his feet.

“To be free, Lytto, act as if you were utterly alone — without love, without hatred, without fear and without hope. What man can measure up to that? But what a fine evening this is! Would you play something? We’ve talked for so long…

“But don’t think, Lytto, that I am afraid. I might take myself off to some faraway country for a holiday, where no one would bother me — I tell you, at times I have become very weary of it all and have given thought to such things. But I am a citizen of Milan. Anywhere else I would be a stranger, a guest; not my own master, and no longer free. And if they do succeed in killing me, I’d rather it happened here, at home, where my father and my ancestors met their fate.”

“But why, why?”

“Because no one can bear the thought of someone else achieving what he wants for himself from the very bottom of his heart. The free man is a permanent rebuke to others. He reminds them that they are slaves. So keep a tight rein on your passions, Lytto. You are a good, honest lad, with a pleasant face. Perhaps you will never come to understand what you have heard tonight. But if you do, learn from it. Now, isn’t it wonderful how I have rattled on this evening? But it’s been very agreeable. Now it’s time we went to bed. How does the poet put it?

… et iam nox umida coelo

Praecipitat, suadentque cadentia sidera somnos.

… from the sky damp night

Sinks to a close, and the setting stars urge sleep.

“Thank you, Lytto, for staying up with me.”

And he stroked the boy’s hair.

Lytto had not understood very much of what Galeazzo had told him, but as he sat there listening he had been filled with a sense of unspeakable horror. Partly it was a horror of things he could not understand; partly, and more importantly, it was Galeazzo’s manner of speaking — his calm, perfectly level tones — that so appalled him. What he could not follow in the words he understood perfectly from the tone of voice — that the man was capable of speaking about other human beings as if he had no personal connection with them — as if he were not himself human.

Nothing more was said until they reached the Duke’s bedchamber. There Galeazzo took the candelabra from Lytto and gazed searchingly into his face.

“I’ve something else to show you, Lytto. I’m sure you have never seen my portrait. I don’t normally show it to anyone. But this evening I’m in a good mood, so take a look.”

He drew back a curtain and lifted up the candelabra to illuminate the picture.

The painting hung beneath a triple arch. Against a gold background it presented a figure sitting on a tall throne, the body completely enveloped in a dark-green cloak that was so voluminous it covered the steps below and made the face above appear intensely white. The face was horrifying. Lytto instinctively stepped back. It was unquestionably the face of Galeazzo, and yet it was not. With its monstrous calmness, gazing stiffly out at the observer, it seemed no longer the countenance of a human being. The lines were recognisably those of a man, but the expression was of something beyond humanity: certainly not a face to entertain foolish banalities, or indeed one in which anything could be read… and yet it did not seem to conceal any secret. It presented a horrific reality, in which there was nothing to be understood — a face that rejected understanding.

The human forms painted beneath the throne were, in the hierarchical manner of the time, tiny in comparison with the central figure — a vast multitude, all with more or less identical faces, all in some way distorted and seeming to swarm in a kind of restless gloom. Above the throne, the gold background between the two lateral marble arches was interrupted by the unfinished — and truly terrifying — silhouette of two black human figures. The Duke drew the curtains closed.

“Sit down, Lytto. You’ve gone pale. Pull yourself together,” he said. “There’s a long story behind this painting. One day, after I had escaped from danger that threatened my actual life, I decided to have my portrait done so that, if I did die, there would be something to hang in the gallery alongside my ancestors. I sent for the most famous painter in Milan and promised him a huge sum of money for the work. He was very happy to take it on. Of course I knew that he would see me through the eyes of the Milanese people and would paint me as I appeared in their vision of hatred. But that didn’t bother me. In fact, I was rather pleased. I tell you, it tickled my vanity in those days to be hated by so many people, more than anyone had ever been hated before, and I was delighted that the painter was going to record that loathing for eternity.

“The strange thing about the whole business was that while he was painting me he apparently went mad. He complained of seeing apparitions, he began to prophesy, and he became convinced that he was in the presence of the Antichrist. And one fine day — I’ve no idea how he came by it — he suddenly ran at me waving a knife in the air. In those days I was still very strong, and my presence of mind has never yet let me down. I picked up a chair and struck him with it. The poor chap was duly executed, and the picture was left, just as you see it, unfinished. Over one of my shoulders there was to be St George, the guardian saint of my family, and on the other side St Ambrose, the patron saint of Milan. But all you can see are their shadows. So, how do you like the portrait, Lytto?”

“It’s very fine, my lord. But it doesn’t look like you.”

“Good. So mind you don’t dream about it! Now off you go. And promise me you will never mention this painting to anyone, or you’ll be playing with your life.”

Lytto silently raised his hand.

“God bless you, Lytto. You’ve seen, and heard, some important secrets tonight. But I trust you. You’re a good boy.”

The next day Galeazzo thought about his talkativeness of the night before with some regret. He had raised a confidant, who might well prove more dangerous than twenty conspirators. Every intimacy we share is a weapon placed in someone else’s hands — it lays our bosom open to them. But he did not worry about it for long. He had a strong sense of Lytto’s loyalty. He knew the boy had grown up away from all the madness outside. In fact, he began to feel rather pleased about what he had done. The long discussion they had had the previous evening actually completed his earlier project for bringing the boy up — to produce a self-reliant disciple, one who understood his thinking as a ruler, who would serve him on the basis of conscious insight and thus pursue his own interests at the same time.

But in fact Lytto had understood nothing, retaining only the sense of horror that had filled him and the tortured thoughts that continued to trouble his mind. However, it was some consolation that the Duke had taken him so deeply into his confidence that evening. He was certainly pleased that it was he, the simple pageboy, little more than a child, who had been chosen to be trusted with such secrets, and presumably not without reason.

One evening Lytto, kept awake by a combination of his unanswered questions and the general restlessness of young blood, went roaming through the castle. By chance he made his way up to the observatory, where the court astrologer tirelessly practised his strange mumbo-jumbo. When he saw Lytto, his face filled with concern.

“You must pray, young page — pray most diligently for our good lord and master. His star has entered a malign phase and his life is in danger. They tell me you are very attached to him. Is that true?”

“It is,” the boy answered, almost shamefacedly.

The astrologer looked at him with real curiosity, as at a miraculous sign or portent.

That night the two of them became quite friendly, although the friendship was rather one-sided. The enthusiasm with which the astrologer sought to initiate him into his not very interesting little technical mysteries left the boy rather cold.

Long after he had become thoroughly bored with the incomprehensible chatter about houses, planets in the ascension, phases of the moon, transitions and periods, he suddenly asked the astrologer:

“What makes the stars move in the sky?”

The man’s face filled with reverence.

“What moves the stars is Love, my child. They are attracted to one another as a man is to a woman. They roar across the endless plain of heaven in pursuit of each other.”

“Then what can they have to do with the fate of humanity? Surely their own love lives keep them quite busy enough?”

“My boy, my boy, what you haven’t grasped is that the same Love also directs humanity. Even as we walk the road of Lesser Love down below, we follow in the steps of the Greater.”

“But what about a person who loves no one?”

“There is no such person. Such a person isn’t human. He is the Antichrist,” the astrologer replied, and made the sign of the cross.

Lytto took his leave and made his way rapidly down from the tower. He was aquiver with excitement. The astrologer’s words, filled as they were with superstition, had struck a very deep chord. No one could live without love. So Galeazzo, in his tower of solitude, on his truly horrible throne of ‘freedom’… how could he ever stand and look the God of Love in the eye?

Like a fugitive he ran down the dark corridors, between their long lines of columns, his head buzzing with the ancient Italian superstition of the One with the False Face who will appear at the end of the world. Perhaps he had heard of it as a child, or simply knew of it through some ancient folk memory. He sought refuge in ardent prayer, begging for the mercy of enlightenment amidst his terrible doubts, and eventually fell asleep.

That night he had a truly beautiful dream. He and Galeazzo were riding across a wide, sunlit plain. Huge white birds came and sat on their shoulders, and ate scented berries from their hands. Then Galeazzo dismounted, adjusted Lytto’s saddle, and looked into his face with anxious concern. “Aren’t you tired, Lytto? Are you really not tired, my boy?”

And when he woke next morning, and lay stretching out pleasantly in his bed, he felt that he had solved the riddle. The portrait had simply presented what the mad Milanese painter had dreamt up in his uncomprehending phantasmagoria. And the things Galeazzo had said that evening about power and solitude, those blood-chilling and godless words, were nothing more than the result of a sick and ageing man’s momentary bitterness, not to be taken seriously. There was undoubtedly love in Galeazzo’s heart, as there was in every man’s. His hand was capable of caressing, his eyes of smiling, kindly and gently, like everyone else’s. And above all, Galeazzo loved him, the quiet little pageboy. That was the wonderful, the miraculous thing, that such a great man should love such an insignificant child. If the people of Milan ever knew about that, they would instantly throw away their weapons of hatred.

And when he entered the bedchamber next door to rouse the Duke and draw back the curtain around the enormous bed, he smiled at him, intimately, confidently. And, just as he had every other morning since his fever had left him, Galeazzo beckoned Lytto to him, made him sit on the side of the bed, and, in the simple, almost child-like tones of a man only half awake, jested with him about why he had not let him sleep on, when the day had only just broken.

“So what did you dream about, young Lytto?” he asked that morning.

“I’m not telling,” the boy replied, blushing.

Mornings like this fully compensated Lytto for his nights of solitary pensiveness.

By now Galeazzo had made a full recovery. The same penetrating, steely look was back in his eye, and he was working as tirelessly as ever. Thinking back over the course of his illness with his usual cool objectivity, he was forced to admit that he had too often let himself go, had on too many occasions been soft-hearted, even sentimental. But at the same time he could not reflect on that illness without seeing, time and again, the boy’s faithful figure, leaning solicitously over him or strumming his lyre to drive away his gloomy convalescent thoughts, with the promise of recovery shining in his kindly eye. In truth, whichever way he looked at it, he was now deeply bound to this lad, once his nurse and now his confidant. So when Lytto drew back his bed curtain in the morning, he felt it would now be almost his duty to address him in more intimate terms, and treat him with every kindness. It was now his due.

That idea tormented him endlessly, because for the first time in his life he was in someone’s debt and thus in a dependent relationship. So he decided he would reward him with princely generosity and thereby annul the debt to him once and for all.

One day he summoned Lytto before him. He was seated in the Council Chamber in session with his secretaries and his mercenary captains. Lytto bowed low, and Galeazzo made a sign to his Chancellor, who read out the following proclamation:

“We Galeazzo, lawful Duke of Milan, being mindful of the many services rendered to us by our noble page during our recent illness, and further mindful that the highest pleasure of princes is the rewarding of true desert, do hereby acknowledge our noble page as rightful heir to the name and fortune of his late mother the Contessa di Franghipani, now with God, and herewithal entrust the management of his estate to our noble Chancellor, Father Morone, until he be of age; and further, as a mark of our satisfaction with Count Ippolyto di Franghipani, we appoint him henceforth to attend on us in person.”

At first Lytto found this great — and quite unexpected — honour overwhelming. He saw it as powerful evidence of the Duke’s love, and confirmation that, in his dream, he had indeed solved the mystery that had so vexed him. The tower of solitude and the throne of ‘freedom’ were no more than a lie — a lie that had now been dispelled, like a fog.

Henceforth he had a new subject for his reveries. Now that he knew himself as Count Franghipani he was determined to be worthy of the ancestral name. His previously formless yearning for romantic, heroic action took on a new intensity. When no one was watching he would pace out the empty, stone-slabbed rooms, with a heavy, solemn stride. He pored over his books with even greater diligence, seeking a suitable model from among the ancient heroes. He gazed lovingly at his little dagger, still his only weapon, and tested its sharpness, trembling in the anticipation of mighty deeds.

But the next morning, when he went to wake Galeazzo, the Duke responded with a haughty toss of the head, murmured, “Thank you, Franghipani,” and gestured for him to leave. He never called him Lytto again, treating him instead with the formal courtesy due to a count. The friendship was at an end, and Lytto concluded, despairingly, that legitimising his birth had been neither more nor less than remuneration, wages for a faithful hired servant, and that Galeazzo valued him no more than any of his other salaried attendants. And his old doubts rose up again, with renewed force: could there be any love in this man if he were capable of paying him off in such a cold way for the devotion he had shown? He felt humiliated, that that he had been reduced to the level of a menial. He threw his books in a corner. They could no longer console him. In fact he no longer spent much time thinking. He just gave himself up to his grief.

No one noticed what he was feeling. In fact, it seemed to him that everything was working against him. Finally one day, when he realised that for the third time in a row Galeazzo was not waiting for him to wrap him up in his furs but had entrusted the task to a black footman, all his bitterness welled up inside him and he came to a sudden decision. As soon as he could he slipped out of the room, packed his most essential belongings, secured the dagger in his belt and, stealing along the walls, made his escape from Galeazzo’s castle and out into the world.

He did not strike out towards the city. The thought of its unfamiliar atmosphere terrified him. Instead he headed north, across open land, keeping a good distance from the peasants working in the fields. If he came face to face with anyone, even a child, he would draw his dagger, and he took instant fright at the squawking of birds as they fluttered into the air behind his back. Everything was strange and new to him. He felt like a bat driven out of its cave in broad daylight, and he pressed on in inexpressible uncertainty, without aim or direction, already regretting that he had set out at all. Towards twilight he stopped in the centre of an immense field. His legs were shaking. Count Franghipani was afraid — afraid of the falling darkness, afraid of the totally alien landscape.

Suddenly he heard the thudding of hoofs behind him. He was still debating what to do when the horsemen were upon him. They were two Hungarian guards from the Duke’s personal entourage.

“We’ve been looking for you, young man. You’re such a fine young fellow the whole troop has been riding around after you. Get yourself home immediately, or there’ll be trouble.”

Lytto begged them to leave him alone, to let him make his own way in the world. No one needed him at the castle any more.

“Don’t talk rubbish. You’re the apple of his lordship’s eye,” said one of the guards.

Lytto stared at him in surprise, then, without a word, allowed them to haul him up onto the saddle and take him home.

Sitting at dinner that evening, the Duke had noticed that Lytto was not at his usual place behind his chair. To his question, where was the young Count Franghipani, no one could offer an answer. He instructed the servants to go and find him. By the time the third course was being served the boy had still not appeared. Galeazzo was overcome by a strange restlessness. He leapt up from the table, seized a torch and set out to look for him in person, with the whole Court following in his wake, calling out “Lytto, Lytto!” in room after room. After a long and fruitless search he finally found someone who had seen the boy leaving the castle through a small gate on the northern side. The Duke immediately ordered his guards to scour the countryside and bring Franghipani back, dead or alive.

He was still pacing up and down the great hall when a tearful and thoroughly demoralised Lytto was brought before him. His face brightened momentarily, then instantly became even more severe than usual. He did not enquire into the reasons for this truancy; he was quite sure they were no more than an adolescent longing for adventure and the urge to wander — nothing of more particular significance. Not for a moment did he doubt his ability to read the boy’s state of mind, and he rebuked him thoroughly, in his most coldly domineering manner.

But Lytto was happy. He felt that he had defeated Galeazzo. The Duke’s insistence on getting him back had been a silent admission that he loved him.

And so it was. That night Galeazzo did not sleep a wink. He allowed no one anywhere near him, and spent the whole time pacing up and down three large rooms. He had revealed his true feelings to himself. What he had always denied was now incontrovertible — that Lytto mattered to him. He would miss him in his absence, would worry about him. He needed him. In short, he loved him.

He was filled with a rage he would never have believed himself capable of. The tower of solitude, his whole life’s work, was tottering. Once you loved someone, what was to stop others laying siege to your heart, and then others again? First the boy, then some friend, then a woman, a mistress, and finally, in the twilight of his life, he too would become the slave of passions, of other people, and an unknown fate — just like all the others he so despised. Once the canker took root inside him he would never be able to tear it out. He would have to nip it in the bud, cauterise the wound, however painfully, before it was too late. He wrestled with himself until dawn, and was ready with his answer. He would send Lytto away. A separation in space and time would do the rest.

So the next day he summoned Lytto back to the Council Chamber, and addressed him as follows:

“Count Franghipani, we commend the study of the French language to your attention. It is true that Latin will suffice for general purposes; but nonetheless, if you are to make yourself fully understood wherever you are, it is essential to speak in the local idiom. It is a courtesy that makes us at home in the country we are visiting. Now, it is our resolve to send you, with a view to developing your talents, to Paris, to a renowned university there to study the disciplines of law and philosophy. As one of our future statesmen, and as a thoughtful person with a tendency to melancholy, you will need both. We confess we have often felt our own lack of a university education, and we desire that you should want for nothing in your adult life and be able, through your studies, to render even greater service to your country. We shall see to it that you have provisions and an escort appropriate to your rank. We have assigned St Lawrence’s day, which falls three weeks from today, as the date of your departure.”

Struck dumb with terror, Lytto uttered not a single word of thanks.

Galeazzo stood up and put his arm around the boy’s shoulder.

“I want you to be happy in Paris. Enjoy yourself. Take part in the varied life of a student. Don’t hold back on the liquor… And the ladies there, they say, are very good looking. The years will pass, and when you return you will have many tales to tell of your fine and amusing adventures.”

In a flash, Lytto saw through Galeazzo’s intentions. This too was part of the duel between them. It was Galeazzo’s way of freeing himself from the love he felt towards him. He felt sure, from the way Galeazzo’s arm had flinched when it touched his shoulder, that a real struggle was going on in the Duke’s soul, and he promptly resolved never to submit. Three weeks was a long time. Perhaps he might still manage to get the better of him.

He doubled and redoubled his attentions. His skill was almost magical. And now that he looked at it more closely, it became clear in just how many aspects of palace life he was indispensable. There were so many things, the minutiae of Galeazzo’s personal habits and requirements, and where his bits and pieces were kept, that only he understood. It was he who held the keys to Galeazzo’s cupboards. The black servants, in contrast, though they danced attendance on the Duke, were clumsy and heavy-handed, which deeply irritated their fastidious master. Only Lytto knew how to tuck him up in bed the way he liked, to pull his boots on without hurting him and pour his drinks with a pleasing, graceful movement of the hand. These and a thousand similar tiny but significant and interconnected details had become associated with his person. The Duke’s querulousness seemed to grow from day to day, and his absolute insistence on what he was accustomed to made the ever-attentive Lytto an even more necessary presence, more important than the Chancellor himself. Lytto forgot nothing, was party to everything, and every evening alike the Duke could have had nothing but praise for him.

Then one evening, as Lytto accompanied him to his bedchamber, the Duke’s cold hand grasped the boy’s face, and he gazed into it, searchingly, for what seemed an age. Lytto withstood the gaze manfully, in a kind of challenge. Galeazzo was the first to relax.

“You’re so like your mother!” he said, and his face darkened.

Lytto did not know what to think. He had forgotten how much the Duke despised women.

The next day Galeazzo informed him that he was to be relieved of his personal duties so that he could devote all his time to mastering the French tongue. Lytto studied and studied, but every word of the language, already so harsh and barbaric-sounding to the Italian ear, now seemed even more repulsive and grating. He simply waited for a miracle, desperate to carry out some unprecedented act of heroism that would change everything at the eleventh hour.

Meanwhile something happened that had not occurred in ten years: Galeazzo summoned the highest-born citizens of Milan to the castle to announce his new tax arrangements. He received them in full princely pomp in the Council Chamber, sitting on his throne in a long, dark-green cloak, surrounded by his secretaries in their robes of state, with Lytto, in a crimson doublet, at the foot of the throne. On either side stood serried lines of guards, armed to the teeth. The townspeople were seated at the far end of the hall, the nearest of them a full hundred paces away. In the faces of their proud leaders there was a look of defiant hatred, but their grave formality concealed an element of fear, and when they spoke, their subdued voices were barely audible.

The proposals were duly read out, and no objection was raised. The Duke gestured for the three principal delegates to come forward to receive the new instructions from his hand and make them public.

The three nobles approached. Two of them were old men with beards, in long fur coats. The third was much younger. Lytto was struck by the haggard look on his sharp-featured face. The men knelt before the throne and the Duke held out his hand with the parchment. In that instance the young nobleman leapt to his feet, brandishing a long dagger — no one saw where he drew it from — and let out a blood-curdling scream. And Galeazzo’s star trembled.

But before he could land the blow, Lytto, with the unimaginable speed that only the undeveloped frame of a boy would be capable, appeared alongside and with unerring aim plunged his dagger into him. The assassin fell without a sound, and sprawled onto the steps of the throne, writhing grotesquely.

Lytto flung himself down on the bloodstained carpet at Galeazzo’s feet, trembling from head to toe with emotion, his head bowed low in full humility — while his heart sang with joy amidst the flood of tears. It had happened. The miracle had happened!

The next moment the line of guards had surrounded the throne and turned their lances on the citizens, who fled the chamber in a stupor of fear. The body was pushed to one side and covered over.

After what seemed an immensely long time, Lytto raised his head and met Galeazzo’s gaze. The eyes betrayed nothing. Neither joy at his escape, nor fear of the danger he had been in; neither hatred for his assailant, nor affection for his saviour. Nothing. A complete absence of human expression. Staring stiffly ahead, he remarked, very quietly and very calmly:

“You have a sure hand, Franghipani!”

And that was all. To Lytto, who had expected something rather different after what had just happened, it showed a total want of human understanding. All he felt now was that the miracle had happened in vain. It was too late. He had lost the battle. Galeazzo had killed off the one tie that had bound him to humanity. Filled with loathing, he returned the Duke’s cold stare for a moment. Then he suddenly leapt to his feet. He had seen the Face — the face, the vision, that had driven the Milanese painter to madness, the white, expressionless, horrific face on the throne, above the dark-green cloak: Galeazzo’s true face, with the mark of the Antichrist on his brow.

After this, Lytto spent no more time thinking. His doubts had all melted away. Now he understood everything. Instead of questions, he was filled with a bleak, dark indifference. He went about his business, fulfilled his duties mechanically, and let the hours and days pass over his head like tall cliffs tumbling down into a deserted valley. The time of his departure was drawing near. His speech was inaudible and his features expressionless — paralysed by that face, like a small animal hypnotised by the stare of a snake.

Then, just before the date of his departure, something occurred to shake him out of his stupor. The Duke was in council with his secretaries and a document was required. He sent Lytto out to fetch it. Lytto returned, set it down before him, then allowed the hand, whose whiteness had once been such a source of pride to him, to play briefly, with a fine, unconscious grace, on the table. Galeazzo’s glance strayed towards it, Lytto noticed the look, and suddenly it was as if he had woken from a dream.

Now he understood exactly why the Duke had said “You have a sure hand, Franghipani”. The Duke’s diabolical line of thought was clarified in a flash. Galeazzo had thought him capable of the very same act: he had been afraid that Lytto would kill him! So little did he believe in love, and so thoroughly had he banished the feeling from his own heart, that he was capable of conceiving such a thought in his head.

The boy’s earlier lethargy gave way to a fever of excitement. Once the notion had taken hold in him he could not shake it off. It was with him night and day. He stared at his trembling hand as at some alien object, one on which Fate had laid a terrible summons.

Now his mind was clear: Galeazzo was a tyrant — of all tyrants the most abominable — and the death of such a person was an act pleasing to God. By the end of a feverish night his plans had ripened to certainty, and the next morning he was once again as calm as he had been before temptation troubled his soul. He felt a strange strength in his limbs. His body seemed to him a light, comely thing, as if he were walking on air — as if it were something apart from him, with a will of its own, that might fly off uncontrollably.

At last came the day before St Lawrence’s. The following day he would have to leave. His project could be deferred no longer. That morning he washed and tended his appearance with particular care. Throughout the day people were struck by his youthful beauty, and many were sorry that he was going. At matins he confessed his sins and received the body of the Lord. In his free time he read Plutarch’s portrait of Brutus in the Parallel Lives. When darkness fell, he closed the book and made his way up to the castle chapel.

There he prostrated himself before the statue of St Ambrose. Words of profound meaning poured from his lips, as if someone were prompting him. On the evening of his great deed, Ippolyto di Franghipani prayed in the following terms:

“Good Bishop St Ambrose, you who watch by night over the fate of your people, help me to accomplish the deed attempted by that brave young man from Milan. Grant that I might be courageous and calm in the fateful moment, worthy of my illustrious ancestors, and a faithful emulator of the many glorious heroes of antiquity. It is surely right that it should fall to me to complete what has already cost the lives of so many people. Those brave souls would merely have ended the life of a hated stranger, but I shall sacrifice the one person I have loved above all others. My soul has been washed of its sins, and no selfish desire directs my weapon — I shall act only for the city and for divine Justice. For in the fullness of my heart I believe and confess that the true Christ lives, Christ who, though God himself, suffered for all mankind — while here, Father, is a man who refuses to enter into the sweet and tender ties of love with anyone. I acknowledge that the Tempter has come close to my soul, and I too have built a tower of solitude. But I also love the people of Milan, whom I do not know, as I love all humanity. Shut away in this castle of wickedness, I have felt their blood pulsing through my heart, and I listen to the words of my heart. I have no wish to set myself above the common people, but rather to suffer on my own behalf, on behalf of others, and all mankind. No sense of guilt troubles my soul, because through this deed I shall fulfil the tyrant’s own wish. It was he who opened my eyes; who — of his own free will — revealed himself to me in all his impiety and wickedness; who planted the thought of the deed in my mind, and placed the dagger in my hand. It was his way, this non-human in the midst of humanity, of destroying himself, through my agency. Like a scorpion. I know I am your sinful and unworthy servant, weak and fallible, and even as I ask this I do not entirely wish it. But look upon the purity of my intentions, Father, and intercede for me before the Holy Trinity, now and in the hour of my death. Amen.”

He went back to his room, next to the tyrant’s. He waited for everything to go quiet, counting the sweet-tongued bells of Milan as they tolled the hours. He was perfectly calm, and the time passed quickly. At one hour after midnight he rose and went into the tyrant’s chamber.

Galeazzo’s sleeping face gave away none of his secrets. A little lamp flickered at the foot of his bed. As Lytto came near, he started up and, still half-asleep, enquired:

“Who is it?”

“It is I, Ippolyto di Franghipani,” the boy replied calmly.

He drew his dagger, and freed Milan from the tyrant.

1923