The Dwarf

Il Toro sat motionless. His face was blue and his underjaw with its sparse beard viciously lowered as though he wanted to bite somebody with his brownish tusks. He was a frightful sight with his eyes bulging yellow and bloodshot from their sockets. Suddenly he twisted his hunched neck around as though trying to dislocate it, and the clumsy head lurched over on one side. At the same time his short bull body arched itself backward in a bow, jerked convulsively as though stabbed- and he was dead. By now all his men at the Prince’s table were writhing in infernal agony, but it was not long before they too ceased to give any sign of life. As for Don Riccardo, he died leaning back with half-closed eyes as though reveling in my drink, much as he used to do when he had tasted a really rare wine; suddenly he threw out his arms as though wanting to embrace the whole world, fell backward, and died.

During the fighting and confusion nobody had any time for those who were dying, so they had to expire in their own way as best they could. Only Giovanni, who had been sitting on the same side as il Toro and who, thanks to the damned girl, had not tasted my potion, hurried forward to his father and stood bending over his horrible body as though under the delusion that he could help him. But a burly man with fists like those of a blacksmith elbowed his way to him just as the old scoundrel breathed his last, seized the lad as though he had been a feather and dragged him through the hall. The young coward allowed himself to be taken away and thus escaped us. Devil take him!

The tables were upset and their furnishings trampled underfoot by the combatants who were now quite insane with bloodlust. The women had fled shrieking, but in the midst of all the desolation I saw the Princess standing as though petrified, with rigid features and glassy eyes. Her cadaverous pallor contrasted comically with the paint which still remained on her middle-aged face. Some of the servants managed to lead her from that terrible room, and she followed them listlessly, as though unaware of where she was or whither they were conducting her.

Though inferior in number, il Toro’s men still brandished their inadequate weapons as they retreated toward the exit doors. The battle continued on the stairs, and they were pursued down them and out into the square. Here the sorely pressed enemy was relieved by Montanza’s bodyguard which had been summoned from the Palazzo Geraldi and, under cover of the latter, they contrived to make their escape from the town. Otherwise they would undoubtedly have been mowed down to the last man.

I stood there alone in the abandoned hall, now in semidarkness since all the candelabra had been thrown onto the floor. Only the ragged, apparently half-starved urchins remained, creeping around with their torches and hunting among the corpses for scraps of food and grimy delicacies, which they devoured at incredible speed, simultaneously grabbing as much of the silver as they could hide beneath their tatters. When they judged it unsafe to stay any longer, they threw away their torches and stole out with their booty on padding naked feet, and I was left alone in the room. Undisturbed I gazed around me, sunk deep in thought.

The flickering rays of the dying torches illuminated the mutilated corpses of friend and foe, lying in their blood on the stone floor among the trampled bloodstained napery and the remnants of the great banquet. Their festal garments were torn and dirty and their pallid faces still twisted and evil, for they had died fighting in the midst of their mad fury. I stood there, surveying everything with my ancient eyes.

Brotherly love. Eternal peace.

How these creatures love to discuss themselves and their world in great and beautiful words!

When I waited on the Princess as usual the next morning in her bedchamber she was lying there supine with empty eyes and withered lips. Her mouth was closed as though it would never open again, and her hair was spread in a colorless tangle on the crumpled pillow. Her hands lay slack and motionless on the coverlet. She did not notice my presence though I was standing in the middle of the room watching her and waiting for her to express some behest. I could examine her as much as I wanted. The paint was still there but it was the only token of any kind of gaiety; her skin was dry and faded and her neck wrinkled despite its fullness. Her once expressive eyes stared blankly, all their radiance gone. It was incredible that she could ever have been beautiful, ever been loved and embraced by anybody. Even the thought of such a thing seemed grotesque. She was just an ugly woman lying there in bed. At last.

THE COURT is in mourning for its jester. The funeral took place today. All the household, the knights and nobles of the town followed him, and so of course did his own subordinates who must genuinely regret him, for it must be agreeable to be in the service of such a careless and extravagant master. Crowds stood gaping in the streets as the procession went on its way; the poor brutes are said to have liked the frivolous jackanapes. Oddly enough, such people appeal to them. While starving themselves, they enjoy hearing about the carefree extravagant lives of others. They are said to know all the stories about him, his escapades and successful “jests,” and relate them in their dirty hovels around his palace. Now he was giving them an additional treat and letting them join in his magnificent funeral.

The Prince headed the cortege, with bowed grief-stricken head. He is always admirable when playing a part. Yet perhaps it is not really so admirable, since concealment is in his nature.

Nobody dared murmur a word. What they may subsequently say in their huts and palaces is of no importance. It has been represented as a fatal mistake; Don Riccardo chanced to drink the poisoned wine which was intended for the exalted guests. His unquenchable thirst being universally known, it is taken for granted that he was himself responsible for his tragic end. Apart from this everybody believes what he chooses. All are pleased that Montanza and his men should have been poisoned.

The Princess was not present at the funeral. She is still lying motionless and remote, refusing to eat. That is to say, she does not refuse, for she does not speak at all, but they cannot get anything down her throat. The stupid chambermaid bustles about, red-eyed and bewildered, sighing and mopping her pasty fat cheeks.

Nobody suspects me, for nobody knows who I am.

IT MAY well be that he really mourns him; for such as he it is not impossible. I should imagine that he enjoys mourning him and finds it noble and seemly. Chivalrous selfless grief is always an elevating and agreeable sensation. Besides, he was very attached to him even if he did want him to die, and now that he has gone he cherishes him more than ever. Previously there was always something which hampered and disturbed his feelings for his friend, but now it exists no longer. Now that he has attained his desire he feels fonder than ever of him.

Everybody is talking about Don Riccardo, what he was like, how he lived and died, what he said and how splendidly he acted on this or that occasion, what a perfect knight he was, what a gay and gallant man. In a way he seems to be more alive than ever, but it is apt to be like that directly after a death. It soon passes over. Nothing is so sure as the final oblivion.

And yet they say that he will never be forgotten. And by falsifying him into something monstrously charming and extraordinary they hope to be able to keep him alive forever. They have a strange antipathy to death, especially in reference to some of their dead. His legend is in process of creation, and those who know the truth about this rake, this foolish empty-headed buffoon, must be amazed at the results. The fact that the whole thing is a lie from start to finish does not bother them in the least; to their minds he personified gaiety and poetry and God knows what, and now the world is no longer the same since they can never hear his horse-laughter again. His joyous pranks are ended, and they are altogether overwhelmed and distressed by their loss and the void he leaves behind him. They thoroughly enjoy mourning him.

The Prince joins most generously in this sentimental entertainment. He listens wistfully to the paeans of praise and sometimes adds a word of his own which seems all the more beautiful for having come from him. Otherwise I cannot help thinking that he is quite satisfied with his little assassin, his little bravo; though naturally he does not show it. He has not said a word to me on the subject, neither of praise nor blame. A prince need not pay any attention to his servants if he does not wish to.

He avoids me. He always does after that kind of thing.

The Princess makes no display of her grief. I do not quite know how this should be interpreted. Presumably it means that she mourns him deeply. But she just lies there staring.

I am the cause of her grief; and if she is desperate it is for my sake. If she is changed and never again will be as before, it is for my sake. If she lies there like an ugly old woman no longer caring about her appearance, that too is for my sake.

I could never have believed that I had such power over her.

THE MURDERS have made the Prince very popular. Everybody says that he is a great prince. Never before has he triumphed so over his enemies and been the object of such admiration. We are proud of him and consider that he has shown unusual cunning and energy.

Some wonder if any good can come out of it all. They say that they have evil premonitions, but somebody always has. The majority are delighted and cheer whenever he shows himself. Nearly everyone is susceptible to the charm of a prince who hesitates at nothing.

Now the people await a really peaceful and happy era. They think he did well to cut off the heads of the neighbors so that they can no longer disturb their happiness.

They think of nothing but their happiness.

I wonder what mighty schemes he is nursing now, if he meditates attacking them again, marching straight on their town and taking possession of it and the whole country. It would not be difficult, since all their leaders and chief citizens are out of the way. That child Giovanni is nothing to worry about, he will not cause us any trouble-a cowardly lad who runs away as soon as anything happens. He ought to be captured and taught how to behave like a man.

It is obvious that he means to harvest the fruits of the murders. Otherwise there would be no sense to it. He cannot content himself with things as they are. Of course one must reap that which one has sown.

There are some foolish rumors that Montanza’s people have taken up arms in their anger and sworn to avenge their prince and his men. Of course that is only talk; it is quite likely though that they feel angry about it. They were meant to. But no one can believe that they should have taken up arms to avenge such a prince; even if they have it is of no consequence. A people without a leader is nothing but a miserable flock of sheep.

THEY SAY that an uncle of young Giovanni has taken command, and that it is he who has sworn revenge. That seems more credible. The people do not avenge their princes, why should they? Their life is the same under them all and they are thankful to be rid of at least one of their tormentors.

He is said to be a man of the same kidney as il Toro, but hitherto was never allowed to play an important part. His name is Ercole Montanza and he is reported to be dangerous, but no soldier. He seized the reins to save the country from the mortal peril which threatens it, according to himself, and at the same time he tries to set aside the youthful heir as being too weak for a prince, whereas he himself is of the true Montanza blood and there-fore considers himself fitter to reign. This seems even more credible. It is just like most of the happenings in this world.

My prophecy may be on the way to fulfillment, that the youth with his hinds’ eyes and the locket on his breast is destined never to sit on a throne.

CONSIDERABLE forces have been assembled to exact this vengeance and have already begun to pour into the country through the glen beside the river. Boccarossa leads them; together with his mercenaries he has undertaken to die for the new Montanza in exchange for a wage double that paid by our Prince. They burn and pillage and aim principally at helping others to die.

Our generals have hastily collected troops with which to check their advance. Once more the town is full of soldiers on their way to the front to resume their trade.

The Prince is doing nothing.

Our resources are limited, since so many men were killed in the former war. It is not easy to find sufficient men who can be used and know more or less what to do when under fire. However we are scraping together all that is left, and that ought to be as many as Montanza can collect, for they also have had grave losses which must have tapped their best blood. The enthusiasm is not quite the same as before, but our men submit themselves willingly, realizing that it is inevitable. They realize that they must accept their fate and that life is not meant for happiness alone.

The invaders are approaching the town and all checks are merely temporary. Our troops cannot resist them for long but must always end up by retreating. All the reports are depressing and monotonous, and mention only withdrawals and losses.

The enemy ravages the land through which he passes. The villages are plundered and burned and any inhabitants in his path are slain. The cattle are stolen, slaughtered, and roasted over the camp-fires, and what is over is taken in the baggage wagons for future use. The cornfields are burned. Now Boccarossa’s legionaries can do as they please and they leave no living thing behind them.

Refugees trail into the town through the postern gate with their carts full of the queerest possessions, pots and pans, bedcovers and dirty rags, all kinds of old rubbish laughable in their worthless-ness. Some of them lead a goat or a miserable cow by the horn, and they all look terrified. Nobody wants them here or knows why they have come. They sleep in the squares beside their beasts, and the town is beginning to look like a mucky village; the stink in their vicinity is appalling.

Our troops do nothing but withdraw. The enemy is said to be not so very far from the town, though I do not know exactly where, and the information is so shifting that one cannot keep track of it. Always the same wearisome reports that our men resisted but now are on the retreat, that now they are going to make a stand and then that they are obliged to retreat again. And the flood of refugees goes on just the same, filling the town with their cattle, their rags, and their jeremiads.

A queer war!

IN POINT of fact I quite understand the Prince’s indifference and his readiness to leave everything to his staff. He is not interested in defensive tactics, they do not amuse him. He is like me-he likes to take the initiative. Ours is the spirit of attack. There is no pleasure in defending oneself, only an endless monotony with no glamour or excitement. And what is the use of it? It is too futile for words. Nobody can want to bother about anything like that. This is a boring war.

The Montanza – Boccarossa army can be seen from the city walls. This evening from my window up in the dwarfs’ apartment I can see the light of their campfires on the plain. It is a fascinating sight in the darkness.

I can almost picture the faces of the mercenaries as they sit around the fires discussing the exploits of the day. They throw a few olive roots on the fire, and their features are hard and resolute in the light of its dancing flames. These are men who carry their fate in their hands and who do not live in perpetual suspense for the future. They light their campfires in any country and do not care which people provide their livelihood. It is all one to them which prince they serve-and in reality they serve only themselves. When they are weary they stretch themselves out in the darkness and rest for the morrow’s slaughter. They are a people without a country, but the whole world is theirs.

It is a beautiful evening. The autumn air blows clear and cool from the mountains, and the stars must be shining. I have been sitting here for a long time at the window, watching the numerous fires. Now I too shall go to rest.

It is strange that I who can see the fires which are so far away cannot perceive the stars. I have never been able to. My eyes are not like others’ but there is nothing the matter with them, for I can distinguish everything on earth very clearly.

I OFTEN think about Boccarossa. I can picture him, huge, nearly gigantic, with his pockmarked face, his animal jaw, and that gaze in the depths of his eyes. And the lion’s mask on his breastplate, the grinning beast of prey sticking out its tongue at everything.

Our troops have come fleeing into the town after an engagement which was fought just outside the ramparts. It was a gory battle which cost us many hundred dead, not to mention the wounded who crawled in through the city gates or were dragged in by women who are said to have gone out to seek their sons and husbands on the battlefield.

Our soldiers were in a lamentable condition when they finally gave up and withdrew within the walls. Since their arrival there has been confusion in the town which is crammed to bursting, far too full of warriors, wounded and myriads of refugees from the countryside. Everything is one huge muddle, and the atmosphere is deplorable. People sleep in the streets though the nights are beginning to be chilly, and even in the daytime one can stumble over exhausted slumberers and over the wounded whom nobody has any time to attend to, though they may have had their hurts bandaged. The whole thing is hopeless, and the thought of the coming siege now that the enemy has completely surrounded the city does not help to disperse the utter despondency.

Is it worth while trying to resist somebody like Boccarossa? Personally, I never anticipated any success in this war.

But they say that the city is to be defended to the last drop of blood, and also that it is strongly fortified and can ho’d out for a long time, even that it is impregnable. But so are all cities until they are taken. I have my own opinion of its impregnability.

The Prince has awakened and has begun to assume the leadership of the defense. He is unpopular and meets with no applause when he shows himself. Folk think that the murder of Montanza and his people was the act of a lunatic and can lead to nothing but more war and misery.

The Princess is up and about again and has begun to eat a little, but she is not at all herself. She has become much thinner and the skin of her erstwhile plump face is dry and gray. She really is completely altered. Her clothes hang on her as though they had been made for someone else. She goes dressed in black. When she speaks it is in a low almost whispering voice. Her mouth is still withered and her thinness has changed the expression of her face, the eye sockets are sunken and dark about the unnaturally burning eyes.

She kneels for hours in prayer before the crucifix, until her knees are so stiff and painful that she can scarcely rise. I have of course no idea what her prayers are about, but they cannot be answered since she goes on day after day.

She never leaves her room.

MAESTRO BERNARDO is said to be helping the Prince to strengthen the fortifications and inventing all kinds of ingenious arrangements for the defense of the town. Report says that the work is pursued with energy and goes on night and day.

I have great confidence in Maestro Bernardo’s art and skill, but I do not think that he has much chance against Boccarossa. The old master is a great spirit, and his thoughts and knowledge comprehend nearly everything; indisputably he has great powers at his disposal which he has conquered from nature and which really obey him, presumably against their will. But Boccarossa seems to me as though he himself were one of those powers, as though they served him as a matter of course, and much more willingly. I think he is nearer nature.

Bernardo is a changed person, his haughty noble features always fill me with misgiving.

I think that it will be an unequal struggle.

If one saw them side by side, Bernardo with his philosopher’s brow and Boccarossa with his powerful leonine jaw, there would be no doubt as to which were the stronger.

FOOD IS beginning to run short in the town. Of course we do not notice it at the court, but they say the people are starving. Nor is that peculiar, with all the superfluous inhabitants who have no business to be here. The refugees are more and more disliked, being regarded, and rightly so, as the cause of the food shortage. They are a burden to the citizens. Most unpopular of all are their whining dirty children who go begging all over the place and are even said to steal when they get the chance. Bread is doled out twice a week but very little, for no preparations had been made for a siege and the stores are small. Soon they will come to an end. The refugees who had a cow or goat with them and lived on the milk have now slaughtered their emaciated beasts who were already nearly dead of starvation, and kept themselves alive with the meat which they could also exchange for flour and other necessities. Now they have nothing left and the townspeople affirm that they have hidden their meat and are better off than themselves, but I do not believe it, for they do not look like that. They are thin and seem very undernourished. This does not mean that I have any sympathy for these people; I share the town dwellers’ aversion to them. They are stupid like all peasants, and spend most of their time sitting and staring. They have no intercourse with outsiders, but have divided themselves up according to their different villages and keep together in their dirty camps, the little bit of the square where they keep their old rags and which they seem to regard as a kind of home. In the evening they sit around their fires, if they have been able to procure any fuel, and talk in their imbecile language, of which scarcely a word is comprehensible. Nor would it be worth listening to if it were.

The filth and stench from all these people camping in the squares and streets is appalling. All this foulness is unbearable to me who am scrupulously clean about my person and very sensitive to any unpleasant features in my surroundings. Many consider that I am unduly susceptible in my detestation of human excrement and its smell. These primitive creatures are like the cattle with which they associate, and relieve themselves anywhere. It is too swinish for words. The air stinks of it and I find the condition of the streets and squares so disgusting that I try to avoid going into the town. I do not have to carry so many messages now since the Princess’ extraordinary change and Don Riccardo’s timely death.

All these homeless people sleep in the open at night and cannot be too snug in their rags now that an unusually hard winter has set in. They say that some have been found frozen to death in the morning, that some scarecrow who remained prone when all the others had got up proved on closer examination to be dead. But they die more of their privations than of the actual cold, and then only the old folk who lack stamina and natural bodily warmth. Nobody minds their dying; they are only a burden to the others, and there are far too many people here in the town.

Boccarossa’s men lack nothing. The whole country is at their disposal for plunder, and they make longer and longer forays into the interior to provide for their needs. They burn the villages as soon as they have taken what they want, and one can often see the reflection of distant fires in the sky at night. The surrounding district has long been completely devastated.

Oddly enough they have not yet attempted to storm the town. This surprises me, for it would have been an easy prey. Maybe they think that it is easier to starve it out; they have nothing against a siege when they can simultaneously pillage the countryside.

ANGELICA wanders listlessly about in idleness. Formerly she at least used to occupy herself with her embroidery. She is generally down by the river and sits there feeding the swans or merely watching it glide by. Sometimes she spends the whole evening at her window, gazing at the enemy’s tents and bivouac fires and the plundered plain. I suppose that reminds her of her prince.

People look so strangely idiotic when they are in love, and particularly when they love in vain. The expression of their faces becomes peculiarly foolish and I cannot understand how anybody can say that love makes them more beautiful. Her eyes are, if possible, blanker and sillier than ever, and her cheeks are pale, not at all as they were during the banquet. But her mouth seems larger, the lips fuller, and it is plain that she is no longer a child.

Probably I am the only one who knows her criminal secret.

To my astonishment the Princess asked me today if I thought that Christ hated her. I answered quite truthfully that I knew nothing about it. She looked at me with her burning eyes and seemed distressed. But He must hate her, for He never allowed her any peace, and then He must hate her because of all her sins. I found this very likely and said so. The fact that I shared her opinion seemed to calm her and she sank into a chair, sighing deeply. I did not quite know what I was doing there, for as usual she had no task for me. After a moment I asked if I might go, and she replied that she had no power to decide that, but at the same time she gazed pleadingly at me as though she wanted me to help her. But I found the situation uncomfortable and went away. When I reached the doorway she flung herself on her knees before the crucifix and began desperately to gabble her prayers, clutching the rosary between her thin fingers.

It made a strange perplexing impression on me. What has happened to the old nincompoop?

OBVIOUSLY she genuinely believes that He hates her. She returned to the subject again today. She said that all her prayers were of no avail, for He still refused to forgive her. He will not listen to her and ignores her existence, except that He never allows her a moment’s peace. It is so dreadful that she cannot endure it. I said that I thought she ought to appeal to her father confessor who has always shown such sympathy and understanding for her spiritual difficulties. She shook her head; she had already done so, but he could give her no help. He did not understand her at all. He thought that she was without sin. I smiled sneeringly at this utterance from the smug monk.

Then she asked me what I thought of her. I said that I considered her a voluptuous woman and that I was sure that she was one of those who are destined to burn for all eternity in the fires of hell. At this, she flung herself on her knees before me and wrung her clasped hands so that the knuckles whitened, moaning and sighing and beseeching my mercy and deliverance in her great distress. I let her lie writhing at my feet, partly because I had no means of helping her and partly because I thought it was only right and proper that she should suffer. She seized my hand and moistened it with her tears, even tried to kiss it, but I pulled it back and would not let her carry on like that. This made her moan and whimper even more, and seemingly reduced her to a state of utter despair and agitation. “Confess thy sins!” I said, aware that my face was very stern. And she began to confess all her sins, her lewd life, her lawless affairs with men toward whom the devil had filled her with desire, and her voluptuous pleasure when she felt that she was ensnared in the devil’s noose. I compelled her to describe her sins in detail and the horrible satisfactions they yielded and the names of those with whom she had had criminal relations. She obeyed all my commands and gave me a terrible picture of her revolting life. But she did not mention Don Riccardo and I commented on this. She looked inquiringly at me and seemed not to grasp my meaning. Was that too a sin? I informed her that it was the most heinous of all. This did not seem at all clear to her, and she looked at me in wonder, almost in doubt. I could see that she began to ponder what I had said, this notion which was so foreign to her, and that her ponderings gave her food for anxiety. I asked her whether she had not loved him best of all. “Yes,” she whispered, in a scarcely audible voice, and fell to weeping again, but not in the same way as before, more as most people weep. She went on for so long that I had no wish to stay there listening to her, but told her that now I must go. She looked pleadingly and hopelessly at me and asked if I could give her no consolation. What could she do to make Christ have mercy upon her? I answered that it was presumptuous of her to ask such a thing, for she was so full of sin that it was natural that the Savior should not listen to her prayers. He had not been crucified for the redemption of such as she. She listened meekly and said that she felt that too. She was not worthly that He should listen to her. She was aware of this in her innermost consciousness when she knelt praying before his image. She sat down sighing, but somewhat calmer, and began to talk about herself as the most depraved of all mankind, and that she never could share in the heavenly grace. “I have loved much,” she said, “but I have not loved God and His Son, and so my punishment is only just.”

Then she thanked me for my kindness. It was a relief to be able to confess, even if, as she well understood, she could not hope for any absolution. And it was the first time she had been able to weep.

I left her sitting there with red-rimmed eyes and her hair ruffled like an old birds’ nest.

THE PRINCE spends much of his time with Fiammetta. Often they sit together alone after supper and I have to stay and wait upon them. At one time he used to linger there like that with the Princess, but very seldom. Fiammetta is quite a different type, cold, sedate, and unattainable, a real beauty. Her dark face is the hardest I have ever seen in a woman and if it were less lovely one would surely find it devoid of gentleness. There is an irresistible power about the coal-black eyes with their single spark.

I presume that she is frigid in love and not lavish with herself, but demands much and requires complete submission from those whom she condescends to love. Perhaps the Prince likes this and is willing to put up with it. For all I know, cold-ness in love may be as much relished as warmth.

Personally I have nothing against her, unlike all the others. She treats the servants as though they were dust, and they say that they are not accustomed to such, that she is not. their mistress but only a concubine. She does not seem to regard the other court ladies as her equals, but I wonder if she ever did, or if she ever has regarded anyone as her equal. It does not look like ordinary superciliousness, but more like an innate pride. Naturally they are furious, but they dare not show it, for if Madama should never return here, then Fiammetta might well replace her.

All the court says that she has let herself be “seduced” from sheer ambition, and that she is as cold-blooded as a fish, and that it is all extremely indecent. I do not understand what they mean, for, unlike the others who lower themselves to such infamies, she does not appear immodest.

Certainly the Prince is greatly charmed with her and is always exceedingly polite and witty in her presence. Otherwise he seems rather restless, nervous and irritable, and occasionally violent with his servants, and even with very distinguished persons. He was never like that before. They say that he is very annoyed over the development of events and not least over the people’s discontent with him, for he is no longer what they call popular. He is particularly bad-humored when the hungry come and shout for bread beneath the castle windows.

I find it unworthy of a prince to pay any attention to the thoughts and sayings of the mob which surrounds him. They are always shouting for something. One would be kept very busy if one bothered with everything the people shout about.

They say that he has had the old court astrologer Nicodemus and the other long-beards secretly thrashed because of their extraordinarily favorable prophecies. It is not improbable. His father did so, though then it was because they prophesied something which opposed his wishes.

It is not easy to read the stars, and to read them so that men are pleased with what is written there.

IN THE town the situation is getting worse and worse; it is nothing less than sheer famine. Every day many die of hunger, or of cold and hunger combined, it is difficult to say which. The streets and squares are full of folk who cannot get up and who seem indifferent to their surroundings. Others wander about in an emaciated condition looking for something edible, or at least something with which to appease their hunger. Cats, dogs, and rats are hunted down and regarded as excellent fare. At the beginning of the siege the rats were held to be a menace to the refugee camps whose rubbish heaps attracted them, but now they are a desirable quarry. However, they are becoming more and more of a rarity. They seem to have had some kind of disease, for their corpses are all over the place, thereby failing the people when they were really needed.

I am not surprised that rats cannot endure living together with men like these.

SOMETHING incredible has happened. I shall try to relate it calmly and according to the sequence of events. This is not so easy, since I took a lively and important part in it all and have not yet got over the excitement. Now that it is well and I may say successfully over, giving me every reason to feel satisfied with the result and my own share in it, I shall dedicate part of the night to the chronicling of it.

Late last night I was sitting at my window in the dwarfs’ apartment and looking out over Boc-carossa’s campfires as I frequently do before retiring, when I suddenly saw a figure creeping furtively through the trees down by the river, toward the eastern wing of the palace. I thought it strange that anybody should be down there at such an hour and wondered if it could be a member of the household. The moon was shining, but so hazily that I could scarcely distinguish the figure. He seemed to be wrapped in a wide cloak and hastened toward the wing where he disappeared through one of the lesser doors. Presumably, he must belong to the palace, since he knew it so well. But something in his deportment roused my suspicions as did his behavior in general, so I decided to clear up the mystery and hurried out into the night, re-entering through the same door as he. It was pitch dark on the stairs, but I know them better than any other because of the many times I was obliged to mount them in the old days. They lead to Angelica’s room among others; and now to hers alone, since none of the other apartments are in use.

I felt my way up to her door and listened outside it. My suspicions had paved the way for such a possibility, yet I was amazed to hear two voices within. One of them was Giovanni’s!

They spoke in whispers, but my keen ears heard everything. I was the invisible witness of a touching and unbounded “happiness.” “Beloved!” panted one of them, and the other whispered in answer: “Beloved! Beloved!” again and again-nothing else, and their conversation was far from interesting from an outsider’s point of view. If it had not been so terribly serious I should have found this monotonous repetition of the same word perfectly ridiculous, but unfortunately there was nothing ridiculous about it. I felt my entire body chill to ice as I heard their tender and unsuspecting use of the word, though they would have been petrified with horror if they had given a thought to its inner meaning and its significance on their lips. Then I heard the two criminals kissing each other, several times, simultaneously assuring each other of their love in a most childish stammering manner. It was gruesome.

I hurried away. Where could I find the Prince? Was he still at the supper table in the dining room where I had left him with Fiammetta scarcely an hour ago? As usual I had waited upon them until told that he had no further need of my services.

No further need of my services! The expression seemed strange as I felt my way hastily down the stairs in the darkness. One always needs the services of one’s dwarf.

I ran over the courtyard to the archway which connects the old and new wings. Here too the stairs and corridors were pitch dark, but I continued on my way and, at last, stood breathless outside the great double doors. I listened. Nothing. But they might still be there. I should have liked to make sure, but to my annoyance I could not open the door, for it was one of those which are too high for me to manipulate. I listened again and then had to go away without being quite certain.

I continued to the Prince’s bedchamber. It is not so far away, but on the floor above. I approached his door and listened again, but there too it was silent. I could hear nothing indicative of his presence in the room. Perhaps he was already sleeping? It was not impossible. Dare I wake him? No, it was out of the question, I could never dream of doing such a thing. But my errand was of such tremendous importance. Never before had I had such an urgent one.

I plucked up my courage and knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again, as hard as I could with my clenched fist. No reply.

He could not be there, for I know what a light sleeper he is. Where was he? I became more and more nervous. All this took so long! Where could he be?

Maybe he was with Fiammetta? They might have withdrawn there so as to be absolutely undisturbed. It was my last hope.

I rushed down the stairs again and into the courtyard. Fiammetta lives in another part of the palace, presumably to disguise her relationship with the Prince. One must cross the courtyard to get there.

I came in through the right arch, but not being so familiar with that part of the castle I had difficulty in finding my way; I mounted the wrong staircase and had to descend and start all over again, and then I had great trouble in keeping my bearings through all the dark corridors. I kept getting more and more irritated at the thought of all the time I was losing and I hurried up and down them without finding what I was looking for. I felt like a mole wandering about in his burrow hunting for something. Luckily I can see in the dark like a mole; my eyes seem to be made for that. I knew the position of her window on the castle wall and eventually I managed to find the right direction and arrived at her door.

I listened. Was there anyone inside? Yes.

The first thing I heard was Fiammetta’s cool laugh. I had never heard her laugh before, but I knew at once that it must be hers. It was rather hard and perhaps a trifle artificial, yet tantalizing in its way. Then I heard the Prince laugh, briefly and subduedly. I began to breathe again.

After that I heard their voices fairly well, though not what they said, for they must have been far inside the room. But they were indulging in a real conversation and not merely repeating the same word to each other. I do not know if they were talking about love, but I doubt it. I didn’t think it sounded like that. Then there was a sudden silence, and, though I strained by ears to the uttermost, I could hear nothing. But after a while I caught an unpleasant snorting sound and realized that they were doing something disgusting. I felt a slight nausea. I did not believe that my state of excitement would permit me to be physically sick, but nevertheless I went down the corridor, as far as I dared without risking missing the Prince, and stood waiting there. I waited as long as possible so as to avoid hearing that nasty sound again. I felt as though I had been standing there for an eternity.

When at last I returned to the door they were lying and chatting about something, I know not what. The unexpected change astonished as much as it pleased me, and I hoped soon to be able to fulfill my mission. However, they did not hurry themselves, but remained lying there talking no doubt about matters of no importance whatsoever. It irritated me beyond words to hear them and think of all the invaluable time that was being lost. But I was helpless. I dared not make my presence known and surprise them in such a situation.

At last I heard the Prince get up, still discussing something with her on which they were not of the same mind, and begin to dress himself. I went far away from the door and stood on watch in the darkness.

When he came out he went straight toward me without knowing it. “Your Grace,” I whispered, keeping at a cautious distance from him. He was furious when he realized my presence and burst out into the most opprobrious epithets and threats. “What are you doing here? What are you spying on? Foul little monster! Slimy snakel Where are you? Let me crush you!” And he fumbled after me in the corridor with outstretched hands, but could not catch me in the dark. “Let me speak! Let me tell you what it is all about!” I said coldly, though in reality I was beside myself. At last he let me do so.

Now I told him straight out that his daughter was in process of being raped by Lodovico Mon-tanza’s son who had crept into the castle to avenge his father and bring eternal shame and dishonor to her and all his house. “It’s a lie!” he shrieked. “What crazy invention is this? It’s a lie!” “No, it is the truth,” I cried, and stepped fearlessly forward. “He is in her chamber and my own ears have witnessed the preparations for the crime. Now you are too late, the deed has already been done, but maybe you will still find him with her.” I saw that now he believed me, for he was as though thunderstruck. “Impossible!” he said, but at the same time he began to hurry toward the gate. “Impossible!” he repeated. “How could he get into the city? And the palace-it is guarded!” Running at full speed to keep pace with him, I replied that I did not understand that either, but I had first seen him down by the river, and he might have come over it on a raft or something similar-who knows what such a foolhardy lad can think of-and from there straight into the courtyard. “Impossible!” he maintained. “Nobody can come into the town over the river, between the fortresses on both banks with their culverins where archers keep watch night and day. It is absolutely unthinkable!” “Yes, it is unthinkable,” I admitted. “It is impossible to grasp and the devil knows how he was able to get here, but here he is all the same. I am quite certain that it was his voice I heard.”

We had reached the courtyard. The Prince hastened toward the postern to give orders to the watch to keep strictest reinforced guard over the whole castle, so that he should have no chance of escape. His precautions were wise and reasonable -but think if the criminal had already slipped away! Or if both had fled! The horrible suspicion sent me flying over the courtyard as fast as my legs could carry me, and up the stairs to Angelica’s door.

I put my ear against it. No sound within! Had they fled? My own heart was beating so violently after my wild dash and with agitation at the thought of their possible escape, that it might prevent me from hearing any other sound. I tried to calm myself, to breathe gently and regularly-and listened again. No, there was no sound at all from the room. I raged, I thought I should go mad! At last I could bear the suspense no longer; gently, without so much as a click, I succeeded in opening the door. Through the crack I could see that there was a light within-but not a sound, nothing to show that there was anybody there. I slipped inside and immediately recovered my composure. To my joy I saw them sleeping side by side in her bed, by the light of a little oil lamp that they had forgotten to extinguish. They had fallen asleep like a pair of exhausted children after making their first acquaintance with the bestial instincts of love.

I took the lamp, went forward and let its light shine on them. They lay with their faces turned toward each other, their mouths half open, blushing and still excited by the terrible crime which they had committed, and of which, sleeping, they seemed no longer aware. Their eyelashes were moist, and small drops of sweat beaded their upper lips. I regarded their slumber, almost innocent in its foolish thoughtlessness and its oblivion of all danger and the outside world. Is this what human beings call happiness?

Giovanni lay on the outer edge of the bed, with a lock of black hair across his forehead and a faint smile on his lips as though he had performed a noble and successful feat. Around his neck hung the narrow gold chain with the medallion containing the portrait of his mother, who is supposed to be in paradise.

Now I heard the Prince and his men on the stairs, and presently he came in followed by two sentinels, one of whom carried a torch. The room was lighted up, but nothing disturbed the pair in their deep slumber. He almost stumbled as he went forward to the bed and saw his incomparable shame. Livid with wrath he snatched the sword from one of the sentinels and with a single blow severed Giovanni’s head from his body. Angelica woke up and stared with wild dilated eyes as they dragged her gory lover from her couch and flung him on to the muckheap outside the window. Then she fell back in a swoon and did not recover consciousness as long as we remained in the room.

The Prince shook with agitation after this well-wrought deed and I saw how he supported himself with one hand on the doorpost as he went out of the room. I too quitted it and went back to my own apartment. I went slowly, for there was no further need for haste. In the courtyard I saw the torch guiding the Prince on his way; it disappeared beneath the archway as though it had been extinguished in the dark.

ANGELICA is still unconscious; she is sick of a fever which the court physician does not understand. Nobody sympathizes with her. It is taken for granted that she made no real resistance when she was seduced, and therefore her rape is regarded as an unsurpassed disgrace for the princely house and the whole realm. She is being tended by an old woman. Nobody from the court visits her.

The body of her infamous lover has been thrown into the river, since it was not desirable that it should remain lying outside the palace. I hear that it was not submerged by the whirlpools but was borne out to sea by the current.

A rather odd disease has made its appearance in the town. The first symptoms are said to be ague and a terrible headache, then the eyes and tongue swell so that speech is impossible, and the whole body reddens and impure blood transpires through the skin. The sick cry out constantly for water, because they have a fire burning within them. The doctors are helpless-but when are they anything else? Nearly all the infected are said to have died, but I do not know how many that may be.

Naturally there are no cases here at the court. It is confined to the poorest and hungriest, principally the refugees, and is doubtless due to the incredible filth in their camps and everywhere in the town. I am not surprised that they should die of all the ordure that surrounds them.

Angelica cannot be sick of this plague. Her malady is the same as that which she once had as a child. I do not quite remember when, nor the exact circumstances. She has always been rather sickly, for reasons which could not possibly affect anybody else’s health. Ah, now I remember. It was when I cut off her kitten’s head.

THE PLAGUE is spreading more and more, from day to day. Now not only the poor, but anybody can catch it. The houses are full of moans and so are the streets and squares, for at least as many are living there. Passers-by can see the sick tossing on their ragged beds on the paving stones and giving vent to loud despairing shrieks. The pains are said to be uncommonly severe and drive some of the sufferers nearly insane. A tour around the town is apparently quite revolting, and the descriptions are full of repulsive and almost unbearable details. The breath of the smitten is like an appalling miasma and the body is covered with foul boils which burst and discharge their disgusting contents. I cannot hear these accounts without feeling physically sick.

Few hesitate to blame the refugees for this fearful plague, and they are hated worse than ever. But some maintain that it is really a divine punishment for the sins of mankind. They say the people suffer this in order that the Lord may cleanse them of their wickedness, and that they must submit patiently to His will.

I am quite prepared to regard it as a punishment, but whether it is their God who wields the scourge-that I know not. It may just as well be another and darker power.

THE PRINCESS leads a strange life. She never leaves her room which is always in semi-darkness because the windows are veiled with thick draperies. She says that she is not worthy to rejoice in the sunlight and that it is not right to do so. The walls are bare, and there are no chairs or tables, only a prie-dieu and above it a crucifix. It looks like a nun’s cell. While the bed is still there, she does not lie in it, but on a heap of straw on the floor which is never changed and which becomes more and more musty and odoriferous. It is stifling in there and I can scarcely breathe the stuffy air. On first entering, it is impossible to distinguish anything until one becomes accustomed to the half light. Then one perceives her, half dressed, with rumpled hair, utterly indifferent to her appearance. Her eyes are febrile and her cheeks thin and sunken, for she mortifies her flesh and eats practically nothing. That stupid peasant lass of a tirewoman goes about complaining because she cannot persuade her mistress to eat. Sometimes the Princess nibbles a morsel to make the silly wench stop crying. The girl herself is plump and chubby cheeked and devours everything she can get hold of. Howling and whimpering, she wolfs the tempting dishes which her mistress waves aside.

The penitent spends most of her time in front of the crucifix, kneeling and repeating her fruitless prayers. She knows that they are of no avail and, before beginning, she puts up a special prayer to the Crucified One that he may forgive her for turning once more to Him. Sometimes she lays aside her rosary in despair and, fixing her burning eyes on her Savior, improvises her own prayers. But still He does not hear her and on arising she is as unredeemed as when she first started. Often she has not the strength to rise without the assistance of her maid. She has even been known to collapse from sheer exhaustion and remain prone on the floor until the girl found her there and had her dragged onto the straw.

She believes that she is the cause of all our misfortunes and that all the suffering and the horrors are due to her sinfulness. I do not know how much she realizes of what is going around her; one would think that she had only the vaguest idea of it all. Yet she must have a faint notion that it is full of horror. All the same, I believe that she is really indifferent to this world and all that happens here and considers it of no importance. She lives in a private world with her own problems and troubles.

Now she knows that her greatest sin was her love for Don Riccardo. Because of it, she clung to this life and treasured it. She says that she loved him above everything, that her feelings for him filled her whole being and made her very happy. One should not love a human being as much as that. Only God may. be loved like that.

I do not know how much her degradation is due to my revelation of her criminal life and the hell-fire which awaits her. I have described the pains of the damned and she has listened meekly to my expositions. Of late she has begun to scourge herself.

She is always very grateful when I come to her. I avoid visiting her too often.

ANGELICA has recovered from her sickness and is up and about again, but she never appears at meals or at the court. I have seen her now and again in the rose garden or sitting down by the river, staring at it. Her eyes are, if possible, larger than ever and quite glassy. They look as though she saw nothing with them.

I noticed that she was wearing Giovanni’s locket around her neck and that it was stained with blood. Presumably she found it in the bed and cherishes it as a souvenir of him. But she might have begun by washing off the blood.

Now that I think of it, the mother is in paradise while her son languishes in hell-fire, having died without prayer or sacrament while sleeping the deep slumber of sin. So they can never meet. Perhaps Angelica prays for his soul. Her prayers are sure to be in vain.

No one knows what she is thinking about. She has not uttered a word since she woke up that night or, rather, since her last word to her lover. With my knowledge of their conversation I can almost guess what that word was.

THOSE WHO consider the plague and all the rest a punishment from God which should not be eluded but gratefully accepted with thanks to the Almighty, now go about the streets proclaiming their beliefs and scourging themselves in order to help the Lord redeem their souls. They go in groups, hollow-eyed and so emaciated that they could not remain erect were they not in ecstacy. People follow them everywhere, and their behavior is said to be causing a religious revival. Home, family, occupation, even dying relations, are abandoned and the survivors join the penitents. Every once in a while somebody gives vent to a crazy triumphant scream, pushes his way into the group and begins to scourge himself, to the accompaniment of shrill desperate cries. Then everybody begins to praise the Lord and the folk in the street fall on their knees. Earthly life and its familiar horrors, of which they have seen too much, have no more interest nor value for them. They think only of their souls.

The priests are said to look askance at these fanatics because they tempt people away from the churches and their own solemn processions which are replete with holy images and choir boys swinging perfumed censers in the stinking streets. They say these self tormentors lack faith, and evade the consolations of religion, thanks to their gross exaggerations. God cannot regard this with approval or pleasure. But I think if anyone is truly religious, it is those who are so much in earnest about their faith. The priests do not seem to like it if their teachings are taken too seriously.

But there are many others on whom the horrors have had another effect, who now love life better than ever before and cling to it madly in their fear of death. The revelry goes on night and day in some of the city’s palaces, and one hears of the wildest orgies taking place within their walls. Many of the poorest and meanest are affected in the same way and, as far as they are able, do likewise, wallowing in the sole vice at their command. They cling to their miserable lives and do anything not to lose them. When the small portions of bread are doled out here at the postern gate, the poor wretches can be seen fighting for the scraps, ready, if need be, to tear each other to pieces.

But there are said to be others who sacrifice themselves for their fellows. They nurse the sick though there is no point in that, since they merely expose themselves to infection. They disregard death and the rest, and so do not seem to realize the risks they are running. They are akin to the religious maniacs though they express themselves differently.

If one is to believe the tales which have come to my ear, the people down in the town continue to live just as before, each according to his kind and nature. The only difference is a more exaggerated and hysterical manner, and the net result is quite valueless from God’s point of view. Therefore, I wonder if it really was He who sent them the plague and the other trials.

TODAY Fiammetta passed me. Naturally, she did not deign to look at me. But how flawlessly beautiful she is in her aloofness! She is like a gentle zephyr among the foulness and agitation which surround her. There is a coolness about her person and her proud inaccessible nature which inspires peace and security. She does not let herself be influenced by the horrors of life, instead she rules over them; she can even make use of them. Imperceptibly, with dignity, and almost as a matter of course, she is beginning to assume the Princess’ place as the mistress of the court. The others realize that there is nothing to be done about it and adapt themselves accordingly. One cannot help admiring her.

Had it been anybody else who passed without deigning to throw me a glance, I should have been furious. With her it seemed quite natural.

I can quite understand why the Prince loves her. Not that I ever could myself, but that is quite different. Could I ever really love anybody? I do not know. If I could love, it would have been the Princess. But now I hate her instead.

And yet I do feel that she is the only one whom I could ever have loved. Why that should be is quite beyond me. I do not understand it at all.

Truly love is something of which one knows nothing.

ANGELICA has drowned herself in the river.

She must have done it yesterday evening or last night, for nobody saw her. She left a letter behind which leaves no doubt that she killed herself in that manner. Throughout the day they have been searching for her body, all the length of the river where it flows through the beleaguered city, but in vain. Like Giovanni’s, it must have been carried away by the ripples.

There is a great to-do at the court. Everybody is upset and cannot realize that she is dead. I find it very understandable: her beloved is dead, and now so is she. They all moan and weep and reproach themselves but, above all, they discuss the letter, relating its contents to each other and reading it again and again. The Prince was apparently very distressed when he heard of it, and, on the whole, seems upset by it. The damigellas sob and sigh and melt into tears over the touching phrases in the letter. I cannot understand their behavior. I see nothing extraordinary about the letter, and it changes nothing-certainly not the crime which was committed and which everybody condemned unanimously. It contains nothing new.

I had to hear it again and again until I know it almost by heart. It runs something like this:

I do not want to stay with you any longer. You have been so kind to me, but I do not understand you. I do not understand how you could take my beloved away from me, my dear one who came so far from another country to tell me that there was a thing called love.

I did not know that such a thing existed, but as soon as I saw Giovanni I knew that love was the only reality in the world and that everything else was nothing. As soon as I met him, I knew why life had been so strangely difficult up to then.

Now I do not want to stay here, where he is not, but I shall follow him. I have prayed to God and He has promised to let me meet Giovanni and we shall always be together. But He would not say where He was going to take me. I shall just lay myself down to rest on the river, and He will take me where I am to go.

You must not believe that I have taken my life, for I have only done as I was told. And I am not dead. I have gone to be joined forever to my beloved.

I am taking the medallion with me even though it does not belong to me. I have been told to do so. I have opened it and the portrait inside has filled me with an endless longing to leave this world.

She has asked me to say that she forgives you. I, too, forgive you with all my heart.

Angelica.

The Princess is convinced that she is the cause of Angelica’s death. This is the first time I have ever known her to take any interest in her child. She scourges herself more than ever to efface this sin, eats nothing at all, and prays to the Crucified One for forgiveness.

The Crucified One does not answer.

THIS MORNING the Prince sent me with a letter to Maestro Bernardo in Santa Croce. It is a long time since he was seen at court and of late I have almost forgotten his existence.

Much against my will, I went out into the town, for I have not been there since the plague began to rage. Not that I fear the disease. But certain things have a disagreeable effect on me, I am almost afraid of having to see them. My reluctance was quite justified, for the sights which I was com-pelled to witness were really quite appalling. At the same time it was a remarkable experience which filled me with a kind of somber savagery and an awareness of the vanity and ruin of every-thing. My path was lined with the sick and dying. Those who were already dead were being collected by the funeral Brothers in their black hoods with the terrifying eyeholes. They appeared every-where, giving a spectral touch to the scene. I felt as though I were wandering in the kingdom of the dead. Even the untainted were branded by death. They crept about the streets hollow-eyed and ema-ciated, like phantoms from the time when the world was still alive. It was gruesome to see the somnambulistic accuracy with which they avoided treading on the bundles which lay everywhere in their path and which might be either dead or alive. One could not really see. It is impossible to con-ceive anything more lamentable than these victims of the plague, and I was obliged frequently to turn aside to prevent myself from vomiting. Some were clad in the poorest rags through which one could see the most loathsome boils on the bluish-tinted skin which indicated that the end was near. Others screamed madly to show that their bodies still lived, while others lay unconscious, their uncontrolled limbs twitching unceasingly. Never before have I seen such a spectacle of human degradation. The eyes of some shone with the bottomless glint of madness and they rushed forward, despite their weakness, toward those who had fetched water from the wells for the sick, snatching so violently at the ladle that nearly all the water was spilled on the ground. Others crawled along the street like animals to reach the much longed-for wells which seemed to be the goal for all these wretches.

They were creatures who had ceased to behave like human beings and had lost every sentiment of human dignity in an effort to cling to their utterly worthless lives. I cannot even talk of the stink of all this misery; the mere thought of it makes me retch. There were bonfires in the squares where stacks of corpses were being burned, and their pungent odor was felt everywhere. A thin smoke hung over the whole town and, all the while, the churchbells tolled their never ceasing knell.

As so often before, I found Maestro Bernardo deep in contemplation before his Holy Communion. He sat with his grizzled head somewhat bowed and he looked much older. His Christ sat at the supper table, breaking bread and handing it to all who were gathered there; His hair and brow were haloed by the same celestial light as before. The wine chalice was being passed around the table which was covered by a pure white cloth. There were no hungry or thirsty there. But the old man seemed pensive and heavy-hearted among his paintbrushes.

He did not reply when I said that I had a letter for him from the Prince, but gestured to show that I could put it down somewhere. He would not let himself be snatched from his world. What kind of world?

I left Santa Croce full of thought.

On my way home I passed the campanile, the one that is going to be loftier than any other. Work has, of course, been stopped on it during the war and it has been quite forgotten. There it stands half finished and the top layer of stones is uneven because the building was stopped in the middle. It is like a ruin. But the bronze reliefs at the base representing scenes from the life of the Crucified One are quite finished and very successful.

It has all turned out exactly as I said.

THE WHOLE palace is decked in black. The walls and furniture are covered with black cloth and the inmates tread softly and speak in whispers. The damigellas have black satin gowns and the courtiers black velvet suits and black gloves.

Angelica’s death has given rise to all this; her life gave rise to nothing at all. But the people here literally enjoy mourning. Their grief for Don Riccardo has been succeeded by the mourning for her, and so at last he is really dead. But now they do not discuss the deceased, for there is nothing to discuss. She was so utterly devoid of interest. Besides, nobody knew what she was really like. They merely mourn for her. Everywhere one hears sighs not only over the young Princess’ fate, but even over the fate of Giovanni, he who belonged to the enemy, the most hated of all the princely families; sighs over their love, of which there is no longer the slightest doubt, and over their death for the sake of their love. Death and love being their pet subjects, they think it is delightful to weep over them, especially when the two happen to be united into one.

The Prince seems rather overcome. I imagine that is why he is so reserved and uncommunicative. At least he is so with me, and yet I have sometimes had the pleasure of receiving his confidences, but that was on very different occasions. Now it seems as though he avoids me, I do not think he makes use of me quite as often as before. For instance, he did not personally give me the letter to Bernardo, but sent it by one of the courtiers.

Sometimes I think that he is almost beginning to fear me.

That red-cheeked peasant wench of the Princess’ is sick. At last she has lost some of her rubi-cundity. I wonder what can be the matter with her?

It is odd, but I do not fear the plague at all. I have a feeling that I shall never catch it, that it cannot affect me. Why? I just feel like that about it.

It is for human beings, for these creatures around me. Not for me.

The Princess sinks lower and lower. It is almost painful to witness her decline, the dissolution taking place within her, the neglect, indifference, and dirt which surround her. The sole trace of her birth and former personality lies in the obstinacy and fortitude with which she fulfills her destiny and prevents those around her from exercising any influence upon it.

Since the chamberwoman’s sickness, nobody is allowed to come near her and the room is in a worse state than ever. Now she eats nothing at all and is so emaciated that I can scarcely understand how she keeps alive.

I am her only visitor. She begs me to come and help her in her great need, to let her confess her sins to me.

I AM rather agitated. I have come straight from her and am terrifyingly conscious of the power which I sometimes exercise over human beings. I shall describe this visit.

As usual, I could see nothing at first. Then the windows outlined themselves, despite their thick curtains, as lighter parts of the wall, and I saw her crouching there by the crucifix, busy with her eternal praying. She was so absorbed in her orisons that she did not hear me open the door.

The room was so stifling that I could scarcely breathe. It was revolting. Everything nauseated me: the smell, the half-light, her shrunken body, the thin indecently exposed shoulders, the sinews ridging her neck, the untidy hair like an old birds’ nest, all that once had been worthy of love. A kind of fury convulsed me. I may hate human beings, but I do not like to see their degradation.

Suddenly I heard myself shouting furiously in the darkness, before she had noticed me or become aware of my presence.

“Why are you praying? Have I not told you that you may not pray? That I do not want your prayers?”

She turned around, not in fear but moaning softly like a flogged bitch with her eyes fixed humbly on me. That kind of thing does nothing to mitigate a man’s anger.

I went on mercilessly: “Do you think He cares about your prayers, that He forgives you because you kneel there, begging and praying and perpetually confessing your sins? It is easy enough to confess sins. Do you think He lets himself be fooled by that? Do you think He doesn’t see through you?

“It is Don Riccardo whom you love, not Him! Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think you can cheat me, deceive me with your devilish arts, with your penances, your scourgings of your lascivious body? You are longing for your lover though you say that you long for the One on the wall there! It is he whom you love I”

She looked at me in terror and her bloodless lips trembled. Then she flung herself at my feet groaning: “It is true! It is true! Save me! Save me!”

Her confession moved me powerfully.

“Voluptuous whore!” I exclaimed. “Feigning love for your Savior while in secret you lie with a lecher from hell! Betraying your God with one whom He has cast into the depths of hell! Diabolical woman, fixing your eyes on the Crucified One and proclaiming your burning love for Him, while all your soul rejoices in the embraces of another! Don’t you realize that He hates you? Don’t you realize it?”

“Yes, yes,” she moaned and writhed like a trodden worm at rny feet. It revolted me to see her cringing like that, it irritated me and oddly enough her behavior gave me no pleasure. She stretched out her hands to me. “Punish me, punish me, thou scourge of God!” she whimpered. She groped for the scourge on the floor and handed it to me and huddled up like a dog in front of me. I seized it, half-furious and half-nauseated, it whistled through the air over her loathsome body, and all the time I heard myself shrieking: “It is the Crucified One! He who hangs on the wall is scourging you now, He whom you have kissed so often with your glowing lying lips, whom you have professed to love! Do you know what love is? Do you know what He requires of you?

“I have suffered for you, but you have never cared about that! Now you shall know what it feels like to suffer!”

I was beside myself, I scarcely knew what I was doing. Knew? Of course I knew! I was taking revenge, retribution for everything! I was dispensing justice! I was exercising my terrible power over mankind! Yet I took no real pleasure in it.

She made no complaint while it was going on. On the contrary, she was very quiet and still, and when it was over she lay there as though I had relieved her of her sorrow and unrest.

“Burn forever in the fires of the damned! May the flames eternally lick the foul belly which has rejoiced in the horrible sin of love!”

With this judgment I left her, lying there on the floor as though in a swoon.

I went home. With thudding heart I mounted the stairs to the dwarfs’ apartment and shut the door behind me.

While writing this, my agitation has subsided, and I experience nothing but an endless void and boredom. My heart thuds no longer, I cannot feel it at all. I stare in front of me and my lonely countenance is dark and joyless.

Maybe she was right when she said that I was a scourge of God.

IT IS the evening of the same day and I am sitting here looking out over the town below. It is twilight and the bells have ceased their tolling and the domes and houses are beginning to fade away. In the half-light I can see the smoke from the funeral pyres coiling between them and the pungent smell reaches up to my nostrils. A thick veil shrouds everything, soon it will be quite dark.

Life! What is the point of it? What is its meaning, its use? Why does it go on, so gloomy and so absolutely empty?

I turn its torch downward and extinguish it against the dark earth, and it is night.

The peasant girl is dead. Her red cheeks could not stop her from dying. The plague took her, though for a long time nobody would believe it because she did not suffer the same pains as the others.

Fiammetta is dead too. She sickened this morning and after a couple of hours she was gone. I saw her when the phantoms from the Brotherhood came to fetch her. She was a horrible sight: her face was swollen and misshapen and presumably her body likewise. She was no longer a thing of beauty, but merely a disgusting corpse. They laid a cloth over her monstrous features and went away.

Here at the court they are terrified of the plague and want to get the dead out of the way as quickly as possible. But the order has been given that she is to be buried tonight with special honors. It does not really matter much, since she is dead.

Nobody mourns her.

PERHAPS the Prince mourns her, in fact he surely does. Or perhaps he feels slightly relieved. Perhaps both.

Nobody knows, for he speaks to no one. He goes about pale and worn and is no longer himself. His forehead is furrowed beneath the black fringe and he is a little bent. His dark eyes gleam strangely and are full of unrest.

I caught a glimpse of him today and it was then I noticed it. I have seen him very seldom of late. I do not serve at his table.

I have not visited the Princess since that last time. I hear she is in a coma. Now that Fiammetta is dead, they say the Prince visits her frequently, sitting by her bed and watching over her.

Human beings are so strange, I can never understand their love for each other.

THE ENEMY raised the siege and went away as soon as the plague began to spread among them. Boccarossa’s mercenaries have no desire to fight such a foe.

And so, the plague has put an end to the war as nothing else could have done. Both countries are pillaged, particularly our own. The populations are probably too exhausted after two wars to be able to go on. Montanza has achieved nothing and maybe his troops will take the pest home with them.

More and more people are dying here in the palace. The black hangings in honor of Angelica are still up and match the somber atmosphere.

I am quite excluded from the service of the court. Nobody summons me any longer, nobody has any orders for me. Least of all the Prince; I never set eyes on him at all.

I can see on everybody’s faces that there is something in the wind, but I do not know what it can be.

Has somebody maligned me?

I have withdrawn altogether to the dwarfs’ apartment where I live quite alone. I do not even go down to eat, but keep myself alive on a little old bread which I have up here. It is quite sufficient, I have never wanted much.

I sit here alone under the low ceiling, deep in thought.

I like this utter solitude more and more.

IT IS a long time since last I wrote anything in this book of mine. That is because things have happened which strongly affected my life and made it impossible for me to continue with my notes. I could not even get hold of them, and only now have I had them brought to me here.

I am sitting chained to the wall in one of the castle dungeons. Until recently, my hands were also manacled, though that was quite superfluous. I could not possibly escape. But it was meant to aggravate my punishment. Now at last I have been freed from them. I do not know why. I have not asked for it, I have asked for nothing. Thus it is a little more bearable now, though my condition has not changed. I have persuaded Anselmo my jailer to fetch my writing materials and notes from the dwarfs’ apartment so that I may have some slight recreation by occupying myself with them. He may have risked something by getting them for me, for though my hands have been freed it is not at all certain that they do not grudge me this little pastime. As he said, he has no right to grant me anything, however much he may wish it. But he is an obliging and very simple fellow, so at last I managed to persuade him to do it.

I have read through my notes from the beginning, a little every day. It has been a certain satisfaction thus to relive my own and several others’ lives and once again meditate over everything in the silent hours. I shall now try to continue from where I left off and thus provide myself with a little variety in my somewhat monotonous existence.

I do not really know how long I have been here. My time in prison has been so utterly uneventful, each day precisely like all the others, that I have stopped reckoning them and take no further interest in the passage of time. But I clearly recall the circumstances which led me to this dungeon and chained me to its wall.

One morning I was sitting peacefully in my dwarfs’ chamber when one of the assistant torturers suddenly came in through the door and commanded me to follow him. He gave no explanation and I asked him no questions, considering that it was beneath my dignity to address him. He took me down to the torture chamber where stood the executioner, big and ruddy and stripped to the waist. There was a lawyer there too, and after I had been shown the instruments of torture he exhorted me to make a full confession of all that had happened during my visits to the Princess, which, they said, had been the cause of her present deplorable condition. Naturally I refused to do any such thing. Twice he exhorted me to confess, but in vain. Then the executioner seized me and laid me on the rack to torture me. But the rack proved to have been made for bodies of a size different from mine, so I had to scramble down again and stand and wait while they altered it so that it could be used for a dwarf. I had to listen to their obscenities and foolish jests and their assurances that they were going to make a fine tall fellow of me. Then I was put back on the rack and they began to torment me in the most horrible way. Despite the pain I did not utter a sound but gazed scornfully at them as they performed their despicable trade. The man of law bent over me, trying to extract my secret from me, but not a word passed my lips. I did not betray her. I did not want her debasement to be known.

Why did I behave thus? I do not know. But I preferred to endure the worst rather than reveal anything which might degrade her. I compressed my lips and let them plague me for the sake of that detestable woman. Why? Perhaps I liked suffering for her sake.

At last they had to give up. They loosened the ropes, swearing vilely all the while. I was taken to a dungeon and loaded with the chains which had been made that time when I gave communion to my oppressed people and which, therefore, now came in very useful. That was a less inhospitable prison than my present one. A couple of days later I was brought up again and went through the same treatment. But again it was all in vain. Nothing could make me speak. I still carry her secret in my heart.

After a time I was confronted by a kind of court of justice where I learned that I was accused of all manner of crimes, among others that of having caused the death of the Princess. I did not know that she was dead, but I am sure that on hearing it not a muscle of my face betrayed my emotion. She had died without ever awaking from her coma.

They asked me if I had anything to say in my defense. I did not deign to answer. Then came the verdict. For all my wicked deeds and as the cause of so many misfortunes, I was condemned to be welded to the wall in the darkest dungeon under the fortress and to remain there in chains for all eternity. I was a viper and the evil genius of his Most Princely Grace, and it was his expressed wish that I should be rendered harmless for all time.

I listened unmoved to the sentence. My ancient dwarf face showed only scorn and mockery and I noticed that the sight of it filled them with fear. I was taken away from the court and since then I have seen none of these despicable beings except Anselmo who is so puerile that he is beneath my contempt.

Viper!

It is true that I mixed the poison, but on whose orders? It is true that I was the death of Don Riccardo, but who was it wished his death? It is true that I scourged the Princess, but who begged and prayed me to do so?

Human beings are too feeble and exalted to shape their own destiny.

One might have thought that I should have been condemned to death for all these atrocious crimes, but only the heedless and those who do not know my noble lord can be surprised that this was not so. I knew him far too well ever to fear anything like that; nor has he really so much power over me.

Power over me! What does it matter if I sit here in the dungeon? What good does it do if they clap me in irons? I still belong to the castle just as much as before! To prove it they have even welded me to it! We are forged together, it and I! We cannot escape from each other, my master and I! If I am imprisoned, then he is imprisoned too! If I am linked to him, then he too is linked to me!

Here I am in my hole, living my obscure mole life, while he goes about in his fine handsome halls. But my life is also his, and his noble highly respectable life up there really belongs to me.

IT HAS taken me several days to put this down. I can only write during the short time when a ray of sunlight from the narrow slit falls on the paper: then I must seize the opportunity. The ray moves along the dungeon floor for an hour, but I cannot follow it, owing to the chain which fastens me to the wall. I can only move a tiny bit. Therefore, it also took me a long time to read through what I had written. But that was an advantage, for thereby the distraction lasted that much longer.

I have nothing to do the rest of the day, and remain seated as before. By three o’clock it gets dark, and I have to spend the greater part of the time in complete darkness. Then the rats come out and creep around, their eyes shining. I see them at once for I too can see in the dark and, like them, I have become more and more of an underground creature. I hate those dirty ugly beasts and hunt them by sitting quite still until they come near enough for me to trample them to death. That is one of the few manifestations of vitality left to me. In the morning I order Anselmo to throw them away. I cannot think where they come from: it must be the door which does not shut properly.

Moisture drips down the wall and the cell has a musty smell which irritates me more than anything else, I think, for I am very sensitive to such things. The floor is of earth, hardened by the feet of those who have languished here. They cannot have been chained to the wall as I am, at least not all of them, for the whole floor seems to be like stone. At night I rest on a heap of straw, as she did. But it is not foul and stinking like hers, for I make Anselmo change it once a week. I am no penitent. I am a free man. I do not degrade myself.

Such is my existence in this dungeon. I sit here setting my jaw and thinking my thoughts about life and human beings as I have always done, and I do not change in the least.

If they think they can subdue me they are wrong!

I HAVE had some contact with the outer world, thanks to the good man who is my jailer. When he comes with my food he tells me in his guileless way of what has happened, adding lengthy commentaries of his own. He is very much interested in everything and likes to voice the speculations which have caused him such travail. In his mouth everything becomes utterly fatuous: above all he wonders what can be God’s reasons for all that has happened. But my wider knowledge and experience help me to gain an approximate notion of what really took place, of all the circumstances attendant on the decline and death of the Princess and various other occurrences which followed my imprisonment. The Prince sat faithfully by her bed all day long watching her face become more and more transparent and what the court described as spiritualized. As though he had seen her himself, Anselmo maintained that she became as lovely as a madonna. I who really did see her knew how much truth there was in that. But I can quite believe that the Prince sat there and devoted himself entirely to the wife who was about to leave him. Perhaps he relived their youthful love. If so, he had to do it alone, for she was already far from all earthly ties. I know what he is like and undoubtedly he found something very moving in her unearth-liness and remoteness. At the same time he must have been bewildered by her conversion, in which he had had no part, and probably wanted to call her back to life again. But she slipped through his hands, imperceptibly and without any explanations. Doubtless that increased his love; it generally seems to.

It was in such a mood that he had me jailed and tortured. He loved her because she was so unattainable and, because of that, he let me suffer. It does not surprise me, but then nothing surprises me.

Bernardo was there with some others, and saw her. The old master is said to have observed that her face was wonderful to look upon and that now he was beginning to understand it, and to comprehend why his portrait of her had been a failure. It is not all certain that it was a failure, though she no longer resembled it. I think he ought to have realized that and pondered on it.

Then the priests put in their appearance, running in and out, declaring her entry into the eternal life to be a beautiful and elevating sight. Her own confessor must also have been there, telling everybody who would listen that she was without sin. When she was very near the end, the archbishop gave her communion and the last rites with his own hands and the whole room was full of prelates and spiritual dignitaries in full canonicals. But she died all alone, without knowing that anybody was there.

After her death they found a dirty crumpled paper on which she had written that she wished to have her despicable body burned like that of the plague victims, and the ashes strewn on the street so that all might tread on them. These words, though undoubtedly they were sincerely meant, were looked upon as incoherent wanderings and nobody paid any heed to her last wishes. Instead, they took a middle course, embalmed her corpse and then placed it in a simple iron coffin which was borne unadorned through the streets to the princely crypt in the cathedral. The procession was as meager as was possible where a princess was concerned, and the commonest people walked very devoutly in it, the miserable starved wretches who still survived. Anselmo described this cortege through the plague-smitten city as something very moving and pathetic. It is quite possible that it was.

The people believed that now they knew everything about her and her last days. They took possession of her as their own rightful property, changing what they had heard according to their own fancy, as happens in such cases. Their imagination was stirred by the plain ugly coffin in the crypt among all the other magnificent princely coffins of silver and skillfully carved marble. Lying there, she seemed somehow to have become one of them. And her penances and scourgings, which the tiring wench had had time to relate to all and sundry, transformed her into one of the elect who, being an exalted personage despite her humiliation, had suffered more than all the others. Inasmuch as He was God’s son, Jesus too suffered more than anybody else even though many others have been crucified, some head downward, and had been killed and martyrized far more painfully than He. By degrees she became a saintly being who had despised and denied this life to such an extent that she had tortured her body to death of her own accord. Thus the legend was going on quite unaffected by reality, and they continued to work at it until it corresponded to their desires. God knows if there were not miracles by the black ugly iron coffin which contained her remains. At least Anselmo believed that there were. He declared that a light shone about it at night. This is possible. The cathedral is closed at that time so nobody can authentically deny or affirm it, and when believers have the choice between that which is true and that which is not, they always choose that which is not. Lies are far rarer and more impressive than the truth, and so they prefer them.

When I heard all this I was obliged to tell myself that, quite unsuspectingly, I had been the creator of this saintly halo, or at least contributed largely to its sheen. And because of that, I was now manacled to the wall down here. Of course they knew nothing about that, and had they done so they certainly would have taken no interest in my martyrdom. Nor did I desire anything of that kind. But I was surprised that anyone so unholy as I should be instrumental in bringing about anything like that.

In due time, I do not quite remember when, Anselmo began to relate how Bernardo was painting a Madonna with the features of the Princess. The Prince and the whole court were very absorbed in the work and greatly pleased with it. The old master explained that he wanted to reproduce her innermost self and all that he had been able to apprehend only vaguely before he saw her on her deathbed. I do not know if he succeeded, not having seen the result but merely having heard it spoken of as an extraordinary masterpiece-however, they say the same of all his work. He took a long time over it but in the end he did finish it. His Holy Communion with Christ breaking bread for those around the table is still incomplete and will remain so, but he really did complete this picture. Maybe that kind of thing is easier. It has been hung in the cathedral at an altar on the left of the nave and Anselmo was full of childish admiration when he saw it. He described it in his simple way and said that everybody felt that such a madonna, such a gracious and celestial Mother of God had never been depicted before. Most entrancing of all was the enigmatic smile which hovered around her lips, which affected everyone as being something quite heavenly, inexplicable and full of divine mysticism. I understood that the artist had taken that smile from his earlier portrait, the one in which she resembled a whore.

It was not easy to get any notion of the picture from the foolish Anselmo’s descriptions, but as far as I could understand, the master really had succeeded in creating something which must appeal to the devout. He himself can scarcely believe in the Mother of God, yet he had been able to impregnate her portrait with a sincere religious feeling and thereby fill the onlooker with pious emotion. Crowds came to the heavenly new Madonna and it was not long before they were kneeling before her with candles in their hands. There were more worshipers there than at any other altar, and so many tapers in the candlesticks before the portrait of the deceased Princess that their flames were the first thing one saw on entering the cathedral. The poor especially, all those who were unhappy and oppressed in these troublous times, assembled there to pray and seek consolation in their plight. She became their favorite Madonna, patiently listening to their troubles and sorrows and giving them help and solace, though as far as I know she never gave a thought to the poor. Thus Bernardo, with his great art, roused the deep and religious feelings of the people, just as I do.

While relating this, I cannot refrain from pondering over the strangeness of it all. Who could believe that this woman would hang in the cathedral, as a gentle consolatory Madonna, a shrine for the love and adoration of all the people? That she should reign pure and celestial in the light of innumerable candles dedicated to her purity and kindness? Her other portrait is in the palace, for the Prince had it framed and hung, though Maestro Bernardo is dissatisfied with it. That is the one in which she looks like a whore. And yet both pictures, despite their great dissimilarity, may speak the truth each in its own way; both show the same vague smile, which the worshipers in the cathedral think so heavenly.

Human beings like to see themselves reflected in clouded mirrors.

SINCE describing all this, that is to say everything that has happened from the time I was imprisoned, I find that I have nothing left to write about. Anselmo still comes here and tells me what is happening in the town and at the court, but there has been nothing very special. The plague subsided at last after having accounted for a large part of the population; it disappeared of its own accord as it had come, and cases became fewer and fewer until at last they ceased altogether. By degrees life resumed its old ways and, despite everything, the town became itself again. The peasants returned to their burned-out farms and built them up again, and slowly the land began to recover, though it was still impoverished. The war debts were tremendous and the state coffers empty. Therefore, as Anselmo explained to me, the people were weighed down with heavy taxation. But anyhow there was peace, as he expressed it, and something would always turn up. Then everything would be all right. “They are feeling cheerful now in the country,” he said and his silly face glowed with satisfaction.

He entertains me with his perpetual chatter on all subjects and I listen to him, since I have no one else to talk to, though sometimes he can be very exhausting. The other day he came and said that the great debt to Venice at last had been paid and the land was free from this heavy burden. “Things are improving and better times are coming after the great trials, one can see it all over the place,” he said. “They have even begun work on the campanile again, after all these years, and hope to have it ready before too long.” I mention this though actually it is scarcely worth writing down.

Nothing very interesting happens nowadays.

I sit here in my dungeon after waiting for what seems like an eternity for the ray of sunlight, and now, when it has come, I have nothing to put on the paper which it illuminates. The pen lies idle in my hand, I cannot bring myself to use it.

Writing becomes more and more boring because my existence is so utterly uneventful.

Tomorrow the campanile is going to be consecrated, and its bells will ring for the first time. They are made partly of silver, the result of a collection among all the people. They believe that this will add to the beauty of the timbre.

The Prince and the whole court will of course be present.

THE CONSECRATION has taken place and Anselmo has had a great deal to tell which he heard from those who were present. He declares that it was a notable and unforgettable event, in which nearly the whole population shared. The Prince went on foot through the town at the head of his court, and the streets were bordered by people who wanted to see him and be present at the solemn moment which impended. He looked grave but erect and supple as of old, and obviously happy on this great day. He and his followers were clad in the most gorgeous habiliments. On reaching the piazza outside the cathedral, he entered the church and knelt first by the Princess’ coffin and then before the altar with her picture, and all the others knelt there with him. Their devotions concluded, they went out again to the cathedral square and the bells in the campanile began to ring. They sounded so beautiful that everybody was deeply affected and listened in silence to the indescribable peal which seemed to come from heaven. It echoed over the town and all felt happier for having heard it. The people who were assembled on the square around the Prince thought that they had never experienced anything like this before. That is how Anselmo described it.

To his disappointment, he could not be present at the consecration as it occurred at the time when the prisoners were fed, but he had to content himself listening to the bells from here. When they began to toll he came scurrying to me and said that now it had begun. He was so upset that he had to open the door so that I too could hear. I think there were tears in the worthy man’s eyes and he declared that no human ear had ever heard such bells before. In point of fact, they sounded much as most bells do, there was nothing special about them. I was glad when he shut the door again and left me in peace.

I sit here in my chains and the days go by and nothing ever happens. It is an empty joyless life, but I accept it without complaint. I await other times and they will surely come, for I am not destined to sit here for all eternity. I shall have an opportunity of continuing my chronicle by the light of day as before, and my services will be required again. If I know anything of my lord, he cannot spare his dwarf for long. I muse on this in my dungeon and am of good cheer. I reflect on the day when they will come and loosen my chains, because he has sent for me again.