The Dwarf Read online

  What can he be like, the being who produces things like that, who revels in such horrors and lusts after them?

  To look at, his arrogant face is admittedly both subtle and dignified, and it is unbelievable that he should have created these loathsome images. But it is so. It gives me much food for thought. He must have these gruesome creatures inside him like all the other things which he creates.

  I must also recall his appearance when he was doing my portrait, how it changed until he became another person, with horrible sharp eyes, cold and unnatural, his whole face transformed into something cruel; he looked devilish.

  He is not all that he makes himself out to be, as little, perhaps, as anybody else.

  It is almost incredible that the same man should have done the Christ, sitting so pure and transfigured at His table of love.

  ANGELICA went through the hall this evening and, as she passed by, the Prince told her to sit down for a moment with her embroidery. She was reluctant, though she dared not show it; she always avoids court life, nor is she suited to it nor fit to be exhibited as a princess. But who knows if she is the Prince’s daughter? She may just as well be a bastard. But Messer Bernardo knows nothing of that. He looked at her as she sat there with downcast eyes and silly parted lips, looked and looked as though she were something extraordinary. But then to him everything is extraordinary: a freak of nature like myself, or one of his wonderful stones which are so rare that he picks them up from the ground to admire them. He kept silent and seemed quite moved, though she simply sat there without uttering a single word, giving every token of embarrassment. The sudden stop in the conversation was quite awkward.

  I don’t know what it was that affected him. Perhaps he pitied her for not being beautiful; he is a connoisseur of beauty and knows its importance. Perhaps that is why his gaze became so wistful and tender. I do not know, but neither do I care.

  Naturally, the girl wanted to leave as soon as possible. She did not stay a minute longer than was absolutely necessary, but asked the Prince if she might go. On receiving his permission, she got up shyly and swiftly with her usual awkwardness, for her movements are still those of a child. It is strange that she should be so ungraceful.

  As usual she was simply, almost commonly clad. She does not care about her dress, and neither does anybody else.

  THE GREAT master Bernardo finds no peace of mind in his work. He goes from one thing to another, beginning, but never completing them. Why? He ought to occupy himself exclusively with that Last Supper of his, so as to get it finished someday; but he does nothing of the kind. He must have wearied of it. Instead, he has begun a portrait of the Princess.

  Apparently she does not want to be painted, but it is the Prince’s wish. I understand her only too well! One may contemplate oneself in a mirror, but on leaving it one does not wish the reflection to remain there so that somebody else can take possession of it. I understand that, like me, she does not wish to be portrayed.

  No one possesses himself! Detestable thought! No one possesses himself! Thus everything belongs to the others! Don’t we own even our faces? Do they belong to anybody who chooses to look at them? And one’s body? Can others own one’s body? I find the notion most repellent.

  I, and I alone, will be the sole possessor of that which is mine. Nobody else may seize it, none outrage it. It belongs to me and nobody else. And after my death I want to continue to own myself. Nobody is going to poke about in my entrails. I do not wish them to be seen by strangers, though they can scarcely be as revolting as those of that scoundrel Francesco.

  Messer Bernardo’s meddlings and his inquisitive interest in everything are repugnant to me. What is the use of it all? What sensible object does it serve? It repels me to think that he should have in his possession a portrait of me, that he should own me in this way. It is as though I were no longer sole owner of myself, as though I were also over there in Santa Croce, among his detestable monsters.

  She can just as well be portrayed too! Why should she not endure the same insult as I? It gratifies me to think that she also will be exposed to his shameless scrutiny and take her turn in suffering his outrage.

  But how can that strumpet be of any interest to him? I, who know her better than anybody else, have never found anything interesting about her.

  We shall see what he will produce. After all, it has nothing to do with me. I don’t think he is any judge of human nature.

  MESSER BERNARDO has amazed me. He has amazed me so much that I have lain pondering it nearly all night.

  They sat talking last night on their usual lofty topics. But one could see that he was plunged in gloom. He sat with his hand on his great beard, meditating and weighed down with thoughts which cannot have caused him much pleasure. But when he spoke he was filled with fire and passion, fire which was not visible from without, but seemed buried in ashes. He was unlike himself; one might have been listening to another man.

  He said: “In the end human thought accomplishes so little. Its wings are strong, but not as strong as the destiny which gave them to us. It will not let us escape nor reach out any further than it desires. Our journey is predestined and, after a brief roaming which fills us with joy and expectation, we are drawn back again as the falcon is drawn back by the leash in the hand of the falconer. When shall we attain liberty? When will the leash be severed and the falcon soar into the open spaces?

  “When? Will it ever be? Or is it not the secret of our being that we are and always will be bound to the hand of the falconer? If this were changed then we should cease to be human beings and our fate would not longer be that of humanity.

  “And yet we are such that we are always subject to the enticement of space, and believe that we belong to it. And yet it is ever present over us, it reveals itself to us as something veritable. It is as real as our imprisonment.”

  He asked himself: “Why this limitless space to which we never can attain? What is the meaning of this unbounded immensity around us and around life, when we are such helpless prisoners and when life remains the same, no less enclosed within itself? What then is the use of the great dimensions? Why should our little destiny, our narrow vale, be surrounded by such vastness? Does it add to our happiness? It does not appear so. It looks as though we were the unhappier for it.”

  I watched him closely, his somber mien and the strange weariness in his aged eyes.

  He continued: “Are we the happier because we seek the truth? I know not. I merely seek it. All my life has been a restless search for it, and sometimes I have felt that I have apprehended it, I have caught a glimpse of its pure sky-but the sky has never opened itself for me, my eyes have never filled themselves with its endless spaces, without which nothing here can be fully understood. It is not vouchsafed to us. Therefore all my efforts really have been in vain. Therefore all that I have touched has been but partly true and partly completed. I think of my works with pain and so they will be regarded by all-as though it were a torso. All that I have created is imperfect and unfinished. All that I leave behind me is unfinished.

  “But is there anything strange in that? It is the fate of mankind, the inescapable destiny of all human effort and all human achievement. Is it ever more than an attempt, an attempt at something which can never be achieved, which is not meant to be achieved by any of us? All human culture is but an attempt at something unattainable, something which far transcends our powers of realization. There it stands, mutilated, tragic as a torso. Is not the human spirit itself a torso?

  “What use are wings when they can never be spread? They become a burden instead of a release. They weigh us down, we trail them and finally we hate them.

  “And it comes as a relief when the falconer wearies of his cruel play and draws the hood over our head so that we no longer have to see anything.”

  He sat there dark and gloomy, with bitter lines about his mouth, and in his eyes a dangerous gleam. Upon my word, I was astounded. Was this the same man as he who not long ago stood entranced by t
he measureless greatness of man, who proclaimed the power of man, how man should reign like a mighty potentate in his vast kingdom, who depicted him almost as the peer of the gods?

  I do not understand him. I understand nothing.

  And the Prince sat there listening, fascinated by the words of his great master, though they were so unlike anything he had ever been known to say before. He seemed of the same opinion. One must confess that he certainly is teachable.

  But how are these ideas connected? How can they combine such contradictions within themselves and talk about them all with the same profound conviction? I who am always the same, who am quite inalterable, find it utterly incomprehensible.

  I have lain awake at night trying to understand them, but in vain. It is beyond me.

  One minute it is a chorus of jubilation over the glory of being a human creature. The next minute it is nothing but hopelessness, complete futility, despair.

  Well, what is it then?

  HE HAS stopped working at the Princess’ portrait. He says that he cannot complete it, that there is something about her which he cannot penetrate or explain to himself.

  So it too will remain unfinished, like that Last Supper, like everything he begins.

  I happened to see it once in the Prince’s room, and I do not see what is wrong with it. I think it is admirable. He has painted her exactly as she is, like a middle-aged whore. It is really like her, diabolically so. The voluptuous face with the heavy eyelids and the vague lustful smile, everything is like her. And he has put all her soul into the picture; it is uncannily revealing.

  After all he does seem to understand human nature.

  What is lacking? He thinks that there is something lacking. But what? Something without which it is not really she, something essential? What can it be? I don’t understand it at all.

  But it must be unfinished since he says so. He has said that everything of his is left unfinished. Everything is but an attempt at something which can never be realized. All human culture is but an attempt, something quite impracticable. Therefore everything is really quite futile.

  Of course it is. What would life be like if it were not futile? Futility is the foundation upon which it rests. On what other foundation could it have been based which would have held and never given way? A great idea can be undermined by another great idea and, in due course, be demolished by it. But futility is inaccessible, indestructible, immovable. It is a true foundation and that is why it has been chosen as such. That so much cogitation should be required to realize that!

  I know that by instinct. It is my nature to know it.

  SOMETHING is happening here, I know not what. I sense it like an unrest in the air-but what it is I do not know. Nothing is actually happening, but one feels as though something might.

  On the surface everything is calm. Life in the palace goes on even more quietly than usual, because there are so few guests and no entertainments of any kind such as are customary at this time of year. But I don’t know-this adds to the feeling that something special is brewing.

  I am perpetually on my guard, observing everything-but there is nothing to observe. Nor can one see anything special out in the town. Everything is just as usual. But there is something! I am sure of it.

  I must have patience and see what the future will bring.

  Boccarossa, the condottiere, has left and the Palazzo Geraldi is empty again. Nobody knows where he has gone; it is as though the earth has swallowed him up. He may conceivably have had a dispute with the Prince. Many have found it strange that the latter with his great culture should consort so freely with such a coarse individual. I have not shared their opinion. Certainly Boccarossa is unusually crude and the Prince a notably polished cultivated man. But he too is of condottiere blood though most people seem to have forgotten it. It is not even so very long since they were condottieri, only a few generations. And what are a few generations?

  I do not think that they have much difficulty in understanding each other.

  Nothing happens, but the air is still tense. I can feel it, and in such matters I am never wrong. Something is going to happen here.

  The Prince is almost feverishly busy. But with what? He receives a great many visitors and shuts himself up with them in secret council. Nothing transpires from these. What can they be about?

  Courtiers arrive enveloped in secrecy; sometimes they are admitted into the palace at night. Many people come and go, whatever their business may be, governors, councilors, commanders, the chieftains of the ancient clans-the old warrior clans which once were subdued by the Prince’s ancestors. The palace can no longer be called peaceful.

  Maestro Bernardo does not seem to have anything to do with it. The Prince surrounds himself with persons of an entirely different type. The old scholar does not appear to be of any importance at all nowadays, at least not as important as he was before.

  I cannot but approve of this. He has taken up too much room at this court.

  MY FEELING that something special was about to happen has proved to be correct. Without doubt such is the case.

  Many details which cannot be ignored point to this. Astrologers have been summoned by the Prince and remained closeted with him, both the court astrologer Nicodemus and the other graybeards who batten on us here. This is an unmistakable sign. Too, the Prince has had several discussions with the Ambassador of the Medici and the representative of the Venetian shopkeepers’ republic, even with the Archbishop who represents the Holy See. All this and a good deal more has been worthy of observation during the past few days and can have but one interpretation.

  They must be planning a war. The astrologers have been summoned to discover whether the stars are favorable to such a scheme, for no wise prince will neglect such an elementary precaution. The poor wretches had been set aside in favor of Messer Bernardo, who also believes in the power of the stars but is said to hold different opinions on the subject, unorthodox notions which they regard as diabolical heresy. But now the Prince thinks it is safest to turn to the true believers. They go around bubbling over with their own importance. The negotiations with the envoys have taken place in order to assure the support or at least the good will of their respective states.

  I should think that the attitude of the Holy Father toward these plans was the most important. No human project can succeed without the blessing of God.

  I hope he has vouchsafed it; I long for the day when there will be war again!

  IT IS going to be war! My nose, which is wise in such things, sniffs war everywhere, in the tension, the secrecy, the faces-in the very air we breathe which has something tantalizing about it that I recognize. Now we live again after this stifling time when nothing happened and which had to be eked out with endless prattle. It is good that at last people have something else to do.

  In reality all of them want a war. It implies a simplification which comes as a relief. Everybody thinks that life is too complicated, and so it is as they live it. In itself life is not at all complicated; on the contrary its salient feature is its great simplicity, but they can never understand that. They do not realize that it is best when it is left as it is; they can never leave it in peace, or refrain from using it for a number of strange ends. But all the same they think that it is wonderful to be alive!

  At last the Prince has roused himself from his stupor. His face is full of energy, with its short spade beard and lean pallid cheeks, the swift glance keeping almost imperceptible vigil like a bird of prey over its chosen territory. He must be about to hunt his favorite prey, the old archenemy of his clan.

  Today I saw him hurrying up the palace steps closely followed by the Captain of the Guard. I think they had come from some military inspection. In the hall he threw his cloak to the servitors and stood there in his scarlet suit, strong and supple as a rapier, with a reckless smile on his thin lips. He looked as though he had just flung off a disguise, radiating unquenchable energy, in every way a man of action.

  But I have always
known that he was.

  THE astrologers have declared that the times are particularly propitious to war, they could not have been better chosen. They have cast the Prince’s horoscope and discovered that he was born under the sign of the Lion. That is nothing new; it has been common knowledge from his birth, when it is said to have greatly exercised the imagination of his entourage, being a good and promising omen for a prince and causing much wonder and some anxiety among the people. That is why he is called Leone. Mars is now in juxtaposition to the Lion and soon the war god’s red star will reach the Prince’s own powerful constellation. Other celestial phenomena which exercise an influence on the Prince’s destiny are absolutely favorable, and so a happy issue to the campaign can be guaranteed. It would be almost unforgivable not to make use of such an unique opportunity.

  Their predictions have not surprised me, for they always accord with the Prince’s wishes, especially since his father once had a stargazer thrashed for maintaining that a misfortune threatened the dynasty. He had calculated that an evil star, trailing blood and fire behind it, had shown itself in the sky just as the founder of the family was making his bloodstained ascent to the throne. The prophecy has not come true, or not more than in any other princely dynasty.

  No, I am not surprised and, for once, I am quite pleased with them. They are really skilled in their science and at last they have been of some use, for it is very important that the Prince, the soldiers and all the people should believe that the stars are favorable to their plans and interested in them. The stars now have spoken and everybody is very satisfied with what they have said.

  I never converse with the stars, but these people do.