The Dwarf Page 8

  They say that Boccarossa and his men have asked for a higher wage and that they hold that they have not yet received their rights according to an earlier agreement. They are therefore making trouble about this. I had hardly expected them to attach so much importance to this aspect of the war, for none fight with such heroism and recklessness as they. I thought that they loved it for its own sake, as I do, but perhaps one cannot expect such selflessness. Maybe it is quite natural for them to want to be paid. All right, they will get their money.

  There is also talk of other differences between them and the Prince-but there is so much talk. Some discontent is almost inevitable when an army has suffered losses and everything is not quite as it should be. Nobody is satisfied with the issue and each blames the other. Everybody is temporarily exhausted, they reckon up the casualties on either side and so on and so forth. And though there can be no doubt that Boccarossa’s men are crazy about fighting, it is not because they want to further the Prince’s great schemes, they may not think so much about them. But all these are transient matters of no consequence.

  Besides, I am not sufficiently interested in all that and, least of all, in the economic trivialities connected with a thing like war, to wish to proceed with this subject. It will soon be settled.

  It is dreadfully boring being at home again. Life seems so meaningless, so utterly uneventful when one comes direct from the battlefield. Time drags on and one does not know what to do, all one’s energy seems paralyzed. But it is only a matter of days and soon we shall go out again.

  People here are very queer. I mean the servants and those who have not been at the war. They have no notion of what it is all about, it is as though they did not realize that the country is at war. They are surprised when they see me going about in armor, as though they did not know that such is the custom at the front. Were it otherwise one would be an easy prey to the enemy. It would be tantamount to exposing oneself to certain death. They say that there is no danger here, but there is a war going on just the same, and soon I shall be back in the thick of it. Any moment I expect the Prince’s order to leave, and therefore I must be prepared for it. That is why I go about fully armed, but they cannot understand it.

  They cannot imagine what the war is like, just because they have not taken any personal part in it. If one tries to give them a slight impression of martial life and its perils they look idiotically incredulous and fail to hide their secret envy. They try to make out that I have not experienced as much as I say, and have had no active share in the combats which I describe. It is easy to discover the envy which prompts them. No active share! They do not know that my sword is still bloody in its sheath from the last engagement out yonder. I do not show it for I cannot endure the bragging which is so prevalent among soldiers, as exemplified by Don Riccardo. I merely lay my hand on the hilt of my sword and proceed calmly on my way.

  Now it so happened that during the great two-day battle we were compelled to occupy a hill between our right wing and the town. It was a costly business but thereby our strategic position was greatly improved. Immediately afterward the Prince mounted the hill to reconnoiter the possibilities offered by this new conquest, and I followed him as a matter of course. On the summit was a pleasure house belonging to Lodovico, prettily situated and surrounded by cypresses and peach trees. Some soldiers and I searched the castle to see that there were no enemies ambushed there who might surprise us and threaten the person of the Prince, but we found only a pair of old servants. They were so feeble that they had been left behind and the Prince had given orders that they were not to be molested. Nevertheless, I went down to the cellar which nobody had thought of searching, but which might also have been used as a hiding place. There I found a dwarf who obviously belonged to Lodovico’s court, for he keeps many dwarfs. He had also been left behind for some reason or other. The sight of me terrified him and he rushed into a dark passage. I cried: “Halt!” but he did not stop, so I understood that he could not have a clear conscience. I could not tell whether he was armed or not, so we had rather an exciting chase down the narrow twisting passages. At last he slipped into a room where there was an exit which he hoped to be able to use, but I was upon him before he could open the door. He realized that he was caught and wailed most lamentably. I hunted him along the walls like a rat, knowing that now he could not escape me, and at last I cornered him. I spitted him on my rapier and it pierced straight through him. He had no armor nor any of the customary battle equipment, only an absurd blue velvet jerkin with lace and fal-lals around the neck, just like a child. I left him lying there and returned to the daylight and the battle.

  I do not relate this because I think it was anything extraordinary. It was but a trifle, such as may happen any day in wartime, and I do not boast about it; I simply did my duty as a soldier. Nobody knows anything about it, neither the Prince nor anyone else. None suspect that my rapier is dyed with blood and will remain so as a memory of my share, up to now, in the campaign.

  In a way I am sorry that it was a dwarf I killed, for I would rather it had been one of the human beings whom I hate. Besides, the combat would have been even more exciting. But I hate my own people too, my own race is detestable to me. And during the fight, especially when dealing the death blow, I felt strangely exalted, as though I were performing a rite in an unfamiliar religion. It was the same when I throttled Jehoshaphat, an irresistible desire to destroy my own tribe. Why? I do not know. I cannot understand it. Is it my destiny thus to desire to exterminate my own race?

  He had a piping castrato voice like all the dwarfs here, and that irritated me. My own voice is rich and deep.

  It is a despicable and dishonored race.

  Why are they not like me?

  TODAY the Princess tried to discuss love with me. She was very sentimental and lachrymose. Why, I don’t know. But she Certainly has reason to be-if she only knew how much! Then she suddenly switched over in her usual unaccountable way and began to jest about it instead. She sat in front of the mirror and the tiring woman arranged her hair while she passed from jest to earnest, chatting desultorily with me in a manner which I found both unwarranted and disagreeable. She was determined that I should make a statement on the subject, but I was not encouraging She insisted: had I never had a little love affair? I scowled and denied it stoutly. She was surprised and incredulous and then she returned to the attack and became more and more inquisitive. At last, wishing to forestall all further argument, I declared that if ever I should love anybody it would be a man.

  She turned around and looked at me, laughing heartily and the maid echoed her mirth. “A man!” she cried provokingly, as though there were anything funny about it. “A man? Which one? Boc-carossa maybe?” And they both went off again into peals of laughter. I flushed, for I had been thinking of him, and when they marked my blushes they seemed to think that added to the humor of the whole thing.

  I could see no humor in it, and I stared at them with a frigid and contemptuous gaze. Laughter is unlovely and disfiguring. Seeing their mouths suddenly open and uncover the red gums affects me very unpleasantly. And I cannot help it if I cherish a warm admiration, even a certain ardor for Bocca-rossa. In my eyes, he is a real man.

  What particularly annoys me is that that slut of a tiring wench should have laughed also, and so much more coarsely than did Madama. I may tolerate the Princess’ poking fun at me, though at any moment I could turn the jest to deadly earnest and answer her question about love in the most terrible way, telling her what it really is. I repeat that I can tolerate it from her, because she is my mistress and of princely blood, but that such a vulgar baggage should dare laugh at me-that enrages me. The trollop always has been insolent to me, trying to give herself airs and be “witty,” and teasing me because I cannot open some of the palace doors. What has that got to do with her? She is a pert and clumsy peasant lass who ought to be whipped.

  As for Boccarossa, it is quite natural that I should admire him; I, too, have a martial dispositi
on.

  THE DAYS pass, and we wait, not knowing what to do.

  Yesterday I Was sent with a message to Maestro Bernardo at Santa Croce. He is still there, working on his Last Supper. I have often wondered why he was not at the front, watching the crushing power of his own strange machines, but he seems content to construct them. I really thought that he would want to see them in action. Out there he could have had all the corpses he wanted to dissect and could have made great strides in his science.

  I found him deep in contemplation of his noble creation, so preoccupied that he did not notice my entrance. When he raised his eyes they looked as though they were still very far away. He did not seem to pay much attention to my martial accou-terment, though he never before had seen me so equipped. He noticed it, but showed neither surprise nor any special interest in it. “What do you want with me, little hobgoblin?” he asked amiably. I gave my message, though I was annoyed by his odd way of addressing me. Then I went away again, having no reason to stay. I threw a passing glance at the masterpiece, and thought that it did not seem nearer completion than when last I had seen it. He never finishes anything. What is it that he broods over all the time?

  He never said a word about the war, though he could see that I had come straight from it. I had the impression that he was utterly indifferent to it.

  The Signoria has refused to lend us any more money! Their envoy has announced that there will be no further loans. It is incredible! Absolutely incomprehensible! They think that the war has gone badly. Badly! What impertinence! Badly! When we have done nothing but win the whole time! We have penetrated far into enemy territory, right up to his capital. Now we are about to capture that, and harvest the fruits of our unique successes. To hinder us now! When the city lies there waiting to be taken, shot to pieces, burned, wiped off the face of the earth. It is outrageous! Unbelievable! Are those dirty hucksters to stand between us and our final victory? Just because they do not want to disburse their filthy money? No! It is not possible. That would be the lowest abomination!

  The Prince must find a way out, and of course he will. A great and glorious war cannot be hampered by anything so vulgar as moneyl It is out of the question.

  The palace is crammed with equerries, foreign envoys, councilors and commanders, and couriers spend their time shuttling between the Prince and the front.

  I am absolutely crazy with excitement.

  BOCCAROSSA’s mercenaries refuse to go on fighting! They want their pay, first that which is already due them, and double as much afterward. They will not stir until they have received this. The Prince cannot lay his hands on any money and he tries to coax them by pointing out that the city is a rich prize which, once captured, they will be free to plunder to their hearts’ content. They reply that no one knows if the city ever will be captured, it has never happened before; first they must defeat il Toro’s army and then start a long siege, and they do not like sieges, they find them boring. There is no chance of loot during a stationary siege. Besides, they have had severe losses, worse than they had expected, and this annoys them very much. They declare that, though they like killing, they have no wish to be killed, or at least not for such measly pay. There is no courtesy or diplomatic polish about their phraseology.

  What is going to happen now? What will be the end of it all?

  The Prince is sure to find some solution, his ingenuity is nothing short of devilish. He enjoys reverses, for they give him a chance to show his greatness. And our own invincible army still stands outside the walls of Montanza’s capital. Let us not forget that!

  The war is coming to an end! The troops are going to withdraw over the frontier and return home and everything is finished! Finished!

  I must be dreaming! It must be a dream, a horrible nightmare! It cannot be true. I must wake up and find that it is only a dreadful detestable dream.

  But it is true. True! Bitter unbelievable truth! All one’s being refuses to grasp it.

  Avarice, infamy, treachery, all human baseness combined has vanquished our heroic army and wrenched the weapons from its hands. Our glorious undefeated troops stand in their threatening might before the enemy’s gates, yet they must retreat without exchanging a blow! They must go home, betrayed and abandoned, home, though their sole desire is to conquer or die! It is an outrageous, criminal tragedy.

  Our great war, the noblest in all our history, to end like this!

  I am stunned with pain and anger. Never in my life have I been so agitated nor suffered such shame. I am seething with bitterness, vexation and fury, and at the same time I am stunned, I feel utterly helpless. How can I influence the disgraceful course of events and how can I change it? How can I check the progress of this gloomy drama? I can do nothing. Nothing at all.

  It is over. Everything is over. Over!

  When I heard the news and finally grasped its import, I crept away to the dwarfs’ apartment, so as to be alone with myself. I was afraid that my feelings might get the better of me, and that I should not be able to exercise manly self-control. Scarcely had I entered my little bare chamber when I began to shake all over in a paroxysm of sobs. I confess it: I could no longer hold it back. I pressed my clenched fists to my eyes in helpless fury and wept. Wept!

  THE PRINCE keeps to his room, nor will he receive any visitofs. He eats there in solitude. I wait on him and am the only one to see him except the servant who carries in the food. He seems quite calm, but it is not easy to say what may be hiding behind that pallid mask of his. His face is chalk white, framed in its black beard, his gaze immobile and unseeing. He scarcely notices my presence, and not a word passes his thin bloodless lips. The wretched servant is terrified of him, but then he is a miserable coward.

  When he heard of the Venetian refusal, that the damned shopkeepers’ republic intended to stop him from proceeding with the war, he flew into a passion such as I had never seen before. He literally foamed at the mouth with rage, a fearful sight. In his frenzy he seized his dagger and drove it into the table, nearly up to the hilt. If the despicable hucksters could have seen him then, I’ll warrant they would have laid their money on the table without any further haggling.

  A particular source of vexation is that he never had any real opportunity of utilizing Messer Bernardo’s brilliant inventions. He would have been able to put them to good use, and he is convinced that with their aid we should have captured the city and that we were on the threshold of victory. But, if so, why did he not win it then?

  It was a joy to witness his frenzy, but afterward I bethought me that perhaps he is not a very strong man. Why is he so dependent on others? Even on something so base and vile as money? Why did he not hurl our own unconquerable army against the city and crush it? Are not armies meant for that?

  I merely ask. I am no strategist, maybe I do not understand the art of war, but my soul too is filled with pain and wonder over our incomprehensible fate.

  I have unbuckled my armor. In sorrow and vexation I have put it aside in the dwarfs’ apartment. It hangs there as helplessly as a miserable jumping jack on its nail. Humiliated. Dishonored.

  WE HAVE been at peace for nearly four weeks now. The palace, the town and the whole country are wrapped in gloom. It is strange how depression and uneasiness can spread themselves abroad during a prolonged peace. One knows exactly what it is going to feel like; the air begins to thicken and exude that stagnant suffocating vapidity which is so depressing to the senses; the returning soldiers are discontented, nothing suits them, and the stay-at-homes are irritable and snappish with them, perhaps because the war has not had the desired result. Daily life continues its sluggish futile aimless course. All the hopefulness and gaiety of the war have been swept away.

  The court is moribund. Nobody passes through the main gate, except those of us who reside here, and we generally use one of the other entrances. There are no visitors from abroad, no guests are announced and none are invited. The halls are deserted and even the courtiers keep in the background. One seldom meets a
soul in the empty corridors and the stairways echo beneath one’s solitary feet. It is almost uncanny, like an abandoned castle. And within, in his secluded chamber, the Prince strides up and down or sits brooding at his table, where the hole from his dagger blade gapes like an open wound. He sits glaring ahead of him, pondering over God knows what.

  It is a gloomy depressing time. The day drags itself painfully along until at last it is evening again.

  I have more than enough time to write my notes on my experiences and my meditations, but I have no energy at all. I spend most of my time sitting at the window, watching the sluggish gray-yellow river flowing outside the castle wall, staining it a bilious green.

  The river which once upon a time witnessed our glorious victories in the land of il Toro!

  NO, NO, this is monstrous 1 It is more upsetting than anything else which has happened during this terrible time! The earth reels beneath my feet and I have no more faith in anything under the sun!

  Is it conceivable-the Prince thinks that he and the house of Montanza should make friends and sign a pact never to make war on each other again! They are going to stop this perpetual fighting and solemnly bind themselves to put an end to it forever. Never again will they draw their swords against each other! It seems that, to begin with, il Toro refused, presumably in annoyance because he had been recently attacked, but the Prince continued even more earnestly to urge his proposition. Why should our two people go on destroying each other, what is the use of all these meaningless wars? They have been going on intermittently for two centuries, and neither has been able definitely to defeat the other, so that both have been the losers in this eternal warfare. It has brought us nothing but famine and misery. How much better it would be if we could live in peace and mutual understanding, so that our countries could flourish and rejoice as they should have done from the beginning. Lodovico is reported to have begun to pay heed to the Prince’s proposals and found them reasonable. Now he has answered that he is of the same mind and has accepted an invitation to negotiate this lasting peace and sign the solemn treaty.