‘The stench of the docks?’
‘No worse than the stench of the streets of Rome. And to more purpose. Here, things are done. Boats are tarred and refitted. Galleons. Fishing smacks.’
‘The fishing smacks are more seaworthy than the galleons,’ said Scarpia.
‘Yes. We Romans are not great sailors. Our ancestors were, perhaps, but now that inheritance has been dissipated. We are spoilt, irretrievably spoilt.’ He started to walk along the quay. ‘Thank Providence that you were not born a prince, my dear Vitellio. You might think it is enviable to come into the world invested with titles and properties and great wealth. But they define you before you have had a chance to define yourself. Whereas you – you could be anyone, do anything.’
‘My freedom is constrained by my means,’ said Scarpia.
‘Of course. You are not rich – at least not yet. But you are able and courageous and, I would say, lucky, because older men like Ruffo, who have no children, see in you their younger selves and want to help you. His Holiness has his nephew, Duke Braschi Onesti, and Treasurer Ruffo, it seems to me, sees you as a kinsman who has come from the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies to make his way in Rome – to do what the Romans themselves are too lazy and too cowardly to do.’
‘Treasurer Ruffo has certainly been good to me,’ said Scarpia.
‘And he will do more . . .’
‘If there is more to be done, I would like to do it for myself.’
‘Of course, of course. Because you are brave, and audacious and handsome, which no doubt helps because one is always pleased when someone of an agreeable appearance enters the room; that is just human nature. I prefer pretty women to ugly women, though the ugly ones are often more amusing; they have to try harder; but they can be spiteful, too, because they are always aggrieved that nature has treated them unfairly. Not that in our circle a girl’s face is her fortune; her fortune is her fortune; but having a pretty face certainly helps. My sister Paola, for instance, has both a fortune and a pretty face and that no doubt accounts for the long line of suitors – a very long line . . .’
They had come to a café which, because of the warm weather, had an awning over the tables and chairs set out on the pavement. It was inelegant; its patrons were rough; but Ludovico sauntered in as if it was the Veneziano on the Corso, went to one of the tables and, studying the simple wooden chair with an intelligent curiosity, drew it out and sat down. Scarpia sat down next to him. A girl, trembling at the sight of such notable customers – a young man with an elegant coat, breeches, silk stockings and gold buckles on his shoes together with an officer in a uniform with shining buttons and golden epaulettes – melted when Ludovico looked kindly at her and asked for a pot of coffee and perhaps some bread and jam. ‘I set off early,’ he said not to Scarpia but to the girl, as if to explain his request for such a late prima colazione.
‘What was I saying?’ Ludovico then asked Scarpia.
‘The long line of suitors for your sister.’
‘Yes. But she has refused them all.’
‘She has refused them? Surely it is up to her father and mother to decide.’
Ludovico gave a faint smile. ‘I am afraid we live in changing times. Or so Paola tells us. She has read novels – The Sorrows of Young Werther, Julie – la nouvelle Héloïse. She laughs at the Pope’s Index of Prohibited Books. And she has read some theology. She tells my poor parents that a marriage is only valid where there is the consent of both parties. And she will not consent. There has been a tempest in our household. My father threatens her with a convent, but she is not intimidated. She says she has spent most of her life up until now in a convent and some are quite comfortable and it is better to live with other women than with a man she dislikes.’
‘But surely she can find one among the many?’
‘The many suitors? She says not. But there is one whom she says she would marry.’
‘Then let her marry him.’
‘He is not a suitor.’
‘But he exists? He is not a chimera?’
‘Oh yes, he exists. And she says she loves him.’
‘Well, then, let her marry him.’
‘We are inclined to do so even though he is not a man my parents would have chosen.’
‘But if they don’t agree to a marriage, she might run off with him.’
‘Or worse.’
‘Worse?’
‘There was a case recently of a girl who hired two bullies to throw her father out of the window because he would not let her marry the man she loved.’
‘Paola would not do that.’
‘Perhaps not. But she is very strong-minded.’
‘So we see.’
‘Even for a husband she loved, she would be a handful.’
Scarpia thought of Paola, then said: ‘I cannot believe that any man who was lucky enough to be loved by Paola would regard her as too much. Does he know? Has he been told?’
‘Not yet.’
‘But he must know Paola.’
‘Yes, he knows Paola.’
‘And does he love her?’
The girl came with the prima colazione. Ludovico stirred sugar into the thick black coffee in his cup. Her presence imposed a lull in their conversation, and gave time for Scarpia to seek an answer a question that had been lurking in his own mind: why had Ludovico come all the way from Rome to tell him about his family’s difficulties with his sister? How did this fit in with the coldness and confusion shown to him by the Marcisanos during his recent appearances at their receptions? It was therefore with a low, hoarse voice that, when the girl had gone, he repeated his question. ‘And the man? What are his feelings for her?’
Ludovico looked up from his coffee. ‘Only you can answer that, Vitellio. You are the man she loves.’
*
Ludovico di Marcisano had risen early to come to Civitavecchia and was tired. With exquisite condescension, he accepted Scarpia’s invitation to rest in his quarters and, after feeling the hard mattress on his bed with the same look of bemused curiosity he had directed at the chair in the café, lay down. He awoke an hour later and was taken on a tour of the ramparts by Scarpia and then, gently declining the colonel’s invitation to join him and the other officers for lunch, went with Scarpia to an eating house in the town. They did not return at once to the morning’s topic of conversation. Instead, they talked about travel. Scarpia told Ludovico about his youth in Naples and then Sicily, and then about his brief stay in Spain. ‘Is the story true,’ asked Ludovico, ‘that you landed in Algiers during the bombardment to rescue a girl you loved?’
‘For which I was cashiered,’ said Scarpia, ‘and learned . . .’ He hesitated.
‘Not to put your heart before your head?’
‘That women are unpredictable. They change their mind.’
‘They do indeed, and that in my view shows the wisdom of the Church in establishing marriage as an institution. Women change their minds. You have perhaps noticed this among Romans as well as Spaniards? And of course men too can change their minds. But fathers and mothers cannot change their minds about their children. They are there and marriage must endure for a lifetime for the sake of the offspring, and all the titles and property that are bequeathed to the offspring, and future generations.’
‘Of course.’
‘A great mistake is being made by the Americans, I think – I have read about the constitution they are preparing for their republic. They say that each citizen has the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Life, of course, but liberty? How can a country be governed without some form of constraint? And, as I understand it, this liberty that is to be enshrined in their constitution will not mean freedom for their slaves or a vote for their wives or indentured servants. We are born into a certain condition. A man might wish he was a woman or a woman a man, but he is what he is. As to the pursuit of happiness – how is happiness to be defined? Are wealth and honours a source of happiness? I have known miserable princes and happiness in th
e poor. Indeed, it is the view of the French ambassador, Cardinal de Bernis, that Rome is the happiest place in the world precisely because no one strives to be richer than anyone else. All accept the estate into which they are born, and all recognise that they are children of God in whose eyes the prince is no better than his coachman and it is the duty of the rich to serve the poor. And yet love . . . I can understand my sister. It would be good for a woman to have a husband whom she loves, and be sincere in the vows she makes in a church. All the infidelity we see – men with their mistresses, women with their lovers – is because they marry for advantage, not for love. Paola says this and she is right. And even my father is coming round to that view. They sense that there is change in the air and anyway are quite terrified of Paola and know that if they thwart her she is quite capable – well, not of throwing them out of a window, perhaps, but eloping with the man she loves, if he is so inclined –’ this with a sideways glance at Scarpia – ‘or pretending to have a religious vocation, which, of course, the Church would have to respect.’
‘How can I marry your sister?’ said Scarpia. ‘I am no one. I have nothing.’
‘All that has been – or rather, I should say, could be arranged. My father has spoken to Treasurer Ruffo, who understands these things. He would not want his protégé simply to be bought by a wilful heiress. He has told me to tell you that if the idea of becoming the husband of my sister is something you might consider, then arrangements could be made to put you – if not on an equal footing, then on a footing that would be less obviously unequal. He has the ear of the Pope, and one of the advantages of being the Pope is that as the vicar of Christ he can do what he likes. Our aristocracy may be composed of ancient families – though not all are as ancient as they pretend – but popes themselves, and cardinals, often come from the humblest background. This is not France with a noblesse d’épée and noblesse de robe. If popes can make emperors, kings, princes and dukes like Duke Braschi Onesti, our present pontiff could, should Ruffo ask him, make a Sicilian gentleman a baron and endow him with a property that would provide him with means. He would do it, I like to think, not just to please Ruffo, but as a favour to a family which of course he knows well.’
*
At four in the afternoon, Ludovico returned to Rome. ‘Will you call on us?’ he asked through the window of his coach. ‘There is a conversazione on Thursday evening. Paola will be there. She will know that I have spoken to you. Of course you must feel under no obligation to marry her. You may not be an American but you have the right to pursue happiness as you see fit, and you may feel that by marrying a Marcisano you would be less free. But if you decide to accept our proposal, then know that we would be happy to welcome you into our family.’
6
The next day, Scarpia was summoned to Rome by Treasurer Ruffo. At the Quirinale Palace, he waited in the antechamber with the twenty or thirty others clutching their petitions but, as soon as the secretary saw him, he was taken into Ruffo’s presence. The treasurer greeted him warmly and immediately got down to business. ‘I have been told by Prince di Marcisano,’ he said, ‘that he is ready to countenance a marriage between you and his daughter Paola.’
‘So I understand.’
‘I must ask you on your conscience whether you have done anything to seduce the young woman – not necessarily in body but in mind.’
‘Most certainly not. I was . . . my affections were directed elsewhere.’
‘It is possible for one’s affections and ambitions to go in different directions.’
‘The possibility of marrying Princess di Marcisano never crossed my mind, Monsignor. I am as taken aback as you are.’
‘Does that mean that you are inclined to refuse?’
‘I would defer to your advice, Monsignor.’
Ruffo looked perplexed. ‘I am not a priest, Scarpia. I cannot guide your conscience. But if you are not called by God to a celibate life – and it seems clear that you are not – then you should find a wife. The Church teaches that marriage is a sacrament, but it is not a sacrament that is conferred by a priest. The couple are joined by God when they exchange their vows. But their choice must be freely given. I do not mean by that that they should base their judgements on the heady feelings described as love in romances by irreligious Frenchmen. Quite to the contrary – such feelings are fickle and so are a bad basis for a lifelong union. You should choose a woman you can love with a sensible affection, free from passion, and above all one you can respect. You should not be influenced solely by worldly considerations, though here clearly there are substantial advantages of that kind. However, there are ways to lessen that temptation and these I have taken. The Holy Father, at my request, has agreed to confer on you the title of Baron and the fief of Rubaso that is at his disposal: the last of the d’Angelos has died without issue, leaving his estate to be disposed of as His Holiness sees fit. It will bring you an annual income of five thousand scudi a year.’
‘But why –’ Scarpia began, astonished at what was proposed.
Ruffo held up his hand. ‘The Holy Father understands perfectly the position into which one of the leading families in Rome has been put by a wilful daughter. He does not wish to see the Marcisanos humiliated by the marriage of their daughter to a pauper. Therefore it will be as Baron Scarpia of Rubaso that you will either accept or refuse what Prince di Marcisano proposes. The thought of her fortune should not tempt you because you will be well able to do without it. No one will blame you if you baulk at the thought of marrying such a strong-willed girl. But you may feel, as I do – I who have known her since she was a child – that Paola di Marcisano is an exceptional young woman whom any man would be glad to make his wife.’
*
On the Thursday following this conversation with Ruffo, Scarpia attended the conversazione in the Palazzo Marcisano. The prince and princess greeted him with a tentative friendliness; Ludovico took him by the arm and led him to a table to offer him an ice cream with the same exquisite courtesy he had shown when offering him his sister. ‘You have spoken to Ruffo?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is what he proposes to your satisfaction?’
‘I am to be a baron to make me a worthy match.’
‘So I understand. You will gain an income, and perhaps a wife, but you will lose your liberty. A baron married to a princess is inevitably constrained.’
‘I admire your sister,’ said Scarpia. ‘I will happily exchange a lonely liberty for her hand.’
‘Good. And from that admiration will come love, perhaps.’
‘Of course.’
‘You must talk to her. I don’t know where she is.’
Both young men turned to face the crowded room. ‘I suspect that much of the chatter is about you,’ said Ludovico. ‘Word of the match has leaked out.’ They crossed the room. No one yet congratulated Scarpia, but the faces that at previous receptions had been indifferent or even hostile now smiled. Neither the Contessa di Comastri nor the Chevalier Spinelli nor Prince Paducci were present. Ludovico stopped to talk to a cousin; Scarpia walked on and at the end of the gallery saw Paola talking to her friend, Graziella di Pozzo. She was wearing an embroidered yellow silk dress with a tight waist and modest lace-trimmed décolletage. He went up to her. She blushed. ‘Signor Scarpia. How fortunate for us that you were able to take time off your duties to pay us a visit.’
Scarpia bowed. ‘Fortunate for me, Principessa.’
‘You know the Principessa di Pozzo, I think?’
‘I do.’
Graziella di Pozzo gave a slight curtsy, glanced at Paola to see whether she wanted her to remain or to go, and judging that she wanted her to go, said: ‘Will you excuse me? I have to see if my mother is still standing.’
Paola took hold of her arm. ‘Wait,’ she said as if alarmed at being left alone with Scarpia. And then, releasing her grip on the girl’s arm: ‘No, your poor mother. I will see you later.’
With a quick look at Scarpia, then a furtive smile
at Paola, Graziella turned away into the crowd of guests. Paola looked at Scarpia and said in a fast whisper: ‘You don’t have to talk to me. You needn’t say anything. You didn’t have to come.’
‘Paola . . .’
‘Well, we can’t really talk here. Come, we’ll look at the Raphael, though that won’t deceive anyone because they’ll know a soldier doesn’t care much about art.’
Scarpia followed her into the side gallery where some of the finest paintings of the Marcisano collection were displayed and they stood as if studying the Madonna and Child. They said nothing. Paola’s breast was heaving as if she had just run a race. ‘Is this how you mean to go on?’ said Scarpia.
‘To go on?’
‘Insulting your husband?’
‘Well, do you care about art?’
‘I recognise beauty, I like to think. And not just in art.’
Paola blushed. ‘In the Contessa di Comastri, perhaps?’
Scarpia said nothing.
‘If we are to marry, you must promise never to see that bitch again.’
‘That won’t be difficult,’ said Scarpia. ‘I will make that promise, and many more.’
‘Do you want to marry me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You never said so. After the carnival . . . You surely remember that. Or perhaps you kissed so many women that I was just one among many.’
‘You were the Harlequin?’
‘Who else?’
‘And the woman with you?’
She laughed. ‘Ludovico. He loves to dress up as a woman.’
‘I wasn’t sure that it was you.’
‘Did you not suspect?’
‘It crossed my mind.’
‘Why did you not ask?’
‘Because if I had been wrong, you would have despised me for my conceit, and if I had been right, well, what good would it have served? Whatever I felt or might have felt, I was in no position to ask for your hand, nor ever would be; and for me to engage your affections . . .’