Casanova in Bolzano (19 page)

He drew the narrow, much-folded letter from the inner pocket of his fur-lined cape with a slow, leisurely movement and held it high in the air:

“Please overlook any errors you may find. Have I said that before? It is only recently that she learned to write, from an itinerant poet in Parma, a man who had been castrated by the Moors and whom I had ransomed, his father having been our gardener. I have a fondness for poets. Her hand seems to have shaken a little with excitement and there is something terribly touching about that, for her capital letters have never been good, poor dear; I can see her now, her fevered brow and her chill, trembling fingers as she scratches her message on the blotted parchment—and where in heaven’s name did she get that from?—with whatever writing implements she could find, implements probably obtained for her by her companion and accomplice, the aged Veronica, whom we brought with us from Pistoia and whom, it has just occurred to me, we might have been wiser to leave back in Pistoia. But here she is, willing to be of service, and when the moment came, she found some writing paper, a pen, some ink, and some powder, as she was perfectly right to do, for every creature, even one such as Veronica, has some inescapable, traditional part to play. It is not only onstage that nurses have acted as bawds! It is a short letter, so please allow me to read it to you. You can afford to allow it because it is not the first time I have read it; I read it first at about four this afternoon when it was passed to the groom to deliver to you, and again this evening before I set out on my postmasterly, messenger’s errand: a man shouldn’t leave such tasks to strangers, after all. Are you frowning? . . . Do you think it impertinent of me to read a lady’s letter? . . . You wish to remain silent in your disapproval of my curiosity? Well, you are right,” he calmly continued, “I don’t approve either. I have lived by the rules all my life, as an officer and gentleman, born and bred. Never in all that time did I imagine that I would meet such a woman and find myself in a situation that would lead me to behave in a manner unbefitting my upbringing, abandoning the responsibilities of my rank: never before have I opened a woman’s letter, partly on principle, and partly because I did not think it would be of such overwhelming interest as to tempt me to act against my principles. But this one did interest me,” he continued in a matter-of-fact manner, “since Francesca has never written me a letter, indeed could not have written me a letter even if she had wanted to, because, until a year ago, she didn’t know how to write. Then, a year ago, shortly after the castrated poet came to us, she began to show an interest in writing—which, now I come to think of it, was at roughly the same time as the news of your incarceration by the Holy Inquisition arrived from Venice. She learned to write in order to write to you, because as a woman, she likes to undertake truly heroic tasks in the name of love. She learned to use those terrible cryptic cyphers of your profession—the modest, meek, and chubby
e,
the corpulent
s, t
with its lance,
f
with its funny hat—all so that she might offer you comfort by writing down the words that were burning a hole in her heart. She wanted to console you in prison and, for a long time, I thought you corresponded. I believed in the correspondence and looked out for it; I had ears and eyes, dozens of them, at my command, the best ears and sharpest eyes in Lombardy and Tuscany, and those are places where they know about such things. . . . She learned to write because she wanted to send you messages; yet, after all that, she didn’t write: I know for certain that she did not write because, to a pure and modest heart like hers, the act of writing is the ultimate immodesty, and I could sooner imagine Francesca as a tightrope dancer, or as a whore cavorting in a brothel with lecherous foreign dandies, than with a pen in her hand describing her feelings to a lover. Because Francesca is, in her way, a modest woman, just as you, in your way, are a writer, and I, in my way, am old and jealous. And that is how we lived, all of us, each in his or her own way, you under the lead roofs of Venice, she and I in Pistoia and Marly, waiting and preparing for something. Of course you are right,” he waved his hand dismissively as if his host were about to interrupt, “I quite admit that we lived more comfortably in Pistoia, Bolzano, Marly, and other places, near Naples up in the mountains, in our various castles, than you on your louse-ridden straw bed, under the lead roof. But comfort, too, was a prison, albeit in its own twisted, rather improper way, so please do not judge us too harshly. . . . As I was saying, the castrato taught Francesca to write, and I watched her, thinking ‘Aha!’ Quite rightly. There are times when Voltaire himself thinks no more than that, particularly when Voltaire is thinking about virtue or power. Each of us is wise at those unexpected moments of illumination when we suddenly notice the changing, surprising aspects of life. That is why I thought ‘Aha!’ and began to pay close attention, employing the sharpest ears and eyes that Lombardy and Tuscany could offer. But I heard and saw nothing suspicious: Francesca was too shy to write to a writer like you, too embarrassed by the prospect of putting her feelings into words—and isn’t it a fact that you writers are a shameless lot, putting the most shameful human thoughts down on paper, without hesitation, sometimes even without thinking? A kiss is always virtuous but a word about a kiss is always shameful. That might be what Francesca, with that delicacy of perception so characteristic of her and of most women in love, actually felt. But she might simply have been shy about her handwriting and about corresponding in general, for, though her heart was troubled by love, it remained pure. And so, when she finally got down to writing to you, I can imagine her agitated, overwrought condition and the shudder of fear that ran through her from top to toe as she sat with fevered brow and trembling fingers, with paper, ink, and sand, to undertake the first shameless act of her life in writing to you. It was a love letter that she was writing, and in giving her all and trusting herself entirely to pen and paper, and thereby to the world and to eternity, which is always the last word in shamelessness, she was venturing into dangerous territory, but she ventured further than that, into yet more dangerous territory, for the point at which someone reveals their true feelings to the world is like making love in a city marketplace in perpetual view of the idiots and gawpers of the future; it is like wrapping one’s finest, most secret feelings in a ragged parcel of words; in fact it is like having the dogcatcher tie one’s most vital organs up in old sheets of paper! Yes, writing is a terrible thing. The consciousness of this must have permeated her entire being as she wrote, poor darling, for love and pain had driven her to literacy, to the symbolic world of words, to the mastery of letters. But when she did write, she wrote briefly, in a surprisingly correct style, in the most concise fashion, like a blend of Ovid and Dante. Having said that, I shall now read you Francesca’s letter.” He unfolded the parchment with steady fingers, raised one hand in the air, and, being shortsighted, used the other to adjust the spectacles on his nose, straightening his back and leaning forward a little to peer at the script. “I can’t see properly,” he sighed. “Would you bring me a light, my boy?” And when his silent and formal host politely picked up a candle from the mantelpiece and stood beside him, he thanked him: “That’s better. Now I see perfectly well. Listen carefully. This is what my wife, Francesca, the duchess of Parma, wrote to Giacomo, eight days after hearing that her lover had escaped from the prison where his character and behavior had landed him, and that he had arrived in Bolzano:
‘I must see you.’
To this she has appended the first letter of her name, a large F, with a slight ceremonial flourish, as the castrato had taught her.”

He held the letter at arm’s length, perhaps in order that he might be able to see the tiny letters more clearly.

“This, then, is the letter,” he declared with a peculiar satisfaction, dropping the parchment together with his spectacles into his lap and leaning back in the chair. “What do you think of the style? I am absolutely bowled over by it. Whatever Francesca does is done perfectly: that’s how she is, she can do no other. I am bowled over by the letter, and I hope it has had an equally powerful impact on you, that it has shaken you to the core and made its mark on your soul and character the way all true literature marks a complete human being. After years of reading it is only now, this afternoon, when I first read Francesca’s letter, that I fully realized the absolute power of words. Like emperors, popes, and everyone else, I discovered in them a power sharper and more ruthless than swords or spears. And now, more than anything I want your opinion, a writer’s opinion, of the style, of the expressive talent of this beginner. I should tell you that I felt the same on a second reading—and now, having glanced over Francesca’s letter for a third time, my opinion has not changed at all. The style is perfect! Please excuse my shortcomings as a critic, do not dismiss the enthusiasm of a mere family member from your lofty professional height—but I know you will admit that this is not the work of a dilettante. There are four words and one initial only, but consider the conditions that forced these four words onto paper, consider that their author, even a year ago, had no acquaintance with the written word: turn the order of the words over in your mind, see how each follows the other, like links in a chain hammered out on a blacksmith’s anvil. Talent must be self-generating. Francesca has not read the works of either Dante or Virgil, she has no concept of subject or predicate, and yet, all by herself, without even thinking about it, she has discovered the essentials of a correct, graceful style. Surely it is impossible to express oneself more concisely, more precisely, than this letter. Shall we analyze it? . . . 
‘I must see you.’
In the first place I admire the concentrated power of the utterance. This line, which might be carved in stone, contains no superfluous element. Note the prominence of the verb, as is usual in the higher reaches of rhetoric, especially in drama and verse-play, with action to the fore. ‘See,’ she writes, almost sensuously, for the word does refer to the senses. It is an ancient word, coeval with humanity, the source of every human experience, since recognition begins in seeing, as does desire, and man himself, who before the moment of seeing is merely a blind, mewling, bundle of flesh: the world begins with sight and so, most certainly, does love. It is a spellbinding verb, infinite in its contents, suggesting hankering, secret fires, the hidden meaning of life, for the world only exists insofar as we see it, and you too only exist insofar as Francesca is capable of seeing you—it is, in the terms of this letter at least, through her eyes that you re-enter the world, her world, emerging from the world of the blind that you had inhabited, but only as a shadow, a shade, like a memory or the dead. Above all, she wants to see you. Because the other senses—touch, taste, scent, and hearing—are all as blind gods without the arcana of vision. Nor is Cupid a blind god, Giacomo. Cupid is inquisitive, light-desiring, truth-demanding: yes, above all he wants to see. That’s why the word ‘see’ is so prominent in her discourse. What else might she have said? She might have written ‘talk with,’ or ‘be with,’ but both of these are merely consequences of seeing, and her use of that verb confirms the intensity of the desire that drives her to take up the pen; the verb practically screams at us, because a heart smitten by love feels it can no longer stand the dark of blindness, it must see the beloved’s face; it must see, it must light a torch in this incomprehensible and blind universe, otherwise nothing makes sense. That’s why she chose a word as precise, as deeply expressive as ‘see.’ I hope my exposition does not bore you? . . . I must admit it is of supreme interest to me, and it is only now, for the first time, that I understand the endeavors of lonely philologists who, with endless patience and anxious care, pore over dusty books and ancient undecipherable texts, spending decades disputing the significance of some obscure verb in a forgotten language. Somehow, through the energy of their looking and the vitality of their breath they succeed in coaxing a long-dead word back to life. I am like them in that I think I can interpret this text, that is to say the text of Francesca’s letter. Seeing, as we have said, is the most important aspect of it. Next comes
‘must.’
Not ‘I would like to,’ not ‘I desire to,’ not ‘I want to.’ Immediately, in the second word of the text, she declares something with the unalterable force of holy writ—and doesn’t it occur to you, Giacomo, that our young author was, in her way, producing a kind of holy writ by writing her first words of love? Don’t you think that the writ of love somehow resembles sacred hieroglyphs on a pagan tomb, directly invoking the presence of the Immortal, even when it speaks of no more than arrangements for a rendezvous, or of a rope ladder to be employed in the course of an escape? . . . Naturally, there’s nothing irrelevant in Francesca’s discourse: she is far too fine a poet for that as we may see at a glance. Poet, I said, and I don’t believe that my feelings or my admiration lead me to exaggerate in the use of the word, which I realize signifies status, the very highest human status: in China, as in Versailles, it is poets like Racine, Bossuet, and Corneille, that follow the king in a procession, sometimes even those who in life were a little dirty or disreputable looking, such as La Fontaine: they all take precedence over Colbert, over even Madame Montespan and Monsieur Vendôme when the king grants an audience. I know very well that to be a poet is to belong to an elite, an elite accorded intimate luster and invisible medals. That may be why I feel that Francesca is a poet, and in saying that, I feel the same awe as I would if I were reading the first work of any true poet, an awe that sends shudders through me and fills my soul with dizzy admiration, with an extraordinary flood of feelings that unerringly signify the most elevated thoughts about the solemnity of life. That, then, is why she wrote
must.
What refined power radiates from the word, my boy! Its tone is commanding, regal: it is more than a command because it is both explanation and significance at once. If she had written ‘want’ it would still have been regal but a little peremptory. No, she chose precisely the right word, the perfectly calibrated word, the word that, while it commands some humility:
must,
she says, and thereby confesses that when she commands, she herself is obeying a secret commandment;
must
suggests that the person requesting the meeting stands in need of something, that she can do no other, can no longer wait, that when she addresses you severely and gives you to understand her meaning she is throwing herself on your mercy. There is something touchingly helpless and human about the word. It is as if her desire to meet you were involuntary, Giacomo. Yes, it’s true! I cannot tell whether my eyes are capable of reading clearly anymore, whether I can trust these old ears of mine, but there is something in the whole sentence, which might be the first line of a poem, that is helpless and abject, as when a man confronts his destiny under the stars and tells the sad, brilliant truth. And what is that truth? Both more and less than the fact that Francesca
must
see you. The voice is anxious, in need of help; she commands but, at the same time, admits that she is both the issuer and the helpless executor of the command. I
must see:
there is something dangerous about the association of these words; only people who are themselves in danger issue commands like these. Yes, they would prefer to withdraw and defend themselves but there’s no alternative, and so they do what they must: they command. The words are perfect. And there follows, naturally enough, a word that is like the lin-lan-lone of bells in the distance: the word
you. You
is a mighty word, Giacomo. I don’t know whether anyone can say something that means more to another, or is of greater importance to them. It is a fulfilling word whose reverberation fills the entire human universe, a painful word that forms and names, that enlivens identity and gives it a voice. It is the word God used when He first addressed man at the Creation, at the point that He realized that flesh was not enough, that man needed a name, too, and therefore He named him and addressed him with the familiar
You.
Do you fully understand the word? There are millions upon millions of people in the world but it is
you
she wants to see. There are others nobler, handsomer, younger, wiser, more virtuous, more chivalrous than you, oh indeed there are, and without wishing to offend you, I do think it incumbent on you to consider, however unpleasant it may be, however it may hurt your self-esteem, that there may also exist people more villainous, more artful, more deceitful, more heartless, and more desperate than you are; and yet it is
you
she desires to see. The word elevates you above your fellow mortals, distinguishes you from those whom in part you resemble; it hoists you up and slaps you on the back, it crowns you a king and dubs you a knight. It is a fearsome word.
You,
writes Francesca, my wife, the duchess of Parma, and the instant she writes the word you are ennobled; despite your notoriety as an adventurer, despite hitherto having assumed a false aristocratic name, you are ennobled.
You,
she writes, and with what a certain hand, the letters leaning with full momentum, like arms raised for action, pumping blood and flexing powerful muscles: by now the author knows what she wants to say and is no longer seeking alternatives. She places on paper the only word that can hold the sentence, the syntax, together as though she had addressed the subject of it by its proper name.
You
 . . . A mysterious word. Just consider how many people there are in the world, people who are interesting to Francesca, too, people worth seeing even if there is no
must
about it, people who would offer her something more substantial, more true, more of everything than you can, notwithstanding the fact that you are a writer and traveler. For there are men out there who have voyaged to the Indies and the New World, scientists who have explored the secrets of nature and discovered new laws for humanity to wonder at: there are so many other remarkable men alive, and yet it is
you
she wants to see . . . and in so naming you it is as if she were engaged in an act of creation, re-creating you. Because, for example, it is possible that she might want to see me, but there would be nothing out of the ordinary in that, I am her husband after all: but it is
you
that she must see, only
you!
 . . .