The Hound of Florence (19 page)

“Tomorrow once again,” he muttered to himself as he went along. “Tomorrow I shall once again have to undergo the transformation—once more for the last time, and then I shall be free!” Nevertheless he was not overwhelmed with joy at the thought; he had a feeling of uneasiness that increased every moment and became so insistent that he grew quite nervous.

Slackening his pace, he meditated returning to the studio. His mood inclined him to seek the company of his fellows, for he found solitude intolerable. Nevertheless he shunned the studio; it could not help him that day. The empty armchair in front of the ­little Madonna picture would only serve to remind him of the Captain's death, while the deserted seats of his fellow-­students would proclaim that they were still hunting for the murderer. He also felt unfit for work. That day was too close to the decisive hour of his life, it was too full of impatient expectation, to make it possible for him to work. Nor did he look for any comfort in Bandini's presence. He longed for someone in whom to confide. Yet he stood in too great awe of Bandini to turn to him.

All unconsciously he found himself in front of Claudia's house. Caligula, the mulatto, opened the door to him. His thick pouting lips smiled broadly as he announced that his mistress was away.

“Where?” exclaimed Lucas, overcome with disappointment.

“She didn't tell me where,” replied Caligula, his great fat body shaking with laughter.

Lucas made another attempt to push past him; but Caligula seized him by the shoulder and Lucas could feel the iron grip of his soft fingers, the cold clamminess of which penetrated through his coat to his skin. But at the same moment he felt convinced that Caligula had spoken the truth, and that the house was empty. Nevertheless he raised a threatening fist:

“Take your hand off, you scoundrel, or I'll . . .”

Pulling a face and blinking as though the blow had already fallen, Caligula set him free, and Lucas walked down the corridor, calling for Peppina. She came up, her sphinx-like smile seeming to say she could not tell all she knew. She gave him the news. Claudia had gone to Poggio a Caiano with the Austrian Prince and his suite. They were to have a banquet there. Yes, he had guessed aright, the banquet was to be held in the country Palace which stood empty most of the year. She would probably not return until late at night or on the following day.

Meanwhile they had reached the garden. The mulatto had followed them some distance behind. Lucas went up on to the little terrace; the door leading to Claudia's room stood open. He stood on the black and white tiles, between the two flaming azaleas in their stone vases, oblivious of Peppina who, with a provocative smile, remained at his side, and unmindful of the mulatto who was watching him from behind the yew hedge. He gazed round the garden and peeped into Claudia's room; but everything looked deserted and meaningless, like the wings of a ­theatre when the play is over.

The sky had become overcast and the day was gray and gloomy. He was seized with acute qualms which fell upon him like heavy veils oppressing his soul. He felt he must speak to somebody, that he would die if he remained alone. Silently he crept away from Claudia's house.

Through the noisy bustling streets he wandered, enveloped in his qualms and his melancholy, oblivious to the magic and stir of the life about him. His longing to speak to a fellow creature made him hasten his steps, yet his feet felt leaden. As he crossed the great square in front of the monastery of San Marco, he thought of the Captain who had been struck his death-blow there and fallen on those very stones. But it all seemed unreal to him now, buried in the long distant past. He was surprised to find how little the recollection moved him. Nevertheless he was aware that somewhere deep down in his innermost being there was pain and mourning for Ercole, though the anxieties of that day had buried them out of sight.

At the gate of the monastery he pulled eagerly at the bell, and when the door was opened he asked excitedly to be allowed to speak to Brother Serafio.

He had to wait, but at last Serafio arrived and led him to his cell, a tiny little room, the cramped space in which brought them into close proximity, while the unspotted surface of its whitewashed walls seemed to make it impossible to conceal a single thought. Going over to his desk which was in the window and was covered with books, parchments and documents, he pointed to the bed and invited Lucas to be seated.

Lucas sat down and said nothing. The monk turned over the pages of a book. For a long while the room was buried in silence.

“Do you want me to do anything?” Serafio asked after a time in low, compassionate tones.

Lucas started. “Must I go?” he asked.

But Serafio made a sign to him. “No, stay here!” he replied.

For a few moments they sat in silence. At last Serafio said: “Will you pray with me?”

Lucas passed his hand through his hair and glanced about him. “If you wish me to, reverend Brother . . . but I don't know. I don't believe I can pray now. . . .”

“I do not wish it,” replied the monk. “Nobody can wish you to pray. One should pray just as one eats and drinks. It ought to be like sleep. . . .” He hesitated. . . . “Or like waking up.”

“Wait until you feel the influence of the peace that reigns here,” he added after a while.

“Here?” cried Lucas.

“Don't you agree with me?” asked the monk, gazing at him.

Lucas shook his head vigorously. “No! It is only quiet here. If I were here alone . . . no . . . I would rather be in my grave!” He put his hand to his throat. “One is so far away from things here—cut off from everything—imprisoned!”

“Oh, if that is the case . . .” said Serafio with a smile.

“I am waiting,” said Lucas, as though he were talking to himself, his fists tight clenched on his knees. “I am waiting . . . I am waiting! . . . but the time goes by so slowly!”

“Brother,” observed the monk, “there are coals of fire in your soul . . . and they are burning too fiercely . . . I have been watching you for a long while, and I pity you. . . .”

Lucas lowered his eyes.

“You love your work,” continued the monk. “As you sit by my side at Bandini's you work fast and feverishly. And then the next moment you disappear, quite regularly. One day you are there and the next you are gone. Do you go and seek life elsewhere than in the place God has allotted to you?”

Lucas looked up eagerly. He longed to open his heart and tell everything. But a sudden fit of fear sealed his lips. What if he were accused of associating with women of low repute . . . ? He turned the matter over in his mind. Tomorrow, tomorrow, for the last time, he would have to undergo the accursed metamorphosis again. On the following day the Archduke would leave Florence and everything would be over. In a fortnight, and certainly in a year's time, nobody would remember that he was always disappearing now. Nobody would ever know anything about it; nobody would ever hear about it. Was he going to confide his secret to the monk now, and let him share it on the last day, and thus possess it forever, for the whole of the future that lay before him? And wringing his hands in despair, he was silent.

The monk had been watching him. “Do you remember,” he said, “that day in Bandini's studio, when you used those very words—‘I am waiting, I am waiting'?”

“Yes,” replied Lucas, nodding thoughtfully. “And I am waiting still!”

“Waiting to be allowed to be a human being . . . ?” Lucas started in fear. “That is what you said on that occasion, didn't you?” the monk continued.

“Yes, that is what I am waiting for!” cried Lucas with passionate emphasis.

“I do not know what you mean, brother,” and Serafio's voice rung soft and low . . . “to be a human being. How few of us succeed in living like human beings. I pray for that end myself, I struggle to achieve it—but it is hard.”

“Oh, you don't understand!” exclaimed Lucas, looking at him out of the corner of his eyes.

“Are you unhappy because you are poor?” asked Serafio with a smile.

“It's making me go to pieces!” cried Lucas.

“You will not go to pieces,” replied Serafio kindly. “You are strong!”

Lucas shook his head. “Humiliation casts one to the ground, and one has to eat the dust!” he replied. “But worse still, one grows accustomed to eating dust. . . . So of what avail is my strength?”

Serafio laid a hand on his shoulder. “Be comforted, brother. Everyone abases himself some time or other, not only the poor. Everyone abases himself. Men abase themselves for Palaces, for wealth, for a woman, for a throne.”

“That is different,” said Lucas, shaking his head.

The monk smiled again. “Do you think so?”

“I know it,” replied Lucas. “You forget that many a man who suffers humiliation for the sake of a crust of bread would not abase himself for all the treasures of the world, or for any woman either, or any throne on earth, if only he had bread.”

“Maybe!” And Serafio returned to his desk and gazed in front of him with a look of astonishment in his eyes. “Maybe . . .” he repeated, turning over the pages of a book. “But see what stands here,” and he beckoned to Lucas to come over to him.

Lucas sprang to his feet and went over to his side. Serafio had opened a manuscript yellow with age, and pointing to a passage, he read aloud: “If so be thou art poor on earth, thou must spend half thy life as a dog, that thou mayest spend the other half as a man among men.”

“Who wrote that?” cried Lucas staggering back.

Serafio looked up in astonishment.

“Who wrote that?” repeated Lucas.

“A holy man, who lived two hundred years ago,” replied Serafio, “the hermit of Mount Amiata. He learned wisdom and knew the way of the world . . . and see how wonderfully he agrees with you.”

Lucas had gone pale and his eyes were full of tears. He turned away as if to go.

But Serafio held him back. “Just one thing more—do not lose hold of your soul, brother. Be brave! You have wonderful powers within you. I saw that on the very first day. Success lies in you, and in your heart is the mirror of the world. You will triumph over all your difficulties. You will be great!” He stopped—“provided you meet with no misfortune,” he added gently in conclusion. And embracing Lucas, he pressed him tenderly to his breast and let him go. “God keep you!”

Lucas ran out into the street.

He wandered about the town until the evening. The old fears had not left him. But in order to escape from their oppression he sought out those parts of the city where lively people congregated and laughter and song rang out. He followed the crowd streaming through the busy streets. He peered into the faces of the girls, watched the smartly dressed, high-spirited young noblemen strolling by, noted the passage of the gorgeous sedan chairs and coaches. He looked up to the windows of the Palaces, which, now that it was dark, were ablaze with lighted candelabra. But before long his eyes hardly noticed the scene about him and his melancholy gripped him more powerfully than ever.

“What is the matter with me?” he cried to himself. “I have only to wait until tomorrow! For the last time! Why do I tremble instead of rejoicing?” But in vain did he struggle against his fear. Like an invisible octopus with myriad arms, it closed about him, held him fast and gradually throttled him.

“God in Heaven!” he groaned, “let it be the last time!” And now he felt he wanted to pray, but his thoughts ran riot in his brain. Why did things come so easily to other people? Why were they allowed to possess life freely without any pain or discomfort? They had no idea what to do with it. They did not regard it as a gift, they took it as their due. Meanwhile he had nothing . . . he was an outcast. Why?

Suddenly he thought of Captain Ercole da Moreno and was overcome with excruciating grief. He saw him before his mind's eye—that handsome, kindly face, those benevolent eyes, that spirited shock of white hair standing up on end, and all at once he understood that Ercole was the only man in the world to whom he might have confided his secret. He was convinced now that the Captain could have helped him. His death struck him as an evil omen.

As the hour of midnight approached he was breathless with fear. “Why am I so terrified?” he groaned. “Why am I so terrified? Never have I been so terrified as I am today!”

And once more he tried to pray. “Oh Lord God, let it be the last time . . . I implore Thee! I have done nothing wrong. I am innocent . . . Bandini himself says that he thinks me a good fellow. . . . Everybody is kind to me. . . . Why art Thou so hard on me? Why me? I implore Thee, let it be for the last time, the very last time . . . dear Lord, I . . .

The chimes rang out the hour and he could not finish.

• • •

Peppina came through the garden leading the dog. “Just look, madam,” she called from the terrace, “he was lying outside the front door, and slipped in when Hassan opened it. He ran past little Hassan. He's frightened,” she added with a laugh.

Claudia appeared at the garden door. The dog ran toward her, and jumped gently up to her, then stood still, wagging his tail, his eyes fixed on her. She stroked him.

“What do you want here, Cambyses?” she said in caressing tones. “Are you looking for your master? Is that it? . . . He isn't here.” And she went into her room, the dog following. She rang the bell and the mulatto glided in.

“Here is the Archduke's dog who has come to see us, Caligula,” she said. “He's looking for his master. Just catch him and take him back to the Palace.”

The mulatto came forward, but the dog sprang toward the alcove and snapped at Caligula's outstretched hand with a low growl. “Come along! Come with me!” coaxed the mulatto in his shrill, oily voice.

But the dog only growled and crept under the bed.

The mulatto squinted at Claudia, shook his head gravely from side to side, and raised his hand. “The dog,” he muttered mysteriously, “the dog!”