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The Art of Prudence

was he seeing them because he had truly been shipwrecked at the edge of the Garden of Eden, or was it because he had emerged from the belly of the ship as from a hellish funnel? Both perhaps. That shipwreck, restoring him to the spectacle of another nature, had rescued him from the Hell of the World which he had entered, losing the illusions of boyhood, in the Casale days.

He was still there when, having seen history now as a place rich in whims and incomprehensible plots for Reasons of State, he learned from Saint-Savin how treacherous was the great machine of the world, plagued by the iniquities of Chance. In a few days his adolescent dream of heroic feats was ended, and from Padre Emanuele he had learned that one should be ex­cited by Heroic Enterprises—and that a life can be well spent not in fighting a giant but in giving too many names to a dwarf.

Leaving the convent, he accompanied Signer della Saletta, who in turn was accompanying Senor de Salazar beyond the walls. And to reach what Salazar called Puerta de Estopa, they walked along the ramparts for a while.

The two gentlemen were praising Padre Emanuele’s ma­chine, and Roberto ingenuously asked how all that knowledge could affect the destiny of a siege.

Senor de Salazar laughed. “My young friend,” he said, “we are all here, serving different monarchs, in order to resolve this war as justice and honor dictate. But the days are long gone when the sword could alter the course of the stars. The time is past when gentlemen created kings; now it is kings who create gentlemen. Now all the gentlemen you can see down there,” and he pointed to the Spanish tents, “and down here,” and he indicated the French camps, “are engaged in this war in order to return to their natural setting, which is the court, and at court, my friend, no one competes any longer to equal the king in merit, but only to gain his favor. Today in Madrid you see gentlemen who have never drawn their sword, and they never leave the city: for to cover themselves with dust on the field of glory they would have to abandon the city to the hands of moneyed burghers and a noblesse de robe that nowadays even a monarch holds in great esteem. The warrior may abandon valor only to follow prudence.”

“Prudence?” Roberto asked.

Salazar suggested he look over the plain. The two sides were engaged in listless skirmishes, and clouds of dust could be seen rising from the mouths of the tunnels where the can-nonballs fell. To the northwest the imperials were pushing a mantelet: a sturdy cart, its sides armed with scythes, while the front was an oak wall reinforced with studded bars of iron. In that wall there were slits from which mortars extended, and colubrines, and arquebuses, and from the side you could see the Landsknechts barricaded inside. Bristling with muzzles in front and with blades on the flanks, chains creaking, the ma­chine emitted occasional puffs of smoke from one of its mouths. The enemy clearly did not intend to employ it im­mediately, for it was a device to be brought beneath the walls when the mines had done their work; but it was equally clear that it was being displayed now to terrify the besieged.

“You see,” Salazar said, “the war will be decided by ma­chines, whether armored wagons or mine-tunnels, as may be. Some of our fine companions, on both sides, who have bared their breast to the enemy, unless they died by mistake, acted as they did not to conquer but to win a reputation to be exploited on their return to court. The most valiant among them were wise enough to choose enterprises that attracted attention, but only after they had calculated the balance be­tween what they risked and what they stood to gain....”

“My father—” said Roberto, orphan of a hero who had calculated nothing. Salazar interrupted him. “Your father was, in fact, a man in the old style. Believe me, I mourn him; but can it still be worthwhile to perform a brave deed when people will talk more of a fine retreat than of a bold attack? Have you not observed, just now, a war machine ready to resolve the fate of a siege more swiftly than swords did in their day? And have not swords, these many years, yielded to arquebuses? We still wear a cuirass, but a pikeman could learn in a day how to pierce the cuirass of the great Bayard.”

“Then what does a gentleman have left?”

“Wisdom, Signer della Griva. Success no longer has the color of the sun, but grows in the light of the moon, and no one has ever said that this second luminary was displeasing to the creator of all things. Jesus himself meditated, in the garden of Olivet, at night.”

“But then he came to a decision inspired by the most heroic of virtues, and without prudence....”

“But we are not the firstborn Son of the Eternal One, we are the children of our century. When this siege ends, if a machine has not taken your life, what will you do, Signer della Griva? Will you perhaps return to your lands, where no one will give you an opportunity to prove yourself worthy of your father? After a few days of association with Parisian gen­tlemen, you already seem won over by their ways. You will want to try your fortune in the great city, and you well know that it is there that you must make use of that halo of bravery that your long inaction among these walls will have gained you. You too will seek your fortune, and you must be keen in obtaining it. If here you have learned to dodge a musket ball, there you must learn to elude envy, jealousy, greed, using those same weapons to combat your adversaries, namely, ev­eryone. Hear me out. For half an hour you have been inter­rupting me to say what you think and, under the guise of questioning me, you would show me I am mistaken. Never do this again, especially with the powerful. Occasions will arise when confidence in your own perspicacity and the impulse to tell the truth will enable you to give sound advice to someone of higher station. Never do it. Every victory produces hatred in the vanquished, and if the victory is over one’s own master, then it is foolish or harmful. Princes wish to be assisted, not outstripped. But you must be prudent also with your equals. Do not humiliate them by your merits. Never speak of your­self: either you will praise yourself, which is vanity, or you will denigrate yourself, which is stupidity. Rather, let others discover in you some venial sin, which envy can gnaw on without doing you too much harm. Be much but seem little. The ostrich never aspires to fly, and thus risk an exemplary fall: he allows the beauty of his feathers to be revealed grad­ually. And above all, if you have passions, never display them, however noble they may appear. Not everyone must be granted access to your heart. A prudent, cautious silence is the cabinet of wisdom.”

“Sir, you are telling me that a gentleman’s first duty is to learn simulation!”

Signer della Saletta intervened with a smile. “Come, my dear Roberto, Senor de Salazar is not saying the wise man must simulate. He is suggesting, if I have understood rightly, that the wise man must learn to dissimulate. It is a virtue above virtue to dissimulate virtue. Senor de Salazar is teaching you a prudent way of being virtuous, or how to be virtuous pru­dently. When the first man opened his eyes and discovered he was naked, he tried to conceal himself even from the sight of his Maker: so diligence in hiding was born almost when the world was born. Dissimulating means drawing a veil composed of honest shadows, which does not constitute falsehood but allows truth some respite. The rose seems beautiful because at first sight it dissimulates, pretending to be so fleeting, and al­though it is frequently said of mortal beauty that it seems not of this earth, it is simply a corpse dissimulated by the favor of youth. In this life it is not always best to be open-hearted, and the truths that mean most to us must always be uttered by halves. Dissimulation is not fraud. It is an effort not to show things as they are. And it is a difficult effort: when we excel, others must not recognize our excellence. If someone were to become famous for his ability to disguise himself, as actors do, all would know that he is not what he pretends to be. But concerning the true, excellent dissimulators, who have existed and exist still, we have no information.”

“And note further,” added Senor de Salazar, “that while you are being invited to dissimulate, you are not invited to remain dumb as a fool. On the contrary. You will learn to do with a clever word what you cannot do with open speech: to move in a world that favors appearance, and with all the ra­pidity of eloquence to be the weaver of words of silk. If arrows can pierce the body, words can pierce the soul. Make natural in yourself what in Padre Emanuele’s machine is mechanical art.”

“But, sir,” Roberto said, “Padre Emanuele’s machine seems to me an image of Genius, which does not aim at striking or seducing but at discovering and revealing connections between things, and therefore becoming a new instrument of truth.”

“This is for philosophers. But for fools use Genius to awe, and you will earn acceptance. Men love to be awed. If your fate and your fortune are decided not on the field but in the halls of the court, a good point scored in conversation will be more fruitful than a victorious attack in battle. The prudent man with an elegant phrase extricates himself from any com­plication, and can use his tongue with the lightness of a feather. Most things can be paid for with words.”

“You are expected at the gate, Salazar,” said Saletta. And so ended for Roberto that unexpected lesson in life and wis­dom. He was not edified by it, but he was grateful to his two teachers. They had explained to him many of the era’s mys­teries, never mentioned at La Griva.


The Passions of the Soul

As all his illusions collapsed, Roberto fell prey to an amorous obsession.

It was now the end of June, and it was quite hot; for about ten days the first rumors had been spreading about a case of plague in the Spanish camp. Munitions were growing scarce in the city; the soldiers were being issued only fourteen ounces of black bread daily, and for a pint of wine from the Casalesi you had to pay three florins, that is to say twelve reales. Salazar from the camp and Saletta from the city had alternated visits to arrange the ransoming of officers captured by both sides in the course of combat, and the ransomed had to swear an oath not to take up arms again. There was more talk of that captain rising in the diplomatic world, Mazzarini, to whom the pope had entrusted negotiations.

Some hopes, some sorties, and the game of the reciprocal destruction of tunnels: thus the indolent siege progressed.

While waiting for the negotiations or for the relief army, the bellicose spirits grew calmer. Some Casalesi decided to go outside of the walls to harvest those fields of wheat spared by horses and wagons, heedless of the weary musket fire from the distant Spaniards. But not all were unarmed: Roberto saw a young peasant woman, tall and tawny, who at intervals in­terrupted her work with the sickle, crouched among the rows of grain, and raised a culiver, holding it like a veteran soldier, pressing the butt against her red cheek, to fire at the trouble­makers. The Spaniards, irked by the shots of that warrior Ceres, returned fire, and a ball grazed the girl’s wrist. Bleeding now, she fell back, but did not cease firing or shouting at the enemy. When she was finally almost below the walls, some Spaniards apostrophized her: “Puta de los franceses!” To which she replied, “Yes, I’m the Frenchmen’s whore, but I’m not yours!”

That virginal figure, that quintessence of ripe beauty and martial fury, joined to the hint of shamelessness with which the insult had crowned her, kindled the boy’s senses.

That day he combed the streets of Casale, eager to renew the vision: he questioned the peasants, learned that the girl’s name according to some was Anna Maria Novarese, according to others Francesca, and in one tavern they told him she was twenty, she came from the country, and was carrying on with a French soldier. “She’s a good girl, that Francesca, a very good girl,” they said with a knowing leer, and to Roberto his beloved seemed all the more desirable as she was again praised in li­centious tones.

A few evenings later, passing a house, he glimpsed her in a. dark room on the ground floor. To enjoy the faint breeze that barely mitigated the Monferrino sultriness, she was seated at the window, in the light of an unseen lamp placed near the sill. At first he failed to recognize her because her lovely hair was wound around her head; just two locks escaped, falling over her ears. Only her face could be seen: bent slightly, a single, pure oval beaded with a few drops of sweat, it seemed the real lamp in that penumbra.

At a little low table she was occupied with some sewing, on which her intent gaze rested, so she did not notice the youth, who stepped back to peer at her from a corner, crouch­ing against the wall. His heart pounding in his breast, Roberto noticed that her lip was shaded by blond down. Suddenly she raised a hand even more luminous than her face, to hold a length of dark thread to her mouth: placing it between her red lips, she bared her white teeth, severing it with one bite, the act of a gentle animal happily smiling in her domestic cruelty.

Roberto could have remained there all night; he barely breathed, in his fear of being discovered and in the ardor that froze him. But after a while the girl blew out the lamp, and the vision was dissolved.

He passed along that street in the days that followed, not seeing her again, save once, and even then he was not sure, because she, if it was she, sat with her head bowed, her nape bare and rosy, a cascade of hair covering her face. An older woman stood behind her, navigating through those leonine waves with a shepherdess’s comb, which she sometimes laid aside to seize with her fingers a little fleeing creature, which her nails snapped with a sharp click.

Roberto, no novice to the rites of delousing, discovered however its beauty for the first time, and he imagined being able to plunge his hands into those silken waves, to kiss those furrows, being himself the destroyer of those bands of infesting myrmidons.

He had to move away from the enchantment because of the arrival of some noisy rabble in that street, and this was the last time that window offered him an amorous tableau.

On other afternoons and other evenings he saw the older woman there, and another girl, but not his. He concluded this was not her house, but the woman’s, a relative, to whom she went occasionally to perform some chore. Where she was for days, he no longer knew.

An amorous yearning is a liquor that becomes stronger when decanted into a friend’s ear. While he fruitlessly scoured Casale and became thin in his search, Roberto was unable to hide his condition from Saint-Savin. He revealed it out of van­ity, for every lover bedecks himself with the beauty of his beloved—and of this beauty Roberto was certain.

“Love her, then,” Saint-Savin responded negligently. “It is nothing new. It seems humans derive pleasure from it, unlike animals.”

“Animals do not love?”

“No, simple machines do not love. The wheels of a wagon, what is it they do along a slope? They roll towards the bottom. The machine is a weight, and the weight hangs, dependent on the blind need that impels it downwards. So it is with an animal: it is weighted towards intercourse and is not appeased until it has had it.”

“But did you not tell me yesterday that men are ma­chines?”

“True, but the human machine is more complex than the mineral and the animal, and it enjoys an oscillatory motion.”


“So you love, and therefore you desire and do not desire. Love makes us the enemy of ourselves. You fear that attaining your end will disappoint you. You have pleasure in limine, as the theologians put it, you enjoy delay.”

“That’s not so. I ... I want her at once!”

“If that were the case, you would be still only a rustic. But you have wit. If you wanted her, you would already have taken her—and you would be a beast. No, you want your desire to be set aflame, and you want hers to be stirred as well. If her desire were to blaze to such a degree that she was impelled to surrender herself to you at once, probably you would no longer want her. Love flourishes in expectation. Expectation strolls through the spacious fields of Time towards Oppor­tunity.”

“But what am I to do in the meantime?” “Court her.”

“But... she knows nothing yet, and I must confess I have difficulty approaching her....”

“Write her a letter and tell her of your love.” “But I have never written a love-letter! Indeed, I am ashamed to say, I have never written any letter.”

“When nature fails, we turn to art. I will dictate to you. A gentleman often enjoys writing letters to a lady he has never seen, and I am equal to the task. As I do not love, I can speak of love better than you, who are struck dumb by love.”

“But I believe each person loves in a different way... It would be artificial.”

“If you revealed your love to her in tones of sincerity, you would seem awkward.”

“But I would tell her the truth....” “The truth is a young maiden as modest as she is beautiful, and therefore she is always seen cloaked.”

“But I want to tell her of my love, not of the love you would describe!”

“Well, if you would be believed, feign. There is no perfec­tion without the splendor of machination.”

“But she would understand that the letter is not speaking

of her.”

“Never fear. She will believe that what I dictate to you was made to her measure. Come now, sit down and write. Just allow me to summon my inspiration.”

Saint-Savin moved about the room as if, Roberto tells us, he were imitating the flight of a bee returning to the honey­comb. He was almost dancing, his eyes restless; he seemed to read in the air the message that did not yet exist.

Then he began: “My lady...”


“Well, how would you address her? Perhaps: Hola, little hussy of Casale?”

“Puta de los franceses,” Roberto couldn’t help murmuring, alarmed as Saint-Savin had in jest come so close, if not to the truth, at least to the insult.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Very well. Lady. Then what?”

“My lady, in the wondrous architecture of the Universe, it has been written since the natal day of Creation that I would encounter you and love you. But with the first line of this letter, I feel that my soul has already so poured forth that it will abandon my lips and my pen before this is con­cluded.”

“... concluded. But I don’t know if that will be compre­hensible to a—”

“The truth is all the more appreciated when it is barbed with difficulties, and a revelation is more respected if it has cost us dearly. Let us raise the tone, in fact. Let us say then: My lady...”


“Yes. Lady. For a woman beautiful as Alcidiana, an unas­sailable dwelling is without doubt necessary, as it was for that Heroine. And I believe that by enchantment you have been transported elsewhere and that your province has become a second Floating Island that the wind of my sighs causes to retreat as I attempt to advance, the province of the Antipodes, a land where ice-floes bar my approach. You look puzzled, La Grive: does it still seem commonplace to you?”

“No, the fact is ... I would say quite the contrary.”

“Have no fear,” Saint-Savin said, misunderstanding, “there will be no lack of the counterpoint of contradictions. Let us proceed: Perhaps your charms entitle you to remain distant as is proper for the gods. But do you not know that the gods receive with favor at least the fumes of incense we burn to them here below? Do not then refuse my worship: as you possess beauty and splendor to the highest degree, you would make me impious if you prevented me from adoring in your person two of the greatest divine attributes.... Does that sound better?”

At this point Roberto was thinking that the problem now was whether or not La Novarese could read. Once this barrier was overcome, what she read would surely intoxicate her, as he was becoming intoxicated, writing.

“My God,” he said, “she should go mad.”

“She will. Continue. Far from having lost my heart when I entrusted my freedom to your hands, I find it has grown larger since that day, multiplied, as if, since one heart alone is not enough for my love of you, it were reproducing itself in all my arteries, where I feel it throbbing.”

“Good Lord...”

“Keep calm. You are speaking of love, you are not loving. Forgive, my Lady, the raving of a desperate man, or, better, pay no heed to it. Sovereigns have never been held to account for the death of their slaves. Ah yes, I should consider my fate enviable if you take the trouble to cause my destruction. If you will deign at least to hate me, this will tell me I am not indifferent to you. Thus death, with which you think to pun­ish me, will be for me a cause of joy. Yes, death. If love means understanding that two souls were created to be united, when one realizes that the other does not feel this union, he can only die. And this—while my body still lives, though not for long—is the message that my soul, departing from it, sends you.”

“... departing from it?”

“... sends you.”

“Let me catch my breath. My head is spinning.”

“Control yourself. Do not confuse love with art.”

“But I love her! You understand? I love her!”

“And I do not. For this reason you have come to me. Write without thinking of her. Think of—let me see—Monsieur de Toiras.”


“Do not look like that. He is a handsome man, after all. But write: Lady...”


“Again. Lady, I am fated moreover to die blind. Have you not made of my eyes two alembics, wherein my life must evaporate? And so it happens that the more my eyes are mois­tened, the more I burn. Perhaps my father did not mold my body from the same clay that gave life to the first man, but, rather, from lime, since the water I shed consumes me. And how does it happen that I still live, though consumed, finding yet more tears to be consumed further?”

“Are you not exaggerating?”

“On grand occasions thought must also be grand.”

Now Roberto protested no longer. He felt as if he had become La Novarese and was feeling what she should feel on reading these pages. Saint-Savin continued dictating.

“Abandoning my heart, you have left in it an insolent creature who is your image and who boasts of having the power of life and death over me. And you have gone from me as sovereigns leave the torture chamber for fear of being importuned with pleas for mercy. If my soul and my love are composed of two pure sighs, when I die I will beseech my Agony that the breath of my love be the last to leave me, and I will have achieved—as my last gift—a miracle of which you should be proud, and for one instant at least you will draw a sigh from a body already dead.”

“Dead. Is that the end?”

“No, let me think. We need a closing with a pointe....”

“A what?”

“Yes, an act of the intellect that expresses the inconceivable correspondence between two objects, beyond all belief, so that in this pleasant play of wit any concern for substance is happily lost.”

“I do not understand....”

“You will. Here: let us reverse for the moment the direc­tion of the appeal. In fact, you are not yet dead: let us give her the possibility of hastening to succor this moribund lover. Write: You could perhaps, my Lady, yet save me. I have given you my heart. But how can I live without the very motor of life? I do not ask you to give it back to me; for only in your prison does it enjoy the most sublime of freedoms, but I beg you to send me, in exchange, your own, that could find no tabernacle more prepared to welcome it. To live you have no need of two hearts, and mine beats so hard for you that it can assure you of the most eternal of fervors.”

Then, half-turning and bowing like an actor anticipating applause, he asked: “Beautiful, is it not?”

“Beautiful? Why, I find it—how can I say?—ridiculous. Do you see this lady running around Casale delivering hearts, like a sort of page?”

“Would you expect her to love a man who speaks like any ordinary citizen? Sign it and seal it.”

“But I am not thinking of the lady. I am thinking that if she were to show it to anyone, I would die of shame.”

“She will never do that. She will keep the letter in her bosom, and every night she will light a candle beside her bed to read it, and cover it with kisses. Sign and seal.”

“But let us imagine, for the sake of argument, that she cannot read. She will have to find someone to read it to her....”

“Monsieur de la Grive! Are you telling me you have been captivated by a peasant? That you have squandered my inspi­ration to embarrass a rustic? You must give me satisfaction.”

“It was just a hypothesis. A jest. But I was taught that the prudent man must consider situations, circumstances, and along with the possible also the impossible...”

“You see? You are learning to express yourself prop­erly. But you have considered badly and chosen the most risible among possibilities. In any case, I would not wish to force you. Strike out the last sentence and continue now as I say....”

“But if I strike it out, then I will have to rewrite the letter.”

“So you are lazy, into the bargain. But the wise man must exploit misfortune also. Strike it out.... Done? Now then.” Saint-Savin dipped one finger into a pitcher, then he allowed a drop to fall on the cancelled line, making a little damp spot, its edges irregular, growing gradually darker as the water caused the black ink, diluting it, to flow back on the sheet. “Now write. Forgive me, my Lady, if I lack the heart to allow the survival of a thought that, stealing from me a tear, has frightened me with its boldness. Thus may an Aetnaean fire generate the loveliest stream of brackish water. But ah, my Lady, my heart is like a seashell that, imbibing the beautiful sweat of dawn, generates the pearl and grows to be one with it. At the thought that your indifference would take from my heart the pearl it has so jealously fed, my heart flows from my eyes.... Yes, La Grive, this is unquestionably better, we have restrained the excesses. Better to end by reducing the vehemence of the lover, to increase the emotion of the be­loved. Sign, seal, and send. Then wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“The north of the Compass of Prudence consists in un­furling the sails to the wind of the Favorable Moment. In these affairs waiting never does any harm. Presence takes the edge off hunger, and distance sharpens it. Maintaining your dis­tance, you will be considered a lion, while being present, you could become a mouse born of the mountain. You are cer­tainly rich in fine qualities, but qualities lose their luster if touched too often, whereas fancy travels farther than sight.”
Roberto thanked him and rushed home, concealing the letter in his bosom as if he had stolen it. He feared someone might rob him of the fruit of his theft.

I will find her, he told himself, I will bow and hand her the letter. Then he tossed in his bed, thinking how she would read it with her lips. By now he was imagining an Anna Maria Francesca Novarese endowed with all those virtues Saint-Savin had attributed to her. Declaring, even if in another’s voice, his love, he had felt more than ever a lover. Doing something uncongenial, he had been enticed by Genius. He now loved La Novarese with the exquisite violence he described in his letter.

A few days later, setting out to find the one from whom he had been so prepared to remain distant, heedless of the danger as cannon fire rained down on the city, he saw her at a street corner, laden with sheaves like a mythological figure. With great inner tumult he ran to her, not knowing quite what he would do or say.

Having approached her, trembling, he stood before her and said, “Young lady...”

“Me?” the girl answered, laughing, and said, “Well?”

“... well,” Roberto could think of nothing better to say. “Could you tell me which direction I should take for the Castle?” And the girl, throwing back her head and the great mass of her hair, said, “Oh, that way, of course.” And she turned the corner.

At that corner, as Roberto was uncertain whether or not to follow her, a whistling cannon ball fell, knocking down a garden wall and raising a cloud of dust. He coughed, waited till the dust settled, and realized that by ambling too hesitantly through the spacious fields of Time he had missed the Favor­able Moment.

To punish himself, he scrupulously tore up the letter and turned towards home, while the shreds of his heart lay crum­pled on the ground.

His first, imprecise, love convinced him forever that the beloved object must dwell in the distance, and I believe this conviction sealed his fate as a lover. During the next days he went back to every corner (where he had received information, where he had found a trail, where he had heard her men­tioned, where he had seen her) to reconstruct a landscape of memory. He thus laid out a Casale of his own passion, trans­forming alleys, fountains, squares into the River of Inclination, the Lake of Indifference, or the Sea of Hostility: he made the wounded city into the Land of his personal unsated Tender­ness, an island (presage even then) of his solitude.


The Map of Tenderness

on the night of June 29th a great noise wakened the be­sieged, followed by a rolling of drums: the enemy had managed to explode the first mine beneath the walls, blowing up a lunette and burying twenty-five soldiers. The next day, to­wards six in the evening, something like a storm was heard to the west, and in the east a cornucopia appeared, whiter than the rest of the sky, with a tip that extended and retracted. It was a comet, which upset the soldiers and led the local in­habitants to lock themselves in their houses. Over the next weeks other parts of the wall were blown up, while from the ramparts the defenders fired back in vain, for now the enemy moved underground, and the countermines were unable to dislodge him.

Roberto lived in this wreck like an alien passenger. He spent long hours discussing with Padre Emanuele the best way to describe the fires of the siege, and he saw more and more of Saint-Savin to develop with him similarly appropriate met­aphors to depict the fires of his love—whose failure he had not dared confess. Saint-Savin provided him with a stage whereon his amorous story would be happily enacted; in silence he submitted to the ignominy of drafting, with his friend, further letters, which he then pretended to deliver, rereading them every night instead, as if the diary of all those longings were addressed to him from her.

He envisaged situations in which La Novarese, pursued by Landsknechts, fell overcome into his arms as he routed the assailants and led her, exhausted, into a garden where he en­joyed her wild gratitude. On his bed he abandoned himself to such thoughts, recovered his senses after long swoons, and composed sonnets for his beloved.

He showed one to Saint-Savin, who remarked, “I consider it of an extreme repugnance, if I may say so, but console yourself: in Paris the majority of those who are called poets produce worse. Do not poetize about your love; passion de­prives you of that divine coldness that was the glory of Ca­tullus.”

Roberto found himself of melancholic humor, and said as much to Saint-Savin. “Rejoice,” his friend remarked. “Melan­choly is not the lees but the flower of the blood, and it gen­erates heroes because, on the border of madness, it spurs them to the bravest of actions.” But Roberto did not feel spurred to anything, and he became melancholy because he was not mel­ancholic enough.

Deaf to cries and cannon fire, he heard rumors of relief (the Spanish camp is in turmoil, they say the French army is advancing), and he rejoiced because in mid-July a countermine had finally succeeded in slaughtering many Spaniards; but meanwhile many lunettes were being evacuated, and in mid-July the enemy vanguard could already fire directly into the city. He learned that some Casalesi were afraid to fish in the Po, and, not worrying that he might be taking streets exposed to enemy fire, he ran to look, afraid the imperials might shoot at La Novarese.

He forced his way among the soldiers, who were discontent because their contract said nothing about the digging of trenches; but the Casalesi refused to do it for them, so Toiras had to promise his men extra pay. Like all the others, Roberto was delighted to learn that Spinola had fallen ill of the plague, and pleased to see a group of Neapolitan deserters enter the city, abandoning in fear the hostile camp threatened by the disease, though he heard Padre Emanuele say that the arrivals could themselves become a source of contagion....

In mid-September, when the plague appeared in the city, Roberto still paid no attention, except to fear that La Novarese might fall ill. Then he woke one morning with a high fever. He managed to send someone to inform Padre Emanuele, and was secretly borne to his convent, avoiding one of those make­shift lazarettoes where the sick died without fuss so as not to distract the others engaged in dying of pyrotechnics.

Roberto did not think of death: he mistook his fever for love and dreamed of touching the flesh of La Novarese, while he rumpled the folds of his pallet or fondled the sweating, aching parts of his body.

In the grip of an exuberant memory, that evening on the Daphne, as night advanced, as the sky performed its slow mo­tions, and the Southern Cross disappeared on the horizon, Roberto no longer knew whether he was burning with revived love for the warrior Diana of Casale or for the Lady equally far from his sight.

Yearning to know where she could have fled, he rushed into the cabinet of nautical instruments, where he seemed to recall there was a map of those seas. He found it: large, col­ored, and incomplete, as many maps then were incomplete out of necessity; the navigator, coming upon a new land, drew the shores he could see but left the rest unfinished, never knowing how and how much and whither that land extended. Hence the maps of the Pacific often seemed arabesques of beaches, hints of perimeters, hypotheses of volumes, and only the few circumnavigated islands were defined there, like the course of the winds learned from experience. Some cartogra­phers, to make an island recognizable, simply drew with great precision the form of the peaks and the clouds hanging over them, to render them identifiable, as you might recognize a man by his hat brim or his halting gait.

Now, on this map, the outlines of the two facing shores were visible, divided by a channel running from south to north. One of the two shores, with irregular curves, practically defined an island, and it could be his Island; but beyond a broad stretch of sea there were other groups of presumed is­lands of very similar formation, which could equally represent the place where he was.

We would err if we thought that Roberto was gripped by a geographer’s curiosity. Padre Emanuele had trained him only too well to reverse the visible through the lens of his Aristo­telian telescope; and Saint-Savin had taught him too well to foment desire through language, which can turn a maiden into a swan or a swan into a maiden, the sun into a ladle or a ladle into the sun! Late in the night we find Roberto daydreaming over the map now transformed into the desired female body.

If it is a lover’s error to write on the sands of the shore the beloved name, which is only to be washed away then by the waves, how prudent a lover Roberto felt himself, having entrusted his beloved’s body to the arcs of grottoes and gulfs, her hair to the flow of the currents through mazy archipela­goes, the summer moisture of her face to the glint of the waters, the mystery of her eyes to the blue of a vast desert— and the map repeated many times the features of that beloved body, in various attitudes of bays and promontories. Desirous, he was wrecked with his mouth on the map, he sucked in that ocean of voluptuousness, tickled a cape, hesitated to pen­etrate a strait; his cheek pressed against the page, he breathed the breath of the winds, he would have liked to savor the pools and the springs, fling himself thirsting to drink the streams dry, become sun to kiss the banks, tide to caress the secret estuaries....

However, he was to enjoy not possession but, rather, pri­vation. While, raving, he touched that vague prize of an erudite pen, Others perhaps, on the real Island—where it reclined in charming poses the map had not yet been able to capture— were biting into its fruits, bathing in its waters.... Others, stupefied and ferocious giants, extended at that moment a rough hand to its breast; misshapen Vulcans possessed that delicate Venus, grazed her mouths with the same ignorance of the fisherman of the Island Not Found who, beyond the last horizon of the Canaries, foolishly discards the rarest among pearls....

She in another’s loving hands.... This thought was the supreme intoxication, in which Roberto writhed, howling his rapier impotence. And in this frenzy, as he groped on the table as if to seize at least the hem of a skirt, his gaze slipped away from the depiction of that softly waved pacific body to another map, where the unknown author had sought perhaps to por­tray the fiery conduits of the volcanoes of the western land: it was a portulan of our entire globe, all plumes of smoke at the summits of projections of the crust or inside a tangle of dried veins; and he felt suddenly the living image of that globe, he moaned, exuding lava from every pore, the lymph of his unsatisfied satisfaction erupting, as he lost also his senses— destroyed by arid hydropsy (so he writes)—over that longed-for austral flesh.


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