Planus (6 page)

Parents commit these errors with the best of intentions and out of snobbery. I do not know who recommended Lily to us; she stayed with us for years.

'Down, Leone, down! You stupid old thing. You don't understand. This is a serious game. Watch....'

But Leone made me laugh. And then, to tease him, I set a hundred tops spinning right under his nose, and Leone dashed off, skidding on the marble paving of the corridor of the ante-chamber, as, twenty years later, in 1915, I was to see Guynemer's 'Old Charles' dash off buzzing among the shells and explosions of the front line. To catch what? Nothing at all! Unless Guynemer's little SPAD, unknown to us all, was the ancestor of that premonitory aircraft, the Flying Fortress 'Enola Gay' flown by Captain Paul W. Tibbets, which a quarter of a century later, on 6th August, 1945, at 9.15 a.m. to be exact, was to raise a mushroom of monstrous reality : lightning, clouds, smoke, wind, explosion, deluge, sparks, death by disintegration, radiation, irradiation, long-drawn-out, slow dying, leprosy and chancre, sores, burns, death. Today, fifty years later, that is what my dog makes me think of. I would have called him Bikini if I had known. At a single stroke, 150,000 human beings volatized in the fraction of a second. Not even time to say 'Shit!'.... And all around the point where it dropped, for a circumference of some twenty miles, 150,000 others, lying helpless, like tops on their side. Pompeii, Hiroshima. Splendid progress! Now all you have to do is push a button . . . and for a trial run it was not bad, it was very promising. It seems they will be able to do even better next time. Bravo! But doesn't Franklin D. Roosevelt, the Champion of Peace and Democracy, know that he will be condemned and cursed by the nations for having ordered, encouraged and financed 'that thing'? It is indeed the action of a paralytic who feels the lightning- stroke in his brain and his head lolling forward in his wheelchair in the family tomb, and clutches hold of anything, wanting to drag it all down with him. (Exactly like Hitler, who was a paranoiac, a frenzied madman who felt himself a prisoner of the external world, and who, between bouts of gazing at himself in the mirror with morbid delight, kicked out at the world, dancing with rage and shouting because he could not liberate himself from his own reflection !) But what a weird kind of democracy is lauded in the peace of cemeteries by the thurifers, the would-be imitators and epigons of the President of the USA, all of them failed or passed over by the Brains Trust!

Leone was run over by a tramcar, not even an electric one, just a mule-drawn vehicle. I was very upset. He still had enough strength left to cross the road, dragging himself along on his forepaws, since his hind quarters were almost completely severed. He did not understand what had happened to him. I stroked his dear head, he licked my hands, had a convulsion and one final twitch, then a bloody turd came out of his behin,d and a clot of blood from his mouth. Poor beast! My dog was too gay, too frisky.

The child was born, but it was another girl, Monella, a sweet little frog, like the ones in the pond, and she was soon forgotten, for she lived only two or three days. The day after her funeral, when the professional weepers had left, and Signora Rosa, still languishing on her bed, weeping bitter tears and, invoking the Holy Virgin, filled the house with her despairing cries, Ricordi sent the household in a carriage to the royal palace, where everyone who was anyone amongst the local nobility, or had been awarded an honorary title, or had any claim to distinction of any kind, from the tenors and prima donnas of the Teatro San Carlo to the court provisioners, including even some eminent foreigners, had been invited to pass in procession before the empty cradle of the little Prince of Piedmont, son of the Heir Apparent, the Prince of Naples, the future Vittorio Emanuele III.

While we awaited our turn to go in, with the carriage parked in front of the palace, Ricordi, who was in a good humour now that he was about to approach his patron and present his family to him, indulged in jokes, and, to amuse the girls, he showed them the figures decorating the facade and pointed out, at the level of the mezzanine floor, those four generals of the time of Charles-Albert, nephew of the King of Sardinia, each standing in his niche in full- dress uniform, bareheaded, with his bicorne tucked under his arm or held in the left hand, proud, pigeon-chested, shaking their index fingers or their hands or arms, poses and gestures which Ricordi described in the following fashion :

'The first general, who is holding his right arm in front of him and pointing into space, asserts without fear of contradiction : "Someone has farted!" The second, with his chin in his right hand, his index finger on the wing of his nose, his eye distracted, has a pensive air and declares suspiciously: "You're right, there's a stink!" The third, his nose in the air, his right hand over his heart, his fingers splayed out upon his decorations, impetuous and superb, knowing no one will dare to doubt his word for fear his hand will fly to his sword, declares defiantly, his eyes ablaze: "I swear it was not I!" The fourth, with his right arm raised in the air, and pointing with his outstretched finger to the window of the Queen's bedroom, which is just above his head, stands with his eyelids closed, his nostrils dilated, his body slightly bent forward as if in obeisance, his lips parted, his face ecstatic, and gives thanks: "Everything comes from On High!" '

After this witticism of the speaking statues, a piece of typical Mediterranean humour, which is always carnal, often scabrous, bordering on the eschatological, and can only be expressed by letting out a great guffaw of pagan laughter, devoid of gentility, malice or misunderstanding, our turn had arrived, and the irreverent courtier and zealous photographer, suddenly impatient and buzzing about like a horse-fly, pushing us, growing expansive and saluting importantly all around, bowing and scraping thousands of times, so as not to pass unnoticed, watching over his daughters, tying this one's ribbons and smoothing that one's skirts with the back of his hand, rearranging the curls of the eldest girl and fanning Elena with a perfumed handkerchief which he whisked out of his shirt-front, tugging at my lace collar, spreading out his tails like a peacock, shooing my brother and sister ahead, made us climb the grand staircase where footmen in satin breeches and white hem-stitched stockings were lined up, proceed rapidly through the gallery between a double hedge of impassive guards in gala uniform, varnished high-boots with gold spurs, leather breeches, helmets trimmed with horsehair or leopard-skin, shoulder-belts, gauntlets, straight swords or sabres held at eye-level, stiff and motionless, and cross the State apartments full of braided chamberlains, cavaliers in embroidered capes, decorated aides-de-camp, persons covered in orders, crosses, diamond Grand Grosses, St Andrew's Crosses, a wide ribbon cutting their shirts that were as stiff as breastplates into two, and great ladies wearing dresses with trains, agitating their fans, their heads splendidly arrayed, their ears, shoulders, arms, wrists, fingers scintillating with gems, their gloves reaching above the elbow or pleated and folded back like angel's skin, their eyes extraordinarily severe or grave or profound or staring or astonished or hard in the anxious, unmade-up faces, between the aigrettes or plumes which quivered in their headdresses, rows of pearls or heavy necklaces encircled their necks, and the other family jewels, redeemed for twenty-four hours from the pawnbroker, adorned their brows — gold coronets, tiaras, hair ornaments — and they sported the frills and furbelows of Parisian fashion on this day of royal audience, for it was considered a signal favour to be permitted to penetrate into the little red and gold salon, all in Cordoba leather, embossed with escutcheons and coats of arms, reserved for the most intimate courtiers. Finally Ricordi, like a general parading a
corps d'elite,
or a ballet mistress her pupils, made us perform a deep reverence to the Prince of Naples, His Most Serene Patron, who deigned to interrupt his conversation long enough to smile at us and then dismiss us with a flick of his finger. We tiptoed into an adjoining room and bowed one after the other to what we children believed was the Prince of Piedmont, a sleeping infant held in the arms of the Duchess of Caserta, who was dressed for the occasion in the sumptuous peasant costume of some province (it might well have been, Savoy!), and looked like a classic, kindly, fat nanny, surrounded by other servants very charmingly dressed in the costumes of all the other provinces, Tuscany, Venice, Lombardy, Calabria, Sicily, la Puglia (but not Romagna or the papal states!). The little Prince of the Blood Royal slept with clenched fists, his thumbs tucked in, as babies often do when prevented from sucking them, and as the great painter, Vereschtaguine, has depicted the corpses strewn over the battlefields in his historical paintings of the Wars of Holy Russia, including a large oblong canvas which we discovered in the next room (and which I could not take my eyes off), in which all the dead were sleeping like the royal baby, with fists clenched and thumbs tucked in. Also in this room were the baby's mother, the Crown Princess, and his grandmother, the Queen, wife of Umberto I, King of Italy. We merely walked through this red and blue drawing-room, follow-my-leader fashion, dropping curtseys at every moment, in imitation of my little girl friend's father, who was bowing before the august ladies while at the same time dragging us out backwards and allowing us no time to pause before the famous canvas. Later, my father's friend often had the bad grace to reproach us about this, complaining that children never paid attention or listened to what they were taught. At last we were able to admire the object we had come to see, the Infanta's cradle, presented by the people of Naples to the son of their beloved Prince. For a year past all society had been hailing it as the seventh wonder of the world, and photographs of it had appeared on the front pages of all the newspapers. Ricordi, who had photographed this fragile royal cradle from every possible angle, held forth about it, went into raptures, swaggered and strutted as if he himself had designed it or been the master craftsman of the work. Vanity of vanities, all photographers are the same, believing themselves to be creators, while the hardware dealer thinks he is a philosopher, the chemist that he is a doctor, the colour merchant that he is a painter, and the publisher that he is the author of the immortal works he publishes. As for a Stokowski or a Toscanini, he takes himself for Beethoven in person ! It is a stupid mentality dating from the beginning of the twentieth century, and which Stendhal and Baudelaire were the first to denounce, tearing Franklin and Americanism to shreds. It is bombast which takes on the proportions and virulence of cancer and will stifle the modern world and undermine it, if machines and technology have not already blown it sky-high.

This empty cradle was a masterpiece of the goldsmith's art, inlaid with mother of pearl and silver, decorated with shells depicting mythological scenes, and with priceless cameos, and I have never since seen such richness of detail, such a florid choice of precious materials, neither in the palaces of the world nor in any description of famous cribs, nor later, in China, where I saw many curious baroque pieces, and not even in London, when Gaby Deslys' bed was put up for auction after her death. It was an immense, courtesan's bed, made of solid gold intricately worked, and perfectly round in shape, so that it was possible for a number of people to sleep, heads to centre, feet to the periphery, and the round mattress and pillows, the round sheets and blankets, were made up in a curious fashion to allow for the thirty-two positions. (It was the Marquis de Zuttes who bought this extraordinary bed and installed it in one of his many castles in Spain or Scotland, the profits from the sale being given to the poor in the workhouses of Marseille, in accordance with the will of the testatrix, Alice Caire, known as Gaby Deslys, who was a native of that city.)

The visit to the palace took place during the morning. Towards noon we went to join my father, who was waiting for us at one of the most famous catering establishments in the city where all high society flocked, but we did not have time to do justice to this excellent lunch, for Ricordi's passion for mingling with the great was so pressing that he hustled us away before dessert, dragging us off at a gallop to the official stands which had been erected along the sea-front, so that we could watch the review of the fleet, the first squadron of large warships of which Italy could be justly proud, and the march past of troops which followed; the army of Abyssinia — poor fellows, that was the first time in my life I ever pitied soldiers! — the army of Abyssinia was wildly acclaimed by an enormous crowd, delirious with joy and excitement. At nightfall a fantastic display of fireworks burst forth, the fleet at anchor in the gulf bombarding the illuminated city with millions and dozens of millions of rockets and multicoloured flares and the forts replying with as much thunder and explosion from the summits of all the surrounding hills, then, about midnight, there was a monstrous set- piece to crown it all, a conflagration of sky and sea fit to put Vesuvius in the shade, and which only pyrotechnists like the Ruggieri brothers of Venice, experts for many generations who have practised their art at all the festivals and public celebrations from end to end of Europe ever since the sixteenth century, would dare to mount, suggestive of a catastrophe ending in an apotheosis. . . . But I was dropping with fatigue.

Personally, I remember nothing about it, but it seems that, for our little group, I was the hero of the day. I heard the tale so often when I was small, and now today I can tell it in my turn.

Ricordi had installed us in the box belonging to Crispi, the famous Italian statesman, founder of the Triple Alliance, that first draft for the Axis, but an elastic draft (and in those days elastic was not yet synthetic!), and the first President of the Council to set the Government's feet on that slippery slope down which Italy was to slither into the arms of Germany, the King to curl up in the Kaiser's lap and turn somersaults, the Duce nervously to embrace the Fuehrer and thus drag him into oblivion a few years later, the whole dynasty being strangled as if by a monstrous hernia, since all the characters in the tragedy were intertwined like Laocoon and his sons in the coils and knots of the serpent.