The Volcano Lover

by Susan Sontag

  An odor. A taste. A touch. Impossible to describe.

  * * *

  This is a fable the Cavaliere had read in a book by one of those impious French writers he fancied, whose very names made Catherine sigh and grimace. Imagine a park with a beautiful statue of a woman, no, a statue of a beautiful woman, the statue, that is, the woman, clasping a bow and arrows, not naked but as naked (the way the marble tunic clings to her breasts and hips), not Venus but Diana (the arrows belong to her). Beautiful herself, with the headband on her ringlets, she is dead to all beauty. Now, runs the fable, let us imagine someone who is able to bring her to life. We are imagining a Pygmalion who is no artist, he did not create her but only found her in the garden, on her pedestal, a little larger than life-size, and decided to perform an experiment on her: a pedagogue, a scientist, then. Someone else made her, then abandoned her. Now she is his. And he is not infatuated with her. But he has a didactic streak and wants to see her bloom to the best of her ability. (Perhaps afterward he will fall in love with her, probably against his better judgment, and want to make love to her; but that is another fable.) So he proceeds slowly, thoughtfully, in the spirit of experiment. Desire does not urge him on, make him want everything at once.

  What does he do? How does he bring her to life? Very cautiously. He wants her to become conscious, and, holding the rather simple theory that all knowledge comes from the senses, decides to open her sensorium. Slowly, slowly. He will give her, to begin with, just one of the senses. And which does he pick? Not sight, noblest of the senses, not hearing—well, no need to run through the whole list, short as it is. Let’s hasten to relate that he first awards her, perhaps ungenerously, the most primitive sense, that of smell. (Perhaps he does not want to be seen, at least not yet.) And it should be added that, for the experiment to work, we must suppose this divine creature to have some inner existence or responsiveness beneath the impermeable surface; but this is just a hypothesis, albeit a necessary one. Nothing so far can be inferred about this inner aliveness. The goddess, beauty incarnate, does not move.

  So now the goddess of the hunt can smell. Her ovoid, slightly protruding marble eyes under her heavy brows do not see, her slightly parted lips and delicate tongue do not taste, her satiny marble skin would not feel your skin or mine, her lovely shell-like ears do not hear, but her chiseled nostrils receive all odors, near and far. She smells the sycamores and poplar trees, resinous, acrid, she can smell the tiny shit of worms, she smells the polish on soldiers’ boots, and roasted chestnuts, and bacon burning, she can smell the wisteria and heliotrope and lemon trees, she can smell the rank odor of deer and wild boar fleeing the royal hounds and the three thousand beaters in the King’s employ, the effusions of a couple copulating in the nearby bushes, the sweet smell of the freshly cut lawn, the smoke from the chimneys of the palace, from far away the fat King on the privy, she can even smell the rain-lashed erosion of the marble of which she is made, the odor of death (though she knows nothing of death).

  There are odors she does not smell, because she is in a garden—or because she is in the past. She is spared city smells, like those of the slops and swill thrown from windows onto the street during the night. And the little cars with two-stroke engines and the bricks of soft brown coal (the smell of Eastern Europe in the second half of our century), the chemical plants and oil refineries outside Newark, cigarette smoke … But why say spared? She would relish these odors, too. Indeed, it comes from a great distance, she smells the future.

  And all these odors, which we think of as good or bad, putrid or enchanting, flood her, suffuse every marble particle of which she is made. She would tremble with pleasure if she could, but she has not been granted the power of movement, not even of breathing. This is a man teaching, emancipating—deciding what’s best for—a woman, and therefore moving circumspectly, not inclined to go all the way, quite comfortable with the idea of creating a limited being—the better to be, to stay, beautiful. (Impossible to imagine the fable with a woman scientist and a beautiful statue of Hippolytus; that is, a statue of the beautiful Hippolytus.) So the deity of the hunt has only the sense of smell, the world inside herself, no space; but time is born, because one smell succeeds, dominates another. And with time, eternity. To have smell, only smell, means she is a being-who-smells and therefore wants to go on smelling (desire wills its perpetuation ad infinitum). But odors do vanish sometimes (indeed, some were gone so quickly!), though some return. And when an odor fades, she feels—is—diminished. She begins to dream, this consciousness-that-smells, of how she could retain the odors, by storing them up inside herself, so she would never lose them. And this is how, later, space emerges, inner space only, as Diana began to wish that she could hold different odors in different parts of her marble body: the dog shit in her left leg, the heliotrope in an elbow, sweetness of the freshly cut grass in her groin. She cherished them, wanted them all. She experiences pain, not the pain (more precisely, displeasure) of a bad odor, for she knows nothing of good or bad, cannot afford to make this luxurious distinction (every odor is good, because any odor is better than no odor, oblivion), but the pain of loss. Every pleasure—and smelling, whatever she smells, is pure pleasure—becomes an experience of anticipated loss. She wants, if only she knew how, to become a collector.

  4

  Another winter. A month of animal massacres with the King at the foot of the Apennines, Christmas balls, some eminent foreign visitors to entertain, his burgeoning correspondence with learned societies, an excursion with Catherine to Apulia to look at some new excavations, their weekly concerts (but Catherine is ailing). The mountain, draped in snow, fussed and fumed. The Cavaliere’s collection of paintings, hitherto distinctly Old Masterish, now included several dozen gouaches and oils by local artists depicting the volcanic scenery and the natives in gaudy costume, frolicking. These are priced very cheaply (by the palm or yard of canvas painted) and hang in the gallery leading to his study. He attended the miracle staged in the cathedral twice a year, on which the city’s well-being was believed to depend: the liquefying of a lump of the patron saint’s blood. The city’s best-known lump of superstition. Looking about for less familiar enactments of the local backwardness, the Cavaliere arranged for an audience with the famous sibyl Efrosina Pumo.

  At first it was all atmosphere, the crooked street, the crumbling masonry, the battered door with the undecipherable writing on it, the woman’s low dank room with whitewashed walls and soot-stained ceiling, the guttering votive candles, the cauldron on the fire, the straw matting on the tile floor, the black dog rushing to sniff his crotch. Leaving Valerio outside with a clutch of the sibyl’s clients waiting for their ration of soothsaying and healing, the Cavaliere was feeling rather, well, Voltairean: in an ethnological mood. On his own. A tourist of other people’s superstitions. Feeling superior, enjoying the feeling of being superior, disdainful of all superstitions, magic, zealotry, irrationality, yet not averse to the prospect of being surprised, confounded. Willing to hear a dead voice resound, watch a table prance, have this utter stranger divine the baby name he had called his mother, describe the raspberry mole on his groin … for then it would be after all, if not as vulgarly as is thought here, a miraculous world.

  Instead, and one must be content with that, it was a world of wonders. Beauties. Marvels, chief among them the volcano. But no miracles, no.

  It is said that some years earlier the woman predicted the month and year of both eruptions, the lesser and the greater, that had recently disturbed the volcano’s long slumber. He intends to make her speak of that. But of course he cannot come to the point right away, as he knows from more than a decade among these indolent, sly people. He must listen to many servile expressions of gratitude at the honor of being visited by the most excellent and exalted Cavaliere, the dearest friend and counselor of the young King (may age bring him wisdom!), who had deigned to lower his head to enter her humble abode. He must sip a sweetish brew that she calls tea, served by a lanky boy of around fif
teen whose left eye is like a quail egg, and allow his slim hand to lie open in her plushy palm.

  She started by telling him he will have a long life, at which the Cavaliere raised his eyebrows, wrinkled his nose.

  A long life here, she murmured. Not what the Cavaliere enjoys imagining, and this was an exercise in imagination. He was still expecting Naples to be succeeded by a better post; say, Madrid. Or Vienna.

  Then she told him that a great happiness lay before him.

  Let us talk of other matters than my fate, said the Cavaliere, withdrawing his hand from her inspection. Actually, I am not seeking information about myself at all.

  Really? Then His Excellency is indeed an unusual man, which I have every reason to believe. What man is not interested in himself?

  Oh, said the Cavaliere. I pretend to no disinterestedness. I am as self-loving as the next man.

  He guessed her to be about fifty, though one could never be sure with the inhabitants known as “the people” (that is, most people), since they, especially the women, usually looked older than they were. A shrewd, handsome face with amber, no, green eyes, with a strong chin, with greying hair braided and piled on her head; a squarish body whose outline was blurred by the volumes of pink and russet shawls that hung from her shoulders. She sat against an arched wall on a large oak chair. The Cavaliere had been ceremoniously installed in a chair piled with some ruptured cushions intended for his comfort.

  Most of those who consult me want to know when they will fall in love, she was saying. Or come into an inheritance. Or die.

  The Cavaliere replied that he was extremely fond of his wife, that he knew his prospects of inheritance to be nil. And that only a fool would want to learn the date of his death and poison the time still left to him.

  His Excellency seems to think he is old.

  I have never felt young, he said irritably. It feels like a new thought. This would-be sibyl had not surprised him yet but he had already surprised himself.

  And such feelings keep you younger than your age now, she said with a rather theatrical wave of her arm. About youth and age Efrosina is … an expert! I’ve told His Excellency that he will live for many years more. Isn’t that what everyone wants to hear?

  He did not answer.

  His Excellency is not curious?

  On the contrary, he said sharply, I am exceptionally curious. Curiosity has brought me … here.

  He made a gesture that said: this room, this country, this nonsense. I must be patient, he said to himself. I am among savages. Glancing away from the woman, he intercepted the one-eyed gaze of the boy—a servant? her acolyte?—squatting in the corner, who had the same penetrating look as she, more eloquent because halved.

  I’m curious to learn how exactly you proceed. Do you read cards or consult the entrails of animals or chew on bitter leaves and fall into a trance—

  You are impatient, my lord. A true son of the north.

  How interesting, the Cavaliere thought. The woman is no fool. She wants to converse with me, not merely show me her tricks.

  Efrosina lowered her head for a moment, sighed, then nodded to the boy, who took something wrapped in a malachite-green cloth from the corner cupboard and set it down on the trestle table between them. Under the cloth, which she removed slowly, was a lidless box of thick milky glass. Staring fixedly at the box, she laid the cloth over her bosom like a bib, muttered some inaudible words, made a few passes in the air, then crossed herself and bowed her head. The performance had started. Ah, said the Cavaliere, encouragingly.

  I see too much, she whispered.

  The Cavaliere, who always wants to see more, smiled to himself, relishing the contrast.

  She lifted her face, eyes gone wide, her mouth twitching.

  No, I do not want to see disasters! No!

  The Cavaliere nodded in appreciation of the drama of the struggle against knowledge being concocted for his benefit. Sighing, she raised the cube with both hands before her face.

  I see … I see water! Her voice had gone hoarse. Yes! And the bottom of a sea strewn with open chests, spilling out their treasure. I see a boat, a colossal boat—

  Oh, water, he interrupted. Then earth. Then air, and I suppose we shall get to fire before nightfall.

  She set the cube down. Her voice returned to its normal insinuating smoothness. But His Excellency likes water. All Naples enjoys seeing him out in his boat through the long day fishing in our splendid bay.

  And I climb the mountain. This is known, too.

  Yes, His Excellency is admired for his bravery.

  He did not reply.

  Perhaps His Excellency is interested in his death after all.

  Death, death. He was closing the valves of his attention.

  If I cannot reassure you, she was saying, can I frighten you, my lord?

  I am not easily frightened.

  But you have already, more than once, just missed being struck by a fiery missile. You could lean over and lose your balance. You could descend and not be able to climb out.

  I am very surefooted.

  You know how temperamental the mountain is. Anything can happen from one moment to the next.

  I am very adaptable, he said. And to himself: I am observing, I am collecting evidence. He shifted his weight in the cane chair.

  I am breathing, he said.

  The closeness of the room was making him groggy. He heard her whispering, the boy leaving the room, a large clock ticking, a fly buzzing, a dog barking, church bells, a tambourine, a water seller’s cry. A magma of sounds that fell away to reveal a silence, and behind that but more distinct, as if separately wrapped, the clock, the voices, the bells, the dog, the cry, the boy returning, the sound of his own heartbeat, and then silence. The Cavaliere was trying to hear a voice, a very faint, barely audible voice, while this large full-bodied voice droned on about the dangers of the mountain. He is still trying to hear the voice. Determined in his pursuit of experience, the Cavaliere is good at paying attention. You pivot your mind, train it on something fixedly: mental staring. Easy once you know you can do it. It needn’t be dark. It’s all inside.

  Are you awake?

  I am always awake, declared the Cavaliere. He had closed his eyes.

  Now you are really listening, my lord.

  From far inside his head he remembered to wonder why he was sitting here, and then recalled that it would be amusing to relate this exploit to his friends.

  Shall we start with the past? Efrosina’s voice asked.

  What? he said querulously. The question was repeated. He shook his head. Not the past!

  Even, she said, if I could raise the spirit of your mother?

  Heaven forbid! exclaimed the Cavaliere, opening his eyes to meet her odd, penetrating stare. Since people here always claim to adore their mothers, perhaps they do, so she couldn’t know how unwelcome would be even an imaginary visitation of that unaffectionate, august beauty from whom he learned as a small child to expect nothing. Nothing.

  I should like to hear about the future, he muttered. He had forgotten to wonder why Efrosina would assume his mother was dead, until he remembered: he was old, so she would now be very old. Not beautiful.

  The near future, he added prudently.

  He closed his eyes again, without meaning to, then opened them at a farrago of convulsive sounds.

  Efrosina had gone pale. She was staring into the cube, groaning and hissing.

  I don’t like what I see. My lord, why have you asked me to look into the future? No. No. No …

  Trembling, sweating profusely, racked by violent coughs and hiccups, she was putting on a show of being extremely uncomfortable. No, surely that was not right, for someone who trembles, who sweats, who coughs and hiccups is uncomfortable. But it is still a show.

  Let’s go on with the game.

  Are you seeing something? Something about the volcano?

  She cannot fail to come to the point now.

  I told the Cavaliere he was not old,
she murmured huskily. I am old! My God, what a sight I am. Ah. I see, just when I get too old I will be saved. I will become young again. I will live for centuries! Next—she began to laugh—next I will be Emilia. Then Eusapia. Yes, then I will travel to many places, as Eusapia Paladina I will be famous everywhere and even the American professor will be interested in me. Then, where was I—she wiped her eyes with the edge of a shawl—yes, Eleanora. Eleanora is very bad—she laughs. But … then I leave Naples and move to London and I am Ellie and am head of a large—

  The volcano! exclaimed the Cavaliere. Having directed Efrosina that the séance was not to be about his personal destiny, he hardly expected her to launch into this incomprehensible rant about herself.

  Do you see when it will erupt again?

  Efrosina looked at him impudently. My lord, I will see what you want me to look at.

  She leaned forward, blew out the candle on the table, and peered into the cube. And now I see it. Oh—she shook her head in ostentatious wonderment—oh, how ugly.

  What?

  I see a blackened ruin. The cone is gone.

  He asked when this would happen.

  So changed, she continued. All the woods are gone. There are no more horses. There is a black road. Now I see something quite comical. Droves of people laboring up the mountain, pushing each other. Everyone seems so tall. Tall like you, my lord. But wearing such strange clothes, you can’t tell the gentlefolk from the servants, they all look like servants. And near the top … someone in a little cabin selling pieces of lava and boxes of colored rocks, blue and red and yellow, and scarves and plates with pictures of the mountain. Oh, I fear I have gone too far forward.