by Susan Sontag
Don’t, said the Cavaliere.
The future is a hole, Efrosina murmured. When you fall in it, you cannot be sure how far you will go. You asked me to look and I do not control how far I see. But I see … Yes.
What?
Twenty-six.
And she looked up.
Twenty-six eruptions? You see that many?
Years, my lord.
Years?
How many you have. It is a good number. Do not be angry with me, my lord.
She busied herself relighting the candle, as if to avoid looking at him. The Cavaliere flushed with annoyance. Was there more? No. She was taking the cloth from her breast, she covered the cube.
I have disappointed you, I know. But come again. Each time I see something different. Forgive Efrosina that she does not tell you more about the volcano today.
A slow burn of noise outside the door.
People come to me with many fears, she said. I cannot relieve them all.
Someone was knocking. Perhaps it was Valerio.
I promise we will speak about it next time, she was saying. (The fear? The volcano?) She will talk with her son who has climbed the volcano since he was a child and knows its secrets.
The Cavaliere did not understand whom she was talking about. But deciding he had wasted enough time on this evasive display of the clairvoyant’s powers, he reached into his purse to put some money on the table. Efrosina stopped him with an imperious gesture, declaring that the honor of His Excellency’s visit was payment enough and that it was she who wished to present him with a gift, and directed Tolo or was it Barto—what did she call the one-eyed boy?—to accompany the Cavaliere and his servant home.
* * *
The Cavaliere thought of himself as—no, was—an envoy of decorum and reason. (Isn’t that what the study of ancient art teaches us?) Besides a most profitable investment and the exercise of his collecting lust, there was a moral in these stones, these shards, these dimmed objects of marble and silver and glass: models of perfection and harmony. The antiquity that was uncouth, alert to the demonic, was largely hidden from these early patrons of antiquity. What he overlooked in antiquity, what he was not prepared to see, he cherished in the volcano: the uncouth holes and hollows, dark grottoes, clefts and precipices and cataracts, pits within pits, rocks under rocks—the rubbish and the violence, the danger, the imperfection.
Few ever see what is not already inside their heads. The Cavaliere’s great predecessor of a century earlier in the love of volcanoes, Athanasius Kircher, had watched Etna and Vesuvius in action and had himself lowered by a pulley into their craters. But these bold close-up observations, undertaken at such risk and with so much discomfort (how his eyes must have stung from the fumes, how his torso must have ached from the ropes), did not deter the wily Jesuit from proposing a wholly imagined account of the volcano’s insides. The pictures illustrating his Mundus Subterraneus show Vesuvius, in cross section, as a hollow shell enclosing another world, furnished with sky, trees, mountains, valleys, caverns, rivers of water as well as of fire.
The Cavaliere wondered if he dared try a descent into the volcano, while it still remained quiet. Of course, he no more envisaged that he would find Kircher’s netherworld than he thought the volcano was the mouth of hell or that an eruption, like a famine, was a divine chastisement. He was a rational person, afloat in a sea of superstition. A connoisseur of ruins, like his friend Piranesi in Rome, for what was the mountain if not a great ruin? A ruin which could come alive and cause further ruin.
In the plates he commissioned to illustrate the two folio volumes he had made recently of his “volcanic letters” to the Royal Society, the Cavaliere appears in some of the pictures, on foot or on horseback. In one he is watching his groom bathe in Lake Avernus; in another—a memorable occasion—escorting the royal party to the brink of a chasm into which the lava was coursing. A snowy landscape, in which the mountain looks particularly serene, has no observer, but most pictures that show the odd shapes and mutations produced by volcanic activity have some human figures: a spectacle requires the depiction of a gaze. Erupting is its nature, the nature of a volcano, even if it does so only now and then. That would be the picture … if you choose to have only one.
As Vesuvius neared another eruption, the Cavaliere climbed more often, partly to taste how fearless he had become. Was it the sibyl’s prediction of a long life? Sometimes he felt safer making his way up the seething mountain than anywhere else.
The mountain provided a different experience from anything else, a different measure. The land has spread, the sky has grown, the gulf has widened. You don’t have to remember who you are.
He is standing at the summit in the late afternoon. Watching the steady decline of the sun, ever larger, ever redder, more succulent, toward the sea. Waiting for the most beautiful moment, the one he would like to prolong, when the sun falls to the horizon, for a second sits on a pedestal of itself—before dropping with sickening finality behind the sea line. Around him the atrocious din of the volcano, preparing for the next eruption. Fantasies of omnipotence. To magnify this. To make that cease. To cut the sound. As in the rear of the orchestra, the timpanist, having drawn a roulade of booming sound from the two great drums before him, swiftly lays down his mallets and extinguishes the sound by putting his palms so lightly, so firmly, on the head of the drum, then lowers his ear to the drum to make sure it is still in tune (the delicacy of these gestures after the portentous motions of pounding and banging)—so one could silence a thought, a feeling, a fear.
* * *
The narrow street. A leper who lay in the sun. Whining dogs. Other visits to Efrosina Pumo in her lower room.
The Cavaliere continued to surprise himself. He whom everyone, including himself, thought so sceptical—impervious, to Catherine’s despair, to any appeals of religion, an atheist by temperament as well as conviction—was the secret client of a vulgar soothsayer. It had to remain a secret because if he told anyone he would have to deride it. And then it would be nonsense. His words would slay the magic. But as long as his visits went unreported the experience could stay suspended in his mind. True as well as not true. Convincing as well as unconvincing.
The Cavaliere relished having a secret, a little weakness he could indulge in himself, an endearing frailty. No one should be entirely consistent. Like his century, the Cavaliere was less rational than has been reported.
The sleep of reason engenders mothers. This large-bosomed woman with cracked fingernails and a peculiar gaze teased him, amused him, challenged him. He enjoyed sparring with her.
She spoke oracularly of her powers, she proclaimed her dual citizenship in the past and in the future. The future exists in the present, she said. The future, as she described it, seemed to be the present gone awry. A terrifying prospect, he thought. Luckily, I shall not see much of it. Then he recalled that she had prophesied for him another quarter of a century. May the future not arrive till after then!
* * *
On his third or fourth visit, she offered at last to read the cards for him.
The boy brought over a wooden box. Efrosina opened the lid and took out the Tarot deck, which she placed, still wrapped in a square of purple silk, at the center of the table. (Anything precious must be stored wrapped, and unwrapped slowly, slowly.) After freeing the cards from their wrapper she spread the silk cloth across the table. (Anything precious must be shielded from contact with a vulgar surface.) She shuffled the cards, then handed them to the Cavaliere to reshuffle.
They were greasy to his touch. And, unlike the beautiful hand-painted cards he had seen in the drawing rooms of noble families, these were printed from woodblocks, with crude, smudged colors.
When she took them back, she caressed them into a fan shape, stared at them for a moment, then shut her eyes.
I am making the colors bright in my mind, she murmured.
Indeed, the Cavaliere said, the colors are faded.
I’m imagining the character
s, she said. I know them. They are starting to move. I am watching how they move, I see the breeze rustling their garments. I see the swish of the horse’s tail.
Opening her eyes, she cocked her head. I smell the grass, I hear the forest birds, the sounds of water and moving feet.
They are only pictures, said the Cavaliere, surprising himself by his impatience: with Efrosina? or with pictures?
Closing the deck, she held it out for him to pick a card.
Is it not customary to lay out a spread?
This is Efrosina’s way, my lord.
He pulled out one card and returned it. Ah, she exclaimed, His Excellency has picked himself.
The Cavaliere, smiling: And what do you learn about me from the card?
She looked down at the card, hesitated, then said in a singsong tone: That you are … a patron of the arts and sciences … adept at diverting the tides of fortune into channels that suit your ends … ambitious for power … preferring to work behind the scenes … reluctant to take others into your confidence … I could go on—she looked up—but tell Efrosina, am I right, my lord?
You say this because you know who I am.
My lord, this is the meaning of the card. I inven nothing.
And I, I learn nothing. Let me see.
On the card she passed him between her second and third fingers was a crude drawing of a man dressed in elegant ropes, holding a large cup or vase in his right hand, his left arm resting negligently on the side of his throne. No.
But it is His Excellency. The King of Cups. It could be no other.
She upturned the deck and spread the cards on the large silk square to show him that each was different, that he might have given her any card of the seventy-eight. But he had picked this one.
All right. The next card.
Efrosina shuffled the deck and held it out to him. This time, he looked at the card he selected before giving it to her. A woman holding a large cup or vase in her left hand, a woman in a long flowing dress, on a more modestly proportioned throne.
She nodded. His Excellency’s wife.
Why? he said irritably.
The Queen of Cups is very artistically gifted, Efrosina said. Yes, and affectionate … and romantic … something otherworldly about her, you feel that … and unusually perceptive … with an inner beauty that does not depend on external aids … and without any—
Enough, said the Cavaliere.
Do I describe His Excellency’s wife or do I not?
You describe the way all women wish to be described.
Perhaps. But not as all women are. Tell Efrosina if she has described truly or not.
There is a resemblance, said the Cavaliere grudgingly.
Is His Excellency prepared for another card?
Why not, thought the Cavaliere, with the next card we shall at least leave my family. He picked another card.
Ah …
What?
Enthusiastic … amiable … a bringer of ideas, offers, and opportunities … artistic and refined … often bored, in need of constant stimulation … with high principles, but easily led … That is the Knight of Cups!
Efrosina studied the cards a moment. A person capable of great duplicity, my lord.
She looked at him. His Excellency recognizes the man I describe, I can see it on his face. Someone to whom he is closely related. Not a son. Not a brother. Perhaps—
Let me see the card, said the Cavaliere.
The card showed Charles as a young man on horseback, bareheaded, with long hair falling around his shoulders, dressed in a simple tunic and short cloak, who holds a cup or vase before him as if offering it to someone ahead. The Cavaliere handed it back to Efrosina.
I cannot imagine who it could be, he said.
She looked at him quizzically. Shall we try one more? You do not believe Efrosina. But the cards do not lie. Watch while I shuffle them thoroughly.
Another card, another young man, it seemed.
But this is astounding, cried Efrosina. Never in a lifetime of reading the cards has someone drawn four consecutive cards in the same suit.
The card he had picked showed a young man who walks along a path, staring fixedly at the large vessel he grasps with his left hand and supports with the palm of his right. The top of the cup is covered by a fold of his cloak, as if to hide its contents. He wears a short tunic that shows his hips and the bulge of his genitals.
The Knave of Cups, she said solemnly, is a poetic youth much given to … reflection and study … with a great appreciation of beauty but perhaps not enough … application to become an artist … another young relative … I cannot see, but I think he is a friend of your wife … who will—
The Cavaliere waved his hand impatiently. Show me something else, some other skill, he said. I am interested in all your tricks.
One more card, my lord.
One more. Sighing pointedly, he reached out and took another, a last.
Ah, this is for me, Efrosina exclaimed. But also for you. What luck!
Not another member of the Vase family, I trust.
She shook her head, smiling, and held up the card.
His Excellency does not recognize the fair-haired youth carrying a satchel of indigo leather slung over his shoulder and a butterfly net?
The Cavaliere did not reply.
His Excellency does not see that the youth is stepping off a precipice?
Precipice?
But there is no danger, she went on, since he is immortal.
I don’t see any of that! Who is it?
The Fool.
And who is the Fool? cried the Cavaliere, flushing. The one-eyed boy stepped from the shadows in the corner.
My son.
* * *
At Efrosina’s another time.
She told him she could put him into a trance, though she was not sure he would like that. His Excellency wants to see what he already sees.
It took some urging to persuade her. All but the votive candle was extinguished. A drink was brought by young Pumo. The Cavaliere leaned back in his chair.
I see nothing, he said.
Close your eyes, my lord.
He drifted. He let the lethargy that was under the energy rise up and sweep over him. He let his temperament, like a retractile bridge, slide open to let the big ship of a vision pass through.
Open your eyes …
The room had disappeared. There must have been some opiate in the drink, which made him imagine himself inside a giant dungeon, a grotto, a cavern. It was shimmering with pictures. The walls were milky white like the glass box she had showed him on his first visit, like the King’s fat hands. On one wall he saw a crowd of dancing figures.
Do you see your mother? Efrosina’s voice asked. People always see their mothers.
Of course I don’t see my mother, said the Cavaliere, rubbing his eyes.
But do you see the volcano?
He was starting to hear a low diffused hissing, rattling. An almost silent noise, like the nearly immobile movement of the dancers.
The noise and the movement of melancholy.
I see fire, said the Cavaliere.
He wanted to see fire. What he saw was the blackened, leveled summit she had spoken of. The mountain entombed, lying in its rubbish. He saw it for a moment, although he would forget it afterward: the terrible future. The bay without fish, without the swimming children; the mountain’s plumeless top a desolate cinder heap. What has happened to the beautiful world, cried the Cavaliere, and flung his hand toward the candle on the table as if to will it lit again.
5
The Marquis de Sade described Italy—he was there in 1776, and met the Cavaliere, who was about to take another leave—as “the most beautiful country in the world, inhabited by the world’s most backward people.” Happy the much-traveled foreigner, who comes and leaves, sated with impressions, which are turned into judgments and, eventually, into nostalgia. But every country is lovable, and every people. Every variant, every piece of
being has something lovable about it!
* * *
Four years after the Cavaliere’s first leave he and Catherine had returned to England and again stayed nearly a year. While the insignificance of his post had become more obvious, with the secretaries of state preoccupied with the revolt in the American colonies and the rivalry with France, his contributions to learning and to the improvement of taste were more acclaimed than ever. He had become an emblem, like the star and red riband of the Order of the Bath he wore when he posed for Sir Joshua Reynolds; he could be identified by the signs of his passions. The portrait shows the Cavaliere seated by an open window, Vesuvius with a tiny white plume in the distance, and on his knee, above a shapely white-stockinged calf, an open copy of the book on his collection of vases.
Sometimes at an assembly, or at an auction with Charles, or at the theatre, he would think of the volcano. He would wonder what the state of its roiling insides was at this exact moment. He imagined the heat on his cheek, the ground trembling beneath his boots, the pulse in his neck beating after the exertion of the climb and the pulse of underlying lava. He recalled the boulder-framed view of the bay, the city’s drawn-out curve. At the party the talk would flow on. It felt remarkable that he was here and that it was there. A Vesuvius could never be inferred from England, where there were disasters (an exceptionally cold winter, the Thames frozen over) but not a principle of disaster, monarchical, lording it over the scene.
Where was he? Yes. Here. In London. With friends to see, pictures to buy and vases he had brought back to sell, a paper on the recent eruptions to read to the Royal Society, attendance at Windsor, breakfast with his relations, visits to Catherine’s estate in Wales. Little had changed. Nothing was changed by his return, though Catherine’s asthma worsened. His friends seemed accustomed to his being away. No one found his tanned, lean, youthful appearance worthy of comment. They congratulated him on his enviable situation, in the sun, able to stay where everyone wanted to visit. And how beneficial for dear Catherine. He had become an expatriate. He was important because he was there. The Cavaliere’s friends still chided him for what they construed as his recklessness. Skim off the treasures of that fabled land and bring them back to us, but don’t take too many risks with your volcanic studies. Remember the fate of the Elder Pliny. It felt more like a visit than a leave home.