by Susan Sontag
When the right person does the wrong thing, it’s the right thing. And so she was, he had concluded (flushed with joy, he had no need of wine), eminently, surprisingly, inexhaustibly, right for him.
She had returned now to amuse Prince ***, who, lacking any opinions at all about the events in France, was sulking, and to whom she had apparently promised to tell the story of something that had happened when she came to Naples with her dear mother four years ago, a mere girl, as she said, unschooled in the ways of the world, before her dear friend and protector had taken her in hand, but knowing enough to have been immediately enamored of the city—the story of a horrendous drama that had taken place a few weeks after her arrival.
But you’ll not believe it, she said.
What, dear Mrs. Hart, said a visiting English lady seated across from her.
Eighteen murderers what had taken up residence in the courtyard—
How many?
Eighteen!
And then she proceeded to tell how a bandit gang, pursued by the municipal soldiers, had broken into the courtyard and seized two of the servants, a young groom and a page who was one of the household musicians, and, threatening to cut the hostages’ throats, had barricaded themselves in the eastern wing of the courtyard, and how the soldiers wanted to charge and take them but the Cavaliere had refused permission for them to enter, wishing to avert the inevitable carnage and particularly concerned to save the lives of the groom and the violinist, who lay trussed up in a corner, and how they had camped there for a whole week—
A week?
Yes! And built fires and sang and shouted and drank and committed indecencies with one another, which, alas, she had been obliged to witness from a window, because they, she and her dear mother and the Cavaliere and the entire household, were prisoners too, unable to leave the mansion, of course they had plenty to eat and to drink, and she had her lessons and the Cavaliere had his books and his studies, but still they were much at the windows looking down on the eighteen murderers, who had begun to quarrel among themselves, though they had to keep the windows closed because of the appalling odors—you can imagine the source, she added unnecessarily—for the dear merciful Cavaliere had insisted that some food be lowered to the courtyard twice a day, in the morning and in the evening, partly to win their confidence and partly because he could hardly let poor Luca, who was only fifteen, and Franco, the violinist, starve, and what with the foul odors and the frenzied shouts and insolent songs of the quarreling murderers, and the racket of the soldiers camped outside, with little to do themselves but drink and quarrel, so it went on, until on the sixth day—was it the sixth day, she looked over at the Cavaliere, asking him to help her with this least vivid detail of her story, thereby acknowledging that it was his story as well, that they had shared this daunting adventure together; and he said, smiling gallantly, the seventh day, actually; ah, the seventh day, she cried triumphantly—and on the seventh day the Cavaliere succeeded in persuading the bearded chief of the band of murderers to surrender the two hostages (both grey with terror and covered with lice) unharmed, and since their situation was hopeless, eventually they would have to surrender, they would only seal the worst of fates if they did not do it now, and he, the British ambassador, promised that he would speak to the soldiers and tell the soldiers not to beat them and that after he would appeal to the King for as much clemency as was possible, if they would give themselves up. And, she concluded, they did.
I trust the brutes were all executed, said a lady across the table. As they deserved.
Not all, said the Cavaliere. The King is a goodhearted man and much given to acts of clemency, particularly to members of the lower orders.
What an astounding story, someone said.
And entirely true, she exclaimed.
And so it was, the Cavaliere reflected, except that it had happened to him a quarter of a century earlier, to him and Catherine, soon after he arrived to take up his post and the city, with the famine barely over, was still in a state of near-anarchy: a story he had told the girl and that she was now telling as something that had happened to her. Of course, embarrassed as he was while listening to her tell it, embroider it so prettily, he was never tempted to interrupt and correct her, saying, no, when that happened you were not here with me. You were not even born. And once she finished, embarrassment was succeeded by anxiety that her fabrication would be exposed by someone at the table who would dimly recall having heard of the incident, which had happened so long ago, and she would be humiliated and he, her sponsor and lover, would look like a fool. But when it seemed that there was no one within earshot familiar with the story, his anxiety subsided and what he felt was a pang of disillusionment, for he had discovered that his darling was a vulgar braggart and a liar. And that feeling was succeeded by a quite different, more compassionate one: for then he felt alarmed, fearing for her reason, wondering if this meant that she often failed to know the difference between a story she had heard and an experience of her own. And then he felt annoyed and a little sad, taking the lie as evidence of her immaturity, no, her insecurity, supposing that she had appropriated his story because she felt she didn’t have enough interesting stories from her own life to tell, at least stories that could be related in general company. And finally he felt neither embarrassed nor anxious nor disillusioned nor alarmed nor annoyed nor saddened … but touched, immensely, joyously moved by this sign of how much a part of him she felt, to the point of such total surrender of her dear person to his care and tutelage that she no longer knew where she left off and he began. It seemed like an act of love.
* * *
Like Ariadne, the Cavaliere’s companion was to have a more glorious destiny than she had thought possible. Vigée-Lebrun was more right than she knew—which does not make the intention behind the portrait any kinder.
Never trust an artist. They are always different from what they seem—even the most conforming, who live themselves as courtiers. Vigée-Lebrun flattered the Cavaliere, accepted many favors from him, won commissions for portraits from other local notables and a considerable social success, largely thanks to his patronage and hospitality. She was a frequent guest at the mansion in town, and in July and August was often invited to be one of a small party driving out to the three-room cottage above the beach at Posillipo, where the Cavaliere and his companion spent the hottest hours of the day, returning home only when the first breezes rose in the late afternoon. She flattered the Fair One, who, credulous as always, thought the painter was her friend. Never trust an artist.
But never trust a patron either. The following year, the Cavaliere and his new life journeyed back to England—it was the Cavaliere’s fourth leave home since his arrival in Naples with Catherine twenty-seven years earlier. It had been a difficult time for new acquisitions; his expenses were mounting; he had no great treasures to sell: just some “restored” (that is, heavily filled-in) statues, an assortment of armor, candelabra, phallic amulets, coins of dubious provenance, and two paintings supposedly by Raphael and Guercino. There was one other item in the Cavaliere’s cargo. It seems that during a hot summer afternoon spent at the little house in Posillipo, Vigée-Lebrun had impulsively sketched two small heads in charcoal on one of the doors. Gift of the artist. Which the Cavaliere had seen no reason not to turn to profit, as she was to complain in her memoirs many years later—for he’d had the surface of the door sawn off and was carrying it back to England to sell.
* * *
The Cavaliere was ready to do the scandalous, the unthinkable. His royal foster brother’s smile, when the Cavaliere alluded to the possibility of a marriage, was at best a tacit permission; he knew the daughter of Mrs. Cadogan could never be presented as his wife at the English court. Before leaving Naples, however, he had had a private moment with the Queen, who assured him that at the court of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies there would be no obstacle to receiving this charming young lady of whom she, the Queen, was already so fond, once she was made a legitimate wife;
and so there was no reason not to make her, and himself, happy.
Surely Charles, who has not married despite all his efforts (and never will), would understand. And as for the relations and friends who might laugh behind his back at an old man (he was sixty-one) giving his name to a notorious beauty of the humblest origin—let them go to the devil. He had been a rational voluptuary long enough. Too long.
Would Catherine, Catherine who understood him so perfectly, have recognized him now? No.
At first he told no one except Charles of his intention, though his sisters and oldest brother and all his friends had already concluded among themselves that this disaster was unavoidable. They stayed in a hotel. Mrs. Cadogan left to visit relatives. Then he, Charles, and the young woman went off to Wales, where he consulted with the steward of the estate and looked over the accounts. She gazed at Charles with maternal solicitude and placed flowers daily on Catherine’s tomb. During the third week of their stay, she begged leave to visit her daughter in Manchester, whom she had not seen for so many years. And she asked the Cavaliere for some money to give to the family rearing the girl, and other small sums for a cousin and an ailing uncle and aunt in the village where she was born, which her mother would transmit. She had always kept in touch with her relations and sent them gifts from Naples; and the Cavaliere was gracious and would not think of refusing her, despite his money worries. So she went off … and wept and fell in love with her daughter and wept some more when she had to leave her. She dreamed of bringing the child back to Naples; nothing would have made her happier. But she did not dare ask this of the Cavaliere, though it was unlikely he would refuse her anything; she knew it would embarrass him (no one would believe she had been married before) and she knew, too, that if the child were there, she would love her more and more and perhaps love the Cavaliere less. She was shrewd enough to know her success with him required that he have her undivided attention.
So the child must be, was, sacrificed.
And for this the young woman never forgave herself; and, perhaps, not the Cavaliere either.
It was summer now and they returned to London. The Cavaliere decided to pay a week-long visit to the frail elderly Walpole, whom he feared he might be seeing for the last time, and show the amusing excesses of his friend’s pseudo-mediaeval castle, Strawberry Hill, to his companion, who went into ecstasies over the painted windows and the dim religious light, in which she was moved to perform for their admiring host a spirited rendition of the mad scene from Paisiello’s Nina. Back in the city, a letter for the young woman offering an engagement at the London Opera House at two thousand pounds a year was awaiting them. Tell Gallini you have already been engaged for life, the Cavaliere said with a smile, amused to hear himself say something so fatuous and so charming.
In their London life there were meetings of the Royal Society and the Society of Dilettanti for the Cavaliere, who could not resist also going to some picture auctions. And the young woman went to spend time with her old friend Mr. Romney, to tell him of her glorious life in Naples, and he listened gravely, and drew her as she talked; he would use her once more as a model, this time for a painting of Joan of Arc, while her station still permitted it. She babbled on, and asked him to give her regards to Mr. Hayley and to tell him that his book on self-control had been her bedside reading, she truly had become serene, and look at her now, she was a real lady, and could speak Italian and French and sing and everyone liked her, and the King of Naples flirted with her and squeezed her hands, but he meant no harm, but the Queen, oh the Queen, who was a wonderful woman, and such a wonderful mother, who had just given birth to her fourteenth child, though some of them had died—alas, the King would not leave her alone, she said, he was a man, so he did not have much self-control, and had his way too with the young peasant women employed in the royal silk factory on the grounds of the palace at Caserta, who were said to be his private harem—this dear Queen had become a true friend to herself—she came up the back stairs of the palace, for of course she could not be received officially because, she stammered, until, she corrected herself—what she meant was that she and the Queen had become true friends and she had a wonderful life and only felt a little sorry for Charles, who had not managed to marry the heiress, and was all alone, and it was not good for a man to be alone, even though Charles still had his seat in Parliament and his collection of stones and the management of the Cavaliere’s estate to occupy him, and as he must be having money problems, she was going to ask the Cavaliere to help out with a gift or a little loan that might—
And Romney, busy drawing her luminous auburn tresses, looked up. He began to tell her of his trip last year to Paris, where he had met a virtuous painter named David, who had put his art at the service of the revolution (he, Romney, had recently done a portrait of a Mr. Thomas Paine, who was one of its sympathizers), and that he had to confess to his old friend, trusting in her discretion, that he was much impressed by the revolutionaries and by their ideas. For instance, Romney explained, the revolution wants to make inheritance divisible and divorce possible and slavery unlawful, all reforms that any right-thinking person would agree are much overdue. And the young woman, who would have been just, if all there were to justice was generosity, was promptly of his opinion. Why indeed should first-born sons inherit everything (condemning younger sons like Charles and the Cavaliere to lifelong anxieties about money), and why should people who make each other unhappy not be able to make themselves happy with someone else legally, and yes, what was more horrible than slavery: she had heard of the horrors of slavery, for instance in Jamaica, which abominable trade had made one of the Cavaliere’s cousins, owner of most of Jamaica’s sugar plantations, the richest man in England. All this she could not help agreeing to. And apart from the justice of the revolutionaries’ ideas, as Romney explained them to her (she had never heard them described like this), the ardor with which he spoke of the revolution and the cleansing flame of liberty which would burn up the dry dead wood of the old society made her heart surge—ardor always inspired her—and everything Romney said was so convincing and so beautiful, and there seems little doubt that had she stayed in London the Cavaliere’s beloved would have been a secret revolutionary sympathizer too, at least for a while.
In September she began to sit for a formal portrait by Romney to be titled The Ambassadress—the first time she was painted as herself, no longer a model but a subject, at last. In the background is a dark, fiery Vesuvius—signifying Naples, where her husband-to-be was the envoy; signifying the Cavaliere as well. And, to ratify the picture, the third day after the sittings began, there was a marriage ceremony at the small exclusive church of St. Marylebone in the presence of five of the Cavaliere’s relations and friends and Mrs. Cadogan. When Charles arrived, paler than usual, he took his seat in the third row of the church. His mother, the Cavaliere’s favorite sister, had refused to attend. This was not a marriage for England—the Cavaliere could not avoid seeing the condescending smiles—but for his other, second life, such as remained to him (another twelve years, if he believed the sibyl’s prophecy), in Naples. Even the Fair One, who loved to please and thought she usually did, could not deceive herself into thinking the Cavaliere’s relations were anything but disapproving of the marriage, however happy she made him. The only relation who seemed to like her was the immensely rich cousin whom the Cavaliere had told her was very eccentric and, as a result of his eccentricities (which the Cavaliere promised to describe some other time), was himself shunned by the rest of the family and unwelcome at court; and so, the Cavaliere explained, although he had been a great admirer of his dear Catherine, was perhaps a natural ally of their marriage, one of the few. For he had several friends, Walpole for instance, and his young cousin, who knew what it was to defy convention in the interests of happiness, and would not find scandalous the Cavaliere’s seeking his happiness with her.
At the reception following the ceremony, this cousin, a young man hardly older than herself, was particularly g
racious, taking her hands in his and looking into her eyes—he had fine curly hair and a full mouth—and said in his high, strange voice that he was glad to hear she had made the Cavaliere happy, and that in this life it was important to follow one’s dreams. And the Cavaliere’s bride said politely, a little timidly, that she hoped the Cavaliere’s cousin would be moved to visit Naples again, where she could have the pleasure of entertaining him and coming to know him. And of course she extended an invitation to Charles, but really meant it, who knows when she would see him again. She said, roguishly, Now you can keep your promise to come to Naples.
On the following day, the very eve of their departure, she extracted a promise to visit them from several of the Cavaliere’s friends. She felt fluttery about going back. It seemed odd to be the same person as the one who had gone abroad for the first time, sent to a faraway country to visit her lover’s uncle, an innocent girl, already (unbeknownst to her) betrayed, and now a woman with everything a woman could want: a distinguished husband, life, world. Oh, please come and see it!
Once they had crossed the Channel, most of these London feelings vanished: the wish to include everyone in her happiness, her triumph—and the budding pro-republican sympathies Mr. Romney had inspired in her, for during their stop in Paris she had the unexpected honor of being presented to Marie Antoinette and entrusted by the queen with a letter to give to her royal sister. An instant re-convert to the cause of monarchy everywhere, the Cavaliere’s wife devoutly carried the letter back to her Queen.