by Susan Sontag
She went to a side altar, set her flowers in an ornate gilt vase at the Madonna’s feet, lit a bank of candles, knelt, and murmured a long effusive entreaty to the statue. When she finished, she looked up at the Madonna’s painted blue eyes and imagined she saw compassion. How lovely she was. I suppose I am being very foolish, she thought, and then wondered if the Madonna heard what she said only to herself. She placed her offering of a large sum of money in a velvet pouch beside the flowers.
Though no one approached her, she now had a distinct impression that she was being observed. Yet the moment she turned and saw a broad-shouldered man with a fleshy mouth standing by a column at the rear, and recognized him, he was not looking at her. Perhaps he wanted her to approach him.
He smiled and bowed. He told her what a surprise it was to see her. He did not say: and here. Of course it was no surprise at all. Scarpia’s spies on the Foudroyant had informed him of the impending visit ashore of the Cavaliere’s wife. He had been at the port when she landed, and had followed her to the church. Though she could not appreciate the recent alteration in Scarpia’s appearance, that he was no longer wearing his sinister black cloak but had reassumed his nobleman’s finery, Scarpia did not fail to note the further changes in the woman who stood before him, this once great beauty who had managed to turn the gullible British admiral’s head. There must have been a lot of guzzling in Palermo. But she had a beautiful face and beautiful feet.
Her ladyship’s courage is admirable. Still, the city is not without its dangers.
I feel quite safe here, she said. I like churches.
So does Scarpia. Churches remind Scarpia of what attracts him in Christianity. Not its doctrines but its historic concern with pain: its palette of inventive martyrdoms, inquisitorial torture, and torments of the damned.
No doubt your ladyship has been offering prayers for the well-being of Their Majesties and the rapid restoration of order in this unfortunate kingdom.
My mother has been poorly, she said, annoyed that she found it necessary to lie to him.
Was she planning to visit her former home, Scarpia inquired.
Certainly not!
I have never cared as much for this church, so dear to the nobility, as for the one where I am a communicant, the Church of the Carmine, in the market square. There is an execution scheduled for two o’clock.
The church with the Black Madonna, said the Cavaliere’s wife, as if she had not grasped what Scarpia was suggesting.
You can witness the just punishment of several of the principal traitors, Scarpia said. But perhaps your ladyship does not feel up to this spectacle, which so rejoices all Their Majesties’ faithful subjects.
Of course she could watch, if she had to. Part of being brave was having to look at gore. What did it matter? She could look at anything. She was not squeamish. Not a silly, trembly, sentimental woman like Miss Knight. But she could not bring herself to accept Scarpia’s dare.
Scarpia waited a moment. In the silence (which became her reply) a Te Deum had begun.
Or we can do whatever would give you pleasure, Scarpia continued in his taunting, ingratiating voice. I am at your ladyship’s disposal for as many hours as you like.
The church is starting to fill, and they are being observed now.
It might be worth accepting this opportunity to spend an hour with Scarpia, thought the Cavaliere’s wife. The Queen would be interested to have her firsthand assessment of the police chief. But she knew that even as she would be making a report on him, he would be making a report on her. All her instincts said: be careful! And, because she was a woman: be charming!
He dipped his fingers in the stoup and offered her some holy water. She nodded gravely, touched his fingers, and crossed herself. Thank you.
They walked out into the searing heat, and at a food stall in the square she bought a packet of grimy sugar cakes, which Scarpia warned her against. Oh, I have a very good digestion, the Cavaliere’s wife exclaimed. Everything agrees with me.
He repeated his offer to escort her, and once again she refused. Perhaps she would have liked to do a bit of tourism, clandestine tourism, in the city in which she had spent one-third of her life. But not with him. Why was he always smiling? He must think himself very attractive. He did. Scarpia knew the effect he had on women, not because he was handsome (he was not), but because of his strong look, which made women turn away, then turn back; his hoarse, deep-toned voice; his way of slowly shifting his weight as he stood; the refinement of his apparel; and his perfect manners, flecked with rudeness. But the Cavaliere’s wife was not attracted to blatantly virile men. She did not want to think of what he would be like as a lover. She also found it hard to imagine someone who, as she surmised, did not seek the good opinion of others, indeed cared nothing about what others thought of him. It must be true then, what people said of Scarpia, that he was very wicked. But she did not like to think about that either. Among the many things she preferred not to think about now, one was human wickedness. Evil is something like space. All the space there is. When you imagine reaching the end, you can only imagine it as a boundary, or a wall, which means there is something on the other side; when you think you have reached the bottom, there is always something knocking from below.
She wanted to get into the cool carriage and eat her pastries.
I cannot tempt you with my company?
No longer abashed, she said airily she must forgo that pleasure because—
You would disappoint one of your most faithful admirers?
—because I must regain the Foudroyant as quickly as possible, she continued evenly. They were standing next to her carriage.
How dare she rebuff him! But perhaps he could provoke her. Wasn’t there a story about this vixen and Angelotti, that they had been lovers? Hoping to revive an unpleasant or embarrassing memory, he informed her that Angelotti, who had fled to Rome, had just been arrested.
I’m sure this news is gratifying.
Oh, yes, Angelotti, said the Cavaliere’s wife.
It’s not that she had forgiven Angelotti. But his insult has been buried under so many other emotions and events, so much triumph, so much happiness. The Cavaliere’s wife prided herself on not holding grudges. If she wishes the death of all the conspirators, it is because the Queen wishes their death. Lack of sympathy (for Cirillo) was sympathy for someone else (the Queen). She is no more cruel than the hero or the Cavaliere. She seems the cruelest only because she is the most emotional—what women are expected to be. And emotional women who don’t have power, real power, usually end up being victims.
As a flash-forward may serve to recall.
* * *
June 17, 1800. The Queen of Naples, who had continued to live in Palermo, never once visiting her first capital although it is almost a year since the restoration of royal government, has arrived for a short visit to Rome on the eve of what is expected to be a decisive engagement with Napoleon.
Tonight she was giving a party to celebrate the news, received that morning, of Napoleon’s defeat by the Austrian forces at Marengo. This false good news (Napoleon had in fact won the battle) was followed in the early afternoon by a small piece of genuine bad news. Angelotti, who was about to be sent in chains back to Naples to be hanged—though not, as slander has it, for the delectation of the Cavaliere’s wife, who is at this moment on her way back to England with her husband and her lover—Angelotti has escaped from the prison in the papal fortress of Sant’Angelo, where he has been held for more than a year. The Queen was furious with Scarpia, whom she had summoned from Naples and installed in one of the upper floors in the Palazzo Farnese. She expects infallibility in vengeance from her most trusted servant. Find him today or else, she said. Your Majesty, said the baron, it is as good as done.
The guard at the prison who helped Angelotti escape has already been identified, Scarpia told the Queen, and before he died (the questioning had been a bit peremptory) had revealed the fugitive’s first destination, a church in w
hich his family has a chapel. Although Angelotti had already left by the time Scarpia reached the church, evidence had been found incriminating a man who is probably an accomplice. Another patrician Jacobin, said Scarpia. But of course they call themselves liberals or patriots. This one is worse than the usual kind. An artist. A rootless expatriate. Not even really an Italian. Brought up in Paris—his father, who married a Frenchwoman, was a friend of Voltaire. And the son was a pupil of the French Revolution’s official artist, David.
I don’t care who he is, exclaimed the irate Queen.
Scarpia hastened to inform the Queen that the young painter is now under arrest. I guarantee we will know Angelotti’s whereabouts within a few hours. Scarpia smiled.
The Queen knew what the police chief meant. Torture is still legal in the Papal States as well as in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, though reformers have succeeded in abolishing it elsewhere. It is no longer legal in the more civilized Hapsburg domains, nor in Prussia and Sweden. She regrets Scarpia’s methods, though one must be realistic. In spite of her delight at the fate met by the Neapolitan rebels, the Queen would be shocked to learn that there are those who consider her a bloodthirsty woman. Though she is always for executions, she is against torture.
Angelotti must be recaptured tonight, do you understand?
Yes, Majesty.
Scarpia takes his leave to return to his headquarters upstairs in the palace, where the painter will be interrogated.
The Queen, having vented her fury on Scarpia, is resolved not to let this little piece of bad news spoil her party.
As they speak, the great Paisiello is bent over a keyboard somewhere in the palace composing a cantata in celebration of the victory, which will be performed this evening. The composer will conduct, and it will be sung by the sensation of the current season at the Argentina. The Queen has a weakness for women who sing. The opera star reminded her of her beloved friend, the British envoy’s wife, who has an even more beautiful voice.
The opera star, like the Queen’s friend, is also impetuous, warm, effusive, and knows how to give herself in love.
The diva arrived at the great ballroom where the party is in progress and made her reverence to the Queen. She has looked over Paisiello’s score and feels confident (she never feels anything other than confident) about her part.
She hears the guests talking about politics. She doesn’t know anything about politics, nor does she want to. All this talk about France, she barely understands it. Her lover had tried to explain it to her. He had tried to get her to read one of his favorite books, by Russo—something like that, but the writer was French, not Italian. She could make nothing of it, and wondered why he was pressing the novel on her. Although he has friends like the Marchese Angelotti, a Neapolitan aristocrat who was locked up for being one of the six consuls of the godless but short-lived Roman Republic, she knows her lover hardly cares about politics either. He is an artist, too. As she lives only for her art and for love, he thinks only of her and his painting.
She was watching the play at one of the gaming tables when her maid, Luciana, handed her a note. It was from Paisiello, who has not quite finished the cantata and requests that she distract the Queen’s attention from this delay by beginning the evening’s music without him. Of course, he hopes that she will sing an aria from one of his own operas; he had written nearly a hundred. Furious at being kept waiting, the diva began her improvised recital with an aria by Jommelli. Then the Queen requested another aria, remarking that this was one that her friend, the wife of the British ambassador, sang so beautifully. It is the mad scene from Paisiello’s Nina. The diva, who had no intention of complying with the wish of a composer, can hardly refuse a royal command.
When Paisiello finally appeared with the score of his victory cantata, the performance was a great success. It was such a success that the Queen wanted her to go on singing. She sings and sings … about eternal love, and the stars, and art, and jealousy. She knows a lot about jealousy.
She was eager for the evening to be over as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, before she can join her lover, she had something unpleasant to do. She has promised to call on the notorious Neapolitan chief of police, whom she had met that afternoon at the church which had commissioned from her lover a large painting of the Madonna. When she had stopped by earlier her lover had seemed distracted, and she was surprised that he was not there when she returned; instead, she had found this professed admirer of hers, prowling near the scaffolding. So this is the man before whom all Naples trembled! And he was attractive, she could not help noticing that. The police chief, flirting with her in a rather overbearing way, had tried to convince her that her lover was interested in another woman. She had been foolish enough to believe him when he had shown her among her lover’s dirty brushes a woman’s fan, a fan that did not belong to her.
The diva is a woman who knows how to take care of herself. She knows how to fend off lecherous men. Like the Cavaliere’s wife, she is capable of giving herself only for love. She will find out what the police chief wants to tell her. Then she will join her lover, and they will go out to his country villa for the weekend. She has reason now to think that he has probably not been unfaithful to her; but jealousy is one of the few weapons a woman has. After all, she is an actress. Perhaps he will confess that he did find attractive the woman in the church whose face he used as a model for the Madonna’s; and she will be cold to him for a few minutes, and then she will forgive him, and they will be happier than ever.
The diva is not a vengeful woman. And she has seen operas and plays extolling clemency. Many dramas about merciful monarchs have been staged in this past decade, the very decade in which hitherto clement autocrats discovered that the iron fist and the gallows had their uses too. The diva thinks there is nothing more beautiful than clemency. Why can’t it always be as in the operas of Mozart, like the one about the abduction, which contains the sublime line: Nothing is more hateful than revenge. Or the one about the mercy of the Roman emperor—written for the coronation of the Queen of Naples’s brother, the Hapsburg emperor, as King of Bohemia—in which Titus discovers a plot against his life by those dearest to him and, declining to execute the conspirators, declares: It seems that the stars conspire to oblige me in spite of myself to become cruel. No, they shall not have this victory!
True, the opera’s Titus, whose day, in A.D. 79, began with his announcing that Vesuvius has erupted and directing that the gold allocated by the Senate for a temple in his honor be used to succor the volcano’s victims, and ends with his pardoning the friend who sought to murder him, is also history’s Titus, scourge of the Jews and destroyer of the Temple. But perhaps we need every model of magnanimity we are offered, including the invented ones. Even the diva knows that, innocent of history though she may be.
Perhaps life is not the way it is in an opera, thinks the diva as she prepares to go upstairs to see the police chief, but it ought to be. Nothing is more hateful than revenge.
* * *
We know about evil people. Like Scarpia. Baron Scarpia is truly wicked. He exults in his wickedness and his intelligence. Little pleases him more than practicing his skills of deception. An excellent judge of character, he understands the diva is rash as well as naïve. To the wicked, a person understood is a person manipulated. It was all too easy to convince her that her lover is carrying on with another woman, which has led her to commit an indiscretion that dooms the fugitive Angelotti. Further, there is the sheer love of inflicting pain. When she arrived upstairs, he had her lover brought in and tortured within her hearing—partly because he likes to torture, partly because torture may produce the information he seeks, and partly because he enjoys watching what happens to her face when she hears the screams coming from the next room. Your tears were like lava, burning my senses, he says. After the torture has made her speak, he declares that if she yields to him he will spare her lover’s life (the firing squad’s bullets will be blanks) and allow them to leave Rome. Of c
ourse, he has no intention of doing anything of the kind. To the wicked, a promise made is a promise to be broken.
We know about good people—and their reputation for being not very astute. The diva is warmhearted, generous. But to be as easily manipulated as she is, is not without its share of fault. Were the diva just a bit more sceptical—that is, a little less proud of being passionate—perhaps Scarpia could not so promptly have turned her into a decoy; for his brandishing of another woman’s fan had sent her rushing out that afternoon to her lover’s country villa, where she discovered him not with another woman but with Angelotti, whom he was hiding there, so that she now possessed the knowledge her lover had wanted to keep from her, which she can then divulge when Scarpia confronts her with the unbearable choice of betraying Angelotti or letting her lover die. While her lover would never, never have betrayed Angelotti’s whereabouts no matter how excruciating the torture became (or so he believes), the woman who loves him cannot bear his screams. Perhaps she is not more emotional than a man. Scarpia, too, is ruled by his emotions. But the combination of emotions with power creates … power. The combination of emotions with powerlessness creates … powerlessness. Already too late for poor Angelotti, who swallowed poison as Scarpia’s men reached down to haul him out of the well. But the diva thought that by agreeing to let Scarpia rape her, she had saved her lover’s life. She saw the police chief give the order for a sham execution at dawn; then, when they are alone, he wrote out the passes that will allow them to leave the city. But although the diva seizes a sharp pointed knife from the table just as Scarpia is about to pounce—nothing would seem more powerful than a murder—her courage cannot halt what her credulity has set in motion, her lover will still be mowed down in his fake fake-execution before her eyes, and she must jump from the parapet of the Castel Sant’Angelo, adding to the three other deaths her own.