Scarpia

by Piers Paul Read

  Scarpia held his tongue. His fondness for Ludovico restrained him from arguing with him in front of the servants and children. And it was not only that defeatism that enraged him, but the slight blush that came onto his wife’s cheeks when her mother had said that the new Caesar could do as he likes.

  5

  Throughout the summer of 1796, and into the early autumn, battles were fought between French and Austrian armies in the valley of the Po. The uncertainty of the final outcome encouraged the Pope’s representatives, negotiating a permanent treaty with the French, to reject some of their terms. The Pope and the cardinals were willing to cede cities in the Romagna, to open the ports of the Papal States to French shipping, to pay the indemnities demanded and surrender of works of art, but they refused the demands made of the Pope as head of the Catholic Church. Pope Pius would not disavow all the edicts he had issued condemning the actions of the French since 1789. ‘His Holiness,’ the French were told, ‘would never be a party to such a defamation of the Church, even if his own life were at risk.’

  The negotiations collapsed. The truce was now at an end. France and the Pope were at war. The payment of indemnities ceased, and the works of art, some already packed up and loaded on wagons, remained in Rome. There was an enthusiastic response by the Romans to their sovereign’s call to arms. A militia was formed to support the pontifical army. The Pope sent to Vienna for an experienced commander and one was dispatched by the Emperor Joseph – an Italian in the service of the Habsburgs, Lieutenant General Michelangelo Alessandro Colli-Marchi. He arrived at Ancona with an entourage of Austrian officers and was met with a rapturous reception when he reached Rome. Ludovico di Marcisano and two of his cousins enrolled in the militia and Baron Scarpia was given command of a company of dragoons.

  *

  The papal army marched north expecting to join forces with the Austrians in Lombardy, but as it descended from the foothills of the Apennines into the valley of the Po it was met by the news that an Austrian army sent to relieve Mantua had been defeated by Bonaparte at Rivoli and then, on 2 February, that Mantua had surrendered.

  Bonaparte, considering the papal army unworthy of his genius, sent a 33-year-old general, Claude Victor-Perrin, to deal with the approaching force. The two armies met near the town of Faenza, twenty-five miles south-east of Bologna. The papal commander, Lieutenant General Colli-Marchi, was old and ill and had to be carried on a stretcher. He commanded seven thousand ill-trained troops as against Victor-Perrin’s nine thousand veterans. Colli-Marchi ordered an assault on the French lines. The battle was brief. The Romans were routed with a loss of eight hundred men as against a hundred of the French. The French captured eighteen cannon, eight colours and 1,200 men.

  Neither Scarpia nor Ludovico di Marcisano was among the captured or the dead. Ludovico’s contingent of militia, bringing up the rearguard of Colli-Marchi’s army, did not reach the field of battle. Scarpia, in the vanguard, had led his dragoons in a fruitless charge against the French lines. As he had raised his sabre to strike a French cuirassier, he was hit in the shoulder by a ball from a pistol that threw him from his horse. The cuirassier who had fired the shot rode on. Spoletta, riding behind Scarpia, reined in his horse, dismounted and lifted Scarpia onto his saddle. They rode off the field of battle to the village of Castel Bolognese. Peasants were bribed to take care of Scarpia and a doctor was brought from Bologna to treat his wound. Scarpia was in a fever for ten days. Only five weeks after the battle was he well enough to return to Rome.

  *

  After the fiasco at Faenza, Pope Pius VI had no choice but to sue for peace. The delegation sent to Bonaparte’s headquarters at the small town of Tolentino included the Pope’s nephew Duke Braschi Onesti, Cardinal Mattei and Lieutenant General Colli-Marchi. Bonaparte received them with great politeness, but this was a feint. The terms he presented were severe. The Pope’s newly raised army was to be disbanded. Lieutenaut General Colli-Marchi and all other Austrian officers were to be dismissed Lieutenaut. The papal territories of Avignon and the Comtat Venaissin were to be ceded to France in perpetuity, and a large part of the Romagna would be incorporated into a new Cisalpine Republic. The existing indemnity of 21 million lire was increased to 36 million. The family of the murdered Hugon de Bassville were to be paid financial compensation by the Pope. All republican prisoners, among them Vicenzo Palmieri and Cesare Angelotti, were to be released, and members of the Roman nobility known to be antagonistic towards the French were to be banished and their property confiscated. The port of Civitavecchia was to be open exclusively to the French navy, and at any future conclave, the French government would have the right to veto the choice made by the cardinals of a new pope.

  The papal delegation was given two hours to either accept or reject Bonaparte’s demands. Its reply was uncompromising. It could accept his demands of a military, political and fiscal nature, but not those concerning the governance of the Church. Bonaparte dropped his demand for a veto at the next conclave and on 19 February 1797 the treaty was signed. The delegation returned to Rome in triumph: the Holy City had been saved from occupation by the French.

  When Scarpia got back to Rome, he received a less rapturous reception. The martial fervour of the Romans had evaporated: valour was out of fashion. A papal decree, ordering the Romans to behave courteously towards the French, was unnecessary: no one wanted to risk banishment or the confiscation of their property. Scarpia was advised by Azara that in the current climate, given his known antipathy towards republicans and the French, he should lie low; he therefore stayed away from the ambassador’s conversazioni and only left the Villa Larunda with his wife and children to go to Mass on a Sunday. He worked hard at his recuperation, lifting and pushing and pulling to recover the full use of his left arm. Paola treated him kindly. ‘How is my hero?’ she would ask every morning with the same look of amused affection as when Pietro, shouting ‘Look, Mama!’, jumped on his pony over a log.

  Ten

  1

  In the middle of August 1797, the French ambassador to the Holy See, Citizen Cacault, was replaced by Joseph Bonaparte, the older brother of the all-conquering general, Napoleon. He took up residence in the Palazzo Corsini on the via della Lungara with a large retinue, which included an enthusiastic republican, General Maturin-Léonard Duphot. Disregarding all diplomatic conventions, the two men set out to encourage and organise the republican agitators, providing them with funds and tricolour cockades.

  Also among the entourage of the new French ambassador was the French painter Armand Ringel, who, together with Girodet, Fabre, Gérard and Gros, had been a student of Jacques-Louis David and was now considered equal to, if not superior to, his master. The Ringel family were originally from Alsace, but had lived in Paris for two generations. Armand’s father, a wigmaker like his father before him, had recognised his son’s precocious talent and sent him to the Académie Royale in the Louvre. Failing to win the Prix de Rome in 1784, Armand had gone to the Eternal City at his father’s expense to study under Winckelmann. He joined the Freemasons at the French Academy, moved in a circle that included the republican Cesare Angelotti, his sister the Marchesa Attavanti and the young painter Mario Cavaradossi, whose mother was French. Ringel earned his keep by painting exquisite portraits of rich Romans and English families making the grand tour. In 1786, he caused a scandal by seducing both the wife and the daughter of Sir Charles Webster. Sir Charles complained to the Cardinal Secretary of State, and Armand Ringel was expelled from the city.

  Back in Paris, Ringel’s reputation for depravity was no impediment to a career as a portraitist, and, following the revolution in 1789, actually became an asset – an accoutrement to his Jacobin opinions. He painted superb portraits of some of the republican salonnières such as Madame Roland and Josephine de Beauharnais, and one of Josephine’s lovers, the young General Bonaparte. He had also painted portraits for the Marseilles silk merchant, François Clary, whose daughter Julie was married to Joseph Bonaparte. Another daughter, Désiré
e, had been briefly engaged to Napoleon. She was now the fiancée of General Duphot, and had moved into the French Embassy in Rome, the Palazzo Corsini, with her mother.

  Ringel had been asked by the Directory in Paris to accompany Joseph Bonaparte to Rome and advise on what works of art should be sequestered and taken to Paris. Now thirty-five years old, he was tall and thin with fleshy lips, narrow eyes and, suffering from rosacea, a strong red knobbly nose. He was proud of his appearance, particularly his long sideburns and thick, curly blond hair which, with the demise of the wig, had come into its own. The demise of the wig had, incidentally, ruined his father, but, despite the kindness his parents had shown him as a child, Ringel was indifferent to the abject conditions in which they now lived. He had married five years before, but left his wife and their two-year-old child to live openly with one of the lesser revolutionary salonnières, Giselle d’Annat. He had had a child by Mme d’Annat, and a number of his female models went on, after their portraits were completed, to give birth to babies who grew up to have curly blond hair.

  The Directory in Paris had been shrewd in sending Ringel to Rome. Already, many magnificent works of art had arrived in the wake of France’s conquering armies in the newly created National Museum of Art in the Louvre – Van Eyck’s altarpiece from Ghent, Adoration of the Lamb; Rubens’s Descent from the Cross from Antwerp Cathedral; and Rembrandt’s Night Watch from Amsterdam’s town hall. An altarpiece had been sent from Parma; Titians, Veroneses and Tintorettos from Venice; and Raphaels from Florence. The Directory wanted to make sure that the French commissioners chose equal masterpieces from Rome, and Ringel, having lived in the city, knew where they were to be found.

  Many of the Roman nobles, rather than treat their depredators with open loathing or a sullen resentment, gave receptions to welcome them to Rome. Ringel’s reputation was such that a number of marchesas and contessas and even two cardinals swallowed their pride and tried to commission portraits either of their families or, more often, of themselves. Though Ringel’s fees were now equal to his reputation, he spurned these advances. He had come away from Rome after his earlier stay with a contempt for the lazy, self-indulgent citizens who were content to be ruled by a priest.

  However, Ringel did condescend to attend a ball given by Duchess Braschi, the wife of the Pope’s nephew, Duke Braschi Onesti, to introduce Joseph Bonaparte and his entourage to Roman society. As a Falconieri, she was rich enough both to contribute towards the indemnity and still provide sumptuous hospitality for the city’s French guests. When dancing a contredanse allemande with Ringel, the duchess led him to understand that accepting a commission to paint her portrait would not only be financially rewarding but somehow historically significant because of her connection through her husband with the Pope.

  Ringel did not care a toss for the duchess’s links with the Pope, nor for her position in Roman society, nor particularly for her money, which would be no better or worse than anyone else’s. He had grown tired of painting portraits of middle-aged women with their bonnets and wrinkles, and was only interested in those women of an age when the flesh was still firm and the skin still smooth but a measure of maturity gave interest to the face. ‘Women until the age of twenty-five are as blank as an untouched canvas; and ten years later, the bloom has gone.’ He was on the lookout for a woman around the age of thirty who was beautiful in a distinctive way, and he met just such a woman that evening when introduced by the Duchess Braschi Onesti to Princess Paola di Marcisano.

  ‘So you are Monsieur Ringel?’ said Paola, speaking in Italian.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And you understand Italian. Of course. You lived here in Rome.’

  ‘And you speak French?’

  ‘Soon we shall all be speaking French,’ said Paola, ‘but you have made it more difficult because those poor royalist refugees who came to the city and were making their living giving lessons in French have now at your request been expelled from the city.’ The ‘at your request’ was said with an ironic smile.

  Ringel scowled. ‘They deserved the guillotine,’ he said, ‘and ran to save their necks.’

  Paola raised her hand to her own neck and held it for a moment over the emerald necklace that lay on the soft flesh of her pale bosom. ‘And our necks too, perhaps . . .’

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Ringel.

  ‘Unlikely,’ she repeated, as if it meant the sentence had been merely deferred.

  They danced a quadrille. ‘You dance well, Monsieur Ringel,’ said Paola. ‘Were you taught as a child?’

  ‘No, Principessa, I was not. My father was a wigmaker.’

  ‘And are not the children of wigmakers taught to dance?’

  ‘Some, perhaps. But this one was not.’

  ‘So how did you learn the quadrille?’

  ‘I was taught by friends after 1789.’

  ‘Lady friends, perhaps?’

  ‘At the time, male dance masters were not to be found.’

  ‘Guillotined, no doubt, for teaching the nobility how to enjoy themselves.’

  ‘Dancing is not a crime.’

  ‘No, of course not, for if it were, you would not be here. But during revolutions some things go out of fashion – like wigs, for example.’

  ‘I see plenty of wigs here.’

  ‘Yes, older men still wear wigs. It has become habitual. Men are not as adaptable to changing fashions as women.’

  ‘Does your husband still wear a wig?’

  ‘My husband?’ Paola repeated the word as if it brought something forward from the back of her mind. ‘My husband prefers not to wear a wig. If he wore one, it would be to make a point.’

  ‘Is he an old man?’

  ‘Not in years. He is three years older than I am.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘He . . . no, he is not here.’

  ‘He doesn’t like dancing?’

  ‘Yes, he likes dancing, but, to be candid, he doesn’t like the French.’

  ‘While you?’

  ‘I am obedient to our sovereign pontiff, who has said we must be cordial towards our conquerors.’

  ‘And would that cordiality extend to your sitting for a portrait?’

  Paola blushed. The music stopped. He bowed, and she curtsied without making a reply.

  ‘Would you like to take the air on the loggia?’ asked Ringel.

  Paola clearly heard what he said, but walked ahead of him towards a group that included her brother. ‘Ludovico, may I introduce Citizen Ringel?’

  The two men exchanged bows. ‘I have long been an admirer,’ said Ludovico. ‘When you were here before you did a masterly sketch of our cousin Cosimo di Prata and his family. And a portrait of the Duchess of Palada.’

  Ringel frowned, as if he did not like to be reminded of his days in Rome. ‘She is now dead, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, she died last year. A good woman. Devout. But –’ Ludovico was about to add something, but appeared to think better of it. Instead, he turned to those standing with him and introduced them to Ringel – some showing curiosity at meeting the celebrated portraitist, others a coldness towards the Jacobin come to Rome to plunder its treasures, and one – the abate Caltano – an outright repugnance, which he expressed by moving away.

  ‘I have asked your sister,’ said Ringel to Ludovico, ‘if she would allow me to paint her portrait.’

  Ludovico glanced anxiously at Paola, then at Ringel. ‘Well, clearly . . . yes . . . that does her great honour, since . . . but her husband . . . he would, perhaps, permit it.’ He glanced again at Paola with a doubtful look.

  ‘I seem to remember,’ said Ringel, ‘that married women in Rome did more or less as they pleased.’

  ‘It depends on the husband,’ said Ludovico.

  ‘And your husband keeps you on a leash?’ Ringel asked Paola.

  ‘He is a Sicilian,’ said Paola. ‘Their customs are different to ours.’

  ‘But even a Sicilian would surely take pride in the beauty of his wife.’


  ‘Of course,’ said Ludovico.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Paola.

  ‘And wish to see it immortalised.’

  ‘Immortalised?’ said Paola with a smile. ‘You mean captured on canvas before it deteriorates with age.’

  Ringel returned the smile and gave a slight bow as if to say, ‘You read my mind exactly.’

  ‘I am sure Vitellio could be persuaded,’ said Ludovico to his sister. ‘It is an opportunity not to be missed.’

  2

  There was consternation, envy and excitement among Paola’s circle of friends when it became known that the celebrated Ringel wished to paint her portrait. The general view – the view, that is, of the committee of matrons conveyed to Paola by Graziella di Pozzo – concurred with that of Ludovico: it was an opportunity not to be missed. Graziella made no bones about her envy. ‘If he asked me, I would not hesitate.’ The two friends stood together looking into a large looking glass with a gilt frame discussing why Ringel should have chosen the one rather than the other. ‘My face is too round,’ said Graziella. ‘And perhaps too plump. You are so lucky to have those high cheekbones. Frenchmen like women with leaner faces. It makes them seem interesting.’

  ‘Seem interesting?’ asked Paola with a smile.

  ‘Well, perhaps you are more interesting. Original, anyway – not least in your choice of a husband.’

  Paola frowned: she had not yet mentioned the matter to Scarpia.

  ‘And you are taller,’ she said. ‘More French, in fact.’

  ‘I am not French,’ said Paola.

  ‘But you have some French blood in your veins.’

  ‘So do most of us.’

  ‘And are you prepared . . .?’ Graziella looked at her friend with her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Prepared for what?’ Paola pretended not to catch the meaning of Graziella’s innuendo.

  ‘He is well known to sleep with his models.’

  ‘I shall be the exception,’ said Paola.

  ‘You don’t find him attractive?’ asked Graziella.

  ‘A gangling middle-aged man with those absurd curls, horrible nose and that conceit?’