The Man Who Sees Ghosts (9 page)

At the beginning of this period I was summoned home to the court of my sovereign by an important matter there, over which even the warmest interests of friendship could not take precedence. An invisible hand—the identity of which was made known to me only much later—had found the means to create confusion in my affairs and spread rumours about me which I had to hurriedly quash in person. It was hard for me to bid farewell to the Prince but, in like degree, it was easy for him. The ties that bound me to him had been growing looser now for some considerable time. But his fate had awakened my full sympathy; I therefore made Baron von F*** promise to
keep in touch with me on the subject by letter, a promise he kept to most conscientiously. From now on therefore and for a considerable time I am not an eye-witness of these events: allow me, then, to bring Baron von F*** on in my place and make up this deficiency with extracts from his letters. Although my friend F***’s way of looking at things is not always my own, I have nevertheless chosen not to alter his words, from which the reader will be able to discover the truth with little difficulty.

Thank you, my dear friend, for granting me permission, despite your absence, to continue those confidential relations with you, which, while you were here, constituted my chief joy. Here, as you know, there is no-one whom I would dare to speak freely to upon certain matters—whatever you might say to the contrary, I find these people quite hateful. Since the Prince became one of them, and since you were snatched away from us, I have, in the midst of this populous city, felt quite alone. Z*** is taking it more easily, and the fair ones in Venice know how to make him forget the insults he has to share with me at home. Besides, what reason would he have to complain? He sees and asks for in the Prince nothing but a master, whom he might find anywhere—but I! You know how close the weal and woe of our Prince is to my heart—and how many reasons I have for this. I have been at his side now for sixteen years and have lived only for him. I was a nine year-old boy when I entered his service and since that time
no stroke of fate has separated me from him. I grew up under his watchful eyes and long association has bound me to him; I have gone through all his adventures with him, both great and small. I live in his happiness. Until this wretched year I have seen in him only my friend, my elder brother; I have lived in his sight as in bright sunshine—no cloud ever darkened my joy; and now all this is to be shattered in this accursed Venice!

Since you have been away, all kinds of things have changed here. The Prince von **d** arrived here last week with a large retinue and has injected new and riotous life into our circle. Since he and our Prince are so closely related and are now on reasonably good terms, they will seldom be apart during his stay here, which, as I hear, is to last up to the Festival of the Ascension. This started in the best possible way; for the last ten days the Prince has hardly had time to catch his breath. The Prince von **d** began straightaway in the liveliest fashion and may well continue so, since he is leaving again soon; but the bad news is that he has infected our Prince with this, who could not really avoid joining in, and who, in view of the special relationship prevailing between the two houses, believes he owes something to the contested status of his. Moreover our own departure from Venice in not many weeks’ time is also approaching, which will mean he will anyway be spared having to continue at length with this inordinate expense.

The Prince von **d** is here, it is said, on matters pertaining to the Order of ***, in which he imagines he has an important part to play. His immediate appropriation of the entire circle of our Prince’s acquaintances
will not come as a surprise to you. He was intitated into the Bucentauro in particular with great pomp, since for some time it has pleased him to play the great and witty thinker and powerful intellect, styling himself simply the
‘Prince philosophe’
in all his extensive correspondence. I do not know if you have ever had the good fortune to see him. His outward appearance holds much promise: darting eyes, the air of a connoisseur, widely read—of which he makes great show—, a widely accomplished nature (if you will permit the expression) and a princely condescension to human feeling, along with a heroic self-confidence and an eloquence that brooks no argument. Who could refuse to do homage to such brilliant qualities in a prince? Only time can tell, meanwhile, how the quiet, inarticulate and thorough-going worth of our Prince will hold up alongside this glaring excellence.

In the meantime there have been many and important changes in our arrangements. We have moved into a magnificent new house opposite the new Treasury building because the Prince found the Il Moro too cramped. Our retinue has increased by a further twelve: pages, blackamoors, footmen and so forth— everything is now on a grand scale. During your time here you complained of extravagance—but you should see it now!

Our private relations are the same as before—except that the Prince, no longer restrained by your presence, has become if anything more monosyllabic and colder towards us, and that we have little to do with him apart from the dressing and undressing. On the pretext that we speak French badly and Italian not at all, he is able
to exclude us from most of his gatherings, which for my part does not offend me greatly; but the truth of the matter as I see it is that he is ashamed of us—and that hurts me: we do not deserve it.

Almost the only one of our retinue he now makes use of (since you wish to know all the details) is Biondello, whom, as you know, he took into his service after our huntsman absconded and who has become quite indispensable to him in this new life he leads. The man is familiar with everything in Venice and knows how to put everything to good use. It is as if he had a thousand eyes and could set a thousand hands in motion, nothing less. He manages this with the help of the gondoliers, he says. He makes himself uncommonly useful to the Prince by letting him know meanwhile about all the new faces that appear in his gatherings; and the Prince has found the secret information he gives to be always correct. Furthermore he speaks and writes excellent Italian and French, as a result of which he has risen virtually to the position of the Prince’s secretary as well. I must, however, tell you about one trait of unselfish loyalty that is rare indeed in a person of his class. Recently a respected merchant from Rimini petitioned an audience with the Prince. The matter concerned a strange complaint about Biondello. The Procurator, his former master, who must have been an odd customer, had lived in irreconcilable enmity with his relatives, and this enmity was, if possible, supposed to outlive him, too. He had complete and exclusive faith in Biondello and would entrust him with all his secrets. Biondello must, moreover, have sworn on his master’s deathbed to keep these secrets religiously and never to
make use of them for the advantage of the relatives; for his silence he was to be rewarded with a considerable legacy. When his will was opened and his papers examined, large gaps and complications came to light that only Biondello could explain. He obstinately denied knowing anything, surrendered the very substantial legacy to the heirs and kept his secrets. The relatives made him large offers but to no avail; finally, in order to escape their persistence because they were threatening him to take legal proceedings against him, he entered the Prince’s service. It was to the Prince that the chief heir, this same merchant, now turned, making larger offers than those before if Biondello would change his mind. But the Prince’s intercession was likewise in vain. Biondello did in fact confess to him that such secrets really had been entrusted with him; he also did not deny that the dead man had perhaps gone too far in his hatred against his family. “But,” he added, “he was a good master to me and my benefactor, and died firmly trusting in my integrity. I was the only friend he left behind in the world—all the more reason why I cannot renege on his one hope.” He also let it be known that the disclosure of these secrets would not redound greatly to the honour of his dead master’s memory. Is this not a fine and noble thought? You can also well imagine that the Prince did not persist greatly in trying to make him waver in such a laudable attitude. This rare loyalty that he showed to his dead master has won him the unreserved trust of his living one.

My best wishes to you, dear friend. How I long for that quiet life we had when you were with us and for which you so richly compensated us! I fear that the good
times in Venice are over for me—if the same is not true of the Prince, then enough will have been gained. The element in which he now lives is not one in which he can be happy for long, unless sixteen years of experience deceives me. I wish you well.

I should have realised that something good would come of our stay in Venice! It has saved someone’s life and I am reconciled to it. The Prince was recently being taken home by sedan from the Bucentauro late at night, accompanied by two servants, one of them Biondello. I do not know how but the chair that had been called for in haste broke and the Prince was obliged to make the rest of the journey on foot. Biondello led the way, which took them through dark, out-of-the-way streets, and, since it was near daybreak, the lamps were burning low or had gone out. They must have been walking for a quarter of an hour when Biondello discovered he had lost his way. The similarity of the bridges had deceived him and, instead of crossing over into San Marco, they found themselves in Sestiere di Castello. They were in one of the most remote backstreets with not a living soul for miles around; they had to turn around in order to get their bearings in a main street. They have only gone a few steps when in an alleyway not far from them a fearful cry rings out.

The Prince, unarmed as he was, tears a stick from the hands of one of the servants and, with the determined courage you are familiar with in him, makes for the area
from where this cry was resounding. Three dreadful fellows are in the throes of striking down a fourth who, with his companion, is but weakly defending himself; the Prince arrives just in time to prevent the death blow. His and the servants’ shouts weaken the murderers’ resolve: they had so little expected to be surprised in such a remote spot that, after a few half-hearted thrusts of their daggers, they release their prey and turn tail. Nearly fainting and exhausted by the struggle, the wounded man collapses into the Prince’s arms; the man’s companion reveals to him that he has saved the life of the Marchese di Civitella, nephew of Cardinal A***i. Since the Marchese was losing a lot of blood, Biondello hurriedly performed the task of surgeon as best as he could and the Prince saw to it that he was taken to his uncle’s palace, which was nearby, accompanying him there in person. Here he left him quietly and without disclosing his identity.

However, a servant who had recognised Biondello gave him away. Immediately the next day the Cardinal appeared, an old acquaintance from the Bucentauro. The visit lasted an hour; when they emerged, the Cardinal was greatly moved. His eyes were filled with tears; the Prince, too, was touched. On the same evening the sick man was paid a visit, where the surgeon, moreoever, gave assurance of a speedy recovery. The cloak he had been wrapped in had made the dagger thrusts inaccurate and blunted their force. Since this event not a day has gone by without the Prince visiting the Cardinal at his house or receiving him at his, and a strong friendship is beginning to grow between him and the Cardinal’s family.

The Cardinal is a venerable sexagenarian of majestic
appearance, full of gaiety and robust health. He is thought to be one of the richest prelates in the whole region of the republic. He is said to manage his immeasurable fortune in a very youthful way still and, by being sensibly frugal, not to disdain any of the joys of this world. This nephew is his sole heir, but reputed to be not always on the best of terms with him. As little as the old man is an enemy of pleasure, his nephew’s behaviour, they say, would nevertheless bring even the most tolerant of men to the end of their tether. His liberal principles and unbridled style of living, supported unfortunately by everything that can adorn vice and delight sensuality, make him every father’s nightmare and the curse of every husband; this recent attack on him, so they say, he brought on himself because of an intrigue he had entered into with the wife of the ** ambassador, not to mention other dubious affairs that only the Cardinal’s prestige and money could barely extricate him from. This apart, the Marchese would be the most envied man in all Italy, since he possesses everything that can make life desirable. With this one family weakness Fortune takes back all the gifts bestowed on him and sours his enjoyment of wealth with the continual fear that he may find himself not inheriting it.

All this news I have from Biondello. In him the Prince has found a man of inestimable worth. With every day that passes he makes himself more indispensable and every day we discover some new talent that he has. Recently the Prince was in an over-excited state and could not get to sleep. The night lamp had gone out and no amount of ringing of the bell could rouse the valet, who had left the house to indulge in some skirt-chasing.
The Prince therefore decides to get up and call one of his servants. He has not gone very far when he hears some delightful music wafting towards him from far away. He heads towards the sound as if bewitched and finds Biondello playing the flute in his room with his companions all around him. He cannot believe his eyes and his ears and tells him to continue. Biondello then plays extempore this same melting adagio with an admirable lightness of touch and with the most exquisite variations, displaying all the finesse of a virtuoso. The Prince, who as you know is a connoisseur, maintains he would have no difficulty in performing in the best orchestra.

“I must release this man from my service,” he told me the following day; “I do not have the means to reward him according to his deserts.” This got back to Biondello, who came to him and said, “My lord, if you do this, you will be robbing me of my greatest reward.”