“Then what is its purpose?”
“Go and ask the meanest beggar in Milan and he will tell you — freedom. That is what glitters at the bottom of the well of their dreams. It’s all they worship, and for its sake they will struggle for power, hating whatever power is greater than their own. And yet not one of these people has any idea what freedom is. They are bound by a thousand shackles, these unfortunates: wives, children, relatives, the state of the country, the ceaseless urgings of the body. And everyone is dependent on everyone else. Beat one of them and others will be sure to suffer. If the judge’s wife sprains her little finger you can’t guarantee that the next day six children won’t weep for a father languishing in prison. What they call freedom is a squalid, meaningless lie, because if they did kill me they’d get someone a thousand times worse around their necks. They’ve got so used to all this they can’t live without it. I could even argue that when I do away with these conspirators I do so in their own best interests… but how odd it is, that I should be the only one who knows what freedom means,” he added, rising to his feet.
“To be free, Lytto, act as if you were utterly alone — without love, without hatred, without fear and without hope. What man can measure up to that? But what a fine evening this is! Would you play something? We’ve talked for so long…
“But don’t think, Lytto, that I am afraid. I might take myself off to some faraway country for a holiday, where no one would bother me — I tell you, at times I have become very weary of it all and have given thought to such things. But I am a citizen of Milan. Anywhere else I would be a stranger, a guest; not my own master, and no longer free. And if they do succeed in killing me, I’d rather it happened here, at home, where my father and my ancestors met their fate.”
“But why, why?”
“Because no one can bear the thought of someone else achieving what he wants for himself from the very bottom of his heart. The free man is a permanent rebuke to others. He reminds them that they are slaves. So keep a tight rein on your passions, Lytto. You are a good, honest lad, with a pleasant face. Perhaps you will never come to understand what you have heard tonight. But if you do, learn from it. Now, isn’t it wonderful how I have rattled on this evening? But it’s been very agreeable. Now it’s time we went to bed. How does the poet put it?
… et iam nox umida coelo
Praecipitat, suadentque cadentia sidera somnos.
… from the sky damp night
Sinks to a close, and the setting stars urge sleep.
“Thank you, Lytto, for staying up with me.”
And he stroked the boy’s hair.
Lytto had not understood very much of what Galeazzo had told him, but as he sat there listening he had been filled with a sense of unspeakable horror. Partly it was a horror of things he could not understand; partly, and more importantly, it was Galeazzo’s manner of speaking — his calm, perfectly level tones — that so appalled him. What he could not follow in the words he understood perfectly from the tone of voice — that the man was capable of speaking about other human beings as if he had no personal connection with them — as if he were not himself human.
Nothing more was said until they reached the Duke’s bedchamber. There Galeazzo took the candelabra from Lytto and gazed searchingly into his face.
“I’ve something else to show you, Lytto. I’m sure you have never seen my portrait. I don’t normally show it to anyone. But this evening I’m in a good mood, so take a look.”
He drew back a curtain and lifted up the candelabra to illuminate the picture.
The painting hung beneath a triple arch. Against a gold background it presented a figure sitting on a tall throne, the body completely enveloped in a dark-green cloak that was so voluminous it covered the steps below and made the face above appear intensely white. The face was horrifying. Lytto instinctively stepped back. It was unquestionably the face of Galeazzo, and yet it was not. With its monstrous calmness, gazing stiffly out at the observer, it seemed no longer the countenance of a human being. The lines were recognisably those of a man, but the expression was of something beyond humanity: certainly not a face to entertain foolish banalities, or indeed one in which anything could be read… and yet it did not seem to conceal any secret. It presented a horrific reality, in which there was nothing to be understood — a face that rejected understanding.
The human forms painted beneath the throne were, in the hierarchical manner of the time, tiny in comparison with the central figure — a vast multitude, all with more or less identical faces, all in some way distorted and seeming to swarm in a kind of restless gloom. Above the throne, the gold background between the two lateral marble arches was interrupted by the unfinished — and truly terrifying — silhouette of two black human figures. The Duke drew the curtains closed.
“Sit down, Lytto. You’ve gone pale. Pull yourself together,” he said. “There’s a long story behind this painting. One day, after I had escaped from danger that threatened my actual life, I decided to have my portrait done so that, if I did die, there would be something to hang in the gallery alongside my ancestors. I sent for the most famous painter in Milan and promised him a huge sum of money for the work. He was very happy to take it on. Of course I knew that he would see me through the eyes of the Milanese people and would paint me as I appeared in their vision of hatred. But that didn’t bother me. In fact, I was rather pleased. I tell you, it tickled my vanity in those days to be hated by so many people, more than anyone had ever been hated before, and I was delighted that the painter was going to record that loathing for eternity.
“The strange thing about the whole business was that while he was painting me he apparently went mad. He complained of seeing apparitions, he began to prophesy, and he became convinced that he was in the presence of the Antichrist. And one fine day — I’ve no idea how he came by it — he suddenly ran at me waving a knife in the air. In those days I was still very strong, and my presence of mind has never yet let me down. I picked up a chair and struck him with it. The poor chap was duly executed, and the picture was left, just as you see it, unfinished. Over one of my shoulders there was to be St George, the guardian saint of my family, and on the other side St Ambrose, the patron saint of Milan. But all you can see are their shadows. So, how do you like the portrait, Lytto?”
“It’s very fine, my lord. But it doesn’t look like you.”
“Good. So mind you don’t dream about it! Now off you go. And promise me you will never mention this painting to anyone, or you’ll be playing with your life.”
Lytto silently raised his hand.
“God bless you, Lytto. You’ve seen, and heard, some important secrets tonight. But I trust you. You’re a good boy.”
The next day Galeazzo thought about his talkativeness of the night before with some regret. He had raised a confidant, who might well prove more dangerous than twenty conspirators. Every intimacy we share is a weapon placed in someone else’s hands — it lays our bosom open to them. But he did not worry about it for long. He had a strong sense of Lytto’s loyalty. He knew the boy had grown up away from all the madness outside. In fact, he began to feel rather pleased about what he had done. The long discussion they had had the previous evening actually completed his earlier project for bringing the boy up — to produce a self-reliant disciple, one who understood his thinking as a ruler, who would serve him on the basis of conscious insight and thus pursue his own interests at the same time.