If I don’t mention the footman or the butler or the maid more often, it is because I would have to mention them too often. Servants were all over the house, like fleas, jumping out at you when you didn’t expect them. Many of the more personal family encounters I was to witness took place in front of this audience; none of the Caravaggios seemed to mind them, but I couldn’t be sure whether it was because they were regarded as members of the family or as pieces of furniture.
Pietro sputtered helplessly during his son’s outburst. When the boy ran out, he would have shouted, had he not caught his mother’s eye. The dowager said nothing. She didn’t have to. It was quite clear what she thought of the whole thing, and with whom her sympathy lay. Obviously both she and Luigi assumed Pietro had given his girlfriend the brooch to keep.
The remainder of the cocktail hour passed uncomfortably. At least I was uncomfortable, and so was Pietro. Helena, never sensitive to other people’s feelings, basked in the reflected glitter of diamonds. The dowager sat like a stiff black effigy, her wrinkled white hands folded over the top of her stick. She never took her eyes off the swaggering, self-conscious figure of her son.
The only thing that made the situation bearable was Smythe’s playing. He went from Tchaikovsky to Bach to Vivaldi and finally lapsed into Rudolf Friml, which he performed with a swooping, saccharine sweetness that made the melodies sound like satires of themselves. I don’t think he was playing to be helpful, he was only amusing himself; but music does soothe the savage breast, and it pleased Pietro.
It was a long evening, though. The dowager stuck with us till long after dinner – in order to punish Pietro – and it was almost ten o’clock before the four of us returned to the drawing room for coffee. Like a naughty little boy, Pietro relaxed as soon as his mother left. He had drunk quite a bit, and was well into his aggressive mood; the fact that he had had to repress it in front of the old lady made him even more belligerent. He turned on Smythe, who was drifting towards the piano, and snarled.
‘A fine performance, I must say. So this is how you carry out your duties!’
Smythe raised an eyebrow and did not reply. Pietro looked at me.
‘He has been here less than a week, and you see how he behaves! Like a guest in the house. I take him in, employ him, because he is well recommended; he does no work, he sits by laughing when my own son insults and defames me. What do you say to that?’
‘Terrible,’ I said. The complaint was totally unreasonable, of course, but I was not inclined to defend Sir John Smythe. If Pietro had proposed stringing him up for horse stealing, I’d have lent a hand on the rope.
‘Don’t be so silly, Pietro,’ Helena said, fingering her diamonds. ‘What do you expect Sir John to do? It is your problem if your son misbehaves.’
The old saying, that it takes two to make a fight, is a lie. One person can start a fight all by himself if he is determined to, and Pietro was. Helena’s defence of Smythe only gave Pietro a convenient handle. By the time he was through, he had accused his secretary and his mistress of carrying on an affair right under his nose. I think he was looking for an excuse to take the brooch back, and Helena, never too bright, fell right into the trap.
Smythe fell into another kind of trap. When Pietro started slapping his chest and shouting about his family honour, Smythe put his coffee cup carefully down on a table and stood up.
‘Oh, all right,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘Let’s get it over with. Fetch the umbrellas.’
‘Ah, you mock me,’ screamed Pietro. ‘Umbrellas, you say? You wish to make me a laughingstock. You do not take me seriously. You will see if a Caravaggio is to be insulted.’ And he rushed out of the room.
He was back in less time than I would have supposed possible, brandishing – yes, you guessed it – only it wasn’t one sword, it was two, one in each hand. He flung one of them down on the floor in front of Smythe. Gold shone. I remembered those rapiers; they were a matched pair, part of the jewel collection, because they had gorgeous decorated hilts. They were court swords, meant to be worn with a fancy uniform; but the blades were of Toledo steel, and quite sharp.
Smythe contemplated the weapon blankly as Pietro tried to struggle out of his coat. The footman had to come and help him. Then he took up his sword and fell into what he fondly believed was an attitude of defence, flexing his knees and waving his arms.
‘Come,’ he shouted. ‘Defend your honour, if you have any!’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said uneasily, as Smythe bent to pick up his weapon. ‘Those points look pretty sharp. He could hurt himself.’
‘He could also hurt me,’ said Smythe indignantly. ‘After all, I didn’t start this nonsense.’
Pietro ran at him, roaring. He slid neatly to one side, and the point of the sword punctured the back of the chair in which he had been sitting. Pietro tugged at it, cursing luridly, and Smythe moved discreetly back a few feet. He looked at his sword and then at Pietro’s plump posterior, temptingly tilted as he tried to free his sword from the sofa.
‘Don’t do it,’ I said. ‘You’ll just make him mad.’
‘He’s mad already,’ was the reply. ‘Stark, staring mad. Why don’t you soothe him? Say something calming.’
I glanced at Helena, thinking she might try to control her outraged lover, but she was giggling happily as she watched. Two men were dueling over her; what more could a girl ask of life? I looked at the footman, and realized I wasn’t going to get any help from that quarter. Before I could think what to say, Pietro had tugged his sword free, bringing a little cloud of stuffing with it, and had turned back to his secretary. He took a wild swipe at Smythe, who brought his blade up just in time. Steel rang on steel, and I sat up a little straighter. Pietro was beside himself. That blow would have split Smythe’s skull if it had connected.
The duel with the umbrellas had been pure farce, but only because the weapons were harmless. Pietro hadn’t pulled his punches that time, and he wasn’t doing it now; I couldn’t tell whether he was so drunk he did not realize he was holding a sharp blade, or whether he didn’t care. There was a streak of violence in that little fat man after all. And he knew how to fence. Luckily Smythe seemed to have had some experience too. Pietro was no Olympic gold medalist, but Smythe’s defence was complicated by the fact that he didn’t want to injure his infuriated employer, or even allow him to injure himself. Smythe had to defend two people, and refrain from attacking. He wasn’t smiling as he retreated, with careful consideration for the rugs scattered hither and yon on the dangerously slippery polished floor. Once Pietro tripped on a fringe; if Smythe’s blade hadn’t knocked his aside, he would have stabbed himself in the calf.
I decided the affair had gone on long enough. If Pietro didn’t cut somebody, he would have a stroke; he was purple in the face and streaming with perspiration. I slid in behind him, and as his arm went forwards I grabbed his biceps with both hands, and squeezed.
That hurts. Pietro shrieked. The sword dropped clattering to the floor, digging a long gouge in the parquetry.
Smythe stepped back and lowered his point. I could see that he was about to make some rude remark, so I dropped to my knees and wound my arms around Pietro’s legs. It made a pretty picture, I must say, and it also kept Pietro from falling over.
‘I couldn’t let you kill him,’ I choked. ‘Pietro – it would be murder! Your skill is too great. It would be like fighting an unarmed man.’