He had a piping castrato voice like all the dwarfs here, and that irritated me. My own voice is rich and deep.
It is a despicable and dishonored race.
Why are they not like me?
TODAY the Princess tried to discuss love with me. She was very sentimental and lachrymose. Why, I don’t know. But she Certainly has reason to be-if she only knew how much! Then she suddenly switched over in her usual unaccountable way and began to jest about it instead. She sat in front of the mirror and the tiring woman arranged her hair while she passed from jest to earnest, chatting desultorily with me in a manner which I found both unwarranted and disagreeable. She was determined that I should make a statement on the subject, but I was not encouraging She insisted: had I never had a little love affair? I scowled and denied it stoutly. She was surprised and incredulous and then she returned to the attack and became more and more inquisitive. At last, wishing to forestall all further argument, I declared that if ever I should love anybody it would be a man.
She turned around and looked at me, laughing heartily and the maid echoed her mirth. “A man!” she cried provokingly, as though there were anything funny about it. “A man? Which one? Boc-carossa maybe?” And they both went off again into peals of laughter. I flushed, for I had been thinking of him, and when they marked my blushes they seemed to think that added to the humor of the whole thing.
I could see no humor in it, and I stared at them with a frigid and contemptuous gaze. Laughter is unlovely and disfiguring. Seeing their mouths suddenly open and uncover the red gums affects me very unpleasantly. And I cannot help it if I cherish a warm admiration, even a certain ardor for Bocca-rossa. In my eyes, he is a real man.
What particularly annoys me is that that slut of a tiring wench should have laughed also, and so much more coarsely than did Madama. I may tolerate the Princess’ poking fun at me, though at any moment I could turn the jest to deadly earnest and answer her question about love in the most terrible way, telling her what it really is. I repeat that I can tolerate it from her, because she is my mistress and of princely blood, but that such a vulgar baggage should dare laugh at me-that enrages me. The trollop always has been insolent to me, trying to give herself airs and be “witty,” and teasing me because I cannot open some of the palace doors. What has that got to do with her? She is a pert and clumsy peasant lass who ought to be whipped.
As for Boccarossa, it is quite natural that I should admire him; I, too, have a martial disposition.
THE DAYS pass, and we wait, not knowing what to do.
Yesterday I Was sent with a message to Maestro Bernardo at Santa Croce. He is still there, working on his Last Supper. I have often wondered why he was not at the front, watching the crushing power of his own strange machines, but he seems content to construct them. I really thought that he would want to see them in action. Out there he could have had all the corpses he wanted to dissect and could have made great strides in his science.
I found him deep in contemplation of his noble creation, so preoccupied that he did not notice my entrance. When he raised his eyes they looked as though they were still very far away. He did not seem to pay much attention to my martial accou-terment, though he never before had seen me so equipped. He noticed it, but showed neither surprise nor any special interest in it. “What do you want with me, little hobgoblin?” he asked amiably. I gave my message, though I was annoyed by his odd way of addressing me. Then I went away again, having no reason to stay. I threw a passing glance at the masterpiece, and thought that it did not seem nearer completion than when last I had seen it. He never finishes anything. What is it that he broods over all the time?
He never said a word about the war, though he could see that I had come straight from it. I had the impression that he was utterly indifferent to it.
The Signoria has refused to lend us any more money! Their envoy has announced that there will be no further loans. It is incredible! Absolutely incomprehensible! They think that the war has gone badly. Badly! What impertinence! Badly! When we have done nothing but win the whole time! We have penetrated far into enemy territory, right up to his capital. Now we are about to capture that, and harvest the fruits of our unique successes. To hinder us now! When the city lies there waiting to be taken, shot to pieces, burned, wiped off the face of the earth. It is outrageous! Unbelievable! Are those dirty hucksters to stand between us and our final victory? Just because they do not want to disburse their filthy money? No! It is not possible. That would be the lowest abomination!
The Prince must find a way out, and of course he will. A great and glorious war cannot be hampered by anything so vulgar as moneyl It is out of the question.
The palace is crammed with equerries, foreign envoys, councilors and commanders, and couriers spend their time shuttling between the Prince and the front.
I am absolutely crazy with excitement.
BOCCAROSSA’s mercenaries refuse to go on fighting! They want their pay, first that which is already due them, and double as much afterward. They will not stir until they have received this. The Prince cannot lay his hands on any money and he tries to coax them by pointing out that the city is a rich prize which, once captured, they will be free to plunder to their hearts’ content. They reply that no one knows if the city ever will be captured, it has never happened before; first they must defeat il Toro’s army and then start a long siege, and they do not like sieges, they find them boring. There is no chance of loot during a stationary siege. Besides, they have had severe losses, worse than they had expected, and this annoys them very much. They declare that, though they like killing, they have no wish to be killed, or at least not for such measly pay. There is no courtesy or diplomatic polish about their phraseology.
What is going to happen now? What will be the end of it all?
The Prince is sure to find some solution, his ingenuity is nothing short of devilish. He enjoys reverses, for they give him a chance to show his greatness. And our own invincible army still stands outside the walls of Montanza’s capital. Let us not forget that!
The war is coming to an end! The troops are going to withdraw over the frontier and return home and everything is finished! Finished!
I must be dreaming! It must be a dream, a horrible nightmare! It cannot be true. I must wake up and find that it is only a dreadful detestable dream.
But it is true. True! Bitter unbelievable truth! All one’s being refuses to grasp it.
Avarice, infamy, treachery, all human baseness combined has vanquished our heroic army and wrenched the weapons from its hands. Our glorious undefeated troops stand in their threatening might before the enemy’s gates, yet they must retreat without exchanging a blow! They must go home, betrayed and abandoned, home, though their sole desire is to conquer or die! It is an outrageous, criminal tragedy.
Our great war, the noblest in all our history, to end like this!
I am stunned with pain and anger. Never in my life have I been so agitated nor suffered such shame. I am seething with bitterness, vexation and fury, and at the same time I am stunned, I feel utterly helpless. How can I influence the disgraceful course of events and how can I change it? How can I check the progress of this gloomy drama? I can do nothing. Nothing at all.
It is over. Everything is over. Over!