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Everything has a meaning of its own, all that happens and preoccupies mankind. But life itself can have no meaning. Otherwise it would not be.

Such is my belief.

O SHAME! O dishonor! Never have I endured such degradation as that which was inflicted on me that terrible day. I shall try to write down what happened, though I would rather not remind myself of it.

The Prince had commanded me to seek out Maestro Bernardo who was working in the refectory at Santa Croce, saying he had need of me. I went there, though I was annoyed at being treated as though I were the servant of this haughty man who is no concern of mine. He received me in the friendliest fashion and said that he had always been greatly interested in dwarfs. I wondered: “What has not interested this man who wants to know all about Francesco’s intestines and the stars of heaven? But,” I continued to myself, “he knows nothing of me, the dwarf.” After further amiable empty words he said that he wished to make a picture of me. At first I thought he meant my portrait, which the Prince perchance had bespoken, and I could not help feeling flattered. Nevertheless I replied that I did not wish to have my likeness reproduced. “Why not?” he asked. I answered, as was only naturaclass="underline" “I wish to possess my own face.” He thought this strange, smiled somewhat, but then admitted that there was something in what I said. But, even when unrepro-duced, one’s face is the property of many, in fact of all who look upon it. And here it was a question of a drawing of me which should show my shape, and therefore I must take off my clothes so that he could make a sketch of my body. I felt myself grow livid with wrath or fear (I know not which prevailed), and they both shook me so that I trembled all over.

He noted the violent agitation which his outra-geousness aroused in me and began to say that there was no shame in being a dwarf and showing it. He always felt the same deep reverence for nature, even when its caprice created something out of the ordinary. There is never any disgrace in showing oneself as one is to another person, and nobody really possesses himself.

“But I do,” I cried, beside myself with passion. “You don’t possess yourselves, but I do!”

He listened to my outburst with perfect calm, he even observed it with a curious interest which agitated me still more. Then he said that he must begin-and drew nearer to me. “I can’t bear any offense against my bodyl” I shrieked wildly, but he took not the slightest notice, and when he realized that I would never strip of my own free will, he prepared to undress me himself. I managed to jerk my dagger from its sheath and he seemed very surprised to see it gleaming in my hand. He took it away from me and laid it carefully down a little distance away. “I believe you are dangerous,” he said, looking thoughtfully at me. I felt myself sneer at this remark. Then, placid as ever, he began to take off my clothes and exposed my body most shamelessly. I resisted desperately, fought with him as for my life, but all in vain, for he was stronger than I. When he had completed his vile task he lifted me onto a scaffold in the middle of the room.

I stood there defenseless, naked, incapable of action, though I was foaming with rage. And he stood some distance away from me, quite unmoved, and examined me, scrutinizing my shame with a cold and merciless gaze. I was utterly exposed to that outrageous gaze which explored and assimilated me as though I were his property. Having to stand like that and submit to somebody else’s scrutiny was such a degradation that I still burn with shame to think that I ever was forced to endure it. I still recall the sound of his silverpoint as it glided over the paper, perhaps the same silverpoint with which he had limned the dried heads outside the castle gates, and all the other abominations. His glance remained unchanged, sharp as a dagger tip, and it seemed to pierce through me.

I have never hated the human race so much as during that ghastly hour. My hatred was so alive that I almost thought I should lose consciousness, everything went black before my eyes. Is there anything more vile than these beings, anything more detestable?

On the opposite wall I could see his great painting, which is supposed to be such a masterpiece. At that time it was still in its initial stages, but it seemed to represent the Last Supper, with Christ and His disciples at their love feast. I glared at them, sitting there with their pure solemn faces, believing that they were exalted above all others, grouped around their heavenly Lord, the one with the celestial light around His head. I rejoiced to think that soon He would be taken, that Judas, sitting huddled in his far corner, would soon betray Him. I thought: “Now He is still loved and honored, now He still sits at His feast-while I stand here in my shame! But His shame is on its way! Soon He will no longer be sitting there with His followers, but hanging alone on a cross, betrayed by them. He will hang there as naked as I am now, as humiliated as I, exposed to the stares of all, mocked and defiled. And why not? Why should He not suffer the same ignominy as I? He has always been encompassed with love, nourished Himself on love-while I have been nourished on hate. From my birth I have sucked the bitter juice of hate, I have lain at a breast filled with gall, while He was suckled by the mild and gracious Madonna and drank the sweetest mother’s milk that ever was. He sits there all innocent and kind and cannot believe that anyone should hate Him or want to harm Him. Why not? Why not He? He believes that everybody on earth must love Him because He was begotten by his heavenly Father. What simplicity! What childish ignorance! That is just why they cherish their secret rancor toward Him, just because of that miracle. Mankind does not like to be violated by God.”

I looked at Him again when at last I had been liberated from my unspeakable humiliation and stood at the door of that diabolical room where I had undergone my deepest degradation. I thought: “Soon You are going to be sold for a few scudi to the noble, high-minded people, You as well as I!”

And in my wrath I slammed the door on Him and His great master Bernardo, who was standing sunk in contemplation before his exalted work, already oblivious of me, who, through him, had suffered such agony.

I WOULD rather not recall what happened in Santa Croce, I should like to forget it, but I cannot help thinking about it. While I was dressing I could not avoid seeing some sketches which were strewn about, representing the oddest creatures, monsters such as never have been seen and which do not exist. They were something between men and beasts, women with bats’ wings between their long hairy fingers, men with lizards’ faces and legs and bodies like toads; others flying about like devils with cruel vulture faces and spread claws instead of hands, and beings which were neither men nor women, resembling sea monsters with twining tentacles and cold wicked human eyes. I was astounded by all these frightful monstrosities and I cannot rid myself of them yet; I still see them before me. How can his imagination dwell upon such things? Why does he evoke these repulsive spectral figures? Why does he conceive them? There must be something which makes him do so, though they have no real existence. He must feel the need of them, though they do not exist. Or perhaps is it just because of that? I do not understand it.

What can he be like, the being who produces things like that, who revels in such horrors and lusts after them?

To look at, his arrogant face is admittedly both subtle and dignified, and it is unbelievable that he should have created these loathsome images. But it is so. It gives me much food for thought. He must have these gruesome creatures inside him like all the other things which he creates.