Land of Villas

Good heavens! As we journeyed past the Faraglioni rocks and the Monacone, the coastline of Matromania unfolded before us, tracing its path along the fragrant mountainside like a pale snake, adorned with short brick stairways. Nestled at the foot of the mountain, a remarkable sight awaited us:

This solitary and promising abode revealed itself as “casa come me” – the “house like me,” as inscribed upon its door.

The phrase “house like me” is not only written on its door but also reflected in its design, decor and furnishings. This was the vision and intention of its owner, Malaparte. The house embodies his essence: proud yet unassuming, stern yet benevolent, seemingly inaccessible yet welcoming to those of sincere intent. Its furnishings are simple, with rough seats, sparse tables, and an absence of mirrors – all symbolic of his character. This is not the abode of a hedonistic, self-indulgent figure, but rather that of a nomad, an adventurer accustomed to life in the wilderness. Above all, it is the dwelling of a writer who boldly confronts truths and speaks his mind without fear.

If the guest rooms of the “Ospizio” on the ground floor offer comfort and refinement devoid of ostentation, the small dining room, adorned with equestrian engravings on its decorated walls and featuring a large earthenware stove and a horseshoe-shaped walnut bench, resembles a wardroom. Venturing upstairs to what Malaparte and I humorously refer to as “the Master’s proud retreat,” we find ourselves in a vast hall, sparsely furnished yet grandiose and austere, with echoes so Apollonian that one might envision it as a magnificent music chamber. Turning to Malaparte, I inquire:

– Why is this floor made of stone?

– So that we are not tempted to dance here! “Why else?!” he responds boldly, with that candidly sardonic smile that instantly warms the heart.

Behind the hall lies the bedroom, a bachelor’s sanctuary: pristine and fragrant with the scent of wax and lavender. Books line the walls, interspersed with paintings – portraits of Malaparte by Campigli, Pisis, and Leonor Fini. Yet, the most remarkable feature is the bed: a narrow, austere, ascetic’s resting place, adorned with a magnificent suede coverlet.

Here, Malaparte immerses himself in his latest cinematic endeavor, personally overseeing the script, editing, and staging of his upcoming film. Collaborating with Alexandre Korda, he has signed on to shoot the film in July, near Montepulciano, in the south of Siena.

Behind him, a vast sofa and oversized armchairs await his friends, yet a simple straw chair suffices for him. His typewriter and papers rest upon a plexiglass plate beside a cherished photograph of Febo, his faithful canine companion who passed away nine years prior. Febo, once on the brink of death, found solace in Malaparte’s care, becoming his steadfast companion during times of hardship, including deportation. “Never have I loved a wife, a brother, a friend, as much as I loved Febo,” he once declared. “He was a dog like me, a noble being—the noblest creature I have ever encountered.”

We can thus comprehend why an exile like Baron Jacques Fersen found solace in Capri: “Amori et dolori sacrum” (“sacred love and pain”), as he had inscribed on the pediment of his Villa Lysis. Fersen epitomized the island’s sulfurous reputation to such an extent that it ultimately led to his demise. A striking figure, tall and fair-haired, he exuded an air of courtesy despite his fleeting gaze. […] Born with the surname Adelswärd, his family had amassed wealth through Lorraine steelworks, and one of his Swedish relatives had been the rumored lover of the ill-fated Marie-Antoinette.

Initially poised for a diplomatic career, Fersen’s life took a different turn when he encountered a French viscount during a peaceful trip to Naples with his mother and sister. […] Following his father’s passing, he inherited a fortune and devoted himself to indulging in life’s pleasures with the viscount by his side. Fersen dabbled in poetry, crafting libertine pastorals that garnered a measure of success, and frequented Capri numerous times, often accompanied by Robert, organizing “tableaux vivants” in caves with young men clad in peplums.

All of this was meant to be nothing more than a frivolous interlude in an otherwise honorable life, for at the age of twenty-three, the baron fell deeply in love with the charming Blanche, daughter of an aristocrat. However, on July 10, 1903, the day their engagement was announced, two unscrupulous gendarmes raided his home and arrested him on charges of contempt of morals and corruption of a minor—a vengeful act by a dismissed servant. Like Wilde, Fersen found himself sentenced to six months in prison. Blanche, unable to bear the scandal, refused to see him again. It was then that he remembered Capri.

Upon his arrival on the island, Fersen received a newfound gift: a fresh identity, as the name Adelswärd had become tainted. Embracing his poetic inclinations once more, he immersed himself in writing and forged friendships with locals, including Norman, who assisted him in locating an ideal spot to erect his small palace near the Villa Jovis, in hopes of finding poetic inspiration.

Wherever he ventured, he remained inseparable from Nino, the son of a Roman worker, who […] would ultimately become the great love of his life. In the villa’s garden stands a life-size sculpture of Nino, depicted seated on a shell […]. Together, Nino and […] Fersen […] made their home in the dimly lit Villa Lysis, adorned with Louis XIV carpets and furnishings transported from their previous abode. Alma-Tadema-style nudes adorned the walls, while neoclassical sculptures mingled with ivory containers for cocaine powder. Outside, the garden boasted a greenhouse filled with orchids […], as well as laurel and myrtle plants, enhancing the ambiance of their living tableau.

Braziers and torches affixed to the walls illuminated the grotto, while several carpets adorned the floor and an altar stood at its center—a scene of peculiar intrigue for the riflemen who stormed in around midnight to apprehend them all […]. Following this event, Nino and Fersen resumed their life of exile and wandering.

When Fersen returned to his villa in 1921, it had become overrun with ivy and brambles—a reflection of his own neglect, having instructed the gardener to let nature reclaim the grounds […]. The ravages of cocaine and opium had taken their toll: Fersen, with swollen eyelids and hollow eyes, frequently succumbed to unconsciousness and debilitating depressions.

Witnessed by Nino and Manfred, he staggered and collapsed inert onto the cushions, resembling the figures in the decadent paintings he admired. Outside, a violent storm erupted, providing a dramatic backdrop of lightning and thunder as Fersen breathed his last, his hand resting on a vermeil tray amidst cushions adorned with Tabriz canvas. Thus ended the rootless, unhappy life of Jacques—perhaps Baron de Fersen, but perhaps not—in Capri, leaving no further questions unanswered..

Mrs. Watson’s villa exuded a captivating charm that even Forstetner, who typically refrained from displaying enthusiasm, couldn’t help but praise—not once, but twice. The allure of the house was undeniable, with its splendid location on the side of Tragara, a neighborhood synonymous with wealth—a detail not lost on Forstetner. While the sunlight entered the house later in the day compared to Satrianos’ place, a potential inconvenience for some Italians; Forstetner, being Swiss, harbored no fear of the sun.

As they made their way back, Satriano remarked on the likelihood of hotter nights at the villa. “I do not care. We are not afraid of hot nights. Right, Andrassy?” Forstetner declared. Andrassy found himself blushing, though unsure of the reason—perhaps due to Satriano’s gaze.

Ascending amidst a riot of cacti, agaves, and palm trees, the path culminated at a statue of Minerva illuminated by none other than… a street lamp! This unexpected, inconceivable sight, emerging from the tropical splendor, was akin to a horse in a bed or a trombone in a bathtub—a genuine shock to the senses. The lamppost, resembling those found in bustling cities, boasted a glass enclosure, a crown atop its head, and ornate ironwork forming a butterfly knot, with a flared skirt towards the base. Forstetner was utterly taken with this whimsical addition, deeming it a delightful extravagance.

-“Even if I don’t purchase the villa, I must have that lamppost,” he declared.

While the garden was enchanting, the interior of the house, while not overly spacious, offered a pleasing coolness. Yet, it lacked a certain sense of orderliness that one might expect from a hostess of Mrs. Watson’s standing in New York society. The presence of two whiskey bottles strewn about the living room seemed somewhat acceptable, but the discovery of a third, already opened, on the bedroom dressing table raised eyebrows. Forstetner and the rental agent exchanged glances, observed by an indifferent chambermaid trailing them from room to room […].

“Of course, we will insist on the house being reconditioned,” remarked the agent, who clearly had little experience in making demands. However, Forstetner appeared unfazed. “My room…” he began, suddenly animated with a childlike joy that almost made him sympathetic. “Yours, Andrassy,” he continued, taking his arm. “With a terrace. You’ll be quite comfortable there, eh? With this view, these palm trees…” Andrassy couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps this old despot had developed a genuine fondness for him after all. “The most beautiful villa on the island, gentlemen,” proclaimed the agent, flinging open the cupboards. “Twenty suits, not a single one squeezed in!” He punctuated his words with punches to the mattresses. “Genuine wool!”

The true price could only be negotiated with the owner, who unfortunately was absent in Rome. However, the agent assured them he would telegraph him immediately, his excitement palpable. “A telegram! Urgent! Double the price! Guaranteed response!”

After five long summers’ incessant toil from sunrise till sunset San Michele was more or less finished but there was still a lot to be done in the garden. A new terrace was to be laid out behind the house, another loggia to be built over the two small Roman rooms which we had discovered in the autumn. As to the little cloister court, I told Mastro Nicola we had better knock it down, I did not like it any more. Mastro Nicola implored me to leave it as it was, we had already knocked it down twice, if we kept on knocking down everything as soon as it was built, San Michele would never be finished. I told Mastro Nicola that the proper way to build one’s house was to knock everything down, never mind how many times, and begin again until your eye told you that everything was right. The eye knew much more about architecture than did the books. The eye was infallible, as long as you relied on your own eye and not on the eye of other people.

A few pictures by Flemish primitives, an etching of Dürer and a Greek bas-relief on the whitewashed walls. A couple of old rugs on the mosaic floor, a few books on the tables, flowers everywhere in lustrous jars from Faenza and Urbino. The cypresses from Villa d’Este leading the way up to the chapel had already grown into an avenue of stately trees, the noblest trees in the world. The chapel itself which had given its name to my home had at last become mine. It was to become my library. Fine old cloister stalls surrounded the white walls, in its midst stood a large refectory table laden with books and terracotta fragments.

On a fluted column of “giallo antico” stood a huge Horus of basalt, the largest I have ever seen, brought from the land of the Pharaohs by some Roman collector, maybe by Tiberius himself. Over the writing table the marble head of Medusa looked down upon me, fourth century B.C., found by me at the bottom of the sea. On the huge Cinquecento Florentine mantelpiece stood the Winged Victory. On a column of Africano by the window the mutilated head of Nero looked out over the gulf where he had caused his mother to be beaten to death by his oarsmen. Over the entrance door shone the beautiful Cinquecento stained glass window presented to Eleonora Duse by the town of Florence and given by her to me in remembrance of her last stay in San Michele.

In a small crypt five feet below the Roman floor of coloured marble slept in peace the two monks I had come upon quite unaware when we were digging for the foundations of the mantelpiece. They lay there with folded arms just as they had been buried under their chapel nearly five hundred years ago. Their cassocks had mouldered almost to dust, their dried-up bodies were light as parchment, but their features were still well preserved, their hands were still clasping their crucifixes, one of them wore dainty silver buckles on his shoes. I was sorry to have disturbed them in their sleep, with infinite precautions I laid them back in their little crypt. The lofty archway with Gothic columns outside the chapel looked just right, I thought. Where are such columns to be found to-day?

A man in a red mantle had told me all about it the first time I looked out over the sea from the very spot where we now stood, so far I had only seen it in my dreams. I looked down on the little white yacht on the Marina under my feet and said I was quite sure I would find the sphinx at the right time. The difficulty would be to bring it across the sea, it was in fact far too heavy a cargo for my boat, it was all of granite and weighed I did not know how many tons. Mastro Nicola scratched his head and wondered who was going to drag it up to San Michele? He and I of course.