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hurled itself into the air, turned to flame and a moving wall of ash, that was an invitation to look. The mountain was exhibiting itself. But when the mountain was relatively quiet as it has been for several months, when it invited a closer look, he was looking for something new as well as checking to see that everything is the same. The prying look wishes to be rewarded. Even in the most pacified souls the volcano inspires a lust to see destructiveness.
    He scrambled to the top of the cone and looked down. The vast hole, hundreds of feet deep, was still abrim with early-morning fog. He took the hammer from his pouch and looked about for a layer of color in the edge of the chasm. The fog was lifting as the sun warmed the air. With each gust of clarifying wind the view dropped farther and farther, without disclosing any fire. Dirty white jets of steam drifted upward from fissures in the lengthening crater walls. The burning innermost core lay hidden below the crust of slag. Not a glimmer. Pure massiveness—grey, inert. The Cavaliere sighed, and put his hammer back in the pouch. Inorganic matter makes a very melancholy impression on us.
    Maybe it is not the destructiveness of the volcano that pleases most, though everyone loves a conflagration, but its defiance of the law of gravity to which every inorganic mass is subject. What pleases first at the sight of the plant world is its vertical upward direction. That is why we love trees. Perhaps we attend to a volcano for its elevation, like ballet. How high the molten rocks soar, how far above the mushrooming cloud. The thrill is that the mountain blows itself up, even if it must then like the dancer return to earth; even if it does not simply descend—it falls, falls on us. But first it goes up, it flies. Whereas everything pulls, drags down. Down.

3
    Summer. Indeed, by meaningless coincidence, August 24th—an anniversary of the great eruption of A.D . 79. The weather: clammily close, infested with flies. The stench of sulphur in the air. High windows opening out to the entire bay. Birds singing in the palace garden. A delicate column of smoke balancing on the mountain’s tip.
    The King is on the toilet. Breeches at his ankles, frowning as he strains, his fundament spluttering. Although only twenty-four, he is fat, fat. His belly, striated like his wife’s (who has already gone through six of her eventual tally of seventeen pregnancies), rocks from side to side on the immense porcelain chaise percée. He had pawed his way through a copious meal, pork and macaroni and wild boar and zucchini flowers and sherbet, that had begun over two hours earlier. He had spewed wine at a favorite valet and tossed pellets of bread at his withered, disputatious prime minister. The Cavaliere, a spare eater even without these off-putting sights, had already been feeling stomach-heavy. And then the King announced that, having enjoyed an excellent meal, he hoped to have an excellent purge of his bowels, and wished to be escorted by ore of the distinguished guests at his table, his friend and excellent companion of the hunt, the British minister plenipotentiary.
    Oh, oh, my gut! (Groans, farts, sighs.)
    The Cavaliere, in steadily dampening full court dress with his star and red riband, is standing against a wall, taking in the fetid air through his thin lips. It could be worse, thinks the Cavaliere, a thought with which he has consoled himself for much of his life. This time what he means is, the King could have had diarrhea.
    I feel it coming!
    The King’s sottish boy’s game of being disgusting, of trying to shock. The English knight’s patrician game of not responding, of appearing not shocked. It would make a better picture, the Cavaliere thought, if I were not sweating almost as much as he is.
    No, it’s not. I didn’t! I can’t! Oh what shall I do?
    Perhaps His Majesty could better concentrate on the call of nature if left alone.
    I hate being