Fantastic Tales: Visionary and Everyday

by Italo Calvino

  EVTYCHES MYRO

  IMPERIO FECIT.

  After the word TVRBVL in the first line, I thought that there were some letters which had been effaced; but TVRBVL was perfectly legible.

  “What does that mean?” asked my gleeful host, mischievously smiling, for he knew very well that I would not find it easy to make much of this TVRBVL.

  “There is one thing which I cannot explain yet,” I said to him; “all the rest is easy. Eutyches Myron made this offering to Venus by her order.”

  “Good. But what do you make of TVRBVL? What is TVRBVL?”

  “TVRBVL puzzles me greatly; I cannot think of any epithet normally applied to Venus which might assist me. Let us see: what would you say to TVRBVLENTA? Venus who troubles and disturbs …. You notice I am still preoccupied with her spiteful expression. TVRBVLENTA is not at all a bad epithet for Venus,” I added modestly, for I myself was not quite satisfied with my explanation.

  “Venus the turbulent! Venus the disturber! Ah! So you think that my Venus is a Venus of the pot-house? Nothing of the sort, Monsieur. She is a Venus of good society. And now I will explain this TVRBVL to you. You will at least promise not to divulge my discovery before my treatise is published. I am rather proud, you see, of this find …. You really must leave us poor provincial devils a few ears to glean. You Parisian savants are rich enough.”

  From the top of the pedestal, where I was still perched, I solemnly promised that I would never be so dishonourable as to steal his discovery.

  “For TVRBVL, Monsieur,” he said, coming nearer and lowering his voice for fear that anyone else but myself might hear, “read TVRBVLNERAE.”

  “I don’t understand any better.”

  “Listen carefully. A league from here, at the foot of the mountain, there is a village called Boulternère. That is a corruption of the Latin word TVRBVLNERA. Nothing is commoner than such an inversion. Boulternère, Monsieur, was a Roman town. I had always thought so, but I had never had any proof of it. The proof lies here. This Venus was the local goddess of the city of Boulternère; and this word Boulternère, which I have just shown to be of ancient origin, proves a still more curious thing, namely, that Boulternère, after being a Roman town, became a Phoenician one!”

  He stopped a minute to take breath, and to enjoy my surprise. I had to repress a strong inclination to laugh.

  “Indeed,” he went on, “TVRBVLNERA is pure Phoenician. TVR can be pronounced TOUR …. TOUR and SOUR are the same word, are they not? SOUR is the Phoenician name for Tyre. I need not remind you of its meaning. BVL is Baal, Bâl, Bel, Bul, slight differences in pronunciation. As for NERA, that gives me some trouble. I am tempted to think, for want of a Phoenician word, that it comes from the Greek —damp, marshy. That would make it a hybrid word. To justify I will show you at Boulternère how the mountain streams there form foul pools. On the other hand, the ending NERA might have been added much later, in honour of Nera Pivesuvia, the wife of Tetricus, who may have rendered some service to the city of Turbul. But, on account of the pools, I prefer the derivation from .”

  He took a pinch of snuff with a satisfied air.

  “But let us leave the Phoenicians and return to the inscription. I translate, then: To the Venus of Boulternère Myron dedicates at her command this statue, the work of his hand.’”

  I took good care not to criticize his etymology, but I wanted, in my turn, to give some proof of perspicacity, so I said to him:

  “Wait a bit, Monsieur. Myron dedicated something, but I don’t in the least see that it was this statue.”

  “What!” he exclaimed. “Wasn’t Myron a famous Greek sculptor? The talent would pass on to his descendants; and one of them made this statue. Nothing can be clearer.”

  “But,” I replied, “I see a little hole in the arm. I fancy it has been used to fasten something, perhaps a bracelet, which this Myron gave to Venus as an expiatory offering, for Myron was an unlucky lover. Venus was angry with him, and he appeased her by consecrating a golden bracelet. You must remember that fecit is often used for consecravit. The terms are synonymous. I could show you more than one instance if I had access to Gruter or, better still, Orelli. It is natural that a lover should see Venus in his dreams, and that he should imagine that she ordered him to give her statue a golden bracelet. Myron consecrated a bracelet to her …. Then the barbarians, or perhaps some sacrilegious thief ….”

  “Ah, it’s easy to see that you have written some novels,” exclaimed my host, helping me down. “No, Monsieur, it is a work of Myron’s school. Just look at the workmanship, and you’ll agree.”

  Having made it a rule never to contradict pig-headed antiquarians outright, I bowed my head as if convinced, and said: “It’s a splendid piece of work.”

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Monsieur de Peyrehorade, “here’s another piece of vandalism! Someone has thrown a stone at my statue!”

  He had just noticed a white mark a little above the breast of the Venus. I saw a similar mark on the fingers of the right hand, which I then supposed had been touched by the stone in passing, or else a fragment of it might have been broken off by the shock and hit the hand. I told my host about the insult I had witnessed and the prompt punishment which had followed. He laughed heartily, and compared the apprentice to Diomedes, expressing the hope that he would see all his comrades changed into white birds, as the Greek hero did.

  The breakfast bell interrupted this classical conversation; and, as on the previous evening, I was forced to eat as much as four people. Then Monsieur de Peyrehorade’s tenants came to see him, and, while he was giving them audience, his son took me to see a carriage which he had bought for his fiancee at Toulouse, and which I naturally admired. After that I went with him to the stables, where he kept me for half an hour praising his horses, telling me their pedigrees, and listing the prizes he had won at the country races. At last he spoke of his future bride, in connexion with a gray mare which he intended to give her.

  “We shall see her today. I don’t know if you will think her pretty. You are so hard to please in Paris; but everybody here and at Perpignan thinks her lovely. The best of it is she’s very rich. Her aunt, who lived at Prades, left her all her money. Oh, I’m going to be ever so happy!”

  I was deeply shocked to see a young man appear more affected by the dowry than by the beauty of his bride-to-be.

  “Do you know anything about jewellery?” continued Monsieur Alphonse. “What do you think of this ring which I’m going to give her tomorrow?”

  As he said this, he drew from the first joint of his little finger a large ring blazing with diamonds, and formed with two clasped hands: a most poetic conceit, I thought. It was of ancient workmanship, but I guessed that it had been retouched when the diamonds were set. Inside the ring was engraved in gothic letters: “Sempr’ ab ti” (“Ever thine”).

  “It is a pretty ring,” I said, but added: “The diamonds have detracted slightly from its original character.”

  “Oh, it’s much prettier as it is now,” he replied with a smile. “There are one thousand two hundred francs’ worth of diamonds in it. My mother gave it to me. It was an old family ring … from the days of chivalry. It was worn by my grandmother, who had it from her grandmother. Goodness knows when it was made!”

  “The custom in Paris,” I said, “is to give a perfectly plain ring, usually made of two different metals, such as gold and platinum. For instance, the other ring which you have on that finger would be most suitable. This one is so large, with its diamonds and its hands in relief, that no glove would go over it.”

  “Oh, Madame Alphonse can do as she likes. I think that she will be glad to have it in any case. Twelve hundred francs on one’s finger is very pleasing. That little ring,” he added, looking with a satisfied expression at the plain ring which he was holding, “was given me one Shrove Tuesday by a woman in Paris. Ah, what a time I had when I was staying there two years ago. That’s the place to enjoy oneself, and no mistake! …” And he sighed regretfully
.

  We were to dine at Puygarrig that day, at the house of the bride’s parents; we drove over to the chateau, which was about a league and a half from Ille. I was introduced and received as a friend of the family. I will not talk of the dinner, nor of the conversation which followed, and in which I took little part. Monsieur Alphonse, who was seated next to his future bride, whispered in her ear every quarter of an hour. As for her, she hardly raised her eyes, and blushed modestly every time her intended spoke to her, though she replied without embarrassment.

  Mademoiselle de Puygarrig was eighteen years old, and her lithe, delicate figure was a great contrast to the bony frame of her sturdy fiance. She was not just beautiful: she was enchanting. I admired the perfect naturalness of all her replies. Her expression was kindly, but nevertheless was not devoid of a slight touch of maliciousness which reminded me, in spite of myself, of my host’s Venus. While making this comparison to myself, I wondered if the superior beauty which the statue undoubtedly possessed was not largely due to her tigerish expression, for strength, even in the evil passions, always arouses wonder and a sort of involuntary admiration.

  What a pity, I reflected, as we left Puygarrig, that such a charming person should be so rich, and that her dowry should be the cause of her being courted by a man unworthy of her!

  On the way back to Ille, not knowing what to talk about to Madame de Peyrehorade, but thinking I ought to speak to her, I said:

  “You are very sceptical folk here in Roussillon, to have a wedding on a Friday. In Paris, we are more superstitious; nobody would dare to get married on that day.”

  “Oh, please don’t talk about it,” she said; “if it had depended only on me, I would certainly have chosen another day. But Peyrehorade wanted it, and I had to give in to him. It worries me, though. Suppose some misfortune should happen? There must be something in it, or else why should everybody be afraid of a Friday?”

  “Friday,” her husband exclaimed, “is the day dedicated to Venus. An excellent day for a wedding. You will notice, my dear colleague, that I think of nothing but my Venus. Naturally, it was on her account that I chose a Friday. Tomorrow, if you are willing, we will offer her a small sacrifice before the ceremony—two ring-doves and, if I can find any, some incense ….”

  “For shame, Peyrehorade!” interrupted his wife, who was deeply shocked. “Offer incense to an idol! It would be an outrage! What would people say about you round here?”

  “At all events,” said Monsieur de Peyrehorade, “you will let me put a wreath of roses and lilies on her head.

  Manibus date lilia plenis.

  “You see, Monsieur, the Charter is a vain thing. We have no religious freedom.”

  The arrangements for the next day were made in the following manner. Everyone had to be ready and dressed for the wedding at ten o’clock sharp. After taking chocolate we were to drive over to Puygarrig. The civil marriage was to take place at the village registry, and the religious ceremony in the chateau chapel. After that there would be a luncheon. Then we would be able to spend the time as we liked until seven o’clock, when we were all to return to Monsieur de Peyrehorade’s house, where the two families would have supper together. The rest followed naturally. Since there could be no dancing, it had been decided to have as much eating as possible.

  As early as eight o’clock, I was sitting in front of the Venus, pencil in hand, beginning again for the twentieth time the statue’s head, without being able to seize the expression. Monsieur de Peyrehorade bustled about, giving me advice and repeating his Phoenician derivations. Then he placed some Bengal roses on the pedestal of the statue and addressed to it, in a tragi-comical voice, supplications for the couple who were going to live under his roof. He went in to change about nine o’clock, and at the same time Monsieur Alphonse appeared, wearing a close-fitting suit, white gloves, patent-leather shoes, chased buttons, and a rose in his buttonhole.

  “You must do my wife’s portrait,” he said, leaning over my drawing; “she is pretty, too.”

  Just then, on the tennis court which I have already mentioned, a game started that at once attracted Monsieur Alphonse’s attention. I was tired and, despairing of being able to reproduce that diabolical face, I soon left my drawing to watch the players. There were among them a few Spanish muleteers who had arrived the night before. They were men from Aragon and from Navarre, almost all remarkable players. Although the local players were encouraged by the presence and advice of Monsieur Alphonse, they were very soon beaten by these new champions. The patriotic onlookers were aghast. Monsieur Alphonse looked at his watch. It was still only half past nine. His mother was not ready yet. He hesitated no longer, threw off his coat, asked for a jacket, and challenged the Spaniards. I looked at him with amusement and in some surprise.

  “The honour of our country must be upheld,” he said.

  At that moment I admired him. His blood was up. His clothes, which a little earlier had filled his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else, were completely forgotten. A few minutes before he would not have dared turn his head, for fear of disturbing his cravat. Now he no longer gave a thought to his curled hair or his beautifully pleated jabot. As for his fiancee, I do believe that, if necessary, he would have postponed the wedding. I saw him hastily put on a pair of sandals, roll up his sleeves, and with a confident air put himself at the head of the defeated side, like Caesar when he rallied his soldiers at Dyrrachium. I jumped over the hedge and took up a convenient position in the shade of a nettle tree in such a way as to be able to see both sides.

  Contrary to general expectation, Monsieur Alphonse missed the first ball; true, it grazed the ground, hit with astonishing force by one of the players from Aragon, who seemed to be the leader of the Spaniards.

  He was a man of about forty, six feet tall, slim and wiry; and his olive skin was almost as dark as the bronze of the Venus.

  Monsieur Alphonse threw his racquet on the ground in a rage.

  “It’s this damned ring,” he exclaimed, “which is too tight on my finger and made me miss a sure thing.”

  With some difficulty he took off his diamond ring, and I went over to him to take it, but he forestalled me, ran to the Venus, slipped the ring on her third finger, and resumed his position at the head of his fellow villagers.

  He was pale, but calm and determined. From then on he made no more mistakes, and the Spaniards were soundly beaten. The enthusiasm of the spectators was a fine sight: some uttered shrieks of joy and threw their caps in the air; others shook hands with him and called him the pride of the region. If he had repulsed an invasion I doubt if he would have received heartier or more sincere congratulations. The disappointment of the vanquished added still more to the splendour of his victory.

  “We must have another match, my good fellow,” he said to the muleteer from Aragon in a condescending tone; “but I must give you points.”

  I would have preferred Monsieur Alphonse to be more modest, and I was almost sorry for his rival’s humiliation.

  The Spanish giant felt the insult keenly. I saw him go pale under his tanned skin. He looked miserably at his racquet and ground his teeth; then in a choking voice he muttered: “Me lo pagarás.”1

  The voice of Monsieur de Peyrehorade interrupted his son’s triumph; my host was astonished not to find him superintending the preparation of the new carriage, and even more astonished to see him holding a racquet and dripping with sweat.

  Monsieur Alphonse ran to the house, washed his face and hands, put on his new coat again and his patent-leather shoes, and five minutes later we were in full trot on the road to Puygarrig. All the tennis players of the town and a large crowd of spectators followed us with shouts of joy. The stout horses which drew us could only just keep ahead of those dauntless Catalans.

  We had reached Puygarrig, and the procession was about to set off for the village hall when Monsieur Alphonse suddenly slapped his forehead, and whispered to me:

  “What a blunder! I’ve forgotten the ring! It’
s on the Venus’s finger, damn her! Don’t tell my mother, whatever happens. Perhaps she won’t notice anything.”

  “You could send someone for it,” I said.

  “No. My servant has stayed behind at Ille, and I can’t trust these fellows here. There’s more than one of them who might be tempted by twelve hundred francs’ worth of diamonds. Besides, what would the people here think of my absent-mindedness? They’d make fun of me and call me the statue’s husband …. If only nobody steals it! Fortunately, the idol frightens the young rascals. They daren’t go within arm’s length of her. Well, it doesn’t matter. I have another ring.”

  The two ceremonies, civil and religious, were performed with suitable pomp. Mademoiselle de Puygarrig received the ring of a Paris milliner, little thinking that her fiance had sacrificed a love-token to her. Then we sat down and drank, ate, and sang for long enough. I felt sorry for the bride, who had to put up with the coarse jollity which was going on all around her; however, she took it better than I would have thought possible, and her embarrassment was neither awkward nor affected. Perhaps courage comes to people in difficult situations.

  The luncheon eventually came to an end, and at four o’clock the men went for a walk in the park, which was a magnificent one, or watched the peasant girls of Puygarrig dance on the chateau lawn, dressed in their best clothes. We spent a few hours like this. In the meantime the women crowded round the bride, who showed them her wedding presents. Then she changed, and I noticed that she covered up her beautiful hair with a cap and a hat with feathers in it, for women are always in a hurry to don as quickly as possible those adornments which custom forbids them to wear while they are still unmarried.

  It was nearly eight o’clock when we made ready to go back to Ille. But first a pathetic scene took place. Mademoiselle de Puygarrig’s aunt, who had been a mother to her, a lady of advanced age and very religious, was not due to come to Ille with us. On our departure she gave her niece a touching sermon on her wifely duties, which resulted in a flood of tears and endless embraces. Monsieur de Peyrehorade compared this parting to the Rape of the Sabines. However, we set off at last, and during the journey everyone did their utmost to cheer up the bride and make her laugh, but in vain.