The other etching concerned the great silver basin that Elena Muti had inherited from her aunt Flaminia.
This basin was historic: it was called Alexander’s Cup. It had been donated to the Princess of Bisenti by Cesare Borgia before he left for France to deliver the bill of divorce and the dispensation for marriage to Louis XII; and it must have been included among the fabled baggage carried by sumpter-mules that Valentinois21 brought with him when he entered Chinon, as described by the Seigneur de Brântome.22 The design of the figures that encompassed it and of those that arose from the rim of the two ends was attributed to Sanzio.
The cup was called Alexander’s because it had been created in memory of that prodigious one from which, at his great feasts, the Macedonian would prodigiously drink. Throngs of Sagittariuses encircled the sides of the vase with bows drawn, rioting, in wonderful poses like those Raphael painted, naked and shooting arrows toward the herm in the fresco found in the Borghese Gallery, decorated by Giovan Francesco Bolognesi. They were pursuing a great Chimera, which rose up from the edge, like a handle, at one side of the vase, while on the opposite side bounded up the young Sagittarius Bellerophon with his bow drawn against the monster born of Typhon. The decorations of the base and the rim were of a pleasing elegance. The inside was gilded like that of a ciborium. The metal was as sonorous as a musical instrument. Its weight was five hundred pounds. Its entire form was harmonious.
Often, on a whim, Elena Muti would take her morning bath in that basin. She could immerse herself in it quite well if she did not stretch out; and nothing, in truth, was equal to the supreme grace of that body resting in the water which the gilt tinged with indescribably delicate reflections, because the metal was not yet silver, and the gold was fading.
In love with three such differently elegant forms, namely the woman, the basin, and the greyhound, the etcher conceived a composition of beautiful lines. The woman, naked, standing in the basin, leaning with one hand on the protruding Chimera, and with the other on the Bellerophon, stretched forward to mock the dog, which, arching with his front legs lowered and his back legs straight like a cat when it is about to spring, extended toward her his long, narrow muzzle like that of a pike, with intensity.
Never had Andrea Sperelli enjoyed and suffered with greater ardor the intent anxiety of the creator when watching over the action of the irrational and irreparable acid; never had he with greater ardor honed his patience in the subtle work of drypoint on the roughness of the transitions. He had been born, in truth, a copperplate engraver, like Luca d’Olanda. He possessed an admirable skill (which was perhaps a rare sense) for all the minutest details of timing and degree, which combine to vary the efficacy of the acid in infinite ways. It was not practice, not diligence, not intelligence alone, but that innate, almost infallible sense in particular that alerted him to the right moment, the precise instant at which the corrosion came to render the precise value of shadow that the craftsman intended the print to have. And mastering in such a spiritual way that brute energy, and infusing into it a certain spirit of art, and feeling some occult correspondence between the beating of his pulse and the progressive bite of the acid, was an intoxicating pride, a tormenting joy for him.
It seemed to Elena that she was deified by her lover, just like Isotta of Rimini in the indestructible medals that Sigismondo Malatesta had ordered to be minted in her honor.
But on the days when Andrea was attending to his work, she became sad and taciturn and sighing, almost as if an internal anguish possessed her. She had sudden effusions of tenderness so harrowing, mingled with tears and barely contained sobs, that the young man was astonished, suspicious, unable to comprehend.
One evening they were returning on horseback from the Aventino, down the Santa Sabina road, their eyes still filled with the great vision of imperial palaces aflame with sunset, glowing red among the black cypresses that penetrated a golden dust. They rode in silence, because Elena’s sadness had transmitted itself to her lover. In front of Santa Sabina he halted his bay, saying:
—Do you remember?
Some chickens that were peaceably pecking among the tufts of grass dispersed at Famulus’s barking. The clearing, infested with weeds, was tranquil and modest like the churchyard of a village; but the walls had that singular luminosity that is reflected by Rome’s buildings “during Titian’s hour.”
Elena also came to a halt.
—How long ago that day seems! she said, with a slight tremor in her voice.
In fact, that memory was fading in time, vaguely, as if their love affair had been going on for many months, for many years. Elena’s words had aroused in Andrea’s soul a strange illusion, together with a sense of unease. She began to recall all the details of that visit, which they had made on a January afternoon under a spring sky. She persisted in describing every fine point, at length; and every now and then interrupted herself like one who is following, beyond her words, an unexpressed thought. Andrea thought he could hear regret in her voice. Whatever could she be regretting? Did their love not have even sweeter days to look forward to? Wasn’t Rome already in the grip of spring? Perplexed, he almost stopped listening to her. The horses were descending, at a walking gait, one alongside the other, sometimes breathing strongly through their nostrils or bringing their muzzles together as if to confide a secret. Famulus ran up and down constantly.
—Do you remember—Elena continued—do you remember that monk who came to open for us, when we rang the bell?
—Yes, yes . . .
—He looked at us with such bewilderment! He was so small, beardless, all wrinkled. He left us alone in the entrance hall to go and fetch the keys of the church; and you kissed me. Do you remember?
—Yes.
—And all those barrels, in the entrance hall! And that odor of wine, while the monk explained to us the stories carved into the cypress door! And then, the Madonna of the Rosary! Do you remember? The explanation made you laugh; and I, hearing you laugh, couldn’t stop myself; and we both laughed so much in front of that poor man that he became confused and did not open his mouth again even at the end to thank you . . .
After a pause, she continued:
—And at Sant’Alessio, when you didn’t want to let me see the cupola through the keyhole! How we laughed, there, too!
She fell silent again. A crowd of men was coming up the road with a coffin, followed by a public coach full of weeping relatives. The deceased was being taken to the cemetery of the Israelites. It was a cold and mute funeral. All those men with their hooked noses and rapacious eyes resembled one another like blood kin.
The two horses separated, each taking one side, close to the wall, so that the crowd could pass; and the lovers looked at each other over the dead person in his coffin, feeling the sadness grow.
When they once again drew near to each other, Andrea asked:
—But what is wrong with you? What are you thinking about?
She hesitated before answering. She kept her eyes lowered on the neck of the animal, caressing him with the knob of the whip, irresolute and pale.
—What are you thinking about? the young man repeated.
—Well, I will tell you. I am leaving on Wednesday, I don’t know for how long; maybe for a long time, forever; I don’t know. This love affair is breaking up, because of me; but don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why, don’t ask me anything: I beg you! I could not answer you.
Andrea looked at her, almost disbelieving. The thing seemed so impossible to him that it did not cause him pain.
—You’re joking, aren’t you, Elena?
She shook her head, indicating no, because her throat had seized up; and immediately she spurred her horse into a trot. Behind them, the bells of Santa Sabina and Santa Prisca started to toll in the dusk. They trotted in silence, causing echoes to resound under the archways, below the temples, in the solitary and empty ruins. They left San Giorgio in Velab
ro on their left, which still bore a vermilion glow on the bricks of its bell tower, as on the day of happiness. They skirted the Roman Forum, the Forum of Nerva, already possessed of a bluish shadow, similar to that of glaciers in the night. They stopped at the Arch of the Pantani, where their grooms and coaches awaited them.
As soon as she was out of the saddle, Elena held out her hand to Andrea, avoiding looking him in the eyes. It seemed as if she was in great haste to get away.
—Well, then? Andrea asked her, helping her to mount the carriage.
—I’ll see you tomorrow. Not tonight.
CHAPTER V
The farewell on Via Nomentana, that adieu au grand air1 that Elena had imposed, did not resolve any of the doubts in Andrea’s soul. Whatever were the secret reasons of that sudden departure? In vain he tried to penetrate the mystery; doubts oppressed him.
In the first few days, the attacks of pain and desire were so cruel he thought he would die. Jealousy, which after its first appearances had vanished in the face of Elena’s assiduous ardor, rose up again in him, awoken by impure fantasies; and the suspicion that a man could be concealed in that obscure entanglement gave him an unbearable torment. Sometimes, he was invaded by a deep anger toward the absent woman, a rancor full of bitterness, and almost a need for revenge, as if she had tricked and betrayed him in order to give herself to another lover. Also, sometimes he believed he did not desire her anymore, that he did not love her anymore, that he had never loved her; and it was not a new phenomenon in him, this momentary cessation of a sentiment, this type of spiritual elision that, for example, in the midst of a ball, rendered the favored woman completely irrelevant to him, and permitted him to participate in a lighthearted luncheon an hour after having drunk her tears. But these oblivions did not last. The Roman spring was flowering with unprecedented joy: the city made of travertine and brick drank in the light like an avid forest; the papal fountains soared into heavens more diaphanous than a jewel; Piazza di Spagna was scented like a rose garden; and the Trinità de’ Monti, at the top of the stairs crowded with small children, resembled a golden dome.
With the incitements that came to him from Rome’s new beauty, whatever remained in him of the spell of that woman, in his blood and in his soul, was revived and rekindled. And he was troubled, deep down, by invincible pains, implacable tumults, indefinable languors, which resembled somewhat those of puberty. One evening, at the Dolcebuono home, after a tea party, being the last to leave the salon full of flowers and still vibrating from a Cachoucha by Raff, he spoke of love to Donna Bianca and did not regret it, either that evening or afterward.
His affair with Elena Muti was by now very well known, just as sooner or later, or more or less, in the elegant society of Rome or in any other society, all affairs and flirtations are common knowledge. Precautions are futile. Everyone in these societies is such a good connoisseur of erotic body language that it is enough for them to witness by chance a gesture, a pose, or a glance in order to have sure evidence, while the lovers, or those who are about to become such, do not suspect anything. Indeed, there are in every society those inquisitive people who make a profession of discovering and following the traces of other people’s love affairs, with no less perseverance than that of bloodhounds following the scent of game. They are always vigilant, without appearing so: they infallibly catch a murmured word, a slight smile, a small start of surprise, a faint blush, a flash of the eyes; at balls, at large parties, where imprudence is more probable, they circulate constantly, and know how to insinuate themselves into the densest areas with an extraordinary ability, as pickpockets do in large crowds; and their ear is pricked to steal a fragment of dialogue, their eye is ready behind the glinting of their spectacles, to note a squeeze of the hand, a faintness, a shiver, the nervous pressure of a feminine hand on the shoulder of a dancing companion.
One such terrible bloodhound was, for example, Don Filippo del Monte, who dined at the home of the Marchioness of Ateleta. But, in truth, Elena Muti did not concern herself much with society gossip; and in this latest passion of hers she had reached almost crazy heights of rashness. She screened every act of boldness with her beauty, her opulence, her high-ranking name; and was always accorded the same obeisance, the same admiration, the same adulation, due to that certain easygoing tolerance which is one of the most amiable qualities of Roman aristocracy, which perhaps it comes by precisely due to the abuse of gossip.
Hence, the affair had now suddenly raised Andrea Sperelli, in the eyes of the ladies, to a high level of power. An aura of favor surrounded him; and his success became in a short time a source of wonder. The contagion of desire is a very frequent phenomenon in modern societies. A man who has been loved by a woman of singular esteem excites the imagination in other women; and each one burns with desire to possess him, out of vanity and curiosity, competing with the others. The appeal of Don Giovanni is more in his fame than in his person. Moreover, Sperelli was benefited by that certain name he had made for himself as a mysterious artist; and two sonnets of his had become renowned, written in the visitors’ book of the Princess of Ferentino, in which, as in an ambiguous diptych, he had praised a diabolical mouth and an angelical one, the one that draws souls to perdition and the one that says Hail. Common folk cannot imagine what profound and new pleasures the halo of glory, even if it is pale and false, brings to love. An obscure lover, even if he has the strength of Hercules and the beauty of Hippolytus and the grace of Hylas, will never be able to give his beloved the delights that the artist, perhaps unknowingly, disperses in abundance to ambitious feminine spirits. It must be a great sweetness for the vanity of a woman to be able to say: “In every letter that he writes me there is perhaps the purest flame of his intellect, at which I alone warm myself; in every caress he loses a part of his will and his strength; and his highest dreams of glory fall into the folds of my dress, into the circles formed by my breath!”
Andrea Sperelli did not hesitate for a moment in the face of enticement. That concentration produced in him by Elena’s unparalleled dominion was now replaced by dissolution. No longer held by the fiery band that bound them tightly together, his forces returned to their original disorder. No longer able to conform itself, adapt itself, assimilate itself to a superior dominating form, his soul, chameleon-like, mutable, fluid, virtual, transformed itself, deformed itself, took on every form. He passed from one love to another with incredible lightness; he yearned for different loves at the same time; he wove without scruple a great web of deceits, fictions, lies, tricks, in order to gather the greatest number of quarries. The habit of falsity blunted his conscience. Due to the continuous absence of reflection, he gradually became impenetrable to himself, remained outside his mystery. Little by little he almost reached the stage of no longer seeing his inner life, in the way that the external hemisphere of the earth does not see the sun, despite being tied indissolubly to it. One instinct was always alive, ruthlessly alive in him: the instinct of detachment from everything that attracted him without binding him. And his will, as useless as a badly tempered sword, dangled as at the side of a Jew or a paralyzed man.
The memory of Elena filled him now and then, rising up suddenly; and he either tried to remove himself from the melancholy of regret or instead took pleasure in reliving in his marred imagination the excessiveness of that life, to draw stimulation from it for his new loves. He repeated to himself the words of the poem: “Remember the snuffed-out days! And place on the lips of the second woman kisses as sweet as those you gave to the first one, not too long ago!”2 But already the second one had left his soul. He had spoken of love to Donna Bianca Dolcebuono, at first almost without thinking about it, instinctively attracted maybe by virtue of some undefined reflection that she possessed through being friends with Elena. Perhaps the small seed of affection, planted in him by the words of the Florentine countess at dinner at the Doria home, had begun to germinate. Who knows by what mysterious movement an arbitrary, even insignificant, spiri
tual or material contact between a man and a woman may generate and nurture in them both a latent, unperceived, unsuspected feeling, which after a long time suddenly emerges due to circumstance? It is the same phenomenon we find in the intellectual realm, when the seed of a thought or the shadow of an image surfaces again suddenly after a long interval, by some unconscious development, processed into a complete image, into complex thought. The same laws govern all the activities of our being; and the activities of which we are conscious are but a part of them.
Donna Bianca Dolcebuono was the ideal type of Florentine beauty, such as was depicted by Ghirlandajo in the portrait of Giovanna Tornabuoni in Santa Maria Novella. She had a clear oval face, a wide, high, and pure forehead, a gentle mouth, a somewhat distinctive nose, and eyes of that mysterious tawny color praised by Firenzuola. She preferred her hair arranged with abundance on her temples, halfway across her cheeks, in the old-fashioned way. Her surname befitted her well, because she brought to society life an innate goodness, a great indulgence, an equal courtesy for all, and a melodious way of speaking. She was, in short, one of those affable women, without depth of spirit or intellect, somewhat indolent, who seem born to live in pleasantness and to indulge in discreet love affairs like birds in blossoming trees.
When she heard Andrea’s phrases, she exclaimed with gracious amazement:
—Have you forgotten Elena so soon?
Then, after a few days of gracious hesitation, it pleased her to cede; and she spoke not infrequently of Elena to the unfaithful young man, without jealousy and with candor.
—But why on earth did she leave earlier than usual, this year? she asked him once, smiling.
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