That sadness entices me.
I don’t know why, but my soul inclines toward that form of torment; it is seduced by the perpetuity of a single suffering, by uniformity, by monotony. It would willingly accept for its entire life a tremendous weight, but a defined and unchanging one, rather than changeability, than unforeseeable events, than unforeseeable alternatives. Even though it is accustomed to suffering, it is afraid of the uncertain, it fears surprises; it fears sudden jolts. Without hesitating for an instant, tonight it would accept any heavier sentence of suffering, as long as it were protected against unknown ambushes in the future.
My God, my God, where does such a blind fear come from? Please will You protect me! I am placing my soul in Your hands!
And now, enough of this wretched raving, which unfortunately increases the anguish rather than relieving it. But I already know that I will not be able to close my eyes, even though they hurt.
He, surely, is not sleeping. When I came upstairs, he, having been invited to do so, was about to take the marquis’s place at the card table, opposite my husband. Are they still playing? Perhaps he is thinking and suffering, while playing. What might his thoughts be? What might be his suffering?
I am not sleepy, I am not sleepy. I am going onto the veranda. I want to know if they are playing still; or whether he has returned to his rooms. His windows are at the corner, on the second floor.
*
The night is bright and damp. The gaming hall is illuminated; and I remained there on the veranda for a long time, looking down toward the light, which was reflected against a cypress, mingling with the light of the moon. I am trembling all over. I cannot describe the almost tragic impression exerted on me by those illuminated windows, behind which the two men are playing, one opposite the other, in the great silence of the night barely interrupted by the muffled sobs of the sea. And they will, perhaps, play until dawn, if he wishes to gratify my husband’s terrible passion. Three of us will remain awake until dawn, without rest, out of passion.
But what does he think? What is his torment? I don’t know what I would give, at this moment, to be able to see him, to be able to remain gazing at him until dawn, even through the window, in the dampness of the night, trembling as I now tremble.
The craziest thoughts flash inside me and dazzle me, rapid, confused; I feel something akin to the beginning of an unpleasant drunkenness; I feel something akin to a dull incitement to do something audacious and irreparable; I feel something like the fascination of perdition.
I would remove, I feel, this enormous weight from my heart, I would remove this suffocating knot from my throat, if now, in the night, in the silence, with all the strength of my spirit I began to shout that I love him, I love him, I love him.
THIRD BOOK
CHAPTER I
The departure of the Ferres family was followed after a few days by the departure of the Ateletas and of Sperelli for Rome. Donna Francesca insisted on cutting short her holiday at Schifanoja, a change from her usual custom.
After a brief stop in Naples, Andrea arrived in Rome on October 24, a Sunday, with the first heavy morning rain of autumn. Reentering his apartment in Palazzo Zuccari, his precious and exquisite buen retiro, he felt an extraordinary pleasure. It seemed to him that he was regaining some part of himself in those rooms, something that was missing. Almost nothing in the place had changed. Everything still preserved, for him, that inexpressible appearance of life taken on by material objects amid which man has loved, dreamed, taken pleasure, and suffered for a long time. Old Jenny and Terenzio had taken care of the smallest details; Stephen had prepared with great delicacy every comfort for the return of his master.
It was raining. For a while, he remained with his forehead against the windowpanes, looking out at his Rome, the great beloved city, which appeared ash-gray in the background, with silver here and there among the rapid alternations of the rain thrust this way and that by the caprice of the wind in an environment that was consistently gray, in which at intervals a patch of brightness would spread, only to extinguish itself immediately afterward like a fleeting smile. The square of Trinità de’ Monti was deserted, contemplated by the solitary obelisk. The trees on the avenue along the wall that joins the church to Villa Medici were tossing about in the wind and the rain, already semibare, blackish and russet. The Pincian Hill still shimmered green, like an island in a misty lake.
Looking out, he did not have any definite thought but rather a confused tangle of thoughts; and one sentiment occupied his mind overwhelming any other: the full and lively reawakening of his old love of Rome, for sweetest Rome, for immense august unique Rome, for the city of cities, the one that is always young and always new and always mysterious, like the sea.
It rained and rained. Above Monte Mario the sky grew dark, the clouds grew denser and took on a dark cerulean color of a mass of water; they expanded toward the Janiculum Hill; they sank low over the Vatican. The cupola of Saint Peter touched that enormous accumulation with its peak and appeared to be holding it up like a gigantic leaden pile. Amid the innumerable oblique stripes of water, vapor slowly advanced, resembling a delicate veil passing through rigid and constantly vibrating cords of steel. The monotony of the downpour was not interrupted by any other greater clamor.
—What’s the time? he asked Stephen, turning around.
It was about nine. He felt somewhat tired. He thought about going to sleep. Then, too, he thought that he would not see anyone during the day and that he would spend the evening at home in contemplation. The life of the city, society life, was once again starting up for him. He wanted, before taking up that old practice, to engage in some brief meditation and preparation, to establish a rule, to discuss with himself what his future conduct should be.
He ordered Stephen:
—If anyone comes to ask after me, tell them that I have not yet returned. Let the porter know. Tell James that I won’t need him today but that he must come and take orders this evening. Have some lunch prepared for me at three o’clock, very light, and dinner at nine. Nothing else.
He fell asleep almost immediately. At two, the manservant awoke him; and announced that the Duke of Grimiti had come before midday, having heard from the Marchioness of Ateleta of their return.
—Well?
—The duke left a message that he would return before evening.
—Is it still raining? Open the shutters completely.
It was no longer raining. The sky had cleared. A band of muted sunlight entered the room, shedding its light over the tapestry of The Virgin with Baby Jesus and Stefano Sperelli, over the ancient tapestry that Giusto had brought from Flanders in 1508. And Andrea’s eyes roved across the walls, slowly, regarding the fine wall-hangings, the harmonious shades, the pious figures that had been witness to so many pleasures and had smiled upon joyful reawakenings and had rendered the vigils of the wounded man less miserable, too. All those well-known and beloved things seemed to be greeting him. He regarded them with singular delight. The image of Donna Maria arose in his mind.
He raised himself slightly on the pillows, lit a cigarette, and began to follow the course of his thoughts with a sort of sensual pleasure. An unusual sense of well-being spread through his limbs and his spirit was in a happy disposition. He mingled his fantasies with the undulations of the smoke, in that temperate light in which colors and shapes assumed a milder haziness.
Spontaneously, his thoughts did not return to the last few days but went to the future. He would see Donna Maria again in two or three months’ time, who knows? Perhaps even much sooner; and he would then resume that love affair which harbored so many mysterious promises and so many secret attractions for him. It would be his true second love, with the depth and the sweetness and the sadness of a second love. Donna Maria Ferres appeared to be, for a man of intellect, the Ideal Lover, the Amie avec les hanches,1 as Charles Baudelaire expresses it, the unique Consolatrix, the o
ne that comforts and forgives knowing how to forgive. Assuredly, marking in Shelley’s book the two painful lines, she must have repeated other words deep within her heart; and reading the poem in its entirety, she must have cried like the magnetic Lady and thought at length about the merciful cure, the miraculous healing. “I can never be thine!” Why never? That day, in the woods at Vicomìle, she had answered with too much anguish born of passion: “—I love you, I love you, I love you!”
He could still hear her voice, the unforgettable voice. And Elena Muti entered his thoughts, drew near the other woman, mingled with the other, evoked by that voice; and little by little this turned his thoughts to images of voluptuous pleasure. The bed in which he rested, and all the things around it, witnesses and accomplices to his bygone raptures, little by little were beginning to prompt images of lust in him. Inquisitively, in his imagination he began to undress the Sienese woman, to envelop her in his desire, to shape her in uninhibited positions, to picture her in his arms, to take pleasure in her. The material possession of that woman, so chaste and so pure, seemed to him to be the highest, newest, rarest pleasure that he could reach; and that room seemed to him to be the worthiest place to accommodate that pleasure, because it would render more intense the singular note of profanation and sacrilege that the secret act, according to him, would have.
The room was religious, like a chapel. In it were gathered almost all the ecclesiastical fabrics he possessed, and almost all the wall-hangings of a sacred nature. The bed was raised on a platform reached by three steps, shadowed by a canopy of carved Venetian velvet dating from the sixteenth century, with a background of gilded silver and decorations of a faded red color with raised embroidery in spun gold, which in times gone by must have been a sacred covering, because the design portrayed Latin inscriptions and the fruits of the Sacrifice: grapes and wheat. A small, extremely fine Flemish hanging interwoven with Cyprian gold, representing an Annunciation, covered the headboard of the bed. Other hangings, with the coat of arms of the Sperelli house in the pattern, covered the walls, edged at the top and at the bottom with strips like a frieze on which were embroidered scenes from the life of the Virgin Mary, and the deeds of martyrs, of apostles, of prophets. An altar frontal, representing the parable of the wise virgins and the foolish virgins, and two parts of a cope, formed the upholstery of the chimney place. Other precious sacristy furniture made of sculpted wood from the fifteenth century completed the pious décor, together with some pieces of majolica by Luca della Robbia and some large armchairs covered on the headrest and on the seat with pieces of ecclesiastical tunics representing the events of Creation. Everywhere, with ingenious taste, other liturgical fabrics were used as ornaments and for comfort: chalice bags, baptism bags, chalice covers, chasubles, maniples, stoles, embroidered copes, tabernacle veils. On the mantelpiece, as on the table of an altar, a great triptych by Hans Memling shone forth, an Adoration of the Magi, infusing the room with the radiance of a masterpiece.
In certain woven inscriptions, the name of Mary recurred among the words of the Angelic Salutation; and in many places the great initial M was repeated; in one, it was even embroidered with pearls and garnets. Entering this place—the sensitive decorator thought—will she not believe she is entering her glory? And he took pleasure imagining for a long time the profane event amid the sacred events; and once again aesthetic sense and the refinement of sensuality overwhelmed and falsified in him the frank and human sentiment of love.
Stephen knocked on the door, saying:
—May I advise the Lord Count that it is already three o’clock.
Andrea got up, and went into the octagonal room to dress. The sun entered through the lace curtains, sparkling on the Arabic-Hispanic tiles, the innumerable silver and crystal objects, the bas-reliefs of the ancient sarcophagus. Those diverse glimmers gave the air a dynamic gaiety. He felt cheerful, perfectly healed, full of vitality. Being back in his home gave him an inexpressible joy. Everything in him that was most fatuous, vainest, most worldly, was suddenly reawakening. It seemed as if the surrounding things had the power to call forth in him the man he had once been. His curiosity, his elasticity, his spiritual ubiquity were reappearing. He was already beginning to feel the need to spread himself out, to see friends again, to see lady friends, to experience pleasure. He realized he was very hungry; and he ordered the servant to serve his lunch.
He rarely dined at home; but on extraordinary occasions, for dainty romantic luncheons or small intimate suppers, he had a room decorated with Neapolitan high-warp tapestries, dating back to the eighteenth century, which Carlo Sperelli had ordered from the royal tapestry weaver, the Roman Pietro Duranti, in 1766, to the designs of Girolamo Storace. The seven wall-pieces depicted, with a certain plentiful Rubenesque abundance, Bacchic episodes of love; and the doors, the overdoor panels, the transoms, portrayed fruit and flowers. The pale, tawny golds, which predominated, and the pearly flesh and the cinnabars and the dark azures, formed a soft and rich harmony.
—When the Duke of Grimiti returns—he said to the servant—let him in.
There, too, the sun setting over Monte Mario cast its rays. The clatter of coaches on the square of Trinità de’ Monti could be heard. It seemed that after the rain all the luminous fairness of the Roman October was being diffused over Rome.
—Open the shutters, he said to the servant.
And the din became louder; the tepid air entered; the curtains fluttered slightly.
Divine Rome! he thought, observing the sky between the tall curtains. And an irresistible curiosity drew him to the window.
Rome appeared, of a very light slate color with slightly hazy outlines as in a washed-out painting, beneath a sky by Claudio Lorenese,2 damp and cool, scattered with diaphanous clouds in lofty groups, which lent the open spaces an indescribable subtlety, just as flowers bring greenery a novel grace. In the distance, in the uppermost heights, the slate was gradually changing to amethyst. Long and narrow bands of vapor were winding themselves through the cypresses on Monte Mario, like hair flowing through a bronze comb. Nearby, the pines on the Pincian Hill lifted their gilded umbrellas. On the square, Pius VI’s obelisk resembled an agate flower stalk. Everything took on a richer aspect in that rich autumnal light.
Divine Rome!
He could not take his fill of the vision. He watched a throng of red-robed clerics pass by below the church; then the black carriage of a prelate with two black long-tailed horses; then other open-top coaches, which carried ladies and children. He recognized the Princess of Ferentino with Barbarella Viti; then the Countess of Lùcoli who was driving two ponies, followed by her Great Dane. A gust of the old life passed over his spirit and disturbed him and gave him a feeling of perturbation, made up of indeterminate desires.
He withdrew and sat down at the table again. Before him, the sun was igniting the crystal and illuminating, on the wall, a dance of satyrs around Silenus.
The manservant announced:
—The Lord Duke with two other gentlemen.
And the Duke of Grimiti, Ludovico Barbarisi, and Giulio Musèllaro entered, while Andrea was rising to meet them. They all embraced him, one after the other.
—Giulio! exclaimed Sperelli, seeing his friend again after more than two years. —How long have you been in Rome?
—For a week. I wanted to write to you at Schifanoja, but then I decided to wait until you got back. How are you? You seem a bit thinner, but in good health. I heard about what happened to you only when I got back to Rome; otherwise, I’d have left India to come and help take care of you. At the beginning of May I was in Padmavati, in Bahar. I’ve got so many things to tell you about!
—And I have so many to tell you!
They squeezed each other’s hands again, heartily. Andrea seemed very happy. Musèllaro was dearer to him than any other friend, due to his high intelligence, his acute mind, the sophistication of his learnedness.
—Ruggero,
Ludovico, sit down. Giulio, sit here.
He offered cigarettes, tea, liqueurs. The conversation became very animated. Ruggero Grimiti and Barbarisi were recounting the news regarding Rome, reporting on local goings-on. Smoke rose in the air, becoming tinged in the sun’s rays, now almost horizontal; the wall-hangings blended together in a warm, mellow hue; the aroma of tea mingled with the odor of tobacco.
—I brought you a bag of tea—said Musèllaro to Sperelli—much better than the one your famous Kien-Lung drank.
—Ah, do you remember, in London, when we composed tea according to the poetic theory of the great emperor?
—You know, said Grimiti. —Clara Green, the blonde, is in Rome. I saw her on Sunday at Villa Borghese. She recognized me, greeted me, and stopped the carriage. She’s staying, for now, at the Albergo d’Europa, in Piazza di Spagna. She’s still lovely. Do you remember what a passion she had for you, and how she pursued you when you were in love with the Landbrooke girl? She immediately asked about your news, before asking for mine . . .
—I’d willingly see her again. But does she still wear green and put sunflowers on her hat?
—No, no. She has abandoned aestheticism for good, it appears. She’s now thrown herself into feathers. On Sunday she was wearing a huge hat in the Montpensier style with an incredible plume.
—This year—remarked Barbarisi—we have an extraordinary abundance of demi-mondaines.3 There are three or four who are quite pleasing. Giulia Arici has a beautiful body and fairly aristocratic limbs. The Silva woman is also back; the day before yesterday our friend Musèllaro conquered her with a panther skin. Maria Fortuna has returned, but she’s on bad terms with Carlo de Souza, who for the moment is being substituted by Ruggero . . .
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