—Do you remember Vicomìle? Do you remember the forest, in that October evening, when we were riding through it on our own?
Donna Maria nodded slightly.
—And the word that you said to me? the young man added, more softly, but with an intense expression of contained passion in his voice, leaning toward her closely as if trying to look into her eyes, which she still kept lowered.
She raised them, those good, merciful, sorrowing eyes, to him.
—I remember everything—she answered—everything, everything. Why should I hide my soul from you? You are a noble and great spirit; and I have faith in your generosity. Why should I behave toward you like a vulgar woman? That evening, didn’t I tell you that I loved you? I perceive another question in your question. You are asking me if I still love you.
She hesitated for a moment. Her lips were trembling.
—I love you.
—Maria!
—But you must renounce my love forever; you must go away from me; you must be noble and great, and generous, by sparing me a struggle that scares me. I have suffered greatly, Andrea, and I have borne this suffering; but the thought of having to fight against you, to have to defend myself against you, causes me mad fear. You don’t know what sacrifices it cost me to manage to achieve peace in my heart; you don’t know what high and dear ideals I renounced . . . Poor ideals! I have become another woman, because it was necessary for me to become another; I became a common woman, because this is what my duty required.
She had a grave and gentle sadness in her voice.
—When I met you, I suddenly felt all my old dreams rise up in me again; I felt my old soul revive; and during the first few days I abandoned myself to the pleasure, closing my eyes to the distant danger. I thought: “He will never know anything from my mouth; I will never know anything from his.” I was almost without regret, almost without fear. But you spoke; you said words to me that I had never heard; you wrested a confession from me . . . The danger appeared to me, certain, overt, manifest. And all the same, I surrendered myself to a dream. Your anguish pressurized me, it caused me deep pain. I thought: “He has been tainted by the impure; if only I were enough to purify him! I would be happy to be the holocaust of his purification.” Your sadness attracted my sadness. It seemed to me that I would never be able to console you, but that perhaps you would feel some relief hearing a soul eternally answering amen to the volition of your pain.
She uttered these last words with such spiritual elevation in her entire body, that Andrea was invaded by a wave of almost mystical joy; and his only desire at that moment was to take both her hands and breathe his ineffable rapture onto those dear delicate immaculate hands.
—It’s not possible! It’s not possible! she continued, shaking her head in regret. —We must renounce any hopes forever. Life is implacable. Without wishing it, you would destroy an entire existence, and maybe not only one . . .
—Maria, Maria, don’t say these things! the young man interrupted, once more leaning toward her, taking her hand, without impetuosity, but with a kind of beseeching trepidation as if before carrying out the act he were waiting for a sign of consent. —I will do what you wish; I will be humble and obedient; my only aspiration is to obey you; my only desire is to die in your name. To renounce you is to renounce salvation, to fall back into ruin forever, never to get up again. I love you more than any human word will ever be able to express. I need you. You alone are true; you are the Truth that my spirit is seeking. The rest is futile; the rest is nothing. To renounce you would be like entering into death. But if sacrificing me serves to keep peace for you, I owe you this sacrifice. Don’t be afraid, Maria. I won’t do you any harm.
He held her hand in his, but without placing any pressure on it. His words were not ardent, but were subdued, disheartened, sorrowful, filled with immense prostration. And his piteousness deceived Maria to such an extent that she did not withdraw her hand and she surrendered for a few minutes to the pure pleasure of that light contact. There was such a subtle sensual delight within her that it almost appeared not to have any organic effect; it was as if an essential fluid were flowing out of her innermost heart and down her arm, into her fingers and spreading beyond her fingers with a vaguely harmonious wave. When Andrea fell silent, certain words he had spoken in the park on that unforgettable morning returned to her memory, reawakened by the recent sound of his voice, driven by the new emotion: “Your visible presence alone was enough to intoxicate me. I felt it flow in my veins like blood, and invade my spirit, like a superhuman sentiment . . .”
An interval of silence followed. One heard, now and then, the wind shaking the windowpanes. A distant noise was carried to them by the wind, mingled with the rumbling of coaches. Light entered, as cold and clear as springwater; shadows were gathering in the corners and between the curtains made of fabrics from the Far East; here and there incrustations of jade, ivory, and mother-of-pearl glittered on the furniture; a large gilded Buddha could be seen in the background, beneath a Musa paradisiaca palm.1 Those exotic forms lent the room some of their mystery.
—What are you thinking now? asked Andrea. —You aren’t thinking of my demise?
She seemed to be engrossed in doubtful thought. She was, in appearance, irresolute, as if she were listening to two inner voices.
—I can’t describe to you—she answered, passing her hand over her forehead with a light gesture—I can’t describe to you the strange foreboding that has been weighing me down for a long time. I don’t know why, but I am afraid.
She added, after a pause:
—To think that you are suffering, that you are ill, my poor friend, and that I cannot alleviate your pain, that I am absent in your moment of anguish, that I will not know if you are calling me . . . My God!
She had a tremor and a weakness in her voice, almost as if she were crying, as if her throat had closed up. Andrea kept his head lowered, in silence.
—To think that my soul will always follow you, always, and that it will never be able to mingle with yours, will never be able to be understood by you . . . Poor love!
Her voice was full of tears, her mouth twisted in pain.
—Don’t abandon me! Don’t abandon me! the young man burst out, taking both her hands, almost kneeling down, prey to a great exaltation. —I don’t ask anything of you; I want nothing from you but compassion. The compassion that comes to me from you would be dearer than the passion of any other woman: you know that. Only your hands can heal me, can lead me back to life, lift me up from baseness, give me back my faith, free me from all the bad things that infect me and fill me with horror. Dear, dear hands . . .
He bent over to kiss them, and held his mouth pressed to them. He half closed his eyes, in an attitude of supreme bliss, while saying softly in an indefinable tone:
—I can feel you trembling.
She raised herself to her feet, trembling, bewildered, paler than when, on that memorable morning, they were walking beneath the flowers. The wind shook the windowpanes; a noise resembling a mutinous crowd could be heard. Those shouts carried in the wind coming from the Quirinal Palace2 increased her agitation.
—Good-bye. Please, Andrea; don’t stay here any longer; you will see me another time, when you like. But for now, good-bye. Please!
—Where will I see you?
—At the concert tomorrow. Good-bye.
She was completely distressed, as if she had committed a sin. She accompanied him to the door of the room. When she was alone, she hesitated, not knowing what to do, still gripped by dismay. She could feel her cheeks and temples and the area around her eyes burning with an intense heat, while the rest of her body was shivering; but on her hands the impression of the beloved mouth remained like a seal, and it was an exquisite impression, and she would have liked it to be indelible, like the Seal of God.
She looked around her. In the room the light was diminishi
ng; forms were disappearing in the half-light; the large Buddha held a singular brightness in its gilding. Now and then the shouts could be heard. She went toward a window, opened it, and leaned out. A freezing wind blew over the street, on which the streetlamps were already beginning to be lit toward Piazza di Termini. Opposite, the trees of Villa Aldobrandini stretched skyward, barely tinged with a reddish reflection. A huge purple cloud hung over the Tower of the Milices, alone in the sky.
The evening seemed gloomy to her. She drew back and went to sit down in the same place as she had during the recent conversation. Why had Delfina not yet returned? She would have liked to avoid every reflection, every meditation; and yet some strange weakness kept her in that place where a few minutes before, Andrea had breathed, spoken, exhaled his love and his pain. All the efforts, the intentions, the compulsions, the prayers, the penitence of four months were dispersing, becoming undone, becoming useless, in a brief moment. She was lapsing, feeling perhaps more tired, more defeated, without volition and without power against the moral phenomena that were taking her by surprise, against the sensations that were upsetting her; and while she was surrendering to the anguish and the listlessness of a conscience in which all courage was failing, it seemed to her that something of him was floating in the shadow of the room and enveloping her entire body, with an infinitely gentle caress.
And the day after, she went up to Palazzo dei Sabini with her heart pounding beneath a bunch of violets.
Andrea was already waiting for her at the door of the hall. Pressing her hand, he said to her:
—Thank you.
He led her to a seat and sat down beside her. He said to her:
—I thought I would die waiting for you. I was afraid you would not come. How grateful I am to you!
He said to her:
—Late yesterday evening I passed by your house. I saw a light in a window, in the third window toward the Quirinal Palace. I don’t know what I would have given, to know if you were there . . .
He also asked her:
—Who gave you those violets?
—Delfina, she answered.
—Did Delfina tell you about our encounter this morning in Piazza di Spagna?
—Yes, everything.
The concert began with a quartet by Mendelssohn. The hall was already almost completely full. The audience comprised mostly foreign women; and it was a blond audience, full of modesty in dress, full of concentration, silent and religious as in a place of piety. The wave of music passed over the immobile heads covered by dark hats, expanding into golden light, light that poured down from above, softened by the yellow curtains, made brighter by the blank white walls. And the old unadorned hall of the Philharmonic Society, in which faint traces of a frieze remained on the uniform whiteness and where the shabby blue door curtains were about to fall down, resembled a place that had been closed for a century and had been reopened just that day. But that color of old age, that air of poverty, that blankness of the walls, added some strange note to the exquisite delight of the audience; and the delight seemed more secret, more exalted, purer, in that place, because of the contrast. It was February 2, a Wednesday: in Montecitorio,3 Parliament was debating the Dogali case;4 the roads and nearby squares were swarming with populace and soldiers.
The musical memories of Schifanoja rose up in the minds of the two lovers; a reflection of that autumn illuminated their thoughts. The sound of Mendelssohn’s minuet called forth visions of the seaside villa, the sitting room scented by the gardens below, from which one could see, between the columns of the vestibule and the pointed tips of the cypresses, flame-red sails atop a strip of calm sea.
Now and then Andrea, leaning toward the Sienese woman, asked her softly:
—What are you thinking about?
—She answered with such a faint smile that he could barely perceive it.
—Do you remember the twenty-third of September? she said.
Andrea did not distinctly recall that memory, but he nodded.
The calm and solemn andante, dominated by a distinct melody of pathos, was composed of extensive developments followed by a burst of sorrow. The finale was characterized by an insistent rhythmic monotony, full of tiredness.
She said:
—Now it’s the turn of your Bach.
And both, when the music began, felt an instinctive need to draw closer to each other. Their elbows touched. At the end of every movement, Andrea leaned toward her to read the program that she held unfolded in her hands; and in the act, he pressed against her arm, smelling the scent of the violets, and transmitted a shiver of delight to her. The adagio had such a compelling elevation of melody, and rose with such soaring flight to the summits of ecstasy, and expanded into Infinity with such complete assurance, that it seemed to be the voice of a superhuman creature, pouring its rejoicing at an immortal conquest into the rhythm. All spirits present were swept along by the irresistible wave. When the music ended, the quivering of the instruments lasted for a few minutes in the auditorium. A whisper circulated from one end of the hall to the other. Applause broke out, after the delay, more intensely.
The two looked at each other with transfigured eyes, as if they were drawing apart after an unbearably pleasurable sexual embrace. The music was continuing; the light in the hall was becoming more unobtrusive; a pleasant warmth softened the air; in this warmth, Donna Maria’s violets emanated a stronger scent. Andrea almost had the illusion of being alone with her, because he could not see anyone he knew in front of him.
But he was wrong. During an interval, turning around, he saw Elena Muti standing at the back of the hall, together with the Princess of Ferentino. His eyes immediately met hers. He greeted her, from afar. It seemed to him that he could discern a peculiar smile on Elena’s lips.
—Who are you greeting? asked Donna Maria, also turning around. —Who are those ladies?
—Lady Heathfield and the Princess of Ferentino.
She thought she could hear a troubled note in his voice.
—Which is the Princess of Ferentino?
—The blonde.
—The other one is very beautiful.
Andrea remained silent.
—But is she English? she added.
—No, she is from Rome; she is the widow of the Duke of Scerni, and Lord Heathfield is her second husband.
—She is very beautiful.
Andrea asked, with concern:
—What are they going to play now?
—Brahms’s Quartet in C minor.
—Do you know it?
—No.
—The second movement is wonderful.
He spoke in order to hide his uneasiness.
—When will I see you again?
—I don’t know.
—Tomorrow?
She hesitated. A light shadow appeared to fall over her face. She replied:
—Tomorrow, if it is sunny, I will go with Delfina to Piazza di Spagna, toward noon.
—And if it isn’t sunny?
—On Saturday evening I’m going to Countess Starnina’s . . .
The music was starting up again. The first movement expressed a deep and virile struggle, full of vigor. The romanza expressed a yearning but very sad nostalgia, and hence a slow, uncertain, weak uplifting toward a very distant dawn. A clear melodic phrase was developing with deep modulations. It was a very different sentiment from the one that animated Bach’s adagio; it was more human, more earthly, more elegiac. A breath of Ludwig van Beethoven ran through that music.
Andrea was possessed by such terrible anxiety that he feared he would betray himself. All the sweetness he had felt earlier was now converted to bitterness. He was not precisely conscious of this new suffering; he could neither pull himself together nor control himself; he wavered, disoriented, between the dual feminine attraction and the charm of the music, but was penetrat
ed by none of the three forces; inside him he felt an indefinable impression, like a vacuum in which great blows constantly resounded with a painful echo; and his thoughts fragmented into a thousand pieces, became disconnected and undone; and the two feminine images superimposed themselves on each other, mingled together, and destroyed each other, so that he could not manage to separate them, and he could not manage to define his feelings for the one or his feelings for the other. And right on the surface of this troubled inner suffering there moved a restlessness generated by his immediate reality, by his practical worries. He did not miss even a slight change in Donna Maria’s attitude toward him; and he believed he could feel Elena’s assiduous and fixed gaze; and he could not manage to find a way to contain himself: he did not know whether he should accompany Donna Maria when leaving the hall, or whether he should approach Elena; nor did he know which instance would benefit or harm his prospects with the one and the other.
—I’m going, said Donna Maria, standing up, at the end of the romanza.
—Aren’t you waiting for the end?
—No; I have to be home by five.
—Remember, tomorrow . . .
She held out her hand to him. Perhaps due to the heat in the stuffy room, a slight flame enlivened her paleness. Her whole body was covered by a velvet mantle in a dark leaden color, edged with a wide band of chinchilla; and amid the ashen fur the violets were dying gracefully. Walking out, she moved with sovereign elegance, and some of the ladies sitting there turned to watch her. And for the first time Andrea saw in her, in the spiritual woman, in the pure Sienese Madonna, the woman of the world.
The quartet was entering the third movement. As daylight was fading, the yellow curtains were raised, as in a church. Other ladies left the hall. Whispers could be heard here and there. In the auditorium, tiredness and inattention were setting in, which occurs at the end of every concert. With one of those peculiar phenomena of sudden elasticity and volubility, Andrea felt a sense of relief, almost cheerful. He suddenly lost every sentimental and passionate worry; and only the pleasurable adventure appeared, lucidly, to his vanity and his depravity. He thought that Donna Maria, in conceding to him those harmless meetings, had already placed her foot on the gentle slope at the bottom of which is sin, inevitable even for the most vigilant of souls; he thought that maybe a bit of jealousy could push Elena back into his arms, and hence, that perhaps one love affair would help the other along; he thought that perhaps a vague fear or a jealous foreboding had hastened Donna Maria’s assent to their next meeting. He was therefore on his way toward a double conquest; and he smiled, noting that in both endeavors, difficulty presented itself in the same form. He had to convert two sisters—or rather, two women who wanted to play the role of sisters with him—into lovers. He noted other similarities between the two instances, smiling. That voice! How strange, Elena’s tones in Donna Maria’s voice! A crazy thought flashed into his head. That voice could be, for him, the element of an imaginative work: by virtue of such an affinity, he could fuse the two beauties in order to possess a third, imaginary one, more complex, more perfect, more real because she was ideal . . .
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