Fantastic Tales

by Italo Calvino

  I remained for a long time absorbed in silent contemplation, and the longer I looked, the less could I believe that life had for ever deserted that beautiful body. I do not know if it was an illusion or a reflection from the lamp, but it seemed that the blood began to flow again under that dull pallor. I touched her arm lightly; it was cold, but no colder than was her hand on the day that it had touched mine under the portal of the church. I resumed my former position, bending my face over hers, and letting the warm dew of my tears rain upon her cheeks. Ah! what a bitter sensation of despair and impotence I felt! What an agony that vigil was! I should have liked to be able to gather together all my life that I might give it to her and breathe into those icy relics the fire that consumed me. The night was advancing; and feeling that the moment of eternal separation was at hand, I could not deny myself the last and supreme pleasure of leaving a kiss upon the dead lips of her who had all my love.

  Oh, miracle! light breath mingled with my breath, and Clarimonde’s mouth replied to the pressure of mine: her eyes opened and regained a little brilliance: she sighed, and uncrossing her arms, put them round my neck with a look of inexpressible bliss.

  “Ah! it is you, Romuald,” she said, in a voice as languishing and sweet as the last vibration of a harp; “what have you been doing? I have waited for you so long that I have died; but now that we are betrothed, I shall be able to see you and come to you. Farewell, Romuald, farewell! I love you; that is all I wished to tell you, and I give you back the life which you recalled in me for a minute by your kiss. Farewell, for a little while!”

  Her head fell back, but she still held me in her arms as if to keep me with her. A furious gust of wind blew through the window and swept into the room; the last petal of the white rose quivered for a moment like a wing at the end of its stalk, then it broke away and flew out through the open window, bearing with it the soul of Clarimonde. The light went out, and I fell senseless on the bosom of the beautiful corpse.

  WHEN I CAME to myself I was lying on my bed in my little room at the presbytery, and the former curé’s old dog was licking my hand, which lay outside the blanket. Barbara was busying herself about the room with the trembling movements of old age, opening and shutting drawers or stirring powders in glasses. On seeing me open my eyes, the old woman uttered a cry of joy, and the dog barked and wagged his tail; but I was so weak that I could not speak a word or make the least movement.

  I learned afterwards that I had been in this condition for three days, giving no sign of life except an almost imperceptible breathing. Those three days were a blank in my life, and I do not know whither my spirit had gone during the whole of that time; I remember nothing at all about it. Barbara told me that the same man of swarthy aspect, who had come to fetch me in the night, had brought me back the next morning in a closed litter, and had immediately taken his departure. As soon as I could collect my thoughts, I went over in my mind all the events of that fatal night. At first I believed that I had been the plaything of a magical illusion; but actual and tangible circumstances soon demolished that supposition. I could not think that I had been dreaming, since Barbara as well as myself had seen the man with the two black horses and accurately described their trappings and appearance. At the same time, no one in the neighbourhood had any knowledge of a castle answering the description of the castle where I had found Clarimonde.

  One morning the Abbé Sérapion entered my room. Barbara had sent to tell him that I was ill, and he had lost no time in coming to me. Although this promptitude was a proof of his affection and concern for me, his visit did not give me the pleasure that it ought to have given me. There was something searching and inquisitorial in the Abbé Sérapion’s look that made me uncomfortable. I felt embarrassed and guilt-stricken in his presence. He had been the first to discover that something was preying on my mind, and I was angry with him for his perception.

  Even while he was inquiring about my health in hypocritically honeyed tones, he fixed his two yellow lion’s eyes on mine and plunged his gaze into my soul like a plummet. Then he asked me a few questions about the way I managed my parish, asked whether I took pleasure in my work, how I passed the time my duties left free, if I had made any acquaintances among the inhabitants of the place, what were my favourite books, and a thousand other details of the kind. I replied to all this as briefly as possible, and he, without waiting till I had finished speaking, passed on to something else. This conversation had evidently nothing to do with what he wished to say. Then, without the least preface, and as if he were giving me a piece of news which he had just remembered and was afraid of forgetting, he said, in a clear and ringing voice that sounded in my ears like the trumpets of the Last Judgement:

  “The famous courtesan Clarimonde died lately, after an orgy that lasted eight days and eight nights. It was something hellishly splendid. The abominations of Balthazar’s and Cleopatra’s feasts were revived. Good God! in what an age we live! The guests were served by copper-complexioned slaves who spoke an unknown language, and who, I believe, were real demons; the livery of the lowest among them might have served as the gala dress of an emperor. There have always been very strange stories about this Clarimonde; and all her lovers have come to a miserable and violent end. The tale went that she was a ghoul, a female vampire; but I believe she was Beelzebub in person.”

  He ceased speaking, and watched me more narrowly than ever to see the effect of his words upon me. I could not prevent myself from starting on hearing the name of Clarimonde, and this news of her death, besides the grief it caused me, by its strange coincidence with the night scene I had witnessed, threw me into a state of agitation and fear which was reflected in my face, do what I would to control it. Sérapion cast an anxious and severe glance on me; then he said:

  “My son, I must do my duty and warn you that you are on the brink of a precipice; beware lest you fall. Satan has long claws, and tombs are not always secure. The stone that covers Clarimonde should be sealed with a triple seal; for according to what men say, this is not the first time she had died. May God watch over you, Romuald!”

  When he had uttered these words, Sérapion went slowly to the door, and I did not see him again; for he set out for S immediately.

  I had now entirely recovered and had resumed my accustomed duties. The memory of Clarimonde and the old Abbe’s words were always in my mind; however, no extraordinary event had occurred to confirm Sérapion’s gloomy forebodings, and I began to think that his fears and my own terrors had been exaggerated; but one night I had a dream. I had hardly fallen asleep when I heard the rings of my bed-curtains slide along the rods with a loud clatter; I raised myself sharply upon my elbow and saw the shadowy form of a woman standing before me.

  At once I recognized Clarimonde.

  She held in her hand a small lamp like those which are placed in tombs, and its rays gave her slender fingers a rosy transparence which spread upward, fading by insensible degrees into the dull, milky white of her bare arm. She had no other garment than the linen shroud that covered her on her death-bed, the folds of which she held to her breast as if ashamed of being so scantily clothed, but her little hand was too small for the task; she was so pale that the colour of the drapery, under the faint rays of the lamp, was confused with that of her flesh. Wrapped in this fine tissue which revealed all the outlines of her body, she looked like a marble statue of an antique bather rather than a woman endowed with life. Dead or living, statue or woman, shade or body, her beauty was always the same; only the green sparkle of her eyes was a little dulled, and her mouth, before so vermilion, was now only tinged with a soft faint rose almost as pale as that of her cheeks. The little blue flowers I had noticed in her hair were quite withered and had lost nearly all their petals; but nonetheless she was charming, so charming that, despite the strangeness of the adventure and the mysterious manner in which she had entered my room, I was not for one moment afraid.

  She placed the lamp on the table and seated herself on the foot of my bed; then,
leaning towards me, she spoke in that voice, at once silvery and soft as velvet, which I have never heard from any lips but hers:

  “I have kept you waiting a long time, dear Romuald, and you must have thought that I had forgotten you. But I have come a very long way, from a place from which no one has ever yet returned; there is neither sun nor moon in the country I come from; nothing but space and shadow; neither road nor pathway; no earth for the foot, no air for the wings; and yet I am here, for love is stronger than death and will conquer it in the end. Ah! what gloomy faces, what terrible things I have seen on my journey! How difficult it has been for my soul, come back to this world by the power of my will, to find its body and take up its abode there! What efforts I had to make before I could lift the stone with which they had covered me! See! the inside of my poor hands is all bruised. Kiss them and heal them, dear love!”

  She pressed the cold palms of her hands, in turn, to my lips; I did indeed kiss them again and again, and she watched me do so with a smile of inexpressible content.

  I confess to my shame that I had wholly forgotten the Abbé Sérapion’s advice and the sacred character I had assumed. I had fallen without resistance and at the first assault. I had not even made an effort to repel the tempter; the coolness of Clarimonde’s hand penetrated mine, and I felt voluptuous shivers run over my body. Poor child! In spite of all that I have seen of her, I can still hardly believe that she was a demon; at least she had not the appearance of one, and never has Satan better hidden his claws and hoofs. She had tucked her heels under her and sat on the edge of my couch in an attitude full of unstudied coquetry. Now and again she passed her little hand through my hair and rolled it into curls, as if to try how new ways of arranging it would suit me. I submitted to this with a most guilty satisfaction, and she kept up an accompaniment of the most charming prattle.

  It is remarkable that I felt no astonishment at such an extraordinary adventure, and with that faculty which one has in dreams of accepting the most bizarre events as quite ordinary, I saw in it nothing that was not perfectly natural.

  “I loved you long before I saw you, dear Romuald, and sought you everywhere. You were my ideal, and when I saw you in the church at the fatal moment, I said at once ‘It is he!’ I gave you a look into which I put all the love that I had, and that I was to have for you; a look to damn a cardinal, to bring a king to his knees at my feet before all his court. You remained obdurate and preferred your God to me.

  “Ah! how jealous I am of God, Whom you loved and still love better than me!

  “How unhappy I am! I shall never have your heart for my very own; I, whom you recalled to life with a kiss; I, the dead Clarimonde, who, for your sake, has broken the doors of the tomb, and has come to devote to you the life which she has only resumed to make you happy!”

  These words were broken by intoxicating caresses which benumbed my senses and my reason to such a point that I did not fear, in order to console her, to utter a frightful blasphemy and tell her that I loved her as much as God.

  New life came into her eyes; they shone like chrysoprases.

  “Truly? truly? as much as God!” she said, clasping me in her beautiful arms. “If it is so, you will come with me, you will follow me where I wish. You will leave your ugly black robes. You will be the proudest, the most envied of cavaliers; you will be my lover. To be the acknowledged lover of Clarimonde, who has refused a Pope, think of it! Ah! the happy life, the golden existence that we shall lead! When shall we start, my gallant?”

  “To-morrow! To-morrow!” I cried, in my delirium.

  “To-morrow, then!” she replied. “I shall have time to change my clothes, for these are a little scanty and not suited for travelling. I must also tell my servants, who believe me to be dead in good earnest and are broken-hearted. Money, clothes, carriages, everything will be ready. I will come and fetch you at this time to-morrow. Farewell, dear heart.”

  She touched my forehead with her lips. The lamp went out, the curtains closed again, and I saw no more; a leaden, dreamless sleep weighed me down and held me torpid until next morning. I woke later than usual, and the recollection of that strange vision disturbed my mind throughout the day; I persuaded myself at last that it was a mere product of a heated imagination. Yet the sensations had been so vivid that it was difficult to believe that they were not real, and it was not without fear of what was going to happen that I went to bed, after praying God to banish evil thoughts from my mind and to watch over my sleep.

  I was soon fast asleep, and my dream continued. The curtains were drawn apart, and I saw Clarimonde, not, as the first time, pale in her white shroud and with the hues of death upon her cheeks, but gay, lively and elegant, in a magnificent travelling-dress of green velvet edged with gold and looped up on one side to show a satin skirt. Her fair hair escaped in large curls under a large black felt hat trimmed with white feathers fancifully twisted; she held in her hand a little riding-whip, the handle of which ended in a golden whistle. She touched me lightly with it and said:

  “Well, fair sleeper, is this how you make your preparations? I counted on finding you waiting. Get up quickly; we have no time to lose.”

  I jumped out of bed.

  “Come, dress and let us be off,” she said, pointing to a small parcel she had brought; “the horses are impatient and are champing their bits at the door. We ought to be ten leagues from here already.”

  I dressed myself in haste, and she herself handed me the articles of clothing, going into fits of laughter at my awkwardness and showing me how to put them on when I made mistakes. She dressed my hair with a light touch and, when this was done, put into my hand a little pocket mirror of Venetian crystal framed in silver filigree, saying:

  “What do you think of yourself? Would you take me into your service as valet?”

  I was no longer the same person. I did not recognize myself. I was no more like my old self than a finished statue is like a block of stone. The face I knew seemed but a coarse sketch of the face the mirror reflected. I was handsome; and my vanity was roused by the transformation. The fine clothes, the rich embroidered waist-coat, made quite another man of me; and I marvelled at the power of a few ells of cloth cut in a certain fashion. The spirit of my costume found its way under my skin, and in ten minutes I was a passable coxcomb.

  I walked round the room several times to give myself an easy bearing. Clarimonde watched me with an air of motherly pride, and seemed well pleased with her work.

  “Come, we have been childish long enough; we must be off, dear Romuald! We have far to go and we shall not get there in time.”

  She took me by the hand and led me away. All the doors opened to her immediately she touched them, and we passed the dog without waking him.

  At the door we found Margheritone, the groom who had already been my guide; he held by their bridles three horses, black like the first, one for me, one for himself, and one for Clarimonde. Those horses must have been Spanish jennets out of mares by Zephyr; for they went as fast as the wind, and the moon, which had risen at our departure to light us on our way, rolled through the sky like a wheel broken loose from its chariot; we saw it on our right leaping from tree to tree as if it lost breath in pursuit of us. Soon we came to a plain where, by a clump of trees, a carriage drawn by four powerful beasts was waiting for us; we got into it, and the postillions set off at a furious gallop. I had one arm round Clarimonde and I held one of her hands clasped in mine; she laid her head on my shoulder, and I felt her half-uncovered bosom against my arm. I had never known such perfect happiness. In that moment I forgot everything, and I no more remembered having been a priest than I remembered what I had done in my mother’s womb, so great was the fascination the malignant spirit exercised over me.

  From that night onward my nature was in some way doubled; there were within me two men, neither of whom knew the other. Sometimes I thought I was a priest who dreamed every night that he was a nobleman, sometimes that I was a nobleman who dreamed that he was a priest. I co
uld no longer distinguish dreams from real life; I did not know where reality began and illusion ended. The dissolute, supercilious young lord jeered at the priest, and the priest abhorred the dissipations of the young lord. Two spirals, entwined and confused, yet never actually touching, would give a good idea of this two-headed existence of mine. Despite the strangeness of the situation, I do not believe that I was ever insane. I always retained quite clearly the perception of my two existences. Only, there was one absurd fact that I could never explain to myself; this was that the feeling of the same identity should exist in two such different men. It was an anomaly I could not account for, whether I believed myself to be the cure of the little parish of C——or Signor Romualdo, the acknowledged lover of Clarimonde.

  I was always, or at least imagined myself to be, in Venice; even now I cannot properly disentangle illusion from reality in this bizarre adventure. We lived in a great marble palace on the Canaleio, full of frescoes and statues, with two Titians of the best period in Clarimonde’s bedroom, a palace fit for a king. We had each our own gondola with gondoliers in our livery, our own music-room and our own poet.

  Clarimonde understood life in the grand style; she had a little of Cleopatra in her nature. As for me, I adopted the airs of a prince’s son, and was as arrogant as if I had been descended from one of the twelve apostles or the four evangelists of the Most Serene Republic; I would not have turned aside to make way for the Doges, and I do not believe that there has been anyone more insolent since Satan fell from heaven. I went to the Ridotto and played the devil’s own game. I frequented the best society, sons of ruined noble houses, actresses, swindlers, parasites, and cut-throats.

  Yet, in spite of the dissipated life I led, I remained faithful to Clarimonde. I loved her to distraction. She would have awakened satiety itself from its slumbers, and kept inconstancy constant. To possess Clarimonde was to possess twenty mistresses, it was to possess all the women in the world, so versatile was she, so changeable, so unlike herself; a veritable chameleon! An infidelity you would have committed with someone else, she made you commit with her by completely assuming the character, the style and the type of beauty of the woman you seemed to admire.