But at that instant from the direction of the pavilion came floating powerful sounds, and both Fabio and Valeria recognised the melody Muzzio had played to them, calling it the song of blissful triumphant love. Fabio looked in perplexity at Valeria … she closed her eyes, turned away, and both holding their breath, heard the song out to the end. As the last note died away, the moon passed behind a cloud, it was suddenly dark in the room…. Both the young people let their heads sink on their pillows without exchanging a word, and neither of them noticed when the other fell asleep.
V
The next morning Muzzio came in to breakfast; he seemed happy and greeted Valeria cheerfully. She answered him in confusion — stole a glance at him — and felt frightened at the sight of that serene happy face, those piercing and inquisitive eyes. Muzzio was beginning again to tell some story … but Fabio interrupted him at the first word.
‘You could not sleep, I see, in your new quarters. My wife and I heard you playing last night’s song.’
‘Yes! Did you hear it?’ said Muzzio. ‘I played it indeed; but I had been asleep before that, and I had a wonderful dream too.’
Valeria was on the alert. ‘What sort of dream?’ asked Fabio.
‘I dreamed,’ answered Muzzio, not taking his eyes off Valeria, ‘I was entering a spacious apartment with a ceiling decorated in Oriental fashion, carved columns supported the roof, the walls were covered with tiles, and though there were neither windows nor lights, the whole room was filled with a rosy light, just as though it were all built of transparent stone. In the corners, Chinese censers were smoking, on the floor lay brocaded cushions along a narrow rug. I went in through a door covered with a curtain, and at another door just opposite appeared a woman whom I once loved. And so beautiful she seemed to me, that I was all aflame with my old love….’
Muzzio broke off significantly. Valeria sat motionless, and only gradually she turned white … and she drew her breath more slowly.
‘Then,’ continued Muzzio, ‘I waked up and played that song.’
‘But who was that woman?’ said Fabio.
‘Who was she? The wife of an Indian — I met her in the town of Delhi…. She is not alive now — she died.’
‘And her husband?’ asked Fabio, not knowing why he asked the question.
‘Her husband, too, they say is dead. I soon lost sight of them both.’
‘Strange!’ observed Fabio. ‘My wife too had an extraordinary dream last night’ — Muzzio gazed intently at Valeria — ’which she did not tell me,’ added Fabio.
But at this point Valeria got up and went out of the room. Immediately after breakfast, Muzzio too went away, explaining that he had to be in Ferrara on business, and that he would not be back before the evening.
VI
A few weeks before Muzzio’s return, Fabio had begun a portrait of his wife, depicting her with the attributes of Saint Cecilia. He had made considerable advance in his art; the renowned Luini, a pupil of Leonardo da Vinci, used to come to him at Ferrara, and while aiding him with his own counsels, pass on also the precepts of his great master. The portrait was almost completely finished; all that was left was to add a few strokes to the face, and Fabio might well be proud of his creation. After seeing Muzzio off on his way to Ferrara, he turned into his studio, where Valeria was usually waiting for him; but he did not find her there; he called her, she did not respond. Fabio was overcome by a secret uneasiness; he began looking for her. She was nowhere in the house; Fabio ran into the garden, and there in one of the more secluded walks he caught sight of Valeria. She was sitting on a seat, her head drooping on to her bosom and her hands folded upon her knees; while behind her, peeping out of the dark green of a cypress, a marble satyr, with a distorted malignant grin on his face, was putting his pouting lips to a Pan’s pipe. Valeria was visibly relieved at her husband’s appearance, and to his agitated questions she replied that she had a slight headache, but that it was of no consequence, and she was ready to come to sit to him. Fabio led her to the studio, posed her, and took up his brush; but to his great vexation, he could not finish the face as he would have liked to. And not because it was somewhat pale and looked exhausted … no; but the pure, saintly expression, which he liked so much in it, and which had given him the idea of painting Valeria as Saint Cecilia, he could not find in it that day. He flung down the brush at last, told his wife he was not in the mood for work, and that he would not prevent her from lying down, as she did not look at all well, and put the canvas with its face to the wall. Valeria agreed with him that she ought to rest, and repeating her complaints of a headache, withdrew into her bedroom. Fabio remained in the studio. He felt a strange confused sensation incomprehensible to himself. Muzzio’s stay under his roof, to which he, Fabio, had himself urgently invited him, was irksome to him. And not that he was jealous — could any one have been jealous of Valeria! — but he did not recognise his former comrade in his friend. All that was strange, unknown and new that Muzzio had brought with him from those distant lands — and which seemed to have entered into his very flesh and blood — all these magical feats, songs, strange drinks, this dumb Malay, even the spicy fragrance diffused by Muzzio’s garments, his hair, his breath — all this inspired in Fabio a sensation akin to distrust, possibly even to timidity. And why did that Malay waiting at table stare with such disagreeable intentness at him, Fabio? Really any one might suppose that he understood Italian. Muzzio had said of him that in losing his tongue, this Malay had made a great sacrifice, and in return he was now possessed of great power. What sort of power? and how could he have obtained it at the price of his tongue? All this was very strange! very incomprehensible! Fabio went into his wife’s room; she was lying on the bed, dressed, but was not asleep. Hearing his steps, she started, then again seemed delighted to see him just as in the garden. Fabio sat down beside the bed, took Valeria by the hand, and after a short silence, asked her, ‘What was the extraordinary dream that had frightened her so the previous night? And was it the same sort at all as the dream Muzzio had described?’ Valeria crimsoned and said hurriedly: ‘O! no! no! I saw … a sort of monster which was trying to tear me to pieces.’ ‘A monster? in the shape of a man?’ asked Fabio. ‘No, a beast … a beast!’ Valeria turned away and hid her burning face in the pillows. Fabio held his wife’s hand some time longer; silently he raised it to his lips, and withdrew.
Both the young people passed that day with heavy hearts. Something dark seemed hanging over their heads … but what it was, they could not tell. They wanted to be together, as though some danger threatened them; but what to say to one another they did not know. Fabio made an effort to take up the portrait, and to read Ariosto, whose poem had appeared not long before in Ferrara, and was now making a noise all over Italy; but nothing was of any use…. Late in the evening, just at supper - time, Muzzio returned.
VII
He seemed composed and cheerful — but he told them little; he devoted himself rather to questioning Fabio about their common acquaintances, about the German war, and the Emperor Charles: he spoke of his own desire to visit Rome, to see the new Pope. He again offered Valeria some Shiraz wine, and on her refusal, observed as though to himself, ‘Now it’s not needed, to be sure.’ Going back with his wife to their room, Fabio soon fell asleep; and waking up an hour later, felt a conviction that no one was sharing his bed; Valeria was not beside him. He got up quickly and at the same instant saw his wife in her night attire coming out of the garden into the room. The moon was shining brightly, though not long before a light rain had been falling. With eyes closed, with an expression of mysterious horror on her immovable face, Valeria approached the bed, and feeling for it with her hands stretched out before her, lay down hurriedly and in silence. Fabio turned to her with a question, but she made no reply; she seemed to be asleep. He touched her, and felt on her dress and on her hair drops of rain, and on the soles of her bare feet, little grains of sand. Then he leapt up and ran into the garden through the half - open door. The crude
brilliance of the moon wrapt every object in light. Fabio looked about him, and perceived on the sand of the path prints of two pairs of feet — one pair were bare; and these prints led to a bower of jasmine, on one side, between the pavilion and the house. He stood still in perplexity, and suddenly once more he heard the strains of the song he had listened to the night before. Fabio shuddered, ran into the pavilion…. Muzzio was standing in the middle of the room playing on the violin. Fabio rushed up to him.
‘You have been in the garden, your clothes are wet with rain.’
‘No … I don’t know … I think … I have not been out …’ Muzzio answered slowly, seeming amazed at Fabio’s entrance and his excitement.
Fabio seized him by the hand. ‘And why are you playing that melody again?
Have you had a dream again?’
Muzzio glanced at Fabio with the same look of amazement, and said nothing.
‘Answer me!’
’“The moon stood high like a round shield …
Like a snake, the river shines …,
The friend’s awake, the foe’s asleep …
The bird is in the falcon’s clutches…. Help!”‘
muttered Muzzio, humming to himself as though in delirium.
Fabio stepped back two paces, stared at Muzzio, pondered a moment … and went back to the house, to his bedroom.
Valeria, her head sunk on her shoulder and her hands hanging lifelessly, was in a heavy sleep. He could not quickly awaken her … but directly she saw him, she flung herself on his neck, and embraced him convulsively; she was trembling all over. ‘What is the matter, my precious, what is it?’ Fabio kept repeating, trying to soothe her. But she still lay lifeless on his breast. ‘Ah, what fearful dreams I have!’ she whispered, hiding her face against him. Fabio would have questioned her … but she only shuddered. The window - panes were flushed with the early light of morning when at last she fell asleep in his arms.
VIII
The next day Muzzio disappeared from early morning, while Valeria informed her husband that she intended to go away to a neighbouring monastery, where lived her spiritual father, an old and austere monk, in whom she placed unbounded confidence. To Fabio’s inquiries she replied, that she wanted by confession to relieve her soul, which was weighed down by the exceptional impressions of the last few days. As he looked upon Valeria’s sunken face, and listened to her faint voice, Fabio approved of her plan; the worthy Father Lorenzo might give her valuable advice, and might disperse her doubts…. Under the escort of four attendants, Valeria set off to the monastery, while Fabio remained at home, and wandered about the garden till his wife’s return, trying to comprehend what had happened to her, and a victim to constant fear and wrath, and the pain of undefined suspicions…. More than once he went up to the pavilion; but Muzzio had not returned, and the Malay gazed at Fabio like a statue, obsequiously bowing his head, with a well - dissembled — so at least it seemed to Fabio — smile on his bronzed face. Meanwhile, Valeria had in confession told everything to her priest, not so much with shame as with horror. The priest heard her attentively, gave her his blessing, absolved her from her involuntary sin, but to himself he thought: ‘Sorcery, the arts of the devil … the matter can’t be left so,’ … and he returned with Valeria to her villa, as though with the aim of completely pacifying and reassuring her. At the sight of the priest Fabio was thrown into some agitation; but the experienced old man had thought out beforehand how he must treat him. When he was left alone with Fabio, he did not of course betray the secrets of the confessional, but he advised him if possible to get rid of the guest they had invited to their house, as by his stories, his songs, and his whole behaviour he was troubling the imagination of Valeria. Moreover, in the old man’s opinion, Muzzio had not, he remembered, been very firm in the faith in former days, and having spent so long a time in lands unenlightened by the truths of Christianity, he might well have brought thence the contagion of false doctrine, might even have become conversant with secret magic arts; and, therefore, though long friendship had indeed its claims, still a wise prudence pointed to the necessity of separation. Fabio fully agreed with the excellent monk. Valeria was even joyful when her husband reported to her the priest’s counsel; and sent on his way with the cordial good - will of both the young people, loaded with good gifts for the monastery and the poor, Father Lorenzo returned home.
Fabio intended to have an explanation with Muzzio immediately after supper; but his strange guest did not return to supper. Then Fabio decided to defer his conversation with Muzzio until the following day; and both the young people retired to rest.
IX
Valeria soon fell asleep; but Fabio could not sleep. In the stillness of the night, everything he had seen, everything he had felt presented itself more vividly; he put to himself still more insistently questions to which as before he could find no answer. Had Muzzio really become a sorcerer, and had he not already poisoned Valeria? She was ill … but what was her disease? While he lay, his head in his hand, holding his feverish breath, and given up to painful reflection, the moon rose again upon a cloudless sky; and together with its beams, through the half - transparent window - panes, there began, from the direction of the pavilion — or was it Fabio’s fancy? — to come a breath, like a light, fragrant current … then an urgent, passionate murmur was heard … and at that instant he observed that Valeria was beginning faintly to stir. He started, looked; she rose up, slid first one foot, then the other out of the bed, and like one bewitched of the moon, her sightless eyes fixed lifelessly before her, her hands stretched out, she began moving towards the garden! Fabio instantly ran out of the other door of the room, and running quickly round the corner of the house, bolted the door that led into the garden…. He had scarcely time to grasp at the bolt, when he felt some one trying to open the door from the inside, pressing against it … again and again … and then there was the sound of piteous passionate moans….
‘But Muzzio has not come back from the town,’ flashed through Fabio’s head, and he rushed to the pavilion….
What did he see?
Coming towards him, along the path dazzlingly lighted up by the moon’s rays, was Muzzio, he too moving like one moonstruck, his hands held out before him, and his eyes open but unseeing…. Fabio ran up to him, but he, not heeding him, moved on, treading evenly, step by step, and his rigid face smiled in the moonlight like the Malay’s. Fabio would have called him by his name … but at that instant he heard, behind him in the house, the creaking of a window…. He looked round….
Yes, the window of the bedroom was open from top to bottom, and putting one foot over the sill, Valeria stood in the window … her hands seemed to be seeking Muzzio … she seemed striving all over towards him….
Unutterable fury filled Fabio’s breast with a sudden inrush. ‘Accursed sorcerer!’ he shrieked furiously, and seizing Muzzio by the throat with one hand, with the other he felt for the dagger in his girdle, and plunged the blade into his side up to the hilt.
Muzzio uttered a shrill scream, and clapping his hand to the wound, ran staggering back to the pavilion…. But at the very same instant when Fabio stabbed him, Valeria screamed just as shrilly, and fell to the earth like grass before the scythe.
Fabio flew to her, raised her up, carried her to the bed, began to speak to her….
She lay a long time motionless, but at last she opened her eyes, heaved a deep, broken, blissful sigh, like one just rescued from imminent death, saw her husband, and twining her arms about his neck, crept close to him. ‘You, you, it is you,’ she faltered. Gradually her hands loosened their hold, her head sank back, and murmuring with a blissful smile, ‘Thank God, it is all over…. But how weary I am!’ she fell into a sound but not heavy sleep.
X
Fabio sank down beside her bed, and never taking his eyes off her pale and sunken, but already calmer, face, began reflecting on what had happened … and also on how he ought to act now. What steps was he to take? If he had killed Muzzio —
and remembering how deeply the dagger had gone in, he could have no doubt of it — it could not be hidden. He would have to bring it to the knowledge of the archduke, of the judges … but how explain, how describe such an incomprehensible affair? He, Fabio, had killed in his own house his own kinsman, his dearest friend? They will inquire, What for? on what ground?… But if Muzzio were not dead? Fabio could not endure to remain longer in uncertainty, and satisfying himself that Valeria was asleep, he cautiously got up from his chair, went out of the house, and made his way to the pavilion. Everything was still in it; only in one window a light was visible. With a sinking heart he opened the outer door (there was still the print of blood - stained fingers on it, and there were black drops of gore on the sand of the path), passed through the first dark room … and stood still on the threshold, overwhelmed with amazement.
In the middle of the room, on a Persian rug, with a brocaded cushion under his head, and all his limbs stretched out straight, lay Muzzio, covered with a wide, red shawl with a black pattern on it. His face, yellow as wax, with closed eyes and bluish eyelids, was turned towards the ceiling, no breathing could be discerned: he seemed a corpse. At his feet knelt the Malay, also wrapt in a red shawl. He was holding in his left hand a branch of some unknown plant, like a fern, and bending slightly forward, was gazing fixedly at his master. A small torch fixed on the floor burnt with a greenish flame, and was the only light in the room. The flame did not flicker nor smoke. The Malay did not stir at Fabio’s entry, he merely turned his eyes upon him, and again bent them upon Muzzio. From time to time he raised and lowered the branch, and waved it in the air, and his dumb lips slowly parted and moved as though uttering soundless words. On the floor between the Malay and Muzzio lay the dagger, with which Fabio had stabbed his friend; the Malay struck one blow with the branch on the blood - stained blade. A minute passed … another. Fabio approached the Malay, and stooping down to him, asked in an undertone, ‘Is he dead?’ The Malay bent his head from above downwards, and disentangling his right hand from his shawl, he pointed imperiously to the door. Fabio would have repeated his question, but the gesture of the commanding hand was repeated, and Fabio went out, indignant and wondering, but obedient.
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 180
