Italian Sonata: Noire - Volume Two

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  The summer has arrived in earnest, the midday heat obliging them to make early morning excursions to view glowering Vesuvio and the ruins of Pompeii.

  They arrive in Sorrento on the late afternoon train, to a waiting carriage, sent by Maud’s grandmother to collect them. They progress slowly, up the winding coastal path, under hanging trees, as the sun begins to relinquish its hold on the day, sinking reluctantly, that dusk may creep in its place. Cliffs loom above, as they climb, the rock face closing in as they travel higher.

  The carriage continues through the dwindling light, navigating the twists of the road, which snake onwards, until their heads are nodding sleepily.

  After some time, a jolt wakes Cecile. The moon has risen and, as it emerges through rolling, black clouds, she sees clearly, in the centre of the bay, the brooding silhouette of a castle, perched high upon an island of rock. Its jagged turrets are too numerous to count, but one dominates all, creating a pinnacle from which lights wink.

  A strange pull tugs inside her, of exhilaration and dread, a force physical in its potency, as if something within those walls were calling to her, inviting her in.

  Cecile looks down from the window, down the steep cliff face, down to the waves below. The sea stretches onwards, vast and inscrutable, yet, she feels the presence of something that has been waiting for her, all this time. Waiting for her to arrive.

  * * *

  As they clatter through the entrance to the Villa di Scogliera, home to Lady Agatha, the occupants of the carriage are thinking of welcoming beds and the pleasure of laying their heads on soft pillows.

  The hour being late, the party are taken to their rooms. Cecile is ready to submit to sleep, and does little more than remove her outer travel clothing, laying herself down in her under chemise.

  She drifts into dreams, of a dark tower, and a spiral staircase, and a voice calling to her. Of course, it’s no more than the sound of the sea, swimming through the open shutters.

  Confidences

  What pleasure it is, after many weeks of travel, to find ourselves settled for a longer stay. Where trunks may be properly unpacked, and the body permitted to rest, without thought of which galleries must be toured, or which monuments admired.

  More delightful still, when the location of our sojourn is as beautiful as the Villa di Scogliera, and our host requires nothing from us but that we allow our constitution to be revived. In this respect, the hospitality of Lady Agatha, Maud’s grandmother, is exemplary.

  Henry and Maud love her dearly, she knows, but, observing them, Agatha intuits Cecile has been too much in their company, for her own comfort, at least. Agatha’s suggestion that they leave the lovebirds to occupy Villa di Scogliera alone for some weeks is a most welcome suggestion.

  She has arranged all with her nephew, Lorenzo, whose home, the ancient seat of the di Cavour dynasty, lies but four miles hence, standing upon a great outcrop, in the centre of the bay.

  The Castello, and its Conte, are known not only to the humble villagers who provide victuals for its tables, and their sons and daughters to work in its grand halls. The Castello and its occupants are known to the grandest in the land, and beyond. Tales of the Castello di Scogliera reach the ears of noble families residing in the foothills of the Pyrenees, and those living in the shadow of the great Carpathians.

  Perhaps because of this, few venture within its walls willingly.

  Cecile has heard no such stories but, as Agatha’s carriage clatters across the cobbles of the causeway, her heart’s pace quickens. For here are towering turrets, the very same as whispered to her on the night of her arrival. Here is the imposing prominence, rising to dominate the bay and the simple fishing community of Scogliera. Here are the windows, dark and narrow, the panes of which catch the early morning sun. Glinting, like so many eyes, looking down upon those who approach.

  Sitting beside her elderly companion, Cecile feels again that uncanny tug, somewhere beneath her ribcage, as if an invisible thread were attached there, drawing her, inevitably, closer.

  They pass beneath a mighty arch, onwards, up a steep track, barely wide enough to admit them. The horses plod their ascent, through lush foliage, the wheels of the carriage skimming nodding lilies. Branches of oleander brush the roof.

  At last, the path opens, and the horses stop before the great doors of the castle itself.

  From here, so high above the waters of the bay, the Mediterranean stretches, a shimmering vision.

  ‘Benvenuto!’ calls a voice.

  ‘Mia cara!’ replies Agatha. ‘Bello per vederti. Come va?’

  ‘Molto bene grazie,’ answers the person emerging from the castle to welcome them.

  Cecile stands shyly, but the dark-haired beauty wastes no time in embracing her, clasping her arms about Cecile as if they have known each other always.

  ‘Benvenuto, nuova amica.’

  ‘Oh! Good morning!’ says Cecile. ‘It’s lovely to meet you. But I’m afraid I really don’t speak Italian.’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaims the young woman, surveying Cecile with a twinkling eye. ‘But now you are here, in our bella Italia, you will learn.’

  ‘Really, Lucrezia! You must know that it’s too forward to jump upon a new acquaintance,’ berates Agatha. ‘Cecile won’t know what to make of you!’

  ‘Scusami,’ begs Lucrezia. ‘You will learn Italian, Cecile, and perhaps I will learn manners.’

  ‘Impossible girl!’ says Agatha, giving her an admonishing smack upon the hand.

  ‘I shall improve myself,’ promises Lucrezia, bestowing Agatha with a kiss upon both cheeks. ‘Adesso! Let us go in, and take English tea.’

  * * *

  Cecile decides that her room is by far the loveliest she’s ever seen. There’s a small sofa, upholstered in golden yellow damask, before the hearth, unlit on this warm day. Also, a lady’s writing desk and chair.

  Meanwhile, the bed is of dainty size, draped on all sides with muslin, upon which orchids are embroidered in violet thread. Carved into the pale wood are all manner of creatures. Frogs and beetles, moths and worms nestle between creeping ivy, curling about the bedposts.

  ‘Like fingers about a lover’s neck, yes?’ says Lucrezia, her own hand tracing a tendril of ivy upon the polished surface.

  Cecile nods in mute assent. What things Lucrezia says!

  And how she dresses! Lucrezia’s day-gown, like Cecile’s, is made from fine white cotton, but the cut is far more daring, revealing the swell of her ample bosom. A design of interwoven snakes encircles her waist, created from tiny beads, in all shades of green.

  ‘I sewed this belt myself,’ says Lucrezia, proudly, seeing Cecile’s eyes upon her costume. ‘The serpent is an emblem of the di Cavours.’ Her tongue flicks out, to touch her upper teeth, and she gives a playful hiss, laughing to see Cecile’s startled expression.

  ‘Do not worry, mia cara. I promise only to lead you into pleasant temptations.’

  Blushing, Cecile turns away, not knowing what to say.

  The room is not at all as she imagined it might be. There is nothing stark, or dingy; the dust and cobwebs of past generations do not hang from the bedstead. Rather, dazzling sun pushes through the window, the shutters of which have been folded back.

  Below, she can see a terrace, and the slope of the garden, exquisitely lush, leading down, out of sight. Beyond is an expanse of blue, the water mirroring the undisturbed azure of the heavens.

  From the pale-wash upon the wooden floors, to the white pillows and linens, a brightness fills the room. The walls too are painted white, though far from bare. A garden of butterflies, thick among bougainvillea, have been conjured upon them, fluttering beside berry-eating birds.

  ‘Do you like my work?’ asks Lucrezia, seeing Cecile admire the walls.

  ‘It’s marvellous!’ exclaims Cecile. ‘How clever you are!’

  Cecile has spent many hours with a paintbrush and canvas, under the guiding eye of the art master, at the Beaulieu Academy for Ladies. Never has she crea
ted anything a fraction as magical.

  ‘You should see the jungle in my room, with tigers! But this gentle garden I made for you.’

  ‘It’s the most beautiful gift,’ says Cecile, and by some strange impulse, she traverses the few steps between them and gathers this dark-haired beauty in an embrace. One of gratitude, but something else too.

  Who is the young woman standing before her? One obliged too much to keep her own company? One similarly frustrated, despite the luxuries with which she is surrounded? One who, though she may not know it even herself, seeks a soulmate, someone she can trust?

  ‘Come,’ says Lucrezia, ‘Now we must show you a real Italian giardino.’

  * * *

  ‘We have something in common, you and I,’ says Lucretia, leading Cecile into the sunshine.

  Skirts brushing dahlias as large as saucers, cheerful marigolds, and the fat heads of peonies, they descend from the upper terrace, following steps cut into the granite upon which the castle stands. Bees flit back and forth, dipping into brimming cups of pollen.

  Cecile presses her handkerchief to her forehead; it’s a blazing day, and she’s forgotten to put on her hat. Fortunately, as the path winds down, they enter the shade of a pergola, tumbling with a profusion of egg-yolk honeysuckle, and clusters of wisteria, blooming in deepest violet.

  ‘I’m sure we have many things in common,’ Cecile replies. ‘We must share the same dreams for the future: of discovering more about the world, exploring new places, and experiencing all the things we cannot yet imagine… and finding true love, of course, and our place in Society.’

  She pauses to inhale the scent of a lush pink rose, unfurled to its full-blown beauty.

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Lucrezia, ‘But I was thinking more of the past than the future. She pauses. ‘Agatha told me that you lost your mother, long ago.’

  Lucrezia stoops to pluck the head from a lily, resting the pollen-rich stamen against her chin, where it leaves a yellow powder stain.

  ‘You lost your mother?’ exclaims Cecile.

  ‘She was one of Milan’s most celebrated Diva Operativa,’ Lucrezia answers. ‘No one sang Violetta in Verdi’s La Traviata better than she. The old Conte, Camillo, pursued her, and won her in all respects, though she was no more than a dalliance for him. By the time I was born, her heart was broken.’

  Lucrezia’s face is still. The story, though true, she knows, must be told with sufficient pathos. She keeps her gaze upon the lily in her hand, twirling it slowly as she speaks.

  ‘She placed me in an orphanage, writing to Camillo to tell him of my whereabouts, then threw herself from the roof of La Scala.’

  With these words, she lets the flower fall from her fingers. Cecile cries in horror.

  ‘What a terrible story! Oh, Lucrezia!’

  ‘Yes, and a lesson to all young women, I like to think,’ adds Lucrezia, with brittle laughter. ‘To his credit, my father paid generously enough to ensure that I was never ill-treated. Nevertheless, his interest extended no further than to read an annual report of my continued presence in the world.’

  She allows herself a wry smile as they walk on.

  ‘It was upon his death that Lorenzo sought me out, and brought me to live with him, though his mother, Isabella, was less than delighted.’

  Cecile lays her hand upon Lucrezia’s arm.

  ‘When I think of her, my mother, I imagine that she’s in another room.’ Lucrezia pauses, pinching the underside of her wrist sufficiently to make her eyes water. ‘A locked door separates us. Except that, one day…the door won’t be locked anymore...’

  The two stand in silence for a moment.

  ‘And what of you, mia amica?’ she asks, with an attempt at brightness, as Cecile supposes. ‘Tell me of your mother.’

  She beckons Cecile, and they emerge from the shade of the arbour into a flood of sunlight and a clear view out, over the sea. On all sides, there is an abundance of lavender and camomile, threaded with purple irises, and a profusion of wild garlic. Thyme pushes up between the flagstones. Piled in happy heaps and jumbles, soft and lush, the garden is perfect in its chaos.

  The breeze is salt-scented, like a top note over the mixed fragrance of a thousand blooms.

  ‘I was so young when she died, of influenza, that I don’t recollect much about her. I do wonder what it would have been like if she’d lived, and my father, too. Perhaps, had they stayed here, with me, I’d have had a sister,’ says Cecile.

  Lucrezia, though curious, knows there are limits to how far she may politely probe. Cecile will tell her what is pertinent in her own time. Meanwhile, Lucrezia decides that diplomacy is the best strategy and the adoption of a tone of intimacy.

  As if struck by a blinding notion, she declares.

  ‘Mia piccola! We have been sent to one other! You and I shall be sisters!’

  In this place, so bright and bursting with life, anything seems possible, and Cecile finds her heart leaping.

  ‘You can’t know, really, how I’ve longed for a sister,’ she says, returning Lucrezia’s enthusiasm. ‘I thought, perhaps, that Maud might… but I can’t seem to know her properly. She’s generous and often great fun, but I don’t think she ever tells me, truly, how she’s feeling.’

  ‘Sì, mia sorella,’ replies Lucrezia, slipping her arm through Cecile’s. ‘We shall now call ourselves sisters. And we shall begin by telling each other all our secrets.’

  ‘Oh! That won’t take long at all. I’ve never had the opportunity to do much of anything that would warrant keeping a secret.’

  ‘Whereas, I have a great many,’ returns Lucrezia, offering Cecile a conspiratorial smile. ‘But I shall be wary of frightening you off,’ she teases, ‘So don’t expect to hear all of my misdemeanours.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ answers Cecile, giving her arm a companionable squeeze. ‘We’ve plenty of time to get to know one another. Of course, I shall forgive any wickedness you might reveal. I might even make some up, for myself, or you’ll think me most dull.’

  Lucrezia is obliged to turn her head, that her face may not betray her. How completely without guile the child is!

  ‘I love the wildness of this garden,’ proclaims Cecile. ‘The wisteria, tumbling as it likes, and the roses, too. So much untamed beauty. I can hardly decide where to look first, and everything framed by this never-ending sky and the open waters stretching away.’

  ‘You’re exactly right,’ agrees Lucrezia. ‘It’s free in a way that we are not. Perhaps that’s why it inspires us.’

  ‘Oh! I’ve a great many freedoms,’ admits Cecile. ‘My brother’s very generous, and more forward-thinking than most men, I’m sure. In London, I attended meetings of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies, with Maud. Henry’s a great believer in women having their own voice.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ says Lucrezia. ‘I fear we are not so far ahead, here, in Italy. A woman has no voice unless she is married, and then her voice is that of her husband, rather than herself.’

  ‘I suppose it’s always the way,’ sighs Cecile, brushing her palm against a swathe of daisies, their faces filled with the sun. ‘All husbands seem to want their wives to be obedient...’

  ‘Even our clothes are designed to rein us in,’ continues Lucrezia, giving the same daisies an irritable swat of her hand. ‘As if our bodies were something to be feared and subjugated! Restrict the body and subdue the passions; that’s what men say. We’re corseted to control our chaos!’

  They continue down, each set of steps leading to a lower terrace, past arches overgrown with wandering vines and trailing passionflowers, and the sweet, thick breath of jasmine. The path tumbles with scarlet geraniums and blazing nasturtiums.

  ‘We couldn’t not wear them though, could we?’ says Cecile. It’s only half a question.

  ‘Let’s take a stand,’ counters Lucrezia. ‘Think how lovely it will be to just have your muslin chemise against your skin.

  ‘It is hot,’ admits Cecile.
<
br />   They pass figs and the citrus-sharp tang of lemon trees, and branches laden with ripening cherries. Lucrezia twists a peach from its stem and takes a bite, letting the juice run down her chin.

  ‘From tomorrow, no more corsets,’ she announces.

  Lucrezia imagines her constriction lifting already. Liberated not only from her tiresome stays but from the confinement of Lorenzo’s power over her. Why should she not win the wager he has thrown down?

  * * *

  They have sat for some time, perched on the smoothest of the rocks, petticoats tucked up, to dip their toes in the lapping waves. The tide is at its highest, and most still. A serene warmth embraces them.

  ‘Do you ever sail from here?’ asks Cecile.

  ‘Sadly not. No boat can be launched, as the rocks sit jagged, not far beneath the water’s surface.’

  ‘Ah yes, a hidden danger,’ says Cecile. ‘Waiting to shipwreck the unwary.’

  ‘Sì, mia piccolo,’ says Lucrezia, quietly.

  Having taken enough sun, they lie on the terrace above, tucked under the shade of an olive tree, eating peaches to slake their thirst.

  Cecile cannot recall ever being as happy as she is now, lying on the grass, looking up at the underside of a swathe of poppies, the light revealing the veins within the petals.

  This is what a garden must look like when it’s consumed centuries of warmth, thinks Cecile. It’s nothing like the Castle of Otranto, or Udolpho. There’s nothing sinister here. Only sunshine and happiness.

  As if in agreement, from behind, comes the sound of cheerful whistling, towards which Cecile twists her head.

  Up above, someone has climbed an olive tree, to better cut a crossed branch… and perhaps to admire the view, which is particularly lovely on this summer’s day.

  ‘Who’s that?’ whispers Cecile, giving Lucrezia a nudge.

  Lucrezia doesn’t need to open her eyes to answer.

  ‘Raphael. Our gardener; Piero, is really too old now to manage on his own. Raphael is his grandson,’ she says, twitching a grass stem between her teeth. ‘He’s a great help here. He looks after Agatha’s gardens, too. He’s most obliging, and will do anything you ask. Anything at all…’ murmurs Lucrezia.