Pleasure Read online

  —I don’t know, answered Andrea, unable to hide a little impatience and bitterness.

  —It’s all really over?

  —Bianca, I pray you, let’s talk about us! he interrupted her with his voice distorted, because these discussions disturbed and irritated him.

  She remained thoughtful for a moment, as if she wanted to solve some enigma; then she smiled shaking her head, as if relinquishing, with a fleeting shadow of melancholy in her eyes.

  —Such is love.

  And she caressed her lover.

  Andrea, possessing her, possessed all those noble Florentine women of the fifteenth century, to whom the Magnificent sang:

  You can observe all around

  That what the proverb says is true

  That everyone changes his mind

  As soon as the eye is out of view

  You see love change for someone different

  When the eye remains afar

  So too does the heart stay distant

  Because it’s pierced by someone near

  With whom it can soon unite

  With great pleasure and delight . . .3

  In the summer when she was about to leave, while saying good-bye, without hiding her well-bred emotion, she said:

  —I know that when we see each other again, you will not love me anymore. Such is love. But remember me as a friend!

  He did not love her. Still, on hot and tedious days, certain soft cadences of her voice returned to his mind like the magic of a rhyme, and aroused in him the vision of a freshwater garden in which she went about in the company of other women playing and singing as in a vignette from Polyphilus’s Dream.

  And Donna Bianca disappeared. And others came, sometimes in twos: Barbarella Viti, the mascula,4 who had a superb boy’s head all gilded and shining like certain Jewish heads by Rembrandt; the Countess of Lùcoli, the lady of the turquoises, a Circe by Dosso Dossi, with beautiful eyes full of perfidy, variable as autumn seas, gray, azure, green, indefinable; Liliana Theed, a lady of twenty-two, resplendent with that marvelous complexion composed of light, roses, and milk, which is possessed only by the babies of the great English families in the canvases of Reynolds, Gainsborough, and Lawrence; the Marchioness du Deffand, a Directoire-style beauty, a Récamier, with her long and pure oval face, her swan’s neck, her surging breasts and Bacchic arms; Donna Isotta Cellesi, the lady of the emeralds, who moved her empress’s head with a slow, bovine majesty amid the sparkling of her enormous heirloom gemstones; Princess Kalliwoda, the lady without jewels, who within the fragility of her form hid nerves of steel for pleasure and from whose waxy delicate features voracious leonine eyes gazed out, the eyes of a Scythe.

  Each of these loves brought him a new degradation: each inebriated him with a malevolent elation, without satisfying him; each taught him some particularity and subtlety of the vice that was still unknown to him. He had within himself the germ of all infections. Corrupting himself, he corrupted. Fraud ensnared his soul, like some slimy and cold substance that became more tenacious every day. The perversion of his senses made him seek out and accentuate in his lovers whatever was least noble and least pure in them. A base curiosity compelled him to choose the women with the worst reputations; a cruel taste for contamination compelled him to seduce the women who had better reputations. In the arms of one he remembered the caresses of another, or a technique of pleasure learned from another. Sometimes (and it was especially when the news of Elena Muti’s second marriage reopened for some time his wounds) he took pleasure in superimposing on the present nudity the evoked nudity of Elena, and to utilize the real figure as a sort of base on which he could enjoy the ideal figure. He nurtured the image with an intense effort, until his imagination reached the point of possessing the shadow that he had almost created.

  However, all the same he did not venerate his memories of the past happiness. Sometimes, on the contrary, those memories gave him a pretext for some other arbitrary affair. In the Galleria Borghese, for example, in the memorable hall of mirrors, he obtained the first promise from Lilian Theed; in Villa Medici, upon the memorable green staircase that leads to the belvedere, he entwined his fingers with the long fingers of Angélique du Deffand; and the small ivory skull that had belonged to Cardinal Immenraet, the death jewel marked with the name of some obscure Hippolyte, aroused in him the whim to try his luck with Donna Ippolita Albónico.

  This lady bore a great air of nobility, slightly resembling Maria Magdalena of Austria, the wife of Cosimo II de’ Medici, in the portrait by Giusto Suttermans5 that is in Florence, in the possession of the Corsinis. She adored sumptuous clothing, brocades, velvets, lace. Her wide Medicean collars seemed the best style to emphasize the beauty of her superb head.

  One race day, up in the stands, Andrea Sperelli was endeavoring to obtain Donna Ippolita’s promise to come to Palazzo Zuccari the next day to fetch the mysterious ivory dedicated to her. She was hedging, vacillating between prudence and curiosity. At every slightly impudent phrase of the young man, she frowned, while an involuntary smile tugged at her mouth; and her head beneath the hat decorated with white feathers, against the parasol decorated with white lace, was for a moment an image of singular harmony:

  —Tibi, Hippolyta! Will you come, then? I will wait for you the entire day, from two until evening. All right?

  —But are you crazy?

  —What are you afraid of? I swear to Your Majesty that I will not remove from you even a glove. You will remain seated as on a throne, according to your regal custom; and even while taking a cup of tea, you will not be able to put down the invisible scepter that you always carry in your imperious right hand. Is this favor conceded to me, on these conditions?

  —No.

  But she smiled, because it pleased her to hear him emphasize this aspect of regality, which was her glory. And Andrea Sperelli continued to tempt her, always in a joking or beseeching tone, combining with the seduction of his voice a constant, subtle, penetrating gaze, that indefinable gaze that seems to undress women, to see them naked through their clothing, to touch them on their living skin.

  —I don’t want you to look at me like that, said Donna Ippolita, almost offended, with a faint blush.

  Few people had remained on the stands. Ladies and gentlemen were walking on the grass, along the fence, some surrounding the victorious horse, some betting with the yelling public backers, below the inconstancy of the sun, which appeared and disappeared among the soft archipelagoes of the clouds.

  —Let’s go down, she added, unaware of the watchful eyes of Giannetto Rùtolo, who was leaning against the stair railing.

  When they passed in front of him on their way down, Sperelli said:

  —Good-bye, Marquis, till later. We will race.

  Rùtolo bowed deeply to Donna Ippolita and a sudden flame colored his face. It had seemed to him that he heard a light mocking tone in the count’s greeting. He stayed at the railing, still watching the couple in the enclosure. He was suffering visibly.

  —Rùtolo, watch out! the Countess of Lùcoli said to him with a wicked laugh, passing by on Don Filippo del Monte’s arm, going down the iron stairs.

  He felt the stab in the center of his heart. Donna Ippolita and the Count of Ugenta, having reached the observation point of the judges, were turning back toward the stands. The lady held the handle of her parasol on her shoulder, twirling it between her fingers: the white canopy rotated behind her head like a halo and the many lace trimmings fluttered and lifted up incessantly. Within that mobile circle she laughed every now and then at the words of the young man; and a light flush still tinged the noble pallor of her face. Every now and then the two stopped.

  Giannetto Rùtolo, feigning to watch the horses entering onto the track, turned his binoculars on the two. His hands were trembling visibly. Every smile, every gesture of Ippolita’s gave him an atrocious pain. When he lowered the binocula
rs he was extremely pale. He had caught in his beloved’s eyes, which were gazing at Sperelli, that look he know so well, for he had once been lit up with hope by it. It seemed that everything was crashing down around him. A long love affair was ending, irreparably broken off by that look. The sun was no longer the sun; life was no longer life.

  The stands were filling up again rapidly, now that the signal for the third race was imminent. Ladies were climbing up to stand on the seats. A murmur ran along the levels, like wind over a hanging garden. The bell rang. The horses set off like a cluster of arrows.

  —I will race in your honor, Donna Ippolita, said Andrea Sperelli to the Albónico woman, taking his leave to go and prepare for the next race, which was for gentlemen. —Tibi, Hippolyta, semper!6

  She squeezed his hand hard, for luck, not thinking that Giannetto Rùtolo, too, was among the contenders. When, a little later, she saw her pale lover descend the stairs, the candid cruelty of indifference reigned in her lovely dark eyes. The old love was falling from her soul like a lifeless slough, due to the invasion of the new one. She no longer belonged to that man; she was no longer tied to him by any bond. It is not conceivable how promptly and entirely the woman who loves no more takes back possession of her own heart.

  He has taken her from me, he thought, walking toward the stands of the jockey club over grass that seemed to cede beneath his feet like sand. Before him, a short distance away, the other one walked with a jaunty and confident stride. His tall and slim figure in the ash-gray coat had that particular inimitable elegance that only lineage can bestow. He was smoking. Giannetto Rùtolo, coming behind him, smelled the odor of the cigarette with every puff of smoke; and it caused him an unbearable vexation, a disgust that rose up from his very entrails, as if it were poison.

  The Duke of Beffi and Paolo Caligàro were on the threshold, already set for the race. The duke was crouching down, his legs apart, testing the elasticity of his leather trousers or the strength of his knees with an athletic movement. Little Caligàro was cursing the night rain, which had made the terrain heavy.

  —Now—he said to Sperelli—you have a strong probability with Miching Mallecho.7

  Giannetto Rùtolo heard that presage and felt a stab to the heart. He nurtured a vague hope of victory. In his imagination he saw the effects of a race won and a lucky duel against the enemy. While he undressed, every gesture betrayed his worry.

  —Here’s a man who, before mounting his horse, sees his grave open before him, said the Duke of Beffi, placing a hand on his shoulder with a comic gesture. —Ecce homo novus.8

  Andrea Sperelli, who was in high spirits at that moment, broke out in one of his frank bursts of laughter, which was the most seductive effusion of his youthfulness.

  —Why are you laughing? asked Rùtolo of him, extremely pale, distraught, staring at him from below corrugated brows.

  —It seems to me—replied Sperelli, unperturbed—that you are speaking to me in a very sharp tone, dear Marquis.

  —And so?

  —Think what you like of my laughter.

  —I think it is foolish.

  Sperelli jumped to his feet, stepped forward, and lifted his whip against Giannetto Rùtolo. Paolo Caligàro managed to restrain his arm by some miracle. Other words burst out. Don Marcantonio Spada intervened; he heard the altercation, and said:

  —Enough, lads. You both know what you must do tomorrow. Now you must race.

  The two adversaries finished dressing in silence. Then they went outside. The news of the argument had already spread throughout the enclosure and was rising up the stands, increasing the anticipation of the race. The Countess of Lùcoli, with refined wickedness, passed it on to Donna Ippolita Albónico. She, without revealing any sign of perturbation, said:

  —I’m sorry. They appeared to be friends.

  The rumor spread, being transformed by beautiful female mouths. Eager crowds thronged around the public bookmakers. Miching Mallecho, the Count of Ugenta’s horse, and Brummel, the horse of the Marquis Rùtolo, were the favorites; then came Satirist, of the Duke of Beffi, and Carbonilla of Count Caligàro. Expert connoisseurs were, however, diffident of the first two, thinking that the nervous agitation of the two riders would certainly harm the race.

  But Andrea Sperelli was calm, almost cheerful.

  His feeling of superiority over his adversary reassured him; besides, that chivalric tendency for dangerous adventure, inherited from his Byronic father, induced him to see his fortune in a glorious light; and all the inherent generosity of his young blood was reawakening in the face of risk. Donna Ippolita Albónico suddenly arose at the summit of his soul, more desirable and more beautiful.

  He went toward his horse, his heart beating fast as if he were going toward a friend who was bringing him the anticipated announcement of some good fortune. He stroked its muzzle gently; and the animal’s eye, that eye in which all the nobility of its pedigree glittered with an inextinguishable flame, elated him like the magnetic gaze of a woman.

  —Mallecho—he murmured, stroking him—it’s a great day! We must win.

  His trainer, a short, ruddy man, fixing his sharp pupils on the other horses, which were passing by led by their grooms, said in a hoarse voice:

  —No doubt.9

  Miching Mallecho Esq. was a magnificent bay, originating from the stables of the Baron of Soubeyran. The slender elegance of his form was combined with extraordinary lumbar strength. From his shining fine chest, beneath which a network of veins was visible, spreading down to his thighs, a steaming heat seemed to radiate, so ardent was his vitality. Being possessed of very strong jumping ability, he had very often carried his owner on hunts, beyond all the obstacles of the Roman countryside, on any terrain, never refusing in the face of a triple-bar fence or a drystone wall, always right behind the dogs, dauntless. One “hup” from the rider spurred him on more than a stroke from the whip; and a caress made him quiver.

  Before mounting, Andrea carefully examined the entire harness and checked every buckle and every strap; then he leaped into the saddle, smiling. The trainer demonstrated his faith with an expressive gesture, watching his master as he moved away.

  Around the betting table the throng of betters continued to surge. Andrea felt everyone’s gaze upon him. He looked toward the right-hand stands to see Donna Albónico, but he could distinguish no one among the crowd of women. He greeted Lilian Theed nearby, who well knew Mallecho’s gallops after foxes and chimeras. The Marchioness of Ateleta made him a gesture of reproach from afar, for she had heard of the quarrel.

  —How is Mallecho ranked? he asked Ludovico Barbarisi.

  Heading toward the starting point, he thought coolly about the method he would employ in order to win; and he looked at his three rivals who preceded him, calculating the strength and the technique of each. Paolo Caligàro was a cunning devil, wise to all the tricks of the game, like a jockey; but Carbonilla, though fast, did not have much stamina. The Duke of Beffi, a rider skilled in haute école dressage,10 who had won more than one race in England, was riding an animal of difficult temperament, which was liable to refuse obstacles. Giannetto Rùtolo instead was riding an excellent and very well-disciplined one; but although he was strong, he was too impetuous and was taking part in a public race for the first time. Besides, he must have been in a terrible state of nerves, judging by the many signs he displayed.

  Andrea thought, watching him: My victory today will influence tomorrow’s duel, without a doubt. He will lose his head, certainly, here and there. I must be calm on both fields. Then, also, he thought: What frame of mind will Donna Ippolita be in? It seemed to him that there was an unusual silence all around. He measured with his eyes the distance to the first hedge; he noted a glittering stone on the track; he realized he was being observed by Rùtolo; he shivered throughout his entire body.

  The bell gave the signal; but Brummel had already sped off; and the start, th
erefore, not being simultaneous, was deemed to be a false one. The second was a false start, too, because of Brummel. Sperelli and the Duke of Beffi smiled at each other fleetingly.

  The third start was judged to be fair. Brummel immediately separated himself from the group, grazing the fence. The other three horses followed him, running head to head for a stretch; and jumped the first hedge successfully; then the second one. Each of the three riders was playing a different game. The Duke of Beffi tried to stay within the group so that before any obstacles, Satirist could be set an example. Caligàro was moderating Carbonilla’s enthusiasm in order to conserve her strength for the last five hundred meters. Andrea Sperelli was gradually increasing his speed, wanting to place pressure on his enemy near the most difficult obstacle. Shortly thereafter, in fact, Mallecho overtook his two companions and began to close in on Brummel.

  Rùtolo heard the pursuing gallop behind him and was overcome by such anxiety that he could no longer see a thing. Everything was blurring in his vision, as if he were about to lose his senses. He made an enormous effort to keep his spurs planted in the horse’s belly; and he was dismayed by the thought that his strength was abandoning him. He had a constant roar in his ears and in the midst of the roar he heard the brief and sharp cry of Andrea Sperelli:

  —Hup! Hup!

  Highly sensitive to voice commands, more than to any other incitement, Mallecho was devouring the space between them; he was not more than three or four meters from Brummel; he was about to reach him, to overtake him.

  —Hup!

  Another barrier crossed the track. Rùtolo did not see it, because he had lost all consciousness, preserving only a furious instinct to adhere to the animal and to push it onward to chance. Brummel jumped; but, not assisted by his rider, he hit his back legs and landed on the other side so badly that the rider lost his stirrups, although remaining in the saddle. He continued, however, to race. Andrea Sperelli was now holding first place; Giannetto Rùtolo, without having regained his stirrups, was coming second, pursued by Paolo Caligàro; the Duke of Beffi, having suffered a refusal by Satirist, was coming last. They passed below the stands in this order; they heard an indistinct clamor, which then faded away.