Pleasure Page 14

  On the stands everyone was rapt with attention. Some were commenting aloud on the succession of events in the race. At every change in the order of the horses, many exclamations would be heard amid a constant murmur; it provoked a shudder in the ladies. Donna Ippolita Albónico, standing upright on her seat and supporting herself on the shoulders of her husband, who was below her, watched without altering expression, with marvelous control; unless her tightly pressed lips and a very light wrinkling of her forehead could perhaps reveal the strain to anyone examining her. At a certain point, she withdrew her hands from her husband’s shoulders for fear of betraying herself with some involuntary movement.

  —Sperelli has fallen, the Countess of Lùcoli announced loudly.

  Mallecho, in fact, while jumping had placed a foot wrong on the damp grass and had buckled forward onto his knees, getting up again immediately. Andrea had slipped forward over his neck, without any damage done; and with lightning speed had returned to the saddle, while Rùtolo and Caligàro were catching up to him. Brummel, although his back legs were injured, was doing wonderfully, by virtue of his pure blood. Carbonilla finally was unleashing all her speed, guided with admirable skill by her rider. There were about eight hundred meters left to the finish line.

  Sperelli saw victory elude him; but he gathered all his energy to grasp it once more. Standing taut in the stirrups, bent over the mane, he launched from time to time that brief, slight, penetrating cry which had so much power over the noble animal. While Brummel and Carbonilla, tired from the difficult terrain, were losing vigor, Mallecho was increasing the intensity of his momentum, was about to regain his place, and already was caressing victory with his flaming nostrils. After the last obstacle, having overtaken Brummel, his head was abreast of Carbonilla’s shoulder. Approximately one hundred meters from the end he grazed the hedge, moving forward, forward, leaving between himself and Caligàro’s black mare the space of ten lengths. The bell sounded; applause rang out throughout the stands like the dull crackle of hail; clamor spread throughout the crowd on the lawn flooded by sunlight.

  Andrea Sperelli, returning to the enclosure, was thinking: Luck is with me today. Will it be with me tomorrow, too? Sensing the aura of triumph draw near to him, he felt almost a surge of anger at the unknown danger. He would have liked to confront it immediately, this same day, at this same moment, without any delay, in order to enjoy a double victory and hence to bite at the fruit that Donna Ippolita’s hand was offering him. His entire being was becoming enflamed with a savage pride at the thought of possessing that pale and haughty woman by right of violent conquest. His imagination visualized a sense of never-experienced joy, almost a voluptuousness of bygone days, when gentlemen loosened the hair of their lovers with murderous and caressing hands, burying in it their brows still dripping from the exertions of the felling and their mouths still bitter from the insults they had uttered. He was invaded by that inexplicable elation brought to certain men of intellect by acts of physical strength, by trials of courage, by the revelation of brutality. Whatever has remained deep inside us of primeval ferocity returns to the surface, at times, with a strange vehemence, and even beneath the narrow-minded gentility of modern dress, our heart sometimes swells with a certain bloodthirsty craving and yearns for carnage. Andrea Sperelli inhaled deeply of the warm and pungent exhalations of his horse, and none of the many delicate scents he had favored until that moment had ever given his senses more acute pleasure.

  As soon as he dismounted, he was surrounded by female and male friends who congratulated him. Miching Mallecho, exhausted, all steaming and foaming, panted, stretching out his neck and shaking his bridle. His flanks were heaving continuously, so strongly that they appeared to burst; his muscles beneath the skin trembled like the strings of bows after releasing the arrow; his eyes, injected with blood and dilated, now held the atrocity of those of a wild animal; his hide, now blotched with wide darker patches, parted here and there in a herringbone pattern beneath the rivulets of sweat; the incessant vibration of his entire body evoked compassion and tenderness, as would the suffering of a human creature.

  —Poor fellow! murmured Lilian Theed.

  Andrea examined the horse’s knees to see whether the fall had injured them. They were intact. Then, patting him softly on the neck, he said with an indefinable tone of sweetness:

  —Go, Mallecho, go.

  And he watched the horse walk away.

  Then, having removed his racing silks, he sought out Ludovico Barbarisi and the Baron of Santa Margherita.

  Both accepted the appointment to assist him in the matter with Marquis Rùtolo. He urged them to speed up the arrangement.

  —Settle everything by this evening. Tomorrow, by one p.m., I must already be free. But tomorrow morning let me sleep at least until nine. I am lunching with the Princess of Ferentino; and then I am going to drop in at the Giustinianis’; and then, later on, at the club. You know where to find me. Thank you, and I’ll see you later, fellows.

  He went up into the stands; but avoided approaching Donna Ippolita straightaway. He smiled, feeling feminine glances alight on him from all around. Many lovely hands stretched out to him; many lovely voices called him “Andrea” with familiarity; some indeed called him so with a certain ostentation. The ladies who had bet on him told him the amount of their winnings: ten luigi, twenty luigi. Others asked him, with curiosity:

  —Are you going to fight a duel?

  It seemed to him that he had reached the summit of adventurous glory in one sole day, more so than the Duke of Buckingham and De Lauzun.11 He had emerged as the victor of a heroic race; he had acquired a new lover, as magnificent and serene as a doge’s wife; he had provoked a mortal duel; and now he was strolling calmly and courteously, no more or less than usual, among the smiles of ladies of whom he had known more than the grace of their mouths. Could he not perhaps indicate among many of them a secret habit or a particular voluptuous inclination? Could he not see the blond mole, similar to a small golden coin, through that luminous freshness of spring fabrics, on the left hip of Isotta Cellesi; or the incomparable abdomen of Giulia Moceto, as polished as an ivory goblet, as pure as that of a statue, due to that perfect absence, lamented by the poet of the Musée secret,12 in ancient sculptures and paintings? Could he not hear in the resonant voice of Barbarella Viti another indefinable voice, which constantly repeated an immodest word; or another indefinable sound in the naive laugh of Aurora Seymour, raucous and guttural, which recalled somewhat the purring of cats on the hearth or the cooing of doves in the woods? Did he not know the exquisite depravations of the Countess of Lùcoli, who was inspired by erotic books, by engraved stones and miniatures; or the invincible prudishness of Francesca Daddi, who at the highest point of rapture gasped out, like someone dying, the name of God? Almost all the women whom he had deceived, or who had deceived him, were there and were smiling at him.

  —Here comes the hero! said the husband of Donna Ippolita Albónico, holding his hand out to him with unusual amicability and squeezing his hand hard.

  —Truly a hero, added Donna Ippolita, with the insignificant tone of an obligatory compliment, appearing to be unaware of the drama.

  Sperelli bowed and passed on, because he felt a certain embarrassment in the face of that strange benevolence of the husband. A suspicion flashed into his mind, that the husband was grateful to him for having picked a quarrel with his wife’s lover; and he smiled at the cowardice of the man. As he turned, Donna Ippolita’s eyes met and held his.

  Returning home, from the mail coach of the Prince of Ferentino he saw Giannetto Rùtolo fleeing toward Rome in a small two-wheeled coach, driving a large roan at a rapid trot, hunched forward, holding his head low and his cigar between his teeth, without paying any heed to the guards who were ordering him to get in line. Rome, in the background, was a dark outline above a zone of sulfur-yellow light; and the statues at the summit of the basilica of San Giovanni towered in a
violet sky, beyond the zone. At that moment Andrea became fully conscious of the hurt he was causing that soul to suffer.

  In the evening at the Giustiniani home he said to Donna Albónico:

  —It’s confirmed, then, that tomorrow, between two and five o’clock, I will wait for you.

  She wished to ask him:

  —How so? Aren’t you fighting tomorrow?

  But she did not dare. She replied:

  —I have promised.

  Shortly afterward, the husband approached Andrea, taking his arm with affectionate solicitude to ask for news of the duel. He was a still-youthful man, blond, elegant, with very sparse hair, milky eyes, and with his canine teeth protruding from his lips. He had a slight stammer.

  —And so? And so? Tomorrow, eh?

  Andrea could not overcome his repugnance; and he held his arm stiffly alongside his hip, to show that he did not appreciate that familiarity. As soon as he saw the Baron of Santa Margherita enter, he freed himself, saying:

  —I urgently need to speak with Santa Margherita. Excuse me, Count.

  The baron met him with these words:

  —Everything is arranged.

  —Good. For what time?

  —Ten thirty, at Villa Sciarra. Sword and gauntlet. To the death.

  —Who are the other two?

  —Roberto Casteldieri and Carlo de Souza. We sorted it out immediately, avoiding formalities. Giannetto’s were already organized. We drew up the protocol of the encounter at the club, with no discussion. I advise you to try not to go to bed too late. You must be tired.

  Out of braggadocio, when he left the Giustinianis’, Andrea went to the Hunting Club; and he began to play cards with the Neapolitan sportsmen. Toward two, Santa Margherita came upon him, forced him to leave the table, and insisted on accompanying him on foot right to Palazzo Zuccari.

  —My dear fellow—he admonished him while walking—you are too reckless. In these cases, imprudence could be fatal. To keep his strength intact, a good swordsman must take the same care with himself as a tenor does with his voice. The wrist is as delicate as the larynx; the articulations of the legs are as delicate as the vocal cords. Do you understand? The mechanism suffers from any minimal disorder; in this case the instrument is ruined; it does not obey anymore. After a night of love or gambling or debauchery, even the rapier thrusts of Camillo Agrippa13 would not go straight and his parries would be neither exact nor rapid. Now, it is enough to miss by one millimeter to receive three inches of steel in one’s body.

  They were at the beginning of Via de’ Condotti; and could see at its end Piazza di Spagna illuminated by the full moon, the stairs gleaming white, the tall Trinità de’ Monti in the sweet azure sky.

  —You, certainly—continued the baron—have many advantages over your adversary: among other things, you have sangfroid and knowledge of the terrain. I saw you in Paris against Gavaudan. Do you remember? Splendid duel! You fought like a god.

  Andrea began to laugh with gratification. The elegy of that illustrious dueler swelled his heart with pride; it infused his nerves with a great abundance of strength. His hand clutching the cane instinctively repeated the movement of the famous thrust that pierced the arm of the Marquis de Gavaudan on December 12, 1885.

  —It was—he said—a contre-tierce parry14 and a coulé.15

  And the baron continued:

  —Giannetto Rùtolo, on the piste, is a fairly good fencer; on the ground, he is impetuous. He has fought only once, with my cousin Cassìbile; and he came out of it badly. He makes excessive use of “one, two” and “one, two, three” when attacking. You should make use of “arrests in time” and especially of “inquartata.”16 My cousin, indeed, hit him with a clean “inquartata” on the second assault. And you have a good sense of timing. Always keep your eye vigilant, however, and try to keep your measure. It is best that you do not forget that you are facing a man whose lover you have taken, they say, and against whom you have raised your whip.

  They were in Piazza di Spagna. The Barcaccia Fountain17 emitted a hoarse and modest gurgle, glinting in the light of the moon, which was reflected in it from the summit of the Catholic column. Four or five public coaches were stationary in a row, their headlamps lit. From Via del Babuino, a tinkling of bells and a dull sound of footsteps could be heard, like a herd on the move.

  At the foot of the stairs the baron took his leave.

  —Good-bye, until tomorrow. I will come a few minutes before nine with Ludovico. You will do some practice moves to warm up. We will take care of informing the doctor. Go; sleep soundly.

  Andrea started up the stairs. At the first landing he stopped, attracted by the tinkling of the bells, which was drawing closer. In truth, he felt somewhat tired; and also somewhat sad, deep in his heart. After the pride roused in his blood by that talk of the science of weaponry and by the memory of his skill, a sort of uneasiness invaded him, not very distinct, mixed with doubt and discontent. His nerves, too strained in that violent and troubled day, were relaxing now in the clemency of the spring night. Why, without passion, out of pure whim, out of mere vanity, out of mere arrogance, had it pleased him to rouse hatred and bring pain to a man’s soul? The thought of the horrible distress that certainly would be afflicting his enemy in such a gentle night almost moved him to a sense of pity. The image of Elena passed through his heart, in a flash; the anguish from the year before, when he had lost her, and the jealousy and the rages and the inexpressible sorrows, returned to his mind. Then, too, the nights had been clear, tranquil, crisscrossed with scents; and how they had weighed upon him! He inhaled the air, through which the exhalations of flowering roses drifted up from the small side gardens; and he looked down at the flock passing through the square.

  The thick, grubby white wool of the massed-together sheep moved forward with a constant surging fluctuation, similar to muddy water flooding a pavement. A few tremulous bleats mingled with the tinkling; other bleats, shriller, shyer, answered them; the herdsmen gave a shout every now and then and stretched out their staffs, riding behind and alongside the flock; the moon lent that passing of the flock, in the midst of the great sleeping city, a certain mystery almost as of something seen in a dream.

  Andrea remembered that in a calm February night, emerging from a ball held by the English ambassador in Via Venti Settembre, he and Elena had encountered a flock; and the carriage had had to stop. Elena, leaning toward the windowpane, had watched the sheep passing by very close to the wheels, and had pointed out the smallest lambs, with a childlike gaiety; and he had held his face next to hers, half closing his eyes, listening to the shuffling, the bleats, the tinkling.

  Why ever were all those memories of Elena returning to mind now? He continued climbing, slowly. He felt his tiredness become heavier as he climbed; his knees were buckling. Suddenly the thought of death flashed into his mind. What if I am killed tomorrow? What if I am badly wounded and am left with some impediment for the rest of my life? His eagerness for living and taking pleasure rose up against that dismal thought. He said to himself: I must win. And he saw all the advantages he would derive from this other victory: the prestige of his luck, the fame of his gallantry, the kisses of Donna Ippolita, new loves, new enjoyments, new caprices.

  Then, controlling all his agitation, he began to attend to the hygienics of his strength. He slept until he was awakened by the arrival of his two friends; he took his customary shower; he had the oilcloth strip laid down on the floor; and he invited Santa Margherita to perform some “disengagements” with him; and then Barbarisi to a short free-fencing bout, during which he carried out with precision many timed actions.

  —Excellent hand position, said the baron, congratulating him.

  After the fencing, Sperelli had two cups of tea and some light biscuits. He selected a pair of wide trousers, a pair of comfortable shoes with a very low heel, a lightly starched shirt; he prepared the gauntlet, wetting
it slightly on the palm and spreading some powdered Greek pitch on it; he placed with it a leather cord to tie the hilt to his wrist; he examined the blade and the point of the two swords; he did not forget any precaution, any small detail.

  When he was ready, he said:

  —Let’s go. It’s best if we get to the ground before the others. The doctor?

  —He’s waiting there.

  Going down the stairs he met the Duke of Grimiti, who was coming also on behalf of the Marchioness of Ateleta.

  —I’ll follow you to the villa, and then I will take the news immediately to Francesca, said the duke.

  They all went down together. The duke got into his carriage, waving. The others climbed into the covered coach. Andrea did not flaunt a good mood, because he deemed witticisms before a serious duel to be in extremely bad taste; but he was very calm. He smoked, listening to Santa Margherita and Barbarisi discuss, with regard to a recent case that had occurred in France, whether it was or was not permissible to use one’s left hand against an adversary. Every now and then he leaned toward the window to look out onto the road.

  Rome shone in the May morning, embraced by the sun. Along the way, a fountain illuminated with its silvery chuckle a small square that was still in shadow; the door of a building displayed a view through to a courtyard decorated with porticoes and statues; from the baroque lintel of a travertine church dangled the hangings that denoted the month of Mary. From the bridge the Tiber could be seen, shining, receding among the greenish houses toward the island of San Bartolomeo. After an uphill stretch, the city appeared, immense, august, radiant, bristling with bell towers, columns, and obelisks, crowned with cupolas and rotundas, clearly carved like an acropolis in the blue heights.

  —Ave, Roma, Moriturus te salutat,18 said Andrea Sperelli, throwing the remains of his cigarette toward the city.