Pleasure Page 8

  —I don’t know. And you?

  —I can’t either solve this great sentimental uncertainty. But, by instinct, I have traversed the harpsichord; and I fear I have found my Ut, judging at least by my internal warnings.

  —You fear?

  —Je crains ce que j’espère.14

  He spoke that pretentious language with such naturalness, almost weakening the force of his feeling in the guile of his words. And Elena felt herself caught up by his voice, as in a net, and carried away from the life that moved around them.

  —Her Excellency the Princess of Micigliano! announced the manservant.

  —The Lord Count of Gissi!

  —Madame Chrysoloras!

  —The Lord Marquis and Lady Marchioness Massa d’Albe!

  The reception rooms were filling up with people. Long sparkling trains traveled over the purple carpet; from bodices spangled with diamonds, embroidered with pearls, enlivened with flowers, emerged naked shoulders; almost every hairstyle sparkled with those wonderful heirloom jewels that make the nobility of Rome the envy of all.

  —Her Excellency the Princess of Ferentino!

  —His Excellency the Duke of Grimiti!

  Already various groups were forming, the various hotbeds of gossip and gallantry. The largest group, consisting entirely of men, was near the piano around the Duchess of Scerni, who had stood up in order to better resist that siege. The Princess of Ferentino approached her friend, to greet her with a remonstration:

  —Why didn’t you come to Ninì Santamarta’s today? We were waiting for you.

  She was tall and thin, with two strange green eyes that seemed to be sunken deeply in her dark sockets. She was dressed in black with a neckline coming down to a point on her chest and on her back; she wore in her hair, which was of an ash-blond shade, a great crescent of diamonds, like Diana, and was waving a large fan made of red feathers, with twitching movements.

  —Ninì is going to Madame Van Huffel’s this evening.

  —I’m also going there later for a short while, said Elena Muti. —I’ll see her.

  —Oh, Ugenta—the princess said, turning to Andrea—I was looking for you to remind you of our engagement. Tomorrow is Thursday. Cardinal Immenraet’s auction begins tomorrow at midday. Come and fetch me at one.

  —I will not fail, Princess.

  —I must get that rock crystal, come what may.

  —You will have some rivals, though.

  —Who?

  —My cousin.

  —And who else?

  —Me, Elena Muti said.

  —You? We shall see.

  The gentlemen standing about asked for clarification.

  —A ladies’ quarrel in the nineteenth century, over a vase of rock crystal that once belonged to Niccolò Niccoli; upon which vase is engraved the Trojan Anchises, who is loosening one of the sandals of Venus Aphrodite, Andrea Sperelli solemnly announced. —The show will be given by kind favor, tomorrow, after one o’clock in the afternoon, in the halls of the public auctions, in Via Sistina. Those contending are the Princess of Ferentino, the Duchess of Scerni, the Marchioness of Ateleta.

  Everyone laughed at that proclamation.

  The Duke of Grimiti asked:

  —Are bets permitted?

  —La cote! La cote!15 Don Filippo del Monte began to warble, imitating the strident voice of the bookmaker Stubbs.

  The Princess of Ferentino struck him on the shoulder with her red fan. But the jest seemed successful. The betting began. Drawn by the laughter and witticisms that emanated from the group, little by little other ladies and gentlemen approached to take part in the hilarity. The notice of the contest spread rapidly; it took on the proportions of a social event; it engaged all the wits present.

  —Give me your arm and we’ll go for a walk, said Donna Elena Muti to Andrea.

  When they were far from the group, in the adjacent hall, Andrea murmured to her, pressing her arm:

  —Thank you!

  She leaned on him, stopping every now and then to reply to greetings. She seemed a bit tired; and she was as pale as the pearls of her necklaces. Every elegant young man paid her a hackneyed compliment.

  —This stupidity is suffocating me, she said.

  Turning around, she saw Sakumi, who was following her, wearing his white camellia in his buttonhole, in silence, his eyes bewildered, not daring to come closer to her. She smiled at him in pity.

  —Poor Sakumi!

  —Have you only seen him now? Andrea asked her.

  —Yes.

  —When we were sitting near the piano, he was standing in the embrasure of a window, constantly watching your hands, which were playing with a weapon from his own country, destined for cutting the pages of a Western book.

  —Earlier?

  —Yes, earlier. Maybe he was thinking: “How sweet it would be to commit hara-kiri with that small saber decorated with chrysanthemums that seem to burst forth from the lacquer and the iron, at the touch of her fingers!”

  She did not smile. A veil of sadness and almost of suffering had descended over her face; her eyes seemed to be occupied by a darker shadow, vaguely illuminated below her upper lid, as in the glow of a lamp; an expression of pain weighed down the corners of her mouth slightly. She kept her right arm hanging down alongside her dress, holding her fan and her gloves in her hand. She no longer held her hand out to greeters and to flatterers; nor did she pay any more heed to anyone.

  —What is the matter, now? Andrea asked her.

  —Nothing. I must go to the Van Huffels’. Won’t you take me to say good-bye to Francesca; and then accompany me down to my carriage?

  They returned to the principal reception hall. Luigi Gullì, a young pianist who had come from his native Calabria in search of fortune, as dark and curly-haired as an Arab, was playing Ludwig van Beethoven’s Sonata in C sharp major with great spirit. The Marchioness of Ateleta, who was a patroness of his, was standing alongside the piano watching the keyboard. Slowly, the solemn and sweet music caught up all those light spirits in its circles, like a slow but deep whirlpool.

  —Beethoven, Elena said, with an almost religious tone, stopping and slipping her arm out from under Andrea’s.

  She paused to listen in this way, standing next to one of the banana palms. Holding her left arm straight out, she put on a glove with extreme slowness. In that pose, the arc of her back appeared slimmer; her whole figure, extended by her train, seemed taller and more erect; the shadow of the plant veiled and almost spiritualized the pallor of her skin. Andrea looked at her. And her clothes, for him, became mingled with her body.

  She will be mine, he thought, with a sort of elation, as the pathos-filled music augmented his excitement. She will hold me in her arms, on her heart!

  He imagined bending over and placing his mouth on her shoulder. Was it cold, that diaphanous skin which resembled a delicate milk shot through with a golden light? He felt an intense thrill; and half closed his eyelids, as if to prolong it. Her perfume reached him; an indefinable emanation, fresh and yet heady like a vapor of spices. His whole being was rising up and reaching with unrestrained vehemence toward the stunning creature. He would have liked to surround her, draw her inside himself, suck her, drink her, possess her in some superhuman way.

  Almost compelled by the overwhelming desire of the young man, Elena turned slightly and smiled at him, with such a tender smile, almost so ethereal, that it did not seem to have been expressed by any movement of her lips but rather by the emission of the soul through the lips, while her eyes remained as sad as ever, as if lost in the distance of some internal dream. They were truly the eyes of Night, so enveloped in shadow, such as da Vinci would perhaps have imagined for an allegory after having seen Lucrezia Crivelli16 in Milan.

  And in the moment that the smile lasted, Andrea felt alone with her among the crowd. A huge
pride swelled his heart.

  Since Elena made as if to put on her other glove, he begged her softly:

  —No, not that one!

  Elena understood, and left her hand naked.

  He had one hope, which was to kiss her hand before she left. Suddenly, in his mind, there arose a vision of the May Fair, when men were drinking wine from the palm of her hand. Again, an acute jealousy stung him.

  —Let’s go now, she said, taking his arm again.

  The sonata had ended, and conversations were being taken up again, more intensely. The manservant announced another two or three names, among which that of the Princess Issé, who was entering with small uncertain steps, dressed in Western style, her oval face smiling, candid and tiny like a netsuke figurine.17 A rustle of curiosity spread throughout the room.

  —Good-bye, Francesca, Elena said, taking her leave of the Marchioness of Ateleta. —See you tomorrow.

  —Leaving so early?

  —They’re waiting for me at the Van Huffels’ place. I promised to go.

  —What a pity! Mary Dyce is about to sing now.

  —Good-bye. See you tomorrow.

  —Take this. And good-bye. Sweet cousin, accompany her.

  The marchioness gave her a bunch of double violets; and then turned to greet Princess Issé, graciously. Mary Dyce, dressed in red, tall and undulating like a flame, began to sing.

  —I am so tired! Elena murmured, leaning on Andrea. —Please, would you ask for my fur coat?

  He took the fur from the servant who was holding it out to him. Helping the lady to put it on, he brushed her shoulder with his fingers; and felt her shiver. The entire antechamber was full of valets in different liveries, who were bowing. The soprano voice of Mary Dyce reached them, carrying the words of a ballad by Robert Schumann: “Ich kann’s nicht fassen, nicht glauben . . .”18

  They descended the stairs in silence. The servant had gone ahead to call the carriage to the foot of the staircase. They heard the pawing of the horses resounding loudly under the porte-cochère. At every step Andrea felt the light pressure of Elena’s arm. She was yielding slightly, holding her head lifted high, indeed tilted slightly back, with her eyes half closed.

  —When you were ascending these stairs, you were followed by my unknown admiration. Descending them, you are accompanied by my love, Andrea said to her, in a low, almost humble tone, placing a hesitant pause between the last words.

  She did not respond. But she brought the bunch of violets to her nostrils and inhaled their scent. In the act, the wide sleeve of her mantle slipped back along her arm, beyond the elbow. The sight of that living flesh, emerging from the fur like a mass of white roses from snow, once again inflamed longing in the young man’s senses, even stronger than before, due to that strange provocative allure attained by the feminine nude when she is partly hidden by a thick, heavy garment. A small shiver moved his lips; and he could barely restrain his words of desire.

  But the carriage was ready at the base of the stairs and the servant was at its door.

  —The Van Huffel residence, the duchess ordered, mounting the carriage, assisted by the count.

  The servant bowed, leaving the door; and took his place. The horses were scraping the ground vigorously, raising sparks.

  —Watch out! Elena cried, holding her hand out to the young man; and her eyes and her diamonds glittered in the shadows.

  To be with her there in the darkness, and to seek her neck with my mouth under that scented fur! He would have liked to say to her: Take me with you!

  The horses pawed.

  —Watch out! repeated Elena.

  He kissed her hand, pressing it as if to leave a mark of passion on her skin. Then he closed the door. And at the thud, the carriage departed at speed, with a loud reverberation throughout the porte-cochère, exiting into the Forum.

  CHAPTER III

  Thus began Andrea Sperelli’s affair with Donna Elena Muti.

  The next day, the halls of the auction house in Via Sistina were crowded with elegant people who had come to watch the contest Andrea had announced.

  It was raining hard. A gray light entered those damp and low-ceilinged rooms; along the walls were neatly arranged some pieces of furniture made of carved wood and some large triptychs and diptychs of the Tuscan school of the fourteenth century; four Flemish tapestries representing the Story of Narcissus hung to the floor; Metaurensian majolica ceramics took up two long shelves; fabrics, mostly ecclesiastical, were arranged either unfolded on chairs or piled onto tables; the rarest relics, ivories, enameled objects, glass pieces, carved jewels, medals, coins, prayer books, illuminated codices, ornate silverware, were gathered in another showcase behind the auctioneers’ table; and a particular odor, emanating from the dampness of the place and from those ancient things, filled the air.

  When Andrea Sperelli entered accompanying the Princess of Ferentino, he felt a secret quiver. He thought: Has she already come? and his eyes rapidly sought her out.

  She had indeed already come. She was sitting in front of the table between Cavalier Dàvila and Don Filippo del Monte. She had placed her gloves and her otter muff, from which a bunch of violets peeped out, on the edge of the table. She held a small silver picture in her fingers, attributed to Caradosso Foppa; and was examining it with much attention. Objects were passing from hand to hand along the table; and the auctioneer was praising them loudly; the people standing behind the row of chairs leaned over to see; and then the auction sale began. The figures proceeded rapidly. At each step, the auctioneer would cry:

  —Do I hear . . . ?

  An amateur, incited by his cry, would call a higher sum, looking at his adversaries. The auctioneer would shout, his gavel raised:

  —Going once, twice, third and final call: SOLD!

  And would pound his gavel on the table. The object would go to the last bidder. A murmur would spread; then once again the contest would heat up. Cavalier Dàvila, a Neapolitan gentleman of gigantic proportions and almost feminine mannerisms, a celebrated collector and connoisseur of majolica ceramics, gave his judgment on each important piece. There were in truth three superior things in that cardinalitial sale: the Story of Narcissus, the rock crystal chalice, and a helmet made of embossed silver by Antonio del Pollajuolo, which the Signoria of Florence gave the Count of Urbino in 1472 as reward for services rendered by him at the time of the conquest of Volterra.

  —Here is the princess, Don Filippo del Monte said to Elena Muti.

  Elena arose to greet her friend.

  —Already in the field! exclaimed the Princess of Ferentino.

  —Already.

  —And Francesca?

  —She’s not here yet.

  Four or five elegant gentlemen, the Duke of Grimiti, Roberto Casteldieri, Ludovico Barbarisi, Giannetto Rùtolo, approached. Others arrived. The pouring rain drowned the sound of speech.

  Donna Elena held out her hand to Andrea Sperelli, matter-of-factly, as to everyone else. He felt himself distanced by that handshake. Elena seemed cold and serious to him. All his dreams froze and collapsed in one moment; the memories of the preceding evening became confused; his hopes died. What was the matter with her? She was no longer the same woman. She wore a kind of long tunic made of otter and a kind of mortarboard cap on her head, also of otter. In her facial expression there was something sour and almost scornful.

  —There’s still time before the goblet, she said to the princess; and sat down again.

  Every object passed through her hands. A centaur engraved in chalcedony, a very fine piece of work, perhaps originating from the dispersed museum of Lorenzo il Magnifico, tempted her. And she took part in the contest. She communicated her bids to the auctioneer in a low voice, without raising her eyes to him. At a certain point her competitors withdrew: she obtained the stone at a good price.

  —An excellent purchase, said Andrea Sperelli,
who was standing behind her chair.

  Elena could not restrain a slight tremor. She picked up the chalcedony and gave it to him to look at, lifting her hand to shoulder height without turning around. It was truly a very beautiful thing.

  —It could be the centaur that Donatello copied, Andrea added.

  And in his soul, together with his admiration for the beautiful object, admiration arose for the noble taste of the woman who now possessed it. She is therefore, in everything, an elect spirit, he thought. How much pleasure she could give a refined lover! In his imagination she was growing in dimension; but in growing, she was escaping him. The great confidence of the evening before was changing into a kind of discouragement; and his original doubts rose up again. He had dreamed too much during the night; daydreaming, swimming in an endless happiness, while the memory of a gesture, a smile, a position of her head, a fold of her dress caught him and ensnared him like a net. Now, that entire imaginary world was collapsing miserably, coming into contact with reality. He had not seen in Elena’s eyes the special greeting about which he had thought so much; he had not been singled out by her, from among the others, with any sign. Why? He felt humiliated. All those fatuous people around him made him angry; those things that attracted her attention made him angry; Don Filippo del Monte, who was leaning down toward her every now and then, perhaps to murmur some nasty gossip to her, made him angry. The Marchioness of Ateleta arrived. She was, as usual, cheerful. Her laughter, amid the men that already surrounded her, made Don Filippo turn around eagerly.

  —The Trinity is perfect, he said, and got up.

  Andrea immediately occupied his chair, next to Elena Muti. When the subtle scent of violets reached his nostrils, he murmured:

  —They’re not the ones from last night.

  —No, said Elena, coldly.

  In her mutability, undulating and caressing like a wave, there was always the threat of unexpected frost. She was prone to instant rigidity. Andrea remained silent, not comprehending.