Pleasure (10 page)

But she bowed her head slightly at the window, without smiling; and the carriage departed, toward Palazzo Barberini, leaving a vague sadness, an undefined discouragement in his soul. She had said “perhaps.” Perhaps she would not come to Palazzo Farnese. And in that case?

This uncertainty afflicted him. The thought of not seeing her again was unbearable: every hour that he spent away from her already weighed heavily on him. He asked himself:
Do I already love her so much, then?
His spirit seemed to be enclosed in a circle within which whirled pell-mell all the phantasms of the feelings felt in the presence of that woman. Suddenly there would emerge from his memory with extraordinary precision a phrase of hers, an intonation of her voice, a pose, a movement of her eyes, the shape of a couch on which she was sitting, the finale of Beethoven's sonata, a note sung by Mary Dyce, the figure of the servant standing at the door of the coach, any detail, any fragment, and they obscured with the vividness of their image the things of his current existence; they superimposed themselves upon present things. He spoke to her mentally; he said mentally everything he would say to her later in reality, in their future talks. He foresaw the scenes, the incidents, the events, the entire unfolding of their love affair, according to the promptings of his desire. How would she give herself to him, for the first time?

While he ascended the stairs of Palazzo Zuccari to enter his apartment, this thought flashed across his mind. She, certainly, would come there. Via Sistina, Via Gregoriana, the square of Trinità de' Monti, especially at certain times, were almost deserted. The house was inhabited only by foreigners. She could therefore venture there without fear. But how to entice her? His impatience was so great that he would have liked to be able to say “She will come tomorrow!”

She is free,
he thought.
No husband keeps guard on her. No one can ask her to account for long or even unusual absences. She is mistress of her every act, always
. To his mind, immediately, whole days and whole nights of passion presented themselves. He looked around in the hot, deep, secret room; and that intense and refined luxury all made of art, pleased him, for
her
. That air awaited
her
breath; those carpets asked to be pressed under
her
foot; those cushions wanted the imprint of
her
body.

She will love my house,
he thought.
She will love the things that I love
. The thought gave him an unutterable sense of sweetness; and it seemed to him already that a new soul, conscious of imminent joy, palpitated under the high ceilings.

He asked his manservant for tea; and made himself comfortable in front of the fireplace to enjoy the fictions of his hope all the better. He took the small jeweled skull out of its case and began to examine it with care. In the light of the fire, the fragile diamond teeth glittered on the yellowed ivory, and the two rubies illuminated the shadows of the eye sockets. Beneath the polished cranium resounded the incessant beat of time—
RUIT HORA
. What kind of craftsman could ever have imagined for his Ippolita such a proud and free fantasy of death, in the century when master enamelists were painting tender pastoral idylls on the little watches destined to mark the trysting hours of gallants with their ladies in Watteau's parks? The sculpture revealed an erudite, vigorous hand, master of its own style: it was in all ways worthy of a fifteenth-century artist as insightful as Verrocchio.
⁴

“I advise you to buy this timepiece.” Andrea smiled a little, remembering Elena's words uttered in such a strange way, after such a cold silence. Undoubtedly, in saying that phrase, she was thinking of love: she was thinking of imminent love trysts, without a doubt. But then why had she become so impenetrable again? Why had she taken no more notice of him? What was wrong with her? Andrea lost himself in the examination of this thought. However, the warm air, the softness of the armchair, the dim light, the flickering of the fire, the aroma of the tea, all those pleasant sensations brought his spirit back to errant pleasures. His mind was wandering aimlessly, as in a fantastical labyrinth. Sometimes his thoughts took on the effects of opium: they could intoxicate him.

—May I remind the Lord Count that he is awaited at the Doria residence at seven o'clock, the manservant said in a low voice, having also the duty of reminding Andrea of his appointments. —Everything is ready.

He went to dress in the octagonal room, which was, in truth, the most elegant and comfortable dressing room that a young modern gentleman could desire. When dressing, he had an infinite number of detailed attentions that he lavished upon his person. Upon a large Roman sarcophagus, transformed with much taste into a dressing table, there were neatly arranged his batiste handkerchiefs, dancing gloves, wallets, cigarette cases, essence vials, and five or six fresh gardenias in small blue porcelain vases. He chose a handkerchief with white initials and dabbed it with two or three drops of
pao rosa;
⁵
he did not take a gardenia because he would find one on the table at the Doria residence; he filled with Russian cigarettes a case made of beaten gold, very slender, with a sapphire set into the thumb piece, slightly curved to fit around the thigh inside the pocket of one's trousers. Then he left.

At the Doria house, between one topic and another, after mentioning the recent childbirth of Duchess Miano, Duchess Angelieri said:

—It appears as if Laura Miano and Elena Muti are quarreling.

—About Giorgio, perhaps? another lady asked, laughing.

—Rumor has it. The whole thing started this summer in Lucerne . . .

—But Laura wasn't in Lucerne.

—Exactly. Her husband was, though . . .

—I think that's just nasty gossip; nothing else, interrupted the Florentine countess, Donna Bianca Dolcebuono.

—Giorgio is in Paris now.

Andrea had heard this, even though on his right the talkative Countess Starnina kept him constantly occupied. The words of Countess Dolcebuono were not enough to soothe the piercing stab he felt. He would have liked, at least, to know everything. But Duchess Angelieri did not continue; and other conversations mingled amid the centerpieces fashioned from the magnificent roses of Villa Pamphily.

Who was this Giorgio? Elena's last lover perhaps? She had spent part of the summer in Lucerne. She had just returned from Paris. In leaving the auction sale, she had refused to go to the Miano residence. In Andrea's mind, it seemed as if everything was in her disfavor. An atrocious desire invaded him, to see her again, to speak to her. The invitation to Palazzo Farnese was for ten; at half past ten he was already there, waiting.

He waited for a long time. The halls were filling up rapidly; the dancing was beginning: in Annibale Caracci's gallery the demigoddesses of ancient Rome competed in comeliness with the Ariadnes, the Galateas, the Auroras, the Dianas of the frescoes; the whirling couples exuded perfumes; the gloved hands of the ladies pressed the shoulders of dance partners; the jeweled heads were bent over or held high; certain semi-open mouths shone like crimson; certain bare shoulders glistened, veiled with moisture; certain bosoms appeared to burst out of their corsets from the force of exertion.

—You aren't dancing, Sperelli? asked Gabriella Barbarisi, a girl as brown-skinned as the
oliva speciosa,
passing by on the arm of a dancer, waving her fan in her hand and causing a mole in a dimple near her mouth to shift with her smile.

—Yes, later, answered Andrea. —Later.

Indifferent to the introductions and greetings of others, he felt his torment grow in the futility of his wait; and wandered from room to room at random. The word “perhaps” made him fear that Elena was not coming. And if she really did not come? When would he see her again? Donna Bianca Dolcebuono passed by; and, without knowing why, he fell in beside her, saying many courteous things to her, feeling a sense almost of relief in her company. He would have liked to talk to her about Elena, to interrogate her, to reassure himself. The orchestra began a rather languid mazurka; and the Florentine countess entered the dance with her partner.

Then Andrea turned to a group of young men who were standing near a door. There was Ludovico Barbarisi, there was the Duke of Beffi, with Filippo del Gallo, with Gino Bommìnaco. They watched the couples circle the room, and gossiped, rather vulgarly. Barbarisi recounted having seen both curves of the bosom of the Countess of Lùcoli, while dancing the waltz. Bommìnaco demanded:

—But how?

—Try. Just look down her
corsage
.
⁶
I assure you it's worth the trouble . . .

—Have you noticed the armpits of Madame Chrysoloras? Look!

The Duke of Beffi indicated a lady dancing who had on her forehead, as white as the marble of Luni, a pile of red locks, like a high priestess painted by Alma-Tadema.
⁷
Her bodice was joined at the shoulders by a simple ribbon, and one could discern in each of her armpits an overabundant clump of reddish hair.

Bommìnaco started deliberating upon the singular odor of red-haired women.

—You know that odor well, Barbarisi said with malice.

—Why?

—Princess Micigliano . . .

The young man was manifestly smug at hearing one of his lovers mentioned. He didn't protest, but laughed; then, turning to Sperelli, he said:

—What's wrong with you this evening? Your cousin was looking for you, a moment ago. She's dancing with my brother now. There she is.

—Look! exclaimed Filippo del Gallo. —Donna Albónico is back. She's dancing with Giannetto.

—Elena Muti also got back, a week ago, said Ludovico. —What a beautiful creature!

—Is she here?

—I haven't seen her yet.

Andrea felt his heart jump, fearing that some unpleasant gossip about her, too, would issue from one of those mouths. But the passage of Princess Issé on the arm of the minister of Denmark distracted his friends. Nonetheless he felt compelled by rash curiosity to bring the talk back to the name of his beloved, in order to know, to discover; but he did not dare. The mazurka was ending; the group was dispersing.
She is not coming! She is not coming!
His internal anxiety was becoming so powerful that he thought he would leave the halls, because the contact with that crowd was unbearable for him.

Turning, he saw the Duchess of Scerni appear at the entrance to the gallery on the arm of the ambassador of France. In a moment, he met her gaze; and their eyes, in that moment, seemed to mingle with each other, penetrate each other, drink each other in. Both felt that each sought the other; both felt, at the same time, silence descend upon their souls, amid all that noise, and something akin to an abyss open up into which all the surrounding world disappeared, under the force of one thought.

She came forward
⁸
through Caracci's frescoed gallery, to where the crowd was thinner, bearing a long white brocade train that followed her like a heavy wave on the floor. So white and simple, in passing she turned her head toward the many greetings, displaying an air of tiredness, smiling with a small visible effort that creased the corners of her mouth, while her eyes seemed wider under her bloodless forehead. Not only her forehead but all the lines of her face had taken on an almost psychic tenuity in its extreme paleness. She was no longer the woman seated at the d'Ateletas' table, nor the one at the table of the auction sale, nor the one standing for an instant on the sidewalk of Via Sistina. Her beauty now held an expression of sovereign ideality, which shone all the more in the midst of those other women, red in the face from dancing, excited, overactive, slightly agitated. Some men, observing her, became pensive. She elicited even in the most obtuse or fatuous of spirits a sense of commotion, uneasiness, an indefinable aspiration. Those whose heart was free imagined loving her, with a profound thrill; those who had a lover felt an obscure regret, their hearts unsatisfied, dreaming of some unknown delight; whoever harbored within themselves the open wound caused by the jealousy or deceit of some other woman, felt sure that they would be able to heal.

She came forward this way, receiving reverences on all sides, enveloped in the gaze of men. At the end of the gallery she joined a group of ladies who were talking excitedly, waving their fans, below the painting of Perseus and Phineus turned to stone. The Princess of Ferentino, the Marchioness Massa d'Albe, the Marchioness Daddi-Tosinghi, and Countess Dolcebuono were there.

—Why are you so late? the latter asked of her.

—I was very hesitant about coming, because I don't feel well.

—Indeed, you are pale.

—I think I'm getting neuralgia in my face again, like last year.

—I hope not!

—Look, Elena, Madame de la Boissière, said Giovanella Daddi, with that strange hoarse voice of hers. —Doesn't she look like a camel dressed as a cardinal, with a yellow wig?

—Mademoiselle Vanloo is going crazy over your cousin this evening, said the Marchioness Massa d'Albe to the princess, seeing Sofia Vanloo pass by on the arm of Ludovico Barbarisi. —I heard her begging, earlier, after a polka, next to me:
“Ludovic, ne faites plus ça en dansant; je frissonne toute . . .”
⁹

The ladies began to laugh in unison, waving their fans. The first notes of a Hungarian waltz reached them from the nearby ballrooms. Dancing partners presented themselves. Andrea could finally offer his arm to Elena and draw her away with him.

—Waiting for you, I thought I would die! If you had not come, Elena, I would have searched for you everywhere. When I saw you enter the room, I could barely restrain a shout. This is the second evening that I'm seeing you, but I seem to have loved you for I don't know how long. The one, incessant thought of you, is now the life of my life . . .
¹⁰