Pleasure (33 page)

Then the torment began.

Elena appeared, and held her hand out to him very cordially, in front of her husband, saying:

—Good man, Andrea! Help us, help us!

She was very vivacious in her words and in her gestures. She had a very youthful air. She wore a jacket made of a deep blue fabric, trimmed with black astrakhan on the edges, on the straight collar, and on the cuffs; and a woolen cord formed an elegant embroidered pattern, interwoven over the astrakhan. She held one hand in her pocket in a graceful posture; and with the other, pointed out the installation of the hangings in progress, the furniture, the paintings. She was asking for advice.

—Where would you place these two chests? Look: Mumps found them in Lucca. The paintings are by
your
Botticelli. Where would you place these tapestries?

Andrea recognized the four wall-hangings depicting the story of Narcissus that had been at Cardinal Immenraet's auction. He looked at Elena, but did not meet her eyes. A veiled irritation gripped him, at her, at her husband, at those objects. He would have liked to leave; but it was necessary for him to place his good taste at the service of the Heathfield couple; it was also necessary for him to suffer the archaeological erudition of Mumps, who was an ardent collector and insisted on showing him some of his collections. He recognized a helmet by Pollajuolo in one display cabinet, and in another, the rock crystal chalice that had belonged to Niccolò Niccoli. The presence of that goblet in that place agitated him strangely and caused mad suspicions to flash to his mind. Had it, then, fallen into the hands of Lord Heathfield? After the famous quarrel, which had not been resolved, no one had paid heed to the heirloom, no one had returned to the sale the day after; the ephemeral excitement had languished, died out, and dissipated as everything dissipates in worldly life; and the crystal had remained, in contrast with other things. It was a very natural thing, but at that moment it seemed extraordinary to Andrea.

Deliberately, he stopped in front of the cabinet and examined at length the precious goblet on which the story of Anchises and Venus scintillated as if it had been carved into pure diamond.

—Niccolò Niccoli, said Elena, pronounced with an indefinable tone, in which the young man believed he could hear a little sadness.

Her husband had passed into the adjacent room to open an armory cabinet.

—Remember! Remember! murmured Andrea, turning.

—I remember.

—When will I see you, then?

—Who knows!

—You promised . . .

Mount Edgcumbe reappeared. They passed into the next room, going on with the tour. Everywhere, decorators were busy hanging wallpaper, lifting curtains, transporting furniture. Every time the woman asked him for advice, Andrea had to make an effort to answer, to overcome his unwillingness, to control his impatience. During a moment when the husband was talking to one of the men, he said to her in a low voice, showing his vexation clearly:

—Why cause me this torment? I was hoping to find you alone.

While she was passing through a doorway, Elena's little hat bumped against a badly hung curtain and was dented along one side. Laughing, she called to Mumps to undo the knot of her veil. And Andrea saw those odious hands untying the knot on the nape of the woman he desired, brushing against the small black curls, those living curls that once had emitted a mysterious scent under his kisses, not comparable to any known perfumes, but sweeter than any others, more intoxicating than any others.

Without delay he said good-bye, claiming that he was being awaited for lunch.

—We will move in permanently on the first of February, on Tuesday, Elena said to him. —Thereafter you will be, I hope, a regular visitor of ours.

Andrea bowed.

He would have given anything not to touch Lord Heathfield's hand. He went away full of rancor, jealousy, disgust.

Later the same evening, finding himself by chance at the club, where he had not been for a long time, he saw Don Manuel Ferres y Capdevila, the minister of Guatemala, seated at a gaming table. He greeted him solicitously; asked him news of Donna Maria, of Delfina.

—Are they still in Siena? When are they coming?

The minister, mindful of having won a few thousand lire playing cards with the young count on the last night at Schifanoja, responded to the solicitousness with great courtesy. He had found Andrea Sperelli to be an admirable player, perfect, with superb style.

—They've both been here for a few days. They arrived on Monday. Maria is very sorry not to have found the Marchioness of Ateleta in town. I think that a visit from you would be very much appreciated by her. We are staying in Via Nazionale. Here is the exact address.

He gave him one of his cards. Then he turned back to his card game. Andrea heard his name being called by the Duke of Beffi, who was in a group with other gentlemen.

—Why didn't you come to Centocelle
⁷
this morning? the duke asked him.

—I had another engagement, Andrea replied, without thinking, just as an excuse.

The duke began to snigger in chorus with the other friends.

—At Palazzo Barberini?

—Perhaps.

—Perhaps? Ludovico saw you going in.

—And where were you? Andrea asked Barbarisi.

—At my aunt Saviano's.

—Ah!

—I don't know if you had a better hunt—continued the Duke of Beffi—but we had a fast gallop of forty-two minutes and two foxes. Thursday, at the Three Fountains.

—Do you understand? Not at the Four Fountains . . . Gino Bommìnaco warned, with his usual comic gravity.
⁸

The friends laughed at the witticism; and the laughter also spread to Sperelli. He did not mind that malice. Rather, precisely now that there was no foundation to it, he enjoyed the fact that his friends believed his relationship with Elena Muti to be renewed. He turned to talk with Giulio Musèllaro, who had arrived. From some words he overheard, he realized that they were talking about Lord Heathfield in the group.

—I met him in London six or seven years ago, the Duke of Beffi was saying. —He was Lord of the Bedchamber of the Prince of Wales, I think . . .

Then his voice was lowered. The duke must be recounting outrageous things. Andrea heard, two or three times, amid fragments of erotic phrases, the title of a newspaper famous in the history of London scandals:
Pall Mall Gazette.
He would have liked to listen: a terrible curiosity invaded him. He once again saw in his mind's eye Lord Heathfield's hands, those pale hands, so expressive, so significant, so revealing, unforgettable. But Musèllaro was continuing to talk. Musèllaro said to him:

—Let's go. I'll tell you about it . . .

Going down the stairs they met Count Albónico, who was coming up. He was dressed in mourning due to the death of Donna Ippolita. Andrea stopped: he asked him some details regarding the sorrowful event. He had heard about the misfortune in November, in Paris, from Guido Montelatici, Donna Ippolita's cousin.

—But was it typhus?

The fair, pale widower took advantage of the opportunity to pour out his grief. He wore his heartache as a sign of distinction, the way he had once worn his wife's beauty. His stutter made his afflicted words even more wretched: and it seemed that his pale eyes were about to deflate, like two blisters full of serum, at any moment.

Giulio Musèllaro, seeing that the widower's plaintive lament was going on a little too long, urged Andrea to hurry, saying:

—Listen, they're waiting for us.

Andrea took his leave, adjourning the continuation of the commemoration of the dead to their next meeting. And he left the building with his friend.

Albónico's words had revived that strange feeling, a combination of a tormenting desire and a kind of complacence, which had preoccupied him for a few days in Paris after the news of the death. In that period, the image of Donna Ippolita, almost shrouded in oblivion, had appeared to him, through the time of his sickness and convalescence, through so many other events, through the love for Donna Maria Ferres, very distant but shrouded in a vague ideality. He had obtained her consent; and, although he had not succeeded in possessing her, he had derived from this one of the greatest human elations: the euphoria of victory over a rival, a sensational victory, in the presence of the desired woman. In those days, the desire he had not managed to satisfy had been roused again; and beneath the dominion of his imagination, the impossibility of satisfying it had given him an unspeakable restlessness, several hours of real torment. Then, between desire and regret another sentiment was born, almost of complacency, perhaps almost of lyrical elevation. It pleased him that his affair had ended in such a way, forever. He had almost been killed in acquiring her, that almost unknown woman he had not possessed, and now she rose up, unique and intact, at the uppermost pinnacle of his spirit, in the divine ideality of death.
Tibi, Hippolyta, semper!

—So—Giulio Musèllaro was recounting—she came today, toward two p.m.

He was relating the surrender of Giulia Moceto with a certain enthusiasm, with many details regarding the rare and secret beauty of the infertile Pandora.

—You're right. It is an ivory cup, a radiant shield,
speculum voluptatis.

Andrea felt once again a particular light sting he had felt a few days before, in the moonlit night after the theater, when his friend had gone up alone to Palazzetto Borghese. It now evolved into an ill-defined resentment, at the base of which broiled, mingled with memories, jealousy, envy, and that supreme egoistical and tyrannical intolerance that were in his nature and that often pushed him to desire, almost, the destruction of a woman he had already favored and enjoyed, so that she could never be enjoyed by any others. No one should drink from the glass where he had once drunk. The memory of his passage should be sufficient to fill an entire life. His lovers must remain eternally faithful to his infidelity. This was his secret proud dream. And in addition, he disliked the broadcasting, the divulgence of a secret beauty. Certainly, if he had possessed Myron's
Discobulos
or Polyclitus's
Doryphoros
or the Cnidian
Venus,
his first concern would have been to lock the masterpiece in an inaccessible place and enjoy it alone, so that the enjoyment of others could not diminish his own. And so why had he himself rushed to disclose the secret? Why had he himself piqued the curiosity of his friend? Why had he himself wished him luck? The ease with which that woman had given herself to Giulio provoked anger and disgust in Andrea, and also humiliated him somewhat.

—But where are we going? asked Giulio Musèllaro, stopping in Piazza di Venezia.

At the base of the various emotions in his soul and his various thoughts, Andrea still felt the agitation aroused in him by the encounter with Don Manuel Ferres, and the thought of Donna Maria, a flashing thought. And indeed, amid those fleeting contrasts, a sort of anxiety was drawing him toward her house.

—I'm going home, he replied. —Let's go along Via Nazionale. Walk with me.

From that point, he did not listen to the words his friend spoke. The thought of Donna Maria dominated him completely. When he arrived in front of the theater he had a moment of hesitation, not knowing whether to choose the sidewalk on the right or the one on the left. He wanted to find the house by reading the numbers on the doors.

—But what is going on with you? Musèllaro asked him.

—Nothing. I'm listening to you.

He looked at the number and calculated that the house must be on the left, not very far off, perhaps in the vicinity of Villa Aldobrandini. The great pine trees of the villa could be seen, delicate in the starry sky, because the night was freezing but serene; the Tower of the Milices rose up, square and massive, dark among the stars; the palm trees that grew along the Servian Wall appeared to be sleeping, immobile, in the brightness of the headlamps.

Only a few numbers remained until he reached the one marked on Don Manuel's card. Andrea was as anxious as if Donna Maria were about to walk toward him. The house was nearby, in fact. He passed the closed front door, almost brushing against it; he could not stop himself from glancing up.

—But what are you looking at? Musèllaro asked him.

—Nothing. Give me a cigarette. Let's walk faster, it's cold.

They walked along Via Nazionale as far as the Four Fountains in silence. Andrea's preoccupation was evident. His friend said:

—You certainly have something that's bothering you.

And Andrea's heart felt so swollen that he was on the point of giving in and confiding. But he restrained himself. He was still feeling troubled by the malicious things he'd heard at the club, by Giulio's story, by all those indiscreet frivolities he himself had provoked, frivolities he had professed himself. The complete lack of mystery in the affair, the vain complacency of lovers in receiving the witticisms and smiles of others, the cynical indifference with which erstwhile lovers praise the qualities of a woman to those who are just about to enjoy them, and the affectation with which the former give advice to the latter so that they may reach their objective more easily, and the concern with which the latter give the former the most finely detailed reports regarding a first rendezvous, in order to know whether the
manner
in which the lady gave herself could be compared with the one in which she gave herself on other occasions, and the cessions, and the concessions, and the successions, and in short all the small and great depravities that accompany sweet society adulteries, seemed to him to reduce love to a banal and dirty promiscuity, an ignoble vulgarity, a prostitution without name. The memories of Schifanoja traversed his mind, like cordial scents. The image of Donna Maria shone inside him with such intensity that he was almost astonished by it; and he saw one attitude distinct from all the others, more luminous than all the others: her attitude when she had uttered the burning word in the woods at Vicomìle. Would he hear that word from that mouth again? What had she done, what had she thought, how had she lived during the time they were apart? His internal agitation grew with every step. Fragments of visions passed through his mind like mobile and fleeting phantasmagorias: a strip of countryside, a strip of sea, a flight of stairs amid rosebushes, the interior of a room, all the places in which a feeling had been born, where sweetness had been diffused, where she had transmitted the allure of her presence. And he felt an intimate and profound tremor thinking that perhaps passion still lived in her heart, that perhaps she had suffered and cried, and perhaps even dreamed and hoped. Who knows!