Lucrezia Floriani, page 17
He made Lucrezia a coiffure worthy of a classical naiad, saying: “Do you remember in Milan, if I happened to be there when you were dressing before going on the stage, how I always gave the final touch to your costume?”
“It is quite true,” she replied “I had forgotten. You had a particular gift for adding character to ornaments and for matching colours aptly. I often asked for your advice.”
“She did, Karol.” Salvator turned to his friend who had winced as if pierced by a needle. “Look at her, how beautiful she is! You would never have discovered, as I did, what suited the line of her brow, the volume of her head and the strength of the nape of her neck. You did not make sufficient of her personality. She looked like a Madonna with your coiffure, which is not at all the character of her beauty. She is a goddess. Let us feeble mortals prostrate ourselves and adore the nymph of the lake!”
As he spoke Salvator imprinted a heavy kiss on Lucrezia’s knees and Karol shuddered like a man stabbed with a dagger.
18.
The poor boy had forgotten that in his own way Salvator was as much in love with Lucrezia as he was, that he had magnanimously surrendered his claims on her, but not without effort or regret As this kind of love was incomprehensible to Karol he had not realised the suffering his friend must have undergone on seeing him become the owner of the being he coveted He had told himself that the first beautiful woman Salvator encountered would make him forget his insane desire.
Or rather, he had told himself nothing. He would not have had the courage to examine the indelicate side of such a situation. He had thrust away the memory of the first night spent at the Villa Floriani, the temptations and advances of Salvator and even the embraces of the following morning when he had thought he was saying a last farewell to Lucrezia. The crisis of the illness and the ensuing miracle of bliss had effaced everything from the prince’s mind In one day, in one instant he had grown accustomed to ceasing to form judgements on anything, or understanding anything and in the same way, in one day, he was now beginning to judge too much and understand too much, that is, to comment on everything to excess and suffer on account of everything.
To be sure, Salvator Albani had acted in good faith when he decided that henceforth he would only look at Lucrezia with the eyes of a brother. But he possessed a fund of Italian sensuality which prevented him from ever achieving the chastity of a monk. If he had had two sisters, one beautiful and the other ugly, he probably and without being aware of his own instinct would have preferred the beautiful one, even if she had been less pleasant and kind than the other one. And of two sisters equally beautiful, if one had known love and the other only virtue, he would have been the greater friend of the one who had a better understanding of frailty and passion.
Love was his god and every beautiful woman who was kind-hearted was his priestess. He could love her unselfishly, but he could not look at her without emotion. Consequently Lucrezia’s love for his friend did not disturb him in his admiration and pleasure when he regarded her and breathed her atmosphere. He loved to touch her arms, her hair and even her clothes just as much as he had done in the past, and one can understand that Karol was jealous of these things, almost as much as of his mistress’ heart.
Difficult as it may be to believe, Lucrezia’s nature was as innocent as the soul of a child. I agree that this is very strange, on the part of a woman who had loved greatly and whose spontaneity had been such that she could not give herself in any other way but wholly, to the objects of her passion. Undeniably she was a creature endowed with very strong senses, although she could appear cold to men she disliked. The fact is that outside her love in which she was utterly submerged she saw nothing, imagined nothing and felt nothing. During the rare intervals in which her heart had been calm her senses had been idle; and if she had been separated for ever from the sight of the opposite sex, she would have been an excellent nun, tranquil and bright In other words there was nothing purer than her thoughts when she lived in solitude, and when she loved she felt that everything which was not her lover was solitude, emptiness, nothing.
Salvator might kiss her, tell her that she was beautiful, and tremble a little as he pressed her arm against his; she was aware of it even less than on the day when, not realising that Karol loved her already, he had been driven to speak to her clearly and boldly in order to make her understand his desires.
Yet every woman fully understands the look and inflexion of voice which speaks indirectly of love. Women of the world have an insight in these matters which often goes far beyond the truth, and often, too, their eagerness to defend themselves even before they are attacked is a provocation on their part and an encouragement to boldness. Lucrezia, however, in her well-meaning kindness, put everything down to the sympathy she had aroused as an artist or the warmth she inspired as a woman. She was abrupt and bored with men who roused mistrust and suspicion in her, but with those she esteemed she wore her heart on her sleeve – she would have believed she was betraying the sanctity of friendship by being too much on her guard She knew quite well that an occasional evil thought could pass through their heads. But she had made it a rule not to notice it and as long as she was not driven to show herself severe, she was gentle and relaxed She thought that men were like children with whom one must often divert the conversation and distract the imagination rather than answer and discuss delicate and dangerous subjects.
Yet Karol who should have been aware of the stability of this simple, straightforward character, did not really understand it. His madness had committed the gigantic mistake of imagining that with all men other than himself she should have the austerity and the icy demeanour of a virgin. He refused to yield, he refused to understand the reality of this nature and to love her for what she was. Because he had set her too high in the fantasies of his mind he was now fully prepared to place her too low and to believe that between the invincible sensuality of Salvator and the secret instincts of Lucrezia there were fatal and terrifying affinities.
During the journey back to the villa the evening star rose like a huge white diamond in a sky still flushed with pink. They were gliding over the limpid surface of the lake that Lucrezia loved so much and which Karol was beginning to hate once more. He did not speak. Beatrice had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms, Celio was handling Menapace’s boat and the old man sat in silent contemplation. Stella, slim and white, was dreaming of the stars from which she derived her name and Salvator Albani was singing in a fine, fresh voice, which the sonority of the waves carried far into the distance. No one else save Karol, the purest and most irreproachable of them all, was thinking of evil He sat with his back turned to them so as not to see something which did not exist, something which no one was thinking about; and instead of the Undines of the lake he felt he was being driven by the Eumenides.
Hadn’t he been betrayed? Hadn’t Salvator been mocking him outrageously when he said that he had never been Lucrezia’s lover? With all the beautiful and plausible arguments he had heard him advance so often on the subject of friendship with women and which, according to Salvator, always contained some element of love, suppressed or disguised; – with all the subtle reservations of which Karol supposed him capable to enable him to enjoy happiness without having a lie on his conscience, he might well have been made happy on the night of their arrival and coolly denied it a moment later. In that case Lucrezia owed him nothing and Karol felt he was being very generous as he resolved never to question her on the matter.
Again, assuming that she had resisted on that occasion, was it likely that in her earlier life, abandoned to every emotion, when Salvator was present in her dressing room as she changed and when he laid hands on her costume, when, with her heart throbbing wildly after the fatigues and triumphs of the stage she came and flung herself on the couch near him, maybe alone with him … was it possible that he had not attempted to take advantage of a moment of mental confusion and nervous over-excitement? Salvator was so passionate and so bold with women! Hadn’t he incurred the displeasure of Princess Lucie by daring to tell her that she had beautiful hands? And if this man had not remained speechless and trembling before Lucie, what was he not capable of with Lucrezia?
And now the terrible parallel which had been for so long thrust aside began to take a hold on the prince’s mind on the one hand a princess, a virgin, an angel; on the other hand an actress, a woman without morals, a mother of four children by three men, without ever being married and without knowing where these men were now!
The fearful reality rose before his terrified eyes like a Gorgon about to devour him. An uncontrollable trembling shook his limbs, his head threatened to burst He thought he could see poisonous snakes crawling at his feet on the boards of the boat and he thought he could see his mother rising towards the stars, her horror-stricken face averted from him.
Lucrezia was half asleep in her dream of eternal happiness and when she took his hand to step on to the shore she merely noticed that he was cold, although the evening was mild.
She was slightly worried when she saw him under the lights of the villa, but he made great efforts to seem gay. Lucrezia had never seen him gay, she did not even know if with his high and poetic intelligence he had any talent in the direction of wittiness. She now realised that he had it to a considerable extent. It was subtly, mockingly delicate, fundamentally not at all good-natured, but as she was utterly infatuated with him she marvelled on discovering in him an additional charm. Salvator knew quite well that this thin, affected, ironical gaiety on the part of his friend was no indication of great contentment But in the circumstances he was at a loss what to think. Perhaps love had entirely changed the prince’s character, perhaps he was taking life henceforth less austerely and less gloomily. Salvator seized the opportunity to be gay and free with him, yet he thought he occasionally saw something harsh and bitter behind his brightest repartees.
Karol could not sleep, yet he was not ill. In his long and cruel insomnia he realised that he had a greater capacity for suffering than he had ever thought possible. The torpor of a slow fever did not come, as it had done once, to deaden his anxious thoughts. He rose next morning as he had gone to bed, a prey to a horrible lucidity, yet without feeling any physical discomfort and obsessed with the fixed idea that Salvator was betraying him now, had betrayed him in the past and was thinking of betraying him in the future.
“But I must come to a decision,” he said to himself. “I must break away or dominate, throw up the game or pursue the enemy. Shall I be strong enough for the struggle? No, no, it is horrible! It is better to flee.”
He went out as day broke, not knowing where he was going, but unable to resist the need to walk quickly. The path in the park which he was following mechanically was the most direct and most frequented, but when he realised that it led to the fisherman’s cottage he decided to leave it At that moment he heard his name uttered. He stopped. The word “prince” was repeated several times. Karol, under cover of the drooping branches of the old willows, approached and listened.
“A prince! A prince! Nonsense!” old Menapace was saying in his dialect which Karol by now had learnt to understand thoroughly. “He doesn’t look like one. I saw Prince Murat when I was young. He was stout, strong, healthy-looking and wore magnificent clothes, gold and plumes. That was a prince! But this one looks like nothing at all and I wouldn’t even trust him with my oars.”
“I assure you that he is a real prince, Master Menapace,” Biffi replied. “I heard his servant call him ‘prince’, and he didn’t know I was there.”
“I tell you that he is as much a prince as my daughter was a princess, out there … They all give themselves names like that in the theatre. The other fellow, Albani, is the one who used to play the count on the stage, but he is a singer, that’s all he is.”
“It is true that he sings all day,” said Biffi. “So they are the signora’s old comrades? Are they going to stay here long?”
“That is what I ask myself It seems to me that the prince, as they call him, is enjoying his free board and lodging greatly. And if the other one also stays and does nothing but eat, sleep and go for quiet little walks by the water’s edge, this isn’t the end of it yet”
“But surely it does not affect us. It is not our concern.”
“It affects me!” said Menapace, raising his voice. “I do not like to see idlers and pushers eating up the assets of my grandchildren. You can see very clearly that they are nothing but out of work play-actors with no feelings, who have come here to recuperate. My daughter, who is kind, is sorry for them. But if she takes all her former friends in like that, we can look out for trouble. Poor little Celio! Poor children! If I gave no thought for them they would share the fate of these so-called lords one day! Come, Biffi, are you ready? Untie the boat and let’s go.”
If Salvator had heard this ridiculous conversation it would have kept him roaring with laughter for a full week. He would have even devised some crazy hoax to add to the charitable suspicions of the fisherman. But Karol was cut to the heart. The idea of such a thing happening to him would have seemed impossible. To be taken for a play-actor, a beggar, and to be despised by this old miser! He felt as if he were walking in filth, he who found only the clouds soft and pure enough to bear him!
One would have to be very strong or very carefree not to be prostrated by an absurd role and only see its ludicrous side. Moreover, one never or almost never laughs at oneself, and Karol was so beside himself that he left the park just as he was, without even any money on him, and fled at random into the open country, determined, or at least believing he was determined, never to set foot again in Madame Floriani’s house.
Although after his illness his health had been better than it had ever been before, he was still not a very good walker, and when he had gone half a league he was obliged to reduce his pace. Then it was that the burden of his thoughts overwhelmed him and he could only drag himself with great effort in the aimless direction which he had taken.
If my conception of the novel were in accordance with modern rules and I ended the chapter at this point, I would leave my reader in suspense until to-morrow, assuming that instead of sleeping you would be asking yourself all night: “Will Prince Karol depart or will he not depart?” But the high opinion I always have of your perception forbids me to have recourse to this clever ruse and I will spare you all agony. You know full well that my novel is not sufficiently advanced for my hero to put an end to the matter so abruptly and against my will. Moreover, his flight would be very unrealistic and you would never believe that one can break the chains of a violent love at the first blow.
Set your mind at rest then, attend to your occupations, and may sleep strew its red and white poppies over your eyes! We have not reached the denouement yet.
19.
Karol too was asking himself the same question “Shall I depart? Shall I be able to depart? A quarter of an hour from now, won’t I be compelled to go back? Since this is inevitable, why tire myself making a useless journey?”
“I shall depart,” he cried as he flung himself on the grass that was still wet with dew. His indignation was rekindled and his strength came back to him. He set off again but fatigue soon came and with it the return of doubt and dejection.
Bitter regrets brought tears to his eyes wearied by the brightness of the sun which seemed to be coming towards him and saying: “We are travelling in opposite directions. Are you going to flee from me and enter eternal darkness?” His thoughts went back to his happiness of the previous day when, at this same hour, he had seen Lucrezia come into his bedroom, open his window to allow him to hear the song of the birds and breathe the scent of the honeysuckle, pause near his bed to smile at him and before giving him his first kiss, embrace him with that ineffable look of love and adoration which is more eloquent than all words, more passionate than all caresses. Oh, how happy he still was at that moment! The sun had merely to traverse the horizon and everything was destroyed! He would never again see this tender woman intoxicate him with her deep look and replace the visions of his dreams by her calm and radiant image! That hand which, as it passed softly through his hair, seemed to give him new life; that heart whose fire had never become exhausted as it fed his; that spirit whose strength maintained in him a hitherto unknown serenity, those sweet attentions at all moments, that constant solicitude, more assiduous and more inventive even than his mother’s had been; that bright and happy home where the atmosphere seemed relaxed and warmed by a magnetic influence; that silence of the park, those flowers in the garden, those children with their melodious voices who sang with the birds, everything including Celio’s dog which ran so gracefully through the grass chasing the butterflies so as to imitate his young friend – in short, the combination of all these things which he was now picturing and detailing for the first time as he was about to be separated from them, was at an end for him!
And just as he was thinking of Celio’s dog, the noble creature itself rushed towards him and for the first time caressed him tenderly. Yet he had not come in pursuit of Karol, and the latter thought at first that Celio was not far away. But when he did not see him appear he remembered that on the previous evening Laertes (this was the dog’s name) had run ahead along the bank where the boats had stopped, that they had tried calling him back, but to no avail, and that when they had returned home Celio had been anxious on discovering that he was not there. They had whistled and called again, in the belief that he had skirted the lake and returned by way of the meadows; but they had gone to bed and he was still missing. Lucrezia had comforted her son by reminding him that the dog had already spent the night outside on several occasions and that he was far too intelligent not to be able to find his way back home as soon as he wished.
