The Devil in Love Page 5

  I was in funds, but more embarrassed than ever. I was by now deeply mistrustful as to the intentions of the dangerous being whose services I had accepted. I did not know whether I would be capable of dismissing her; at all events I did not have the strength of mind to do so now. I averted my eyes so as to remain ignorant of her whereabouts, and saw her everywhere where she was not.

  Gambling was ceasing to offer an engaging diversion. Faro, which I had loved passionately, no longer being spiced by risk, had lost all its savour for me. The antics of carnival time bored me; I found its sights insipid. Even had I been sufficiently fancy-free to wish to form a liaison with one of the ladies of high degree, I was disheartened in advance by the langour, the ceremonial and the constraints of the role of cavalier servente. My only resource was the noblemen’s casinos, where I no longer wished to play, and the company of courtesans.

  Among this latter kind there were some who were distinguished for the elegance of their adornments and the sprightliness of their manner rather than for their personal charms. In their houses I enjoyed a true freedom, a noisy gaiety which could benumb, if it did not delight, in a word, a continual abuse of reason which freed me for a few moments from the shackles of my own. I paid compliments to all the women of this kind into whose presence I was admitted, without having designs on any; but the most celebrated of them had designs on me, which she soon expressed.

  She was known as Olympia, and was twenty-six years of age, very beautiful, talented and witty. She soon let me perceive her penchant for me and, without returning her inclinations, I gave myself to her to find some release from myself.

  Our liaison began suddenly and, as it held little allure for me, I imagined that it would end in the same way and that Olympia, bored by my half-heartedness, would soon seek out a lover who would do her greater justice, all the more so since we had embarked on our involvement in the most dispassionate spirit; but our stars decided otherwise. The chastisement of this proud and impulsive woman, and my own further embroilment, doubtless required that she should conceive for me an unbridled passion.

  Already I was no longer free to return to my inn of an evening; during the day I was spied upon and overwhelmed with love letters and messages. My coolness was the subject of much complaint. Her jealousy, which had not as yet found an object, was directed towards all the women who might attract my attentions, and would have demanded positively uncivil behaviour towards them on my part, had my nature been more malleable. I did not enjoy this perpetual torment, but I had to live with it. I tried in good faith to love Olympia, purely for the sake of loving, and to distract myself from the dangerous penchant I know myself to be harbouring. Yet an even more explosive episode lay in store.

  On Olympia’s orders I was secretly observed at my inn. “For how long,” she said to me one day, “have you had this page who interests you so much, for whom you show such consideration, and whom you gaze at so fixedly when you order him to your apartment? Why do you oblige him to observe this austere retirement? For he is never seen about Venice.”

  “My page,” I replied, “is a well-born young man, whose education I have taken upon myself out of duty. He is…”

  “He,” she retorted, her eyes ablaze with anger, “is a woman. You traitor. One of my men saw her through the keyhole, dressing.”

  “I give you my word of honour that he is no woman…”

  “Do not add lying to treachery. This woman has been seen weeping, she is not happy. You do nothing but break the heart of those who give themselves to you. You have abused her, as you abuse me, and you are abandoning her. Send this young person back to her parents, and if your prodigality has prevented you from treating her as she deserves, then she shall receive her due from me. She is entitled to a certain standing in life; I shall see to it that she gets it; but I want her to leave to-morrow.”

  “Olympia,” I resumed, as coldly as I could,”I have sworn to you, and I shall do so again, that this is no woman; and God forbid…”

  “What is the meaning of these lies and this “God forbid…" you monster? Send her away, I tell you, or… But I have other resources; I shall unmask you, and she shall listen to reason, if you cannot.”

  Exhausted by this torrent of tears and threats, but pretending to be unmoved, I retired to my own quarters, although it was late.

  My arrival appeared to surprise the servants, and Biondetta in particular; she showed some concern about my health; I replied that it was unimpaired. I had scarcely spoken to her since my liaison with Olympia, and there had been no change in her conduct towards me, but her face betrayed her: her physiognomy was touched with dejection and melancholy.

  The next day, hardly had I risen, than Biondetta came into my room, an open letter in her hand. She handed it to me, and I read:

  TO THE ONE WHO CALLS HIMSELF BIONDETTO

  “I do not know who you are, nor what you may be doing in the company of don Alvaro; but you are too young not to be forgiven, and you are in hands too wicked not to arouse compassion. This gentleman has undoubtedly promised you what he promises everyone, what he swears to me each day, although bent on betraying us. It is said that you are as wise as you are beautiful; you will therefore be open to good advice. You are of an age, Madame, when you can right the wrong you may have done yourself; a sensitive soul now offers you the means to do so. The price of the sacrifice necessary for your well- being is high: it must befit your condition, the notions you have been forced to abandon and those you may have for the future; and you must lay down your terms. If you persist in wishing to be deceived and unhappy, and in causing others to be the same, you must expect the most violent responses that despair can dictate to a rival. I await your reply.”

  I handed the letter back to Biondetta. “Answer this woman telling her that she is mad,” I told her, “and you know better than I do just how true that is.”

  “You know her, don Alvaro, do you not fear what she may do?”

  “I fear only that she may continue worrying me further, and therefore I am leaving her; and to rid myself of her the more surely, I am going this very morning to rent a charming villa I have been offered on the Brenta.” I dressed then and there, and went out to conclude my negotiations. On my way, I reflected on Olympia’s threats. Poor demented creature! I said, she wants the death of… but for some reason, I could not pronounce that name.

  As soon as I had finished my business, I returned to my lodgings; fearing that force of habit might impel me to visit the courtesan, I determined to remain in the apartment for the whole day.

  I took up a book, but incapable of applying myself to reading, I put it down again; I went to the window, and the throng, the motley sights, offended me instead of distracting me. I strode up and down my apartment, seeking peace of mind while experiencing unremitting physical turmoil.

  In this irresolute wandering my steps took me to a dark closet, where my servants stored certain necessities not immediately required for my service. I had never been inside it before. I liked the darkness of the place and sat down on a chest, remaining there for some minutes.

  After a little time I heard noises in an adjacent room; a line of light shining in my eyes drew me towards a blocked door; it was coming through the keyhole, to which I put my eye.

  I saw Biondetta seated at her harpsichord, arms crossed in an attitude of profound reverie. She broke the silence, saying:

  “Biondetta! Biondetta! He calls me Biondetta. It is the first, the only tender word he has ever uttered.”

  She fell silent, and seemed to relapse into her reverie. Then she laid her hands on the harpsichord I had seen her mending. She had a closed book before her on the stand, and now she played an introduction and sang softly, to her own accompaniment.

  I instantly understood that she was improvising. Listening more closely, I heard my name, together with that of Olympia: she was improvising in prose upon her supposed situation, upon that of her rival, which she found much happier than her own; and lastly upon my harshness
towards her, and my misgivings, which caused a distrust that drew me away from my true happiness. She would have led me down the path to greatness, fortune and learning, and I in my turn would have been all her joy. “Alas,” she was saying, “I fear this is no longer possible. My faint charms could not hold him, were he to know me for what I truly am. Whereas a mortal woman…”

  Passion was carrying her away, and her voice seemed choked by tears. She rose, took a handkerchief, dried her eyes and went back to the instrument; she was about to sit down again but, the seat having been uncomfortably low, she took the book which was on her stand, put it on the stool and once more played an introduction.

  I soon realized that the second musical performance would not resemble the first. I recognized the tune of a barcarolle, presently very fashionable in Venice. She repeated it twice; then, in a clearer and more assured voice, she sang the following verses:

  Oh what vain hopes I cherish here,

  Daughter of heaven and of the air!

  Abandoning the aery sphere

  For Alvaro, and for the earth.

  My brightness dimmed, in tyranny,

  I stoop to abject slavery;

  My recompense pray now observe:

  I am disdained, and yet I serve.

  But lo, the hand that drives you, steed,

  Caresses you while urging speed.

  You are held captive, it is true,

  Yet people fear to injure you.

  The rein which holds you in its power

  Cannot debase you, cannot lower.

  Alvaro, another holds your heart

  And keeps our paths so far apart.

  Tell me, I pray you, by what boldness

  She has overcome your coldness?

  No one doubts she is sincere,

  Oh, she is honest, that is clear.

  She pleases where I cannot please.

  Suspicion lights on me with ease.

  Distrust empoisons now my kindness.

  How may I fight against such blindness?

  In my presence I am slated,

  In my presence I am hated.

  Every slight imagined is,

  My groans are petty, without cause.

  Should I speak out, then woe is me;

  My silence, though, is treachery.

  Love, you set up this counterfeit;

  I play the mistress of deceit.

  So to avenge our so sore wrong

  Dispel his errors ere too long.

  Unveil me to the ungrateful one

  And whatsoe’er it pick upon,

  All tenderness abhorred be

  That is not tenderness for me.

  My rival’s all-triumphant state

  Makes her the mistress of my fate.

  And I perforce can only wait

  For exile, or for death’s grim date.

  In vain tear not yourself apart,

  You motions of a jealous heart.

  Hatred is all you could awake.

  And so, keep silent, for love’s sake.

  The sound of her voice, the melody, the implication of the lines and the turn of phrase all threw me into ineffable confusion. “Extravagant being, dangerous imposter,” I cried, hastily retreating from that place where I had stayed too long. Could anyone don the traits of truth and nature more skilfully? How fortunate I was to have discovered this keyhole only to-day! How eagerly would I have come here to intoxicate myself, how I would have contributed to my own self-deception! I had to leave, to go to the Brenta to-morrow at the latest, indeed this very evening!

  I immediately called a servant, and had a gondola loaded with such things as I needed to spend the night in my new abode.

  It would have been impossible for me to await nightfall in my inn. I went out and walked at random. At a street turning, I thought I saw Bernardillo going into a cafe, Bernardillo who had been with Soberano on our walk to Portici. “Another phantom!” said I; “they are pursuing me.” I climbed into my gondola and rode through all of Venice, from canal to canal; it was eleven o’clock when I returned. I wanted to leave for the Brenta, and as my weary gondoliers refused their services, I was obliged to call for others; they arrived, and my servants, informed of my intentions, went before me into the gondola, bearing their own belongings. Biondetta was following me.

  Hardly had I stepped into the boat than cries forced me to turn round. A masked figure was stabbing Biondetta: “You have defeated me! So you must die then, hateful rival!”

  The action was so sudden that even one of the gondoliers who had remained ashore was powerless to stop it. He tried to attack the assassin by raising a torch to his eyes; another masked figure ran up and drove him back with a threatening motion, and a thunderous voice which I thought I recognized as that of Bernardillo was heard. Beside myself, I leapt from the gondola, but the murderers had disappeared. By the light of the torch I discovered Biondetta, pale, steeped in her own blood; dying.

  My state was indescribable. All other thoughts drained away.

  What I saw now was a woman adored, the victim of an absurd prejudice, sacrificed to my vain and extravagant temperament and crushed, hitherto, by the most cruel insults.

  I rushed forward, calling for assistance and vengeance at one and the same time. Attracted by the noise of these events, a surgeon appeared. I had the wounded creature transported to my apartment and, for fear that sufficient care might not be taken, I myself shared the burden.

  When they had undressed her, and I saw that lovely bleeding body with its two gaping wounds, both seeming to threaten the sources of life itself, I said and committed a thousand extravagances.

  Biondetta, presumed to be unconscious, could not have heard them; but the innkeeper and his men, a surgeon and two doctors summoned for the occasion, judged that it would be dangerous to allow me to be left at her side, and dragged me from the room. My servants were left beside me, but one of them having unwisely informed me that the doctors had pronounced the wound to be fatal, I began to emit shrill cries.

  Exhausted at last by my transports, I fell into a dejection which gave way to sleep.

  It seemed to me that I saw my mother in a dream: I was telling her of my adventure and, to render it more vivid, I was leading her towards the ruins of Portici.

  “Let us not go there, my son,” she said to me, “you are clearly in danger.” As we were passing through a narrow defile, which I was walking through quite boldly, a hand suddenly thrust me towards a precipice, a hand I recognized as that of Biondetta. I was falling, but another hand pulled me back, and I found myself in my mother’s arms. I awoke, still panting with terror. “Devoted, fond, tender, loving mother,” I cried, “you do not desert me, even in my dreams”.

  Biondetta! Do you wish to ruin me? But my dream was wrought by my own troubled imagination. Ah, let us drive away such ideas as would cause me to be lacking in gratitude and humanity.

  I called a servant and asked for news: the two surgeons were keeping vigil, having drawn much blood and fearing the onset of fever.

  The next day, after the implements had been removed, it was decided that the wounds were dangerous only in that they were so deep; but fever struck, soared, and the patient had to be exhausted by more bleeding.

  I was so insistent that I should be let into the apartment, that they could not but grant me my wish.

  Biondetta was delirious, and was ceaselessly repeating my name; never had she seemed more beautiful.

  Do I indeed see here what I took to be a many-coloured phantom, I wondered, a mass of shining vapours assembled purely to impress my senses?

  Surely she was mortal, just as I was, and was dying because I had always refused to heed her, because I wilfully exposed her to danger. I was a brute, a monster.

  If you die, most worthy object of my love (thought I), creature whose goodness I have so signally failed to recognize, I do not want to survive you. I too shall die, after having sacrificed the barbarous Olympia on your tomb.

  If you are given back to me, I
shall be yours; I shall recognize the blessings you impart; I shall crown your virtues and your patience, and shall bind myself to you with indissoluble links, vowing to make your happiness through the blind sacrifice of my feelings and my desires.

  I shall not describe the painful efforts made by science and nature to recall to life a body which seemed bound to succumb in the face of the expedients deployed for its relief.

  Three weeks passed in a battle pitched between fear and hope; at last the fever fell away, and it seemed that the invalid was regaining consciousness.

  I called her my dear Biondetta and she gripped my hand; from that moment, she recognized everything around her. I was at her bedside and she turned her eyes upon me, mine being wet with tears. I would be quite unequal to describing the grace and expression of her smile as she looked at me: “Dear Biondetta,” she repeated; “I am don Alvaro’s dear Biondetta.”

  She wanted to say more, but once again I was told to withdraw. I decided to remain in her room, but concealed from her view. At last I received permission to approach. “Biondetta,” I told her, “I am having your assassins pursued.”

  “Ah, spare them,” she said, “they are the source of all my happiness. Now I am yours, both in life and death.”

  I have my reasons for cutting short descriptions of these tender scenes which passed between us until such time as the doctors assured me that I could have Biondetta moved to the banks of the Brenta, where the air would be better suited to restoring her strength. As soon as her sex had been ascertained by the need to dress her wounds, I had employed two women to attend to her. I gathered around her everything that might contribute to her comfort, and devoted myself solely to her relief, amusement and pleasure.

  Her strength was visibly returning, and each day her beauty seemed to take on new lustre. At last, thinking I could engage her in a conversation of some importance without detriment to her health, I said to her: “Biondetta, I am overwhelmed with love; I am persuaded that you are not an imaginary being, and I am convinced that you love me, despite my outrageous conduct towards you until this moment. But you know that my worries were not without foundation. Explain to me the mysteries of the strange apparition which distressed my gaze in the vault at Portici. Whence came that frightful monster, and the little bitch which preceded your arrival, and what became of them? How and why did you replace them and become attached to me? Who were they, and who are you? Pray reassure a heart that is all yours.”