“How can this be?” I asked. “Will she marry that man even when she is sick as you tell me?”
Davide shook his head with an air of disapproval and replied, “What do you want! This is what they have chosen to do; in fact, it was she herself who made the decision. Her illness, however, is not the kind that forces her to remain in bed, but rather one of those of which we say, she is dying on her feet. But why not come to visit us? I am certain that my aunt would be very pleased to see you, and Silvia as well.”
“Are you going there now?”
“Yes.”
I accompanied him. It must have been ten at night when we set foot in that house. Davide’s aunt, a good old woman—age and childhood meet: the elderly are always as good as children—welcomed me with a joyfulness that was genuine and cordial, but tempered somewhat by reproach and melancholy.
“You will find us much changed,” she told me. “You have not come to my home for some time…poor Silvia…” And she stopped for a moment as if to pause over the thought of that misfortune. “But come in here, you can see her for yourself, it will please her. And I shall introduce you to my son-in-law.”
We entered the next room.
Silvia was sitting in an armchair, a large chair on castors, which was completely upholstered in a deep blue velvet; next to her, on a lower chair, sat the unknown young man I had seen at the carnival procession and the theater. He had drawn up his chair close enough to the girl’s to be able to lay his head on the same armrest where she laid her arm, while her head was bowed over the young man’s in a gesture of moving tenderness.
God! How much she had changed! It was scarcely possible to recognize her. The girl I had seen so healthy, so relaxed, so vivacious was no more than a shadow of the past, no more than a pale, uncertain reflection of her former beauty. It was not that her loveliness had entirely vanished, but it was altered; it was now a different loveliness, the beauty of a flower that bloomed in the shade, of a fruit that ripened too early and was worm-eaten. The young man’s face was pale, but Silvia’s was white, whiter than the long, gauzy gown that wrapped her body, except that her slightly sunken cheeks were light pink, but without shading, as if two faded rose leaves had been placed upon them. Her hair had that dull sheen which the hair of the sick ordinarily has, and it hung, not loose, but disheveled, over the head of the young man who was gazing at her with a look of inexpressible pity.
His pallor, although extreme, was not the kind that accompanies illness, but habitual thought and anguish. He was even more handsome than he had seemed in the theater—and this time I could judge at close quarters—with a beauty more feminine than masculine, but in any case more beautiful. His blond, nearly golden hair made a strange contrast mingled that way with the girl’s jet black tresses. I had never seen such an astonishing couple, or a portrait of love that was more spiritual or pure.
The two lovers stirred at the creak of the opening door—they were alone in the room.
“Look, Silvia,” her mother said sweetly, taking me by the hand, “look who your cousin brought back with him.”
And turning toward the unknown man and me, she pronounced first my name, then his, which she said was Baron Saternez, a native of Pilsen in Bohemia.
We bowed to one another. He gazed at me so pleasantly that I placed my hand on him nearly without realizing it.
After we exchanged a few words, the old woman, perhaps to leave the two young people alone, drew me near her in an opposite corner of the room.
“What does my son-in-law seem like to you?” she asked me. Then she continued without waiting for my reply, “He is a proper young man, you know, rich as the sea; if only you saw the gifts he gave Silvia!…And then his family! Barons, and among the most renowned in Bohemia. He had to emigrate for political reasons; I believe that he wanted Bohemia to be annexed to the Grand Duchy of Saxony—imagine that! But it made no difference in the end: he lost interest in staying in his country, since he was the last surviving member of his family. And look at what a handsome young man he is. Do not be offended”—she looked at me as if to interrogate me; I smiled—“do not be offended, but I cannot believe the world contains another man like that one. And to think—” The old woman interrupted herself as if suddenly struck by a sad thought.
“Poor Silvia!” she resumed after a few moments. “You have seen her before today, you remember how she was! And now! Look at her. Only four months have passed since she started wasting away like this; it began the day my son-in-law entered our home. She could be so happy now; they love each other so much! Tell me, do you think she will ever recover?”
“There is no reason to doubt it,” I answered to comfort her. “Until now Silvia has lived such a retired, quiet, calm life that this unusual disorder in her affections has caused a slight disturbance in her health as well. But it will all end when everything returns to a normal state, when they are husband and wife. Speaking of which, I heard from your nephew that it will occur very soon.”
“In eight days,” said the old woman, “and I hope that you will be with us on that occasion. They are the ones who wanted it like this, and the doctors have not disapproved. Silvia is still strong enough to bear the ride to the church in the carriage; besides, we are not very far away…The celebration will be a little sad,” she added, pressing my hand, “but you cannot refuse to be a part of it.”
I thanked her and assured her that I would come. I spent the remainder of that night troubled by strange, tumultuous thoughts, divided between the irresistible sympathy that Silvia’s fiancé inspired in me and the repugnance that I increasingly felt at the idea of the fatal mission he seemed to be executing. There was no longer any question: that young man, so handsome, pleasant, attractive, strewed desolation and misfortune about himself, left frightening traces in his path. Every creature he was especially fond of succumbed to his influence—the boy with the maskers, the lady in the theater, Silvia, that very Silvia who was once so beautiful, so carefree, so flourishing bore witness to his terrible power. And whether or not he was aware of it, this power was not less real or deadly. Warning his victims, delivering them from that man’s incomprehensible influence, was both a duty and an act of compassion.
I left the house near midnight. Davide accompanied me. My heart was full. We set off for the city walls without uttering a word.
The night was cold but dry; the horse chestnuts with their black bark and their tall, slender trunks seemed like specters of trees; the sky, as happens on clear winter nights, sparkled with myriad stars. It did not take me long to notice that my companion’s spirit was also deeply troubled.
“Let us sit down,” I said to him, pointing to a stone bench. “I must reveal to you several things that concern our cousin.”
And at length I related to him everything I observed regarding Baron Saternez. I did not conceal my suspicions; I spoke of Count Sagrezwitch and the encounter we had at Café Martini, and I concluded by urging him to do his utmost in order to avert the misfortune threatening that house.
“I am grateful to you,” he answered, after having listened to me very attentively. “That wedding will not occur, I give you my word. I hesitated up to this point, but now—”
“How do you intend to oppose it?”
“I do not know, but you shall see,” and he added in a terrible voice, “No, that wedding will not happen. I, I myself shall make it impossible…because…it must not happen, because I am the one who should enjoy that happiness, because I detest that man, because it is he who stole Silvia’s love from me…because I hate him!”
* * *
—
Early the next morning Davide came to find me at my house. He was calm, but with that cold, convulsive calm which spreads like a veil over one’s features when reflection has already concentrated the entire struggle in the heart. The tempests of the human heart are like those at sea: the least apparent are the most intense.
/> “I come,” he told me, “to ask for more information regarding the revelations you made to me last night. I thought about them all night and did not close my eyes. I need to know where Count Sagrezwitch lives and whether he is still in Milan. Perhaps you can tell me.”
“I do not know,” I replied, amazed. “But what are you planning to do? Do you perhaps intend to visit him? To what end?”
“You spoke to me,” he resumed, “of the deadly influence these two men exercise, he and Baron Saternz, and their power to do evil through ways other than those granted to us, whether or not they are conscious of it. The count, you told me, possesses this power to a greater extent. Now, whatever the causes of this influence may be, whatever its nature, if it exists and if they do not possess it in equal amounts, have you thought of the consequences that would result from the impact of these two forces, from the meeting of these two fatal men? Put them face-to-face, and if this power truly exists, one must destroy the other; the disparity of the forces will cause an imbalance. The defeat of the weaker one is inevitable.”
“That is a rather specious argument,” I said. “You must have thought, then—”
“About arranging for Count Sagrezwitch to be in the presence of my rival.”
“Do you intend to speak to the count?”
“If only I could find him. This is why I have come to you, and I am distressed that you are unable to give me the information I need…But I shall find him, yes, I shall find him,” he continued resolutely. “Milan has only a few elegant hotels where he may have taken a room; I shall search through them all, I shall ask for him at every door, and if he is still here or if he departed a short time ago, I shall not despair of picking up his trail.”
No sooner had Davide said this than he hurried out of the room, before my astonishment and hesitation about whether to encourage or dissuade him from that project permitted me to utter a word.
I spent that entire day filled with a mortal uneasiness.
That night, at a very late hour, I received a letter from Davide which reads as follows:
At this moment I am leaving for Genoa, where I shall join my family in a small village on the coast. I have pondered this plan for a long time without being able to make up my mind. The events that have already occurred and those about to occur have finally driven me to make this decision. I have no wish to remain here to let compassion divert me from my vendetta—assuming that I still have the power to stop it—nor to let the sight of its accomplishment, whatever that may be, overwhelm me with regrets I should not have. I feel the need to tell you everything I have done for Silvia’s salvation. There was no selfishness in this effort; her heart no longer belonged to me, nor did I want to claim it again; I wanted only her happiness. My disinterestedness will appear more sincere with the renunciation I shall make of my cousin’s hand, even when her heart is free and her youth flourishing again.
I cannot tell you any more. I found Count Sagrezwitch, and I spoke to him. Those two men know each other. I have no part at all in what is about to happen; remember it well. I can neither foresee nor stop the events that must occur; it was the hand of fate that planned them. I was no more than their instrument: I approached two men who should have remained far from each other—this was my entire responsibility; and it is my love for Silvia that drove me to undertake the burden. May my justification remain forever in your memory! It is impossible for me to explain myself any further. Destroy this letter at once.
Never in my life have I been involved in a sadder and more complicated plot. What were Davide’s needs? What had he said to Count Sagrezwitch? How could he talk to me with so much certainty about a vendetta that had to be executed without him? And why had he left? Even Silvia’s salvation, if such a thing were still possible, did not console me in my regret at having confided Baron Saternez’s secret to Davide and at putting the latter in a position to avenge himself. I was obligated to remedy, if I could, the evil I had done. Only seven days remained before the date set for the wedding, and this vendetta, whose goal was to prevent it, had to be accomplished in the interval.
I resolved to visit the young baron and, according to his responses to my insinuations, confide everything in him or let him suspect the danger that threatened him. I destroyed Davide’s letter; and availing myself of the address he had given me for his rival, I immediately went to his house.
Baron Saternez did not show the slightest surprise at seeing me; he took my hand with an affectionate gesture that exceeded simple courtesy and said, “I was expecting you.”
“What do you mean?” I exclaimed, astonished. “Then you know the reason for my visit?”
“Yes,” he said. And after a moment of silence, he replied with a fierce smile. “I am not only a dangerous man; I am also an experienced physiognomist. When I saw you for the first time the day before yesterday, I divined that your heart was good, and that if you ever erred through weakness or good intentions, you would not hesitate to grieve over the consequences of your errors and endeavor to make amends. As a result of your friend’s visit, Count Sagrezwitch was here two hours ago. It was therefore natural for me to expect you.”
I bowed my head and said nothing.
After another moment of silence, he resumed. “Do not worry about what you did, and do not reproach Davide for the evils he has prepared. What will happen must happen. You were no more than a tool in the hands of fate. The sentiments that moved you to impede my actions are praiseworthy, although perhaps useless; I am not so unjust as to ignore them. That man and I knew each other for quite some time; perhaps we even sought each other.” He pronounced these words more emphatically. “He and I are linked by relations that nature or chance created almost in mockery, terrible relations that a secret forbids me from revealing to you. Our meeting was inevitable because it was predestined. It was necessary for one of us to die, because two antagonistic elements cannot meet without struggling; they cannot travel the same path, cannot walk side by side, as if they had only a common power to exercise, a common mission to carry out. You were right to do what you did. It is fortune that directed you. It was long overdue!”
He broke off, then resumed after another moment of silence in which I did not dare speak. “Look at me! You see in me a man like all others, perhaps seemingly better than others. My person does not inspire disgust; my face, my behavior, that part of the soul which nature has placed in our features as if to reveal the powers hidden in the heart do not possess anything odious, anything that is not human, not pleasant, perhaps not even attractive. Well, this young man who you would have judged innocuous, whose friendship you would perhaps have desired without knowing him, has strewn ruin and desolation about himself, killed people who loved him, undermined the life and happiness of everyone who knew and cared for him. Because…yes, you guessed, you grasped his secret. Until now, this man, this wretch,” he proceeded with growing excitement, “has never had the power to relinquish an existence that made so many people unhappy; this is his crime. He was born for the good. Nature set the image of the good before his eyes like a brilliant ideal, like a sweet, shining goal. He would have liked to love, to perform good deeds, to rejoice at the happiness he sowed about himself, to lay a crown on the head of every man…but a cruel, terrible, ineluctable destiny condemned him to do evil, to crush beneath the burden of his fate all those good, affectionate beings who surrounded him.”
He fell silent and covered his face with his hands.
“Calm yourself,” I said. “If you have this power, you certainly exaggerate its significance.”
He smiled as if to show that he would indulge my doubt, then resumed. “No, I have not exaggerated. You would agree if you could return to the beginnings of my life to discover the signs I left behind and judge their depth and extent. My own childhood—the age when everybody is happy—was nothing but a period of sadness and pain for me. The creatures who loved me most began to succumb; my brothers
, my sisters, my mother died; I began to notice the void that gaped around me, and I understood that there was something fatal in my destiny. Very soon I was alone in the world. The more I saw the circle of my relations, affections, and sympathies widen, the more I saw that void widen; the more I entered into life, the more I found myself isolated. I felt the need for friendship, felt the fever of love…yet friends and lovers vanished into the abyss I dug for them at my feet. I began to be assailed by a frightening doubt: was I fatal to everyone I loved, to everyone who loved me? I went back over my past, retraced the path of my existence step by step, interrogated all the ruins in my wake…It was true—belief was inescapable—it was terribly true! Then I left my native country and wandered through the world, fleeing, and fleeing myself. The misfortune that struck down the people I loved most showered me with riches at the cost of their lives, although I alone could avail myself of these riches, although no one could ever benefit from me with impunity. It was thus that roaming from country to country I came to Milan, that fleeing the crowd and society to render myself less fatal, frequenting the most humble and remote districts, I met Silvia and was irresistibly taken with her before the awareness of the evil I would cause had the power to divert me from that affection. She requited me. I was young, unfortunate, entitled to give love and ask for it—I who never felt happiness, who did nothing but steal it from others without being able to enjoy it myself, who always had to fling it away like a bitter, forbidden fruit. You know the rest. You know that I am now threatened by danger, and you come to apprise me of it. Well, it is too late—the goal of my life is attained. If death must strike me down, I can no longer find anything bitter or unpleasant in it: I have realized the end of my aspirations, and I smile at the impotence of those who would like to prevent it.”
Fantastic Tales Page 13