What a joy it is, to confide in no one but yourself, free from scruples, hypocrisy and reserve, respecting the truth in your recollections, even with regard to what ridiculous social conventions make it most difficult to speak of publicly: the depths to which you have sunk! I have read of holy anchorites who lived in the midst of vermin and putrefaction (filth, that is), but who believed that the more they wallowed in the mire, the higher they elevated themselves. So my spirit exalts in self-humiliation. I take pride in the sense of being utterly different from other women. There is no sight whatsoever that daunts me. There is, in my weakness, a daring strength: I am like the women of ancient Rome who gave the thumbs-down, those women that Parini mentions in one of his odes – I don’t remember it exactly, but I know that when I read it I really thought that the poet could have been referring to me.
Were it not for the feverishness of vivid memories on the one hand and dread of old age on the other, I should be a happy woman. My husband, who is old and infirm, and utterly dependent on me, allows me to spend as much as I want and to do as I please. I am one of the first ladies of Trento. I have no lack of admirers, and, far from lessening, the kind envy of my dear women friends is ever mounting.
I was of course more beautiful at the age of twenty. Not that my features have changed, or that my body seems any less slender and supple, but there was in my eyes a flame, which now, alas, is dying. The very blackness of my pupils seems to me on close inspection a little less intense. They say that the purpose of philosophy is to know yourself. I have studied myself with so much trepidation for so many years, hour by hour, minute by minute, that I believe I know myself through and through, and can declare myself an excellent philosopher.
I would say that I was at my most beautiful (there is always in a woman’s blossoming a brief period of consummate loveliness), when I had just turned twenty-two, in Venice. It was July of the year 1865. I had been married for only a few days and was on my honeymoon. For my husband, who could have been my grandfather, I felt indifference mingled with pity and contempt. He bore his sixty-two years and his ample paunch with seeming vigour. He dyed his sparse hair and thick moustaches with a rank ointment that stained his pillows with big yellowish blotches. Otherwise, he was an amiable man, in his own way full of attentions for his young wife, inclined to gluttony, an occasional blasphemer, an indefatigable smoker, a haughty aristocrat, a bully towards the meek and himself timorous in the face of aggression, a lively raconteur of lewd stories that he would tell at every opportunity, neither tight-fisted nor a spendthrift. He would strut like a peacock when holding me on his arm, yet eyed with a smile of lascivious connivance the women of easy virtue who passed us in Piazza San Marco. And from one point of view I was pleased by this, since I would happily have banished him into the arms of any other woman, just to be rid of him; and from another, it vexed me.
I had taken him of my own free will. Indeed, I had actually wanted him. My family were opposed to so ill-assorted a match. Nor, if truth be told, was the poor man ardently seeking my hand. But I was bored with my position as an unmarried woman. I wanted to have my own carriages, jewels, velvet gowns, a title, and above all my freedom. It took a few flirtatious glances to inflame the desire of the pot-bellied Count, but once inflamed, he could not rest until I was his, neither did he mind about the small dowry, nor give any thought to the future. Before the priest, I answered with a firm and resounding ‘I do’. I was pleased with what I had done, and I do not regret it now, after all these years. Even in those days, when I suddenly lost my heart and surrendered myself to the frenzy of a first blind passion, I did not really think I had anything to regret. Until the age of twenty-two, my heart had remained impervious. My women friends, who weakened when confronted with the allurements of romantic love, envied and respected me. To them, my coolness, in my disdainful indifference to fond words and languishing glances showed common sense and strength of character. I had already established my reputation at sixteen, by trifling with the affections of a good-looking young fellow from my home town, and then afterwards spurning him, with the result that the poor boy tried to kill himself. And when he had recovered, he left Trento and ran away to Piedmont to join up as a volunteer. He died in one of the battles of ’59 – I don’t remember which. I was too young then to feel any remorse. And besides, my parents, relatives and acquaintances, all of them devoted to the Austrian government, which they served loyally as soldiers and administrators, had nothing else to say about the young hot-head’s death but, ‘Serves him right!’
In Venice, I was reborn. My beauty came into full bloom. Men’s eyes would light up with a gleam of desire whenever they looked at me. Even without seeing them looking, I could feel their burning gaze on my body. The women, too, would openly stare at me, then admiringly examine me from head to toe. I would smile like a queen, like a goddess. In the gratification of my vanity, I became kind, indulgent, natural, carefree, witty: the greatness of my triumph made me appear almost modest.
I was invited with my husband, a representative of the Tyrolese nobility at the Diet of Innsbruck, to the Imperial Lord-Lieutenant’s dinners and soirées. Whenever I entered a room, with my arms bare, in a décolleté gown of velvet and lace with a very long train, wearing a great flower of rubies with leaves of emeralds in my hair, I would sense a murmur running all around me. A blush of satisfaction would colour my cheeks. I would unassumingly take a few slow, solemn steps, without looking at anybody, and as the hostess came towards me and invited me to sit next to her, I would wave my fan in front of my face as if to hide modestly from the eyes of the astonished guests.
I never missed an occasion for a gondola-ride on the Grand Canal, in the cool of a summer’s evening, when serenades were sung. At Quadri’s café in Piazza San Marco I was surrounded by a host of satellites, as if I were the sun of a new planetary system. I would laugh, mock and tease those who tried to win me with their sighs or verses. I gave the impression of being an impregnable fortress, yet I did not try too hard to appear truly impregnable lest I discouraged anyone. My court of admirers consisted largely of junior officers and Tyrolese officials who were rather dull and very self-satisfied, which meant that the most fun were the most irresponsible; those who from their dissolute life had acquired, if nothing else, the insolent boldness of their own follies. There was one I knew who stood out from the crowd for two reasons. According to his own friends, he combined reckless profligacy with such a cynical lack of moral principles that nothing in this world seemed to him worthy of respect, save the penal code and military regulations. Besides which, he really was extremely handsome and extraordinarily strong: a cross between Adonis and Alcides. His complexion was white and rosy, he had blond curly hair, a beardless chin, ears so small they were like a girl’s, and big restless-looking eyes of sky-blue. The expression on his face was sometimes mild, and sometimes fierce, but of a fierceness and mildness tempered by signs of a constant, almost cruel, irony. His head was set magnificently on his sturdy neck. His shoulders were not square and heavy, but sloped down gracefully. A close-fitting, white uniform of an Austrian officer showed off to perfection his muscular physique, which brought to mind those Roman statues of gladiators.
This infantry lieutenant, who was only twenty-four, two years older than me, had already succeeded in squandering the large estate inherited from his father, and still he continued to gamble, and whore, and to live like a lord – nobody could understand how he managed it. Yet no one excelled him in swimming, gymnastics, or physical strength. He had never had occasion to take part in battle, and he did not care for duelling. In fact, two young officers told me one evening that rather than fight, he had more than once swallowed the most appalling insults. Strong, handsome, degenerate, reprobate – I was attracted by him. I did not let him know it, because I took delight in teasing and riling this latter-day Hercules.
Venice, which I had never seen and so longed to see, spoke more to my senses than my intellect: I cared less for its monuments, whose history
I did not know and beauty I did not understand, than for its green waters, starry skies, silvery moon, golden sunsets, and above all the black gondola in which I would recline, abandoning myself to the most voluptuous caprices of my imagination. In the intense heat of July, after a blazing-hot day, the fresh breeze would caress my brow as I travelled by boat from the Piazzetta to the island of Sant’Elena, or beyond, to Sant’Elisabetta and San Nicolo on the Lido: that west wind impregnated with a sharp salty tang would revive my limbs and my spirits, and seemed to whisper in my ears the passionate secrets of true love. I would trail my bare arm up to the elbow in the water, letting the lace trim on my short sleeve get wet; and then I watched the drops of water falling from my fingernails one by one, like the purest diamonds. One evening I took a ring from my finger – a ring my husband had given me, set with a big sparkling solitaire – and threw it far from the boat into the lagoon: I felt I had married the sea.
One day the Lord-Lieutenant’s wife insisted on taking me to see the Accademia Gallery: I understood next to nothing. Since then, from travelling, and from talking to artists (there was one, as handsome as Raphael, who desperately wanted to teach me to paint), I have learned a few things; but at the time, although I did not know anything, the brightness of those colours, the richness of those reds, yellows, greens, blues, and whites – like painted music, rendered with such sensual passion – seemed to me not art but a Venetian aspect of Nature. And in the presence of Titian’s golden Assumption, Paolo Veronese’s magnificent Feast, or Bonifazio’s fleshy, carnal, gleaming faces, I would be put in mind of the uninhibited songs I had heard the common people singing.
My husband smoked, snored, spoke ill of Piedmont, and bought himself cosmetics; I needed someone to love.
Now, this is how my terrible passion began for the Alcides, the white-uniformed Adonis with a name not much to my liking: Remigio. I was in the habit of going to Rima’s floating baths, situated between the gardens of the Royal Palace and the Customs House Point. I had hired for one hour, from seven till eight, the Sirena, one of the two women’s baths big enough to swim around in a little, and my maid came along to undress and dress me. But since no one else could enter, I did not bother to put on bathing clothes. The bath was screened round with wooden panels and covered with a grey awning with broad red stripes. The slated bottom was fixed at a depth to allow women of small stature to stand with their heads above the water, which did not even cover my shoulders.
O that lovely, clear, emerald-green water, in which I could see the shape of my body gracefully undulating, right down to my slender feet! And a few tiny, silvery fish darted around me. I swam the length of the Sirena; I beat the water with the flat of my hand until that diaphanous green was covered with white spray; I lay on my back, letting my long hair soak in the water, and trying to keep afloat for a moment without moving; I splashed my maid, who ran away; I laughed like a child.
A number of large openings, just below the surface, let the water flow in and out freely, and if you put your eye to the gaps in the ill-fitted screens you could see something of what was outside: the red campanile of San Giorgio, a stretch of the lagoon with boats swiftly sailing past, a thin strip of the military baths floating a little way off from my Sirena.
I knew that Lieutenant Remigio went swimming there. He cut such an heroic figure in the water: he would dive in head first, pick up a bottle from the bottom, and emerge from the bathing area by swimming out underneath the dressing rooms. I found his strength and agility so alluring, I would have given anything to be able to see him.
One morning while I was examining a bluish mark on my right thigh, probably a slight bruise, which marred a little the rosy whiteness of my skin, I heard a noise outside that sounded like someone swimming very fast. The disturbance of the water made cool waves that sent a shiver down my limbs, and all of a sudden, through one of the large gaps between the bottom of the pool and the screens, a man came into the Sirena. I did not cry out; I was not afraid. He was so white and handsome, he looked as if he were made of marble, but his broad chest rose and fell as he took deep breaths, and his blue eyes shone, and drops of water fell from his fair hair like a shower of lustrous pearls. He stood upright, half covered by the still unsettled water, and raised his limber, muscular arms aloft; he seemed to be rendering thanks to the gods, and saying, ‘At last!’
So began our relationship. And from then on I saw him every day, whether out for a walk, or at a café or restaurant – for my husband had taken a liking to him, and often invited him. I also saw him in secret, and gradually our clandestine meetings became a positively daily occurrence. We were often alone for one or two hours, while the count slept between luncheon and dinner or went wandering off on his own round the city; then we would spend two or three hours together in public, exchanging the occasional fleeting handclasp. Sometimes he would step on my foot, often hurting me so much I became quite red in the face, but this very pain gave me pleasure. Never had I looked so beautiful, to others and to myself, never so healthy and light-hearted and happy – with myself, with life, with everything and everybody. The wicker chair that I sat on in Piazza San Marco became a throne. I thought that the military band that played Strauss waltzes and Meyerbeer melodies in front of the Old Procurators’ Building were performing their music solely for me, and the blue sky and ancient monuments seemed to rejoice in my happiness.
Our meeting-place was not always the same. Sometimes Remigio would be waiting for me in a closed gondola on the filthy quayside of some long, dark alley leading to a narrow canal, lined with poor houses so decrepit and crooked they looked as if they were falling down, with rags of every colour hanging from the windows. And there were other times when, throwing caution to the winds, we would take a boat in some busy part of the city, even from the landing in front of the Piazzetta. Wearing a thick veil to cover my face, I would visit him in a house by the barracks at San Sepolcro, encountering in the dark shadows of its winding staircase officers and men who would not let me pass without some show of gallantry. In that house, where the sun never shone, the musty smell of dampness was combined with the nauseating stench of stale tobacco smoke hanging in the air in those unventilated rooms.
This young lawyer Gino irritates me. He looks at me with those wildly staring eyes that often make me laugh, but sometimes make my blood run cold. He says he cannot go on living without some kind word of affection from me; he begs, weeps, sobs. He keeps saying, ‘Contessa, do you remember that day when you turned to me, there in the doorway, and said in the voice of an angel, “There’s hope for you.” ’ And he goes on and on, begging for pity, sobbing and weeping. I cannot stand any more of it. A few days ago I let him take my hand. He kissed it repeatedly, so hard that he left bruises on my skin. The fact is, I am tired of him! Yesterday I lost my temper. I shouted at him, and told him not to bother me any more, and said that he was never to attempt to set foot in my house again, and if he ever dared to show his face I would have him thrown out by the servants, and would tell the count the whole story. He turned so pale that his black eyes looked like two holes in a wall of plaster. He rose from the sofa and staggered out, without looking at me. He’ll be back, he’ll be back, I bet he will. But the sad truth is, the only thing capable of affecting me deeply is the memory of a man of whose total degeneracy I was, to the shame of raging passion for him, perfectly aware.
Every so often Remigio would ask me for money. At first he did so in a roundabout way: he had some gambling debt, or there was a dinner to which he had to treat his companions for some special occasion – he would return the money in a few days’ time. In the end he was asking for a hundred florins here, two hundred florins there, without any excuse. Once he asked me for a thousand lire. I gave it to him, and was pleased to give it. I had some savings of my own and, besides, my husband was generous towards me, indeed he was happy when I asked him for something. But there came a point when he thought I was spending too much. I took offence and became furiously angry; as a rule easy
-going and compliant, he held out for a whole day.
That was the day that Remigio urgently needed two hundred and fifty florins, straightaway. He was so loving, and said so many sweet things, in a voice so passionate that I was glad to be able to give him a diamond hairpin, which, if I remember rightly, cost forty gold napoleons.
The next day Remigio failed to keep our appointment. I spent a good hour pacing up and down some of those little alleyways on the far side of the Rialto Bridge, causing people to eye me with sly curiosity, and prompting jokes at my expense. In the end, my cheeks were burning with shame and tears of anger filled my eyes. Despairing by then of meeting my lover, and imagining God knows what might have happened to him, I ran to his house, panting for breath and almost out of my mind.
His batman, who was polishing his sabre, told me that there had been no sight of the lieutenant since the day before.
‘Out all night?’ I asked, not quite understanding.
Whistling, the soldier nodded.
‘For God’s sake, run and find out what’s happened to him. He must have had some dreadful accident – he may have been injured, or killed!’
The soldier shrugged, with a sarcastic laugh.
‘Well, tell me, where is the lieutenant?’ As he continued to laugh, I had grabbed the soldier by the arm, and I shook him hard. He brought his moustache right up close to my face. I leapt back, but said again, ‘For pity’s sake, tell me.’
He finally growled, ‘Dining with Gigia, or Cate, or Nana, or with all three together. A dreadful accident? Hah!’
I realized then that Lieutenant Remigio was my life. My blood froze. I collapsed almost unconscious on the bed in that dingy room, and had he not at that moment appeared in the doorway my heart would have burst in a fit of rage and suspicion. I was insanely jealous; if need be, I was capable of becoming criminally jealous.
Senso (And Other Stories) Page 2