Senso (And Other Stories)

by Camillo Boito

  It was the very depravity of the man that attracted me.

  When he declared, ‘I swear to you, Livia, I shall never love or embrace any other woman but you …’, I believed him. And when he knelt before me, I looked at him adoringly, as though he were a god. If anyone had asked me, ‘Would you have Remigio become a hero?’, I would have replied no. What use would I have had for a hero? Perfect virtue would have seemed dull and worthless compared with his vices. To me, his infidelity, dishonesty, wantonness and lack of restraint constituted a mysterious but powerful strength to which I was happy, and proud, to enslave myself. The more depraved his heart appeared, the more wonderfully handsome his body.

  Twice only, and only momentarily, I would have wished him to be different. We were walking one day along the quayside of a canal marking the perimeter of the Arsenal. It was a blindingly bright, sunny morning. On our left, the tall chimneys, their tops like upturned bells, the white cornices and red roofs stood against the turquoise-blue sky, whilst on our right, austere and forbidding, ran the long boundary wall round the shipyards. We rested our dazzled eyes upon dark patches of shade, in the gloom of an archway or narrow alley. And the water glistened with every shade of green, reflecting every colour, disappearing here and there into cavernous holes and strips of dense blackness. There were ten or twelve young urchins running and jumping along the canalside, which had no barrier of any kind on the waterfront, and shouting at the tops of their voices. Some of them were very small, some were a bit older. One of the younger ones – a tubby little fellow, practically naked, with blond curls crowning his pink, chubby face – was making a fiendish racket, cuffing and pinching his companions, then running off like streaked lightning.

  I stopped to watch, while Remigio was telling me of his past extravagances. All of a sudden, in his headlong rush, that little demon of a child was unable to stop himself at the edge of the quay and went flying into the canal. There was a yell and a splash, then at once the air was ringing with the cries of all the children and all the women who had been talking in the street or looking out of their windows. But above the clamour rose the shrill, desperate, piercing shriek of the young mother, who threw herself at Remigio’s feet – he being the only man on the scene – screaming, ‘Save him, please, save him!’

  With icy coldness Remigio said to the woman, ‘I can’t swim.’

  Meanwhile, one of the older boys had jumped into the water, grabbed the youngster by his blond curls and dragged him to the bank. It all happened in an instant. The screeching turned into enthusiastic cheers; women and children wept with joy; people came running from all around to see; and the fair-haired child looked around with his big blue eyes, amazed at such a fuss. With a violent tug Remigio drew me away from the crowd.

  The other time that my lover somewhat disappointed me, the reason was as follows. He had been overheard, at Quadri’s, speaking German with some Tyrolese officials, loudly disparaging the Venetians. A gentleman sitting in a corner leapt to his feet, and planting himself in front of Remigio, who was in uniform, he shouted, ‘Soldier, you’re a coward!’ And he threw three or four visiting cards in his face. Pandemonium broke out. The next day the seconds were supposed to arrange the duel, but having noticed that his adversary was a small thin man, and not very strong, Remigio refused pistols, and he refused swords; although the choice of weapons should have been the challenger’s, being confident of the strength of his own arm, he insisted on sabres. The Venetian gave way to his high-handedness, but was imprisoned before the duel could take place, and Remigio received orders to proceed immediately to a new posting in Croatia.

  When I learned of this I was in despair: I could not live without that man. I so prevailed upon the Lord-Lieutenant’s wife, and my husband, at my entreaty, so lobbied the Governor and the Generals, that Remigio managed to get himself transferred to Trento, just when the count and I were due to return there. Everything thus far had favoured my blind passion.

  I have not set eyes on this notebook of mine for the past three months. I dared not take it away with me, and, I confess, I regretted leaving it behind in Trento. Going back in my mind over those events of so long ago, my heartbeat starts to quicken again, and I feel the hot breath of youth blowing around me.

  My manuscript has been kept under triple lock in my secret safe at the back of the alcove in my bedroom; and it was sealed, with five seals, inside a big envelope, on which I had written in large letters, before going away, ‘I entrust to my husband’s honour the secret of these pages, which he is to burn without opening, after my death.’

  I went away without the slightest misgiving. I was sure that, whatever his suspicions, the count would have religiously carried out his wife’s wishes.

  My maid has just told me something that has annoyed me: the young lawyer Gino is getting married.

  So much for the faithfulness of men, so much for undying passion! ‘Contessa Livia, I shall die, I shall kill myself. Not until I’ve shed the very last drop of my blood will your image fade from my heart. Treat me like a slave, but allow me to adore you like a goddess.’ Melodramatic words, but a few months later and there is nothing left to show for them: love, frenzy, vows, tears, sobs – all gone without trace. How contemptible is human nature! And seeing those black eyes in that pallid face, anyone would have said that they gleamed with the deep sincerity of an impassioned soul. How his lips stammered and his arteries throbbed and his hands trembled and his whole body grovelled at my feet. That despicable, scrufulous wretch of a lawyer richly deserved to be sent packing. The dolt!

  And whom is he marrying? An eighteen-year-old ninny whose parents would not bring her to my house because Contessa Livia is known to be too risquée. A vapid creature with two red apples for cheeks; short, fat, pink hands; a stable-boy’s feet; and the pert air of a little saint, as a consolation. And the man who is taking such a goose for his wife dared to love me and to tell me so! It makes my face burn …

  Even if he was no gentleman, that officer of mine, sixteen years ago, was at least a real man. When he put his arms around my waist, he used to squeeze the breath out of me, and he would bite my shoulders until they bled.

  Vague rumours of war began to circulate, and then came the usual contradictory announcements and the usual denials: they’re arming, they’re not arming, yes, no. Meanwhile, a certain mood, at once feverish and mysterious, spread from the military to civilians. The trains began to run late, and to bring in more soldiers and horses and carriages and cannons, while the newspapers kept denying that there was even the slightest mobilisation going on at all. Ignoring the evidence of my own eyes, I believed the newspapers, so scared I was by the thought of a war. I feared for my lover’s life; but I feared even more the long inevitable separation that it would surely have meant for us. And indeed, on the last day of March, Remigio was ordered to report to Verona. Before his departure, he was given two days’ leave, which we spent together, never for one moment apart, in the shabby room of an inn on Lake Cavedine. And he swore to come and see me soon, and I swore to go to Verona if he could not get away. As I kissed him for the last time, I thrust into his pocket a purse containing fifty napoleons.

  When the count returned from the country, ten or twelve days after Remigio had gone, he found me thin and pale. I really was suffering horribly. Every so often my head would start to swim and I would feel dizzy, and three or four times I was so unsteady I had to lean against the wall or a piece of furniture so as not to fall. The doctors that my husband, concerned and worried, insisted on consulting kept shrugging their shoulders and saying, ‘It’s a matter of nerves.’ They told me to take exercise, to eat, sleep and cheer up.

  It was mid April and by then the preparations for war were undisguised. All types of soldiers filled the streets; battalions marched to the sound of brass bands and drums; aides-de camp went flying past on their horses; old generals, a little bent in the saddle, rode at a trot, followed by the General Staff, looking bold and splendid on their prancing mounts. These pr
eparations filled me with grotesque fears. The Italians wanted to kill all the Austrians; Garibaldi and his hordes of red devils wanted to butcher every prisoner taken captive: there was clearly going to be a bloodbath.

  I was in a complete state of frenzy. In six weeks I had received only four letters from Verona. The postal service was virtually non-existent: letters had to be entrusted, after much begging and bribing, to anybody willing to face the difficulties and interminable delays the journey entailed; someone who needed, and dared, to travel from one place to another. Unable any longer to bear the anguish to which Remigio’s silence, whether deliberate or innocent, condemned me night and day, I had determined to attempt the journey. But how was I to manage, a beautiful young woman alone amid the brutality of soldiers made bolder by loose discipline and by the thought of the very dangers they were about to meet.

  One morning at daybreak, having fallen asleep after an endless night spent tossing and turning, I was suddenly awakened by a noise. I opened my eyes and saw Remigio at my bedside. I thought I was dreaming.

  The soft, rosy light of dawn already brightened the room. I leapt out of bed to close the alcove curtains, and we began to talk in lowered voices. I was worried: the count, who was sleeping in the next room but one, might hear us, and appear; the servants might have seen my lover stealing in at this early hour. He reassured me with a few impatient words: as on previous occasions he had knocked at the ground-floor window where the chambermaid slept. She had opened the door to him very quietly and he had entered without anyone having the least suspicion. I was not much bothered about the maid, since she already knew everything; but the worst part was getting out: he had to be quick. I jumped out of bed again and went to listen at the door of my husband’s room: he was snoring.

  ‘You’re stopping in Trento, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’ve taken leave of your senses.’

  ‘A few days at least?’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘A day?’

  ‘I’m leaving in an hour.’

  I was devastated. Brimming with bright hope the moment before, my heart was now filled with anguish and fear.

  ‘And don’t try to keep me. War is no time for playing games.’

  ‘Damn the war!’

  ‘You’re right. By all accounts, it’s going to be terrible.’

  ‘Listen, couldn’t you run away, couldn’t you hide? I’ll help you. I don’t want your life to be in danger.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’d be found and captured, and shot as a deserter.’

  ‘Shot!’

  ‘There’s something I need from you.’

  ‘My life, anything.’

  ‘No, two thousand five hundred florins.’

  ‘My God, how am I to manage that?’

  ‘Do you want to save me?’

  ‘At whatever the price.’

  ‘Then listen. For two thousand five hundred florins two doctors from the military hospital and two with the brigade will issue me with a genuine sickness certificate, and come and visit me occasionally in order to confirm to HQ that I have some complaint which makes me totally unfit for service. I don’t lose rank, I don’t lose any pay, I’m out of any danger, able to stay quietly at home, limping a little, it’s true, because of a bad attack of sciatica or a damaged leg-bone, but safe and happy. I’ll find some petty clerk to play cards with; I’ll eat and drink and sleep in late. It will be a bore having to be at home all day, but at night, still taking care to limp slightly, I’ll be able to get out and have some fun. How do you like that?’

  ‘I’d like it, if you were in Trento. I’d see you every day, twice a day. Once they believe you’re ill, it’s all the same whether you’re in Verona or Trento, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, the regulations are that a sick soldier has to remain where Headquarters are based, under the doctors’ constant and scrupulous supervision. But I shall return as soon as the war is over – the fighting will be bitter, but brief.’

  ‘Will you love me always, will you always be faithful, will you never look at another woman? Do you swear?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I swear. But it’s getting late and I need those two thousand five hundred florins.’

  ‘Right away?’

  ‘Of course. I must take them with me.’

  ‘But I doubt that there are even fifty gold napoleons in my safe. I never keep much money.’

  ‘Well, find some.’

  ‘What do you mean, find some? How do you expect me to ask my husband, now, at this hour – with what excuse, to give to whom?’

  ‘The proof of love is making sacrifices. You don’t love me then.’

  ‘Not love you? When I’d willingly give you every drop of my blood.’

  ‘That’s just talk. If you haven’t the money, give me jewellery.’

  I did not answer, and felt myself turn pale.

  Realizing the effect his last words had had upon me, Remigio clasped me in his arms of iron, and in a different tone of voice repeated several times, ‘You know I love you, Livia darling, and that I’ll love you as long as there’s a breath of life in me. But save my life, I beg you, save it for yourself, if you love me.’

  He took my hands and kissed them.

  I was already persuaded. I went over to my writing-table to fetch the three little keys to my safe. I was afraid of making a noise, and walked on tiptoe even though I was barefooted. Remigio came with me into the study behind the alcove. I locked the door lest the count should hear, then opened the safe with some difficulty, for I was in such a state, and took out a complete set of diamonds, murmuring, ‘Here, take them. They cost almost twelve thousand lire. Will you manage to sell them?’

  Remigio took the jewellery case from my hand. He looked at the jewels and said, ‘There are money-lenders everywhere.’

  ‘It would be a shame to part with them for too little. Try and find some way of getting them back again.’

  I was heartbroken. The tiara especially suited me so well.

  ‘And will you give me the money as well?’ asked Remigio. ‘It would be useful.’

  I searched in the safe for the gold napoleons, which I had stacked in a pile, and handed them to him, without counting them. He kissed me, and was about to rush off. I held him back. He pushed me away impatiently, saying, ‘If you value my life, let me go.’

  ‘Take care, can’t you hear your boots squeak? In any case, wait. I need to see if the maid’s there. She’ll have to let you out.’

  Sure enough, the maid was waiting in a nearby room.

  ‘You’ll write to me soon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Every other day?’

  I wanted to give my lover, the man I loved so much, one last kiss; he was already gone.

  I opened the windows and looked out into the street. The sun shone golden on the high mountainpeaks. The stable-boy and the scullery lad were standing in front of the gateway, talking. They looked up and saw me. Then they saw Remigio emerging from the house and hurrying away with his coat pockets bulging.

  I went back to bed and cried all day long. I felt drained of energy. The next morning the doctor found that I had a temperature and was running a high fever. He prescribed quinine, which I did not take. I wanted to die. A whole week after Remigio’s visit, the maid, as calm as ever, brought me a letter. As soon as I saw it, I snatched it from her hand. I had guessed it was from him – the first since his departure – and I sat down to read it with such frantic eagerness that when I came to the end I had to read it all over again; I had not taken any of it in.

  I still remember it word for word, so often did the terrible events that followed give me cause to recall them:

  ‘Beloved Livia,

  You’ve saved my life. I sold the set of diamonds to some Shylock, for not much, to tell the truth, but in these times of fear and turmoil it was impossible to get more than two thousand florins – enough to fill the doctors’ voracious bellies. Before taking ill, I found a comfortable room near the Adige, in Via Santo Stefa
no 147, (write to me at this address). It is big and clean, with its own hallway leading directly onto the stairs. I have stocked up with tobacco, rum, playing cards and the entire works of Charles-Paul de Kock and Dumas. I’ve no lack of agreeable company, all male (don’t panic), and all of them scroungers, and were it not for having to appear lame, and being unable to leave the house during the day, I would say that I was the happiest man in the world. Of course, there’s one thing missing – your self, darling Livia, that I adore and would like to hold in my arms day and night. Well, now, don’t worry about a thing. I shall read the news of the war, while having a smoke; and the more Italians and Austrians go to hell, the more I shall enjoy it. Love me always, as I love you. As soon as the war is over and these wretched doctors, who are costing me a tidy sum, leave me in peace, I shall come running to embrace you, more passionate than ever.

  Yours,

  Remigio’

  The letter left me disconcerted and shocked, so vulgar did it seem. But then, poring over it, I gradually persuaded myself that the tone in which it was written was affectedly light and gay, and that my lover had made a painful but very noble effort to contain the violence of his own feelings, so as not to fan the flames of my already blazing passion, and in order to calm my mind a little, knowing how terribly anxious I was. I studied every phrase, every syllable of the letter. I had burned all the others almost as soon as I received them: this one I kept in a little pocket of my purse, and often took it out when I was alone, after locking myself in the room. Everything confirmed me in my wishful thinking: these expressions of love seemed all the more heartfelt for being hasty, and these coarse cynical remarks, I fancied, were sublime in their generous self-sacrifice. I so badly needed to believe in his infatuation, as an excuse for my own; and his cowardice thrilled my heart because I believed myself to be the cause of it. But my overheated imagination did not stop there. Who knows, I thought to myself, who knows whether this letter might not be all a well-intentioned deceit. Perhaps he has already gone to the battlefield, perhaps he is even now facing the enemy. But caring more for me than for himself, not wanting me to die of terror and dismay, he was allaying my fears by telling a white lie. The idea had no sooner occurred to me than I became obsessed with it. The insomnia, aversion to food, and physical ailments I was suffering contributed to a state of acute mental feverishness.