As he glanced at the engraving, the Baron murmured to himself, ‘How cunning of that fox Viorz!’ And he returned the magazine to the music teacher, who began to read out the accompanying explanatory article. It was a hymn to the new company: its metal-rich mines and Vulcanian ironworks. Already the workforce was insufficient to the task, and commercial demand outstripped the company’s production twenty times over. New breaches needed to be made in the sides of the miraculous mountain, and the number of mines increased, with new shares to be issued by the bank. Then came the artistic and sentimental parts: descriptions of the villa and garden; and the President hailed as a benefactor, a real godsend, a true Messiah to the valley, responsible for the founding of nursery schools already attended by three hundred children, who were given free breakfast and lunch as well as instruction; for the new roads under construction, and the pharmacies now open, et cetera, et cetera – a veritable regeneration.
The piano master read bombastically, emphasizing the finest phrases. He ignored the Baron, who, breaking off his discussion with the priest, called out, ‘Enough, enough, you can read it later.’ But the priest was no longer paying attention to his interlocutor’s flattery; instead he was trying to listen to the reading, edging closer and closer to the round table. At a certain point, without waiting until the end, he snatched the page from the reader’s hands and tore it into shreds, saying over and over again, ‘It’s all lies, all lies.’
The Baron left the room; the doctor vanished. There was half a minute’s silence when no one moved. Then an officer of the Alpine corps, who was sitting next to the piano teacher, rose to his feet. He went up to the priest, and after a tremendous bellow of anger, he shouted, ‘Count yourself lucky – if it were not for your calling and your clerical collar …’ And he raised his arm menacingly.
At that moment the servant in the turquoise livery with crimson trim and big gold buttons entered and announced from the doorway, ‘The Baroness is ready to receive the Reverend Father.’
The priest inclined his head in parting, and slowly left the room.
III
The servant opened the door to the Baroness’s room, gave a deep bow, then withdrew, leaving the priest alone with the woman. In the first instant he did not see her, for the room seemed wonderfully ablaze, dazzling the eyes. The wall-hangings, sofas, and armchairs were all of red fabric, a vivid rose-red, patterned with sinuous yellow designs, like flames. And the setting sun – warm, bright and golden – shone through the two wide-open windows, casting upon the red and yellow of the room a kind of incandescent glow and brilliance that looked like fire and sparks. A penetrating, heady smell of perfume emanated from a dressing-table that was all frills and lace, standing beneath a canopy held aloft by a winged putto, while in front of the mirror-frame, decorated with glass flowers, sparkled countless little flasks of white metal, and combs, and soap-dishes, and clear crystal phials, and every kind of knick-knack.
The priest felt a rush of blood to his head as he came in; he had a desire to run away. The woman called to him in a soft voice, like a distant lute.
She was reclining on a sofa in the only shadowy corner of the room, along the wall in which the windows were set, right back where the folds of the full curtains cut out the light to the side of them, leaving a kind of recess between the drapes and the wall.
‘Sit here, beside me, Father, in this armchair. I feel so weak, I can only just talk in a very low voice.’
The priest replied curtly, ‘Forgive me, I’m in a hurry. I only came because the doctor told me you were ill and needed me. What can I do for you?’
‘Oh, I’m so ill! But that unfeeling doctor doesn’t understand at all. A good and learned man like you, Father, is capable of finding the words to comfort and hearten me, and by restoring my faith in myself and the world, perhaps restoring my physical health. My illness lies here.’ She touched her breast.
She wore a floral-patterned robe revealing all of her neck, a good deal of her white bosom, and the tops of her round shoulders, over which fell her loosened, wavy hair, of a reddish-blonde colour, that grew low on her forehead in unruly little curls. She had a nose that met her forehead in an almost continuous line, with a strong, wide bridge, and flared nostrils through which she occasionally snorted like an Arab horse. Full lips, round cheeks, and a receding chin gave a kind of sheep-like and lascivious expression to her face. The redness of her mouth was a little too intense, the pinkness of her cheeks a little too delicately shaded, and the shape of her brown eyebrows a little too finely arched to be able to believe that art had nothing to do with it. And she had a slight shadowing beneath her blue eyes that made them look bigger. In short, she was in her own way beautiful, and sensual.
The priest remained standing. Exerting herself, she rose, went over to him, took him by the hand and, leading him two steps forward, made him sit in the armchair. Then she fixed him with her eyes, and stretched, as though she had just wakened, so that her wide sleeves fell back, baring her arms almost to the armpits; and her bosom swelled proudly. She turned and threw herself onto the sofa, letting her embroidered slipper fall from her right foot on to the floor. Those blue eyes were now smouldering.
Her voice no longer sounded soft and weary as before. A dry, choked, irritable tone was predominant when she said to the priest, speaking in fitful bursts, ‘Tell me, Don Giuseppe, why do you avoid me? Why do you not want to see me any more? When I ride through the village on my mule, why do you close the shutters of your house in my face? And why, having received me in the presbytery four times in the beginning, have you now given orders not to let me in, not even when I bring money for the poor? I can’t set foot in the sacristy, and I’m all but chased out of the church like a dog. The gifts I make to the church are returned to me. By what right? Who can possibly refuse offerings made to God?’ She leapt to her feet and planted herself in front of the priest, with the question, ‘Is it that hate is a Christian virtue, Father?’
The priest said in a voice that was calm but trembling, ‘Hatred of evil is a Christian virtue.’
‘Christian virtue, Father, is love. I was taught so as a little girl, when I went to catechism in church. I was told the same thing in the confessional. Then, when I became a woman, I saw that true love raised my spirit, purified my soul, brought me close to heaven. True love came to an end, through no fault of mine, I swear. Poor and forsaken, cast into a society full of temptation and corruption, I was taken in by what seemed like love. But seeming-love is not love, it is hate; it is in fact the vilest, most ignoble, most fearful, most harrowing hatred possible to experience. This hatred is killing me. Yet I have a passionate heart, which for many years has sought in vain the solace of a fierce and genuine affection. I need ardent love.’
Making a supreme effort to gather his thoughts, which kept slipping from his mind, the priest murmured, ‘Peace, my poor child, calm your imagination, which the misfortunes and setbacks in your life have over-excited. Strive to desire one thing: that which is good. Quit the life you are leading, this mire of false illusions and depravity that is sullying your existence. Go back to being poor and lonely, but repentant and righteous. Then everyone is bound to love you, for, in loving you, they will love virtue.’
‘And you, Don Giuseppe, will you love me, too?’
And she took his hand and pressed it, while the priest drew closer.
The woman went on meekly, ‘Don Giuseppe, guide me. Teach me the way, lead me wherever you will. I shall be your slave. I shall, if you like, be your saint. You must surely have a great and noble heart that mirrors the sky, as your eyes do. I like you because you’re pure and handsome, because I suspect you have never loved, and because I want to be your first sin, your first remorse. Give me your love, Don Giuseppe, give me your love.’
The Baroness sank back on the sofa, still holding with both hands the hand of the priest, who was trembling from head to foot. The sun had set; the room was growing dark. But as the woman repeated these last words, all at once th
e priest seemed to feel a fresh breeze upon his forehead. And suddenly there appeared before him the sad and bleeding figure of the Christ over his prayer-stool, except that the face, instead of being bowed and dead, was alive and staring at him with an extremely fierce and forbidding expression. The priest sprang up, and before the woman could utter a syllable, he had left the room.
When the servant dressed in turquoise livery with crimson trim saw the priest hurrying away from the villa, almost running, without a backward glance, as if he had the devil at his shoulders, he smiled maliciously, placing the index finger of his right hand on the tip of his nose.
IV
Unconscious of what he was doing, the priest turned left, where the road goes up into the mountains. He passed below the chapel of San Rocco, set on the summit of a sharp crag, and headed towards the so-called Lake Meadow. He passed some of those alpine carts that have front wheels only, and two extremely long shafts whose rear ends trail along the ground, which are used to carry bulky loads of freshly cut grass, fragrant with every sweet smell and spangled with little flowers of every bright colour. Obedient to the commands of the mountain-folk leading them, the poor oxen, majestic and resigned, slowly and solemnly descended the steep slope, firmly planting their hoofs amid the huge boulders, their liquid eyes looking a little worried and rather melancholy. The women greeted him, but the priest did not respond. Once he was almost run over by a cart he had not made way for in time. He left the road, and made his way along the paths, up the bare rocks. The night had grown dark, and the priest pressed on without knowing where he was treading. Suddenly he found himself on the edge of the mountain lake fed by glaciers, where at last was brought back to his senses by the sound of the two mountain streams that came rushing down from the peaks and crashing through the rocks; by the harsh wind blowing through neck of the valley; and by the hacking cough that racked his chest. And falling on to his knees, with his hands joined together and his eyes fixed on the utter blackness of the heavenly vault, he made a long prayer of thanks to the son of God.
Menico, meanwhile, was getting increasingly worried. The presbytery clock had struck half past midnight and the priest was still not back. The old man had seen the lights in the baron’s villa go out, and he knew very well there were no one dying in the parish. So where on earth had that reckless fellow gone to spend the night? He dared not go too far from the house; he looked through the windows, but saw nothing but pitch darkness. Had he not been a priest’s servant he would certainly have allowed himself some gross blasphemy. He strained his ears, for a dog had barked, but no one came. He heard a distant sound of tramping feet, and listened again, but no one came.
‘Oh, Father is going to have some explaining to do, staying out all night without even giving me any warning! Is that a way to treat people? And at the risk, what’s more, of catching some new illness through such unholy behaviour, and with that blasted cough he can never get rid of. Really, is this a time to be wandering the streets and keeping decent folk out of their beds? I intend to give him some plain speaking, some really plain speaking. He would try the patience of San Luigi Gonzaga.’
He stared out into the darkness again, listening. There was no sign of anybody. At last he thought he heard a man’s tread some way up the road. It was definitely a man, coming down the mountain. The footsteps quickened, resounding loudly; the dogs barked; it was the priest. Then the little old man went and stood at the door with a sullen look on his face, his eyes flashing with anger. He had his hands on his hips in an attitude of defiance, as though he wanted to deny the priest entry into the presbytery, and his lips were already parted to begin his tirade when he saw the priest’s face, and kept silent, letting him pass.
He muttered between his teeth (or, to be more precise, between his gums), ‘My goodness, what a high and mighty expression! And what a state his clothes are in! It’ll take me a month to mend them and get them tidied up again. That’s fine Christian charity for you!’
The priest spent the rest of the night on his knees, before the crucifix, which had saved him. Dawn made the Christ on the Cross, with his bowed head crowned with thorns, look yet more livid, emaciated, contorted and bloody.
At daybreak the bells began to chime. It was Menico who rang them, getting a young boy to help him when he was busy in the church and sacristy, or when his arms felt tired – usually one of the lads whose triumph had been celebrated the previous day; in fact the dark-haired one, who had not seen a penny of his half-share of the thirty-seven florins’ reward for killing the bear-cub, so swift had his family been to eat and drink it all away.
It was Sunday, and the priest’s mass was supposed to start at ten. At about eight a peasant, who came from the valley, handed Menico a letter for his master. The address, in a neat, flowing, elegant script, appeared to have been written by a woman’s hand. The priest took the letter and stared at it. His fingers burned, his hands trembled. A dreadfully alluring vision of a half-naked woman passed through his mind, and he thought he heard in his ear the seductive and frightful echo of a voice that whispered, ‘Give me your love, Don Giuseppe, give me your love!’ The priest desperately wanted at all costs to know who had sent the letter, but the peasant was surely well on his way by now, and Menico had not noticed which direction he had taken.
‘Anyway,’ remarked the old man, shrugging his shoulders, ‘open it and you’ll see who’s written it.’
The priest went ahead and tore open the envelope, unfolding the sheets of paper, of which there were several, with an attitude of dread. But he quickly brightened, and sat down to read the letter. It was from Signora Carlina, the doctor’s wife:
‘Dear Father,
I have need of all your patience and indulgence. Good, kind Don Giuseppe, you’ve been so sweet to me in recent months that I have no hesitation in opening my heart to you completely, in all its sadness, doubts and fears. When I feel that I am not behaving as I should, you chide or comfort me, but above all you give me guidance, for my experience being so limited and I of such a timid disposition, unfortunately, that not only can I not make up my mind to act, but often I don’t really know which path to choose. Bear with me, Father.
I’m eighteen: I ought to be almost a matron by now, yet until only three months ago, until my wedding-day, I had lived like a child, with my father, a good but most austere man, and my mother, the devoted housewife. We never saw anybody. I had no enthusiasm for reading. I embroidered. I liked cookery books, indeed I willingly spent time in the kitchen, bringing, I confess, to the art of cooking, especially sweet dishes (you must come and try one, Don Giuseppe, the first day you have time – arrange it with Amilcare), bringing to it, as I say, a touch of ambition. Besides, I was said to be of delicate health. You, Father, sometimes stare into my face with a look full of compassion, as though to say, “The poor girl is so thin and pale!” Amilcare has, as he puts it, “listened” to me several times, and found not the least trace, he says, of any illness. The fact is that I never have to stay in bed, and I can seriously claim to be a great walker, a real alpinist. And that reminds me, I would like you to persuade Amilcare not to make me walk so much. When he goes into the mountains visiting his patients, he almost always wants me to go with him. Yesterday, when it was so sunny, at about two in the afternoon, he took me along the mule-track shortcuts as far as Masine: an hour and a half’s climb, and such a rocky climb! When we reached the village I made straight for a seat in a corner of the church, a damp and cheerless church where I had to wait a good two hours before Amilcare had finished doling out remedies and drawing blood, and meanwhile I felt quite numbed by the freezing-cold air. I haven’t the courage to say no. Amilcare quite rightly says that walking stimulates the appetite, and that I need building up and ought to eat more, especially meat, and to drink at least one glass of wine. But I really dislike wine, it’s no affectation to say so, and tiredness robs me of even the little desire to eat that I would have had.
Father, you know the circumstances of my marriage. Am
ilcare is my only cousin. I can honestly say that he was the only young man who ever came to visit our house during the autumn months. He’s kind, and handsome, and well-mannered, with his own lively way of talking. He studied hard, and in Vienna he distinguished himself. He graduated and became the local medical officer in this valley. To cut a long story short, what daydreams I used to have! I would stay awake at night so as to be able to pursue my reveries, for it seemed to me that the whole day was not long enough for such infinitely precious thoughts. My father did not seem very happy. He was not very pleased that I was to marry a doctor. He said that all doctors are materialists, a word I did not really understand, but did not like at all. And he made out that living in this valley was as good as being buried: with eight months of winter, six feet of snow, the temperature thirteen degrees below freezing, no woman could leave the house, and she would have all the worry about her husband – the problems were endless. And inwardly I thought the opposite: for me, winter would be paradise: with two nice warm rooms, flowers by the stoves, my embroidery, my little kitchen, a few letters to Mama, and first and foremost, my ever-kind, ever-charming, ever-cheerful Amilcare! What long talks we would have, and how happy he would be to come home to his little house, and to his Carluccia, who would love him so much! Forgive me, Father, I’m such a silly goose. So we were married. The honeymoon was heavenly, and the first month in this valley delightful. To tell the truth, however, even from the start Amilcare used to smoke a little too much, fouling the air in the bedroom. I didn’t say anything, but sometimes I found it hard to breathe, and felt slightly queasy. But it was nothing serious. My husband loved me. He was always talking about the future, when we would move to a city, and his name would become famous, and he would earn so much money, and be showered with honours, and throw big parties, where I was to be dressed like a real queen. I wasn’t very happy about this last bit: I’ve never had much inclination for social gatherings. Certain little things already made me apprehensive, upset me slightly; he was at fault.
Senso (And Other Stories) Page 13