Pleasure

by Gabriele D'annunzio

  His father had given him, among others, this fundamental maxim: “One must fashion one’s life, as one fashions a work of art. A man’s life must be of his own making. This is where true superiority lies.”

  Additionally, his father would warn him: “One must preserve, at every cost, one’s liberty; keep it whole, to the point of exhilaration. The rule of a man of intellect is this:—Habere, non haberi.”3

  He also used to say: “Regret is the fruitless pasture of an idle mind. One must avoid regret above all things, always keeping the mind occupied with new sensations and new imaginings.”

  But these voluntary maxims, which by their ambiguity could also be interpreted as high moral criteria, fell upon an involuntary nature, namely, in a man whose willpower was extremely weak.

  Another paternal seed had perfidiously borne fruit in Andrea’s soul: the seed of sophistry. “The sophism,” that incautious educator would say, “is at the base of every human pleasure and pain. To intensify and multiply sophisms is therefore equal to intensifying and multiplying one’s pleasure or pain. Perhaps the knowledge of life is to be found in the obscuring of truth. The word is a profound thing, in which for the man of intellect inexhaustible richness is hidden. The Greeks, craftsmen of the word, are in fact the most exquisite hedonists of all antiquity. The sophists flourished in great number in the century of Pericles, in the golden age.”

  Such a seed had found fertile ground in the morbid genius of the young man. Little by little, in Andrea falsehood had become not so much toward others as toward himself a habit so inherent to his conscience that he had reached a point where he could never be completely sincere, and could no longer regain his self-control.

  After the premature death of his father, he found himself alone at the age of twenty-one, commanding a considerable fortune, distanced from his mother, under the sway of his passions and his tastes. He remained in England for fifteen months. His mother remarried to an old lover of hers. And he came to Rome, for which he had a predilection.

  Rome was his great love: not the Rome of the Caesars but that of the popes; not the Rome of the arches, of the thermal baths, of the forums, but the Rome of the villas, of the fountains, of the churches. He would have given the entire Colosseum for Villa Medici, Campo Vaccino for Piazza di Spagna, the Arch of Titus for the Fontanella delle Tartarughe. The princely magnificence of the Colonnas, of the Dorias, of the Barberinis attracted him vastly more than the ruins of imperial grandeur. And his great dream was to possess a palace adorned by Michelangelo and embellished by the Caraccis, like Palazzo Farnese; a gallery full of paintings by Raphael, Titian, Domenichino, like the Galleria Borghese; a villa like that of Alessandro Albani where the deep box hedges, the red Oriental granite, the white Luni marble, the Grecian statues, the Renaissance paintings, the memories themselves of the place would cast a spell around one of his haughty lovers. At the home of his cousin the Marchioness of Ateleta, in an album of society confessions, alongside the question “What would you like to be?” he had written “Roman prince.”

  When he arrived in Rome toward the end of September 1884, he established his abode in the Palazzo Zuccari at Trinità de’ Monti, above that delightful Catholic tepidarium where the shadow of the obelisk of Pius VI marks the passage of Time. He spent the whole month of October absorbed in the decoration of his home; then, when the rooms were adorned and ready, he went through a few days of invincible sadness in his new house. It was an Indian summer, a springtime of the dead,4 grave and sweet, in which Rome reclined, entirely golden like a city of the Far East, under an almost milky sky, as diaphanous as the heavens mirrored in the southern seas.

  That languor of air and light where all things appear almost to lose their reality and become immaterial gave the young man an infinite exhaustion, an inexpressible sense of discontent, discomfort, solitude, emptiness, nostalgia. This vague malaise came perhaps from the change in climate, in habits, in occupation. The soul converts ill-defined impressions of the organism into psychic phenomena, in the way that dreams convert, according to their nature, events that occur during sleep.

  Certainly, he was entering into a new phase. Would he finally find the woman and the work capable of taking charge of his heart, and of becoming his purpose? He had inside himself neither the confidence of strength nor the expectation of glory or happiness. Completely permeated and saturated with art as he was, he had not yet produced any work of note. Avid for love and pleasure, he had not yet loved anyone completely nor taken innocent pleasure in anything. Tormented by an Ideal, he did not yet have its image well defined at the forefront of his thoughts. Detesting pain by nature and by education, he was vulnerable and accessible to pain in every part of himself.

  In the tumult of his contradictory inclinations he had lost all will and all morality. In abdicating his will, he had ceded power to his instincts; his aesthetic sense had substituted his moral sense. But precisely this aesthetic sense, extremely keen and powerful and constantly active, maintained a certain equilibrium in his spirit; hence one could say that his life was a constant struggle between opposing forces enclosed within the limits of a certain equilibrium. Men of intellect, educated in the cult of Beauty, always preserve even in the basest depravities a type of order. The concept of Beauty is, one could say, the axis of their interior being, around which all their passions gravitate.

  Atop his sadness, the memory of Costantia Landbrooke still floated vaguely, like a faded scent. Conny’s love had been a very fine love; and she had been a very pleasant woman. She appeared to be a creation of Thomas Lawrence; she possessed all the particular feminine graces that are dear to that painter of furbelows, laces, velvets, shining eyes, semi-open mouths; she was a second incarnation of the little Countess of Shaftesbury. Vivacious, loquacious, extremely fickle, lavish with childish diminutives and pealing laughter, easily prone to sudden tenderness, instant melancholy, rapid ire, she brought to a love affair much movement, much variety, and many whims. Her most lovable quality was freshness, a tenacious, constant freshness, at all hours of the day. When she awoke after a night of pleasure, she was all fragrant and clean as if she had just emerged from the bathtub. Her figure indeed appeared to Andrea’s memory in a particular pose: with her hair partially loose on her neck and gathered partially atop her head with a comb patterned with a Greek design in gold; her irises swimming in white, like a pale violet in milk; her mouth open, dewy, all lit up by her teeth shining in the rosy blood of her gums, in the shadow of the screens, which diffused a glow over the bed that was something between pale blue and silver, similar to the light of a sea cave.

  But the melodious chirping of Conny Landbrooke had passed over Andrea’s soul like one of those light musical pieces that leaves its refrain in the mind for some time. More than once she had said to him, in one of her evening depressions, with her eyes misted in tears: “I know you love me not . . .”5 In fact, he did not love her; he was not satisfied by her. His feminine ideal was less Nordic. Ideally, he felt attracted to one of those sixteenth-century courtesans who seem to wear some magic veil over their faces, a transparent enchanted mask, almost an obscure nocturnal charm, the divine horror of Night.

  Meeting the Duchess of Scerni, Donna Elena Muti, he had thought: Here is my woman. His entire being felt an upliftment of joy in the anticipation of possessing her.

  The first encounter had been at the house of the Marchioness of Ateleta. The salons of this cousin of Andrea’s, who lived in Palazzo Roccagiovine, were very well attended. Her attraction lay especially in her witty cheerfulness, the freedom of her movements, her indefatigable smile. The joyful features of her face recalled certain feminine profiles in the drawings of the young Moreau, or in Gravelot’s vignettes. In her manner, in her tastes, in her dress style, there was something Pompadouresque, not without some affectation, because she did have a singular resemblance to Louis XV’s favorite mistress.

  Every Wednesday, Andrea Sperelli had a place at the march
ioness’s dining table. One Tuesday evening, in a box at the Valle Theater, the marchioness had laughingly said to him:

  —Mind that you don’t miss tomorrow, Andrea. We have among our guests an interesting person, or rather, fatal. Therefore, arm yourself against the spell . . . You are in a moment of weakness.

  He had answered her, laughing:

  —I shall come vulnerable, if you don’t mind, cousin; rather, dressed as a victim. It’s an outfit I wear as a seduction ploy, which I’ve been wearing for many evenings; in vain, alas!

  —The sacrifice is at hand, cousin!

  —The victim is ready!

  The following evening he came to Palazzo Roccagiovine some minutes earlier than the customary hour, with a marvelous gardenia in his buttonhole and a vague disquiet at the base of his soul. His coupé had stopped in front of the main door, because the porte-cochère was already occupied by another carriage. The liveries, the horses, all the ceremony that accompanied the lady’s descent had the stamp of a great noble family. The count glimpsed a tall and slim figure, a hairstyle shot through with many diamonds, a small foot placed on the step. Then, as he, too, was ascending the stairs, he saw the lady from behind.

  She was going up before him, slowly, with a supple and measured pace. Her mantle lined with a snowy fur, like swansdown, no longer held up by its clasp, was lying loosely around her upper body, leaving her shoulders bare. Her shoulders emerged, pale as polished ivory, divided by a soft hollow with shoulder blades that, disappearing below the lace of her bodice, had a brief curve, like the sweet slope of wings; and from her shoulders rose her neck, agile and rounded; and from the nape of her neck her hair, gathered into a coil, folded over at the crown of her head to form a knot held in place by jeweled hairpins.

  That harmonious ascension of the unknown woman gave such intense delight to Andrea’s eyes that he stopped for an instant on the first landing to admire her. Her train rustled heavily on the stairs. Her manservant walked behind her, not in the wake of his lady on the red carpet, but to one side, along the wall, with an irreprehensible composure. The contrast between that magnificent creature and that rigid automaton was highly bizarre. Andrea smiled.

  In the antechamber, while the manservant was taking her mantle, the woman cast a rapid glance toward the young man who was entering. He heard being announced:

  —Her Excellency the Duchess of Scerni!

  Immediately afterward:

  —The Lord Count Sperelli-Fieschi of Ugenta!

  And it pleased him that his name was uttered alongside the name of that woman.

  In the reception room, the Marquis and Marchioness of Ateleta, the Baron and Baroness of Isola, and Don Filippo del Monte were already present. A fire burned in the fireplace; some couches were arranged in the glow of its heat; four musae palms stretched their wide red-veined leaves over the low backrests.

  The marchioness, coming forward to the two who by now were standing next to each other, said with her lovely, inextinguishable laugh:

  —As chance would have it, there’s no need to introduce the two of you. Cousin Sperelli, bow to the divine Elena.

  Andrea bowed deeply. The duchess gracefully offered him her hand, looking him in the eyes.

  —I am very glad to meet you, Count. A friend of yours spoke to me so much about you at Lucerne last summer: Giulio Musèllaro. I was, I confess, a bit curious . . . Musèllaro also lent me your exceedingly rare Fable of Hermaphrodite to read, and gave me as a gift your etching of Sleep, a proof mark, a treasure. You have in me a cordial admirer. Remember that.

  She spoke, pausing now and again. Her voice was so caressing that it gave the impression almost of a carnal embrace; and she had that involuntary loving and voluptuous gaze that agitates all men and immediately provokes desire in them.

  A manservant announced:

  —Cavalier Sakumi!

  And the eighth and final dinner guest appeared.

  He was a secretary of the Japanese Legation, small in stature, yellowish, with protruding cheekbones, long and slanting eyes, veined with blood, over which his eyelids constantly blinked. His body was too broad compared with his too-thin legs; and he walked with his feet turned inward, as if a belt were wound tightly around his hips. The tails of his dress coat were too wide; his trousers had many creases; the tie he wore bore very visible signs of an inexpert hand. He looked like a daimyo6 hauled out of one of those suits of armor made of iron and lacquer that resemble the shells of monstrous crustaceans, then stuffed into the garments of a Western waiter. But even with his awkwardness he had a sharp expression, a kind of ironic refinedness at the corners of his mouth.

  Halfway through the reception room, he bowed. His gibus7 fell out of his hand.

  The Baroness of Isola, a small blonde, her forehead covered in curls, graceful and coquettish like a young ape, said in her piercing voice:

  —Come here, Sakumi, here, next to me!

  The Japanese cavalier went forward, smiling and bowing over and over again.

  —Will we see Princess Issé this evening? Donna Francesca of Ateleta asked him. She liked to gather in her salons the most bizarre exemplars of the exotic colonies in Rome, for the sake of picturesque variety.

  The Asiatic spoke a barbaric language, barely intelligible, of English, French, and Italian mixed together.

  Everyone, all at once, began to talk. It was almost a chorus, in the midst of which now and then there could be heard, like gushes of silver spurts, the fresh peals of laughter of the marchioness.

  —I have certainly seen you before; I don’t remember where, I don’t remember when, but I have certainly seen you, Andrea Sperelli said to the duchess, standing very straight in front of her. —While I was watching you walk up the stairs, in the depths of my memory an indistinct recollection was reawakening, something that took form following the rhythm of your ascent, like an image springing from a musical aria . . . I have not yet managed to see the memory clearly; but, when you turned around, I felt that your profile had an undoubted correspondence to that image. It could not be an augury; it was therefore a strange phenomenon of memory. I have most certainly seen you, before. Who knows! Maybe in a dream, maybe in a work of art, maybe in another world, in a previous existence . . .

  Uttering these last phrases, overly sentimental and chimeric, he laughed openly as if to thwart an incredulous or ironic smile from the woman. Elena, instead, remained serious. Was she listening or thinking about something else? Did she accept that kind of talk or was she mocking him with that seriousness? Did she mean to indulge the act of seduction initiated by him with such care, or was she withdrawing into indifference or uncaring silence? Was she, in short, able to be conquered by him or not? Andrea, perplexed, examined this mystery. In those who have the habit of seduction, especially the bold, this perplexity provoked by women who remain silent is well known.

  A manservant opened the great door that led into the dining hall.

  The marchioness placed her arm in that of Don Filippo del Monte and entered the hall first. The others followed.

  —Let’s go, said Elena.

  It seemed to Andrea that she was leaning on him with some abandon. Was it not an illusion brought about by his desire? Perhaps. He tended toward doubt; but, with every moment that passed, he felt a sweet spell conquer him ever more deeply; and with every moment he grew more anxious to penetrate the woman’s soul.

  —Cousin, over here, said Donna Francesca, assigning him his place.

  At the oval table he was seated between the Baron of Isola and the Duchess of Scerni with Cavalier Sakumi facing him. The latter was seated between the Baroness of Isola and Don Filippo del Monte. The marquis and marchioness were at each head. Porcelain, silver, crystal, and flowers glittered on the table.

  Very few women could compete with the Marchioness of Ateleta in the art of giving dinner parties. She put more care into preparing a table than i
nto her clothing. The exquisiteness of her taste was apparent in every object; and she was, truly, the arbiter of convivial elegance. Her fantasy and refined taste could be seen reflected in all the dinner tables of Roman nobility. She had, that winter, introduced the fashion of chains of flowers suspended from one side of the table to another, threaded through the great candelabra; and also the fashion of the slender vase of Murano glass, pale and shifting like an opal, containing one single orchid, placed between the various glasses in front of each diner.

  —Diabolical flower, said Donna Elena Muti, taking the glass vase and observing from close up the bloodred and deformed orchid.

  Her voice was so rich in tonalities that even the most vulgar words and the most common phrases appeared to take on, uttered by her mouth, an occult meaning, a mysterious accent and a new grace. In the same manner, King Midas turned everything he touched to gold.

  —A symbolic flower, in your hand, Andrea murmured, gazing at the lady, who in that pose was wondrous to behold.

  She was wearing a fabric of an exceedingly pale sky blue scattered with silver dots that sparkled beneath antique white Burano lace, an indefinable white, tending slightly toward fawn, but so slightly that it could barely be perceived. The flower, almost unnatural, as if made by some evil spell, waved about on its stalk, protruding from the fragile tube that its creator had surely forged with one breath into a liquid jewel.

  —But I prefer roses, Elena said, replacing the orchid with a gesture of revulsion that contrasted with her previous act of curiosity.

  Then she threw herself into the general conversation. Donna Francesca was talking about the latest reception given at the Austrian Embassy.