III

Thus, Violetta Kutufa made a conquest of Pescara. For more than a

month performances of the opera of the Cavalier Petrella, continued

with ever increasing popularity. The theatre was always full, even

packed. Applause for Leonora broke out furiously at the end of every

song. A singular phenomenon occurred; the entire population of Pescara

seemed seized with a species of musical mania; every Pescarenican soul

became inclosed in the magic circle of one single melody, that of the

butterfly that sports among the flowers.

In every corner, at every hour, in every way, in every possible

variation, on every instrument, with an astounding persistency,

that melody was repeated; and the person of Violetta Kutufa became

the symbol of those musical strains, just as—God pardon the

comparison—the harmony of the organ suggests the soul of paradise.

The musical and lyrical comprehension, which in the southern people

is instinctive, expanded at this time without limit. The street gamins

whistled everywhere; all the amateur musicians put forth their efforts,

Donna Lisitta Menuma played the tune on the harpsichord from dawn

until dusk, Don Antonio Brattella played it on the flute, Don Domenico

Quaquino, on the clarionette, Don Giacomo Palusci, the priest, on an

old rococo spinet, Don Vincenzio Rapagneta on his violoncello, Don

Vincenzio Ranieri on the trumpet, Don Nicola d’Annunzio, on his violin.

From the towers of Sant’ Agostino to the Arsenal, and from Pescheria

to Dogana the multifold sounds mingled together and became a discord.

In the early hours of the afternoon the district had the appearance of

some large hospital for incurable madness. Even the grinders sharpening

knives on their wheels tried to maintain a rhythm in the shriek of the

metal and the whetstone.

As it was the time of the carnival, a public festival was given in the

theatre. Shrove Thursday, at ten in the evening, the room blazed with

wax-candles, smelt strongly of myrtle and glittered with mirrors. The

masked revellers entered in crowds. Punchinellos predominated. From a

platform enveloped in green draperies, marked with constellations of

stars of silver paper, the orchestra began to play and Don Giovanni

Ussorio entered.

He was dressed like a grandee of Spain, and had the appearance of a

very fat Count of Lara. A blue cap with a long, white plume covered his

baldness, a short coat of red velvet garnished with gold rippled over

his shoulders. This costume accentuated the prominence of his stomach

and the skinniness of his legs. His locks, shining with cosmetic oils,

resembled an artificial fringe bound around his cap, and they were

blacker than usual.

An impertinent Punchinello, on passing him, cried in a disguised voice:

“How funny!”

He made a gesture of horror, so clownish, at this metamorphosis of

“Don Giovanni,” that much laughter burst forth from everyone in the

vicinity. La Cicarina, all red paint under the black hood of her

domino, like a beautiful flower of the flesh, laughed sonorously, while

she tripped with two ragged harlequins.

Don Giovanni, filled with anger, lost himself in the crowd and sought

Violetta Kutufa. The sarcasms of the other revellers pursued and

wounded him. Suddenly he encountered another grandee of Spain, another

count of Lara. He recognised Don Antonio Brattella and, at this,

received a thrust in the heart. Already, between these two men, rivalry

had broken loose.

“How is the medlar?” Don Donato Brandimarte screamed venomously,

alluding to the fleshy protuberance that the member of the Areopagus of

Marseilles had on his left ear. Don Giovanni took a fierce pleasure in

this insult.

The rivals met face to face, scanned each other from head to foot, and

kept their respective stations, the one always slightly withdrawn from

the other, as they wandered through the crowd.

At eleven, an agitated flutter passed over the crowd. Violetta Kutufa

entered. She was dressed in Mephistophelian costume, in a black domino

with long scarlet hood, and with a scarlet mask over her face. The

round, swan-like chin, the thick red mouth, shone through her thin

veil. The eyes, lengthened and rendered slightly oblique because of the

mask, seemed to smile.

All instantaneously recognised her and almost all made way for her; Don

Antonio Brattella advanced caressingly on one side. On the other came

Don Giovanni; Violetta Kutufa made a hasty survey of the rings that

adorned the fingers of the latter, then took the arm of Brattella.

She laughed and walked with a certain sprightly undulation of the hips.

Brattella, while talking to her in his customary, silly, vainglorious

manner, called her “Contessa,” and interspersed their conversation with

the lyrical verses of Giovanni Peruzzini.

She laughed and leaned toward him, and pressed his arm suggestively,

since the weaknesses of this ugly, vain man amused her. At a certain

point, Brattella, when repeating the words of the Count of Lara in the

melodrama of Petrella, said or rather sang submissively:

“Shall I then hope?”

Violetta Kutufa answered in the words of Leonora:

“Who forbids you...? Good-bye.”

Then, seeing Don Giovanni not far away, she detached herself from this

bewitching chevalier, and fastened upon the other, who already for some

time had pursued with eyes full of envy and dislike, the windings of

this couple through the crowd of dancers.

Don Giovanni trembled like a youth under the glance of his first

sweetheart. Then, seized with a superabundant pride, he drew the opera

singer into the dance. He whirled breathlessly around, with his nose

against the woman’s chest, his cloak floating out behind, his plume

fluttering to the breeze, streams of perspiration mixed with cosmetic

oils filtering down his temples.

Exhausted, he stopped at length. He reeled with giddiness. Two hands

supported him and a sneering voice whispered in his ear, “Don Giovà,

stop and recover your breath for a minute!”

The voice was that of Brattella, who in turn drew the fair lady into

the dance. He danced, holding his left arm arched over his hips,

beating time with his feet, endeavouring to appear as light as a

feather, with motions meant to be gracious, but instead so idiotic, and

with grimaces so monkey-like, that everywhere the laughter and mockery

of the Punchinellos began to pelt down upon him.

“Pay a cent to see it, gentlemen!”

“Here is the bear of Poland that dances like a Christian! Gaze on him,

gentlemen!”

“Have a medlar? Have a medlar?”

“Oh, see! See! An orangoutang!”

Don Antonio Brattella controlled himself with much dignity, still

continuing his dance. Other couples wheeled around him.

The room was filled with all kinds of people, and in the midst of the

confusion the candles burned on, with their reddish flames lighting up

the festoons of immortelles. All of this fluttering reflected itself in

the mirrors.

La Ciccarina, the daughter of Montagna, the daughter of Suriano, the

sisters Montarano, appeared and disappeared, while enlivening the crowd

with the beams of their fresh country loveliness. Donna Teodolinda

Pomarici, tall and thin, clothed in blue satin, like a madonna,

permitted herself to be borne about in a state of transport as her

hair, loosened from its bands, waved upon her shoulders. Costanzella

Coppe, the most agile and indefatigable of the dancers, and the palest,

flew from one extremity of the room to the other in a flash; Amalia

Solofra, with hair almost aflame in colour, clothed like a rustic,

her audacity almost unequalled, had her silk waist supported by a

single band that outlined the connecting point of her arm; and during

the dance, at intervals, one could see dark stains under her armpits.

Amalia Gagliano, a beautiful, blue-eyed creature, in the costume of

a sorceress, resembled an empty coffin walking vertically. A species

of intoxication held sway over all these girls. They were fermenting

in the warm, dense air, like adulterated wine. The laurel and the

immortelles gave out a singular odour, almost ecclesiastical.

The music ceased, now all mounted the stairs leading to the

refreshment-room. Don Giovanni Ussorio came to invite Violetta to

the banquet. Brattella, to show that he had reached a state of close

intimacy with the opera-singer, leaned toward her and whispered

something in her ear, and then fell to laughing about it. Don Giovanni

no longer heeded his rival.

“Come, Contessa,” he said, with much ceremony, as he offered his arm.

Violetta accepted. Both mounted the stairs slowly with Don Antonio in

the rear.

“I am in love with you!” Don Giovanni hazarded, trying to instil

into his voice that note of passion, rendered familiar to him by the

principal lover of a dramatic company of Chieti.

Violetta Kutufa did not answer. She was amusing herself by watching the

concourse of people near the booth of Andreuccio, who was distributing

refreshments, while shouting the prices in a loud voice as if at a

country-fair. Andreuccio had an enormous head with polished top, a

nose that curved wondrously over the projection of his lower lip; he

resembled one of those large paper lanterns in the shape of a human

head. The revellers ate and drank with a bestial greediness, scattering

on their clothes crumbs of sweet pastry and drops of liquor. On seeing

Don Giovanni, Andreuccio cried, “Signor, at your service.”

Don Giovanni had much wealth, and was a widower without blood

relations; for which reasons everybody was desirous to be of service to

him and to flatter him.

“A little supper,” he answered. “And take care...!” He made an

expressive sign to indicate that the thing must be excellent and rare.

Violetta Kutufa sat down, and with a languid effort removed her mask

from her face and opened her domino a little. Her face, surrounded by

the scarlet hood, and animated with warmth, seemed even more saucy.

Through the opening of the domino one saw a species of pink tights that

gave a suggestion of living flesh.

“Your health!” exclaimed Don Pompeo Nervi, lingering before the

well-furnished table, and seating himself at length, allured by a plate

of juicy lobsters.

Then Don Tito de Sieri arrived and took a place without ceremony;

also Don Giustino Franco, together with Don Pasquale Virgilio and Don

Federico Sicoli appeared. The group of guests at the table continued to

swell. After much tortuous tracing and retracing of his steps, even Don

Antonio Brattella came finally. These were, for the most part, habitual

guests of Don Giovanni; they formed about him a kind of adulatory

court, gave their votes to him in the town elections, laughed at every

witticism of his, and called him by way of nickname, “The Director.”

Don Giovanni introduced them all to Violetta Kutufa. These parasites

set themselves to eating with their voracious mouths bent over their

plates.

Every word, every sentence of Don Antonio Brattella was listened to

in hostile silence. Every word, every sentence of Don Giovanni, was

recognised with complacent smiles and nods of the head. Don Giovanni

triumphed in the centre of his court. Violetta Kutufa treated him with

affability, now that she felt the force of his gold; and now, entirely

free from her hood, with her locks slightly dishevelled on forehead

and neck, she indulged in her usual playfulness, somewhat noisy and

childish. Around them the crowd moved restlessly.

In the centre of it, three or four harlequins walked on the pavement

with their hands and feet, and rolled like great beetles. Amalia

Solofra, standing upon a chair, with her long arms bare to the elbows,

shook a tambourine. Around her a couple hopped in rustic fashion,

giving out short cries, while a group of youths stood looking on with

eager eyes. At intervals, from the lower room ascended the voice of Don

Ferdinando Giordano, who was ordering the quadrille with great bravado.

“Balance! Forward and back! Swing!”

Little by little Violetta Kutufa’s table became full to overflowing.

Don Nereo Pica, Don Sebastiano Pica, Don Grisostomo Troilo and others

of this Ussorian court arrived; even to Don Cirillo d’Amelio, Don

Camillo d’Angelo and Don Rocco Mattace.

Many strangers stood about with stupid expressions, and watched them

eat. Women were envious. From time to time a burst of rough laughter

arose from the table, and from time to time corks popped and the foam

of wine overflowed.

Don Giovanni took pleasure in splashing his guests, especially the

bald ones, in order to make Violetta laugh. The parasites raised their

flushed faces, and, still eating, smiled at their “Director” from under

the foamy rain. But Don Antonio Brattella, having taken offence, made

as if to go. All of the feasters opposite him gave a low cry like a

bark.

Violetta called, “Stay.” Don Antonio remained. After this he gave a

toast rhyming in quintains. Don Federico Sicoli, half intoxicated,

gave a toast likewise in honour of Violetta and of Don Giovanni, in

which he went so far as to speak of “divine shape” and “jolly times.”

He declaimed in a loud voice. He was a man long, thin and greenish in

colour. He lived by composing verses of Saints’ days and laudations for

all ecclesiastical festivals. Now, in the midst of his drunkenness, the

rhymes fell from his lips without order, old rhymes and new ones. At

a certain point, no longer able to balance on his legs, he bent like a

candle softened by heat and was silent.

Violetta Kutufa was overcome with laughter. The crowd jammed around the

table as if at a spectacle.

“Let us go,” Violetta said at this moment, putting on her mask and hood.

Don Giovanni, at the culmination of his amorous enthusiasm, all red and

perspiring, took her arm. The parasites drank the last drop and then

arose confusedly behind the couple.