A few days after, Violetta Kutufa was inhabiting an apartment in one
of Don Giovanni’s houses on the town square, and much hearsay floated
through Pescara. The company of singers departed from Brindisi without
the Countess of Amalfi. In the solemn, quiet Lenten days, the Pescaresi
took a modest delight in gossip and calumny. Every day a new tale made
the circuit of the city, and every day a new creation arose from the
popular imagination.
Violetta Kutufa’s house was in the neighbourhood of Sant’ Agostino,
opposite the Brina palace and adjoining the palace of Memma. Every
evening the windows were illuminated and the curious assembled beneath
them.
Violetta received visitors in a room tapestried with French fabrics on
which were depicted in French style various mythological subjects. Two
round-bodied vases of the seventeenth century occupied the two sides
of the chimney-piece. A yellow sofa extended along the opposite wall
between two curtains of similar material. On the chimney-piece stood a
plaster Venus and a small Venus di Medici between two gilt candelabra.
On the shelves rested various porcelain vases, a bunch of artificial
flowers under a crystal globe, a basket of wax fruit, a Swiss cottage,
a block of alum, several sea-shells and a cocoanut.
At first her guests had been reluctant, through a sense of modesty,
to mount the stairs of the opera singer. Later, little by little, they
had overcome all hesitation. Even the most serious men made from time
to time their appearance in the _salon_ of Violetta Kutufa; even men
of family; and they went there almost with trepidation, with furtive
delight, as if they were about to commit a slight crime against their
wives, as if they were about to enter a place of soothing perdition
and sin. They united in twos and threes, formed alliances for greater
security and justification, laughed among themselves and nudged one
another in turn for encouragement. Then the stream of light from
the windows, the strains from the piano, the song of the Countess of
Amalfi, the voices and applause of her guests excited them. They were
seized with a sudden enthusiasm, threw out their chests, held up their
heads with youthful pride and mounted resolutely, deciding that after
all one had to taste of life and cull opportunities for enjoyment.
But Violetta’s receptions had an air of great propriety, were almost
formal. She welcomed the new arrivals with courtesy and offered
them syrups in water and cordials. The newcomers remained slightly
astonished, did not know quite how to behave, where to sit, what to
say. The conversations turned upon the weather, on political news,
on the substance of the Lenten sermons, on other matter-of-fact and
tedious topics.
Don Giuseppe Postiglioni spoke of the pretensions of the Prussian
Prince Hohenzollern to the throne of Spain; Don Antonio Brattella
delighted in discoursing on the immortality of the soul and other
inspiring matters. The doctrine of Brattella was stupendous. He spoke
slowly and emphatically, from time to time, pronouncing a difficult
word rapidly and eating up the syllables. To quote an authentic
report, one evening, on taking a wand and bending it, he said: “Oh,
how fleible!” for flexible; another evening, pointing to his plate and
making excuses for not being able to play the flute, he vouchsafed: “My
entire p-l-ate is inflamed!” and still another evening, on indicating
the shape of a vase, he said that in order to make children take
medicine, it was necessary to scatter with some sweet substance the
_origin_ of the glass.
At intervals Don Paolo Seccia, incredulous soul, on hearing singular
matters recounted, jumped up with: “But Don Antò, what do you mean to
say?”
Don Antonio repeated his remark with a hand on his heart and a
challenging expression, “My testimony is ocular! Entirely ocular.” One
evening he came, walking with great effort and carefully, painstakingly
prepared to sit down; he had “a cold, the length of the spine!” Another
evening he arrived with the right cheek slightly bruised; he had fallen
“underhand”; in other words, he had slipped and struck his face on the
ground. Thus were the conversations of these gatherings made up. Don
Giovanni Ussorio, always present, had the airs of a proprietor; every
so often he approached Violetta with ostentation and murmured something
familiarly in her ear. Long intervals of silence occurred, during which
Don Grisostomo Troilo blew his nose and Don Federico Sicoli coughed
like a consumptive, holding both hands to his mouth and then shaking
them.
The opera-singer revived the conversation with accounts of her
triumphs at Corfu, Ancona and Bari. Little by little she grew animated,
abandoned herself to her imagination; with discreet reserve she spoke
of princely “_amours_,” of royal favours, of romantic adventures; she
thus evoked all of those confused recollections of novels read at other
times, and trusted liberally to the credulity of her listeners. Don
Giovanni at these times turned his eyes upon her full of inquietude,
almost bewildered; moreover experiencing a singular irritation that had
an indistinct resemblance to jealousy. Violetta at length ended with a
stupid smile and the conversation languished anew.
Then Violetta went to the piano and sang. All listened with profound
attention; at the end they applauded. Then Don Brattella arose with
the flute. An immeasurable melancholy took hold of his listeners at
that sound, a kind of swooning of body and soul. They rested with heads
lowered almost to their breasts in attitudes of sufferance. At last all
left, one after the other. As they took the hand of Violetta a slight
scent from the strong perfume of musk remained on their fingers, and
this excited them further. Then, once more in the street, they reunited
in groups, holding loose discourse. They grew inflamed, lowered their
voices and were silent if anyone drew near. Softly they withdrew from
beneath the Brina palace to another part of the square. There they
set themselves to watching Violetta’s windows, still illuminated.
Across the panes passed indistinct shadows; at a certain time the
light disappeared, traversed two or three rooms and stopped in the
last window. Shortly, a figure leaned out to close the shutters. Those
spying thought they recognised in it the figure of Don Giovanni. They
still continued to discuss beneath the stars and from time to time
laughed, while giving one another little nudges, and gesticulating.
Don Antonio Brattella, perhaps from the reflection of the city-lamps,
seemed a greenish colour. The parasites, little by little in their
discourse spit out a certain animosity toward the opera-singer, who
was plucking so gracefully their lord of good times. They feared lest
those generous feasts might be in peril; already Don Giovanni was more
sparing of his invitations.
“It will be necessary to open the eyes of the poor fellow. An
adventuress! Bah! She is capable of making him marry her. Why not? And
then what a scandal!”
Don Pompeo Nervi, shaking his large calf’s head, assented:
“You are right! You are right! We must bethink ourselves.”
Don Nereo Pica, “The Cat,” proposed a way, conjured up schemes; this
pious man, accustomed to the secret and laborious skirmishes of the
sacristy was crafty in the sowing of discord.
Thus these complainers treated together and their fat speeches
only returned again into their bitter mouths. As it was spring the
foliage of the public gardens smelt and trembled before them with
white blossoms and through the neighbouring paths they saw, about to
disappear, the figures of loosely-dressed prostitutes.
V
When, therefore, Don Giovanni Ussorio, after having heard from Rosa
Catana of the departure of Violetta Kutufa, re-entered his widower’s
house and heard his parrot humming the air of the butterfly and the
bee, he was seized by a new and more profound discouragement.
In the entrance a girdle of sunlight penetrated boldly and through
the iron grating one saw the tranquil garden full of heliotropes. His
servant slept upon a bench with a straw hat pulled down over his face.
Don Giovanni did not wake the servant. He mounted the stairs with
difficulty, his eyes fixed upon the steps, pausing every now and then
to mutter: “Oh, what a thing to happen! Oh, oh, what luck!”
Having reached his room he threw himself upon the bed and with his
mouth against the pillows, began again to weep. Later he arose; the
silence was deep and the trees of the garden as tall as the window
waved slightly in the stillness. There was nothing of the unusual in
the things about him; he almost wondered at this.
He fell to thinking and remained a long time calling to mind the
positions, the gestures, the words, the slightest motions of the
deserter. He saw her form as clearly as if she were present. At every
recollection his grief increased until at length a kind of dulness
benumbed his mind. He remained sitting on the bed, almost motionless,
his eyes red, his forehead blackened from the colouring matter of his
hair mixed with perspiration, his face furrowed with wrinkles that
had suddenly become more evident; he had aged ten years in an hour, a
change both amusing and pathetic.
Don Grisostomo Troilo, who had heard the news, arrived. He was a man
of advanced age, of short stature and with a round, swollen face from
which spread out sharp, thin whiskers, well waxed and resembling the
two wings of a bird. He said:
“Now, Giovà, what is the matter?”
Don Giovanni did not answer, but shook his shoulders as if to repel all
sympathy. Don Grisostomo then began to reprove him benevolently, never
speaking of Violetta Kutufa.
In came Don Cirillo d’Amelio with Don Nereo Pica. Both, on entering,
showed almost an air of triumph.
“Now you have seen for yourself, Don Giovà! We told you so! We told
you so!” they cried. Both had nasal voices and a cadence acquired from
the habit of singing with the organ, because they belonged to the choir
of the Holy Sacrament. They began to attack the character of Violetta
without mercy. She did this and that and the other thing, they said.
Don Giovanni, outraged, made from time to time a motion as if he would
not hear such slanders, but the two continued. Now, also, Don Pasquale
Virgilio arrived, with Don Pompeo Nervi, Don Federico Sicoli, Don Tito
de Sieri; almost all of the parasites came in a group. Supporting one
another they became ferocious. Did he not know that Violetta Kutufa had
abandoned herself to Tom, Dick and Harry...? Indeed she had! Indeed!
They laid bare the exact particulars, the exact places.
Now Don Giovanni heard with eyes afire, greedy to know, invaded by a
terrible curiosity. These revelations instead of disgusting him, fed
his desire. Violetta seemed to him more enticing, even more beautiful;
and he felt himself inwardly bitten by a raging jealousy that blended
with his grief. Presently the woman appeared in his mind’s eye
associated with a certain soft relaxation. That picture made him giddy.
“Oh Dio! Oh Dio! Oh! Oh!” He commenced to weep again. Those present
looked at one another and restrained their laughter. In truth the grief
of that man; fleshy, bald, deformed, expressed itself so ridiculously
that it seemed unreal.
“Go away now!” Don Giovanni blubbered through his tears.
Don Grisostomo Troilo set the example; the others followed him and
chattered as they passed down the stairs.
Toward evening the prostrated man revived little by little. A woman’s
voice called at his door: “May I come in, Don Giovanni?”
He recognised Rosa Catana’s voice and experienced suddenly an
instinctive joy. He ran to let her in. Rosa Catana appeared in the dusk
of the room.
“Come in! Come in!” he cried. He made her sit down beside him, had
her talk to him, asked her a thousand questions. He seemed to suffer
less on hearing that familiar voice in which, under the spell of an
illusion, he found some quality of Violetta’s voice. He took her hands
and cried:
“You helped her to dress! Did you not?”
He caressed those rugged hands, closing his eyes and wandering
slightly in his mind on the subject of those abundant, unbound locks
that so many times he had touched with his hands. Rosa at first
did not understand. She believed this to be some sudden passion of
Don Giovanni, and withdrew her hands gently, while she spoke in an
ambiguous way and laughed. But Don Giovanni murmured:
“No, no!... Stay! You combed her, did you not? You bathed her, did you
not?”
He fell to kissing Rosa’s hands, those hands that had combed, bathed
and clothed Violetta. He stammered, while kissing them, composed verses
so strange that Rosa could scarcely refrain from laughter. But at last
she understood and with feminine perception forced herself to remain
serious, while she summed up the advantages that might ensue from this
foolish comedy. She grew docile, let him caress her, let him call her
Violetta, made use of all that experience acquired from peeping through
key-holes many times at her mistress’s door; she even sought to make
her voice more sweet.
In the room one could scarcely see them. Through the open windows
a red reflection entered and the trees in the garden, almost black,
twisted and turned in the wind. From the sloughs around the arsenal
came the hoarse croak of the frogs. The noises of the city street were
indistinct.
Don Giovanni drew the woman to his knees, and, completely confused
as if he had swallowed some very’ strong liquor, murmured a thousand
childish nothings and babbled on without end, drawing her face close to
his.
“Ah, darling little Violetta!” he whispered. “Sweetheart! Don’t
go away, dear...! If you go away your Nini will die, Poor Nini...!
Ban-ban-ban-bannn!”
Thus he continued stupidly, as he had done before with the
opera-singer. Rosa Catana patiently offered him slight caresses, as
if he were a very sick, perverted child; she took his head and pressed
it against her shoulder, kissed his swollen, weeping eyes, stroked his
bald crown, rearranged his oiled locks.