VI
A few weeks before Muzzio’s return, Fabio had
begun a portrait of his
wife, depicting her with the attributes of Saint
Cecilia. He had made con-
siderable advance in his art; the renowned Luini,
a pupil of Leonardo da
Vinci, used to come to him at Ferrara, and while
aiding him with his own
counsels, pass on also the precepts of his great
master. The portrait was
almost completely finished; all that was left was
to add a few strokes to the
face, and Fabio might well be proud of his
creation. After seeing Muzzio
off on his way to Ferrara, he turned into his
studio, where Valeria was
usually waiting for him; but he did not find her
there; he called her, she
did not respond. Fabio was overcome by a secret
uneasiness; he began
looking for her. She was nowhere in the house;
Fabio ran into the garden,
and there in one of the more secluded walks he
caught sight of Valeria.
She was sitting on a seat, her head drooping on to
her bosom and her
hands folded upon her knees; while behind her,
peeping out of the dark
green of a cypress, a marble satyr, with a
distorted malignant grin on his
face, was putting his pouting lips to a Pan’s
pipe. Valeria was visibly re-
lieved at her husband’s appearance, and to his
agitated questions she re-
plied that she had a slight headache, but that it
was of no consequence,
and she was ready to come to sit to him. Fabio led
her to the studio, posed
her, and took up his brush; but to his great
vexation, he could not finish
the face as he would have liked to. And not
because it was somewhat pale
and looked exhausted ... no; but the pure, saintly
expression, which he
liked so much in it, and which had given him the
idea of painting Valeria
as Saint Cecilia, he could not find in it that
day. He flung down the brush
at last, told his wife he was not in the mood for
work, and that he would
not prevent her from lying down, as she did not
look at all well, and put
the canvas with its face to the wall.
 |
| Saint Cecilia |
Valeria
agreed with him that she ought
to rest, and repeating her complaints of a headache,
withdrew into her
bedroom. Fabio remained in the studio. He felt a
strange confused sensa-
tion incomprehensible to himself. Muzzio’s stay
under his roof, to which
he, Fabio, had himself urgently invited him, was
irksome to him. And not
that he was jealous—could any one have been
jealous of Valeria!—but he
did not recognise his former comrade in his
friend. All that was strange,
unknown and new that Muzzio had brought with him
from those distant
lands—and which seemed to have entered into his
very flesh and blood—
all these magical feats, songs, strange drinks,
this dumb Malay, even the
spicy fragrance diffused by Muzzio’s garments, his
hair, his breath—all
this inspired in Fabio a sensation akin to
distrust, possibly even to timid-
ity. And why did that Malay waiting at table stare
with such disagreeable
intentness at him, Fabio? Really any one might
suppose that he under-
stood Italian. Muzzio had said of him that in
losing his tongue, this Malay
had made a great sacrifice, and in return he was
now possessed of great
power. What sort of power? and how could he have
obtained it at the
price of his tongue? All this was very strange!
very incomprehensible! Fabio
went into his wife’s room; she was lying on the
bed, dressed, but was not
asleep. Hearing his steps, she started, then again
seemed delighted to see
him just as in the garden. Fabio sat down beside
the bed, took Valeria by
the hand, and after a short silence, asked her,
‘What was the extraordinary
dream that had frightened her so the previous night?
And was it the same
sort at all as the dream Muzzio had described?’
Valeria crimsoned and said
hurriedly: ‘O! no! no! I saw ... a sort of monster
which was trying to tear
me to pieces.’ ‘A monster? in the shape of a man?’
asked Fabio. ‘No, a
beast ... a beast!’ Valeria turned away and hid
her burning face in the
pillows. Fabio held his wife’s hand some time
longer; silently he raised it
to his lips, and withdrew.
Both the young people passed that day with heavy
hearts. Something
dark seemed hanging over their heads ... but what
it was, they could not
tell. They wanted to be together, as though some
danger threatened them;
but what to say to one another they did not know.
Fabio made an effort to
take up the portrait, and to read Ariosto, whose
poem had appeared not
long before in Ferrara, and was now making a noise
all over Italy; but
nothing was of any use.... Late in the evening,
just at supper-time, Muzzio
returned.
VII
He seemed composed and cheerful—but he told them
little; he devoted
himself rather to questioning Fabio about their
common acquaintances,
about the German war, and the Emperor Charles: he
spoke of his own
desire to visit Rome, to see the new Pope. He
again offered Valeria some
Shiraz wine, and on her refusal, observed as
though to himself, ‘Now it’s
not needed, to be sure.’ Going back with his wife
to their room, Fabio
soon fell asleep; and waking up an hour later,
felt a conviction that no one
was sharing his bed; Valeria was not beside him.
He got up quickly and at
the same instant saw his wife in her night attire
coming out of the garden
into the room. The moon was shining brightly,
though not long before a
light rain had been falling. With eyes closed,
with an expression of myste-
rious horror on her immovable face, Valeria approached
the bed, and feel-
ing for it with her hands stretched out before
her, lay down hurriedly and
in silence.
Fabio turned to her with a question,
but she made no reply; she
seemed to be asleep. He touched her, and felt on
her dress and on her hair
drops of rain, and on the soles of her bare feet,
little grains of sand. Then
he leapt up and ran into the garden through the
half-open door. The
crude brilliance of the moon wrapt every object in
light. Fabio looked
about him, and perceived on the sand of the path
prints of two pairs of
feet—one pair were bare; and these prints led to a
bower of jasmine, on
one side, between the pavilion and the house. He
stood still in perplexity,
and suddenly once more he heard the strains of the
song he had listened
to the night before. Fabio shuddered, ran into the
pavilion.... Muzzio was
standing in the middle of the room playing on the
violin. Fabio rushed up
to him.
‘You have been in the garden, your clothes are wet
with rain.’
‘No ... I don’t know ... I think ... I have not
been out ...’ Muzzio answered
slowly, seeming amazed at Fabio’s entrance and his
excitement.
Fabio seized him by the hand. ‘And why are you
playing that melody
again? Have you had a dream again?’
Muzzio glanced at Fabio with the same look of
amazement, and said
nothing.
‘Answer me!’
‘“The moon stood high like a round shield ...
Like a snake, the river shines ...,
The friend’s awake, the foe’s asleep ...
The bird is in the falcon’s clutches.... Help!”’
muttered Muzzio, humming to himself as though in
delirium.
Fabio stepped back two paces, stared at Muzzio,
pondered a moment
... and went back to the house, to his bedroom.
Valeria, her head sunk on her shoulder and her
hands hanging lifelessly,
was in a heavy sleep. He could not quickly awaken
her ... but directly she
saw him, she flung herself on his neck, and
embraced him convulsively;
she was trembling all over. ‘What is the matter,
my precious, what is it?’
Fabio kept repeating, trying to soothe her. But
she still lay lifeless on his
breast. ‘Ah, what fearful dreams I have!’ she
whispered, hiding her face
against him. Fabio would have questioned her ...
but she only shuddered.
The window-panes were flushed with the early light
of morning when at
last she fell asleep in his arms.
VIII
The next day Muzzio disappeared from early
morning, while Valeria in-
formed her husband that she intended to go away to
a neighbouring mon-
astery, where lived her spiritual father, an old
and austere monk, in whom
she placed unbounded confidence.
 |
She intended to go away to
a neighboring mon-
astery...
|
To Fabio’s
inquiries she replied, that
she wanted by confession to relieve her soul,
which was weighed down by
the exceptional impressions of the last few days.
As he looked upon Valeria’s
sunken face, and listened to her faint voice,
Fabio approved of her plan;
the worthy Father Lorenzo might give her valuable
advice, and might
disperse her doubts.... Under the escort of four
attendants, Valeria set off
to the monastery, while Fabio remained at home,
and wandered about the
garden till his wife’s return, trying to
comprehend what had happened to
her, and a victim to constant fear and wrath, and
the pain of undefined
suspicions.... More than once he went up to the
pavilion; but Muzzio had
not returned, and the Malay gazed at Fabio like a
statue, obsequiously
bowing his head, with a well-dissembled—so at
least it seemed to Fabio—
smile on his bronzed face. Meanwhile, Valeria had
in confession told ev-
erything to her priest, not so much with shame as
with horror. The priest
heard her attentively, gave her his blessing,
absolved her from her involun-
tary sin, but to himself he thought: ‘Sorcery, the
arts of the devil ... the
matter can’t be left so,’ ... and he returned with
Valeria to her villa, as
though with the aim of completely pacifying and
reassuring her. At the
sight of
the priest Fabio was thrown into some agitation;
but the experi-
enced old man had thought out beforehand how he
must treat him. When
he was left alone with Fabio, he did not of course
betray the secrets of the
confessional, but he advised him if possible to
get rid of the guest they had
invited to their house, as by his stories, his
songs, and his whole behaviour
he was troubling the imagination of Valeria.
Moreover, in the old man’s
opinion, Muzzio had not, he remembered, been very
firm in the faith in
former days, and having spent so long a time in
lands unenlightened by the
truths of Christianity, he might well have brought
thence the contagion of
false doctrine, might even have become conversant
with secret magic arts;
and, therefore, though long friendship had indeed
its claims, still a wise
prudence pointed to the necessity of separation.
Fabio fully agreed with the
excellent monk. Valeria was even joyful when her
husband reported to her
the priest’s counsel; and sent on his way with the
cordial good-will of both
the young people, loaded with good gifts for the
monastery and the poor,
Father Lorenzo returned home.
Fabio intended to have an explanation with Muzzio
immediately after
supper; but his strange guest did not return to
supper. Then Fabio de-
cided to defer his conversation with Muzzio until
the following day; and
both the young people retired to rest.
IX
Valeria soon fell asleep; but Fabio could not
sleep. In the stillness of the
night, everything he had seen, everything he had
felt presented itself more
vividly; he put to himself still more insistently
questions to which as be-
fore he could find no answer. Had Muzzio really
become a sorcerer, and
had he not already poisoned Valeria? She was ill
... but what was her
disease? While he lay, his head in his hand,
holding his feverish breath,
and given up to painful reflection, the moon rose
again upon a cloudless
sky; and together with its beams, through the
half-transparent window-
panes, there began, from the direction of the
pavilion—or was it Fabio’s
fancy?—to come a breath, like a light, fragrant
current ... then an urgent,
passionate murmur was heard ... and at that
instant he observed that
Valeria was beginning faintly to stir. He started,
looked; she rose up, slid
first one foot, then the other out of the bed, and
like one bewitched of the
moon, her sightless eyes fixed lifelessly before
her, her hands stretched out,
she began moving towards the garden! Fabio
instantly ran out of the other
door of the room, and running quickly round the
corner of the house,
bolted the door that led into the garden.... He
had scarcely time to grasp
at the bolt, when he felt someone trying to open
the door from the inside,
pressing against it ... again and again ... and
then there was the sound of
piteous passionate moans....
‘But Muzzio has not come back from the town,’
flashed through Fabio’s
head, and he rushed to the pavilion....
What did he see?
Coming towards him, along the path dazzlingly
lighted up by the moon’s
rays, was Muzzio, he too moving like one moonstruck,
his hands held out
before him, and his eyes open but unseeing....
Fabio ran up to him, but
he, not heeding him, moved on, treading evenly,
step by step, and his
rigid face smiled in the moonlight like the
Malay’s. Fabio would have
called him by his name ... but at that instant he
heard, behind him in the
house, the creaking of a window.... He looked
round....
Yes, the window of the bedroom was open from top
to bottom, and putting
one foot over the sill, Valeria stood in the
window ... her hands seemed to be
seeking Muzzio ... she seemed striving all over
towards him....
Unutterable fury filled Fabio’s breast with a
sudden inrush. ‘Accursed sor-
cerer!’ he shrieked furiously, and seizing Muzzio
by the throat with one
hand, with the other he felt for the dagger in his
girdle, and plunged the
blade into his side up to the hilt.
Muzzio uttered a shrill scream, and clapping his
hand to the wound,
ran staggering back to the pavilion.... But at the
very same instant when
Fabio stabbed him, Valeria screamed just as
shrilly, and fell to the earth
like grass before the scythe.
Fabio flew to her, raised her up, carried her to
the bed, began to speak to
her....
She lay a long time motionless, but at last she
opened her eyes, heaved a
deep, broken, blissful sigh, like one just rescued
from imminent death,
saw her husband, and twining her arms about his
neck, crept close to him.
‘You, you, it is you,’ she faltered. Gradually her
hands loosened their hold,
her head sank back, and murmuring with a blissful
smile, ‘Thank God, it
is all over.... But how weary I am!’ she fell into
a sound but not heavy
sleep.
X
Fabio sank down beside her bed, and never taking
his eyes off her pale
and sunken, but already calmer, face, began
reflecting on what had hap-
pened ... and also on how he ought to act now.
What steps was he to take?
If he had killed Muzzio—and remembering how deeply
the dagger had
gone in, he could have no doubt of it—it could not
be hidden. He would
have to bring it to the knowledge of the archduke,
of the judges ... but
how explain, how describe such an incomprehensible
affair? He, Fabio,
had killed in his own house his own kinsman, his
dearest friend? They will
inquire, What for? on what ground?... But if
Muzzio were not dead?
Fabio could not endure to remain longer in
uncertainty, and satisfying
himself that Valeria was asleep, he cautiously got
up from his chair, went
out of the house, and made his way to the
pavilion. Everything was still in
it; only in one window a light was visible. With a
sinking heart he opened
the outer door (there was still the print of
blood-stained fingers on it, and
there were black drops of gore on the sand of the
path), passed through
the first dark room ... and stood still on the
threshold, overwhelmed with
amazement.
In the middle of the room, on a Persian rug, with
a brocaded cushion
under his head, and all his limbs stretched out
straight, lay Muzzio, covered
with a wide, red shawl with a black pattern on it.
His face, yellow as wax,
with closed eyes and bluish eyelids, was turned
towards the ceiling, no breath-
ing could be discerned: he seemed a corpse. At his
feet knelt the Malay, also
wrapt in a red shawl. He was holding in his left
hand a branch of some
unknown plant, like a fern, and bending slightly
forward, was gazing fixedly
at his master. A small torch fixed on the floor
burnt with a greenish flame,
and was the only light in the room. The flame did
not flicker nor smoke.
The Malay did not stir at Fabio’s entry, he merely
turned his eyes upon him,
and again bent them upon Muzzio. From time to time
he raised and low-
ered the branch, and waved it in the air, and his
dumb lips slowly parted and
moved as though uttering soundless words. On the
floor between the Malay
and Muzzio lay the dagger, with which Fabio had
stabbed his friend; the
Malay struck one blow with the branch on the
blood-stained blade. A minute
passed ... another. Fabio approached the Malay,
and stooping down to him,
asked in an undertone, ‘Is he dead?’ The Malay
bent his head from above
downwards, and disentangling his right hand from
his shawl, he pointed
imperiously to the door. Fabio would have repeated
his question, but the
gesture of the commanding hand was repeated, and
Fabio went out, indig-
nant and wondering, but obedient.
He found Valeria sleeping as before, with an even
more tranquil expres-
sion on her face. He did not undress, but seated
himself by the window,
his head in his hand, and once more sank into
thought. The rising sun
found him still in the same place. Valeria had not
waked up.
(See the next blog entry for a continuation of the story)
