Chapters 6-10 The Song of Triumphant Love by Ivan Turgenev

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)