Beati Paoli

by Luigi Natoli

part four, chapter 13

Italiano

English

Emanuele's wedding parties lasted two days. On the second day they took place in the palace of the prince of Geraci, who did not want to be less than his illustrious companion. The people had their share. Following the traditions of their homes, the two lords wanted the people to participate in their joy, more or less deep and there were in the plan of Bologna, as already on the Walls of the Bad, improvised fountains that poured wine, and cuccagna full of panierini with what could be enough for the last days of carnival a poor devil to dance. There were handfuls of coins thrown out of the balcony over the crowd who fought them with fists, among the great laughter of the noble majestic lords, and to the glory of the spouses.

These, however, did not seem to be moved by all this nor by the rich lunches, nor by the lordly dances, nor by the boxers of the people.

Violante saw with gruesome approach the hour when all those parties would end. Emanuele was still under the impression of the boldness and words of woman Gabriella. The apparition of that Woman had awakened all his greeds of possession, revenge, vengeance, hatred.

Two hours after midnight on Monday, the two married couple were accompanied to the Palazzo della Motta, which after so long saw its halls reopen again to the masters and were left there with the most fervent wishes.

Violante returned to that large and vast palace where she had been owner by hereditary right, where she was now nothing but the master's wife; she returned to that palace so full of painful memories, where her father had died. Nothing had been renovated from the ancient distribution of the rooms and furniture. The large double bedroom, with the alcove framed with friezes and stuccoes, with the large wrought iron bed with glazed leaves of blue, rose and gold; the curtains of crimson damask, the large silver filigree reliquary inside the case of turtle and gold; the inlaid chest, with the handles of golden bronze, the closed desk, the small damask canapÈ, the oval mirror in its golden cardboard frame; the picture of the Madonna a bit blackened.... Everything was there, as she had seen it, in her childhood, as they had handed down for two or three generations, intact, as a family tradition and from everything the memories of her life arose.

There she was born in that room; there her mother died, of which she kept no memory in her mind, but only a small miniature.

In a moment all her life appeared before her memory as one of those great canvases of the ancient painters, in which around the main figure, all the events of her existence, from birth to death, are historized in small paintings. His unsuspecting and happy childhood in the monastery of Montevergini; his stepmother, the rat, the sudden and miraculous intervention of Blasco; the castle where she and woman Gabriella had been kidnapped; the death of his father, murdered... And every painting in this story put Blasco before her and her stepmother with him... She saw the knife in Gabriella's hand and then saw Gabriella herself in soft abandonment on Blasco's chest... A lively and acute pain was renewed in her heart, which in those four years seemed to have become addicted to the idea that everything was dead and forgotten; the wound that she thought closed opened again bleeding, in that room and in front of that bed, where she seemed to see the two faces, that of woman Gabriella and that of Blasco drowsed on the same pillow, as she had found herself one morning, the sweetest of her mornings, in the room of the villa.

Now she went into that room too, but with another man and the hands that pushed her were those of Blasco!... Blasco that she had loved, Blasco that had betrayed her. He sold it? Sold to Emanuele, perhaps, to have the right to call himself Albamonte? Maybe to have a state?

The words of the heavenly dominion still resonated in her ear: Her father's faults and Blasco's will had thrown her into the arms of Emanuele. What faults? What was your father guilty of? Of the mixed half - news, heard here and there about the mouths, they either mingled or mingled in his mind. He remembered all that had been said at the appearance of Emanuele on the scene of aristocratic society; this legitimate cramp, suddenly emerged from the shadows, the day his father was murdered. The words: usurpation, crime, Beati Paoli, on whom she had not stopped, and whose meaning she had not understood, returned to her memory, freezing her blood. It seemed to her that neither Emanuele nor Blasco were strangers to those so frightening facts, that, suddenly, they had made her an orphan and had kicked her out of that palace, where she was now the wife of one of those two, because of complicity with the other.

His soul was oppressed by all the pains and despairs. That marriage now seemed more hateful to her than ever before, and all the rebellions held back by a resigned pain were now bursting out of their minds with violence that made her bold.

Emanuele was there, on the threshold of the room, on which she had stopped surprised by all those ideas; she was behind her, so close that they almost touched each other. He never seemed so disgusting to her, as hateful as he was at the time.

He looked at him gloomily.

He seemed to be overwhelmed by an idea, too. The idea of that marriage, of having to spend life with that girl who didn't give him even a shudder of sensuality, scared him. To cross that threshold, to embrace that woman, because it was imposed on him, and because at least for that first time it was necessary, it seemed to him something that exceeded his own strength.

He did not know how to overcome his deep aversion.

That house, in which he returned as a lord and had never lived, still preserved the memory of a woman Gabriella and he felt a kind of anger against that woman who did not had been able and able to possess.

He too looked at Violante, without being able to restrain the feelings that stirred his chest and gave him an expression of reluctance, resentment.

They did not resolve to say a word, which, perhaps, were read between their lips.

Emanuele broke the silence first:

"It is superfluous, I believe, to tell you that these weddings I did not desire and much less urged and that only the will of our relatives imposed them on us."

"I know, sir," said Violante, satisfied with the tone of the speech, and to which those words "will of relatives" recalled the others of the heavenly domino "the will of Blasco."

"I'm glad; this saves explanations... There is no bond of feeling between us. I am sorry to have to say this, but I do not feel for you what is said love and I would like to warn you from now on that our relationships will be those strictly necessary so that the lineage of the Albamonte does not become extinct..."

Violant didn't understand. She completely ignored what these relations could be and looked at Emanuele with some amazement:

"I don't know what you want to talk about," he said; "but it is good that I tell you loyally, that I don't love you either, and that I will never love you..." Emanuele blushed, point in his own love. He wanted for himself only the right to reject and reject the maiden, and that statement irritated him.

"I don't care," he said; "I do not seek or ask for your love, nor will I ever ask for it. In fact, except for those relationships, we'll live like two strangers. I intend to enjoy all my freedom, without you having the right to grieve or to plead with me..."

"But I have nothing but pain, sir: to be bound to you forever... And as for living like two strangers, that is what I long for. I beg you to let me set my maiden's room: I give this to you, because it arouses too painful memories in me..."

Emanuele nodded with the chief.

"This is indifferent to me. This or other is the same thing, although I have more convenient pairs that you stay here, but this will be discussed below. Now that we understand each other, since I don't think you want to spend the night talking here, on the threshold of the room, please undress and go to bed."

Violent blush of shame: a flap of reality was discovered. Trembling, he said to him:

"But I am not sleepy, sir; and I will be well seated..."

"It's not about being sleepy," Emanuele said with a wrinkled smile.

He stayed a minute waiting for an answer that wasn't coming, and he repeated:

"We can't spend the night sitting like this talking..."

The girl sensed the danger. The flames of modesty confused those of indignation and repugnance.

"I don't understand why I can't..."

"But you'll understand later, damn it!... Besides, they're not things they say..." come on, go to bed..."

Violent became gloomy, but he took a resolution:

"Well, get out of here, sir..."

Emanuel smiled, raised his shoulders rudely and said:

"Here's a stupid thing; but be it. I'll settle for that."

He went out, adding:

"Be quick. You won't leave me out..."

But Violante closed the door with a lock.

Fearing the pitfalls and surprises of Beati Paoli, Don Raimondo had equipped the doors of the rooms and the windows of iron poles, which made them safe. Violante barred him out, mentally thanking God for that defense and felt confident.

Emanuel first heard the screaming of the key and the lock and laughed; then he heard the sound of the staff and became suspicious.

"What are you doing?" he asked behind the door.

Violant didn't answer. He waited a little, then knocked and said through the door:

"Woman Violante... well, why don't you open up yet?"

But no answer came to him. Violante had curled up in a corner, pressing with her hands the tumultuous heart for the emotion. The door was solid, the windows were also pressed: In order to get in, you had to break the taxes in the dark, and that would put the palace in a revolution.

And Emanuel waited a moment, and shook the door in vain, to try to open it: and he called with an angry voice, saying,

"Woman Violante! Woman Violante! But open up, for God's sake!" Then she answered.

"Leave me alone. I won't open. There's no point in screaming and letting the servants hear you. Don't make any scandals."

He served his fists blaspheming, and he was about to beat a couple of kicks that would break through the door, but he realized that it would expose him to ridicule: The bondage would come, they would understand what it was, they would have had the most crazy laughs, and the story would have been known throughout the city, adding to those of his misadventure with woman Gabriella. There was only one way: That of leaving: from husband rejected take the appearance of husband rejecting; which, by saving him, could also affect Violant. But the point, the vanity, the anger in him that took the place of every reasonable feeling, kept him there, behind that door, between yes and no.

He insisted a little more: Then he took a resolution, the least noisy he could, so as not to expose himself to the comments of the bondage. He went through two or three rooms, entered Don Raimondo's ancient study, which kept the austere silence of science between the high shelves full of books and plunged into a large armrested chair, in front of the table, like one who has a great idea to fix on paper.

The three-beaked lamp, which he had laid on the table, threw a reddish light in the middle of the room, while the rest of the study remained in an uncertain shadow. On the ceiling, in a large stucco box, was painted the coat of arms of the Albamonte; in front of the table, between the shelves hung from the wall a large portrait of Don Raimondo, in the robe of president of the great criminal court with a hand leaning on a book, perhaps the constitutions of the kingdom, the other on the side, with a gesture of dominion. In the penumbra one could not see the features well, but one guessed in the thin line of the mouth and in the corner of the jaw that I know nothing but feline and perfidious that made the blood freeze to see it.

He recognized him. He was the man who shamelessly threw him into the prisons of the Castle at sea and of whom he had now married his daughter for a game of chance. Emanuele had never forgotten that ignominious "horse," and every time a reawakening of memories reminded him of it, he felt the blood in his head. Now the image of that man stood before him and associated himself with that of his daughter, from whom he received a treatment that seemed no less abusive than that torment; and in the same sense of hatred he enveloped his father and daughter.

And now, comparing the appearances of Violante, cold and sad, with those of Don Raimondo, he seemed to see in both something common: the same sharp and threatening expression. So he had the maiden inherited from his father? Was he able to throw a dagger between his kidneys, pretending to embrace him?

"Tomorrow, - he thought, - I'll have that portrait removed; I'll have it thrown into the attic. Why did they leave him to you? Why didn't they tell me?"

But he was lying. Two days earlier, invited to see if everything was well ordained in the palace he was going to live in, had seen the portrait and had made no observation. Maybe he looked at him distractedly, worried as he was about the next unsighed wedding.

"I'm gonna make the rats nibble."

It was the only revenge he could take of that man. But the bride?

What would the bride do? Indeed, he was amazed that he felt nothing but an effervescence of hatred for the person, but no true deep resentment for the act. He didn't want it? But in this they were even. He didn't want her either. What offended him was the chess given him by the girl he wanted to get revenge on, indeed he had to, for many reasons, and revenge had to be full, open, complete.

In the meantime it was necessary not to leak to the eyes of the servant anything of what had passed that first wedding night, or if ever, to make believe the opposite of what had happened. He immersed himself in the search for how and ended up falling asleep in the high chair, under the immobile gaze of the portrait that seemed to guard him.

The bellies of the goats who came early in the morning to bring milk to the city raised it up. He feared to be discovered by the servants and to let guess that he had spent the night outside the wedding room. He returned to the anteroom, pretending to be out of his room just then, and pulled the bell cord.

His waiter rushed, marveling to see the master in the evening dress, instead of in the bedroom robe, but even more marveling at the feeling of ordering the porter.

"Your Excellency goes out? At this hour?"

"Shut up!" whispered Emanuele, with a meaningful smile; "lady Duchess sleeps; you don't have to wake her up... Have the ordinary porterina prepare..."

A quarter of an hour later he left his palace and was led by Mrs. Nina Manfredini, the famous first woman who during the carnival had sung at the theater of Santa Lucia dei Travaglini - as it was then called the Bellini - who, although he could not rival Santa Cecilia, the main opera house, nevertheless gave beautiful shows.

Emanuele, frequenter of the theater, had done an assiduous and lucky court to the first woman Mrs. Manfredini, and until the eve of the wedding he had gone to spend a few pleasant hours with you. Just kidding, she said to him,

"How much would I pay to see your lordship illustriously in his groom's dress!..."

Emanuele slipped a promise:

"Why wouldn't you see me?"

He had suddenly remembered his promise and had seen salvation there. They were gonna think he was a skunk, but he was gonna get rid of the ridiculous, and maybe he could've found an excuse for his runaway.

Mrs Manfredini had in that season sent in visible the young people of Palermo for her beauty and for her voice; and several had disputed her graces. But Emanuele had the advantage of having known her in Rome and for this he had been chosen as the natural protector of the lady.

The success had so satisfied the vanity of Emanuele, who had filled with gifts the beautiful singer, to the great satisfaction of her husband, who at first had not shown himself happy with the choice made by his wife.

The relationship had to end with the marriage of Emanuele, who coincided with the last performance of the Happy Deceptions of Scarlatti, in which Manfredini excelled and which was also the last performance of the theatrical season that lasted - at least in Palermo, at the time - for the carnival only.

On the last night that Emanuele had seen Manfredini, the beautiful woman had shed abundant tears of sorrow, which would have moved a stone, and had thoroughly excited the vanity of the young man: and it was between those tears and that concussion that she came out in that exclamation, and Emanuel let go of that promise to which he had attached himself.

Mrs. Nina was asleep when she was awakened by the blows at her door. She was no less surprised, sleepless as she was, seeing Emanuel appear before her, who, smiling and gallantly stretching out her hand, said to her:

"Here I am in my groom's dress..."

He seemed to be moved by this attention, which had the power to shut his mouth to the good man Manfredini husband, who actually did not wake up willingly to do the due honors to his wife's patron.

The astonishment of the bondage, when it was known that the Duke of Motta had spent the night in the singer's house, locking his wife, had no limit. The waiters almost mourned the bad fate of their mistress. But the amazement grew when, not feeling called yet, they saw that Violante had closed himself inside and refused to open.

Meanwhile, the close relatives began to arrive, to give the newlyweds the well-raised and the wishes of the masculine offspring. Then only, when he heard the voice of his grandparents, will Violante say the door. Her first words, without waiting for her grandparents to ask her to explain that novelty, were:

"Bring me back to the monastery, I beg you!..."

The prince laughed, interpreting in his own way the dismay and prayer of the maiden.

"Go! What is this childishness? It was supposed to be like this... but it's all over now..."

The princess embraced her smiling too, whispering a few words in her ear, but, at the astonished appearance of the girl, who had understood nothing, and who did not know what to answer, she remained as bald.

"But where is your husband?" he asked.

"My husband? But I didn't see him; he didn't sleep here; I don't want to."

"Oh..."

They then realized that the bed was intact.

"What does this mean?"