Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

I decided to answer her just to stop the flood of words.

‘Don’t worry, Argentovivo. I’ll see to Beatrice. There, that’s right, let’s carry her to her room.’

‘What about supper?’

‘Maybe it’s best if she sleeps.’

We carried her up to her room, but as soon as she was in bed Beatrice opened her eyes and said, ‘I’m hungry!’

‘You see how she acts, Signorina Modesta, you see?’

‘I’m hungry!’

‘Supper is served in the green drawing room.’

‘No, I want to eat here, with Modesta. Here, I said! Go on, go! And don’t say a word! One of these days I’m going to sew that mouth of yours shut. Shut up and go away. I want to eat here, with Modesta!’

I felt my blood run cold. I had never heard Cavallina utter harsh words, and her shouts thundered like those of the Princess.

‘Come here, Modesta. I purposely pretended to be asleep to make you come to my room. I was afraid you wouldn’t want to come. Do you like it?’

Saying that I did, very much, I moved closer and tried to guess how old she was. Up close like that, tiny wrinkles were beginning to line her pale forehead. Or was it those shouts that had aged her? I had never seen such transparent skin.

‘See, this is the mirror I told you about. See how bright and cheerful it is? Haven’t you made up your mind yet? And this is our grandmother. Look how beautiful she was! The Englishwoman, not an aristocrat but very wealthy, remember? None of us inherited her beauty, as Maman says. We only managed to inherit her money, or rather, steal it, she says. Grandfather was in sad straits, as is often the case with aristocrats. And so, again in Maman’s words, that ingenuous bourgeoise was providential in keeping the family afloat. She makes me laugh so when she says that all aristocrats are thieves! Beginning with the Savoia, who are aristocrats up to a certain point. How funny! She’s beautiful, isn’t she? She looks like Ignazio, doesn’t she?’

‘Yes, and Mother Leonora as well.’

‘You want to become a nun like her, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did your vocation come to you?’

‘In the convent.’

‘What exactly is a vocation? How does it feel? What do you hear?’

Not having any idea, I responded in the words of Mother Leonora: ‘It’s like the singing of birds.’

‘She too used to say that, Maman told me. I barely knew her. Maman also says that for Aunt Leonora it was a tragedy because she was rich and could have made a good match. But that for you it’s different. It’s good that you have this vocation because in the convent, with Mother Leonora’s modest stipend and trousseau, you’ll be better off than married to some servant or perhaps a lowly clerk. With your intelligence, she says, and with our support, you can even become Mother Superior.’

Argentovivo was right: her Princess had a keen eye.

‘That’s why she told me not to deter you from your vocation. Though I’m sorry about it, because it means that in three months you’ll go away, and I like being with you. I told her that, you know. But she said I should leave you in peace and that I’m impetuous. It’s true, somewhat … it’s a pity, though, because if you didn’t have a vocation you could stay here with me for ever, since I too will never be able to marry.’

‘Why not? You’re wealthy.’

‘Yes, yes, I know, but Maman says that no one must find out that a Brandiforti is a cripple. Many have asked to marry me. You see, all the Brandiforti up until Grandfather’s generation were fine-looking and healthy. Then something in the blood deteriorated. The first sign was the fact that the Englishwoman had only one child, my father … Then the birth of the “thing” who, as I told you, is in the room where the window is always closed. No one has ever seen him, not even me. Of course, there was Ignazio, handsome and strong, but Maman says that he too was rotten — his brain, that is. Maybe that’s why he died. So Maman says that our lineage must dry up like a river that is no longer fed by the Mountain. We’re from Catania. There, the Mountain bestows life with its snow and death with its lava. Maman says that she can recall seeing many other fertile estates and families wither and die out as willed by God and the Mountain.’

‘Good morning, signorina . Did you sleep well? The Principessina woke up fresh as a daisy this morning, fresh as a daisy! She wants you to know that the music teacher will be here after breakfast. You should see how excited she is about taking a lesson with you! Oh, since you’ve been here, the Principessina has flourished! Flourished, there’s no other word for it!.. Did you make up your mind about the mirror? She told me about the mirror, too.’

‘No, no mirrors.’

‘So be it. The Princess will be happy, but the Principessina will be sorry about it. She’s truly so disconsolate that she can’t take dance lessons with you too! Well! No mirrors. No dance lessons. Dancing isn’t appropriate for a nun. The Princess says it’s better that way!’

I had been right to be prudent. Imagine marrying a servant! Better a nun. Imagine becoming like that one ! Now that I knew, that cheerful exuberance of hers could be seen as raging envy obliged to masquerade behind humble words and jolly remarks. Those stubby fingers, the forced smile stuck onto the corners of her mouth, that body stuffed into that shapeless smock … Oh, no! She would keep her vocation. At least she could continue to study history, maths, the piano … The piano! Beatrice had said that her teacher had been a great Russian concert performer. And if she said he was good, it was definitely so. The tutor, too, had such a wealth of learning that Mother Leonora seemed ignorant by comparison. Philosophy … that she might not be able to study in the convent … She should find out. Such a rich, mysterious world ‘the world of ideas’ was; that’s what the tutor had said. He had also said:

‘Excellent, signorina , you associate concepts just like a man!’

Of course she had heard something about Plato from Mother Leonora, but the Sophists, the Epicureans … And that Greek philosopher who said that everything happened by chance … what was his name? She had to ask. The tutor would tell her.

To be able to ask without fear. This would not be possible in the convent. But at least she could read. In those few months she had to ask, ask that gentle, smiling old man. Too bad the tutor wasn’t young. She had been so hopeful, but by now she knew that the music teacher too would be an old man. In that house there were only women and old men. Who knows why Mother Leonora had fled this rich convent to retreat within those lava walls on the Mountain? In the end, it was the same thing …

‘What are you doing there in a daze? Thinking? Maybe you were praying. Sorry! I’m so eager to introduce you to maestro Beliajev. You’ll see, he’ll be thrilled about you!’

Beatrice swayed in the partly open doorway, one hand resting on the doorjamb, her fragile torso hidden by soft white folds. She almost always wore white.

‘Do you know, you look just like Doré’s Beatrice?’

‘You think so? I don’t remember her; what is it, a painting?’

‘No! The illustrations in the book down in the library.’

‘Oh, yes. That huge tome belonged to Papa. You notice everything. You think I look like her? You’ll have to show it to me later. Come on, give me your hand. You don’t want to? How come?’

How could I, after having held her in my arms? Just the thought of feeling her palms put me in peril of losing both prudence and my vocation. But it didn’t stop her. There she goes, grabbing my wrist with her quick hand. Good thing I tied the bands on properly this morning.