Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

Diderot warned against certain philosophers: ‘Great abstractions’ — he wrote — ‘glow with only a pale light. There is a type of obfuscation which could be defined as the affectation of the great masters . It serves as a veil which they enjoy drawing between nature and the public.’

Jacopo had underlined that last sentence, and next to it was the name of a certain Marx: which meant that he must be someone who said more or less the same thing. Maybe he was in the section where Voltaire was. Could he have been one of them?… Jacopo, Jacopo, his books, his fine handwriting, his serene brow in the photo, which did not belie his notes; his ashes in a vase to make it clear that he did not believe in any god and that he had died without fear.

‘ Uffa , how tiresome, Modesta! All you do is ask about Jacopo. I’ve told you everything! Besides, he travelled a lot, it’s not like he was always here. No, he never married. He didn’t want children; that much I know. Uffa! You have so little time for me now, why? I’m bored all morning without you!’

It was true; though recently, as I had foreseen, Beatrice had become less attentive toward me now that she was no longer worried about my leaving. As for me, having been advised by the Princess, I threw myself wholeheartedly into caring for Prince Ippolito, not only in the mornings, as I had before, but also in the afternoons. And since I spent almost the entire day with him and had grown used to sweet-scented surroundings — how quickly one learns to appreciate pleasurable things! — I couldn’t stand seeing him dirty. With Pietro’s help I managed to keep him clean. Pietro was very happy with the progress of his dear Prince. He was devoted to me by now and fawned over me like a puppy dog, hovering with his immense bulk.

‘By God, a woman is what was needed here! I did whatever I could, but the hand of a woman has a different touch, as my father used to say. Who would have thought that my signor Prince, in such a short time, would be eating with a fork. A miracle! A miracle that only a woman can perform! Even in my house, when my mother died, everything grew dim with dust and tears. And only when that sainted soul, my aunt, came to live with us did cleanliness and brightness return…’

‘You even go to the “thing” at breakfast time, Modesta! And I have to eat alone! Uffa , what a pain! Why?’

I responded to this refrain with one of my own. ‘Don’t get upset, Beatrice. It’s my obligation. Keep in mind that I was destined for the convent, and although I’ve learned to dance and dress properly, and spend my evenings with you, I have a duty to perform and nothing can come before this duty that Mother Leonora assigned me in place of my vocation.’

She sulked and grumbled, but meanwhile her interest in me came back even stronger. She didn’t know why, but I did. Hadn’t Mimmo always said: ‘ What do you expect, principessina? Even if the soup is tasty and served graciously, if that’s what you always have in front of you, you get tired of it…’

‘You don’t even come to tea anymore!’

In fact I didn’t like tea, and that way I avoided the Princess’s silence; her Monday morning shouting was enough for me. Besides, in addition to Ippolito, the accounts and the lessons, I had my own studying to do. I’m poor, right, Mimmo? Poor, and I have to become strong by reading and studying, finding in myself and others the key to not succumbing. There had been many who, born poor, had been saved by their intelligence and the strength that knowledge affords … There, spread out before me in rows in the immense library, their names shone on the brown and gold spines of those volumes.

Thanks to the doctor, a gentle old man who now gaped at me with constant reverence, I had obtained the Princess’s permission to open the window in that room. As a result, the air had swept away the terrible odour that no amount of scrubbing had ever been able to eliminate.

With Pietro watching over me and his dear Prince, that room was my home. No one could come in, and Pietro couldn’t read, so I could blithely take Jacopo’s books in there and study them undisturbed. Over time, I discovered that Ippolito was happy not only when I sang or told him stories, but also when I read aloud (maybe because I pronounced the words slowly, syllable by syllable). He listened, captivated, and I learned more and more, as Jacopo’s instructions guided me … So that even the tutor, whom I had thought was a genius only seven or eight months before, now seemed like an insignificant philistine who couldn’t be relied upon. And if Mother Leonora was merely a religeuse , he seemed like a poor Candide, happy and content with his servitude, full of enthusiasm and naivety. Voltaire said that to be naive at twenty was a sin. I was still naive, but I wasn’t twenty years old yet. I attended lessons, yes, but only to later dismantle them, strip them, and extract solely the concepts that could be of use to me. Ippolito listened happily, unaware of my efforts. Because it was an effort! My skirts hung loose at the waist and a strange sweat broke out when I helped Pietro bathe and dress Ippolito in the morning.

‘You’re a saint, Modesta, a saint! But you should take care of yourself; it’s alarming how thin you’ve become! Yes, I know, it’s your duty, but now you’re all mine, right? You’re not thinking about that ugly “thing” up there even now, are you? At least in the evening you’re all mine, right? Come on, let’s play…’

I too eagerly awaited evening. I wanted nothing more than to caress her and hold her in my arms. And even though I was tired, as soon as she touched my hair, my sleepiness vanished.

‘… Is it true that Ippolito eats with a fork? How did you do it?’

‘… Is it true that he lets himself be bathed? Yes, of course, Pietro bathes him, but you help him dress him, comb his hair. Argentovivo told me that Pietro has spruced himself up too.’

‘… What on earth do you do all those hours with him? Argentovivo says that Pietro told her that you read and the “thing” listens. Can it be?’

‘… Is it true you’ve managed to get him to pray? Father Antonio is happy to come and give him Holy Communion every Sunday.’

‘… Is he terribly ugly, Modesta? Is he really as monstrous as Nonna says?’

‘Of course not, Beatrice. Besides, no soul of God is monstrous. He’s just fat and stumpy, but his eyes are not exactly like Ti— I mean, they’re ugly but expressive.’

‘What are you thinking about, Modesta? You’re not thinking about him, are you? You don’t love him more than me, do you? Sometimes it makes me angry to think that you spend so many hours with him, that you comb his hair. You don’t caress him, do you? You don’t sing him a lullaby like you do for me, do you?’

‘What are you saying, Beatrice! Ippolito, even though he’s ill, is still a man! And I, although I didn’t go into the convent, will always be God’s bride, vowed to chastity.’

‘Good thing. That way at least I’ll always have you all to myself. I hate men.’

Of course. Even though he was ill, he was a man, and a prince. Beatrice was right. How come I hadn’t thought of it before? Had I been working, studying too hard? Or had the serenity I felt in Beatrice’s arms softened me, as Mimmo used to say? ‘ Eh, princess! When love is too great it makes you soft. It happened to me once. From the sturdy labourer I had been, I melted away like a candle. No living creature should surrender to it. ’

I used to run away when Mimmo talked like that. But was what I felt for Beatrice love? All those daunting books that spoke of love! They were delightful to read, but the passions they described were as fanatical, Voltaire would have said, as religious passion. Not to mention that for some reason, it was always the women who had to submit … Jacopo said the reason for it was that women are brought up only to love … She had to be wary of Beatrice and think about her own life. What had she done since she’d been in that villa? Of course she had studied, and she had won the Princess’s complete confidence, something she hadn’t hoped for. And although Carmine wouldn’t deign to glance at her, he had no choice but to accept her now.