The Manuscript Found in Saragossa (65 page)

Your aunt spoke to my mother about her uncle the Theatine, referring to him as a shrewd and wise man who would give her good advice about the dispensation. My mother showed deep gratitude to your aunt. She wrote to Father Sántez, who thought the affair to be so important that instead of replying, he came himself to Burgos, with an adviser to the nunciature, who bore an assumed name because of the secrecy which those involved in the negotiation wanted to maintain.

It was decided that Elvira would spend six more months in the noviciate, and that afterwards, when her vocation had altogether disappeared, she would have the status of a highly distinguished,
paying resident in the convent, with private service provided; that is, with women cloistered with her, and a house set up outside as if she lived in it. My mother would stay there with some lawyers, who would deal with the details of the guardianship. As for me, I was to leave for Rome with a tutor, and the adviser was to follow; this did not in fact happen, for I was thought too young to solicit a dispensation and two years went by before I left.

And what years they were! I could see Elvira in the parlour every day and spend the rest of my time writing to her or reading novels. This reading matter greatly helped me to write my letters. Elvira read the same works and replied in the same vein. There was little of ourselves in this correspondence. Our turns of phrase were borrowed but our love was very real, or at least we had a very marked taste for each other. The insurmountable obstacle of the grille, which always came between us, excited our desire. Our blood burned with all the fire of youth and the turmoil of our senses added to that which was already ruling our heads.

The time came when I had to leave. The moment of saying farewell was cruel. Our sorrow was neither rehearsed nor feigned and was close to frenzy. People feared for Elvira's life. My sorrow was no less powerful but I was better able to resist it than was she. The distractions of the journey did me a great deal of good. I also owed a great deal to my mentor, who wasn't a pedant plucked from the dust of a school but a retired officer who had even spent some time at court. He was called Don Diego Sántez and was quite closely related to the Theatine of that name. This man, who was as shrewd as he was urbane, used indirect means to bring my mind back to reality, but the habits of fiction were too deeply rooted in it.

We arrived in Rome, and our first task was to pay our respects to Monsignor Ricardi, a very influential man, especially well looked-on by the Jesuits, who were then setting the style in Rome. He was a grave, proud person with an imposing figure, which was set off by a cross of enormous diamond which sparkled on his chest.

Ricardi told us that he had been informed of our affair, that it required discretion and that we should not move much in polite society. ‘Meanwhile,' he said, ‘you would do well to come to my house. The interest I shall be seen to have in you will prove on your
part a modesty which will count in your favour. I have decided to sound out the minds of the sacred college on your behalf.'

We followed Ricardi's advice. I spent my mornings visiting Roman antiquities, and in the evenings I went to see the auditor in a villa which he had, close to the villa Barberini. The Marchesa Paduli presided over the house. She was a widow and lived with Ricardi because she had no closer relative. At least, that is what was said, because no one really quite knew. Ricardi was from Genoa and the person called the Marchese Paduli had died on service abroad.

The young widow possessed all the qualities to make the house pleasant: a great deal of amiability and a general air of politeness mixed with modesty and dignity. None the less I thought I saw in her a preference or even a fondness for me, which betrayed itself constantly, though only by signs invisible to the rest of the assembled company. I recognized in those signs the secret sympathies of which novels are formed and I felt sorry for La Paduli for directing such a feeling to a person who could not reciprocate it.

Meanwhile, I sought the conversation of the marchesa and was happy to set her on to my favourite subjects, that is, love, the different ways of loving and the differences between affection and passion, and between fidelity and constancy. But as I spoke of these grave matters to the pretty Italian the idea did not cross my mind that I could ever be unfaithful to Elvira and the letters which went off to Burgos were as ardent as before.

One day I was at the villa without my mentor. Ricardi was not at home. I walked in the gardens and entered a grotto in which I found La Paduli, plunged in deep reverie, from which she was roused by some sound I made as I came in. Her great surprise in seeing me appear might have almost made me suspect that I had been the subject of her dreams. She even had the frightened look of a person who wants to escape from some peril.

She composed herself, however, made me sit down and addressed to me the courteous inquiry customary in Italy: ‘Lei a girato questa mattina?'
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I replied that I had been to the Corso, where I had seen many women, the most beautiful of whom was the Marchesa Lepri.

‘Don't you know a more beautiful woman?' said La Paduli.

‘Forgive me,' I replied. ‘In Spain I know a young lady who is much more beautiful.' This reply seemed to upset Signora Paduli. She relapsed into her reverie, lowered her beautiful eyes and stared down at the ground with an expression of sadness.

To distract her I began another conversation, on the subject of affection.

At that she raised her languid eyes, looked at me and said, ‘Have you ever experienced these feelings you are so adept at describing?'

‘Yes, certainly,' I replied. ‘And feelings a thousand times more intense and a thousand times more tender for the same young lady whose beauty is so superior.' I had scarcely said these words when a deathly pallor covered La Paduli's face. She fell flat on the ground just as if she were dead. I had never seen a woman in such a state and had absolutely no idea what to do with this one. Fortunately, I caught sight of two of her servants walking in the garden. I ran to them and told them to come to their mistress's aid.

Then I left the garden, reflecting on what had just happened, marvelling at the power of love and how a spark that it lets fall in a heart produces such ravages. I felt sorry for La Paduli. I blamed myself for being the cause of her unhappiness but I could not think of being unfaithful to Elvira for La Paduli or any other woman in the world.

The next day I went to the villa Ricardi, but guests were not received as Signora Paduli was ill. The day after, all that was talked about in Rome was her indisposition, which was by all accounts grave. For this I felt the same remorse as for an ill of which I was the cause.

On the fifth day of her illness I saw a young woman appear where I was staying, with a veil covering her face. She said to me, ‘Signor forestiere,
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a dying woman begs to see you. Follow me.'

I suspected that it was Signora Paduli but did not believe that I
could refuse the wishes of a person on the verge of death. A carriage awaited me at the end of the street. I climbed in with the veiled girl. We reached the villa by the back of the garden. We went down a dark walk, then a corridor, then through some dark bedrooms, which led to that of Signora Paduli. She was in her bed and held out her hand to me. It was burning, which I took to be an effect of her fever. I lifted my eyes to the patient and saw that she was half-naked. Until then I had only seen women's faces and hands. My sight grew clouded and my knees buckled under me. I was unfaithful to Elvira without knowing how this had happened to me.

‘God of love!' cried the pretty Italian. ‘Another of your miracles! The one I love has restored me to life!'

From a state of complete innocence I suddenly passed to the most pleasurable sensual pursuits. Four hours went by in this way. At last the maidservant came to warn us that it was time to part, and I went back to the carriage with some difficulty, forced to accept the support of the arm of the young girl, who was quietly laughing. As she was on the point of leaving me, she clasped me in her arms and said, ‘I'll have my turn!'

No sooner was I in the carriage than the idea of pleasure gave way to the most harrowing remorse. ‘Elvira!' I cried. ‘Elvira, I have betrayed you! Elvira, I am no longer worthy of you! Elvira, Elvira, Elvira…' In short, I said everything that one says on such occasions and retired to bed determined not to return to the marchesa's house.