Spring and Summer Sonatas E-Book

Ramon Valle-Inclan

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

Two fin-de-siecle tales of love and passion for the amorous marquis.

Das E-Book Spring and Summer Sonatas wird angeboten von Dedalus und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

THE AUTHOR

Ramón del Valle-Inclán was born in 1866 in Galicia in northern Spain. He had, or so he said, spent a year in the Mexican army and later was to work as a civil servant, theatre director, war correspondent and teacher of aesthetics. He moved to Madrid in 1895 where he became the eccentric hub of a literary circle that included Unamuno, Baroja and Azorín. He died in 1936. The Sonatas were written between 1902-1905 and were a huge success. He wrote several other novels on a variety of themes – the Carlist wars, an imaginary Latin American dictator, the corrupt court of Isabel II – and, whilst continuing to write both prose and poetry, he turned to writing plays as well. Indeed, he is best known as a playwright and, although his plays were rarely performed in his own lifetime, they are now considered classics of Spanish drama. The Sonatas are the first of his prose fictions to be translated into English, although, in recent years, two of his plays – Divine Words and Bohemian Lights – have been performed to great acclaim at London’s Gate Theatre in translations by David Johnson.

Autumn Sonata and Winter Sonata will be published by Dedalus in 1998.

THE TRANSLATOR

Margaret Jull Costa has translated many novels and short stories by Portuguese, Spanish and Latin American writers, amongst them Mário de Sá-Carneiro, Bernardo Atxaga, Javier Marías, Carmen Martín Gaite, Juan José Saer and Luisa Valenzuela.

She was joint-winner of the Portuguese Translation Prize in 1992 for her translation of The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa and was shortlisted for the 1996 Prize for her translation of The Relic by Eça de Queiroz.

Note

These pages are taken from the Marquis of Bradomín’s ‘pleasant memoirs’ which he began to write in his old age, in exile. He was an admirable Don Juan, perhaps the most admirable.

He was ugly, Catholic and sentimental.

CONTENTS

Title

The Author

The Translator

Note

Spring Sonata

Summer Sonata

Autumn Sonata

Copyright

SPRING SONATA

Night was falling as the post chaise drove out of the Porta Salaria and we set off on a journey through a landscape full of mystery and distant murmurings. It was the classic landscape of vines and olive trees, of crumbling aqueducts, and hills as gracefully curved as a woman’s breasts. The road we were travelling was an old one. The mules shook their heavy collars, and the bright, fitful jingling of their bells echoed through the flowering olive groves. Along the way, we passed ancient tombs built in the venerable shade of withered cypresses. The chaise rumbled on until at last I wearied of gazing out at the night, and my eyelids grew heavy. I fell asleep and only awoke when it was nearly dawn, and the moon, by then pale as pale, was fading from the sky. Soon afterwards, still stiff from sitting and from the night chill, I heard a few early-morning cockerels and the teeming murmur of a stream that seemed to have woken up along with the sun. In the distance, crenellated walls stood silhouetted, black and cheerless, against a skyscape of cold blue. It was the old, noble, pious city of Liguria.

We entered by the Porta Lorenciana. The chaise had slowed and the tinkling bells on the mules’ collars found a mocking, almost sacrilegious, echo in the deserted, grass-grown streets. Three old women, like three shadows, were crouched by the church door, waiting for it to be opened, whilst, elsewhere, distant bells were already ringing for morning Mass. The chaise proceeded down an old road, paved and resonant, flanked by gardens, rambling mansions and monasteries. Sparrows fluttered beneath sombre eaves, and, at the far end of the street, I noticed the guttering flame of a lamp set in a niche in a wall. The slow pace of the mules allowed me a glimpse of a Madonna. She was holding the Child in her lap, and the Child, smiling and naked, was reaching out to grasp a fish that His mother dangled before Him in her virginal fingers, as if Child and Mother were engaged in some innocent, celestial game. The chaise stopped. We were at the doors of the Collegio Clementino.

All this took place in the fortunate days of the Pope-King’s reign when the Collegio Clementino still retained all its privileges, rights and lands. It was then the retreat of learned men and bore the title Noble Academy of the Sciences. For many years its rector had been an illustrious prelate, Monsignor Estefano Gaetani, Bishop of Betulia, who belonged to the same family as the Prince and Princess Gaetani. To that worthy man, so rich in evangelical virtues and theological knowledge, I was bringing a cardinalship. His Holiness had chosen to honour my youth and had selected me from amongst his noble guard for this loftiest of missions. My paternal grandmother belonged to the Bibiena di Rienzo family. Her name was Julia Aldegrina, daughter of Prince Máximo de Bibiena, who died in 1770, poisoned by the famous actress Simoneta la Corticelli, an episode that merits an entire chapter in the memoirs of the Chevalier of Seingalt, Giovanni Giacomo Casanova.

Two beadles, two aged, solemn figures in soutane and biretta, were walking in the cloister. When they saw me, they hurried to meet me.

‘A terrible thing has happened, Your Excellency, terrible!’

I stopped and looked from one to the other.

‘What has happened?’ I asked

The two beadles sighed. One of them began:

‘Our wise rector …’

And the other, tearful and pedantic, corrected him:

‘Our beloved father, Your Excellency! Our beloved father, our teacher and our guide, is on the point of death. He had an accident yesterday, whilst at his sister-in-law’s house …’

Here, the other beadle, who had fallen silent and was drying his eyes, added:

‘… his sister-in-law is Princess Gaetani, the Spanish-born lady married to His Grace’s elder brother, Prince Filippo Gaetani, who died less than a year ago in a hunting accident. Another great misfortune, Your Excellency …’

Somewhat impatiently, I cut him short:

‘Has His Grace been brought back to the Collegio?’

‘The Princess would not allow it. He is, as I say, on the point of death.’

I bowed my head in sorrowful solemnity.

‘May God’s will be done.’

The two beadles crossed themselves devoutly. From the depths of the cloister came the grave, liturgical sound of silvery bells; it was the viaticum for the Monsignor. The two beadles removed their birettas. Shortly afterwards, the residents of the Collegio began filing out through the arches, a long procession of philosophers and theologians, graduates and students. They split into two streams as they emerged through one of the arches, their prayers a low rumble. They clasped their birettas to their chests with folded arms; their loose cloaks brushed the flagstones. I knelt down on one knee and watched them pass. The students and graduates in turn watched me. The cloak I was wearing – that of a member of the papal guard – proclaimed my identity, and they all remarked on this fact to each other. When they had passed by, I got up and set off after them. The viaticum bell could now be heard out in the street. Every now and then, some devout old man would come out of his house carrying a lighted lamp; after crossing himself, he would join the cortège. We came to a halt in an empty square, opposite a palace with all its windows lit. Slowly, the cortège made its way into the ample hallway. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, the sound of the praying seemed deeper, and the silvery notes of the bell fluttered gloriously above these low, contrite voices.

We went up the stately staircase. All the doors stood open, and old retainers, bearing wax tapers, guided us through the deserted rooms. The bedroom in which Monsignor Estefano Gaetani lay dying was plunged in reverent darkness. The prelate was lying on an ancient bed canopied in silk. His eyes were closed, his head sunk deep into the pillows, and his curved, patrician profile stood out in the half-light, utterly still, white and sepulchral, like the profile of a recumbent figure on a tomb. At the far end of the room, where there was an altar, the Princess and her five daughters knelt in prayer.

Princess Gaetani was still a woman of considerable beauty, pale and blonde. She had very red lips, hands like snow, and eyes and hair the colour of gold. When she saw me, she gave me a long look and smiled a smile of beneficent sadness. I bowed and continued to study her. She reminded me of Rubens’ portrait of María de’ Medici, painted at the time of her marriage to the King of France.

When the priest bearing the viaticum approached the bedside, the Monsignor barely had the strength to open his eyes and raise his head up from the pillows. Once he had received communion, he slumped back, fervently murmuring a Latin prayer. The cortège began to withdraw in silence. I too left the room. As I crossed the antechamber, one of the Monsignor’s attendants approached me:

‘You must be His Holiness’ envoy.’

‘I am. I am the Marquis of Bradomín.’

‘Yes, so the Princess told me.’

‘The Princess knows me?’

‘She once knew your parents.’

‘When may I pay her my respects?’

‘The Princess wishes to speak with you at once.’

We moved over to a window to continue our conversation. When the last members of the Collegio had filed out and the antechamber was empty, I instinctively looked over at the bedroom door and saw the Princess emerge, surrounded by her daughters; she was dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. I went over to her and kissed her hand. She said softly:

‘This is a sad occasion on which to meet again, my dear!’

Princess Gaetani’s voice awoke in my being a world of distant memories that had the bright, happy, amorphous quality of all childhood memories. The Princess went on:

‘What news of your mother? You were the image of her as a child, though not any more … The times I’ve bounced you on my knee! Don’t you remember me?’

I mumbled hesitantly:

‘I remember the voice …’

And I fell silent at that evocation of the past. Princess Gaetani was watching me, smiling, and suddenly, gazing into the golden mystery of her eyes, I realised who she was. I smiled too and then she said:

‘Now do you remember?’

‘I do.’

‘Who am I then?’

I kissed her hand again before replying:

‘The daughter of the Marquis of Agar …’

She smiled sadly at the memory of her youth and then introduced me to her daughters.

‘María del Rosario, María del Carmen, María del Pilar, María de la Soledad and María de las Nieves … Five Marías.’

I greeted them all with a single, low bow. The eldest, María del Rosario, was a young woman of twenty and the youngest, María de las Nieves, a little girl of five. To me they all seemed equally beautiful and charming. María del Rosario was pale with dark eyes full of an ardent, languid light. The others were like their mother in every respect, with golden eyes and hair. The Princess sat down on a broad sofa of crimson damask and began talking to me in a quiet voice. Her daughters withdrew in silence, bidding me farewell with a smile that was at once shy and warm. María del Rosario was the last to leave. I think she smiled at me with her eyes as well as her lips, but so many years have passed since then, I cannot be sure. What I do remember is that, as I watched her depart, sadness seemed to cloud my heart. The Princess sat for a moment with her eyes fixed on the door through which her daughters had disappeared, and then, in the gentle tones of a kind, devout lady, she said:

‘So now you’ve met them.’

I bowed.

‘They are as beautiful as their mother.’

‘They’re all good, kind girls and that’s worth a great deal more.’

I said nothing because I have long been of the belief that women’s goodness is even more ephemeral than their beauty. Naturally, the poor woman did not share my opinion, but went on:

‘In a few days’ time, María del Rosario will enter a convent. May God make her as holy a woman as Francisca Gaetani!’

I murmured solemnly:

‘That is as cruel a separation as death.’

The Princess said sharply:

‘It is indeed a source of terrible sorrow, but it is also a consolation to know that for at least one of my loved ones the temptations and dangers of the world will no longer exist. Were all my daughters to enter a convent, I would happily follow them. Unfortunately, they are not all like María del Rosario.’

She paused and sighed, staring into space, and in the golden depths of her eyes I thought I glimpsed the flicker of a dark, tragic fanaticism. At that moment, one of the clergy watching over Monsignor Gaetani peered round the bedroom door and stood there, unsure as to whether or not he should interrupt our silence. At last, the Princess sighed and asked him in a voice that was half-disdainful, half-kindly:

‘What is it, Don Antonino?’

Don Antonino put his hands together in a gesture of false piety and lowered his eyes:

‘The Monsignor wishes to speak to His Holiness’ envoy.’

‘He knows that he is here?’

‘He does indeed, Your Excellency. He saw him when he received holy unction. Although it may not seem so, the Monsignor has not lost consciousness for a single moment.’

On hearing this, I stood up. The Princess held out her hand to me and, even then, before going into the room where the Monsignor lay dying, I found it in me to bestow on her a kiss that was more gallant than respectful.

The worthy prelate fixed me with glassy, moribund eyes, then made as if to bless me, but his hand fell limply by his side, and one slow, anguished tear ran down his cheek. His laboured breathing was the only sound to be heard in the otherwise silent room. After a moment, he managed to stammer out:

‘Captain, I want you to convey to the Holy Father my heartfelt gratitude …’

He stopped talking and lay for a long while with his eyes closed. He seemed to be moving his dry, blue-tinged lips as if mumbling a prayer. When he opened his eyes again, he went on:

‘My hours are numbered. All the honours, all the grandeur and the matters of hierarchy, everything I worked for in my life, now scatters like so much ash before my dying eyes. Our Lord God does not abandon me, and he shows me things in all their harshness and nakedness. The shadows of eternity surround me, yet my soul is lit from within by the divine light of Grace …’

He again closed his eyes, too exhausted to go on. One of the priests approached and wiped away the sweat from the prelate’s brow with a handkerchief of fine batiste. Then, addressing me, he said quietly:

‘Captain, try not to let him speak.’

I nodded. The Monsignor opened his eyes and looked at us both. A dull murmur issued from his lips. I bent over to hear, but could not understand what he was saying. The priest gently drew me away and, bending in turn over the dying man’s chest, he said, in kindly, imperious tones:

‘You must rest now, Your Grace. Try not to speak …’

The prelate winced. The priest, a sage Italian cleric, again mopped at the Monsignor’s brow with the handkerchief and, at the same time, shot me a glance indicating that I should leave. Since that was also my own desire, I bowed and moved away. The cleric sat down in a chair near the head of the bed and, gathering his habit gently about him, prepared himself for meditation or possibly sleep. At that moment, however, the Monsignor noticed that I was leaving, and, making a supreme effort, he raised himself up and called out to me:

‘Don’t leave, my son! I want you to carry my confession to the Holy Father.’

He waited for me to draw near again, then, with his eyes fixed on the snowy white altar on the far side of the room, he began:

‘Dear God, may the pain of my guilt and the shame it gives me to confess it serve as a penance!’

The prelate’s eyes were filled with tears. He spoke in hoarse, tormented tones. The priests gathered at the foot of the bed. Their heads were bowed. They all seemed weighed down by a great grief but, at the same time, they appeared already to be enjoying the edifying effects of the dying Bishop of Betulia’s confession. I knelt down. The prelate was silently praying, his eyes on the crucifix on the altar. Tears streamed down his sunken cheeks. After a while, he began:

‘My guilt was born the moment I received the letters in which my friend Monsignor Ferrati first told me that His Holiness planned to make me a cardinal. Human nature is as frail as the clay we are made of. I believed that my princely lineage was worth more than all the knowledge and virtue of other men. Pride, that most dangerous of counsellors, sprang up in my soul, and I imagined that one day it would be given to me to rule over Christianity. There have been pontiffs and saints in my family before me, and I judged that I could be like them. Thus does Satan blind us! I was an old man and looked to death to smooth my path. It was not our Lord’s will that I should wear the sacred purple, but nevertheless, when troubling rumours reached me of His Holiness’ imminent demise, I feared that his death – the death so feared by everyone – might wreck my hopes. Dear God, I have profaned your altar with prayers to you to preserve that precious life simply because his death might prove advantageous to me were he to die instead at some later date! Dear God, so blinded was I by the Devil that I was unaware of my guilt until today. Lord, you who can read in the very depths of our souls, you who know my sin and my repentance, give me back your grace!’

He stopped speaking and a long spasm of pain shook his body. He had spoken in a quiet voice imbued with a calm, serene sense of sorrow. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to grow more pronounced, and those eyes, over which the shadow of death seemed to hang, appeared to sink still deeper into their sockets. Then he lay prostrate, rigid, indifferent, his head turned to one side; he was breathing heavily, his mouth half-open, his chest heaving. We remained kneeling, uncertain what to do, not daring to speak to him or to move in case we disturbed a repose that also filled us with horror. Down below, the fountain in the square kept up its endless weeping and we could hear the voices of children at play, singing an old, familiar song with a languid, nostalgic melody. A ray of morning April sun glittered on the sacred vessels on the altar, and the priests prayed quietly, uplifted by the pious scruples tormenting the prelate’s innocent soul. I, poor sinner that I am, found myself drifting off to sleep, for I had spent the whole of the previous night travelling, and long journeys are always tiring.

As I left the room where Monsignor Gaetani lay dying, I met a solemn, ancient major-domo who was waiting for me by the door.

‘My lady, the Princess, has instructed me to show you to your rooms, Excellency.’

I could barely suppress a shudder. At that moment, some vague, unnameable breath of spring air brought to my heart the memory of the Princess’ five daughters. The idea of staying at the Palazzo Gaetani pleased me greatly, yet somehow I found the courage to deny myself that pleasure:

‘Give my grateful thanks to your lady and tell her that I will be staying at the Collegio Clementino.’

The major-domo seemed put out.

‘Believe me, Excellency, you will greatly displease her. If you decline, I have orders to tell her at once. Please be kind enough to wait a few moments. Mass is just ending.’

I gave a resigned shrug.

‘No, don’t tell her anything. May God forgive me if I prefer to stay in this palace with its five charming young ladies to sharing the company of the Collegio Clementino’s grave theologians.’

The major-domo stared at me in amazement, as if he doubted my sanity. He seemed about to say something, then, after a moment’s hesitation, he merely indicated the way, accompanying the gesture with a smile. I followed him. He was an old man, clean-shaven, wearing an ecclesiastical gown, so long it almost brushed the silver buckles of his shoes. His name was Polonio. He walked noiselessly ahead, on tiptoe, and kept turning round to address me in a low, confiding voice:

‘There is little hope that the Monsignor will live …’

And after a few more steps:

‘I’ve offered up a novena to the Holy Virgin.’

And a little further along, as he drew aside a curtain:

‘It’s the least I can do. The Monsignor had promised he would take me with him to Rome.’

He walked on:

‘But it was not God’s will … it was not God’s will.’

In this fashion we crossed the antechamber, then a hall in almost total darkness and, finally, an empty library. There, the major-domo stopped outside a locked door and patted the pockets of his trousers: