‘Yes, I can see that. I also see that you speak like my aunt. You must have loved her very much to have her voice and her way of expressing herself. There’s a photograph of her when she was young in the rose-coloured parlour. I’ll show it to you; you look like her.’
‘You look like her too, Principessina.’
‘Naturally! But don’t call me Principessina. Call me Beatrice.’
‘Beatrice? But your mother…’
‘Cavallina, yes, she nicknamed me Filly … for various reasons. She says that Beatrice doesn’t suit me, that Papa was wrong to name me after Dante’s Beatrice. She was too perfect, she says. But the fact is that Dante was Papa’s favourite poet. But let’s go in, let’s see this room. Come on…’
Still tugging me by the hand that now burned in hers, she opened the door with assurance, and I happily followed her. Just like the poet, I too had my Beatrice, halo and all, to confront the inferno that room had been for me.
When I stepped in, Beatrice so illuminated it with her mass of golden hair that I felt almost ashamed of having found fault with it. But after standing in the centre of the room for a moment, staring at the floor, she said, ‘Of course, it’s not exactly a beautiful room, but I can assure you that no one died in here. None of these objects is associated with any misfortune. No, no one died here. On the contrary, a while ago there was an English girl who left us to get married. Unfortunately for us, because not only was she quite charming, but she was also a very good teacher. For a year now my mother has been looking for another one, but the only photographs that have come from London are those of ugly old hags. This month alone I rejected ten of them. Just imagine if Mama had seen them!’
My little filly laughed as she wandered around the room touching the walls, examining the drapes. Until she suddenly stopped, as if she had lost her balance; she was out of breath, yet she hadn’t been running. She looked at me and became serious, staring at the hem of her dress. So that was it. My Beatrice wasn’t perfect like the poet’s inspiration: she limped. Seeing her pallor, I tried to smile at her, but my damned lips wouldn’t move. I would have to come up with some exercises to learn how to smile.
‘Such a sad, sad smile…’
Yes, I must think up some exercises.
‘What is it … do you feel sorry for me?’
That do you feel sorry for me loosened the knots of prudence that bound me and I found myself so close to her that I was almost embracing her.
‘Feel sorry for you? Of course not, Beatrice. You’re so beautiful, and even though…’
‘Then you noticed? Thank goodness! That way with you at least I won’t have to force myself anymore.’
‘Force yourself to do what?’
‘You see, Modesta, when I’m with my mother I have to force myself to limp as little as possible; otherwise she starts yelling. You’ve heard what she’s like, haven’t you? I have to make sure I hide this flaw of mine from strangers. But since you’ve noticed it and won’t say anything to her, I don’t have to strain myself anymore. I can see that you’re sincere. What a relief! My leg hurts so much when I force it like that.’
And it must have been so, because Cavallina continued her inspection of the room hopping and skipping with joy.
The small dissonant note of her left foot somehow lent her slim waist a certain tenderness, making you want to hold it in your hands like a precious thing that might break at any moment. Summoning back the prudence that was abandoning me, I did not grasp her waist. But to justify my hands, which were too close to it, I said: ‘What a lovely belt! What a wonderful shade of red!’
‘But it’s not red, Modesta, it’s claret. Oh, forgive me, these things are all new to you and are of no interest to you … This is exactly the reason I couldn’t decide whether or not to tell you why this room isn’t as cheerful as mine. You’re always praying, and you’re so serious!’
‘Don’t be silly, Beatrice. Tell me. I’d like to know.’
‘It’s because it’s missing a mirror. Here, you see? See that mark on the wallpaper? There was a mirror here. They’re beautiful, you know, their frames carved with gilded flowers. I have one in my room … I wonder why they took it down? That’s what’s making the room dismal. Oh, I know why! In the convent there were no mirrors in the rooms, right? And you certainly wouldn’t want one: it’s frivolous. Argentovivo told me that even when you comb your hair, you never even look at yourself in the mirror that’s in the toilette.’
‘No, we aren’t allowed to look at ourselves in a mirror.’
‘Of course. And that’s why the room is gloomy. If there were a mirror in here, even with the faint sunlight we have today, the room would absorb and reflect it … See how it was hung here purposely to catch even the smallest ray of light from the window? Naturally, without it all this wallpaper seems drab. If you’d like … maybe it wouldn’t do any harm. And maybe you could pray just the same, if you want…’
‘I’ll think about it.’
23
And I did. Instead of praying, I thought. Had I bungled things with them as I had with the dress? Should I perhaps abandon all that prudence? Or did they too, like Mother Leonora and Sister Costanza, perhaps say one thing and think another?
When I was with Beatrice in the garden, in the music room or in the peacock-blue drawing room for tea, everything seemed clear to me. Everything, including her faltering step, told me that I could trust her, that I could smile. But when I was alone, doubt crept up on me and set me back on the old path of prudence. A sad path that led only to the convent. But at least it was familiar, that path. ‘Chi lassa la strata vecchia…’,13 as my mother used to say, ‘Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know’. And if that were to be my destiny … ‘Destiny’, another of my mother’s words. Was there such a thing as destiny?
‘Destiny, what destiny! This land was destined to remain a desert of lava, yet in three generations we’ve made it as fertile as the valley below. Destiny! The idle prattle of silly women!’
Mimmo was right. I would not be a silly woman. Like the Princess, that’s how I wanted to be. Now there was a woman who was as strong and wilful as a man. If only she had continued to yell! After the first outburst, she had fallen silent. Each day she had tea with us, followed us with her eyes, but remained silent. And that silence was more terrifying than her earlier shouting. I, too, should keep my mouth shut and listen. Listen to Beatrice. Maybe, by following her voice — just like the poet — I could discover a way out of that jungle of silks, marble, allure and riches. She looked just like Doré’s Beatrice14 when she pointed out a closed window on the top floor, raising her arms as if poised over an abyss because of the strain of standing up straight.
‘You must have noticed that it’s always closed, haven’t you? That’s where the “thing” is, as my mother calls him.’
Or, when she suddenly flew nimbly up the stairs and would disappear around the corner of a corridor for a moment, then reappear and, with her small, swift hand — the wing of a bird? — urge me to follow her.
‘Look: all these portraits are our ancestors. Mama stashed them away up here. She hates them. Down in the drawing room, as you saw, there are only landscapes, madonnas and crucifixions. Here it’s all family … I like them though! They’re all here, except Nonna. They didn’t want her here because she was a bourgeoise commoner, but I made such a fuss that I had her brought to my room. I’ll show her to you later. She’s portrayed on horseback … And now that I’ve introduced you to more or less all of them, come, and I’ll take you to Ildebrando.’