Occasional Prose (38 page)

As she is conscious only of an ideal Alfredo existing as a central fixture in her unhappy mind, so her only concern is that he should comprehend how much she has loved him and loves him now. He does not know the lengths she has gone to to prove it, earning his contempt. But one day he will; he will learn of her sacrifice, and she prays God to save him then from bitter remorse.

“Even in death I shall continue to love you.” It is another Violetta who weakly sits up in her chair—a pale prophecy of her dying self but already seeing visions and talking, as it were, to a ghost. He does not hear her, and she does not see him, or only indistinctly, like a reflection in the mirror of her thoughts. This is the ultimate case of cross-purposes in this ill-fated story, of a dialogue of the deaf.

Meanwhile Violetta’s well-wishers crowding around her chair give the baron the chance he has been waiting for—to address Alfredo unheard by anyone and promise him the duel he asked for by his atrocious insult to a woman. From his point of view, Alfredo, besides being a rival, is an upstart—a little bourgeois from the Midi thrusting his way in—and he intends, with his weapon, to humble his “pride.” Pride, though Douphol is too insensitive to guess it, is the last attribute that the wretched Alfredo, banished from his own society by his conscience, is in a position to sport.

At the same time old Germont is fighting a temptation, which is to tell what he knows. He is aware of being the only one in this whole milieu to be able to gauge the full measure of this kept woman’s virtue, fidelity, nobility of spirit. But he must be cruel and keep silent. That, he tells himself, is where his duty lies.

In fact, were he to speak out now, the story would be over. Leading a quiet life in the country with her lover by her side, Violetta might even recover her health. Who knows, they might finally brave the conventions and marry. That could lead to children—Violetta is still under twenty-three—and children could serve to reconcile the family to an accomplished fact. But such a solution is not dreamed of, just as it has entered nobody’s mind that the fiancé of that pure and spotless sister might marry the girl anyway, whatever her brother’s truancy, if only he loved her as devotedly as the father claimed. No one among these people concerns himself with what one might call practical morality, involving concession and compromise. The ruling principle is sacrifice. For Germont, a skilled missionary of renunciation, it is a lofty program to be carried out by the kept woman mainly and to a lesser degree by Alfredo, who, however, can be expected to suffer less because of serene family influences and the “cure” of Provence. It may actually be that old Germont now sees himself as sacrificing pleasure to duty: it would be pleasant to speak up on Violetta’s behalf since she has stirred grateful emotions in him and he is not insensitive to her beauty and charm. But, as head of the family, acting in its best interest, he must reject temptation and bow to duty’s command.

Without a word to the deeply injured Violetta, he takes stern leave of the pleasure-den, pulling Alfredo along with him and followed at a discreet distance by the baron, stalking his prey. The remaining guests do their best to comfort Violetta, assuring her that they share her sufferings, that she is among friends, that she must dry her tears now. From this noisy, though well-meaning, consolation, she is rescued by the doctor and by Flora, who lead her into another room, where she can at least be quiet.

PART THREE

Hardly a month has passed. It is February now, carnival-time, and Violetta’s disease has made its classic “galloping” progress. It is another, poorer, part of Paris. Her circumstances seem to be reduced; there are no signs of luxury. She is in bed with the bed-curtains half drawn; at the single window, closed inside shutters prevent the entry of light. In the fireplace a fire is burning. On the table by the bed are a decanter of water, a glass, bottles of medicine, a thermometer—all the accoutrements of the serious invalid. Across the room there are a dressing-table and a sofa, indicating that she is still able to get up occasionally. A night-light burns on another table. The closed shutters and dim illumination produce a disorienting effect, as though the sickroom were adrift in space. There is no way of knowing where we are or what time it is. In this room there is no clock. Behind the half-drawn curtains Violetta is asleep on the big bed, and in front of the fireplace, in a chair, there is another sleeping figure, apparently a maid—the same one, Annie.

It
is
the same girl. Violetta, waking up, calls her name to ask for some water. The sleepy girl pours her a glass from the carafe. Then Violetta wants to know whether it is morning yet. Nearly seven o’clock, Annina thinks. Violetta orders her to let in some light. Annina opens the shutters and looks out into the street. “Dr. Grenvil!” she exclaims. “What a true friend,” Violetta murmurs, touched by his calling so early to see after her. She wants to get up to receive him and tells Annina to help her. As soon as she has put her feet down and tries to stand, she falls back on the bed. But then, supported by the maid, she manages to walk slowly toward the sofa. The doctor is in time to give her an arm to lean on.

Again, she is touched by his goodness and tells him so, revealing how alone in life she must be. He takes her pulse. “How are you feeling?” Her body is in pain, she replies honestly, but her soul is at peace. Last night she had a visit from a priest, who brought her some comfort. Religion is a solace for those who suffer—she confides that discovery with an innocent soft smile. Clearly she has never heard before of the consolations of religion. “And how did the night go?” She thinks back. “I slept well.” “Take heart, then. Convalescence can’t be far off.” She gives a half-teasing shake of her head, then lets it fall back wearily on a cushion. “You doctors have the right, don’t you, to tell us kindly lies.” He presses her thin hand. “Good-bye, till later.” “Don’t forget me,” she begs, sitting up as if in a flurry of alarm.

As Annina is showing him out, she asks him softly how Violetta is. Only a few hours left, he whispers. “That’s the way it is with consumptives.” Hiding her own disquiet, the girl makes an effort to cheer the patient. “So then, take heart!” Violetta, not deceived, changes the subject. “Isn’t today a holiday?” Carnival, Annina tells her (i.e., Mardi Gras); Paris is going wild. This moves Violetta to reflection: amid the general merrymaking, God alone knows how many unfortunates are suffering. It is lonely to be sick or poor on a holiday. She points to a little money chest. “How much have we got left?” Annina unlocks it and counts out some gold coins. “Twenty louis.” “Go give ten to the poor.” “But that won’t leave you much,” protests Annina. “Enough to last me,” Violetta answers calmly. It is hard to guess whether this sudden profligate gesture springs from the generosity we already know in her character or whether she is using a reliable magic formula to conciliate fortune—women of her profession are superstitious.

“Afterwards, fetch my letters.” She dispatches the girl, who seems hesitant to execute the charitable commission. “But what about you?” wonders Annina, turning back at the door. “I won’t need anything. But hurry, if you can.” As soon as the door has closed, Violetta takes a letter from the bosom of her nightgown, carefully unfolds it, and reads it softly aloud. It is almost a recitation, so well does she know the contents. “‘You kept your promise. The duel took place. The baron was wounded. He’s recovering, however. Alfredo is in foreign lands. I myself have revealed your sacrifice to him. He’s coming back to you to beg your forgiveness. I shall come, too—take care of yourself—you deserve a happier future. Giorgio Germont.’”

“Too late!” she moans in a dead lusterless voice, letting the letter fall. She gets up. “I wait and wait and they never come.” She struggles to the mirror on the dressing-table. “Oh, how changed I am. Yet the doctor tells me to hope. Ah, with this sickness every hope is dead!” She hovers before the mirror, peering at images of the past she seems to see reflected—roses in her cheeks, now cruelly faded, Alfredo’s love. ... She misses it even now, on the edge of the grave. What a comfort, what a support it would have been for her weary soul. ... She cannot tear herself away from the mirror. Memories mingle with tears; laments finally yield to prayers for redemption. But the sudden vision of her earthly tomb, coldly intervening, is too much for her: no flowers, no mourners, no cross with her name on it to cover her bones. ... Will God not consent to smile on the last desire of “the woman gone astray” and welcome her to Himself?

She sinks down hopeless on the sofa while outside the window a wild pagan song is heard. The populace is acclaiming the Fatted Ox, king and lord of the Carnival, who is being drawn in procession down below in the street with garlands of flowers and vine-leaves around his neck to the shrilling of pipes and drums. The piercing sound coming in the window is a hymn of worship to the ribboned victim. At a thousand altars across the city of Paris, the guild of aproned butchers awaits his coming with sharpened sacrificial knives. Violetta is not attending. The analogy with herself as sacrificial victim would not be present to her.

The procession moves off, and Annina hurries into the room. There is something hesitant in her manner. “Madam ...” “What’s happened?” “Is it true, madam, that you’re feeling better today?” “Yes, but why?” “You promise to be calm?” Violetta can hardly fail to guess that some important news is about to be broken to her. “Yes, yes. What is it you want to tell me?” “I wanted to prepare you for an unexpected joy—a surprise.” “A joy, did you say?” “Yes, dear madam.” Violetta lets out a cry. “Alfredo! You’ve seen him!” The girl nods. “He’s coming! Oh, make him hurry!” And, despite her weakness, she is able to rise and post herself in the doorway. “Alfredo?” In a minute, he is there, still in traveling clothes, and they fall into each other’s arms, exclaiming and marveling, both talking at the same time in a veritable Babel of happiness.

His first distinguishable words are a confession of guilt. He has learned the truth and blames himself for everything. But she will not have that. No explanations or accounting. All she knows or wants to know is that he has come back to her. He takes her hand and presses it to his heart. Its beating will teach her whether or not he loves her. He knows that he will not be able to exist without her any more. She smiles slightly at this, touched by the characteristic hyperbole. She has made a discovery, she tells him: grief cannot kill. If it could, he would never have found her still alive this morning.

But he has missed the seriousness behind her frail little jest, not observing in his excitement how fearfully changed she is. She must forget grief now, he tells her, and pardon him and his father. “But no, I ask
your
pardon,” she answers with great sweetness. “I am the guilty one. But only love could have made me do what I did.” She is referring to her resumption of the relation with the baron—a risky subject, one would think. But Alfredo receives it very calmly, which looks like a sign that he has matured.

Together they bury the Douphol interlude. Neither man nor devil, they agree, will ever come between them again. The emphasis they bring to this joint declaration sends a light shiver down the spine. By naming the devil, will they make him appear in their path? And when they speak of him, the Prince of Darkness, what or whom do they mean? It cannot be a mere roué like the Baron Douphol whose advances they must pledge themselves to resist. Douphol is no real danger. Rather, it must be Alfredo’s own father—the formidable missionary of middle-class morality, Giorgio Germont. Are these young people alert enough, now that it is too late, to recognize the Father of Lies, smell the whiff of brimstone?

In any case, Alfredo has the remedy for their troubles, which is to leave Paris. Violetta is of the same mind. And this time it will not be to Auteuil they will go, virtually at the city’s gates, but to the genuine country. Far from the great world’s lures, he will be able to look after her in peace and she to regain her health. Our pity goes out to their ignorance, for we have heard what the doctor said. And in the midst of the plans they are sketching for a smiling future in the classical
rus
(reminiscent of Germont’s apostrophe to the purifying sun and sea of Provence), Violetta herself has a
frisson
of foreboding. She halts her joyful lover in the middle of his farewell to Paris. Her voice is unsteady. “No more, please ... Alfredo ... Let’s go to church and give thanks for your return.” Moving toward the clothes-cupboard with the intention of dressing for church, she hesitates, sways on her feet. He stares at her, taken aback, observing her, really, for the first time since they left each other a month ago. “You’re getting pale!”

She tries to reassure him. “It’s nothing.
You
know. I can never stand a sudden access of joy.” But even as she offers this half-plausible explanation, she lets herself fall, exhausted, onto a seat. He is terrified. He holds her up and looks into her face with horror. “Good God, Violetta!” “It’s my illness. A sinking spell. Now I’m better. See? I’m smiling.” That smile, a product of her will, appalls him more than her feebleness. Under his breath, devastated, he laments this last cruel turn of destiny. “It’s nothing,” she repeats tenderly, still forcing her mechanical smile. “Annina, give me something to put on.” “Now?” He is incredulous. “Oh, please, wait.” She is determined. “No, I want to go out.”

Annina, who understands her mistress, is standing by with a flounced dress. Violetta starts to put it on and then, hindered by her feebleness from getting her arm through a long tight sleeve, throws it on the floor. “Oh, God! I can’t do it!” Once more, she falls back onto the seat. Alfredo, still hardly able to believe his eyes, orders Annina to go for the doctor. The mention of that faithful friend somewhat revives Violetta. She sits up straighter. “Tell him,” she directs, “that Alfredo has come back to my arms. Tell him that I want to live.”

The maid hastens out and, alone with Alfredo, Violetta seems to have regained a little more of her strength. Raising her head, she looks straight at him and utters the truth. “But if you, coming back, can’t save me, nobody on earth can.” She reflects. “Oh, God, to die so young when I’ve suffered such a lot already. To die when I’m so close to drying my tears at last.” This is said not in a tone of self-commiseration but soberly, with a clear-sighted awareness of the irony of her “narrow escape” from happiness. “But it was a delusion,” she goes on, “that credulous hope of mine. It was a waste of effort to fortify my heart to be true. Alfredo, what a rough ending they’ve reserved for our love.”