gave a little start to see himself a stranger in the mirror. But it was the domino, the long black garment that hung to the ground, that made them all truly anonymous. You could not tell who was man or woman now; nothing of Marianna’s dress showed beneath; she was a little gnome giving off a sweet, mercurial laughter.
Alessandro appeared a specter beside her.
And emerging into the blinding light again, they were but one trio now among hundreds of such nameless and faceless ones, lost in the press, holding tight to one another as music and shouts filled the air, and others appeared in wild and fantastical costumes.
The giant figures of the commedia dell’arte rose above the crowd. It was like seeing puppets overblown with monstrouslife; painted faces flashed grotesqely under torches. Tonio realized suddenly Marianna was all but doubled over with laughter. Alessandro had whispered something in her ear as he supported her on his arm. She clung to Tonio with the other hand.
Someone shouted to them: “Tonio, Marianna.”
“Shhh, how do you know who we are!” Marianna said. But Tonio had already recognized his cousin Catrina. She wore but a half mask and her mouth was a little crescent of red beneath, naked and delicious looking. He felt an embarrassing rush of passion. Bettina, the little serving girl, came to mind; was it possible for him to find Bettina? “My darling!” Catrina drew him close. “That is you, isn’t it?” She gave him such a kiss that he felt almost dizzy.
He stepped back. The sudden hardness between his legs was maddening him; he would rather die than have her know it, but when her hand slipped about his neck, finding the one place that was not draped, he felt himself on the verge of some humiliating shock he couldn’t conceal. She was pressed against him; the friction was defeating him.
“What’s come over your father that he let you out, both of you?” Catrina said. And now, thank God, she turned her rich affection on Marianna.
Tonio suddenly saw the house; the dark rooms, the shadowy passages; he saw his father standing alone in the center of that dimly lit study as the morning sun made solid objects of the candle flames, his skeletal frame bearing the weight of history.
He flung open the windows. The rain was coming in fragrant gusts, nothing strong enough to clear the piazza. It had been packed still when they finally slipped away, Alessandro guiding them through the tight little
calle
to the canal and signaling for a gondola. And now, as Tonio peeled off his moist and wrinkled clothes, he put his elbows on the sill and looked up above the close wall to the smoky sky to see no stars in it, but the thin silver rain silently falling.
“Where are my singers?” he whispered. He wished he could feel sad; he wished he could feel the loss of innocence, and the burden of life, but if he felt sad that emotion was a luxurious sweetness. And without thinking, he raised his voice and let out a long call to his singers. He felt his voice pierce the darkness.He felt his throat open; he felt the notes like something palpable cutting free, and from somewhere in the dark and tangled world beneath came another voice, lighter, more tender, he thought, a woman’s voice calling to him.
He sang nonsense to her. He sang of springtime and love and flowers and the rain, his phrases full of florid images. He grew louder and louder and then he stopped, holding his breath, to the last bit of echo.
There were singers all around him in the dark. Tenors picked up the melody he had commenced; a voice came from the canal; and there was the tink of tambourines, and the strum of guitars, and dropping to his knees he put his hand on the sill and laughed softly even as sleep threatened to close over him.
A vagrant image passed before his mind’s eye. Carlo in his scarlet robe in the embrace of his father; and it seemed all of a sudden he was someplace else, lost in an endless commotion, his mother
Alessandro appeared a specter beside her.
And emerging into the blinding light again, they were but one trio now among hundreds of such nameless and faceless ones, lost in the press, holding tight to one another as music and shouts filled the air, and others appeared in wild and fantastical costumes.
The giant figures of the commedia dell’arte rose above the crowd. It was like seeing puppets overblown with monstrouslife; painted faces flashed grotesqely under torches. Tonio realized suddenly Marianna was all but doubled over with laughter. Alessandro had whispered something in her ear as he supported her on his arm. She clung to Tonio with the other hand.
Someone shouted to them: “Tonio, Marianna.”
“Shhh, how do you know who we are!” Marianna said. But Tonio had already recognized his cousin Catrina. She wore but a half mask and her mouth was a little crescent of red beneath, naked and delicious looking. He felt an embarrassing rush of passion. Bettina, the little serving girl, came to mind; was it possible for him to find Bettina? “My darling!” Catrina drew him close. “That is you, isn’t it?” She gave him such a kiss that he felt almost dizzy.
He stepped back. The sudden hardness between his legs was maddening him; he would rather die than have her know it, but when her hand slipped about his neck, finding the one place that was not draped, he felt himself on the verge of some humiliating shock he couldn’t conceal. She was pressed against him; the friction was defeating him.
“What’s come over your father that he let you out, both of you?” Catrina said. And now, thank God, she turned her rich affection on Marianna.
Tonio suddenly saw the house; the dark rooms, the shadowy passages; he saw his father standing alone in the center of that dimly lit study as the morning sun made solid objects of the candle flames, his skeletal frame bearing the weight of history.
He flung open the windows. The rain was coming in fragrant gusts, nothing strong enough to clear the piazza. It had been packed still when they finally slipped away, Alessandro guiding them through the tight little
calle
to the canal and signaling for a gondola. And now, as Tonio peeled off his moist and wrinkled clothes, he put his elbows on the sill and looked up above the close wall to the smoky sky to see no stars in it, but the thin silver rain silently falling.
“Where are my singers?” he whispered. He wished he could feel sad; he wished he could feel the loss of innocence, and the burden of life, but if he felt sad that emotion was a luxurious sweetness. And without thinking, he raised his voice and let out a long call to his singers. He felt his voice pierce the darkness.He felt his throat open; he felt the notes like something palpable cutting free, and from somewhere in the dark and tangled world beneath came another voice, lighter, more tender, he thought, a woman’s voice calling to him.
He sang nonsense to her. He sang of springtime and love and flowers and the rain, his phrases full of florid images. He grew louder and louder and then he stopped, holding his breath, to the last bit of echo.
There were singers all around him in the dark. Tenors picked up the melody he had commenced; a voice came from the canal; and there was the tink of tambourines, and the strum of guitars, and dropping to his knees he put his hand on the sill and laughed softly even as sleep threatened to close over him.
A vagrant image passed before his mind’s eye. Carlo in his scarlet robe in the embrace of his father; and it seemed all of a sudden he was someplace else, lost in an endless commotion, his mother
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