Читать книгу ELEONORA AND JOSEPH - Julieta Almeida Rodrigues - Страница 6

At the Vicaria Prison, Castel Capuano, outskirts of Naples, June 29, 1799

As I stare at the blank page of parchment paper that Suor Amadea handed me, I might as well start to write. I don’t know how much longer I have to live. But I’m here, now. It’s the middle of the night and I have all the time in the world. I pick up my quill pen.

It all started with Joseph, our passion, and our parting.

To this day, I remember the moment we fell in love. How could I forget? His mother died in 1765, at the age of thirty-one. At her funeral, his father, feverish with grief and anger, appeared shattered. Joseph’s family filled a dark, wooden bench at church; the father stood at one end, and Joseph, the oldest son, stood at the other. In between them sat his two brothers; and his grandmother, who held his two young sisters on each side of her lap. The Neapolitan church where mass was celebrated was uncomfortably warm, since it was June, and the light coming through the stained-glass windows was colorful but opaque. I noticed Joseph’s stare wandering aimlessly. First, he looked up at the frescoes of the saints displayed. The holy images illustrated the survival of those devout souls: theirs were lives of adversity and sacrifice. Some were hunchbacks; others used canes to walk barefoot through narrow trails paved with stones, and, still others pierced their bellies with spikes. Lowering his gaze, Joseph rested his view on my family to his right. Mesmerized among the mourners, I felt unable to keep my feelings at bay. Tears rolled down my face, I couldn’t control my sorrow. It was my first funeral, I was almost fourteen years old. How was it possible that a mother of five, so beautiful, had died so young?

Joseph’s gaze fell on me, on and off, for the rest of the ceremony. It was as if my tears expressed the emotions he was unable to show himself. The mass was long, it lasted well over an hour. And, throughout, Joseph’s stare wandered the church, it seemed, just to come back and rest on me. A few pews away, my crying seemed to comfort him, to create a soothing bond. Joseph was a year older than I—and we barely knew each other—though we had met on several occasions. I thought our silent communication was a way to uplift our spirits above and beyond ourselves.

Our two families had known each other for many years; we had left Rome for Naples at the same time. Our move had been forced. The prime minister of Portugal, the famed Marquis de Pombal, had expelled the Jesuits from Portuguese territories, and the Papal State had retaliated by ordering its Portuguese colony to leave. We all felt insecure, fearful of the uncertain future. The order to depart came in 1760, and set off three months of chaotic transitions.

I was of noble descent, my parents being the Marquis and Marquise Pimentel, but this didn’t prevent Joseph and me from moving in the same social circles. Joseph’s father was a well-known gentleman: a small landowner, a merchant, and a medical doctor who had graduated from the University of Coimbra. His mother had been a lady of good birth, with a warm smile. She had admirably fulfilled her roles of wife and mother.

I adored Naples, where Vesuvius’s mysterious presence reflected on the Mediterranean Sea. There was something unique, and exciting, about living in a city whose volcano seemed ready to erupt at any moment. Neapolitans called their city città-spettacolo, spectacular city, and I agreed. Its coastal geography was wholly seductive. It was a place full of sunshine, with perpetual blue skies and a blessed climate. The port was captivating with royal sailboats running leisurely with the breeze, small fishing boats dealing with their daily catch, and cargo ships unloading goods from all over the world. The city itself exported fine wines, liqueurs, cotton, dried and fresh fruits, fish, and timber.

I lived with my parents, brothers, and Uncle António Lopes, my mother’s brother, in the Quartieri Spagnoli, the Spanish Quarter. My mother’s domain was our home and, as my father was always busy with my brothers, I shared a special bond with Uncle António. He was a respected Catholic man of the cloth. In Naples, this designation applied to abbés, priests, and presbyters. Since my uncle enjoyed my company, I often accompanied him on errands throughout the city. Our excursions filled me with joy.

We loved to stop and admire the Palazzo Reale, the Royal Palace, situated close to the bay. The building was reddish, of monumental proportions, with a private quay. Here lived King Ferdinando IV, a member of the royal Bourbon family, and Queen Carolina, who were recently wed. The queen was the daughter of Empress Maria Theresa of Austria and sister to Marie Antoinette of France.

Ferdinando was called the king lazzaroni, king of the dispossessed, a term of endearment. He was uneducated, weak, and lazy, but devoted to his subjects. Carolina became the more powerful ruler of the two as the years passed. While the king believed he ruled by divine right, the queen was strategic and shrewd. As her mother had stipulated in the marriage contract, she made sure she was granted a seat in the Council of State as soon as she delivered a male heir.

Uncle António shared details of the monarchs’ flamboyant lifestyle that delighted me. I dreamed about court life, for Carolina and I were the same age. The royal couple entertained luxuriously and supported a wide range of literati.

Joseph and I moved in the aristocratic, educated circles of the Naples nobilissima. I still remember how timid I felt when first introduced to the literary salons. Months after the funeral, Joseph and I met by coincidence at the home of the Duchess of Popoli. The atmosphere emanated refinement and elegance, her library was one of the best in our city. My uncle António had been invited, and I was allowed to go with him. As Naples encouraged female inclusion, I had the same access as Joseph to literature, the sciences, philosophy, and the arts. I was a quick learner under my uncle’s tutelage and, soon, everybody knew I wrote poetry. Much in vogue, I cultivated the French fashion of letter writing; this became, for me, as necessary as breathing.

The Popoli had several parlors where guests congregated, and Joseph and I happened to be in the same one that day. We were dressed in our best attire: I wore a light, dark red, taffeta and silk dress, and Joseph wore an impeccably ironed white shirt under his nicely cut jacket. The light from the candelabras was low to give the room an enigmatic glow, as if we inhabited a world of fantasy.

For everyone’s delight, when the Duke of Belforte finished reciting a poem that linked Mount Vesuvius’s unpredictability to the character of our local people, he turned to me and said, “Eleonora, dear child, your turn now.”

I blushed, all eyes were on me. Joseph’s too.

“I didn’t prepare,” I stuttered. “I would prefer to be excused.”

“It doesn’t matter if you are prepared or not,” the duke said with glee. “Recite for us the latest poem you wrote!”

My uncle, always protective, whispered quietly in my ear, “It will be good for you to practice recitation among friends.”

I felt I couldn’t refuse. I looked at Joseph standing nearby, and it was as if I saw his heart pounding inside his white shirt. I got up from my chair and brought myself to center stage. I enjoyed sonnets, so I started one I had recently composed in the Neapolitan dialect. It was about the goddess Aphrodite, born from the ocean’s foam, and the passion of love.

I spoke quickly, I wanted everybody’s attention to shift away from me as fast as possible. When I finished, I bowed to the applauding audience and returned to my uncle’s shielding figure. While everybody shouted “Brava! Brava!” I sat down and pressed my head against my uncle’s shoulder, seeking comfort.

Joseph was looking intently at me. His body seemed to have frozen, as if he needed to escape the weight of his own feelings. Soon afterward, he left the room. He probably wanted to turn to discussions on agriculture, commerce, and economy. I had heard my uncle say that Joseph was studying with the great Antonio Genovese and relished those subjects best of all.

The Naples Joseph and I enjoyed was very different from the rest of the city. My poetry might have been lofty, but I didn’t shy away from what I saw outside my world. The city was populated by so-called lazzaroni, people who lived in the poorest, dirtiest conditions. Under different names, they existed in many other European nations: they were the arraia-miúda in Portuguese and the canaille in French. I looked at them with pity and indignation. They were idle and illiterate, superstitious and religious, brutish and savage all at once. But they needed compassion, help, and education not pity, hate, or contempt. They were human beings who struggled constantly to find meager food for themselves and their children.

Naples still had no sewers and the population performed their physical functions wherever. Children ran the streets at all hours of day or night collecting excrement in wooden carts. Dogs followed them, they wanted a meal. Deadly infectious diseases like cholera, smallpox, syphilis, typhoid, and pneumonia spread easily, killing rich and poor alike.

Soon after my poetry recital, Joseph and I began seeing each other on a regular basis. We attended the Latin lessons of Professore Grassi, a literati friend of our families. My education in the ancient language turned into an opportunity for the two of us to get to know each other. We were five pupils in the class, and I was the only girl. Unlike some of the young men, I never missed a lesson.

Like me, Joseph was always in attendance. Our group sat at Professore Grassi’s small, round living-room table. We read, learned grammar, and recited the language’s declensions for a couple of hours. Our purpose was not only to introdurre le luci, enlighten the mind, but also to expand our knowledge by becoming familiar with ancient texts. Since my family and Joseph’s spoke Portuguese at home, and Neapolitan outside, these lessons gave us a third language. Joseph and I always sat next to each other, as if our seating arrangements took place by accident. From the beginning, he would sit in such a way that our legs touched under the table. When we got up to leave the room, however, it was as if nothing had happened. In my bed at night, I would recall Josephs pleasurable touching.

Joseph’s company filled my life with zest. We loved learning together. Moreover, when our eyes met, there was a sweetness I hadn’t ever experienced. He made me feel alive, filled with femininity. When his leg moved closer under the table, I welcomed it brazenly. These emotions were new and thrilling, and I knew they were mutual, even if left unacknowledged.

Over time, we became comfortable in each other’s company. Certainly one of the reasons I liked Latin so much! Our notebooks were neat and clean, just as Professore Grassi demanded, but we used them to communicate further. Our touching under the table wasn’t enough. Joseph drew plants and seeds in the last pages of his notebook, and he enjoyed sharing them with me. Little red hearts were mixed in; I found them lovely. His drawings had, of course, Latin names, and I could see how much he enjoyed the natural world. I, on the other hand, had the habit of drying herbs between my notebook’s pages—they spread a nice scent.

I kept my feelings for Joseph locked deep in my soul, they weren’t something I wanted to reveal. Besides, there was no one with whom I could share them. My family had decided long before that I would marry my first cousin Michele. Marriage between first cousins was common in Portuguese families because it kept money within the family. It wasn’t that I was against the life that had been determined for me; it was that Michele and I were very different. We had played together all our lives, but I had never felt the attraction I felt for Joseph.

When Uncle António fetched me from Latin one glorious spring day—hot and humid as only Naples can be—he suggested we go for a lemonade at a fashionable pastry shop in the Strada di Toledo. This was the main street of Naples, recently paved with dark lava flagstones. We walked alongside carriages pulled by horses and carts dragged by oxen while my uncle entertained me with explaining the various uses of lava. As we were about to enter the pastry shop, I saw Joseph close by and wondered if he had followed us. I waved discreetly, indicating that he should keep a distance. He licked his fingers, as if to say the pastries were tasty, and I couldn’t help but feel his sensuality.

Uncle António and I sat at one of the shop’s tables by the window, and I felt relieved that he hadn’t noticed Joseph. Joseph was a converso. He belonged to a New Christian family—Jews who had converted to Catholicism and I was sure my uncle wouldn’t approve of our relationship. It was one thing for the two of us to acquire a good education together, but a different matter for us to be friends. My uncle ordered an assortment of pastries: susamielle, struffoli, roccocò, sapienza, and divino amore. Such exotic names for the renowned Neapolitan pastries! Some were sprinkled with cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg, and the powerful aromas still linger in my memory today.

At this time, I was feeling confused about my future. Marriage was, for me, the natural course for a young, aristocratic woman. I wanted to be a wife and mother. My brothers would probably follow military careers and be stationed out of Naples. My betrothed Michele wanted to be a barrister, he had no inclination for the career of arms. Thus, my parents considered him a good fit for me. When they died, he would assume responsibility for our finances, while I would continue to pursue my life of the mind. However, after experiencing Joseph’s closeness, and his sensuality, I was having serious doubts I could be satisfied in a marriage with Michele.

One day during our lessons, Joseph passed me a message saying he wished to meet alone. He knew my uncle had been invited to the Serra di Cassano and that I would be going as well. He, too, would be there. He must have felt it was time to make a move. He suggested a time we could meet on their terrace. I read the note and indicated with a slight nod that I would be there. The prospect of meeting Joseph alone thrilled me, and I couldn’t think of anything else the rest of the lesson. It must have been the same for him, for his leg pressed ever more tightly against mine under the small table.

It was on the terrace of the Serra di Cassano that Joseph and I were alone for the first time. I was about to turn seventeen and wore a blue pretty dress. He said he was crazed with love; he wanted to marry me. He said he had heard rumors that Michele was a strong candidate for my hand, and he wanted to know how I felt about it.

“Eleonora of my heart, I can’t sleep at night thinking of you,” he said, pressing his chest against my breasts as we hid behind one of the terrace’s marble columns. “You are the lady of my dreams!”

I smiled at his adoring gaze and said, “I feel the same for you.”

“We need to find a way to make our courting official. I want to propose to you. I’ll talk it over with my father and then we’ll talk to yours. You know how sick my father’s been is the last few years—he never recovered from my mother’s death. But I’m confident that when I talk to him about our love, he’ll understand.”

As I listened, all I could see was Joseph’s coarse beard; I was ready to faint with passion. My voice wavered. “My family wants me to marry Michele.”

“But Michele can’t make you happy!” Joseph now kissed my eyes, nuzzled my lips, and lowered his mouth to my breasts. The pleasure I had felt when our legs touched under the table accelerated to a pitch of excitement.

“You’re daring!” I uttered with delight.

“We must find a way,” Joseph said. “Either your father agrees to our marriage or we’ll elope.”

“I want to follow you wherever you go,” I replied.

Dark blue light emanating from the sky bathed us like a blessing. The marble balcony seemed a divine enclave where our bodies nestled. I raised his head between my hands feeling his beard, and kissed his lips. Afterward, we both looked up at the moon—and she was smiling back at us.

Was this the call of love? My feelings had possessed me, as if I had experienced Joseph’s hands on my body all along. Michele had never, ever, touched or looked at me this way.

When I heard Uncle António’s voice calling my name, I hurried inside. I didn’t want us to be seen together, let alone by my uncle. I told him I had been observing the moon, its soft and radiant glow spreading over the Bay of Naples.

That evening changed my life, Joseph and I now shared a secret. The question was whether we could bring our passion to fruition. His daring ways continued as we sat beside each other during lessons. Occasionally he would furtively lay his hand on my legs, his fingers swift and adroit. I didn’t push him away, I welcomed the feeling of fullness that penetrated my whole being. If I turned red, no one noticed anything.

My involvement with Joseph affected my poetry. I felt unleashed, more capable of expressing the essence of my soul. Meeting fellow poets and reciting became easier. It was as if my sexual awareness had given me freedom to express myself. Queen Carolina enjoyed my poetry and its celebratory vein. I had written a poem she particularly enjoyed, Il Tempio della Gloria, The Temple of Glory, celebrating the joining of the Houses of Hapsburg and Bourbon by her marriage. I felt accomplished, and I enjoyed the royal praise. There was talk the queen might appoint me her personal librarian one day. If that ever happened, Naples would see me in a new light.

Joseph mentioned he was waiting for the right moment to speak to his father about us. Since the old gentleman was in a bad spell, he hadn’t had a chance yet. I felt sure of Joseph’s love, so, even though disappointed, I was willing to be patient. The months proceeded for me in this idyllic state. Both Michele and Joseph were in my mind, but I didn’t have to make a public choice. It was late spring; my life was sweet and full of expectation.

As summer approached, Joseph passed me another note in class saying the opportunity to speak to his father had arrived. They would be traveling to Rome, where his father was to meet an old colleague from Coimbra, João Carlos of Bragança, the second Duke of Lafões. I knew the duke was a close relative of Queen Maria of Portugal. Joseph said the duke had lived abroad for many years, but he now wanted to return to Lisbon to establish an academy of sciences. Since his father’s business wasn’t doing well, the duke’s patronage, if he was willing, might help the family finances. Joseph’s note finished by reassuring me he would be back in no time, and that we were made for each other.

But I didn’t hear from Joseph when he returned to the city. It was summer now and our lessons were over. I felt anguished. My parents were talking insistently about Michele. They saw my resistance and wanted to set an engagement day. I kept saying I wasn’t ready; I even pretended to be sick to gain time. I missed Joseph terribly, and I missed his touch most of all. Since I couldn’t understand what was happening, I turned to my poetry for refuge.

One day our maid Clotilde said she had a message for me. A young man had approached her in the street and had asked for her confidence. She had raised me and although surprised by the request, passed on the note without comment. The missive was from Joseph and asked to meet at the small garden near our apartment in Via Platea della Salata. He suggested the following afternoon, and that I tell my mother I needed to go out with Clotilde to buy new notebooks.

And so, the next afternoon, shopping with Clotilde, I made it seem like the two of us had bumped into each other by accident. I told Clotilde to wait for me a few yards away. As I moved away to join Joseph, I breathed in the garden’s rosemary—it was intoxicating.

The marvelous sensation vanished as soon as I reached Joseph and saw the gravity in his eyes.

He first said he was in a hurry. Then he handed me a letter he said I should read at home. I felt shocked that he had no more to say. His former personality had vanished, replaced by something I didn’t recognize. With a dark expression, he cautioned me.

“Eleonora, your head is full of naive fantasies and this is good for the art of poetry. But I would like to think of you as being grounded, as I plan to be,” he said, looking me straight in the eyes. “Concentrate on being a virtuous wife and mother. I fear for you; your imagination is fertile, but it can turn against you.”

When he finished, he leaned over and picked a sprig of rosemary from the nearest bush. He smelled it with closed eyes and then offered it to me.

Without another word, he left. I waited for what it seemed an eternity to see if he would look back before exiting the garden’s iron gate. He did, just as I put the rosemary into the bosom of my dress.

Distressed, I called Clotilde and we went home. Alone in my room, I read Joseph’s letter:

My Dearest Eleonora,

Our love is impossible and we must renounce it for our own good. My father opened his heart to me on our way to Rome and I must free him from feeding one more mouth. I’m his oldest son, I have responsibilities I can’t discard. The Duke of Lafões advised that I follow a religious career in Rome. If I do, he will promote my future in Portugal and, therefore, assist our family. I will help him with his scientific pursuits and, in turn, he will provide for me through various tenças—subsidies or financial ecclesiastic benefits that he can dispose of as he pleases.

Miraculously—and impressed with my intellectual abilities—the duke decided my future for me. I’ve found his offer irresistible, a way out of my family’s predicament. You are lucky that, due to your family’s social standing, you are already on the way to be well-established in Naples. But my father is nearly penniless. Thus, there is no way I can ask your parents for your hand.

We must quiet our feelings, promise never to see each other again. Our determination should be, moving forward, our only ally.

I am going to Rome to start my religious studies soon. Later, I’ll take my Catholic vows. An ecclesiastical life will provide me with erudition, something I very much want. I sincerely hope your marriage to Michele fulfills you. You must make the most of it. I will do the same with my own life. I wish you the happiness a life in Naples promises and can deliver.

Yours truly,

Joseph

I finished the letter and let it drop from my fingers. I felt abject, miserable. How was it possible that Joseph had turned his back on me? I had been abandoned, nothing else made sense anymore. Joseph’s resolute voice told me that he wouldn’t be changing his mind. This was the saddest day of my life. I was becoming a recognized poet in Naples, slated to become the queen’s librarian. But it all seemed without grace now.