Occasional Prose (37 page)

Alfredo, seemingly, has not. Old Germont gives him a shake. “Don’t you have any response to a father’s affection?” Alfredo shakes himself out of his absorption. “I’m devoured by a thousand furies. Leave me alone.” He pushes the old man away. “Leave you here alone?” Alfredo ignores him, speaking to himself with determination. “Revenge!” Germont has no perception of his son’s mood or the direction of his thoughts. Characteristically for this story, they are talking at cross-purposes (like Germont with Violetta), each intent on his privately nurtured design. The father supposes that the son is ready to leave with him for the curative blue skies of Provence. “Enough delay. We’re leaving. Hurry up.” Alfredo remains fixed to his chair, brooding to himself. “It was Douphol,” he decides, his fevered brain fixing on his former rival, Violetta’s protector of five months before. Germont grows peremptory. “Do you hear me?” he demands. “No!” shouts Alfredo, who at length understands what is being asked of him.

“So it’s useless to have found you again, is it, Alfredo?” But from his son’s taut face, Germont realizes that he is wrong to antagonize him. “No, Alfredo, you’ll hear no reproaches from me. We’ll bury the past together. Love has brought me here to find you and love knows how to forgive. Come! Let’s surprise your dear ones with the sight of us together. You can’t refuse that joy to those you’ve pained so much. A father and a sister, even now, are hastening to console you.” Alfredo is taking no interest. Again he shakes himself, as if to focus his attention. His eye lights on Flora’s letter on the table beside him. He reads it. “Ah!” he cries, enlightened. “So she’s at the party. I’ll fly to avenge the insult.” He rushes out, headlong, with his father on his heels. “What are you saying? Stop!” The doors to the garden bang. The love-nest is empty; all the birds have flown.

It is quite another décor that meets our eyes, still that same night. We are at Flora’s. A long, richly decorated room is brilliantly lit by crystal chandeliers and bronze candelabra. There is a small refreshment table laid with snowy linen and flowers in silver epergnes. In the middle of the room is a gambling table, holding cards, a roulette wheel, dice. Flora is escorting her first guests into the salon. We recognize the habitués of Violetta’s former circle: the doctor, the marquis, and so on. There will be a masquerade this evening, Flora promises; the viscount has got it up. And she has asked Violetta and Alfredo too. Her lover, the marquis, smiles. Hasn’t she heard the news? Violetta and Alfredo have separated. Flora and the doctor can hardly believe it. But the marquis is very sure. She will come tonight with the baron; the company will see. The doctor shakes his head, still incredulous. He saw them only the day before, and they seemed so happy.

Just then a distraction occurs: the masquerade. Flora calls for silence, and a band of ladies enters disguised as gypsies. Some are picked out by the guests as members of the familiar select circle. Thus when the “gypsies” begin the game of pretending to tell fortunes, they are able to make use of their intimate knowledge of the private lives of the company—e.g., that Flora’s marquis is a rake who gives her countless rivals—without causing too much surprise. Following on the artificial storm raised by this intelligence—common knowledge to all, Flora included—new maskers come in: the viscount and his friends disguised as matadors. They put on a frankly amateurish show, reciting parts and singing a Spanish-style chorus of love and bullfighting. But this somewhat perfunctory “theatre” soon gives way to business, as masks are removed and everybody either makes for the gambling table or prepares to stroll about, idly flirting.

At this moment Alfredo, having waited perhaps for a lull, chooses to present himself. “You?” they all exclaim, not concealing their astonishment. “Why, yes. It’s me, friends.” He is alone, manifestly, yet Flora feels that she must ask about Violetta—where is she? Alfredo shrugs. He has no idea. And this casual disclaimer wins him a flurry of applause. They admire his parade of detachment, which leaves them free to pursue their own concerns—the gambling they have promised themselves. He joins the group around the table. His friend Gaston—the viscount—cuts the cards; Alfredo and the other young blades put down stakes. As they do so, Violetta appears, in a low-necked dress, on the arm of the baron—the prediction was right. Flora, as the hostess, hurries up to welcome her. “How delightful that you were able to come.” “I could only yield to your very kind invitation.” Flora turns to the baron. “So pleased that you, too, were able to accept.”

The baron’s look lingers on the group at the gaming table. “Germont’s here,” he murmurs to Violetta. “See him?” “Oh, God, it’s true,” she whispers to herself. Then, to the baron: “Yes, I see him.” “Not a word from you tonight to this Alfredo,” the baron warns her in a fierce, sibilant undertone. He is older than the other men and has a deep, disagreeable voice. “Reckless girl, what made you come here?” a frightened Violetta demands of herself. “Oh, Lord, have pity on me!” Then Flora sweeps her off. “Come, sit next to me. Tell me everything. What’s this sudden change I see?” Violetta has no choice but to sit down by her on a sofa; the doctor, as always, hovers near the two women. The marquis, tactful, draws the baron to one side and holds him in conversation.

At the table, the viscount cuts the cards; Alfredo and the other players put down stakes. Some guests are strolling up and down the long room, as though it were their private boulevard, holding the promise of some exciting diversion—a new coupling, a quarrel. Alfredo’s light voice can be heard announcing that he has a four. He has won again, marvels his friend Gaston. “Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,” Alfredo says dryly. He bets and wins. The onlookers are pressing around the table, making a dense hedge so that Alfredo’s play cannot be seen. “He’s always the winner,” they report. “Oh, I’ll win this evening all right,” Alfredo declares headily. “I’ll take my winnings to the country and be a happy man.” “Alone?” The sharp, pertinent question comes from Flora, on the sofa. “No, no,” the young man answers, turning to stare at the two women. “With the one who was with me there once and then fled my company.”

Eyebrows go up around the room; fans are agitated. “My God,” whispers Violetta, stricken to the quick. The viscount nudges Alfredo, pointing to poor Violetta. “Have pity on her,” he says. Meanwhile, the baron, detaching himself abruptly from the marquis, pushes up to Alfredo with barely contained fury. “Monsieur!” he says in an insulting tone. But Violetta, rising with determination, interposes in a low voice. “Restrain yourself or I’ll leave you.” “Were you addressing me, baron?” Alfredo coolly inquires. The baron answers on a note of irony. “You’re so very, very lucky that you tempt me to play with you.” “Really?” replies Alfredo. “I accept the challenge.”

Violetta drops her eyes, unable to bear what she fears is coming. “Oh, dear God, have pity on me. I feel I’m about to die.” “A hundred louis!” The baron puts down his stake. “I’ll match you!” says Alfredo. They play. Gaston deals cards to Alfredo. “An ace ... a jack ... You’ve won!” “Double it?” says the baron. “Very well, two hundred.” Gaston cuts the cards. He deals. “A four ... a seven.” “He’s done it again!” the crowd exclaims. “I’ve won,” says Alfredo. “Bravo!” they chime. “Really and truly bravo! Luck’s on Alfredo’s side.” “The baron will foot the bill for that ‘month in the country.’ That’s clear,” observes Flora, provocatively. Alfredo lets this pass. He turns to the baron. “Your play.”

But now supper is served. A lackey comes in to announce it. “Come along, then!” commands Flora. Obediently, her guests start filing out into the next room. Alfredo is close to the baron as they leave the gaming table. “If you wish to continue ...” he suggests, in a low tone. “For the moment we can’t,” replies the baron, his voice low too. “Later I’ll have my revenge.” “At any game you like,” answers Alfredo. “Let’s follow our friends,” says the baron. “Later.” “At your service, then,” Alfredo agrees. The two follow the other guests out through a big set of doors at the back of the apartment. The room stands empty, strewn with discarded masks that the servants have not yet picked up. After a longish interval, Violetta bursts in, breathless.

She has asked Alfredo to follow her and is not sure that he will obey. And even if he comes, will he listen to her? She is afraid that hatred may prove to be stronger than her pleading voice. Alfredo enters. He has obeyed her summons. “You wanted me?” He bows stiffly. “What is it you wish?” Knowing better but unnerved by his manner, she plunges straight to the point. “Leave this place!” She is still breathless. “A danger is hanging over you.” Alfredo gives a cynical smile. He has understood, he believes. So she thinks him as vile a creature as that. He is no coward—this much he can show her. That was never in her mind, Violetta protests. “Then what is it you fear?” “I’m in deadly fear of the baron,” she confides. Alfredo’s answer is chilly. “True,” he agrees, “there’s bad blood between us that’s bound to be fatal to one or the other.” If the baron falls by his hand, obviously she’ll lose both her lover and her protector at a single blow. Can that be the disaster that terrifies her?

Violetta ignores his sarcasm and replies from the heart. “But if he should be the slayer? That’s the sole misfortune that I fear like death.” “My death!” he says contemptuously. “Why should that trouble you?” At that she flares up, impatient with his foolishness. He must depart this place at once. To her surprise and relief, he agrees. But then he turns equivocal; he bargains. He will leave but on one condition: that she will swear to follow him wherever he goes. “Ah, no!” she cries out. “Never!” The force of that stuns him. “No, never?” he shouts back. She is angry now herself, an effect of desperation. “Go, unhappy wretch! Forget a name that’s infamous to you. Go, leave me at once. I’ve given my sacred oath to put you out of my life.”

In her anger and fear for him (she truly does quake before the baron), she is giving the show away. Hearing herself, she catches her breath: another word of that and she will have gone too far to retract. And of course there is something soft and tender in her that is aching to tell him the truth. “Whom did you swear such an oath to? Tell me. Who could ask it of you?” She first tries an evasive answer, which will be true enough and yet misleading. “Someone who had every right.” But the hint does not make him curious. “It was Douphol,” he states. In other words, the baron. He has put the lie into her mouth for her. “Yes,” she faintly assents, with a supreme effort of her will. But the weakness in her voice only suggests to the young man that she is ashamed of the admission. “You love him, then?” he demands. This lie comes easier. “Well, yes ... I love him.” For her, the crisis is over. She falls limply back on the sofa.

But for Alfredo it is far from over. He runs furiously to the big central doors and yells into the dining-room: “Everybody come here!” In confusion the guests enter from the supper tables; some of the men still have napkins tucked into their evening waistcoats. Behind the guests stand the servants, full of curiosity. “You called us? What do you want?” guests demand. In their bosoms there is evidently a conflict between anticipation of a scandal and desire to finish an exquisite meal in peace. Alfredo draws himself up. He points to Violetta. “You know this woman?” There is something almost biblical in the tableau; he must sense himself as an accusing prophet. She flinches and supports herself by leaning on a table. “Who? Violetta?” They all know her, of course. “But you don’t know what she did?” She can half-guess what is coming and tries to stop him. “Be still,” she begs, closing her eyes. But the others want to hear. He goes on to recount to the company how this woman they see before them squandered her whole property on him while he, blind, vile, abject, was able to let her do it right down to her last possession. The company listens in silence to this public confession.

“But there’s still time!” he begins again, his convulsed voice rising to a shout. “Time to clear my honor of the infamous stain. I call everyone in this room to witness that I have paid her off—here!” With furious contempt he throws a purse at Violetta’s feet. Coins tumble out onto the carpet as she falls fainting into the arms of Flora and the doctor.

In his frenzy Alfredo has not noticed the entry of his father, who has been in time to witness the gesture and hear the last scornful words. The severe, soberly dressed Germont cuts a path between the worldlings as they give voice to their shock and horror. They do not doubt that he has committed an infamous act. He has put himself beyond the pale. Not only has he struck a death blow at a sensitive heart but he has dishonored womanhood. This is the sacrilege for which he will be banished from society. No door will open to him again.

His father is in absolute accord. “No man insults a woman without dishonoring himself,” he decrees in deep, measured tones, constituting himself the spokesman of the social establishment and the natural judge of his son. The fact that this is not a “respectable” gathering and that the insulted and injured party is a professional woman of pleasure is not felt by anyone as ironical but on the contrary seems to deepen the crime. “Where is my Alfredo?” Germont continues inflexibly, running his eyes over the criminal. “In you I don’t find him anymore.” In other words, through his action, the beloved son has vanished as a member of the human race.

In a curiously parallel reaction, as he comes to his senses, Alfredo before our eyes is driven to
ostracize himself
. He, too, feels horror at his abominable deed and no longer knows the person who was capable of it; “mania” is the only word he can find to characterize the force that propelled him. And, naturally, he believes that he has put himself beyond forgiveness, at least Violetta’s, which is suddenly all he cares about.

Simultaneously with his torments of repentance, Violetta is recovering consciousness. As she comes out of her swoon, she is conscious only of Alfredo, addressing herself to him or, rather, to the memory of him in feeble, passionate accents. The real young man, sunk in hopeless remorse, she apparently does not take notice of. Or else he is hidden from her by the throng of sympathizers that press forward to surround her the moment she sits up.