The Song of Love Triumphant Page #6

"The Song of Love Triumphant" is a lyrical novella by Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev that explores themes of love, longing, and the passage of time. Set against the backdrop of 19th-century Russia, the story follows the emotional journey of its protagonist as he grapples with his feelings for a beautiful and enigmatic woman. Turgenev’s rich prose captures the nuances of romantic relationships and the complexities of human emotion, while also offering reflections on the ideals of love and the inevitable losses that accompany it. Through its poignant narrative, the work examines the interplay between passion and despair, illustrating how love can both uplift and torment the human spirit.

								

of his dagger had penetrated he could not doubt that he had done
so--then it was impossible to conceal the fact. He must bring it to the
knowledge of the Duke, of the judges ... but how was he to explain, how
was he to narrate such an incomprehensible affair? He, Fabio, had slain
in his own house his relative, his best friend! People would ask, "What
for? For what cause?..." But what if Muzio were not slain?--Fabio had
not the strength to remain any longer in uncertainty, and having made
sure that Valeria was asleep, he cautiously rose from his arm-chair,
left the house, and directed his steps toward the pavilion. All was
silent in it; only in one window was a light visible. With sinking heart
he opened the outer door--(a trace of bloody fingers still clung to it,
and on the sand of the path drops of blood made black patches)--
raversed the first dark chamber ... and halted on the threshold,
petrified with astonishment.

In the centre of the room, on a Persian rug, with a brocade cushion
under his head, covered with a wide scarlet shawl with black figures,
lay Muzio, with all his limbs stiffly extended. His face, yellow as wax,
with closed eyes and lids which had become blue, was turned toward the
ceiling, and no breath was to be detected: he seemed to be dead. At his
feet, also enveloped in a scarlet shawl, knelt the Malay. He held in his
left hand a branch of some unfamiliar plant, resembling a fern, and
bending slightly forward, he was gazing at his master, never taking his
eyes from him. A small torch, thrust into the floor, burned with a
greenish flame, and was the only light in the room. Its flame did not
flicker nor smoke.

The Malay did not stir at Fabio's entrance, but merely darted a glance
at him and turned his eyes again upon Muzio. From time to time he
raised himself a little, and lowered the branch, waving it through the
air,--and his dumb lips slowly parted and moved, as though uttering
inaudible words. Between Muzio and the Malay there lay upon the floor
the dagger with which Fabio had stabbed his friend. The Malay smote the
blood-stained blade with his bough. One minute passed ... then another.
Fabio approached the Malay, and bending toward him, he said in a low
voice: "Is he dead?"--The Malay bowed his head, and disengaging his
right hand from beneath the shawl, pointed imperiously to the door.
Fabio was about to repeat his question, but the imperious hand repeated
its gesture, and Fabio left the room, raging arid marvelling but
submitting.

He found Valeria asleep, as before, with a still more tranquil face. He
did not undress, but seated himself by the window, propped his head on
his hand, and again became immersed in thought. The rising sun found him
still in the same place. Valeria had not wakened.

XI

Fabio was intending to wait until she should awake, and then go to
Ferrara--when suddenly some one tapped lightly at the door of the
bedroom. Fabio went out and beheld before him his aged major-domo,
Antonio.

"Signor," began the old man, "the Malay has just informed us that Signor
Muzio is ailing and desires to remove with all his effects to the town;
and therefore he requests that you will furnish him with the aid of some
persons to pack his things--and that you will send, about dinner-time,
both pack-and saddle-horses and a few men as guard. Do you permit?"

"Did the Malay tell thee that?" inquired Fabio. "In what manner? For he
is dumb."

"Here, signor, is a paper on which he wrote all this in our language,
very correctly."

"And Muzio is ill, sayest thou?"

"Yes, very ill, and he cannot be seen."

"Has not a physician been sent for?"

"No; the Malay would not allow it."

"And was it the Malay who wrote this for thee?"

"Yes, it was he."

Fabio was silent for a space.

"Very well, take the necessary measures," he said at last.

Antonio withdrew.

Fabio stared after his servant in perplexity.--"So he was not
killed?"--he thought ... and he did not know whether to rejoice or to
grieve.--"He is ill?"--But a few hours ago he had beheld him a corpse!

Fabio returned to Valeria. She was awake, and raised her head. The
husband and wife exchanged a long, significant look.

"Is he already dead?" said Valeria suddenly.--Fabio shuddered.

"What ... he is not?--Didst thou.... Has he gone away?" she went on.

Fabio's heart was relieved.--"Not yet; but he is going away to-day."

"And I shall never, never see him again?"

"Never."

"And those visions will not be repeated?"

"No."

Valeria heaved another sigh of relief; a blissful smile again made its
appearance on her lips. She put out both hands to her husband.

"And we shall never speak of him, never, hearest thou, my dear one. And
I shall not leave this room until he is gone. But now do thou send me my
serving-women ... and stay: take that thing!"--she pointed to a pearl
necklace which lay on the night-stand, the necklace which Muzio had
given her,---"and throw it immediately into our deep well. Embrace me--I
am thy Valeria--and do not come to me until ... that man is gone."

Fabio took the necklace--its pearls seemed to have grown dim--and
fulfilled his wife's behest. Then he began to roam about the garden,
gazing from a distance at the pavilion, around which the bustle of
packing was already beginning. Men were carrying out chests, lading
horses ... but the Malay was not among them. An irresistible feeling
drew Fabio to gaze once more on what was going on in the pavilion. He
recalled the fact that in its rear façade there was a secret door
through which one might penetrate to the interior of the chamber where
Muzio had been lying that morning. He stole up to that door, found it
unlocked, and pushing aside the folds of a heavy curtain, darted in an
irresolute glance.

XII

Muzio was no longer lying on the rug. Dressed in travelling attire, he
was sitting in an arm-chair, but appeared as much of a corpse as at
Fabio's first visit. The petrified head had fallen against the back of
the chair, the hands lay flat, motionless, and yellow on the knees. His
breast did not heave. Round about the chair, on the floor strewn with
dried herbs, stood several flat cups filled with a dark liquid which
gave off a strong, almost suffocating odour,--the odour of musk. Around
each cup was coiled a small, copper-coloured serpent, which gleamed here
and there with golden spots; and directly in front of Muzio, a couple of
paces distant from him, rose up the tall figure of the Malay, clothed in
a motley-hued mantle of brocade, girt about with a tiger's tail, with a
tall cap in the form of a horned tiara on his head.

But he was not motionless: now he made devout obeisances and seemed to
be praying, again he drew himself up to his full height, even stood on
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