“But I hardly ever see Augusta.”
She made a gesture of surprise and, as it seemed to me, of pained
surprise.
Meanwhile I was thinking hard in order to arrive at some explanation
of what seemed to be a mistake, but a mistake of which I at once
realised the significance. I looked back over the last five months, and
saw myself day after day engaged in watching Ada. I had played with
Augusta, and it is true that I had talked to her occasionally instead
of to Ada, because she was always ready to listen to me; but I only
talked to her hoping that she would hand on my stories, sealed with
her approval, to Ada. Ought I to speak plainly to the lady and tell
her of my intentions with regard to Ada? But only a short time before
I had made up my mind to speak first to Ada herself and discover what
she really felt towards me. Perhaps if I had spoken openly to Signora
Malfenti things would have turned out differently and, not being able
to marry Ada, I should not have married Augusta either. I let myself be
guided by the resolution I had made before seeing Signora Malfenti,
and received her extraordinary statements in silence.
I was thinking hard, but somewhat confusedly. I wanted to understand; I
felt I must find out quickly what she was driving at. If you open your
eyes too wide you don’t see so well. The possibility of their wanting
to turn me out of the house did occur to me, but I thought I might
dismiss it. I was innocent, for I had not paid court to Augusta whom
they wanted to protect. But perhaps they were only attributing to me
these designs on Augusta in order not to compromise Ada. But why should
they want so much to protect Ada who was no longer a child? I had never
even stroked her hair except in my dreams. In reality I had only just
touched her hand with my lips. I dreaded their forbidding me to come to
the house, because before leaving it I must speak to Ada. I said in a
trembling voice:
“Tell me what I ought to do so as not to offend anyone.”
She hesitated. I would rather have had to deal with Giovanni, who
always thought at the top of his voice. Then she said firmly, but with
an effort to appear polite which revealed itself in her tone:
“It would be better if you came here less often for the present; let us
say two or three times a week, instead of every day.”
I am certain that if she had told me rudely to go away and never to
come back, I should have clung to my purpose and implored her to put
up with me for two or three days more, so that I might clear up my
relations with Ada. But her words, which were so much milder than I
expected, gave me courage to show my resentment:
“If you wish it I will never set foot in this house again.”
The result was what I had hoped. She protested, saying again how
fond they all were of me, and begging me not to be angry with her. I
magnanimously promised all she wanted: to refrain from coming to the
house again for four or five days, and after that to come only two or
three times a week; but above all not to bear her any ill-will. When
I had promised this I made as though I would carry it out at once and
rose to go. The Signora laughingly protested:
“There can be no fear of your compromising _me_, so you may stay on a
little.”
When I asked her to excuse me on account of an engagement which I had
only that instant remembered, (the truth being that I was longing to
be by myself in order to reflect on my extraordinary adventure) she
positively begged me to remain, saying that she would look on it as
a proof that I was not angry with her. So I stayed on, though I was
on thorns at having to listen to her empty chatter about the latest
fashions which she did _not_ intend to follow, about the theatre and
the dry weather which had ushered in the spring.
But I was soon glad I had stayed on, for I began to feel I needed
a further explanation. I interrupted her unceremoniously with the
question:
“Does the whole family know that you have asked me to stay away from
the house?”
At first she seemed to have already forgotten our pact. Then she
protested:
“Stay away from the house? But only for a few days, you know. I shall
say nothing about it to anyone, not even my husband, and I should be
grateful if you would use a like discretion.”
I promised that too; I even promised that if any of them asked me why
I did not come so often I would invent some excuse or other. For the
moment I believed what she had said, and pictured Ada being surprised
and distressed by my unexpected absence. A flattering picture!
I went on sitting there in the hope that I might have some fresh
inspiration, while the lady meandered on about the cost of provisions,
which had lately gone up so terribly in price.
Instead of a fresh inspiration their Aunt Rosina arrived. She was a
sister of Giovanni, older than him and much less intelligent. But she
had certain moral traits in common with him which were sufficient to
make one recognise her as his sister. She had the same sense of her
own importance and of what was owing to her; but the effect was rather
comic, since she had no means of imposing herself. She also had the
same bad habit of raising her voice on the slightest provocation. She
held that she had so many rights in her brother’s house that for
a long time, as I afterwards learned, she regarded his wife as an
interloper. She was an old maid and lived with one servant whom she
always spoke of as her greatest enemy. When she died she asked my wife
to keep an eye on the house till this servant had left it. Everyone in
Giovanni’s house stood in awe of her and put up with her tyrannies as
best they could.
I still did not take my leave. Aunt Rosina liked Ada the best of all
her nieces. I felt a desire to win her good will, and sought for an
amiable remark to address to her. I vaguely remembered that the last
time I had seen her (or caught a glimpse of her, for I had not then
felt the need of looking closely at her) her nieces had remarked,
directly she left, that she was not looking very well. I remembered one
of them saying: “It’s the temper she flies into with her servant that
gives her that bilious complexion.”
I had found what I wanted. Looking affectionately into the old woman’s
face, I said:
“You are looking much better, Madam.”
I ought never to have said it. She stared at me in astonishment and
remarked stiffly:
“I am always quite well. Why should I look better?”
She wanted to know when I had seen her last. I could not remember
the date exactly, but I reminded her we had spent a whole afternoon
together, sitting with her nieces in the drawing-room, but not in the
half where we were sitting now, in the other half. I wanted to show her
how much interest I took in her, but she demanded so many explanations
that it became terribly tedious. I grew ashamed of my deception and
began to feel uncomfortable.
Signora Malfenti smilingly intervened:
“But you don’t mean to suggest that Aunt Rosina has got fatter?”
The devil! So that was what had made the old lady angry. She was almost
as big as her brother, but was still hoping to get thin.
“Fatter? Of course not. I only meant that the Signora was looking much
better in the face.”
I tried to preserve an affectionate demeanour, and was obliged
forcibly to restrain myself from being rude to her. Aunt Rosina did
not appear to be satisfied even then. She had not been ill for a long
time and could not understand why she had struck me as looking unwell.
Signora Malfenti humoured her:
“On the contrary, it is characteristic of her that she always looks the
same,” she said turning to me. “Don’t you agree?”
I did agree; it was quite obvious. But I took leave at once. I held
out my hand very cordially to Aunt Rosina, hoping to put her in a good
humour, but when she took it she looked the other way.
I had hardly crossed the threshold when my state of mind altered
completely. What a relief! I was no longer obliged to speculate on
Signora Malfenti’s intentions, nor make an effort to please Aunt
Rosina. I firmly believe that but for the intervention of Aunt Rosina
that old schemer Signora Malfenti would have achieved her end, and that
I should have left the house perfectly satisfied with my treatment.
I descended the steps by leaps and bounds. Aunt Rosina had provided
a kind of commentary on Signora Malfenti, who proposed to me that I
should keep away from her house for several days. Too kind of you, my
dear lady! I would oblige her beyond her expectations; she should never
see me again! They had all of them tortured me, she, the aunt and Ada.
By what right? Because I wanted to get married? But I had quite given
up that idea. Liberty was too sweet!
I roved about the streets for a long while, a prey to the violence of
my feelings. Then I felt the need of an even greater liberty. I must
find a way of sealing my resolution never to set foot in the house
again. I rejected the idea of writing a letter of farewell. My scorn
would be more effectual if I did not communicate my intentions of
breaking with them for ever. I would simply forget to call on Giovanni
and his family.
I hit on what seemed to me a discreet and pleasant, if slightly
ironical way of confirming my purpose. I hastened to a florist and
selected a magnificent bouquet of flowers, which I addressed to Signora
Malfenti, accompanied by my visiting-card on which nothing was written
except the date, which I should never forget and which probably Ada and
her mother would never forget either. May the fifth, the anniversary
of Napoleon’s death.
I arranged for it to be sent at once. It was extremely important that
it should arrive that same day.
And what next? I had done absolutely everything, there was nothing more
to do. Ada was shut up away from me, with all the rest of her family,
and I should be obliged to go on doing nothing, waiting for one of them
to come and find me and give me an occasion to do or say something
different.
I went straight to my study and shut myself in to reflect. If I had
given way to my torturing impatience I should have returned at once
to the house, even at the risk of arriving there before my bouquet of
flowers. It was easy to invent an excuse. I might even have forgotten
my umbrella!
But I did not want to do anything of the sort. In sending the bouquet
I was making a magnificent gesture which I must not go back on. It was
for me to stand firm; the next move was for them.
The solitude of my study from which I had hoped to get relief only
served to throw light on the cause of my despair, which was so acute
as to drive me to tears. I was in love with Ada! I could not be sure
yet whether that was the right word, so I went on with my analysis. I
not only wanted to possess her, I wanted her for my wife. I wanted her,
with her cold face and angular body, and her serious nature which could
not and never would appreciate my humour. I should not try to make her;
I would give it all up for her, and she would inspire me to live an
intelligent and industrious life. I wanted the whole of her, I expected
everything from her. I came to the conclusion that it was the right
word after all; I loved Ada.
I felt as if I had arrived at something very important which would
guide me on my way. No more hesitations! I no longer even cared whether
she loved me. I must try and win her, and since Giovanni disposed of
her, there was no longer any point in my speaking to her about it. I
must get it all settled and leap at once into felicity, or else forget
it all and be cured. Why must I endure this suspense? If I learned, and
I could only learn it from Giovanni, that Ada was definitely lost to
me, at least I should no longer have to contend with time, which would
then flow peacefully on without my having to urge it forward. Something
settled is always calm because it is dissociated from time.
I at once went in search of Giovanni. I had to make two journeys; one
to his office, which is in the street we still call New House Street,
because it was called so by our ancestors. It is close to the shore and
overshadowed by tall old houses. Towards sunset there is very little
traffic in it and I could get along at a good pace. All I thought of
as I hurried along was to frame as briefly as possible the phrase I
had to address to him. It would be enough to tell him briefly of my
determination to marry his daughter Ada. It was not my business to
explain, or to win him over. As a business man he would know what to
answer as soon as I had stated my case. The only thing I debated was
whether I had better, on an occasion like this, talk in dialect or in
the literary language.
But Giovanni had already left his office and gone on to the Tergesteo.
I made my way there, but more slowly, for I knew that I should have
to wait some time before I could speak to him alone. When I reached
Via Cavana I had to slacken my pace still more, because of the crowd
in the narrow street. And it was while I was fighting my way through
the crowd that I suddenly saw, as in a vision, the certainty that I
had been seeking for so many hours. The Malfentis wanted me to marry
Augusta, and they did not want me to marry Ada, for the simple reason
that Augusta was in love with me and Ada was not. She could not be, for
otherwise they would not have intervened to separate us. They told me I
was compromising Augusta, but in fact it was she who was compromising
herself by loving me. I saw it all quite clearly in a flash, as if
one of the family had told me. And I guessed that Ada had agreed to
my being forbidden the house. She did not love me and never would, at
least so long as she thought her sister did. So in the crowded Via
Cavana I had arrived more quickly at the truth than in the solitude of
my study.
To-day, when I look back on those five memorable days which led up to
my marriage I am shocked to think I was not at all moved to find that
poor Augusta was in love with me. Now that I was banished from the
house I knew that I was madly in love with Ada. Why did it give me no
satisfaction to realise that Signora Malfenti had banished me in vain
since I was still present in the house, and in the closest vicinity
to Ada, namely in Augusta’s heart? I felt it as a fresh insult that
Signora Malfenti should have exhorted me not to compromise Augusta,
meaning that I was to marry her. I felt all the contempt for the plain
sister which I could not admit that the pretty sister, whom I loved,
felt for me.
I quickened my steps, but I turned aside from the Tergesteo and made my
way home. I no longer had any need to speak to Giovanni. I knew exactly
what I must do; I knew it with a despairing certainty which perhaps
would give me peace at last by releasing me from the too slow march of
time. Besides, it would be dangerous to talk to anyone so tactless as
Giovanni. Signora Malfenti had spoken so obscurely that it had taken
me till Via Cavana to grasp her meaning. Her husband was capable of
behaving very differently. He might easily say straight out: “Why do
you want to marry Ada? Just think it over. Hadn’t you better marry
Augusta instead?” I remembered an axiom of his by which he might easily
be guided in this case. “One must always explain the matter clearly to
one’s adversary, for only so can one be sure of understanding it better
than he.” And then? An open rupture would be sure to follow. Well then,
time could move at whatever pace it pleased; I should no longer have
any reason to interfere with it; I should have come to a full-stop!
I remembered another of Giovanni’s axioms, and clung to it because
it gave me occasion to hope. I managed to cling to it for five days,
during which my passion was transformed into a disease. Giovanni used
to say one must never be in a hurry to liquidate a business if there
was nothing to be gained by it; sooner or later every business will
liquidate itself, as is proved by the fact that in the course of the
world’s long history so few questions have been left unsettled. So long
as one leaves it unliquidated, there is always a chance of it turning
out to one’s advantage.
I did not choose to recall other axioms of Giovanni which took the
opposite point of view; I preferred to cling to this one. I had to
cling to something. I made an iron resolution not to budge from my
position till something fresh had intervened to turn things in my
favour. And it was perhaps because the consequences of this were so
fatal to me, that I refrained for a long time from forming any fresh
resolution.
I had hardly taken my resolution before a note arrived from Signora
Malfenti. I recognised her handwriting on the envelope, and before
opening it I flattered myself that my iron resolution had been quite
enough to make her repent of having ill-treated me, and to run after me
instead. When I found it contained nothing but the letters p.r. (_pour
remercier_), which meant that she was thanking me for the flowers I had
sent her, I flung myself on my bed in desperation and drove my teeth
into the pillow-case, as if to chain myself to it and prevent myself
from running away to break my resolution on the spot. What ironic calm
those initials aroused in me! Much greater than that expressed by the
date on my visiting-card, which was intended to convey a resolution and
also a reproof. “_Remember_” Charles I had said before they cut off his
head, and he must have noted the date of that memorable day! I too had
exhorted my enemy to remember and to fear!
Those five days and nights were horrible, and I watched the dawn and
sunset which marked their beginning and their end and brought nearer
the hour when I should be free to fight again for my love.
I went on preparing myself for the conflict. I knew now what my
mistress wanted me to be like. I well remember the resolutions I made
then, partly because I have made very similar ones more recently, and
also because I have kept the sheet of paper on which I noted them down.
I resolved to become more serious. That meant that I must not tell any
more of those comic stories, which showed me in an unfavourable light
and made my dear Ada despise me, though they endeared me to the plain
Augusta. I also resolved to go to my office at eight every morning (it
was a long time since it had seen me), not in order to argue with Olivi
about my rights, but in order to work with him and qualify, all in
good time, to manage my affairs myself. This change was to be effected
later on, at a calmer moment, just as I was going later on to give up
smoking; i.e. when I had recovered my freedom, for there was no reason
to make the horrible moment still more horrible. Ada must have a
perfect husband. Amongst other things I resolved to devote myself to
serious reading, to fence for half an hour daily, and to ride twice a
week. Twenty-four hours a day were none too long.
During my brief exile I was continually beset by the most violent
jealousy. It was a heroic purpose to determine to cure all one’s
faults and prepare for the conquest of Ada after so few weeks. But
meanwhile? While I was subjecting myself to the most rigid discipline
was it likely that all the other males in the town would lie low and
refrain from trying to carry off my lady? There was sure to be one
amongst them who would not stand in need of so much discipline in
order to be favourably received. I knew or thought I knew that when
Ada found someone she felt would suit her she would consent at once,
without waiting to fall in love. Every time I met a well-dressed,
healthy-looking man who appeared to be at peace with himself and the
world, I hated him because I thought he would do for Ada. The chief
thing I remember about those days is the jealousy which settled like a
black cloud on my life.
It would be unjust to laugh at my hideous fear lest Ada should be
stolen away from me, now that one knows what really did happen. When
I live again through those hideous days I must needs wonder at my
prophetic soul.
I walked several times beneath her windows at night. In the rooms above
they were apparently enjoying themselves as of old when I was there. At
midnight or a little sooner, the lights went out in the drawing-room. I
hurried away, fearing lest one of the guests might catch sight of me as
they left the house.
Not an hour during those days but I was tortured with impatience. Why
did no one ask after me? Why did Giovanni make no move? Surely he must
have wondered not to see me either at his house or at the Tergesteo?
Had he agreed too then that I was to be banished? Often in the middle
of my walk, at night or during the day, I would rush home to make sure
that no one had called to inquire about me. I felt I could not go to
bed till I had made sure, and I would wake poor Maria up to ask her.
I would often stay at home for hours on end so as to be more easily
accessible. But nobody called to inquire, and I should certainly still
be a bachelor if I had not decided to make a move myself.
One evening I went to my club to gamble. It was many years since I
had done so, because of a promise I had made my father. I felt my
promise ought not to hold any longer, because my father could not have
foreseen my present painful circumstances and my urgent need to procure
myself some diversion. First I won a considerable sum of money, which
however gave me no pleasure, because it seemed like a compensation
for my misfortune in love. Then I lost, and was no better pleased,
because I thought I was as unlucky at the gaming-table as I was in my
love-affairs. I soon took a dislike to gambling; it was unworthy of me
and of Ada. So pure had I become through my love for her.
My dreams of love had been rudely shattered by the harsh realities of
those last few days. And now in my sleep I dreamed quite differently
too; of victory instead of love. Once Ada visited me in my dreams. She
was dressed like a bride and went with me to the altar, but even after
that I did not embrace her. I was her husband and had the right to ask
her how she could have allowed me to be treated like that. I did not
try to exercise any other rights.
In my desk I have come upon some rough copies of letters to Ada,
Giovanni and Signora Malfenti. They belong to that time. I wrote to
Signora Malfenti simply to say that I wanted to take leave of her
before setting out on a long journey. I cannot however remember that I
ever thought of doing so. I could not think of leaving the city while I
was still uncertain whether someone might not come and look for me. How
terrible if they had come and not found me. I never sent any of those
letters. I think I must have written them only so as to put my thoughts
down on paper.
For some years past I had looked on myself as ill, but only in a way
which made others suffer more than me. It was now that I began to
suffer from a really painful illness, a mixture of unpleasant bodily
sensations which caused me extreme misery.
It began in this way. One night at about one o’clock, unable to
sleep, I got up and walked through the mild night air till I reached
a café in a suburb where I had never been before and where it was
unlikely I should meet anybody I knew. I was glad of that, because I
wanted to continue an imaginary discussion I had begun with Signora
Malfenti in bed, and which I did not want anyone to interfere with.
Signora Malfenti had begun to make fresh charges against me. She said
I was playing cat and mouse with her daughters; the fact of course
being that if I had attempted anything of the sort it would have been
with Ada alone. I broke out into a cold sweat at the mere thought of
their saying such a thing about me at the Malfentis, perhaps at this
very moment. The absent are always wrong, and they might have taken
advantage of my absence to plot against me. When I got into the bright
light of the café I found it easier to defend myself. It is true that I
should have liked to touch Ada’s foot with mine, and I did once think I
had succeeded in doing so with her approval. But then I discovered that
it was only the wooden leg of the table I was pressing, and of course
it could not protest.
I pretended to interest myself in a game of billiards. A man who
was leaning on a crutch came in and sat down beside me. He ordered
a lemon squash, and the waiter looked at me for my order, so I also
absent-mindedly ordered a lemon squash, though I can’t endure the taste
of a lemon. While he was fetching it, the crutch, which was leaning
against the sofa we were sitting on, slipped to the ground and I
instinctively bent down to pick it up.
“Why it’s Zeno!” exclaimed the poor cripple, recognising me just as he
was about to thank me.
“Tullio!” I cried in surprise, and stretched out my hand. We had been
at school together and had not seen each other for some years. All I
knew about him was that after he had left school he had gone into a
bank, where he had a good position.
But I was so distrait that I promptly asked him why it was that his
right leg was shorter than his left, so that he needed a crutch.
He good-humouredly said that he had had rheumatism six months ago which
had caused the trouble in his leg.
I at once suggested to him a number of cures. It is the best way of
simulating keen sympathy without much trouble to oneself. But he had
tried them all. Then I made a further suggestion:
“Why are you not in bed at this hour? I don’t think it can be good for
you to expose yourself to the night air.”
He laughed good-naturedly and said that he did not think the night air
could do me much good either, and maintained that even if one had not
got rheumatism one might easily get it. Even the Austrian Constitution,
he said, allowed the right to go to bed in the early hours of the
morning. Besides, contrary to the general opinion, cold and heat had
nothing to do with rheumatism. He had studied his illness, in fact he
did nothing whatever but study its cause and cure. He had got long
leave from the Bank for that very purpose, though it was supposed to be
for his treatment. Then he told me about the strange treatment he was
undergoing. Every day he had to eat an enormous quantity of lemons. He
had already swallowed thirty that day, but he hoped with practice to
arrive at a very much higher figure. He told me that lemons were good
for a number of other diseases too. Since he had begun taking them he
suffered much less from the effects of over-smoking to which he was a
victim.
I had cold shivers at the thought of so much acid, but this was at
once succeeded by a more cheerful view of life; I did not like lemons,
but if they could procure for me immunity from the results of doing
all the things I most enjoyed I would have eaten quite a number.
Complete freedom consists in doing what you want on condition that you
do something else as well which you like less. True slavery is being
forced to abstain: Tantalus, not Hercules.
Tullio pretended to be anxious to hear my news. I was determined not
to tell him anything about my unhappy love-affair, but I had to find
an outlet somehow. I gave him such an exaggerated account of my bodily
symptoms (which I am sure were very slight) that I ended by having
tears in my eyes, while Tullio began to feel better and better at the
thought that I was worse than he was.
He asked if I was working. It was always said in the town that I did
nothing, and I was afraid he was going to begin envying me, whereas at
the moment I felt it was essential that I should be pitied. So I lied
to him. I told him that I worked in my office about six hours daily,
and that my father’s affairs had been left in such confusion that I was
obliged to work six hours more at them after I got home.
“Twelve hours,” remarked Tullio, with a contented smile; and he
proceeded to offer me what I most needed: his pity. “I must say I don’t
envy you.”
The conclusion was obvious, but I was so much touched by it that I
could hardly restrain my tears. I felt unhappier than ever, and in such
a morbid state of self-pity one may easily fall a prey to unwholesome
suggestions.
Tullio and I began talking again about his illness, which was his
principal distraction. He had studied the anatomy of the leg and foot.
He told me with amusement that when one is walking rapidly each step
takes no more than half a second, and in that half second no fewer
than fifty-four muscles are set in motion. I listened in bewilderment.
I at once directed my attention to my legs and tried to discover the
infernal machine. I thought I had succeeded in finding it. I could
not of course distinguish all its fifty-four parts, but I discovered
something terrifically complicated which seemed to get out of order
directly I began thinking about it.
I limped as I left the café, and for several days afterwards walking
became a burden to me and even caused me a certain amount of pain. I
felt as if the whole machine needed oiling. All the muscles seemed to
grate together whenever one moved. A few days later my first trouble
got better, but was followed by a much more serious one, which I shall
have cause to speak of soon. Even to-day, if anyone watches me walking,
the fifty-four movements get tied up in a knot, and I feel as if I
shall fall down.
Ada was responsible for this trouble too. Many animals fall a prey to
the hunter or to other animals when they are in love. I fell a prey to
disease. I am certain that at any other time I might have heard about
the infernal machine without it doing me the slightest harm.
A few words on a sheet of paper I have kept remind me of another
curious adventure at that time. Besides a note of a last cigarette,
and an expression of faith in my capacity to recover from the disease
of the fifty-four movements, there is also an attempt at poetry about
a fly. If I had not known I should have supposed those verses were
produced by a respectable old maid who calls the insect she sings of
“thou”; but as I know them to have been by me I can only suppose that
anyone is capable of anything if I was capable of them.
This is what gave rise to the verses. One night I had gone home late
and, instead of going at once to bed, I went into my study and lit
the gas. A fly, attracted by the light, began to torment me. I aimed
a blow at it, but only a light one, for fear of dirtying myself. I
forgot all about it, and then saw it slowly recovering on the table.
It was standing right up, and seemed taller than before because one of
its legs was paralysed by the blow and it could not bend it. It was
industriously cleaning its wings with its two hind legs. It tried to
move, but fell over on its back. Then it picked itself up again and
returned obstinately to its task.
I wrote those verses in my surprise at discovering that the fly’s tiny,
pain-racked organism was acting on two mistaken assumptions. First
of all, in cleaning its wings so persistently the insect showed that
it did not know which was the wounded limb. Secondly, its persistent
efforts showed that it assumed health to be the portion of everyone,
and that though we have lost it we shall certainly find it again. These
errors are quite excusable in an insect which only lives for one season
and has no time to learn by experience.
Then Sunday came. It marked the fifth day since my last visit to the
Malfentis. Though I work so little, I have always felt a great respect
for this holiday which divides life into short periods that make it
endurable. My plans underwent no change, but I decided they did not
count for that day, and that it was permissible for me to see Ada.
I did not propose to endanger my plans by writing, but I thought I
ought to see her because there was always a chance of things having
altered in my favour, and then it would have been a great pity to go on
suffering needlessly.
So at midday, as fast as my poor legs would carry me, I hurried into
the town, by the way which I knew Signora Malfenti and her daughters
must take coming back from mass. It was a lovely sunny day, and as I
walked along I thought of the longed-for discovery which was perhaps
awaiting me in the town--Ada’s love!
It was not to be, but for a moment I had the illusion of it. Fortune
favoured me in an incredible manner. I suddenly found myself face
to face with Ada, and she was alone. I staggered and my heart beat
violently. What must I do? According to my resolution I ought to have
stood aside and let her pass, with a measured bow. But my mind was
slightly confused because of the other resolutions I had made earlier,
one of which was to speak openly to her and learn from her lips what my
fate was to be. I did not stand aside, and when she greeted me as if we
had only parted five minutes ago, I joined her and walked along beside
her.
She said:
“Good-morning, Signor Cosini! I am in rather a hurry.”
And I:
“May I walk with you a little way?”
She smilingly agreed. Ought I to speak now? She added that she was
going straight home, so I realised that I had only five minutes to do
it in, and I wasted part of that time by calculating whether it would
be long enough for the important things I had to say. Better not speak
at all than to only half speak. I was also rather confused by the fact
that at that time it was considered compromising for a girl to be seen
about in the streets alone with a young man. Yet she let me walk with
her. Was not that enough to satisfy me? Meanwhile I watched her and
tried to feel again in its entirety the love which had been overcast by
anger and doubt. Should I recover my dreams? She seemed to me neither
big nor small, so harmonious were the lines of her figure. My dreams
revived in all their force, even while she walked a living reality by
my side. They were the form desire took with me, and I felt intense joy
at their return. Every trace of bitterness vanished from my mind.
But suddenly a modest voice from behind said:
“May I join you, Signorina?”
I turned indignantly. Who had dared to interrupt the explanations I had
not even begun? A beardless youth, dark and pale, was gazing anxiously
at her. I in my turn looked at Ada, in the vain hope that she would
invoke my aid. She had only to make a sign and I should have flung
myself on that individual, and demanded an explanation of his audacity.
Better still if he had insisted! My pain would have vanished instantly
if I had been free to abandon myself to a display of brute force.
But Ada gave me no such sign. With a sudden smile which changed
slightly the outline of her face and mouth, and even the colour of her
eyes, she stretched out her hand to him:
“Ah, Signor Guido!”
That Christian name was painful to me; only a few minutes before she
had called me by my surname.
I looked at Signor Guido more closely. He was dressed with the utmost
elegance, and was carrying in his gloved right hand a walking-stick
with a very long ivory handle, which I would not have been seen with
even if they had paid me so much per mile. It was not surprising
if such a person seemed to me a danger to Ada. There are plenty of
_louche_ figures who dress exactly like that, and carry precisely
similar canes.
Ada’s smile forced me back into the world of conventional
relationships. She introduced us. And I was obliged to smile too! Ada’s
smile was like transparent water stirred by a slight breeze. Mine was
also like the movement of water, but when a stone has been thrown into
it suddenly.
His name was Guido Speier. My smile became more spontaneous, because I
at once saw an opportunity for saying something disagreeable to him:
“Are you German?”
He replied politely that he knew his name might make one think so,
but documents showed that his family had been Italian for several
centuries. He talked Tuscan fluently, whereas Ada and I were confined
to our inelegant dialect.
I looked at him closely in order to take in better what he was saying.
He was a very handsome young man. His slightly open lips revealed a
set of perfect white teeth. He had bright, expressive eyes, and when
he took off his hat I could see that his brown curly hair covered the
entire space provided for it by Nature, whereas a great part of my own
head had been usurped by my forehead.
I should have hated him even if Ada had not been there, but my hatred
distressed me, and I tried to get rid of it. “He is too young for Ada,”
I thought. And I said to myself that the familiarity and kindness of
her greeting was probably due to her father’s instructions. Perhaps he
was important in Malfenti’s business, and I had noticed in such cases
that all the family were obliged to collaborate. I said:
“Are you settling in Trieste?”
He said he had been there a month and was starting a business. I
breathed again! Perhaps I had guessed rightly.
I limped as I walked, but as nobody took any notice I did not make
much of it. I kept looking at Ada and tried to forget everything else,
including our companion. I like to live in the moment, and I never give
the future a thought, unless it casts its shadow too obviously over
the present. Ada was walking between us, and her face wore a vague
unchanging expression of happiness which was almost a smile. That happy
look was new to her. For whom was her smile intended? Might it not be
for me, whom she had not seen for so long?
I listened to what they were saying. They were talking about
spiritualism, and I suddenly discovered that Guido had introduced
table-turning into the Malfenti household.
I was burning to assure myself that the sweet smile which played
about Ada’s lips was intended for me, and I leapt into the thick of
the discussion with an impromptu spirit story. No poet can ever have
improvised verses on a given scheme of rhymes better than I invented
then. Without any idea how I should make it end, I began by saying that
I believed in spirits too after what had happened to me the day before
in that very street--no, it was the street running parallel, which we
could see through the next turning. I went on to say that Ada had known
Professor Bertini, who had died a short time ago in Florence, where he
had settled on his pension. We had seen a short notice of his death
in the local paper, but I had completely forgotten this, so that when
I thought of Professor Bertini it was walking through the Cascine,
taking his well-earned rest. Yesterday--I pointed out the exact spot
in the street parallel to the one we were walking in--I was accosted
by a gentleman who seemed to know me and whom I felt I knew. He had
a curious swaying walk like that adopted by certain women in order to
progress more easily.
“Of course it may have been Professor Bertini,” said Ada, laughing.