“Absent-minded?” I said. “What an idea! I am a business man. What would
become of me if I were absent-minded?”
Then I reflected I was wasting my time. I wanted to see Giovanni. As I
had seen the daughter I might as well see the father too, though he was
so much less important. I should have to make haste if I wanted to find
him still in his office.
Guido went on prosing about what part in a miracle should be attributed
to the inattention of the miracle-worker or of those who are present at
it. I wanted to get away, and was anxious to appear at least as much at
my ease as himself. This caused me to interrupt him rather brusquely,
and to say almost rudely:
“For me miracles exist or they do not. There is no need to make them
more complicated than they are. Either you believe them or you don’t;
in either case it is very simple.”
I so little wanted to show how much I disliked him, that my words
were intended as a kind of concession, seeing that I am a convinced
positivist and have no belief in miracles. But it was a concession made
very ill-humouredly.
I limped more than ever as I went away, and hoped that Guido would not
find it necessary to look back.
I felt it essential to speak to Giovanni. I should be able to learn
from him what I ought to do about accepting Ada’s invitation. His
attitude would make it quite clear whether I might go or whether
I ought not rather to remember that Ada’s invitation was directly
contrary to Signora Malfenti’s wishes. I must know exactly where
I stood with these people, and if I could not settle the question
on Sunday, then I must devote Monday to it as well. I was going on
breaking my resolutions, but without being conscious of it. In fact I
thought I was carrying out a resolution which I had only arrived at
after five days’ meditation.
Giovanni called out a loud and cheerful greeting which did me good, and
invited me to sit down in an arm-chair facing his desk.
“Only five minutes! I’ll be with you at once! But you’re lame?” he
added inquiringly.
I blushed. But I was in a mood for improvisation. I said I had slipped
coming out of a café, and described the café where the accident had
happened. I was afraid he might attribute my tumble to the fact that my
mind was clouded by alcohol, and I added the humorous detail that when
I fell I was with somebody who limped and was afflicted with rheumatism.
An employee and two porters were standing by Giovanni’s table. Some
errors needed verifying in a consignment of merchandise, and Giovanni
had made one of his violent interventions in the management of his
warehouse, which he rarely interfered with, wanting, as he said, to
keep his mind free for what no one else could do instead. He talked
louder than ever, as if he wanted to engrave his commands on the ears
of his dependants. I think it was a question of deciding just how
business was to be carried on between the office and the warehouse.
“This paper,” shouted Giovanni, passing from his right hand to his left
a paper he had torn out of a book, “will be signed by you, and the
employee who takes it will give you an identical one signed by him.”
He fixed his interlocutors, sometimes through his glasses, and
sometimes above them, and shouted at them again:
“Do you follow?”
He was about to begin his explanations all over again, but I had
already wasted too much time. I had a curious feeling that if I were
to make haste I should have more chance of winning Ada, though it soon
occurred to me with a sense of surprise that no one was expecting me,
and that I had nothing to hope for, nor was there anything for me to
do. I advanced with outstretched hand, and said to Giovanni:
“I am coming to you this evening.”
He at once turned to me, while the others stood aside.
“Why haven’t you been to see us all this time?” he said simply.
I was overcome by a sudden surprise. That was the very question I had
a right to expect from Ada, but which she had not asked me. If no one
else had been there I should have told Giovanni quite plainly that his
question had proved to me his innocence of any share in what I now
felt to be a plot against me. He alone was innocent and deserved my
confidence.
Perhaps I did not see things quite so clearly all at once, as is proved
by the fact that I could not even wait until his underlings had gone
away. I also wanted to discover whether perhaps Ada had been prevented
from asking her question by Guido’s unexpected arrival.
But Giovanni was in such a hurry to return to his work that he put a
stop to further conversation.
“We shall see each other then this evening. You will hear a violinist
such as one does not often hear. He calls himself an amateur only
because he has too much money to make a profession of it. He is going
into business.” He shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “I am fond of
business myself, but if I were in his place I wouldn’t sell anything
but notes. I don’t know if you know him; his name is Guido Speier.”
“Really? Really?” I said, pretending to be interested. I shook my
head and opened my mouth, and in fact set in motion every part of me
which my will could control. So that Adonis could play the violin too!
“Really? Is he as good as that?” I hoped that Giovanni was joking, and
that his exaggerated praise was only ironical. But he continued shaking
his head to express his admiration. I held out my hand.
“_Au revoir!_”
I limped to the door. I felt a doubt as to whether after all I had
better refuse the invitation, in which case I ought to tell Giovanni.
I had turned to go back, when I noticed that he was watching me very
attentively, and was even leaning forward in order to see me better.
This was more than I could bear, and I left the room.
A violinist! If it was true he played as well as that, then I was
lost. If only I had not played the instrument myself or had never
been induced to play it at the Malfentis! I had taken my violin there
not in order to win their hearts by my playing, but as a pretext for
prolonging my visits. What a fool I had been! I might have found plenty
more pretexts that would have given me away less.
No one could say I have any illusions about myself. I know that I have
a great feeling for music, and that there is no affectation about my
preference for classical music; but my very feeling for music warned me
years ago that I should never be able to play so as to give pleasure to
anyone else.
I could play well if I were not ill, but I am always pursuing health
even when I am practising balance on the four strings of a violin.
There are certain slight inhibitions in my organism which are more
obvious when I play the violin, and therefore easier to deal with. Even
the most undeveloped being, if he knows the difference between groups
of three, four and six notes, can pass rhythmically and accurately from
one to the other just as his eye can pass from one colour to another.
But in my case, after I have been playing one of those rhythmic figures
it clings to me and I can’t escape from it, but get it mixed up with
the following figure so that I play it out of time. If I am to play
the notes right I am compelled to beat time with my feet and head; but
good-bye to ease, serenity and music! The music which is produced by
a well-balanced physique is identical with the rhythm it creates and
exploits; it is rhythm itself. When I can play like that I shall be
cured.
I thought for the first time that I would acknowledge myself defeated,
leave Trieste and go off in the hope of finding distraction. I had
nothing else left to hope for. Ada was lost to me. I was sure of that
now! Didn’t I know quite well that she would only marry a man after she
had thoroughly weighed and tested him, just as if she was awarding him
an academic honour? It seemed absurd, because really the violin ought
not to loom so large in one’s choice of a husband; but this was no help
to me. I felt how important his playing was. It was like the birds
choosing their mate for his song.
I crept into my lair, while the others went on enjoying their holiday.
I took my violin from its case, uncertain whether to break it in pieces
or play on it. Then I tried it as if I were bidding it a last farewell,
and finally began practising the immortal Kreutzer Sonata. How many
miles my bow must have travelled in this very room, and now I began to
drive it along mechanically over many more!
Anyone who has practised much on those few cursed strings will know
that so long as one is by oneself every little effort one makes seems
to produce a corresponding progress. If it were not so who would ever
submit to such unending hard labour, as severe as if one had been so
unfortunate as to commit a murder? After a short time it seemed to me
that my battle with Guido was not hopelessly lost. Who knows whether my
violin after all might not intervene successfully between Ada and Guido?
This was not due to conceit, but to my usual incurable optimism.
Every fresh misfortune which threatens, annihilates me in the first
moment, but I very soon recover, in the sure faith that I shall be
able to circumvent it. In this case all that I had to do was to take
a more lenient view of my capabilities as a violinist. In all the
arts sound judgment is the result of comparison, and that was lacking
here. Besides, one’s own violin resounds so close to one’s ear that it
reaches the heart very quickly. At last, somewhat exhausted I left off
playing, and said to myself:
“Bravo Zeno, you have earned your reward.”
Without a moment’s hesitation I made my way to the Malfentis. I had
accepted the invitation, so I was obliged to go. It seemed to me a good
omen that the parlour-maid should receive me with a friendly smile, and
inquire whether I had been ill, that I had not been there for so long.
I tipped her. The family she represented had made the inquiry through
her mouth.
She showed me into the drawing-room which was immersed in complete
darkness. When I came into it from the full light of the hall, I
could not see anything for a moment and did not dare to move. Then I
discovered several figures sitting round a table at the far end of the
room, at some distance from me.
Ada’s voice greeted me and seemed to me in the darkness more sensuous
than usual, a soft, almost caressing voice:
“Sit down over there, and don’t disturb the spirits!”
If it were to go on like this I certainly would not disturb them.
Then a voice sounded from another part of the table, it might belong to
Augusta or Alberta:
“If you want to take part in the evocation of the spirits, there is a
corner over here.”
I was determined not to be kept out of it, so I advanced resolutely to
the place from which Ada’s greetings seemed to have come. I knocked my
knee against the corner of the Venetian table they were sitting at,
which seemed to be nothing but corners. It was extremely painful, but
I would let nothing stop me, and pressed on to occupy the seat which
somebody offered me, I did not know who. It was between two of the
sisters, and I imagined the one on my right to be Ada, and the one on
my left Augusta. In order to avoid coming into contact with the latter
I pushed my chair closer to the other.
But I thought I might have made a mistake about my right-hand
neighbour, so in order to hear her voice I asked:
“Have you had any message yet from the spirits?”
Guido, who was apparently sitting opposite, interrupted me. He called
out imperiously: “Silence!”
Then more gently:
“Collect yourselves and concentrate all your thoughts on the dead
person you want to summon.”
I have no objection to anyone making attempts to spy on the world
beyond the grave. In fact I was irritated at not having introduced
table-turning myself, since it was such a success at Giovanni’s
house. But I didn’t see why I must obey Guido’s orders, and therefore
I made no effort to concentrate. Besides I had reproached myself so
often for allowing things to reach this point, without having had
any explanation with Ada, that now I had her next to me, and in the
dark too, I was determined to settle it once and for all. I was only
restrained by the delicious sense of having her so close after I had
feared to lose her for ever. I preferred to breathe the fragrance of
the soft texture of her dress which was touching mine, and I thought
that, close as we now were together, my feet must be actually pressing
hers. I knew she always wore patent-leather shoes in the evening. It
was almost too much for me after such long torture.
Guido was speaking again:
“I do beg you to concentrate. Implore the spirits you have invoked to
manifest themselves by moving the table.”
I was glad that he was still busying himself about the table. It was
clear now that Ada had resigned herself to bearing almost my whole
weight! She must love me or she would not have stood it. At last the
hour of explanation had arrived. I removed my arm from the table and
put it gently round her waist:
“I love you, Ada!” I said in a low voice, putting my face close to hers
so that she could hear better.
The girl did not reply at once. Then she murmured in a faint voice--but
Augusta’s:
“Why have you not been here for so long?”
Surprise and disappointment made me almost fall out of my chair. I at
once felt that though I must banish this tiresome girl from my life,
I must treat her with the consideration that a perfect gentleman like
me owes to the woman who loves him, even though she be the ugliest
of God’s creatures. For she certainly loved me! In the midst of my
suffering I felt her love. It could only have been love which suggested
to her not to tell me that she was not Ada, and to ask me the question
I had been waiting for in vain on Ada’s part, and which she had
evidently determined to ask me directly she saw me again.
I obeyed my instinct not to answer her question, but after a moment’s
hesitation I said to her:
“I am glad to have confided in you, Augusta, for I know how kind you
are.”
I recovered my balance on my three-legged stool. An explanation with
Ada was out of the question, and there remained nothing else to
explain to Augusta. Further misunderstanding was impossible between us.
Guido admonished us again:
“If you won’t keep quiet there is no point in us all sitting here in
the dark.”
He could not know it, but I needed a little darkness in order to
withdraw from the crowd and recover my self-control. I had discovered
my mistake, but the only balance I had yet recovered was on my chair.
I would speak to Ada, I thought, but in the light. I suspected that it
was not she on my left hand, but Alberta. How could I ascertain this?
My uncertainty almost made me fall over on the left, and in order to
recover my balance, I leaned on the table. They all began shouting:
“It’s moving, it’s moving!” My involuntary act would perhaps solve
the question. Where did Ada’s voice come from? But Guido, drowning
everyone else’s voice with his own, imposed the silence which I should
have liked to impose on him. Then in a changed voice, a voice of
supplication, (idiot!) he conversed with the spirits he imagined to be
present:
“I beg you tell us your name, using the letters of our alphabet.”
He provided for everything; he was afraid the spirit might use the
Greek alphabet!
I went on with the comedy, still trying to pierce the darkness in
search of Ada. After a little hesitation I made the table rise seven
times, so that the letter G was obtained. The idea seemed to me a good
one, and though the letter U which followed necessitated countless
movements, I dictated Guido’s name letter by letter quite clearly. I
have no doubt that in dictating his name I was inspired by the desire
to relegate him to the spirit world.
When Guido’s name was completed Ada at last spoke:
“Could it be an ancestor of yours?” she suggested. She was sitting next
to him. I should have liked to move the table so much that it went
between them and divided them.
“It may be,” said Guido. So he believed himself to have ancestors! But
this did not alarm me. His voice was transformed by genuine emotion,
which gave me the satisfaction a fencer must feel when he discovers
his opponent to be weaker than he supposed. He was not conducting
these experiments in cold blood. He really was an idiot! Most forms of
weakness arouse my compassion, but not his.
Then he addressed himself to the spirit:
“If your name is Speier make only one movement; otherwise move the
table twice.” Since he was so anxious to have ancestors I obliged him
by making the table move once.
“My grandfather,” murmured Guido.
Then the conversation with the spirit proceeded more briskly. The
spirit was asked if it had anything to tell us. It replied yes. About
business or other things? About business. I chose this reply simply
because it required the table to be moved once only. Guido asked if
it had good or bad news to give us? The bad news was to be indicated
by two movements and, this time without any hesitation, I tried to
move the table twice. But in the second movement I encountered some
opposition, and concluded there must be someone present who wanted
the news to be good. Ada perhaps. To produce the second movement I
positively flung myself on the table and won easily! The news was bad!
But the second movement was so violent, on account of the opposition it
had met with, that everyone was thrown from their seats.
“Very strange,” muttered Guido. Then he shouted decisively: “Stop!
Stop! Someone present is fooling us!”
Almost everyone gladly obeyed, and in a moment the drawing-room was
flooded with light from many different points. I thought Guido looked
pale. Ada was deceived in that young man, and I was determined to open
her eyes.
Besides the three girls and Signora Malfenti, there was another lady
in the drawing-room the sight of whom caused me embarrassment and
agitation, for I thought it was Aunt Rosina. For different reasons I
greeted both ladies very formally.
The amusing part is that I alone remained sitting at the table, beside
Augusta. That again was compromising, but I could not persuade myself
to join all the others who crowded round Guido. He was engaged in
explaining with great vehemence how he had come to realise that the
table was not being moved by a spirit, but by a malicious mortal made
of flesh and blood. Not Ada, but he himself had tried to curb the
table’s eloquence.
He said:
“I held the table back with all my force to try to prevent it moving
a second time. Someone must have actually flung themselves on it to
overcome my resistance.”
A nice kind of spiritualism! So that a powerful effort could not be due
to a spirit!
I looked at poor Augusta to see what impression my declaration of love
to her sister had made on her. She was very red but she smiled on
me benevolently. It was only then that she admitted having heard my
declaration:
“I won’t tell anyone,” she said, in a low voice.
That pleased me very much.
“Thank you,” I murmured, pressing her hand, which was not very small
but well modelled. I felt I should like to be a good friend to Augusta,
though before that I should never have thought it possible to become
friends with anyone who was ugly. But I felt a certain affection for
her waist round which I had so lately held my arm, and which I had
found smaller than I expected. Her face was really quite pretty, but
for that eye which had gone off on a path of its own. I had certainly
exaggerated her deformity and assumed that it went through her whole
body.
They had brought Guido some lemonade.
I joined the group which surrounded him, and ran into Signora Malfenti
who was just leaving it. I laughed and said to her:
“Does he need a cordial?” She made a rather contemptuous movement and
said with decision:
“He doesn’t seem like a man!”
I flattered myself that my victory might have definite consequences.
Ada could not set up her opinion against her mother’s. It immediately
had the effect it could not fail to have on a man of my temperament.
All my ill will vanished and I wanted to spare Guido any further
suffering. The world would certainly be less disagreeable if there were
more people like me in it.
I sat down beside him, and without taking any notice of the others, I
said:
“You must forgive me, Signor Guido. The trick I played on you was in
bad taste. It was I who made the table declare that it had been moved
by a spirit who bore your name. I would never have done it had I known
that your grandfather bore the same name.”
Guido’s face, which cleared at once, betrayed how much importance he
attached to my statement. But he would not admit it and merely said:
“These ladies are too kind! I don’t need comforting. The matter is
of no consequence whatever. Thank you for your frankness, but I had
already guessed that someone had stepped into my grandfather’s shoes.”
He smiled with self-satisfaction and added:
“You must be pretty strong! I might have guessed that the table must
have been moved by the only other man present.” I had, indeed, shown
myself to be stronger than him, but I was soon to feel myself weaker.
Ada eyed me with animosity, and with flaming cheeks began to attack me:
“I am very angry that you should have taken it upon yourself to play
such a trick.”
My breath failed me and I stammered out:
“It was only a joke! I never really thought that any of you took the
table-turning seriously.”
It was rather late in the day to attack Guido, and besides I might
have known, if my ear had been more sensitive, that in any conflict
between him and me he was bound to be victorious. Ada’s anger was very
significant--how was it I did not guess that she was wholly his? But I
persisted in the idea that he was not worthy of her, because he was not
the sort of man her serious eye was looking for. Had not even Signora
Malfenti seen it too?
They all defended me and made my situation worse. Signora Malfenti said
laughingly:
“It was only a joke, and it came off very well.” Aunt Rosina’s huge
body was quivering with mirth, and she cried out admiringly:
“Splendid! Splendid!”
I could have wished Guido were less friendly. As a matter of fact all
he cared about was to be sure the bad news rapped out by the table was
not a spirit communication. He said:
“I don’t mind betting you didn’t move the table on purpose to begin
with. You probably moved it the first time unintentionally, and
then perhaps you decided to be malicious and move it on purpose. So
that there was something in it up to the moment when you let your
inspiration lead you away so violently.”
Ada turned and looked at me curiously. She was betraying her excessive
devotion to Guido by forgiving me just because he had done so. I
refused to allow it.
“No, no!” I said emphatically. “I was tired of waiting for the spirits,
and amused myself by taking their place.”
Ada turned her back on me in such a way that I felt I had received a
box on the ear. The very curls on her neck seemed to me to express
disdain. As usual, instead of keeping my eyes and ears open I was
entirely occupied with my own thoughts. I was oppressed by the fact
that Ada was compromising herself dreadfully. It caused me as much
pain as to hear my mistress had been unfaithful to me. In spite of
the affection she showed to Guido I thought she might still be mine,
but I felt I should never be able to forgive her attitude. Perhaps I
think too slowly to follow the events which go on developing, without
waiting for the impression previous events have made on my brain to be
cancelled. I felt compelled to go straight on in the path my resolution
had marked out for me. It was sheer blind obstinacy. I also found it
necessary to strengthen my resolution by renewing it. I went up to
Augusta, who was watching me anxiously with an encouraging smile on her
open face, and said to her gravely and earnestly:
“This is perhaps the last time I shall enter your house, for I am going
to propose to Ada this very evening.”
“You mustn’t do that,” she said, imploringly. “Don’t you see what has
happened? I should hate you to have to suffer.”
She continued to intervene between Ada and me. I replied defiantly:
“I shall speak to Ada because it is my duty. It is all the same to me
what she replies.”
I went off, limping again, towards Guido. When I had joined him I lit a
cigarette, looking at myself in the glass meanwhile. I saw that I was
very pale, which for me is sufficient ground for becoming paler still.
I made an effort to recover my composure and to appear unconcerned. The
absence of mind produced by this double effort made me take up Guido’s
glass unconsciously. Once I had it in my hand I could find nothing
better to do than to empty it.
Guido began to laugh:
“Now you will know all my thoughts, for I have been drinking out of
that glass.”
I have always disliked the taste of lemon. This particular one seemed
to me positively poisonous; first because I felt that in drinking out
of his glass I had come into horrible contact with Guido, secondly
because I was struck at the same moment by the expression of angry
impatience on Ada’s face. She at once called the servant and ordered
another glass of lemonade, and insisted on its being brought, though
Guido said he was not thirsty.
Then I felt genuine compassion for her. She was compromising herself
more and more.
“Forgive me, Ada,” I said gently, looking at her as if I were awaiting
an explanation. “I did not mean to offend you.”
Suddenly I was afraid my eyes would fill with tears. I wanted to save
myself from appearing ridiculous, and cried:
“I have squirted some lemon in my eye!”
That enabled me to cover my eyes with my handkerchief, and I had no
further need to restrain my tears so long as I succeeded in not sobbing.
I shall never forget what I endured in the darkness behind my
handkerchief. It hid not only my tears, but also a moment’s utter
madness. I thought: I will tell her everything, she will understand me
and love me, but I will never, never forgive her.
I removed the handkerchief from my face so that everyone could see the
tears in my eyes; I tried to laugh and to make everyone else laugh too.
I said:
“I guarantee that Signor Giovanni sends home citric acid for making
lemon squash with!”
Giovanni arrived at that moment and greeted me with his customary
cordiality. This comforted me a little, but it did not last long,
because he said he had come back earlier than usual in order to hear
Guido play the violin. He broke off to ask why I was crying. They told
him what I had said about him and the lemon squash, which amused him.
I was hypocritical enough to join Giovanni in begging Guido to play to
us. I reminded myself that I had actually come there that evening to
hear Guido play. And the odd thing is that I hoped to mollify Ada by
asking him to do so. I looked at her in the hope that for the first
time that evening we should be in complete accord. Strange! Wasn’t I
going to speak to her and refuse to forgive her? But all I saw was her
back and the disdainful curls on her neck. She was hastening to take
the violin out of its case.
Guido asked for a quarter of an hour’s quiet first. He seemed to
hesitate. During all the years I have known him since, I have found
that he always hesitated before doing the simplest thing he was asked
to do. He would only do what pleased him, and before granting any
request he proceeded to probe the remotest corners of his mind to
determine whether he wanted to do it or not.
This was the happiest quarter of an hour for me on that memorable
evening. My whimsical chatter amused everyone, including Ada. It was
certainly the result of my excitement, but also of the supreme effort
I made to conquer the victorious violin which kept coming nearer and
nearer. That short period of time which I succeeded in making so
amusing for the others was remembered by me as a time of desperate
conflict.
Giovanni was saying that on his way home in the tram he had assisted
at a painful scene. A woman had tried to get out of it while it was
still going, and had fallen and hurt herself. Giovanni gave a rather
exaggerated account of his anxiety when he saw the woman was intending
to jump out; he saw at once that if she jumped like that she must fall
and would probably be run over. It had been very painful to look on and
not be in time to save her.
I had an inspiration. I said I had discovered a remedy for the attacks
of giddiness from which I used to suffer. When I was watching an
acrobat perform his feats at too great a height, or saw some elderly or
not very agile person jump out of a tram that was moving, I overcame
my anxiety by willing them to come to grief. I even varied the formula
which I used in praying they might fall and break their bones. This
had a wonderfully calming effect on me, enabling me to contemplate an
accident with complete indifference. If my prayers were not fulfilled I
was still more pleased.
Guido was charmed by my idea, which he regarded as a psychological
discovery. He analysed it as he liked to do with every trifle; he was
longing for an opportunity to try my remedy. But he had one objection
to it; he thought that bad wishes probably increased the number of
disasters in the world. Ada laughed with him and even gave me a look of
approval, which I, like a great donkey, felt quite happy about. I thus
made the discovery that it was not true I could not forgive her, and of
this I was very glad.
We all laughed a good deal, like children at play together. It
happened that I was left alone for a few minutes in that part of the
drawing-room where Aunt Rosina was sitting. She was still discussing
the table-turning. She was rather fat, and sat motionless in her
chair, not even looking at me as she spoke. I contrived to make signs
to the others that I was bored, and they all looked at me and laughed
themselves, without being seen by the aunt.
To increase their mirth it occurred to me to say to her without further
preamble:
“But you look much better, Signora, than when I last saw you--quite
rejuvenated.”
If she had got angry that might have been something to laugh at. But
instead of this she was simply delighted and said that she was in
fact much better after her recent illness. I was so surprised by her
reply that my face must have taken on a rather comic expression, for
everyone burst out laughing again. Soon after the riddle was explained.
I discovered that she was not Aunt Rosina at all, but Aunt Maria, a
sister of Signora Malfenti. So that one source of misery had been
removed from that drawing-room, though not the chief.
The moment came when Guido asked for his violin. He said on that
occasion he would do without the piano accompaniment to the Chaconne.
Ada held out his violin to him with a welcoming smile. He took it
without looking at her; but he looked at the violin as if he would like
to shut himself up with it and his inspiration. Then he placed himself
in the middle of the room, turning his back on most of the company,
passed his bow lightly over the strings to see if they were in tune,
and played a few arpeggios. He broke off a moment to say with a smile:
“It’s pretty bold of me, considering I haven’t touched the violin since
the last time I played here.”
Charlatan! He turned his back on Ada. I watched her anxiously to see if
she were hurt. But she did not seem to be. She had leaned her elbow on
the table and sat with her chin resting on her hand, all attention.
And then, facing me, the great Bach appeared in person. Never, before
or since, have I felt so intensely the beauty of that music, which
seemed to have grown out of the four strings like a Michelangelo
angel out of a block of marble. It produced quite a new state of
mind in me, so that I sat gazing ecstatically upwards, as if at some
revelation. In vain I strove to keep that music at a distance. In vain
I thought: ‘Beware! the violin is a siren and you need not have the
heart of a hero in order to make others weep with it!’ The music took
me completely by storm. It seemed to express all the suffering of my
mind and body and to soothe it with smiles and caresses. But it was
Guido speaking! I tried to escape from the music, saying to myself: ‘To
play like this you only need a great sense of rhythm, a sure hand and
a capacity for imitation. I have none of these things, which is not a
sign of inferiority, but merely my misfortune.’
While I protested, Bach swept on unerring as fate. The passionate
melody on the high strings dropped suddenly to the _basso ostinato_,
the beauty of which always takes one by surprise, however well one
knows it. And the rhythm of every note was perfect! A second later, and
the melody would have dissolved before the echoing harmony could reach
it, a second earlier and it would have been overpowered and drowned.
Nothing of that sort happened to Guido; his arm did not tremble, even
in the presence of Bach; which was really a sign of inferiority, I
thought.
As I write this to-day, I have abundant proof that what I thought then
was true, but it is no satisfaction to me to have seen it so clearly.
At the moment I was full of hatred which even that mighty music was
powerless to subdue. Very soon the daily business of life was to
efface it altogether, without any resistance on my part. Yes, ordinary
everyday life can do many such things; but woe to the genius who should
discover this!
Guido’s masterly performance came to an end. Nobody applauded except
Giovanni, and for a few moments nobody spoke. Then, alas, I felt the
need to say something. I can’t imagine how I dared, in front of those
people who had heard _me_ play. It was as if my violin, which so vainly
strove to produce music, had suddenly found a tongue, and begun to
criticise that other instrument through which music flowed like light,
air and life.
“Magnificent!” I said. The word sounded more like condescension than
applause. “But I don’t understand why, towards the end, you played
those notes staccato, though Bach has marked them legato.”
I knew every note of the Chaconne. There had been a time when I thought
my progress depended on my undertaking such Herculean tasks, and
for months on end I would spend my time studying certain of Bach’s
compositions note by note.
I knew that everyone in the room was regarding me with contempt and
dislike. But I went on, as if by talking I thought I could overcome
their hostility.
“Bach,” I added, “uses such humble means to attain his end that an
artificial bowing like that is quite out of place.”
I was probably right, but the fact was that I should have been quite
incapable of using that style of bowing even if I had wanted to.
Guido’s reply was as impertinent as my criticism had been.
He said:
“Perhaps Bach wasn’t familiar with that means of giving expression. I
make him a present of it!”
He dared to put himself above Bach, and no one protested; whereas they
laughed at me, who had merely ventured to put myself above Guido.
Then something happened, unimportant in itself, but crucial for me.
From a fairly remote part of the house came the sound of little Anna
screaming. It appeared later that she had cut her lip. They all hurried
out of the room, leaving me alone with Ada, to whom Guido had trusted
his precious violin before following the others.
“Shall I take the violin?” I asked, seeing her hesitate as to whether
she should go too. I had not had time to grasp that the longed-for
moment had arrived at last.
She hesitated, but her distrust of me won the day. Holding the violin
still closer she said:
“No. There is no need for me to go too. I don’t expect Anna has really
hurt herself. It takes nothing to make her cry.”
She sat down, still holding the violin, and by doing so she seemed to
be inviting me to speak. Besides, how could I have gone home without
speaking to her? What should I have done all the long night through?
I pictured myself tossing from side to side in bed, or roaming about
the streets in search of distraction. No! I must not leave that house
without obtaining the assurance I needed for my peace of mind.
I tried to be as simple and brief as possible. I was also compelled to
be, for I could hardly breathe. I said:
“I love you, Ada. May I speak to your father?”
She sat staring at me in horror and amazement. I was afraid she was
going to begin screaming too, like her little sister. I knew that her
calm eye and delicately moulded face had had no experience of love, but
never had I seen them so remote from it as at that moment. She began
to say something which sounded like an introduction to something else.
But I wanted a definite answer: yes or no! Perhaps the fact that she
appeared at all undecided, offended me. I wanted to force her to make
up her mind quickly, by refusing to allow her time to think it over.
“Surely you must have understood!” I said. “You couldn’t have thought I
wanted to make love to Augusta!”
I wanted to speak emphatically, but in my flurry I put my emphasis in
the wrong place, and ended by pronouncing poor Augusta’s name with a
tone and gesture of contempt.
This sufficed to relieve Ada’s embarrassment. She let everything pass
except the insult to Augusta.
“Why do you think yourself better than Augusta? I don’t for a moment
suppose that Augusta would consent to be your wife!”
It was only then that she remembered I was waiting for an answer.
“As for me ... I wonder that such a thing entered your head.”
The sharp tone of her reply was meant to avenge Augusta. In my great
distress of mind I thought that the meaning of the words was inspired
by the same thought; I believe if someone gave me a box on the ear I
should begin analysing the cause. So that I tried again to persuade her:
“Think it over, Ada. I am not a bad man. I am rich. I am rather
eccentric, but I can easily cure myself of that.”
Ada spoke more gently, but she still insisted on talking about Augusta.
“You think it over too, Zeno; Augusta is a good girl and would make you
an excellent wife. I can’t answer for her, but I think ...”
It was very sweet to me to hear my Christian name pronounced by Ada
for the first time. Was she not really inviting me to speak more
plainly? Perhaps I had lost her, or at least she would not consent to
marry me at once, but meanwhile it was my duty to prevent her from
compromising herself still further with Guido; I ought to open her eyes
to the danger. I behaved diplomatically, and told her first of all
that I admired and respected Augusta, but that it was quite out of the
question that I should marry her. I repeated it twice to make sure she
had understood. “I could not marry her.” I hoped in this way to mollify
Ada who had thought at first that I wanted to insult Augusta.
“Augusta is a dear, good, charming girl; but she is not suited to me.”
Then I went ahead too fast, because I had heard a noise in the passage
and was afraid I might at any moment be interrupted.
“Ada, that man is not worthy of you. He is a fool! Didn’t you notice
how upset he was by the answers at the table-turning? Did you see his
walking-stick? He plays the violin well, but so do monkeys sometimes.
He betrays his stupidity in every word he utters.”
She listened with the air of someone who had difficulty in grasping
what is being said to them. Then she sprang to her feet, still holding
the violin and bow, and interrupted me with a shower of abuse. I did
my best to forget her words, and succeeded. I only remember that she
began by asking me in a loud voice how I dared to speak like that
about herself and Guido! I looked very surprised, because I thought I
had only been talking about him. I forgot all her scornful words, but
not the beauty of her noble face, glowing with health and anger, its
lines rendered more precise, almost sculptural, by the fire of her
indignation. That I could never forget, and when I think of my youth
and my love, I see again Ada’s lovely face at the moment when she
banished me definitely from her life.
They all came back into the room with Signora Malfenti, who was holding
Anna in her arms, still crying quietly. No one noticed Ada or me,
and without saying good-bye to anyone I left the room; I took my hat
from the hall without anybody trying to stop me, oddly enough. Then
I stopped myself, remembering that it would be very bad manners to
go away without saying good-bye formally to everyone. The truth no
doubt is that what prevented me leaving the house was my consciousness
that a night even worse than all the five previous nights awaited me.
I had obtained certainty, and now felt the need of something else:
peace, peace with every man. If I could banish all bitterness from my
relations with Ada and the others I thought I should be able to sleep
better. Why must there be that bitterness? There was no reason really
for my being angry with Guido, who, even if it was through no merit of
his own, could not be blamed because Ada preferred him to me.
She was the only one who had noticed me going out into the hall, and
when she saw me coming back she looked anxiously at me. Was she afraid
I should make a scene? I wanted to reassure her at once, so I went and
stood beside her and whispered:
“Forgive me if I offended you!”
She took my hand and pressed it reassuringly. It was a great comfort
to me. I shut my eyes for a moment in order to be alone with my own
soul and feel the peace that her pressure gave me. Fate willed that
while all the others were still busy trying to comfort the child, I
found myself sitting by Alberta. I had not seen her, and only realised
her presence when she said to me:
“She did not hurt herself at all. It is a pity father is here, for
whenever he sees her crying he gives her an expensive present.”
I stopped analysing myself, because I suddenly saw myself whole! If
I wanted to have peace I must ensure that I should never be banished
from that drawing-room. I looked at Alberta. She was very like Ada.
She was a little smaller and still had something childish about her
whole person. She would often shout rather, and laugh so loudly that
her little face became quite puckered up and red. Oddly enough, just
at that moment I called to mind an axiom of my father’s. “Choose a
young wife, it will be easier for you to educate her to suit you.” This
decided me. I again looked at Alberta. I undressed her in imagination,
and the soft young body I pictured delighted me. I said:
“Listen, Alberta! I’ve got an idea. Has it ever occurred to you that
you are old enough to get married?”
“I don’t want to get married!” she replied, smiling and looking kindly
at me, without blushing or appearing at all embarrassed. “I want to go
on studying. Mother wants me too as well.”
“But you could go on studying just as well if you were married.”