“I should have done that before selling it, if I had been you.”
Olivi ended by losing all confidence in his own judgment, and left the
sale uncovered. The raisins went on rising, and we lost as much as it
was possible to lose on such a small sale.
Olivi got angry with me and declared that he had gambled only to please
me. The old humbug forgot that I had told him to back the red, and
that he had backed the black instead. Our quarrel was irreconcilable.
Olivi appealed to my father-in-law saying that between us he and I
would ruin the business, and that if my family preferred, he and his
sons would retire and give me a free hand. My father-in-law at once
declared in favour of Olivi. He said to me:
“This business of the dried fruit is very instructive. You two men will
never be able to work together. Now which of you is going to retire?
The one who might have done one good stroke of business if he had been
left to himself, or the one who has been running the whole business
alone for fifty years?”
He even persuaded Augusta to make me promise not to busy myself with my
own affairs in future.
“Your kindness of heart and simplicity seem to disqualify you for
business,” she said. “Stay at home with me.”
I retired to my tent, or rather I should say my study, in high dudgeon.
I amused myself with reading and playing for a while, but then I felt
the need of a more serious occupation and very nearly took up chemistry
and law again. Finally, I don’t quite know why, I devoted myself to the
study of religion. I felt as if I were resuming the study I had begun
just at the time of my father’s death. Perhaps this time I was impelled
by a strong desire to get into touch with Augusta and become perfectly
healthy like her. Going to mass with her was not enough; I must get
there in other ways, such as reading Renan and Strauss, the first with
great enjoyment, the second as a punishment. I only mention it here
to show how great was my desire to come nearer to Augusta. She had no
idea of it when she saw me with a critical edition of the Gospels in
my hand. She preferred indifference to scientific interest, and was
therefore incapable of appreciating the greatest mark of affection I
had yet shown her. She used to interrupt her toilette or her household
duties in order to look into my room and greet me; but when she saw me
bending over those texts she would make a face, and say:
“Are you still doing that stuff?”
Augusta’s religion did not take time to acquire or put into practice.
You bowed your knee and returned to ordinary life again immediately!
That was all. Religion for me was a very different thing. If I had
only believed, nothing else in the world would have mattered to me.
I must confess that boredom sometimes visited my perfectly appointed
study--or was it worry, that although I really felt the strength to
work I kept on waiting for life to set me some task? Whilst waiting,
I often went out and spent several hours at the Tergesteo or in some
café. I lived in a perpetual state of sham activity which bored me
extremely.
The visit of a college friend, who had been obliged to return in hot
haste from a little village in Styria to be treated for a serious
complaint, decided my fate, though it did not at first seem very
significant. He came to call on me after spending a month in bed in
Trieste, during which time his acute nephritis had become chronic
and probably incurable. But he believed himself to be better and was
looking forward to going almost at once, before the spring was over, to
a milder climate where he hoped to be completely restored to health.
Perhaps it was staying too long in our raw climate which finally proved
fatal to him.
The visit of that man, who was at once so dangerously ill and so
cheerful and bright, seems to have brought me ill luck. But I may be
wrong; perhaps it only marked a stage in my life through which it was
necessary for me to pass.
My friend Enrico Copler was surprised to find that I had heard nothing
about him or his illness, though Giovanni must surely know of it. But
since Giovanni had become ill himself he had had no time for anyone
else, and he had not said a word to me about it, though whenever we had
a sunny day he would come to my house and sleep for several hours in
the open air.
I used to spend very lively afternoons with my two invalids. We talked
about their various complaints, which is an invalid’s chief distraction
and a rather pleasing subject to those who happen to be in good health.
Their only difference was that Giovanni was obliged to be out in the
open air, whereas the other was forbidden it. A little wind, however,
soon removed this obstacle by obliging Giovanni to stay indoors with us
in my warm, cosy little room.
Copler told us that his illness did not cause him any pain though it
made him very weak. It was only now he was better that he realised
how ill he had been. When he talked about the medicines he had been
ordered to take, my interest was at once aroused. Amongst other things
his doctor had suggested something which was supposed to produce sleep
without any of the poisonous effects of sleeping-draughts. Was not this
the very thing I needed myself?
When my poor friend heard that I needed medicine too he flattered
himself for an instant that I might be suffering from his complaint,
and advised me to have myself thoroughly examined and analysed.
Augusta laughed heartily and declared that I was only a _malade
imaginaire_. Then something which looked like anger passed over
Copler’s emaciated face. With a sudden virile impulse he shook off his
physical disabilities and attacked me with great vehemence.
“_Malade imaginaire?_ Well, I prefer to be a real one. In the first
place a _malade imaginaire_ is ridiculous and pitiable; and then
nothing can cure him, whereas in the case of a real invalid like me
there is always some drug which can be found to meet the case.”
He seemed to speak like a healthy man, and I must confess that his
words caused me some pain.
My father-in-law supported him energetically, but his scorn could not
wither the most imaginary of invalids; it was so evidently dictated by
the envy of a sick man for a sound one. He said that if he were as well
as I was he would soon be at his business again instead of worrying
his neighbours with complaints about his health, especially now that
he had succeeded in reducing his tummy. He did not know that this very
reduction was regarded as an unfavourable symptom.
Copler’s attack had the effect of making me really look ill and
care-worn. Augusta felt she must come to my assistance. She began
stroking my hand as it lay on the table, and said that I worried no one
with my malady, and she wasn’t even sure that I believed in it myself,
for otherwise I shouldn’t have so much _joie de vivre_. This reduced
Copler to the state of inferiority to which his health condemned him.
He was quite alone in the world, and if he could compete with me as
regards disease he could not produce any example of affection such as
Augusta felt for me. He felt the need of a sick-nurse acutely, and was
forced to confess to me later on how much he envied me on that account.
The discussion was resumed, though more calmly, during the next
few days, while Giovanni was asleep in the garden. And Copler,
after thinking it over, had come to the conclusion that the _malade
imaginaire_ was a real invalid, and perhaps more fundamentally and
actually so than the other; for his nerves were in such a bad state
that they registered disease when there was none, whereas their normal
function was to give the alarm by a message of pain, so that one might
at once hasten to defend the part that was in danger.
“Yes!” I said. “For example with one’s teeth, where you only feel pain
when the nerve is uncovered, and you have to destroy it in order to
cure it.”
We finally agreed that one sort of invalid was as good as the other.
In the case of Copler’s nephritis, just what he had lacked and in fact
still did, was that warning from the nerves, whereas mine, it seemed,
were so sensitive that they already gave warning of a disease from
which possibly I was going to die only twenty years later. They might
in fact be called perfect nerves, their only disadvantage being that
there were very few days when they left me in peace. Having succeeded
in classing me among the invalids, Copler felt perfectly satisfied.
I don’t know why the poor man had such a mania for talking about women;
when my wife was not there we talked of nothing else. He maintained
that in a real illness, at least those which he knew anything about,
sexual desire becomes weaker, which was the body’s way of defending
itself; whereas in an imaginary malady due only (according to our
diagnosis) to over-activity of the nerves, sex was pathologically
strong. My experience seemed to corroborate his theory and we mutually
pitied each other. I don’t know why I didn’t want to tell him that
for a long time now I had not been conscious of any abnormality of
the sort. I might at least have confessed that I believed myself to
be convalescent, if not quite well, so as not to wound his feelings,
and because it is difficult ever to say you are well, seeing how
complicated an organism our body is.
“Do you really desire all the pretty women you see?” asked Copler again.
“Not quite all!” I murmured, anxious to show him that I was not so
ill as all that. I certainly no longer desired Ada whom I saw every
evening. As far as I was concerned she was forbidden fruit. The
rustling of her skirts left me cold, and even if I had been allowed to
lift them myself I should have felt the same. It was lucky I had not
married her. I took this indifference for a genuine manifestation of
health. Perhaps my desire had exhausted itself by its very violence.
But I felt the same indifference towards Alberta, charming as she
looked in her neat school dress. Was the fact that I possessed Augusta
enough to quench my desire for the whole Malfenti family? That really
would have been highly moral!
Perhaps I refrained from talking about my virtue because I was always
betraying Augusta in imagination; even while I was talking to Copler I
thought, with a quiver of desire, of all the women I was giving up for
her. I thought of all the women who were walking along the streets,
and whose secondary sexual organs, just because they were hidden,
became so important, whereas they disappeared altogether in the woman
you possessed, as if the very fact of possession had atrophied them.
My desire for adventure was still strong; the kind of adventure which
begins by admiring a shoe or a glove or a skirt; anything which hides
and alters a woman’s shape. But this desire of mine was not really
a guilty one. Copler did wrong in forcing me to analyse it, for to
explain to somebody how he is made is only another way of authorising
him to do as he likes. Copler, however, went further, though of course
it was impossible for him to foresee where his words or his actions
would lead me.
Copler’s words are so firmly fixed in my memory that when I go back
over them they call up again all the feelings, things and people
that were associated with them. I had accompanied my friend down the
garden, for he was obliged to be indoors before sunset. From my villa,
which is on a hill, we had a view over the harbour and the sea, a view
which is spoilt now by subsequent building. We stood for a long time
watching the sea, stirred by a faint breeze which broke the calm light
of the sky into a myriad shades of rose. The soft green of the Istrian
peninsular was reposeful to look on, as it spread in a vast bow into
the sea, shadowy but solid. The moles and breakwaters, stretching in
stiff, repeated lines, looked small and insignificant, and the water in
the little bays between lay dark and still because no breeze stirred
it, or perhaps because it was muddy. In all that vast panorama peace
seemed to have no place beside the endless movement of the rosy waters,
and dazzled with the light, we soon turned from the sea to where night
was already falling on the little terrace in front of the house.
In a great arm-chair outside the porch, with a cap on his head and the
collar of his fur coat turned up, my father-in-law lay sleeping, with
a rug wrapped round his legs. We stood and watched him. His mouth was
open, his lower jaw hung lifelessly down, his breathing was noisy and
hurried. His head was continually dropping on his chest, and each time
he would raise it again without waking up. When he did so there was a
slight flutter of his eyelids as if he wanted to open his eyes in order
to recover his balance, and the rhythm of his breathing changed each
time his sleep was interrupted.
It was the first time I had fully realised the serious nature of my
father-in-law’s illness, and I was profoundly moved.
Copler said to me in a low voice:
“He ought to be treated. He is probably suffering from nephritis too.
He is not really asleep; I know that state quite well. Poor devil!”
He ended by recommending me his own doctor. Giovanni heard us and
opened his eyes. He looked less ill at once and began teasing Copler:
“Are you wise to be standing about in the open air like that? I don’t
think it can be good for you.”
He thought he had had a good sleep, and was quite unconscious that
he had been short of breath with that great ocean of air in front of
him. But his voice was hoarse and he had to stop talking and gasp for
breath; his face was ashen and when he got out of his arm-chair he was
cold as ice. He was obliged to go indoors. I can see him now walking
across the terrace with his rug under his arm, panting as he waved us a
laughing salute.
“There is a real invalid for you!” said Copler, who could not escape
from his _idée fixe_. “He is dying and he doesn’t even know he is ill.”
I too thought that the genuine invalid did not seem to suffer much.
My father-in-law and Copler have been lying these many years past in
the cemetery of S. Anna, but one day not long ago, as I was walking
past their graves, I could not help thinking that the fact that they
had lain so long under their tombstones did not invalidate the thesis
propounded long ago by one of them.
Before leaving his former abode Copler had wound up his affairs, so
that like me he had nothing to do. But he could not keep quiet, and
directly he was out of bed in the morning he began busying himself
about other people’s affairs, partly because he had none of his own to
busy himself with, and partly because other people’s seemed to him much
more interesting. He would laugh at himself for this, but I was soon
to discover what an agreeable flavour other people’s affairs may have.
He was a philanthropist, and as he had decided to live on the interest
of his capital he could not afford the luxury of being charitable
entirely at his own expense. So he would organise subscription-lists
and take toll of his friends and acquaintances. He entered it all in a
perfectly businesslike way, and I regarded that book as his viaticum,
and could not help thinking that if I had been in his place, with no
family of my own and obviously destined not to live long, I should have
swelled the funds with some of my capital. But he was the man of health
_imaginaire_ and would never touch anything but the interest, refusing
to admit that he had only a short future before him.
One day he asked me for a few hundred kronen, to buy a piano for a poor
girl who was already in receipt of a small monthly pension subscribed
by me and a few other people at Copler’s request. I could not refuse,
but rather ungraciously remarked that it would have been lucky for me
if I had stayed at home that day. I am subject to attacks of avarice
from time to time.
Copler took the money with a few words of thanks, but soon afterwards
my comment took effect, and a very important one. He came to tell me
that the piano had arrived, and that Carla Gerco and her mother begged
I would go and see them, so that they might thank me. Copler was afraid
of losing a client, and hoped to bind me to him by letting me taste
the sweets of gratitude for favours received. I tried to relieve his
anxiety by assuring him that I was convinced he dispensed his charity
admirably, but he insisted so much that at last I consented to go.
“Is she pretty?” I asked, laughing.
“Very pretty indeed,” he replied, “but she is too hard a nut for us to
crack.”
It was curious that he must class my good teeth with his bad ones like
that. He dilated on the honesty of the unfortunate family we were
going to visit, telling me that the father had died several years ago,
and that though they were miserably poor they had always earned their
living respectably.
It was an unpleasant sort of story. An icy wind was blowing and I
envied Copler his fur coat. I had to hold my hat on, otherwise it would
have blown away. But I was in a good humour, because I was going to
receive the gratitude my beneficence had earned me. We went on foot
through the Corsia Stadion and the Giardino Pubblico. I had never been
in this part of the city before. We entered one of those houses which
our forefathers used to build as a speculation forty years ago, at a
little distance from the town which promptly surrounded them; it was
modest, but better in appearance than those which are put up to-day for
the same purpose. The staircase occupied a very small space and was
therefore very steep.
We stopped on the first floor, which I reached a good while before my
companion who climbed very slowly. I was surprised that two of the
doors opening on the landing had Carla Gerco’s visiting-card nailed on
them, while the third bore a visiting-card with another name on it.
Copler explained that the Gercos had the kitchen and bedroom on the
right side, and only one room on the left, which was Carla’s studio.
They had sub-let the middle part of their flat, so that the rent cost
them very little; but there was the inconvenience of always having
to cross the landing to get from one part to the other. We knocked
at the door on the left--the studio--where mother and daughter, who
expected us, were waiting to receive us. Copler introduced us. The
mother, a timid little woman with snow-white hair, who had on a rather
threadbare black dress, made a little speech which she had evidently
prepared beforehand; they felt honoured by my visit and thanked me for
my generous gift. After that she did not open her mouth again.
Copler stood by like a schoolmaster at an official examination,
listening to the recital of the lesson he has taken such pains to
teach. He corrected the poor woman, saying that I had not only given
the money for the piano, but that I contributed to the monthly
allowance which he paid out to them. He was a lover of accuracy.
Signorina Carla got up from the chair she was sitting on beside the
piano, gave me her hand and said simply the one word: “Thank you!”
Anyway that was shorter. I was feeling rather overcome by my
philanthropic rôle. I was behaving quite like a real invalid in busying
myself in other people’s affairs. What would that charming girl see in
me? A person to be respected, no doubt, but hardly a man! She really
was very charming. I think she wanted to look younger than she was, for
her skirt was shorter than usual at that time, unless she was using
up indoors one that she had worn before she had finished growing. Her
head was that of a young woman and, judging by the care with which her
hair was done, a young woman anxious to please. Her thick brown locks
were arranged so as to cover her ears and part of her neck. I was so
overwhelmed by my own dignity and so afraid of Copler’s inquisitorial
gaze that I could not look at her properly. But now I know everything
about her. Her speaking voice was musical, and with an affectation
which had become second nature to her she was wont to pause on the
syllables as if she wanted to caress the sounds she made. On account of
this, and of her very broad pronunciation of certain vowels--unusually
broad even in Trieste--there was something rather foreign in her way of
talking. I discovered afterwards that some singing-masters, when they
are teaching voice-production, alter the value of the vowels. It was
certainly the direct opposite of Ada’s pronunciation. Every sound she
uttered seemed a caress.
Carla kept smiling during the whole of our visit, perhaps under the
impression that she had stamped a look of gratitude on her face. It was
rather a forced smile, perfect as an expression of gratitude. When,
several hours later, I began dreaming about Carla, it seemed to me
that joy and sorrow conflicted in her face. But when I knew her better
I found nothing of all this, and was forced to recognise once again
that feminine beauty can simulate feelings which are wholly foreign to
it, just as the canvas on which is painted a battle scene has nothing
heroic about it.
Copler seemed as pleased about his introduction as if the two women
had been the work of his own hands. He described them to me: they
were always cheerful and industrious and contented with their lot. He
made a little speech which might have come out of a lesson-book, and
my mechanical nods of agreement seemed to prove that I had learnt my
lessons and therefore knew all about poor, virtuous women who are left
without any money.
Then he asked Carla to sing something. She refused at first, saying she
had a cold. She wanted to put it off until another day. I thought she
was probably afraid of our criticism and sympathised with her, but as
I wanted to prolong the visit I joined Copler in begging her to sing.
I added that I did not know if I should be able to come again as I was
very busy. Copler, who knew that I had nothing on earth to do, gravely
confirmed my statement. It was clear to me at once that he would rather
I did not see Carla again.
She still tried to get out of it, but Copler insisted in such a way as
positively to command her, and she obeyed. How easy it was to force her!
She sang _La mia bandiera_. I sat on my soft sofa listening to her, and
wishing with all my heart to be able to admire her. How wonderful it
would be to discover she was a genius! But I was unpleasantly surprised
to find that when she sang her voice lost all its musical quality. The
effort of singing changed it completely. Carla could not play either,
and her wooden accompaniment made the poor music seem still more
feeble. I reflected that I was listening to a student and must consider
whether she had enough voice. More than enough! In that small room I
was almost deafened by it. So as to be able to encourage her to go on,
I decided that it was only because she had been badly taught.
When she stopped I joined in the wordy applause which Copler was
pouring out. He said:
“Imagine the effect of a voice like that if it was accompanied by a
good orchestra.”
There was certainly truth in that. Her voice needed a powerful
orchestra. I was able to say sincerely that I hoped to have the
privilege of hearing her sing again in a few months’ time, and that
then I should be able to say more about the value of her method. I
added, less sincerely, that a voice of that quality deserved to be
trained by a first-class teacher. Then in order to eliminate anything
that might have seemed unappreciative in my first remarks, I began
philosophising on the necessity of finding a superlatively good method
for a superlatively good voice. That superlative covered a multitude of
sins. But when I was alone I wondered why I had found it so necessary
to be sincere with Carla. Was I in love with her then, already? But I
hadn’t even looked at her properly!
On the rather smelly staircase Copler said again: “Her voice is too
big. It is only good for opera.” He could not know that I had already
divined something quite different: her voice was suited to a small
space where one could enjoy to the full its naïve quality, and dream of
putting into it life and suffering--of making it into a work of art.
When we parted Copler said he would let me know when Carla’s
singing-master was giving a public concert. He was as yet very little
known in the town, but was certain to become very famous. Copler was
quite positive about this though the master was already fairly old.
Apparently fame was to come to him now because Copler had got to know
him. Dying men’s illusions! Copler’s and the singing-master’s!
Curiously enough I felt I must tell Augusta all about my visit. You
might think I did it as a precaution, seeing that Copler knew about it
and I did not feel inclined to swear him to silence. But I was only too
glad to talk about it. It was a great relief to me. Up to now I had
nothing to reproach myself with, unless I had hidden it from Augusta.
So that now I was completely innocent.
She asked me about the girl, and whether she was pretty or not. I found
it difficult to answer: I said I thought the poor girl looked rather
anæmic. Then I had a bright idea:
“Supposing you were to interest yourself in her a little?”
Augusta had so much to do in her new house and in looking after her
family, who were continually calling on her now her father was ill,
that she thought no more about it. But my idea was really a good one.
Copler heard from Augusta that I had told her about our visit, and
that made him forget the qualities he had attributed to the _malade
imaginaire_. He said to me before Augusta that he must soon pay another
visit to Carla. He evidently trusted me completely.
Having nothing to do I at once felt a desire to see Carla again. I did
not dare go, however, lest Copler should hear of it. I might easily
have found an excuse. I might have gone to offer her more money,
without Copler knowing, but I should have had to be sure first that she
would see it was to her advantage not to give me away. And supposing
that real invalid should turn out to be her lover? I knew nothing at
all about real invalids and it might very well be a habit of theirs
to make other people support their mistresses for them. In that case
a single visit to Carla would be enough to compromise me. I could not
endanger the peace of my own little family; or rather, it was in no
danger at all unless my desire for Carla should increase.
It did in fact increase continually. I already knew her far better than
when I had shaken hands with her and said good-bye. I particularly
remembered the brown lock which hung down her snow-white neck and which
I should have to push away with my nose before I could kiss her skin
which was hidden by it. All that was needed to rouse my desire was to
remind myself that on the first floor of a certain house in my little
town a lovely girl was on show, and that it was only a short walk
for me to go there and take her! Under such circumstances it became
exceedingly difficult to fight against temptation, because one had to
keep renewing one’s fight every hour of every day, in fact so long as
that girl was still living on her first floor. Carla’s long vowels
called to me, and perhaps it was their sound which had persuaded me
that once I had overcome my own resistance I had no other to fear. But
of course it was possible I was mistaken and that Copler knew more
about it. This possibility helped to weaken my resistance, seeing that
poor Augusta might still be saved from an infidelity on my part by
Carla herself, whose duty as a woman it was to resist me.
Why did my desire for Carla make me feel such remorse, when it
seemed to have come just in time to save me from the boredom which
at that moment threatened me? It in no way damaged my relations with
Augusta--rather the reverse. I not only spoke to her with my customary
affection but lavished on her also expressions of tenderness which were
springing up in my mind for that other woman. There had never before
been such abundance of tenderness in my house, and Augusta seemed
blissfully happy. I was always punctual in my observance of what I
called the family time-table. I have such a tender conscience that I
was always trying by my present behaviour to diminish the remorse I
must feel in the future.
That I really did make some effort to resist is proved by the fact that
I did not reach Carla in one bound, but by slow degrees. I began by
going alone several days running to the Giardino Pubblico, sincerely
intending to revel in the green which seems lovelier still by contrast
with the grey streets and houses that surround it. Then, not being
lucky enough, as I had hoped, to run into her by chance, I left the
garden intending to take a turn beneath her windows. I did so with a
degree of emotion that was like the exquisite delight of a youth who
encounters love for the first time. It was so long now since I had been
cut off, not from love but from the paths which lead to love.
I had hardly got outside the Giardino Pubblico before I found myself
face to face with my mother-in-law. A curious suspicion arose in my
mind. What was she doing there so early in the morning, such a long way
from our part of the town? Could it be that she was being unfaithful
to her sick husband? I at once discovered that I had suspected her
unjustly; she had been to the doctor, hoping to be comforted by
him after a bad night by Giovanni’s bedside. The doctor had tried
to reassure her, but she was so upset that she left me almost
immediately, without even remembering to be surprised at finding me in
a place that was usually only visited by old men, nurses, and children.
But the sight of her was sufficient to revive all my feelings of
attachment to my own family. I walked home with a firm step, keeping
time to it with the words: “Never again! Never again!” Meeting
Augusta’s mother at that moment, weighed down by grief, had brought all
my duties home to me with renewed force. I had had a good lesson and it
sufficed for the whole of that day.
Augusta was not in; she had gone to see her father and was spending the
morning with him. She told me at lunch that they had been discussing
whether they ought not to postpone Ada’s wedding, which was fixed for
the following week. Giovanni however was feeling better. He apparently
had eaten too much the night before at supper, and his consequent
indigestion had made his complaint seem worse.
I told Augusta I had already had news of him from her mother whom I
had met by chance in the Giardino Pubblico. She did not express any
surprise at my going there, but I felt the need of some explanation. I
told her that I had for some time past taken a fancy to the Giardino
Pubblico. I liked sitting on a seat and reading my paper there. I added:
“That Olivi did me a bad turn when he gave me so much time to waste!”
Augusta, who felt rather guilty about it herself, became quite pensive,
and looked penitently at me. But I was really feeling in the best of
spirits. I had nothing whatever to reproach myself with, for I spent
the whole afternoon in my study, and could really flatter myself
that I was cured of any wayward desire. I was engaged in reading the
Apocalypse.
Although it was now officially understood that I was allowed to go to
the Giardino Pubblico every morning, my strength to resist temptation
had become so great that when I went out the next day I actually turned
in the opposite direction. I had to go and buy some music, as I wanted
to try a new violin method which had just been recommended to me.
Before going out I heard that my father-in-law had passed a very good
night and was going to drive to see us in the afternoon. I was as glad
on Guido’s account as on my father-in-law’s, because now he would be
able to get married. Everything was going well; I was out of danger and
so was my father-in-law.
But it was that very music which led me back to Carla. Among the
methods I was shown, was one which had got in by mistake, but was
really a singing method. I read the title carefully: “Complete Treatise
on the Art of Singing (Garcia School), by E. Garcia (son), with a
report on the memorial presented to the Paris Academy of Science.”
I let the shopman attend to other clients while I began reading the
pamphlet. I confess to having read it with the same excitement that a
depraved youth might feel in reading a pornographic book. Yes. That was
the way to approach Carla. It was just the book she needed and it would
have been a sin on my part not to introduce her to it. I bought it and
went home.
Garcia’s book was in two parts: theoretical and practical. I went on
reading it with the intention of becoming so familiar with it that I
should be able to give good advice to Carla when I next went to see her
with Copler. Meanwhile I should have gained time, and could continue
to enjoy my sleep in peace, and look forward at the same time to the
adventure that lay before me.
But it was Augusta herself who precipitated matters. She interrupted my
reading by coming to say good-morning to me, bent over me and touched
my cheek with her lips. She asked me what I was reading and, hearing
that it was a new method, assumed it was for the violin and did not
stop to look at it more closely. After she had gone I exaggerated the
danger I had been in, and thought that prudence demanded I should no
longer keep the book in my study. I ought to convey it at once to the
person it was destined for, and so I came to plunge straight into my
adventure. I had found something better than an excuse for doing what I
wanted to do.
I no longer had any hesitation. Directly I reached the landing I turned
to the door on the left. But outside the door I stopped a moment and
listened to the strains of _La mia bandiera_ echoing triumphantly down
the stairs. I felt as if Carla had gone on singing the same thing
all the time I had been absent. I smiled to myself, feeling a great
affection and longing for her childishness. Then I opened the door
cautiously without knocking, and went into the room on tiptoe. I could
not wait; I wanted to see her at once. In that small room her voice
really sounded very unpleasant. She was singing with great enthusiasm,
and with much more expression than on my first visit. She was leaning
well back in her chair, so as to be able to empty her lungs more
completely. I could only see her head, with the great plaits wound
round it, and I withdrew terrified at the thought of having been so
bold. Meanwhile she had reached the last note of her song, which she
seemed as if she could not bear to let go, and I was able to return to
the landing and close the door behind me, without her discovering that
I was there. That last note had wavered up and down till at last it was
absolutely in tune. This showed that Carla was capable of hitting the
right note, and it now remained with Garcia to teach her to do so more
quickly.
When I felt calmer I knocked again. She at once ran to open the door,
and I shall never forget how sweet she looked against the door-post,
with her great dark eyes fixed on me, unable at first to recognise me
in the darkness.
But I had calmed down so much that all my old doubts took possession of
me. I was about to be faithless to Augusta, but I thought that, as on
the previous days I had managed to be satisfied with going no farther
than the Giardino Pubblico, it ought to be easier still for me to stop
at the threshold, give her the compromising book and go away completely
satisfied. For a brief moment I was full of good resolutions. I even
called to mind some curious advice which had been offered me in order
to help me give up smoking, and which might come in useful on this
occasion: sometimes it was quite enough if one lit a match and threw
away both match and cigarette.
It would have been very easy for me to do this, for Carla herself, when
she recognised me, blushed and seemed on the point of running away. She
was ashamed, as I discovered later, of being seen in the poor shabby
little dress she wore in the house.
When I saw she had recognised me I began making excuses:
“I have brought you this book, because I thought it would interest you.
If you prefer, I will leave it here and go away at once.”
My words sounded brusque, or so it seemed to me, but their meaning was
the reverse, for I had really left it to her to decide whether I should
go away on the spot or stay behind and betray Augusta.
Her decision was quickly taken; she took hold of my hand to prevent my
going, and pulled me into the room. Everything seemed to swim before
me. I remember my excitement was due less to the exquisite contact of
her hand than to that touch of familiarity which seemed at once to
decide my fate and Augusta’s. I really believe that I went in rather
reluctantly, and when I go over the story of my first infidelity I have
distinctly the sense of having been seduced.
Carla’s face was really beautiful when she blushed like that. I was
deliciously surprised to discover that even though she had not expected
me she had hoped all the same that I would come. She said in the
kindest voice:
“So you really felt you wanted to see again the poor girl who owes so
much to you?”
If I had wanted to I could have taken her in my arms on the spot,
but the idea never entered my head. So little did I think of such
a thing that I did not even reply, because her words seemed to me
rather compromising: I at once began talking about Garcia, and saying
how useful she would find the book. I championed the book with such
enthusiasm that I was led into saying more than I meant to. Garcia, I
told her, would teach her how to produce notes that were as solid as
metal and as light as air. She would learn from him that a tone ought
only to represent a straight line or a flat surface, but the surface
must be really flat.
My enthusiasm dried up at once when she interrupted in a tone of great
disappointment:
“Then you don’t like my singing?”
I was amazed at her question. I had criticised her severely but was
quite unaware that I had done so, and I denied it in perfect good
faith. So effectually too, that though I was only talking all the
time about singing, I felt as if I had got back again to the desire
which had so irresistibly drawn me to that house. And I spoke so
affectionately that I could not help betraying part of the truth:
“How can you believe such a thing? Do you think I should have come in
that case? I stood out on the landing for quite a long time, because I
enjoyed your singing so much. Your voice is exquisite and completely
unspoilt. It is just because I think it so perfect that I have brought
you something which will help it to become even more so.”
How powerful Augusta’s influence must have been for me to go on
protesting so vehemently that it was not desire which had driven me
there!
Carla listened to my flattering words, which it would have been beyond
her power to analyse. She had not had much education, but I discovered
to my great surprise that she had a good deal of common sense. She told
me that she often wondered whether she had enough talent and enough
voice to go on; she said she felt she was not making much progress.
Often when she had been practising for a certain number of hours she
allowed herself to sing _La mia bandiera_ for a treat, hoping to detect
some fresh quality in her voice. But it was always the same; no worse,
perhaps even rather good--at least so the people said who had heard her
(and she flashed a mildly interrogating glance at me, as if she wanted
to be reassured as to the meaning of my words, which still rather
bewildered her), but she was making no real progress. Her master said
that there was no such thing as slow progress in art; one reached the
goal by leaps and bounds, and one fine day she would wake up and find
herself a great artist.
“But it is a long business,” she sighed, gazing into space, and perhaps
seeing written there her long hours of boredom and weariness.
If being honest is saying what you really mean, the honestest thing
I could have done would have been to advise the poor girl to give up
singing and become my mistress. But I had not yet left the Giardino
Pubblico so far behind me, and besides, if for no other reason, I was
not so very sure of my judgment in the matter of singing. For the last
few moments I had been completely preoccupied by one person--namely
that tiresome Copler who used to spend every Sunday at my villa with
my wife and me. That would have been a good moment to find some excuse
for asking Carla not to say anything to him about my visit. But I did
not do so because I could think of no way of disguising my request. It
was a good thing that I did not, for a few days later my poor friend
fell ill, and died shortly afterwards.
Meanwhile I told her she would find all she needed in Garcia, and
she believed me for a moment, and thought the book was going to work
wonders. But only for a moment. When she found herself confronted by
so many words, she very soon began to doubt whether the magic would
work. I read Garcia’s theories aloud in Italian, then I explained them
in Italian or, if that were not sufficient, translated them into the
dialect of Trieste; but she did not feel anything moving in her throat,
and that was where she would have had to feel it if she was really to
believe in the efficacy of the book. The worst of it was that it did
not take long to convince me that in my hands the book was not worth
much. When I had read those sentences over three times and still did
not know what to make of them, I avenged myself by criticising the
book freely. Surely Garcia was wasting his time and mine in trying to
prove that since the human voice could produce a variety of sounds it
could not therefore be considered as one instrument. In that case you
might as well say that the violin was a conglomeration of instruments.
Perhaps it was foolish of me to make any criticism openly before Carla,
but if one wants to win a woman it is difficult not to take advantage
of any occasion which offers for showing one’s superiority. She did in
fact admire me for it, but literally pushed away the book which was
our Galeotto, but which did not go with us to our sin. I could not
consent to banishing it so soon, but put it off till my next visit.
After Copler died we needed it no longer. He was the only link between
Carla’s house and mine, and when he was dead I had nothing to restrain
me but my own conscience.
Meanwhile we had become fairly intimate, more so than one might have
expected from that half-hour’s conversation. I think a common ground of
criticism is a sure step towards intimacy. Poor Carla took advantage
of that intimacy to share her troubles with me. Since Copler had come
to their aid they had lived modestly but without real privations. The
thought of what would happen to them in the future was the poor girl’s
chief anxiety. Copler, it is true, brought them their subsidy quite
regularly, but he made it clear to them that they must not count on
it. He could not hold himself responsible for the future; they must
be prepared to provide for themselves. And then he did not give them
the money for nothing; he made them feel that he was the master of
the house and must be told of every detail of expenditure. Woe betide
them if they allowed themselves to spend money on anything not first
approved by him! Not long ago Carla’s mother had been poorly and Carla
had not practised singing for several days, so as to be able to look
after the house. When her singing-master told him about it Copler had
made quite a scene, and flounced out of the house saying that they did
not deserve that respectable people should be bothered to contribute to
their keep. For several days they went in terror lest he should really
mean to abandon them to their fate. When he came to see them again he
made a fresh agreement with them, mapped out just how many hours Carla
was to sit at the piano, and how many she was to devote to house-work.
He threatened to burst in at any time of the day and take her by
surprise.
“Of course,” said the girl, “he only does it for our good, but he gets
in such a rage about nothing at all that I am certain one of these fine
days, when he is in a passion, he will turn us out in the street. But
now that you are interested in us too, there is no danger of that, is
there?”
She pressed my hand again. When I did not reply at once she began to be
afraid I was on Copler’s side and added:
“Copler is always telling us how kind you are.”
This last remark was intended as a compliment to me, and to Copler as
well.
The unsympathetic picture she drew of Copler was new to me and actually
aroused my sympathy. I wished I could have been like him, knowing as
I did so well that the feeling which drove me to that house made me
the exact opposite of him. It was true, of course, that it was other
people’s money he brought them, but he gave up his time to them, a part
of his own life. It was his fatherly feelings which made him so angry
with them. But I could not help wondering whether, after all, it was
not his own desire which made him take all that trouble. I at once said
to Carla:
“Has Copler ever asked you for a kiss?”
“Never!” replied Carla, emphatically. “If he is satisfied with my
behaviour he coldly expresses his approval, just touches my hand and
goes away. At other times, when he is angry, he will not even shake
hands with me, and he takes no notice even if I am frightened and cry.
It would be a great relief to me if I could give him a kiss when he is
like that.”
When she saw me laughing Carla explained herself better:
“I would gladly let an old man like that kiss me, after all that I owe
to him.”
That is one of the advantages of being a genuine invalid; you appear
older than you really are.
I made a feeble attempt to be like Copler. Smiling, so as not to
frighten the poor girl, I said that when I took an interest in anyone
I also tended to become tyrannical. On the whole, I thought that if
you were studying any art it was your duty to do it seriously. At last
I so identified myself with the part I was playing that I even ceased
smiling. Copler was quite right to be strict with a girl who had no
idea of the value of time; and she must remember how many people were
denying themselves in order to help her. I was really very much in
earnest.
The time came for me to be going home to lunch, especially as I did not
want to keep Augusta waiting, that day in particular. I stretched out
my hand to Carla, and it was only then that I saw how pale she was. I
tried to comfort her:
“You may rest assured I shall always say all I can to Copler and the
other people in your favour.”
She thanked me but still seemed depressed. I realised afterwards that
when she saw me come in she at once almost guessed the truth, and
thought I was in love with her and that therefore she was saved. But
then--especially when she saw me getting ready to go--she thought that
I too only cared about art and singing, and that therefore if she
didn’t sing well and make progress I should desert her.
I saw she was terribly cast down. I felt very sorry for her, and as
there was no time to be lost I reassured her by employing the method
which she herself had suggested as being the most efficacious. I had
already got as far as the door when I drew her to me, pushing away with
my nose the great lock of hair in her neck, so that I could touch her
skin with my lips and even with my teeth. It seemed quite a playful
kiss and she ended by laughing too, but only when I had let her go. Up
to then she had remained quite still in my arms, as if overcome with
surprise.
She followed me out on to the landing, and as I began to go down she
asked me laughingly:
“When will you come again?”
“To-morrow, or perhaps later,” I answered, already rather doubtful.
Then I said decidedly: “I will certainly come to-morrow.” And anxious
not to compromise myself too much I added: “We will go on reading
Garcia together.”
Her expression never changed during that brief space of time. She
accepted my first uncertain promise, gratefully accepted the second,
and even agreed to my third proposal, all with the same smile on her
face. Women always know what they want. There was no hesitation on the
part of Ada who rejected me, of Augusta who accepted me, or of Carla
who let me do as I liked.
Directly I got into the street I felt nearer to Augusta than to
Carla. I breathed the fresh air with enjoyment and a wonderful sense
of freedom. I had only been playing, and it was none the less a game
because it finished on her neck under the lock of hair. Carla had
accepted my kiss as a promise of affection and above all of assistance.
But at lunch that day I began really to suffer. My adventure stood
between Augusta and me like a great dark shadow which it seemed
impossible that she should not see too. I felt insignificant, guilty
and ill; the pain in my side seemed like a sympathetic pain, an echo of
the great wound in my conscience. While I was absent-mindedly toying
with my food I sought relief in an iron resolution. ‘I won’t ever see
her again,’ I said to myself, ‘and if I am obliged to see her for the
sake of discretion, it will be for the last time.’ Not so very much was
asked of me after all: only one single effort not to see Carla again.
Augusta laughingly asked me if I had been to see Olivi, that I appeared
so preoccupied.
I began laughing too. It was a great relief to be able to talk. I could
not say the words which would really have made me at peace with myself,
for I should have had to confess and promise never to do it again,
but in default of that it was a relief to be talking at all. My words
flowed on; I was in the best of humours. Then I had a brilliant idea;
I spoke of the little laundry she was so anxious to have and which I
had refused up to now, and I gave her permission to build it at once.
She was so touched by my spontaneous offer that she got up and came
over to give me a kiss. That kiss obviously wiped out the other, and I
felt better at once. This was how we came to have our laundry, and even
to-day, when I pass the tiny building, I remember it was Augusta who
wanted it and Carla who gave her consent.
We passed an enchanting afternoon, in quiet enjoyment of each other. My
conscience only troubled me when I was alone. When Augusta was there
to talk affectionately to me it was appeased at once. We went out
together. We went to her mother’s and spent the whole evening with her.
As often before going to sleep, I lay for some time watching my wife
who was already asleep and breathing quietly. Even when she was asleep
everything about her was in beautiful order, the sheet neatly folded
under her chin and her hair done in a short plait down her back. I said
to myself: “I will never make her suffer. Never!” And I quietly fell
asleep. Next day I would clear up my relations with Carla, and would
find some means of reassuring the poor girl as to her future, without
being obliged to kiss her.
I had a curious dream: I was not only kissing Carla’s neck, I was
positively devouring it. But though I was inflicting terrible wounds
on it in my mad lust, the wounds did not bleed and the delicate curve
of her neck was still unaltered under its soft white skin. Carla,
prostrate in my arms, did not seem to suffer from the bites. It was
Augusta, coming in unexpectedly, who suffered. To calm her I said: “I
won’t eat her all up: I will leave a little for you.”
I only felt the dream as a nightmare when I awoke from it in the
middle of the night and was able to remember it distinctly; but while
it lasted not even Augusta’s presence had been able to dispel the sense
of satisfaction it gave me.
Directly I was wide awake I became fully conscious of the strength
of my passion and the danger it presented to Augusta and me. Perhaps
another life for which I was responsible was already stirring in the
womb of the woman who lay beside me. How could I tell what demands
Carla might make on me if she became my mistress? She seemed to be
hungry for the affection which had been denied her till now, and how
could I provide for two families? Augusta asked for a useful laundry.
The other would ask for something else, not less costly. I could see
Carla laughing and waving her hand to me from the landing after I
had kissed her. She knew that I was bound to become her prey. I was
frightened, and alone in the darkness I could not help uttering a groan.
My wife woke up with a start and asked me what was the matter, and I
said the first thing that came into my head, after I had recovered from
the shock of being questioned at the very moment when I felt as if I
had shouted my confession aloud.
“I was thinking of old age coming on.”
She laughed and tried to comfort me, without being able quite to shake
off her sleepiness. She repeated the same phrases that she always used
when she saw me cast down by thoughts of time passing:
“Don’t think about it while we are still young.... Sleep is so lovely.”
I obeyed her command; I thought no more about it and went to sleep
again. At night speech is like a bright ray in the darkness. It
suddenly lights up reality before which the creations of one’s fancy
fade away. Why was I so afraid of poor Carla when I had not even become
her lover yet? It was clear that I had done my best to frighten myself
about the whole situation. Even the baby which I had pictured in
Augusta’s womb had given no sign of life, besides the building of the
laundry.
I got up still full of the best resolutions. I hurried to my study and
put some money into an envelope, intending to offer it to Carla at the
same moment that I announced I was going to give her up. But I was
also going to announce my readiness to send her more money any time
she liked to write to an address I would give her. Just as I was on
the point of going out Augusta asked me with a charming smile whether
I would mind going with her to her father’s. Guido’s father had come
from Buenos Aires to take part in the wedding and she must go and make
his acquaintance. But it was not so much Guido’s father as me she was
thinking about. She hoped to renew the sweetness of the day before. But
things were no longer the same, I felt. I should be doing wrong to let
any time pass before putting into practice my good resolution. Even as
we walked down the street side by side, apparently secure in our mutual
affection, that other woman already believed me to be in love with her.
That was bad. I felt that walk to be an intolerable burden.
We found Giovanni distinctly better. But he could not put on his boots
because of a tendency to swelling in his feet, which neither he nor
I thought anything of at the time. He was in the drawing-room with
Guido’s father, to whom he introduced me. Augusta soon left us to go
and join her mother and sister.
Señor Francesco Speier seemed a man of much less education than his
son. He was a man of about sixty, short and stumpy, with very few ideas
in his head and not much vitality; which may have been because he was
rather deaf after an illness. He mixed a few Spanish words with his
Italian: “Every time, Señor, that I come to Trieste....”
The two old men talked business, and Giovanni listened attentively,
because the business they were talking of was very important as regards
Ada’s future. I listened to them absent-mindedly. I gathered that old
Speier had decided to wind up his affairs in the Argentine and to hand
over all his _duros_ to Guido, to be used in founding a business in
Trieste; then he proposed going back to Buenos Aires to live with his
wife and daughter on the small estate he still intended to keep there.
I could not understand why he told Giovanni all this before me, and I
still do not understand.
At a certain point it seemed to me that they had both stopped talking
and were looking at me as if they expected me to give them some
advice, and in order to make myself agreeable I remarked:
“Your estate can’t be so very small if it produces enough for you to
live on!”
Giovanni suddenly bellowed out:
“What on earth are you talking about?” The volume of his tone recalled
better days, but if he hadn’t shouted so, Señor Francesco would
probably have taken no notice of my observation. As it was, he grew
pale and said:
“I hope very much that Guido will not fail to pay interest on my
capital.”
Giovanni, still shouting at the top of his voice, tried to reassure him:
“Interest? I should think so indeed! And twice as much if need be.
Isn’t he your son?”
But Señor Francesco still seemed a little uneasy and as if he were
waiting for a reassuring word from me. I hastened to give it, and
repeated it several times over, because the old man seemed to be harder
of hearing than before.
Then they went on talking about business, but I was careful not to
interfere again. Giovanni looked at me from time to time over the
top of his glasses as if to keep me under observation, and there was
something menacing about his heavy breathing. He went on talking for
some time, and at a certain point broke off to say:
“Don’t you think so?”