My agreement must have seemed all the more fervent on account of
the fury which was gradually taking possession of me and colouring
every movement I made. What on earth was I doing in this _galère_,
while the time was fast slipping away for putting into practice my
good resolutions? Why should they force me to neglect something
which was obviously so important both for me and Augusta? I was just
preparing for an excuse for going away when the ladies burst into the
drawing-room, accompanied by Guido. The latter, soon after his father’s
arrival, had given his bride a most magnificent ring. No one took any
notice of me at all, not even little Anna.
Ada had the precious stone on her finger and stood resting her arm
on her fiancé’s shoulder, while she showed it to her father. All the
ladies were in ecstasies over it, but I could not get up any enthusiasm
for rings. I did not even wear my wedding-ring, because I thought it
interfered with my circulation. Without saying good-bye to anyone I
slipped through the drawing-room door, and was on the point of going
through the front door when Augusta, who had noticed my escape, caught
me up. Her appearance quite startled me. Her lips were as pale as they
had been on her wedding-day just before we went to the church. I said I
had an important engagement; I had remembered just in time that a few
days before, for no particular reason, I had bought a pair of very weak
glasses for long sight, which I had never tried since I had put them
in my waistcoat pocket where I felt them now. So I told her I had an
appointment with an oculist whom I wanted to examine my eyes, as they
had given me some trouble lately. She replied that I could go directly
I had said good-bye properly to Guido’s father. I shrugged my shoulders
impatiently, but stayed to please her.
When I went back into the drawing-room they all greeted me politely. As
I was sure that I should have no difficulty now in getting away I felt
in quite a good temper. Guido’s father, who did not feel at home among
so many new relations, said to me:
“Shall I see you again before I go back to Buenos Aires?”
“Yes, Señor,” I said. “Every time you come here you will probably find
me here too.”
They all laughed, and I went away in triumph, with quite a cheerful
parting wave from Augusta. Now that I was properly dismissed, after
submitting to all the usual formalities, I was able to go off with an
easy conscience. But I had another reason for being freed from the
doubts which had beset me up to that moment; if I was hurrying away
from my father-in-law’s house it was because I wanted to get as far
away from it as possible, (even as far as Carla’s house). It was not
the first time, I said to myself, that they had suspected me there of
basely conspiring to injure Guido. It was in perfect innocence and
absence of mind that I had made that remark about the estate in the
Argentine, and Giovanni had immediately interpreted my words as being
said on purpose to prejudice Guido’s father against him. It would have
been quite easy to explain to Guido, if explanation was necessary;
but there was only one way of dealing with Giovanni and the rest who
believed me guilty of machinations like that: I must avenge myself. Of
course I did not actually go off intending to betray Augusta. But I
felt justified in doing exactly as I liked now, in the light of day.
Not that paying Carla a visit was as yet bad in itself, but if I had
happened to run into my mother-in-law again, and if she had asked me
what I was doing there I should have answered without any hesitation:
“Well, if you want to know, I am going to see Carla.” This was actually
the only occasion on which I went to see Carla without thinking of
Augusta, so furious had my father-in-law’s attitude made me!
When I reached the landing I could not hear any sound of Carla’s voice.
For a moment I was terrified; could she have gone out? I knocked and
went in without waiting for anyone to say “Come in.” Carla was there
all right, but her mother was there too. They were both sewing as
perhaps people often do, but as I had never seen two people sewing
before. They were both working at the same big sheet, each at an
opposite corner. Here had I been in such a hurry to get to Carla, and
now I found her mother there as well. That was not what I had bargained
for. Under the circumstances neither good nor bad resolutions could
take effect. Everything must still remain in suspense.
Carla sprang up at once, looking delighted, while the old woman slowly
took off her glasses and put them in their case. I meanwhile discovered
a cause for indignation quite other than the real one, which was that
I was prevented from at once making the situation clear. Was not this
the very time which Copler had set aside for practise? I bowed politely
to the old lady, though even that act of courtesy was quite an effort
to me. I said how-do-you-do to Carla too, but almost without looking at
her. I said:
“I came to see whether we mightn’t find something else useful in
that book,” and I pointed to Garcia’s manual, which was lying on the
table exactly where we had left it. I sat down just where I had sat
the other day and at once opened the book. Carla began by trying to
smile at me, but as I gave no answering smile she sat down beside me
and looked over, with an air of obedient attention. She hesitated
a little; she did not quite understand. I looked at her and saw an
expression of rather contemptuous obstinacy overspread her face. That
was probably how she looked, I thought, when Copler took her to task.
Only she was not sure yet whether my scolding was going to be the same
as Copler’s for, as she told me afterwards, she remembered that I had
kissed her the day before, and thought that my anger was probably never
anything so very terrible. So she was ready at any moment to exchange
her rebellious look for a friendly smile. I may as well say here, as
I shall have no time for it later, that her conviction that she had
tied me for ever to her chariot wheels by allowing me to steal a kiss,
displeased me extremely; a woman who can think that is very dangerous.
But at the moment I felt very like Copler, full of reproaches and
indignation. I began reading aloud the very part we had read the day
before, and which I myself had disposed of. I read pedantically,
without making any comment, and pausing on what seemed to me the most
important words.
Carla interrupted me, a slight tremor in her voice:
“I think we have read that before!”
So I was obliged to contribute some remarks of my own. It does one good
sometimes to hear one’s own words. Mine not only sounded kinder than I
meant them to, they put me into a sociable mood again:
“You see, Signorina,” I said, accompanying my words with a smile which
might if one chose be interrupted as that of a lover, “I should like to
go over what we have read before going any further. We may have judged
it a little too hastily yesterday; one of my friends has just told me
that if one wishes to understand everything that Garcia says one must
study the whole book carefully.”
I suddenly felt as if I must show the old lady a little consideration
too, for she had probably, in the whole course of her not very happy
life, never found herself in a similar situation. The smile I gave her
was more of an effort than the one I had given Carla:
“It is not very amusing,” I said, “but even anyone who is not studying
music may get something out of it.”
I went on reading obstinately. Carla was certainly feeling happier,
and something approaching a smile played about her full lips. The old
woman, on the other hand, looked like a poor caged beast, and obviously
only went on sitting there because she was too timid to invent an
excuse for going away. For my part, I was determined on no account to
betray my desire to put her out of the room. Such a step would have
been much too compromising.
Carla showed more courage; she asked me with great courtesy to stop
reading for a moment, and turning to her mother, told her that she need
not stop and that they would finish sewing the sheet in the afternoon.
The Signora came up to me and timidly held out her hand. I shook it
warmly, almost affectionately, and said:
“I can understand you don’t find the book very entertaining.”
It sounded as if I was sorry she was leaving us. She went away after
having laid on a chair the sheet which up to then she had been holding
in her lap. Carla followed her out on to the landing for a moment, to
say something to her, while I was consumed with impatience to have her
to myself at last. She came back, shutting the door behind her, and
took her old place beside me, with that same rather fixed look in her
mouth which reminded me of an obstinate child. She said:
“I always practise every day at this time. And of course just to-day
this work must come along, and had to be done in a hurry.”
“But can’t you see that I don’t care a fig for your singing?” I cried,
seizing her in a violent embrace. I kissed her first on the mouth and
immediately afterwards on the spot where I had kissed her the day
before.
Then a strange thing happened. She burst out crying bitterly and tried
to escape from my arms. She told me between her sobs that she had
suffered too much seeing me come in like that. She was crying out of
self-pity, which one always feels when one sees another person pitying
one. It is less the pain which makes one’s tears flow than the cause of
that pain. One weeps when one arraigns the world of injustice. And it
was surely unjust to force that lovely girl to work when one might have
been kissing her instead.
It did not all go quite so smoothly as I had expected. I was obliged to
explain myself, and to get on quicker I did not allow myself time to
invent, but told the exact truth. I told her how impatient I had been
to see her and to kiss her. I had intended to come and see her early in
the morning; I had lain awake all night thinking about it. Naturally I
did not tell her what I had intended to do when I got to her, but that
was a matter of small importance. What was true was that I had felt
the same agonising impatience to see her, whether it was to tell her I
must give her up for ever or to take her in my arms. Then I told her
what had happened that morning, and how I had been obliged to go out
with my wife and see my father-in-law, and how I had been forced to sit
there hopelessly while they discussed things which had nothing whatever
to do with me. And then when I finally managed to escape by dint of
tremendous efforts and come all that long way at full speed, what do I
find but an enormous sheet filling the whole room!
Carla burst out laughing, for she saw that I was not the least like
Copler. When she laughed it was as if a rainbow had come out on her
beautiful face, and I kissed her again. She did not return my caresses,
but accepted them submissively, an attitude I adore, because I love
the weaker sex just in proportion as they are weak. She mentioned for
the first time that Copler had said how devoted I was to my wife. The
shadow of a serious purpose passed over her face as she said:
“So we must just be good friends and nothing more.”
I did not put much faith in this very wise proposition, seeing that the
mouth which uttered it made no effort to escape from my kisses.
Carla went on talking for quite a long time. She evidently wanted to
arouse my compassion. I remember everything she said, but I did not
believe it till she had gone from my life for ever. All the time she
was with me I feared her, as a woman who would sooner or later take
advantage of her ascendancy over me to ruin me and my family. I never
believed her when she said she only wanted to feel that she and her
mother would lack for nothing. I know now that she never intended to
get more from me than would suffice for their bare needs, and whenever
I think of her I blush for shame at having understood her so little
and loved her so ill. She, poor child, never got anything out of me. I
would have given her anything, because I never try to get out of paying
my debts. But I was always waiting for her to ask me.
She told me of the desperate straits she found herself in after her
father’s death. For months on end she and her mother had been obliged
to work day and night on some embroidery a shop had commissioned
them to do. She had naïvely believed that a divine providence would
send them help, and she would sometimes stand at the window watching
for it to arrive. Copler came instead. Now she was contented with
her position, but she and her mother passed uneasy nights sometimes,
thinking how precarious the help was that they were receiving.
Supposing she should discover one day that she had no voice and no
talent? Copler would certainly abandon her. He talked of giving her a
public performance in a few months’ time. Supposing it should prove a
complete fiasco?
Still with the idea of arousing my compassion, she told me that her
family’s financial misfortune had also shattered her dreams of love;
her fiancé had deserted her.