“Signorina Carla Gerco, a friend of my wife’s.”
Then I went on lying, and Tullio told me afterwards himself that my
second lie sufficed to make everything clear to him. I said with a
forced smile:
“The young lady sat down beside me too, without seeing me.”
It is important to remember, if one is going to tell lies, that one
must only tell essential ones if one wants to be believed. When we next
met, Tullio said to me with his native common sense:
“You explained too much; I guessed at once that that charming young
lady was your mistress.”
I had already lost Carla, and it was a satisfaction to be able to
tell Tullio that he was right, but that she had, alas, given me up.
He did not believe me, for which I was grateful to him. I thought his
incredulity was somehow a good omen.
That meeting in the garden produced in Carla an ill-humour which I had
never seen in her before. I know now that her rebellion dated from
that moment, but I did not notice it at once because I had turned my
back on her in order to listen to Tullio telling me about his illness
and the various cures he had tried. I afterwards discovered that no
woman can consent to be slighted in public, whatever treatment she
may put up with in private. She vented her wrath on the poor cripple
rather than on me, refusing to reply when he spoke to her. I could not
listen to him either with any patience, for at the moment I could not
interest myself in his cures. I looked hard at him and tried to read in
his little eyes what he was really thinking about our meeting. I knew
he had retired, and that having nothing to do all day he might easily
amuse himself by gossiping about us in the narrow circle of Triestine
society which was all that existed in those days.
After reflecting on it for some time Carla got up as if to leave us.
She murmured “good-bye” and began to move away.
I knew she was angry with me and, while still reckoning with Tullio’s
presence, I tried to snatch an opportunity for reconciling myself with
Carla. I asked her to allow me to accompany her as I was going in the
direction of her house. Her cold good-bye had sounded like a final
farewell, and this was the first time I feared she would leave me for
good. Such a cruel threat quite took my breath away.
But Carla did not know herself where she was going with such a firm
step. She was giving vent to a momentary exasperation, which would soon
have passed.
She waited for me and we walked along side by side without speaking.
When we got home she burst into a flood of tears, which distressed me
less, because they forced her to take refuge in my arms. I explained to
her who Tullio was and what harm his tongue might do me. As she still
went on crying in my arms I ventured on a firmer tone: Did she want
to compromise me? Had we not agreed to do all in our power to give as
little suffering as possible to the poor woman who was my wife and the
mother of my child?
Carla seemed to agree, but she wanted to be alone to recover herself. I
went away in quite good spirits.
It must have been this adventure which made her keep wanting to appear
in public as my wife. It seemed that as she did not want to marry the
singing-master she was bent on making me fill a good part of the place
which she had refused him. She kept on plaguing me to take two seats at
the theatre, which we were to occupy as if by chance, both coming in by
different doors and sitting down next to each other. But I would only
consent to go with her several times to the Giardino Pubblico, which
marked the limit of my excursions on foot; only now I arrived from the
opposite direction. I would never go beyond. My mistress was beginning
to resemble me a little too much. For no reason at all she would break
out into sudden bursts of anger. She soon came to her senses again,
but the fear of these outbursts sufficed to make me very docile and
attentive to her. I would often find her dissolved in tears, and could
never succeed in getting any explanation of the cause of her grief.
Perhaps it was my fault for not insisting enough on her telling me.
When I got to know her better, that is to say when she left me, no
further explanation was necessary. Necessity had compelled her to fling
herself into that adventure with me, though I was not really what she
wanted. In my arms she had become a woman and, as I like to think, an
honest woman. Naturally this is not to be attributed to any merit of
mine, especially as I had nothing but disappointment in the end.
She developed a new caprice, which at first surprised me and then moved
me deeply; she wanted to see my wife. She swore she would not go near
her and that she would take care not to be seen by her. I promised her
that if I happened to hear my wife was going out at a particular time I
would let her know. She must not see my wife near my villa, which was
in a lonely spot where every passer-by attracts attention, but in one
of the crowded streets of the city.
About this time my mother-in-law had some disease of the eyes which
obliged her to keep a bandage over them for several days. This bored
her terribly, and to see that she obeyed the doctor’s orders exactly,
her daughters took it in turn to sit with her; my wife in the morning
and Ada from four o’clock in the afternoon. I don’t know even now
what led me to indicate Ada to Carla as my wife. No doubt after the
singing-master’s proposal I felt the need of attaching her more closely
to me, and I may have thought that the lovelier my wife seemed to her
the more she would love the man who, in some sort, had sacrificed such
a woman to her. Augusta was at that time no more than a splendidly
healthy nursing mother. Perhaps I was guided to a certain extent
by considerations of prudence. I had good reasons to fear Carla’s
capricious humour, and if she had let herself be carried away into some
indiscretion before Ada it would not have mattered so much, seeing that
I already had sufficient proof that Ada would never try to damage me in
Augusta’s eyes.
If Carla had compromised me with Ada I should have told the latter the
whole story, and not without a certain secret satisfaction.
But my stratagem had results which I could never have foreseen.
Feeling slightly anxious as to how things had gone, I went to see
Carla earlier than usual next morning. I found her quite changed from
the day before. The pure oval of her face wore an expression of great
seriousness. I was going to kiss her but she repulsed me at first, then
let me just touch her cheeks with my lips to induce me to listen to
her quietly. I sat down at the table facing her. She took up a sheet
of paper on which she had been writing till I came in, and put it with
some deliberation amongst some music which was lying on the table.
I took no notice of the sheet of paper and it was only later that I
learned it was a letter to Lali.
I know now that up to that moment Carla’s soul had been torn by doubts.
She gazed at me questioningly with her serious eyes; then she turned
towards the window, as if she sought to be alone with herself and to
look into her own heart. Perhaps if I had been quicker to divine what
was going on in her mind I might even then have kept my exquisite
mistress for myself.
She told me about her meeting with Ada. She had waited for her outside
my mother-in-law’s house, and when she came out had recognised her at
once.
“Nobody could have mistaken her. You had described her chief features
to me. Oh, how well you know her!”
She was silent for a moment, trying to control the tumult of her
senses, which made it difficult for her to speak. Then she went on:
“I don’t know what has happened between you, but I don’t want ever
again to betray that woman. She is so beautiful and so sad! I shall
write to the singing-master to-day, saying that I am willing to marry
him!”
“Sad?” I exclaimed in astonishment. “You must have made a mistake, or
she may have had a shoe which pinched her at that moment.”
Ada sad! Why, she was always laughing and smiling; even that very
morning when I had seen her at my house.
But Carla knew more about it than I did.
“A shoe that pinched her! She had the carriage of a goddess walking on
the clouds!”
She told me with ever-growing agitation that she had even had a few
words addressed to her--ah, such sweet ones--by Ada. The latter had
dropped her handkerchief and Carla had picked it up and given it back
to her. Her brief words of thanks had moved Carla to tears. Something
else had also happened between the two women. Carla maintained that
Ada had noticed she was crying and had given her a parting look of
tender sympathy. Everything was plain to Carla; my wife knew that I was
unfaithful to her, and was suffering. That was why she had decided not
to see me any more, and to marry Lali.
I did not know what to say in my own defence. It would have been easy
for me to talk about Ada as if I disliked her, but not about my wife,
who was so busy doing her duty as a good mother that she did not
perceive what was going on in my mind. I asked Carla if she had not
noticed a certain hard look in Ada’s eyes, and that her voice was low
and harsh without any touch of gentleness. If only I could have had
Carla’s love again, there on the spot, I would gladly have attributed
many other failings to my wife; but how could I, seeing that for about
a year now I had been praising her to the skies before my mistress?
I got out of it another way. I was so deeply moved myself that the
tears rose to my eyes. I felt I was greatly deserving of pity. Without
at all intending it, I had fallen head-first into a dilemma from which
I could see no way out. It was intolerable to have Ada and Augusta
mistaken for each other like that. The real facts were that my wife
was not at all beautiful, and that Ada, who so keenly aroused Carla’s
compassion, had treated me very badly. Carla was really unjust in her
judgment of me.
My tears softened Carla a little towards me.
“Dear Dario,” she said, “it does me good to see you cry. There must
have been some misunderstanding between you two, and it has got to be
cleared up. I don’t want to be too hard on you but I have made up my
mind never to betray her again. I am determined she shan’t have to cry
because of me. I swear it!”
In spite of having sworn it, she did betray Augusta one last time. She
wanted to part from me for ever with a final kiss, but I would only
allow this kiss to take one form, otherwise I should have parted from
her full of resentment. So she submitted. We both murmured: “For the
last time.”
It was an exquisite moment. That resolution taken by both of us in
common had the power to wipe out all our guilt. We were innocent and
happy. Kind fate had requited me with one moment of perfect bliss.
I felt so happy that I went on with the comedy up to the moment of
saying good-bye. We were never to see each other again. She refused the
envelope which I always carried in my pocket, and would not even accept
any memento from me. Every trace of our past must be banished from the
new life on which we were entering. Then I consented to kiss her on the
forehead like a father, as she had wanted me to at first.
On the stairs I had a sudden misgiving that the matter was becoming
too serious. If I could have known that she would still be at my
disposition the next day I should not have been troubled so soon with
thoughts of the future. She watched me go downstairs from her landing,
and I called up to her, laughingly:
“Till to-morrow!”
She gave a start of shocked surprise and went away, saying:
“Never again!”
All the same I felt relieved to think I had dared to say something
which left the way open for a last embrace, if I felt the desire for
it. With nothing I wanted to do and no business to attend to, I spent
the whole day with Augusta and in Guido’s office. My complete idleness
gave me the opportunity to see more of my wife and child than usual. I
was not only kind to them but played a father’s part in the direction
of the household, giving orders and looking into everything. As I was
going to bed I said to myself:
“Every day ought to be like this.”
Before we went to sleep Augusta felt she must confide a great secret to
me; her mother had told her only to-day. A few days ago Ada had come
upon Guido kissing one of the maids. Ada would have preferred to have
taken a high line about it, but the girl had been insolent and she had
sent her away on the spot. Yesterday they had all been anxious to hear
what Guido would do about it; if he had complained Ada had intended to
ask for a separation. But Guido had laughed and protested that Ada had
made a mistake; he had nothing against her being sent away as he could
not bear the girl, he said. The matter appeared to have been smoothed
over.
I was very curious to know whether Ada really had been wrong when she
surprised her husband in that position; was there any possible room
for doubt? For after all when two people are kissing each other they
are in quite a different position from when one is tying the other’s
shoe-laces. I felt in the best of humours. I even felt the need of
displaying a very calm and equable mind in my judgment of Guido. Ada
was certainly of a jealous temperament which might have made her see
them nearer together than they really were, and doing something quite
different.
Augusta said sadly that she was sure Ada had not made a mistake, and
that it was excess of affection which made her take another view now.
She added:
“She would have done better to have married you!”