“But does he know everything? Does he know you gave yourself to me
yesterday?”
“Yes,” she answered proudly. “He knows everything, everything.”
I felt I was lost, and like a dog who, when he can no longer get the
desired morsel, worries with his teeth the person who has refused it
him, I exclaimed in my rage:
“That bridegroom of yours must have an excellent digestion. He can
swallow me to-day, and to-morrow he will swallow whatever you like to
give him.”
I hardly knew what I was saying. I only know I was crying out with
pain. But her face assumed an expression of indignation of which I
should hardly have thought her soft gazelle-like brown eyes would have
been capable.
“You dare say that to me? Why haven’t you got the courage to say it to
him?”
She turned her back on me and walked swiftly towards the gate. I was
already regretting my words, but was stupefied to discover that I was
no longer allowed to speak roughly to Carla. This discovery rooted me
to the spot. It was only when the little figure in blue and white had
already reached the gate with rapid steps that I decided to run after
her. I had no idea what I should say to her, but we could not part like
that.
I caught her up just as she was going in at the front door, and said
out of the fullness of my heart:
“Are we really going to part like this, after having loved each other
so much?”
She continued to walk on without answering me, and I followed her up
the stairs. Then she looked at me with the same hostile eye and said:
“If you want to see my fiancé, come in with me. Don’t you hear? That is
him playing the piano.”
Then I heard the syncopations of Schubert’s _Gruss_ arranged by Liszt.
Although I have never at any time practised with a sabre or
sword-stick, I am not at all a timid man. The intense desire which
had moved me up to that moment suddenly died down; all that remained
of the male in me was my combativeness. I had imperiously demanded
something which I could not have. To put myself less in the wrong it
was essential for me to fight, otherwise the memory of that woman,
threatening to have me punished by her fiancé, would be too atrocious.
“Very well, then!” I said. “If you allow me I will come with you.” My
heart was beating fast, not from fear but because I was afraid I might
not behave properly.
I continued to walk upstairs beside her. But suddenly she stopped,
leaned against the wall and began crying silently. The strains of
Schubert’s _Gruss_ on the piano I had paid for, still floated down to
us. Carla’s tears made it seem much more moving.
“I will do whatever you like,” I said. “Do you want me to go away?”
“Yes,” she murmured, hardly able to articulate that one short word.
“Good-bye,” I said. “Since you wish it, good-bye for ever.”
I went slowly downstairs, whistling the tune of Schubert’s song. Was
it a dream, or did she really call after me: “Zeno?” At that moment I
would not have stopped even if she had called me by her strange pet
name, Dario. I was longing to get away and return, pure again, to
Augusta. Even a dog, prevented by kicks from approaching the female,
runs away perfectly pure for the time being.
Next day when I was again reduced to the state I had been in on my way
to the Giardino Pubblico, I simply felt that I had been a cad; she had
called me, even though not by my pet name, and I had not answered. It
was my first day of unhappiness, and was followed by many in which I
suffered bitter pangs of loneliness. I could not understand why I had
gone away like that, and concluded it must have been because I was
afraid of that man or of a scandal. I felt now that I would gladly
compromise myself to any extent, as for instance when I had suggested
to Carla that we should take the long walk together in the town. I had
lost a favourable moment, and I knew well enough that with certain
women those moments only come once. Once would have been enough for me.
I decided to write to Carla immediately. I could not let pass a
single day without trying to get into touch with her again. I wrote
and re-wrote that letter, trying to put into a few words all the
understanding of which I was capable. I re-wrote it so many times
partly because writing was a great comfort to me; it gave me just
the outlet I needed. I asked her to forgive me for getting so angry,
telling her that my great love would take a long time to calm down.
I added: “Every day that passes brings me a fresh grain of peace.” I
wrote these sentences several times over, grinding my teeth as I wrote.
I went on to say that I could not forgive myself for having spoken to
her like that, and that I felt the need of asking her forgiveness. I
could not, alas, offer her what Lali offered, and what she so richly
deserved.
I pictured the letter making a great impression on her. Since Lali knew
all about it Carla would be sure to show him the letter and Lali might
easily feel that it was a great advantage to him to have a friend of my
standing. I even dreamed of our having a very agreeable life together
_à trois_, for my love was so great at the moment that I should have
felt it an alleviation of my lot to have even been allowed to pay court
to Carla.
On the third day I received a short note from her. In it she called me
neither Zeno nor Dario. She only said “Thank you! I hope you will be
happy too with your wife who so much deserves to be happy!” She was, of
course, speaking of Ada.
The favourable moment had not lasted, and it never does last with
women unless you take hold of them by the hair of their head. My desire
had taken the form of mad rage. Not with Augusta! My mind was so full
of Carla that I felt quite remorseful, and all the time I was with
Augusta I wore a forced, idiotic smile which she took to be genuine.
But something must be done. I could not just wait and go on suffering
like this day after day! I did not want to write to her again. It
is a waste of time to cover paper with ink for a woman. I must find
something better than that.
With no definite plan in my mind I made my way to the Giardino
Pubblico. Then, much more slowly, I went on to Carla’s house, and when
I had reached the landing knocked at the kitchen door. I would have
preferred if possible not to meet Lali, but I felt I should not mind
running into him. It would be just the climax I was needing.
The old lady was by the hearth as usual, where two good fires were
burning. She was surprised to see me, but the kind old thing at once
made me welcome, and said laughingly:
“Well I _am_ pleased to see you! You had got so used to coming to see
us every day that it’s no wonder you can’t get out of it as soon as all
that.”
It was easy enough to set her talking. She told me that Carla and
Vittorio were very much in love with each other. He and his mother were
coming to dinner that very day. She added, laughing:
“I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t soon persuade her to go with him to
his singing lessons. He has such a lot to give every day. They can’t
bear to be separated for a moment.”
She laughed with motherly pride to think they were so happy. She told
me they were going to be married in a few weeks’ time.
I had a bad taste in my mouth and was on the point of going away. But
I refrained, in the hope that the old woman’s gossip might suggest
something to my mind, or give me some sort of hope. The last mistake
I had made with Carla had been just that--that I had run away before
having studied every possible loophole that might be offered me of
staying.
For a moment I really did think I had got an idea. I asked the old
woman if it was her intention to act as her daughter’s servant for the
rest of her life. I said I knew that Carla was not very nice to her.
She went on with what she was doing at the fire, but listened to me
while she worked. She was extraordinarily frank with me, though I had
done nothing to deserve it. She complained that Carla lost patience
with her over every little trifle. She tried to excuse herself.
“I know I get older every day,” she said. “And I forget everything. It
is not my fault!”
But she hoped things were beginning to go better. Carla was much less
bad-tempered now that she was happy. And then Vittorio had treated her
with great respect from the very first. She went on making a paste of
flour and fruit into various shapes while she talked.
“It is my duty to stay with my daughter,” she said. “I can’t do
otherwise.”
I took some pains to make her change her mind. I said she might very
well escape from such slavery. Could not I help her? I would continue
to pay her the monthly allowance which had hitherto been paid to Carla.
It had become a necessity to me to support somebody! I wanted to keep
the old woman, because she seemed to me to be part of her daughter.
She expressed her gratitude warmly. She said how good it was of me,
but she laughed at the idea of leaving her daughter. She could never
dream of such a thing. This was a hard saying for me, and left me with
a terrible weight on my mind. I had got to return then to my state
of loneliness, where there was no Carla and no way by which I could
return to her. I remember I made one last effort to deceive myself into
thinking that a way might still be open. Before going away I told the
old woman that if she were at any time to change her mind she had only
got to let me know.
I left the house full of scorn and indignation, feeling as if I had
been maltreated by the very people to whom I was intending to show
kindness. The old woman had insulted me by bursting out laughing like
that. Her laughter still sounded in my ears, and meant much more than
that she had mocked at my last proposal.
I did not want to go back to Augusta feeling like that. I knew
exactly what would happen. If I had gone I should have behaved badly
to her and she would have avenged herself by that strange pallor which
made me feel so unhappy. I preferred to walk up and down the streets
with a rhythmic tread which I hoped might produce a little order in
my thoughts. And that order did in fact come. I ceased lamenting my
fate, and saw myself as if I had been projected by a great light on
the wall in front of me. I did not want Carla, but only her embrace,
and preferably her final embrace. The thing was ridiculous! I bit my
lips, hoping the pain might give some sort of substance to my ludicrous
fancy. I knew myself thoroughly, and it was inexcusable that I should
suffer so much when I had such a unique opportunity for freeing myself.
Carla had ceased to exist just as I had so often wished she might.
Such was my lucidity of mind that when a little later, in an out of the
way part of the town which I found my way to at random, a woman of the
streets accosted me, I unhesitatingly went with her.
I got home very late for lunch, but was so nice to Augusta that her
spirits rose at once. But I could not bring myself to kiss my child,
and for several hours was incapable of eating anything. I felt unclean!
I did not feign sickness, as I had done on several other occasions to
conceal my misdeeds and remorse. I thought I should never again find
comfort in any resolution, and for the first time I failed to make one.
It took me a good many hours to recover the accustomed rhythm which
might bridge the gulf between my gloomy present and the bright future.
Augusta noticed that something had happened to me. She said, laughing:
“One can never be bored if one is with you. Every day you become a
different man.”
It was true! That woman in the suburban street was quite different from
any other, and I had her in my blood.
I spent the whole afternoon and evening with Augusta. She was very
busy, and I stayed beside her doing nothing. I felt as if I were being
carried along by a stream, a stream of clear water: my respectable home
life.
I abandoned myself to the stream, which carried me along but did not
purify me. On the contrary it only emphasised my stain.
Naturally during the long night which followed I formed a fresh
resolution. The first was the most iron of all. I determined to buy
a pistol, and shoot myself directly I found myself turning towards
that part of the town. This resolution made me feel better, and less
disgusted with myself.
I never groaned in bed; instead I imitated the regular breathing of
someone who is asleep. I returned to my old idea of making a confession
to my wife, just as when I had been on the point of committing adultery
with Carla. But this confession would have been much more difficult to
make, not so much on account of the gravity of my offence as of the
complications which had preceded it. Face to face with a judge like my
wife, I should have had to plead attenuating circumstances, and this I
could only have done if I had been free to tell her of my unexpected
and violent rupture with Carla. But in that case I should have been
obliged to have gone back over the whole story of my infidelity, and
confess everything to her.
By a process of self-analysis my resolutions became more and more
reasonable. I thought I could prevent a similar thing happening again
by taking immediate steps to form another liaison like the one that
was just at an end, and which it was obvious I could not do without.
But the thought of another woman alarmed me considerably. Too many
perils threatened me and my little family. There was not another Carla
to be found in the world, and I shed bitter tears at the thought of
what I had lost; she was so sweet and good, and had even tried to love
the woman I loved. She had only not succeeded because I had shown her
another woman instead, and precisely the one I did not love!