“Guido asked me to come. But I will leave you two alone if you like,
and find something else to do.”
She protested, saying that she was on the contrary very glad to see me
again--for the third time that day. She told me the entire office was
about to assemble in that small boat, for Luciano was coming too. It
would be a terrible thing for our business if we were to founder! She
told me of course that Luciano was coming too, in order to show me what
an innocent rendezvous it was. Then she chattered ceaselessly, telling
me amongst other things that this was the first time she had been out
with Guido, and then that it was the second. She let slip casually that
she found it quite pleasant to sit on the bottom-board, and I expressed
surprise at her using such a nautical expression. She was obliged to
confess that she had heard Guido use it the first time she had gone
fishing with him.
She was evidently anxious to let me know how innocent their first
outing had been.
“We went fishing that time in the morning,” she said. “We were fishing
for mackerel, not John Dory.”
It was a pity I had no time to let her chatter a little more, because
then I might have found out all I wanted to know; but at that moment
Guido’s boat shot out from the darkness of the Sacchetta and came
swiftly toward us. I was still debating whether, as Carmen was there, I
had not better go away. Perhaps Guido had not meant to invite us both
together, for I remembered I had half refused his invitation. Meanwhile
the boat pulled in and Carmen leaped lightly into it, refusing, dark
as it was, the hand which Luciano held out for her support. As I still
hesitated Guido shouted out:
“Don’t let us waste any more time!”
With one bound I was in the boat. My bound was almost involuntary,
and made in response to Guido’s cry. I looked longingly at the shore,
but that moment’s hesitation made it impossible for me to spring out
again, and I seated myself in the prow of the boat which was a fairly
small one. When I got used to the darkness I saw Guido facing me in the
stern, with Carmen at his feet. Luciano, who was rowing, was between
us. I did not feel very safe or very comfortable in that small boat,
but I soon got used to it and began watching the stars, which again
had a calming influence on me. It was true that with Luciano present,
who was a devoted servant of our wives’ family, Guido would never
have risked being unfaithful to Ada, so that there was no harm in my
being there too. I had a great longing to enjoy to the full the sky,
the sea and that vast quietness, but if my being there was to cause
me remorse, I might as well have stayed at home and let myself be
tormented by little Antonia. The fresh night air filled my lungs, and I
was conscious of enjoying myself thoroughly in the company of Guido and
Carmen, both of whom I really liked very much.
We passed the lighthouse and came out into the open sea. A few miles
farther out shone the lights of innumerable sailing-boats; the bait
they threw for the fishes was very different from ours. We passed
the military baths--an enormous building, looming darkly out of the
water--and began rowing up and down close to the Sant’ Andrea shore. It
was a favourite place for fishermen. Many other boats were moving about
noiselessly close to us. Guido made ready three lines, and baited them
with small crabs, with the hook through their tails. He gave us each
one, saying that mine, the only one which was leaded, would attract
most fish. In the darkness I could just see the hook through the tail
of my crab which still seemed to be moving the upper part of its body
to and fro. It was a gentle motion and seemed to express meditation
rather than bodily agony. Perhaps what produces pain in larger bodies
may, in very little ones, be so refined that it is experienced merely
as a fresh sensation, a stimulus to thought. I threw it into the water,
lowering it about thirty feet according to Guido’s instructions. Then
Carmen and Guido let out their lines. Guido had an oar in the stern
now, with which he guided the boat in such a way as to prevent the
lines becoming entangled. Apparently Luciano was not yet quite equal
to the task of guiding the boat like that. But in any case he was busy
with the little net in which he was to collect the fish brought to the
surface by the lines. For a long time there was nothing for him to
do. Guido was very talkative. Perhaps it was his passion for giving
instruction, even more than love, which attached him to Carmen. Rather
than listen to him I should have preferred to go on thinking about the
little animal I was holding in the water. But Guido kept calling to
me and I was obliged to listen to his theories of fishing. He said we
should often feel the fish nibbling at the bait, but we must be sure
not to draw in our lines till we felt a pull. Then we must be ready
to give a jerk which would embed the hook firmly in the fish’s mouth.
Guido’s explanations were, as usual, very long. He wanted to explain
quite clearly exactly what sensation we should feel in our hand when
the fish nibbled the bait. And he went on with his explanations long
after Carmen and I knew by experience the almost audible contact of
the fish’s mouth with the bait. Several times we were obliged to draw
in our lines and bait them afresh. The reflective little crab had been
swallowed down in the jaws of a cautious fish who had learnt how to
avoid the hook.
There were beer and sandwiches on board, and Guido’s inexhaustible
chatter lent flavour to our picnic. He was talking now of the immense
riches which lay at the bottom of the sea. He did not mean, as Luciano
thought, the fishes, nor the treasure which man has spilt into the sea,
but the gold which is dissolved in sea-water. Suddenly he remembered I
had studied chemistry, and said:
“You ought to know something about that gold.”
I did not remember much, but I accepted his statement, and hazarded a
suggestion, the truth of which I felt to be rather doubtful. I said:
“Sea-gold is the most costly of all to collect. In order to get a
single one of those dispersed napoleons you would have to spend five.”
Luciano, who had turned eagerly towards me for confirmation of the
rumoured riches over which we were floating, turned his back in
disgust; he no longer took any interest in that kind of gold. But Guido
agreed with me, and thought he remembered hearing that the price of
sea-gold was exactly five times higher than that of ordinary gold, as I
had just said. His confirmation of my statement (which I knew to be a
fiction of the brain) was meant as high praise. He clearly did not look
on me as at all dangerous and felt no shadow of jealousy in regard to
the woman lying at his feet. I was tempted for a moment to embarrass
him by saying that I had suddenly remembered it would cost only three
napoleons to extract one from the sea, or that it would cost ten.
But at that very moment my line suddenly gave a terrific jerk. I gave
another jerk, and screamed. In one bound Guido was at my side and took
the line from my hand. I gladly yielded it to him. He began drawing it
in, first a small bit at a time, then, as the resistance diminished, in
great handfuls. We could see the silver body of a huge fish gleaming
in the dark water. It resisted no longer, but ran swiftly to meet its
pain. At last I felt I understood the dumb creature’s suffering; that
swift flight towards death seemed like a cry. Soon it lay gasping at my
feet. Luciano had pulled it out of the water with his net, and seizing
it roughly in one hand pulled out the hook with the other.
He prodded the great fish all over:
“A John Dory, and it weighs about seven pounds!”
He was quite overwhelmed by its size, and named the price they would
have asked for it in the fish-market. Then Guido remarked that the tide
was on the turn, and that we were not likely to catch any more fish. He
said fishermen believe that the fish won’t bite when it is slack water,
and that therefore they cannot be caught. He moralised on the dangers
an animal was led into by its appetite. Then he began laughing and
said, quite unaware that he was compromising himself:
“You are the only one here this evening who knows how to fish.”
My victim was still flapping about in the bottom of the boat, when
Carmen gave a scream. Without moving, and with suppressed laughter in
his voice, Guido asked:
“Another John Dory?”
Carmen replied in confusion:
“I thought it was, but it has let go of the hook!”
I am convinced that Guido, unable any longer to contain himself, had
squeezed Carmen in the dark.
I was beginning to feel ill at ease in that boat. I no longer cared
about catching anything, and kept moving my line to and fro so that the
poor creatures should not bite. I said I was sleepy, and asked Guido to
put me on shore at Sant’ Andrea. Then I tried to remove any suspicion
that I might be going because I was shocked by what Carmen’s sudden cry
had betrayed, and told them about my baby’s screaming fit, saying that
I should like to get back and make sure it was not ill.
Guido, obliging as usual, brought the boat to shore. He offered me the
fish I had caught, but I refused. I proposed to throw it into the sea
again and set it free, at which Luciano set up a howl of protest and
Guido good-naturedly observed:
“If I thought I could give it life and health again I gladly would. But
the poor creature is no good for anything now except to be served up on
a dish.”
I followed them with my eyes, and noticed that they did not take
advantage of the space left free by me. They were still sitting as
close as possible to each other, and the boat put off again, with its
prow rather far out of the water, because of the extra weight astern.
I regarded it as a punishment from heaven when I found that my baby
had an attack of fever. Hadn’t I caused it to fall ill, by pretending
to Guido to be anxious about its health when I was not really so in
the least? Augusta was still up, but Dr. Paoli had just been and had
reassured her by saying that so sudden and violent a fever could
not mean the beginning of a serious illness. We stood for some time
watching Antonia who was lying huddled up in her little cot, with dry
lips and feverish cheeks, her brown curls all in disorder. She did not
cry at all, but moaned quietly from time to time, then fell back at
once into a state of torpor. My God! How dear she seemed to me now that
she was ill. I would willingly have given years of my own life if only
it would make her breathe more easily. How could I ever forgive myself
for thinking for a moment that I was not very fond of her, and for
having spent all the time while she was suffering away from her, and in
such company!
“She is so like Ada,” Augusta said with a sob. It was true! We noticed
the likeness now for the first time, and it became more and more
striking, the bigger Antonia grew, so that I sometimes trembled to
think her fate might be like that of the poor creature she resembled.
We went to bed at last, after putting the baby’s bed beside Augusta’s.
But I was unable to sleep. I felt a weight on my mind, just as I used
on those nights when my sins of the preceding day were mirrored in
images of pain and remorse. My baby’s illness weighed on me as if it
had been my doing. I rebelled at last against my own sense of guilt,
for I was innocent and had nothing to hide. I could tell Augusta
everything. So I told her about my meeting with Carmen, of the position
she had occupied in the boat, and of her scream, which I attributed to
some violent caress on Guido’s part, though I could not be certain. But
Augusta was quite certain, for otherwise why should Guido’s voice have
betrayed so much amusement? I tried to make her take a less serious
view of it, but she insisted on my going into every detail. I made a
confession on my own account, describing the feeling of exasperation
which had driven me out of the house and my remorse at not having loved
Antonia more. I at once felt much better and fell sound asleep.
Next morning Antonia was better; she had almost lost her fever. She
was lying there quite quietly, and her breathing was regular, but she
was pale and exhausted, as though she had spent all the strength of
her little body in the short battle for life from which she had come
out victorious. In the midst of my sense of relief I remembered with
regret that I had compromised Guido horribly, and tried to make Augusta
promise not to tell anyone of my suspicions. She protested that it was
not a question of suspicions, but definite evidence; and I could not
convince her to the contrary. However she promised whatever I wanted
and I went off quietly to the office.
Guido had not yet come, and Carmen told me they had had very good luck
after I left them. They had caught two more John Dory, not so big as
mine, but weighing quite a lot. I did not believe her, and thought it
was very unlikely they should have employed themselves otherwise after
my departure than before. Had there been no slack water then? And how
many hours had they stayed out at sea?
In order to convince me Carmen called on Luciano to confirm her
statement that they had really caught two John Dory, and from that
moment I believed Luciano capable of any baseness in order to
ingratiate himself with Guido.
During the idyllic calm which preceded the sulphate of copper deal,
something rather odd took place in the office, which I have never
forgotten, partly because it throws light on Guido’s extraordinary
conceit, partly because it reveals an aspect of myself which I find it
a little difficult to recognise.
One day we were all four in the office together, but as usual the only
one who talked about business at all was Luciano. Something he said
sounded to Guido like a reproach, which he found it hard to endure
with Carmen there. But it was not easy for him to defend himself, for
Luciano could prove that some deal he had advised Guido to go in for
months ago, and which he refused to touch, had turned out very well
for the person who had interested himself in it. At last Guido said
that he despised business, and that if fortune did not favour him in
this direction he could find plenty of ways, much more intelligent, of
earning money. The violin, for example. Everybody agreed with him, but
I made a certain reservation:
“You will have to work hard at it,” I said.
He was annoyed by my qualified agreement, and hastened to say that if
it was a question of working he could have done a lot of other things
too, literature for example. Again everybody agreed with him, but I
showed a little hesitation. I could not remember very clearly what any
of the great writers looked like, and I tried to recall their faces,
hoping to find one who resembled Guido. He positively shouted at me:
“Would you like to hear some good fables? I can invent them quite as
well as Æsop.”
We all laughed except him. He had the typewriter brought, and wrote off
his first fable rapidly just as if he were writing under dictation,
with sweeping movements hardly suited to the ordinary operation of
typing. He handed the sheet to Luciano, but thought better of it,
and took it back and fixed it in the machine again. His second fable
however gave him more trouble than the first, so that he forgot to make
his inspired gestures, and was obliged, on the contrary, to correct
what he had written several times. It is my opinion that the first
fable was not his at all, and that the second only was of his own
invention; it was indeed just what I should have expected from him.
The first fable was about a bird who suddenly noticed that the door
of its cage was open. At first it thought it would take advantage of
this to fly away, but on second thoughts decided not to do so, feeling
that if the door got shut during its absence it would lose its liberty.
The second was about an elephant, and really was elephantine. The huge
beast, feeling weak in the legs, went to consult a famous doctor, who
when he saw his enormous limbs exclaimed: “I never saw such strong
legs!”
Luciano was not to be taken in by such fables, partly because he did
not understand them. He laughed a great deal, but obviously because he
thought it comic that a thing like that should appear to anyone to be
saleable. He laughed out of politeness when it was explained to him
that the bird was afraid of being deprived of the liberty to return to
its cage, and that the man admired the strength of the elephant’s legs,
however feeble they might be from an elephant’s point of view. Then he
said:
“What would you get for two fables like that?”
Guido replied condescendingly:
“The pleasure of writing them is sufficient reward, but if one went on
writing them one would make a great deal of money.”
Carmen, however, was in a great state of excitement. She asked for
permission to copy the two fables, and was profuse in her thanks when
Guido offered to give her the sheet they were written on, signed with
his own hand.
What had all this to do with me? There was no need for me to compete
for Carmen’s praise, seeing that, as I have already said, she did not
interest me at all; but when I remember how I behaved I am obliged to
conclude that we can be armed for the fight even by a woman we do not
desire. And after all did not the mediæval heroes fight for ladies they
had never seen? It happened that my bodily pains suddenly became acute
at that moment, and I felt that the only way to relieve them was to
meet Guido in the lists by writing fables like him.
I asked for the typewriter, and I really did invent mine. It is true
that the first fable I wrote had been in my mind for some days, but
I improvised the title on the spot: “Hymn to Life.” Then, after a
moment’s reflexion, I wrote underneath it “A dialogue.” I thought it
would be easier to make animals talk than to describe them. My fable
sprang from the following very brief dialogue:
_The Crab (impaled on a hook, reflectively)_: Life is sweet, but
one must watch where one sits down.
_The John Dory (just off to the dentist)_: Life is sweet, but one
must rid it of those treacherous monsters who hide steel fangs in
tasty flesh.
Now came the second fable, but my supply of animals ran out. I looked
at the dog lying in his corner, and he looked back at me. His gentle
eyes reminded me that a few days ago Guido had come back from hunting
covered with fleas, and had gone to clean himself in the lumber-room. I
at once found the fable I wanted and wrote it down easily:
There was once a prince who was bitten by a great many fleas. He prayed
to the gods to grant him one flea to himself (as large as they liked,
but only one), and to distribute the others among the rest of mankind.
But not one of those fleas would consent to stay alone with that fool
of a prince, and he was obliged to keep them all.
At the moment I wrote them my fables seemed to me excellent. The
things which issue from our own brain have a peculiarly charming air,
especially when they are newly born. To tell the truth I still like my
dialogue, even now that I have had so much practice in composition.
“The Hymn to Life” sung by a dying creature cannot fail to arouse the
sympathy of those who have to watch it die. It often really happens
that the dying spend their last breath in describing the cause to which
they think they owe their death, thus raising a hymn of praise to the
life of all who succeed in avoiding that accident. As to the second
fable I have nothing to say about it. It was acutely interpreted by
Guido himself, who laughingly exclaimed:
“It is not a fable, it is only an excuse for calling me a fool.”
I laughed too, and the pain which had inspired me to write it at once
vanished. Luciano laughed when I explained what I meant by it and
decided that no one would pay anything either for mine or Guido’s
fables. But Carmen was not at all pleased. She gave me a penetrating
look, which was something quite new in her eyes, and which I understood
as readily as if she had said in so many words:
“You don’t like Guido!”
I was quite startled, for at the moment she was right. I thought it
was foolish of me to behave as if I did not like Guido, just when I
was working so disinterestedly for him. I must be more careful how I
behaved in future.