“I readily agree that your fables are better than mine. But you must
remember they are the first ones I have ever written in my life.”
He would not give way.
“Perhaps you think that I have written some before?”
Carmen’s look had already become kinder, and to make it kinder still I
said to Guido:
“You certainly have a particular gift for fables.”
This compliment made them both laugh and myself too; all of us quite
good-naturedly, for it was obvious that I had spoken without malicious
intention.
The sulphate of copper business brought a much more serious atmosphere
into our office. We had no time now for fables. We accepted almost
everything that offered. We occasionally made a profit, but when we did
it was a small one, whereas our losses were always considerable. Guido,
who was so generous at other times, was curiously mean in business.
When something turned out well he immediately made haste to liquidate
it, for he was always in a hurry to pocket his small gains. But when
he got involved in an unprofitable transaction he could not make up
his mind to get out of it; for he always wanted to put off the moment
when he would have to pay out of his own pocket. I think that is why
his losses were always considerable and his gains so small. A business
man’s qualities are simply the sum of all that is contained in him from
the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. The Greek phrase “Wise
fool” would be very appropriate to Guido. He was often very astute, but
he was often very stupid. He was full of ideas, but did nothing with
them except to grease the steep incline on which he kept slipping lower
and lower.
The twins descended on him at the same time as the sulphate of copper.
His first impression was one of unpleasant surprise, but directly after
he had announced their arrival to me he made a joke which I thought so
funny that I burst out laughing; and he was so gratified by his success
that he could not help laughing with me. Speaking of his two children
as if they were on a par with sixty tons of sulphate he said:
“I am condemned to work wholesale, I am!”
To comfort him I reminded him that Augusta was again in her seventh
month, and that I should soon have reached his tonnage in the matter of
babies. He replied smartly:
“To me, as an experienced book-keeper, the two things don’t seem to be
the same.”
After a few days he had grown very fond of the two infants, and for
a short time remained much attached to them. Augusta, who spent part
of each day with her sister, told me that he devoted several hours to
each of them every day. He nursed them and sang lullabies to them, and
Ada was so grateful to him that a new love seemed to spring up between
husband and wife. He paid a pretty large premium to an insurance
society to guarantee a small sum to his children when they came of age.
I remember this because I had to enter the sum on the debit side of the
account.
I was invited to come and see the twins. Augusta told me that Ada would
like me to go in and see her too. She was still obliged to stay in bed,
though it was ten days since the children’s birth.
The babies were in two cradles in a dressing-room adjoining the
parents’ bedroom. Ada called to me from the bed:
“Are they pretty, Zeno?”
I was startled by the sound of her voice. It seemed to me softer;
even though she had put a certain amount of effort into it to make it
carry, it was all the same softer than it used to be. No doubt it was
motherhood which gave it that softer character, but I was moved by it
because I noticed it particularly when she addressed herself to me.
That new quality in it made me feel as if instead of calling me by
my Christian name, Ada had added some other affectionate title like
“dear” or “brother.” I was truly grateful to her and felt very gentle
and affectionate. I replied gaily:
“They are darlings, and so exactly alike! I really don’t know which I
like best!”
I thought them two horrid little monsters really. They were both crying
at once, in different keys.
Guido very soon returned to his former way of life. After the sulphate
business he came to the office more regularly, but on Saturday he
always went off shooting and only returned late on Monday morning, just
in time to look in at the office before lunch. In the evenings he went
fishing, and often stayed out at sea all night. Augusta told me how
unhappy Ada was, partly because she was terribly jealous, and partly
because he left her alone for a great part of the day. Augusta tried to
calm her by reminding her that there were no women when he went hunting
and fishing. But Ada had been told--Augusta did not know by whom--that
Carmen sometimes accompanied Guido when he went out fishing. Guido had
admitted it himself when she confronted him with it, but said there was
no harm in his being nice to a member of his staff, especially as she
was so useful to him. Besides, had not Luciano always been there too?
In the end he promised not to invite her again, if Ada did not like it.
He said he could not give up shooting or fishing, though it was true
the former cost him a good deal. He was working hard, he said, (there
certainly was plenty to do just then in the office), and he thought he
deserved a little recreation. Ada did not agree with him; she thought
the best recreation he could have was with his family, and to this
theory Augusta gave her unconditional support, though I ventured to
suggest that it might be rather a noisy recreation.
Augusta exclaimed:
“But don’t you come home every day at the times you should?”
This was true, and I was obliged to confess that there was a great
difference between Guido and me, though I did not feel much inclined to
boast about it. I kissed Augusta and said:
“You deserve all the praise for having employed such drastic methods of
education.”
Meanwhile poor Guido’s affairs went from bad to worse. At first they
had only one nurse for the two children, for it was hoped that Ada
would be able to feed one of them herself. She was however not strong
enough to do so, and they had to take another nurse. When Guido wanted
to make me laugh he would walk up and down the office, beating time to
the words: “One wife ... two infants ... two nurses...!”
There was one thing which Ada specially hated: Guido’s violin. She
could stand the children’s crying, but the sound of the violin was
intolerable to her. She said once to Augusta:
“I feel as if I should like to howl like a dog when I hear him playing.”
It was very odd, for Augusta loved to hear the unmusical strains of my
violin proceeding from the study when she passed by.
“But surely Ada was in love with him when she married him,” I exclaimed
in surprise. “And isn’t his violin the best part of Guido?”
All this gossip was forgotten the first time I saw Ada about again. It
was I who first realised that she was ill. One day early in November, a
cold, damp, sunless day, I left the office earlier than usual, at three
in the afternoon, and hurried home, thinking how nice it would be to
rest and dream for several hours in my warm little study. I had to go
down a long passage to reach it, and when I got to Augusta’s work-room
I stood still because I heard Ada’s voice inside. It was very soft or
uncertain (which was perhaps the same thing), just as it had been the
day she had spoken to me. I opened the door and went in, curious to
see how Ada, who was usually so calm and self-contained, came to have
a voice like that; it rather reminded me of an actress who is trying
to move other people to tears without being able to weep herself. The
voice was somehow artificial, or seemed so to me because, without being
able to see the person to whom it belonged, I was hearing it again for
the second time after so long, and detected in it the same emotional
quality. I thought they must be talking about Guido, for what other
subject could move Ada in that way?
As a matter of fact the two women were only discussing domestic
details, over a cup of tea; the washing, servants, etc. But directly
I saw Ada I realised that her voice was not put on. I was the first
to notice a change in her face, and was greatly moved by it; and her
voice, even though it did not correspond to any feeling in particular,
mirrored her whole personality so faithfully that I at once felt it
to be genuine. I am not a doctor, so the possibility of her being ill
did not occur to me; I was inclined to attribute the change in her
appearance to the effects of her convalescence after childbirth. But
how was it that Guido had not noticed the great change that had come
over his wife? I who knew her eyes by heart, and used to fear them
so much because I had at once realised how coldly they took stock of
things and persons, whether to accept or reject them, now saw at once
how changed they were. They seemed to have grown bigger, to have grown
almost out of their sockets in their effort to see more clearly. Those
great eyes made a painful impression in her pale and shrunken face. She
clasped me warmly by the hand.
“You are so good,” she said. “I know you never miss an opportunity of
coming home to see your wife and child.”
Her hand was damp with perspiration, and I know that to be a sign of
weakness. But I thought that as she grew stronger Ada would recover her
original colour and the firm sculptural lines of her cheeks and brow.
I felt sure her words were meant as a reproof to Guido, and replied
good-naturedly that Guido, as the head of the business, had more
responsibilities than I had, and was more tied to the office.
She gave me a searching look, as though to discover whether I was
speaking seriously.
“All the same,” she said, “I should have thought he might have found
a little time for his wife and children,” and her voice sounded quite
tearful. She recovered herself however, and added with an appealing
smile:
“Then there is his shooting and fishing, as well as business; and that
takes up a great deal of time.”
With an eloquence which surprised me she proceeded to enumerate the
delicious viands that appeared on their table in consequence of Guido’s
sporting expeditions.
“I would willingly go without it all,” she added with a sigh. But she
did not complain of being unhappy. On the contrary, she said she could
not imagine now being without the twins, whom she adored. She added
with a touch of humour that she loved them even more now that each of
them had its own nurse. She did not get much sleep, but at least when
she had once fallen asleep there was no one to disturb her. When I
asked her if she really slept so little, she became grave at once and
said pathetically that that was her chief trouble. Then she added more
lightly:
“But I am better now.”
She left soon after, and gave as a reason for leaving that she must
go round and see her mother before it got dark, and that she could
not stand the temperature of our rooms which were heated by two great
stoves. To me they seemed only pleasantly warm, and I thought it a sign
of hardiness on her part to find them too hot.
“You don’t seem so delicate after all,” I said, smiling. “You will see
how different you feel when you have reached my age.”
She was flattered to hear herself spoken of as being too young. Augusta
and I accompanied her to the gate. She seemed to feel a great need of
our affection, for during those few steps she walked between us, taking
first Augusta’s arm and then mine. I at once stiffened mine, for fear
of giving way to my old habit of squeezing the arm of every woman who
came my way. At the gate she went on talking for some time, and at the
mention of her father the tears stood in her eyes, for the third time
within a quarter of an hour. When she had gone I remarked to Augusta
that she was not a woman, but a fountain. Although I realised that Ada
was ill I did not attach much importance to it. Her eyes had become
larger, her face thinner; her voice had changed and her whole character
seemed to have become more affectionate and clinging than was her wont,
but I attributed all this to weakness after giving birth to twins. In
fact I proved myself a magnificent observer in that nothing escaped me,
but a perfect ignoramus because I did not utter the one important word:
Disease.
Next day the obstetrician who was treating Ada had a consultation
with Dr. Paoli, who at once spoke the word which I had failed to
say: _Morbus Basedowii_. Guido told me all about it and described the
symptoms very learnedly, expressing much sympathy for Ada, who suffered
a great deal. Without wishing to be unkind I think that neither his
sympathy nor his knowledge was very great. He assumed a melancholy air
when he mentioned his wife, but while dictating letters to Carmen he
manifested a great _joie de vivre_ and delight in giving instructions.
He always believed that the Basedow who had given his name to the
disease had been Goethe’s friend, though when I looked it up in an
encyclopedia I saw at once that he was quite a different person.
Basedow’s disease is undoubtedly a very remarkable one. It was most
important for me to have found out about it. I read various monographs
on the subject and felt as if the secret of our physical existence had
only just been revealed to me. I think there must be a good many people
like me who go through periods in which certain ideas usurp their mind
to the exclusion of every other. But the same thing happens in the
community; now it will be Darwin who reigns supreme, whereas before
it was Robespierre or Napoleon. At one time it will be Liebig or even
Leopardi; at another, Bismarck fills the whole horizon!
But I alone lived by Basedow! He seemed to me to have penetrated to
the root of life, and shown it to be as follows: all living beings
are ranged along a certain line, at one end of which is Basedow’s
disease. All who are suffering from this disease use up their vital
force recklessly in a mad vertiginous rhythm, the heart beating without
control. At the other end of the line are those wretched beings,
shrivelled up by native avarice, and doomed to die from a disease which
looks like exhaustion but is really cowardice. The happy mean between
these two maladies is to be found in the middle of the line, and is
called health, though it is really only a suspension of movement.
Between the centre and Basedow’s end are to be found all those whose
life is consumed in desire, ambition, pleasure or even work; towards
the opposite end those who merely sprinkle crumbs on the plate of life
and eke out a long, miserable existence which can only be a burden to
society. But even this burden seems to be a necessary part of life.
Society goes forward because Basedowians urge it on, and does not fall
into the abyss only because the others hold it back. I am convinced
that if one were to constitute a society one might do it more simply,
but it is actually made like this, with a goitre at one end and a
dropsy at the other; and nothing can be done about it. Those at the
centre have the beginnings of either goitre or dropsy, and all along
the line throughout the whole of humanity there is no such thing as
perfect health.
According to Augusta, Ada had not actually a goitre, but she had all
the other symptoms of the disease. Poor Ada! She had seemed to me the
embodiment of health and perfect balance, so that for a long time I
imagined her to have chosen her husband in the same cool, calculating
spirit in which her father selected his merchandise. And now she
had been attacked by a disease which drove her in quite a contrary
direction, into psychological perversity. I too suffered from a very
slight form of her disease, and it took me some while to get rid of
it; for a long time I thought too much about Basedow. I still believe
that at whatever particular spot of the universe one settles down one
ends by becoming poisoned; it is essential to keep moving. Life has
its poisons, but counter-poisons too which balance them. It is only by
moving about that one can avoid the first and profit by the second.
My disease became an obsession, a dream, almost a nightmare to me. It
must have originated in a certain line of reasoning; by perversion
we mean a deviation from health, the kind of health which was ours
during part of our life. Now I knew what Ada had been like when in
good health. Might not her perversity lead her to love me whom she had
spurned when she was well?