by Italo Svevo
In the street she seemed more insignificant than ever, dressed entirely in black with a little white feather in her hat. Balli teased her about the feather. He said, however, that he liked it, and managed to conceal his ill-humor at having to cross the Whole town in the company of this strange little woman, whose taste was so perverse that she must needs display a white flag at so short a distance from the ground.
The air was warm but the sky, behind its dense covering of white mist, seemed quite wintry, and Sant’ Andrea looked like a snow landscape, with all those trees with their long bare, dry boughs not yet cut, and the white light that was diffused over everything. A painter who tried to render the scene, without of course being able to suggest the mildness of the air, would certainly have conveyed an illusion of snow.
“We three seem to know the whole town,” said Balli. They were continually obliged to slacken their pace on their walk. A gay and noisy crowd of officials filled the vast melancholy landscape beside the limitless sea, like a swarm of ants suddenly disturbed.
“It is you who know them, not we,” said Amalia, who remembered often having been that walk before without finding at all too many people to bow to. Everyone they passed had a friendly or respectful greeting for Balli, even the people in carriages were bowing to him. She felt so happy beside him, and enjoyed his triumphal progress as much as if part of the respect shown to the sculptor had been intended for her.
“What a tragedy it would have been if I had not come!” said Balli, returning with great dignity the greeting of an old lady who was leaning half out of her carriage in order to see him better. “Everyone would have had to go home disappointed.” They were always sure to find him, he said, on the Sunday promenade where he, like any other laborer, might always be seen disporting himself with Brentani, who was shut up in his office on weekdays.
“Ange!” whispered Amalia suddenly, concealing her laughter. She had recognized her by the description she had been given of her and by Emilio’s obvious agitation.
“Don’t laugh,” said Emilio earnestly, thereby confirming her discovery. For him also there was a novelty to be seen: the tailor Volpini, a ridiculous little figure of a man, who seemed more insignificant still because of the splendid carriage of the young woman at whose side he walked and whose graceful and easy steps he rather absurdly strove to emulate. Balli and Emilio greeted them and Volpini replied with exaggerated politeness. “He has the same colored hair as Angiolina,” Balli said laughing. Emilio protested indignantly: how could anyone compare Volpini’s straw-color with Angiolina’s gold? He turned and saw Angiolina bending down to speak to her companion, who was straightening his bent little back in order to catch what she said. They were obviously talking about the other three.
It was not till later in the afternoon, when they were back in the town and about to separate, that Amalia broke the silence which had suddenly descended on her as she felt herself drawing near to the scene of her usual solitude, and its influence coming out to swallow her up, by asking who the man was who was walking with Angiolina. “Her uncle,” said Brentani gravely, after a moment’s hesitation, while Stefano watched him ironically; his blush naturally did not escape notice. His sister’s innocent eye made him ashamed of his deception. How surprised Amalia would have been if she had known that her brother could stoop so low to enjoy his love, the love for which she had already suffered so much!
“Thank you!” said Amalia, taking leave of Stefano. Oh, what a sweet memory those hours would have left with her, had she not noticed that at the moment of farewell Balli was struggling to suppress a yawn which paralyzed his mouth and prevented him from replying.
“You were bored I am afraid. Thank you all the more.” She was so humble and so kind that Stefano was deeply touched, and he suddenly felt that he almost loved her. He explained that yawning with him was a nervous affection. He hoped to prove to her that he was far from being bored in their company; in fact it was they, he said, who would complain of his coming too often.
And he kept his word. It would have been hard to say why he took to mounting their stairs every day in order to take coffee with the Brentanis. Probably it was jealousy; he was fighting to keep Emilio’s friendship. But Amalia was incapable of guessing that. For her it was sufficient that he came more often to see them simply out of affection for her brother, and that she herself profited by their affection because she could sit in its warmth and sun herself.
There were no further discussions between the brother and sister. Emilio was too unobservant to be surprised at this, and simply felt that his sister had come to understand him better, and put up with him. He even felt that the new atmosphere of benevolence extended to his love. Now, whenever he spoke of it, Amalia’s face would light up and become quite radiant. She even tried to make him talk about love, and never told him to be on his guard or that it was his duty to give up Angiolina. Why should he give up Angiolina, seeing that she stood for happiness? One day she said she should like to know her, and several times afterwards expressed the same desire; but Emilio took care not to comply with her wish. All she knew about the young woman was that she was a very different being from herself, stronger and more full of life, and Emilio congratulated himself on having created in her mind an Angiolina so very different from the real one. When he was alone with his sister that image pleased him, he began to embellish it, to endow it with all the qualities which he would have liked to find in Angiolina, and his heart leapt for joy when he realized that Amalia was collaborating in that artificial creation.
When she heard them talking about a woman who had overcome all prejudices of birth and money in order to belong to the man she loved, she whispered in Emilio’s ear: “She is like Angiolina.”
“Oh, if only she were!” thought Emilio within himself while forcing his features to express agreement. Then he persuaded himself that she really was rather like her, or at least would have been if she had grown up in other surroundings, and he smiled with genuine pleasure at the thought. What reason had he for supposing that Angiolina would have let prejudices stand in her way? Seen through the veil of Amalia’s idealism his love for Angiolina was adorned at that moment with every illusion.
But in reality the woman who broke down every obstacle had more resemblance to Amalia herself. She felt an enormous force in her long white hands, sufficient to tear asunder the strongest chains. She felt that all the chains had fallen from her life and that she was as free as air; yet nobody asked of her resolution or strength or love. How would the great force she felt imprisoned in her weak body find a means of expression, a way of escape?
Balli meanwhile, stretched at his length in the old armchair, sipped his coffee with infinite satisfaction, and looked back with disapproval on the days when he used at that very hour to sit discussing art at the café: a bad habit! He was so much better off here, with these two, dear creatures who loved and admired him.
His intervention between the two lovers was, however, extremely unfortunate. During his brief acquaintance with Angiolina he had assumed the right of saying any impertinence that came into his head, and she always listened smiling, not in the least offended. At first he used to come out with them in Tuscan, in such softly breathed accents that they seemed to her a caress; but even when they came pouring forth in the Triestine dialect, in all their harsh obscenity, she showed no sign of taking offense. She felt, and even Emilio could not help feeling, that they were uttered without a grain of malice, that it was something to do with the way he held his mouth, a quite innocent trick of the tongue. That was the worst part of it. One evening when Emilio could endure it no longer he ended by asking Balli to leave them alone. “I really cannot bear to hear you insulting her like that.”
“Really?” asked Balli, opening his eyes very wide.
Forgetful as ever, he had quite persuaded himself that he was obliged to behave like that in order to cure Emilio. He let himself be persuaded that he was wrong and for a certain time he left them in peace. “I don’t kno
w any other way of behaving with women like that.” But then Emilio felt ashamed of showing himself so weak and rather than confess his real feelings resigned himself to putting up with Balli’s behavior.
“Come sometimes with Margherita.”
The so-called “veal dinner” was frequently repeated under conditions very similar to the first one, Emilio condemned to silence, Margherita and Angiolina prostrate at the feet of Balli.
One evening, however, Balli was very quiet; he neither shouted nor ordered people about, and for the first time Emilio felt him to be a companion after his own heart. “How happy you must be to feel that Margherita loves you so much!” he said on the way back, in order to say something friendly. The two women were walking together a little way in front.
“Unfortunately,” said Balli in a tone of resignation, “I have reason to think she loves a good many other men just as much. She is the kindest of souls.” Emilio fell to earth with a crash.
“Don’t say any more now,” Balli adjured him, seeing that the two women had stopped and were waiting for them.
Next day, when Amalia had gone into the kitchen for a few minutes, Balli told him that owing to a mistake of the postman he had discovered that Margherita had appointments with someone else as well—an artist too, he added desperately. “I am very sad indeed about it. It is shameful to be treated like that. I began making some inquiries and just as I thought I had discovered who my rival was I found that in the interval he had become two. That gave a much more innocent aspect to the affair. It was only then that I deigned to make some inquiries about Margherita’s family and found that it consisted of a mother and a brood of sisters, all quite young. Do you understand? She has to provide for the bringing up of all those children.” And Balli concluded, in a voice of deep emotion: “Just think, she has never consented to receive a single penny from me. I want her to confess, I want her to tell me everything. I shall give her one last kiss and tell her that I bear her no grudge, and then I shall leave her, but always preserve the sweetest memory of her.” Then he suddenly recovered himself and went on smoking, and when Amalia came in he was humming in an undertone: “Prima confessi il delitto e poscia muoia!”
That same evening Emilio told Angiolina the story. She gave a joyful start which it was impossible for her to conceal. Then she realized herself that she must win Emilio’s forgiveness for such an infamy. Her task was not easy. It was terribly painful for him to see how lightly and easily the sculptor carried off the prize which he could not win even at the cost of so much suffering.
But at that moment he was going through a period of strange illusion with Angiolina. One of those dreams, to which he was often subject, even in his waking hours, persuaded him that it was he who had first corrupted the girl. As a matter of fact, during the very first evenings he had known her, he had preached her those magnificent sermons about honest women and about making the best of one’s opportunities. He could not know what she had been like before going to school with him. How was it he had not understood that a virtuous Angiolina meant his own Angiolina? He began his interrupted sermons again, but in quite a different key. He very soon perceived that cold and complex theories did not do for Angiolina. He spent a long time thinking out the best method to follow in re-educating her. In his dream he caressed her as if he had already made her worthy of him. He tried to do the same in reality. Surely the best method must be to make her feel how sweet it was to be respected, in order to give her the desire to win such respect for herself. It was for this reason that he was continually on his knees before her, exactly in the position in which it would have been most easy to humble him, if Angiolina should have thought fit one day to give him a kick.
6
ONE EVENING at the beginning of January, Balli, in the worst of humors, was walking alone along the Aqueduct. He missed Emilio, who had gone somewhere with his sister to pay a call, and Margherita had not yet been replaced.
The sky was clear in spite of the sirocco which had been hanging over the town since morning. The carnival was to open that evening with the first fancy-dress ball of the season, a paltry affair which would surely not survive in that cold, damp atmosphere. “Oh, if only I had a dog here to take a piece out of their calves!” thought Balli to himself, as two pierrettes with naked legs went by. That carnival with its shoddy magnificence aroused his moral indignation; later on, no doubt, much later, he would be taking part in it himself, reveling in the finery and bright colors, and altogether forgetting his indignation. But for the moment he was conscious of assisting at the prelude to a tragi-comedy. The whirlpool was beginning to form which would swallow up the factory-hand, the seamstress, the poor bourgeois, and withdraw them for a moment from the dreary round of common life only to fling them out again into greater suffering. Some would return bruised and ruined to take up their old burden and find it heavier than before; there were some who would never find their way out at all.
He yawned again; even his own thoughts bored him. “There is sirocco about still,” he thought, and looked up again at the bright moon which seemed to rest on the mountain as on a pedestal. Suddenly his eye was arrested by three figures coming towards him along the Aqueduct. He was struck by them because he noticed at once that they were all holding each other by the hand. There was a short, thick little man in the middle and a tall, graceful woman on each side of him; he was struck by the irony of the group and decided to sculpture it. He would dress the two women, he thought, in Greek dress and the man in modern costume; he would show the women laughing loudly like bacchanti and make the man’s face express weariness and boredom.
But when the three figures drew near, he entirely forgot his dream. One of the women was Angiolina, the other was a rather plain girl called Giulia whom Angiolina had introduced to him and Emilio. He did not know the man, who passed quite close to him smiling and holding his head high; a brown beard gave him an imposing appearance. It was certainly not Volpini, for he was fair.
Giolina was laughing; it was her familiar, sweet ringing laugh. The man was clearly there on her account and he only pressed Giulia’s hand from time to time as a concession. Balli was certain of this though he could not exactly have said why. He found his own powers of observation so entertaining that he quite forgot how bored he had been all the evening. “Quite a novel occupation for me, acting as spy!” He followed them, keeping in the shade under the trees. Giolina was laughing a great deal, almost without interruption, and the two were so absorbed in each other as often to forget that Giulia was there, so that she was obliged to lean forward in order to take part in the conversation.
Very soon, however, it was no longer necessary to have unusual powers of observation. They had halted a few steps away from the Caffé all’Acquedotto. The man let fall Giulia’s hand altogether, and took Angiolina’s in both of his, while Giulia stood tactfully aside. He was trying to get her to promise something and was continually putting his bushy beard right up into Angiolina’s face. Then they all went together into the café.
They sat down in the outer room close to the entrance, but Balli could only see the man’s head. This, however, was in full light. His face was so dark as to be almost black, and was framed by a thick beard which reached right up to his eyes; but his head was bald and shining and yellow. “The man from the umbrella shop in Via Barriera!” laughed Balli to himself. So now Emilio had an umbrella-maker as a rival! So much the better, that trade would surely cure him. Balli thought that he would be able to make the adventure sound so ridiculous that Emilio would be obliged to laugh at it and would forget his suffering. Balli had complete confidence in his own wit.
All the umbrella-man’s attention was directed towards someone sitting beside him, and Balli was anxious to ascertain whether that someone was Angiolina. So he went in. Yes, it certainly was Angiolina. She was sitting with her back to the wall, while Giulia sat opposite quite apart from them both and was sipping a small glass of some semi-transparent liqueur. But though this occupied a good deal of he
r attention she had still some time to spare for looking about her, and it was not long before she caught sight of Balli and gave the alarm. Too late! He had had time to see that two hands had joined again under the table, and to be struck by the affectionate expression in Angiolina’s face when she looked at the umbrella-maker. Emilio was right; her eyes sparkled as if something were actually burning in their flame. How Balli envied the umbrella-maker! How much he would have preferred that man’s place to his own at that moment!
Giulia nodded to him, and said, “Good evening.” He was irritated to see that she evidently expected him to go up and speak to her. He had just been able to put up with her for one evening, in order to be with Emilio and Angiolina. He went slowly out, giving a slight nod to Angiolina. She had retired into her corner so as to seem further off from her companion, and she looked at Balli with great expressive eyes, ready to smile at him if he set her the example. But he did not smile, and left the café without returning the umbrella-maker’s greeting.
How expressive we were! he thought. She begged me not to say anything to Emilio about this meeting, and I replied that I should tell him everything as soon as I saw him.
From outside he cast one more glance at Angiolina’s companion, at his radiant face in the midst of its forest of hair and crowned by his bald head. If only Emilio could have seen him.
“Good evening, Signor Balli,” he heard someone saying respectfully behind him. He turned, and saw his servant Michele. He had arrived in the nick of time.
Balli made up his mind rapidly, and asked him to go at once to Emilio Brentani; if he found him at home he was to bring him back with him immediately; if he were not in, he was to wait till he came back. Michele hardly gave himself time to hear the order before he set off at full speed.
Balli leaned against a tree opposite the café and stood waiting impatiently. He thought he would be able to prevent a collision between Emilio and the other two. He felt confident of his own power to calm him and set him free for ever from the bondage of Angiolina.