As a Man Grows Older

by Italo Svevo

  As usual he would have preferred to remain alone so as to have time to put in order his own observations. For the moment he only dimly perceived that she no longer belonged to him; it was the same sensation he had had that evening when he was together with Angiolina in the Giardino Pubblico, waiting for Balli and Margherita. He suffered atrociously from it, a mixture of wounded vanity and the bitterest jealousy. He wanted to free himself from her altogether, but felt he could not leave her without having tried to win her again for himself.

  He accompanied her to the main road, then, although she was in a great hurry, he persuaded her to walk home by the route he had taken the evening she had been seen with the umbrella-maker. The Via Romagna looked exactly the same as on that memorable evening, with its bare trees outlined against a clear sky, and underfoot an uneven surface covered with dense mud. But there was one great difference between now and then. Angiolina was at his side. Beside him, yet how far away! He was seeking her for the second time along that road.

  He described to her his walk of the previous occasion. He told her how the desire to see her had made him fancy he saw her several times in front of him, and how the slight wound caused by a fall had made him cry, because it was the last drop in his cup of bitterness. She listened to him willingly, flattered to think that she had inspired such great love, and when he gave way to his feelings and complained that not all he had suffered had been sufficient to win for him the love he thought he deserved, she protested energetically: “How can you say such a thing?” She kissed him to make her protest more efficacious. But then, as usual after thinking anything over, she made the mistake of saying: “Didn’t I give myself to Volpini for your sake?” And Emilio bowed his head, finally convinced.

  That Volpini, all unknowingly, poisoned the pleasure which according to Angiolina he had procured for Emilio. Instead of suffering from Angiolina’s indifference, directly he heard Volpini mentioned Emilio began to be afraid of her again, and of the plans he suspected her to be making. At their next meeting his first words were to ask her what guarantees Volpini had given her, that she should have abandoned herself to him.

  “Oh, Volpini can’t do without me now,” she said, smiling. For the moment Emilio’s fears were set at rest; he thought it was probably a sufficient guarantee, for he himself, who was so much younger than Volpini, could not do without Angiolina either.

  During the whole of their second rendezvous his powers of observation never slumbered for a single instant. He was rewarded by a most painful discovery; during the time he had made such an heroic effort not to see Angiolina someone else had filled his place, someone who evidently did not at all resemble any of the men he already knew and feared. It could not be either Leardi or Giustini or Datti. It must be he who had taught her certain new rather sharp and sometimes witty expressions, and some indecent puns. He was probably a student, for she flourished about some Latin words with all the ease in the world, generally with a coarse meaning. When pressed, she resuscitated the unfortunate Merighi, who would certainly have been surprised to know that he was still being laid under contribution; she said he had taught her those Latin words. As if she would have been capable of concealing her knowledge of Latin all this time; she would have been bound to display it. Probably the person who had taught her Latin was the same who had also taught her some very coarse Venetian songs. She made mistakes when she sang them, but even to know them as well as that she must have heard them a good many times, for she had always been unable to remember a single note of the songs which she had several times heard Balli sing. He was probably a Venetian, for she often used to amuse herself by imitating the Venetian pronunciation which she had evidently not known before. Emilio often felt him between them—a jolly bon viveur, he was able to reconstruct him up to a certain point, but then he escaped him, and he never succeeded in discovering his name. There was no new face among Angiolina’s collection of photos. His new rival was not perhaps in the habit of giving away his photograph or perhaps Angiolina felt it more politic not to display the photographs which she had practically devoted her life to collecting. This was proved by the fact that even Emilio’s was missing from her wall.

  He was convinced that if he were to meet that individual he would have recognized him by certain gestures which she must have imitated from him. The worst of it was that he had only to ask her, as indeed he often did, from whom she had learned such and such a gesture or expression, for her to guess that he was jealous and denounce him. “Jealous again!” she would cry, with astonishing intuition, whenever she saw him look grave and lowering. Yes, he was jealous. He suffered from all those echoes as much as if he had found himself face to face with his intangible rival. Worse still, with the excited fancy of a lover, he thought he could discover in Angiolina’s voice certain intonations copied from the grave and slightly haughty tones of Leardi. Sorniani had probably taught her something too, and even Balli had left some trace of himself, for a certain rather affected manner he had of expressing surprise or admiration had been carefully copied. Emilio, however, failed to recognize himself in any single word or gesture of hers. He thought once with bitter irony: “Perhaps there is no more room for me.”

  His most hated rival was the one who remained unknown. It was strange how she contrived never to mention the man who must have come quite recently into her life, she who so much enjoyed boasting of her triumphs, even of the admiration she had seen in the eyes of men whom she had only met once in her life. According to her they were all madly in love with her. “All the more credit to me,” she said, “to have stayed at home all the time you were away, especially after I had been treated in such a way by you.” Yes, she actually wanted to make him believe that she had thought of no one but him during his absence. Every evening at home she had raised the question as to whether or not she should write to him. Her father, who had the honor of the family very much at heart, would not hear of it. When she saw Emilio laughing at the idea of that family council, she cried: “Ask mamma and see if it isn’t true.”

  She lied obstinately, though she had not really mastered the art of lying. It was easy to make her contradict herself. But when the contradiction had been proved she would return with unruffled brow to her previous assertion, for in her heart of hearts she did not really believe in logic. And it was perhaps this simplicity of hers which redeemed her in Emilio’s sight.

  It was impossible, however, to trace the motives which had bound him so indissolubly to Angiolina. Any other small worry which came to him in the trivial round of his daily life, bounded by the office and his home, disappeared immediately at her side. Often when he had fled from home before the sad face of his sister he would fly to the Zarris, although he knew that Angiolina did not like his coming so often to the house whose honor she had so much at heart. He very seldom found her at home, but her mother would very politely invite him to wait till Angiolina came back, as she must be coming any minute now. She had been sent for only five minutes ago by some ladies who lived just round the corner—here she waved her hand vaguely from east to west—to try on a dress.

  Waiting was inexpressibly painful to him, but he would remain for hours gazing as if in a trance at the old woman’s hard face, for he knew that if he were to go home without having seen his mistress he should know no peace. One evening he lost all patience, and would wait no longer, though the mother, civil as usual, tried to detain him. On the stairs he passed a woman, who seemed to be a servant, with a handkerchief over her head, and covering part of her face. He stood aside to let her pass, but recognized her just as she was about to scamper up; his suspicions had been aroused by her evident desire to evade his notice, and also by her movements and figure. It was Angiolina. He felt better directly he saw her, and paid no attention to the fact that she pointed in quite a different direction from that indicated by her mother, to show where her neighbors lived, nor to the surprising fact that she evidently bore him no ill will for having compromised her again by coming to her house. She was very s
weet and kind to him that evening, as if there was some sin for which she had to win forgiveness, but he, reveling in her kindness, had no time to think what it might be.

  He only began to suspect her when she came to an appointment with him dressed in the same way. She said that as she was on her way home the night before after having been with him, she had been seen by some acquaintances, and she was afraid of being caught just as she was leaving that house, which had rather a bad name; that was why she had disguised herself. Too clever, alas! She did not realize that her ingenious story was merely a confession that the evening when he had met her on her own stairs she had also had good reasons for disguising herself.

  One evening she arrived more than an hour late at their rendezvous. To save her knocking and so risk attracting the attention of the other lodgers, he used to wait for her on the dirty, winding staircase, leaning against a balcony on the landing and sometimes leaning out as far as he could in the direction from which she would have to come, so as to catch the first glimpse of her. When he saw some stranger coming up, he would retire hastily into the room, and this continual movement to and fro added enormously to the agitation he was in. It would in any case have been impossible for him to remain stationary. That evening, when he was several times obliged to shut himself into the room to let people pass on the stairs, he would throw himself on the bed and then get up again immediately, and he devised several ways of complicating the movement so as to lose more time over it. It seemed to him impossible later, when he was looking back over that time, that he could ever have been in such a state of mind. He had probably cried out in his anguish.

  Even when she did come at last, the sight of her was not sufficient this time to calm him, and he reproached her violently. She did not take much notice, thinking that she could pacify him with a few caresses. She threw her handkerchief away and flung her arms round his neck; her wide sleeves fell back leaving her arms naked, and he noticed that they were burning hot. He looked at her more closely. Her eyes were shining and her cheeks crimson. A horrible suspicion dawned in his mind. “You have just come from someone else,” he screamed. She let go of him, with the comparatively feeble protest: “You are mad!” Then she began, without much show of indignation, to explain the reasons for her delay. Signora Deluigi had refused to let her go, then she had been obliged to run home to put on her disguise, and then her mother had made her do some work before she would let her go out again. There were sufficient reasons to explain ten hours delay.

  But no doubt remained any longer in Emilio’s mind. She had just come from the arms of another, and there rushed into his mind—as the only means of saving himself from all this filth—a plan of superhuman energy. He must not go to bed with her; he must drive her away on the spot, and never, never see her again. But he had already experienced the meaning of “never again”: one long agony, one continual regret, hours of endless agitation, hours of tormented dreams followed by hopeless languor, then a void, the death of imagination and desire, a state more painful than any other. He was afraid. He drew her to him and avenged himself solely by saying: “I am not worth much more than you are.”

  But it was her turn to rebel now, and struggling out of his arms she said emphatically: “I have never allowed anyone to treat me like this. I am going.” She tried to put on her handkerchief but he prevented her. He kissed her and put his arms round her, begging her to stay; he was not coward enough to go back on his words by any profession of love, but when he saw her so full of determination he could not help admiring her, shaken as he still was by the mere idea of making such a resolution. Feeling herself completely reinstated she gave way, but only little by little. She said that if she stayed it would be the last time they would meet, and it was only just as they were separating that she consented to fix the day and hour of their next appointment. In the full consciousness of victory she had even forgotten the cause of their quarrel and was not interested in reviving the question.

  He continued to hope that entire possession of her would in the end subdue the violence of his feelings. But he continued to go to their rendezvous with the same uncontrollable desire and he could not get rid of the tendency to reconstruct the Ange who was daily broken into fragments. His dissatisfaction led him to seek refuge in the sweetest of dreams; so Angiolina really gave him everything: the possession of her body and—since one gave birth to the other—the poet’s dream as well.

  He so often dreamed of her as a sick-nurse that he tried to continue his dream when she was actually beside him. Folding her in his arms with the passionate desire of the dreamer he said: “I should like to be ill in order that you might tend me.”

  “Oh, it would be lovely,” she said, for at certain moments she was ready to fall in with all his whims. The phrase naturally sufficed to banish any dream.

  One evening when he was with Angiolina he had an idea which for that evening considerably relieved his state of mind. It was a dream which he continued to develop while with Angiolina, and regardless of her being there. He dreamed that they were very unhappy because of the unfair conditions of society under which they lived. He was so persuaded of this that he even imagined himself capable of performing an act of heroism in order to ensure the triumph of socialism. All their misfortunes were due to their poverty. His argument was based on the assumption that she was selling herself and that it was the poverty of her family which drove her to do so. But she did not perceive this implication and only regarded his words as a caress, and thought that he was blaming himself.

  In another order of society he would at once have acknowledged her publicly without obliging her first to sacrifice herself to the tailor. He entered into Angiolina’s lies in order to make her kinder to him and induce her to join in his ideas so that they might both dream together. She asked for some explanations and he gave them her, only too glad to be able to utter his dream aloud. He told her of the enormous struggle which had broken out between rich and poor, great and small. There could be no doubt as to the issue of the struggle which was to bring liberty to all, to them as well. He talked to her about the abolition of capital and the short hours of agreeable work which alone one would be obliged to do. Woman was to be the equal of man and love a mutual gift.

  She asked for some further explanations which disturbed his dream, and finally concluded: “If everything was to be divided there wouldn’t be much left for anybody. The working classes are jealous good-for-nothings and will never succeed, however much you do for them.” He tried to discuss the question but gave it up at last. The child of the people was on the side of the rich.

  He had the impression that she had never asked him for money. He could not deny, even to himself, that when he had discovered how poor she was and had accustomed her to accept money instead of sweetmeats and other presents, she had always shown herself extremely grateful, though always pretending to feel ashamed of taking it. And her gratitude was kindled anew at every fresh gift he made her, so that when he felt the need of making her more than usually sweet and loving he knew quite well how to set about it. He had felt this need so often that his purse was nearly empty. She never forgot to protest each time she accepted a present from him, and as the acceptance was only the simple act of holding out her hand while the protest consisted of a good many words, the latter remained more vividly in his mind than the former, and he continued to believe that their relationship would have been the same even without his gifts.

  There was evidently great penury in Angiolina’s family. She had made every effort to prevent him paying her a surprise visit in her home. Those surprise visits did not suit her at all. But threats of not being there, or of having him thrown downstairs by her mother or father or brothers did nothing to deter him. Whenever he had time in the evening, however late it might be, he would go off to look for her, even if it often only meant his keeping old mother Zarri company. It was his dreams which drove him there. He was always hoping to find a changed Angiolina, and hastened thither to cancel the invariably
sad impression of their last meeting.

  Then she made one last effort. She told him that her father gave her no peace and that she had only succeeded with great difficulty in restraining him from making Emilio a scene. All that she had been able to obtain from him was the promise that he would abstain from using violence, but the old man was bent on giving him a piece of his mind. Five minutes later old Zarri came in. Emilio fancied that the old man, who was tall and thin and very shaky, and who was obliged to sit down directly he got into the room, knew quite well that his entrance had been announced. His first words were evidently intended to impress. He spoke slowly and with difficulty, but with an air of command. He said that he thought he was capable of advising and protecting any daughter of his who had need of it; for if she had not had him she would not have had anybody, for her brothers—not that he wanted to say anything against them—took no interest in family affairs. Angiolina seemed mightily pleased with this long preamble; suddenly she said she was going to dress in the room next door, and she disappeared.

  The old man at once lost all his self-importance. He turned to look after his daughter, and at the same time took a pinch of snuff; there was a long pause during which Emilio thought over what he should say in reply to the charges which were about to be brought against him. Angiolina’s father stared straight in front of him for some time, and particularly at his own boots. It was quite by chance that he raised his eyes again and saw Emilio: “Ah, yes,” he said with the air of a man who has just found something he had lost. He repeated the preamble, but with less emphasis; he was very absentminded. Then he made a great effort to concentrate his attention and continue his speech. He looked at Emilio several times, always avoiding his eye, and only spoke when he could make up his mind to look at his empty snuff-box which he still held in his hand.