When his fiancée complained that his hurry was excessive, though she, too, was in a hurry to get married, he told her that he had had everything ready for some time; the house had this in it and it had that. However, she was not to ask to visit it ahead of time, because he was saving it as a beautiful surprise for her on their wedding day. And he even refused to tell her on which street it was located, fearing that after being tempted by his detailed descriptions of all the comforts it offered, of the view one enjoyed from its windows, and of the furniture he had purchased and arranged with loving care in the various rooms, she would secretly go see it with her mother or brother.
He discussed the honeymoon at length with her. Florence? Venice? But when the time came, he departed for Naples, certain that he had fooled chance, that is, that he had sent it to Florence and Venice, knowing that it would make the rounds of the hotels in an effort to spoil the delights of his honeymoon, while he, peaceful and sheltered, would be enjoying them in Naples.
Dreetta, as well as her relatives, were bewildered by his sudden decision to leave for Naples, though they were already somewhat used to similar brusque changes in his moods and intentions. Little did the relatives imagine that a much greater surprise awaited them upon the couple’s return from the honeymoon.
Where was the little house, the nest already prepared for some time and described in such detail? Where was it? It was in Fabio Feroni’s dream, a dream like so many others that he had reserved for chance (which was constantly on the lookout) to enjoy ruining with one of its sudden feats. As soon as she arrived in Rome, Dreetta found herself brought to two small furnished rooms, selected then and there on the train during their trip back from Naples, from among the many others advertised in a newspaper.
This time, anger and indignation broke loose from the shackles imposed by good manners and lack of familiarity. Dreetta and her relatives accused him loudly of being deceitful or, what is worse, of being an imposter. Why lie like that? Why pretend that he had a completely furnished house, replete with all the comforts? Why?
Fabio Feroni, who had been expecting this explosion, patiently waited for their initial anger to dissipate, smiling contentedly at his own martyrdom, while searching his nostrils for some little hair to pluck. Was Dreetta crying? Were her relatives insulting him? That was all right. It was all right that it should be so, in exchange for all the joy he had just now had in Naples, for all the love that filled his soul. It was all right that it should be so.
Why was Dreetta crying? Because of a house they didn’t have? Oh, come on now, that wasn’t so bad! Someday they would have one!
And he explained to her relatives why he had not prepared a little house beforehand, and why he had lied. He also explained that, after all, it was also a bit their fault that his lie appeared to be so terrible, because they had asked him too many questions when he had first stated that everything had been ready for some time and that he wanted to give his fiancée a beautiful surprise. He did have the money for it. Here it was: 20,000 lire, collected and saved over a period of so many years, by dint of so, so many sacrifices. The surprise he was preparing for Dreetta was this: he was going to place the money into her hands so that she, she alone, could set up a nest that would conform to her tastes, as a necessity, not as a dream. But for heaven’s sake, she was in no way to follow the imaginary description that he had once given her! It had to be completely different. She was to make the arrangements with the help of her mother and brother. He didn’t want to know anything about it, because if he would in the least bit approve of one choice or another, or show himself to be happy over it, all would be lost! And finally, he warned them that if they hoped that he would express satisfaction over their purchases, the arrangement of the furniture in the house, or anything else, they should get that idea out of their heads, because from then on, no matter what, he would declare that he was dissatisfied, quite dissatisfied.
Whether it was due to this reason or to the cordiality of the owners of the house, a good old-fashioned elderly couple who had a spinster daughter, Dreetta was no longer in a hurry to set up the nest. They made an agreement with the owners that they would move out when their first child was born.
Meanwhile, during the first months of their marriage, Dreetta secretly cried a river of tears because, though she wanted to live the way her husband wanted her to, she had not yet realized that he said the complete opposite of what he desired.
Fabio Feroni essentially desired everything that could make his little wife happy. But knowing that if he were to manifest or pursue such desires, chance would immediately overturn them, he manifested and pursued contrary desires to prevent such an eventuality. Consequently his little wife lived unhappily. When she finally became aware of this situation and began to do everything his way, that is, to do the opposite of what he told her to do, Fabio Feroni’s gratitude, affection, and admiration for her reached their climax. But the poor man took great care not to express them. He, too, felt happy, and began to fear because of that.
How could he hide his feelings of overwhelming joy? How could he say that he was unhappy?
And when he looked at his little Dreetta, who was already pregnant, his eyes glazed over with tears, tears of tenderness and gratitude.
During the past few months his wife, along with her brother and mother, busied herself in setting up the little house. At that time Fabio Feroni’s trepidation became more painful than ever. He broke out in a cold sweat whenever he heard expressions of jubilation from his wife, who was satisfied with the purchase of this or that piece of furniture.
“Come and see… come and see… ” Dreetta would say to him.
He would have liked to shut her mouth with both his hands. His joy was excessive; no, it was rather happiness, true happiness that he had attained. It was not possible that some misfortune would not strike from one moment to the next. And Fabio Feroni began to look around, ahead and behind, with quick side-glances, in order to discover and avert chance’s trap, the trap that could be lurking even in a tiny speck of dust. And he would throw himself on the ground and crouch on all fours, blocking his wife’s passage when he would spot some fruit peel on the floor that might cause her delicate foot to slip. Yes, it was very possible that the trap was there, in that peel! Or perhaps… why yes, in that canary cage over there… Already once Dreetta had climbed onto a stool, risking a fall in order to replace the hemp in the small vase. Get rid of that canary! And hearing Dreetta protest and cry, he, all bristled and hispid like a beaten cat, began to shout:
“For heaven’s sake, I beg you, let me have my way! Let me have my way!”
And his eyes, wide open, moved continuously from side to side with a mobility and shine that incited fear.
Finally one night she found him dressed only in his nightshirt, a candle in his hand, going about looking for chance’s trap in the small inverted coffee cups lined up on the cupboard shelf in the dining room.
“Fabio, what are you doing?”
And he replied, placing his finger over his mouth:
“Shhh… quiet! I’ll find it! I swear this time I’ll find it… It won’t do me in!”
All of a sudden, whether it was because of a mouse, or a small current of air, or a cockroach on his bare feet, the fact is that Fabio Feroni let out a cry, jumped up, and bucked, and then took hold of his belly with both hands, shouting that the grasshopper was there; it was there, there inside his stomach! He began dashing about, dashing about throughout the house, dressed only in his nightshirt. Then he ran down the stairs and outside through the deserted street into the night, screaming and laughing, while a disheveled Dreetta shouted for help from the window.
In the Whirlpool
At the Racquet Club they talked about nothing else the entire evening. The first to break the news was Respi, Nicolino Respi, who was profoundly saddened by it. As usual, however, he could not prevent the strong emotion from curling his lips into that nervous little smile which, even in the most serious discussions,
as well as in the most difficult moments of play, rendered that small, pale, jaundiced face with its sharp features so characteristically his.
His friends, anxious and dismayed, gathered around him.
“Has he really gone mad?”
“No, only as a joke.”
Traldi, buried in the sofa with all the weight of his huge pachyderm body, made several attempts, using his hands for leverage, to lift himself up and sit a bit straighter, and in the effort opened wide his bovine, bloodshot eyes, that popped out of their sockets. He asked:
“Pardon me, but are you saying that… (ooh, ooh…) are you saying that because he gave you that look, too?”
“Me, too? That look? What do you mean?” asked a stunned Nicolino Respfi, turning to his friends. “I arrived just this morning from Milan, and found this fine bit of news waiting for me here. I don’t know anything about it, and I still can’t understand how it is that Romeo Daddi, my God!—the most relaxed, carefree, and sensible one of us all…”
“Did they lock him up?”
“Why, yes, of course! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Today at three o’clock. In the asylum at Monte Mario.”
“Oh, poor Daddi!”
“And Donna Bicetta? Is it possible… Could it have been Donna Bicetta, who…?
“No! Not her! On the contrary, she was completely against the idea! Her father hurried down from Florence the day before yesterday.”
“Oh, so that’s why…”
“Exactly. And he forced her to come to that decision for Daddi’s sake as well… But tell me how it all happened! Now Traldi, why did you ask me whether Daddi gave me that look too?”
Carlo Traldi had again sunk blissfully into the sofa, his head thrown back, and his purple, sweaty double chin exposed to full view. Wriggling his small, thin frog’s legs that his exorbitant potbelly forced him to keep obscenely apart and continually and no less obscenely moistening his lips, he absentmindedly replied:
“Oh yes, so I did. Because I thought you said he went mad on account of that.”
“What do you mean, on account of that?”
“Why, of course! His madness manifested itself in him in that manner. He looked at everybody in a particular way, my dear friend. Come on, fellows; don’t let me do all the talking. You tell him how poor Daddi looked at everyone.”
His friends, then, told Nicolino Respi how Daddi, upon returning from his vacation, appeared dazed and absentminded to all of them. As soon as anyone called him, an empty smile would form on his lips and his eyes would turn dull and lifeless. Then that befuddled look disappeared, having transformed itself into an acute, strange sort of staring. He first of all stared from a distance, sideways. Then, gradually, he began to do his examining from up close, as if attracted by certain signs he thought he discovered in one or more of his closest friends, especially in those who most assiduously came visiting at his house. Those signs were of course quite natural, because in fact everyone was bewildered by the abrupt and unusual transformation which was so completely in contrast with the carefree serenity of his character. Then, in those last days, he became downright unbearable. He would suddenly stop in front of first one, then another of his friends, place his hands on the man’s shoulders, and look intently and more and more deeply into his eyes.
“Gad! How frightening!” exclaimed Traldi at this point, pulling himself up again to sit straighter.
“But why?” asked Respi, nervously.
“Would you believe it? He wants to know why!” uttered Traldi, again raising his voice. “Aha, you mean why it was so frightening? My dear friend, I would have liked to have seen you at grips with that look of his! You change your shirt every day, I suppose. You’re certain your feet are clean and your socks don’t have holes in them. But are you equally certain that you don’t have any filth inside, that is, in your conscience?”
“Oh, my God, I should say…”
“Come on, now, you can’t be sincere!”
“And you are?”
“Yes, I am. I’m quite sure of it! And believe me, it happens to all of us, more or less. We discover, in some lucid interval, that we’re swine! For some time now, almost every night, when I put out the candle before falling asleep…”
“You’re growing old, my dear fellow! You’re growing old!” his friends shouted at him in chorus.
“It might be because I’m growing old,” admitted Traldi. “So much the worse! It’s no fun foreseeing that in the end I’ll form just such an opinion of myself—that of being an old swine. Anyway, wait a moment. Now that I’ve told you this, shall we try a little experiment? Quiet, all the rest of you!”
And Carlo Traldi rose laboriously to his feet. He then placed his hands on Nicolino Respi’s shoulders and shouted at him:
“Look me straight in the eyes. No, don’t laugh, my dear fellow! Look me straight in the eyes… Wait! Wait, the rest of you, too. Quiet…”
They all became silent as they gathered around. They were held in suspense, engrossed in this strange experiment.
Traldi, his huge, oval, bloodshot eyes popping out of their sockets, stared most intently into Nicolino Respi’s eyes. It seemed that with the evil shine of that stare, which became increasingly sharper and more intense, he was carefully searching his friend’s conscience and discovering in its most intimate hiding places the most shameful and dreadful things. Gradually Nicolino Respi’s eyes started to lose their sharpness, to cloud over, to shift, while below them, his lips with their usual little smile seemed nonetheless to say: “Come on, now, I’m just going along with it as a joke.” In the meantime, amid the silence of his friends, Traldi, without ceasing to stare, without relaxing the intensity of his gaze one bit, said victoriously and in a strange tone of voice:
“There… see?… see?”
“Get out of here!” burst out Respi, unable to stand it any longer, and shaking himself all over.
“You get out of here, now that we’ve understood one another!” shouted Traldi. “You’re a worse swine than I am!”
And he burst out laughing. The others laughed too, feeling unexpected relief. And Traldi continued:
“Now that was just a joke. Only as a joke can one of us set himself to looking at another like that. Because both you and I have that little machine known as civilization within us, and it’s still in good working order, so we let the dregs of all our actions, of all our thought s, and of all our feelings, settle ever so quietly and secretly to the bottom of our consciences. Now suppose that someone whose little machine has broken down starts looking at you as I did, but in earnest, not as a joke, and without your expecting it, stirs up from the bottom of your conscience all those dregs that have settled within you, and then you tell me whether you, too, wouldn’t become frightened!”
So saying, Carlo Traldi made haste to get away. He turned back and added:
“And do you know what poor Daddi would mutter under his breath when he stared into your eyes? Go ahead, all of you, tell him what he muttered! I’ve got to run.”
“What an abyss… What an abyss…”
“Like that?”
“Yes… ‘What an abyss… What an abyss…’”
After Traldi had gone, the group broke up and Nicolino Respi was left feeling disconcerted, in the company of only two friends who continued talking for quite a while about the misfortune that had befallen poor Daddi.
About two months before, Respi had gone to visit Daddi at his villa near Perugia, and had found him as calm and serene as ever. He was there with his wife and a friend of hers, Gabriella Vanzi, an old school chum recently married to a naval officer who at that time was away on a cruise. Respi had spent three days at the villa and, no, not even once during those three days had Romeo Daddi looked at him in the manner described by Traldi.
But if he would have looked at him…
Nicolino Respi was overtaken by a feeling of confusion akin to dizziness, and so, for support, smiling though quite pale, he placed his arm under that of one
of those two friends, making it seem like a simple gesture of friendship.
What had happened? What were they saying? Torture? What sort of torture? Oh, the sort Daddi had subjected his wife to…
“Afterwards, huh?” he blurted out.
And those two friends turned around to look at him.
“Oh… no, what I meant was… afterwards, when his… his little machine broke down.”
“I should say so! Certainly not before!”
“My God, they were a paragon of conjugal harmony, of domestic tranquility. Certainly something must have happened to him while they were on vacation.”
“Why, yes! At least some suspicion must have been aroused in him.”
“Let’s not speak nonsense! Concerning his wife?” burst out Nicolino Respi. “That, if anything, might have been the result, not the cause of his madness! Only a madman…”
“Right you are! Right you are!” shouted his friends. “A wife like Donna Bicetta!”
“Above suspicion! But, on the other hand…”
Nicolino Respi could no longer bear listening to those two. He was suffocating. He needed air. He needed to walk about in the open air, alone. He made some excuse and went away.
A torturesome doubt had insinuated itself into his mind, throwing it into confusion.
No one could know better than he that Donna Bicetta was above suspicion. For more than a year he had been declaring his love to her, besieging her with his courtship, without ever once obtaining anything more from her than a very sweet and compassionate smile for all his wasted efforts. With the serenity that comes from the staunchest feeling of self-assurance, without either taking offense at his impertinent overtures, or rebelling against them, she had made him understand that any insistence on his part would be useless, since she was just as much in love as he was, perhaps more so, but with her husband. If he really loved her, things being as they were, he had to understand that she could in no way violate her love for her husband. If he didn’t understand that, then that in itself was a sign that he really didn’t love her. And so?
Tales of Madness Page 10