New Italian Women: A Collection of Short Fiction

by Anna Banti

  The swiftness with which difficult situations and shameful quarrels between civilized people are resolved is always a mystery. An instant after the incredible invective there was no longer anyone in front of the villa. Without good-byes or apologies Amina and Rosa disappeared through the door; the husband vanished and Norma was on her way home and already in sight of her gate. The crickets chirped plaintively in the distance: “uncouth, ill-mannered, alcoholic” railed Norma through tight lips, slamming the door a little harder than usual. The “Good evening, Signora” of the gardener seemed to her like amends for an insult, a deliberate homage that required recognition with a rather solemn nod of her head.

  Groping their way in the dark up the steep stairs, Amina and Rosa separated without a word. One entered the conjugal bedroom and the other the little room where she was staying during her visit with her cousin. The beds, curtained with mosquito netting, seemed like phantoms’ snares, silent stranglers at that dark hour. Once the door was shut, Rosa couldn’t let go of the handle or go through the steps necessary to remove her clothes and put on a house dress. She was staring at the still white space of the window, anxiously noting the sounds, the voices, the slamming of doors on the floor below. The children were arguing far away, perhaps in the kitchen, and their sharp cries reached her from time to time, muffling every other sound. The maid must have been setting the table because a clanking of plates and silverware could be heard, but the husband and wife gave no sign of life. To mediate, to calm down, to pray? Or to shut herself up in the bedroom all evening, all night? Pale Rosa would gladly hold to this last alternative – Rosa who at thirty had not yet been able to imagine how one could decide on marriage. The handle, released and immediately recovered, was by now hot, damp, anxious itself, like her hand. So fragile, this separating door, in the face of violence! But so able to change a room into a prison, into a hiding place. And here the romantic Rosa, a different woman from the one who swooned at the door, enjoyed the situation for a moment: the victim, the tyrant, the deep night, the desolate plain, “Siena made me, the Maremma unmade me”: Dante for the women of 1850.

  But in her bedroom Amina was unable to allow herself the consolation of a romantic parallel. Each day life pursued her on more miserable terms and with more bitter rancor. There was no respite for her except in moments like this, when at a culminating point, humiliation, fear, shame relaxed into a colorless indifference. In this condition she needed nothing, not even a refuge against the extreme violence so often threatening her. Besides, ironically, her refuge was in this room, with this big bed, these double pillows, and this lace bedspread she had made when she was fifteen; but nothing here affects her in the least. Amina has not even locked the door, but has closed it halfway so that a bit of the dark hallway is visible in the mirror on the chest of drawers. Let come who will; and above all, let her husband make up his mind when to settle the account this time, too. Almost calmly she removes her clothes, putting on a roughly-lined flannel that pricks her underarms each autumn. She takes her time, is in no hurry, and when she ties the black silk apron to her waist she feels sleepy – a sleepiness that vanishes the moment when, running her hand over the marble of her dresser, it touches a cigar butt in its ashes. This proof that her husband had been in the bedroom earlier, right where she is now, in front of the window, makes her shiver and brings her back to her constant thoughts. Where had Angelo been? He had the appearance of having drunk too much like he has when he comes back from Castagneto. Now her brain is completely awake and absorbed in its usual work of guessing the mood of the master of the house and improvising a defense. Of the apathy from a short time before there remains only a strange, calm reflection that retains her thoughts, and she is, for example, amazed by the absurdity of calling by name, even mentally, a man who after years of misunder-standing must be as alien to her as a stranger. And so she continues to reason in the manner of a “wife,” as though randomly recalling some musical notes she can no longer hear.

  Below, the three boys and two little girls doze, waiting for supper, and some roasted chestnuts stolen from the pan fall from their hands. Amina notices it immediately; their hands are still dirty from the chestnuts. She will have to command, shout, box their ears. What bother! This mother of five children has always looked a little fearfully and distractedly at her offspring, like a girl left in charge of brothers and sisters who are too grown up. Even when they were in the cradle, all tears and caprice, they seemed like some strange, noisy, dangerous playthings. Most of all she was afraid of the mischief they could do, for the illnesses they could get and for which she must necessarily suffer, as maternal love was for her a relentless, cruel necessity. Now she looks at them, frowning a little at the thought of what she must say to them, but she doesn’t say a word, and goes through the polished hall into the kitchen, where Cesira is mistress, and pokes around the pans with the same frowning air she used with her children; thinking of what she should criticize and correct if she had the will and the courage. “What does one need, after all, to be brave?” prompts the calm reflection of a short while ago. And there, by the little door that opens onto the garden, with that customary oily-smooth manner, is the doctor. This is the moment that had to come. Yet Amina, with the maid’s presence as excuse, tries to delay it further by turning her back to the door and seizing the ladle in the boiled potatoes. Her eyes have grown larger, her cheeks darken not from the heat of the flame but by the intensification of their greenish cast. At her neck, in a stink of stale tobacco, her husband whispers to her: “Never mind, Signora Contessa, don’t dirty your little hands”; and he goes into the hall. Magically Cesira appears behind him with the steaming soup tureen. How has she hidden from her mistress the fact that the soup is ready. What is left for Amina? To go into the garden stumbling over the tomato stakes; to go out past the wall, to run, to reach the woods, to roam around the plains where there is malaria, but where there is also a cart to take her to the coast: to get on a ship, to return to her native Elba at last. She accomplishes this quickly in her imagination in the space of four seconds, with her eyes still fixed on the potatoes, until the sound of the door closing forces her to follow hastily in the tracks of the maid; so she appears in the dining room with the air of having arranged and then followed a procession. With a great scrapping of chairs the children sit down at the table; an anxious Rosa appears at the door of the stairway with her round eyes open wide, and immediately reassured, she also sits. That she does not speak is nothing new.

  Here, then, under the hanging blue glass oil lamp, a typical nineteenth-century supper. Handsome family; but the father with his yellow eyes breathes on his plate and doesn’t eat, like a suspicious cow. For ten minutes the square nails of his right hand have been tapping the tablecloth with funereal regularity, and no one dares take notice of it – least of all the mother, sitting a little sideways, who gulps down spoons of soup, twisting her neck like an uninvited but tolerated guest. It could be said that the children were well brought up because they do not talk; if only they did not scrape their spoons so much on the bottom of their bowls. None of them is disturbed by the parents’ animosity, all of them are ready with shrieks of fear if something should threaten the steady ill humor they are accustomed to. And it is normal in this household for the husband and wife to glare at each other. Waiting for the roast, Rosa stares at the surviving flies on the wall and still moves her lips, chewing on a phrase from yesterday and a month old conversation at Porto Ferraio. The two older children silently give one another fierce elbow jabs: there’ll be a row in the boys’ room this evening.

  But when the roast is served the father ceases his angry taping and turns his face toward the wine bottle. One glass, two glasses. The key to his silence unlocks with the third, and all of them prick up their ears; they flinch, looking at him furtively. He seems very occupied in shredding his meat, in dividing it into little strips as if for a bird’s meal. At the same time his lips emit brief, sententious phrases resembling the style of an astrologist
at a fair – ambiguous and cautious. He addresses no one, but speaks as though considering a danger that must be approached cautiously, with cunning. He hints at a viper’s nest, at accounts to be settled, at extreme but necessary decisions. Every once in a while conversation resumes: his dinner companions hope for a pause, but then notice that, underground, the flow of words has not ceased.

  The children bow their heads, eating slowly and blinking as though expecting a smack. Rosa is sorry she has come down and keeps her eye on the door to the stairs, unable to keep her feet still. Hard, very dry, the food passes down Amina’s throat, though she continues to swallow, conveying in this haste the throb of her fear, her anxiety to get it over with. She would like a drink, but does not dare stretch out her hand to pour: as though that gesture might expose her. She feels as though she has a crown of big birds around her head, ready to pounce on her neck and temples, and that her jaw will no longer obey her in the end and will squeeze her face in a vice of cold bone.

  Meanwhile the maid goes around changing plates. Driven by hungry curiosity she stays, insisting on serving bread. She won’t go into the kitchen until the scene is resolved. It won’t take much for the doctor to give himself over to one of those violent moods that fascinate her in such a perverse way: pulling a corner of the tablecloth and spilling food and plates on the floor, or pounding his fist on the table to make everything bounce; overturned bottles, spilt wine, pieces of broken glass and the women’s cries.

  But tonight Cesira waited in vain and however many serving tasks she invented she didn’t manage to see anything. Afterwards, sitting in the kitchen with the door open, she forgot to eat in her attempt to overhear something. The fact is that the moment for scenes had passed and from this very evening the dissension between her employers had to change character. At a certain point it seemed that the diners were constrained to silence and even the father’s muttering stopped; yet no one got up.

  “Should I cough or not?” Rosa asked herself, who had a great desire to do so, when, terrified, she noticed that her cousin’s eyes were fixed upon her. His lids blinked, or rather, they winked, and his mouth twisted into a little smile: “You understand, Rosina,” sounded his quiet voice with almost playful confidence, “that woman must be kept in her place.” His tone was so natural that the children, stupefied by the meal and the heavy atmosphere, didn’t even understand the words, and believing the situation relaxed, pushed back their chairs to get up. Besides, their father (the recipient of suddenly satisfied and mischievous glances) also made a move to get up and look for his pipe. Then something really different happened: too bad that Cesira couldn’t enjoy it from the hallway. Amina moved from her place, pulled the bottle of wine toward her and poured a glass to the brim – she who drank only water. Then, on her feet, with the fixed, bright eyes of a serpent, the corners of her mouth curling with two scornful shadows: “Look, this is how much I fear you,” she said, drinking it down.

  From that evening the air was more breathable in the Vannini house. The air was bracing, as though deactivated by powerful lightening flashes. From that time Amina began to put on weight and lose her persecuted expression. Now her eyes no longer remained half-closed and her features acquired character from the new position of her chin, held higher, almost obstinate, above a faintly puffy neck. At first the gossip, the story of discord between the couple grew in town: fearful things, pistols under the pillow, physical blows. Questioned about their troubles, both husband and wife confirmed the talk; they even seemed to take pleasure each time in adding to it a hair-raising particular.

  “Certainly,” said Amina, “he keeps a revolver under the pillow, but he is a coward and will never have the courage to shoot me. But one day or another I’ll let go a little powder....”

  And the doctor at a hunt: “Lead is good for birds; for certain people it takes a knife.” Until these statements became so commonplace that no one paid attention to them anymore – some people even began to smile about them. The question remained: how did Amina, who used to faint with fear, become so bold? Someone would hazard one guess, someone else another, especially Norma who pretended to know the whole story; but everyone remained unsatisfied, as Amina never confided in anyone.

  Like a thrifty person jealous of his capital, she kept to herself the delights of a courage still fresh from fear and terror. Her fear after the great rage that had pushed her to defiant words and action! The whole scene is still before her eyes: the shadow beyond the table, the sudden swinging of the lamp, so still until then, and that look of her husband, crushed by surprise. She is still standing and puts the empty glass upon a large sauce stain, while the wine floods her stomach with burning heat. Then the cousin’s two sticky kisses and the dampness of her tears. “Sleep with me tonight, don’t stay with him.” She hears these words only after she is already lying on the conjugal bed, alone and trembling like the flame of the candle burning on the dresser; and she remembers also Rosa’s look while whispering, fixed on the door where Angelo disappeared.

  “Too late,” she thinks, looking at her feet, immobile under the blanket like a dead person’s; and mentally trying to execute an escape through the hall into the cousin’s bedroom, the thought of meeting her husband coming up the stairs, in the dark, makes her teeth chatter. That for one night he might not come up she did not hope or expect: they were both condemned to this common room, and then he would have to avenge himself. He will come up with a revolver in his hand. Certainly by now he had already taken it from the old chest in the studio and loaded it. The furniture never so black as tonight, the yellow brocade on the rustic walls never so funereal. In order not to see them Amina has closed her eyes and while she thinks of the rosary of granite beads that they will put around her neck when she is dead, she is aware of the door handle turning. Cornered, her throat grows rigid: better to die like this, with her eyes closed, not opening them under any condition. She hears the noise of the door, the cautious steps of the man, she registers his breathing and even the moment he stops to look at her, so supine and composed. The great power of habit: the friction of his jacket on the chair, the clink of the coins on the dresser announcing that he is undressing, like any other evening.

  “He’ll kill me at close range. What painful blows to the chest.” Now her eyes are glued shut, but her ears follow and translate the visual meaning of every sound, while from time to time the air moved by Angelo’s gestures crosses the face of the woman like a sinister caress. The actions of undressing continue, and Amina registers them with a strained clarity. And suddenly an unexpected yet breathlessly awaited interruption, a heavy breath, as one who has a delicate and unusual object in his hands, then a dull click, something is opened and closed again, a hard object that the man has placed next to the clock.

  “The pistol,” flashes Amina’s thought picturing the object; but her expression does not change. Meanwhile the pressure of her husband’s body sitting on the bed to take off his shoes, causing her to turn a little to the left, offers her, along with the relief of a change of position, a strange comfort, as if coming closer to the man, even such an enemy, brings back a sense of warmth, almost of help. But as soon as he is stretched out heavily on the other side of the bed, he also immobile and awake, all her anxiety returns. Her closed eyelids perceive the light of another candle, her ear beats time to the breath of danger. If only she could grow heavy with sleep; her body tingles with warning terror, for the raising of the covers on the left side, the presence of the other body on the common bed. A slight motion, an extended hand would be enough for the very fragile safety to collapse and the smooth grain of the sheet to host a violent blow.

  From this point on, for an entire hour in the glowing candlelight, the man and wife battle, unmoving, quiet, attentive. Amina had not been mistaken – on her husband’s dresser the old pistol is reflected in the drinking glass. Coming up the stairs the man had caressed it in his pocket, confusedly anticipating an extraordinary relief. The threat of that black lump tight in his fist – the
falls, the shrieks, the flight in nightclothes. More than that, to tell the truth, he did not imagine: he did not get as far as the shot, the smoke, the shout. The conclusion immediately followed: “that witch deserves it,” but chewed over without emphasis, even with a veil of hesitation, because the witch had for half an hour assumed an importance a bit too accusatory.

  Reaching the second floor he saw a streak of light under the door: “Ah, you are here,” and he turns the handle. Inside, the quiet is such that for a moment he believes he is alone; then seeing the profile of that rigid shape against the rosy light he feels a kind of repugnance that extinguishes his hostile intentions. He had expected something else, he didn’t know what, but something entirely different. Certainly his wife had never refused him this scene, no, never, even if he couldn’t remember now how the quarrels, her dismay, her tiresome tears usually began. There and then he couldn’t think of anything better to do than undress, obedient to the suggestion of the place. Undressing and finding the pistol in his pocket, he pulled it out with that slight feeling of unease that the civilian faces when handling a weapon. Only when he was lying down did his normal temperament begin to reassert itself. Who had made him go to bed, without being sleepy and with quite other thoughts than of sleeping? He frowns over at his wife, forcing himself to feel anger. But his anger held in check too long misses its aim, it has almost evaporated, leaving in its place an impatience, almost an uneasiness with that pale shape, which extreme fear makes extraordinarily sullen and austere.

  “Now I’ll take her by the arm and teach her to playact with me,” he urges himself, but without doing anything; yet he does not admit that the mere thought of extending his hand, exactly what Amina is expecting, makes his fingers perspire. It is precisely this vague feeling that all at once suggests: “Might she be dead?” and which almost causes him to jump up as from a catafalque. To keep himself under control he forces himself to lie still, he too on the alert. With his eyes closed he begins to receive the most minute sounds, the sputtering of the candle, the creaking of wood, and finally, his wife’s breathing, light and restrained, but which, in short, fills the whole room. It is obvious the woman is pretending to sleep. This knowledge that should have renewed his anger is accompanied by – who knows why – a flavor of suspicion. In the silence her behavior appears to have a mysterious meaning: the passive, deaf resistance of so many years, the discreet tears, and finally, this evening, the open defiance, reveal a careful preparation that has come to a head.