Arturo's Island

by Elsa Morante

  Intrigues of Gallantry

  Thus I had again found a way of putting off a farewell that declared itself to me now as a necessary duty; and the summer season, as usual filling my days with richness and activity, helped me in this delay. Every afternoon, I returned to Assuntina’s cottage, where she was waiting for me; and there with her, in her room, I found some repose from my restlessness. She wondered that, although I was constantly making love to her, I never kissed her, not even the smallest, simplest kiss that one might give to a sister: and I answered that I didn’t like kisses, they seemed sappy. But the truth was different: it was that I could never forget my first, only kiss, given to N.; and it would have seemed to me that I was betraying N. if I kissed that other woman, whom I didn’t love.

  Now my memory (rethinking some earlier delusions) filled the kiss I’d given N. with all the burning tastes of love: every sensual delight, the most passionate thoughts. It seemed to me that, in the very brief moment when I kissed her, I had known all the promises of paradise that belong to true love alone, and that I couldn’t know with Assuntina. Looking at her shameless poses, I thought again of N.’s ways, so modest, so pure, and my heart grieved with regret. Then, seeing my face darken, Assuntina asked me: “Well, what’s wrong?” “Leave me alone,” I said, “I’m sad.” “And I can’t console you?” “You can’t console me, and nobody else can, either. I’m a truly unhappy soul.”

  Yet although I didn’t love Assuntina I was pleased to have a lover; and, above all, proud, so that I would have liked to let it be known to the entire population (apart from my father; with him I would have been ashamed—I don’t know why). Assuntina, naturally, insisted that it should be an absolute secret; and I submitted to that sacrifice, according to the proper rules of honor. But I found a way to let it be understood (with an attitude of fatuous superiority) that in my life there was something . . .

  I would have liked one person, in particular, to know . . .

  One day, I remember, I got the idea of going to buy (on credit, of course) several meters of lace, for example, or some women’s garters, from a shopkeeper friend of N.’s, warning her not to breathe a word of my purchase to anyone, and especially my stepmother: in such a way that the shopkeeper would understand clearly that there was a mysterious woman in my life! But unfortunately when I got to the door of the shop I lost confidence, and turned back without doing anything.

  Here I would point out that in considering this failed undertaking, I didn’t delude myself about the discretion of the shopkeeper; in fact, I was convinced that she’d be unable to keep quiet with N. I say: I was convinced; but I should say: I counted on it.

  Assuntina, even in her faithful and persistent friendship with Signora Gerace, kept her romance with her stepson Arturo carefully hidden. And so, thanks to her prudence, my stepmother was completely in the dark about it: no less than Carminiello could be. According to the highest moral logic, I should have comforted myself with that; but instead, inside, I was annoyed by it.

  The ambition that tempted me—to display to the public my conquest (so that I would happily have printed the facts in the newspapers)—was aimed, I think, precisely at my stepmother. And at the thought that some gossip, for example, would go and whisper in her ear a hint, a tip, I would start laughing to myself involuntarily. Enough: my heart, which had no peace, would have enjoyed a kind of success if, one way or another, she had found out . . .

  The Lane

  But why a success? What the hell sort of success was it? Undoubtedly, answering those questions would have been a profound problem. But I didn’t make many problems for myself when I had such fantasies.

  And while I pretended to respect Assuntina’s prudence with N., I nurtured a contrary intention. That intention taught me devious and tortuous paths. Every so often, in N.’s presence, I let fall some half-revealing phrase, or cast ardent glances at Assuntina, or gave her small signs of understanding, pretending to believe that my stepmother wasn’t looking at us at that moment . . . The sly Assuntina immediately displayed the face of a saint; and later, in the cottage, reproached me: “Watch out, be more careful!” But in response I assured her: “Come on, don’t worry, my stepmother doesn’t understand anything about anything, she’s less intelligent than Carmine. Her thoughts are all Hail Marys and Our Fathers: other things she doesn’t see or understand. She, can you believe it?, if she were to look in at the door right now—she might think we’re lying here in bed just to sleep in peace, like a brother and sister.”

  And on this point, at least (that my stepmother was too slow to understand), my words were not lies, in fact they corresponded to my thoughts.

  Every day, toward the end of the afternoon, at the hour when I left the cottage, I began to insist, with various pretexts, that Assunta come with me along the lane toward my house. And during the walk, especially on the last stretch, I would suddenly embrace her, holding her tight around the waist. “Watch out, what are you doing!” she protested, trying to get free of me. “Not here, in the street! Someone might see us!” “Well, who would see us,” I answered her, “if it’s all deserted!” But, a moment before embracing her, I had in fact glimpsed a curly and fleeting shadow in the kitchen window of the Casa dei Guaglioni: which withdrew precipitately behind the grille as soon as the two of us, turning the last corner, emerged at the top of the path, just under the window.

  In those days something unusual appeared in my stepmother’s behavior, which even a casual observer would surely have noted. She seemed to have fallen into a kind of absentmindedness, which gave her face a sad, almost livid pallor. She performed her tasks, her usual familiar activities, with a heavy inertia and, at times, a distracted confusion, as if her body were moving against her will, divided from her mind: and her meekness had given way to a nervousness, very close to irritability. I heard her scold Carmine; she even responded brusquely to my father; and her friends complained of finding her ill-tempered, contrary to every habit of hers.

  One day, looking up, I surprised her staring at me. At the first instant, her gaze, meeting mine, instinctively remained on me, expressing a trembling, crude pain; but immediately it became conscious again, and withdrew beneath pale eyelids.

  I don’t remember if what follows happened the afternoon of that same day, or another day. I went up the lane in the company of Assuntina, and every so often, as usual, I glanced furtively toward the window of the Casa dei Guaglioni; until I saw, not far away, that small familiar shadow hiding up there, behind the grille.

  Then I rushed to embrace Assunta passionately; and all of a sudden, though I never kissed her, I gave her a big kiss right in the face.

  Scene between Women

  At a certain point the next morning, approaching the little beach from the sea, I had the thought of going home for a moment, I don’t know if to get a new oar for the boat or some other such motive. And as I entered the yard I was surprised by fierce women’s cries coming from the kitchen, mixed with Carmine’s crying. When I got to the French door, I found myself facing an unusual scene. In the kitchen, besides my stepbrother, who was crying desperately in his basket, were my stepmother and Assunta; and the first, overcome with fury, was shouting at the second, as if she wanted to tear her to pieces.

  Assuntina, who seemed startled and confused, at my entrance burst into tears, and summoned me as a witness, saying that she didn’t understand it. She explained that she had come in a little earlier, to say hello to Nunziata, as usual; and had picked up Carmine from his basket, to cuddle him, as she had done many times. But my stepmother, at that point, had rushed at her like a wild beast, tearing Carmine out of her arms, and then (since, at that brutal move, the boy had started to cry) unjustly started to rail against her, Assunta, accusing her of that sin: of having made the boy cry! And so, still shouting, she had ordered her to beware of picking him up from now on, because he, that child, hated her, Assunta, like smoke in his eyes, and would start crying if she merely touched him! There, just then I had arrived, Assunt
a concluded between her tears; and I could take note, as a witness, of that sworn testimony of hers: that it wasn’t her fault if my little brother was wailing! She couldn’t understand being treated so rudely: as if it had become a crime to pick up an infant in her arms!

  At Assunta’s justifications, my stepmother, instead of being soothed, became even angrier, until, in an instant, her face was transfigured, like a Fury’s.

  Suddenly she burst out, shouting at her friend, “You must never be seen in this house again!”

  She shook her head violently, in the atavistic manner of quarreling women in squalid alleys: “I don’t want you here! In this house I am the mistress!” she continued, really beside herself. And suddenly she made as if to rush at the other.

  Fortunately, I intervened in time to prevent her, and, grabbing her wrists, pushed her forcefully against the wall.

  Pinned to the wall, she, out of pride, did not even try to struggle. But, through her wrists, I felt all her muscles tremble, developing a desperate ferocity; and her eyes resembled the fires of two wretched and sublime stars, lost in a storm. Beneath the disheveled curls pasted to her forehead by sweat her face was white, and she twisted it away from me, leaning toward her adversary. “Get out!” she shouted at her, almost transported by hatred. And she added: “Get out, segnata da Dio!”

  That phrase segnato da Dio is a saying of contemptible vulgarity, used in our towns by the cruel to insult cripples, the lame, and other unfortunates. At that spiteful allusion poor Assunta broke into sobs and headed toward the door with her short, limping steps. And I, indignant, left my brutalized stepmother and went out, too, to walk a little distance along the road with her, as it seemed to me was my duty.

  Although she was demonstrably grateful for this chivalrous attention, still, as soon as we were alone, she began to reproach me for my carelessness: “If you had been cautious, as I urged you, your stepmother would never have suspected anything, because she’s not malicious. And instead, look, here’s the result: that she, in my opinion, has discovered everything! In fact, although in front of her I pretended to believe that excuse of Carminiello, I’m not so ignorant that I don’t understand it was only an excuse, in order not to speak the truth to my face. Besides, now that I think back, she’s been giving me mean looks for several days. The truth is this, if you want to listen to Assunta: that, because of you, because you’re so careless, she realized that we two are meeting. And according to her thinking what we do is an evil sin; and a woman, like me, who does it is an immoral woman, without honor. So she, being honest, is disgusted by my friendship, and doesn’t want anything to do with it. And all right: let it be as she wants! But she’s not right: because I’m not a girl, I’m a widow, and a widow, if she meets with someone, doesn’t sin like a girl—much less! Well: I already knew she’s hypocritical . . . but I didn’t know so bitter! Who would have expected that such a sweet woman, who seemed like a mother hen, could become such a fierce, ugly eagle!”

  Stepmother of Stone

  Amid these outbursts from Assunta, we had descended a good way along the path: then, having distinguished at a distance one of her relatives heading toward the cottage, she urged me to leave, in order not to encourage new malicious suspicions. And without discussion I separated from her, heading off on another street.

  I was grateful for this chance to be alone for a while, and to surrender without witnesses to my deep, unreasonable exultation.

  The truth is I should have felt not exultation but remorse. Assunta couldn’t imagine how guilty I was: she accused me of behaving carelessly, unable to guess the worst—and that is that my incautious behavior was not only heedless but also intentional! Yet, although aware of my guilt, in my heart I felt no remorse but, rather, an intimate, triumphant joy, which made me walk as lightly as if my feet weren’t touching the ground.

  Almost without realizing it, I had taken the road home. It was around midday; in the kitchen Carminiello was sleeping placidly in his basket, and my stepmother was standing at the table. On the table were the usual preparations for the pasta, which had been interrupted by the earlier scene; and her hands were moving weakly on the sheet of dough, as if they were eager to be occupied but hadn’t the strength to keep going. Her face was so white, set, and dazed that it made you think of a grave illness.

  I asked if my father had come down from his room; and, not finding the energy to speak, she moved her eyelids a little, to answer no; but even that small movement seemed to cost her such an effort that her whole face, and especially her lips, began to tremble.

  Then, frightened by her appearance, I asked: “What’s wrong? Do you feel ill?” (Ever since she had kept me distant because of that kiss, I had initiated this new thing: to use the more formal voi when I spoke to her, rather than tu. And I couldn’t say if that was intended to imply a deliberate respect or, rather, sulkiness.)

  She looked at me, eyes trembling, without answering; but, as if my pity had taken away her last power of resistance, suddenly she fell to her knees, and, hiding her face on a chair, broke into terrible, dry sobs. “What’s wrong?” I said. “Tell me what’s wrong!” I felt a gentle desire to caress her, to caress at least her hair. But her forehead, her small work-ruined hands, appeared so pale that I didn’t dare touch her: I was afraid she would die. Meanwhile, amid those sobs, in an adult, lacerating tone of voice that didn’t seem hers, she began to speak: “Oh, I’m damned. I’m damned. God . . . won’t forgive me . . . ever . . .”

  Phrases of instinctive adoration thronged to my lips: I would have liked to say, “You’re my blessed of Paradise! You’re my angel,” but I understood that I would have frightened her. “At this moment,” I thought, “it will be better if I speak as if I were her father or something like that.” And I said (but in a voice that, in spite of myself, expressed only a joyous, bold passion, not the severity of a father): “What do you mean, damned? Come on, stop it, don’t be silly!”

  Finally those cruel sobs found an outlet in tears; and her voice became recognizable again, although ravaged by a new torment. “And how could I,” she accused herself, as she wept, “say such a vile word to that poor woman? It’s not her fault, if she has an infirmity. Oh, to say a word like that is worse than murder! I’m ashamed to exist! And what can I do now, what can I do? I should go to that woman and ask her to forgive me, to forget the words I said, to come back here to my house as before . . . Oh, no, I can’t! I can’t!” and, as if frightened of herself, she hid her mouth behind the palms of her hands, while her eyes, at the thought of Assuntina, grew large with savage hatred.

  “Oh, what will I do with myself? What should I do?” she murmured. And with these questions she turned to me a tearful, lost gaze, which seemed to ask for help, or advice, as if I were God. But her eyes had become so beautiful at that moment that I paid no more attention to their suffering: in the depths of their blackness, I seemed to make out, as within two enchanted mirrors, distant places of light, of absolute happiness! And I exclaimed impetuously:

  “You know what you should do? You should leave Procida, with me. Then you’ll never have to see Assunta, if she’s so hateful to you. We’ll run away together, you and I and Carminiello. Anyway,” I added bitterly, “my father doesn’t care about us, he won’t even notice, he’ll manage, if we leave. We’ll go, all three of us together, to live in some magnificent land, far from Procida, I’ll choose it. And there I’ll make sure you live better than a queen.”

  As I spoke, she made a sudden move to cover her face with her hands; but still the violent blush that invaded it, to her neck and her bare arms, was visible. For a moment she couldn’t answer me: her irregular breaths, coming through her throat, were transformed into a bitter, wild lament. Finally she said:

  “Artú! . . . Since you’re still a boy, God will forgive the bad things you say, the evil . . .”

  Maybe she was about to say the evil you do, but it must have seemed a word too harsh against me, and she didn’t say it. And, instead of feeling remor
se at her reproach, I was transported with joy, which made me even more thoughtless and mad: in truth, her voice, from behind the mask of her hands, had reached me as a fabulous sound, which betrayed irreparably—even more than the indulgence—the anguish of a renunciation and, at the same time, a kind of restoration of gentle gratitude. I exclaimed, coming close to her:

  “Oh, please, look into my face, look into my eyes!” and, armed with sweetness and power, I pushed her palms away. For a second, her troubled face flashed before me still sweet, still pink from the earlier blush; but already she had jumped to her feet, with a pallor that almost disfigured her. And she began to speak, backing up against the wall:

  “No! No! What are you doing? Go away . . . Artú . . . don’t come any closer, if you don’t want me to . . .” And, turning her head slightly, she leaned her forehead against the wall, scowling hard, as if in her weakness, which nearly caused her to slide to the floor, she were collecting all her nerves in a gigantic and desperate act of will.