A Life

by Italo Svevo

  This was enough for that evening, but not for the next. Until this point timid partly on purpose, Alfonso realized how much happiness he could derive from the step he had taken. She had pointed out to him with some clarity how far he could go, and he wanted to be at least always at that point if not beyond it. So every evening he said a word of love to Annetta; if he could not at first, he did it on leaving, when shaking hands in farewell.

  Suddenly Francesca had become Annetta’s inseparable companion again. She was always present at their meetings and, now that they were working very little or not at all on the novel, took an active part in their conversation. All strain in her relations with Annetta, first cold and then exaggeratedly friendly, had now vanished, and the two women chattered away of fashions, journeys, and people he did not know, leaving him silent and embarrassed. He remained mute even when they spoke of other things, because he did not feel like addressing banalities or critical remarks to Annetta. All that was too cold, null and aimless. Why, he thought, exchange words which he did not care to say or she to hear? Some did occur to him, but of the kind that needed some bold and passionate action immediately after being spoken. Anyway he did not care much. The kiss on Annetta’s hand had given him a need to talk, that on her lips had taken it away.

  He was always received in the living-room because the stove was there, and every object in it reminded him of desires and joys obtained. Every single thing in that confusion of differing furniture, solid comfortable pieces, was indissolubly linked to his sensations, seemed part of Annetta, mirrors always reflecting her face. When once he had to wait for a long time in that room alone, these sensations lulled him, then became so strong, the closeness of Annetta so palpable, that if she had suddenly entered, he would have taken her in his arms and treated her as his own, with one word which he thought could explain and justify all. But Francesca came in first and found Alfonso confused, stumbling over words which he had prepared and must now keep to himself.

  One evening Francesca came and told him that Annetta had had to go off with her father to visit relations. They had been unable to warn him in time, Francesca said with a sly smile, but asked him to stay and keep her company. This disappointment was such a shock that Alfonso did not know how to react. He stood rigidly for a quarter of an hour replying in monosyllables to the questions which the Signorina kindly asked him, then, to avoid the bother of pretending, went off saying that he had only looked in to excuse himself for not staying that evening as he was feeling unwell. Francesca gave him an ironic but benevolent bow of farewell.

  Impatience made Alfonso lose the correctness of bearing admired by Annetta till then, and if she did not take offence, it was because every rudeness of his was explained and excused by his obvious suffering. Francesca only had to move up to a window and look out on the street for him to become suddenly active, though he had been completely absorbed till then in his own dreams and desires. He said his word of love to her in a low voice like a melodramatic broken cry.

  In Annetta’s eyes his worst crime was his inability to keep his bearing unchanged before a third person. With others present he became as mute as he had been before from shyness, worse because he seemed discontented and irritated too. One Wednesday Prarchi came and asked him if he felt unwell. This question finally opened Alfonso’s mouth because he could still talk about himself. He talked feelingly of an illness which he could not define, a disquiet which took away sleep, pleasure in study, joy in life; everything bored him.

  Prarchi gave him serious advice as a doctor. He diagnosed the vague illness of course as nerves, and advised him to go and spend a month or so at home in the open air. Annetta understandingly and sweetly suggested that she ask for this leave of his. The suggestion of this cure annoyed Alfonso, who let out: “I’d have to go a very long way to get any good from it.”

  Had Prarchi not been simple enough to try and diagnose the illness according to the systems taught in clinics, Alfonso’s phrase would surely have made him realize what the matter was.

  One evening he found her alone, and when, flustered by this unhoped-for chance, he began putting a bold plan into action, she dropped a few brusque words which had the effect of a cold shower. She said that she had found an excuse to get Francesca away and have a private chat with him. She was displeased with him; she resented his bearing, which looked haughty and careless to others. Did he want to compromise her? She gave him a suspicious glance. Alfonso guessed its meaning. She had thought herself dealing with a shy man deeply, aimlessly in love. Now she was afraid of finding him to be an able deceiver who was trying to compromise her.

  Alfonso was alarmed. He had no intention of compromising her, but had, knowingly, the aim which she attributed to him, and which she thought that he intended to reach by compromising her. He now expected to be forbidden access to the house, which would have been a logical consequence of what she had said. He could not excuse himself; he had been bold, ill-behaved. His only defence was to go pale and act as if he had not properly understood what he was being blamed for.

  But his alarm was Annetta’s best excuse. She went on reproving him, yet asking affectionately if her friendship was no longer enough for him and if he did not think that by his ways he was exposing himself to the risk of losing that too.

  “I’ll do whatever you like!” exclaimed Alfonso, relieved at finding her so far from forbidding him the house. Obviously she only wanted to prevent him going too far, to intimidate him. She herself had been caught unexpectedly, had reached a point which she never would have in cold blood, and was now regretting the time when this strong, clever young man had loved and admired her so timidly.

  Annetta felt her compassion growing. She came up to him, squeezed his hand and asked:

  “Let’s see, Signor Alfonso, if we can’t live like good friends again, happy and contented as before? What’s happened to make you always silent and showing people how wretched you are?”

  “It’s that I always have words here,” and he pointed to his throat, “and am prevented from saying them.” He was still calling what he had in his throat ‘words’! Annetta at once became happy; he had not seen her so for a month, not since that evening when they had at last spoken of their love. The fact is that, due to the sharp lesson given him by Annetta, he was not for the moment at all troubled by desires. He kissed her hands when she left them in his; this gave him only the pleasure of reassurance, as well as the bother of having to pretend enthusiasm. She grew warmer, as the excitement of the evening brought back his quick original turn of speech, and this always stirred her.

  He went off tired but quite calm, with a weariness like satiety. When Annetta had tried to intimidate him and lead him back to his former show of respect, he had suffered at finding her as Macario had described. That evening he had first seen her cold and disdainful, obviously a calculated bearing due to fear of being compromised in an unsuitable love affair; then she had been stirred, though her disdain had not lessened. Perhaps she loved him, but self-interest had struggled with this love and been victorious, until her senses spoke. All that was so clear, showed so obviously, that Alfonso noted it even in his daydreams. For as usual he tried to annul his discomfort by urging his fantasy to deviate from reality. But this time his daydream was no help. He could imagine Annetta giving way, feeling the same desires as he did, but only for a few seconds. Coldness preceded and followed her bursts of emotion; calculation marked the limits of the tiny whiffs of passion which the young lady allowed herself. This struggle of hers, once won, would always be starting all over again.

  Such was not the only distress brought by this evening. Till then, though conscious that the first impulse for his love had come from Annetta’s wealth, he had never felt that others, even Annetta herself, knew and perhaps exaggerated the importance of that element in it. He loved her! Even in his soliloquies he defended himself warmly from such a reproach. Now he loved her! There was an enormous difference between him and that able intriguer whom Annetta seemed to suspe
ct him to be; what she had taken as a means towards achieving his ends, such as melancholy and disquiet, had actually derived from desire and love. His was certainly not a respectful love, and the hardness of Annetta’s character prevented it from being so, but he loved her and wanted to convince himself that if her circumstances changed, he would love her all the same. This he felt so vehemently that it seemed he had never expressed what he felt then.

  In spite of his love he was still harsh, even unjust in judging her character. Why, if Annetta regretted her momentary defeats, did she not take away all possibility of them by forbidding him access to her home? That Annetta was promising herself a triumph over her own weakness he would not admit. No! She was simply pretending to escape those uncontrollable moments, though longing for them when calm. From this conclusion of his, Alfonso’s contempt grew, as did his hopes.

  From then on, he was able to follow part of Annetta’s orders and control himself before others; but when alone with her Alfonso was calculatedly daring, forcing himself to be so in spite of the blood rushing to his heart and snatching at his words.

  One evening when, after waiting in vain for Francesca to leave the room, Annetta accompanied him on to the landing, he resolutely carried out a plan he had had in his mind for several evenings. In the full light, there before all those doors, any one of which could suddenly open, he drew her to him and kissed her on the lips. Annetta, terrified, broke away from his embrace, but shaken and not at all angry, murmured gently: “Leave me, Alfonso!”

  He went off with drunken steps, though even in his agitation he had a clear idea why Annetta had not rebuked him. She liked such daring, and hesitations imposed by respect merely satisfied her vanity. When drawing her to him he had muttered aloud: “If I’m killed for this, it would be a fine death!”

  He had not needed to say the melodramatic phrase, as his action was already excused in Annetta’s eyes, so Alfonso had grounds for believing.

  Next evening she refused to accompany him beyond the living-room door, but laughingly, with an air of teasing. They had been laughing the whole evening, because Alfonso had firmly decided to make himself agreeable; certainly Annetta did not like glum discontented men around her, only happy faces.

  It was not only his concern for Annetta’s wishes. He had been suspected of wanting to compromise her and wanted to avoid all hint of such baseness, particularly as he hoped not to have to fall back on it. He was particularly careful with Macario, whom he suspected of trying for his own aims to find out what form their literary work took. Alfonso decided to show a great deal of interest in this work and to pretend, nevertheless, that only a spirit of duty made him continue to frequent the Maller home. “For really,” he assured Macario “I have to be so careful there that it bores me.”

  But he felt that the other did not believe him.

  Partly to save himself from the machinations which he feared, and also to make a merit of his own discretion, he told Annetta about Macario’s questions and his own replies. The latter did not entirely satisfy her, and she advised him to exaggerate less so as to be more easily believed. She said, quite rightly as Alfonso recognized, that he had not used all his perspicacity in getting Macario to believe in the coldness of his relations with Annetta, his conscience being so delicate and honest. No! Once this conscience of his was smoothed, he had treated the matter as if it were of secondary importance. Deep down he did not dislike making Macario jealous.

  This weakness became obvious when he tried to deceive Miceni as well as Macario. It was easy, Miceni being far from suspecting anything, so far that Alfonso was piqued and often felt an urge to turn the other into a confidant and his contempt into envy; for it was more and more obvious that Miceni thought Alfonso loved Annetta and was not loved in return. He did not know of Annetta’s rejection of Fumigi, and Fumigi must have told him a lie to explain why there had been no engagement. It was strange how easily Miceni, usually so sharp, believed the tales spun for him. Fumigi, he told Alfonso, was about to marry a girl richer and lovelier than Annetta, whom he had left because of her.

  Alfonso found it easier to keep silent about himself and his relations with Annetta on noticing that, to avenge himself on Miceni and irritate him, he only had to deride Fumigi and his pretensions.

  “The man dropped his idea of asking for Annetta’s hand from one moment to the next, did he? Odd! I was told he’d only dropped it after putting it into execution!”

  Miceni went red as a boiled prawn and answered furiously, as if to a personal offence, that Annetta was a vain little thing who wanted to see someone die of love for her, but had not succeeded so far.

  Alfonso could only feel angry with Fumigi for a short time. One morning, when going to the office, he saw the little man trotting along in the same direction. Alfonso passed, pretending not to see him, but Fumigi ran behind calling him loudly. He turned and was surprised to find a very different figure from what he had expected. It was not the gauntness and pallor of the face that surprised him; it was the disquiet in the eyes, the strange chewing or rather ruminating movement of the mouth, and particularly the careless attire: a jacket that was too long and did not seem made for him, light white trousers in spite of a temperature slightly below zero, and on his right knee a large ink mark at which Alfonso, out of politeness, tried not to stare.

  “I’ve to announce that I’m marrying … marrying …” and he did not seem to remember the name of his fiancée. Alfonso congratulated him hesitatingly. He did not understand; the man looked more mad than happy.

  But he talked more or less sense, though his tongue seemed out of control, as it rushed along at a great pace and Alfonso found it difficult to follow him, Fumigi’s pronunciation being slurred and not at all clear. When the other realized he was not understood, he began shouting to make himself clearer.

  “I understand, I understand!” cried Alfonso in alarm.

  Fumigi described his studies in mechanics. He had invented a traction-engine which decreased fuel consumption by seventy-five per cent. He was not quite sure about it yet, because he had no means so far of measuring the exact consumption of petrol. It was an air-pressure machine.

  “I’ve unfortunately no means … that is … for measuring … In theory I’m sure …”

  Alfonso, who knew nothing about mechanics, asked him, just to show he was taking an interest in what was being told: “Why don’t you use a petrol gauge?”

  The other one looked at him in amazement: “I’ll try.”

  Alfonso muttered, “Do you still go to Signorina Annetta’s?”

  “Very rarely.”

  “I don’t go any more because I’ve no time. So much … so much to do.”

  The clock in the square struck nine. Fumigi counted the nine strokes.

  “Nine o’clock already? I must be off.”

  He put his right hand gently into Alfonso’s, then quickly withdrew it and let it drop to his side. His mouth had formed no farewell and was busy chewing, while his thoughts were obviously now all on the next place he had to go; he turned and trotted off towards the sea, crossing the Corso diagonally.

  That day Miceni and Alfonso did not quarrel. Shaken, Alfonso asked Miceni what illness Fumigi was suffering from.

  “Illness?” asked Miceni in an angry tone. “It’s not illness, it’s nervous over-excitement from working too hard. He invents machines, as well as working all day long in his office.”

  “I’m so glad!” said Alfonso sincerely. “Has the doctor assured him he’ll recover?”

  He longed to be certain that Fumigi’s illness was not serious.

  “Oh yes, of course!” replied Miceni brusquely.

  Reassured, Alfonso said he hoped to see Fumigi very soon again and in good health. He would be warm to him and try to do all he could to alleviate the sorrows which he himself had helped to bring on the poor little man. That evening he ran into Prarchi, rushing furiously down the Corso; he stopped him. “Sorry, I’ve no time!” said Prarchi, trying to pass.


  “Just one question. How’s Fumigi?”

  Prarchi at once forgot he had no time.

  “How d’you know he’s ill?”

  “I spoke to him this morning, and he seemed very odd.”

  Prarchi hesitated for a minute, then: “It’s true,” he confirmed. “I’ve noticed it too. But I can say nothing yet. He’s been in the hands of his family doctor till now, and I’ve only been called by Maller today. I heard some talk of nervous tension, and that seems possible. A month ago he was just excited and no more. He’d gone back to his studies suddenly, and when I advised him to rest, he answered with an energy I wouldn’t have thought him capable of: ‘Better die and achieve some result. I’m old and in a hurry.’ Who can tell? Perhaps I’m mistaken and it’s only a matter of tension, as it’s called.”

  Again Prarchi hesitated. Then resolutely, in a deeply moved tone, he said: “To you I can talk. I wish I were mistaken, but I don’t think so. It’s progressive paralysis. Please don’t mention this to anyone for the moment.”

  He shook the hand which Alfonso had held out to him before hearing the terrible verdict and went off at a run.

  XIII

  THE FINANCIAL POSITION of the Lanuccis showed no signs of improvement. The old man’s business affairs always came to the same end, and Gustavo was without a job for the second time. As poverty increased so did ill-humour, and Alfonso, who was now spending more time at the Mallers than with the Lanuccis, suffered particularly in their company because he was unused to the asperities that came from need.

  When Gustavo came home one day and announced that he had left his job because his boss had insulted him, there was an ugly scene. First the old man praised his son’s self-respect and told him he was a real Lanucci. His mood only changed after his wife observed sadly that the family finances would be worse for this. At the idea of any increase in poverty, the old man lost all logic and pride. He yelled and cursed, more and more put out by the pert replies of Gustavo, who was trying to safeguard his own dignity as best he could. In his fury the old man said that he was sick and tired of bearing the expenses of the whole family all alone. Again and again his wife asked him not to shout so. Being more educated she realized how this scene must disgust Alfonso and was ashamed of it; but she could find no better way of stopping him than by shouting back at him herself. As she grew excited, she became insulting and gave free vent to the bitterness stored up in her heart by the wretchedness of her life. When the old man, for lack of other arguments, repeated that he was tired of working alone for them all, she lost her temper and said it was not true that he was working for them all and that he scarcely earned enough to keep himself.