Signor Maller’s home was in Via dei Forni, a street in the new town, whose houses lacked any external charm. They were grey, with five floors and warehouses at street level. The street was badly lit and little frequented at night after the traffic of carts carrying merchandise ceased.
It had rained during the day, and Alfonso walked close against the walls to avoid mud. On finding the house, he was somewhat surprised by its entrance. This was lit up like broad daylight. Wide, divided into two parts separated by a staircase, it looked like a miniature amphitheatre. It was deserted, and as Alfonso went up the stairs, hearing nothing but the sound and echo of his own footsteps, he imagined himself the hero of a fairy story.
The first person to appear was a hale-looking old man with a well-trimmed white beard, who was humming as he came downstairs. “Who d’you want?” he asked, in a tone which was enough to show Alfonso that in spite of his black suit he could be recognized in that house as a poor man at first glance.
“Does Signor Maller live here?” he asked timidly.
The old man’s face became grimmer. Every decent person must know where Signor Maller lived. Could this be a beggar?
They were now on the last steps before the first floor. On the landing appeared Santo’s head, shaggy as a thistle.
“It’s one of our employees,” he called. “Come on up, Signor Nitti.”
“Oh, Santo!” exclaimed Alfonso, pleased to meet a face he knew, and he went up the stairs faster. The porter stroked his beard.
“Ah! So that’s who’e is, is it?” and the old man went on downstairs without any greeting, humming again after a few steps.
Santo, leaning negligently on the balustrade, waited for Alfonso without changing position and, when he was near, remarked, still motionless: “I’ll take you in.” Then, after a moment’s reflection, he asked: “Did Signor Maller invite you?”—a question which made Alfonso think that there must be a room set aside for employees invited by Signor Maller. Suddenly Santo began walking swiftly towards a door on the right.
“Excuse me a minute,” he called and, leaving him on the threshold, hurried into a passage, opened the first door he came to and slammed it behind him. Alfonso was left alone in a half-dark passage carpeted in muted colours with two doors on each side and one at the end, all small and made of shiny black wood. To the right he heard an outburst from Santo answered by a woman’s voice and laughter; he could make out no words, only the sound which rang as if in an empty space.
Then Santo came out roaring with laughter; his mouth was full. Through the half-shut door Alfonso glimpsed a kitchen with gleaming copper pots, a cooking-stove and next to it a blonde fat woman lit by a reddish glow from the stove; she was threatening Santo with a spoon. Santo went on laughing into his moustaches for a time, as he moved towards the door at the end of the passage.
They reached a square room with minute pieces of furniture made for creatures who had surely never existed. Small and soft as a nest, it was covered with blue stuff which Alfonso thought satin, and had carpets so thick and soft that he felt he wanted to lie down on them.
“This is Signorina Annetta’s little reception room,” said Santo, “but it’s not entered from this end. This is the servants’ entrance. I brought you this way to show you a few rooms at once; it’s the best part of the house.”
He looked at him with a patronizing smile, expecting thanks.
Various Chinese objects were laid out on a little table. Signorina Annetta’s taste was oriental, it seemed. By the light of Santo’s candle Alfonso saw a curtain with two small Chinese men painted on a blue background; one was sitting on a rope which was attached to two poles but slack and dangling as if the Chinaman had no weight, and the other was in the act of climbing an invisible cliff.
“The Signorina sleeps here,” said Santo when he reached the next room, holding his candle high to spread the light.
Alfonso asked in some disquiet: “Is one allowed to come straight in here like this?”
“No!” Santo replied grandly. “No one’s allowed but me.”
His face was agleam with pride at all this finery. He made Alfonso admire the velvet curtains, and even moved towards the bed and was about to open the dainty pink hangings around the four-poster, when Alfonso stopped him.
“Oh!” exclaimed Santo, with a gesture intended to show contempt for his employers’ wishes but belying his actions, added “Giovanna told me they’re all still in the living-room.”
Still, slightly shaken by Alfonso’s alarm, he moved towards the door. Alfonso, despite his agitation, found the bed touching and kept his eye on it until he reached the door. Next to it was a prie-dieu in dark wood.
In the next room he was surprised to find a library. Big shelves full of books covered the walls. The furniture was simple: in the middle a big table covered with green cloth and around the room comfortable chairs and two sofas.
Suddenly in came Signor Maller.
They had not heard his steps. He asked Santo brusquely what he was doing in that room.
“I wanted to show Signor Nitti the library,” stuttered Santo.
He had lost his easy, masterful bearing and stood rigidly at attention, holding his candle very low. Then he added, obviously lying: “We came in that way,” and pointed to a door in the middle.
Alfonso moved forward.
“I was on my way to disturb you …” and he interrupted himself, thinking he had already expressed all he wanted to say.
“Signor Nitti!” Signor Maller held out a hand with a polite gentlemanly gesture. “Welcome!” He spoke affably but with no great vivacity. “I’m sorry not to be able to remain with you as I would have wished; I have to see about a matter here and then leave. You’ll find my daughter and the Signorina, whom you already know, there in the living-room; goodbye for the moment,” and, half-turned towards the table already, he shook Alfonso’s hand.
Santo, rigid at the middle door, asked: “Shall I leave my candle here?”
“No, light the gas!”
Signor Maller lay down on the nearest ottoman and took up a newspaper.
Alfonso found himself in the passage by which he had entered. Helped by Santo, he took off his overcoat. While showing him into the living-room, Santo found time to exclaim: “What a pity we met Signor Maller; his bedroom’s worth seeing. Another time, perhaps,” and he gave a protective wink.
The living-room was lit by a gas-bracket with three flames. There was no one in it. Santo entered with cautious step, glanced round with a look of comical surprise, ran to a table, raised a corner of its covering, looked beneath: “No one here!”
Then, seeing Alfonso bored by this and not smiling at his jokes, he moved away.
“The ladies must have gone up to the second floor. I’ll go and tell them. Make yourself at home, meanwhile.”
Knowing the worth of Santo’s invitation, Alfonso remained standing. He was overawed by the wealth surrounding him and had forgotten all about behaving like someone with poise. He longed to be outside and did not feel at all happy, sensing he must have the modest bearing of an underling in this house. A more trained eye would have noticed something excessive in the decor, but it was the first time that Alfonso had seen such riches, and he was dazzled.
The living-room bore more traces of use than Annetta’s own rooms. A little piano was open with some music laid on it; sheets of music also lay on a chair near the instrument. The furniture was varied, some chairs wicker, some stuffed. He even sniffed a faint smell of food.
A large number of photographs were arranged like open fans on the walls above the piano. To leave room for the tall furniture the four or five pictures were hung too high.
Alfonso knew nothing at all about painting, but he had read a volume or two of art criticism and at least had an idea what the modern school meant in theory. He was struck by a painting representing nothing but a long road moving across a rocky landscape. There were no figures: just rocks and rocks. The colours were cold, and the road seeme
d to lose itself in the horizon. Its lack of life was disconcerting.
Lost in contemplation, more surprised than admiring, he did not hear the door open; then out of embarrassment he hesitated a little before turning when he realized that someone had entered the room.
“Signor Nitti!” said a gentle voice.
Red as if he had been standing on his head, Alfonso turned. It was the Signorina, as she was called, his mother’s friend, not Signorina Maller, who must be younger, but Signorina Francesca, whom he guessed to be about thirty, although he could not tell why he thought her as much as that. She had a pale complexion, not healthy but anyway young, and clear blue eyes; pale golden hair gave sweetness to her rather irregular features. In stature she was rather short, too short had her figure not been in perfect proportion and so dispensed with any wish to modify it.
She held out a plump white hand.
“You’re Signora Carolina’s son, are you not? And so a good friend of mine, eh?”
Alfonso bowed.
“Is everyone well in the village?”
She asked about a dozen people there, friends whom she had not heard mentioned for years, calling one or two by their nicknames, and mentioning some special characteristic of each. Then she asked about places, naming them with regret and citing happy hours spent there. She asked about a hill at the far end of the village and listened anxiously to his reply as though afraid to hear that it had fallen down in the meantime.
Alfonso found Signorina Francesca charming. No one had revived memories of his home in that way before; Signora Lanucci’s distant lifeless memories had revived nothing. He lived, dreaming sadly of his home, by himself, and transforming it by his very thoughts. The Signorina’s talk corrected his memories and seemed to give them a fresh impression. She was moved by them too.
As Alfonso soon learnt, that had been the happiest year of her life. She had been ill, and the poor family to which she belonged had made great sacrifices to carry out a doctor’s prescription and send her to the country. There she had enjoyed a year’s complete freedom.
She took his hat from his hand and made him sit down.
“Signorina Annetta will be here at once. Have you been waiting long?”
“Half-an-hour!” said Alfonso frankly.
“Who let you in?” asked the Signorina with a frown.
“Signor Santo.”
He said “Signor” out of respect for the person.
Signorina Annetta came in, and Alfonso rose to his feet in confusion, flustered by the long anticipation.
She was a pretty girl, although, as he told Miceni later, he did not find her wide pink face attractive. Tall, in a light dress which showed her pronounced curves to advantage, she was not a type to please a sentimentalist. With all her perfection of form Alfonso found her eyes not black enough and her hair not curly enough. He did not know why but he wished they had been.
Francesca introduced Alfonso. Annetta bowed slightly as she was about to sit down. Obviously she had no intention of saying a word to him. She began reading a newspaper that she had brought with her. Alfonso sensed that she was not reading and that her eyes were fixed on the same point on the page. He flattered himself that she was as embarrassed as he was and wanted to avoid showing it by this pretence of reading. But her face was calm and smiling.
Francesca, less relaxed, tried to start up the interrupted conversation again:
“And does your family still live in that house so far out of the village?”
Alfonso had scarcely time to say “yes”, when Annetta, with a little gurgle of pleasure, which she had been holding back with difficulty till then, said to Francesca: “I was with Papa. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow; he’s promised.”
Francesca seemed pleasantly surprised. Annetta’s voice amazed Alfonso; he had expected one less soft in so strong a frame.
The two women were talking in low voices. Alfonso guessed that Annetta must have used some guile to get some consent out of Signor Maller. Being quite in the dark about it all, he felt rather embarrassed. He looked at a picture to his right; a portrait of an old man with gross features, tiny eyes and a bald head.
Francesca seemed to sense that he was ill-at-ease and tried to make up for the discourtesy of Annetta, who had been the first to whisper. She told him how they had planned a trip to Paris, and now, after refusing for a long time, Signor Maller had finally agreed to go with them and leave his office for eight to ten days at the height of the business season. She turned back to Annetta.
“Did he definitely say I was to go with you?”
She must have been longing for that journey too.
“Of course,” replied Annetta, with a smile which Alfonso had to admit looked attractive.
For a space of time which seemed at least an hour he had to listen passively to the two women’s chatter, at times pretending to pay attention and at others turning modest eyes elsewhere when Annetta lowered her voice and neared her mouth towards Francesca’s ear. When Santo entered and announced Avvocato Macario, he felt relieved.
“Let him in, let him in!” cried Annetta joyously, “he’ll give us a laugh.”
Avvocato Macario was a good-looking man of about forty, dressed with great care, tall and strong, with a brown face full of life, and he greeted Annetta in imitation of Serravilla, “Even lovelier than usual today … ah!” He shook hands with Francesca, who at once introduced Alfonso and, instead of giving the lawyer’s name, said: “The finest moustaches in town!”
“If you knew what a bother it is to keep them like this; I must say that before the Signorina says it!”
Alfonso’s mouth tried to smile; he felt worse than before. Macario’s ease did not relax his embarrassment or make him feel any better.
Annetta had put down the newspaper. She leaned both her elbows lazily on the table.
“There’s some news, my dear cousin! It’ll surprise you!”
She had an air of deriding him.
Macario pretended to look put out.
“I know it already. In fact I’d never have believed it. Uncle leaving town at the height of the business season! Are these walls so solid that they don’t fall down from surprise? I met him on the stairs, and he told me the news, though with quite a different expression to yours now.”
He gesticulated as he spoke; at intervals he put his hands up close to his ears, as though hinting with an outstretched finger at things of which Alfonso knew nothing.
“I can understand your not being pleased about it,” said Annetta. “When one wants it here though,” and she touched her forehead with her forefinger, “that’s enough.”
Macario asserted that Paris was even more boring in the winter than in the summer. He seemed to be taking revenge for some little defeat; obviously he had tried to prevent this journey.
“In winter the Parisians always have their heads abuzz with something that makes them unbearable. Each year everyone in Paris, every single person, latches on to one subject. One day it’s the fall of the Ministry, another a Deputy’s speech, a third a murder. Always a bore!” he added.
Annetta recognized a novelist’s Paris in this description and exclaimed “Always charming!”
On a former journey she had searched in vain for that side of Paris.
“Each to his taste. If one visits a friend, he’ll talk about nothing but a pistol-shot fired at Gambetta; one arranges some business-deal, and the client is worrying about the pistol-shot and Gambetta; even the shoemaker talks of nothing but Gambetta. Maybe that’s all the better.”
At this joke Alfonso gave a loud laugh because he could find no words to put into the conversation and thought it a duty to show he was taking part.
“The Paris theatre’s all right in winter; a good première is worth the journey.”
Now Macario had set aside any attempt to diminish Annetta’s triumph and spoke seriously, turning to Alfonso, perhaps in thanks for the laughter.
“We’ll go to the première of Odette,” cried Franc
esca delightedly.
They would telegraph next day for seats.
Macario asked Alfonso whether he was employed by his uncle and for how long. On receiving a reply, he explained how on the stairs his uncle had told him he would find someone who dealt with correspondence in any number of languages. Alfonso replied in monosyllables and, when told of Maller’s praise, bowed in surprise, attributing it to a misunderstanding. Yet it must have been of him Maller spoke. Macario knew Alfonso’s home village and asked if he suffered from homesickness.
“A little,” replied Alfonso. He tried to complete the phrase with the expression on his face, and succeeded.
“You’ll get over it, you’ll see!” said Macario. “One becomes used to everything very easily, I think; to living in town after the country.”
Annetta did not find this conversation amusing and interrupted it without further ado. At the sound of her voice Alfonso raised his head, thinking that she wanted to ask him a question too, but was at once disappointed and so tried to hide the reason for gesture with the assumption of an air of close attention.
“D’you know, I’ve learnt some songs which are popular in Paris so as to act the Gavroche in the streets with Federico?”
Federico was Annetta’s brother. Miceni, who knew him, had described him to Alfonso as a very haughty man. He was in the consular service and was vice-consul at a French port.
“Could we hear one of these songs?” asked Macario.
“Why not?” and she got up. “Would you care to accompany me?” she said to Francesca. “Come on! Macario’s such a bore this evening that this is the best way of passing the time, I think.”
“That’s for us to judge, don’t you think?” replied Macario impertinently.