The four old men of the bank, Rultini, Ciappi, Jassy and Marlucci had been close friends, linked by their ages, which cut them off from the youths invading the bank; but the friendship best known and admired had been between Rultini and Ciappi. Rultini, a first-class linguist, helped Ciappi when the legal office had to draft letters requiring great purity or clarity of style, and on settlement days Ciappi was often with Rultini to help him through the terrible complications of the day. But at the funeral of Jassy, the oldest of the four, for the first time the two white heads were seen apart. The Doctor (as Ciappi was called from respect) glanced secretly towards Rultini, waiting for the other to approach him; but the Professor (Rultini was somewhat ironically called Professor, due to his linguistic studies) was looking elsewhere, hard and stubborn. From then on they did not exchange another word, which aroused general surprise because the matter of the Venice post had already lasted a long time, and at the beginning the two old men had pretended to be even closer friends than usual.
Ciappi said there had been a dispute which he never thought Rultini would consider so important; it had broken out in the tavern for some futile reason, a light word from him, spoken without malice. One day in Alfonso’s room he showed signs of wanting to talk about his relations with Rultini. Alfonso realized this to be an astute but mistaken diplomatic move; Ciappi thought he was still a friend of the Mallers and hoped to win his sympathy and influence Maller through him.
“Rultini hates me now; that’s the reason why a simple discussion, of which we’ve had a number already, could degenerate in such a way. He thinks I’ve betrayed him, but even for a friend like him I couldn’t sacrifice the biggest job I could ever aspire to. I tried to remain his friend and limit our rivalry to that matter only. But he lost his head in a most improper way.”
Ciappi’s indignation was all very well, and human, but it was said at the bank that he had the greater chance of victory, and in fact with his legal knowledge he seemed more suitable for a manager’s post than did the other with his languages; so Alfonso, though agreeing with him, thought that in Rultini’s place Ciappi would not have been calm and reasonable either.
He also happened to hear the other side. He had gone into the counting house to look for a file and stopped to talk to Miceni, while Rultini was having an excited discussion in a low voice with Marlucci. Miceni signalled to Alfonso to be quiet, and both stood stock-still but in an attitude of talking, so that the other two, more and more excited, did not notice they were being overheard.
Rultini raised his voice first.
“He knows how essential that job is to me because my position here is unbearable, while the change would bring little advantage to him. So this is treachery on his part.”
Marlucci also raised his voice to make himself heard, but calmly, like one who finds it easy to see the matter objectively. Marlucci said no one could be expected to renounce such a chance out of friendship, and he considered wrong whomever had first made a business rivalry into a private quarrel. It was Rultini’s duty to make peace with Ciappi as soon as was possible.
Rultini cried that he was ready to do anything, even renounce the post voluntarily, but not make peace. His hatred, he asserted, did not only come from their rivalry in business, but because at the tavern, in front of other people and without any consideration, he had been blamed for a mistake at the last receiver’s settlement.
“He’s astute, he is! He puts on that air of indifference, but meanwhile is working quietly on the side, stealing from me the little consideration I still have.”
On his fat, still-unlined face was a look of pained surprise that one so wretched as himself should also be considered in the wrong, and Alfonso felt a twinge of pity for him.
When Rultini left, Marlucci with a nasty little laugh turned to Miceni.
“I told him my opinion.”
The unexpected happened. Maller gave the post of manager of the Venice branch to Rultini. The Venice branch was only to take a passive part in movements of stocks and shares, that is to accept and transmit orders to the main office, and perhaps one motive for making Maller take this decision was actually the wish to rid himself of an incapable receiver.
The first announcement of this choice showed in the bearing of the two old men. They seemed to have changed heads by magic. Rultini, who had been brusque and glum for years, became happy and friendly. He was in a state of constant festivity; he warmly shook the hands proffered in congratulation and was worried when he saw sad faces. One day he stopped Alfonso, with whom till then he had only exchanged a few words, and asked him the reason for his gloom. Alfonso started and tried to think of some reply, but Rultini in his restless joy had no time to wait. He went off, crying, “Never worry; that’s the most important maxim for happiness.” Actually he cared very little about the sadness of another, but it surprised him. “What! Still someone complaining?”
There were others with sorrows in the bank as well as Alfonso. Ciappi came back to the office five days later; for those five days he had pleaded illness. The first day he only stayed an hour or so in the office and left because of glances from his colleagues, who knew that the news was a surprise to him and wondered how he would take it; which was with some dignity, as all recognized after a few days. When he began to work he did not seem too sad, and worked as precisely as ever. He even spoke to Rultini on business matters, though before his success the latter had avoided coming into contact with him even on those. Rultini, to complete his happiness, wanted only to make peace with his old friend and kept on giving him friendly glances, but Ciappi was silent and treated him with icy coldness. Even when he had to talk to him about business he did not look him in the face.
“Oh! So it’s like that, is it? Now that he’s killed me off he wants my friendship, does he?”
Rultini confessed to Marlucci that he regretted having quarrelled with Ciappi but that his own anger had been justifiable, for it would have been an obvious injustice if Ciappi had been the one preferred. Ciappi had no right to bear a grudge.
“If he hands me his job here and his pay, and of course his knowledge too, so that I can feel up to his job and happy at it, I’d be very ready to let him go to Venice in my place.”
These remarks were repeated to Ciappi too.
“Give him my knowledge? If he hadn’t always been such an ass, he’d have got it for himself. I guarantee that however little is asked of him in that job it will always be too much, and if Maller doesn’t change his mind, he’ll learn one day that his branch has taken an independent decision—it’ll go bankrupt on its own.”
Maller heard of this hatred, thought it more exaggerated than it actually was, and from prudence made Rultini leave a week before the time arranged.
Rultini went to the station in the triumphant company of the oldest employees, including Marlucci and Sanneo. Marlucci then said that he would greatly miss Rultini, his oldest friend in the bank.
“I can’t understand how Ciappi could have behaved like this.”
Alfonso, before whom Marlucci uttered this phrase, thought the Tuscan must have a habit of always being on the winning side.
One of the most indomitable fighters was Giacomo, the little boy with pink cheeks, of whom Alfonso had been so fond. The lad had grown, got thinner, and entirely lost the colour he had brought from his native Friuli; his face as it lengthened had taken on the shape of its regular but large bone structure.
The messenger boys of the bank were considered clerks and attached each to a department, the counting house, the receiving and correspondence departments; their immediate heads were the managers of these various offices. But in time a custom had grown up, begun by Maller himself, of senior executives having a messenger boy of their own and making him partly into a servant, paying him separately. Jobs for them made up the office boys’ day, which was only partly filled by other office duties.
Cellani had chosen an ex-ostler, Antonio, and though he was carelessly looked after, put up with him for years. W
ith the best intentions one day he suggested Antonio getting Giacomo to help him; Antonio accepted gratefully and made the mistake of taking advantage of the help offered. From that day it was Giacomo who cleaned Cellani’s room and put back in their places any books consulted during the day; often Antonio would even assign to Giacomo the job of taking Cellani his tea twice a day. The lad quickly realized the use he could make of this situation and was most zealous in Cellani’s service, at the expense, when it was unavoidable, of the bank.
On New Year’s Eve Cellani, in spite of his good nature, forgot Antonio, whom he scarcely ever saw, and gave a tip to Giacomo. This was a surprise to Antonio, who had not calculated the natural consequences of his inertia. He did not dare complain, but tried to change the arrangements and forbade Giacomo to work for Cellani any longer. He then set himself to carry out alone all the chores of his job so as to reap full benefit from it.
But it was too late. The very next day Cellani noticed the change because he was now used to better service. He called Giacomo to complain of his desk being left dirty. In came the youth and quickly said what he had been turning over in his mind since Antonio had forbidden him to set foot in Cellani’s room; he had calculated all the consequences and was not taken by surprise.
“You know, it wasn’t I who did out the room today, it was Antonio. I’d started on it, and he sent me away.”
It was the second of January, and the tips had been distributed on the first, so that Cellani found it easy to connect Antonio’s new zeal with that. He understood and was touched. He gave Antonio money, but could not take his side entirely and asked him to let Giacomo do his room. His comfort had become dear to him.
This dismissal was a disaster to Antonio, for it meant lower pay without any perceptible lessening of work. The counting house clerks for whom he worked had given him little to do out of regard for Cellani, but now he was again made to rush around town, drawing out and paying in money. What was more, knowing he had only the counting house job now, when the other offices needed more messengers, they often asked the chief cashier for permission to make use of Antonio.
He himself told Alfonso his sorrows. Sanneo wanted the paper reserve, which had till then been kept in the counting house, taken to the correspondence department, and Antonio, Santo and Giacomo were told to carry it across. Soon the latter two left because an electric bell in the passage kept on ringing for them. They did not return, and for two hours Antonio puffed and panted with packets of bundled paper as heavy as, in his own words, lead.
“Aren’t you in Signor Cellani’s service any longer?” Alfonso asked him.
“What, you didn’t know?” asked Antonio, amazed that everyone didn’t know of his misfortune. “I upset a cup of tea, and Signor Cellani wouldn’t forgive me.” He did not confess that he had lost his job because he was so slow at it, since he did not want to spare Giacomo the rebuke which the boy actually deserved. “If it hadn’t been for that darned boy, who pushed himself forward and spoke ill of me to Signor Cellani, I’d still be in my job at this very hour.”
Giacomo told Alfonso clearly and frankly how the whole matter had developed; Alfonso prodded his chin and looked him seriously in his still childish eyes. “Did you really take Antonio’s job away?”
“Me?” cried Giacomo with a satisfied grin. “The fool was doing nothing. He’s blind and can’t keep on his toes; so he wasn’t good enough for Signor Cellani.”
Alfonso left him, surprised at this clear lack of pity for the vanquished. I’d never let him touch my neck if I’d any gold at my throat, he thought.
Now that he knew what he himself lacked compared to others, he felt calm and content. He was not inferior, as he had so long thought. He could judge them from a detached, serene perspective, because he had been in the struggle too and knew what it was like. And he pitied both victor and vanquished.
So convinced was he of the justice of his own feelings that sometimes it seemed almost easy to convince others.
One evening he happened to be alone in the living-room with Lucia. She was truly a poor girl in need of sympathy. Grief had changed her expression and habits. Now that she no longer concentrated on the mending and embellishing of her clothes, their poor material showed wear and tear which had been cleverly hidden before, her skirt hung on her thin ungainly body as if from a hanger, her waist had no shape; yet, though thin, she was not really ugly. Lucia often sobbed, sometimes only when her mother reminded her of her grief by some reproof for her dreary sluttish appearance. The girl made no secret of the cause of her sorrow; she had never spoken in front of Alfonso but had the courage to protest when others did.
Could nothing console the poor girl? He felt like trying. He sat down next to her and spoke very sweetly and sincerely and was very soon touched to notice that she seemed to be following him onto the heights where he was trying to lead her, and that her ascent was being made easier for her by his own feelings.
He talked to her about his observations on life over the years and how silly he had come to find both our joys and sorrows. He reminded her of the lessons she must have had from priests and teachers. Life’s value consisted in something quite different from what people usually loved it for. Priests put this truth too coldly and so were apt not to be believed, but it was true, profoundly true. It had been a surprise for him to realize this, he told her; that it was not the rhetoric of priests and school teachers, but truth! A balanced life, a hard-working existence with modest aims, was worth more than the pleasures that riches and love could give. The important element in happiness was peace of mind. She must not think that this man who had deceived her could ever enjoy great happiness, for remorse, lack of self-content, was the worst of all misfortunes. But even if he lived as happily as he could, that could not matter to her, should not hurt her. Why did she think of herself as so unfortunate? Could she not live calmly with her mother, show her the affection which the old woman so needed? Was that not enough? Simplicity of habits was happiness, goodness was happiness, peace was happiness. And nothing else.
She had not quite understood all this, and certainly the little which she did understand had not convinced her, but she admired his conviction and was touched by his ideas, while the vast amount excluded in his peroration left her speechless. For him on the other hand that speech of his had been of greater importance than he could have foreseen; it had convinced even himself. Never had he been so clearly conscious of feelings long burgeoning in his mind. Surprise at the discovery of his own serenity prevented any regrets at his not achieving better results with Lucia. And she had given him a look which meant anything but renunciation; it was dangerous to talk to that girl too warmly.
Now he knew why he had renounced Annetta. He had nothing to blame himself for because he had acted according to his own nature, which he had not recognized then. It was good to know at last the forces motivating his own body, which brought him new surprises every day. By knowing them he would now be able to avoid other deviations from the road his nature imposed on him; a pleasant, easy road without a goal.
He tried to resign himself to the false positions in which he still often found himself. Though he did not consider himself justly punished, he found some comfort in the thought that it would very soon all be forgotten; then as far as he was concerned he would never compromise his peace again.
Prarchi wanted him to see Fumigi and asked him to accompany him one morning to the café at the railway station where the poor man spent his time copying out newspapers. He showed him one of Fumigi’s writings, a fragment which he carried about with him. It was a margin torn from some newspaper, filled with pencil marks so strongly made that they tore the paper. Some of the letters were printed upside down, others in italics, but the latter were odd shapes, while the printed ones were copied exactly.
He felt he had to go and see the sick man. Prarchi was as keen on the visit as if the illness had been his own creation, and Fumigi a creature raised by himself. Alfonso was afraid of offending him by show
ing how little interest he took in it.
When one fine morning he was walking along towards the café with Prarchi, the latter told him that Macario, who visited his cousin every day, would probably be there. Such a meeting seemed yet another step towards peace of mind, Alfonso felt; now it would not be long before he knew what to expect from that direction. It was unpleasant not to be prepared for this meeting, and while Prarchi continued to talk to him about Fumigi, he was wondering how to behave with Macario. It would be easy to show the sympathy he had before, listen with all ears when Macario spoke, and finally congratulate him on his engagement to Annetta, which, according to Prarchi, had now been official for the last few days. He did not hate Macario, and this fiction should not be any great effort.
Such was the bearing suggested by circumstances. Probably Macario knew nothing, and his attitude would not reveal anything to Alfonso, but even if Annetta had told him all, as was her duty, Macario would be careful to avoid showing this; though it must make him suffer, he would try to imitate Alfonso’s bearing for which he would surely be grateful. During the short walk, though, he found himself imagining Macario filled with hatred at the sight of him and insulting him publicly as an enemy. It was possible. Macario might well have forgiven Annetta to satisfy his own self-interested love, yet find he could not endure the sight of the man whom he considered chiefly to blame.
Prarchi meanwhile was criticizing the Mallers. They were giving some money to Fumigi, but very little. They let him go about with a male nurse, while they should have him accompanied by one of the family.
“By that idiot Federico, for instance.”
Annetta’s brother had returned to town two months ago and was doing nothing but walk around the main streets dressed up in the latest Paris fashions with a short jacket and tight trousers, showing his spindly legs. Alfonso had not yet seen him.