He thought that but for the presence of that stern judge at his side he should not care what became of his dignity now that he realized that in the effort to sustain it he had only bound all his thoughts and all his desires more abjectly to Angiolina.
A certain time had already elapsed since his conversation with Sorniani and the tumult which the latter’s words had aroused in his breast had not yet subsided.
Perhaps she would make some attempt to get into touch with him again. In that case his dignity would not prevent him from receiving her with open arms. But it would not be the same as before. He should want to get at once to the reality—that is to say, to possessing her. Down with all pretense! “I know you have been the mistress of all these—” he would shout the names at her—“but I love you all the same. Be mine too, and tell me the truth so that I may no longer have any doubts.” The truth? Even when he was picturing the most brutal frankness he still idealized Angiolina. The truth? Could she tell it? Did she know how to? Supposing that Sorniani had only told part of the truth, lying must be so much a part of her nature that she could never escape from it. He forgot what at certain moments he had perceived so clearly, namely, that he had worked hard to see in Angiolina exactly what she was not, that it was he who had invented the lie.
Because I did not recognize, he continued to himself, that that lie was the only thing which made me ridiculous. Now that he knew everything and could confront her with it point by point there was no further fear of his making himself ridiculous. Everyone is free to love what takes his fancy. He pictured himself repeating all this to Balli.
The wind had gone down and the day had assumed quite a spring-like character. If he had been in any other state of mind, to be free on such a day as this would have filled him with joy, but what was the good of his liberty if he could not go and see Angiolina?
Yet he could have found various excuses for going to her immediately. If for nothing else, he could have gone to administer a fresh rebuke. For up to that moment he had never suspected the existence of those soft-cheeked boys who had preceded Merighi; he had heard of them for the first time today from Sorniani. “No!” he said aloud. “Such weakness as that would put me completely in her power. I must have patience for ten days or a fortnight. She will not wait for me to come to her!” Patience! But meanwhile how was he going to spend that first morning?
Leardi! The tall, strong, handsome youth, so fair and boyish in complexion, so virile in body, was walking along the Corso with his usual serious air, dressed in an overcoat of some light material exactly suitable to the mild winter’s day. As a rule Brentani and Leardi scarcely bowed to each other, both of them being very proud though for totally different reasons. Emilio, face to face with that elegant youth, could not forget that he was a writer of a certain reputation; while the other thought that he could treat him de haut en bas because he was less correctly dressed and because he had never met him at any of the fashionable houses in the town, where he on the contrary was received with open arms. He wished, however, that his superiority should be recognized by Brentani as well, and responded graciously to his salute. He was on the whole more gratified than surprised when he saw Brentani advancing towards him with outstretched hand, and received him warmly.
Brentani had yielded to an irresistible impulse. As he could not go to Angiolina the only thing that remained for him to do was to tack himself on to somebody who in his thoughts was continually associated with her. “So you have taken advantage of the fine weather too, I see, to go for a walk.”
“I’m just taking a stroll before luncheon,” said Leardi, accepting Brentani’s company.
Emilio spoke of the fine weather, of his own slight indisposition and of Sorniani’s illness. He went on to say that he did not much like the latter because he was always boasting about his successes with women. He spoke with great fluency, for he had a strange presentiment of being near to someone who was of vital importance in his life and he would have liked every word he uttered to contribute towards winning his friendship. He watched him anxiously when he got on to the theme of Sorniani’s success with women. Leardi did not move a muscle, though Emilio had expected to see him smile a superior smile. If he had smiled in that connection Emilio would at once have regarded it as a confession that he was one of Angiolina’s lovers.
But Leardi was talkative as well. He was evidently anxious to display his gifts to Brentani. He complained that one always met the same faces on the Corso, and said in this connection that he thought it deplorable how little life and artistic activity there was in Trieste. The town did not suit him at all, he said.
Brentani, meanwhile, was seized with a violent desire to make him talk about Angiolina. He hardly listened to the other’s conversation, only picking out a word here and there, almost mechanically, which had a sound that might remind him of Angiolina’s name, so that he could invent an excuse for introducing her into the conversation. Unluckily he could not find any, but suddenly irritated beyond endurance at having to listen to all that pretentious twaddle, produced with so much nasal emphasis, he interrupted him without ceremony, pointing out with feigned surprise an elegant woman who bore, in fact, no resemblance whatever to Angiolina. “Look, look,” he said; “there is Signorina Angiolina Zarri.”
“Nonsense,” replied Leardi, annoyed at the interruption; “I saw her face, it is not the least like her.”
He again began talking about theaters which hardly anyone went to, and society women who were too dull for words, but Brentani had made up his mind not to submit any longer to this lecture, and asked abruptly: “Do you know Signorina Zarri?”
“Why, do you know her too?” asked the other in a tone of unfeigned surprise.
It was a moment of agonizing doubt for Brentani. He saw clearly that he could not make a man like Leardi talk against his will, however cunning he might be. Since it was so important to him to dissipate every lie which might prevent him seeing Angiolina as she really was, wouldn’t it be better if he opened his heart to Leardi and implored him to tell the truth? It was only the instinctive antipathy he felt for Leardi which prevented him from doing so. “Yes, a friend introduced her to me a few days ago.”
“I was a friend of Merighi’s. Years ago I used to know her intimately.”
“Very intimately, eh?” Brentani insinuated, in a perfectly calm voice, and keeping his face under complete control.
“Oh, no,” said Leardi, very gravely. “How could you imagine such a thing!” He played his part very well, only allowing himself this expression of surprise.
Brentani understood at once the role which Leardi had chosen, and did not insist. He behaved as though he had forgotten his indiscreet question of a few minutes earlier, and said with the utmost gravity: “Tell me something about what happened with Merighi. Why did he give her up?”
“In consequence of his financial embarrassment. He wrote and told me that he had been obliged to give Angiolina her freedom. Which reminds me that I heard only a few days ago that she had got engaged again, to a tailor, I believe.”
He believed, did he? Oh, nobody could have acted better. But to act like that, to force himself to play a part so carefully thought out and studied with such pains, and evidently a contre-cœur,—for otherwise why should it be so difficult to get him to speak about Angiolina?—he must have a very good reason for wishing to keep his knowledge secret; evidently he had renewed his connection with her quite recently.
Leardi had already passed on to something else, and soon afterwards Emilio left him. In order to escape he was again obliged to plead a slight indisposition, and Leardi saw him looking so haggard that he believed in it, and expressed a sympathetic interest for which Brentani felt compelled to thank him. But in reality how he hated him! He longed to be able to spend that whole day, at least, in spying on him; he felt sure that he would track him down at last to Angiolina’s house. He ground his teeth in his insane rage, and almost immediately afterwards reproached himself with bitter irony for the v
ery anger he had felt. Angiolina was certainly betraying him today, of that he could be certain; perhaps with people he had never heard of. How superior that empty-headed idiot Leardi was to himself! To keep calm! That was the true art of living. “Yes,” thought Brentani, and he felt he was saying something which ought to strike shame not only into his own heart, but into the hearts of all the elect among the human race—“it is the wealth of images in my brain which makes me inferior.” If, for instance, Leardi had thought that Angiolina was betraying him, he would have been incapable of representing her to himself in an image as full of color and life and movement as he himself did when picturing her with Leardi. Why, directly the naked body was uncovered which he had only dreamed of, the commonest porter would find immediate satiety and peace of mind. It was a short, brutal act; a mockery of all his dreams, of all his desires. But when wrath darkened the dreamer’s sight the vision disappeared, leaving in his ears a mocking echo of loud laughter.
At dinner Amalia could not help noticing that whatever it was which agitated Emilio, it was by no means something joyous. He shouted at her because the dinner was not ready; he was hungry and had to go out directly after dinner. It was a torture to him to eat after making such a compromising statement; and when he had finished he went on sitting there before his empty plate, undecided what to do. At last he made up his mind; he was not going to see Angiolina that day; in fact, he would never go near her again. The strongest emotion he felt at that moment was his sorrow at having hurt his sister’s feelings. She went about looking sad and pale. He wanted to ask her pardon, but he did not dare. He felt that if he were to say a single word to her he should break down and cry like a child. At last he said abruptly, but evidently wanting to make it up: “You ought to go out; it is such a lovely day.” She made no reply but left the room. Then he got angry again. “Surely I am wretched enough? She ought to have understood the state of mind I am in. My kind suggestion that she should go out ought to have been enough to make her nice to me and not go on distressing me with her resentment.”
He felt tired. He lay down in his clothes and fell at once into a state of torpor which did not, however, deaden his misery or bring forgetfulness. Once he raised his head to wipe the tears from his eyes, and thought bitterly that it was Amalia who was responsible for those tears. Then he forgot everything.
When he awoke he found that night was falling, one of those melancholy sunsets at the close of a lovely winter’s day. He sat up on his bed, still undecided as to what he should do. Often he used to study at that hour, but now his books looked down from their shelves in vain. All those titles spoke of something dead and gone and quite incapable of making him forget for a single instant the painful life-struggle which was still being waged in his breast.
He looked into the dining-room next door to his own room and saw Amalia sitting by the window bending over her embroidery frame. With forced gaiety he asked her affectionately: “Have you forgiven me for flaring up like that today?”
She only raised her eyes for a moment. “Don’t let us talk about it anymore,” she said sweetly, and went on with her work.
He had expected her to reproach him, and was disappointed to find her so calm. So everyone around him was calm except himself? He sat down beside her and remained there for a long time admiring the deft way in which her needle drove the silk in and out over the design. He tried to find something else to say, but could not.
And she asked no questions. His love, which had caused such an upheaval in her life, his love which at first she had rebelled against so much, no longer made her suffer at all. Once more Emilio put the question to himself:
“Why did I, in fact, abandon Angiolina?”
8
BALLI HAD proposed to himself to complete his friend’s cure. That same evening he came to supper with Emilio. At first he did not betray any anxiety to discover what had taken place and it was only once when Amalia had left the room that he asked casually, while continuing to smoke and look up at the ceiling: “Did you teach her whom she had to deal with?”
Emilio said yes in a rather boastful tone of voice, but would have been hard put to it to utter a single other word in the same tone.
Amalia came back almost immediately. She told of the slight dispute she had had with her brother at mid-day. She said it was very unjust to blame a woman because the dinner was not ready. It depended on the heat of the oven and the thermometer had not been introduced yet into the kitchen. “But,” she added, smiling affectionately at her brother, “he was not responsible for what he said. He came home in such a bad temper that if he had not found an outlet somehow he would have made himself quite ill.”
Balli gave no sign of wishing to connect Emilio’s ill humor with the events of the previous evening. “I was in a shocking temper today myself,” he said, in order to keep the conversation on a light level.
Emilio protested that he had been in the best of humors. “Don’t you remember how jolly I was this morning?”
Amalia had told the story of their quarrel as if it were a subject for mirth; it was evident that she had mentioned it only in order to amuse Balli. She had forgotten that she had been in any way wounded by it, and did not even remember that Emilio had begged her pardon. He felt very much offended by this forgetfulness on her part.
When the two men were alone together in the street, Balli said: “See how free we both of us are now; isn’t it much nicer like this?” and he put his arm through his friend’s and pressed it affectionately.
But Emilio could not feel like that about it. He realized that an unusual show of affection was expected of him, and said: “Of course it is better like this, but it will be some time before I am able properly to appreciate the new state of things. At the moment I feel very desolate even when I am with you.” Without being asked he then proceeded to relate his visit that morning to Via Fabio Severo. He did not say that he had been there the night before too. He spoke of the tone of anguish in Angiolina’s voice. “That was the one thing which moved me. It was hard to leave her just at the very moment when I felt she loved me.”
Balli became unusually serious: “Preserve that memory,” he said, “and never see her again. But remember as well the state of jealousy into which she threw you, and you will no longer feel any desire to see her again.”
Emilio was sincerely moved by the affection which Balli showed him. “All the same,” he said, “I have never suffered so much from jealousy as now.” Planting himself in front of Stefano he said in a deep voice: “Promise always to tell me anything that you ever hear about her. But don’t ever try and see her—never, never—and if you should ever meet her out of doors I want you to tell me at once. Promise me that faithfully.”
Balli hesitated a moment; it seemed to him so strange to be expected to make a promise like that.
“I am sick with jealousy, nothing else but jealousy. I am jealous of the others too, but most of all of you. I have got accustomed to the umbrella-maker, but I shall never get accustomed to you.” There was not the faintest touch of humor in his voice; he was trying to arouse pity so that he might the more easily get Balli to promise what he wanted. If he had refused, Emilio had made up his mind to rush round to Angiolina at once. He did not want his friend to be able to profit by a state of affairs for which he himself had been largely responsible. There was a threatening look in his eyes, which he kept fixed on Stefano.
Balli was not slow to guess what was passing in Emilio’s mind, and he felt a profound pity for him. He promised him solemnly to do as he wanted. Then, in the hope of distracting Brentani’s thoughts a little, he said that he regretted all the same not being allowed to see Angiolina. “I have long wanted to make a sketch of her, because I thought you would like to have it.” For a moment his eyes took on a dreamy look, as if he were mentally drawing the outlines of her figure.
Emilio at once took alarm. In childish anxiety he reminded Balli of his promise of a few moments ago. “You have promised me now, you can’t go ba
ck on it. Try to find your inspiration elsewhere.”
Balli laughed heartily. But he was startled by this fresh proof of the violence of Emilio’s passion and said: “Who could have foreseen that an adventure like that would ever take such an important place in your life? If it were not so painful for you, it would really be rather ridiculous.”
Then Emilio began lamenting his sad fate with an irony of self-analysis which removed from it every trace of the ridiculous. He said that he wanted all his friends to know how he looked at life. In theory he considered it to be without any serious content, and he had in fact never believed in any of the forms of happiness which had been offered him; he had never believed in them, and he could truly say that he had never pursued happiness. But how much less easy it was to escape suffering! In a life deprived of all serious content even Angiolina became serious and important.
That first evening Balli’s friendship was of great service to Emilio. The sympathy which Balli felt for him helped to calm him considerably. In the first place he could be sure that for that moment at least Stefano and Angiolina were not together; and then he had a gentle nature which was always in need of tender treatment. Since the previous evening he had been seeking in vain for someone to lean on. It was perhaps this lack of support which had allowed him to fall so hopelessly under the power of his own feelings. He would have been able to make a stand against them if he had had an opportunity of explaining himself and of reasoning about his feelings, and the necessity of listening to someone else would have forced him to master his agitation.
He returned home in a much quieter frame of mind than he had gone out. His obstinacy, which he was sometimes inclined to boast of as a source of strength, had been exorcised. He would not go and see Angiolina unless she asked him to do so. He could wait, and their relationship could not and must not be resumed on his side by an act of submission.