He related in great detail the scene which had just taken place; her delirium and exhaustion; and how for a long time he had not dared to leave her alone, till providentially Signora Chierici had intervened to help him.
Balli had the air of someone surprised by bad news—not at all the air Emilio felt he ought to have—and with the swift decision which came naturally to him in that state of mind he advised sending for Dr. Carini. He had been told he was a good doctor; he was also a friend of his, and he would make him take an interest in Amalia’s case.
Emilio still wept, and showed no sign of moving from the spot. He felt he had not yet finished all he had to say; he would not give in, and sought for a phrase by which he might move his friend. He found one which made him shudder with horror himself. “Mad or dying!” Death! It was the first time he had imagined Amalia dying, disappearing and leaving him alone, just as he had succeeded in giving up Angiolina; he saw himself alone, overwhelmed by remorse because he had not profited by the happiness which up to that moment had been his for the asking, the happiness of devoting his life to someone who needed his care and self-sacrifice. With Amalia every hope of comfort vanished from his life. He said in a low voice: “I don’t know which is worse, my grief or my remorse.”
He looked at Balli to see if his friend had understood him. Stefano’s face expressed genuine surprise. Remorse? He had always thought of Emilio as a model brother, and he told him so. He remembered however that Amalia had been slightly neglected of late for Angiolina, and added: “Of course it wasn’t worth your while to take up your time with a woman like Angiolina, but it was one of those misfortunes which happen to us.”
Balli had so little understood Emilio that he said he could not understand why they were wasting so much time. He must run off and fetch Carini, and Emilio was not to give up hope before hearing what the doctor said about Amalia. It might easily be that symptoms which seemed so alarming to the inexperienced eye would not frighten the doctor.
It was a breath of hope and Emilio clung desperately to it. They parted in the street. Balli thought it advisable not to leave Amalia alone with a stranger longer than was necessary; Emilio was to go straight home, and he would go off and fetch the doctor.
They both set off at a run. Emilio’s haste was caused by a great hope which had lately sprung up in his breast. It was not altogether out of the question that he might find Amalia restored to health, and greeting him with an affection equal to that which she would read in his own face. His quick step accompanied and spurred on his audacious dream. Never had Angiolina given birth to a dream inspired by so eager a desire.
He did not notice the cold wind which had lately started blowing, making one forget the warm spring-like day which had seemed in such violent contradiction to his grief. The streets were darkening rapidly; the sky was covered with great clouds driven along by a strong current of air, only perceptible on the earth in a sudden lowering of the temperature. In the distance Emilio saw against the dark sky a mountain peak all yellow in the dying light.
Amalia was still delirious. Directly he heard her tired voice, with its same soft tone, the same childish modulation dying away sometimes from exhaustion, he realized that while he outside had been indulging in mad hopes, the invalid on her sick-bed had not found a moment’s respite.
Signora Elena was tied to the bed because the sick woman’s head was resting on her arm. She said, however, that shortly after Emilio had gone out Amalia had become restless and rejected its proffered support; now she had settled down again.
The good creature’s work was actually over now, and he told her so, expressing at the same time his infinite gratitude.
She looked up at him with her kind little eyes and made no attempt to remove her arm, on which Amalia’s head was shifting from side to side uneasily. She said: “And who will take my place?” When she heard that he intended to ask the doctor for a paid nurse, she begged earnestly to be allowed to stay there, and thanked him when he said with real emotion that he had never dreamed of sending her away, but was afraid it would be tiresome for her to stay. He asked her if she did not want to warn anyone of her absence. She answered simply: “There is no one in the house to whom my absence could cause surprise. A new servant has started work for me only today.”
Soon afterwards Amalia moved her head on to the pillow and the lady’s arm was set free. She took off her hat and Emilio thanked her afresh, for he looked on that act as confirming her decision to remain at the bedside. She looked at him in some surprise, as if she did not understand. No one could have behaved more simply.
Amalia began talking again without changing her position and without calling for anyone, as if she were under the impression that she was relating all her dream aloud. She said the beginning of certain sentences and the end of others; some words she gabbled incomprehensibly, others she pronounced quite clearly. Sometimes she would exclaim aloud, sometimes ask questions. She would inquire anxiously, always satisfied with the reply, which perhaps she did not fully understand. Of Signora Elena, who had bent over her to try and understand a wish she seemed trying to express, she asked: “But aren’t you Vittoria?” “No, I am not,” said the lady somewhat surprised. Amalia seemed satisfied with this reply and was quiet for some time.
A little later she began coughing. She struggled against her cough and her face took on an appearance of childish desolation; she seemed to be suffering great pain. Signora Elena made Emilio notice that expression, which her face had also worn during his absence. “We must speak to the doctor about it; that cough shows that your sister has something wrong with her chest.” Amalia had another violent fit of coughing, and fought for breath. “I can’t bear it,” she moaned, and began to cry.
But before the tears were dry on her cheeks she had forgotten her pain. She began feebly talking about the house. There was a new discovery for making cheap coffee. “They invent everything in these days. Soon we shall be able to live without any money at all. Give me a little of that coffee just to try. I will bring it back. I love justice. I told Emilio so too.” “Yes, I remember you did,” said Emilio, to keep her quiet. “You always loved justice.” He bent over her and kissed her on the forehead.
There was one moment of her delirium which he never forgot. “Yes, we two,” she said, fixing him with her eye, and speaking in that tone of people in delirium which makes it doubtful whether they are merely crying out or asking a question, “We two, here together alone, in peace.” The serious and anxious expression on her face echoed the seriousness of her words, and one felt that her anxiety expressed a burning grief. However, a short time after she was talking quite quietly of the two of them alone in the house they could run so cheaply.
There was a ring at the bell. It was Balli and Dr. Carini. Emilio knew him already; he was a man of about forty, dark and tall and thin. It was said that his time at the University had been more full of amusements than study, whereas now that he was well off he made no effort to get paying patients, but preferred a subordinate position at the hospital so as to continue the studies he had neglected earlier. He loved medicine with the ardor of an amateur, but he alternated his studies with every sort of pastime, so that he had a good many more artist than doctor friends.
He stopped in the dining-room, and remarking that Balli had been able to tell him no more about Amalia’s illness than that she had had a sharp attack of fever, he asked Emilio to give him some more details about it.
Emilio told him of the state in which he had found his sister a few hours before, alone in the house where she had probably been behaving very oddly all the morning. He described her delirium in detail, how it had shown itself first in an unrest which drove her to hunt for insects on her legs, and then in a ceaseless babble. He was deeply moved as he described and analyzed all the anguish she had suffered that day, and wept as he told of her exhaustion and her cough which rang so false and thin, like the sound produced by a broken vessel, and of the intense pain which each fit of coughing produce
d in the sick woman.
The doctor tried to encourage him with a friendly word, then, returning to the subject, asked a question which caused Emilio considerable distress: “And up to this morning?”
“My sister has always been delicate, but quite sane.” He had committed himself by that sentence, and it was only after he had said it that he was seized by doubt. Those dreams which she had had aloud, and which he had surprised, were not they indications of a disordered state of mind? Ought he not to mention them? But how could he do so in Balli’s presence?
“Was your sister quite well up till today?” asked Carini, with an air of incredulity. “Even yesterday?”
Emilio felt awkward and did not know what to reply. He could not remember having seen his sister at all during the last few days. When had he really seen her last? Months ago, it seemed; perhaps it was the day he had met her in the street dressed so strangely. “I don’t think she had been feeling ill. She would have told me,” he said.
The doctor and Emilio went into the sick-room, while Balli, after a moment’s hesitation, remained behind in the dining-room.
Signora Chierici, who was sitting by her pillow, rose and went to the foot of the bed. The invalid seemed to be half asleep, but as usual went on talking as if she were keeping up a continuous conversation, and was obliged to reply to questions or to add a word or two to something which had already been said. “In half an hour’s time. But certainly not before.” She opened her eyes and recognized Dr. Carini. She said something which seemed like a greeting.
“Good day, Signorina,” replied the doctor aloud, evidently with the idea of adapting himself to her delirium. “I wanted to come and see you before, but I have not been able to.” Carini had only been to the house once before and Emilio was glad she had recognized him. She must have got much better during those few hours, for at mid-day she had failed even to recognize her brother. He remarked this in a low voice to the doctor.
The latter meanwhile was studying the patient’s pulse attentively. Then he uncovered her chest and applied his ear to it in various places. Amalia remained silent, and lay looking up at the ceiling. Then the doctor raised her in bed with Signora Elena’s help and examined her back in the same way. Amalia resisted for an instant, but when she grasped what he wanted to do she tried to support herself.
She was looking towards the window now, where the light was rapidly becoming obscured. The door was open and Balli, who had stopped on the threshold, was seen by Amalia. “Signor Stefano,” she said, without any show of surprise and without altering her position, for she had understood that they wanted her to keep still. Emilio, who had feared a scene, made an emphatic sign to Balli to retire, and his gesture alone marked the importance of the encounter.
But it was impossible now for Balli to retire, so he advanced, while she made repeated signs of the head to encourage him, and even called to him. “Such an age,” she stammered, evidently meaning that it was such a long time since they had seen each other.
When they let her lie back on the bed, she continued to look at Balli, whom even in her delirium she clearly regarded as the most important person in the room for her. The fatigue they had caused her by forcing her to sit up had increased her exhaustion, and a slight attack of coughing made her face contract with pain, but she went on looking at Balli. Even while drinking rapturously the water which the doctor offered her, she never took her eyes off Balli. Then she closed her eyes and seemed as if she wanted to go to sleep. “Now all is well,” she said aloud and quieted down for a few moments.
The three men left Amalia’s room and assembled in the room next door. Emilio inquired impatiently: “Well, doctor?”
Carini, who had not much practice in dealing with clients, expressed his opinion simply. It was inflammation of the lungs, he said, and the condition of the patient was extremely grave.
“Is there no hope?” asked Emilio, and awaited the reply with intense anxiety.
Carini looked at him compassionately. He said there was always hope and that he had known similar cases which had suddenly taken a turn for the better, and in which the patient had recovered completely, so that even the most experienced doctor had been taken by surprise.
Emilio’s feelings at once swung in the opposite direction. Oh, why should not that astonishing phenomenon present itself in this case? It would suffice to make him happy for all the rest of his life. Was not this the unhoped-for joy, the generous gift of providence which he had desired for himself? For an instant hope reigned supreme; if he could have seen Amalia get up and walk, if he could have heard her talking reasonably, he would never have desired a greater joy than that.
But Carini had not finished talking. He said it was impossible that her illness should have broken out in a day. It had already reached a stage which made it clear that it had started one or even two days before.
Emilio was again obliged to take up the burden of that past which already seemed so far away. “It is possible,” he admitted, “but it is hard to see how. If it broke out yesterday, it must have been so slight that I did not notice it.” Then, offended by a reproachful glance from Balli, he added: “It seems to me quite impossible.”
Then Balli broke in roughly, in the tone of voice which everyone accepted from him: “Look here doctor, we don’t know anything about medicine, you know. Is this fever going on the whole time, as long as the illness lasts? Or will there be some intervals?”
Carini replied that he was unable to say anything about the course which the illness would probably run. “I find myself before an unknown quantity. All that I know about the illness is what I see at the present moment. Whether there will be crises, and when they will be, whether tomorrow or this evening or in three or four days’ time, I know absolutely nothing.”
Emilio thought that this justified him in entertaining the most daring hopes, and allowed Balli to go on questioning the doctor. He pictured himself at Amalia’s side, cured, with her reason restored to her, and again become capable of appreciating his affection.
Carini said that the worst symptom he noticed was neither the fever nor the cough, but that continual restless babble. He added in a low voice: “She does not seem to have a physique capable of resisting high temperatures.”
He asked for some writing materials, but before making out the prescription he said: “I should give her wine and seltzer water to quench her thirst. Every two or three hours I should let her drink a glass of good wine. The young lady”—he hesitated slightly—“the young lady is evidently accustomed to taking wine.” And he wrote the prescription with a few rapid strokes of the pen.
“Amalia is not used to taking wine,” Emilio protested. “In fact she can’t bear it; I have never been able to induce her to take any.”
The doctor made a gesture of surprise, and gave Emilio a look which implied that he could not altogether believe what he said. Balli also cast a scrutinizing glance at Emilio. He had already seen that the doctor had argued from Amalia’s symptoms that he had an alcoholic to deal with, and he remembered noticing before that Emilio was capable of false and altogether misplaced shame. He determined to induce him to speak the truth, since it was impossible to hide such a thing from the doctor.
Emilio guessed the meaning of his look. “How can you possibly believe such a thing? Amalia drink? Why, she can’t even drink a glassful of water. I assure you she takes a whole hour to drink a glass of water.”
“If you give me your word for it,” said the doctor, “so much the better, for the most delicate physique can survive a high temperature if it is not weakened by alcohol.” He looked doubtfully at the prescription, then left it as it was, and Emilio saw that he had not believed him. “At the chemist’s they will give you a medicine of which you must make her take a spoonful every hour. And now I should like to speak to the lady who is looking after her.”
Emilio and Balli followed the doctor into the other room, and introduced him to Signora Elena. Carini explained that he wanted her to try and per
suade the invalid to bear ice compresses on her chest, and said that they would be of very great assistance in her cure.
“Oh, she will bear them!” said Elena, with a fervor which surprised the two men.
“Go slowly!” said the doctor with a smile, glad to see his patient in such compassionate hands. “I don’t want you to force her, and if she shows too great a dislike of the cold you must give up the attempt.”
Carini went away, promising to come at an early hour next day. “Well, doctor?” asked Emilio again in a tone of entreaty. Instead of replying the doctor said a few words of comfort, and promised to give him a fuller opinion on the following day. Balli went away with Carini, promising to return immediately; he wanted to have the doctor to himself, and to hear if he had told Emilio the truth.
Emilio clung to hope with all the strength of his nature. The doctor had been mistaken in believing Amalia to be a drunkard, so perhaps his whole diagnosis was wrong. As his dreams never knew any limit Emilio even thought that Amalia’s health must still depend on him. She had fallen ill in the first place because he had failed in his duty as her protector; but now he was there, and ready to procure her every satisfaction and every comfort; and that the doctor could not know. He went to Amalia’s bedside as if he were already bringing her this satisfaction and this comfort, but there he felt suddenly helpless. He kissed her on the forehead and stood for a long time watching her while she wore herself out in the struggle to breathe a little air into her poor lungs.