So his thoughts were drawn to Angiolina during that night as well. As in the period which now seemed so far away, before Amalia’s illness, when he had only looked on her as a tiresome person whose company he must avoid as much as possible, he was seized again by a burning desire to rush off to Angiolina and reproach her for the new treachery of which he had just learned and which seemed to him the worst of all. Those Deluigis had sprung up at the very beginning of their relationship, and she had created each individual member of the family in turn according as she had need of them. First there had been the old Signora Deluigi, who loved Angiolina like a mother, then the daughter who was her dearest friend, and finally the old father who had tried to make her drunk. This lie had been repeated at every single meeting, and the thought of it robbed his memory of Angiolina of all its sweetness. Even those rare signs of love which she had been clever enough to feign were now shown up by the clearest possible evidence for what they really were—lies, lies. And yet he soon felt that fresh act of treason to be a new link between them. Amalia was moving about, wearily, on her bed of suffering; for a long time he forgot all about her. When he had recovered a little calm he was obliged to recognize with sorrow that directly Amalia’s illness should have disappeared, or Amalia herself, he would rush off again at once to Angiolina. In order to exercise pressure on himself he sat for a long time stiffly in the same position, and swore that he would never again fall into her snare. “Never again, never again.”
Even that interminable night, the most painful he had ever watched through, and which in its turn became a subject of regret, was slowly passing. A clock struck two.
Signora Elena asked Emilio to give her a soft towel to wipe Amalia’s face. So as not to have to leave the room, he looked for his sister’s keys and opened her wardrobe. He was at once struck by a strange medicinal smell. The little linen there was, was folded away in big chests which were filled up with bottles of various sizes. He could not at first quite make out what they were and brought the candle nearer in order to examine them. Several chests were filled to the brim with bottles which shed a mysterious golden ray as if they held some treasure enclosed; in other chests there was still some room and the bottles were distributed in such a way as to leave no doubt that it was the collector’s purpose to complete her strange hoard as soon as possible. Only one phial was out of place, and it still contained the remains of a transparent liquid. The smell of the liquid no longer left any doubt in Emilio’s mind; it was scented ether. Doctor Carini was right then; Amalia had sought forgetfulness in drugs. He did not bear any ill-will against his sister at this discovery, not even for a moment; his mind at once jumped to the only possible conclusion: Amalia was lost. The effect of that discovery was to send him back at last and finally to her.
He shut the door of the wardrobe and locked it carefully. He had not succeeded in keeping guard over his sister’s life; he would try now to keep her reputation intact.
Dawn was beginning, dark, hesitating, sad. It was whitening the window-panes but left the interior of the room in darkness. One ray, however, seemed to have penetrated, for the daylight breaking over the glasses on the table colored them with faint and delicate shades of blue and green. The wind was still blowing in the street with the same even, triumphant sounds as when Emilio had left Angiolina.
But within the room there was a great stillness. For the last few hours Amalia’s delirium had only betrayed itself in a half-spoken word now and then. She was lying quietly on her right side with her face close to the wall and her eyes wide open.
Balli had gone to rest for a while in Emilio’s room. He had asked them not to let him sleep for more than an hour.
Emilio went and sat down again at the table. He started suddenly in affright; Amalia was no longer breathing. Signora Elena had noticed it too, and risen from her chair. Amalia was still gazing at the wall with wide-open eyes, and a few minutes later she began breathing again. The first four or five breaths seemed those of a healthy person, and Emilio and Elena looked at each other smiling and full of hope. But the smile very soon died on their lips, for Amalia’s breathing became more and more rapid, then grew slower and slower, and finally ceased. The interval was so long this time that Emilio cried aloud with fear. The breathing began again, calm for a short time, and suddenly quickening to a dizzy speed. It was a period of agonizing suspense for Emilio. Although after an hour of the closest attention he had been able to verify for himself that the momentary cessation of breathing was not death, and that the regular breathing by which it was followed was not the prelude to health, he held his own breath with anxiety when Amalia ceased to breathe, gave himself up to mad hope when he heard her calm, rhythmic breathing begin again, and even shed tears of disappointment each time her painful breathing was resumed.
The dawn was shining on her bed now. The back of Signora Elena’s gray head which, like a good nurse, she was only leaning on her chest, thus stealing a little superficial rest, was all silvered over. For Amalia the night would never end. Her head, with its clear contours, detached itself now from the pillow. Her dark hair had never seemed to clothe her head so well as during her illness. Her profile was that of an energetic person, with its prominent cheek-bones and pointed chin.
Emilio rested his arms on the table and leaned his head on his hands. The hour in which he had maltreated Angiolina seemed a long, long way off, for it again seemed to him impossible that he should be capable of such an action. He felt in himself neither the energy nor the brutality which would be needed to accomplish it. He shut his eyes and fell asleep. It seemed to him afterwards as if he had been conscious of Amalia’s breathing even while he was asleep, as if he had continued to experience the same fear, hope and disappointment as before.
When he woke up it was full daylight. Amalia was looking at the window with wide-open eyes. He got up, and hearing him move she looked at him. What a look! No longer feverish, but of someone mortally tired who has not complete control of it and cannot make the effort to guide it in the right direction. “What is the matter with me, Emilio? I am dying.”
Intelligence had returned and, forgetting the observation he had just made on her eyes, all Emilio’s hope returned. He told her she had been very ill, but that now she was getting better. The affection he felt in his heart overflowed and he began shedding tears of consolation. He kissed her tenderly and cried that from henceforth they would always live for each other, they two alone, and would never part. It seemed to him as if all that night of agony had existed simply in order to prepare him for such an expected happy solution. Afterwards he looked back on the scene with shame. He felt as if he had wanted to take advantage of that single flash of intelligence in Amalia to quiet his own conscience.
Signora Elena hurried forward to calm him and warn him not to excite the invalid. Unfortunately Amalia understood nothing. She appeared to be so entirely filled by one single idea as to have all her senses occupied with it. “Tell me,” she begged, “what has happened? I am so frightened! I saw you and Vittoria and...” Her dream had become mingled with reality and her poor exhausted mind was incapable of disentangling the complicated skein.
“Try and understand,” Emilio passionately besought her. “You have dreamed without ceasing since yesterday. You must rest now, and then you shall think again.” The last words were said in response to another sign made by Signora Elena, who thereby attracted Amalia’s attention to herself. “It is not Vittoria,” she said, evidently reassured. Oh, this was not the kind of intelligence which could be regarded as the envoy of health; it displayed itself only in single flashes, which threatened to light up her grief and make her more sensitive to it. Emilio was as frightened as he had been before her delirium.
Balli came in. He had heard Amalia’s voice and wanted to be there too, to rejoice in her unexpected improvement. “How are you, Amalia?” he asked affectionately.
She looked at him with an expression of incredulous surprise. “So it was not a dream then?” She gazed at Ball
i for a long time; then she looked at her brother, and again at Balli as if she wanted to compare their two bodies and see whether either of them lacked the appearance of reality. “But Emilio,” she exclaimed. “I don’t understand.”
“When he knew you were ill,” Emilio exclaimed, “he wanted to keep me company during the night. It is our same old friend whom you know so well.”
She was not listening. “And Vittoria?” she asked.
“That woman has never been here,” said Emilio.
“He has the right to do as he likes, and you may go with them if you want to,” she murmured, with a sudden flash of resentment in her eye. Then she forgot everything and everyone and remained gazing out of the window.
Stefano said, “Listen to me, Amalia! I have never known this Vittoria you keep talking of. I am your devoted friend and am staying here to help you.”
She was not listening. She was watching the light in the window, and evidently making an effort to revive her failing eyesight. She seemed to gaze in admiration and ecstasy. Her features wore an ugly grimace, which evidently took the place of a smile.
“Oh,” she cried, “what a lot of lovely children!” She gazed for a long time in admiration. Her delirium had returned. But she had now a respite from the dreams of the night in these luminous visions clothed in the colors of the dawn. She saw rosy children dancing in the sunshine. It was a delirium of few words. She only named the object she saw, and nothing else. Her own life was forgotten. She named neither Balli, nor Vittoria, nor Emilio. “So much light,” she said, enchanted. She was lit up too. They could see the red blood mount under her transparent skin and color her cheeks and forehead. She was changing, but she was not conscious of herself. She was looking at things which kept moving ever further and further away from her.
Balli proposed sending for the doctor. “It would be useless,” said Signora Elena, who had realized from that sudden flush the point things had reached.
“Useless,” Emilio repeated, shocked at having his own thought expressed by others.
In fact, Amalia’s mouth soon afterwards contracted itself in that strange effort whereby even the muscles which are not adapted to the purpose are forced to labor for breath. There was still vision in her eye, but she did not say another word. Very soon her breathing changed into the death-rattle, a sound resembling a dirge, the dirge of this gentle creature who was dying. It seemed the expression of a mild affliction, a humble but conscious protest. It was in fact the lament of matter which, already abandoned by the spirit, and beginning to disintegrate, was uttering the sounds it had learned during its long period of painful consciousness.
14
THE IMAGE of death is great enough to fill the whole of one’s mind. Gigantic forces are fighting together to draw death near and to expel it; every fiber of our being records its presence after having been near to it, every atom within us repels it in the very act of preserving and producing life. The thought of death is like an attribute of the body, a physical malady. Our will can neither summon it nor drive it away.
Emilio nourished himself for a long time on this thought. The spring was over and he had only been conscious of it by seeing it flower on his sister’s grave. It was a thought unaccompanied by any remorse. Death was death, and not more terrible than the circumstances which had led up to it. Death had passed by, the supreme misdeed, and he felt that his own errors and misdeeds had been utterly forgotten.
During that time he lived as much as possible alone. He even avoided Balli, who after behaving so well at Amalia’s bedside had already completely forgotten the brief enthusiasm with which she had been able to inspire him. Emilio could not quite forgive him for not being more like himself in this. It was now the only thing with which he had to reproach him.
When his own emotion became less violent, it seemed to him that he had lost his balance. He hastened to the cemetery. The dusty road, and above all the heat caused him unspeakable suffering. By the grave he adopted a contemplative pose, but he did not know how to contemplate. What he felt most was the burning sensation in his skin caused by the sun, dust and sweat. When he got home he washed himself, and in the refreshing water lost all memory of his outing. He felt himself utterly alone. He went out with the vague idea of attaching himself to somebody, but on the landing where he had one day found the help he sought, he remembered that a very short way off there was someone who could teach him to remember—Signora Elena. He had not forgotten Amalia, he said to himself as he mounted the stairs—he even remembered her too clearly, but he had forgotten the emotion caused by her death. Instead of seeing her in her last struggle with death he remembered her sad and downcast, her gray eyes reproaching him for his desertion, or desolately replacing in the cupboard the coffee cup she had put out for Balli, and finally he remembered her gestures, words, or tears of anger and despair. They were all memories of his own sin. He wanted to bury them all again in Amalia’s death; Signora Elena would call it up for him. Amalia herself had been insignificant during her life. He could not even remember that she had shown any desire to draw nearer to him, when in order to save himself from Angiolina he had tried to make their relationship more tender. It was her death alone which had been of any importance to him; that at least had rescued him from his shameful passion.
“Is Signora Elena at home?” he asked the maid who came to open the door. In that house they were probably not very used to visitors. The maid—a fair, pretty girl—would not let him come any further, but called in a loud voice to Signora Elena, who at once came out into the dark passage from a side door and stood in the light which was shed from the room. “What a good thing I came,” thought Emilio joyfully, feeling a sudden emotion at the sight of Elena’s gray head which, faintly lighted from the room, shone with just those silver rays which had caught it on the morning of Amalia’s death.
Signora Elena welcomed him with great warmth. “I have been hoping to see you for such a long time. I can’t tell you what a real pleasure you give me by coming.”
“I felt I should be welcome,” said Emilio, deeply moved. He was touched by the friendship offered him by this unknown woman at Amalia’s deathbed. “We have not known each other long, but a day like the one we spent together often brings one closer than many years of intimacy.”
Signora Elena led him into the small room she had just come out of, which was the same shape as Brentani’s dining room, and just above it. The furniture was simple, even bare, but everything was most beautifully kept, and one did not feel the need of any other furniture. Simplicity seemed almost carried to the point of excess on the walls, which were left entirely bare.
The maid brought in an oil lamp, ready lit, and wished them good evening in a loud voice. Then she went out again.
The signora looked after her with a kindly smile.
“I can’t get her out of the countrified habit of wishing me good evening when she brings in the lamp. For that matter I think it is rather a charming habit. Giovanna is such a good creature, and so simple. It is strange to find anyone so ingenuous in these days. Sometimes I feel a desire to cure her of such an adorable complaint. You should see what eyes she makes when I tell her something about our modern customs.” She laughed heartily, opening her eyes wide, in imitation of the girl she was telling him about; she seemed to be studying her in order to appreciate her the better.
The biography of the servant had interrupted Emilio’s emotion. In order to solve a doubt which arose in his mind he told her that he had been to the cemetery that day. His doubt was immediately solved, for the lady said, without a moment’s hesitation: “I never go to the cemetery now. I have not been once since the day your sister was buried.” She went on to say that she knew now that one could not fight with death. “The dead are dead, and comfort can only come from the living.” She added, without any bitterness: “We may wish it otherwise, but so it is.” She then said that the short service she had rendered to Amalia had sufficed to break the charm of her memories. The grave of her little
son no longer stirred her or helped her to renew her emotions, as it had done before. She was really expressing what was in Emilio’s mind, especially when she summed it all up by saying: “It is the living who have need of us.”
She again spoke about Giovanna, her maid. By good fortune she had recovered from an illness, and it was Elena who had helped to save her. They had got to know each other during that illness. When the girl recovered, her mistress had realized that it was the little dead boy who had come to live in her. “But gentler and kinder and more grateful, oh, so much more grateful!” But this new affection was also a source of anxiety and even of sorrow, for Giovanna was in love....
Emilio had ceased listening to her. He was entirely occupied by the solution of a serious problem. When he went away, he greeted the servant respectfully on the threshold, as one who had succeeded in saving a fellow-creature from despair. “Strange,” he thought to himself; “it almost seems as if one half of humanity exists to live and the other to be lived.” His thoughts returned at once to his own concrete case: “Perhaps Angiolina only exists in order that I may live.”
He walked along quietly and refreshed through the cool night which had succeeded that oppressive day. The example of Signora Elena had proved to him that even he might somewhere in life find his daily bread, his reason for living. This hope accompanied him for some time; he had forgotten all the elements of which his wretched life was composed, and thought that on the day he chose to begin again from the beginning, he would be able to do so.
His first attempts to put this to the proof were a failure. He had tried writing again and derived no sort of emotion from it. He had tried women and found that they did not interest him. “I love Angiolina!” he thought.
One day Sorniani told him that Angiolina had run away with a cashier who had robbed his bank. The event had aroused a scandal through the whole town.