Later on, they preferred to this place the thickets on the way up to Hunter’s Hill, as they felt more and more the need to be alone together. They would sit side by side under a tree, and divide their time between eating and drinking and kisses.
By now he had almost given up taking her flowers, he bought her sweets instead, but soon she refused these as well, they were bad for her teeth, she said. Their place was taken by cheese and sausages, bottles of wine and liqueurs, all of which made a considerable hole in Emilio’s slender purse.
But he was only too willing to sacrifice to her the small savings he had accumulated during all the long years of his uneventful bachelor life; he would begin to economize again, he thought, when his small store began to run out. He was much more occupied for the moment by another question. Who had taught Angiolina how to kiss? He could not remember now anything about the first time she had kissed him; he had been so much occupied in kissing her that the kiss she had given him in return had only seemed to him to be the necessary complement of his own; but he could not help thinking that if her mouth had really been so ardent in returning his kisses he must have felt a certain amount of surprise. Was it he then who had initiated her into an art in which he was himself but a novice?
And now she confessed. It was Merighi who had taught her to kiss. She laughed when she related how many kisses he used to give her. Emilio must surely be joking if he pretended to doubt whether Merighi would have taken advantage of his position as her fiancé at least to kiss her as much as he wanted.
Brentani did not feel in the least jealous of Merighi who had, after all, so much better claim to her than himself. But he was distressed that she should speak about him so lightly. He felt she ought rather to have shed tears each time she mentioned him. When as sometimes happened he let her see how hurt he himself felt at her showing so little feeling, she would force her lovely face to put on a very dismal expression, and conscious that she was being in some way reproached, she would try to justify herself by reminding him that she had been made quite ill by Merighi’s desertion. “Oh, if I had died then I should not have cared.” A few minutes later she would be laughing loudly in the arms which he had opened to receive and comfort her.
She seemed to regret nothing, and this surprised him as much as it did to discover how deeply he pitied her and sympathized with her. Was he really in love with her? Or was it only that he felt so grateful to the sweet creature for behaving as though she existed solely for his delight? For she was an ideal mistress in that she did all that he wanted without making any demands upon him.
It would be late when he got home, still in a state of pleasurable excitement, and quite unable to talk about anything else to his pale-faced sister, who left whatever she was doing to keep him company while he ate his supper; unable even to feign the smallest interest in all the petty affairs of the household which made up the whole of Amalia’s life, and about which she had always been accustomed to tell him. She would go on again at last with whatever she was doing, while he continued to eat his supper in silence, and they would both remain there in the same room, each occupied with their own thoughts.
One evening she sat gazing at him for a long while without his noticing it, and then, with a forced smile, she asked: “Have you been with her all this time?”
“Who do you mean by her?” he said, and suddenly burst out laughing. Then, because he felt he must talk to someone, he confessed. It had been such an unforgettable evening. He had loved her in the moonlight, in the warm evening air, with all that boundless lovely landscape spread out before them, existing, as it seemed for them alone and for their love. But he could not explain what he was really feeling. How could he give his sister an idea of what that evening had been, without telling her about Angiolina’s kisses?
But while he kept on repeating: “What a light there was, what a delicious air!” she divined on his lips the print of those kisses which really filled his thoughts. She hated that unknown woman who had stolen away her companion and her only comfort. Now that she saw him in love like all the rest of the world, she felt she could not bear to be left without that one example of voluntary resignation to the same sad fate as her own. How dreadfully sad it was! She began to cry, at first shedding silent tears which she tried to conceal in her work and then, when he saw her tears falling, bursting out into violent sobs which she attempted in vain to repress.
She tried to explain away her tears. She had not been well all day, she had not been able to sleep all the night before, she had eaten nothing, she was feeling very weak.
He did not question the truth of what she said.
“If you are not better tomorrow, we will send for the doctor.” Then Amalia’s grief changed to anger that he should allow himself to be so easily deceived as to the cause of her tears; it proved how completely indifferent he was to her. She lost all self-control, and burst out that he need not bother to send for the doctor; it was not worth while getting better, only to lead the sort of life she led. What had she got to live for? What point was there in going on being alive? Then seeing that he still persisted in understanding nothing she confessed the real cause of her grief: “Not even you have any use for me.”
He still did not understand, and instead of sympathizing with her, he got angry in his turn. All his youth he had been so lonely and sad; he surely deserved some distraction from time to time. Angiolina was of no importance in his life; it was only an adventure which would last a few months and no more. “It is very unkind of you to reproach me for it.” He only began to pity her when he saw her go on weeping silently in a state of helpless despair. To comfort her, he promised to come home more often and keep her company, he said they would read and study together as they used to do, but she must try and be more cheerful, for he did not like to be with unhappy people. His thoughts flew at once to Ange! She knew how to laugh! How wonderful her laughter was, so gay and so infectious, and he could not help smiling when he thought how strangely her laughter would have echoed in his sad house.
3
ONE EVENING he had arranged to meet Angiolina punctually at eight o’clock; but half an hour before the appointed time he had a message from Balli to say that he would be waiting for him in Via Chiozza just at that time, and had something very important to tell him. He had several times refused a similar invitation, because he suspected it of being only a pretext for getting him away from Angiolina; but on this occasion he seized the opportunity of paying a visit to her house on the pretense of putting off his appointment. He wanted to continue his study of someone who already played such an important part in his life, by observing the things and people among whom she lived. Although he was already quite blind in any matter where she was concerned, he still played the part of someone whose sight was perfect.
The house where Angiolina lived was on the outskirts of the town, a few yards beyond Via Fabio Severo. It was a tall, barrack-like house, standing by itself out in the fields. The porter’s lodge was closed and Emilio, not without a certain amount of trepidation, for he was uncertain what reception he would meet with, went straight up to the second floor. “It certainly does not look very sumptuous,” he muttered aloud, in order to give himself confidence. The staircase looked as if it had been built in a great hurry, the stonework was badly finished, the banisters were made of the roughest iron, the walls were whitewashed; you could not say it was dirty, but it was mean and poverty-stricken.
The door was opened by a little girl about ten years of age, dressed in a long, clumsy, cobwebby sort of garment. She was fair like Angiolina, but her eyes had a lifeless expression, and her face was yellow and anemic-looking. She did not seem at all surprised to see a new face; she only lifted her hand to her bosom to hold together her ragged little jacket, from which all the buttons were missing. “Good evening,” she said. “What can I do for you?” She treated him with a ceremonious politeness which contrasted oddly with the childishness of her appearance.
“Is Signorina Angiolina at home?”
“Angiolina!” called out a woman who had advanced meanwhile from the end of the passage. “There is a gentleman asking for you.” She was probably the sweet mother to whom Angiolina had so longed to return after she had been deserted by Merighi. She was an elderly woman, dressed like a servant, in colors which had once been bright and now were somewhat faded. She had on a large blue apron, and the handkerchief, which was tied round her head in peasant fashion, was blue too. Her face still bore traces of former beauty and her profile reminded him of Angiolina, but her long, impassive face, with its small, black, haunted-looking eyes, had something in it of an animal on the lookout to avoid the blows of a stick. “Angiolina!” she called again; then announced in a tone of great politeness: “She will be here in a moment,” and repeated several times over, but without ever looking him in the face while she spoke: “Please walk in, and wait till she comes.” With a nasal voice like hers it was not possible for her to create a favorable impression. She hesitated before each sentence, like a stammerer at the beginning of a speech, but once she had started all the words came pouring from her mouth in one jet, entirely without any warmth or expression.
But now Angiolina appeared, running from the opposite end of the passage. She was dressed for going out. When she saw him she at once began laughing, and greeted him very warmly. “Oh, it is Signor Brentani. What a pleasant surprise!” She introduced him without any further ceremony: “My mother, my sister.”
So that really was the mother she had described as being so sweet! Emilio, delighted at being so well received, at once put out his hand, and the old woman, who was unprepared for such condescension on his part, showed a certain delay in holding out her own. She seemed hardly to understand what was expected of her and she fixed him for a moment with her uneasy, wolf-like eyes in obvious and instant mistrust. After her mother had shaken hands with him, the little sister stretched out her hand too, while still holding her dress carefully together over her bosom with her left hand. Then, when she had received that great favor from him, she said gravely: “Thank you.”
“Come in here,” said Angiolina, hurrying towards a door at the end of the passage, and opening it.
Brentani was radiant when he found himself alone with Angiolina; for the mother and the sister, after showing him politely in, had remained on the other side of the door. And directly the door was shut he forgot all about his resolution to play the part merely of an observer. He drew her to him.
“No,” she protested. “My father is asleep in the next room; he is not very well.”
“I can kiss you without making any noise,” he declared, and he pressed his lips against hers and held her mouth a prisoner, while she continued to protest; so that his kiss was broken into a thousand fragments, couched deliciously on her warm breath.
She broke away from him at last, exhausted, and ran to open the door.
“Now you sit down and behave yourself, for they can see us from the kitchen.” She was still laughing, and often when he thought of her afterwards it was with that expression of a happy teasing child, who has just played a successful trick on the person it loves most. Her hair was all ruffled up on her forehead by his arm in which, as usual, he had imprisoned her fair head; and he continued to caress with his eye the traces of his real caress.
It was not till a few moments later that he began to take stock of the room in which he found himself. The wallpaper was none too fresh, but compared with the staircase, the passage and the clothes worn by her mother and sister, the furniture was surprisingly sumptuous. It was a complete bedroom set made out of walnut; on the bed was a broad fringed bedspread, in one corner of the room stood an enormous vase filled with magnificent artificial flowers, and on the wall above it a number of photographs were arranged with evident care. It was, in fact, quite luxurious.
He began looking at the photographs. There was an old man who had struck a statesmanlike attitude, and was resting his arm on a pile of papers. Emilio could not help smiling. “That is my godfather,” Angiolina explained. There was a young well-dressed man, but looking rather like a navvy out on holiday, with an eager expression, and a good deal of character in his face. “That is my sister’s godfather, and this is the godfather of my youngest brother,” and she pointed to the portrait of another young man, smaller in build and of a more refined appearance.
“Are there any more of them?” asked Emilio lightly. But the joke died on his lips, for among the other photographs he suddenly caught sight of two faces that he knew: Leardi and Sorniani! Sorniani, who even in the photograph looked as grim and jaundiced as ever, appeared, from his post on the wall, to be still saying horrible things about Angiolina. Leardi’s photograph was the best; the camera had fulfilled its true function in reproducing every degree of light and shade, and Leardi was as handsome as if he had been portrayed in the natural hues of life. He was standing very much at his ease, not leaning against a table, but with his gloved hands slightly extended as if in the act of entering a lady’s boudoir for an intimate tête-à-tête. He looked down on Emilio with an almost protective air, very becoming to his handsome young face, and Emilio was obliged to turn away his eyes in order to hide his vexation and envy.
Angiolina did not immediately comprehend why Emilio’s brow had become so overcast. It was the first time that he had so crudely betrayed his jealousy. “I don’t at all like finding all these men in your bedroom.” Then when he saw the look of bewilderment that his reproof produced on her innocent face, he softened the severity of his remark. “It is just what I was saying to you a few nights ago. It makes a very bad impression for you to be seen with people like these round you, and it may do you a great deal of harm. The very fact of knowing them is compromising in itself.”
At once a look of great amusement lit up her face, and she declared she was delighted to have made him jealous. “Jealous of people like that!” she cried, then she became serious again and said with a reproving air: “But I should like to know what opinion you have of me!” He was just about to reassure her when she made a false move. “Listen, I will give you not only one but two of my photos,” and she ran to the chest of drawers to get them out. So all of them already had a photograph of Angiolina then; she had just told him so herself, but with such an air of ingenuous innocence that he did not dare to upbraid her with it. But worse was to come.
He forced himself to smile, and began looking at the two photographs which she held out to him with a playful curtsey. The first one, which was in profile, was taken by one of the best photographers in the town. The other was an excellent snapshot, but what had come out best in it was the very smart dress, trimmed with lace, which she had been wearing the first time he had met her; her face was rather screwed up by the effort she was making to keep her eyes open in the strong sunlight. “Who took this one?” asked Emilio. “Leardi perhaps?” He remembered having seen Leardi walking along the street one day with a camera under his arm.
“No, no!” she said. “You jealous old thing! It was taken by a perfectly serious married man: Datti, the painter.”
Married perhaps, but hardly serious! “I am not jealous,” said Emilio, in a low, deep voice, “but sad, very sad indeed.” Then he caught sight of a photo of Datti himself, among the other photos—a man with a great red beard, whose portrait all the artists in the town loved painting—and on seeing him Emilio recalled with acute pain something he had once heard him say: “The sort of women I have to do with don’t deserve that my wife should be jealous of them.”
He had no need to hunt for proofs; they were showered upon him, they weighed him down, and Angiolina seemed to be clumsily doing her best to draw attention to them and force him to take them up. Feeling hurt and humiliated, she tried to justify herself by saying in a low voice: “I got to know all these people through Merighi.” She was obviously lying, for it was impossible to believe that a hard-working businessman like Merighi should have numbered among his acquaintance all these fast young men and artists, or that even if he
had known them he should have introduced them to his future wife.
He gave her a long, searching look, as if he were seeing her for the first time, and she understood quite well the significance of that look; she became rather pale, and waited, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground. But Brentani suddenly remembered how little right he had to be jealous. No! he said to himself, he was not going to humiliate her or make her suffer; he never would do that. Very gently this time, in order to show her that he still loved her—he remembered that he had approached her quite differently only a few minutes earlier—he tried again to kiss her.
Her manner showed at once that he was forgiven, but she drew away from him and begged him not to try and kiss her any more. He was surprised at her refusing a kiss that to him meant so much, and he ended by getting even angrier than he had been before. “I have so many sins on my conscience already,” she said very seriously, “that I shall find it very hard to receive absolution today. It is your fault that I am going to confession badly prepared.”
A new hope awoke in Emilio’s breast. What a blessed thing religion was! He had banished it from his own home and deprived Amalia of its comfort, but now that he found it again at Angiolina’s side he welcomed it with indescribable joy. In face of an honest woman’s religion all those men on the wall seemed to him less formidable, and as he went away he kissed Angiolina’s hand respectfully, a homage which she accepted as a tribute to her virtue.
So that the only result of his visit was that he had found out the way to her house. He got into the habit of going there every morning to take her something nice to eat with her coffee. How much he enjoyed the hour he spent with her then. She had only just got out of bed, and he took her wonderful body in his arms and pressed it to him, still warm from sleep. He felt its warmth through her thin wrapper, and had the sense of immediate contact with her naked body. The spell of religion had vanished very quickly, for Angiolina’s was hardly of the quality to protect anyone who had to rely on that alone for her defense; but Emilio’s suspicions never returned to him with their former violence. When he was in that room he had no time to look about him.