I thanked her, with the same fervor that now, however, no longer succeeded in moving me. I felt a certain heaviness in my stomach: obviously I was more compromised than ever. My show of fervor, instead of diminishing, increased, only to allow me to say a few words of admiration for poor Lali. I didn’t want to lose him at all, I wanted to save him, but for the next day.
When it came to deciding whether to keep or dismiss the maestro, we were immediately in agreement. I wouldn’t want to deprive her not only of a teacher but also of a career. She also confessed that the teacher was important for her, at every lesson she had the proof of the necessity of his help. She assured me I could go on living calmly and confidently: she loved me and no one else.
Obviously my betrayal had broadened and deepened. I had attached myself to my mistress by a new tenderness that bound with new bonds and invaded a territory until then reserved exclusively for my legitimate affection. But when I returned to my house, that tenderness no longer existed and, increased, was lavished on Augusta. Toward Carla I felt nothing but a deep distrust. Who knows how much truth there was in that marriage proposal? I wouldn’t have been surprised if one fine day, without marrying that other man, Carla were to present me with a child endowed with great musical talent. And the ironclad resolutions began again, accompanying me on the way to Carla’s, only to abandon me when I was with her, resuming then even before I had left her. All without consequences of any kind.
And there were no other consequences from these new developments. Summer went by and carried off my father-in-law. I then had a great deal to do in Guido’s new firm, where I worked more than I had anywhere else, including the various university departments. I will tell more about this activity later. Winter also went by, and then in my little garden the first green leaves opened and they never saw me as dejected as those of the year before had. My daughter Antonia was born. Carla’s teacher was always at our disposal, but Carla wouldn’t give him any consideration and neither would I, yet.
Still there were serious consequences in my relations with Carla through events that really might not have been thought important. They occurred almost unnoticed, and were distinguished only by the consequences they left behind.
Specifically, at the beginning of that spring, I had to agree to go strolling with Carla in the Public Garden. It seemed to me gravely compromising, but Carla had such a desire to stroll in the sun on my arm that in the end I contented her. We were never to be allowed to live even for brief moments as husband and wife, and this attempt also came to a bad end.
The better to enjoy the new warmth that suddenly arrived from the heavens, where it seemed the sun had only recently regained its dominion, we sat down on a bench. The garden, on weekday mornings, was deserted, and I thought that by remaining in one place, the risk of being observed was further lessened. On the contrary, his armpit leaning heavily on a crutch, with slow but enormous steps, Tullio was approaching us, the man with the five hundred and four muscles; and without looking at us, he sat down right at our side. Then he raised his head, his gaze met mine, and he greeted me.
“After all this time! How are you? Are you less busy finally?”
He had sat just next to me, and in my first surprise I moved so as to block his view of Carla. But, after shaking my hand, he asked me: “And is this your lady wife?”
He was expecting to be introduced.
I submitted. “Signorina Carla Gerco, a friend of my wife’s.”
Then I continued lying, and I know, from Tullio himself, that the second lie was enough to reveal everything to him. With a forced smile, I said: “The Signorina also sat down beside me on this bench without seeing me.”
The liar should always bear in mind that, if he would be believed, he must tell only essential lies. With his working-class common sense, the next time we met, Tullio said to me: “You explained too much, and I guessed you were lying and the beautiful young lady was your mistress.”
By then I had already lost Carla, and with great pleasure I confirmed that he was right on the mark, but I told him sadly that by now she had abandoned me. He didn’t believe me, and I was grateful to him for that. His incredulity seemed a good sign.
Carla was seized by an ill humor such as I had never remarked in her before. I know now that her rebellion began at this point. I wasn’t aware of it immediately because, in order to hear Tullio, who had begun telling me about his sickness and the treatments he was trying, I turned my back on her. Later I learned that a woman, even one who allows herself to be treated with less courtesy, will never accept being denied in public, except at certain moments. She directed her outrage more toward the poor cripple than toward me, and wouldn’t reply when he addressed her. Nor was I listening to Tullio; for the moment I couldn’t take an interest in his cures. I was looking into his little eyes to divine what he was thinking of this encounter. I knew that by now he was pensioned off and, having the entire day free, he could easily spread his gossip through all the social world of our little Trieste of that time.
Then, after long meditation, Carla rose to leave us. “Goodbye,” she murmured, and she went off.
I knew she was cross with me and, still taking Tullio’s presence into account, I tried to gain the time necessary to pacify her. I asked permission to accompany her, since I had to go in her direction. Her sharp farewell implied definitive abandonment, and for the first time I seriously feared it. The stern threat robbed me of breath.
But Carla herself still didn’t know where she was going with her firm steps. She was releasing the irritation of the moment, which in a little while would leave her.
She waited for me and then walked along beside me without a word. When we reached her home, she was overcome by a fit of weeping that didn’t frighten me because it led her to take refuge in my arms. I explained to her who Tullio was and how much harm he could do me, thanks to his tongue. Seeing that she continued weeping, but remained in my arms, I ventured a firmer tone: Did she really want to compromise me? Hadn’t we always said we would do everything to avoid causing grief for that poor woman who was, after all, my wife and the mother of my daughter?
It seemed that Carla was coming round, but she wanted to be left alone, to regain her calm. I hurried away, overjoyed.
It must have been this adventure that gave her the constant wish to appear in public as my wife. It seemed that, not wanting to marry the maestro, she meant to force me to occupy a larger part of the role she denied him. She nagged me for a long time to take two seats at a theater, which we would occupy, arriving from separate directions, to find ourselves neighbors as if by chance. With her I went only—but often—to the Public Garden, that milestone of my misdeeds, where I now arrived from the opposite direction. Beyond that, never! Therefore my mistress ended up resembling me too much. For no other reason, at any moment she would become angry with me, in sudden outbursts of wrath. Soon she would recover, but they were enough to make me ever so good and meek. Often I found her dissolved in tears, and I could never succeed in extracting an explanation of her sadness from her. Perhaps the fault was mine because I didn’t insist enough. When I knew her better, that is when she abandoned me, I needed no further explanations. Pressed by hardship, she had plunged into that affair with me, not really the right man for her. In my arms she had become a woman and—I like to suppose—an honest woman. Naturally this should not be attributed to any merit of mine, especially since the ensuing harm was all mine.
A new whim seized her, which surprised me at first, then, immediately afterwards, touched me: she wanted to see my wife. She swore not to approach her and to take care not to not be seen herself. I promised her that when I learned my wife was going out somewhere at a specific time, I would let her know. She was to see my wife not near my house, a deserted area where an individual is too readily noticed, but on some crowded city street.
At about that time my mother-in-law was afflicted with an eye ailment, which required her eyes to be bandaged for several days. She was bored to
death, and to persuade her to observe the treatment strictly, her daughters took turns watching over her: my wife in the morning, and Ada until precisely four o’clock in the afternoon. With prompt decision, I told Carla that my wife left my mother-in-law’s house precisely at four. Even now I don’t know why I misrepresented Ada to Carla as my wife. What’s certain is that after the marriage proposal made to her by the teacher, I felt a need to bind my mistress to me further, and I may have thought that the more beautiful she found my wife, the more she would appreciate the man who sacrificed (so to speak) such a woman to her. Augusta, at this time, was no more than a fine, healthy wet nurse. Caution may also have played a part in my decision. I certainly had reason to fear the moods of my mistress, and it would be of no importance if she were to let herself be swept into some rash act with Ada, who had indicated to me that she would never try to denigrate me to my wife.
If Carla were to compromise me with Ada, I would tell Ada the whole truth and, I must say, with a certain satisfaction.
But my tactic produced a truly unpredictable result. Impelled by some anxiety, the next morning I went to Carla earlier than usual. I found her completely changed from the day before. A great seriousness dominated the fine oval of her little face. I wanted to kiss her, but she repelled me, then let her cheeks be brushed by my lips, only to induce me to listen to her obediently. I sat facing her on the other side of the table. Without excessive haste, she picked up a piece of paper she had been writing on when I arrived, and placed it among some music lying on the table. I paid no attention to that paper and only later did I learn it was a letter she was writing to Lali.
And yet I know now that even at that moment Carla’s spirit was torn by doubts. Her serious eyes rested on me, inquiring; then she turned to the light at the window, the better to isolate herself and study her own mind. Who knows? If I had immediately sensed more clearly the struggle within her, I might have been able to retain my delightful mistress.
She told me of her encounter with Ada. She had waited outside my mother-in-law’s house and, when she saw the woman arrive, she recognized her at once.
“There could be no mistake. You had described her most important features to me. Oh! You know her well!”
She was silent for a moment to overcome the emotion that was choking her. Then she went on: “I don’t know what there has been between the two of you, but I never want to betray that woman again, so beautiful and so sad! And I am writing to the maestro today to tell him I am ready to marry him!”
“Sad!” I cried, surprised. “You’re mistaken, or else she was suffering just then because her shoe was too tight.”
Ada, sad! Why, she was always laughing and smiling, even that very morning when I had seen her for an instant at my house.
But Carla was better informed than I: “Tight shoe! She walked like a goddess, stepping among the clouds!”
More and more moved, she told me that she had managed to receive a word—oh! how sweet—spoken to her by Ada, who dropped her handkerchief, which Carla picked up and handed to her. Her brief word of thanks moved Carla to tears. Then there was more between the two women. Carla insisted that Ada had also noticed she was crying and had moved off with a heartbroken glance of solidarity. For Carla, all was clear: my wife knew I was unfaithful to her and was suffering! Hence the resolve never to see me again and to marry Lali.
I didn’t know how to defend myself! It was easy for me to speak with complete dislike of Ada but not of my wife, the healthy wet nurse who hadn’t the slightest idea of what was going on in my spirit, completely intent as she was on her own ministry. I asked Carla if she hadn’t noticed the hardness in Ada’s eyes, and if she hadn’t noticed the low, rough voice, lacking any sweetness. To regain Carla’s love at once, I would gladly have attributed to my wife many other flaws, but I couldn’t because, for about a year, with my mistress I had done nothing but praise my wife to the skies.
I saved myself in a different way. I, too, was overcome by a great emotion that brought tears to my eyes. It seemed to me I could legitimately pity myself. Involuntarily, I had enmeshed myself in a tangle where I felt terribly unhappy. That confusion between Ada and Augusta was unbearable. The truth was that my wife was not so beautiful and that Ada (for whom Carla was seized by such compassion) had done me a great wrong. Therefore Carla was really unfair in judging me.
My tears made Carla more tender: “Dario, dearest! Your tears make me feel so much better! There must have been some misunderstanding between you two, and the important thing now is to clear it up. I don’t want to judge you too harshly, but I will never betray that woman again, nor do I want to be the cause of her tears. I’ve made a vow!”
Despite the vow, she ended up betraying Augusta for a last time. She wanted to part from me forever with a last kiss, but I would grant that kiss only in one form, otherwise I would have gone off filled with bitterness. So she resigned herself. We murmured both together: “For the last time!”
It was a delightful moment. The resolution made by both of us had an efficacy that canceled all guilt. We were innocent and blissful! My benevolent fate had reserved for me an instant of perfect happiness.
I felt so happy that I continued the playacting until the moment of our separation. We would never see each other again. She refused the envelope I always carried in my pocket and would have no memento of me. We had to dismiss from our new life every trace of our past misdeeds. Then I gladly kissed her on the forehead, paternally, as she had wanted me to do before.
Afterwards, on the stairs, I hesitated, because matters were becoming a bit too serious, whereas if I could know that the next morning she would still be at my disposal, thoughts of the future would not have come to me so quickly. From her landing, she watched me descend, and with a little laugh, I shouted up at her: “Till tomorrow, then!”
She drew back, surprised and almost frightened, and went off, saying: “Never again!”
I still felt relieved at having dared say the word that could lead me toward another last embrace whenever I wished. Without desires and without commitments, I spent a whole beautiful day with my wife, then in Guido’s office. I must say that the lack of engagements brought me closer to my wife and my daughter. For them I was something more than the usual: not only sweet, but a true father who calmly arranges and commands, his mind entirely on his home. Going to bed, I said to myself, in the form of a proposal: All days should be like this one.
Before falling asleep, Augusta felt the need to confide a great secret to me: she had learned it from her mother that same day. Some days before, Ada had caught Guido embracing a maidservant of theirs. Ada had reacted haughtily, but then the maid turned impudent, and Ada discharged her. Yesterday they had been anxious to learn how Guido had taken the matter. If he had complained, Ada would have demanded a separation. But Guido had laughed and protested that Ada hadn’t seen clearly; however, even though that woman was innocent, he honestly disliked her, and had nothing against her being dismissed from the house. Apparently things were now smooth again.
It was important for me to know whether Ada had been imagining things when she surprised her husband in that situation. Could there still be any possible doubt? Because the fact remains that when two people are hugging each other, they are in a position quite different from when one is cleaning the other’s shoes. I was in excellent humor. I even felt required to seem impartial and calm in judging Guido. Ada was certainly jealous by nature, and it could be that she had seen distances diminished and people’s positions altered.
In a heartbroken voice, Augusta told me she was sure Ada had seen clearly and that now, out of excessive devotion, she was using bad judgment. She added: “She would have done much better to marry you!”
Feeling more and more innocent, I remarked generously: “It remains to be seen if I would have done better to marry her instead of you!”
Then, before falling asleep, I murmured: “What a cad! Besmirching his own house like that!”
I was f
airly sincere in reproaching him specifically for that aspect of his behavior for which I didn’t have to reproach myself.
The next morning I got up with the strong desire that at least this first day should exactly resemble the preceding day. It was probable that the delightful resolutions of the day before wouldn’t bind Carla any more than they did me, and I felt entirely free of them. Certainly the eagerness to know what Carla thought about it made me hurry. My desire would have been to find her ready for another resolution. Life would have sped away, rich indeed in pleasures, but even more in efforts for self-betterment, and my every day would have been devoted in a great degree to good and in the slightest degree to resolutions. Carla had had only one: to show that she loved me. She had kept it, and I had some difficulty making myself believe it would now be easy for her to maintain the new resolution while revoking the old one.
Carla wasn’t at home. It was a great disappointment, and [ gnawed my fingers in chagrin. The old woman showed me into the kitchen. She told me Carla would be back before evening. Carla had said she would eat out, and so on that stove there wasn’t even the little fire that usually glowed there.
“You didn’t know?” the old woman asked me, her eyes wide with surprise.
Pensive, distracted, I murmured: “I heard of it yesterday. I wasn’t sure Carla actually meant today.”
I left, after politely saying good-bye. I was gnashing my teeth, but in secret. It took some time to muster the courage to be angry publicly. I entered the Public Garden and strolled there for half an hour, to gain the time to understand things better. They were so clear that I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. All of a sudden, with no pity at all, I was forced to maintain such a resolution. I felt ill, really ill. I limped, and I struggled also with a kind of shortness of breath. I have those attacks: I can breathe perfectly, but I start counting the individual breaths, because I have to take them consciously, one after the other. I have the sensation that if I am not careful, I will die of suffocation.