"This," he said, pointing to the signature in the corner. I could not decipher the reddish-brown letters. "The painting," Richard continued, "is no great achievement--any number like it are more beautiful--but there is no painter more beautiful than the woman who painted it. Her name is Erminia Aglietti, and if you like we can call on her tomorrow and tell her she's a great painter."
"Then you know her?"
"Yes. If her paintings were as beautiful as she is, she would be wealthy and would not be painting any more. For she does not enjoy it and paints only because she happens not to have learned any other way to make a living."
Richard forgot all about it and did not mention her again until a few weeks later. "I ran into the Aglietti girl yesterday. We were going to visit her a couple of weeks back, you remember. Come on. Your collar is clean, isn't it? She's a bit finicky about that."
My shirt was clean and we went off to see the Aglietti girl, I not without misgivings, for the rather rough and ready relationship of Richard and his friends with women painters and students had never appealed to me. The men were quite ruthless--sometimes coarse, sometimes sarcastic; the girls, on the other hand, were practical, clever, and shrewd--and devoid of the ethereal haze in which I preferred to see and venerate women.
I entered the studio feeling somewhat apprehensive. I was used to the atmosphere of painters' workshops, but this was my first time in a woman's studio. It made a simple, well-ordered impression. Three or four finished paintings hung in their frames; another, on which she had just begun, stood on the easel. The other walls were covered with neat, attractive pencil sketches. There was also a half-filled bookcase. The painter coolly accepted our greeting. She laid down her brush and leaned against the bookcase in her smock, looking as though she did not want to waste much time on us.
Richard showered her with extravagant praise of the picture we had seen at the exhibition. She laughed and cut him short.
"But I might want to buy the painting. Besides, the cows in it are so true to life..."
"But they're goats," she said quietly.
"Goats? Of course, goats. Observed with an accuracy that is absolutely breathtaking. They are about to leap off the canvas, completely goatlike. Just ask my friend Camenzind, a son of the mountains himself. He'll back me up."
I felt the painter's eye sweep over me critically, while I listened with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement to the banter. She looked at me for some time, quite uninhibitedly.
"You are from the mountains?"
"Yes."
"It's obvious. Well, how do you feel about my goats?"
"Oh, they're excellent. I certainly never thought they were cows as Richard did."
"Very nice of you to say so. Are you a musician?"
"No, a student."
She said nothing further to me and now I had a chance to observe her. Her long painter's smock hid and distorted her figure, and her face did not strike me as beautiful. The features were sharp and sparse; the eyes a little hard; the hair full, black, and soft. What bothered me--almost repelled me--was her complexion: it made me think at once of Gorgonzola; I would not have been surprised to find greenish veins in it. I had not seen this Italian paleness before, and now, in the unfavorable morning light of the studio, her skin looked startlingly like stone--not marble, but like some weathered, highly bleached stone. And I was not in the habit of testing a woman's face by its shape but was accustomed--still in my somewhat boyish fashion--to look for softness, hue, and loveliness of complexion.
The visit had put Richard in a bad mood too, so I was astonished, actually frightened, when he said sometime afterwards that the Aglietti girl would like to do a drawing of me. It would only be a sketch; she was not interested in my face but in my "typical" broad massive figure.
Before we had a chance to discuss this at greater length, something occurred which transformed my life and set my future course for many years. Suddenly, when I awoke one morning, I was a writer.
At Richard's urging I had occasionally written brief sketches and portraits of types in our circle and also a few essays on literary and historical subjects--all of them as accurate as possible, but purely stylistic exercises.
One morning, when I was still in bed, Richard came in and placed thirty-five francs on my blanket. "They are yours," he said in a businesslike voice. Finally, after I had exhausted all possible explanations, he drew a page of a newspaper out of his pocket and showed me one of my essays printed there. He had copied a number of my manuscripts and taken them to an editor friend and sold them quietly behind my back. I now held the first piece the editor had bought, as well as the fee.
I had never felt as strange as I did then. Although I was furious that Richard should have assumed such a providential role, the first sweet pride in being a writer and having earned the money, and the thought of a certain, though small, literary fame, overcame my irritation.
Richard had me meet the editor in a cafe. The editor asked if he might keep the other pieces Richard had shown him and asked me to send more. He said my pieces had a distinctive tone, particularly those on historical subjects, and he would be glad to have more in the same vein and would pay a good fee. Only then did I fully grasp what had happened. Not only would I be able to eat regularly and settle my small debts, but I could abandon the course of studies I'd been compelled to follow and might even be able to afford working solely in my chosen field.
Meanwhile, the editor had a batch of new books sent to my place for review. I worked my way through these and was kept busy for several weeks. Since payments were due at the end of the quarter and I had exceeded my usual standard of living in anticipation of this income, one day I found myself without a centime to my name and was forced to go hungry again. For a few days I held out in my attic on a diet of bread and coffee, then hunger pangs drove me out to a restaurant. I took three books along to leave as security in lieu of payment, having already made a vain attempt to sell them at a secondhand bookshop. The meal was first-rate. Only after I drank my cup of black coffee did I begin to feel uneasy.
With some trepidation, I confessed to the waitress that I was broke. Couldn't I leave the books instead? She picked one of them up from the table--a volume of poetry--leafed through it with evident curiosity, and asked whether she could read it. She liked reading, she said, but somehow never had the chance to get hold of good books. Then I knew I was saved. I suggested that she take all three books as payment for my meal. She accepted and over a period of time took seventeen francs' worth of books off my hands. For a slim volume of poetry, I demanded a cheese sandwich; for a novel, the same plus a glass of wine; a single novella was worth a cup of coffee and a serving of bread.
As I remember, these were all quite insignificant books written in a painfully cramped, fashionable style, so the goodhearted girl probably received a strange impression of modern German literature. With real delight I can recollect mornings on which I would race through a book, scribble a few lines of comment so I would be done with it by noon, and take it to trade in for lunch. But I took pains to hide my financial difficulties from Richard, for I felt unnecessarily ashamed and disliked accepting his help except in the most dire circumstances.
I did not think of myself as a poet. What I wrote on occasion was feuilleton stuff, not poetry. Yet I cherished the hope that one day I would succeed in creating a work of literature, a great, proud song of longing and of life.
The clear, lighthearted mirror of my soul was overcast at times by a kind of melancholy. Yet it was not seriously ruffled at first. These shadows appeared for a day or a night in the form of dreamy, forlorn sadness, then disappeared again without a trace, only to return suddenly after weeks or months. I got used to this sadness as to a mistress. I did not feel tortured but experienced an uneasy weariness that had a certain sweetness all its own. If this melancholy enveloped me at night, I would lie for hours by the window gazing down upon the black lake and up at the mountains silhouetted against the wan sky, with stars su
spended above. Then a fearfully sweet, overpowering emotion would take hold of me--as though all the nighttime beauty looked at me accusingly, stars and mountain and lake longing for someone who understood the beauty and agony of their mute existence, who could express it for them, as though I were the one meant to do this and as though my true calling were to give expression to inarticulate nature in poems.
I never gave any thought to how I would go about doing this; I only sensed the beautiful grave night mutely longing for me. And I never wrote a poem when I was in such a mood, though I felt responsible for these dark voices and usually would set out on an extended solitary walk after one of these nights. I felt that in this fashion I requited a little the earth's love which offered itself up to me in silent supplication, an idea I could only laugh at afterward. These walks, however, became one of the bases of my later life, large parts of which I have spent as a wanderer, hiking for weeks and months from country to country. I grew used to tramping on, with only a little money and a crust of bread in my pockets, to being by myself for days on end and spending nights out in the open.
I had forgotten the Aglietti girl now that I was becoming a writer. Then she sent a note: "I'm giving a tea on Thursday at my place. Why don't you come and bring your friend?"
Richard and I went and found there a small coterie of artists. For the most part they were unrecognized, forgotten, or unsuccessful, which I found touching, although all of them seemed quite contented and merry. We were given tea, sandwiches, ham, and a salad. Because I didn't know any of the people and was not gregarious anyway, I gave in to my hunger pangs and for an hour did little but eat, quietly and persistently, while the others sipped their tea and chattered. By the time they were ready for food, I'd consumed almost half the ham. I'd assured myself that there would be at least another platter in reserve. They all chuckled softly and I reaped a few glances so ironical that I became furious and damned the Italian girl as well as her ham, rose to my feet, and excused myself, explaining curtly that I would bring my own dinner along the next time. Then I reached for my hat.
The Aglietti girl took back my hat, looked astonished at me, and begged me to stay. The soft lamplight fell on her face and I was struck by the wonderfully mature beauty of this woman. I suddenly felt very stupid and naughty, like a school boy who has been reprimanded, and I sat down again in a far corner of the room. There I stayed, leafing through a picture album of Lake Como. The others went on sipping their tea, paced back and forth, laughed, and talked. Nearby a cello and violins were tuning up. A curtain was drawn aside and I could see four musicians at improvised stands ready to perform a string quartet. Erminia came toward me, placed her cup on a side table, nodded kindly, and sat down beside me. The quartet played for some time, but I did not listen closely. I gazed with growing amazement at the slender, elegant woman whose beauty I had doubted and whose refreshments I had gobbled up. With mixed feelings of joy and apprehension, I now remembered that she had wanted to draw me. Then my thoughts returned to Rosi Girtanner, for whom I had climbed after rhododendron, and to the fable of the Snow Princess, all of which now seemed to me to have been preparation for the present moment.
When the music ended, Erminia did not leave me as I had feared she would, but sat quietly beside me and then began to talk. She congratulated me on one of my pieces she had seen in the newspaper. She joked about Richard, who was surrounded by girls and whose carefree laughter could be heard above the laughter of all the others. When she asked again if she could paint me, it occurred to me to continue our conversation in Italian. I was not only rewarded with a happy, surprised glance from her vivacious Mediterranean eyes, but had the pleasure of hearing her speak the language that best suited her lips and eyes and figure--the euphonious, elegant, flowing lingua toscana with a charming touch of Ticino Swiss. I myself spoke neither beautifully nor fluently, but this did not bother me at all. We agreed I was to come and sit for her the next day.
"Arrivederla," I said as we parted, giving as deep a bow as I could.
"Arrivederci domani," she smiled, nodding to me.
After leaving her house, I walked along the street until it reached the ridge of a hill and I beheld the dark landscape stretched out before me in beauty's strong repose. A solitary boat with a red lantern was gliding over the lake; its blackness was broken by flickering scarlet slivers, and an occasional wave fell in a silvery silhouette. Laughter, mandolin music from a nearby beer-garden. The sky was overcast and a strong warm breeze swept across the hills.
Like the wind that caressed and shook and bent the fruit trees and the black crowns of the chestnut trees and made them moan, laugh, and quiver, so my passion played within me. On that hilltop I knelt and groveled on the ground, leaped up and groaned, stomped about, tossed away my hat, buried my face in the grass, grasped the tree trunks, cried, laughed, sobbed, raged, wept with shame, shivered with bliss, and then felt utterly crushed.
After an hour of this frenzy, all tension left me and I felt choked by a kind of sultriness. My mind went blank. I could reach no decision, I felt nothing; like a sleepwalker I descended the hill, walked aimlessly back and forth through town, found a tavern still open, entered it without any real desire, drank two full measures of wine and got home, terribly drunk, in the early morning.
Erminia was quite startled when she saw me that afternoon.
"What happened? Are you ill?"
"Nothing serious," I replied. "It seems I got very drunk last night, that's all."
She propped me on a chair and asked me not to move. Soon I dozed off and slept through the entire afternoon in her studio. Presumably it was the smell of turpentine that made me dream of our skiff back home being freshly painted. I lay on the gravel and watched my father plying the paintbrush. Mother was there too and when I asked her if she hadn't died, she replied gently: "No. For if I were not here, you'd end up like your father."
I was awakened by falling off the chair and found myself transplanted into Erminia Aglietti's studio. Though I could not see her, I gathered from the clattering of dishes and cutlery that she was preparing dinner.
"How are you?" she called to me.
"Fine. How long did I sleep?"
"Four full hours. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
"A little. But I had such a beautiful dream."
"Tell it to me."
"Only if you come here and forgive me."
She came but would not forgive me until I told her the dream. So I recounted it in detail and in the process plunged deeply into half-forgotten childhood memories. By the time I stopped, when it had grown dark outside, I had told her and myself the story of my childhood. She gave me her hand, smoothed my wrinkled jacket, and invited me to sit for her again the next day, so that I felt she had understood, as well as forgiven, my behavior.
Though I posed for her hour after hour during the next few days, we scarcely talked at all. I simply sat, or stood calmly, as if enchanted. I listened to the soft rasp of the charcoal and inhaled the faint smell of paint, delighting in the proximity of the woman I loved, while her eyes rested on me all the time. The white studio light bathed the walls, a few sleepy flies buzzed against the panes, and in the small room adjacent to the studio the flame hissed in the spirit lamp, for at the end of each session she served me a cup of tea.
My thoughts remained with Erminia even when I was back in my attic. It did not diminish my passion that I was unable to admire her art. She herself was so beautiful, so good and self-confident--what did her painting matter to me? On the contrary, her industry had a heroic quality: a woman battling for her livelihood, a quiet, persevering, courageous heroine.
Anyway, there's nothing more futile than ruminating about someone you love; such thoughts are like a treadmill. That is one reason why my memory of the beautiful Italian girl, though not indistinct, lacks many of the small details and features that we notice more readily in strangers than in those who are close to us. For example, I cannot remember how she wore her hair, how she dressed, and s
o on, or even whether she was short or tall. Whenever I think of her, I see a dark-haired, nobly shaped head, a pair of radiant eyes set in a pale, vivacious face with a beautifully shaped mouth. And when I think of her and the time I was in love with her, I always return to that night on the hill with the wind blowing over the lake and myself weeping, overjoyed, going berserk; and to one other night that I will tell of now.
It had become clear to me that I would have to make some kind of profession of love and actually woo her. If we had not seen each other almost every day, I might have been content to worship her from afar and suffer in silence. But since I saw her so frequently, talked to her, shook her hand, entered her house, my heart was in a continuous state of torment and I could not endure it for long.
Some artist friends of hers arranged a small party in a beautiful garden beside the lake on a mild midsummer evening. We drank chilled wine, listened to music, and gazed at the red Japanese lanterns that were hung in garlands between the trees. We talked, joked, laughed, and finally burst out in song. Some foolish young painter was enjoying himself in the role of a romantic fop; he wore his beret at a rakish angle and lay with his back to the fence, fondling a long-necked guitar. The few artists of consequence who had been invited had not come or else sat off to the side. Some girls had shown up in light summer dresses; others wore the usual unorthodox costumes. Richard flirted with the girls, and I, despite my inner turbulence, felt cool, drank little, and waited for Erminia, who had promised to let me take her out in a boat. When she arrived, she made me a present of some flowers, and we got into a small rowboat.
The lake was as smooth as oil and as colorless as the night. I rowed the boat swiftly out onto the calm expanse, all the while gazing intently at the slender woman leaning back comfortably and contented against the stern. As the sky gradually darkened and one star after another glinted through the waning blue, the sounds of music and of people amusing themselves on shore drifted over to us. The sluggish water accepted the oars with gentle gurgling, and other boats drifted about here and there almost invisible in the calm. But I paid little heed to them. My eyes were riveted on my companion and my thoughts were fixed on a declaration of love that clasped my anxious heart like a steel ring. The beauty and poetry of the moment, the boat, the stars, the tranquil lake, made me hesitant; it seemed as though I would have to act out a sentimental scene on a beautifully set stage. Fearful and numbed by the profound stillness--for neither of us spoke--I rowed as hard as I could.