The Nice Old Man and the Pretty Girl

by Italo Svevo

  Then he looked at her. Her face seemed less fresh. Round her mouth, which five months ago he had compared to a flower scarcely budding, some of the lines had altered. Horizontally the mouth had lengthened a little and the lips seemed less full. Some bitterness? Perhaps some rancour against him? Because—only now did he remember it—he had promised love and protection and then suddenly he had repudiated all his promises to her. Hence the first words he uttered were to ask her forgiveness. He told her how, at the time when he had written her her that he must leave town, he had really been ill. He described the great attack of angina, which now lay so far behind him, as if it had been yesterday. In a way, therefore, he lied, but only so as to insure being immediately forgiven.

  She, however, had no thought of a grievance against him. Far from it. She had immediately made as if she would kiss him right on the mouth. He offered her his cheek and just touched hers with his own lips. “What a pity,” she said; “it would have been better if you had gone away instead of being ill.”

  In order to see her better, he made her sit down at the other end of the table. It must have been ordained by mother Nature that old men should see better at a distance, because there is no object in their having things within reach.

  Suddenly he noticed with surprise that the curls which he had seen flying free in the air on the previous day were now covered with a smart hat, adorned with good feathers of sober hue. Why this transformation, as it might be called in Trieste, where a woman’s hat shows exactly the class to which she belongs? She came to him in a hat, while she did not wear one when walking in the street? It was strange. And how different was her style of dress! She was no longer a daughter of the people; she belonged to the middle classes in her hat, her well-cut dress and its ample material, such as was then the fashion, when material was scarce. To the middle classes, too, if not to the best of them, belonged the transparent silk stockings, which were such a poor protection to the legs against the cold, and the little varnished shoes. It was not merely affection that made it impossible for the old man to adopt the rather stern air he had intended, but also, to some extent, respect. She was certainly the smartest person he had talked to for a long time. He, on the other hand, was dressed very slackly. He had not even got on his collar, because it made him short of breath. Instinctively he put his hand to his throat to see whether he had buttoned his shirt.

  Where could all the money have come from to buy all this finery? Instead of thinking what he had to say, the old man lost himself in calculations. How much money had he sent her five months ago? Could the money he had given her have been enough to explain all this luxury?

  She looked at him smiling, and seemed to be waiting. He had already decided not to assume for the moment the appearance of a mentor, especially as he seemed to be admonishing her sufficiently by setting an example of virtue. That is why he could not think of anything else to say than to ask “Are you still on the trams?”

  At first she seemed not to understand: “On the trams?” Then she appeared to recollect: It was not work suited to a young girl. She had left it some time ago.

  He invited her to eat. It was a way of gaining time, because he was wondering whether he ought not to have reproved her for giving up work. While she was preparing to eat, slowly taking off her gloves, he asked her: “And what are you doing now?”

  “Now?” asked the girl, hesitating in her turn. Then she smiled: “Now I am looking for a job, and you must find me one.”

  “I shall be delighted,” said the old man. “As soon as I am well, I will take you into my office. Have you learnt any German?” “Ah, German!” she said, laughing heartily. “We two began to love each other with German, and we might go on learning it together.” This was a suggestion he pretended not to hear.

  She began to eat, but in a most self-possessed way. Knife and fork worked with complete ease and the mouthfuls reached the dainty mouth in due measure, whereas at the early suppers to which he had invited her the little fingers had also had to assist in breaking up the food and conveying it to its destination. The old man felt that he ought to be gratified at finding her so much more refined.

  He was still hesitating. If he went on laughing and smiling with her, what was going to happen? In order not to give offence he meant to speak only of his own fault: “If that day I had got into conversation with you only to give you advice for your own good.…”

  The girl’s simple common sense at this point raised an objection which was to weigh upon the old man even later: “But if you had not fallen in love with me, you would not have accosted me at all.” And he realized at once that if he had not been kept on the foot-board of the tram by his desire, he would have got off at the Tergesteo without even noticing that the girl might need him.

  She had not taken his words very seriously, because she said at once: “Was I pretty on the tram? Tell me now, you liked me very much?” She got up, went to him and stroked his cheek, which had been shaved that day. What could he do but return the caress by putting his hand under her chin?

  He tried to take up the thread of his speech. “I was too old for you, and I ought to have known it.”

  “Old!” she exclaimed in protest. “I loved you because I liked that air of distinction of yours.” He was forced to smile at the compliment, and he was really pleased. He knew that even in his old age he looked distinguished and he took pride in the fact.

  “But if,” she added, eating, “you want to adopt me as your daughter, there is plenty of time. Should not I make a lovely daughter?”

  Unbounded assurance came out in every word she said, and it seemed to him that the girl of the people had been different. In her old clothes, at the very moment when she had seduced him, she had been so much more moral. While she was eating she managed to stretch herself on the arm-chair and display her legs with their smart stockings to the gaze of the old man. Adopt her? A girl who showed him legs about which he did not care twopence?

  Anger made him more eloquent. “That day I accosted you with the idea of doing you good and leading you to a better life. Do you remember how I spoke to you about jobs and lessons? Do you remember? Then passion gained the mastery. But remember that, on the very first evening, I wanted to speak to you again about work, and I spoke about it on the second and always, every time I saw you. Then I also told you to be on your guard, and not let yourself be inveigled into other irregular amours. Do you remember?” He had thus admitted, and without the slightest effort, that his own love had also been irregular.

  And he breathed again. Seeing that the girl remembered everything he wanted and nothing else, he breathed again. It seemed to him that he was cleared of all reproach, and he thought now that he would be able to devote himself to teaching the girl morality, without finding any impediment in the example he himself had set. With his nurse he had been more honest and had excused his earlier transgressions by his youth. With the girl, on the contrary, he was trying to wipe out those transgressions by means of the words with which he had accompanied them.

  Apparently he had succeeded, and he was inexpressibly pleased in consequence. He thought he could look at the whole world objectively now that he was at last free of all the compromising circumstances to which all men are driven by their own weaknesses. If he had really been the objective observer he imagined, he might have seen that there was still something of the girl of the people in this girl, something simple and ingenuous, and delighted in it. She went on eating with a good appetite and said she remembered everything he wanted her to remember and nothing he did not want. She had not the slightest idea why he talked as he did, but she was not surprised at his words. She would not have been in the least surprised if he had then begun to kiss her and embrace her, as in the past. It might well be that, whereas in the past he had been in the habit of making love first and preaching afterwards, he had decided, after his bad illness, to begin with the sermon, and it was not her business to understand the reason for the change.

  However, she decl
ared that she had always followed his advice, and had never given herself up to irregular loves. She spoke calmly, continuing to eat and not paying the slightest attention to the face of her interlocutor to see whether he believed her.

  He did not believe her, but he felt obliged to appear a little grateful, because she had been so forbearing with him. “Bravo,” said he, “I am very pleased with you. You are doing me the greatest kindness in remaining honest, and you will see that I shall be very grateful.” He imagined that he had done a great deal in that first interview. The rest might be held over till the next day, after he had had the necessary time for reflection. Yet he could not manage to change the subject, not merely because old men are rather like crocodiles, which cannot easily change their direction, but also because there was now only one link between him and the girl. There had in fact never been more than one between them, only now it was a different one. “And how about the young man you were with yesterday under my window?”

  She did not remember at once that she had gone down that street. She recollected after an effort of memory, or rather of thought. She must have gone down that road when she came to the other one from her home. The young man was a cousin of hers back from the university. There was no need to take the boy seriously.

  Again he did not believe her, but he thought that for the moment it would be better not to press the point. Before dismissing her, on the pretext that he was very tired, he gave her money, this time not in an envelope, but counted out carefully on the table. He looked at the girl, expecting to enjoy her thanks. He did not notice much. First of all it disgusted her to talk of money always, and the old man had to ask her more than once to help him count it, because she was looking the other way; then, after all, there was not much of it, for in those days it was only just enough to buy the shoes the girl was wearing.

  She went off after giving him a good, long kiss, and certainly thought that the love was being held over till the second meeting.

  IX

  When the old man wanted to set his thoughts in order, he was in the habit of chatting with the person nearest to hand. This was therefore always his enemy and his one companion, his nurse. So he told her that he felt pleased that the girl had remembered even the moral lessons he had given her in the past, nor was he stopped by the evil glance of surprise his nurse shot him. He told her good-humouredly, as if he were thinking aloud, that he now meant to help the girl, and even mentioned the amount of money he had given her that day.

  His nurse started. The mention of the girl always brought out the bad in her, but she began by expressing contempt for the money, which he had thought a considerable sum. As we shall see, she was not clever, but she was then pursuing a line of her own in an attempt to get her wages raised. As a matter of fact the old man had not yet realised that the value of money had fallen lower than ever. Then she added, “As for her”—the vague wave of the hand indicated the girl—“it is easy for her to remember the noble moral lessons you have given her; I’ve no doubt they did her a great deal of good.”

  This second remark was less important to the old man than the first. He was deeply concerned at having tainted himself with meanness when he had meant to behave so generously. If what his nurse said was true, he had made a great mistake, because he meant the money to represent his own ransom, which could not be paid with a small sum.

  This was his first reason for dissatisfaction after being so confident of attaining peace. At bottom remorse is only the effect of a certain way of looking at one’s self in a mirror. And he saw himself mean and small. He had always paid the girl too little. For some pleasures generous men saddle themselves with equivalent responsibilities. In order not to saddle himself with any he remembered that in the past he had never even made appointments with her beforehand, so that, when he had had enough of her, all he had to do was not to send for her. Other men pay women every day, since they must eat, even when nothing is wanted of them. He, on the other hand, had allowed her to work on the trams, in order to earn her daily bread; and yet he had paid her in a way which had seemed to him princely, because it had not occurred to him that he owed her more than the hire of a few hours. That his how he had managed this adventure which, in his desire to gloze over its shady aspects, he had insisted on calling “real”.

  And this seemed to him to be the real cause for remorse, not the fact that he, an old man, had had an affair with a young girl. Why should he have felt remorse if he had taken the girl to live with him and had given her the place of his hateful nurse? The old man smiled, a little bitterly it is true, but he smiled. The girl always at his side! The great attack of angina would have occurred much sooner. Not now, because he was sure that he could live in the closest contact with the girl without fearing any temptation. He was annoyed that she still put on her siren airs with him, and that was why he could not have endured her near him.

  But in the past, since he had loved her, it was his duty to have kept her with him and then she would have been better educated. That is what young men did, whereas old men loved and ran away or drove away the loved object from them.

  How absurd he must have been, when he forced her to help count over the large sum he was offering her. But that he could make good. He immediately told his clerk to let him have a really considerable sum of money for the next day.

  In other ways, too, he might make reparation. Since he felt for her nothing but a paternal affection, he might attempt to educate her. He felt up to it. Only he must prepare himself carefully before meeting her. Now he had no further desire to remind her of the silly words with which he used to accompany the manifestations of his own corruptness. He had been weak with her, because he was still always possessed by the mad desire to appear pure.

  For some time longer he sat thinking in the arm-chair. It would have been so nice to explain his intentions to someone else before putting them into practice. Even in business he was in the habit of talking matters over with his solicitor so as to get a clear idea of what he intended to do. But in this matter, which he was managing alone, he could not ask anyone’s advice. Certainly he could not speak of it to his nurse.

  And that is how, late in life, my nice old man became an author. That evening he wrote only notes for the lecture he meant to give the girl. They were sufficiently short. He described his own faults without trying to attenuate them. He had meant to make use of her and slip out of all responsibility towards her. These were his two faults. It was so easy to write them. Would he have the pluck to repeat it all to the girl? Why not, when he was ready to pay? Pay in money and pay in himself, that is, to educate her and act as her guardian. That young rake would not find his game quite so easy. Thus, as he wrote, there swam into his ken one who also ought to have had his share in the pain and remorse of the old man.

  These notes were first written in pencil, then copied carefully in ink. There was no risk for manuscripts in that room, because his nurse could not read. When he wrote them out in ink, he added a moral of more general application, rather dull and rhetorical. He believed himself that he had improved and completed his work, whereas he had spoilt it. But this was inevitable in a novice. In the past the old man had been a sceptic. Now that his illness had thrown his organism out of gear, he was aware of a proclivity towards protecting the weak, and at the same time an inclination for propaganda. He believed all of a sudden that he had a message to give, and not to the girl alone.

  He read over his manuscript and, truth to tell, he was disillusioned. Not altogether, however, because he thought that his ideas were good, but that he had expressed them badly. This fault he would be able to correct in a second attempt. Meanwhile it seemed to him that these notes might be useful to him with the girl. The stuff might not go down with one like himself, who had had to listen to the preaching of morality times out of number ever since he had been capable of reasoning. But the girl was probably tired by now of many things of this world, though not of morality. Perhaps words which he had written from his heart, though wh
en he read them over they awakened no emotion in him, might touch her.

  That night also was restless, but not unpleasantly so. Prolonged sleeplessness always produces a little delirium. Not all the brain cells remain awake. Some realities disappear, and those that remain alive develop without check. The old man smiled at himself as a great writer. He knew he had something to say to the world, but in that state between sleep and wakefulness he was not quite sure what it was. Yet he was conscious that he was half asleep and also that day would come and the daylight to complete his mind.

  When at last, towards morning, he fell asleep, he had a dream which began well and ended badly. He was in the midst of a crowd of men ranged in a circle on the large drill-ground. He introduced the girl to them all, dressed in her bright-coloured old clothes, and everyone applauded him, as if it was he who had made her so pretty. Then she seized a trapeze which, fastened to a trolley, went round in a circle right over all these people. And as she went by everyone stroked her legs. He also was anxiously waiting for the legs to caress them, but they never reached him and when they did reach him he did not want them any more. Then all the people began to shout. They shouted one word only, but he did not hear it till he was compelled to shout also. The word was, Help.

  He awoke, bathed in a cold sweat: the angina in all its force crucified him on the bed. He was dying. In the room death was represented only by a beating of wings. It was death itself that had made its way into him together with the venomous sword, which was bending in his arm and his chest. He was all pain and fear. Later he thought that his despair had been increased by remorse at the disgusting dream. But in his great pain all the feelings which had darkened his soul throughout his life became intelligible and therefore also his adventure with the girl.