by Italo Svevo
But sleep would not come. In his vain efforts to woo it, his agitation increased again as it had done during the previous evening. His excited fancy built up the whole fabric of a dream in which he was betrayed by Balli. Yes, Balli had betrayed him. Only a short while ago he had confessed to having wanted to get Angiolina to sit for a sketch. Now, surprised in his studio by Emilio, while he was copying her half-naked, he remembered his former confession and begged Emilio to forgive him. And Emilio had found words full of burning hatred and contempt to punish him with. They were very different from those he had addressed to Angiolina, for here he had every right on his side: first of all their long friendship and then the solemn promise Balli had made him. And how subtly his words were interwoven! for here at last they were addressed to someone who would understand them as they were spoken.
He was snatched from these dreams by the voice of Amalia, sounding very clear and calm from the next room. He was relieved to have his nightmare fantasy broken and sprang out of bed. He put his ear to the keyhole and listened. For a long time he could make no sense of the words; he could only hear that they were spoken with great tenderness. The dreamer again seemed to be desiring something which the other person desired too; it seemed to Emilio as if she wanted to give even more than was asked of her: she wanted the other person to insist. It was obviously a dream of submission. Was it perhaps the same as on the previous night? The poor woman had built up a second life for herself; night bestowed on her the small degree of happiness which day denied.
Stefano! She had pronounced Balli’s Christian name. “She too!” thought Emilio bitterly. How was it that he had never noticed before? Amalia only became animated when Balli was there. And suddenly he realized that she had always offered the sculptor the same submission that she now offered him in her dreams. Her gray eyes shone with a new light when they rested on Balli. There was no longer any possible doubt; Amalia was in love too, and in love with Balli.
Unfortunately, when Emilio went back to bed he could not get to sleep. He remembered bitterly how Balli had boasted of the love he always aroused in women and how he had said with a self-satisfied smile that the only success he lacked in life was an artistic one. He fell at last into a troubled state between sleeping and waking in which he had the most absurd dreams. Balli took advantage of Amalia’s abject submission and refused to make any honorable amends. When the dreamer became fully conscious he did not laugh at himself for those dreams. Between a man so corrupt as Balli and a woman so innocent as Amalia anything was possible. He resolved to undertake to cure Amalia. He would begin by banishing the sculptor from the house; for some time past, through no fault of his own, Balli had been a harbinger of misfortune. If it had not been for him, Emilio’s relations with Angiolina would have been tenderer, and not complicated by such bitter jealousy. And the separation would also have been easier for him now.
Emilio’s life in the office had become more and more trying. It cost him a great effort to devote sufficient attention to his work. He took advantage of every pretext for leaving his table and spending a few more moments in nurturing and caressing his grief. His mind seemed made for this, and when it was possible for him to cease for a moment from the effort of attending to other things he automatically returned to his pet ideas and filled himself to the brim with them like an empty vessel. It gave him the feeling of an intolerable weight having been lifted from his shoulders. The muscles relaxed and expanded and returned to their natural position. When at last the hour struck for him to leave the office he felt definitely happy, though it lasted for a very short time. At first he would plunge with rapture into his sorrows and desires, which became ever more reasoned and more obvious; he was happy till he suddenly encountered some jealous thought which caused him to tremble with pain.
Balli was waiting for him in the road. “Well, how are you?”
“Oh, pretty well,” Emilio replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I have had a horribly trying morning.”
Stefano noticed that he looked pale and depressed, and thought he knew very well what sort of trouble he had been suffering from. He had decided to be very gentle with his friend. He suggested coming to dinner with them, and proposed their going for a walk together in the afternoon.
Emilio’s slight hesitation in accepting his offer escaped Balli’s notice. He had for a moment entertained the possibility of rejecting Balli’s proposal, and telling him at once what he now felt it his duty to tell him. Sooner or later it would be an act of base cowardice on his part to let the fear of losing his friend interfere with saving his sister; the deed which he meditated seemed to him no less than a trial of his own courage. If he delayed, it was only because he thought he might still be deceived as to the real nature of Amalia’s feelings. “Yes, of course, do come,” he said at last. Balli attributed the apparent warmth of his invitation to gratitude, whereas Emilio himself knew that it was due to the pleasure he felt at this opportunity of dissipating his remaining doubt.
And during the meal he was in fact able to acquire all the certainty he needed. How like Amalia was to himself. He felt as if it were actually himself he was watching having dinner with Angiolina. The desire to please produced in her a state of embarrassment which made it impossible for her to behave naturally. He even saw her open her mouth to speak and shut it again without saying a word. How she hung upon Balli’s lips! Perhaps she did not even hear what he was saying. She laughed or was grave as if following an involuntary suggestion.
Emilio tried to distract her, but she paid no attention to him. Nor did Balli listen to him either; for though he was unconscious of the sentiment he inspired in the young woman it exercised over him a kind of fascination which he betrayed in the mental excitement he always fell into when he felt himself completely master of someone else. Emilio studied and analyzed his friend with perfect coolness. Balli had entirely forgotten the purpose for which he had come. He told stories which Emilio knew already; it was clear that he was only talking for Amalia. They were stories of a kind he had tried already on the unhappy young woman. He was telling her of that reckless, carefree Bohemian life about which she so much loved to hear, with its mingling of violent joys and violent sorrows.
When the two men went out together, the bitter indignation which had so long slumbered in Emilio’s breast against his friend suddenly surged up within him; a careless phrase of Balli’s caused it to overflow. “You see what a delightful time we spent together.”
Emilio felt he would have liked to insult him. Delightful time indeed! Certainly not for him. For him it would rank among his most unpleasant memories, like the times he had spent with Balli and Angiolina. He had in fact suffered from the same painful jealousy now as then. Above all he reproached his friend for not having noticed how silent he had been, for having had so little understanding of his feelings as to think he was enjoying himself. And then how was it possible for him not to notice that Amalia was overcome by morbid embarrassment in his presence and that she sometimes even stammered from excitement? Emilio felt at that moment so lucid as to the nature of his own feelings that he feared it might become clear to Balli too that he was speaking to him about Amalia in order to avenge himself for Balli’s behavior towards Angiolina. He must above all avoid betraying any resentment; he must try to appear in the light of a good paterfamilias moved solely by the desire to protect those dear to him.
He began by telling a lie, but as if he were relating something of no importance whatever. He said that an aged relative had stopped him that morning to inquire if it were true that Balli was engaged to Amalia. That was not all, but Emilio experienced a sense of relief at having said so much. He was now on the direct path to pointing out to Balli that he was not the superior person he believed himself to be, nor the most faithful of friends.
“No! really?” Balli exclaimed in great surprise, and laughing in all innocence.
“Yes, really,” said Emilio with a grimace which was meant to be a smile. “People are so malicious that there is noth
ing to do but laugh at them.” He hoped he had implied by this that he found Balli’s mirth offensive. “But you will agree that one must be a little careful, for we cannot tolerate that such a thing should be said about poor Amalia.” The plural “we” was meant to imply that Emilio wished to share with Balli the responsibility for what he was about to say. At the same time he raised his voice and spoke with considerable warmth; he could not allow Balli to take lightly a statement which it burned his own lips to make.
Stefano no longer knew what attitude he ought to take up. It could not have happened to him very often in his life to be falsely accused. But now he felt as innocent as a new-born babe. The respect he felt and had always shown for the Brentani family, not to speak of Amalia’s ugliness, ought to have been enough to free him from suspicion. He knew Emilio very well and did not believe him capable of being put out by a word which some old relative had let fall; but he noticed a violence and almost a note of hatred in Emilio’s voice which startled him. He at once divined the truth. He remembered how for a long time all Emilio’s thoughts, his whole life, in fact, had been centered in Angiolina. Were not perhaps the violence and hatred in Emilio’s voice to be traced back to his jealousy of Angiolina, though he seemed to be talking about Amalia? “I didn’t think that at our age, your sister’s and mine, we should really be thought capable of such folly.” He spoke with some embarrassment. The suggestion did not leave him quite unscathed.
“Well, what can you expect? The world...”
But Balli, who was skeptical about this world of Emilio’s, cried out impatiently: “Oh, that is enough; I understand quite well what you are getting at. Let us talk about something else.”
They were silent awhile. Emilio was afraid to say anything for fear of compromising himself. What was it that Balli understood? Emilio’s secret, that is to say his resentment against himself, or Amalia’s secret? He looked at his friend and saw that he appeared more excited than his words might have led one to suppose. He was very flushed, and looked straight before him with a troubled expression in his blue eyes. He seemed to be finding it too hot all at once, for he had pushed his hat on to the back of his head, leaving his high forehead bare. He was evidently angry with him; Emilio’s devices to wrap up his own resentment in family reasons were clearly insufficient.
Then he was seized with a childish fear of losing his friend. Cut off from Angiolina and Balli he could not have kept watch over them, and sooner or later they would have been sure to meet. He came to a rapid decision, and putting his arm affectionately inside Balli’s he said: “Listen, Stefano. You surely realize that for me to have spoken to you like that there must have been some very strong reason. It is a terrible sacrifice to give up having you in my house.” He was overcome by the fear that he might not succeed in moving his friend.
Balli was appeased at once. “I believe you,” he said, “but please don’t talk about that old relative any more. It seems odd that you felt it necessary to lie to me, when you had such serious things to say. Tell me frankly all about it.” His agitation having subsided, he at once threw himself again with whole-hearted sympathy into the discussion of Emilio’s affairs. What fresh misfortune had overtaken his poor friend?
Emilio blushed to think that he could for a moment have doubted Stefano’s conception of friendship. How unjust he had been! He wanted now to remove any shadow that his words might have thrown on his friend’s mind. He had given away Amalia’s secret; that there could be no hope of saving. “I am very unfortunate,” he said, hoping by his self-pity to increase the sympathy which he had already divined in Balli’s words. He did not tell him that he had overheard his sister dreaming aloud about Stefano; he only spoke of the change which came over Amalia whenever Balli crossed the threshold of their house. When he was not there she seemed ill and tired and absent-minded. They must come to some decision which would cure her.
It was enough to hear this confession from Emilio’s lips for Balli to believe it absolutely. He even suspected that Amalia had confided in her brother. Never had she seemed to him so ugly as at that moment. The charm which her apparent kindness had thrown over Amalia’s gray face vanished completely. Now she appeared to him aggressive, regardless of her age and appearance. How dreadfully out of place love would look on a face like hers! She was another Angiolina, come to disturb his habits, but an Angiolina who made him shudder. The affectionate sympathy he always felt for Emilio increased as the latter had hoped. Poor fellow! He had to look after an hysterical sister as well.
He begged Emilio’s pardon for his short outburst of anger. He was sincere as usual. “If there hadn’t been something like that, which of course I never dreamed of, this would have been the last time we should have met. Just imagine: I thought you were so mad about Angiolina that you couldn’t forgive me for having been liked by her, and that you were looking for an excuse to quarrel with me.”
Emilio felt profoundly uncomfortable. Balli had been explaining to him the secret motive of his evil action. He protested energetically, so much so that Balli was obliged to beg his pardon for having suspected him, but in his own heart his protest rang false. For a moment he could think of nothing but Amalia. How strange! Angiolina had a share in his sister’s fate. He tried to quiet himself by the thought that he would be able to make it all right in time, by doing all he could to make Balli realize what a fine creature Amalia was, and by devoting all his own loving care to her.
But how was he to give her a proof of his affection in the state he was in at present? That very evening he stood quite a long time in front of the table on which he had hoped to find a letter from Angiolina. He stared at the table as if he hoped to make it bring forth a letter. His longing for Angiolina had grown greater. But why? Even more than the day before he felt how vain and melancholy it was to play at staying away from her. Oh happy Angiolina! She made no one feel remorseful.
When he heard the clear, resonant voice of the dreamer coming from the next room, he was consumed by remorse. What harm would there have been in letting Amalia go on concentrating all her life force in those innocent dreams? It is true that his remorse ended by changing into profound self-pity which made him find relief in a fit of weeping. So for that night at least remorse lulled him to sleep.
9
How FAR superior Amalia was to him! She showed some surprise next day when Balli did not put in an appearance, but it would have been hard to guess from her manner that she minded his not coming. “Isn’t he well?” she asked Emilio, who remembered that she had always worn an air of in difference in talking to him about Stefano.
Nevertheless he did not doubt for a moment that he was right in his judgment about her. He replied “No” to her question, and had not the courage to say any more. He was seized with intense compassion at the thought that suffering equal to his own was hanging over the head of that frail little creature, without her having the least premonition of it. And it was he who was about to strike her down. His hand had indeed already struck the blow, but the sword was still hanging in mid-air, to fall very soon on her defenseless head and bow it to the ground; her gentle face would soon lose the calm expression which it forced itself to wear no doubt only by an heroic effort. He would have liked to take his sister in his arms and begin to comfort her before that sorrow came upon her. But he could not. He could not, without blushing, so much as pronounce his friend’s name in her presence. Hence forth there was a barrier between brother and sister: the wrong done to her by Emilio. He was not yet fully conscious of it; he still thought he would be able to approach his sister at the moment when she would, as she surely must, be looking about her for someone on whom to lean. Then he would only have to open his arms to her; of that he was sure. Amalia was made like him, in that when she suffered she leaned for support on anyone who happened to be with her at the moment. So he let her go on expecting Balli.
It was an expectation which Emilio could not have endured himself; it needed great courage to ask nothing except the usual question: “Is
not Balli coming?” There was always an extra place laid for Balli; now his glass would be slowly put away again in the cupboard which Amalia used as sideboard. The glass was followed soon after by the cup out of which Balli was to have drunk his coffee, and then Amalia would lock the cupboard door. Her movements were perfectly calm but very slow. When her back was turned he ventured to watch her attentively, and then he fancied he could read signs of suffering in each separate token of bodily weakness. Had her shoulders always drooped like that? Had not her thin neck grown much thinner during the last few days?
She came back to the table and sat down beside him, and he thought to himself: “There! that calm look means she has decided to wait patiently for another twenty-four hours.” He could not help admiring her; he would not have been able to wait even for one night.
“Why has Signor Balli given up coming?” she asked next day as she was putting away the glass. “I don’t think he finds us amusing enough,” replied Emilio after a moment’s hesitation. He was resolved to say something which would make Amalia realize Balli’s state of mind. She did not seem to pay much heed to his observation, and placed the glass carefully in its usual corner.
Meanwhile he had made up his mind not to leave her with any false hopes. When he saw three cups instead of two on the tray, he said: “You may as well spare yourself the trouble of preparing coffee for Stefano. I think he probably won’t come again for a long time.”
“Why?” she asked, suddenly growing very pale, the cup still in her hand.
He lacked courage to make the speech he had already prepared. “Because he doesn’t want to,” he replied briefly. Wasn’t it after all better to let her go on believing what was false, and give her time to get over her grief slowly rather than to startle her into betraying herself by a revelation which she was not yet prepared for? He said he thought Balli was unable to come any more at that hour because he was working terribly hard.
