by Italo Svevo
When Balli came back he sat down in a corner, as far from Amalia’s bed as possible. The doctor had only been able to repeat to him what he had said to Emilio. Signora Elena asked if she could go to her flat for a few moments to give some instructions to her maid; she said she would send her to the chemist. She left the room, accompanied by an admiring glance from Balli. There was no need to give her money, for the Brentanis had long been accustomed to have an account at the chemist.
Balli murmured: “Simple goodness like that moves me more than the loftiest genius.”
Emilio had taken the place which Elena left empty. It was some time since the patient had said a single comprehensible word; she murmured indistinctly, as if she were trying to give herself practice in pronouncing difficult words. Emilio rested his head on his hand and sat listening to that weary flow of dizzy sound. He had been listening to it since the morning till it seemed to have become a quality of his own ear, a sound from which he would never again be able to free himself. He remembered getting up one evening in his nightshirt, in spite of the cold, to wait on his sister who was suffering in the room next to his; and how he had offered to take her to the theater the next evening. The gratitude in Amalia’s voice on that occasion had been very consoling to him. Then he had forgotten the incident and had never tried to revive it. Oh, if only he had known that his life contained such a precious mission as to guard and cherish this life which was entrusted solely to him, he would never have felt the need of approaching Angiolina again. Now, when it was perhaps too late, he was cured of his unhappy love. Sitting there in the shadow he wept silently, bitterly.
“Stefano,” called the patient, in a low voice. Emilio started and looked at Balli, who was sitting in a part of the room on which the light from the window still faintly shone. Stefano apparently had not heard, for he made no movement.
“If you want to, I do too,” said Amalia. They were the identical words, and with them the same dreams sprang to life again, stifled though they had been by Balli’s sudden desertion. The patient had opened her eyes now and was staring at the wall opposite her. “I am ready,” she said. “Do it, but quickly.” A fit of coughing made her face contract with pain, but immediately afterwards she said: “Oh, what a perfect day! I have waited for it so long.” And she shut her eyes again.
Emilio thought he ought to send Balli out of the room, but he had not the courage to do so. He had done so much harm the only other time when he had interfered between Balli and Amalia.
Amalia again started to babble incomprehensibly, but just as Emilio was beginning to be reassured, she said aloud and clearly, after a fresh fit of coughing: “Oh Stefano, I feel so ill.”
“Is she calling me?” asked Balli, getting up and coming to the bedside.
“I couldn’t hear,” said Emilio, uncomfortably.
“I don’t understand, doctor,” said Amalia, with her face turned towards Balli: “I am lying quite still, I am looking after myself, but I still seem to be ill.”
Surprised that she had not recognized him after calling for him, Balli spoke to her as if he had been the doctor; he advised her to go on being good, and said that she would soon be quite well again.
She went on talking: “What do I need all this for—this—this—this?” She touched her chest and her side. Her exhaustion became more apparent when she was silent, but she paused in search of a word, and not for lack of breath.
“This pain,” suggested Balli, supplying the word which she had been seeking for in vain.
“This pain,” she repeated gratefully. But soon after her doubt returned as to whether she had expressed herself badly, and she made a painful effort to continue. “What did I need this...for, today? What shall we do with this...this...on such a day?”
Only Emilio understood her. She was dreaming of her wedding.
But Amalia never gave expression to such a thought. She repeated that she did not need it, that nobody needed it, especially now...especially now. But the adverb was never defined more clearly than that, and Balli could not understand what she meant. When she was lying back on her pillow and looking straight in front of her, or keeping her eyes shut, she was at once completely at home with the object of her dreams; when she opened them again she did not see that the person himself was there in flesh and bone beside her bed. The only one who could understand the dream was Emilio, for he alone knew all the real facts as well as all the dreams that had led up to this delirium. He felt that his presence by the bed was more than ever useless. Amalia did not belong to him in her delirium; she was still less his than when she was in possession of her senses.
Signora Elena returned, bringing the wet rags with her, and everything necessary to isolate them and prevent them wetting the bed. She uncovered Amalia’s chest and protected it from the eyes of the two men by placing herself in front of the bed.
Amalia uttered a faint cry of terror at the sudden sensation of cold. “It will do you good,” said Signora Elena, bending over her.
Amalia understood, but asked doubtfully, and struggling for breath: “Will it really do me good?” She tried to escape from the painful sensation, pleading: “Not today, please, not today.”
“I beseech you, little sister,” said Emilio, passionately, having at last found something in which he might be useful; “please try to keep the poultice on your chest. It will cure you.”
Amalia’s exhaustion seemed to have increased; her eyes filled with tears again. “It is so dark,” she said, “so dark.” It was in fact dark by now, but when Signora Elena hastened to light a candle Amalia did not seem to see it, and continued to complain of the dark. She was really trying to express quite a different sensation which was weighing upon her.
By the light of the candle Signora Elena perceived that Amalia’s face was covered with perspiration; even her nightgown was soaked in it right up to the shoulders. “Let us hope it is a good sign,” she exclaimed joyfully.
Meanwhile Amalia, who during her delirium was docility personified, tried to free herself from the weight on her chest, and at the same time not to disobey the orders she had heard ringing in her ears, by pushing the poultice round towards her back. But even there the cold gave her an uncomfortable sensation, and then, with surprising agility, she hid it under the pillow, content at last to have found a place where she could keep it without being made to suffer by it. Then she examined with an anxious eye the faces of her attendants, of whose help she knew she stood in need. When Signora Elena removed the poultice from the bed altogether she uttered a sound of surprise. This was the interval in which she showed most consciousness during the night, and even then her intelligence was only that of a mild, submissive beast.
Balli had got Michele to bring several bottles of red and white wine. By chance the first bottle they opened was spumante; the cork flew out with a loud detonation, touching the ceiling and fell on to Amalia’s bed. She did not even notice it, while the others watched with terror the flight of the projectile.
The invalid drank the wine which Signora Elena poured out for her, but made various signs of disgust, which signs Emilio noted with profound satisfaction.
Balli offered a glass to Signora Elena, which she accepted on condition that he and Emilio should drink with her. Balli emptied his glass only after having drunk to Amalia’s health.
But health was as yet very far away. “Oh, oh, what do I see?” she called out soon after in a clear voice, looking straight in front of her. “Vittoria with him? No, it cannot be, he would have told me.” It was the second time she had spoken of Vittoria, but Emilio understood now, because he had guessed who it was Amalia always meant by that emphatic “he.” She was showing signs of jealousy. She continued to talk, but less clearly. Emilio could however follow her dream from her inarticulate murmuring, and realized that it went on longer than the preceding ones. The two persons she had created in her delirium had come together and poor Amalia pretended that she liked seeing them, and seeing them together. “Who says I don’t like it?
I do.” Then followed a longer period during which she only muttered some indistinct words. Perhaps the dream had been over for some time and Emilio was still looking for signs of jealousy in those feeble cries of pain.
Signora Elena had again taken her accustomed seat by the pillow. Emilio went to join Balli, who, with his arms resting on the window-ledge, was looking down into the street. The storm which had been threatening for some hours was coming nearer and nearer. Not a drop of rain had yet fallen on the street. The last rays of sunset, dyed yellow in the turbid air, threw on the pavement and the houses the glow of a conflagration. Balli was watching it through half-shut eyes, and reveling in the strange color.
Emilio made another effort to attach himself to Amalia, to protect and defend her, although she had repulsed him in her delirium. He said to Balli: “Did you notice what a face of disgust she put on when she drank the wine? Do you think that was the face of someone who drinks habitually?”
Balli agreed, but desirous of defending Carini, he replied with his usual candor: “But perhaps her illness has spoilt her palate.”
Emilio was so angry that he felt a lump rise in his throat. “So you still believe what that imbecile said?”
When Balli heard the note of passion in his friend’s voice he withdrew: “I understand nothing about it; it was only Carini’s conviction which made me feel a little doubtful.”
Emilio wept again. He said that it was not Amalia’s illness or even her death which drove him to despair, but the thought that she had always been misunderstood and maligned. And now when a cruel destiny took delight in distorting her good, kind, gentle face with agony, it was interpreted as the result of a vicious life. Balli tried to quiet him; he said that when he thought it well over, it seemed to him impossible that Amalia should have indulged in a vice like that. But in any case he had never dreamed of wishing to insult the poor girl. Turning towards the bed, he said in a tone of deep compassion: “Even if Carini’s supposition were correct I should not have despised your sister in the smallest degree.”
They stood by the window for a long time in silence. The yellow glow on the street had long been blotted out by the darkness, which was advancing rapidly. Only the upper sky, across which clouds were still galloping, remained clear and yellow.
Emilio wondered whether Angiolina had gone to the appointment, and suddenly, forgetting in a moment what he had decided that morning, he said: “I am going to keep my last appointment with Angiolina.” And why not indeed? Living or dead, Amalia would now for ever separate him from his mistress, but why should he not go and tell Angiolina that he wanted finally to break every relationship with her? His heart expanded with joy at the thought of this interview. His presence in this room did no one any good, whereas if he went to Angiolina he could bring back with him a sacrifice to lay at Amalia’s feet. Balli, astounded by his words, tried to dissuade him from his plan, but he replied that he was going to the appointment because he wanted to profit by his state of mind to free himself for ever from Angiolina.
Stefano could not believe him; he thought he heard the familiar tones of the old, weak Emilio, and hoped to strengthen his resolution by telling him he had been obliged that very day to chase Angiolina from his studio. He said it in such a way as to leave no possible doubts as to the cause.
Emilio grew pale. His adventure was not dead yet. It was coming to life again, by his sister’s bedside. Angiolina had betrayed him again in an unheard-of way. He felt as if he had been suddenly seized by the same agony from which Amalia was suffering; at the very moment of his realization that he had forsaken all his duties for Angiolina she was betraying him with Balli. The only difference between the indignation he had often felt before and that which cut his breath short now, was that his only means now of avenging himself on that woman was to abandon her. His shattered mind could no longer grasp the idea of vengeance. Events would have developed exactly the same if Balli had told him nothing. He could not succeed in hiding his painful surprise. “I implore you,” he said, with a warmth which he made no effort to hide, “to tell me exactly what happened.”
Balli protested: “Besides the shame of having been obliged for once in my life to play the part of chaste Joseph I don’t want to have to bear that of handing down to history all the details of my adventure. But if on a day like this you can still go on busying your thoughts about that woman, I tell you that you are hopelessly lost.”
Emilio defended himself. He said that he had made up his mind that morning to give up Angiolina, and that therefore what Balli had said could only in so far distress him as he the more regretted having devoted so large a part of his own life to such a woman. He would not have Stefano believe that he was going to his appointment with the intention of making Angiolina a scene. He smiled feebly. Oh, he was far indeed from that! In fact Balli’s words had had so little effect on him that he hardly thought his purpose was any firmer now than before to break off his relations with Angiolina. “All these things only move me because they carry my thoughts back to the past.”
He was lying. It was the present which had again become passionately alive. Where was the discouragement under which he had labored during the long hours he had sat there vainly trying to help Amalia? The excitement he now felt was not a disagreeable feeling. He would have liked to escape on the spot, in order to make the moment come more quickly when he could tell Angiolina that he never meant to see her again. But he felt it necessary first to obtain Stefano’s consent. This was not difficult, for Stefano felt such extreme pity for him that day that he had not the courage to oppose any wish of his.
After a moment’s hesitation, he asked Balli to stay and keep Signora Elena company. He had said, had he not, that he should be back very soon. So Angiolina was once more the cause of Stefano and Amalia being brought together.
Balli advised Emilio not to stop and make Angiolina a scene. Emilio wore the calm smile of a superior person. Even if Balli had not asked it of him, he could assure him that he should not discuss with Angiolina that last instance of her unfaithfulness. And it was sincerely his intention not to do so. He pictured his last conversation with Angiolina, friendly and even perhaps affectionate. He needed that it should be so. He would tell her that Amalia was dying and that he was giving her up without making her any reproach. He did not love her, but neither did he love anything else in the world.
He approached Amalia’s bedside with his hat in his hand. She studied him for a long time. “Have you come to dinner?” she asked. Then she seemed to be trying to look behind him, and asked him again: “Have you both come to dinner?” She was still looking for Balli.
He said good evening to Signora Elena. He felt one last hesitation. Fate seemed always to enjoy placing Amalia’s misfortunes in some bizarre connection with his love for Angiolina, so might it not easily happen that his sister would die just when he was with his mistress for the last time? He went back to the bed; the poor creature seemed to him to be the very image of anguish. She was lying uncomfortably on one side, with her head off the pillow, and even hanging over the edge of the bed. That head, with its poor, damp, ruffled hair, was vainly seeking a place to rest in. It was evident that this state might immediately precede her death agony. For all that, Emilio left her and went away.
He had responded to Balli’s fresh recommendations with another smile. The cold night air stung him, and chilled him to the bottom of his soul. He use violence to Angiolina? Because she was the cause of Amalia’s death? But that sin could surely not be laid at her door. No, evil just happened, it was not committed. An intelligent being could not behave with violence, because there was no room for hatred. His old habit of turning his thoughts inwards and analyzing himself led him to suspect that his state of mind was the result of his need to excuse himself and prove his innocence. He smiled as it were at something very comic. How wrong he and Amalia had been to take life so seriously!
He looked at his watch and stood for a while on the seafront. The weather seemed worse here than it
did in the town. The tremendous clamor of the sea, joined to the howling of the wind, made one vast uproar composed of many voices small and great. The night was dark; nothing could be seen of the sea but the white crest of a wave here and there, which had burst asunder before it could hurl itself against the shore. They were keeping watch on the boats anchored along the quay, and here and there he could see the figure of a sailor working in darkness and danger up aloft on the masts which were keeping up their ritual dance towards all the four winds in turn.
Emilio felt the confusion of the elements was attuned to his grief, and it helped him to attain a greater calm. His habit of always thinking in images made him read a comparison between the scene before him and the spectacle of his own life. In that tumult of the waves, where each transmitted to the other the movement which had roused it from its own inertia, where each in turn strove to rise from its place only to fall again into a horizontal position, he read the impassivity of fate. No one was to blame for all the vast destruction.
Beside him a huge sailor, planted firmly on powerful legs clad in sea-boots, shouted a name towards the sea. Soon another voice shouted back. Then he flung himself on a stone pillar nearby, loosed a cable which was wound round it, paid it out and made it fast again. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, one of the largest fishing-boats moved away from the shore, and Emilio saw that it had been made fast to a neighboring buoy, to save it from being bumped against the quay.
The big sailor had taken up a fresh position now; had lit his pipe and was leaning against the post taking his ease in the midst of the storm.
