I was so worried that as soon as we met that day I found it difficult to prevent myself from bursting into tears, telling him everything and begging his forgiveness. The whole story of my trip to Viterbo weighed heavily on me, and I longed to free myself by talking about it. If Gino had been anyone else, and I had known him to be less jealous, I would certainly have spoken of it, and then, I thought, we would have loved one another more than ever, and I would have felt cherished and bound to him by a tie stronger than love itself. We were in the car as usual, in the usual suburban avenue in the early morning. He noticed my uneasiness and asked me what was the matter.
Now I’ll tell him all about it — even if he kicks me out of the car and I have to walk back into town, I thought. But I did not have the courage and asked him instead whether he loved me.
“What a question!” he replied.
“Will you always love me?” I continued, my eyes brimming over with tears.
“Always.”
“Will we be married soon?”
He seemed irritated by my insistence.
“Really!” he exclaimed, “I might think you didn’t trust me — didn’t we say we’d get married at Easter?”
“Yes, we did.”
“Didn’t I give you the money to set up house?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then — am I the kind of man to keep my word, or not? When I say a thing I do it. I bet it’s your mother putting you up to this.”
“No, Mother’s got nothing to do with it!” I denied, feeling alarmed. “But tell me, will we live together?”
“Of course.”
“And be happy?”
“It depends on us.”
“Will we live together?” I repeated, unable to escape the recurrent thoughts my anxiety caused me.
“Oh, my God! You’ve already asked me, and I told you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but sometimes it hardly seems possible.” Unable to control myself any longer, I began to cry. He was astonished at my tears, and also uneasy, but it was an uneasiness apparently filled with remorse, the reasons for which became clear to me only much later on. “Come on, now!” he said. “What are you crying for?”
I was crying really because of the bitterness and pain of being unable to tell him what had happened and so freeing my conscience of the burden of regret. I was also crying because I felt humiliated at the thought that I was not good enough for anyone so fine and perfect as he was. “You’re right,” I said at last with an effort, “I’m being stupid.”
“I wouldn’t say that — but I don’t see what you’ve got to cry about.”
But that weight on my soul remained with me. That very afternoon, after I had left him, I went to church to make my confession. I had not been for nearly a year; I had known all along that I could go at any time, and that had been enough for me. I had given up going to confession when I kissed Gino for the first time. I realized that, according to the church, my relations with Gino were a sin, but since I knew we were going to get married, I did not feel any remorse and meant to get absolution once and for all before my wedding.
I went to a little church in the heart of the city, the one with its door between the entrance to a movie theater and the window of a hosiery shop. It was almost pitch dark inside, except for the high altar and a side chapel dedicated to the Madonna. It was a dirty, neglected little church; the straw-bottomed chairs were pushed here and there in the untidy way the congregation had left them when they went out, and this made you think of some boring meeting you’d heave a sigh of relief to get away from, rather than of going to a Mass.
A feeble light falling from the apertures in the lantern of the dome showed up the dust on the paved floor and the white cracks in the yellow, mottled varnish of the imitation marble columns. The numerous silver ex-voto tablets in the form of flaming hearts that hung jostling each other on the walls created a gimcrack and melancholy impression. But a smell of stale incense in the air put heart into me. As a little girl, I had breathed in the same smell and the memories it awakened in me were all innocent and pleasurable. I seemed to be in a familiar spot, and although I had never been there before, I felt as if I had been frequenting that same church all my life.
But before confessing, I wanted to go into the side chapel where I had caught sight of a statue of the Virgin. I had been dedicated to the Virgin ever since the day of my birth. Mother even used to say that I looked like her, with my regular features and large, dark, gentle eyes. I had always loved the Madonna because she carried a baby in her arms and because her baby, who became a man, was killed; and she who bore him and loved him as any mother loves her son and suffered so when she saw him hanging on the cross. I often thought to myself that the Madonna, who had so many sorrows, was the only one who could understand my own sorrows, and as a child I used to pray to her alone, as the only one who could understand me. Besides, I liked the Madonna because she was so different from Mother, so serene and tranquil, richly clothed, with her eyes that looked on me so lovingly; it was as if she were my real mother instead of the mother who spent her time scolding me and was always worn out and badly dressed.
So I knelt down, and hiding my face in my hands, with my head bent, I said a long prayer to the Madonna in person, begging her to protect me, my mother, and Gino. Then I remembered it was my duty to bear no malice toward anyone and I called down the protection of the Madonna upon Gisella, and Riccardo, and in the end upon Astarita, too. I prayed longer for Astarita than for the others, just because I was full of resentment against him and I wanted to blot it out, to love him as I loved the others and forgive him and forget the harm he had done me. At length I felt so deeply moved that tears came to my eyes. I raised my eyes to the statue of the Madonna over the altar, and my tears were like a veil before me, so that the statue was misty and quivering as if seen through water, and the candles that glittered all round the statue made many little golden points, lovely to behold yet at the same time embittering, as are at certain times the stars we yearn to touch but know to be far beyond our reach. I remained for some time in contemplation of the Madonna, almost without seeing her; then the bitter tears began to trickle slowly from my eyes and roll down my face, tickling me, and I saw the Madonna looking at me, her baby in her arms, her face illuminated by the candle flames. She seemed to be looking at me with sympathy and compassion, and I thanked her in my heart. Then rising to my feet, my peace of mind restored, I went to confess.
The confessionals were all empty; but, while I was wandering around looking for a priest, I saw someone come out of a little door to the left of the high altar, pass in front of the altar, genuflect and cross himself, and make his way toward the other side. He was a monk, I did not know of what order, and summoning my courage I called out to him in a humble voice. He turned and came toward me at once. When he was nearby I saw that he was fairly young, tall and vigorous, with a rosy, fresh, and virile face framed by a sparse blond beard, blue eyes, and a high white forehead. I thought, almost involuntarily, that he was an extraordinarily good-looking man, of a kind rarely to be met with either in or out of church, and I was glad I was going to confess to him. I told him in an undertone what I wanted, then, making me a sign to follow him, he led the way to one of the confessionals.
He entered the box, and I went to kneel down in front of the grill. A small enameled plate nailed on to the confessional bore the name of Father Elia, and this name pleased and inspired faith in me. When I was on my knees, he said a short prayer and then asked me how long it was since I had last been to confession.
“Almost a year,” I replied.
“That’s a long time — too long.… Why?”
I noticed his Italian was not very good. He rolled his r’s like the French do, and from one or two mistakes he made, adapting foreign words to Italian pronunciation, I realized he was French himself. I was glad that he was a foreigner, but I really could not have said why. Perhaps because when we are about to do anything we consider important,
every unusual detail seems a sign of good omen.
I explained that the tale I was about to tell him would make it clear why I had gone so long without confession. After a short silence he asked me what I had to say. Then I began to tell him impulsively and trustingly of my relationship with Gino, my friendship with Gisella, the trip to Viterbo, Astarita’s threat. Even while I was talking, I could not help wondering what impression my story would make on him. He was unlike most priests and his unusual appearance, as of a man of the world, set me thinking with curiosity what reasons could have led him to become one. It may seem strange that, after the extraordinary emotion my prayer to the Madonna had roused in me, I should be distracted to the point of asking myself questions about my confessor, but I do not think myself that there was any contradiction between my emotion and my curiosity. Both came from the bottom of my heart, where devotion and coquetry, sorrow and lust were inextricably mixed.
But, little by little, even while I was thinking about him in the way I have described, I experienced a feeling of relief and a comforting eagerness to tell him more, to confess everything. I felt uplifted and freed from the heavy sense of anguish that had weighed me down until then, as a flower wilting in the heat is revived at last by the first drops of rain. At first I spoke hesitantly and with difficulty; then my words began to flow more easily, and at last I spoke with emphatic sincerity and swelling hopes. I omitted nothing, not even the money Astarita had given me, the feelings the gift had awakened in me and the use I intended to make of it. He listened without comment and when I had finished said, “In order to avoid something you thought harmful, the breaking off of your engagement, you agreed to do yourself infinitely greater harm —”
“Yes, I know,” I agreed, trembling, glad his sensitive fingers were probing my heart.
“As a matter of fact,” he went on, as if talking to himself, “your engagement has nothing to do with it — when you gave way to this man, you yielded to a feeling of greed.”
“Yes, yes!”
“Well, it was better for the marriage to be broken off than to do what you did.”
“Yes, that’s what I think now.”
“That’s not enough — you’ll get married now, but at what cost to yourself? You’ll no longer be able to be a good wife.”
The inflexible harshness of his words struck me to the quick. “No, it isn’t like that!” I exclaimed painfully. “For me, it’s as though nothing had happened — I’m sure I’ll be a good wife!”
He must have liked the sincerity of my reply. He was silent for some time and then went on more gently. “Are you sincerely penitent?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I replied impetuously. It suddenly occurred to me that he might oblige me to give the money back to Astarita and although the idea of returning it was unpleasant in anticipation, nevertheless I would have obeyed him gladly, because the order came from someone I liked, who was able to dominate me in some strange way. But, without mentioning the money, he went on in his cold and distant voice to which the foreign accent added such a curiously warm overtone, “Now you must get married as soon as possible — you must put things straight — you must make your fiancé understand that you can’t continue with him on the present terms.”
“I have already told him that.”
“What was his answer?”
I could not help smiling at the idea of him, so fair and handsome, asking me such a question from the shadows of the confessional.
“He says we’ll get married at Easter,” I replied with an effort.
“It would be better to get married at once. Easter’s a long time yet,” he replied after a moment’s reflection, and this time he did not seem to be speaking as a priest but as a polite man of the world who was a little bored at having to busy himself with my affairs.
“We can’t any earlier. I’ve got to make my trousseau, and he has to go home and tell his parents.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “he must marry you as soon as possible and until the wedding day you must give up all physical relations with your fiancé. This is a grave sin. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, I’ll do it.”
“You will?” he repeated doubtfully. “In any case, strengthen yourself against temptation through prayer — try to pray.”
“Yes, I’ll pray.”
“As for the other man,” he continued, “you mustn’t see him for any reason whatsoever. This should not be difficult since you don’t love him. If he insists, if he comes to see you, send him away.”
I told him I would do that; and after much further advice pronounced in his cold and distant voice, which was nevertheless so charming to listen to, with its foreign pronunciation and the impression it gave of an education, he told me to say a number of prayers every day as a penance, and then gave me absolution. But before sending me away he made me say a Pater Noster with him. I gladly agreed because I was sorry to go away and hadn’t yet heard enough of his voice.
“Our Father which art in Heaven,” he said.
“Our Father which art in Heaven.”
“Hallowed be thy name.”
“Hallowed be thy name.”
“Thy kingdom come.”
“Thy kingdom come.”
“Thy will be done on Earth, as it is in Heaven.”
“Thy will be done on Earth, as it is in Heaven.”
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
“Give us this day our daily bread.”
“And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
“And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
I have given the prayer in full in order to recapture my feelings when I said it after him. It was as if I were a tiny girl again and he was leading me by the hand from one phrase to the next. Meanwhile, however, I was thinking of the money Astarita had given me and felt almost disappointed that he had not told me to return it. I really would have liked him to order me to do so, because I wanted to give him concrete proof of my obedience and repentance, wanted to do something for him that would have been a real sacrifice. I got up when the prayer was at an end and he, too, came out of the confessional and started to leave, without looking at me and with only the very slightest nod in farewell. Then, without thinking what I was doing and almost despite myself, I pulled him by the sleeve. He stopped and looked at me with his clear, tranquil, inexpressive eyes.
He seemed even handsomer than ever to me and a thousand crazy ideas passed through my mind. I felt I could fall in love with him and wondered how I could manage to let him understand that I liked him. But at the same time my conscience warned me that I was in a church and he was a priest and my confessor. My mind was in turmoil with all these thoughts and images, which assailed me at one and the same time, so I was unable to speak for a moment.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” he asked, after waiting for as long as might reasonably be expected.
“I wanted to know whether I ought to give that man his money back,” I said.
He glanced rapidly at me, a look that seemed to penetrate to the depths of my soul, it was so sharp and direct, then answered shortly, “Do you need it very much?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then — you need not give it back — but in any case, do as your conscience tells you.”
He said this in a particular tone, as if he meant to imply that our meeting was over, and I stammered my thanks without smiling, gazing into his eyes as I did so. I had really lost my head at the moment and almost hoped he would show me by some gesture or word that he was not indifferent to me. He certainly understood the meaning of my look, and a slight expression of amazement crossed his face. He made a little gesture of farewell and went away, turning his back on me, and leav
ing me standing by the confessional, confused and thoroughly upset.
I did not tell Mother anything about my confession, just as I had told her nothing of the Viterbo trip. I knew she had very set ideas about priests and religion; she said they were fine things, but the rich stayed rich and the poor stayed poor all the same. “The rich know how to pray better than we do, you can see that,” she used to say. Her ideas on religion were like her ideas about family and marriage. She had once been religious herself and used to go to church, but everything had gone badly for her all the same, so she did not believe in it anymore. Once I told her our reward would come in the next world, and she became furious, telling me she wanted hers in this one, now, immediately, and if she didn’t get it, that meant the whole thing was a pack of lies.
Next morning as I got into the car Gino told me his employers were going away and we would be able to meet at the villa for a few days. My first impulse was one of joy, because I liked love-making and liked it with Gino, as I believe I have already made clear.
But all at once I remembered my promise to the priest.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s impossible.”
“All right, then,” he said forebearingly, with a sigh, “tomorrow then.”
“No, not even tomorrow — never again.”
“Never!” he repeated in a low voice, pretending to amazed. “That’s how it is now, is it? Never! You might at least explain why.”
The Woman of Rome (Italia) Page 10
