by Italo Svevo
Then he must be thought a blackmailer! That was why he was feared. He did not want to let such an accusal stand. No voice would be raised in his defence if he did not act. Maller knew too little not to be suspicious of him, and Annetta’s memory of him must have been twisted by hatred into that of a mere adventurer.
He would ask for another interview with Maller the next day, hand in his resignation and tell him frankly his reasons for the action. He did not want to keep even for a day what he was allowed only for fear of vengeance. “You hate me,” he would say to him, “You’re the boss, why keep me on? It’s an insult not to dismiss me.”
This idea should bring him some calm, he felt. He went home and flung himself on his bed half-dressed, still feeling a need to find relief in dreams. He had made up his mind. He would be without a job; what would he do with his life? He could not live by studies even if they were much better than his were; and it would be very difficult to find another job. Which of all his contacts in town would be of use to him, except those made at the Mallers, and on one of those, the most important, he could not count. He saw himself abandoned, poor, starving maybe, and suffering from a hunger he knew too well that he could not endure; eventually he would even hold out a hand to the Mallers for their charity or perhaps reach the point of threatening them to make them help him. In his long soliloquy tears often came to his eyes. He must try to keep his job at the Maller bank as long as he could.
Then he thought of one possible way of giving necessary explanations without losing his job; by giving them to Annetta herself. He knew her to be vain and selfish, but not heartless; she had often forgiven him out of compassion, that compassion which made her forget her fear of compromising herself. He would turn to her. After all he was asking nothing but to be left in peace, and he was asking it of those who should have even greater interest than he had himself in silence being kept; surely Annetta would grant his request?
His first idea had been to wait for a chance to talk to Annetta, maybe to stop her on the street; then he felt he could not bear to live in such a state of agitation and longed to get rid of it at once. Next day he would write to Annetta and ask her to grant him an interview.
Eventually he did it there and then; the activity would help restore his calm, he thought. He jumped out of bed and lit the lamp. It was a long time since he had written at that table; the rusty nib resisted, the ink refused to flow and had to be diluted.
He began with an opening which seemed dignified and humble ‘Illustrissima Signorina,’ then asked for the interview in a few words, saying that he had something to tell her of great importance for himself and he thought for her too. If she granted this interview, as he did not doubt she would, he asked her to be on the mole, closest to the Via dei Forni between eight and nine o’clock next evening. Then he added a touch of ingenuous regret: ‘I no longer know how to treat you, Annetta, now that you may hate me,’ and one of equally ingenuous irony: ‘I’m signing with both Christian name and surname as you may not recognize my Christian name alone.’
He did not sleep, but the depression which often brought tears to his eyes stopped. Now his agitation was of quite another kind, like an excited lover’s, and he traced this back to those two gentler phrases he had addressed to Annetta. How pleasantly he was lulled by the thought that he would see her again the next day. There, once again, at the thought of that face which had once blushed and paled for love of him, he had forgotten the hostile faces surrounding him. For love of him, not of Macario! He knew that from Macario himself, who had denied that passion could ever throw a shadow over her face.
Now his purpose in asking for that interview no longer mattered; his main wish was to reestablish himself in her eyes, to make her feel he was not the adventurer that she supposed. Not that this would mean the end of her projected match with Macario; but affectionate gratitude and friendship for him remaining in the heart of the woman he had loved would be enough.
He began imagining what he would say to her. He would not apologize for seducing her, that would be an error in tactics; he had done it in passion and could not regret an action which had brought him the greatest happiness of his life. He knew from his reading that women always forgive an homage to their beauty in any even criminal form. He would waste few words about himself, just assure her that he would die rather than say a word about the secret uniting them. Maybe she would be able to guess that from his bearing without his lowering himself to saying so. Though he would have liked just to tell her he loved her, he would not say a word about love to her. In his misery now he no longer despised that love. Even the thought of it had comforted him in his gloom. To reveal the slightest hint of it to Annetta would be dangerous because a man in love cannot be trusted, however honest and benevolent he may appear; so he must be very careful to hide this new affection of his. He must appear as a lover with no rancour at being abandoned, one whose love has turned into sweet fraternal friendship. He would ask her affectionately if she was happy and make a great show of joy if, as she probably would, she assured him that she loved Macario. On the other hand, she might possibly confess that she was not happy and confide in him freely. If that happened there would be no more difficulties for him, and he would not need to expend much thought on what attitude to take up.
Santo willingly agreed to deliver the letter.
For the first time Alfonso was able to draw advantage from his observations on character. Assuming an air of importance he asked mysteriously whether Signorina Annetta had told him she was expecting that letter. Then he warned him that it was a matter of springing a surprise on one of the Maller family.
Santo, delighted to be in on a secret concerning Signorina Annetta, put the note in his pocket. He promised to be very cautious and was offended at Alfonso telling him so often to keep the secret. Then he went further and complained that Alfonso never showed his face at the Mallers any more. Was he offended with someone? He gave the impression that if Alfonso was, he would avenge him.
Alfonso replied boldly:
“I was there at the end of last month!”
Santo, who knew nothing of that, gave a gesture of surprise:
“Ah, really! But even so you don’t come as often as you did before.”
The note was sent. At midday Alfonso delightedly watched Santo leave the bank. Every minute that brought him closer to the time of his interview with Annetta gave him joy. His only fear was that Maller might take some step before this interview took place. No. If he had to accept any improvements in his position at the bank, he did not want them prompted by fear. Even rejecting his silly dreams of the night before he still believed this interview would destroy all misunderstanding. At the worst he would succeed in convincing Annetta that if they had loved each other and no longer did, this was no reason for mutual hatred.
He could not put down a single figure in his ledger, or even try and spot the mistakes which had caused so much trouble the day before. By evening his impatience was such that he left the office and wandered around the bank in search of someone with whom to talk and pass the remaining hour of waiting.
He went to Ballina and asked for news of the correspondence department; it seemed years since he had left it. Ballina as usual was having his supper at the bank, and that evening he cooked eggs on a gas stove, and ate them with bread and butter washed down by a glass of wine. He explained to Alfonso how little that succulent supper cost; scarcely seventy centesimi.
Alfonso envied him. Ballina was preoccupied, he saw, by his own health, and was very successfully coping with very unfavourable circumstances. He slept, so he said, like a baby, tired out after copying those endless names; his only worry was some Hungarian or Slav name with many consonants.
When Ballina left, Alfonso went to Starringer to waste another half-hour in the despatch department, which was humming with work. He ran into old Antonio who was in charge of taking letters to the post. The poor old man was walking along cursing the directors who signed letters so late. This was th
e despatch department’s usual complaint. Even Starringer trotted it out, and Alfonso pretended to listen to him though not taking in a word in his impatience.
He did not leave the bank yet. Next he brushed his trousers and cleaned his shoes carefully with Miceni’s equipment; that was at least something to do.
It was a little over a quarter to eight when he left the bank, and he began to run, fearing to arrive at the rendezvous late. What would he do in that case? Such a delay might be without remedy.
The sirocco still persisted, but no rain had fallen during the whole day. Until nightfall the city had been covered with a slight mist, but that had also gone and the sky was clear, strewn with stars, moonless. A thin layer of slime covered the length of the paving stones.
At ten minutes past eight Alfonso had his first doubt whether Annetta would turn up. It was quite likely she wouldn’t. Without confessing it to himself, he had acted until then as if sure she loved him still; otherwise he could not hope that a girl who was engaged should take such a step. He realized he had written her a bad letter. He should have merely told Annetta he wanted to talk to her and awaited an indication of when and where from her. But it was too late to correct that now. He would wait until nine; and he leant against a parapet, patient and resigned.
He noticed a young man passing him for the second time and giving him a curious stare: he had already seen before that oblong face, with its fair moustache and penetrating look, and that long thin body. He looked after him; it was Federico Maller, he recognized him by his narrow trousers. Was this a coincidence or had Annetta given her brother a message for him? He had never liked young Maller and was sorry to have him to deal with, but now he must try and facilitate whatever duty the brother had taken on from affection for his sister.
Feeling Federico draw closer he turned to greet him but got a push which nearly flung him to the ground.
“Apologize, you swine!” young Maller yelled at him, raising a hand which in the darkness Alfonso thought was armed.
Did they want to kill him? He hurled himself on the thin figure, held the upraised threatening hand and seized young Maller by the throat. The other flailed towards the sea in an effort to break free. Alfonso was panting and using much more strength than was necessary.
“I’ll throw you in the sea!” he threatened, giving him a push, but not hard enough.
“What manners people have in this town!” said young Maller disdainfully, putting a hand up to straighten his necktie.
“I thought you were trying to pick my pocket,” replied Alfonso indignantly.
He accepted Maller’s visiting card and proffered his own. His own seconds would call on Maller at twelve o’clock the next day, he promised. lt was a surprise to be behaving so correctly all at once.
So this was the appointment which Annetta had granted. She had made a quick decision, had an easy means to hand, and sent off her brother to kill him. Annetta too hated him, which grieved him; she did not think herself safe from him, and thought he must be suppressed so as not to have to fear him any more. Oh, she did not know him. In all the time he had loved her she had not realized how open and honest was his nature. That was the sad part, not that Federico would probably kill him.
He walked along faster and faster towards home. On the Corso he stopped for an instant, thinking Macario had passed. It was not him, but Alfonso wondered if it would be any satisfaction to take revenge on Macario by giving him a full description of his affair with Annetta. No. His only possible satisfaction would be to convince Annetta that she was mistaken about him. He would write her a letter, a dying man’s farewell.
Then he found himself sitting at his desk, pen in hand, but could not manage to put down a single word. Never in his daydreamer’s life had he been so completely possessed by a dream. He dropped his pen and put his head in his hands, longing to reflect but dreaming obsessively. Annetta wanted him dead! He longed for her to get her wish and then regret it. He imagined her reviving her love for him one day, and her visiting his grave to scatter tears over it. Oh! How sweet and calm it would be in that cemetery which he thought of as green and warmed by sun.
When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to find himself face to face with a sheet of writing paper.
He was to fight Federico Maller in an unequal duel, with his adversary having the advantages of both hatred and capacity. What had he himself to hope for? Only one way was open to him of escaping a fight in which he would play a wretched and ridiculous part; suicide. Suicide would give him back Annetta’s affection. Never had he loved her as he did at that moment. It was no longer a matter of self-interest or the senses. The further he saw her moving away from him the more he loved her; now that he had definitely lost all hope of re-conquering her smile, her affectionate word, life seemed colourless, null. Once he had vanished, Annetta would no longer feel disgust born of fear at the thought of him, and that was all that he could hope for. He did not want to live on and appear to her as a contemptible enemy whom she suspected of trying to harm her and make her pay a high price for the favours she had accorded him.
Till then he had thought of suicide only through the prejudices of others. Now he accepted it not with resignation but with joy. Liberation! He reminded himself that until a short time before he had thought differently. He tried to calm himself, to see if that feeling of joy were not a mere product of some fever possessing him. No. He was quite lucid. He assembled up in his mind all the arguments against suicide, from the moral ones of preachers to those by modern philosophers. They made him smile. They were not arguments but expressions of a wish, the wish to live.
He, though, felt incapable of living. Some feeling which he had often tried and failed to understand made it an unbearable agony to him. He knew neither how to love nor how to enjoy; he had suffered in the best of circumstances more than did others in the most painful ones. He was leaving life without regret. It was the one way to become superior to others’ suspicions and hatreds. That was the renunciation of which he had dreamed. He must destroy this body of his which knew no peace; while it was alive it would continue to drag him into the struggle, because that was what it was there for. He would not write to Annetta. Even the bother and possible danger of such a letter he would spare her.
N…… , 23 October 18..
Signor Luigi Mascotti,
In reply to your letter of the 21st instant we would inform you that the reasons for which our clerk Signor Alfonso Nitti committed suicide are quite unknown. He was found dead in his room on the 16th instant, at four in the morning, by Signor Gustavo Lanucci, who on returning home at that hour had his suspicions aroused by a strong smell of gas diffused throughout the whole apartment. Signor Nitti left a letter addressed to Signora Lanucci in which he declared her his heir. Your question about the sum of money found with Signor Nitti should therefore be referred to the above-mentioned.
The funeral took place on 18th instant in the presence of colleagues and management.
We remain, yours faithfully,
Maller & Co
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Copyright
Translated from the Italian by Archibald Colquhoun
Translation copyright © Archibald Colquh
oun 1963
First published in Italian as Una vita in1893
First published by Pushkin Press in 2000
Reprinted 2006 in a revised edition
This ebook edition published in 2012 by Pushkin Press, 71-75 Shelton Street, London WC2H 9JQ
ISBN 9781908968777
Cover: Four Trees Egon Schiele © Österreichische Galerie Belvedere Vienna
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