A Life (14 page)

For Alfonso this work began to take on an odd resemblance to his work in the bank. In the evening he would sit down to it with a yawn, struggling against sleep, intent only on keeping closely to what Annetta had told him to do, glad when he had finished. Sometimes the boredom of the work was such that he ended by going to Annetta’s without having done anything. At the last moment when he had not worked, resolving to send her his excuses next day and renounce seeing her that time rather than have to write such stuff. But he could not renounce seeing her, found some other excuse and went.

Annetta always greeted him kindly and never reproved him. She made him read what she had done and then let him change the subject. She rather enjoyed hearing him talk. He was now only shy on purpose, because he had realized that it was wise to
preserve a certain shyness with Annetta. When about to leave he would remember Macario’s warnings and Francesca’s little sign and even the bearing of Spalati, Annetta’s oldest friend, who, when he took liberties, did so always with an air as respectful as his words were free. Spalati was clever enough only to lack respect for her when he flattered her. In this way his flattery took on an aspect of frankness that made it seem sincere. He was quite capable of telling her that she used too many adjectives, like Victor Hugo. Alfonso understood his method and his bearing, made easier by his capacity to simulate the character attributed to him. By showing contempt for exterior forms he was allowed to transgress some of them, but it was not such forms that Annetta demanded. The important thing for her was to show admiration or enthusiasm at the proper time.

Their pleasantest evenings were when the novel was not
mentioned
at all, but Alfonso realized that in the long run Annetta might be displeased by the slow progress of the work. He was also warned of this by Francesca, who for a second time showed a wish to direct him in his relations with Annetta. One evening she received him when Annetta was still in her room.

“Have you not done anything today, either?” she asked him with a note of reproof. “Take care, as Annetta easily gets impatient.”

That evening he did happen to have something done. He
understood
the importance of the warning and accepted it; from then on, and for some time, every evening he brought some proof of having worked on or thought about the novel.

He was finding this more and more difficult. There was a lot to do at the bank. Now he had nearly all Miceni’s work on his shoulders, so that there were daily bouts of hard work with which he and Alchieri could scarcely cope. He felt the need for long walks and for rest more strongly than ever.

The first time since Francesca’s warning that he happened to visit Annetta without bringing a single page of writing Annetta greeted him with her usual sweet smile; but he, afraid she was hiding the anger mentioned by Francesca and in no way reassured, expected to be dismissed suddenly and for ever. In his fear he did not think one excuse enough but mentioned how busy he was, then said he’d had a headache and even some worrying news
from home about his mother’s health which had spoilt the calm he needed for work. Annetta listened to him with a deeply
sympathetic
air, very moving to Alfonso. He hated having to excuse himself like a little schoolboy when he longed to say something quite different, and this brought tears to his eyes, which Annetta attributed to worry about his mother’s health.

That evening Annetta must have found Alfonso more
agreeable
than usual. After speaking of the many reasons which had prevented him working at the novel, he had gone on to tell her that he longed to dedicate himself to it, and then to assert that his favourite occupation was meditating about that delightful work. For the first time his flattery was not forced, for it was a moment when he would have turned forger to ensure Annetta’s
friendship
. He described his job at the bank, and, not daring to
complain
to Signor Maller’s daughter of banking work in general, he lamented that he was still not entrusted with the more intelligent and responsible work which he considered his due.

“Would you like me to talk to Papa?” asked Annetta, much touched. “Of course you have a right to more difficult work.”

He had not foreseen this offer, which somewhat put him out. He protested that he did not want to take advantage of Annetta’s friendship to obtain protection. Anyway, influence was not enough to break through the bank’s hierarchy—while the suggestion of it partly destroyed his illusions about these evenings with Annetta. She wanted to know what these illusions were.

“When I’m here,” replied Alfonso, “I just want to remember that I’m your friend, and a writer. For the moment I’m nothing else.”

Annetta thanked him.

“So you do like coming here, do you?”

She had switched to a much lighter tone, which Alfonso did not notice at once, so busy was he assuring her that he always enjoyed coming to her home.

Annetta had produced that phrase in good faith, thinking it very polite, but it produced many hours of agitation in Alfonso. Yes, polite it certainly was, but had she so soon forgotten seeing him cry that she could only produce that conventional phrase? It took him a long time to understand why the phrase seemed so
offensive. Meanwhile he felt very discontented with himself, as if remorseful for some bad or silly action. He had wept before her, and she had thought it her duty to say a kind word! There was such a difference between the importance of the two facts that he was ashamed of having shed those tears. A woman with any gleam of affection for him would have wept with him.

It was a fine evening with air cold but serene and with a clear sky with few stars. He stood in the street for a long time, feeling he could not achieve calm inside a room. For the second time he felt an urge to break off his relations with Annetta, again because of unease at the coldness and indifference showing through her great appearance of friendship. These painful surprises jolted him from his inert living-by-habit rather than by aim or idea; then he
analysed
that aim, surprised at not having lived more in conformity with it nor seen it under another light, at being as far from
reaching
it as he had seemed near before.

Was his passion the kind that needed many a pang before being satisfied? Now, more even than at the start of his relations with Annetta, he had a clear feeling that his love for her was increased by the riches surrounding her, embellishing a pretty face as a setting does a diamond. He remembered that before realizing Annetta’s grace and charm, he had been excited by knowing that she was Maller’s daughter, and from that agitation and emotion had come the feeling he called love.

But what was the point of all this analysis? He had noticed a
difference
between his way of feeling and that of the people around him, and he thought this consisted in the fact that he took life too seriously. That was his misfortune! Was it worth racking his brains to find a way out of a tangle which should work out naturally by itself? If Annetta loved him, he certainly had a lot to gain; his life would be quite changed; yes, if she loved him, he had nothing to lose.

He wanted to be calm, but such were not thoughts to free him from either doubts or agitation. The indecisive situations to which he was prone tended to save him from analysing his own instincts. Knowing himself made him suffer.

The next day, on the Corso, he happened upon Macario going down to the sea. They had not seen each other for some weeks, for which Macario was kind enough to blame Alfonso.

“Are you so busy with the novel,” he asked, “that you’re not to be seen about any more?”

It was the first time Macario had even mentioned the novel to him, and his friendly jesting tone gave Alfonso a pleasant
surprise
. He was again the good friend who enjoyed instructing, and Alfonso on his side did his best to put on once more his former submissive attitude; but in vain. He was no longer able to hold back spontaneous comments completing or rectifying Macario’s ideas. Macario invited him for a sail, and Alfonso had to refuse because it was nearly time for him to be at the office. They walked some way along the mole together.

Macario greeted a lady who, though ponderous and hardly in her first youth, was still attractive.

“There’s a woman,” he said, “whose lover one can easily become, they say, and quite fun it would be too.” From this
observation
he went on to discourse about seduction in general. “To get a woman who wants to give herself may not seem difficult, but it can tax even an astute man’s resources. One must know when to move, because even a woman who wants it doesn’t want it all the time, and once one does know when, then one should pounce immediately, which is anything but easy, as that decision requires stronger nerves than a general does directing a battle. Even if the attack’s expected and bound to be victorious, it gets no easier. With women who are indecisive and need to have one conviction given them and another taken away, it’s so difficult that I’ve never gone in for them, in spite of my considerable experience. I’m
convinced
though that there too it’s more a question of action than of talk. Talk beforehand, a long time beforehand, but no speeches take a woman to the point of no return. With women one must act. A kiss for example, a kiss on a hand, a face, a neck, even a foot, whatever’s nearest. Good talkers never have luck with women.”

This speech seemed made specially for Alfonso, but on his way to the office he laughed. He imagined taking Macario’s advice seriously and
acting
with Annetta. He saw her white hand raised threateningly to slap. Perhaps Macario had hoped Alfonso would follow his advice! Alfonso suspected him capable of anything. All the better! The kind of trap that Macario had set became a
warning
.

Very soon he had occasion to think over Macario’s advice again. One evening Francesca left them alone. Annetta was
writing
calmly in her fine minute handwriting with its decisive strokes; her left arm was stretched out on the desk, against which her bosom was leaning; her hand was directly under Alfonso’s mouth. It was impossible not to think of the action advised by Macario, and Alfonso quivered as he realized that the skin on the end of his chin had already touched that hand and that it was not withdrawn even so. He remembered Macario declaring that a man became ridiculous in a woman’s eyes by risking less than she desired. The decision was not consciously taken before, with an almost
involuntary
movement, his lips were on that hand. He felt the contact of velvety skin and remembered it after; for the moment, he tried to put on the indifferent air of a child who hopes its own
naughtiness
will be blamed on others. The lightning he feared did not come! He saw Annetta’s face change colour and the pen pause on the paper. Perhaps she was undecided what attitude to take. Then the hand was withdrawn, slowly, with a natural movement as if she needed it to lean her head on. The silence lasted almost a minute, a century for Alfonso. Finally she spoke, and not of the kiss; she spoke with careless ease, looking at him more than once in a smiling friendly manner.

He was saved! More than saved, happy! The declaration was made! At least she would now realize herself to be no longer with a clerk or a writer. From now on he could hope that she would in some way guess when he suffered from a cold word or from
jealousy
. He tried to be modest, to consider Annetta’s silence due only to gentle forbearance, but it had already made him happy. He had made a gigantic step at the very start. That evening he had no doubts. He loved Annetta and wanted her for himself. That was his easy way to riches, but of that he did not think at all at the time. A smile from Annetta was happiness! Action had been demanded of him, and his action had been bold but not brutal; gentler, more respectful than any word.

For a number of evenings Francesca was present at their
meetings
, which did not displease Alfonso. Now he spoke with his eyes; the language of the eyes is like that of music; it makes nothing definite when no word has been said, but when it has, says more
and says it better than do words themselves. His looks were not bold; he did not try to make out her curves by an indiscreet gaze amid her soft clothes, or by squeezing her hand or stroking it to get a thrill from the contact. That declaration, that outburst of solitary desire had fortified his love, made him breathe pure air. He had been unable, though, to produce any addition to that kiss in actual words.

One evening, when they were in the library, Francesca tiptoed off in the very middle of the sitting so as not to disturb them. Her absence lasted a quarter of an hour, and when she returned, she found them just where she had left them. Alfonso had quivered on her departure, thinking, still according to Macario, that he must now say something. He brooded over a few little phrases, but Annetta prevented him from saying them by speaking quite calmly about the novel. Apparently she expected nothing, and it was
better
not to do anything which she did not foresee. So he was silent; his position was already excellent, and for the moment he wanted nothing more. He did not speak of love, but everything he said to Annetta was coloured by his feelings. He did nothing but make declarations of love! When he spoke to Annetta, in a very different way than did Macario, he hinted at it in every word and smile or tone. When saying the simplest things he felt his voice infused with a sweetness of which he had not thought himself capable, its tone so clear and bold that it seemed possessive, making him quiver all over with the excitement of a realized dream.

He ran into Macario again, who with suspicious insistence talked to him once more about ways of getting a woman. Alfonso listened indifferently to the crudities suggested, because he now had a better idea what to do in his own case. He was quite content at a pause in his relations with Annetta and did not want it to stop before he knew what the next stage would be. Also he suffered less when away from her. Waiting for the evening was a bore, but he did not daydream so much, because a smile from Annetta had
dissipated
fantasies which she herself had created.