The Woman of Rome (13 page)

“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 leaving 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.”

His face was full of jealous suspicion. “Gino,” I said hurriedly. “I love you and haven’t ever loved you so much as I do now — but just because I love you I’ve made up my mind that there shouldn’t be anything like that between us again until we’re married — I mean no lovemaking.”

“Ah, now it all comes clear!” he said scornfully. “You’re afraid I won’t want to marry you.”

“No, I’m sure you’ll marry me. If I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t be making such preparations and wouldn’t spend Mother’s money that she’s been saving all her life.”

“What a big deal you make of your mother’s money!” he said. He had become really unpleasant and I could hardly recognize him. “Why, then?”

“I went to confession, and the priest told me I mustn’t make love with you anymore until we’re married.”

He made a gesture of disappointment and a word escaped him that sounded to me like an oath. “What business has that priest to stick his nose into our affairs?”

I preferred to remain silent.

“Why don’t you say anything?” he insisted.

“I haven’t anything more to say.”

I must have seemed absolutely determined, because he suddenly changed his mind. “All right,” he said, “anything you say.… Do you want me to take you back into town?”

“If you will.”

I must say this was the only time he was unpleasant and unkind to me. By the following day he seemed resigned and was his usual affectionate self, full of polite attentions. So we continued to meet every day as before, except that we did not make love anymore but only talked to one another. Every now and again I gave him a kiss, although he had made it a point of honor not to ask me for one. I did not feel kissing him was really a sin, because, after all, we were engaged and soon to be married. When I think over that time nowadays, I imagine Gino was led to resign himself so quickly to his new part as a respectful fiancé by the hope of gradually diminishing the warmth of our relationship and bringing me, little by little, to a kind of rupture, almost without my being aware of the fact. A lot of girls, without realizing what is happening find themselves free once more after long and exhausting engagements, with no harm done except that the best part of their youth has passed. All unawares, when I told him of the priest’s injunction, I had given him the excuse he was undoubtedly seeking to ease up our engagement. He certainly would never have had the courage by himself
since he had a weak, selfish character, and the pleasure he derived from our relationship was greater than his desire to abandon me. The confessor’s intervention gave him an opportunity to adopt a hypocritical and apparently disinterested solution.

After some time he began to meet me less often, only every other day. And I noticed that our trips in the car were briefer each time, and he was more and more absentminded when I talked of our plans for getting married. But although I vaguely sensed this change in his attitude, I suspected nothing, since these were only small things, trivialities, and he continued to behave in his usual kindly, affectionate way to me. One day he told me, with an apologetic look on his face, that for family reasons he would have to postpone the date of our marriage until after the summer.

“Are you awfully upset?” he added, seeing that I made no comment on what he had said, and only looked in front of me with a bitter, blank expression.

“No, no —” I said, pulling myself together, “— it doesn’t matter — it can’t be helped. It’ll give me time to finish my trousseau.”

“You’re lying. You do mind a lot.” It was odd how he wanted me to be upset at the postponement of our wedding.

“I don’t.”

“Then, if you aren’t upset it means you don’t really love me, and maybe actually you wouldn’t mind if we never got married at all.”

“Don’t talk like that!” I exclaimed in alarm. “It would be terrible for me. I don’t even want to think of it.”

At that time I failed to understand the expression that passed across his face. Actually, he had wanted to test my affection and had realized to his dismay that it was still very strong.

Although the postponement of my marriage was not enough to rouse my own suspicions, it strengthened Mother’s and Gisella’s original convictions. Mother made no comment on the news at all, as was sometimes her way (and this was strange behavior on her part, given her violent and impulsive nature). But one evening while she was giving me my supper as usual, standing silently watchful for what I might need, I made some reference to the wedding.