Writing to Delight: Italian Short Stories by Nineteenth-Century Women Writers 9781442683754

Citation preview

WR I TI NG TO D ELI G HT Italian Short Stories by Nineteenth-Century Women Writers Edited by Antonia Arslan and Gabriella Romani

This volume presents for the first time in English translation a selection of short stories written by some of the most accomplished and acclaimed women authors of nineteenth-century Italy. The stories in this anthology reflect the lives and concerns of women at a time when Italy was going through major social and political change, and thus provide a useful source for critical investigation of cultural production and identity formation in nineteenth-century Italy. Along with the growth of the middle classes, expanding industrialization, and increasing literacy among the general population, there was considerable advancement in the status of women in Italy during this time. Many of the women writers included in this anthology – Matilde Serao, Marchesa Colombi, Neera, Contessa Lara – were not only successful writers but also journalists for some of the major national newspapers of the time. These writers were typically well acquainted with their readers’ tastes and expectations and such awareness played an integral part in their creative process. As well, many of their stories served didactic purposes, and their authors used them as a vehicle to inspire and educate their public. While providing rare insights into the complexities of the social and cultural milieu of nineteenth-century Italy, the stories in Writing to Delight continue to be a remarkable source of entertainment and enlightenment for audiences today. antonia arslan is a former professor of modern and contemporary Italian literature at the University of Padua. gabriella romani is an assistant professor in the Department of Modern Languages at Seton Hall University.

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Writing to Delight Italian Short Stories by Nineteenth-Century Women Writers

Edited by Antonia Arslan and Gabriella Romani

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

www.utppublishing.com © University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2006 Toronto Buffalo London Printed in Canada ISBN-13: 978-0-8020-3874-6 (cloth) ISBN-10: 0-8020-3874-3 (cloth) ISBN-13: 978-0-8020-3810-4 (paper) ISBN-10: 0-8020-3810-7 (paper)

Printed on acid-free paper Toronto Italian Studies Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Writing to delight : Italian short stories by nineteenth-century women writers / edited by Antonia Arslan and Gabriella Romani. (Toronto Italian studies) Translations of 7 short stories. ISBN-13: 978-0-8020-3874-6 (bound) ISBN-10: 0-8020-3874-3 (bound) ISBN-13: 978-0-8020-3810-4 (pbk.) ISBN-10: 0-8020-3810-7 (pbk.) 1. Short stories, Italian – Women authors – Translations into English. 2. Italian fiction – 19th century – Translations into English. 3. Italian fiction – Women authors – Translations into English. I. Arslan, Antonia II. Romani, Gabriella III. Series. PQ4250.E5W75 2006

853’.01089287

C2006-900672-5

University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. The translation of this book was made possible by the contribution of the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).

Contents

Gabriella Romani Introduction Scenes from Nineteenth-Century Italy: Delightful Stories on Those Long, Long Winter Evenings Matilde Serao Checchina’s Virtue

19

Neera Paolina 58 Aunt Severina 74 The Lady of the Evening

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Marchesa Colombi Winter Evenings 85 Learn a Trade for a Rainy Day Dear Hope 117 Caterina Percoto The Bread of the Departed The Caning 144 Contessa Lara The Coral Necklace

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126

93

3

vi

Contents

Virginia Olper Monis Woes of the Middle Class

173

Bruno Sperani Scorn for Life

187

Afterword Ladies, Chickens, and Queens: The Strong Voices of Italian Women Writers 191 antonia arslan Bio-Bibliographies of the Authors

199

WR I TI NG TO D ELI G HT Italian Short Stories by Nineteenth-Century Women Writers

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Introduction Scenes from Nineteenth-Century Italy: Delightful Stories on Those Long, Long Winter Evenings GABRIELLA ROMANI

In the wake of recent critical studies on nineteenth-century Italian history and literature, the compilation and publication of an anthology of short stories written by female authors of the Ottocento is intended to shed further light on a century often little known to students of Italian studies and, relatively to other periods, less frequently explored by literary scholars operating in the English-speaking world. As Ezio Raimondi has reminded us recently, to study the past is to understand better who we are today, the evolution of our individual as well collective identities.1 To be sure, the nineteenth century represents a crucial historical and cultural phase in the development of modern Italy. In this sense, this anthology figures as an additional instrument for a critical investigation of both the cultural productions of nineteenth-century Italy and the process of formation of modern Italian identities. If these short stories cannot but narrate the events of a world long gone, they nevertheless illustrate the cultural environment in which initial representations of Italian modernity unfolded. The importance of returning to the texts is implicit in this publication as well as a theoretical recognition of the value of nineteenth-century popular fiction – the genre to which these stories belong – insofar as it offers precious insights into the culture of the time: the habits, tastes, ideas, and concerns of not only the writers, but also of the public of readers. Written under the influence of the French feuilleton, and first published in newspapers during a time of unprecedented growth for the journalistic and, more generally, printing industry, the stories here selected had a large circulation among readers, especially women. After its political unification in 1861, Italy went through a process of

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social and cultural transformation. The growth of the middle classes, a more diffuse literacy among the population, and the establishment of national cultural institutions, such as schools and public libraries, all favoured the creation of a larger Italian readership. According to a nineteenth-century book-seller from Milan, Ermanno Bruciati, not only were Italians reading more in the second half of the nineteenth century, but women, especially those from the rising middle classes, having more spare time, tended to read more than men, and favoured writers such as Antonio Fogazzaro, Matilde Serao, Marchesa Colombi, Neera, and Gabriele D’Annunzio. A most popular Italian writer was Edmondo De Amicis, whose book Cuore sold in 1884 alone more than 300,000 copies, a notable figure for that time.2 In addition to these authors, women read a lot of foreign literature, especially French popular novels, both in the original language and in translation, and though overall they received little formal education and were exposed to a limited range of reading material, they became a visible and conspicuous social force as consumers of cultural goods, such as books and newspapers. The relevance of the readership within the context of the writers included in this anthology – Matilde Serao, Marchesa Colombi (pseudonym of Maria Antonietta Torriani Torelli Viollier), Neera (pseudonym of Anna Radius Zuccari), Contessa Lara (pseudonym of Evelina Cattermole), Caterina Percoto, Virginia Olper Monis, and Bruno Sperani (pseudonym of Beatrice Speraz) – is paramount. Most of these authors were also journalists, who wrote for the main newspapers of the time; they were well acquainted with their readers’ tastes and expectations and made such awareness an integral part of their creative process. Marchesa Colombi, with her articles ‘Lettera aperta alle signore,’ a monthly feature in Corriere della Sera, Matilde Serao, with her famous ‘Api, vespe e mosconi,’ and Contessa Lara, with her popular ‘Fra piume e strascichi,’ both published in Corriere di Roma, all kept regular columns for their readers, whom they strove to engage on relevant current issues. Their fiction too reflected the many topics and concerns that informed the social and cultural debates of nineteenth-century Italy. Written in a realistic vein and infused with didactic tones, these stories, like much of nineteenth-century literature, were supposed not only to entertain, but also to educate the audience. The latter – the recently educated female readership – approached the text, whether a book, newspaper article, or manual, more as a means of self-improvement than as a purely leisure activity. Reading, even as closely moni-

Introduction: Scenes from Nineteenth-Century Italy 5

tored and censored as it often was, provided women with an opportunity to interact with the world of ideas circulating outside of the boundaries of their daily domestic life. At a time in which women’s mobility was still rather limited, a book or a newspaper represented a ‘social event,’ similar to an outing to a café or a theatre, where enjoyment and learning coalesced into the process of formation of the individual. In addition to providing insights into the social environment in which these stories were written, a focus on the readership further illuminates the very process of construction of a literary text. Recent studies on popular culture and reader-response criticism point out the importance of the figure of the reader in the creation of the text, which, in the words of Robert Hans Jauss, for instance, represents a ‘synthesis of understanding’ between the author’s creative impulse and the reader’s interpretative act.3 In other words, the literary text must be understood as the result of complex interrelations between different entities of the cultural world in which the writer operates (publisher, readership, academia, public opinion, etc.) rather than as an autonomous event merely expressing the individual authorial creativity. According to these theories, reading is not already inscribed in the text, but rather the text ‘exists only because a reader gives it meaning.’4 For the stories included in this collection as well, one has to keep in mind the many interrelating factors that contributed to the creation of meaning: the artists’ creative ambition, the readers’ tastes and expectations, the expanding market of the printing industry, the government’s policy of mass education, the historical and religious context (the role of the Church, for instance, in the national debates on how to properly educate women), just to name some of the main points of relevance. A discussion on nineteenth-century culture, however, cannot be engaged in scholarly discourse alone, but must be brought into the curricula of Italian studies. In spite of the recent renewed critical interest in the Ottocento, the teaching of the literature and, more broadly, of the culture of this century is often conducted through the study of single canonic authors (Foscolo, Leopardi, Manzoni, Verga), rather than through a holistic approach to the wide spectrum of cultural representations (i.e., literature, music, visual art, politics).5 Certainly, the absence of a more comprehensive approach can be explained by the practical difficulty in finding relevant materials viable for teaching purposes, and by the lack of a large body of texts available in current editions or in translation. In fact, only a few of the documents that

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scholars rescue from the gnawing corrosion of time (such as newspaper articles, memoirs, letters, historical records) manage to be reprinted or translated. To be sure, the short stories published here cannot resolve this problem, or represent the cultural life of the century as a whole. What they can offer, however, to a reader interested in the Ottocento is a collection of scenes, snapshots of a past life, through which one can gain a sense of the questions and ideas animating the intellectual debates of the time. This anthology ultimately represents an invitation to go back to a rich tradition – that of nineteenth-century short stories written by women – until now unavailable in the English language, with the hope that in the process of reading these texts, further interest in nineteenthcentury culture as a whole will be awakened. Women Writers of the Ottocento When dealing with nineteenth-century women’s fiction, one is compelled from the start to address the question of its (in)visibility in the discipline of Italian studies. To evaluate the work of these writers and the significance of their presence in the Italian literary tradition, one inevitably has to retrieve them from the world of oblivion in which they have been submerged;6 regardless of the popularity that all of these writers enjoyed during their lifetime, today, outside of a scholarship specialized in Italian women’s literature, they are almost entirely forgotten or purposely ignored because they are considered minor and, therefore, irrelevant authors. The notion of cultural memory seems then particularly appropriate to these authors. Their literary works both exemplify the working of memory and serve as objects of cultural memory. Studies have shown the existence in literature of an intrinsic correlation between word and image, which converges into the process of formation of cultural memory.7 In this sense, writing can be understood as a mode of communication via images, which help to make visible the chain of associations generating a production and, later, memory of specific ideas evoked by the text. The stories here selected are rich with images that provide a testimony of the world as the writers saw it, and leave for posterity memories that attest to a cultural heritage that, today, would no longer be known without them. It may seem a banality to emphasize the representational import of a text to its own time, yet the value of the written

Introduction: Scenes from Nineteenth-Century Italy 7

word as a conveyor for the imagery that characterizes a specific era is sometimes overlooked for fear that historical contingency may compromise the literary merit of the work. Nonetheless, it cannot be emphasized enough that the fiction here selected brings along with its artistic creativeness a vivid representation of the world as the authors interpreted it for their readers to see. Nineteenth-century imagery in relation to the female figure is deeply rooted in the bourgeois rhetoric of national modernization and its project of education of the masses. The efforts that the bourgeoisie directed towards the creation of an effective lexicon and imagery, geared towards self-definition and self-affirmation, were obviously varied, as they originated from different spheres of power production: politics, economics, and, not least, culture. In terms of cultural representations, the female figure played a fundamental role in the bourgeoisie’s desire to create a ‘dictionary of images,’ a typology of essentially domestic female identities – attesting to the centrality of the family, in particular the bourgeois family, in the national rhetoric of moral and social progress. As Caterina Francesca Ferrucci, a nineteenth-century writer and pedagogue, wrote: ‘A noi donne destini il cielo il glorioso ufficio di rimettere i traviati sul buon sentiero, e di ispirare nelle crescenti generazioni l’amore delle virtù che fanno le famiglie concordi, felici e quieti gli Stati’ (‘May Heaven give us women the glorious office of returning the wayward to the right path and of inspiring the younger generation with the love of virtue, which makes families harmonious and the State happy and quiet’).8 Because the family represented a microcosm of the whole society, the harmony of the familial structure was considered to be a main source for social order. Consequently, it was believed that the very modernization of society could result only from a well-run household. Moreover, since by the nineteenth century women had acquired a certain authority in the domestic domain, it was only natural that the female figure would function symbolically as the measure of advancement, individual as well as collective, in society. In 1870 Aristide Gabelli, a renowned positivist pedagogue, noted that it was from the little innovations introduced in the homes of Italians (he mentioned Liebig extract,9 the oil lamp, and other devices that alleviated women’s domestic work) that true progress could be measured in society.10 In brief, the home, especially the bourgeois household, was rhetorically presented as a social laboratory for the creation and use of new paradigms of personal and collective behaviour that would modernize the country and, ulti-

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mately, defy the historical European view of Italy as a backward society.11 It was a matter of creating a newly forged image of Italy, a ‘modern’ concept of Italianness, and a new social identity, the bourgeoisie, that would be competitive with other social forces nationally, and internationally. Italy and Modernity The still slow and yet pressing process of modernization had brought many technological and institutional innovations to nineteenth-century Italy: the railroad in 1837–40 (first in Naples and then Milan); the telegraph in 1847 (the Pisa-Livorno line inaugurated by Matteucci);12 a nationalized postal service in 1862 for a faster distribution not only of mail but also of the widely produced printed materials; the hydroelectric power station in 1883, which boosted industrial growth.13 While Italians appealed to the wondrous effects of progress, the economic and social transformation of Italy proved to be less of a true industrial revolution and more of a face-lifting procedure with a resulting Januslike appearance: on the one side, the image of a nation moving forward, advancing however slowly in the process of modernization; on the other, the more backward face of a people still steeped in traditional patterns of life and lagging behind in the race for progress. Education was invoked as the panacea that would make the country’s recovery from its backwardness possible. It was believed that opening a school meant closing a prison,14 that education would enhance the country’s overall potential for economic advancement and, more importantly, moral progress. It was, ultimately, a matter of creating from above a national conscience and a popular consensus for the political leadership, a sense of belonging to a unitary political body in which each part would play his or her role for the good of the entire nation.15 Within this program, the topic of female education gained momentum. Women represented a high percentage of the vast group of illiterate Italians. According to the census compiled in 1861, Italy had an illiteracy rate of about 75 per cent, a staggering figure not only compared to that of Sweden (10 per cent) but also to that of France (40 per cent). In 1861 only 19 per cent of women could read, a percentage that, if examined in light of regional differences, meant that in the North – in the Lombardy region, for instance – forty women out of one hundred were literate, while in more isolated and southern regions, such as

Introduction: Scenes from Nineteenth-Century Italy 9

Basilicata, ninety out of one hundred could neither write nor read. With the political unification of Italy and the extension of the Casati Law, initially passed in Piedmont by the House of Savoy in 1859, women gained the right to statutory education as part of the two years of mandatory schooling for all Italians. As a result of these reforms, between 1861 and 1901 primary schools registered an increase in female presence to 48 per cent of the entire student body.16 The institutional efforts geared towards the national improvement of female education did not, however, fulfil initial expectations; in 1901 more that 54 per cent of women were still illiterate. Both old prejudices and misappropriation of funds by local authorities, who were by law responsible for the administration of their school districts, made it difficult for girls (as well as many children of both sexes from poor families) to attend schools. To be sure, the old negative stereotype of the educated woman constituted a major hurdle as well. As Aristide Gabelli once wrote: ‘Una donna con un libro in mano, nella fantasia di non pochi, non è più una donna, o almeno è una donna che lascia di fare quello che dovrebbe, per attendere invece a quello che non dovrebbe’ (‘A woman with a book in her hands in most people’s mind is no longer a woman, or, at least, is a woman who leaves behind what she should do in order to attend to things she should not do’).17 Because matrimony was considered the ultimate aim in a women’s life, education appeared to be not only an ineffective means to that goal, but a major impediment. In addition to the legislative reforms passed by the newly unified Italian government, another crucial element must be taken into consideration: the pedagogic and moralistic approach to educating women, which was based on a traditional and still widely accepted notion of a supposedly ‘female moral superiority’; and, as a result of this natural feminine virtuosity, a capacity to positively affect society. As the discourse on women’s education became synonymous with the moral advancement of society, a typology of characters was produced throughout the century that mainly related, by way of association or opposition, to one modality of female subjectivity: the domestic woman. The iconography developed on this basic figure was highly conventional and repetitive, but also very effective in popularizing an essentially moderate image of female bourgeois identity, one still profoundly rooted in the traditional values of Italy. The effectiveness of this reiteration of the domestic ideal (presented in minute details in manuals of etiquette and fashion) is highly significant, insofar as it

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demonstrates the extraordinary communicative force of images as they give shape to an otherwise abstract construct of gender identity. In terms of identity construction, the female figure had already been a powerful icon in early-nineteenth-century allegorical representations of Italy, where the nation still to be made was portrayed as a suffering mother (in the Romantic paintings of Francesco Hayez, for example, and the patriotic poetry of Foscolo, Leopardi, and Manzoni). During the second half of the century, however, with the growing cultural industry and a larger female reading public, the symbolism of the female image was no longer a mere enunciation of her moral superiority, but was transformed into the elaboration of an articulate system of behavioural norms and rituals that incorporated abstract mores into the everyday life of women. The notion of morality translated into a practice that was supposed to influence every single activity and phase in a woman’s life. The popularity of nineteenth-century galatei (conduct books) – such as Gente per bene (1877) by Marchesa Colombi, which had twenty-seven editions in two decades – cogently illustrates the effectiveness of these images of femininity in addressing issues relating to gender and class identities still in progress, and in offering direction and practical advice to an audience eager to be guided in the still uncharted waters of modernity.18 Gente per bene, recently reprinted in Italy, is composed of six sections, which address the topic of female conduct (a last section, though, is addressed to men), by way of analysing the formative stages of a woman’s life: the child, the young lady, the bride, the married woman, the mother, the widow. For each station in the woman’s journey of life, a concrete image of femininity is provided; the conventional organization of conduct books into a sequence of chapters structured along an age division was meant to reinforce the link between image and word, between the ideal and the form. It gave a palpable sense of social spaces and identities, from which a new civilization was supposed to emerge ‘più gentile, lo spero, e raffinata, che beatificherà l’esistenza dei nostri nipoti fino alla più remota discendenza’ (‘kinder, I hope, and more refined, which will delight the existence of our grandchildren to the farthest reaches of posterity’).19 The female iconography constitutes a fundamental element of Italy’s myth-making process and of efforts to create a memory of national transformation. As Tricia Cusack has noted, nation and nationalism, as abstract concepts, ‘have to be “embodied” in ways that make them imaginable especially through the means of art.’20 Since, then, memory constitutes the space in which raw materials of quotidian experience

Introduction: Scenes from Nineteenth-Century Italy 11

and fragments of the personal and collective imagery come together, the force of the cultural representation through which memory comes to fruition relies precisely on the ability of the image to synthesize all those elements into an effective narrative. The female image became in the nineteenth century one of the most effective tropes for the expression of a synthesis between traditional and modernizing trends. Hence the pervasiveness of its representation in the cultural productions of the time. The Galleria Sciarra, a recently renovated art-deco courtyard not far from the Trevi Fountain in Rome, provides a superb example of the way in which nineteenth-century artists synthesized pictorially the debate on modernization and the female role in society. The project was commissioned by Maffeo Sciarra Barberini Colonna, one of the most prominent personalities of the cultural and political circles of Rome in the 1880s, and executed by Giuseppe Cellini between 1886 and 1888. The pictorial composition consists of a series of scenes in which a female figure – or, more precisely, a bourgeois woman – is portrayed in different stages of her life: as a young girl, a bride (figure 1), a mother, a lady who entertains in her house. Above each scene, there are images of women who symbolically personify female virtues: Humility (figure 2), Patience, Prudence, Fidelity (figure 3), among others. These allegorical representations echoed old rhetorical traditions, by then exhausted of any artistic originality but still effective as a means of communication which, through a predictable and expected system of association, would bring the audience of passers-by closer to the theme and values suggested by the pictures. We do not know why these specific figures were chosen for this project, but it has been suggested that Cellini, a well-known painter, was asked to decorate the gallery because of his familiarity with the intellectual milieus and cultural tastes of the time.21 Thus, it may be assumed that the decorations surrounding the first- and second-floor windows of the Galleria Sciarra were particularly dear or, at least, pertinent to contemporary intellectual debates, especially those revolving around Cronaca Bizantina, a controversial and popular periodical founded by Angelo Sommaruga, located nearby, and for which Carducci, D’Annunzio, and two of the authors here included, Serao and Contessa Lara, wrote. The Galleria Sciarra’s pictorial decorations can be said to belong to what John Hutchinson has defined as ‘nationalist cosmology,’22 the array of artistic representations of national heritage with which a group of intellectuals promote a sense of cohesiveness in people’s perception of

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Figure 1

Introduction: Scenes from Nineteenth-Century Italy

Figure 2

Figure 3

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collective and individual identities. The female figures depicted on the walls of the Galleria Sciarra represent a modality of feminine appearance and behaviour that was supposed to inspire and influence passers-by. Reading the Texts The stories included in this anthology also offer a gallery of figures constructed on a typology of female behaviour. They all revolve around the life of a female character whose fate is always measured against a sometimes tacit, and yet omnipresent, ideal of domestic femininity. Checchina, Aunt Severina, Odda, the lady of the evening are characters developed in the tradition of the exempla. Their exemplarity, however, is not based on their exceptionality, but, on the contrary, on their being one of many, on their commonality – a quality presented for its representative and didactic value. These authors tell stories wherein women can observe the world and learn about life; and the escapist nature of this fiction, far from indicating frivolous entertainment, assumes the significance of a symbolic escape from the dullness of domestic confinement into the liberating world of knowledge. That these stories were supposed not only to entertain but also, and especially, to educate the readers is made explicit by the authors themselves. Marchesa Colombi, for instance, presents her ‘Winter Evenings’ as a ‘delightful story,’ for entertainment during the long and boring nights in provincial Italy, where most families still lived in the aftermath of unification. The ironic and persistent use of the word ‘delight’ in this story suggests the invocation of a notion of evasion that goes beyond mere entertainment: as if reading, regardless of its content, were always a means of self-improvement. Marchesa Colombi, like the other authors, drew much inspiration in her writing from a fundamental belief in the advancement of the nation – a progress envisioned as the result of scientific innovations as well as cultural interventions. As Bruno Sperani suggests in her ‘Scorn for Life,’ ‘without art and fantasy, science remains a dead letter for the happiness of humankind.’ Checchina as a dissatisfied wife and a potential adulterer, Aunt Severina as a resentful spinster, the anonymous lady of the evening as a wretched prostitute, Gigetta as an enriched young middle-class woman without a direction in life – they are all women whose suffering becomes emblematic of the problems (prostitution, spinsterhood, abandonment, poverty) that afflicted not

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only the individual, but society at large. These authors, however, do not attempt to provide solutions to these problems; what they strive for is to portray life and create a literary consciousness through which the reader could better understand the late nineteenth century’s fastchanging world. As Matilde Serao remarks in her conduct book, Saper vivere, it is by reading that one can gain a savoir vivre, a knowledge about life that one would not otherwise acquire: Vi è una seconda educazione che tu, probabilmente non possiedi ... Questa seconda educazione, questo saper vivere, è una cosa tanto fantastica, tanto bizzarra, cambia di colore, di espressione, di tipo così facilmente! Questo sapere vivere è così differente, secondo ogni paese, secondo ogni clima, secondo ogni tradizione ... è necessario saper vivere, se si vuol vivere, se si vuole svolgere tutta la propria vita, in armonia con le cose e con le persone, in armonia coi nostri pensieri e coi nostri sentimenti!23 There is a second education that you [reader] probably do not have ... This second education, this savoir vivre, is something so fantastic, so bizarre that it changes colour, its expression, very easily! This savoir vivre is so different in each country, in each climate, in each tradition ... it is necessary to acquire this savoir vivre if we want to live well and in harmony with other people, in harmony with our thoughts and our sentiments.

While Matilde Serao’s comments refer specifically to the behavioural norms illustrated in her conduct book, her suggestion that reading enhances personal success in life is to be extended to the literary text as well. Although traditionally defined as letteratura amena – a body of texts written by women for women with a project supposedly of easy consumption – these stories were not conceived as an end, but rather as a means to an end: the social advancement of Italy by way of cultural interventions. For both the more conservative writers, such as Serao and Neera, who opposed reforming the law in favour of women’s emancipation (i.e., divorce and universal suffrage), and for the more liberal ones, such as Marchesa Colombi and Sperani, who, instead, advocated women’s legal rights, the literary text represented a formidable instrument for the promotion of a social transformation of Italy that would benefit women as well. The popularity of their fiction in the nineteenth century attests to the relevance and success of their cultural project among the growing female audience, traditionally

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excluded from the cultural representations belonging to the letteratura alta (high culture). Ultimately, these stories provide a narrative rich with insights into the life of nineteenth-century Italy and invite us to look at fiction not as an abstract construct but as a meaningful expression of, and, implicitly, reflection on people’s life. As Antonia Arslan once stated, the reader of the Ottocento approached the novel not as a fiction, but as a ‘realtà con i connotati del romanzo’ (‘reality disguised as a novel’).24 To the reader of today this narrative bespeaks of that reality: and now it is time to turn the page and ‘re-turn’ to the text.

NOTES 1 Ezio Raimondi, Letteratura e identità nazionale (Milan: Bruno Mondadori, 1998) ix–xx. 2 By 1913 Cuore had sold one million copies. See Gianfranco Tortorelli, ‘I libri più letti dal popolo italiano: un’inchiesta del 1906,’ in Studi di Storia dell’editoria italiana (Bologna: Patron Editore, 1989) 158; and Remo Ceserani and Elena Salibra, ‘Popular Literature in Nineteenth-Century Italy: Letteratura amena,’ in Canadian Review of Comparative Literature 9.2 (September 1982) 361–82. See also Ann Hallamore Caesar, ‘About Town: The City and the Female Reader, 1860–1900,’ Modern Italy 7.2 (2002) 129–41. 3 Robert Hans Jauss, ‘Identity of the Poetic Text in the Changing Horizon of Understanding,’ in Reception Study: From Literary Theory to Cultural Studies, ed. James L. Machor and Philip Goldstein (New York and London: Routledge, 2000) 7–28. See also Tonia Fiorino, Il testo tra autore e lettore (Naples: Liguori, 2003) and A History of Reading in the West, ed. Guglielmo Cavallo and Roger Chartier (Amherst and Boston: University of Massachusetts Press, 1999). 4 A History of Reading in the West, 1. 5 For the concept of a holistic approach to the study of the Ottocento I am indebted to Siobhan Nash-Marshall’s unpublished paper ‘Pensare nei salotti,’ delivered at the AAIS 2002 conference in Columbia, Missouri. 6 On the notion of oblivion in regard to women’s literature, see Marina Zancan, who talks of ‘the great archive of absences’ (il grande archivio delle assenze) in Il doppio itinerario della scrittura: la donna nella tradizione letteraria italiana (Turin: Einaudi, 1998) xii; and Antonia Arslan, who defines the same phenomenon as a ‘submerged galaxy’ (galassia sommersa), in ‘L’opera della Marchesa Colombi nella narrativa italiana fra Otto e Nove-

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cento,’ in La Marchesa Colombi: la scrittrice e il suo tempo, ed. Silvia Benatti and Roberto Cicala (Novara: Interlinea, 2001) 12; see also Antonia Arslan, Dame, galline e regine (Milan: Guerini, 1998) 13–84. See Lina Bolzoni, La stanza della memoria (Turin: Einaudi, 2001); Memoria e memorie, ed. Lina Bolzoni, Vittorio Erlindo, and Marcello Morelli (Florence: Olschki, 1998); and Cesare Segre, La pelle di San Bartolomeo (Turin: Einuadi, 2003). Caterina Franceschi Ferrucci, Della educazione della donna (Turin: Unione Tipografica Editrice, 1855) 10. Unless otherwise indicated, all translations in the introduction are mine. A preparation obtained from beef and introduced in the 1860s by the German chemist Julius von Liebig, who claimed the extract to be a valuable restorative for the sick and malnourished. Aristide Gabelli defines the daily impact of science on life as ‘filosofia domestica’ (domestic philosophy), an interpretative positivist approach to science seen as an immanent and progressive force. ‘L’Italia e l’istituzione femminile,’ Nuova Antologia 9 (September 1870), 163. See John Agnew, ‘The Myth of Backward Italy in Modern Italy,’ in Revisioning Italy: The Cultivation of National Identity around the Risorgimento, ed. Beverly Allen and Mary Russo (Minneapolis, London: University of Minnesota Press, 1997); Nelson Moe, Views of Italy from the Vesuvius (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002); and Joseph Luzzi, ‘Italy without Italians: Literary Origins of a Romantic Myth,’ MLN 117.1 (January 2002) 48–83. Quirino Majorana, Cinquanta anni di Storia italiana (Milan: Ulrico Hoepli, 1911) 5. David Forgacs, Italian Culture in the Industrial Era (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1990) 30–54. Giampaolo Perugi, Educazione e politica in Italia 1860–1900 (Turin: Loescher Editore, 1978) 69. Breve storia della scuola italiana, ed. Dina Bertoni Jovine and Francesco Malatesta (Rome: Editori Riuniti, 1961) 9. Daniele Marchesini, ‘L’analfabetismo femminile nell’Italia dell’Ottocento: caratteristiche e dinamiche,’ in L’educazione delle donne, ed. Simonetta Soldani (Milan: Franco Angeli, 1991) 37–56; Forgacs, Italian Culture 18–19; Luigi Faccini, Rosalba Graglia, Giuseppe Ricuperati, ‘Analfabetismo e scolarizzazione,’ in Storia d’Italia 6 (Turin: Einaudi, 1976), 756–80. Gabelli, ‘L’Italia’ 152. More than one hundred books of etiquette were published in the second half of the nineteenth century. The most popular ones were Marchesa Colombi, Gente per bene (Turin: Giornale delle donne, 1877); Emilia Nevers,

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Gabriella Romani Galateo della borghesia (Turin: Giornale delle donne, 1883); Anna Vertua Gentile, Come devo comportarmi? (Milan: Hoepli, 1896); and Matilde Serao, Saper vivere (Naples: Tocco, 1900) Marchesa Colombi, Gente per bene (Novara: Interlinea, 2000) 5. Art, Nation and Gender: Ethnic Landscapes and Mother-Figures, ed. Tricia Cusack and Síghle Bhreathnach-Lynch (Hampshire, UK: Ashgate, 2000) 1. On the Galleria Sciarra see Giovanna Piantoni, ‘Il ciclo pittorico della Galleria Sciarra,’ in Roma capitale. Architettura e urbanistica (Venice: Mansilio, 1985) and Roma Liberty: fascino e storia di uno stile, ed. Ludovico Pratesi and Laura Rendina (Rome: Palombi Editori, 2000). John Hutchinson, The Dynamics of Cultural Nationalism (London and Boston: Allen & Unwin, 1987) 12–19. Serao, Saper vivere, vi. Antonia Arslan, Dame, droga e galline: romanzo popolare e romanzo di consumo fra 800 e 900 (Padova: Cleup, 1977) 21.

Checchina’s Virtue* MATILDE SERAO Translated by Tom Kelso

1 Susanna came to open the door. She wore a faded grey dress of lightweight wool, rolled up on her hips, exposing a shabby slip of dark calico. Her rough cloth apron was covered with greasy stains, and she held a stinking dust-cloth in her hands. As she entered, Isolina grimaced in disgust. ‘Is Checchina here?’ she asked. ‘She is,’ Susanna responded, pursing her piously thin lips. ‘And what are you doing?’ ‘We’re polishing the furniture with petroleum.’ ‘I meant to say, what a stench! It’s not making you sick?’ ‘The smell of petroleum won’t hurt you.’ ‘Go tell Checchina that I’m here in a hurry, and I need to speak to her right away.’ From her pocket she extracted a handkerchief, heavily perfumed with Jockeyclub,1 in order to plug her nose. Susanna left, shrugging her shoulders, with a slight twinge of disdain. Isolina threw herself onto the yellow cretonne couch with its red flowers and its rigid back. She looked distractedly at the parlor. There were four little armchairs covered with a cloth similar to that of the couch, furnished with lace squares that were meant to protect their

* ‘La virtù di Checchina,’ 1884. For all stories in this collection, the date listed after the title refers to the volume in which it first appeared.

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backs from the pomades of their occupants’ heads. The chairs encircled a round white marble table. On the bare marble of the table, a reddish gutta-percha lamp holder and an old-model oil lamp without a lampshade. And then, in a dull black colour, six wooden chairs that seemed to be forever dusty; a grey marble shelf holding six white porcelain demitasses, a coffee pot and a sugar bowl, two old and empty candy trays, one of pale green satin, the other of straw with small tassels; a small plate of artificial fruit, these too of marble, vivaciously painted: a fig, an apple, a peach, a pear, and a small bunch of cherries; a card table covered with green cloth, the sides of which were folded down; and, at the only window, very narrow and very transparent voile curtains, embroidered and tied with bands of cretonne. A small rug in front of the divan. That was all. It was cold, such a lamentable autumn morning, in that glacial parlour. Isolina squeezed more tightly into her black overcoat, and it made her seem slender. Then, quite effusively, she threw her arms around the neck of Checchina, who stood before her, smiling calmly. ‘Finally, I get to see you again, dear heart! I couldn’t stand it any longer without you, my dear; I swear it seemed like a thousand years waiting to see you. That Frascati!2 I hope you at least had fun there?’ ‘Yes,’ Checchina replied, without batting an eyelid. ‘As a matter of fact, you are more beautiful, you have more colour now. Too bad it’s all wasted on Toto, that idiot – he doesn’t understand a thing! And why are you wearing bangs? It’s no longer the fashion.’ ‘But ... it’s easier. You can do your hair in a minute. And Susanna doesn’t know how to do anything else.’ ‘What? Buy an iron to curl your hair. You put hot coals in the heater and make curls, every morning. Look, like I do. But you also need a hairnet to make the curls hold.’ ‘Susanna cannot do all that,’ Checchina stubbornly responded. ‘Why don’t you send Susanna away? She’s unpleasant.’ ‘Unpleasant?’ ‘Ugh! These servants, they’re all paid enemies. Listen, I’d love to send Teresa away – she’s a thief, and insolent, and ... I won’t tell you any more, but she leaves the house for hours at a time. But what can I do? She knows all of my business. She’s really quick, and although her fidelity costs me a great deal, I can make it worthwhile for me. You see, I can’t dismiss her. What if she were to tell my husband everything? Just yesterday I had to give her that red flannel dressing gown – still wearable – that Rodolfo liked so much. Oh! Love is such a torment!’

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‘It is such a torment,’ Checchina murmured mechanically. ‘What would you know? You’re a fool, I’ve always told you so. Did you fall in love, perchance, in Frascati?’ ‘Isolina!’ ‘Don’t take offence. Anything can happen. Oh! I am in love, more than ever.’ ‘With Rodolfo?’ ‘Not Rodolfo! He was stupid, just another lawyer – fancy that – like my husband! There was no pleasure in it, you see. Gigio was better. But this one, the new one, is a cavalry officer. I love him, immensely, like I’ve never loved anyone else. Oh Checchina, what passion! I’ll die of it.’ While she spoke these words, a rush of blood coloured her dark and beautiful face. Her eyes sparkled and her fleshy red lips already seemed to feel the greediness of kissing. Checchina watched her with a serious and reserved air, the air of a woman without character. No shiver ran through Checchina’s beautiful body, which even her awkward black woollen dress could not succeed in rendering ugly. ‘And Gigio?’ she asked with her natural good sense. ‘Oh! Gigio is jealous, very jealous. He’d kill me if he knew I love Giorgio.’ ‘Aren’t you afraid?’ ‘Of course, but, if I weren’t afraid, what fun would I get from loving Giorgio? Risking death for the man you love – don’t you think that’s the greatest proof of love? If you only knew the trouble this love affair gives me! Really! I never have money, and I need it, you see, to give to Teresa, for carriages, for gloves, for flowers – can you lend me twenty lire?’ ‘How can I lend you twenty lire? I don’t have them.’ ‘My God, what will I do? Tomorrow, you know, I have an engagement and I absolutely must go. I’ve got to buy a gauze veil that costs five lire and I need it, no matter the cost. I’ve got to buy a corset that costs fifteen lire, and to see Giorgio you have to hire a carriage ...’ ‘I can give you six lire I saved from grocery shopping,’ Checchina said softly. ‘Six lire ... what can I do with six lire?’ ‘Speak quietly, so Susanna doesn’t hear you.’ ‘Six lire ... all right, give me them. I’ll do my best. Thanks, dear, you are kind, my sweet. Look, you and I have an extraordinary friendship. So if I could help you with anything, some time ...’

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‘No, no,’ said Checchina, feeling a light tremor. ‘Anything can happen, let’s not be too sure of ourselves, dear heart. Goodbye, I’ll see you soon. I must be on my way to mail a little note to Giorgio. Do you have a one soldo stamp?’3 ‘Why should I have one? I never write.’ ‘I’ll bet you don’t even have stationery.’ ‘Toto does, in his office, with his letterhead.’ ‘Poor thing, how I feel sorry for you! Love is something beautiful and grand, Checchina, my dear.’ And she left, light and gay, with the effusion of an interior smile on her face, like someone carrying treasures of sweetness in her soul. Checchina stood thinking for a minute; then she adjusted the white apron on her black dress – and back to her life. And she went to polish the wardrobe, with petroleum, while Susanna polished the chest of drawers.

2 One day – a Friday – as he left the house, Doctor Toto Primicerio said to his wife, Checchina, who was brushing off the shoulders of his overcoat, ‘You know, I’ve invited the Marquis of Aragon to dinner.’ She immediately stopped her brushing. ‘Look,’ continued her husband, without turning back, ‘he was so polite to us in Frascati, I had to be courteous to him here in Rome. He sees all the noble families and he says tu4 to all the Roman princesses. He’ll be useful to me. He’s coming Sunday at seven, our supper time. They have dinner then. So for a day, we will have dinner at seven, too.’ When he did turn around, he saw that his wife was a little pale and very serious. ‘Does this dinner bother you, Checca, my dear? It’s done now and it can’t be undone ...’ ‘A marquis ... here at our house ... someone who eats with all the princesses?’ ‘Well, he’ll content himself here and he surely won’t die of hunger. Work it out with Susanna,’ concluded Toto, with fine Roman tranquillity. He was on his way to the Santo Spirito hospital to set dislocated arms and to medicate festering wounds. The doctor left, but in the house his trace remained, the invincible stench of carbolic acid. Checchina didn’t work anything out with Susanna. The maid was in the kitchen, skimming the broth and muttering about her boss’s im-

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piety – eating meat on Friday, while she contented herself with a piece of fried cod. Checchina was in the bedroom, sitting by the high, broad marital bed, her hands in her lap, all absorbed in thought, not realizing that she was still in her slippers with a scarf around her neck. A marquis who visits princesses, addressing them with tu, having dinner at her house! Why had Toto invited him? How could he have gotten such an idea? In Frascati, the Marquis of Aragon vacationed with the princely family of Altavilla. Every day he rode in a carriage with the princess, accompanying her to mass, taking outings on horseback together – the princess encased in her black riding habit with a black veil twisted around her manly hat and a tea rose5 in her buttonhole, the marquis in a costume of olive green velvet with a black satin tie, steel spurs, and a black riding crop. She, Checchina, had seen them pass by two or three times, like an apparition. The Marquis of Aragon was a good-looking young man, tall and curly-headed, with melancholically expressive eyes. One day, dismounting his horse, he wrenched his foot and Toto Primicerio was called to Altavilla to take care of this trifle. But from then on, every time the marquis encountered Checchina Primicerio he tipped his hat and bowed deeply, that grand aristocratic greeting so flattering to bourgeois ladies. Three times he had saluted her thus: on a Sunday in the piazza, where the municipal band was playing, between the church and the café, while the beautiful ladies of Frascati strolled by with their heads and shoulders hidden in shawls of white wool; on a Wednesday, in the afternoon, she was sewing behind the glass panels of her balcony, replacing the cuffs of an old shirt that belonged to her husband, and the marquis, passing in the street, saluted her; on a Monday, in the morning, she was with Susanna in a secluded Frascati alley, negotiating with a peasant the purchase of some baskets of tomatoes that she intended to preserve as sauce for the winter, and the marquis greeted her as he passed by. This last time she had blushed, she distinctly recalled, though she didn’t know why – perhaps because Susanna was arguing loudly with the peasant over the price. And now the marquis was coming to dinner – she didn’t know what kind of food to serve this noble, accustomed to the culinary fantasies of great cooks. She had service for six, except for the salad and the sauce bowl – would it suffice? And the salad, the dinner had to include salad, where would she put the salad? That’s it, she would give him gnocchi with meat sauce. She could make the gnocchi and Susanna, the sauce, something she’s good for. Then the meat would come with a side dish of potatoes cooked in the sauce. And then a plate of fried fish. But what to do about the frying

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pan? Susanna always complained that it had a rise in the centre and the oil went to the edges and the fish in the middle of the pan got singed black. Either she needed a new pan or else she should skip the fish. She had silverware for six, but one fork had two bent tines. If that didn’t suffice, she could quickly wash them in the kitchen, along with the plates. And a roast, she had to have a roast! Do they eat chicken in the homes of aristocrats? And how would she roast it, since her stove had only two burners and she didn’t have a spit? This dinner would cost an enormous amount of money! How could she tell Toto how many things their home was lacking? A marquis, with his serious, lordly air, wearing a ring on his finger with a diamond, a ruby, and a sapphire. She had seen it perfectly. A marquis, who was surely loved by several princesses – she’d have to give him dessert as well. What had she ever known how to do in the way of desserts? A cake with cherry preserves? How many eggs, then, should she put with a kilo of flour, half a kilo of fine sugar, and a half pound of butter? And the oven for cooking the cake? Actually, she could send it downstairs to the doorkeeper, who had an oven. She’d have to ask for the favour from spiteful Maddalena, who was always arguing with Susanna about confession since Maddalena was really a heretic. Then the day after, if there were cake left over, she could send her a small piece, to let taste it and to thank her for the favour. And coffee should be served at the table, is that not right, after it’s been cleared? Susanna made coffee on the fire in the morning, reheating yesterday’s with a bit of fresh grounds. Meanwhile these nobles with their nimble, vivacious air – it’s clear that they take coffee prepared with a coffee machine on the stove, all fresh coffee, two or three spoonfuls, and no reboiling. Just a week ago Bianchelli had exhibited his coffee machines – all shiny and sparkling, they seemed like silver and gold. They needed one. And then, in two days, Susanna would have to learn to use it. She’d need fifty lire for this dinner. Toto would never give her the sum. He gave her three lire a day for groceries, but they had wine at home and now and then a small gift from a patient: a salami, a form of cheese, baskets of fruit. Even leaving her just those three lire, Toto would grumble. And in the kitchen Susanna swore in the name of Saint Ursula, patron of virgins, that there wasn’t enough, the butchers were all greedy dogs, and the fruit-vendors so many street thieves. How could she manage to ask Toto for the cash she needed for this dinner? True, she had loaned six lire, saved by dint of hardships, to that reckless Isolina, and she could do something with six lire ... At that last thought she blushed, remembering.

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Then she got up, went to the kitchen, and stood there distractedly watching Susanna minutely chop parsnip for the broth. Absorbed, she said nothing. Two or three times the maid muttered about the coalvendor. He had neither conscience nor fear of God, wetting his coal so that it would weigh more. But the mistress paid no attention. At a certain point, as if she had reawakened, Checchina said, ‘Susanna, would you know how to do curls?’ ‘What curls?’ answered the other woman, astonished. ‘Like Isolina’s,’ quietly murmured the mistress.

3 When the Marquis of Aragon arrived at ten before seven, as custom dictates, Checchina was still in her bedroom dressing. Her face was red, two patches of fire on her cheeks; the stove’s blaze had really sent the blood to her head. She was dead tired, having done everything herself, since Susanna, irritated by the dinner, had now and again sharply refused to help. Already that morning she had been unable to attend mass at the church of Sant’Andrea delle Fratte, and Susanna was implacable when she couldn’t hear mass. At the time, due to the heat and exhaustion and the idea that everything would go badly, Checchina’s head was full of confusion. Her eyes shone as if she had a fever. Four times she had washed her hands for fear that they smelled of fish, and she kept sniffing them mechanically like a sleepwalker. Coming out into the parlor, the marquis complimented her on her good complexion and Toto Primicerio perked up. The marquis was buttoned in his topcoat, his tie of white satin clasped by a diamondcovered horseshoe. He slowly removed his gloves and his hands came out white and soft, like a woman’s. While she stood there, impeded by her new wool dress in the colour of fallen leaves, the nape of her neck tickled by its curly ruff, she thought, despairingly, that perhaps it would be better to serve soup instead of gnocchi. Toto Primicerio kept saying – insisting – that theirs was just a simple dinner in a modest home, nothing like a princely banquet. The marquis smiled with great finesse, and did not respond. When Susanna announced in her brusque voice that the gnocchi were served, he bowed and offered his arm to the lady of the house. She noticed the subtle fragrance he was wearing, perhaps in his hair, perhaps in his handkerchief. It was soft and sweet and she seemed to feel it on her lips, like a taste of sugarplum. In truth, as dinner began, she was suf-

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fering greatly, because everything went wrong. Susanna gave the marquis several distrustful glances and served rudely. The forks and plates were a century late from the kitchen, but Checchina said nothing. Not daring to call out for them, she stared at the tablecloth in total embarrassment. Toto Primicerio had the coarse levity of a doctor on holiday. He risked little jokes and spoke familiarly with the marquis, as if they were old friends. He recounted a fair quantity of sawed-off legs, entrails sewn up and reinserted in the belly, excised carotids, and inflammations that would swell an arm to the size of a soccer ball. The lamp light flared up, and when the flame died down the light was too faint. At one point her husband said, ‘My dear marquis, the gnocchi and the cake that you will taste when we finish, are the work of my dear Checca, whose hands are blessed.’ The marquis paid her an exquisite compliment. He was truly elegant. He didn’t even seem to notice the meal’s frequent, but small, vulgarities. He never looked at Susanna, as if she didn’t exist. He took two helpings of the fried fish and he spoke the whole time with the utmost ease. He spoke quietly, with a very light r and an infantile s that were very sweet. His voice had soft intonations, like caresses, and in his simplest words, his breath seemed to waft warmly, almost tenderly. When he spoke he fixed a serious and thoughtful gaze on the eyes of his interlocutor, while a slight smile appeared beneath the blonde arch of his mustache and his soft hands toyed with his knife. Checchina, relieved from her nightmare, took heart when she saw the disinterested self-possession that allowed the marquis not to notice anything. Her red face turned pink, and the ruff that tickled her neck occasioned an irritation that was delightful, not bothersome. Now and then, under the marquis’s gaze, her eyelids fluttered, as if the light in the room were too bright, but she too was smiling, silently nodding her head at whatever he said. Regarding the cake, which was a bit overdone and hardened at the edges, he said something very delicate about the sweetness of woman. Checchina did not understand the sense very well, but his voice caressed her like music. The marquis took no coffee, which was probably of very poor quality, and in her heart she was grateful. There had not been enough money to buy the coffee machine. Instead Toto Primicerio wanted to open a bottle of vieux cognac that he had been given by a patient of his from France. The marquis raised his snifter to toast Signora Primicerio. And she, in response, drank a glass of cognac – a liquor she’d never had before – in one draught. In the parlor, all three were quiet for a moment. It was cold in that

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room. It was so sparsely furnished, with no carpet and those sad, sad curtains. As if you could heat with lamplight, Checchina sent for the only other lamp in the house, but it had no shade and to look at it was blinding. She sat on the divan, her bust erect, feeling for the first time the poverty of that room, which now caused her acute suffering. She barely heard the harmonious voice of the marquis, complaining to her about a holiday residence in Scotland, where his cousins, the Altavilla family, had a castle. It was cold there; she was shivering here. Tears came to her eyes. Toto Primicerio was letting himself be overcome by the irresistible sleepiness of the portly man who has had lots of food and drink. She shot him several timid glances as if begging him not to fall asleep, since Toto, like all fat men, snored. Toto didn’t understand, and, stretched out in his armchair, he closed his eyes at intervals and let his head fall to his chest. In the end one of Checchina’s looks woke him like an electric shock. He arose and got as far as the window, where he looked into the street so as to appear disinterested, and then he left the room without hesitation, without turning around. He needed an hour or so of sleep after dinner. The good Marquis of Aragon pretended not to see the husband exit. Stretched out in his armchair, with one leg crossed over the other, he exhibited his aristocratic foot, sheathed in a red silk sock and patent leather shoes. One hand curled and sharpened his blonde mustache; the other rested on the arm of the divan where Checchina was seated. Checchina breathed more easily now that her husband was sleeping, spread out on the conjugal bed. She dared to raise her large, Roman eyes to meet the marquis’s. Hers were immobile in expression, but deep. Again she perceived his soft, violet fragrance, and it gave her nerves a feeling of tenderness. The Marquis of Aragon lowered his voice even further. Now he was telling her about his house, a bachelor’s flat, where he spent long, solitary hours. ‘So why don’t you take a wife?’ she said, ingenuously. Then she regretted her excess of familiarity. He did not respond to the question and there was a silence. ‘Mine is a solitary home,’ he murmured again, looking at Checchina, ‘in that melancholy via Santi Apostoli. Do you know it? Yes? ... I’m glad. Not the house of Balduccio Odescalchi, my friend, the prince; no, the one next to it, after the arch. I am on the second floor. There are twenty-four steps. I hate long stairs; they make my heart hurt. In my family we have hereditary heart disease. We all die of it, very early. What does it matter? Life should be short and good. Mine is too long.

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It’s certainly not beautiful. There is never anyone at my house. The apartment has two doors. In the morning, my servant prepares for me all that I might need for the day. Then I am left alone. The flat is draped with a triple layer of yellow silk with white lace and brocade to defend against the excessive light. I love the half-light, where you can be restful. There are rugs everywhere. The house is partly lined and partly stuffed against the cold. The little fireplace in the parlor is always afire. I am very susceptible to the cold; being warm makes me happy. I am always alone in that house. For diversion I burn an Oriental tablet that perfumes the room, I smoke a cigarette, and I wait for someone to come ... but who? A dream, a ghost, a beautiful woman, simple and good, who I would adore ...’ ‘Would you like to come?’ he added right away, kissing her on the neck. ‘No, no,’ she said, hiding her lips with her arms. ‘Come, Fanny, come on Wednesday from four to six.’ ‘No, not Wednesday,’ Checchina responded, won over by that name. ‘Friday, then, at the same time.’ And bowing deeply to her, he left. Susanna lit his way down the stairs with an oil lamp.

4 The following morning the Marquis of Aragon sent a bouquet of white roses and vanilla to Signora Primicerio. Toto was out. Checchina was having her hair combed by Susanna. Her eyes were half-closed and her lips were blanched, like someone who has slept poorly. She stared at herself in the mirror, without seeing herself, as if lost in reverie. When she saw the bouquet of flowers, she got confused. She grabbed the stems and pressed them to her breast, astonished. ‘The servant is waiting,’ Susanna said in a hard, dry voice. ‘Waiting? You tell him ... tell him, Susanna, that I sincerely thank the marquis ... and that my husband thanks him, too. Go ... listen, wouldn’t it be better to send a thank-you note?’ ‘A lot I should know,’ grumbled the other woman, with a shrug. ‘Listen, I cannot face the servant in a flannel slip. Do me a favour, get a piece of paper, an envelope, an inkwell, and a pen, and bring it all here.’ While Susanna dallied in so doing, Checchina thought about what she should write to the marquis, with her faced inclined to the rose

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bouquet. The idea of not knowing how to write well, of making some grave spelling error, filled her with shame. It had been so long since she had written a letter. And surely the marquis received wonderful cards from those fantastic princesses, his relatives. They must write on that fine paper that looks like satin and smells good, like all the things of these rich and noble folk. It would ruin her to buy a box of it. She, Checchina, had no paper, except for her husband’s broad prescription sheets, which bore the heading: Antonio Primicerio, doctor and surgeon, consultations from one to three, Via del Bufalo – broad sheets that reeked of carbolic acid like everything Toto touched, like Checchina herself. Now and again she sniffed the cuffs of her dress and found the trace of that bad odour. ‘There are no envelopes,’ said Susanna as she re-entered. ‘What will I do now?’ ‘Fold a large sheet into fourths and close it with a soft piece of bread.’ ‘No, I prefer to do without. Tell the servant to thank the marquis for me. But ... listen, should we give something to the servant?’ The maid grimaced as if she did not wish to intervene. ‘Do you have a lira, Susanna?’ the mistress entreated, with her voice and her gaze. ‘How should I have a lira? Thanks to the change you give me in the morning? Everything is expensive, the butcher’s beyond the fear of God, and you can’t get close to the vegetables lest you sin by way of anger or pride. I’ve only got a bit of change left in my pocket ...’ ‘Count them, Susanna, they just might make a lira.’ Her voice was shaking and she had tears in her eyes. ‘Barely eight soldos and I still have to buy the salt for the stew and the cheese for the tripe.’ ‘Give the eight soldos to the servant. Have him thank his master and ask him to excuse me for not writing ... Go, Susanna, we’ll take care of the salt.’ ‘You know already that the tobacconist does not give credit.’ Checchina nodded. While Susanna spoke with the servant, the mistress blushed with scorn for those eight soldos – so miserable, so cheap – that that servant, accustomed to princely tips, would certainly disdain. When she heard the door close, she breathed a sigh of relief. ‘ ... did he take them?’ ‘I should say so!’ And in silence she began again to pass the comb through the thick-

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ness of Checchina’s dark hair. Her eyelids half-closed, Checchina kept looking at the flowers, following the subtle perforation of the delicate paper that was wrapped around them. ‘Where do you want to put the bouquet?’ ‘Here ...’ ‘Be careful, the smell of flowers is bad for your head. I warn you because I was in the service of a woman who got a headache from them, a deadly disorder.’ ‘Then let’s put them in the parlor.’ ‘And where will you water them? There are no vases.’ ‘In a glass ...’ ‘They’re all too small ...’ ‘It’s true,’ said the mistress, humiliated, ‘they’re too small.’ ‘Listen to me,’ began Susanna, ‘I’ll give you some pious advice. The best thing to do is to send these flowers to the Immaculate Madonna in Sant’Andrea delle Fratte. Give them to her with all your heart, as the preacher says, and your merit before that Immaculate Virgin will be doubled. Really ... one never knows. Flowers, sweets, jewels – they’re the work of the devil and they lead to temptation. Avoid the danger and give the flowers to the Madonna.’ ‘Let’s at least wait for Toto to see them. They’ll give him pleasure,’ Checchina said in a low voice, overcome by an inner fear. ‘Sure, pleasure! He’s the one who says that flowers cost too much, that they mean nothing and are good for nothing, except for linden flowers for inducing sweat and chamomile flowers for stomach aches.’ ‘Then take the flowers to the Madonna yourself.’ Her eye followed the white roses with their pink hollows, the mild vanilla; then she tried to shake herself out of that torpor. She put on the jacket of her ugly house dress, and tried to straighten out the wrinkled white lace of its collar. She went to sit in the dining room. Tired and disgusted, she didn’t even have the will to make her usual rounds through the house to see if the furniture were dusty, if the corners of the rooms were well swept, if the fireplace’s shiny, black and white checkered tiles had been washed. She would have thrown herself on the bed to sleep, fully dressed as she was, were it not that the red and yellow calico bedcover, with its cotton wool stuffing, gave her a feeling of coldness. She set herself to marking in red some new dust-cloths that she had already hemmed, with the initials A. P. and sequential numbering. She worked for half an hour, as if in a dream, trying to overcome her sleepiness by counting threads while her eyelids fluttered.

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The dust-cloth had fallen to the floor, leaving a length of red thread on her black dress, like a trickle of blood. Checchina’s hands rested, inert, in her lap. She felt her body slowly shudder with cold and an overpowering heaviness in her head. Her feet, clad in old, plumcoloured ankle-boots, grew rigid on the rough bricks of her humble dining room. She drew a chair up and rested her feet on its cane. She felt a strong desire to stretch out in a long, soft armchair covered with sweetly creaking silk – so smooth – and to sink her feet in a warm, soft rug. He had spoken to her of these caressing softnesses. In her slightly bothersome half-sleep, all curled up in her wool frock, warming herself by stuffing her hands in the width of her cuffs, and resting her head on her breast, she was thinking how nice, how comfortable, it must be in his warm nest, perfumed and shadowy, where you sank into eiderdown and heard no noises. His voice buzzed in her head, speaking to her so softly, so gently. In her half-sleep, thinking and dreaming, she seemed to hear his deep voice again. Touching and caressing, it gave a musical intonation to the sweetest of words. She seemed to breathe, in the air around her, that fresh, almost youthful, smell of violets. A nervous jolt startled her and made her open her eyes. Now she was shaking with cold in the darkened dining room, in November’s humidity. Her hands were burning, her arms hurt, and one of her legs was tingling as if poked by a thousand pins. Her teeth chattering, she went limping to her bedroom and wrapped herself in a blue and grey checked wool shawl that had already been washed four times. Oh, if only she had a fur, like all the other lucky women she would see passing by – smiling brightly – on the Corso, hermetically sealed in black rotundas that hid all but the hem of their dresses. But it wasn’t even worth discussing with Toto. Even the least expensive fur would cost an enormous sum: forty-five lire. It would be so nice, so refined, to go out in a fur, instead of her old, black cloth coat, the trimming of which had lost its beads and turned red. A great melancholy invaded her then: being deprived of all the rich and elegant things that complement feminine beauty and make it shine. She opened her closet and, with an air of affliction, meticulously observed her dresses: her light wool summer dress was too bright. With its large yellow and green squares, it was too striking, too cold, and it made her look heavier. It wasn’t worth thinking about. She had been wearing the black silk dress for four years: it was worn at all the seams, especially in the bust, where the whalebones wear the fabric

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terribly. It was too wretched – she’d look like a ragamuffin – she couldn’t wear it. That left her with only the new wool dress in the colour of fallen leaves that she had worn at dinner the evening prior – the same one, always the same, the only one. She had nothing else, so she’d have to slip into it once more and cut the same figure as the evening prior: that of a poor, shabby woman whose husband keeps her short on cash. Oh that Toto, so stingy, so attentive even to a penny, who would argue for hours over spending half a lira! Toto: so suspicious of being robbed that he’d unite mistress and servant under the same suspicion. And he’d surveil them, and watch them with a certain malignant smile, the sly smile of a man who can’t be had. And he’d sneak up behind them all of a sudden, when they were speaking sotto voce in the kitchen – leaving them speechless, Checchina all pallid and Susanna in a rage. Why not have a cashmere dress made for herself, in black? That beautiful, fine wool has such broad pleats and fits the bust like a glove and makes you look thinner. Not on your life! It would take at least twelve square metres, at five lire a metre, that’s sixty lire, and twenty or so for the seamstress, between expenses and needlework, as little as possible, since cashmere decorates itself. So, eighty lire, just once, but for a dress that you could wear forever, that’s always elegant, and that would last a century. For the last two years, every three months she argued with Toto about getting this dress. ‘Excuse me, why should I have it made for you? The ones you have aren’t enough for you? Checca mia, by now I know you, I really know you, and this flirting won’t work any more.’ ‘So I have to go around like a ragamuffin, do I? People will say that you’re a doctor with no patients and no money!’ The rebellions of Checchina’s phlegmatic and timid character went no further than this. She’d shrug her shoulders and resign herself, falling back into apathy: refitting her old dresses, dyeing them, having them cleaned. But at the moment, now, her desire for the black dress was fully alive and surged ardently. It would suit her so well, so simple, with black pastille buttons, and a little scarf of white voile, like a cleric’s collar, and a silver brooch with the letters of a name: Fanny. Suscipi sold them, fairly priced. And on top, a fur and a hat ... what an ugly hat she had! Made of black straw that had lost its lustre, and lined with black velvet, the brim was straight on one side and lowered on the other, and its poor little black feather had lost its curl and hung, worn out, as if it had been thoroughly soaked. On her head, seen from below, it didn’t look bad; but seen from behind, it was pitiful. Really,

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she would need a simple, black velvet bonnet, with a small diadem, and a raised group of black feathers, and just a bow and a ribbon, also of velvet, that ties under the chin. All the milliners had them, these bonnets. They cost between twenty and twenty-five lire. With the black dress and the fur, it would be marvellous. But forget it, she had none of these things, and she would never have them. Everything was useless. Everything, everything was impossible. For half an hour she was annihilated by desolation, while in the kitchen Susanna scraped the table with a large knife in order to remove the grease. Uninterrupted, the monotonous noise eventually gave her a shake and brought her to life. She had to do something. She began to rummage in the dresser drawer, among the wrinkled petals of old artificial flowers, the worm-eaten feather tufts, and the rolled up bits of cloth. There was a black satin bonnet from two years ago: it was too tall in shape, its pleats let the cotton weave show beneath the satin, and it had neither flowers nor feathers. But by unstitching this bonnet and remaking it, hiding the worn pleats, and adding the feather from her round-brimmed hat – the feather could be curled with scissors – she could get a decent hat out of it, although it would have no ribbons. Desiring to do it quickly, she set right to work, unstitching and sewing up, folding and refolding that bit of satin, but, not succeeding at hiding the worn strips, she grew impatient. For her effort she got a rather illshapen thing, all puffy and swollen, but the feather would fix it right up. She took it from the broad-brimmed hat and pinned it to the one she was redoing, to try it out. Looking at herself in the mirror, with that undersized little hat on her head, its feather gone askew, she saw that she had bungled it. ‘What’s going on here?’ asked her husband, coming up behind her. She turned around suddenly, frightened as if she had committed a crime, and embarrassed, with that cap on her head. ‘What’s going on here?’ he repeated. ‘Nothing, I was trying to repair a hat for myself, since I don’t have any, as you know.’ ‘The usual business, eh, Checca dear? It would be better if you looked after the chicory soup, since Susanna forgot to put a fat pork rind in it. And tell me you don’t know how much I like pork rind.’ ‘What do you think of this hat?’ ‘How should I understand your womanly caprices? Fat lot I know about your hats!’ ‘But go ahead and tell me anyway,’ she begged.

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‘It doesn’t suit you, not at all, since you want the truth. The other one was better.’ She promptly removed that strange cap from her head and detached its feather. ‘Now’s not the time for this, Checca,’ exclaimed the doctor with his rough voice, ‘now it’s time to eat.’ At the table, while Toto was cutting the boiled meat that was drying out, Checchina told him about the bouquet of flowers – as if by chance, looking at her plate. ‘That’s just it, they’re all companions, these nobles,’ the doctor responded, ‘all one way. Give him a meal that costs you about thirtyfive lire, a meal that would feed you for ten days; you squeeze the coins from your veins, toiling morning to night, taking the pulses of the sick, looking at filthy tongues, and other, even filthier things, so that you can finally look good, giving him something to eat. He comes, eats the dinner as if it were nothing – see you later – and next morning the wife gets a bouquet of flowers!’ ‘Perhaps that’s the custom,’ she said, looking into her glass, where there were a few drops of a light white wine from the Castelli Romani.6 ‘Custom! Don’t tell me about the customs of these aristocrats! Give me some of that tripe. It’s made with lard, isn’t it, Checca? These lords have a lot of rubbish for customs: flowers cost a lot of money and they’re not good for a thing. This tripe needed pecorino cheese. Susanna, why didn’t you put the pecorino on it?’ ‘I didn’t have the money to buy it,’ she yelled from the kitchen with a loud clash of forks and knives. ‘You spent it all?’ ‘All of it.’ ‘As usual, always the same response. Had you but once a soldo to return!’ ‘The marquis’s servant had to be tipped,’ replied the maid sharply. ‘A tip, too?!’ Checchina hurriedly swallowed an entire glass of water. ‘A tip, too! That’s what flowers are good for: for making me eat tripe without cheese. If he thinks he can get out of his obligations like that, the marquis! Those thirty-five lire that he gobbled up have got to mean business, have got to mean patients! We’ll see if he’s a gentleman, this marquis! Is there any fruit left from yesterday?’ ‘No,’ his wife responded.

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‘Bring the roast chestnuts then, Susanna,’ the doctor shouted. After dinner he went to sit at his desk, waiting for the consultations that there should have been between one and three o’clock, but which rarely came, one every two or three days. Most often, he would open a book of medicine and fall asleep over it, in his black leather armchair, with his feet under the desk. Checchina had stayed at the table, thinking, and breaking the empty shells of the chestnuts into minute pieces, while Susanna cleared the table. The smells of boiled chicory and stewed tripe wafted through the room. ‘Will potato salad and lamb roast be enough for supper?’ asked Susanna, drawing up the tablecloth and striking it so as to make the bread crumbs fall off. ‘That’s enough,’ Checchina replied. She remained at her place, overtaken again by the lethargy of that morning and unable to rise. ‘I spoke with Father Fileno this morning at the church of Sant’Andrea delle Fratte,’ began Susanna, using the benevolence of digestion to get on familiar terms. ‘That saintly priest is complaining that you don’t go there more often.’ ‘You could have told him that it bothers Toto and that he yells at me.’ ‘I told him that the master of the house doesn’t believe, because he knows what’s inside of men, and because he sees so many Christians die an evil death, may Saint Andrea Avellino, protector of the moribund, save us and free us from it. But, you know, these men are all the same: they’re well and they laugh at religion and sin like so many damned souls, and later, when they fall ill, they call out for God and the Madonna ... enough, I told Father Fileno that I would go to confession today. May I be excused for two hours, when the doctor goes to Santo Spirito hospital?’ ‘Couldn’t you go another day ... Friday?’ said the mistress, as if distracted. ‘No, no, I told him I would go today. Why do you want to send me there on Friday?’ ‘Go ahead, go today, do as you like.’ She shrugged her shoulders like a person who has done all that she could do. Afterwards, having sewn the feather back onto the broad-brimmed hat, she put back all those rags, those pieces of ribbon, and the black satin bonnet, with a sigh. She would never dare ask for money from Toto. Suffering in silence, she resigned herself. At least she wouldn’t hear that rough voice calculating the value of a soldo and reproaching

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her for the expense of groceries, or suspicious questions from Susanna. Now she was redoing the mistakes she had made that morning on the red initials of the dust-cloths. She could not think of the things she lacked in order to be well dressed. She didn’t want to think about it, so as not to further torment herself. What was the use of being sad? Everything was useless, everything. Only once, in two hours, did she get up to see what her husband was doing. In his white shirt and a shirt of flannel, he was sleeping, snoring over a thick book, with his mouth half-closed and contorted. In the kitchen Susanna was making small holes in the pink flesh of the lamb that was to be roasted, in order to stick rosemary and pepper in them. Then, at three-thirty, Toto awoke in a foul mood, asked for his heavy overcoat and his neckerchief for when he would leave that damned hospital, cursed the medical profession – those who practised it and those who would – and left, slamming the door. Checchina was silent, as always, when she heard him yelling. Then Susanna put a light wool dress on, in monastic brown, a black veil on her head, and a little shawl over her shoulders, and she came to say goodbye to her mistress. ‘Commend me to God,’ she said to her, sighing. ‘Unworthily,’ responded the other contritely. Finally she was alone. For two hours she could come and go, and think; free, at least in this. Now more than ever did the wound of not having dresses burn inside her. Those princesses would change them three times a day, and their servants dressed more elegantly than she, Checchina! When it was time for appointments, those princesses certainly visited the Marquis of Aragon! Would she have to go there like this, like a ragamuffin, in old clothing that made her ashamed? A loud ring of the doorbell gave her a start. She was frozen, not daring to open the door, looking around the room, bolt upright amidst the yellow of her dust-cloths. ‘Who could it be?’ They rang again louder. She had to open the door. She ended up asking from inside, with a trembling voice, ‘Who is it?’ ‘Friends, open up, Checca. It’s me, Isolina.’ ‘Oh, it’s you!’ said Checca, as if disappointed, while opening the door. ‘Alone, eh? How glad I am! A big kiss, no two, for your pretty, pale face. What’s the matter, dear heart?’ ‘Nothing, nothing’s the matter.’ ‘Were you afraid there were thieves? One hears so many nasty sto-

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ries; I always have Teresa ask, ‘Who is it?’ But Teresa already chats outside my door constantly. Sometimes with a little boy, then with a lady, then with an old man. It’s hopeless.’ ‘How beautiful you are today, Isolina!’ ‘Don’t you think so?’ She got to her feet to display herself well. ‘All for Giorgio. All for that dear love of mine,’ she added as she sat down. ‘Are you still seeing him today?’ asked the other after a hesitation. ‘Still, whenever I can, as soon as I have half an hour of freedom, I flee to him. Today, you see, I knew that my husband was going out at five. I wrote to him, to Giorgio, that I’d come from five until six. You know, those are the best hours for engagements. But then my beastly husband left at three-thirty and I lost an hour and a half. Giorgio won’t be home until five minutes to five. So I thought: I’ll go to Checca’s and stay with her for a bit. It will work as an excuse, if my husband should ask me where I’d been. If you should see him, you’ll tell him I was here until six. Between girlfriends, you know ...’ ‘I’ll tell him,’ and she smiled faintly. ‘That’s a new hat, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes, it’s new. I haven’t even paid for it yet, imagine that. But Coppi knows me, she’ll wait. I had money, but I needed to buy shoes.’ ‘These shiny, golden ones?’ ‘Yes, these, dear heart. They cost nothing less than sixteen lire, a horrible price, but look how high the heel is. Look at the stitching and the narrow toe.’ ‘They’re so beautiful.’ ‘Giorgio adores small feet in nice shoes. If you only knew how strange lovers are! Left from my trousseau, I had some simple scarves of white cloth embroidered with the letter I. But, nothing doing! Giorgio wants me to wear cambric scarves, trimmed with lace, like this one.’ ‘It’s very beautiful.’ ‘It costs five lire. Since he has such fun with little games like squeezing my hands inside the muff, I had to buy this one for nine lire.’ ‘It’s very beautiful.’ ‘You can’t believe how much one spends. I’ll be ruined, my little darling. I’m in a lot of messes, muddles, and debt. It’s enough to drive you mad. Now, for all these things I needed, I borrowed sixty lire from a woman Teresa knew who gives money on usury. Instead of sixty, I’ve got to repay one hundred and twenty, twice as much, six lire a week. The worst part is, if you don’t pay every Saturday, the ugly witch comes, sits in the foyer, and waits. Just this first week I didn’t have

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enough to pay. How hard it was to get rid of her! I had to beg her, and she was yelling ...’ ‘Poor Isolina!’ ‘What does it matter? I’d do anything for Giorgio.’ ‘You were saying that this woman loans money?’ ‘Do you need some, by chance?’ asked Isolina, looking up at her face. ‘No, no ... I was just saying.’ ‘I thought ... But it’s so difficult having hers. Over nothing, she threatens to talk to your husband, the wicked ...’ ‘For goodness sake! Your brooch is new, too?’ ‘Yes, I bought it yesterday. They’re using horseshoes now, they’re really in fashion. The great ladies have them in diamonds, mine is silver. It doesn’t matter, I wouldn’t want diamonds, but I’d at least like to have a little gold watch, those itty-bitty ones, you know, like a little medallion. You can’t believe how terrible it is not to have a watch when you have a lover. You always mistake the time. You arrive, it’s too early, and he’s not there. It’s slow death. You arrive late, fifteen minutes are gone by, and he sulks for another fifteen. Men can’t stand to wait. At his place you ask him every five minutes, ‘What time is it?’ He gets irritated with the question. You’re always returning home, with a dismayed expression that it’s a miracle doesn’t betray you. My God, what would I do to have a watch! Now, for instance, what time is it? Is it five yet or not?’ ‘I don’t know. I don’t have a watch.’ ‘You see, I don’t know whether to go or not. Enough, dear, I had better be going. Will you come see me, then, one day?’ ‘Of course, I’ll come.’ ‘Let me know, at least. But then, I don’t believe it. Are you staying here alone, now?’ ‘Alone.’ ‘And what are you doing?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘Good time lost! A kiss, my dear. Here’s hoping that I don’t run into anyone.’ When she was alone in the shadow of twilight, Checchina began to cry. She had no golden shoes, no cambric scarves, no muff, no horseshoe brooch, no watch. She cried, since she had none of these things that are useful in love.

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5 But in the silence of the nights she spent awake next to Toto, who slept and snored deeply, in those long hours of brief and light drowsing, nervous starts, and intervals of insomnia, watching the strip of light that entered the shutter left ajar by Toto so that he could wake up very early in the morning, at times suffocating with heat beneath the bedcover stiff as a board with cotton stuffing and at times unable to warm herself between those glacial sheets, again Checchina felt growing inside her, alive and strong, the desire to go to that apartment in via Santi Apostoli, that Friday from four until six. In night and solitude, her ardent eyes fixed in the shadows, wide open with insomnia, she felt full of courage. She no longer feared this big man who snored in all sorts of tones, and rolled over now and then, all of a sudden, as if moved by a coiled spring. Listening as hard as she might, she could not manage to hear Susanna breathing, asleep in the cubbyhole next to the kitchen. Her two enemies no longer seemed frightening to her. Go, yes, she had to go, since she had said yes that evening when he had kissed her. In the end, how long would it take to go from via del Bufalo to via Santi Apostoli? It would take ten minutes, perhaps, on foot. No, more, it would take twelve. From Bufalo to via Santi Apostoli you can take a shortcut, all short stretches: you climb Nazzareno, go down via della Stamperia, pass by the Trevi fountain, slip into the alley of San Vincenzo and Anastasio, then a little piece of Umiltà, the little archway, and you’re right there at Santi Apostoli. Perhaps it would take fifteen minutes, going slowly so as not to draw attention. To go the long way, on Pozzetto, on the Corso, and on San Marcello, would take half an hour. On the Corso there are always so many people that push, and stop, that trip you up and delay you. Better to go on the side streets. And with the lucidity of vision typical of the brains that nocturnal wakefulness exalts, she saw herself leaving the house at four o’clock, smiling slightly over the little trick she was playing on Toto and on Susanna, the maid who boasted of being so clever, walking slowly and calmly, looking at the shops, at Pesoli the confectioner’s on via della Stamperia, at the stationer’s in the Trevi square, and at the doves fluttering high up on the fountain. Then she saw herself walking more quickly, since she was already far from home. She saw herself round the corner of via Santi Apostoli, distractedly looking at the numbers of the houses. She saw herself entering his house, where he

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awaited her ... her all her nerves shook in vibration and she hid her face in the pillow. Yes, it all seemed easy to her, it all seemed simple, it all seemed close at hand, and possible, in the night, which excites the energies of phlegmatic temperaments. She made plans: tomorrow I’ll make a big scene and get money out of Toto, and at the least, I’ll buy ankle-boots, gloves, and a muff. Or else: I’ll go to Isolina’s tomorrow, and get her to take me to signora Coppi, who will give me credit, and I’ll buy a hat. Then, when it’s time to pay, like it or not, Toto will scream, but he’ll have to give up the money. Tomorrow I’ll go to Isolina’s, throw myself into her arms, tell her everything, and beg her to ask for money for me from that money-lending woman; and, then, one way or another I’ll figure it out how to pay her back. Or else: what if Isolina were kind enough to lend me her clothes for a day. True, I am fatter than she is, but our shoulders are the same measurement, and it would be enough to let out the dress at the waist and hips. Our feet are the same, I think, perhaps mine are a bit smaller, but her shoes would work, they suit her so well! Tomorrow, yes tomorrow I’ll go to her and tell her everything. She seemed to have a new strength that she had never felt before, and great courage, an audacity that let her cheerfully overcome any obstacle, and a will so firm that nothing could conquer or break it. She laughed with pride in the night, hunching up her shoulders as if she wanted to try to lift an immense weight, for fun, to test her strength. Then, after redoing the same plan twenty times, extending it, and seeing that it was all in order, all ready, and all fine, she would always arrive at the extremity of her dream, arrive at that house where he awaited her ... and everything sank in an abyss, in a confusion of fantasies that dreamt the sensations of shadowy tenderness, of warm softness, of deep silence, of the voluptuous caress of rich and beautiful things. But dawn threw her into a leaden sleep from which half an hour of Toto’s shrieks and grumbles tried in vain to awaken her. She was weary when she got up, exhausted by insomnia, with her mouth bitter and pasty. Every morning Toto would invent something for her. ‘It must be the pork chop that has you feeling poorly, Checca my dear.’ ‘If you don’t feel well, why don’t you take effervescent magnesium citrate? It’s a pleasant beverage and it sweeps out your stomach like a broom.’ ‘Checca my dear, the more I look at you the more I think that you

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must have coprostasis. Really, why don’t you opt for a bit of almond oil? Freshly squeezed, at Garneri’s, it’s a delight.’ ‘Yes, yes, I’ll take it,’ she’d murmur, bowing her head. In this way, from morning on, her will, her strength, and her courage slowly dissipated. She tried in vain to regain the audacity of her nocturnal vigils. The idea of asking Toto for money was unbearable to her. She wouldn’t have known where to begin and he would have ended up not giving her a soldo. She tried to reanimate herself, to pull herself together, in order to speak, but the words died on her lips, and she let him leave, without saying a thing. Susanna seemed like another insurmountable obstacle. She surely couldn’t deceive that maid, so suspicious and distrustful with her sanctimonious, scrutinizing gaze. With respect to Isolina, she felt shame, not for anything else, but for having to confess, because it seemed awful to tell of her poverty, her inexperience, and her lack of abilities. How would she have the courage to present herself to Signora Coppi in order to get the velvet hat? What if she were to refuse? It would be an unbearable mortification. With the instinctive horror of debt that is in all tranquil bourgeois consciences, she had never in her life gotten in debt with the milliner or the seamstress. And that other woman, the usurer – Isolina had told her that she was a witch – she couldn’t work anything out with her. There was nothing she could do, nothing. While she mechanically dusted the service of demitasses, the candy tray, and the plate of artificial fruit in the parlor, while she helped Susanna clean the broccoli for the soup, while she reattached the muslin edge of one of her slips whose hem had unravelled, while she poured hot water on the marble of the toilette and scraped it with potash to get the stains off of it, inside she silently demolished the night’s projects. They seemed like a dream, or madness. Even her itinerary, so simple at night, seemed all confused by day, a muddle. She would certainly have lost her way. By the time evening came, all had fallen, all had crumbled into dust, vanished. She hadn’t dared to pronounce a word, or commit an act, nothing, nothing that would have made her approach her plans again. And she was sure, that day, that she would get lost in the street. At the day’s end, she felt the pain of her inertia acutely. She felt all the bitterness of an inglorious defeat, in a battle where she had not had the courage either to attack or to defend herself. Inside, she ingenuously complained about the things that happened, the things that surrounded her, the people with whom she

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lived, and about herself, that she didn’t know how to do anything, that she was entirely impotent. This was the state of things, the exaltation of fantasy at night and the absolute lack of will during the day, when Friday morning came. She had not made any decision. At four o’clock she had to go, because she had said yes when he had kissed her. How, and in what manner, she didn’t know. That morning more than ever Toto had seemed loud, hot-tempered, and stingy. With the excuse that he had no more change, he wanted to leave two lire and fifty soldi for groceries. When Susanna recalled to her employer that, it being Friday, he should leave another twenty-five soldi for the washerwoman who would bring the clothes from the laundry, an argument between the maid and her boss resulted. Toto had had enough, enough you understand, of these continuous extraordinary expenses, every day something new. They should ask the lady on the third floor for permission to spread the linen on the terrace, there was a fountain below, from now on the wash could be done at home. Susanna responded that she wasn’t accustomed to spending a whole day with her hands in the water, and that, for eight lire a month, it wasn’t worth the health she’d lose. ‘Eight lire, with medical treatment,’ Toto kept hollering. ‘Some treatment!’ When he had gone, after having gotten the twenty-five soldi, one by one, Susanna added, by way of conclusion, ‘Today is Friday the thirteenth; Christ is dead on the ground for our sins.’ Checchina, who hadn’t said a word, was startled. She hadn’t thought of the date, a fateful date, a strange combination of day and number. A fear of the unknown came to life in her, of precisely this engagement between Friday and the thirteenth day, when the Italian proverb says that you should neither marry nor part, and religion establishes Friday as the most sorrowful day, in memory of the death of the Redeemer. She went to the kitchen and paced for a moment. ‘A bad day,’ she said. ‘God save us from temptation,’ responded the maid. ‘How about if we say the small rosary of the souls in Purgatory, the one with thirty Ave Marias, and the Requiem Aeternam instead of the Gloria Patri?’ ‘Let’s go ahead and say it.’ While Susanna poured the lentils for the soup onto a plate, and blew on them, shaking them, to get rid of the dust, and then separated them with her finger to remove the little bits of stone and straw; while Checchina put a little pile of baking soda on a piece of cloth, and made

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of it a little wad tied with thread, to put in the boiling water with the lentils so that they would cook more quickly, their voices were lifted monotonously, without special intonations, without inflections, in habitual prayer, in the indifference of daily prayer. When it was over Checchina gave a sigh of relief, almost as if her feeling of superstitious fear had disappeared. Christ should be placated, on that fateful day, because they had said the rosary. Christ should help her all that Friday with what she wanted. From this internal conviction she drew a bit of courage, enough to tell Susanna, ‘Clean the lamps today, as a favour to me.’ She was disgusted, now, by the idea of touching that dirty rag and spending half an hour turning the round brush inside that tube. Susanna consented, without saying anything. Then, encouraged, Checchina said, just as if she were talking to herself, ‘I think I’ll go see Isolina today. She’s been to see me three or four times.’ The other woman, occupied with rinsing off some dishes, did not respond. ‘I could go there when Toto goes to Santo Spirito for his evening visit ... around four o’clock.’ ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t go,’ said the maid, suddenly turning around. ‘And why not?’ ‘Because everybody knows that woman is a big sinner before God and men.’ ‘No, poor Isolina ...’ ‘Right, poor Isolina! A nice way to be poor, being immersed in sin from morning to night! As if the horrors she commits weren’t known to everybody! Only that idiotic husband of hers doesn’t know anything, but there should be some Christian soul who’d advise him.’ Checchina looked at her maid with a frightened air. ‘She’s paid me three or four visits,’ she then repeated stubbornly, ‘I should pay her one today.’ ‘Ah, go ahead, if it pleases you so much. I bet that if you confess about it to Father Fileno, about your friendship with Signora Isolina, the father will forbid it, on pain of refusing to absolve you.’ ‘Just for today,’ said the other woman, as a compromise. In the afternoon, an event occurred. A patient came, a provincial with a fever, sent by the Marquis of Aragon. Toto got busy, closed the office door, interrogated him at length, and wrote him a long prescription, keeping him for an hour. Checchina walked back and forth, dying

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with impatience. The provincial left five lire, an unheard of price for Doctor Primicerio. Ordinarily he was given two lire. Thrilled, Toto came out with a dirty five lira note. ‘That’s one, Checca my dear! This marquis is a really good person. You’ll see, you will, more of them will come, patients and fivers. As I said, these nobles are incapable of holding back their kindness. It’s three o’clock, I’d better dress for the hospital. You see, there are satisfactions in being a doctor.’ While he undressed to change his clothes, she followed him step by step, as if to help him. ‘Are you happy, Checca?’ ‘Yes, happy.’ ‘I will try to see the marquis so that I can thank him. Who knows where he lives! But in the end he’s a gentleman, don’t you think?’ ‘I think so.’ ‘If I see him, I’ll tell him to come back and join us here some evening after supper.’ ‘By all means, tell him.’ The doctor left, whistling a little aria, all happy with the profession he had taken up, feeling sorry for all those unhappy lawyers, engineers, and professors. Then Checchina got out her dress in the colour of fallen leaves, her hat, her mantle, her gloves, took out a clean cloth scarf, and gently arranged it all on the bed. Susanna had already combed her hair in the morning. Checchina ran the comb through her hair to smooth it a bit. She didn’t want to call Susanna again; she didn’t have the courage. Then she slowly began to dress, often looking at herself in the mirror, and discovering that she had three freckle marks under her left eye. But at a certain distance they could not be seen. She detested all of the ugly clothing that she was putting on. The bodice of her dress, for example, was too loose in the waist and so tight in the bust that it was suffocating. She had never noticed. Today she noticed. A glove was unstitched. She lost time sewing it up and she had no black thread. She sewed it up with grey thread. It didn’t seem too bad. It could pass. She tried her hat on several times, to give it a new angle, but she wound up wearing it as she always did. She looked at herself one last time in the mirror, and she seemed to look quite shabby, quite miserable, but at this point what could she do about it? Slowly she got under way, wrapped in her mantle. She went into the kitchen. ‘You’re going out?’ asked the maid. ‘I’m going to Isolina’s.’

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‘It’s raining,’ the other woman said brusquely. ‘What, it’s raining?’ ‘You didn’t notice? It’s been raining for half an hour.’ Checchina went to the dining room window: the courtyard was soaked. But that could be the fountains, too. She went to the parlor window, the only one that overlooked the street. It was really raining, fine rain, no downpour, but continuously. She opened the window panes and stuck her hand out, as if she didn’t believe her eyes. Little drops of rain dotted her glove. She sat for a moment, as if her strength had failed her. Then she rose, ‘I’ll take the umbrella,’ she told the maid. And both of them looked everywhere for this umbrella, the only one in the house, one of those that cost six and a half lire. ‘It was behind the wardrobe,’ Checchina kept repeating like a parrot. ‘It was, it was, but it’s not there now.’ They kept searching, in every place, even where it could not be: in the credenza, in the drawer of the wardrobe. Nothing, it wasn’t there. ‘Let’s look carefully,’ she was still saying stubbornly. ‘Looking is useless. It’s not here. The doctor must have taken it, seeing that it was about to rain. Do you remember, Signora, if you saw him put it under his arm?’ ‘I don’t remember. I didn’t look.’ ‘Well, he must have taken it. It’s no use losing our heads over it any more.’ And she returned to the kitchen. Still, with the nervous stubbornness of someone who wants, at any cost, to recover a lost object, Checchina kept looking, casting forlorn glances into every corner where the umbrella could be. Nothing. She went back to the window. It was raining harder now. The little fountain located at the corner of Pozzetto was overflowing with water. Some hoods of umbrellas were passing by, shiny with rain, and beneath them legs were moving, with rolled up trousers and muddy shoes. It was raining. You couldn’t go out without an umbrella. Taking a carriage would cost sixteen soldi, perhaps a lira, because in this bad weather, Roman coachmen were a bunch of thieves. It was still raining and the windows were fogging up. She could no longer see the people passing in the street. ‘Would Maddalena have an umbrella to loan me?’ she asked the maid as she went back into the kitchen. ‘Maddalena? She’s sure to have one, but I am not asking her for it. For two days that ugly witch hasn’t greeted me when I pass by.’ Checchina turned her back, without saying anything else, opened

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the door and went down the stairs like an automaton. The truth was that tears of humiliation were rising to her eyes, but she was trying not to cry. ‘Maddalena my dear, I have to go out to see a friend, Signora Isolina, about business. It’s raining and Toto took the umbrella. Please, would you loan me your umbrella?’ ‘With all my heart and whatever else you’d like, my dear lady! If it were that sanctimonious hypocrite, Susanna, I’d say no. She wouldn’t give a sip of water to a dying man. But for you, my dear lady! The trouble, you see, is that my husband took it this morning and I needed to go to Via dei Coronari,’ but I couldn’t even go. If you wait for him to return at eventide ...’ ‘Thank you, Maddalena, it doesn’t matter.’ ‘It’s not so long to wait, half an hour or so.’ ‘It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.’ ‘Whatever can I do for you, Signora mia? I have good intentions ...’ Checchina cast an eye towards the street. It was still raining, but less than before. She climbed back up slowly and calmly, having decided to wait for it to stop raining. All told, it wasn’t so late. He had said from four until six. But she didn’t have a watch. Behind the glass, erect, and surrounded with twilight humidity, she looked through the black pane of the window at the opposite side of the street to see if the rain were thinning. She had no idea of the time, none. Then, little by little it stopped raining, and she got under way. The door bell was ringing. ‘It’s the washerwoman,’ Susanna said. ‘I’ve got to leave now,’ responded Checchina. ‘And how long will it take for you to read the list? She won’t go away and you know that I can’t read.’ But it took a good while. The washerwoman began shaking off her soaking wet dress, and complaining that the bad weather kept her from being able to dry the clothing. Checchina, erect by the dining room table, leafed through the notebook of lists with shaky fingers, not finding the right day, while the washerwoman made separate piles: a pile of sheets, another of shirts, another of tablecloths, a bundle of scarves, and socks. They began checking, but the list didn’t match. Checchina had mistaken the page; it was an old list, and they had to start over. In the end it turned out that a sheet was missing and a scarf had been switched. Here there was a dispute between Susanna and the washerwoman, since the latter said that she had never gotten the sheet, and Susanna insisted that she had given it to her with her own hands.

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‘Is it written down?’ the maid asked, hollering at her mistress. Checchina responded mechanically, ‘It is written down.’ ‘Well then, it must be there.’ The washerwoman shook her head, unconvinced. She never lost anything. She only had four families, all of which were always satisfied by her accuracy. She had delivered the other three loads of laundry and there had been no extra items. ‘Look carefully in the wardrobe, the sheet will be there. I never got it,’ she continued. Finally, by looking carefully, they found the sheet wrapped up in a grey cover that was to be ironed. ‘How is it that you wrote it down,’ asked the maid, mortified, of her mistress. ‘I don’t know.’ Then came the question of the scarf that had been switched. Susanna said that Checchina had never owned scarves with the letter R. It took heaven and earth to convince the washerwoman to take back the scarf, and see if it belonged to somebody else, to whom she would have given the signora’s. But this one never lost anything, as had been seen. After so much argument over the sheet, it was in the house. The scarf that had been switched had to be a mistake as well. Finally she took it back. She wasn’t sure at all. They would see, she’d bring it back again. It wasn’t a bad scarf at all. It was all good cloth, and large. The hard part came when it was time to pay. The list said thirty-two, but Susanna only had twenty-five. Naturally, the washerwoman wanted to be paid in full. She needed to buy soap, and it was pitiful, washing in the winter, in the freezing water. Immobile, Checchina listened without intervening, paying no attention while in her head she calculated what time it might be. Such that when the washerwoman had finally gone away, still grumbling, Susanna complained to her mistress that she always left her alone when there was a problem, to defend the interests of the home, which in the end shouldn’t matter to her at all, since no one took it into account, not even the master of the house, him least of all, really. Paying her no mind, Checchina went to see if it were still raining. It was not raining, but it was already dark, and they were lighting the street lamps. She hesitated for an instant and then decided. It couldn’t be so late, the days were so short in the winter! She could still go. Susanna asked, ‘Are you going by yourself?’ ‘By myself.’

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‘At this hour?’ ‘It’s not late!’ ‘It may not be late, but it’s dark.’ ‘So what? Via Propaganda is so close!’ ‘Excuse me, but it’s not right for an honest woman to walk by herself at this hour. So many evil-minded people are about. Besides, it’s just the right time to be taken for one of them.’ ‘When a woman goes her own way, nothing will happen to her.’ ‘I know, but if the doctor finds out that you went out alone at this hour, he’s sure to get angry and he’ll take it out on me because I shouldn’t have let you go like this.’ ‘I promised Isolina ...’ ‘Well, let’s do this, I’ll get dressed in a minute and I’ll accompany you to Signora Isolina’s. They won’t say anything to the two of us, and besides, I know how to answer the cheeky ones.’ ‘Who’ll look after things in the kitchen?’ ‘Everything is ready. I’ll cover the fire with ashes and be right with you. While you pay your visit, I’ll wait in the foyer, and say another rosary, so that I won’t have to talk with that Teresa – she’s nothing but evil – may the Virgin Mary keep a hand on her head.’ At a loss, Checchina sat down in the dining room, not knowing what to do. She heard Susanna moving about in the cubbyhole, bumping the walls, hurrying to put on her light wool dress. Keeping Susanna from accompanying her was no longer a possibility. Now, she would have to go to Isolina’s, all the way to Propaganda, and stay there long enough to pay a visit. She was caught, she couldn’t free herself from Susanna. They went out, pulling the door shut behind them. Checchina walked listlessly as if the muddy ground were holding her back. In front of the church of Sant’Andrea delle Fratte Susanna crossed herself. Isolina wasn’t home. Checchina sighed in relief. ‘So much the better,’ murmured the maid, ‘let’s go.’ They went back, silent all the way. Maddalena stopped Checchina at the door of the building. ‘If you want the umbrella, Nino’s back from the factory ...’ ‘I don’t need it any more, thank you,’ Checchina responded sweetly. ‘Anyway, up at your place, the doctor’s back.’ ‘Oh,’ was all the other woman said. Nor did she go up any more hurriedly. Toto was at home. Having opened the door with his key, he was changing his shoes. ‘You went out in this weather, Checca?’

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‘It wasn’t raining when I went out.’ ‘Where were you?’ ‘At Isolina’s.’ ‘What is she doing?’ ‘Nothing, she wasn’t there.’ ‘You could go back.’ ‘True.’ ‘I was at the hospital. There wasn’t much to do: a sprain, a broken leg, nothing else. So I put the time to use by going all the way to the Cafè di Roma, you know, on the Corso, to see if the Marquis of Aragon was there ...’ ‘You went in the rain?’ ‘I had the umbrella. I recalled that the Marquis of Aragon had told me that sometimes he had dinner at that cafè. I got a coffee: damned if it didn’t cost me five soldi plus one for the waiter, who even gave me a dirty look. I didn’t find the marquis ...’ A silence followed. She undressed slowly, replacing her things as she went. As she was about to button her housecoat she asked, ‘What time is it, Toto?’ ‘Six o’clock.’ For an instant, she turned her face to the wall.

6 Susanna was taking the stuff that she had bought for dinner out of a large red cotton kerchief, saying as she went, ‘Here are the hand-made cannelloni, two pounds, that you told me to get. Here are the sardines for pan-frying with oil, bread crumbs, and oregano. They were selling at sixteen soldi a kilo; I had to shout to get them for fourteen. Here’s a little bunch of tomatoes to make sauce for the cannelloni ... ‘And what’s this?’ asked Checchina, who was listening and watching, her hair still uncombed, so pallid that she seemed yellow. Then Susanna pulled out something white, a paper, a letter wet and stained with red sauce, having been between the bunch of tomatoes and a small string of garlic. ‘It’s a letter,’ said the maid. ‘The postman gave it to me for you.’ On the English paper of the envelope it said: ‘Signora Fanny Primicerio.’ There was a stain right on the name, which had been soiled. Inside, it said, ‘How cruel you were today! What have I done to you that you make me suffer so much? I waited for you from three until seven

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o’clock, longing for you. Will you come tomorrow? Be kind to poor me. You promised to come, so come. All alone I will wait for you again, beautiful creature destined for love, my desire calling out for you. Oh, do not fail me, I entreat you on bended knee. – Ugo of Aragon.’ Suddenly, after reading this, Checchina seemed to see the handsome Marquis of Aragon kneeling before her in that dark, damp kitchen. She began to shake all over, and everything around her – the casserole in the hearth, the grill hanging from the wall, the irons leaning on the edge of the fireplace’s hood – whirled in a vortex, and the sound of the little fountain flowing into its basin seemed like a tempest. ‘I’m about to fall down,’ she thought to herself. She leaned against the table. Hearing her teeth chatter, the maid asked, ‘Are you cold?’ Instinctively shoving the letter into her pocket, the mistress murmured, ‘Yes, I’m cold.’ ‘It’s not so cold out. The scirocco is here. Could it be stomach pain? Would you like me to fry a couple of sardines for you, just like that, right away?’ ‘No, no.’ Slowly she went to her bedroom, with her hand in her pocket all the while, on the letter. But for a long time she didn’t dare to reread it for fear that Susanna would suddenly come and surprise her. The maid was sweeping in the dining room and Checchina was even scared that she would notice the crumpling of the paper. Then she had an idea: she took the book of devotions, put the letter in it, turned a few pages, then opened the letter and read it as if she were reading a page of prayer. Oh that beautiful letter, with the plain and simple crown of a marquis! Written with such a fine, such a lordly hand in blue ink blotted with gold dust! The words stretched out languidly, voluptuously, hand in hand, linked by the slenderest of lines; and below, the large signature, bright and wide, like a trumpet blast. Two or three times she repeated under her breath, Ugo of Aragon. Then, what he said in the letter seemed to send forth sorrowful music, and she was melted with compassion, as if for a great misfortune that he had undergone. She seemed to hear those melancholy words said by him, pronounced with sadness in his voice. Tears rose to her eyes. Then the impression grew calmer, and only a figure stayed in her mind: he had waited from three to seven o’clock. In contrast to her custom, Susanna was silent while she combed her hair, and Checchina was afraid of this sulking. What could it be? ‘Isolina wrote me ...’ she hinted, without revealing a thing.

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Susanna did not respond. ‘To tell me that she wasn’t there yesterday because an aunt of hers had taken ill.’ After this complicated lie, she sighed in relief. ‘It must have been a male aunt,’ she grumbled, with her usual sanctimony. But the sulking didn’t cease. Checchina vainly hovered around her, filled with a disquiet that up until that point she had never felt. Susanna did not want to converse. Then Checchina’s disquiet increased: if the bigoted woman were to tell Toto about the letter, what could she do? Convulsively, she squeezed the letter in her pocket between her fingers as if she wanted to smash it to bits. But she didn’t have the courage to rip it up. She read it a third time, opening it inside a dresser drawer on top of a heap of tablecloths. She wanted to memorize it and then tear it to pieces, but she got confused and the sentences mixed themselves up in her mind. She thought for a moment of hiding it some place, but where? Toto was always asking for the keys to get something from the dresser or from the wardrobe. The dining room table had drawers with wooden knobs and no locks. The card table in the parlor had no drawers. It was useless. Better keep it in her pocket, where it was safest. But at dinner, because of her increasing disquiet, seeing that Susanna kept up her angry expression and her spiteful silence, Checchina ate but very little. Every so often, she nervously stuck her hand into her pocket to feel for the paper, and for fear of accidentally pulling it out, she never withdrew her handkerchief. By some miracle, Susanna didn’t say anything and Toto didn’t argue. He was as tired as a dock worker who had been lifting bales onto the wharf, and after dinner he fell asleep on the bed promptly, clothed and all, wrapped in an old shawl, and snoring like a bellows. They had to call him four times at three thirty, and he grumbled, as he cleared his throat and spat, that his mouth was full of poison and he had a headache. ‘Are you going to Isolina’s again today?’ ‘Yes,’ she said resolutely. But with her husband gone, while she was getting dressed, Checchina began to worry about Susanna again. Had she suspected something? That was just what she needed. She paused, as she was buttoning her dress, overcome with weariness, with a lack of confidence. Then the sad music that was in the words the marquis had written touched certain cords in her heart. This gave her a start and she rushed to finish dressing. ‘Goodbye, Susanna.’

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‘Goodbye,’ the other woman replied sternly. And she didn’t add, God go with you, as she always did. Checchina was frightened again on the stairs, but the light and the freedom of the street encouraged her and she climbed the Nazzareno slowly and calmly. It was early and she shouldn’t arrive too early. But when she was in front of the stationer’s in Trevi square, she froze with fear. She had left the Marquis of Aragon’s letter in the pocket of her housedress, and Susanna knew how to read handwriting as well. Two or three times she rummaged mechanically in her pocket, praying to herself that the Lord would have her find it, as if a miracle could still occur. Still looking, she went back towards home, saying to herself, ‘O Madonna, let her not have found it! Help me, Madonna!’ Returning seemed to take a century. And inside she was praying. ‘Open up, Susanna, it’s me!’ ‘Oh, it’s you,’ said the woman harshly. Just as ill fate would have it, the house-dress was on her arm. Checchina stopped, speechless. Then she said, at once, ‘I came back because I forgot Isolina’s letter, and there was something important in it that I need to have explained. Is the letter in the pocket?’ Susanna held out the skirt to her. ‘I was brushing it off,’ she said. Checchina took the letter without opening it and left, thinking: did she read it, or did she not read it? In the street, turning again onto Nazzareno, she looked at the window of her house. Susanna was facing it, watching her. ‘Oh, God,’ Checchina thought, ‘now she saw that I didn’t turn towards San Andrea.’ But she kept on, incapable of doing anything else, her will paralysed by the idea that Susanna had read the letter. At San Vincenzo, a gentleman stopped her: ‘Oh, Sora7 Checca, how good to see you, where are you going?’ It was Alessandro Pontacchini, a family friend who had a salt and tobacco shop. ‘I’m going here, Sor Sandro,’ she said, shaken up by the sudden interruption, ‘here ... to take care of something.’ ‘You have things to take care of, Sora Checca? I’ll tell sor Toto, you know, to pay attention,’ the man said, with coarse Roman malice. She smiled weakly. ‘To the dry-cleaner’s,’ then she explained, ‘to the dry-cleaner’s on via San Marcello, for a dress.’

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‘Always precise, always proper, Sora Checca! Little ladies like this are few and far between! That’s why I have renounced marriage. When I thought of it, it was already too late, my dear Sora Checca. Sor Toto got there before me,’ and he laughed. This left her all confused, with no response. ‘One of these evenings, when I can leave my nephew, Cencio, alone in the store, I’ll come by to chat for a bit. I’ll get the roasted chestnuts and you get the white wine, Sora Checca. All right?’ ‘All right.’ ‘Tell Toto, that lucky scoundrel, and give him my best regards.’ Ever more agitated, she resumed her course. Now it was Sor Sandro, too, who would come, who would talk, who would tell stories, who would joke around again. And Susanna at home, who had perhaps read the letter, and who had seen her turn on Nazzareno instead of towards San Andrea. And who knows, along the way, how many people who knew her had seen her and noticed her without her realizing it! And if some colleague of Toto’s from Santo Spirito had seen her and went to tell him, right away, at the hospital, and Toto, roused into suspicion, went to Isolina’s and didn’t find her there? And not finding her there, if he went home and Susanna told him the whole story, from the letter to her trip back home, to her leaving again and the business about those two streets. And yet she kept walking, further and further, without seeing anyone. ‘Where are you going?’ said a familiar voice. It was Isolina. She was stopped by the beer hall of the Quirino theatre, leaning on the wooden balustrade, dressed poorly with an old hat and mended gloves. ‘Where are you going, dear Checchina?’ ‘I was coming to your house,’ Checchina stammered, not knowing what to say anymore, disoriented by yet another encounter. ‘To my house? This way? How could you get such an idea? And what’s wrong, beautiful? Perhaps you’re not feeling well?’ Taking her by the hand, she pulled her into that big Sciarra building, into the main entrance, which was still under construction, where the bricklayers were coming and going amidst piles of plaster and beams that blocked the way. ‘Nothing’s the matter, nothing’s the matter,’ answered Checchina, trying to get a hold of herself, ‘but for the last few days I’ve been suffering disturbances, I don’t know why ...’ ‘Perhaps you’re pregnant, Checca mia.’

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‘Not at all! I don’t know what it is ... that overtakes me now and then.’ ‘Oh my dear, dear child, I should stay in bed, I feel so poorly. What a miserable dog’s life we lead! How many disappointments we must bear! If you only knew, if you only knew ... what that awful Giorgio is doing to me ...’ ‘What is he doing to you?’ ‘Incredible things, Checca mia, things to make me cry every tear I have in my body. Nothing less than this, which I know for certain. He is courting one of these chellerine,8 these beer-hall girls here, a brunette, and he’s here every evening, drinking beer, and drinking punch, and tipping a franc, you see, to ingratiate himself with her – an obscene display, such unbelievable filthiness!’ ‘But can it be true?’ ‘What? The person who told me couldn’t lie. He’s such a nice, honest young man, a student of literature, who also writes verses and publishes them in a small Sunday paper, and lives right by us. He’s so good; he comes here in the evening to do studies which he will put in his books and he told me about Giorgio’s infamy.’ ‘You believed him?’ ‘I’d like not to believe him, joy of my heart, but that Giorgio was always so ungrateful! In fact, there’s a saying, inconstant as an officer. Now, today, for spite, I don’t go to see him and I pass by in front of here to see if I can identify her, this chellerina. She’ll be all painted up, I can already imagine. I couldn’t see a thing. It’s too far and the window panes cast a reflection. But it’s cold here, here inside. Let’s go, I’ll keep you company and tell you the rest on the way.’ ‘No,’ said Checchina. ‘You don’t want company?’ ‘No.’ ‘Ah!’ was all the other woman said. The flames of shame burned Checchina’s cheeks. Her voice caught in her throat. ‘And so you’re in a hurry,’ Isolina resumed slowly. ‘Yes.’ ‘It’s the first time you’re going?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And he’s a handsome young man?’ ‘Yes.’ They stood erect, side by side, at the corner of via dell’Archetto,

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stepping out of the way now and then for carloads of rock and brick that were continuously crossing. ‘Well done, Checchina! And don’t tell me a thing! I see that you really don’t love me a bit, that you don’t trust me, while I have always told you everything. I see that you are great big hypocrite ...’ ‘Oh, Isolina!’ ‘True, it’s a matter of character, I won’t hold it against you, when you love someone, you’re afraid. Still, I could have helped you, or given you advice. Where does he live?’ ‘Here ... close by ...’ ‘Where?’ ‘In via Santi Apostoli.’ ‘A bad street, dangerous, too close to the Corso,’ observed Isolina with an experienced air. ‘Tell him to switch houses, to rent a room in the upper floors of an apartment building, it’s better ...’ ‘He doesn’t belong on the upper floors of an apartment building, in a room; he’s a gentleman, a marquis ...’ ‘A marquis? Which marquis?’ ‘The Marquis of Aragon.’ She had sighed, more than said, the name. ‘Aragon? I’ve heard him mentioned, he’s a man of some standing. He must have given you some good gifts? A bracelet?’ ‘No, he sent me flowers.’ ‘He must have written you some beautiful letters?’ ‘Only one.’ ‘It’s in your pocket, naturally. Show me.’ And Checchina showed her. As always, she submitted to the will of the person beside her. ‘It’s so beautiful. Be happy, Checchina mia, he loves you! What a little nun you were not to tell me!’ ‘I told you everything.’ ‘Go, dear, go, and God bless you. Be careful, please, you’re new at this, the slightest thing can betray you. You don’t know what kind of danger you’re in, be cautious. I know very well what it’s like; I’ve had heart palpitations from it! Go, I’m not holding you back, lucky you. If I see Toto, I’ll tell him we were together for two hours. Two hours is enough, isn’t it? Or ... do you need to stay longer?’ ‘Oh, Isolina!’ Don’t be shocked, there’s nothing wrong with it. Give me a kiss, dear, we’re more than friends, now we’re sisters.’ And she went away on via delle Vergini with the bouncing step of a

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frivolous bird. Checchina was walking slowly, still disheartened by the humiliation of having had to tell everything. It seemed to her that by now it was all over, since someone else knew about it, since she had been so weak as to pronounce that name. When she turned onto via Santi Apostoli, she glanced at the church, and passing by, she bumped into its gate. It was closed. A carriage decorated with a coat of arms was stopped in front of the Odescalchi palace. It was empty, waiting for someone. Then, from the opposite sidewalk, Checchina saw the arch, and after the arch, two shops, the doorway and a stairstep. But on the threshold, blocking half of the entry, the porter was leaning against the wall. He was big and tall. His vulgar face was hairy with grey whiskers, he wore a red wool scarf around his neck and, angled a bit oddly, a cap with a visor. He was smoking a pipe, and looking in the air. On the opposite sidewalk, Checchina stopped suddenly, unable to cross the street. To get in the portico, she would have to ask the porter if she could enter, to ask if the Marquis of Aragon were there, and then pass. She gathered all her strength in order to make this effort, but in the middle of the street, she stopped again. The porter had an ugly and brutal face, one of those irreverent faces that makes the timid lose heart. While working up her courage, she got all the way to Reanda the upholsterer‘s, and then crossed the street. She passed in front of the door, without looking up at the porter. And yet she saw him look her up and down brazenly. Once again, she got to the church, and she turned around to look desperately at the windows, as if she were asking for help. The green shutters were closed. As the marquis had said, he loved the shadows. She retraced her path from the Odescalchi palace to the cafe on the corner of via Nazionale, slowly passing before the door once again. The porter was reading a lottery ticket with an angry expression, but he wasn’t moving. She did not enter. She passed for the third time, heading back towards the Odescalchi palace. He was slowly filling his pipe, pressing the tobacco with his thumb. He didn’t move out of the doorway. Then Checchina bowed her head and went home, giving up.

NOTES 1 A fashionable perfume at the turn of the twentieth century. 2 A town near Rome. 3 A small Italian coin worth a cent; the twentieth part of a lira.

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4 He is on familiar terms with the local aristocracy and uses the informal tu rather than the formal Lei or Voi when addressing them. 5 A hybridized form of a Chinese rose (Rosa chinensis) developed in Europe at the beginning of the nineteenth century. The colours range from tones of gold to yellow and warm pink. 6 Towns located on the hills of Albano (Colli Albani) outside of Rome, renowned for their production of white wine. There are thirteen of them, among which are Frascati, Marino, Genzano, Albano, and Castel Gandolfo. 7 Sora and sor are the versions in Roman dialect of, respectively, signora and signor. Compared to the standard Italian titles, they express more familiarity. 8 A barmaid, from the German ‘Kellnerin.’

Paolina* NEERA Translated by Elena Past

I had just turned twelve the day before when my father said to me, ‘Get dressed. We have to pay someone a visit.’ I couldn’t imagine what visit this could be because I really didn’t know anyone. I ran immediately to Betta and asked her if she knew where my father would take me. Betta didn’t know anything; she reasoned that my father had decided to have me meet the neighbours, who had asked him many times to let me play with their daughters. ‘No, Betta,’ I told her. ‘I’m convinced that it doesn’t have anything to do with our neighbours; Father wouldn’t have told me to dress up for them.’ Betta confessed that she couldn’t think of anything else, and she set about calming my curiosity by observing that soon I would know for sure. So I put on my peach-coloured dress, and was straightening a rosebud on my straw hat when my father appeared at the door of the room. ‘Are you ready, Paolina?’ ‘Here I am.’ He looked at me in minute detail with an air of dissatisfaction, to tell the truth. ‘Couldn’t she have been better dressed?’ he asked my governess. ‘I wouldn’t know ...’ responded Betta, confused. ‘It’s her party dress. You recognize it, Sir.’ * ‘Paolina,’ 1881

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My father chewed his mustache in silence. He took me by the hand and, descending the stairs, said that my hands were rough. ‘Don’t you have gloves?’ ‘You know perfectly well that I never wear them.’ ‘We’ll buy a pair on the way; these hands are not presentable.’ Good God, where were we going? The affair of the gloves presented some difficulty. I couldn’t put them on; I wasn’t used to them. Once they were on as well as possible I couldn’t bend my fingers or put them together, and so my hands dangled at the ends of my arms, like two open fans. ‘She’s so clumsy!’ my father muttered between clenched teeth. He did not intend to make himself heard, but I heard and was taken by an intense desire to cry. I adored my father, and he’d always been good and loving, but for the first time I was aware of having displeased him. A veil of sadness obscured everything; it seemed that my father was transformed, that he was no longer himself. ‘Come on, brighten up. Enough with the long face. What will they say about you in the house where we’re going? Cheer up! You are going to meet a beautiful, good woman who will love you very much.’ Why didn’t this promise restore my happiness? I don’t know. I would have liked to turn back, go home, throw away those hateful gloves, give my peach-coloured dress back to Betta and go back to playing in the garden with my dolls, my flowers, my books. Father stopped in front of a beautiful door, raised his eyes, and smiled; I looked right away to see who he’d smiled at, but didn’t see anyone – the person had already disappeared. He implored me again to be polite and gracious in my greeting; he fastened one of the buttons of my unhappy gloves, and repeating ‘Be good!’ rang the bell. A uniformed servant, without even asking his name, raised a quilted curtain. My father dragged me behind him; then the smoothest voice I’d ever heard uttered these words: ‘Finally, Giorgio, you decided to bring the girl to us!’ Who called my father simply Giorgio!? I heard him addressed in this way for the first time in my life, and I had the painful sensation that someone was contending with me for his heart, claiming rights that I thought only I had. I looked at that person. She was a splendid creature, of a beauty so luminous that I couldn’t

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compare her to anything but a ray of sunshine. Very tall, slim, with a soft, delicate form, she appeared to move like a supple, waving reed. She was not clumsy! Her elegant dress neither added to nor detracted from the grace of her body. She had bare arms, enclosed in multiple circles of gold that shined and tinkled with each gesture. The radiant mobility of her features was incredible. Everything was alive in that face: the opulent black hair, the expressive eyes, the enchanting smile, the pale and dark complexion which coloured as she spoke and changed with each instant. I contemplated her, astonished. ‘Come, Paolina!’ she exclaimed, encircling me with her graceful arms, ‘we must become friends.’ She even knew my name! ‘I haven’t told her anything,’ whispered my father in a low voice. ‘I’m sorry if she’s a little embarrassed.’ ‘Don’t worry about that, Giorgio; we’ll get to know each other a little at a time, right, little one?’ I reacted badly, I have to admit, to her kindnesses; I saw my father’s forehead wrinkled with mute reproach, and yet I didn’t find in myself a single impulse of affection, a single kind word. ‘Come on, Aurora,’ said an old woman who was making silk stockings while reclining in an armchair, ‘leave her in peace; it’s obvious that she’s sullen and it will take time for her to get accustomed to this.’ ‘Aurora, I’m terribly sorry!’ These last words my father uttered while turning towards the beautiful creature, who didn’t appear at all upset and poured a handful of candy in my lap, still smiling. The old woman began to interrogate me about my studies, my pastimes, and I responded to her laconically without ever ceasing to look at my father and the other woman, Aurora! Yes, no other name could be more appropriate for her; whoever saw her would have guessed that that was what she was called. They had turned towards the balcony and were speaking quietly, looking into one another’s eyes; my father smiled at her in a way that made me suffer terribly – I had never seen that smile! ... ‘Listen,’ the old woman said to me in the meantime, ‘it’s not good to be sulky. My Aurora, when she was little, made everyone love her for her happy, kind character. Goodness and grace are the most precious gifts a girl has. And then, you know, being naughty makes you ugly.’ For that matter I didn’t need to become ugly. I had never worried about it, but at that moment I understood that I was ugly, and – curiously – at the same time, I realized that my father was young and

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handsome, and I felt such great disappointment that it seemed unjust. Silent tears accumulated on the candy that I held in my lap; the old woman, despairing of being able to calm me, had begun working the stockings again. As we returned home, my father didn’t say a word to me, proof that he was unhappy with me. I looked for Betta immediately, and I threw myself in her arms, telling her everything. For a few days, everything went smoothly as before; though my father even seemed to experience a moment of uneasiness when his eyes fell on me, he then brightened up and, kissing me on both cheeks, he always ended in telling me, ‘Be good, Paolina, and everyone will love you.’ Everyone who? Weren’t he and Betta the only people who should love me? And didn’t they love me already as I was, despite my flaws? I had never known my mother; I had spent my entire life with those two beings who marked the confines of my world. The thought had never occurred to me that this state of things could change, and I didn’t envy our neighbours’ daughters, surrounded by brothers, sisters, and relatives. I was happy to have my father all to myself, and my Betta, too. I also loved our little house and the little uncultivated garden where I was permitted any adventure, and where I reigned as absolute master over a half-dozen bare rose bushes. Because of my delicate health I didn’t go to school; a teacher came to give me my primary lessons, and my father was my tutor. I didn’t have any friends, and having grown up always alone, I didn’t even like the company of other children. I was a wild, melancholic, capricious little girl. One Sunday after lunch, Father went out; Betta had surely received some instructions, because I found her in the garden, grave, solemn, with her book of prayers in hand. ‘Paolina,’ she said, placing two fingers on my shoulder, ‘you are by now a young lady, and certain things, you can understand.’ ‘Of course,’ I answered, plucking the poor flowers of the rose bushes without aim and without pity. ‘Don’t worry, then; it’s time to turn over a new leaf. Do you know that great things are about to happen?’ I started like a frisky colt. All changes alarmed me; I was reactionary down to the marrow of my bones. ‘First of all,’ continued Betta, ‘you will leave this house for another one that’s larger and prettier.’

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‘I already don’t like this. Why don’t we stay here? This house has always been enough for us; we’ve lived here for ten years. Are we not the same people we always were?’ ‘You think too much, little one.’ ‘Didn’t you say a moment ago that I was a young lady?’ ‘Never mind. Come on, we won’t understand one another at all if you don’t have a little patience. Mr Giorgio ...’ ‘Thank goodness you keep calling him Mr Giorgio; you’re not like that woman the other day who called him Giorgio!’ ‘Ah! But that woman,’ exclaimed Betta, seizing the opportunity, ‘that woman, you see, has every right to call your father by his first name.’ ‘Right?!’ I exclaimed, standing suddenly erect like a cobra. ‘Eh! Good God, your temper! You’re impossible to talk to.’ ‘Tell me why that lady has the right to call my father Giorgio – and to stand so close to him, so close, looking him in the eyes? Tell me, then.’ A few drops of sweat formed in Betta’s grey hair; she would have readily renounced her mission, but I repeated with increasing impatience: ‘Tell me!’ And so she summoned her courage, supporting herself with her two hands on her prayer book, as though it were an anchor of salvation: ‘Because, Paolina, Mr Giorgio is going to marry that lady.’ I didn’t say anything. Hundreds of fireflies danced suddenly before my eyes; the garden turned, turned, turned. I felt a great iciness in my heart and a tremendous fire in my brain. Betta was afraid. ‘My goodness!’ she exclaimed, forcing me to sit on the bench near her. But I roared with laughter, ‘Marry her! ... Do you believe it?’ ‘It’s not a question of belief; he told me.’ ‘He! ... Well, I don’t want him to.’ I got up furiously. I could have torn apart everything around me; I could have struck Betta, myself, who knows? I could have killed myself. Certainly I would have gone crazy, if not for the fact that I lacked the force; and that excess of rage gave way to a light fainting spell. Betta carried me to my bed. Many hours later, that night, I had fully returned to my senses, but I still hadn’t said a word. My governess, seated near a veiled lamp, read out loud:

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‘God is merciful but fair; he rewards the good and punishes the bad. He says: love one another as if you were brothers.’ The door of the house opened and closed noisily. It was my father; his step resounded on the stairs; he was coming, as usual, to give me my goodnight kiss. Betta got up warmly and went into the hall. She blocked his entrance, saying: ‘She’s sleeping. Let her rest quietly.’ I heard everything and kept silent. I have never figured out exactly whether or not Betta told Father about my scene in the garden. In certain respects it seemed that she had; in others it seemed that she hadn’t; in any case, a few days afterwards my father himself spoke to me about his marriage and about the kind Aurora who was going to be my second mother. He said so many tender and moving things, holding me tightly in his arms, that I was a little ashamed of my surly disposition and promised him that I would be better behaved in the future. But that evening I asked Betta, ‘Why did my father need to find a wife? I was happy with him; why wasn’t he satisfied?’ ‘It’s different,’ responded Betta. No matter how much I pressed her, she never managed to explain to me what was different; so I remained only half persuaded, and it seemed to me that my father’s love for me wasn’t as intense or as exclusive as mine was for him. I remember that I added: ‘I won’t want a husband!’ ‘Eh! It’s early!’ was Betta’s response, ‘and who knows what even you would do if instead of twelve years old, you were twenty. Oh! I know what you’d do with the first little bird that tapped on your window, singing: ‘Are you coming?’ You’d spread your wings without even looking at your father or me. That’s for sure.’ I went to bed smiling at Betta’s words, and when I turned off the light, I thought I heard on the glass of my window: tap, tap, tap: are you coming? What face would that little bird have? In any case, no man’s face except my father’s could please me. He was truly handsome: he had a long, thin moustache, two sweet eyes – he was certainly not more than thirty-four years old. One day he came home wearing a gardenia bud in his buttonhole. ‘Give me that flower!’

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‘No,’ he responded, putting his hand over it in an act of defence, ‘I can’t give it to you.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘It’s a gift.’ ‘Give it to me anyway.’ ‘No,’ my father said again, firmly. What sorrow that ‘no’ caused me! Aurora sent me a pretty doll dressed in rose-coloured silk, with pearls around her neck, in her ears, and in her hair. ‘What a dear!’ exclaimed Betta. I sat the doll on a little bench and threatened her, pointing my finger. ‘Look,’ I said to her, ‘if you’re not good!’ I didn’t look at her anymore, either, instead I was spending all my time in the garden uprooting the rose bushes. I wanted to leave a desert behind me; since we were abandoning the house where I’d spent the best years of my life, I wouldn’t leave a trace of my past joys, my rustic and solitary fun. I tore down a wicker hut that I had made for myself, where I withdrew during the hot hours of the day to read Theophilus, or the Little Hermit. Betta, too, was melancholy. She didn’t want to accompany us to the new house. My father consoled her, assuring her that she could come to see us anytime she wanted, and that we wouldn’t forget her. Oh! No, never. The day of the wedding, my father was radiant. They’d made me a dress especially for the occasion, but it was useless, because I didn’t want to go. When they sounded the church bells, I plugged my ears. ‘It’s not good,’ repeated Betta, ‘a girl should be docile; disrespect and sulkiness are a bad thing.’ ‘What if the girl is unhappy?’ I asked, whining. ‘Girls wouldn’t be unhappy if they obeyed happily, as God commands. Come here, kneel down, and let’s pray together.’ I went, I kneeled down, but I didn’t say anything, content to sigh into Betta’s apron. After the ceremony, the newlyweds were to leave for a trip and I was taken to wish them farewell at the station. Father hugged me effusively, kissing me two or three times; Aurora made me dizzy, leaning over me with her pretty face and her hair which exhaled the perfume of youth. She asked me in a low voice what she should bring me from Naples; she caressed me, smiled at me, said that soon we would be

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together for always and that we would love one another very much. Did she believe it? ... In any case it was a nice thing to say. ‘You’re an angel!’ my father murmured in her ear as he helped her get into the carriage. She smiled again, and was only more beautiful. For a whole month, I stayed alone with Betta; the good woman spoiled me in every way and let me do whatever I wanted, though still preaching to me and reciting excerpts from the Gospels. During that month, I ate chocolate cream five times; it was my passion. Betta prepared it for me in secret, saying later, ‘But remember to change your ways.’ I finished turning under the garden, and Betta encouraged me. ‘Let it out, poor girl. When you’re in the other house, which has an English garden with a greenhouse, with flower beds, with paths of fine sand, you won’t be able to do this; they won’t let you.’ We gathered our things a little at a time, without hurry, and although Betta pretended to be strong, I surprised her quite a few times with red eyes. Every now and then I received a letter from my father, which had at the bottom two lines in an airy hand full of kind words for me. I responded gravely, strictly following the rules of courtesy and careful to put the commas in the right place. Finally, the fatal day arrived. Betta melted into tears, recommending me to God and recommending herself to me, and to my affection. After a good cry, ‘There, Betta,’ I said with resolve, ‘this is war. We must be brave. Goodbye, and take heart.’ We left one another thus. A new house, a new life. Aurora ardently embraced her duties as mother; she always kept me by her side, brushed my hair, dressed me, taught me to work. She was good, indulgent, and yet the arcane thread which binds two hearts together didn’t develop between ours. My stepmother’s gaze, fixed on me, often revealed a hint of boredom! Several times her little white hand, raising itself to the level of her mouth, repressed a yawn. One has to admit that I wasn’t very good company; and of course I didn’t have any of the graceful, light qualities which inspire sympathy. My mother would have loved me anyway ... but what obligation did she have? Between us, we represented polar extremes; in between us, there

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was a world of difference. She was beautiful, happy, expansive; I, ugly, melancholic, with a closed, reserved character. Sometimes she looked at me in wonder, biting her lips in silence and perhaps thinking, What kind of creature is this? Otherwise, never a reproach, never a harsh word. At the beginning, she had tried with a certain zeal to raise me to her level, to teach me the secret of her elegance, to form me on her kind and gentle model, but she soon tired of her efforts, since neither strong love on her part, nor docility on mine, sustained her in her arduous enterprise. I was, it is necessary to confess, a rough rock, immovable; and yet the heart still beat within my miserly chest – I too felt the overwhelming need to love, and above all to be loved, but I lacked the means of communicating feelings in words. I had suffered the worst of all misfortunes, that of being left early on without a mother, and in twelve years of freedom, like a wild plant, I had grown bristly with briars and sharpness. If there was something good in me, it was buried so deeply and surrounded by such a thick skin that it didn’t shine through to the outside at all. The daily confrontation with Aurora hurt me also with respect to my father. Without losing affection for me, he couldn’t help but retain a negative impression of my scant courtesy. ‘Dora,’ he said one day to his wife, ‘why don’t you teach Paolina your bearing, your way of walking and of moving?’ She raised her shoulders with a little gesture full of adorable coquetry, and taking me by the hand exclaimed, ‘Let’s go then, missy, let’s learn. One, two, three ... a nice curtsey.’ Instead of taking advantage of her cheery lessons, I made myself even more sad, and devoured in solitude the jealousy that consumed me. Each evening, in the beautiful afternoons of May, Aurora, leaning on the arm of her husband, walked the avenues of the garden. Their lovely figures, held together in an impassioned conversation, were lost among the groves; Aurora’s white dress fluttered amongst the willows and magnolias, and you could hear the silvery bursts of her voice, like the trills of a lark in love. They forgot me in those moments. And when they returned, seeing me still serious and taciturn on the threshold of the house, ‘What are you doing,’ they asked me, ‘why aren’t you playing?’ I didn’t want to play. I wanted to be happy like they were and I couldn’t be.

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During the hot months of summer, Aurora spent almost the entire day reclining in an easy chair; she didn’t feel very well, and was pale, suffering. My father was at her side for hours, contemplating her; he took her pretty bare arms and amused himself, counting the gold circles of her bracelets. When he finished, he started again. And then they said things in low voices; he laughed, and she shook her head. When they realized that I was there, they composed themselves. Aurora never failed to offer me some affectionate word, but her big eyes, looking at me, lacked the bright sparks that I had caught sight of before, and my father’s voice, saying, ‘dear Paolina,’ wasn’t as trembling and caressing as it was when he said, ‘dear Dora.’ Betta came to see me now and then. She almost always cried, and asked me, secretively, if my stepmother starved me – she’d always heard that stepmothers starved people. I reassured her fully on this count; I added truthfully that mine was a very kind stepmother. Around wintertime, Aurora, who almost never left her armchair anymore, with her usual ardour heaped lots of little shirts trimmed with lace in a little basket, as well as lots of embroidered caps covered in ribbon. Everything was so pretty, so small that I asked her what it was for. ‘I’m preparing you a nice brother,’ she responded merrily. ‘Will you love him?’ ‘Will he love me?’ ‘Of course; everyone will love you, as long as you’re good.’ I thought for a moment seriously about that future little brother. My naturally jealous character envisioned him sometimes as a rival, but he could also be a companion, an ally. I planned to be always with him, and to leave my father and Dora alone. In my concept of love, there was infallibly the egotistical idea of sole possession; the person that I was to love, I wanted all for myself, without divisions or concessions. My father, the idol of my infancy, had been unfaithful – I would find a successor for him. In this mindset, one cold winter evening I heard the cries of a baby; Aurora’s old mother, who for several days had established herself in our house, brought into the living room, in the light of the lamp, a little red thing, literally buried in lace, who she said was my brother. I reached out my arms right away to take him; I had already found a place for him in my room. But to my great surprise and pain, the old woman, frightened, raised him high, as if to take him away from my

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less than delicate embraces, and she admonished me to be quiet, to approach respectfully, and just to look at him. What disappointment! The little one slept in Father’s and Aurora’s room; a woman was placed exclusively at his service; and I was prohibited absolutely from holding him. In a few months, everyone went crazy over that baby, the loveliest, the prettiest, the most intelligent of babies. Aurora proudly showed him off, the lilies and roses of his little body barely covered by a tiny batiste shirt – she had people observe the brilliant little eyes, the little mouth, the fine, curly hair. All day I heard repeated, ‘He’s so handsome! He’s so cute!’ Father covered him with kisses. ‘But is your son equal to me?’ I asked him one day haughtily. He began to laugh and didn’t even answer, because the question seemed so odd. Of course – his son was equal to me, and for Aurora he was a thousand times more important than me. Things didn’t stop with the little brother. Later came a little sister and then another little brother; in five years, Aurora populated the house with three sprightly little demons, or little angels, if you will. In the meantime, of course, I was no longer a girl; the epoch of games and caresses was over, and I was seventeen years old. Father looked at me thoughtfully in the brief instances that the little ones left him free. Aurora had assumed a soft indulgence towards me, a slightly indifferent mix of superiority and sweetness. Our relationship was peaceful, correct, and cold. In front of people, she willingly called me ‘daughter’; she knew perfectly well that this didn’t age her. She was still in the maximum splendour of her beauty, with all the graces of a girl combined with the profound seductiveness of a woman and a mother. She was so young and pretty, she had a grace all her own in dragging along such a loafer of a daughter. She introduced me seriously, and since no one wanted to believe her, she affirmed warmly, ‘Yes, yes, she’s really my daughter.’ Expansive, she loved her children deliriously, but she reined herself in in my presence. I heard her numerous times, behind the door, smacking light, loving kisses on the chubby cheeks of her youngest born, and as soon as I appeared she became languid and indifferent. She tried to balance the enthusiasm that she couldn’t give me with a rigorous justice and with all the appearances of equality.

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The passion that my father felt for her had grown with all the respect and all the admiration that her unchanged goodness aroused. Aurora reigned on a throne of light and of love; her children, beautiful as she was, grew around her, smiling; I was the only one to clash with the general tint of the picture; I was always taciturn and unhappy! My brothers loved me a little, not too much. They preferred to romp and joke amongst themselves, and they called me Dark Paolina. I worked beside Aurora, but many times my presence was embarrassing to her – embarrassment that translated itself into a slight nervous uneasiness or a slow yawn. I understood, and without letting on, I left her alone with her children. Then there were outbursts of lively joy, a festive uproar, an unbounded expansion of love that nothing held back. Their yells and their kisses came to wound me in the solitude of my room. I had experienced, as everyone had, Aurora’s fascination, and I loved her in my way, although with a love full of bitterness. Oh! What I wouldn’t have given to discover in her eyes a single sparkle like those that she lavished on her children. I had her kind words, her caresses, even her kisses, but I would never have those gazes! I studied her slightest moves, the rapid changes of her mobile features; I saw when, mentally comparing me with her children, a satisfied smile radiated on her lips. One time she severely scolded her firstborn, who spited me in I don’t know what way, but in those rebukes there was more hidden tenderness than in all the clear praises bestowed upon me. And who could blame her? Is there a duty in the world that obligates a mother to love other people’s children as her own? Aurora was generous in the compassionate lie that she imposed upon herself, of showing herself equally loving; her heart must have suffered as mine did as a result of that continual fiction. She couldn’t, like other mothers, be expansive in all the adoration and ecstasy inspired by that unique form of love – the jealous eye of her stepdaughter curtailed her embraces. And yet one time I accidentally overheard these words which she said to her mother, and which without a doubt referred to me: ‘Yes, it’s a nuisance: sometimes her distant face, which doesn’t inspire great affection in my heart, weighs on and oppresses me, but what can I do? It’s my little cross, and I must bear it with patience. Consider, too, that I don’t have any others.’ Good, always good, even when confessing that I was her cross!

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I reached eighteen years of age, and that little bird that Betta had spoken of one time still had not come to rap on the windows of my room. There was nevertheless one possibility orchestrated by Aurora’s old mother and put forward in the form (neither good nor bad) of a widower with a child. They had me meet the little girl; she was four years old, and pale. She looked at me fixedly with two huge, melancholic eyes, and in those eyes I think I saw a tear. I remembered my whole life, from infancy to that day; I remembered all the tortures of envy and jealousy; I created, in my thoughts, a painting of what would have been my future with that child – more coldness, always coldness, instead of that ardent love of which I dreamed. No, no. I’d had enough of being the stepdaughter, I didn’t want to become the stepmother. I knew that that girl wouldn’t have loved me, and I knew, too, that I wouldn’t love her. My refusal vexed the old woman. Aurora and Father didn’t say anything, but she kept bringing it up for a while: ‘Do you hope to marry this girl easily? For her personal gifts ... I don’t think so; and if Giorgio isn’t hiding some treasure, she won’t have what she needs for her trousseau. If you’d only thought to find her a profession, to make her independent by means of work! When one is poor ...!’ These reflections inspired many others in me. I began to worry about my future. My father held a brilliant position, thanks to his genius, but he wasn’t rich. My brothers would be well off thanks to their mother, but I wouldn’t. An independent position! How did one go about acquiring an independent position? By working; but what work could I do? I had really never thought about it, but the idea enticed me. I spoke about it with Betta. ‘Betta, what work can a woman do?’ Taken off guard, my old governess responded, ‘Knitting, hemming, embroidery.’ ‘How much do you earn?’ ‘It depends. Twenty, thirty, eighty cents per day; maybe a lira; but why do you ask?’ I explained frankly, and then she began to spill buckets of tears. ‘Oh, my child!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are we reduced to this? Are they sending you away? Are they obliging you to work to live?’ I had to calm her, to patiently make her understand that no one was

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throwing me out, but that I myself wanted to find a position so that I didn’t owe anything to anyone. My studies, neglected from the beginning and finally left incomplete, wouldn’t have earned me a teaching licence; I did, however, have a special ability for languages, and applying myself deliberately I had hope of perfecting my French and English enough to give lessons. I went to work fervently. At the beginning I said nothing to explain that sudden frenzy, but I had to reveal my motives in the end, and both father and Aurora seemed sad. It seemed to them that such a resolution must implicate them in a tacit accusation. Aurora was more tender; Father began to take better care of me. For a little while illusion played on the horizon and I was swayed by it – but only for a little while. So many trifles, a look, a sigh, a gesture of impatience, a word slipped out by chance; Father’s seriousness, Aurora’s sweet resignation, the bald and merry indifference of the children: everything concurred to reaffirm my previous intuition. I was a nuisance in the family, or at least my absence would be so little noted that it wasn’t worth it to stay. Around the end of October, I announced officially my firm intention to accept a position as a language teacher at an institute in the city. They were all together in the living room, including my brothers and my little, enchanting sister, who at three years was already a model of grace, and about whom no one hesitated to exclaim, ‘She’s so pretty! ... she doesn’t look like Paolina.’ A sudden emotion (but who can discern in the mysterious composition of a tear whether pain or joy prevails? ...) moistened Aurora’s eyes; my father shook his head in silence. Little Maria came to throw herself over my knees, crying in her shrill little voice: ‘Will you be away for long, Paolina? Oh! Take my doll’s dress with you, so you can add a new ruffle.’ ‘Let’s indulge her,’ said my father. ‘This whim of emancipation won’t last long. Our house is always open, and our hearts, too; isn’t that right, Dora?’ The only one who didn’t try to disguise her happiness was Aurora’s mother. She complimented me sincerely on my resolution; she said that a poor girl, if she doesn’t find a husband – and husbands are rare – leads a tormented existence, full of discomfort and humiliation. She added that work ennobled, that giving our lives direction helped to

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reconcile us with ourselves, dissipated ill humour, and rendered us better and more just. I marvelled a little that, in the midst of all the virtues enumerated by the old woman, she didn’t say that work also changes your face, and substitutes for unlovable features all the allures of beauty. In the final days, Aurora was constantly with me; she overwhelmed me with sweetness. One could say that in her just soul, she searched for the slightest wrongs of the past to try to compensate for them and make me forget. The morning of my departure, I had breakfast alone with Father and Aurora; the children played in the garden under the big trees that the autumn thinned out slowly. We were all three silent, full of a nervous tenderness that awaited the slightest pretext to dissolve in tears. When we heard the wheels of the carriage that came to pick me up, my father stood up suddenly, upset. Dora tied the ribbons on my hat with motherly attention, and she trembled a little. ‘We’ll see you soon. You’ll spend Sundays with us; it’s understood, right?’ ‘Yes, yes.’ ‘And you won’t forget us?’ ‘Ah, no.’ ‘And ... remember that we love you.’ I threw myself in their arms. It was a moment of unforgettable emotion. My father went down first to see whether they’d put the bags in the carriage. The children ran up merrily, their eyes animated by the game, smiling. ‘Goodbye, Paolina! Goodbye, Paolina!’ Little Maria slid her doll in my pocket, advising me to fix her up nicely. I sat in the very back of the carriage; Father stood alongside me. Aurora and the children formed a group on the marble stair and sent me a clamorous farewell. In front of the red ivy, which hung from the wall, the admirable figure of my stepmother appeared more beautiful than ever. Her forehead, a little thoughtful, didn’t manage to shadow the brilliance of her splendid eyes. Seen thus, up high, with the three children grouped around her dress, with her shoulders thrown back and her arm extended towards the carriage that departed, she was worthy of an artist’s paintbrush.

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Until the very last moment, as in the first day that I saw her, her marvellous beauty subdued me with its strange charm, a mix of sympathy and bitter envy. I continued to look at her, tasting a pungent pleasure at having her pay attention to me, imagining that, in that instant, no one could have taken her attention away from me. But little Maria, skipping about, fell to the ground, and Aurora rushed towards her. In the meantime, the carriage turned the corner. Aurora wasn’t thinking about me anymore.

Aunt Severina* NEERA Translated by Elena Past

Aunt Severina entered her room, pushing the door open with her feet because the candlestick and the gifts she was carrying occupied both hands. Her brother had given her a wool dress the colour of café latte, following with the comment ‘a solid, serious colour, appropriate for your age.’ Her sister-in-law gave her a night lamp, and the girls at school knitted her a coverlet for her feet. All on the occasion of her birthday. But setting the objects on the little table in her room, Aunt Severina’s face did not assume a joyous expression. On the contrary, it bore an inscrutable veil so dense that it justified, in part, the words her sisterin-law harshly uttered when she left the drawing room: ‘No matter what anyone does, that Severina is never happy!’ A card had slipped from her hands, also received in honour of her birthday. It was from a dear childhood friend, and on a background of greenish paper, it bore a high-flying butterfly, with the motto Adhuc spero.1 On the back, there were best wishes for happiness. Severina picked up the card and looked at it thoughtfully in the light of the candle. So many things went through her mind! Twenty-five years before, on the same occasion, the same friend had fastened a bunch of red carnations in her hair ... oh! Now they wouldn’t put flowers in her hair; dresses the colour of caffè latte were fitting now, and night lights; and also foot coverlets, since she suffered rheumatism in her legs; finally, some best wishes – those were always appropriate.

*‘Zia Severina,’ 1893

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Severina was not at all ungrateful. She recognized the kindness of her brother; she loved her sister-in-law and her nieces and nephews. She was affectionate and gentle as much as possible, although not as much as she would have liked; she felt within herself a torrent of tenderness that would never be unleashed. This was, in fact, her pain, the enemy inside, the doubt that ate away at her, the inner volcano that sent flushes of colour to her face. She sometimes felt dropsical, as though she were carrying an excess of weight in her veins, like water or lead: something dead. As a child she was lively, as a girl very imaginative; never beautiful, never courted, but almost happy in her ideal world filled with dreams. As the daughter of a painter, she had, for a long time, known the seductions of colours and lines. Pagan by instinct, she felt herself drawn towards beauty, while mystic thought and nebulous poetry left her cold. She loved to dress herself in the drapes and veils that the models left behind in her father’s studio. She dishevelled her hair, put a garland of leaves on her head, and pretended to be a bacchante. Reclining on a heap of cushions, with a shawl over her hips, bare arms, a glass necklace around her neck, and a big fan in hand, she imitated the odalisques. In a shirt, stomach on the ground, with a big book under her elbows, she once attempted to reproduce the Madonna pentita by Correggio, but suddenly realized that she lacked the character’s main attributes. From that point on, a nagging worry began to wage war on her. Comparing herself to the figures that the greatest painters had conceived and the minor ones had endeavoured to copy, she came to be perfectly familiar with the imperfections of her form. For she who felt such ardent desire for beauty, the disappointment was cruel. To try to best reconcile her thin form with an artistic type, she gave up the wide Titianesque creations and began to contemplate the thin women by Canova: the Graces, Psyche. She was enraptured by the latter. The feelings of art and of love, virginal purity and the ardour of the senses, the harmonic, divine fusion of everything immortal, pulled her irresistibly. Psyche’s pose was so simple, the forms so spare! In her little room, unobserved, in the absence of Amor, she wanted to attempt this pose. Wasn’t it horrible? She was young, understood grace, intuited passion, adored art: why couldn’t she do it? Why did Severina, alive, in front of the mirror, appear an abomination in comparison with the marmoreal goddess?

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‘If I could only grow fat!’ thought Severina. ‘Maybe it’s just a question of line. Someone who knocked into Canova’s arm as he sculpted the bust of Psyche would have simply shifted the line, and it wouldn’t have been Psyche anymore.’ As far as the face went, she had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, teeth, and hair too, and a sensitive soul quivered inside her. Maybe, she thought, it takes time. Not all women are as beautiful as Psyche at fifteen. Psyche is green youth, the bud, the promise: a sour fruit, after all. Didn’t the glove-maker, that dangerous woman who disturbed the peace of the neighbourhood, have a son when she was fifteen? And didn’t she herself confess that, at that age, she was nothing more than a scraggy loafer? Who knows whether Madame Maintenon, marrying Scarron at twenty years of age, was as beautiful as when, at forty, she snared his majesty the king of France? She had also heard and read in books that a woman’s beauty comes from love; but since she had also heard and read that a woman finds love in accordance with her beauty, the two things began to confuse themselves in her mind. Certainly she wasn’t one of those women who cultivate beauty in the interest of vanity and coquetry; she didn’t look anything like her companions; amongst them her reputation was that of being ‘original.’ Forever taken with artistic ideals, she dressed in bizarre styles with strips of fabric wrapped around her head, Greek style, or in red shawls draped according to the norms of statues. Her unattractiveness, in this bizarre frame, seemed double. It was curious to see how, transported by the imagination to an image of superhuman beauty, she ignored the minute particulars, the care of her person. She forgot to cut her nails, wore shoes with shabby heels, gloves without buttons, crumpled bows, clumsily mended stockings. She did not wash her face every day. Thus, awaiting beauty and love, she passed by the reality of life without noticing it, continuing to dream. In the morning she dreamed when, throwing back the silk covers and leaping lightly on a little rectangle formed of pieces of cloth sewn together, she thought of Guido Reni’s Aurora,2 flying over the clouds in the rays of the rising sun. She fastened her skirt around her narrow hips, with visions of scantily dressed nymphs before her eyes. In church, lost in the contemplation of the beautiful torso of a young Jewish girl, Ruth or Naomi, she didn’t realize that she was leaning her

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shoulders on the back of the chair until a jokester, feigning ignorance, knocked against it with the head of his cane. She blushed with embarrassment and vexation. The years passed, and beauty did not come, and neither did love – that love that had created so many masterpieces – Raffael’s Madonnas, some portraits by Van Dyck, the Kiss by Hayez3 – beauty and love, the supreme gods of pagan Olympus, of her own Olympus. In her brother’s house (her brother was a land surveyor and had sold all of their father’s artistic implements), Severina no longer found cloth drapes. Neither did she risk, in front of her sister-in-law in her loose flannel shirts and waterproof apron, braiding the crowns of the bacchantes into her hair. Soon, too, the children, attaching themselves to the apron strings of Aunt Severina, needed to be fed, wanted to have paper dolls cut out, to have their noses cleaned. In the midst of these tasks, domestic yes, but scarcely artistic, the spinster grew bitter, losing sight of her ideals and adopting a long, sallow, inscrutable face, which provoked the wrathful exclamation of her sister-in-law: ‘No matter what anyone does, Severina is never happy!’ And yet, until that very day Severina still hoped; as long as she still had twelve hours, six hours, one hour, a revolution could still happen, a cataclysm, a miracle – who knows what could happen! Getting out of bed in the morning, she had said, ‘When I come back to bed, I’ll be forty.’ But a crazy hope, an irrational illusion, kept her in suspense as if she were on the eve of a mysterious event. She had also thought, ‘I want to enjoy these last hours of youth.’ What! What to do? Her blood boiled, her brain churned, an atrocious longing to hold back time rendered her almost feverish. The hours passed and she counted them, disheartened. Nothing happened. The mail brought her two or three letters that she opened with trembling hands: congratulations, best wishes, commonplaces. Finally they had given her the caffè latte–coloured dress, the night light, the foot coverlet ... Little by little, as the day ended, Aunt Severina’s face became more and more inscrutable. At the table, where there had been toasts and a little poem recited by the nieces with best wishes for a long life, she was actually dumbstruck. A little marsala4 rendered her absolutely gloomy. Finally she was able to retreat into her room, place her gifts on the little table and herself on the edge of her little bed.

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The flickering flame of the candle danced in front of her eyes, irritating her incipient conjunctivitis. She raised a hand, and with her eyes thus shielded could stop and reflect (although these weren’t, in the strictest sense, her own reflections). They were visions, the fatuous flames of imagination that burst forth from her numbed body, transient flickers, flashes of thought that insisted on surfacing, and that unnerved her in spite of herself. A great and profound sadness, an overwhelming depression, always overcame her in that last hour of the evening, closing an empty day, adding the words ‘the end’ at the bottom of a blank page. And that evening it wasn’t just a day or a page; it was her entire youth that ended, that died, which she had to surrender. It was a bill for a sum that she’d never possessed. Right there, in the solitude of the alcove, where the happy count their joys and the lovers their raptures, when, in the modest security of the night, all veils fall and masks are torn away, where hearts laid bare no longer fear the affronts of irony, Aunt Severina counted her scanty illusions. Each evening she had seen them diminish, lose form and colour, disappear into the darkness. A huge sigh swelled her breast. With her long fingers she sought the hooks of her dress, without looking at them, and slowly unbuttoned them, feeling self-hatred rise from her inner depths. She hated the ugly face that had made her suffer for the last forty years; it was her misfortune, her nightmare. What satisfaction the most natural, the most true, the most exquisitely feminine, woman should feel in looking at herself, admiring in herself the most beautiful work of God! To be Venus for one single day – to blaze, to love, to die – enough. But to just be born and die, born and die with nothing between these two extremes, nothing except old age, is an atrocious destiny. How placidly the world sleeps! Wouldn’t it be funny if I were to open the window and begin to shout: Hurry, hurry! The most beloved thing that I have is dying, my youth! But outside it was cold, and the night was black; the window was firmly closed, with the shutters drawn. Severina, having removed her dress, hung it on a hanger and moved towards the dresser in her short skirt, her stomach slightly protruding, her breasts sagging, her waist wide and flat, and shapeless from her back down. She rummaged for a moment in the dresser, removing handkerchiefs, opening little boxes. She took out a sprig of half-ruined laven-

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der and sniffed it – she’d bought it at a country feast, on a beautiful autumn day. She was dressed in light blue then, with a hat that fit her well, they’d told her ... She touched a fan, an empty container, a bracelet that she hadn’t worn in a long time. This she wanted to try on, and slipped it on her arm, but then took it off suddenly, shaking her head. All her life was inside, in the dresser, ruined like the bunch of lavender, empty like the container that had previously held some scents and which now no longer retained even a trace of the perfume. On an old notebook, written in pencil, she read: She who is young and beautiful should not be dour, For age cannot grow back as grasses do. And at once there came to mind the jolly face of the person who had written those verses on her notebook, after a New Year’s dinner, with shining eyes and a tender heart. It was a happy evening, where she too had enjoyed herself in the naive, sensual jubilation of youth. What irony, now, that invitation to pleasure, and what useless warning about age, which can’t be renewed! It was almost as though she had been the mistress of her own destiny! Bricklayers or carpenters take their tools and go out into the world to make their fortunes; the poor hold out their hands; sick people find doctors; a dog abandoned on the street finds someone who will take him home. Only love cannot be created from nothing, cannot be given as charity, has no remedy, has no refuge – he who has no love is the true beggar, the true sick person ... Oh, you who love, this is the great poverty! She stopped in the middle of the room with her arms dangling, her eyes fixed and glassy. From the room next door came the chatter of the girls who had half-awoken from the first stages of sleep: they spoke confusedly of dolls and sweets. The voice of their mother, moist and soft from under the covers, murmured, ‘Be quiet, go to sleep.’ You could hear the beds creak under their little bodies; under the calm body of their mother, who turned to the other side, the bridal bed sweetly gave way. Severina turned towards her own bed, disconsolate. She took a white cotton hairnet from under her pillow and bound it around her hair, thinking, it’s finished! I’ll enter this bed an old woman. She repeated ‘old woman,’ looking around, marvelling that no one protested.

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What lunacy, though, what injustice! She didn’t feel old. If only the young knew how difficult it is to extinguish desires ... Balzac said thirty years – evidently so as not to discourage too greatly the twenty year olds. She continued to look around the room, so cold, so bare, where the furniture had no voice, where the sad things reflected the constant sadness of her life: the rigid bed, the neglected mirror, a comb wedged in the brush on the chest of drawers; two leather house shoes the colour of chocolate; a black cloth rag hung over the back of a chair. No ribbons, no flowers; there was a monastic regularity, that grey, solitary, cell-like environment. She untied her petticoats and undid the laces of her corset, remaining in her shirt. She looked around one last time, across the walls, outside into the sleeping world, into the world that rejoiced, the world that suffered. She saw a chain that linked everyone, happy and sorrowful. She saw compassion bending over the sickbeds, and envied the sick, envied those who could cry, those who could shout, those who had a gangrenous leg that had to be removed – all the pains that could be seen, could be touched, the only pains that the world believed in! She raised her arms, stretching in a painful contortion of her whole being, and let fall a sidelong glance. Then, as if to escape an extreme torture, she quickly bent to tear off her stockings, and threw them aside. She turned off the light, groped her way to the bed, and threw herself in it, a lost soul in the great oblivion of darkness.

NOTES 1 2 3 4

In Latin, ‘Still hoping.’ Italian Baroque painter, 1575–1642 Italian Romantic painter, 1791–1882 A dessert wine from Sicily, also used in cooking.

The Lady of the Evening* NEERA Translated by Elena Past

The costumed revellers exited in groups and couples from the theatre; the New Year’s Eve ball that night was extremely lively. Crossing the piazza, under the lamps of electric light, the women seemed like visions. Skirts of white and pink satin, undulating, quilted in silver, vanished in an optical illusion of sidereal worlds. A circle of diamonds on a lovely bare arm appeared for an instant out from under the furs, sparkled, and disappeared. The lace wound mysteriously around a provocative little head was dishevelled by the woman’s carefree laughter, and a silent and prudent man dressed in a black and white costume measured his steps on the sidewalk. The two or three cafés in the piazza were taken by storm; behind the cold-clouded windows, the tables looked white and inviting. When all the revellers were settled in front of a boiling-hot punch or a plate of roast, one woman still wandered in the piazza, dressed in black, with a red jacket and a little round, tattered hat, from which hung a ragged feather. She wandered aimlessly, with an uncertain gait, stopping often at corners and in the hollows of doors, seeking, waiting. It was ten degrees below zero, dry, piercing, the true cold of a winter night. The red jacket was missing quite a few buttons and she kept it crossed over her breast with closed fists, her back curved, teeth chattering. Every now and then she coughed; her whole chest, from her throat to her waist, hurt. She felt an acute stab of pain in her shoulder blade, like a lance. She was hungry, she was cold, she was sleepy.

*‘Falena,’ 1893

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Creeping along the wall, she crouched against the window of a café, fixing her eyes on what was inside. At the first table, two or three young men contended for the smiles of a follia,* who at that moment was seriously occupied in devouring a piece of game. The morsels descended in her throbbing throat, one after another, accompanied by sighs of satisfaction and voluptuous quivers that made her breast swell. She was so hot in this explosion of well-being that one of the young men assumed the task of keeping her cool, with a fan raised very close to her face, observing with interest the fluttering hairs on her neck. The woman in the red jacket continued to creep along the wall. At another café, a party of fat bourgeois toasted tumultuously. Their fresh, serene wives, adorned with nuptial jewels, laughed, enjoying the spectacle of the masked guests, in the security of a husband close by and children who slept, at home, in their warm beds. Steaming soups and plates of meat circulated around the table, and the champagne bottles emitted the dry thump of corks exploding into the air. The woman in the red jacket continued to creep along the wall. Someone, upon hearing her whisper unintelligible words in a low voice, turned to look at her, quickly averting his eyes; someone else hurled an obscenity at her. One person whom she had taken by the arm threatened her with his cane. Then she left the piazza, slipping off into a narrow, dark street, coughing, and with each cough stifling a moan. Without the light of the lamps, the cold seemed more intense. She walked like a stray dog, mute, in the uncertainty of the shadows. A shade approached her, a man. With an instinctive movement she tidied up the little hat, straightening her shoulders; the man stopped. He was a little drunk, and he mumbled an obscenity and told her to follow him. She gasped going up the stairs, making incredible efforts not to cough. As the man struck matches upon their arrival in the room, she fell onto the first piece of furniture she found beside her. ‘I’ll bet you’re hungry!’ said the man. ‘I haven’t eaten all day.’ He turned suddenly to look at her, with the lamp in hand, and since she had her head bent, he took her roughly by the shoulder, causing * Here a woman in costume, wearing a hat decorated with little bells. More generally, a female allegorical figure representing Happiness.

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her to lose the only button of her coat. Thus appeared a miserable hollow breast on which recent traces of blisters formed an open wound. ‘Damn it!’ He heard neither her tears nor her prayers. Irritated, he threw her out. And so she was back on the street. Everything trembled: her body, accustomed to the elements, to fatigue, to insults, to blows, experienced a horrifying sensation, like an overwhelming desire to cease, to die. Her legs collapsed beneath her; she had to prop herself up at times in order to not fall down. She understood that if she fell, she would not get up again. At the end of the street there was an infamous house from whose windows there emerged shouts and laughter mixed with curses. She recognized the house; she remembered. A bad instinct or the force of habit made her venture a few steps under the rickety entranceway, but she stopped suddenly. Those shouts sang the praises of beauty, youth, pleasure! She clasped her thin breast in her hands, aching, and continued on her path of errant she-wolf in the night. Where would it end? She didn’t know. She passed in front of other notorious houses, cafés, theatres where she, too, had shone. One restaurant reminded her of a dinner during which she had thrown an enormous quantity of food from the window to the street urchins below – this she remembered above all. She passed in front of the hospital. There perhaps they would receive her; she had a fever! But she had left there only eight days ago; she had left with an intense weariness of the dormitories, of medicine, and of bondage. Better to die. Two street cleaners blocked the street, bustling about with their brooms, their hands covered in thick wool gloves, with bags on their heads. She offered herself to them for a piece of bread. They laughed in her face, and one of them lifted a pile of trash on his broom and made as if to throw it on her. She didn’t stop anyone else. She walked and walked and walked, hoping vaguely that a precipice would open under her feet, instantaneously. She didn’t see or recognize anything. She found herself without a hat, but didn’t know how; she didn’t even think to close her jacket, leaving the red wounds of her poor breast exposed; and she coughed. She finally fell, feeling a wave of relief, sensing herself near liberation. With her limbs cramped, she rested, her back reclining on the wall, her arms around her knees. She wasn’t hungry anymore; only

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the cold still bothered her. Crouched on the corners of the street, she felt as though she were a child again, back when she came into the city to sell violets. So much time had passed! Now she was old and sick, a carcass to throw on the dung heap. Something moist appeared on her eyelid – not a real tear, but something like the desire to cry. She spent the last hours of the night in this way, in a growing sense of peace, of nothingness, free from any desire. Only towards morning was she taken by an ardent desire for alcohol. For an instant this thought dominated her violently, making her click her tongue in her mouth; then this also subsided. A merciful cold climbed from her legs, up, up through her body, putting her to sleep. She didn’t even feel the cold anymore, the annoying cold of fighting life; this was the liberating freeze, what she had begged for! A drunkard, passing, bumped her with his foot. It was the last thing she felt.

Winter Evenings* MARCHESA COLOMBI Translated by Lina Insana

They’re the dread of half the world, those long, long winter evenings that last from seven until ten, at least three hours, and for many families much longer. By four thirty, five at the latest, the light’s been turned on in the dining room. One by one, each member of the family, some coming in from outside, some from the study, some from the sitting room, has gathered there around the table, already set for dinner. Those who have gone out have given their reports on the depths of the temperature outside, of the more or less thick nature of the fog, on the state of the fields: dry, muddy, frozen, and so on. The ladies have related the visits they’ve paid, discussed what Such and Such other are wearing, the carriages that were on the boulevard, the new fabrics on display in the fashionable boutiques, the furs, the hats. The young men have related the latest news gathered at the café or at the club; who’s gotten married, who is on the brink of it, who has died, who is in love, what new developments are in store in Manzoni’s new manifesto; who was the most brilliant lady in attendance at La Scala;1 what the fans are planning for the leading lady’s benefit performance. Dad and the rest of the family have passed on their political news, as well as updates on the status of their rheumatisms, which increase and decrease in direct relationship to the intensity of the cold, and their catarrhs, on which the dampness plays some cruel tricks.

*‘Serate d’inverno,’ 1879

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In the meantime, the soup has been served; everyone has taken his place, and over the course of the hour, or more, between one mouthful and another, all of the events in play have been described in minute detail, analysed, discussed down to the last drop. At seven, dinner is over, the table is cleared, and the evening, the eternal winter evening, has not yet begun. Those sentimental writers who have the habit of seeing the world through rose-coloured glasses have written volumes of sweet prose on such family evenings around the domestic hearth; they’ve presented them to us as a perpetual romance. But in reality they are one of many things that seem beautiful only when seen from a distance. Even I, even now, after so many years and so many things gone by, think back on the homespun domestic evenings of my father’s house with infinite sweetness. Our eighty-year-old patriarch would nap in a large chair next to the fireplace, and now and again would wake up with a start, either because the fire tongs had fallen from his hands, or because the servant, upon entering the room, had allowed a draft to strike him between the head and neck, or because of some other event of similar importance. He would ask for the time, thrash about the coals, observe that I was always jutting out my lips as if I were miffed at the Lord Almighty, that my brother never did anything, that my sister had bloodshot eyes, that the aunts must be tired of doing the same work. ‘Maria, wipe off that scowl.’ ‘Mario, do something, you lazybones.’ ‘Teresa, stop that embroidering or you’ll ruin your eyes’ ‘How many socks have you made this winter, Signora Caterina? You might have enough for an entire regiment.’ ‘Do you always have laundry to put in order, Signora Rosa?’ Once he had made another of these observations, more to prove that he was not sleeping than for anything else, he would fall asleep all over again for another fifteen minutes. Aunt Rosa didn’t like to talk; she spoke only when she could undertake a narrative full of subtleties, and details, and dissertations, and comments that allowed her to hold the floor for a half-hour or more, without interruption. But by the time the evening came around, she had run out of steam, and preferred to keep to herself.

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Aunt Caterina always spoke in proverbs. She had an enormous collection of them, with rhymes that didn’t jibe, half in Italian, half in dialect; and could find one to apply to every possible conversation. When someone would marvel at her sister’s endless mending, it was she who would reply: ‘The needle and the kerchief keep the vest on his feet.’ If someone observed to her that, by dint of making socks her whole life, she must have an endless supply of them, she would answer quickly, ‘Bread and mending, friends never ending.’ ‘How cold it is,’ someone would say, ‘it’s almost too cold to go out.’ ‘But of course,’ she would reply, ‘By St Catherine’s day, close the oxen up with the hay.’ ‘The days are starting to get a bit longer.’ ‘Without a doubt. Christmas, a cock’s step.’ This was one of her poorest proverbs, because besides the impossible rhyme, it required a preliminary explanation to establish that a cock’s step was the measure by which the days got longer at that time of year. My brother called her the Giusti,2 and when he needed a rhyme for his unsuccessful poetic exploits, he always turned to her. But those proverbs that bring a smile to my lips when I think of them now, back then I heard them every evening, I knew them by heart, I disliked them. Our patriarch had a seventy-year-old brother, who seemed quite young to him because he was eleven years his junior. Every night he would come over to sit next to his older brother for a few hours, on the other side of the fireplace. He spoke in monosyllabic words, and even those had to be wrenched from him with a series of questions. He was satisfied to quietly contemplate his eldest brother, for whom he had the utmost respect, picking just the right moment to take over the tongs that his brother held lovingly between his knees, to take his own turn at stirring the coals. Once in a long while he would decide not to come over. It was the only occurrence that ever introduced a bit of variety into our evenings. On those occasions the elder brother would become very apprehensive. He would get up, all stiffened from the immobility of his sleep, his socks wrinkled over his knees from having stayed seated for so

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long, he would walk around mumbling from corner to corner of the room, and sigh, ‘Hmph! What could’ve happened to that boy?’ For him his younger brother was always a boy. ‘He’s probably caught under a cart.’ ‘The chimney sweep probably took him away in a sack like they do with bad children.’ ‘He was probably naughty, so his mother sent him to bed without any supper.’ We would laugh for a minute, and then fall again into the usual monotony, until another of these profoundly insignificant episodes came along. At that point, our youthful joy, lacking any other outlet, would once again seize upon the episode instinctively, and use it to pass the time. The majority of these opportunities came from the good-natured eccentricity of the master of the house. He was an extremely tall and straight man, strong, thin, his face the colour of walnut, and so rough that it looked like an old, worn collar. He wore a thick blond toupee, even though no one remembered ever seeing him blond. He himself had no idea of what his hair colour had once been. When we asked him what his hair used to look like, he would reflect on it a bit in his good-naturedly condescending way, and then respond: ‘Just like that ... like yours.’ And he gave his same answer indiscriminately to me, with my black hair, to my brother, whose hair was blond, and to my sister, whose hair was a beautiful bronzy chestnut. Besides, he didn’t have any qualms about wearing his toupee. He didn’t think he was fooling anyone. He was sincere in that as in everything else; it was simply a toupee, nothing more, nothing less. He had begun wearing it in a distant past, at the beginning of his baldness, to shelter his head from the cold. It was simply an integral part of his wardrobe. On bitter days, he would get out of bed frozen, and would hurry through his toilette to get to his fireside chair more quickly. On these days the toupee created all sorts of bizarre situations. Sometimes he had a sideburn in the middle of his forehead, sometimes over his eye; sometimes the toupee was even put on backwards. Then, when the weather became even colder, the shelter of the toupee was not enough; he needed a wool beret, as well. But in order to derive full benefit from the wool on his bald skull, he would put his

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beret on underneath, down low on his forehead, on his nape, over his ears, then the toupee hoisted on top, by God, with a wide hem of beret that peeked out around his whole head. ‘Dad, it’s a miracle!’ my brother would say. ‘A head of blond hair grown on top of a beret!’ I could fill a whole volume narrating the diversions of our evenings in this way; miserable diversions that were all very similar and that faded quickly. Now I think of those evenings and I am touched; I feel only the warm atmosphere of family, peace, intimacy. The immense distance to which time has pushed them doesn’t allow me to see their shadows. God, how boring those winter evenings were! The two old-timers always next to the fire; always the same little table pushed off a bit behind them, with the same lamp, and the same aunts with the same work. My brother always sulking because he couldn’t go out on the town, and yawning loudly enough to wake the dead. And my sister and I, always busy embroidering improbable flowers and monstrous animals, with all possible precision, onto some elegant trifle. Every now and then we would exclaim: ‘Oh God! It’s not even eight! It’s not even eight thirty!’ And so on, every half hour until our grandfather – always with our best interests at heart – would chime in with an order from on high, to quit our embroidery because it tired our eyes. ‘But we don’t know what else to do,’ we would respond. ‘Read.’ ‘We don’t have any books.’ ‘Read a Goldoni play.’ Our dear patriarch was a positivist. He dealt in, or rather had dealt in, physics, chemistry, the exact sciences. He had no love for sentimental flimsiness; he abhorred novels. One time a poor distant relative, whom he generously kept up in Turin during his university studies, decided to write a book, and found an editor to print it, perhaps as penance for his sins. By way of recognition, the young author dedicated that work to his benefactor, and sent him a copy of it. That’s the only time I remember seeing that man angry, that personification of indulgence and temperateness. He did not read a word; he didn’t even look at the title. He grabbed the book with his pincers (companion and constant distraction of his evenings) and put it in the

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fire; and until he saw the whole thing burned, he jabbed at the coals with greater rage than usual. And that very day he cut off his relative’s allowance. ‘I don’t want to bear the burden of having encouraged his bad instincts,’ he would say. ‘When he doesn’t have money in his pockets, he’ll be forced to work, and that will put his head back in order.’ With ideas like these, it’s easy to understand what delightful readings our library held. Besides an infinite number of scientific works, there were the theatrical works of Goldoni and Alfieri. Goldoni was the only literary author who had found grace in the eyes of our patriarch. ‘This much was true, he showed life as it really was; he didn’t invent exaggerated passions, he portrayed real flesh-and-blood men and women like us, with our virtues and our vices, and without fantasies, without extravagance. Those were the books that made you strong, calmed the spirit, and didn’t corrupt young minds. Later, he bought Alfieri’s theatre, hoping to find in them the same qualities that he so esteemed in Goldoni. But this was a great disappointment. Those academic heroes, those quivering passions, those rhetorical tirades only exasperated him. He had never met anyone, in eighty years of life, who actually spoke in that way. Those men and women – always so furious, who killed and allowed themselves to be killed with the ease with which one had one’s tooth pulled, who lived in the clouds – seemed mad to him, they made his head spin. As soon as we girls returned from college he placed the Alfieri under lock and key. ‘If they read this stuff, good-by laundry list,’ he would say, ‘good-by shopping lists, good-by good sense. They’ll get it into their heads that they’re going to marry a hero and wind up never getting married at all!’ That left Goldoni. The positivist and realist author of domestic scenes, full of bourgeois gossip and untroubled loves. And every time he felt the need to propose some distraction for those blessed winter evenings, his refrain was always the same, ‘Read one of Goldoni’s plays.’ We had read them all, reread them, reread them again; we knew them by heart, and they were so etched into our minds that my broth-

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ers and I, for sport, would often talk for hours at a time in Martellian verse3 (may the nine Muses forgive us!), but the rhymes and meters were always right. If in that profound boredom books of short stories had appeared, books in which were narrated no novelistic passions to anger the old patriarch, and that sketched pleasing and moving scenes to delight the young, it would have been a blessing. We would have read a short story every evening, we would have discussed it for a quarter of an hour without having pity on the poor author, bedtime would have arrived, and we would have ended up saying, ‘Despite it all, it passed the time ...’ And in view of this we would have forgiven all of its flaws, and the next day we would have welcomed it back again, and again and again until we had reached the last page. Later we would have forgotten it; oh, well; that’s the fate of books whose only purpose is to entertain; once the goal is met the means are no longer necessary. But later, if another volume of the same author’s work had come our way, it would have received the same welcome. There are an infinite number of people who pass their evenings as we passed ours. They are the typical family that keeps each other company, loves each other, gets bored together; the same people that inspired the poetry of the hearth. Then there is another infinite number of families, whose Dad is out for one reason, whose brothers are out for another, and the ladies pass their evenings at home amongst themselves. Then there are the others, in which the Mom is still young, or believes herself to be so, and goes to the theatre, circulates in public society; and the young ladies who are not meant to frequent the theatre, are not meant to see the ballet, are not meant to hear things in conversation, they stay at home alone. Or perhaps it is all of the young members of a family that go out and enjoy themselves, and it is the grandmother, the aunt, the elderly relative that faces the prospect of a long evening between the brazier and the lamp. These lonely and bored people, in that time of loneliness and boredom, are open to indulgence, as were my brothers and I during our long family evenings. And it’s to them that I tell my meagre little stories, asking that they receive the same welcome that I would have given little stories like these, had someone mercifully thought to write them for me.

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NOTES 1 Opera house in Milan, founded in 1778. 2 Giuseppe Giusti was the author of the Dizionario dei proverbi italiani (Raccolta di proverbi toscani) (Dictionary of Italian Proverbs [Collection of Tuscan Proverbs]), first published in 1852. The dictionary was called, by metonymy, the Giusti. 3 Metric form invented by Italian dramatist, essayist, and poet Pier Jacopo Martello (1665–1727) to compete with the French alexandrin. A Martellian verse is composed of two seven-syllable verses together in one line, making a single verse of fourteen syllables, with strong caesura and usually in rhymed couplets.

Learn a Trade for a Rainy Day* MARCHESA COLOMBI Translated by Lina Insana

Odda was twenty-eight years old. Her parents had both died and she was unmarried. She lived alone in one of her villas in Ameno on Lake Orta: alone with her brushes, which she used masterfully; with her father’s sayings; and with a dream that was all her own. Her father’s maxims, which Odda had adopted, could be summed up for the most part in the following proverb: ‘Learn a trade for a rainy day.’ Only he meant it to be applied to young girls, to their upbringing. As for Odda’s dream ... but it’s better, dear ladies, that you see for yourselves, letting the story be your guide. This is how it all happened. Odda had finished a genre painting, and had sent it to the Brera exposition.1 Not this year, though ... I beg you, dear lady readers, not to look for it in the catalogue as I’d rather not mention any names. Sending a painting to be considered for exposition is a rather easy thing to do. But you always need a relative, a friend, someone, to receive it, make sure that it hasn’t been damaged in transit, present it, have it installed, and look after many other small details. The relative, she had: one of her father’s brothers. But he was a businessman, who didn’t admire art in general, and in fact hated it in women, who, in his opinion, were created and put on this earth only ... well, certainly not to create and put paintings, or books, or statues, on this earth. So the relative, she had, but it was as if she didn’t have one. *‘Impara l’arte e mettila da parte,’ 1879; originally published in 1877 in Scene nuziali under the title ‘Storiella pedante’

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The friend, she didn’t have at all. She had to find someone. That someone was a painter, whose paintings Odda had admired, studied, and copied. She had even bought some of them, which made her quite happy with herself, but more still simply happy to own them. His name was Fulvio ... and he had a last name, too. But Odda’s information ended here. Who was he? What was he like? Young? Old? Rich? Poor? Handsome? Homely? She knew no more of all of this than you do, dear ladies. She knew, however, that she was ideally in love with him, which you all must know too, by this time. With your women’s intuition you’ve gathered this just from the introduction. So Odda had written a note to Mr Fulvio and had begged him, in the name of their fraternal, artistic bond, and for the sake of courtesy for a lady, to take on the responsibility of receiving her painting, presenting it, installing it, and looking after many other small details. And Mr Fulvio, courteous man that he was, had answered her, thanking her for her gesture of artistic brotherhood, and accepting the task enthusiastically. And later he had voiced, in four serial entries in a daily newspaper, his admiration for lady Odda’s artistic talent. Odda read that assessment with a joy not unlike that felt by the chosen few who will read their sentence on Judgment Day in the valley of Jehosephat. She memorized it and built a colossal castle in the air on that paper foundation. The exposition was about to close; Uncle Giorgio, the iconoclast relative, had just returned from the country with his family: a twentythree-year-old daughter and a widowed middle-aged sister. Odda was just arriving at her uncle’s house herself, to see what had become of her painting, and to either collect it or collect its take if it had been sold. She had arrived on the midnight train and gone to bed straightaway, and the next morning, waking up a bit later than usual, found her uncle in the dining room arguing with his sister on her account. ‘A woman’s art,’ he was saying, ‘is to be a good wife and mother. That is the only true and whole thought that you women are capable of having; that’s where your happiness lies, your glory. Family, and only family.’ ‘And who says anything different, Uncle?’ interjected Odda, who had heard these last few words. ‘You yourself do, child, and so do your poor father’s paradoxes.

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Have you ever seen anything stranger? You have a beautiful, strong, good girl, and instead of making her the mother of a family, you make an artist out of her, a phenomenon!’ ‘But do you believe that, if I had found a man that met my standards, I wouldn’t have preferred him to my brushes and palette? And that my father wouldn’t have approved of that preference? Hah! Do you? Father wanted me to learn an art, and if I had wanted he would have had me learn a science, or something else altogether, only to give me a passion to fall back on. He used to say: ‘Girls that don’t do anything serious start to believe that they’ve been put on this earth only to find a husband, and only think about that unknown, intangible x. They make themselves pretty only to please that x; they acquire a certain culture, so that they are interesting to x; they don’t acquire too much, as to not overshadow x; they are domestic, economical, honest, only to reassure x. And when they have aged without ever finding it, they no longer know why they should keep those qualities that they cultivated for the x, and so they let them go. And they convince themselves that they have failed in their mission in life, and they become irritable, untrustworthy, jealous; or, if they’re good-natured, they become kindly. Give a woman a noble and serious occupation that impassions her for its own sake, independent of the quest for a husband. If a husband comes along, she’ll love him despite her occupation; and if he doesn’t come along, she’ll continue to work and to love her work. She will always have her idealism, a love of life. That’s what Father used to say.’ ‘But what I don’t understand’ observed her uncle, ‘is exactly why a woman who is not a monster can’t find a husband.’ ‘But that’s easy to understand,’ answered Odda, ‘since the world is full of spinsters. But even those that find a husband don’t always find the kind that Father would have liked, and that I would like. Raised with the idea that they have to marry early, and that not to marry is an embarrassment, girls start to worry if they’re not yet brides at twenty. They fear being spinsters like they fear the inferno itself. Night and day, they think and dream of wedding proposals. And as soon as an acceptable match presents itself, they accept, not because they love that man-match, but to flee the danger of being an old maid.’ ‘Let’s settle the question of love before we get to marriage,’ said Uncle Giorgio with irony. ‘Precisely,’ affirmed Odda. ‘Love is essential. It’s the only guarantee of happiness that a couple has. Two people that join together without love, maybe they can learn to love each other after some time together,

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but it’s also possible that they won’t. And it seems to me too great a chance to take. Love should lead to marriage, not the other way around.’ ‘That’s just wordplay,’ her uncle continued maliciously. ‘I’ll explain. And, if Aunt Claudina will allow, I’ll explain it with an example.’ ‘By all means,’ said the widow, guessing that Odda wanted to speak of her. ‘By all means. We’re all family.’ ‘Well. Aunt Claudina was twenty-five years old ... There’s no reason to hide it, right?’ ‘No, no, go on.’ ‘Those aren’t the years she’s hiding,’ laughed Uncle Giorgio, ‘it’s the rest of them ...’ ‘She was twenty-five years old,’ Odda continued, ‘and she was in love with someone. Someone who didn’t know about her feelings.’ ‘Excuse me,’ her aunt interrupted, ‘let me tell this story since I know it better. That someone knew perfectly well that I was in love with him, and he had done his best to achieve that. But if it was nice to be loved, to be publicly pursued by an elegant young woman, it was still nicer to have his freedom. And so he would push that famous conjugal chain (whose Gordian knot he feared) into the shadows of an undetermined future time. One day a Mr Such and Such of the Such and Suches, thirty years old, presented himself to the young woman’s father with a nice position, an income of 15,000 lire, and no fear of the Gordian knot. “What to do?” thought the young woman. “If my other suitor doesn’t make up his mind, I should be an old maid?” And frightened by that ridiculous threat, she married the rich, handsome, young man, saying, “I’ll love him in time.”’ ‘But she never loved him. He felt the consequences of his wife’s coldness, first hurt by it, then bored, then disgusted. Both of them being honest and faithful people, they made each other unhappy by turns. ‘And in the end, they had to invoke Alexander’s sword together to cut that Gordian knot that they had tied in the hope of growing to love each other. They lived apart for three years, then her husband died in England, far from his country and his wife, who remained in a house not her own, a burden to herself and to others.’ Aunt Claudina was a bit troubled after that summary of her gloomy life, and Odda, gesturing towards her, said to Uncle Giorgio: ‘Now look. If that young woman, instead of spending all of her unmarried

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life waiting for a husband, and the rest of it worrying about him, had divided her time between her domestic obligations and an art, she would have developed a passion for it, and the twenty-five years before her marriage would not have seemed so long, nor would the prospect of a life without a husband have seemed so bleak. She would have thought: “If that man ever decides to overcome his fear of the Gordian knot, I’ll find happiness between him and my art. If not, I’ll always have the art, and so my life will have purpose.” And she wouldn’t have married that other man, making both of them so unhappy.’ ‘Yes, but these are the exceptions,’ retorted her uncle. ‘They’re not the exceptions; they’re among the many exceptions. There’s also the exception of those who marry without love, and after a while resign themselves to separate lives, with separate apartments, separate habits, separate relationships. Then the other exception of the husband who loves his wife, and the friend whom she loves. Then the other exception of the wife who is her husband’s lover, but who is ignored by him, who spins her feelings and boredom in the confines of her home, while her husband has his fun outside of it. And then the other exception of the conscientious wife, who fights off a feeling of estrangement from her family, and is faithful but unhappy.’ ‘And you, childless, unmarried, alone in your empty house, are you happy because you paint pictures?’ ‘Now it’s not about me, Uncle Giorgio, I said that art is a passion to fall back on. If I were unhappy, it would be enough to console me, to protect me from petty jealousies, from negative thoughts; to give me personal value, which would help me avoid the nonsense, and if need be, it would help me earn my living.’ This squabble threatened to go on all day, with the only result being that everyone remained convinced of his own opinion. But fortunately for them, dear ladies, at that moment a servant arrived with a letter that Uncle Giorgio related to the ladies. Dear Giorgio, I have done like the bee that flies from garden to garden, sucks the flowers and then leaves, without turning to see if its kiss has withered them; then, when Spring has passed, and his body has been worn by flight, closes himself in the hive to deposit his honey. I have fluttered about stealing sweet kisses from France to England

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to Germany; and now that Spring’s sun has set behind my forty-five years, taking with it my youthful curiosity, my youthful courage, I, too, return to my beautiful Milanese hive. I don’t have much to deposit with you, but if you can help me to find a young, honest, and good partner, I believe that between the two of us we might have enough to make a decent honeymoon. In short, I want to find a wife. Think about it a bit and, first of all, prepare dinner for me, because I’ll be in Milan on the next train. Yours, Leonardo Leoni ‘A good match for Valeria,’ said the incorrigible Uncle Giorgio. ‘What? Your daughter is too young for him,’ observed Aunt Claudina, turning red. ‘What does age have to do with it? If during his visit she were to make him fall in love with her ...’ ‘But she shouldn’t make him,’ Aunt Claudina insisted. ‘He’s a frivolous, disillusioned man who has lived the gallant life.’ And Aunt Claudina said all this very pointedly, because that Leoni was precisely the young man who had courted her when she was young, the one who had been so afraid of the Gordian knot. And now that he had returned ready to take a wife, and she was a widow ... But Uncle Giorgio wouldn’t hear any of it. ‘Prejudices, prejudices,’ he cried. They were all prejudices for him, compared to the absolute fact represented by a proposal of marriage. Leoni’s gallant ways were a thing of the past; he had had his youthful escapades, but now he wanted to take a wife, and as the proverb says: ‘In taking a wife one gains wisdom.’ Odda, instead, with her ideas and principles, was indignant at the idea of marrying off Valeria in that way. And she countered her uncle, formulating an argument that was so impassioned that her aunt, who had begun to turn red, ended up turning pale, and was struck by the suspicion that Odda was perhaps secretly in love with Leoni. Maybe she had met him in society when she still had her father and was living in Milan; and it was on his account that she had never wanted to get married, and had retreated to Ameno, where she had passed – in isolation and wrapped up in her work – all of the time that Leoni had been away, etc. etc. Aunt Claudina spent the whole day cataloguing evidence in support of her suspicions. In the evening, finding herself alone with Odda, she

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said to her: ‘So, why are we protesting this marriage anyway? If it were to make the girl happy ...?’ ‘You, too, Aunt Claudina? We’re protesting because Valeria is young and Leoni is old. Because Valeria is young and affectionate, and he has frittered away what little goodness and emotion he had in the ravages of a loose life. Because Valeria, who is afraid of becoming an old, ridiculous spinster with no prospect of marriage, would not know what to do with her activities and her enthusiasm, and will accept the proposal, just to get married. And then she’ll realize that she doesn’t love him, isn’t loved by him, and she’ll be unhappy.’ ‘But, what if, instead of twenty-three-year-old Valeria, it were a more mature woman who had her hopes set on Leoni?’ ‘If she were only hoping, trying to discern some unknown match in the distant future, whatever the woman’s age, I would say to her as well: “Don’t go into a marriage with a cool head, my lady, let love lead you by the hand. Don’t fear: love is in the ground, it’s in the air, it’s in nature. It will come.”’ ‘And if the ground, the air, nature had already announced their yield? If this mature woman loved Leoni?’ ‘Then she would have no choice but to try and have her affections returned and marry him.’ Was she referring to herself? Was she protesting on her own account, to try and have her own affections returned? Aunt Claudina didn’t know what to think about this. And yet it mattered a great deal to her to find out. She thought that it was better to address the question head-on, and, not wasting any time, asked point blank: ‘And you, Odda, don’t you feel the absence of love in your life? Don’t you want a family?’ ‘Until last year I had Father ...’ ‘Really, one’s parents aren’t enough to satisfy the aspirations of a young life.’ ‘That’s true,’ confessed Odda sincerely. ‘I’ve dreamt of having my own family, with its pink and blue picture frames. But it’s off in the distance. What am I supposed to do? Do you want me to sit here day after day with my head in my hands wondering if it will come or not? Or, to accept the first proposal that comes my way, make him the leading man in my play, only to risk discovering that that role isn’t for him, and ruining the whole production?’ ‘So you’re saying that off in the distance, that’s where your leading man is?’

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‘Yes, but far, far off. You have to realize that I don’t even know him yet.’ ‘So he’s a dream?’ ‘No, he’s real. But he wasn’t introduced to me, and in our circles, as much as one is appreciated for one’s imagination, for as much as he might have had her in his thoughts for years, a man can’t really say that he knows a woman until some puppet makes it official: “Mr Such; Miss Such” and until we’ve curtsied for each other. This hasn’t happened, and so I don’t know him, and it could be that he thinks of me in the way that one thinks about the Orient.’ Finding reasons to torment yourself, even in those things that are supposed to be reassuring, is one of the fundamental properties of jealousy. Aunt Claudina thought: ‘That’s it. It’s him. She knows him, but has never been introduced. She must have seen him, heard him talking with that ease that’s his alone, must know about the passions that he’s inspired, his adventures, must have gotten herself excited about him.’ But while she was worrying herself over these bees in her bonnet, poor Aunt Claudina had a much more dangerous rival than Odda. Uncle Giorgio had gone to visit the girl, and had told her of his plans: Leoni had a great, great deal. She mustn’t pay any attention to age, because men – God bless them! – never age. And so, since Leoni was prepared to take a wife, he, Father, believed that it wouldn’t be prudent to let this match go. Valeria believed that her father was perfectly right. She felt a pang in her heart, and in that moment her future seemed as dire as a death sentence. But she agreed to meet Leoni, and she was ready to put her best foot forward, to try to make him like her, and to marry him if she could manage it. Odda, who was alone in counting on the girl’s opposition to the marriage, began to lose heart when she saw her walk into the room with a hairstyle that she never wore at home and, sitting down to the piano, to practise an unpleasant piece that would have scared away all of the suitors in the world, had Valeria’s beautiful figure not distracted their attention from that acoustic torture. ‘Why so done up, Valeria?’ asked Odda. ‘In your honour,’ said the young lady, continuing to rush through her sharps and flats. ‘Exclusively in my honour?’ ‘You expect an exclusive homage?’ ‘Asking is not answering; but I have already understood that, if I

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were expecting it, I’d be disappointed.’ And drawing near to Valeria, and leaning on the back of her chair, she continued: ‘Admit it, child, you didn’t put this outfit together for me.’ ‘Not only for you, there!’ ‘Good. Now you’re being honest. And that bundle of trills and grace notes, who is that supposed to impress?’ ‘Oh this, not you, that’s for sure. You, always mocking the young lady of the house’s playing. Always expecting that the arts be studied so seriously ...’ Odda at that moment wasn’t in the mood to defend her theories. She reflected for a moment, then, without any segue, passing next to the piano and looking Valeria straight in the eyes, said to her: ‘And you would agree to that marriage?’ ‘Why not?’ replied the young lady indifferently. ‘Why not? Because no, child, because it shouldn’t be, it can’t be.’ And seeing Valeria laughing caustically as she bit her lips, peevishly striking a la with her nervous little finger, Odda pulled a stool over to her side, and taking her affectionately by the waist, told her: ‘Listen, Valeria. You’re not the ingénue in a play. You know that there are husbands and wives, and also lovers. You know that there is a feeling called love that runs a vast gamut, from the budding and hidden attraction that you bring back from a dance, an encounter, a stroll, and that you cultivate in the depths of your soul, where it lives and dies unknown; to the impetuous tempests of novels and melodramas, that often have more than a grain of truth to them.’ Valeria, still striking the la with her nervous little finger, observed with a trace of irony: ‘My dear Odda, by dint of being alone, and of only corresponding with the world in written form, you’ve learned to talk just like a book. You should be careful not to take this to extremes.’ ‘Oh, what do I care,’ the painter exclaimed. Then, resuming her affectionate tone, she continued: ‘Listen to me, Valeria. Don’t sacrifice intimacy – the intimacy that can open hearts and do some real good – for the sake of conventional ideas, of naive customs. You can tell me, I never laugh at your feelings, you know that; tell me: has your heart never heard even one note from love’s whole grand scale?’ Valeria placed her index finger on a low do, and running it quickly along the keyboard played all of the keys in a rapid-fire scale, then said with her usual smile: ‘All of them!’ Odda started in surprise. She thought for a minute as if she were try-

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ing to resolve a problem, then, her face darkening, asked, ‘And have you ever gotten a note of reply from another heart?’ Valeria rested her hands on the piano, performed a quick chromatic scale, then responded, laughing like a sceptic at Odda’s shock: ‘All of them, even the sharps.’ ‘And you would marry Leoni?’ Odda asked, dumbfounded. ‘Hm!’ Valeria said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘That’s it, then, he’s the one that you’re in love with.’ ‘What do you mean? I’ve never even seen his face.’ ‘It’s possible to love someone you’ve never seen, you know.’ ‘But that phoenix won’t be Leoni.’ ‘Valeria, what is this enigma? Do you want to marry a stranger, an old man, even though you love another and are loved by him too?’ ‘My dear, that’s the stuff of romance novels.’ ‘Child, don’t you understand,’ exclaimed Odda, frightened by such scepticism, ‘that in love the romance novel is reality? That there is a romance novel in every woman’s life, that there must be? And that, if you don’t write it with your husband you’ll write it with someone else?’ ‘Rest assured,’ said Valeria with a disheartened tranquillity that contrasted with Odda’s excitement, ‘that if that other one were here asking me to write him into the role of my husband, I’d be happy to oblige. But he’s not here. He courts me, he even loves me. But he’s young, brilliant, he has a lively mind, a good name, and maybe, for him, thinking of getting married is tantamount to thinking about your own cremation. I, on the other hand, think about it; I have to think about it because I’m on the verge of becoming an old maid. I don’t have an art like you do to occupy my thoughts. The only thing they’ve taught me is how to be a lady. I don’t have any personal resources. If I don’t have my own family to busy myself with, maybe I’ll spend my life gossiping about my neighbours, talking nonsense about politics, raising and petting my dogs, sticking my nose into other people’s business, and making a nuisance of myself. Don’t you think that it’s better to marry an invalid, as long as you have a role in society?’ ‘But doesn’t your love count for anything? And that other man with whom you’ll rendezvous – perhaps even often – and who’ll be more handsome than your husband, younger than your husband, more intelligent, more in love?’ ‘That other man ... Look; in front of the justice of the peace, you rip the other man from your heart.’ And she pretended to rip him out,

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feverishly pulling her dress from her chest. ‘You put him there, between two pages of the civil code, and you close him up tight to dry, just like a poor withered flower.’ ‘Poor child!’ sighed Odda. ‘I don’t know what you think, but I never expected any more than that. That other man isn’t husband material. For men, marriage is an invalid body, and the women that marry them become their sisters of charity. But rest assured; I’ll respect my vows; I won’t give anyone any reason to speak ill of me. Indeed! It’s for that very reason that I’m getting ready to legally seduce Mr Leoni and his venerable half-century.’ At lunchtime, when the women emerged to greet the guest of honour, Odda appeared in an outfit so elegant and tasteful that the ‘lion’ felt compelled to praise her as one might praise a personal talent or gift. She was wearing a long black velvet dress, with a square neckline and short sleeves. The skirt was adorned with a train, rich with yellowed white blonde lace, which was attached to the skirt with a large bouquet of red geraniums and lemon verbena. The neckline was also trimmed with old blonde lace, with a bouquet of geraniums. Her black hair, pulled back on her neck, like you see on Greek statues, was braided with large yellow pearls, and decorated with a bouquet of geraniums and lemon verbena. Odda had an elegant figure: tall, thin, curvy without being heavy; she had the fresh complexion of robust and easy-going people; her eyes, as black as her hair, were fascinating in their serenity, and her mouth smiled the smile of goodness. Valeria’s rose dress was completely overshadowed; and Aunt Claudina, who had carefully picked out a youthful pink and light blue dress for the occasion, appeared a bit more mature than she really was, because her pronounced figure seemed all that much larger in those light colours. In the absence of the head of household’s wife to occupy the centre of the table, across from the guest, that honour naturally fell to Aunt Claudina, who in setting the table had placed her own place card with Leoni’s to the right of it. But when the time came to be seated at the table, while the older woman was rising to invite Leoni to join her, he hastened to offer his arm to Odda. Aunt Claudina agreed to be escorted by another guest, but during

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lunch proved to be a difficult companion for her neighbour, asking him if by any chance in China the diners have the custom of offering their arm to escort a lady to the table before the lady of the house had chosen her cavalier. ‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been to China,’ responded Leoni. ‘Then you must have travelled among the redskins.’ Valeria, by contrast, gave no sign of disrespect. Her thoughts turned to the impassioned speech that Odda had given her that morning, and said to herself: ‘Poor Odda! Why didn’t she tell me that she loved him herself? She was pushing me towards my novel, for fear that I would change the outcome of her own.’ And, good-hearted by nature, she calmly gave up that marriage. She wouldn’t have gotten in the way of a friend’s happiness for anything in the world. Odda had never displayed such wit as that night. She showed herself in a truly seductive light. Leoni seemed to have grown ten years younger just for the chance to court her. The hours passed in witty words, in small flirtations; no one thought to ask Valeria to play the piece that she had learned. It was her father who, as soon as he took leave of his guests, said to his daughter: ‘Won’t you play something for us on the piano, Valeria?’ ‘Oh, yes, of course; la sonate de mademoiselle votre fille,’ said Odda with an irony that no one had ever found in her beautiful voice before that evening. Valeria did not respond to her cousin’s harsh comment, nor did she seem to be offended in any way. She played Parigi, o cara without variations, and, the first one to laugh at the joke, said that she didn’t know anything else. But, going back to her room, she walked slowly, with her head bowed, so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not notice the infinite number of white drops that the tallow candle were crying on her pinkcoloured dress. She thought: ‘If love makes even beautiful souls like Odda jealous and conniving, it’s better to be sceptical and marry an invalid than to have my heart broken. But I will not try to marry her invalid. That one or another one, it’s all the same to me!’ Odda, by contrast, was triumphant, and her heart was bursting with joy. ‘I even managed to make him fall in love with me,’ she said to herself, gazing at her own reflection in the mirror while she let down her

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magnificent hair. And she laughed at her own face, and at a joyous thought that passed through her head. The next day, she got up promptly, put on an elegant but casual morning dress, bronze coloured, with velvet arabesques trimmed in gold, gathered her hair in a net of polished gold thread, and slipped on two bronzed leather slippers with a large gold buckle, bright as the sun. She smiled again at the reflection of her coquettish ensemble in the mirror, and she hurried to the drawing room, saying to herself: ‘He’ll come; I’m sure that he’s got his eye on me.’ In fact, she had scarcely had the time to sit down in a little chair and act as if she were reading a newspaper, when Leoni walked in. After the exchange of greetings and some idle introductory remarks, he asked her permission to smoke a cigar. Odda had no objections; as a matter of fact she liked the smell of cigars. ‘I’m very happy that you like it,’ said Leoni, leaning on those words to make it clear to her that they had a secret meaning. Odda hastened to take them in with the excessive gratification of a woman in love. ‘What would it matter to you if I liked it or not?’ she asked. ‘It matters a great deal because I smoke all the time.’ ‘Locomotive trains smoke all the time, and it doesn’t matter to them whether I love their horrible carbon stench.’ ‘Locomotives don’t feel anything. I am not a locomotive.’ ‘You’re just as well travelled as one: in a month you’ll be smoking in London or Paris or Paraguay, and your smoke won’t please or displease me.’ ‘Do you know why I’ve always travelled, until now?’ asked Leoni with an engaging look. ‘To enjoy yourself, I imagine.’ ‘No. I have travelled because I was alone, and my house was a cold place.’ ‘You didn’t have any radiators?’ ‘Enough, don’t tease me. It was morally cold; and I couldn’t find a woman to heat it for me.’ ‘You travelled because you were single, in other words.’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘And wouldn’t it have been easier to take a wife than to travel the globe? Railway stocks would rise in direct proportion to the number of single men if everyone felt as you did.’

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‘You’re forgetting about honeymoons, young lady.’ Then, becoming serious again, he continued: ‘Getting married is easy to say and easy to do. But I knew women well. I found them to have more vanity than heart; a great deal of coquettishness; very little gravity; little understanding of a sense of family; too much attention to fun. In any case ... I would have preferred a perfect woman and I couldn’t find her.’ ‘If that’s the case you can leave on the next train out; the perfect woman doesn’t exist. And neither does the perfect man; hardly.’ ‘I’ll let that one go, but I must defend all women on behalf of one. There is one perfect woman, just one.’ ‘And you didn’t marry her?’ ‘I only met her yesterday.’ ‘My aunt?’ ‘What! I have a good mind for dates. What a curse ...’ ‘My cousin, then?’ ‘Not at all.’ ‘Your mind for dates can’t have bothered you on her account.’ ‘I didn’t even notice them.’ ‘Be careful, I could take this as a declaration.’ ‘Do take it,’ Leoni said, lowering his voice a semitone to bring it to a note of passion. And without leaving her the time to reply he continued, ‘I have found in you the beauty, the spirit, the education that I have sought in all the others in vain. I know that you have the beautiful talent of an artist and the beautiful heart of a woman. I know that you’re a good person, unpretentious, courageous; that you have every virtue ...’ ‘And in return you offer me your jaded heart, a past ... that I don’t want to know, a future that will be what it will be. In return for every virtue you give yourself. The Montyon prize!’2 ‘Why do you mock me? Why do you scorn me? I lived the same life as any other young man, after all; I’m no more guilty than any other; and I offer myself for what I am.’ ‘But in return for every virtue. You’re very modest. But you see, I too can claim modesty among my virtues, and I refuse the Montyon prize that you are offering me.’ Leoni was a man of the world; and he withstood that lash with a regretful air, and with the respect that a gentleman always maintains in front of a lady. But his self-confidence was deeply injured, and when Odda was about to leave the salon he said in a low voice: ‘Either my

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vanity was playing tricks on me last night or you’ve decided to punish my past with a cruel joke.’ Odda turned around, cordially gave him her hand, and said to him: ‘What do you think? That my pedantry goes to such lengths as to want to punish just anyone for his past? No, forgive me. I acted poorly, perhaps, but I swear that I have not taken the liberty of a cruel joke. This is all serious, very serious ...’ ‘But then ...’ interrupted Leoni, seizing on a ray of hope that seemed to teeter on those words. ‘Hear me out. I feared, indeed I was certain, that my cousin would have caught your eye and your fancy. From the letter that you wrote to Uncle Giorgio, I discovered your intention to find a wife and also discovered your age, your past ... Tell me, honestly, do you really think you still have so much poetry in your heart, so much youthful sentiment, so much ahead of you that you can make a twenty-three-yearold woman happy? Tell me, do you think so?’ ‘But I didn’t have your cousin in mind’, replied Leoni, mortified, perhaps for the first time in his life, and resolute. ‘I was thinking of you, serious, generous, not a slave to society ...’ ‘And twenty-eight years old, go ahead, you can say it. But if I hadn’t put myself forward, if I hadn’t tried to catch your eye with a coquettishness that makes me laugh at myself, it would have been Valeria that you would have thought of; and you’d be asking for her hand and not mine. And that girl, who doesn’t know the world as I do, might have accepted your offer, making both of you unhappy.’ ‘Both of us, that’s a compliment.’ ‘If you would have me think that you don’t have enough heart left in you to be afflicted by your wife’s unhappiness ... At any rate this is the reason that I gave myself over to flirtatiousness. I wanted to cheapen your offer with a refusal, to stop you from repeating it to Valeria, and to stop Valeria from accepting it. And now, will you pardon me?’ Leoni bowed down, and took her hand with deep respect. Not the deep Christofle respect that lends itself to signing some aimless letter; but the real kind, that finds its way even into disillusioned hearts. And he would have happily given ten years of the life ahead of him to be able – with a shred of hope – to repeat to that charming spinster the proposal that she had refused. That same day Odda received a letter from the Academy of Brera in which they announced to her that her painting was among those cho-

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sen to be acquired by the Academy itself, and inviting her to go there in person to finalize the conditions of the contract. Odda didn’t have the slightest propensity for business, she didn’t understand any of it. Once again, it was a matter of turning to a relative, to a friend, to someone who would take on the responsibility of representing her, and her interests. But the relative, the only one, Uncle Giorgio, had a new bone to pick with the painter. The night before he had been dumbstruck seeing Odda flirting with Leoni. At heart, deep at heart, he was a good man, and palettes aside, that only daughter of his only brother was dear to him. Short of putting in his money, or his two cents for that matter, he would have done anything to see her married. So he harboured no hard feelings about the outrage that Odda had committed against her cousin by taking her husband out from under her very nose. ‘Everyone does what he has to do,’ he said with his businessman’s logic. ‘Odda is twenty-eight years old; marrying is a more urgent matter for her than it is for Valeria. And if this cures her of her theories on love and art, and makes her a woman like other women, I happily agree to give up my own plan to adopt hers.’ But when he heard from Leoni in the morning that Odda had refused his offer of marriage, he didn’t know what to think, and felt deeply offended. ‘If she didn’t want him for herself, why steal him away from Valeria? I knew that she was eccentric, but not to this extent. So neither one will have him. A lost match.’ And he said this as if he were to say ‘unused capital.’ In this state of mind, it’s easy to imagine his response to Odda’s plea regarding the Academy business. ‘If you want there to be peace between us,’ he said to her, ‘don’t speak to me again about your paintings.’ So, once again, there was no relative to help poor Odda. And no friend either. She had to find someone all over again to turn to; the same someone who had received and presented her painting at the exhibit, Mr Fulvio ... and a last name. Odda wrote him another note, informing him that she was in Milan, that she would have liked to meet him, and that the difficulties surrounding that famous painting were not yet resolved.

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Did he want to continue his guardianship? Would he like to pay her a visit? In the afternoon they were all in the salon, and they were having their coffee after breakfast when the servant announced Mr Fulvio. Odda blushed and was visibly confused. Her heart was leaping. She didn’t dare to speak for fear that her voice would waver. She had thought about him for two years, she had created an ideal image in her mind, and had become enamoured of it. Nevertheless she was able to control her own excitement, gave him her hand, and said, laughing, ‘But I don’t have any right to speak to you, nor to introduce you around, since I’ve never been formally introduced to you myself.’ Then turning to the servant she ordered him seriously: ‘Announce us as well.’ The servant obeyed, and repeated everyone’s names. That imaginative trick made the guests laugh, and each one in turn bowed and offered his or her hand to Fulvio. ‘That takes care of the introduction,’ said Odda, ‘we’ve finally met.’ Aunt Claudina, who had her eyes fixed on Odda, with a very different disposition from the one she had revealed the day before, noticed Odda’s agitation, remembered what she had told her about her ideal love for a person that she did not know, and moving next to her she whispered: ‘Is that him?’ ‘Yes,’ responded Odda, clasping her hand. ‘You must forgive me, Odda, I had my doubts about you,’ Aunt Claudina resumed. ‘That I loved Leoni?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You didn’t think you were wronging me in any way, since you love him yourself.’ ‘You knew?’ ‘No. But this morning you didn’t escape quickly enough. Leaving the salon, where I had been with Leoni, I saw your dressing gown disappearing at the end of the hall and I guessed.’ ‘It’s true, I followed you, and I heard everything.’ ‘Poor Aunt Claudina!’ said Odda, thinking about the disappointment she must have felt. This hushed exchange took place over the course of a minute, while Uncle Giorgio was introducing Leoni and his family to Fulvio with a very serious air.

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When Odda and her aunt turned to join the guests, Uncle Giorgio was saying, pointing to Valeria: ‘And this is my daughter.’ Valeria was red as a beet, and as embarrassed as a schoolgirl, Valeria who was never confused; she murmured without looking at Fulvio; ‘We’ve already met.’ ‘Yes sir,’ said the painter. ‘I had the pleasure of seeing the young lady, and meeting her at the last dance at the casino.’ Aunt Claudina, who didn’t remember this, and didn’t dare say so for fear of offending Fulvio, watched him and Valeria in a state of stupor. ‘You weren’t there, Aunt Claudina,’ replied Valeria, reading her mind. ‘Do you remember that I went to the last dance with the Tali girls and their mother?’ They discussed the exhibit. The aunt and niece had been there two days prior. Valeria, who, after getting over the first moments, had reacquired her normal confidence, spoke of it with great interest. And how much she knew! She knew that Mr Fulvio was showing three genre paintings and a seascape. The painting in the first room was well placed, in the light, where it had maximum effect. What effect! What a shame that Mr Flidgeby (she even knew the English name!) had bought it. What a shame! With that name, that painting was destined to go at least as far as London. By contrast, the painting in the second room was so poorly placed behind that enormous frame from a battle painting that it was completely hidden by it ... And so high! She had felt so offended ... Luckily, the Academy had chosen it, and after the exhibit it would be possible to see it placed in a better spot. And she could still see that little boy as if before her eyes; he was pouting so well that in walking away she had turned to see whether he hadn’t burst into tears ... Odda, with her eyes trained, and her heart tight in an icy grip, observed her cousin as she spoke. Her indifferent manner, her affectation of scepticism, had completely disappeared. Her eyes were glowing, her voice vivid, and enthusiasm and passion exuded from her entire being. What a moment it was for Odda! Poor girl. She reconsidered her own enthusiasms, her own passion that she had cultivated for so long in the depths of her heart. She too had all of those paintings etched into her memory. She had analysed them, copied them with endless love, and with her attention turned to that unknown artist, studying his imagination, his heart, his inspiration.

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And now, after two years, the day had come to meet that artist. She had waited for him with a racing heart, asking herself with the anguish of uncertainty: ‘Will he be handsome or courteous?’ Yes, he was handsome and courteous. But there, next to him, there was a girl who loved him herself, and whom he loved. Poor Odda! At a certain point, her weak human side reminded her that the day before she had, with all of her twenty-eight years, managed to eclipse her cousin. She remembered her own image, reflected in the mirror; it was noble and beautiful. Leoni, that man of gallant adventures, despite his great experience, had fallen at her feet. ‘What if Fulvio were to find me more beautiful? If he were to appreciate my wit? If he were to love me like Leoni? Who knows?’ But they were thoughts in the wind. Odda’s noble heart wasn’t one that passion could draw into disloyalty. ‘And Valeria?’ she quickly answered herself. ‘Valeria who loves him, she told me as much herself, because it was he that she was talking about yesterday.’ And here a glimmer of hope, that terrible deceiver, planted a doubt in her mind. ‘And if she wasn’t talking about him?’ So she approached the piano where the two young people were talking, ran her finger along the keyboard just as Valeria had done the day before, then asked her: ‘And now do you hear all of those notes?’ ‘Yes, all of them, all of them, even the sharps,’ said the young woman, reddening too much for a discussion that was not at all about music. Adieu, false hope! It was but another disappointment. ‘Odda went to sit by herself, and thought again of her art, her paintings’ success, her finished pieces, the bold designs of other works. But she thought of all this without passion, because she had lost that enthusiasm that had once given her courage, ambition, resolve. Even so, she didn’t allow herself to be defeated. If there ever was a moment to take comfort in the advantages of another passion besides love, this was it. ‘Why did I learn an art? Because Father gave it to me, if not to save me from living only for love, from allowing the sterile regrets of a misunderstood sentimentalism to render me ridiculous in my old age. He doesn’t love me? Too bad. My work – diligent, interesting, serious – will occupy my mind and my heart. I will be strong. Uncle Giorgio invited Fulvio to lunch so that he would have the time to discuss the painting with Odda.

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Odda arrived at lunch dressed in black, without the slightest pretence of elegance. ‘You’re not in the mood for conquests today?’ Valeria said to her. Odda was just about to explain herself, but Valeria didn’t give her the chance, and continued: ‘Odda, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Aunt Claudina told me everything. And there I was, thinking badly of you.’ ‘You really thought that I was in love with that old “lion?”’ ‘Forgive me; I didn’t know anything yesterday.’ ‘And today? What do you know today?’ ‘I know that you were playing a difficult, tiresome, compromising role to free me from a marriage that would have made me unhappy.’ ‘You don’t know anything else?’ Valeria looked at her with her proud eyes, eyes that reflected the sincerity of a character that never stoops to falsehoods. ‘I know that you are superior to the weaknesses of other women,’ she replied. ‘That you refused Leoni, that you would refuse anyone, that your only love is your art: that you have given up the passions of youth.’ ‘Yes, I’ve given them up,’ Odda said. ‘I swear to you that I’ve given them up.’ ‘But I also know,’ continued Valeria, ‘that you love me, and that you’ll do even more for me.’ Odda silently took her hand. Her heart was too full to answer her at that moment. She turned to Leoni, with whom she exchanged a few meaningless words, and when she had calmed herself went to sit next to Fulvio, spoke to him about her painting, and asked him to look after it. Then she added: ‘And wouldn’t you like to ask me a favour in return?’ ‘Do you think me so self-interested,’ answered Fulvio, ‘that I would ask compensation for a small service that I have not yet rendered?’ ‘I think you too polite to ask me for it, but self-interested enough to want it.’ And seeing that the young man was hesitant and seemed embarrassed, she continued: ‘I am the spinster of the family, and more than a relative; I’m Valeria’s friend. Go on, you can be honest with me.’ ‘But I don’t know if I dare try. Your uncle is so averse to artists.’ ‘No. My uncle is only averse to female artists. To male artists he grants the right to paint as many paintings as they like, on two conditions: that they make a lot of money from them, and that they don’t

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expect him to admire them. You’ve been meeting the first condition for quite some time, and I don’t think that you have too difficult a time with the second.’ ‘Indeed! With all the attention that you’ve been good enough to give my paintings, my ego couldn’t ask for anything more.’ ‘So?’ ‘So, if you think that my hopes are not too bold and unfounded, since you seem to know what’s in my heart, I place my destiny in your hands. Do with me what you will.’ If only he had said those words about her! Doing with him what she would; taking him into her solitude in Ameno, in her villa, full of memories and his paintings; on the shore of her lake, where she had spent so much time alone, thinking of her secret love; sharing the same life, with the same passion, the same art, twin minds ... Poor Odda! It was a cruel moment. That vanished dream came alive again in her thoughts, as splendid as it was desperate. She felt unhappy, disheartened, alone, miserable. She got up, a sob stuck in her throat, went quickly to her room, and gave herself over to desperate crying. In the face of such violent passions, strength of character is simply not enough. A woman is still a woman, and she needs to cry. But, once she paid that debt to human weakness, Odda called for her uncle and asked him – on behalf of her illustrious colleague – for Valeria’s hand. Fulvio was too well established, his name too esteemed as a man and as an artist for Uncle Giorgio to consider declining that proposal. ‘I was angry with you, Odda,’ he told her, ‘because you sent my plans for Leoni up in smoke. But you’re making up for it now. When it’s all said and done, this man works, he has more ahead of him, he’s even younger, since that seems to be so important to women. It’s a better match. Plus, you say that they’re in love ... Another thing that only women notice, but if you can make it all work out, all the better. But I don’t understand why, after all that flirting to catch Leoni’s fancy, you turned him down. He told me himself, that you turned him down.’ ‘Since he told you himself ...’ ‘Excuse me, but it’s crazy. You could marry him. You’re twenty-eight years old; the difference between you is already not so great. Plus, he doesn’t work, he could stay in Ameno as much as you like ... It would be perfect. He’s robust, good looking, with a calm disposition, he’s got it all.’ ‘Everything except one small thing, a trinket. And that’s to inspire a

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bit of love in me. Oh! Really, a mere trinket. But you know, Uncle, we women really notice those trinkets.’ ‘But why flatter him then?’ ‘Ah! It was the whim of a spinster. Didn’t you say that Father, in letting me learn an art, made me a real phenomenon? You can’t always understand a phenomenon.’ And without explaining herself further, she hastened to the dining room. Her aunt, two guests, and Valeria were waiting. Fulvio and Valeria looked anxiously at Odda’s face to read their sentence there, and seeing her as pale as a corpse, they trembled in fear for their love. In their youthful egoism they didn’t even suspect the existence of another love, sacrificing itself for their sake. Odda entered the room, beautiful in her heroic courage, smiled as she approached the guests (poor Odda!), took both of their hands, and said ‘Victory! Your father approves, and I join you in the name of the Father, of Aunt Claudina, and your old cousin.’ And with a gesture, she blessed them. Then turning to Valeria, she added: ‘See, you found happiness in my romance-novel advice.’ Her voice was filled with emotion, but everyone attributed it to the joy of the moment. Only her aunt, who knew her sad secret, guessed the agony that was tormenting her, and whispered to her: ‘But she found it at the cost of yours.’ ‘Oh! I have another love,’ replied Odda, taking her arm and leading her away from the others. ‘I’ll marry my brushes. Until now they’ve always been very good to me, they keep me company, and we’ve never had any family squabbles. Father used to say it himself: “Learn a trade for a rainy day.” Now the moment has come to reap what I’ve sown. It’s lucky that it’s there waiting for me.’ ‘How I admire you, Odda!’ exclaimed the poor aunt. ‘Your heart is so open, while mine is full of bile for Leoni because he doesn’t love me. I hate him, I hate everyone who is loved and happy. I hold everyone in great contempt, and I feel that if I were to see them all miserable, I’d enjoy it a great deal.’ ‘Oh, Aunt Claudina!’ ‘It’s terrible, Odda, but it’s true. I don’t know what to do with myself; I feel old and don’t know how to resign myself to it; I feel useless to the world; I don’t have anyone to love.’ ‘Don’t you love me a little, Aunt Claudina? Don’t you want me to try to console you?’

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‘Yes, Odda. This is exactly what I wanted from you. Tell me, do you need some poor creature to dust your paintings, to look after your palette? It seems to me that next to you, with your noble example, far from this petty and superficial society, growing older would be less painful. I could learn to keep myself busy with something less annoying than a miserable dead love affair that I can’t manage to rouse.’ Odda opened her arms to her and said to her as graciously as she could: ‘You are welcome, Aunt Claudina, in my modest villa. You will see that you wouldn’t be too unhappy there. The children in the town will admire you when you explain the profound mysteries of the reading primer, in a way that the protagonist of your love story never admired you. And when you tell them the stories of the Greeks and the Romans, they’ll love you like he never could.’ ‘How many rewards you find in your beautiful heart, Odda. I’ll bring a trunkful of primers, and I’ll memorize all of Cesare Cantù’s Universal History.’3 ‘You’re too eager, dear aunt. Remember, you’ll have other things to do, and your time will be precious there. There will be the elderly poor who will be waiting for a bit of broth to warm their stomachs; the sick poor who’ll need their medicine; there will be the hungry ones; the cold ones; and the poor little ones that the Eternal Father, in a moment of distraction, must have sent to the earth without remembering to give them their little bags of swaddling and diapers. You’ll care for all of them. And those people will be grateful, and they’ll bless you, in a way that that man from the love story never thought to be grateful and bless you, the same one that wouldn’t even have you blessed by the priest.’ ‘And no one will give me mocking looks because I’m old?’ ‘Please, Aunt Claudina! Providence never ages. And you’ll be providence. You’ll see. None of this is elegant, no doubt, but it’s certainly worth a great deal more than dragging around your disguised maturity, pulling your love story behind by the tail.’ Two months later, when they celebrated Valeria’s marriage, the two women living in Ameno made a trip to Milan to participate in that family gathering. Aunt Claudina had stopped wearing youthful clothes, youthful hairstyles, youthful sentimentality. The serious and moral occupations that filled her life gave her the kind of personal satisfaction that renders the heart tranquil and the spirit serene. She was still beautiful, but it was a matronly beauty without pretences, without coquettishness, without nonsense.

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Leoni was tired of his isolation, of his senseless bachelor existence, of his attempts at conquest that always ended in the way it had with Odda. He conversed with Aunt Claudina at length, had her tell him about her new life, Ameno’s peaceful days, so busy, so serene. He found her to be good-natured, affectionate, balanced. In an enthusiastic moment he told her: ‘How I would like to pass my days with you and like you in Ameno!’ ‘“Like me,” that’s a worthy wish,’ replied Aunt Claudina, ‘but “with me,” you should have said so fifteen years ago; now it’s too late.’ ‘Oh! Fifteen years ...,’ protested Leoni, making show of a gallant incredulity. ‘Fifteen, my dear sir, together with the twenty-five I already was then, make forty. In Ameno you learn to count your years without blushing.’ Odda, with that courteous hospitality that made her so likeable, invited Leoni to spend the month of November at her villa. He accepted, and as soon as the youths’ wedding celebration was over, he left with the two women for Odda’s tranquil hermitage. He was forty-five years old, and Aunt Claudina was a well-preserved forty. And then, she wasn’t looking for love anymore, she rejected it, she had other things on her mind, she had acquired the appeal of forbidden fruit. There is no newspaper printed in Ameno; that’s all I know of the story. But the peasants marry very very young; and yet I was told that during that winter, the municipal register contained the names of a mature bride and groom.

NOTES 1 The Academy of Brera is Milan’s fine-arts school where, in the nineteenth century, young artists exposed their works. 2 Yearly prize awarded by the French Academy of Sciences. 3 Cesare Cantù 1807–95, author of Italian historical texts, wrote his thirty-fivevolume Universal History in 1837.

Dear Hope* MARCHESA COLOMBI Translated by Lina Insana

Her name was Amalia, but despite that delicate name, she was one of the roughest country girls the rice fields knew when she showed up on our doorstep, offering to come into our service. She had put on shoes, recognizing the solemnity of the occasion, but as soon as she saw the shiny floor of our bathroom, she was flabbergasted and bent over as if to take them off. It took quite a bit to convince her to come in shoes and all. Nonetheless, she was neither timid nor wild, as most of the farm girls were; it just seemed disrespectful to dirty our floors with the shoes that she had dragged, on such a long walk, through the dust on the main road from Moma to Novara. She did not know the first thing about the codes of formal courtesy, but in her instinctive good manners, she would invent her own brand of civility, which seemed a bit rough, though in the end it was just as good as ours. In China, you know, you take your shoes off before going into a house. It’s just a question of customs. Life and the rice fields had left their mark on Amalia’s entire being. She was twenty-six years old but looked forty. Her face was heavily lined, her hair – heavy on her forehead – was so bare on the top of her scalp that among the locks, pulled back with a tie, her white skin peeked through. She wore the typical hairstyle of our district, and, like all of the farm women, whose heavy burdens emboldened them before their time,

*‘Cara speranza,’ 1888

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compensated for lacking hair with two thick braids of cotton wound around a ring of metal wire covered with cloth; and into these she would stick two thick silver hairpins. Her thin hair gave meagre support to this structure, and so it bounced behind her head. She was missing some teeth, and through those gaps her s’s hissed. But we didn’t give a second thought to those peculiarities of Amalia’s appearance. She was strong and sound, and she knew that she was only twenty-six years old. Who cared if she didn’t look it? We asked her if she knew how to cook. She replied: ‘No, I can hardly make our own country soup, and fry potatoes and beans; but I’m eager and will learn quickly.’ ‘And can you iron?’ ‘I don’t know how to do that, either. We don’t iron anything ... But I can learn that, too. We’re not afraid: It’s not “cognition” that I lack; I understand things as soon as they’re taught me.’ My father asked: ‘And were should I go for references?’ ‘If you’d like to go to Momo, Sir, to ask at the Pometta farm, where I served for thirteen years ... But as far as trust goes, you could put me in a room full of gold and I would never, ever touch even a cent of it.’ We asked her other questions, which she answered with confidence, and without ever bragging. We liked her, and we proposed that she come to stay with us for a trial period of one month. She accepted, but not with the eagerness and zeal that her previous answers and effusive mannerisms had let us to expect. I asked her: ‘You’re not happy?’ ‘Oh, as far as happy goes, I’m happy ...’ and still she hesitated. I added, to encourage her: ‘There are only two of us to serve: Father and me.’ ‘Even if there were twelve, hard work doesn’t scare me.’ She continued to falter, then added in a hurry as if to seize her resolve before it could escape: ‘There; it’s better if I tell you straight away. Sir, I’m an honest girl, I don’t go wandering off, I don’t lose my head over young men, I walk the straight and narrow; but why should I hide it? I have a bersagliere,1 a soldier.’ She had pronounced it ‘bresagliere,’ then breathed a huge sigh, as if to say, ‘It’s done!’ This soldier, with the shadow of his cap feathers, darkened my father’s brow, who said, lowering his head: ‘Uhm. I’m afraid this might be a problem. Every time you go out you’ll have this soldier hanging around.’

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Amalia sighed melancholically: ‘Oh! That’s not possible. The King sent him to ‘Sichily.’2 My father, who was an old Piedmontese loyal to the monarchy and to the House of Savoy, enthusiastically approved of the King’s order. And Amalia, seeing him laugh, continued confidingly: ‘He used to work at the Pometta, too, but he wasn’t in the service then. We started to talk through the kitchen window that looked out onto the garden, because he was the gardener. And what a handsome young man! If you could see him, Sir, as tall as you are, and straighter, because he’s young and you’re not, poor thing! But we knew that he was to enter the military and we promised to wait for each other until he finished his duty. He’s been travelling around Sichily for four years now, and in the meantime, I’ve been working to try to save some money; then, after another three years, he’ll come back with his discharge and he’ll marry me.’ Seeing as how the soldier was safely on the other side of the ocean, my father admitted Amalia to a trial period of a month, after which she put herself to work without the slightest objection from anyone. She was active, intelligent, clean, and always happy. She would say ‘our house,’ and ‘we,’ referring collectively to herself and her employers, she would receive the guests that came to call with a million welcomes, and ask about their health as if they were her friends; but in an easygoing family like ours, those intimacies were easily forgivable. She learned everything with great ease, and found time for the cooking, the ironing, and keeping the house in order, and even to run to the post office every day to ask if there were letters from her soldier. She spoke of him constantly. All of the neighbours, employers, and servants alike, our acquaintances, the doormen, the neighbourhood storekeepers, knew that Amalia had a soldier suitor, and as soon as they saw her, they would ask laughing: ‘So, Amalia? Has your soldier written?’ The poulterer would give her bunches of capon feathers, which she would put away, overjoyed at her plan to send them to Sichily at the first opportunity. She would try to display them on one side of her bald head and say, ‘How nice they’ll look on my soldier’s cap!’ She never bought anything for herself. She received clothes and shoes as part of her salary, as is normally the case in the province, and the money from her pay she would put away for her life with the soldier, for when they were married. She had made herself, with her own thread, some pieces of cloth that she guarded jealously in her trunk, and nothing in the world could

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have made her take even a piece of it for her own use. The gifts that she received throughout the year, the Christmas presents, everything awaited that hoped-for, distant day. But her love was a happy one; you never heard her complaining of her beloved’s absence. She was as sure of that love as she was of her very breaths, her very life; the vaguest doubt had never entered her honest heart; and the thought of her soldier filled her with joy. If he ever was late in writing her, Amalia’s only assumption was that he was ill; and then she would worry and intensify the frequency of her visits to the post office. If she met the letter carrier along the way, there was always a scene. She wanted him to scrutinize each inscription one by one, until the last. Then she would ask him whether he was absolutely sure that he didn’t have other letters in his pocket, or that he hadn’t lost some along the way. As soon as the long-awaited letter would arrive, she was a frenzy of jubilation. She didn’t know how to read the letter, but started telling the postal office employees the moment she got it: ‘It’s from my soldier! It’s from nothing less than Sichily, and it says “Dear hope” on it! And she would laugh and laugh, until she was crying. Then she would run towards home, and as soon as she reached the neighbourhood, she would hold up the letter, waving it around and shouting: ‘It’s a letter from my soldier! It’s a letter from my soldier! Some storekeeper would always read it to her. And Amalia would plant herself in front of him, laughing with joy even before he started, and watching him carefully, as if it were her soldier himself talking to her, and as if she wanted to see the words’ meaning in the expression on his face. And, before he started to read, she would ask, all overjoyed: ‘Is “Dear hope” at the top?’ ‘Dear hope’ was always there; and the letters were all very similar; but Amalia rejoiced anyway, wringing her hands during the reading to hold in her screams of joy. Then she would take the letter and leap about through the group of friends that had gathered around her, and she would become so agitated that her halo of hairpins threatened to pull out – in the violence of her bouncing – what little hair kept it attached to her head. And she would kiss the letter and laugh so hard that she lost her breath, and for a few days the whole block would be deafened by the sound of Amalia’s favourite song: Mother make my bed And I’ll prepare the cradle,

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My good fortune lies In my soldier’s love sure and stable.

Everyone was moved by the poor young girl’s sincere affection; that youthful love was a nice thing to see, and it was clear that her love was genuine. Even with a sea separating them, the two lovers had their sights on a happy ending. Without this assurance the townspeople would not have tolerated so much. This enormous passion was such that it gave Amalia a kind of intuition. The soldier had not written for some time. When his letter finally arrived, a cent fell out of it as she opened the envelope. The neighbourhood was abuzz with comments: ‘What could that mean?’ ‘A coin is a symbol of love.’ ‘But not in one piece like that; you have to cut it in two, and each lover wears a part.’ ‘Bah! It’s so that you can play heads or tails to see if he really loves you.’ And the poulterer, who had had the most schooling, and never put any stock in omens and horoscopes, and mocked romantic sentimentalities, would say arrogantly, ‘Don’t sit there and analyse everything, it’s clearly a joke. Soldiers are men of the world; they love to laugh ...’ But Amalia laughed less than usual, and kissed the letter more lovingly; and the next day, when she came to get her daily cooking orders, she asked me if I would help her send five lire all the way to Sichily. Then she said: ‘My soldier put a cent in my letter, poor guy. It means that he needs money.’ And she wired the five lire to Sichily. In fact, this was the case; Amalia’s loving heart had guessed the truth. Because of exactly that affectionate and well-meaning rustic nature of hers, Amalia was in the good graces of all our relatives and friends, who gladly took every opportunity to give her some little trinket, to tip her or present her with gifts. In three years she managed to scrape together several hundred lire and a hope chest full of things. She kept her money at the savings bank, and now and then she would bring me her booklet so that I would tell her the total of her capital, including interest. As long as she saw an increase of one lira since the previous count, she was thrilled. She would say: ‘This is my soldier’s dowry, my soldier’s treasure. All that I have is his.’ And she would nod her head in an affirmation so energetic that her hair-do hit her scalp like the hood of an unhinged car.

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Those three years, during which she had been well housed and fed, had not aged Amalia at all, but neither had they beautified her. She seemed exactly the same as the first day we saw her. But as her soldier’s return drew closer, the joy that emanated from her eyes, from her blessed laughter, from her entire being, made her almost beautiful. Two weeks before her soldier’s arrival, I came down with an intermittent fever and had to stay in bed. My father, even if he was a surly man, loved me dearly and called the doctor, treating me as if my fever were a matter of life and death. Poor Amalia, with whom I was quite close, was frightened by the idea that I might still be in bed when her soldier returned. She anxiously asked the doctor: ‘Will she be able to get up on the fifteenth?’ The fifteenth of November was the day that she had been awaiting for seven years. The morning of the tenth she woke up with a very swollen cheek. She said that it didn’t bother her at all, it was a simple inflammation. ‘As long as my soldier doesn’t come back to find me with a crooked face!’ It was her only cause for concern. Then she would ask: ‘It would make him too unhappy to find his “Dear hope” ill.’ It wasn’t her vanity that troubled her; it was the desire not to disturb her fiancé’s joy. When the doctor arrived, and Amalia went to open the door for him, disfigured in that way, he interrogated her on her illness, felt her pulse, sent her to bed, and came into my room brows knit and serious. ‘That woman,’ he said to me, ‘is not well, not well at all. I’m going in to see her right now.’ In fact he went directly to her bedside, and said that, besides the bacterial infection that was to blame for the swelling, there was also the danger of developing typhus. He prohibited any and all contact with me, and had all of the doors closed, since our rooms were separated only by a narrow corridor. By that night Amalia really did have typhus, and the next morning, with the excuse that her room wasn’t getting enough air, that she might infect the whole house, that she was bothering me with her delirious cries, the doctor urged my father to have her brought to a private room at the hospital. I would have liked to see her before she left, but I was expressly forbidden to get up, nor was she allowed to enter my room. While she

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was crossing the hallway I could hear her voice ringing out: ‘We’re going to meet my soldier! All of my possessions are for my soldier. Dear hope!’ And she struck up the same old song: O mother make my bed And I’ll prepare the cradle ...

Fearfully, I asked the doctor: ‘Will she get better?’ ‘Maybe. We’ll see how the first week goes.’ I couldn’t get her out of my heart for a minute. I had dark premonitions. And, on the other hand, I thought: ‘But up till now she’s done nothing but work, without distractions, without family entanglements (since her family had sent her off to serve at the age of twelve and they hadn’t bothered with her since), without welfare, without vanity’s rewards; she had lived for a hope, she had contented herself with a promise, and hadn’t envied anyone. You’d have to say that there’s no justice in a world where that promise is not kept ...’ In fact, it was not kept. She died on the evening of the fourteenth. But she died in the joyous ecstasy of believing herself in the arms of her soldier; and her corpse was still smiling, its lips revealing her cracked and sparse teeth. A few hours later, her brothers – whom my father had called for – arrived. I knew that the poor woman had always meant for all of her possessions to go to her soldier; everyone knew it, but nothing had ever been written down. She hadn’t even been able to say it formally on her deathbed, because of her delirium. And that family, those two boorish brothers, slow, cold, and greedy, who had never in her whole life done anything for her, took away with them the fruits of her labours and sacrifices – her soldier’s dowry, her hope chest – that the poor thing had spent thirteen years collecting. Her soldier arrived on the fifteenth and came straight to our house. He had been travelling for quite a few days, and didn’t know anything about Amalia’s illness. My father was at the hospital attending to the deceased, so I had to let the soldier in to my room. It was almost a pleasure to be able to give him the painful news with as much tact as possible, and to give him a few words of comfort as well. He was what the peasants call a good-looking boy, even though he was already a man, a big, tall, imposing person with a short neck; hair

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that was as dense and coarse as the bristles of a brush, and straight over his narrow forehead; small eyes; a short nose; a big, stupid face. This was the object of such adoration ... When I started to tell him that Amalia had fallen ill, he showed no reaction. I added that she had fallen seriously ill, very ill, that they had taken her to the hospital. And he, hard as stone, and just as cold. Perhaps it was uneasiness, perhaps that stupid arrogance typical of country folk, that makes them hide the emotions they see as a weakness. So then I gathered up my courage and announced the whole sad story to him. His face became beet-red as he nervously twisted his feathered hat between his hands, not saying a word. I urged him to be strong, to accept it, and added that it was a great misfortune; that we all felt that way, and that right down to the end, even in her delirious state, she thought only of him ... And I offered my hand as a gesture of friendly support. He saw it, but didn’t move, didn’t take it, and said only, becoming redder still: ‘Would it be possible to see her?’ I said yes, and gave him a calling card and directions to see my father, who was tending to the funeral arrangements. He listened in silence without looking at me, then awkwardly saluted, then, still silent, walked out the door. At the hospital he neither asked for information nor offered the calling card; but Dad was present when he walked into Amalia’s room. They were just putting her in the casket; they had taken off her hairpins, her head was uncovered, and her toothless mouth was smiling that same familiar smile. The soldier slowly approached the body with a confused air, without daring to look at anyone else. Then, seeing Amalia’s brother – whom he had met before – at the other side of the bed, greeted him gravely with a nod of his head and said: ‘Damn! She was old!’ But there was no perfidy in that word. That was his impression, and he expressed it in all sincerity. Had Amalia been alive, he would have said it to her just the same, and it would not have stopped him from calling her ‘Dear hope’ in the make-believe language of his ‘Dear hope’ letters. In fact, when they laid out Amalia in her casket, he crossed himself quickly and stealthily, but he blushed strongly, his eyes glistening. Then he went out to wait for the funeral procession, planting himself

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fifty steps from the hospital, pretending to read a poster. He let the modest procession pass, and then began to follow it on the side, as if he were walking there by sheer coincidence, and as if he had nothing to do with the funeral. However, once they arrived at the cemetery he entered behind the others, and stood to one side with his head lowered until the grave had been covered. Upon their return, Amalia’s other brother approached him, and without any greeting or pleasantries, never taking his eyes off of the tips of his shoes, said: ‘Since poor Amalia is gone ...’ He bowed his head, shrugged his shoulders, as if to shake the knot from his throat, then answered: ‘Hmph!’ And then he turned his back to him. My father rejoined the soldier, and explained to him that none of the small inheritance had come to him because of Amalia’s brothers. But that, out of respect for that poor soul, we had saved all of his letters, and that he could come to retrieve them. ‘Oh, what foolishness!’ And he shrugged his shoulders. And as much as my father persisted, there was no way to get out of him whether he wanted the letters back, or if they were to be burned. And so we burned them in the chimney fire, my father and I, we burned all of the ‘dear hopes’ that had consoled that wretched, hardworking, and honest life.

NOTES 1 Bersaglieri were soldiers of the Piedmontese army, established in 1836 and trained to move fast and shoot with precision. They are known for their feathered hat. 2 Sicily; the maid mispronounces words that are unfamiliar to her.

The Bread of the Departed* CATERINA PERCOTO Translated by Carmen Di Cinque

The autumn was waning; the mountain tops were already snow-covered and the fertile countryside grew more faded and yellowed by the day. Most of the neighbouring gentry had returned to the city, and the silent, deserted hunting lodges, with their windows shuttered, added to the melancholy of moribund nature. Only the Countess Ardemia della Rovere continued to live in her tranquil little villa, and the lack of activity in her house indicated that she intended to stay in her country home even through the winter. She had received the farewell visits of relatives and friends, continually replying with vague and indeterminate promises when they encouraged her to follow them back to the city. Rather than fearing the solitude described to her in such black terms as a way to persuade her to leave, she consoled herself with the idea that she could, at her leisure, enjoy such solitude, liberated from the constant visits and jabber of so many tiresome persons. Earlier that year, partly out of a desire for something new, partly on a juvenile whim, she had taken a long journey and had spent several months immersed in society in one of the world’s great capitals. To see with her own eyes those centres of civility and elegance that she had heard others exclaim about, to participate in the many pleasures and enjoyments available to those possessing charm and wealth, to throw herself into high society, to admire up close so many new objects which her fantasies had embellished in innumerable ways, and even, in the depths of her heart, perhaps to see herself admired by others, this had *‘Il pane dei morti,’ 1858

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often been the dream she embraced in her youth, and now that the circumstances of her life had rendered her free, she had wanted to realize this dream. However, whether it be that a long-coveted pleasure, once attained, always falls short of expectations, or that those frivolous pleasures had roots not quite deep enough to germinate in her heart, the Countess soon found herself tired of such a dissipated and purposeless kind of life. In the midst of conversations, at the theatre and evening balls, where her wit and many gifts of nature and fortune had rendered her more admired than she ever could have dared to hope, there rose within her soul a desire for the family estate, the gentle hills, the good peasants, the peaceful and simple life to which she had become accustomed for some time now. She had made that journey with the goal of enjoying herself, and instead she was greatly bored, and every evening she returned to her room feeling depressed and annoyed with everything, like someone who had wasted her day. She chided herself for not knowing how to take pleasure as the others did; she felt as though she lacked refinement, and thus made the effort to arrange new outings and amusements for herself. But she felt empty as she walked through those immense gardens where the hand of man had learned to tame reluctant nature and force the land, almost in spite of itself, here and there, to rise in soft hills and to open itself into lovely ponds populated by swans and surrounded by exotic plants; farther on to extend itself in meadows and lanes, the greenness of which, purchased at the cost of great toil, contrasted starkly with the bleakness of the surrounding countryside, the raw climate and cold, cloudy sky. On such evenings it was with an insurmountable bitterness, which gave an ironic twist to her lips, that she admired those many plants hailing from the most varied places, both the magnolia and the giant palm imprisoned in a vault of glass, and she experienced on their behalf a longing for their distant homelands. She praised the artistry whose delicate mastery had dressed the sterile turf with bright colours, and then displayed them in such a way that their contrast further increased their beauty; she admired how, to serve man’s own purposes, it was contrived that so many buds should bloom all at the same time. But in her heart she preferred the humble periwinkle, which sprouted spontaneously among the ruins of a little wall or on the bank of a winding stream, and the perfumes of so many wild roses that wreathed the little hills of her homeland. Likewise, in those drawing rooms, where the most refined luxury convened all the elegance of

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fashion, and where wit and beauty came to strut among the glow of the candelabra and the sumptuous furnishings, she found herself ill at ease, and tried in vain to silence a kind of secret voice, that even there among all that magnificence dared to call to her mind the simple but cordial greetings of poor Menica, or the vivacious replies of Ermagora, who would, without standing on ceremony, make known some part of her own energetic feelings. At home she avoided soirées and meetings, because, after the vicissitudes she had suffered, she felt as though she could read in every face a bitter irony and the reprimand of her past; here, where she was not known, she believed she could once again enjoy society, but she soon realized that this was the very reason she was impeded from doing so. She was a foreigner: there was no bond of affection with the people who surrounded her; nor was any attention given to her other than that of curiosity. When she had displayed that little bit of charm that education had been afforded her and received the homage of others’ charm, every attraction was finished. Nothing reached her heart, which closed itself off and abandoned itself to boredom. Those honeycoated expressions, those extravagant compliments, to which she was obliged to respond in one way or another according to convention, seemed to her to be an insipid game, an empty routine. She felt unloved and could not wait to return to where she could be useful to others and once again make someone’s heart beat faster. Thus she departed, disabused of many illusions, and cured in great part of that feminine eagerness to make a fine show and attract the eyes and applause of the foolish masses. Above all, she was so sickened by the noise and urban vanities that she resolved to stay forever in her country home and try to compensate for the lack of family and the void that surrounded her by dedicating herself completely to making her agricultural projects thrive as best she could, and to provide for, like an affectionate mother, the well-being and happiness of her beloved dependants. It was in this frame of mind that she spent the autumn of that year. With the gentry gone, and thus freed up from their visits, she felt she was able to breathe, and she briskly got involved with tasks, projects, and improvements that Signor Giovanni, her overseer, suggested to her. It was the end of October. In many places in Friuli there is an ancient custom by which on All Souls’ Day every family distributes bread to the people, each according to its wealth. This is not almsgiving. All the

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inhabitants of the village come to receive the bread, and before tasting it, pray for the dearly departed of the donor. Well-off citizens, heads of families, artisans and millers, people who on any other occasion would be ashamed to accept the smallest charity, on that day, mingled in with the poor, knock on your door, and without shame ask you for the bread of the departed. They then, in turn, dispense what they have received. In fact, in places where there is no gentry, every farmer makes as many big loaves of bread as there are families in the village, and goes around to give them out to others, and in turn receives them; so, on that day, everyone tastes the bread of brothers and prays for their departed, therefore participating at least once a year in the communion of food, affection, and prayer. The Countess Ardemia recalled an unforgettable scene of her childhood: her paternal grandfather, seated in his wide armchair in front of a table in the living room on the ground floor, dispensing with his own hands the bread of the departed to the farmers who arrived in throngs to receive it and to greet their old beloved master. She found this worthy custom so dear to her heart that she could not think of dispensing with it. The morning of All Souls’ Day, after the parish mass, there she was, seated in all seriousness in the chair, which evoked the peaceful face and white hair of her dear grandfather. She was surrounded by several big breadbaskets, filled to the brim with rolls fresh from the oven. The courtyard was already filled with a multitude of people who pressed against the kitchen door, where servants were stationed to allow people to enter in an orderly fashion, so as not to cause a big commotion in front of the Countess in the living room; they then were to exit quietly by the door that led into the garden. They entered by twos, by threes, by fours, a mother with her children, another with a baby in her arms, or a venerable old man, or a crowd of young boys and girls. Everyone, after having greeted the Countess with affection, kissed her hand in a sign of respect before reaching out for the bread, and then went out joyful and moved by the ritual. Some people, those most familiar to her, stopped to give her a friendly word or a compliment, albeit in their own way but nevertheless from the heart; the mothers in particular showed a great desire to present their babies to her, those just born, those she had not yet seen, and those who there, for the first time, learned how to smile for the good Countess. One woman among the many who passed in front of the Countess

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that day made a deep impression on her. She held the hand of a gaunt and miserable child, who dried his teary eyes with the hem of his mother’s apron; another followed behind, holding on to the hem of her skirt; and in her arms a little one curled up on her breast and wrapped almost completely in the brown scarf that she wore on her head. She was pale; upon first seeing her, the Countess could not figure out who she was, even though her face seemed somewhat familiar. Instead of following the example of the majority by taking the bread offered on the table and then leaving, this woman drew close to one side and, after approaching the Countess, signalled to the older child to kiss her hand, and she herself, after taking bread for herself and the two little ones, gripped the Countess’s hand with great affection and kissed it, letting a tear fall down upon it, whereupon the Countess Ardemia was startled: – ’Rosa!’ she said to her, with her affable and gentle voice. ‘Is it you, my good Rosa? It’s been so long since I have seen you, that I almost didn’t recognize you!’ They were approximately the same age; before the Countess had been sent to the convent, they had played together as children more than once, running through the meadows chasing butterflies and picking flowers. But while the Countess Ardemia still glowed with the freshness of youth, poor Rosa, oppressed by hardships perhaps, or by some mysterious illness, had become pale and thin, and despite the lovely lines of her face, she was barely a shadow of her former self. Indeed, she was like the last rose of December with her pale beauty, but withering and languishing even before having had the chance to bloom. That emaciated appearance, those gaunt children, that grip of the hand and that tear all persisted in the Countess’s memory. She speculated about the possible causes, about the suffering that was wasting Rosa away before her time. The Countess knew that Rosa was married of her own choosing to a young tailor of the town, who made an honest living plying his trade with the farming families. Rosa was the mistress of her own house, and it seemed as though she had no cause to complain either of her husband’s love, or of sickness or misfortunes as far as one knew. However, since Rosa did not live on the Countess’s land, the latter had not concerned herself with much more than this. Now, however, she felt the need to see into Rosa’s heart. After the noon meal on All Souls’ Day, everyone gathers in church to pray for the dead. In honour of the occasion the priests first chant the death rites in a mournful tone and sprinkle holy water on the cata-

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falque erected in the middle of the church and on the ancient sepulchers within; they then form a procession to the cemetery and stop at the graves to recite the prayers requested by the surviving family members. Some people follow the priests, but most remain kneeling in the pews, and quietly accompany those monotonous and devout voices that can be heard now from near and far, depending on where the remains of the departed lie. The rite lasts a long time; therefore people come and go in order to make way for others so that each has his turn. The Countess was also there. She looked around the church until she came upon Rosa kneeling in a corner by the wall; she was praying with great devotion, every now and then raising her tearful eyes to the altar, and then covering her lowered face with her handkerchief and her hands. One of her children was close by, and would prod her now and again restlessly, for he was tired of praying. It seemed that this silent gesture finally prodded the woman; presently, she rose to her feet, and, upon reaching the stoup of holy water, dipped her hand in the water and touched her son’s fingers and had him make the sign of the cross; then she bowed devoutly and left the church with him. It then occurred to the Countess Ardemia to take advantage of this moment when everyone was gathered at the church to make her way unseen to Rosa to discover if there was some way she could console her. She left the church with this intention, and slowly made her way to Rosa’s dwelling. Once at the little house, she stopped in front of the open door, unsure of herself, not knowing whether she should enter; she could hear the two older children bickering while the mother seemed to have gone upstairs to quiet the baby. ‘Do you hear me, Menichetto! Leave that chair alone. Do you want to break your neck? I’ll tell Mama! Mama!’ one of the children shouted with a piercing voice. ‘Look! Menichetto put the chair on the table and is climbing up to steal the last bunch of grapes that Papa brought us!’ ‘I’m hungry!’ shouted the other child, crying. ‘You were at home and probably ate half of Vigi’s porridge and then you took my share of the bread of the departed ...’ ‘You can’t eat the bread of the departed if you haven’t prayed.’ ‘But I went to church, I prayed and now I want to eat. It’s become a strange thing in this house. We don’t make any more polenta, no more soup ... You and Mama do nothing but snivel. Papa was right the other evening when he said he was tired of you two ...’

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‘Come here, I tell you! Don’t you see that the chair is teetering? Come on, be a good boy, let’s wait for Mama and eat the bread of the departed together.’ Just then, there was the sound of their mother descending the stairs. She gave a shout upon seeing her little devil on the table. She took Menichetto in her arms, took from him the grapes he had already picked, and after having made both boys kneel, slowly recited the Lord’s Prayer and a Hail Mary, joined by the boys with their young voices. Then she distributed the grapes among the boys and let them eat them with the bread. ‘And you, Mama, are you not having any grapes?’ asked the older boy. ‘No, my children. And please know that I won’t even think twice about it.’ ‘But you went without breakfast this morning so that we could have all the polenta that Magdalena gave us ...’ ‘And now,’ Menichetto added, ‘and now you’re only having bread! Eat, Mama, a few grapes! I beg you, at least this little bunch! Look how good they are, not a single grape is spoiled! ...’ ‘Come, be good boys, be still. Let’s not get crumbs all over the table; take the bread basket and go outside in the garden under the pergola; I’ll stay here a while in case Vigi cries.’ ‘Oh!’ said the older boy with his voice full of tears, ‘You’re sending us away! ... I know why, too!’ The woman did not answer but the child threw himself into her arms. ‘Ah Mama!’ he continued, ‘you want to do like you did the other day; instead of eating, you lay your head on the table and you cry so, so much! Oh, my God. If you keep it up, you’ll get paler by the day and then you will end up getting sick ...’ ‘Go on, you silly boy! What kind of thoughts are these? You know that as long as you boys are good, I am always happy.’ And getting up, she herself put the grapes in the bread basket, opened the door to the garden, led them out, and said goodbye, caressing first the lively Menichetto’s blond and curly head and then Tita’s, who, when he felt his mother’s hand on his head, raised his face and kissed her with wild affection. At this point the Countess Ardemia gathered up her courage and stood in the doorway as though she was about to knock. ‘The Countess!’ exclaimed the amazed woman. ‘Yes, my good Rosa, it is I,’ she said. ‘I decided to come look for you

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on my way back from church.’ And after taking the chair offered to her, she sat down, completely at ease. ‘You know that when I saw you this morning, I chided myself for letting so much time pass without our seeing each other. Sit down here, Rosa, and let’s talk a little bit together, since once upon a time we were such good friends ...’ ‘Oh, you always treated me so well ...’ ‘Tell me that I cared for you and that you in turn liked me, too. Afterwards they separated us; they sent me to the convent, I lived in the city, I got married ... All told, many things have happened! ... And if you knew how much I’ve suffered! But I’m never going away again, you know; I’m settling here in the country for good, and I want to revive our old friendship.’ She gripped the peasant’s hand with affection. ‘Do you remember, Rosa, how we ran through the meadows of Soleschiano, when we would go butterfly hunting? And all those flowers you used to bring me? ...’ ‘Ah, those were good times!’ said Rosa, touched, lowering her eyes and bowing her head on her chest. ‘I’ll always remember that nest of blackcaps that you discovered behind the lane, and we would go every day to visit, enjoying watching those poor little featherless birds that would cheep at us, as though we had brought them some food. But we never touched them! We took pity on the mother, who would fly around watching us, fearing for her little ones. By the way, how many children do you have?’ ‘I have three ... the three that were with me this morning.’ ‘In all that confusion I barely had time to look at them; but you’ll bring them to the house to meet me, won’t you?’ ‘Oh Lady! If you would permit ...’ ‘Come, let’s trust one another, Rosa. I am alone in this world. I’ve had the misfortune of not having children ... Oh, if only you could know how much I would love to have a child of my own ... but it gives me pleasure to at least hold other people’s children, friends’ children. Indulge me, Rosa, and promise that you’ll bring your children around often ...’ Rosa, at this pleading, sympathized with her misfortune, forgot every class difference, and impulsively threw her arms around the Countess. They lovingly embraced each other as when they were little girls, not yet aware of social status and the vicissitudes of life. ‘Tell me, where is your husband?’ asked the Countess after a moment’s pause.

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‘Eh, he’s out.’ And then Rosa burst into tears. ‘Don’t hide anything from me. I’ve already read your heart. You are unhappy! And you should confide in me since I am like a friend and a sister to you. Do you not know that if I cannot dry your tears I at least want to share them with you? My poor Rosa! So he no longer loves you? ... And where did he go? Tell me everything, so that I can understand your pain. I have suffered so much in this world that unfortunately I know by experience what it means to love someone and find yourself repaid with ingratitude.’ Rosa could not speak but shook her head to indicate that this was not the reason for her pain. When she thought herself capable of mastering her tears, she mustered all the energy she could, and uttered, ‘No! it’s not his love that I complain of. He’s done me no wrong, and he loves us maybe even too much. But I cannot, and I must not tell you more. I would be betraying that poor unfortunate soul, and I would be doing nothing less than ruining myself and my children!’ ‘Ruin yourself? Ruin your children? Whatever are you saying, Rosa? That he might fall into the hands of the authorities? Has he therefore committed a crime?’ ‘Ah no, good God, may he not commit one! The blessed Madonna, to whom I prayed so earnestly in these past days, may she keep her hand upon his head! It’s been such a long time since I’ve swallowed anything but tears! Is it possible that he wants to make me die?’ She twisted her fingers, beside herself. ‘Now come, calm yourself, and let’s talk together. Who knows, I may be able to help you. At least, tell me, where is he? You know that I care about you, and that you can trust me like you can trust yourself. Perhaps he was forced by need ...' ‘Yes! To see us, without bread ... those children crying ...’ ‘But ... does his trade not provide enough to live on? I always thought that you had the means to live honourably, since, ... wasn’t he the town tailor?’ ‘When I married him, things were going well,’ the woman began to tell her tale now that she was calmer. ‘He sewed not only for those in the village but also for several of our neighbours’ extended families. We never lacked work. What’s more, when I used to come to your house as a young girl, your mother’s maids taught me how to embroider a bit and to iron the linens; I also managed to earn a little money by laundering the peasants’ tulle scarves and by doing some little services here and there. Back then, we had a well-stocked kitchen, we had

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everything we needed, and we could even call ourselves rich, even while we were saving a few florins. But an unfortunate accident has ruined us ... Little by little he has lost all of his regular customers ... ‘But what was this matter? Come, be brave, tell me everything.’ ‘Oh God! If only you knew how much humiliation I’ve suffered! To be treated like thieves! To see my Tita shunned by his group of friends like a scoundrel! And how the women gossiped about our business! And when I went to their houses, they would look at me suspiciously for fear that I would steal something ... I’ve been humiliated, I don’t dare ask anyone for work ... I don’t even dare to be seen! And all on account of a mistake, for nothing, for something that could happen to any honest man’ ‘So why don’t you let the truth be known and so clear your name?’ ‘Sure! As if they would have believed us! And then, when we finally realized it, the damage had already been done. Here’s how the story goes. My husband used to go out hunting every now and then. I didn’t really like it, since this habit put him in the company of some not very nice men, or let’s say, loafers, at least. But I tolerated it. He was so closed off and sedentary, that a bit of fresh air and exercise seemed good for his health. ‘One morning at the end of October he had been working day and night for several weeks on wedding clothes for a couple. He was tired. He tossed me the petticoat that he was sewing and said as he got up: “All that’s left is the top-stitching and the hem, and you can finish those. I really don’t feel like working, and my neck hurts from bending down. Instead of working today, I’m going out hunting. I heard that there were some flocks of wild ducks on the Nadisone river yesterday. I want to see if I can get you some dinner.” He didn’t come back that evening. I went to bed uneasy and was imagining a thousand misfortunes. He came home quite late and I realized that he had been drinking. ‘The next day I was pouting and he tried to put me in a good mood with all kinds of caresses. “You know, Rosa, I’m not in the habit of annoying you like this, and I promise this will be the last time.” He wanted to give me the shotgun so that I could lock it in the closet or sell it, so that he would never be tempted to do such foolish things again. Poor man! It would have been cruel to deprive him of his only source of enjoyment. I only begged him for my love’s sake to avoid such bad company, and to not throw money away at the pub, or stay out late without letting me know, since this is what troubled me.

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‘“It was pure chance,” he then told me, “a curious accident that I want to tell you about. Yesterday morning when I went hunting, I headed towards the gravel banks of the Nadisone where it meets up with the Torre, and I was all alone. I wandered through the willows and the poplars down there along the dry river bed tracking the wild ducks. The sunlight was brilliant as it struck the water, which sparkled from afar. I was watching the current when I thought I spied a brown shape, like a flock of birds splashing in the water. I thought it was the wild ducks, so I got down on my hands and knees behind a mound of gravel and crawled slowly, slowly under cover until I thought I was in shooting range. I raised my head to look and there saw an endless flock that made my heart jump with joy. I fired the gun and then jumped to my feet to be ready to shoot again with the other barrel when the birds would regroup and rise in a column to fly away. Was I ever surprised, though, when instead of flying off, I saw them all fleeing down current. It was only then that I realized that I had made a huge mistake, and that these were the neighbouring miller’s ducks. Mortified, I waded into the stream where the dead birds came down upside-down with their legs in the air. I fished out five of them. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid that if I took them home someone would see me as I passed through the village. I didn’t have the courage to go to the mill and confess what I had done. Giustina would have made a devil of a commotion and no one in the world could have persuaded her that I had done it innocently. You know what kind of woman she is; the very idea of her giving me a tongue lashing made me tremble. And so, since I did not see any other way out, I waded through the water and took them to the tavern in Bolzano. A few friends had been out hunting before me; they were frustrated at not bagging anything and had started drinking. We then cooked and ate the ducks together. ‘Oh dear! Instead of doing this, it would have been so much better to have suffered all of Giustina’s insults, and paid her an arm and a leg for the ducks. Either the innkeeper talked, or maybe one of his own friends; anyway, the fact remains that not much time had passed before the deed was known. ‘Eventually people found out that my husband had taken the five ducks to be cooked at the Bolzano tavern. The miller’s wife, who had searched for them everywhere, and who would stand in the doorway of the mill every evening calling them for hours until she lost her voice, flew into a rage. In that year, to top off our disgrace, here and there

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throughout the town livestock went missing. Giustina couldn’t help but tell her neighbours about how they finally found out what happened to the ducks, but in her own version of the story. People began to give my husband funny looks, and when he went to work in people’s homes they kept an eye on him. The farmers who used to go into the fields and leave their homes unguarded no longer considered hiring a suspicious person. To get themselves out of the bind, they changed tailors. One day this family, the next day that one, and soon enough we lost all of our customers. He was dejected, between the disgrace he suffered and our reduced circumstances, and he began to go to the tavern regularly, thinking that wine would ease his pain. He made some friends there ... certain good-for-nothings then starting hanging around our house. They would come by at strange hours, asking for him, and there was always some mystery, some secret. ‘Oh God, oh God, how everything changed in such a short time! My husband, who once upon a time would not think a thought without sharing it with me, became sullen and avoided me; he treated me like a stranger; it seemed he was afraid of my presence. Seeing me worrying, and the children malnourished and crying, he would get angry and come up with such un-Christian ideas that made me shudder, and rather than hear them I preferred he stayed away. Once he brought us some grapes. When I asked him where he got them, he told me they were a gift from the families he sewed for, and it had been a year since he had made a single stitch! Now it seems that he is cooking up some big scheme. Recently, in one of his dark moods, he looked at the children and told me that if I wanted to die, that was my own problem ... but he was going to feed his children at any cost; the world was great, and there was enough for everyone! Then he began raging against the rich and cursing them with horrible oaths that still make my blood run cold. The other morning, after the Hail Mary, two people I had never seen came looking for him and around midnight he left with them.’ ‘And where are they now?’ asked the Countess with visible fear. ‘I don’t know exactly ...’ and Rosa, with trembling hands gripped the Countess’s and continued as if praying: ‘For the love of heaven! No one should know about this! ... but seeing those sinister faces ... when they went upstairs to talk together, I was there ...' and she indicated the stairs. ‘And you were able to find out ...?’ ‘Oh God, oh God! They were talking about silks, about breaking into

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a storehouse ... about meeting tonight at nine o’clock under the hills of Cormons, together with some other people they named, and there they plotted to ...’ ‘Did you say under the hills of Cormons? ...’ ‘Yes. I heard them naming the specific place, hinting about a public land closed off on one side by brushwood, within firing range of the crossroads ...’ ‘Beyond the Nadisone? That leads to Gorizia, to Cividale ...? I understand.’ And the Countess Ardemia rose to her feet all excited and made for the door to go home. Rosa followed her with her hands folded, crying and begging her not to betray her, to keep quiet. To take pity on her, on her children! On that poor unfortunate man! ‘Trust my heart!’ the Countess called to her, and disappeared down the road as though she were flying. Arriving at home, she ordered the horses to be harnessed and she went upstairs to her room. She had made no specific resolution; she didn’t know herself what she was going to do; but with much impetuousness and determination, which women sometimes discover in the midst of weakness when they set their minds to something, she was going to head towards the appointed place, and, set to make use of anything, she would wait for the right means afforded by accident or her own heart. Around eight o’clock, Signor Giovanni, who, as was his custom, had been at the rectory visiting the priest, leisurely returned home. Upon seeing the carriage in front of the house, he asked the first question that entered his mind, ‘Oh! Oh! And where are we going at this hour?’ ‘The mistress ordered it,’ the servants responded. Just then the Countess came out in her travelling clothes and upon seeing him, she exclaimed: ‘You’ve arrived just at the right moment! Come, my good man! Get in the carriage with me.’ The elderly man, however unwillingly, agreed. But the Countess took one look at him and said, ‘Oh, not just like that, for heaven’s sake! Get your overcoat. It’s a little chilly and we may just have to stay out all night.’ It was then that Signor Giovanni felt apprehensive. But she had such a determined air about her that he did not dare voice any objections, and like a lamb he did as he was instructed and then climbed in next to her. ‘Take the road that leads from Manzano to Cormons,’ ordered the Countess. Along the way Signor Giovanni tried more than once to begin a conversation, but she was apparently too preoccupied with her own thoughts to pay him any attention. She would answer in

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monosyllables in such a way as to cut the conversation short and seemed evidently to have in mind some plan that he had yet to discover. And so, reluctantly returning to his own thoughts, Signor Giovanni could not help but find little to recommend this jaunt on this day and at such an hour. ‘Aye!’ he thought to himself. ‘Here we go again, one of her little whims! And there I was, trusting in her good behaviour of this past fall, daring to hope that perhaps she was cured of them! Yes, and then! ... how suddenly she went off the deep end! She seemed fine, first this morning at mass, next dispensing with her own hands the bread of the departed, then at vespers so devout and contrite that one would think her a saint ... And now, quick, into the carriage and who knows where in the devil we are headed! Oh! Women! Women! ...’ concluded the good overseer, and involuntarily there sprang to his mind the proverb ‘He who is crazy is never cured!' Once they had passed the Nadisone, the Countess ordered the driver to slow down. The night was calm, the moonlight cast a beautiful glow, and the Rosazzo hills, more distant than those of the Coglio and the gentle chain which terminated in the mountain of Cormons, crowned the front of the old castle and were clearly outlined in a brown pattern on a pale blue background dotted with pale, sparse stars. Along the way they did not happen upon a single living soul. By that hour, the peasants had all returned to their homes to recite the long rosary of the dead; in any case, they would not have dared to venture outside, believing that on this night souls go wandering wrapped in their funeral shrouds. Deserted as the fields were, you could only hear from a good distance away the bells of the surrounding areas pealing the gloomy dances of the dead.* When they reached a crossroads, the Countess ordered the carriage to stop; she peered here and there intently, in a way that gave Signor Giovanni the shivers. Then she took out her watch and opened it: eight and three quarters. It was clear that she was waiting for someone. ‘This is definitely some kind of intrigue!’ Signor Giovanni thought anxiously. ‘And I am to witness it! How would I explain this to her relatives? ...’ And he put his hand up to his collar as though to loosen his tie, in order to better swallow the saliva which had just then welled up *Dances of the dead is the name given by local peasants to the sound of bells ringing that night. Many families send a few bottles of wine to those who ring the bells, so that they ring the bells as long as possible in memory of their departed loved ones. (Author’s note)

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in his throat at the very thought. The Countess had, in the meantime, spotted the hedge and the communal property Rosa had indicated, and she thought she saw some shadow in the distance, which was heading across the countryside in their direction. ‘There they are, without a doubt!’ she thought, ‘and either coming or going, they have no choice but to pass by this crossroads.’ And wrapped up in her ample scarf, she fearlessly settled herself to wait the entire night if necessary. Just then was heard a hurried step that seemed to get closer and closer. Two peasants appeared, who, after glancing at the carriage, continued on their way towards Cormons. When they had gone some distance, Signor Giovanni remarked, ‘There go two people who do not fear the night of the dead!’ He had watched their unwelcome visitors with a kind of terror. ‘That is for certain!’ answered the Countess. ‘But it seemed to me that they were foreigners, or at least I do not believe I have ever seen them.’ ‘Aye! The devil alone knows what kind of people they are,’ he exclaimed. ‘But,’ he then dared to ask, ‘what are we doing stopped here at this hour?’ ‘It’s an idea of mine that you will have to know later. I will explain everything to you, my dear friend, but for now ... as strange as my conduct may seem to you, I beg you, please remain silent and let me act.’ ‘Good God,’ murmured the overseer, ‘as long as we do not encounter any rogues! ...’ Just then, on the road leading from Corno came three others. The Countess looked at them carefully. One was carrying a kind of small barrel, which, from the way it was swinging, seemed to be empty, and they crossed the intersection in the direction of San Giovanni. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake! It’s Nardo, our tailor,’ shouted the Countess. ‘Hey! Nardo! Come here! What good luck it is to meet you here at this hour! Would you do me a favour?’ she asked the tailor, who, upon hearing his name, removed his hat and approached the carriage door. ‘Climb in front and accompany us to Corno.’ ‘Gladly,’ he said, ‘but I must ...’ ‘Of course I understand that you are in a hurry to get home; but I will make your excuses to Rosa myself; and we will head straight back; and with the horses, we will undoubtedly get there sooner.’ ‘Fine,’ Nardo then responded, ‘Just one moment while I have a word

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with my friends.’ He went over to the two men who had remained aside, whispered some unintelligible words to them, and, after handing the barrel over to them, returned to the carriage. ‘See what brave folks you are!’ the Countess said to him. ‘Between it being the night of the dead, and all the fantasies that are running through Signor Giovanni’s head, I had become so afraid that I didn’t dare go forward or backward.’ ‘But afraid of what?’ asked the tailor. ‘It’s been years since anyone’s heard about the smallest incident in these parts.’ ‘Now here’s a real man speaking! Now that you have joined us, I feel more peaceful. Climb up next to the coachman and let’s go.’ Then, turning to Signor Giovanni, she murmured to him quietly, ‘Remember when we get to Corno that you have to get me a sheet of stamped paper, which you will pretend not to find ...’ When they reached the village, the overseer carried out to the letter the orders he had received. ‘Oh what a mess!’ exclaimed the Countess. ‘And now what do we do? If it were not important ... But that blessed note must be sent by today. And since we are already out and about, and it is still a beautiful night, the only thing to do is go to Cividale! What do you say, Nardo? Would it displease you to stay out another couple of hours?’ And they headed off to Cividale, where the Countess, as one might expect, found all that she desired; then, instead of departing immediately, they took a little jaunt, returning home by way of Grupignano and Butrio, arriving home around midnight. The Countess wanted the tailor to stay and have supper with her. She was very happy, and seemed proud of her nocturnal adventure: she had enjoyed herself so much with the moonlight, the solitude of the fields, and the quick pace of the horses. ‘But if you hadn’t been there,’ she turned to the tailor, ‘instead of enjoying myself, I would have been terrified, because Signor Giovanni kept bringing into the conversation such talk of the dead and rogues ... but afterwards, even he calmed down and we were able to calmly discuss some of our projects ... in fact, by the way, I need to ask you a question. In one year, how much would you calculate, more or less, that you earn with your craft as a tailor?’ ‘Me?’ answered Nardo. ‘What do you expect? I work for peasants ...’ ‘And yet?’ ‘Humph. Even when I work constantly, just enough to get by.’

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‘And if you were to find someone to pay you well, would you find it difficult to abandon your trade?’ ‘How could I hope for such a thing? I don’t know how to read or write; and I am not cut out to be a farmer.’ ‘And if I were to say to you: instead of spending the whole blessed day sewing, you could shoulder a rifle and guard my fields; that is, you would guard the new projects we are working on, so that predators and the ill-intentioned do not ruin them ... and I would give you two hundred florins a year?’ ‘Could it be possible? Two hundred florins?’ Nardo said, stupefied. ‘Would you accept? Really, I do not think there would be much to do, since around here, thank God, we only have good folks. It would only be to pacify Signor Giovanni, who is always grumbling about being afraid that our new projects might be destroyed.’ ‘Oh good God!’ the tailor said. ‘If I could only hope for such good fortune! And Rosa, and my poor children would have polenta to eat?’ ‘Come, tell me if you are pleased, yes or no?’ ‘Pleased? ... Ah, if you only knew the good deed you are doing for me ... I will serve you, I will worship you for as long as I have life!’ ‘Quick, then, Signor Giovanni, go get Rosa. And even if she’s in bed, have her get up immediately and bring her here, for I do not want to settle anything without her.’ Signor Giovanni, who had up until then always obeyed without understanding anything, even upon hearing certain conversations and projects put in his mouth that had never crossed his mind, now thought he must be dreaming. But he reminded himself of her promise to explain everything to him later and continued playing with good grace the role which had been assigned to him; he took up his hat and went to fetch the woman. She was sitting in the doorway of the house, and when she saw him, she ran towards him, all in tears. ‘My husband!’ she shouted. ‘What’s happened to my husband? ...’ ‘Your husband is with the Countess who is having her supper, and she ordered me to come to fetch you ...’ Rosa, panting, took both of his hands and without even closing the door of the house, ran away with him as though she were out of her mind. Upon entering the dining room, the poor woman could not believe her own eyes. There, all pale and trembling, spilling big teardrops that fell unnoticed, she looked smilingly at her husband, at her benefactress, without being able to utter a single word. The Countess recounted to her how she had come upon her husband and the jaunt they had taken. She then explained

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her idea to Rosa, and asked her if it pleased her. Rosa’s only response was to fall on her knees in front of her; she was crying like a child and would not stop grasping and kissing the Countess Ardemia’s hand. They seated themselves around the table. Everyone was overcome with emotion; and in spite of how much still remained a mystery to him, even Signor Giovanni, upon seeing the others, sniffed every now and then and furtively wiped his tears.

The Caning* CATERINA PERCOTO Translated by Carmen Di Cinque

There once was a time when the greatest joy of my life was to write – for the entertainment of my ill mother – some little story which I would then send to this or that Italian newspaper; the best reward for my hours of work, after my good mother’s approval, was to know that my sisters read my stories and that my name was not displeasing to them. Born and raised in the peacefulness of the countryside, I would here and there pick some humble wild flower, and the gentlewomen of Italy would gracefully accept my rustic gift and not disdain to weave it into their grand garlands. My poor old mother has passed away, and almost all my loved ones have disappeared from the face of the earth; unspeakable misfortunes have struck my country. Now, after many years of silence and suffering, I feel growing inside of me once more the desire to pick one of those flowers and send it to my more fortunate sisters. They will yet again remember me, and if the little flower is sad and no longer has grace, colour, or fragrance, the tears that water it will nevertheless move them to pity my poor betrayed land. It is not a refined story; it is about an incident that occurred just a few days ago in a large town, a few miles away from the ancient Aquileia.1 My characters are all known persons in this town, and the miserable girl who was struck with the calamity I am about to relate to you was a poor orphan around twenty, gifted with neither rare beauty nor a distinguished mind. Angelina was one of those simple creatures on whose face one can read all of the emotions of the human soul; and her

*‘Il bastone,’ 1880

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soul was good, loving, and delicate. Her mother, widowed at an early age, had taught her how to do fine work, and thus the two of them managed to live comfortably. However, when the good woman, weakened by calamities suffered and so many tears shed, became gravely ill, they began to experience the terrible pressures of penury. Nevertheless, Angelina, with the courage born of love, stayed day and night by her mother’s sickbed. Her mother was not recovering, so to meet their growing needs the girl was forced to deprive herself, first of those few ornaments that she had acquired with travail, next of their most dear mementos, and finally of all that they possessed. In the many anguished hours that she spent next to her dying mother’s bed, alone in tearful silence and gathering inside herself all the forces of her soul, she prayed to the Lord that her mother might live, that her mother might return to her usual tasks, and she promised to accompany her to Barbana to make her devotions by lighting the lamp of the blessed Madonna, vowing to always be good and industrious. The Lord did not grant her wish, however; He called the poor woman to Him after she had suffered a great deal. But in His good providence, He inspired ties of mercy for the orphan in the heart of another woman of the town. Signora Marianna Bressanuti, wife of the pharmacist, had for some time now taken an interest in the fate of those two poor creatures. One day she noticed that Angelina did not come in to pick up the usual medicines, and then, upon hearing about the unfortunate turn of events, she ran to see the girl. She found Angelina on her knees next to the body, which she had been mourning for several hours, ignoring her own needs, holding her mother’s cold, numb hand close to her heart. Signora Bressanuti took Angelina into her arms and led her to her own house and from that moment on she felt as though the poor thing had become her very own daughter. She was a kind-hearted woman, to whom her husband, busy with the tasks of his profession, left the management of the household. They had two young daughters and a son who was then studying in Padua, the pride of his father and the object of infinite tenderness of his mother. It was not as though she made distinctions or loved her daughters any less; but, as the first born and an only child for several years, Beppino had enjoyed the entire treasure of maternal love during his childhood without having to share it with anyone. It must also be confessed that he was quite a dear child, with a sunny disposition and a very sweet soul; and he had lovely, delicate features. With his refined and alert appearance, and those blue eyes, changeable like the waves of the

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ocean, and that thick blond hair, slightly curly and falling on his white neck like spun gold, you would have said he was an angel. He would run to his mother to confide in her his every thought, and as his first kiss had been for her, so was his first tear: thus, she was able to say that she had seen his spirit form itself in her own hands. In recognizing that he was so easily prone to all emotions and susceptible to passions, be it joy or pain, the good woman, in thinking about his future, more than once trembled for her delicate and fragile creature; but she was for him more than a mother: she was his friend and his sister, and she always knew how to console him, to direct him, and to lead him to love goodness. Ah, the poor woman, when the time came to cut the apron strings to send him to school! Beppino, however, conducted himself so well and was so studious and diligent that he almost instantly earned the love of his teachers and the esteem of his classmates, in a way that soon consoled his mother. And then when the holidays arrived, he more than made up for the bitter separation. He would pour his entire soul into hers; it seemed as though he did not know how to enjoy anything of this world if his mother did not also take part in it. As he told her of his studies, his plans, and the convictions that were taking form in his mind, as he poured out to her the enthusiasms that he began to feel, and made her a part of the first apprehension that moved him at the idea of the unhappy motherland, his spirit strengthened as he was forming himself and becoming a man. Those thoughts which flashed uncertain and almost embryonic in him became splendid and took form when he confided them to his mother, as though the love with which she listened to him, similar to the milk with which she had nourished him as a baby, fed him and, in a surprising way, now increased his soul’s life. She opened herself to him completely, without any kind of mystery; neither did she care to appear to her son’s eyes better than she was: she ingenuously confessed her own juvenile illusions and errors, so that her own experiences might be a lighthouse to illuminate the way for him. As the ugliness of the world began to reveal itself to the young man, and at the first impulses of his inexpert heart, his anxious mother gathered those candid confidences to her breast, and suffered and cried with him; and it was as though his errors were her own, and the only reproof or advice that she knew how to give him was to love him a thousand times more. Now, this dear intimacy that was the poor woman’s greatest delight was shattered. By the time she welcomed Angelina into her home, two

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years had already passed in which her heart, saturated with infinite bitterness, had become almost completely desiccated. It was not, however, as if Beppino, already at the University of Padua, had given her some motive to complain of his conduct. He continued to be studious, diligent, and well liked by everyone who knew him; indeed, he came to be considered, and in fact was, one of the most distinguished young men of the time. In spite of his birth and his few material possessions, he came to be welcomed within the ‘chosen society,’ and his relationships were above the rank of those which his humble station might naturally afford him. This made his father quite proud, and the poor family readily subjected itself to every sort of sacrifice so that he might lack nothing and so that he might, as they intended, make a good impression. Thus, he drank deeply from the joys of the world and every day went on to free himself from the strict ideas that had until then formed his code of conduct. But as he acquired self-assurance and learned to appear polished and amiable, his soul lost its inborn simplicity and his heart its freshness and the ineffable sweetness of its affections. Who could recount the pain of his poor mother when, in the first autumn that he returned to the paternal home, she noticed this change! It was not as though the son’s love for his mother was any less; but in their time apart, she had remained motionless in her place, with the same ideas in her mind, the same images in her heart; and desirous as she was to see him again, she expected to be able to begin life with him where they had left off. The young man, however, had travelled quite a stretch of road and another world had revealed itself to him; he had partaken of other maxims, and that poor country woman could no longer find herself in unison with his feelings. On the contrary, he assiduously avoided the old effusions, as though he were afraid of offending her and disturbing the peace. In the face of this unforeseen abandonment, she felt as though she had died. She tried in vain to reason with herself and understand that Beppino could not forever stay a child. In the company of the more learned persons of the town, or of the friends that came to visit him, he flashed the vast knowledge he had newly acquired with the spirit that came naturally to him; his mother, conscious of her own inferiority, contented herself to admire him in silence: the praises made in tribute to him and the esteem in which he was held flattered her maternal pride. But what was this triumph of vanity compared to the loss of such tenderness? She could see it clearly: her Beppino was beautiful,

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cultured, and amiable. But his eyes no longer looked at her and his heart was closed; if every now and again he gave her a kiss, that kiss was cold as though it had been commanded. The simple joys that in other times they would have enjoyed together now had become insipid for him. It was the family’s custom that at the end of the summer they would make a pilgrimage to the neighbouring island consecrated to the Virgin. They all went that year as usual. The two young girls, seated in the front of the agile little boat, sang the litany. But that year their brother’s masculine voice did not accompany that soft simple song, to which the waters of the sea added a tinge of loving sweetness. The wings of the white halcyons skimmed the ribbon of azure sea; but Beppino did not see them, just as he did not see the dance of the virgin islets, which, crowned with marsh reeds like innumerable mysterious Naiads, seemed to emerge from the heart of the waves to populate that stretch of the estuary as they approached. The girls had ceased singing; the little boat, illuminated by the last vespertine light, noiselessly cut across the placid lagoon in the direction of the sanctuary. It was a solemn hour, and that weak ray of sunlight that so lovingly caressed those many still nameless islets, and formed mirrors among the seaweed of the ancient Amphora canal only to die in a thousand purple fragments on the ruins of the famous Aquileia, filled the scene with infinite poetry, which, blending with the memories of the past, revealed the hopes of future prospects. But Beppino’s soul did not feel it: clouded by other joys, his soul had become prosaic, and the magnificent tapestry of creation passed in front of him unnoticed, without splendour. The following year he came home even more disenchanted. He found everything too narrow, too poor and lowly; every experience was vapid. If they invited him to some pleasant meeting or outing, he immediately made comparisons and, instead of savouring the perfume of the humble flower that sprouted at his feet, he would step on it unknowingly as his thoughts were turned to a more fragrant and magnificent one that was, however, beyond his reach: since he only managed to pick the thorns and so prick himself, he would withdraw, discouraged, and would then sink into a depression. With his insight into the human heart, he looked at the most seductive attractions with irony and took pleasure in tearing that gilded veil with his own hands, only to find behind it filthy and corrupt. Poor Beppino, so young and already so spoiled! The privileged of the world, having

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welcomed him into their society and permitted him to share in their favour, had also inoculated him with their horrendous malady. Boredom, that disgusting froth, that frigid serpent that paralyses all the emotions of the heart, had been miserably consuming him for some time now; boredom had entered into his blood – the scourge that the poor do not know, but was instead the punishment of the wisest of kings, when, after draining every chalice, he documented for us that compassionate vanitas2 that is the most desolate shout of pain ever to have issued from a human soul. His mother looked at him with great sorrow. Oh, if only she could come to the aid of her poor child! But she had already been living for quite some time as though exiled from his heart, and no longer knew how to penetrate it, and if perchance at times their eyes would meet, his flat and glassy gaze no longer held any tears or smile of any sort. And his entire physiognomy had changed; the ingenuousness of his brow was gone, the freshness of his complexion was lost; the lovely mobility of his lips that used to forever be smiling had vanished and, drained of colour and wilted, his mouth now assumed an expression of bitter irony, so that his mother no longer dared to hold him close to her heart, and in one another’s presence they remained silent and closed. And yet, as long as he was there with the family, she felt less desolate. To see him every day, to be busy doing things for him, to offer him all those affectionate attentions that only a mother knows how to give, this was for her some comfort. One might add that, until the day of his departure, a thread of hope – every day disillusioned and the next day reborn – kept her alive. She continued to believe that the occasion might arise in which he would finally open himself up again to her and return to that affectionate intimacy of the past. But when he left, her pain grew immeasurably. Neither the familial attentions nor the love of her husband, nor the innocent caresses of her young daughters, no, nothing could console her for the loss of her Beppino. She remained outwardly cheerful but she would cry, admittedly in secret, and her heart felt physically injured with an untreatable wound that bled continuously, and as the days passed she looked more pale and worn. This burning affliction had nearly reached its height, but then when the compassion she felt for the poor orphan managed to distract her a little. For her it was a kind of relief to pour out onto an unhappy head all that superabundance of affection which, rejected by her son, she had accumulated so painfully in her heart, and when the grateful Angelina began to grow

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fond of her and regard her as her mother, she felt that the horrible void in her heart was at least in part refilled. As we have already noted, the Bressanuti family was not rich. Their only holdings consisted of the pharmacy and some very fertile fields, which they tended entirely by themselves. It was one of those modest country families that you often see here in our Friuli, whose traditional practices and work ethic are still apparent. Now, in such a family, the grafting of another individual, whose maintenance and future provisions one must assume, was no small burden. Signora Marianna, once her first burst of generosity had passed, began to reflect a little. The girls, unable to grasp financial matters on account of their young age, had received Angelina into their house with open arms as though she were a dear friend or a sister, and happily shared with her their life and all that they possessed. The husband, however, rather strict by nature, was more silent and even at times scowled more than usual, although he did not let slip a word or an act that might offend his wife. As for Beppino, whose maintenance in Padua had for some time been absorbing all of their resources, Signora Marianna had not yet figured out how to write to him of this new additional expense: therefore she began pondering how she might cover and almost justify the good deed she had done. Angelina was expert at almost every sort of feminine work, and, what was more, she had such a disarming way about her that the girls most gladly kept themselves busy in her company. She knew how to hide her talent with such modesty that the sisters were unaware that they were learning from her and often, working together so, believed what she was sweetly teaching them to be the fruit of their ingenuity. Day by day, they grew more fond of working, more diligent and neat. Soon Signora Marianna realized that the little orphan was a treasure as far as her daughters were concerned, and she would continuously tell her husband so, making him see how she, daily growing more weak and weighed down by the domestic chores, would alone have poorly managed their education, and how it was a piece of fortune to have found this young girl who could substitute for her; and it was in this vein that she wrote of the matter to her son. Signor Giovanni, who in the end was a good sort of man, quickly saw his wife’s point of view, and that poor creature who no longer had anyone in this world, so mild, so affectionate, and who in her gratefulness put herself in last place in the family and asked to serve him as though it were a favour, found a place in his heart.

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What completely convinced him, however, and made him love Angelina as a father, was a virtue that he himself discovered and which, according to him, was uncharacteristic of women. He had been to Trieste and had bought for his young daughters fabric for two little percale dresses. Oh how happy Angelina was when she saw the gift! How merrily she ran through the house calling for their mother to come see as well! She enjoyed it as though the gift had been her own, the poor dear who barely had a change of clothing and often rose before dawn to mend her wretched dress, already repaired so many times before. She asked to cut and sew the dresses herself, and she applied every possible effort so that they turned out beautifully. And when the girls put them on to go to church on Sunday and the dresses fell so gracefully and neatly on their little figures, such pleasure shone from Angelina’s serene and affectionate eyes that Signor Giovanni, moved as he was, regretted that he had not thought to bring fabric for her as well, and he declared that Angelina was truly a good girl. As for Beppino, when he read in his mother’s letter about the young girl taken in to teach his sisters, he smiled and thought in his heart that next autumn at least he would be a little less bored. Woe to the poor woman if she had been present to see the cynical movement that brushed those wan lips for an instant! The young man had been living for some time now in intimate relations with a rich, elegant widow, proprietor of the fashionable pharmacy where he was doing his practicum. It was neither a whim nor a passion, even though he affected both the conventional manner and lingo of the latter; but in fact, Cupid, having fallen from his pedestal so many years ago, lay mutilated and denuded of arms. Instead, the horrid crutch of the demon seemed to point to a cold bond of reciprocal interests. Now, an inkling of this business reached the home of his parents. Signora Marianna prayed to God that this might not be true, since such a marriage would have been for her the loss of every hope of ever regaining her beloved son. The father, however, in his blind vanity, saw the situation with different eyes and so built magnificent sand castles in the air, the likes of which never entered into Beppino’s plans. The silk-worm disease, the even more awful grape blight, the lean harvests, and the oppressive taxes had all made him tired of country life, so much so that he would now be willing to sell the modest little farm that had cost him so much labour and care, in order to move to the city and participate in that which he was imagining to be such a great fortune. The smallest suspicion never crossed his mind that his simple

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ways and the inevitable stink of the fields that he would have brought with him would have been disagreeable to such a fashionable daughter-in-law, or even that his very own Beppino, in the society in which he now lived, would not have found it much to his liking to have forever before his eyes an irrefutable testimony of his plebian origins. Let us, however, leave aside these dreams of Signor Giovanni and return to Beppino. In the most recent period of the relationship to which we have just alluded, that capricious and vain woman made him suffer such humiliations and made him drink of such bitterness that he now, unlike in years past, could not wait for the close of university so as to be able to return home; and he fostered in his mind every sort of distraction, among which often passed through his thoughts the little orphan that his parents had taken in. He had a distant memory of having seen her there in town. He remembered her as quite a modest girl, not at all striking, who almost always lived a retiring sort of life. Upon seeing her again, he found her even more modest; at first sight, actually, she seemed nothing better than a humble servant; therefore, having become accustomed to quite different charms, he no longer cared to court her and was even almost ashamed for having ever entertained the thought. On the other hand, it did not take long to realize that the poor creature, so simple and so neglected in appearance, exerted a singular influence on those around her. Her gentleness, her manners imbued with a sweetness and a grace without equal, besides having won over everyone’s heart, imperceptibly transformed others, particularly the two younger sisters, whose character he no longer recognized, they seemed so changed. Now they were mild and gentle, and industrious activity, which in the past had been a burden for them, was now a true pleasure in Angelina’s company. They rose early in the morning, and with her swiftly attended to the domestic chores, the household tasks; in this way, Signora Marianna found herself relieved of every labour and almost, so to speak, of every worry. After Angelina’s arrival, everywhere and in every thing there reigned an order and an admirable tidiness. Moreover, this early rising and division of the hours into different but continuous work activities and tasks made the moments of recreation and leisure so much more precious, and the girls’ spirit, like a compressed spring, unleashed itself then with more vivaciousness, so that their company and conversation was for everyone something desirable and exceedingly pleasing. This attracted other girls of the town to the pharmacist’s house, and they all treated each other like such good friends and sisters, and

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took long walks together, and sometimes even little jaunts to neighbouring towns; Signora Marianna not infrequently took part in these activities, as did that good man, her husband. He enjoyed chatting with the girls about the political news of the day, and when that flock of happy and impressionable sparrows persisted in pressing him with a thousand unexpected questions he was unable to answer, it was wonderful to see how he tried to extricate himself with a stern scowl and professorial airs, but not always however in such a way as to avoid noisy bursts of laughter, in which he himself also took part in the end. And Beppino had noted how, in leading this country life that he himself found so monotonous and banal, Angelina had learned how to find another source of pleasure, which the girls, in fact, jealously kept wrapped in mystery, and which, for this very fact, stimulated his curiosity; these were reasons why he was much less apathetic and bored this year than in the past. There was a little garden plot whose flowers they cultivated with great zeal; then one fine morning they were picked, and he could not discover for what reason nor where in the devil they had in one instant whisked them off to. It was the parish priest’s niece who arrived in great haste asking for the girls: they huddled together talking in secret, and then, for several mornings afterwards, they arose two good hours earlier than usual and, holed up in their workroom, attended to some mysterious task undetected by mortal eyes. Likewise, during silkworm season the girls diligently raised a small number of silkworms – made up of the leftovers from the silkworm table – with the residue of the leaves they had gleaned from the already bare stumps. Then, on their own, they sold the cocoons they had collected, and no one except Signora Marianna knew how they used the money. Once, he realized that the girls were contemplating something that seemed to be a nocturnal rendezvous. He had thrown himself on the sofa in his room and was idly smoking when, from the girls’ workroom next door, he heard lively chatter; and he, who normally would have been ashamed to show interest in their trifles, could not now resist drawing slowly near to the window and straining his ear to hear as much as he could. Two neighbour girls had come to visit the sisters, and one of them had just returned from sea bathing at Trieste. Oh, the bizarre descriptions she devised of that city, seen for the first time by her eighteen-year-old eyes! And oh the even more bizarre comments from the other silly girls, who, never having left their nests and ignorant of many of life’s realities, expressed their opinions and their curi-

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ous desires without respect to consequences, while they thought they were not being listened to! Unconsciously he greatly enjoyed himself and more than once forgot about his cigar for his smiling, so much did the things of this world, when passed through the prism of their young years, present themselves as marvellous and coloured with unexpected poetry. But what particularly caught his attention was a plan, the beginning of which had been lost to him in that blur of vivacious twittering and rapid-fire interruptions of young girls’ voices, speaking all at once. He was slowly making out part of it from broken sentences, the only ones he was capable of grasping in such a confusion of proposals. ‘Yes, Angelina, yes ...! – Oh what a crazy idea! – oh what a delight!’ And here there were murmured reservations and words of doubts, fears ... But they were frequently reassured: ‘But Amalia is practical; but Amalia would never lead us into danger ...’ and the sisters: ‘I beg you, Angelina; I beseech you! This very night at eleven ...’ At eleven o’clock! he thought, and where in the devil do they want to go at that hour? ‘We’ll be waiting for you at the corner of the lane; you all leave your house very quietly, so that no one hears you ... The sky is as clear as crystal: we will have wonderful moonlight ... oh don’t deny us this pleasure!’ ‘In exchange, I want to propose one much more serious and lasting.’ This was the pure voice of the orphan, whose soft and sweet tone sounded so nice to him that it always touched a chord in his soul. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘just this morning, after mass, I went down there with the priest’s niece ...’ – and here, almost as though she feared being overheard by others besides the girls, she began in a whisper to tell a pitiful story that moved the girls to interrupt now and again: ‘Oh yes, the poor little ones! ...’ ‘I will make the shirts!’ ‘And I the socks!’ ‘Take this necklace.’ ‘We will give you all the money that we have in our savings bank.’ ‘It will be such a pleasure to see them consoled, to work for them ... But tonight you must be content to come with us. Tomorrow, or whenever you want, we will all come with you.’ ‘Do you all promise? – Do you promise? ...’ ‘Very well: can I tell Mama?’ ‘You can tell her, but tell her in secret and beg her for this favour; Mama cannot say no to you ...’ ‘And how!’ thought Beppino. ‘My mother has a singular weakness for this creature and I won’t be surprised if she grants it! But I must decipher the enigma at any cost!’ And he made up his mind not to go to sleep that evening and to follow in their footsteps. During dinner Angelina was thoughtful, evidently preoccupied. At

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times her large peaceful eyes were veiled as though with a tear, which soon transformed itself bravely into a smile that illuminated her face as does a ray of sunshine peeking through the clouds. The sisters were so happy that they did not know what to do or say. They ended up teasing him with a thousand strange proposals; they got up from the table for every little thing; they caused their papa to shout at them; they skipped from one end of the room to the other, and in their childish impatience they made obvious their desire for the moment when they could retire for the evening. When the lights were lit and everyone turned to go to bed, Angelina stopped the mother for a moment and with lowered eyes, holding her hand as though to give herself courage, she quietly murmured a few words of timid entreaty. Signora Marianna looked at her, stupefied. Angelina, then, smiling, confided who knows what secret to her; the good woman, touched, caressed with two hands that affectionate head that hung waiting for her sign, and assented, giving Angelina a light pat on the cheek and then kissing her on the brow with great tenderness. Beppino went up the stairs and entered his room, and although he turned out the light, he did not lie down, but instead stood in front of the half-closed window, smoking and spying. After almost an hour of silence, he heard in the room next door the sound of their little footsteps and then fumbling, as though they were getting dressed again. At precisely eleven o’clock, an imperceptible rustling of dresses sweeping the floor alerted him that they were descending the stairs. Then another minute of complete silence, which was followed at intervals by the squeaking of keys turning slowly in the lock. He looked out the window and saw them on the street retreating like three silent shadows. For a moment he considered going down and locking the door on them to see their reaction upon their return; but then he thought it better to keep behind them and discover their secret. He let them get a little bit ahead, while still keeping them in sight, and then he began to follow them. He went cautiously, hugging the walls, following along the hedges, so that he would not be seen in the moonlight. When they reached the specified corner, lo and behold, there were the two others waiting quietly for them. They were dressed in white and carried some bundles. They took the path across the fields and, once outside of the town, reassured by the peacefulness that reigned across all of creation, they began to walk more quickly and, less apprehensive, they allowed themselves to chatter freely. While they were in the thick of the crop fields, it was easy for him to

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follow them unseen; but when they came into a wide meadow only dotted with a few alder bushes and some isolated ancient poplars, without any real hedges behind which to hide oneself, he did not know which direction to take or where to stop. He could see them, almost running through the meadow grass, like little butterflies, heading towards the little river that cuts across the plain, and which he could discern by the shaded banks of bushes and stands of acacia and tall Italian poplars. He stopped for a bit to consider what move he should make, and ever more determined in his plan, he focused on a group of trees that formed a little copse rising up a few steps beyond the road they bordered and which almost touched the bank of the little river. Suddenly he made a mad rush, and, after crossing the clearing in four great bounds, he threw himself in the thick growth and hid. The girls saw a shadow run by; they heard the rustling of the foliage and, terrified, they huddled together afraid to flee. After a few moments of fearful silence, with timid and trembling voices they asked each other: ‘Did you see that?’ ‘Did you hear that? ...’ ’Oh God! Oh God!’ said Amalia’s sister. ‘It’s the dead man of ’48! ...’ Now, even more frightened than before, they did not even dare to breathe. They were referring to a superstition that was popular in the town and that they had heard the peasants mention a thousand times. It was said that there in those meadows, every time there was bad weather, you could see a spirit wandering. And those who at the hay harvest had been caught by the storm swore to have seen this spirit rise up from first one haystack and then another; it carried a long rifle and its chest had a terrible gash, out of which came blood and continuous flashes of light; with great tears and outstretched arms the spirit turned to gaze at the thunderous seashore, and together with the roar of the thunder and the whistling of the furious winds, it was heard crying: ‘My poor betrayed Italy! My poor lost Italy!’ They called him the dead man of ’48, because the people believed that it was the spirit of a young hunter who used to frequent these parts, and who, when he saw bands of Croatians readying to march on Udine, camped out on those meadowlands so dear to his heart, and volunteered for the Italian army. After fighting those unhappy wars, he was shot by a Frenchman in Rome,3 where after long anguish he died, without hope, on the very day Venice capitulated.4 All these things flashed through Angelina’s mind, and overcoming her natural timidity in one instant, she loosened herself from the embrace of her companions and in a solemn act stepped determinedly

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towards the bush. ‘Oh God! What are you doing, Angelina? ... Where are you going, Angelina?’ they shouted to her, terrified. ‘I want to console him,’ she said. ‘I want to tell him that Italy is not lost! That his blood was not spilled in vain! – Oh tormented soul, who comes here to mourn our motherland!’ She continued, and her voice, divinely inspired, had become a celestial song. ’That Italy that you so loved and for which you died so young, is rising again and is now becoming a great nation! They derided us, they oppressed us, many years of tears and unspeakable misfortunes have passed; but the Lord finally had mercy and has accepted your sacrifice and those of your generous brothers, and finally the day we all so hoped for has arrived, the day which when you were dying seemed a dream. I am a poor girl and I do not know how to tell you of the great events, but I will pray for you and you will learn of them in the bosom of the Lord. There between his two seas’ – and her little hand illuminated by a ray of moonlight pointed towards the sparkling marina – ’there lies the beautiful peninsula! Weep no longer for her but instead come to bless her. She is reunited in only one thought, only one flag; her people are already embracing each other like so many brothers and they will soon come to redeem even this last edge of Italian soil. Come, sisters, let us all kneel here and pray that God forgive his little faith and the desperation of his last hour on account of the love that he bore for our motherland, and the blood that he spilled for her, and the anguish of his early demise.’ The girls knelt, folded their hands and turned their eyes heavenward; Angelina was crying. The moon, already halfway through its course, caressed with its loving light those young heads composed in devout meditation, and sweetly quieted the fearful image that had momentarily disturbed them. The young man hidden among the bushes contemplated them, moved by their piety. His heart had begun to beat once again for the holy love of the motherland, and when the girls arose and headed once more towards the banks of the nearby stream, he followed them from a distance, no longer to spy on their secrets, but urged on by an irresistible attraction. After penetrating the area where the brushwood and the bushes shaded the bank, he saw the girls open their bundles and spread out white linens on the soft grass. The stream, in its winding channel, at places lightly skimmed the ground, transparent all the way to the bottom; in other places, where the water was deep, it murmured and gushed: brown under the trees, silver and almost a mirror of light in the spots where it flowed in the open. The fall acacia had already begun to

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flower; the evergreens, the sages, and the hyssops perfumed the nocturnal air. The changeable leaves on the tops of the tallest poplars, first brown, then brightly coloured, danced restlessly. In that place, far from the town, the night was beautiful in its mysterious silence and virginal solitude, and the girls, seated on the grass, stopped briefly to contemplate it. With the facility of their youth they had already forgotten the frightening experience, and presently they became happy and talkative again. A kind of dressing room where the girls could remove their clothes offered itself in the form of a willow tree that let part of its thick tresses be carried by the current and at whose base there rose up some saplings and underbrush intersected by snakes of ivy and bindwood, which dappled the green of the leaves with whole white bellflowers. On the willow branches they hung their dresses, shawls, and a little watch already showing past midnight, and, one at a time, they came out in short bathing costumes. When they saw themselves in the moonlight there in the meadow, on the bank of the river, in such unusual circumstances, they were overcome with jollity and began playing all sorts of innocent tricks. They ran around, with their bare feet dancing on the grass; one bent down to splash in the waves, sending a thousand crystal jets into the air and spraying her companions, who made a loud racket; another, holding the water in her cupped hands, splashed her face and neck as though to taste its coldness, while another enjoyed herself by throwing in leaves and flowers and handfuls of grass, which the current carried quickly away, suggesting what it would do when she entrusted her graceful little body to the current. But Angelina had not yet come to join them; they ran to the willow and there they found her standing and refusing to undress. An overwhelming shyness prevented her from putting on that swimming costume which would have revealed her every curve. They dragged her out in her slip, and Angelina, holding herself with her arms crossed over her chest, looked like a terrified vestal virgin in that long white robe. To give her courage, Amelia jumped in first. She swam like a fish. Amid the applause of her friends she let herself be carried for a long way by the current, dove under, and then resurfaced suddenly from an even bigger splash, with her blond hair loose and dripping, looking like a mermaid. She walked to the bank with the water at waist level to take hold of Angelina’s little feet and invited her to follow her example. It was not to be; Angelina could not make up her mind. The others, after various attempts, one at a time all went into the water. They held each other’s hands and danced in a circle with

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great joy, as if that pleasure, for them completely new, was a kind of triumph. Amalia, who had taken swimming lessons in Trieste, now played the teacher, and when one of them, once accustomed to what at first seemed a great danger, let herself be pulled into the middle of the water and felt her feet rising up and her body turning, Amalia was right there swimming next to her: ‘Don’t be afraid. Let yourself go, pretend you are in your bed and let your body go slack.’ They had almost gotten used to the water, but Angelina, shy and exceedingly modest, was still on the bank. Her long slip, gathered around her neck, covered her down to her feet; blushing deeply, she kept her lovely head bowed on her chest, her eyes lowered and through her eyelashes appeared a tear, as if she were ashamed of not being able to overcome her timidness. They were all in front of her. ‘Come, Angelina, make up your mind! The water is as warm as freshly squeezed milk. The water that’s coming down now has been warmed by the sun’s rays this morning up in the mountains. Try it, you’ll see how delightful it is! It will do you good.’ But it was all in vain. The most she would do was extend a foot as white as snow, and, as soon as it skimmed the wave, she pulled back immediately and held herself tightly, unable to let herself go. They began to splash her with little sprays of water. With outstretched hands they managed to take a hold of her slip, physically forced her down the bank, and then carried her in their arms into the middle of the current. She had become as pale as marble; her black hair gathered in two long braids had fallen on her chest which, agitated by short and frequent breaths, heaved as though she had a fever. The noisy water washed around her and carried away her braids and the hem of her slip which had risen to the surface and which she attempted in vain to keep close to her. Oh how beautiful was that chaste little angel who seemed to have emerged from the mirror of moonlight, and the limpid wave in its glassy transparency was nothing more than a light veil for the rest of her virginal limbs! When the young man returned to his bed that night, he could not close his eyes. That curious scene of which he had been a hidden spectator became a recurrent fantasy. Many nights afterwards, Angelina appeared in his dreams just as she had during her swim, and that humble figure, who at the beginning he had barely deigned worthy of a glance, and who in fact he had found quite vulgar and banal, now seemed divinely beautiful to him. It was no longer possible for him to be close to her without feeling her attraction, and when she, with her natural ingenuousness, spoke to him or fixed her innocent eyes on

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him, confused as he was, he could not control the wild beating of his heart. A few weeks later, the girls, who in the meantime had been rising at dawn and together with their companions had worked for a long time in secret, did not return home one morning after mass as was their custom. They had been running secretly to the rectory for several days, and there in the hands of the priest’s niece they must have deposited the objects that they had been cautiously removing from the house. Suspicious, Beppino used a missing key as an excuse to follow on their trail. They had already left the rectory, and a little boy told him that they were probably in a neighbouring house, where they had all gone together to visit the wife and children of the poor man whom the military had arrested and taken to the Palma jail. Then he remembered a story that had filled the entire town with terror some time before. In one of those inconceivable acts of abuse common in those days in these desolate provinces, some cavalry soldiers, finding who knows what fault with some peasants – who, by their misfortune, found themselves at the tavern with the soldiers – and without a trial of any sort and by their sole authority took the most courageous peasant captive. After binding him with rope, a soldier tied him to his own stirrup, and whipping the horse to a full gallop, he dragged him through the village in front of the horrified townsfolk. For some days afterward, this incident was on everyone’s lips. Beppino remembered having shivered in his boots for fear that the man might be shot. He had not thought, however, about the poor wife and the numerous offspring that had been left behind in such suffering and without their only means of support. This, in fact, was the girls’ secret, the undertaking of the good Angelina. In his remorse, he donated his watch with the gold chain and the contents of his pockets and then ran to that house. He found them busily dressing the little children. In the middle of the room was an open basket full of shirts, socks, and other items that the girls had prepared with such care. Angelina held a tiny sick child on her knees, and he had thrown his arms around her neck and lain his poor little head lovingly on her chest, while his mother stood confused and crying tears of tenderness. Upon returning home, with the sisters and the other girls walking ahead, Angelina leaned on Beppino’s arm. The generous impulse he had allowed himself to obey made her feel happy, and without knowing it, her gratitude was translated into love. As for Beppino, it need not be said that his heart returned her affection. If she had seemed

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beautiful to him on the night of the swim, now he loved her desperately. He loved her as he had never loved before and as one loves only once in a lifetime. Because of her, his father’s house had become dear to him once again, because of her that monotonous stay in the country had revealed so many treasures that he had in the past overlooked. To unite his fate with hers, to become her companion for the rest of his days, to provide for his sisters together with her, to help his dear old parents, to carry on with their simple but innocent lives, to live with her ignored by the world but far from its corruption, this was now his soul’s dream, this was his only ambition, his heart’s most ardent desire. One afternoon, tired from a long walk in the company of the girls, he had gone to rest in his mother’s workroom. They were alone, and she watched him in silence, every now and then, consoled by her Beppino, who for some time now seemed to her happy and affectionate and outgoing again, almost like in the blessed days of his childhood, before he had gone to the University of Padua. The young man seated on the sofa next to her seemed to keep his eyes fixed on some Bengala roses that were peeking in the window, gilded by the sun’s last ray. But he was not focused on them, and his own thoughts instead retraced all the actions and words of the girl, and he let himself bask in his love for her. With his heart open to every goodness, with the old tenderness for his mother reawakened, he thought for an instant about the immense happiness he would have felt embracing both her and Angelina, and his eyes filled with tears; he felt remorse for the years he had neglected that good woman who had loved him so much, and he also felt a desire to make amends now and open his heart to her once again; tears ran abundantly down his cheeks, almost as though to wash his soul and purify it of so many errors and sufferings. His mother became aware of his tears: ‘What’s wrong? Oh my Beppino, you are crying!’ And she tossed her work aside and stretched out her arms with great affection, crying herself. They embraced each other as never before, and reminiscent of the child he had been, he confided his story to his mother. Oh, who could recount the good woman’s joy? She had regained her son, her Beppino. She who had such a need to be loved was surrounded once again by love. It was she who had received the orphan, it was she who could now place in the arms of her precious son this entire treasure of purity and affection ...! She envisioned the happiness that this union would bring to her family. To close out her days with the caresses of those so dear to her was a blessing, an oppor-

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tunity to share with them in the beginning and end of every good thing. With her innate wisdom, she soon managed to persuade her husband; the girls who loved Angelina as more than a sister received the news with infinite joy. As for the orphan, it meant that she was grafted onto the family of her benefactors forever; it meant that she truly became their daughter. Her virginal heart had always loved Beppino because he was their love, and now that he, with their consent, had offered her his hand and his name, she accepted with immense gratitude and prepared to dedicate herself completely to making him happy. With the affair thus settled, the young man departed for Padua to finish the final year of his practicum. The little family, so happy about the plans, busied themselves with the preparations for the forthcoming marriage. Signora Marianna saw to the knitted and woven linens and shopped for various items; the girls sewed the trousseau; and Signor Giovanni painted the house and prepared the bride and groom’s rooms. Thus the winter passed and the silkworm season arrived, and it was decided that, God willing, all that they produced would go for the newlyweds’ expenses. If the girls had always willingly cared for those precious silkworms with singular intelligence, that year they were totally devoted, and demonstrated an incomparable industriousness and zeal. In fact, in spite of the disease, rampant even still, that had plagued the silkworms, and which left most of the town’s silkworm nurseries empty, that year their share prospered wondrously and yielded magnificent cocoons. It almost seemed that they had thrown basket glue on strands, they so hung in garlands, in clusters, clean and golden and wrapped in gleaming veils. In the Friulian countryside during cocoon season there was the custom of choosing a branch where the worms had best spun their silk to take to church as an offering on the altar in thanks to the Lord for the good harvest. In Signora Marianna’s silkworm nursery they had also prepared this small gift; and if the girls, when putting the worms to feed in the woods, came upon an extraordinarily beautiful one, they would bring it immediately to the consecrated branch. As a result, this year their gift had turned out so beautifully that it was a glory to behold. Signora Marianna looked in her chests for a colourful ribbon that the girls could attach as a support, and Angelina herself carried it to church and placed it on the altar. The next day, Sunday, everyone admired the sumptuous spinning of the Bressanuti household, but it was noted by some that the ribbon car-

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ried the three colours of the Italian flag. The commissioner immediately called the priest, who, not suspecting a crime of high treason, gave Angelina’s name. Nothing more was needed: that same night they surrounded the pharmacist’s house, and among the cries and screams of the frightened women, they arrested the wretched girl and led her away bound. But what had she done? Of whatever crime could they accuse that poor girl who would not even hurt a fly? The family was completely shocked, as though struck by lightning. The next day they heard talk that the ribbon was the cause of it all. Signora Marianna wrote to Beppino, who came immediately; she ran to the commissioner, she ran to the military authorities; she prayed on her knees for them to listen to her! It was useless; she was rebuffed all around. The girl was formally tried. Surrounded by military thugs, she appeared before the judges like a lamb led to the slaughter. They wanted to wrench who knows what confession from her; perhaps they wanted her to accuse someone in her family: she did not say, could not say, anything but the facts, and if there was blame, she kept it all for herself! She was sentenced to suffer at the hand of a corporal, in the town square, twenty horrible lashes as a public example.* The terrified people gathered in the streets and there was not a soul who did not feel compassion for the wretched girl; but for so long disarmed and oppressed, in a place occupied by so many foreign troops, whatever could they have done in the face of such force? Beppino, who at the news of the arrest felt like he was losing his mind, arrived home a few minutes before the brutal execution. Friends had physically pulled the mother and sisters away; he found only his father. He seemed to have aged ten years; he cried like a child and tore at his white hair repeating: ‘Not that poor creature on the bench! Not those innocent limbs under the cane! ...’ Beppino thought he would die; he clapped his hat on his head and, wild as though his soul were in hell, he ran to the square. A good number of people crowded around; a sepulchral silence reigned, like a terror of death; the soldiers kept the crowd back with their bayonets. He was trying to make way for himself, when he heard a groan, a sob that hollowed the soul. It was her voice pleading that they kill her but please, do not remove her clothes, do not expose her naked in front of so many eyes! ... A vile snicker was the only response, and then was heard the horrible whistle of the cane *This story was written several years previously. Now even Austria, like all civilized nations, has legally abolished caning in its army. (Author’s note)

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that lacerated that virginal skin. This abominable sound, those desolate cries, cast an indelible stain on his heart. A sudden rage seized him, he cursed God, he cursed His justice and, invoking a weapon that might avenge him, on that very night, without even a farewell, abandoning forever his aged parents, his sisters, and that wretched girl he had so loved, he departed to join the soldiers of Italy.

NOTES 1 A town near Udine in the north-eastern region of Friuli. 2 ‘Vanitas vanitatum et omnia vanitas,’ ‘vanity of vanities and all is vanity,’ is the celebrated verse of Ecclesiastes (1:2 and 12:8), attributed to Solomon, third king of Israel (ca. 970–931 BC). 3 During the Roman Republic, 1849. 4 The 24th of August, 1849.

The Coral Necklace* CONTESSA LARA Translated by Carrie Hill Wilner

Now Caròla wasn’t inclined to make a fuss over Tonino when, in the evenings, a southwest breeze blowing, the boat moored on the beach, he came courting. On the contrary, she would be by her front door, putting patches on the deep blue shirts of her kinsmen: her father and two brothers. Tonino would sit there on the ground, not far from her, his shoulders against the wall, mending a strip of net spread across his naked, muscular legs, which were a reddish brown, as though cast from bronze. Around town, it had been known for a while that, sooner or later, these two would be married; in fact, unlike with most matches, where it seems necessary to satisfy everyone, including those who really shouldn’t have anything at all to do with it, there wasn’t the slightest obstacle to this marriage. Caròla’s father himself, who considered Tonino the grandest gentleman in Marciana Marina, had offered the girl quite plainly, like so: ‘Look, you should take my daughter!’ And the young man, smiling and mussing his hair said: ‘As far as I’m concerned, I’m ready.’ So the thing was decided. The person who wasn’t in any hurry at all was Caròla. Naturally, she needed to put aside some trinkets to make herself a dowry, including a coral necklace and coral earrings, which were her passion: understandably so, as she looked awfully good in red! The dirty mirror in her room told her so, even if it was grey and scratched from behind, when

*‘Il vezzo di corallo,’ 1883

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she looked at herself in it while putting some rose or carnation from the flowerbed in her black tresses. A few times, the old man, imagining Tonino’s suffering, always so close to that gorgeous morsel without being able to enjoy her other than with his eyes, completely in love as he was, pleaded with the girl: ‘But your mother, bless her soul, when I married her, had all in all three shirts and two dresses, including her fancy ones, and as far as jewellery goes, just a blessed ring. What need is there to have everything at once? You can get things bit by bit.’ But Caròla threw back her shoulders and responded with a harsh and resolute tone. This girl did not want to go stripped and bare to her husband, and absolutely not without a red necklace. What was wrong with Tonino that he couldn’t wait? And let him go ahead and marry someone else, the fact remained that she didn’t fall helpless on men. So the old man quieted, shaking his head. Few can deal with women, but especially that devil Caròla, who ate everyone up as if they were bread; really no one could. Maybe this was a response to her mother’s early death. With that father and those brothers always at sea, she was left mistress of the house, where she created and destroyed as she pleased. But it was also her temperament, a temperament revealed by her countenance. To understand this, one needed only to look at her lovely twenty-two-year-old person: tall, dark, with a prominent bosom, even features, a low hairline, two large eyebrows that almost met as a crown for her splendid eyes, and a full mouth decorated with little teeth, close-spaced, sharp, like those of a young wolf, sparkling between her blood-red lips: a proud and sad totality, recalling those characteristic figures of women who shared in the loves, the boldness, and the crimes of the bandits of our southern provinces. Tonino adored her, but without ever telling her, and scarcely daring to make her understand, because at the first tender word or intimate gesture, you felt those huge eyes fixed upon you, huge eyes that inspired fear and desire at the same time, colder and more overwhelming than a sword. The only thing that made this strange child smile at all was hearing that she was beautiful. Faced with this, the woman was only a woman. Sundays, while she crossed the square on her way to mass, towering a good five inches above all of her companions, her cotton kerchief patterned with yellow flowers on a red background tied under her hair at the nape of her neck, men turned to look at her, and the Customs Sergeant, who would be in front of the church, smoking and spitting,

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always commented when Caròla passed. The Prior preached to her once: ‘A bit of humility, dear daughter!’ But the only thing the poor man achieved was that Caròla no longer went to confession, except at Easter, because, in the end, it couldn’t really be avoided. So Tonino didn’t make too much of his fiancée’s serious manner when, on that morning of August 15, while returning from their journey to the Madonna del Monte, he took the rope that served as the reins of Carola’s mount as her old father descended with his head low, his eyes on the stones of the path. All three were dizzy from the excitement and din of the festival they had attended. A grand festival! It is said that on the day of the Assumption almost the entire population of Elba comes to the highest peak of the island, to the Madonna del Monte! There’s the invocation of the women of Elba, who, like the women of the Marche, exclaim: ‘Madonna di Loreto! As soon as it’s daytime, up the sides of the mountain one sees an antlike swarm ascending towards the mass, the men almost all on foot, the women all riding donkeys, in wooden saddles, their legs hanging alongside baskets of provisions. Together, they form groups with a strong, strange, picturesque effect, against the background and the frame of wild nature. They climb and climb, dependent on the steps of their animals, confined amongst rocky, enormous masses, on one side bizarrely piled, like the caprice of some Titan, on the other slipping into a precipice, a steep descent of broken granite, at the bottom of which a torrent foams. Overhead the opaline blue of the sky, at their shoulders the occluded and vaporous blue of the sea seen in the distance, just a distant glimmer. They ascend, stopping in the shade to dry their sweat amongst a glade of chestnut trees, where the donkeys, up until then fed only on blows, immediately stretch their necks to nibble some plant within reach of their yellow teeth. They climb, passing some cottage, its walls without plaster, black and crumbling. It is barely bigger than a dovecote, and today is deserted by its friendly inhabitants who otherwise would have stepped outside to greet whoever passed and to offer them refreshments of topaz-coloured wine, salted anchovies, and home-made fennel biscuits. They climb, they climb, wearier and wearier, more and more sensitive to the steepness of the slope. They climb until they reach the church grounds, from which one dominates the entire island: this islet, alternately fertile and fallow, in some places rich in oriental plants of fantastic and enchanting colour. A strip of Sicily, cast like a petal alongside the Tuscan shore.

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But the terrace of the Madonna del Monte is not large enough to contain so many people. And before those who were not among the first to arrive resolve to scatter themselves about these heights, there is a crush in which everyone treads on everyone else, one man forcing himself in front of another, shouting and gesticulating. I remember one time when I saw a figure of the most grotesque type in the midst of this commotion: a farmer’s wife, about fifty years old, an elephantine woman mounted on a donkey and dressed in starched pink muslin with a large, ruffled skirt which didn’t reach far enough to cover her enormous calves, which were tightly cased in her rough-knit stockings. On her head she wore a little white straw hat, decorated with turquoise ribbons. She had jewels at her neck and on her ears, and around her waist she wore a gold watch chain. In her right hand she held a riding crop and the reins of the ass, which almost disappeared underneath that huge pink balloon; in her left, a huge, open umbrella of green oilcloth to complete the caricature. Once she reached the top of the slope, and moved to the clearing, this massive woman who had come from Lord knows how far away to be present in person at the function attempted to push herself through the crowd, but imagine that! There wasn’t a blessed chance that one of those firmly planted peasants would move, but the matron’s anxieties did not ease. Dripping with sweat, choking with rage, she began to wildly hit at the donkey’s back with her stick, while blows from the crowd rained down on the front and sides of the poor beast. An indescribable demon, she screamed and cursed, until the ass could no longer do anything but solemnly kick twice, sending the shrieking matron and her get-up, including the green oilcloth umbrella, tumbling down the hill. Meanwhile, inside the church: a crowd so dense you couldn’t fit a grain of millet between one person and the next, and what with the panting, the lights, the incense, one could faint. While the bells ring and the organ plays, the priests and the crowd start to sing, and firecrackers explode wildly. Better off he who has remained outside! The sea air is light, notwithstanding the summer heat. Once the mass is finished, everyone wants to rest in the shade and eat reclining on the ground, where they empty their baskets of their lunches brought from home; this is when one feels good. Then, towards eleven, they get on their mounts again and head merrily down, tipsy from coarse wine, from commotion, from sun, from the height of the cliffs, which makes one afraid. Down merrily! Anyway, on the descent, the saints will help.

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‘Did you see that red necklace that the Madonna had?’ Caròla asked Tonino while they stopped to drink the fresh water that gurgled up amongst the moss with their hands. ‘A necklace with beads as big as walnuts,’ she added, softly, half closing her eyes, in which envy lit a yellow flame. Continuing down the road, they talked about the legend of the coral necklace of the Madonna del Monte, a legend which was on everyone’s lips and had done more than a little to attract people to the sanctuary. In Elba there is a widely held superstition – I don’t know when it was born – that he sins who goes away from the island on the fifteenth of August, which is consecrated to the Virgin Mary. This is why, on the fifteenth, one never sees the sail of any skiff or trawler unfurl its wings on the nearby waters. Only the little mail boat, La Pianosa, makes its regular rounds, like every other day, and leaves Portoferraio, wailing at its port of call the high, focused note of its horn. But La Pianosa, whether big or microscopic, is a steamer: the steamer represents progress, and progress is not faith. It is said, in any event, that the year before the one in which the events of my story unfold, a young stranger came to visit the island, especially to see the mines of Rio, that hamlet that seems to have leapt out of One Thousand and One Nights, such does the sand sparkle like diamond dust and so red are the waves. Laughing at the beliefs of the place and at the advice of some old islander, he took a boat out to fish, right at the hour when the mass is celebrated up at the sanctuary. The blue plain was without a wrinkle, the sun was made of fire, there was not a breath of wind nor a wisp of cloud, and the stranger rowed, rowed, with a sky of pitiless clarity above him and below him a sea of oil. All at once, as if some terrible and mysterious hand had lifted it like the plaything of a child, the little craft capsized and disappeared quickly, swallowed by a whirlpool, leaving the shipwreck victim floating between stupor and fear. Meanwhile, a perfect calm resumed, and collecting all his courage, the young man swam persistently for the shore, from which he was separated by a couple of miles. And so he swam, for as much time as the vigour of his limbs would allow him. Now he thrust himself supine to rest, now he plunged his face in the sea to refresh it, but when he had been in the water for quite a while, he began to be overcome by a strange, growing torpor. His heart pounded, his breaths became shorter, his arms refused to push him further, his mouth ached with thirst under the tropical sun striking his head. More and more frequently he had to throw himself on his back to catch his breath, and he realized that he was barely advancing

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at all. Every so often, while he waved a raised arm, a scream, growing weaker and weaker, issued from his heaving chest, but no human voice responded to that cry for help. Again, he fought valiantly against death, while the land smiled at him – so close, still he felt that he lacked the strength to reach it. He fought with desperate will, and then, all in one instant, he abandoned himself, exhausted. When he next opened his eyes, he was on the beach in the midst of a throng of people, held up by two sailors, one of whom was dripping water from all over. He understood everything and thanked his saviour with a fading glance, before fainting again. But it was a miracle of the Madonna del Monte, everyone said so – and a month later, the Sacred Image had at her throat a red coral necklace, a votive offering sent from far away by the mother of the hero of this strange adventure. This necklace really was a spectacular jewel. The whole time Caròla had been in church, she had not managed to take her eyes off of it. Yes, she started to mumble some Ave Marias, but couldn’t continue, so completely were her thoughts subject to that fire-coloured collar standing out against the white dress embroidered in gold of the Virgin, under the spangled pavilion and in the fantastic light of all those candles. The girl succumbed to its charm. That object, the goal of all her female ambition, was truly in front of her and was more beautiful than she had ever been able to imagine; so beautiful that in the church, with the smoke of the incense spreading out in tendrils and the deafening noise of those strange festive harmonies, she dreamed that by some impossible chance, that necklace was hers. It would have looked so enchanting on her, on that high and prosperous breast. She could feel it, bolting forth from her chest near those massive black braids that pulled her head back, so heavy were they ... Then people would really turn their heads when she walked by in the square! And it would make that tramp Ameriga just die of rage – she had gotten so uppity since she got herself some little chain with the cash of those two married men. So Caròla, little by little, immersed in covetousness of that necklace, reached the point where she hated that Madonna, that mannequin of stucco, with her short waist and ridiculously long legs under robes of brocade, with curls blonde like hemp, exposed to the adoration of the crowd, between those panels covered with bits of wood, coloured strips of voile: all the pious litter of a hundred shipwreck victims. On the return home, the same disquieting thought tormented the

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girl, like a nail she had driven into her brain; she abandoned her body to the starts and shocks of the movements of the donkey and, one by one, tore, with a nervous gesture, the large leaves off the branch that served as her crop. The two men did not stop discussing the great gathering of people at the festival. Suddenly, Caròla, with an indescribable little smile, placed a hand on her lover’s shoulder: ’If I had that necklace, I would marry tomorrow,’ she said, looking at him intently, to see the effect that her words produced on the young man. He turned with a grin, marvelling at that outburst and exclaimed: ‘You? And how do you plan to get it?’ But when his eyes met hers, his smile froze in his face, as if he suddenly felt unwell. She hushed, peeling with her teeth the stick which she had already stripped of its leaves, and Tonino continued, embarrassed: ‘When I come back from Levante, I promise I’ll bring you a pair of gold earrings, don’t worry, those ones with the little medallions ... even if I have to go steal them!’ But Caròla interrupted him harshly, with a disdainful gesture: ‘What would I possibly do with those! Those aren’t the Madonna’s necklace!’ And she slapped the donkey to vent her fury. Just then, they passed a point where the road is almost flat and the animal used the incitement it had received as an excuse to buck into one of its proverbial little trots, leaving behind the two men, the younger of whom quickly caught up with the donkey and walked in front of it. ‘Hey, pay attention! The roads are bad,’ Tonino said kindly to the girl. She calmed, her brow knitted in a frown. Bad? Whether bad or good, was she afraid of anything? Then, tenacious in her thinking: ‘The problem isn’t falling from the donkey, the problem is not being able to have the Madonna’s necklace. Who would get it for me?’ Upon hearing these words, a terrible idea must have flashed through the youth’s mind for the first time, because under his blackened skin, a pallor immediately spread. He suffered. ‘Madonna Santa! We sure are damned,’ he muttered, clenching his teeth, a kind of shiver coming over him. But that inexorcisable devil, Caròla, sensing that the sailor had finally understood her strange desire, changed her tone, and leaning towards him in a feline manner, with a sensual note in her voice, she whispered: ‘Well ... well then, I’d marry you right away, you know ... I wouldn’t tell you no anymore!’ The path turned suddenly, with a sharp curve amongst the crags, so that when the mount went ahead, the old man, who was tired from the long journey and always walked slowly any-

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way, remained behind, hidden by the masses of rock, and the two young people lingered for a moment, unseen: her eyes sparkling with a splendid and sinister light under the kerchief which she had pulled forward to protect herself from the sun, eyes that could really damn a soul; he paler than ever, with an icy sweat glazing his face under the lash of mid-August. Both of them smiled, and they looked at each other. The next day, in the middle of the disarray of Marciana Marina, two policemen passed in a gig, between them a handcuffed man, whiter than a corpse, his teeth chattering as if it were winter, and smiling like a half-wit. It was Caròla’s suitor. The previous evening, at dusk, he had returned, alone, to the Madonna del Monte, and had gone behind the altar, believing that the sanctuary was deserted. He was surprised in the act of extending his sacrilegious hand to seize the Virgin’s necklace. An old woman who had been praying behind a bench saw the thief and with maniacal shrieks gathered the few people who had not already left the mountaintop. In the town, no one could believe it, from the mayor, who had always held the unlucky Tonino in high esteem, to Caròla’s father, who – well he’d be damned! But the girl, when word of that incredible arrest first reached her, looked straight in the face of the newsbearer, and dark and superb, standing straighter than ever in her clogs, had only one word: ‘Imbecile!’ These days, Tonino is no longer in the prison at Portoferraio, but in a madhouse near Livorno. He is a madman who constantly makes the sign of the cross to free himself, so he says, from those two huge and beautiful and evil eyes that stare at him to damn him: two big eyes at which he also smiles, always in love. Meanwhile, on the island, Caròla does not want to hear talk of husbands, much less of the Customs Sergeant, who before too long will take his leave, and is head over heels for that lovely bit of brunette. She concerns herself only with her house and her kinsmen, and thinks now and then of that poor man far away, alone, crazy, for whose salvation she offered to the Madonna del Monte the only jewel she had ever had: her mother’s wedding ring. This is true as love is true. They also say ... well, but then they say a lot of things down there, in the evenings, while the moon watches, glowing, glowing, and the sea snores, dark, dark.

Woes of the Middle Class* VIRGINIA OLPER MONIS Translated by Margaret E. Kern

1 Until 1866 there were only good times for the tailor Valin. From his shop on Calle Larga in San Marco he served all the elegant people of the city, and the money flowed in. He had a home over the shop with windows that gave on to the street, from which Gigetta, seated on a chair, absorbed in the rapture of a simple child, contemplated hour after hour the beautiful women who went to eat sweets at Pellegrino or to taste ice cream at Vittoria, the café currently all the rage. On Sundays, the tailor dressed better than his customers, and his wife, ears and fingers laden with gold, with ten rows of gold chain at her neck, would go to high mass with Gigetta dressed in Mexican blue silk. They lived a life of luxury: what hakes Christmas Eve, what turkeys at Easter! and ‘Policeman’s risotto,’1 where there were more pieces of pullet than grains of rice, and bottles uncorked on even the least occasion. As much as they earned, so much they spent; it seemed that plenty would never end. Nor had Valin ever been heard to murmur against the abhorred foreign Government. But the time came to change sides. When the white-coats2 dragged their swords a bit more humbly across the steps of the bridges, in those days of feverish anxiety in which the news of a cession of Venice was expected from one moment

*‘Miserie borghesi,’ 1893

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to the next, and the Italian troops were at the doors of the city, and inside the women worked secretly on tri-colour flags and cockades with hands trembling from emotion, the tailor, too, had his workers prepare a great and rich flag of tri-colour silk to hang from the pediment of his sign; and he had embroidered in the middle of it the cross of the House of Savoy and ‘Long Live a United Italy.’ Who ever would have dared repeat that he had seen the tailor’s name on a list of spies for the Austrian police? Gigetta, lovely in her eighteenth year, a bit flushed in the face, a bit animated, on that memorable day when the Italian troops entered the city, threw flowers liberally on our soldiers; and they, intoxicated with enthusiasm, thanked her with tearful smiles. That evening one could see the tailor taking home, arm in arm, two Southern infantrymen, small and quick, and when he had finished eating and guzzling, what tenderness, what embraces, what energetic invectives against the ‘hated foreigner!’ Gigetta and her mother served the men, dazed. But some time later, under the portico of the Procuratie Vecchie,3 the rich store A la Ville de Rome was opened, and Valin’s customers quickly deserted him, drawn by the novelty and good taste of the new shop. That is when the troubles began. The bolts of cloth piled up in the warehouse, the workers had to be fired one by one; the owner, standing idly up at the door, with his face as long as the span of his hand, worriedly watched the passers-by. At home, as if those poor women did not suffer enough seeing their property disappear little by little – even the most necessary furniture, even their clothes! – they had also to withstand the brutal outbursts of the tailor, who every day became more unbearable. He, who had been in favour of all things Italian, began to sound out, full of hatred, the antiphon: ‘Huh! It seemed that these “Italians” were supposed to bring us plenty; no more want, no more hunger, everyone rich signori! Instead, they brought us ill luck, and misfortunes, and misery. That’s what they brought us, these “Italians!”’ In short, the shop on Calle Larga had to be closed, and with what remained after its ruin, the tailor opened another shop of ready-made clothes, a cubbyhole in San Bartolomeo, on the piazza. They went to live in a fourth-floor flat in San Lio, off a dark, sad, smelly alley. There they lived for ten years, the best years of Gigetta’s youth. She worked caps with her crochet hook six days a week, barely raising her eyes to the thin patch of sky that appeared between the roof ridges and chimneys; she thought most often of nothing, flooded with a uniform,

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stagnant sadness of which she was not aware, as an individual who is exposed to a continuous electrical current does not note any difference from his normal state. Only on her days off did she rouse herself from that sort of lethargy, happy for the idleness and the Sunday walk, only then did she impatiently hasten her mother while her agile fingers systematically arranged her curls on her smooth, short forehead. Yes, because she had fun at high mass, and also at the music in Saint Mark’s Square. She still found pleasure in watching the beautiful women; but also – to tell the truth – in eyeing the faces of men who were not her father: and even more, in observing the young people who flirted with glances and furtive hand-holding. And those two women, small, thin, wan, neither old nor young, persisted in crossing and re-crossing among that multicoloured, lively crowd that parades in front of the patrons of the Florian and Quadri cafés, and in front of the common clerks, the salesmen, the workers’ superintendents, dressed in their Sunday finery, who, standing erect in the middle of the square, eye the pretty middle-class women and mumble sweet endearments to the milliners. Gigetta, skinny in all the height of her small stature, sported either her old dress of starched muslin or that of re-dyed wool, depending on the season, and from her head and on her shoulders fell a black veil, her luxury a fake rose behind her ear; her mother shuffled along beside her, eternally wrapped up in a shoddy brown shawl, with certain little flowers on her hat that even Jussieu4 would have had great difficulty classifying. All this, even before Momi spied Gigetta.

2 For her, until that time, no tender glances, no sweet endearments; and she didn’t seem to mind it; she was so used to that sad and simple life! But one lovely day, Momi Squarci, the head salesman at the store for which she worked, Momi Squarci himself, that handsome, dark young man, tall, robust, with a thin mustache above his thick, red lips – he whom she liked so much – started courting her. When she brought her caps to the shop, he made sheep’s eyes at her, he held on to her fingers and drew out their idle chatter; at mass she felt him behind her shoulders, steadfast and rigid; during walks he followed her home, through the labyrinth of alleys that lies behind the

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church of San Lio. And right there, at that corner where the head of a deceased man is carved in marble, as soon as her mother had turned away, he had approached her once or twice, and had clasped her hand and pressed a kiss upon it, whose burning she still felt. For his part, who knows? Perhaps he liked that pale visage, so resigned within the frame of her curling hair, and that slim little waist, and those sweet eyes, sweet and good. But really ... When he was eight, in the countryside of Padua, his parents had sent him to Venice to learn a trade from his cobbler uncle; but pulling the thread from morning till night didn’t suit him; so he became the delivery boy for a salame grocer; and then from shop to shop he had risen to the position of head salesman in a fashionable clothing store. Now he was thinking seriously of taking a wife. With a little woman who was prudent and hard-working his expenses would not increase, and he could enjoy his comforts better than in the hard life of a bachelor, where he had no one to take care of him or his things. But, how to find a woman like that! Precisely in hopes of avoiding the temptation of marrying a clever and lively dressmaker, he eyed Gigetta, poor but ‘without ideas,’ meaning, without ideas of luxury; not beautiful, but who in compensation promised to become an attentive and submissive wife, as he desired. She, in the meantime, perked up; she felt some new element inside herself enlivening; she began to understand that there was something better than watching others have fun and flirt with gazes and handholding! Imagination was awakened in her for the first time, procuring those joys and torments that it knows how to give, especially if turned towards one lone object. Day and night she had him before her eyes, her Momi, handsome like the day on which she had seen him, from some deserted Fondamenta,5 pass by in the light boat that he rowed, in shirt sleeves, with a red, carelessly knotted kerchief exposing his strong, white neck. She also grew more lovely; her few physical and intellectual qualities doubled, and became conspicuous. She was like one of those insignificant insects for whom life has no other goal than a momentary love, who for that moment are clothed in brilliant wings, then die.

3 Gigetta grew more lovely; so much so that Signor Giovanni, the landlord who lived on the first floor, also noticed. Each time she went out,

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she found him there, perched on the landing; he greeted her with the air of an old gentleman and followed her with his gaze down the stairs. Signor Giovanni for perhaps some twenty years no longer awaited his fiftieth birthday. In spite of this, until a few years earlier he had kept himself up by dint of elegance and jars of toiletries, and had passed for ‘a handsome man, well preserved.’ But when he was abandoned – no one knows why – by an old lover of high lineage, he suffered a collapse which turned the spruced-up dandy into a decrepit old man. His hair and beard, poorly dyed, seemed spotted with white, red, and black; his teeth of true ivory had turned yellow; his curved shoulders, uncertain step, and paralytic hands clearly bespoke his diminished existence, of which he remained unaware. ‘Once that gondola with the golden coat of arms no longer stopped on the banks in the evenings,’ said the large grocer woman on the third floor, ‘Signor Giovanni was no longer himself, poor man.’ ‘Even though it seems to him that all his fancies are not yet past,’ she added, alluding mischievously to Gigetta. But Gigetta turned a deaf ear, with that fire that burned inside of her! When Momi made his formal request, it was a great shock and a great joy for her old parents; but Gigetta ...! Who could describe the cheer of her heart, while outside she appeared so calm, as though it did not concern her? At the betrothal luncheon, the tailor marvelled, winking his eyes. ‘Who would have said it! With that air of a Milquetoast,6 how did she manage to find a husband! Good, children! You can think also of us old folk, who are tired of working.’ And in the meantime they guzzled. Momi in very little time furnished three good rooms; he bought a black suit for the wedding and many fine linens, a gold chain for his silver watch; the gifts for his fiancée were frequent and splendid. She, with the small savings from her work over so many years, set aside with the vague idea of a dowry, had finally arrived at it; and all day and all evening she sewed, she sewed: how many wonderful hopes were woven into the stitches of her needlework! But then ... goodbye wedding! Momi’s boss fired him all of a sudden. ‘But why, why?’ cried the poor girl, squeezing her temples, thrusting her hands in her hair. He shrugged his shoulders and, turning his head the other way, muttered in reference to his boss, ‘Because he’s mad!’ She was so infatuated with him that she was content with such

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responses. In the meantime he took all his meals with his fiancée. The tailor watched him with a surly look, and his old wife did the reckoning over and over on her fingers before going to do the shopping. Gigetta said, ‘What do you want to do with these things? Really! ...’ and her voice choked in her throat. ‘Sell all of it, to live on until you find another position.’ But another position was not found, and when the proceeds from the sale were exhausted, Gigetta, with her heart torn, delivered her dowry, two or three pieces at a time, to the peddler on Calle della Bissa; just so as not to hear her father reprove her for the mouthfuls of her fiancé! When those few lire were finished, she truly did not know what they would do ... They were in such straits when a proposal of marriage by the man on the first floor dropped down like a bomb. Gigetta’s response: ‘No, no, and no again, either him or no one; I’d rather die!’ Her parents, especially the tailor, insisted, they pressed. She cried, and Momi, who found her always red-eyed, downcast, asked her what was wrong. And she, ‘Nothing, always nothing. I would never tell him, never! ...’ But one evening her father and her fiancé went to have a drink together; the day after, when he was alone with her, Momi, embarrassed and with his eyes cast down, told her: ‘Oh, Gigetta, come on, I know why you cry! And what do you want to do about it? If I could foresee being able to marry you! ... But it’s all been eaten away, you see, and even if I found a job we would have to build back some capital; and where is this job? ... Marry him, marry the old man! ... In any case, the love I feel for you will always be the same ... He was right, surely he was right, who says otherwise? But a fog descended on her brain; her ears buzzed; an enormous weight pressed down on her chest. She wanted to speak, and nothing came out of her throat but wheezing, and it was drawn out, dissolving in a dark, offkey little laugh, ‘Ah, ah!’ She understood! Yes, she understood, she who was so weak of mind. They wanted it? He wanted it as well? Fine, she would obey, then! ... She blurted it out, bluntly, to her parents, with a violence altogether new to her. ‘Yes, I will marry the old man and I’ll see that you live well, but take care not to meddle in my affairs ever again. The old man disgusts me,’ she shouted, striking her fists on the table. ‘I love Momi and none other!’ The tailor, in order to calm her, went for some Marsala wine. He then went down to Signor Giovanni, and with a mien between humble and

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official, he had a discussion with him regarding their circumstances, in order to justify the delay in responding and to sweeten the pill he was to swallow. ‘Gigetta, really, was happy, she felt honoured ... She had never looked favourably on him, on that other one, that young man with no heart and no conscience ...’ Which was precisely what Signor Giovanni had been thinking! And, since he wanted nothing more than to be persuaded, he married her in peace and quiet.

4 Before the wedding and afterwards for some time, Momi did not show himself. But she waited for him, and thereafter they saw each other often, and always more frequently, upstairs at the tailor’s when her mother was at Mass or shopping, and her husband on the first floor snuggled blessedly in bed, with a book between his trembling hands. The idea of committing a sin never entered her head. To whom had she ever belonged body and soul, if not to Momi? Did not even Signor Giovanni know it when he married her? Why had he wanted to marry her? Around her husband she was attentive, accommodating, because that old man, so affectionate and needful of assistance, awoke in her just feelings of pity and gratitude. And the old man was happy, tranquil; he did not think her capable of betrayal, not so much due to virtue as to coldness. Her mother was an imbecile and didn’t understand anything; the tailor closed an eye and sometimes even both. They thought above all of eating and drinking behind their old son-in-law’s back. Nor did Momi on his part hesitate to request from his lover, as a loan, some nice sums of money, in order to live like a poor devil! But the devil indeed did not delay in sticking his tail into such harmony. Momi arrived at the Valins’ at an unusual hour one evening, when he wanted money with which to gamble; but the Valins had gone out and the apartment was closed. Forced to leave, he stopped to eavesdrop on the first-floor landing with a vague hope of being able to enter. And in fact he heard the housemaid, who was saying to Gigetta, ‘Signora, will the master be home late? ...’ He did not listen further; the door was open, he entered without hesitating. A short while later Signor Giovanni, perhaps informed by the servant, without making a sound swooped into the dark bedroom with a

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lighted match in hand, and he found them seated there on the yellow sofa, and they were kissing. They were left with their lips half-open, turned to stone. The old man, terrifying, started to throw himself on them; the match went out, the unhappy soul tripped on the corner of the bedding and fell flat on his face, striking his head hard on the marbled terrazzo floor. Gigetta let out a cry and detained Momi by the tails of his overcoat when he wanted to take to his heels. The servant ran up with a light: ‘Dear Lord! Blessed Mary, Mother of God!’ ‘Quiet! run for the doctor.’ The old man seemed dead. They lifted him and placed him on the bed. Afterwards, this Momi, with the pretext of going to get some water in the kitchen, snuck away before anyone else arrived.

5 The doctor declared that paralysis, which had for some time threatened, had now struck the old man irremediably. To the doctor and her parents Gigetta told of the fall and nothing else; she gave money to the servant so that she would keep quiet, and, returning to her normal calm, she placed herself at that bedside; like a nun inspired by deep piety, but also with a coldness that routine imparts. Her husband survived an entire month without giving any sign of recognition or memory, and for a month Gigetta did not remove the clothes from her back, neither by day nor by night. The tailor asked her, worried, ‘But the document, did he write the document?’ She did not understand; she shrugged her shoulders, indifferent and senseless. The body was still warm when Valin hurled himself like a bird of prey at the drawers and cabinets, rummaging, searching, pale with anxiety; finally, drawing his hand from a cubbyhole in the desk, he shouted triumphantly, holding tightly in his fist a sealed bundle of papers, ‘I found it! It’s the document!’ The document was the will written by Signor Giovanni in the first days of his marriage, with which, not having near relations, he named his wife general heir to his immense fortune, with only a few bequests as obligations. While the lawyer read the will with a grave and monotonous voice, the tailor’s eyes sparkled with greed, and Gigetta roused herself from that moral torpor like one who wakes up wearily, freeing oneself from

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a nightmare. A thought made those dull eyes flash: ‘Now I am rich, free, we will marry!’ And for the first time she marvelled over having heard nothing from him in all that time. She immediately sent word to the rented room in San Luca where he lived, to ask news of him. ‘Sior Momi?!!’ She, the landlady, had not seen him for some time; he had left without saying anything, leaving her four rags as payment for six months of back rent. Gigetta, on the inside, was in a frenzy and swore to find him at whatever cost. After a long search, she heard from an acquaintance, a neighbour of Momi’s, that he was in Padua, director of a second-rank café in San Daniele. She hired the neighbour, who was returning to Padua, to deliver a letter into his hands in which she told him that he should come immediately, that they would marry. He, like a dead man, did not respond; not to that letter, nor to five or six other letters that she wrote him, each one more impassioned than the last. In effect, the business of that horrible night had put such fear into his body that he did not want to return to those salty waters. And also, he was tired of that stupid woman, so dull on the outside and inside all aflame, he was sick of her up to his eyeballs. He liked the owner of the café, now, a buxom and tempting widow, well supplied, and with money as well; up to now she had held onto it firmly, true, but he would find a way to squeeze it out of her, oh, yes, but he would find a way! In any case, he wanted nothing more to do with Gigetta. She, after some period of expectation, of internal agonizing struggle, seemed to resign herself. She had taken in her parents. The tailor, having closed the cubbyhole, the little shop at fixed prices which for some time had served only as a pretext for living comfortably, put on the air of being a big shot, a retired worker. He passed a large part of the day lying on an ample easy chair, with an embroidered cap on his dishonourable baldness, rifling through the newspapers of the city. When a certain rag in dialect shamefully surfaced, crammed full of rumours, scandals, highly trivial tirades against the government, against the aristocracy, against the Jews, Valin was one of its most assiduous readers, and he soon became a fanatic; his innards as an old tailor were particularly moved by the injustices, and against the power, of the ‘rag-selling Jews.’ His wife, who was a Friulian from Cadore (in Venice all servant girls and nursemaids from the countryside are called furlane), knew

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how to forget her origins still less. All the livelong day she bickered with the servant girl, they treated each other reciprocally to the most immodest epithets. And if they happened to be on good terms, the old woman, prodded by an irresistible force, took the broom from her hands, or the brush to wash the dishes, and she substituted for her enthusiastically. ‘Oh, madame padrona!’ the servant girl would say, a sly Venetian from Cannaregio, ‘What are you doing!...’ Gigetta did not enjoy herself, oh, this is certain. She had no talent, no spirit, no culture; at home she did not know how to occupy herself; outside ... ah, what did she care now for that dear promenade, now that she knew there was something better than watching others have fun and make love with smiles and hand-holding! The entire interest of her life had been placed there, in that love. And Momi did not want her anymore ... Didn’t want her? And yet he would return to her, yes, she would swear it. In this thought she seemed to quiet down; she waited. To look at her, she seemed to have returned quiet as a mouse, and taking up again the old companion of her youth, the crochet hook, she gave herself over to working on little covers for the sofa, chairs, and even for the dressers and nightstands; and then it was the window curtains’ turn ... But the days were followed by other days, eternal, the same, all the same, amidst the stupid chatter of her mother and the metallic clinking of the crochet hook. And the day dawned for her in which the need to see him again, nurtured without her knowledge by the long boredom, erupted, sudden, urgent, irresistible; in that meek soul rebellion burst forth without her being able to make a single effort to halt it. Without mentioning it to a living soul, and taking a pile of money, she escaped to Padua in search of her Momi.

6 As soon as she arrived at the Hotel Paradiso, she sent for Momi’s neighbour; she learned all she wanted from her, and also some things she would rather not have known; namely, that the café he managed and the owner of it had become his legitimate, highly legitimate possessions, because he had married the woman and the dowry. ‘Ah, really? It’s really true? Truly real?’ and she said nothing else. The neighbour looked at the dazed girl; but since she was not an astute

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observer and was in a hurry, after a few words of comfort which the other did not heed, she went on her own way. At times it happens in the brain’s machine just as in the machinery of a watch; a strong jolt stops the clock and the hands continue to mark that hour – so too the mind stops and stays fixed on the embryonic idea that passed through it at the moment of the brutal blow. ‘Really true,’ Gigetta repeated to herself, unconsciously climbing the stairs to return to the room assigned to her. ‘Really, true; truly, real,’ those two words struck alternatingly at her temples with a feeling of grief that was wholly physical; those two words struck, insignificant, yet as terrible as the ‘Forever – never! Never – forever!’ from Longfellow’s pen.7 When that hammering ceased it left behind a great void inside, a great silence; she sat with her head in her hands for hours perhaps, without accounting for what had happened. Then the wheel of thought once again began to move, slowly at first, then ever more rapidly, to the point of dizziness. After that it was a whirlwind: ‘Oh, then, he married? He had married; she was losing him forever ... losing him? But why? Hadn’t she been married when he came to make love in secret? On the contrary, wasn’t he precisely the one who had advised her to marry the old man, while continuing to love each other?’ With her eyes dry, her face inflamed, she gesticulated madly while walking with long strides through the room, stopping, every now and then, all of a sudden. ‘No, there was nothing in the world that could separate her from him, no force human or divine ... He still loved her, yes, she was sure of it; why not? She still loved him, despite the fact that he had left in such a way, that he had not shown up since then; even now, when he had married, although he knew she was widowed; she still loved him, she did, although free and rich and still young, so that a good match would not be lacking. But what match!? She loved him, only him, the traitor!’ She stopped near the open window, and the reflection of the sun, which beat down opposite her on the high walls of the old prison, burned her eyes and gave her sharp, shooting pains to the head. ‘She wanted him, she wanted him! ... Who knows what kind of rotten woman that café owner was, after all; who knows with what arts she had gotten him to marry her! But he loved Gigetta, poor Gigetta ...’ and finally she broke into tears, plaintive, childish tears. ‘If she could see him, she would make him understand how much she loved him ...

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oh! of this she had no doubt! She would approach him, yes, and then, if he has forgotten, which could not be, but if it is ... he will remember everything, then!’ She stopped, comforted by the thought. ‘This is enough,’ she concluded. ‘Afterwards I will return to Venice and I will remain calm and content.’ And he will come to see you! insinuated a tempting voice inside her. She dried her tearful eyes and her forehead, wet with perspiration; she tied the ribbons of her little hat, and she went out with a desperate energy, following the impulse of indomitable passion. She felt a strange dismay as she neared the café pointed out to her; but she was resolved, she wanted to see him! In the very hot afternoon of August the streets were silent; the city seemed to be sleeping, overcome by the heat. In the café devoid of customers, Siora Teresona, as she was called, with a dress of yellow percale cut down to her bosom, a white apron on top of it like a little girl’s, and a chain with a fat, golden pendant at her neck, Siora Teresona passed small banknotes through her ring-laden hands, counting them; her stocky brown arms, naked up above her elbows, she propped on the marble slab, and her eyes she kept lowered, avidly intent. She possessed a vulgar beauty: tall, plump, brown; the curve of her eyebrows had a particular undulation that corresponded to the likewise undulating curve of her lips, and this and her oblique stare gave her countenance a mark of vice, of ill will, and of pride. Momi was seated on the other side of the counter, in front of her, polished, pomaded, with his hair curled and parted in the middle, in a black swallow-tailed coat and white tie; with his hands on his knees, his head thrust forward, his lips protruding, he gave equally greedy glances to the wife and the money. When she finished counting, he rose and, while she bent to tie the banknotes together in a bundle, slapped a kiss on her nape. Just as he used to give kisses to her! To her, Gigetta, who at that point appeared between the green woollen curtains raised on either side of the door, behind which she had stopped for a few moments to catch her breath. The two turned with some amazement towards that wretched, little black figure who cast a shadow in the bright empty space of the door and who now advanced, face white as wax, with an uncertain step, stammering an excuse. The large brunette, annoyed, impetuously shut the bundle of banknotes in the drawer of the counter, stuck the keys in her pocket and went to the back of the store. Momi stared for a

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moment at his old lover without making her out, then, all of a sudden, he recognized her; he recognized those eyes which were once so sweet and good, which now, fixed, deranged, looked at him with a mixture of menace and fear, and where still there trembled a flame of senseless love. Then a fierce and cowardly rage assailed him. What did she want? What did she come there for? ‘What do you want? ... If you mean to disturb my happiness, you’re sadly mistaken! I will not stand for it, oh, I will not stand for it, of that you can be certain, dear girl!’ He said this to her rapidly, almost in her ear, voice lowered so that his wife would not hear; point-blank he flung those injurious words at her, as he would have killed her with dagger blows, to do away with her. ‘I’ve had enough of you, do you understand!’ And he studied the thin figure, pausing on the pale face that had no other charm but, to those who knew how to understand it, the sweetness of her eyes. ‘I know your fires, you Milquetoast, and I’m sick of them up to my eyeballs. I’m content now, I live well, I have a pretty wife and I’m owner of all of it ... And I don’t want trouble, understand? What do you want, what?’ ‘Nothing,’ escaped from the trembling lips of the wretched girl, devastated. Then, seeing that she did not react, that he had nothing to fear from her, not even that she might raise her voice, he began again in a more daring way, more brazenly still, pushing her towards the door: ‘Go away, go to the devil! and don’t be caught underfoot ever again! For your own sake! ...’ and he ended with a curse. She didn’t breathe; she walked out without turning around again, hearing him abuse her behind her back. She began to wander, unconscious, through the vast city, in the wearisome heat, in the burning sun, in the dust of the streets. Everything was spinning around her, she staggered, tripped, stumbled into people and the corners of buildings, made the coachmen swear, stopping the cabs that almost ran her down. At night she was taken by a weakening languor, by an invincible fatigue. Nor could she stop, because a demon was pushing her on; however she dragged herself along with difficulty, mechanically. She thought not; she felt only a sensation of unbearable weight in her head and an acute need to lay it down on some pillow. Later she found herself on a deserted bridge, over the Bacchiglione River.

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She stared for a long time at the surface of the water, flat and dark; then, as a tired, half-asleep child rushes into the beloved maternal arms that lie ready to rock him in sweet repose, she hurled herself into the river’s wet womb.

NOTES 1 Risotto alla sbiraglia, a rice dish from the Veneto region containing chicken and cooked in broth. 2 Austrian soldiers, who wore uniforms whose coats were white. 3 The old seat of the municipal prosecutors, located in Saint Mark’s Square. 4 Jussieu was the name of a family of famous French botanists. 5 Le Fondamente are the border streets that embank the streams and canals in Venice. 6 In the original, pepa freda, a Venetian expression for a vapid, boring person without ideas or opinions. ‘Milquetoast’ renders the best translation, although the character from which the term arises was not created until 1924. 7 From the poem ‘The Old Clock on the Stairs.’

Scorn for Life* BRUNO SPERANI Translated by Gabriella Romani and David Yanoff

For some time now, I have been feeling an intense admiration for people who are at peace, serene; and an overwhelming dislike for all the whiners and those who, as the saying goes, spit poison. Of all the precious images I was fortunate to have gained in life, I recount most tenderly those noble creatures suffering and, yet, serene. Those lips, smiling in spite of the physical pains and torments of the soul, are sacred to me. The suffering and disillusioned, who remain sweet and kind, receive all of my affection; and the indefatigable workers who never give up and after each loss start anew with the same effort, or look straight in the face of death without, even then, feeling licence to denigrate life, have my most fervid admiration. But when I think of how life is scorned – the true malady of this fin de siècle – and I hear the lamentations, the causes decried for this sickness, the remedies proposed, I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. First of all, I do not believe that this malady is either so pervasive or is peculiar to our times. But those are minor points. More importantly, as to the causes that have been identified – I remain totally unconvinced. I do not believe they are to be found in materialism, or Schopenhauer, Leopardi, or any other writers accused of such menacing influences. There must be other causes, older and more diffuse. Speaking only of Italy: how many of us have read Schopenhauer?

*‘Il disprezzo della vita,’ 1894

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Few even know his name. And Leopardi and the other pessimistic writers, do you think they are read often? Come on! Montepin, Boisgobey, Ohnet – they are truly read: all rather optimistic, I believe. On the other hand, who does not know of great positivist scientists, of obstinate pessimists, of simple materialists, instinctively mistrustful; of pantheists, philosophical spiritualists without transcendental illusions, who possessed a soulful gaiety, a universal piety, and remained serene until their death? When the soul is high and strong, this state of grace, which for me is supreme, can be coupled with any faith and any manner of incredulity. The preoccupation with financial difficulties, once less conspicuous, is certainly a major factor in the modern surliness and scorn for life. And this way of living so uniformed, numbered, jammed in the bourgeois mechanism – don’t you think this affects our nerves, most sensitive, and our imaginations, wishful of air and space? This circumscribed regularity must be particularly wearisome to those who, through mere atavism, feel their blood rush and their mind sparkle with the spirit of old adventures. It is not surprising that once in a while, one of these displaced people decides to seek liberation, and not finding it here, races resolutely towards the final exit. But despite all of this, I believe that the principal cause for this scorn for life is, as I already said, older, more diffuse, and rooted in the core of generations. Just look around yourself. Our laws, lauded by some as the oldest and most respectable – do they not seem founded on a scorn for life? For the proof of this, it suffices simply to attend our courts and witness the judgments, the punishments meted out to crimes against property as compared to those against people. Look: a coachman can crush a human being under the wheels of his carriage and get off with a small fine; while a poor devil who steels a few pennies’ worth of wheat goes to prison for a year. Wine and liquor vendors poison people with impunity, but woe to those who break a bottle during a demonstration! A master builder ... Excuse me: ten, twenty master builders, in speculative frenzies, throw up house after house that are doomed to fall down; and the penalties are laughable – how can direct responsibility ever be assessed, when the whole industry would suffer? The dead are silent; and the survivors are mollified by payoffs from those who wish to maintain the status quo. Not to mention those murders committed for love or jealousy that are almost presented as triumphs, reversing any principle of freedom,

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as if love could be imposed on someone, as if not loving could, in some cases, be a crime punished by death. After all, the prejudices of society are in perfect accord with the prejudices of the law: scarcely any of us would have the courage to shake hands with a petty thief, while we are all ready to recognize a hero in the first slightly exceptional murderer. And it is most natural that it is so. The State, the great teacher, which in many countries has the right to punish with death and almost everywhere has the right to make war – does not the State proclaim in these ways the glory and intangibility of murder? Isn’t murder contempt for life? Look, then, at the other side: look at religious instruction. Remember the sermons of our youth? I can still hear some of those grand maxims our good teachers repeated with such emphasis. Life, they would say, is an expiation, a period of trial and suffering that one has to endure with resignation to enter heaven. Woe to those who go astray, who abandon themselves in the false joy of earthly pleasures! I once had a teacher who often recounted the story of the serpent hidden in the basket of flowers. Moral: the false appearance of beautiful things. He was very ugly, and I believe appearance in his case did not lie. Yes, we have all heard the attacks against beauty, barbs of every stripe: vanity of vanity; gift of Satan; mark of damnation! And what of youth? God! According to those fine people, as soon as you said your first ‘Ave’ your hair would turn grey. And love? Sin! Shame! At best, more mundanely, indulgently: a grave risk, a trap, the cause of cruellest pain; ultimately, the basest instinct and nothing more. Even motherhood ... I am sorry! But is it not true that if, ideally, it has become a sacred thing, in reality it remains an opprobrium, an abhorred mystery, whose simple mention is sufficient to stain the innocence of a girl? The old ascetic pessimism has poisoned everything. Contempt for life has rooted in people’s souls. Now that Faith vacillates and is obfuscated by the great light of science, old hopes and ancient illusions fall; the poison, though, survives it all, because the ways of the soul do not change easily; they are hereditary. It is therefore necessary to break with the past, and look at life from a different perspective; it is necessary to give people’s souls new directions.

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I often wonder if a day will arrive when, instead of whining about the present and idealizing a past which does not deserve the honour, we will occupy ourselves practically with the future, eradicating the old germs of ignorance and servitude so as not to transmit them to coming generations. Science has to save us with the truth, after all. Science has to teach us to love and value life for its purest and most sublime elements: the beauty of nature, the power of intellect, the happiness of the heart that knows truly how to love. But this science cannot be taught only by scientists; we need artists as well. Without art and fantasy, science remains a dead letter for the happiness of humankind. Let us then teach, with more determined willingness, the simple love of life, the grace of smiles among tears, and universal piety. And when we feel too tired and discouraged, and defeated, let us be comforted by the thought that although death will vanquish our spoiled limbs and exhausted brains, new forms will emerge intact and still more beautiful; and new minds, thanks to our efforts, will burst free from old encumbered paths onto new and more joyous ones.

Afterword Ladies, Chickens, and Queens: The Strong Voices of Italian Women Writers1 ANTONIA ARSLAN

This unusual title deliberately alludes to a book I wrote several years ago, an investigation of Italian women’s culture in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Upon the book’s release, the title provoked some discussion because it listed as principal characteristics of female virtue and valour not only graciousness (the ‘ladies’) and an ability to dominate (‘queens’), but also a realistic perception of daily life, which I identified with ‘chickens.’ In Italy, chickens are not only considered chatty courtyard animals, but are also a disparaging symbol of vacuity and gossipy inconclusiveness, qualities traditionally associated with the female universe. I thought it fitting at the time to boldly overturn both the misogynist term and the bad reputation of chickens, which are actually intelligent animals skilled even in defence (like geese, which the astute Romans installed on the Capitoline Hill to defend the city of Rome). My opinion of chickens was confirmed a year later by the success of the delightful film Chicken Run, in which the chicken protagonists ennobled themselves, behaving with verve and lucid intelligence. Let us master the wisdom of chickens, I told myself, those ever-useful animals, which nourish humans not just with their flesh, but with the incomparable masterpiece which is the egg, that perfection which is the egg. And let us make a comparison (irreverent, perhaps, but wise) between the indispensable utility of chickens and the patient work of weaving and inlaying that has always been women’s writing: that writing which, in the second half of the nineteenth century in Italy, seemed humbly ready to write everything, to write constantly, for any wage, in any newspaper, as long as writing was possible.

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The social advancement which women attained from this freedom to express themselves, and thus to write, and ultimately to write professionally, to earn a living by writing, made the second half of the nineteenth century a sort of grace period: a ‘submerged galaxy’ of women novelists, short story writers, journalists, writers of fiction for children and young women, invaded and filled every space left open by the men in newspapers, journals, periodicals, strenne,2 almanacs. They earned the consent of their readers and also the respect of the critics. It is a fact, proven by many studies and much academic research, that contemporary readers accepted and appreciated women writers and did not hesitate to use their work; some of these women writers were true cultural stars of the day, who dealt with newspaper directors and the most important male writers without any sense of inferiority. Although women did not have civil rights at that time, we can nonetheless say that they certainly had intellectual rights, and that they knew how to use them, as the newspapers of the day often demonstrate. A few examples. I will only cite three names, all found in this anthology. The first is Contessa Lara (the pseudonym of Evelina Cattermole), whose success as a poet cast a shadow even on Giosue Carducci. She was an intelligent and tormented woman, quick with a pen and in intuiting the signs of her time, despite the fact that today she is remembered for her ‘scandalous life,’ which ended in a violent death at the hand of her last lover (an event usually recalled in Italian newspapers in light summer articles, amidst descriptions of famous crimes and historical mysteries). Next I will remember Matilde Serao, an imposing personality both as a writer and as a newspaper director, and both revered and feared. Her writing ranged from investigative journalism to serial novels, from powerful romance novels to delicately chiselled short stories (among the most perfect in modern Italian literature) such as ‘Checchina’s Virtue,’ which appears in this anthology, or ‘Canituccia’ and ‘Una Fioraia.’ Finally, Marchesa Colombi (pseudonym of Maria Antonietta Torriani), wife of Corriere della Sera founder Eugenio Torelli Viollier, was a respected contributor to the newspaper from its beginning. Her irony and capacity to satirize the customs of contemporary Italy are quite original and at times lead to humorous, distinctly surreal outcomes. Edith Wharton met Matilde Serao in Paris, where she was a fixture in the famed salon of the Countess Rosa de Fitz-James. Matilde was respected and very well received in France, and her books were trans-

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lated and admired up to the beginning of the First World War, when her newspaper adopted a resolutely pro-German position. Some time before this, Edith described Matilde: Among the women I met there by far the most remarkable was Matilde Serao, the Neapolitan novelist and journalist ... With her strident dress and intonation she seemed an incongruous figure in that drawing room ... but when she began to speak we had found our master ... [S]he outrivaled in wit and eloquence. She had a man’s sense of fair play, listened attentively, never dwelt too long on one point, but placed her sallies at the right moment ... [T]hen her monologues rose to greater heights than the talk of any other woman I have known ... and culture and experience were fused in the glow of her powerful intelligence.3

Critical debate, too, was lively among women writers, who were not at all naive followers of the dictates of the heart, or unaware of the vastness and weight of the literary and social revolution which they represented. In her contributions to the Milanese journal L’Idea Liberale, Neera wrote articles concerning art criticism, composed a successful book of conduct (Il libro di mio figlio), and conducted sociological research and philosophical inquiries. Jolanda (Maria Majocchi Plattis, director of the journal Cordelia, novelist and respected essayist) wrote a series of polemical essays on women’s writing in Dal mio verziere. In 1886 Emma Perodi – the author of the most beautiful fairy tales of the Italian nineteenth century, collected in a Boccaccio-like frame and set in the racy, pleasing rural context of the Tuscan Casentino – published a spirited article in the Fanfulla della Domenica addressed to her female ‘colleagues,’ advising women writers not to write exclusively about love. There are already many women who do so, she claimed, too many, and feminine intelligence and experience are perfectly capable of dealing with the entire spectrum of human feelings and passions.4 I am only citing women writers here; we would find abundant material in the writings of women pedagogues, politicians, or feminist theoreticians. But the point has already been made. Italian women of the time wrote often and often wrote well. They were particularly comfortable with the dimensions of the short story, the prose form that has always been the most congenial to Italian literary genius, from the Novellino and Giovanni Boccaccio to the great flourishing of the form – considered to be modern, and much in demand – in the periodical publications in the years that followed the unification of Italy.

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This anthology was conceived in order to give English-speaking readers a sense of the great blossoming of Italian women’s writing in the nineteenth century. We wanted to include only works fully ‘conceived’ by the authors in the short form of the novella, and to exclude texts which had been excerpted from novels. While such excerpts often work well, in the end they impose an inevitably foreign cut and length on the structure created by the author, interrupting the very different rhythm of the ‘long story’ with respect to the ‘short’ one. What is more, I am convinced that it is in the brief structure of the short story and novella that the specific talent and originality not just of women’s writing, but of all Italian writing of that epoch, is best manifested. The style of the Italian writer of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, from D’Annunzio to Verga to Capuana, from Pirandello to Moravia, Buzzati, Alvaro (and many, many others), is incomparably better in the form of the short-story portrait – brief, biting, exact, with well-defined characters and settings – than in the ample, elongated novel form of the European tradition. The sceptical virtuosity of the Italian writer is best expressed, in other words, in the precise description of events: in a gallery of sketches, in a quick and masterful puntasecca which portrays fixed types and characters, rather than in complex characters who are destined to evolve and mature over the course of the story. One need only read Pirandello’s Novelle per un anno or Moravia’s Racconti romani to see that this is so. The choice of stories reflects the dual goals of offering works which are largely unpublished – and thus very useful didactically – and also of high literary quality. The resulting work thus on the one hand offers a complex, effective portrait of the importance of Italian women writers in the nineteenth century in the hopes of reinserting them into the official canon, and on the other represents the rediscovery of certain extraordinary texts which are every bit as good as the best stories by male authors of the age. Some of these stories, such as the masterpieces by Matilde Serao, ‘Checchina’s Virtue,’ and Neera, ‘Aunt Severina,’ are well known and often published. Others are more obscure. Some of the women are well known, others less prominent. Some omissions are intentional. We have not included Annie Vivanti, an exceptional case of a woman writer who was perfectly bilingual, who wrote a famous collection of poetry (Lirica, published in 1890) and many novels in Italian, and some beautiful short stories in English. We have also left out Jolanda (Maria

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Majocchi Plattis), an Emilian countess from Cento, remembered above all for her brilliant critical prose. Having chosen a total of seven women writers, it also seemed fitting to represent Italy’s geographic variety: Neera (Anna Radius Zuccari) from Milan, Matilde Serao from Naples, Marchesa Colombi (Antonietta Torriani) from Piedmont, and Contessa Lara (Evelina Cattermole), the Anglo-Tuscan, are the most famous; with them we included the reclusive and powerful Caterina Percoto from Friuli, Bruno Sperani (Beatrice Speraz) from Dalmatia, and Virginia Olper Monis, a Jewish writer from Venice who has recently been rediscovered. Some of these women writers used their own names when they published their works; others published under pseudonyms. I do not believe that this choice depended, as has been suggested, upon a desire to hide, or upon fear of fame. I believe that theirs were exquisitely personal choices. Neera, as the author herself wrote, chose to use a pseudonym in order to create a neat distinction between her public life as celebrated writer and her private life, which she jealously defended. Contessa Lara needed to keep her name private since she had just been involved in scandal of epic proportions. Marchesa Colombi sought to differentiate her life as an obscure young school teacher in Novara from her subsequent brilliant life in Milan, where she was a feminist, active lecturer, and journalist. In all of these short stories one perceives the distinct contrast between the spacious freedom of writing and the descriptions – forgive the play on words – of the restricted and often suffocating spaces of the reality women lived in nineteenth-century Italy. The themes they confront are various, but they all rigorously focus on the internal description of a social structure which was difficult and penalizing for women. And the very possibility of writing about this social structure seemed to bring with it a powerful consciousness-raising. It seems that writing freed all of these intelligent female minds from the countless constraints of the closed society in which they lived, a society built solidly on the oppression and the long-established inferiority of women. These women’s reflections on their own lives and on their relatively privileged status, on their duties, and their rights; their gaze on others (which meant having pity on others: the unfortunate, the unhappy, the fearful, and the sacrificed); and their views of the external, masculine world, constitute a magical mirror which enchants and persuades, and forces its women readers (both literate and illiterate: let us not forget

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how often literature was read aloud at dinners, in salons, and in women’s work places) to identify with the heroines of the stories they read or heard, to feel part of a group, and to experience the moral and psychological growth which helped them emerge from their loneliness and their dejection. While novels were often set in aristocratic environments (settings often recycled, stiff, and affected) and favoured debates on the great themes of love and passion, argued by rather improbable characters (and the aura of D’Annunzio continued to captivate!), it is the familiar form of the short story, of the country sketch, that happily observes real life, that portrays landscapes and life-scapes, well-known customs and behaviours, observed closely, experienced, and freely judged. And the protagonists of the best short stories are never aristocrats. They are the simple women whose ability to act is stifled by their upbringing or by fierce shyness (as in ‘Checchina’s Virtue,’ ‘Aunt Severina,’ and ‘Dear Hope’). They are the vigorous and ruthless country seductress, like the islander Carmen of ‘The Coral Necklace.’ They are the peasant women represented in the severe, terrible stories of Caterina Percoto, in her simple and perfect narrative style. They are the lower middle class of Venice’s streets and of the suburbs of Padua, as portrayed by Virginia Olper Monis, who sketches unforgettable scenes of the paltry lives of the common people who lived there. Olper Monis depicts the miserable, inept residue of the fallen Serenissima Repubblica of Venice, which lost her proud status of Dominante (the dominator of the Mediterranean) only to become a province of the new Kingdom of Italy, capital of an impoverished, depressed region, and reduced to dependence on the wealth of foreign tourists. And then there are the children: girls, adolescents raised to be eternal children, whom the writers analyse with steady pens and delicate intuitions, uncovering the seeds of their future unhappiness. Paolina, the protagonist of Neera’s rather autobiographical short story, is a perfect example of these characters. In this rather homely and stubborn protagonist’s insurmountable melancholy, in her deaf hostility to the outside world and to her beautiful (and good!) stepmother, one can see the particularly clear reflection of the difficulty and discomfort that these women, incapable of accepting traditional models, must have felt.

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NOTES 1 Translated by Siobhan Nash-Marshall. 2 Special publications released during the Christmas holidays. 3 Edith Wharton, A Backward Glance (London and New York: D. AppletonCentury Co., 1934) 276–7. 4 E. Perodi, ‘La femminilità nel romanzo,’ Fanfulla della Domenica 22 (1886); republished in A. Arslan and M.G. Raffele, Le riviste dell’Italia moderna e contemporanea, ‘Fanfulla della Domenica’ (Canova: Trevis, 1981) 157–63.

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Bio-bibliographies of the Authors

Matilde Serao Born in Patras (Greece) in 1856 of Francesco Serao, a Neapolitan journalist exiled in Greece, and Paolina Bonelly Scanary, a Greek noblewoman. Moved to Italy in 1860, first to Ventaroli (near Caserta), and in 1865 to Naples. Trained at the Scuola normale femminile (high school for girls), she worked in a telegraph office from 1874 to 1878, and soon after began writing articles and short stories for local newspapers. Moved to Rome in 1882, where she worked as editor for Capitan Fracassa. Wrote for several other periodicals: Corriere di Roma, Fanfulla, Cronaca bizantina, Illustrazione italiana. Married Edoardo Scarfoglio in 1884, and had four children. Moved to Naples in 1888 and founded with her husband the newspapers Corriere di Napoli and, in 1892, Il Mattino. Ran a popular column, ‘Api, Mosconi e Vespe,’ in which she wrote articles on various topics: literature, fashion, travel, education. Separated legally from Scarfoglio in 1902, and in 1904 founded her own newspaper, Il Giorno. A daughter, Eleonora, was born from her relationship with the lawyer Giuseppe Natale in 1905. Died in 1927, while working at her desk. As a writer, Matilde Serao was extremely prolific, producing more than twenty novels, in addition to innumerable short stories and essays. selected works Cuore infermo, 1881 Il ventre di Napoli, 1884

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La virtù di Checchina, 1884 La conquista di Roma, 1885 Il romanzo della fanciulla, 1885 Telegrafi di Stato, 1885 Vita e avventure di Riccardo Joanna, 1887 All’erta sentinella, 1889 Addio, amore! 1890 Il paese di cuccagna, 1891 Le Amanti, 1894 Saper vivere, 1900 Suor Giovanna della Croce, 1901 La mano tagliata, 1912 Ella non rispose, 1914 Mors tua ..., 1926 in english* The Conquest of Rome. London: Pickering & Chatto, 1991. selected studies on matilde serao Arslan, Antonia. ‘Un destino femminile: Matilde Serao tra genio, tenerezza e dissipazione.’ In Matilde Serao, Il ventre di Napoli e altre storie, vii–xxvii. Rome: La Biblioteca di Repubblica, 2005. Banti, Anna. Matilde Serao. Turin: UTET, 1965. Costa-Zalessow, Natalia. ‘Matilde Serao.’ In Longman Anthology of World Literature by Women. New York: Longman, 1989. De Nicola, Francesco. ‘Nella preistoria della letteratura femminile: la Marchesa Colombi e Matilde Serao.’ In Scrittrici, giornaliste: da Matilde Serao a Susanna Tamaro, ed. Francesco De Nicola and Pier Antonio Zannoni, 9–16. Venice: Marsilio, 2001. De Nunzio Schilardi, Wanda. Matilde Serao giornalista. Lecce: Milella, 1986. – L’invenzione del reale: studi su Matilde Serao. Bari: Palomar, 2004. Fanning, Ursula. ‘Sentimental Subversion: Representations of Female Friendship in the Work of Matilde Serao.’ Annali d’Italianistica 7 (1989) 273–87.

*We report only the translated editions still in print.

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– Gender Meets Genre: Woman as Subject in the Fictional Universe of Matilde Serao. Dublin, Portland, OR: Irish Academic Press, 2002. Frattarolo, Renzo. Per uno studio su Matilde Serao. Florence: Olschki, 1989 Ghirelli, Antonio. Donna Matilde. La Serao, ‘a Signora’ di Napoli, la prima donna che diresse un quotidiano. Venice: Marsilio, 1995. Gisolfi, Anthony. The Essential Matilde Serao. New York: Las Americas, 1968. Harrowitz, Nancy. ‘Matilde Serao’s La mano tagliata: Figuring the Material in Mystery.’ Stanford Italian Review 7 (1987) 191–204. – Antisemitism, Misogyny, and the Logic of Cultural Difference: Cesare Lombroso and Matilde Serao. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1994. – ‘Double Marginality: Matilde Serao and the Politics of Ambiguity.’ In Italian Women Writers from the Renaissance to the Present: Revising the Canon, 85–94. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1996. Jeuland-Meynaud, Maryse. Immagini, linguaggio e modelli del corpo nell’opera narrativa di Matilde Serao. Rome: Ateneo, 1986. Kroha, Lucienne. ‘Matilde Serao’s Fantasia: An Author in Search of a Character.’ In Women and Italy: Essays on Gender, Culture, and History, ed. Zygmunt G. Baranski and Shirley W. Vinall. New York: St Martin’s Press, 1991. Palermo, Antonio. ‘Le due narrative di Matilde Serao.’ In Da Mastriani a Viviani, 33-57. Naples: Liguori, 1987. Palma, Loredana. ‘Matilde Serao tra riedizioni di testi e studi critici: una rassegna (1996–2002).’ Esperienze letterarie 3 (2002) 111–16. Panizza, Letizia, and Sharon Wood, eds. A History of Women’s Writing in Italy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Pascale Vittoria, Sulla prosa narrativa di Matilde Serao: con un contributo bibliografico 1877–1890. Naples: Liguori, 1989. Pezzini, Isabella. Tre donne intorno al cor: Carolina Invernizio, Matilde Serao, Liala. Ed. Umberto Eco. Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1979. Rasy, Elisabetta. ‘Per invidia, per amore.’ In Ritratti di signora. Milan: Rizzoli, 1995. Salsini, Laura. Gendered Genre. Madison, NJ: Farleigh Dickinson University Press, 1999. Scappaticci, Tommaso. ‘Il pubblico della Serao.’ Problemi: Periodico Trimestrale di cultura 103 (1995) 268–97. – Introduzione a Serao. Bari: Laterza, 1995.

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Tortora, Matilde, ed. Lettere: Matilde Serao a Eleonora Duse. Naples: Graus, 2004. Vittori, Maria Vittoria. ‘Matilde Serao.’ In Le scrittrici dell’Ottocento: da Eleonora da Fonseca a Matilde Serao, ed. Francesca Sanvitale. Rome: Istituto Poligrafico e Zecca dello Stato, 1995.

Neera Pseudonym of Anna Radius Zuccari. Born in Milan in 1846. Maintained throughout her life intense correspondences and friendships with some of the main literary and artistic figures of the time: Giovanni Verga, Luigi Capuana, Paolo Mantegazza, Angiolo Orvieto, and Benedetto Croce. Co-wrote with Mantegazza Dizionario d’igiene per le famiglie in 1881. A novelist and a journalist, she was very prolific and published many novels, essays, and newspaper articles. Between 1886 and 1889 she published the three novels of her ‘Trilogia della fanciulla’ (The Young Girl Trilogy), Teresa, Lydia, and L’Indomani (Teresa, Lydia, The Day After), which mark the peak of her success. Teresa, widely considered her masterpiece, was translated into many languages. Neera wrote for the main national newspapers and periodicals, such as Il Fanfulla della Domenica, Corriere della Sera, Nuova Antologia, Il Marzocco, and Illustrazione italiana. She founded with Alberto Sormani and Guido Martinelli the political and cultural journal L’Idea Liberale. Died in 1918. selected works Un romanzo, 1876 Addio, 1877 Un nido, 1880 Il castigo, 1881 Teresa, 1886 Lydia, 1887 L’Indomani, 1889 Voci della notte, 1893 Battaglie per un’idea, 1898 La vecchia casa, 1900 Una passione, 1903 Le idee di una donna, 1904 Crevalcore, 1906

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La sottana del diavolo, 1912 Una giovinezza del secolo XIX, 1919 in english: Teresa. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 1998. selected studies on neera Arslan, Antonia. Dame, galline e regine. La scrittura femminile italiana fra ’800 e ’900. Milan: Guerini, 1998. Arslan, Antonia, and Marina Pasqui, eds. Ritratto di Signora: Neera (Anna Radius Zuccari) e il suo tempo. Milan: Guerini, 1999. Bassanese, Fiora. ‘Neera.’ In An Encyclopedia of Continental Women Writers. New York: Garland, 1991. Capuana, Luigi. ‘Neera.’ In Studii sulla letteratura contemporanea. Catania: Giannotta, 1882. Croce, Benedetto. ‘Neera.’ In Letteratura della Nuova Italia. Bari: Laterza, 1948. Folli, Anna. Penne leggère. Neera, Ada Negri, Sibilla Aleramo. Scrittura femminile italiana fra Otto e Novecento. Milan: Guerini, 2000. Pierobon, Ermenegilda. ‘Neera e le implicazioni del mito del padre: simboli e metafore di una personalità dissociata.’ Canadian Journal of Italian Studies 14 (1991) 42–9. – ‘Neera alla ricerca del fascino di ciò che resta, che continua, che non finisce mai: figure e simboli dell’unità e dualità.’ Forum Italicum 25.2 (1991) 228–44. Sanvitale, Francesca. ‘Neera, scrittrice della nuova Italia.’ In With a Pen in Her Hand: Women and Writing in Italy in the Nineteenth Century and Beyond, ed. Verina Jones and Anna Laura Lepschy. Leeds: Society for Italian Studies, 2000. Serao, Matilde. Ricordando Neera. Milan: Treves, 1920. Zambon, Patrizia. ‘Leggere per scrivere. La formazione autodidattica delle scrittrici tra Otto e Novecento: Neera, Ada Negri, Grazia Deledda, Sibilla Aleramo.’ Studi novecenteschi 16.38 (1989) 287–324.

Marchesa Colombi Pseudonym of Maria Antonietta Torriani. Born in 1840 in Novara

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(Piedmont), she studied in a convent to obtain a diploma as a governess. While still studying, she wrote articles for Giornale delle donne and La Donna, two of the most popular periodicals at the time addressed to a female audience. Moved to Milan in 1868, thanks to a small inheritance received from her family. Married Eugenio Torelli Viollier, founder of Corriere della Sera. For this newspaper she ran the popular columns ‘La moda’ and ‘Lettera aperta alle signore.’ She was very active in the intellectual circles of the city and worked for a few years with Anna Maria Mozzoni, one of the most outspoken supporters of women’s emancipation in Italy. She was widely respected for her short stories, which appeared in every major Italian periodical of the time. Published in 1885 her most famous novel, Un matrimonio in provincia – a subtle and ironic portrait of provincial life in nineteenth-century Piedmont. Separated from her husband in 1887, she moved to Turin. Died in 1920. selected works La gente per bene, 1877 In risaia, 1878 Serate d’inverno, 1879 Prima morire, 1881 Il tramonto di un ideale, 1882 Un matrimonio in provincia, 1885 Cara speranza, 1888 Le gioie degli altri, 1900 in english A Small Town Marriage. Evanston, Ill.: Northwestern University Press, 2001. selected studies on marchesa colombi Alesi, Donatella. ‘Lunghe strade maestre, bianche di neve e di polvere; la provincia in scena nella narrativa della Marchesa Colombi e di Natalia Ginzburg.’ DWF [Donna Woman femme] 39–40 (1998). Arslan, Antonia. Dame, galline e regine. La scrittura femminile italiana fra ‘800 e ’900. Milan: Guerini, 1998. Baldissone, Giusi. ‘Formazione e danneggiamento: scrittura e cultura

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femminile nella narrativa della Marchesa Colombi.’ Otto/Novecento 27.2 (2003) 53–74. Benatti, Silvia, and Roberto Cicala, eds. La Marchesa Colombi: una scrittrice e il suo tempo. Atti del Convegno internazionale (Novara, 26 maggio 2000), with an introductory essay by Antonia Arslan. Novara: Interlinea, 2001. Cometto, Maria Teresa. La Marchesa Colombi. La prima giornalista del ‘Corriere della Sera.’ Turin: BLU Editoriale, 1996. De Nicola, Francesco. ‘Nella preistoria della letteratura femminile: la Marchesa Colombi e Matilde Serao.’ In Scrittrici, giornaliste: da Matilde Serao a Susanna Tamaro, ed. Francesco De Nicola and Pier Antonio Zannoni, 9–16. Venice: Marsilio, 2001. Genevois, Emmanuelle. ‘Serva/Padrona: à propos d’une polémique entre Matilde Serao et La Marchesa Colombi (“La Stampa” 1905).’ In Les femmes-écrivains en Italie (1870–1920) Paris: Université de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1994. – ‘L’esperienza verista nell’opera della Marchesa Colombi.’ In With a Pen in Her Hand: Women and Writing in Italy in the Nineteenth Century and Beyond, ed. Verina Jones and Anna Laura Lepschy, 45–52. Leeds: Society for Italian Studies, 2000. Kroha, Lucienne. ‘La Marchesa Colombi: la scrittura come trasgressione nell’opera di una narratrice dell’Ottocento.’ Esperienze Letterarie 13.2 (1988) 17–37. Pastore, Anna. ‘Maria Antonietta Torriani Marchesa Colombi.’ Otto/ Novecento 5 (1992) 81–104. Pierobon, Ermenegilda. ‘L’enormità del reale: una lettura di “Un matrimonio in provincia” della Marchesa Colombi.’ Forum Italicum 30.2 (1996) 291–310. – ‘Maternità e confluttualità in alcune opere della Marchesa Colombi.’ Italica 74.2 (1997) 201–16. Zambon, Patrizia. ‘I racconti di Natale nella narrativa dell’ultimo Ottocento: Marchesa Colombi, Emilio De Marchi, Contessa Lara, Grazia Deledda.’ In Scrittore e Lettore nella società di massa, 555–85. Trieste: Lint, 1991.

Caterina Percoto Born in 1812 in a small town, S. Lorenzo di Soleschiano, in the northeastern region of Friuli. Belonged to an aristocratic family and was

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educated at the Santa Chiara convent in Udine. Returned to her family’s house in 1836 and lived there for the rest of her life. Her literary career began in 1842 when Francesco Dall’Ongaro, who had read and liked an essay she had written, published in La Favilla her short story Il pazzo (The Crazy One). Her Lis Cidulis (The Fire Wheels) of 1844 received great critical attention. Wrote many short stories, focused on local peasants’ life. Called ‘the country countess’ (la contessa campagnola) because of her attention to the life of the countryside and her aversion to modern, urbanized city life, she managed her father’s lands and demonstrated great administrative skills. Renowned also for her unconventional behaviour, she smoked pipes and cigars, drank wine, and wore farm clothes. In 1858 a collection of her stories was published in Florence with an introduction by Niccolò Tommaseo. Appointed school inspector in 1871 for the Veneto region. Died in 1887. selected works Racconti, 1858 Dieci racconti, 1865 Nuovi raccontini, 1870 Novelle scelte, 1880 Novelle popolari edite e inedite, 1883 Quindici nuovi racconti, 1888 Scritti friulani, 1928 selected studies on caterina percoto Barbiera, Raffaello. ‘Figure delle terre dolorose: Caterina Percoto.’ Nuova Antologia 280 (1918) 22–30. Branca, Vittore. ‘Per Caterina Percoto.’ Lettere Italiane 11.2 (1959): 249–53. Caterina Percoto Cent’anni dopo: convegno di studio del Settembre 1987– Gennaio 1988. Udine: Del Bianco Editore, 1990. Costa-Zalessow, Natalie. Scrittrici italiane dal XIII al XX secolo. Ravenna: Longo, 1982. Giacomini, Amedeo ‘Quasi una biografia.’ In Caterina Percoto, Scritti friulani: tradotti, commentati e restaurati, vii–xxxviii. Udine: Società Filologica Friulana–Comune di Mantano, 1988. Haller, Hermann W. ‘Caterina Percoto.’ In Italian Women Writers: A BioBibliographical Sourcebook, ed. Rinaldina Russell, 324–32. London: Greenwood Press, 1994.

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Kern, Margaret. ‘Solitude and Solidarity: Feminine Space in the Short Stories of Caterina Percoto.’ Romance Languages Annual 8 (1996) 202–6. Livi, Grazia. ‘Caterina Percoto: Stanza murata.’ In Da una stanza all’altra, 99–120. Milan: Garzanti, 1984. Maier, Bruno. ‘La narrativa di Caterina Percoto.’ Rassegna della Letteratura Italiana 93.1-2 (1989) 109–18.

Contessa Lara Pseudonym of Evelina Cattermole. Born in 1849 in Florence (and not in Cannes in 1859, as she publicly claimed). Her literary career began in 1867 when she published a collection of poems, Canti e ghirlande. Lived in Florence, Milan, Naples, and Rome, where she attended the most fashionable salons. Moved to Rome from Milan in 1885 after separating from her husband, Eugenio Mancini, who killed her lover in a duel. In the capital she frequented the intellectual and mundane circles, and supported herself financially through her writings. Wrote regularly for newspapers such as Tribuna illustrata, La donna, Roma letteraria, Fanfulla della Domenica, Il Capitan Fracassa, L’Illustrazione Italiana, La Vita Italiana, and Cronaca Bizantina. She had a very prolific career, mostly as a poet, but also as a writer of short stories and children’s books. Had several tumultuous love affairs, the last of which with a young painter, Giuseppe Pierantoni, who killed her in 1896. selected works Canti e ghirlande, 1867 Versi, 1883 E ancora versi, 1886 Una famiglia di topi, 1886 Così è, 1887 L’innamorata, 1892 Il romanzo della bambola, 1895 Lettere intime, 1897 Storie di Natale, 1897 selected studies on contessa lara Arslan, Antonia. Dame, galline e regine. La scrittura femminile italiana fra ’800 e ’900. Milan: Guerini, 1998.

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Baldacci, Luigi. Secondo Ottocento. Bologna: Zanichelli, 1969. Borgese, Maria. La Contessa Lara. Una vita di passione e di poesia nell’Ottocento italiano. Milan: Treves, 1936. Lagorio, Gina. Tra le mura stellate. Milan: Mondadori, 1991. Mazzei, Francesco. Una donna in fiamme. Storia della Contessa Lara. Milan: Camunia, 1988. Merry, Bruce. ‘Contessa Lara.’ In Italian Women Writers: A Bio-Bibliographical Sourcebook, ed. Rinaldina Russell, 95–103. London: Greenwood Press, 1994. Morandini, Giuliana. La voce che è in lei. Antologia della narrativa femminile italiana tra ’800 e ’900. Milan: Bompiani, 1980. Moreni, Carlotta. ‘Introduzione’ to Contessa Lara, Tutte le novelle, 11– 40. Rome: Bulzoni, 2002. Nozzoli, Anna. Tabù e coscienza: la condizione femminile nella letteratura italiana del Novecento. Florence: La Nuova Italia, 1978. Reim, Riccardo. Controcanto. Novelle femminili dell’Ottocento italiano. Rome: Sovera, 1991. Scappaticci, Tommaso. ‘Una scrittrice bizantina: la Contessa Lara.’ Critica letteraria 119 (2003) 257–78. Speroni, Gigi. La Contessa Lara. Breve e scandalosa vita di una poetessa malata d’amore. Milan: Libri Scheiwiller, 2003.

Virginia Olper Monis Very little is known about the life of this writer and journalist, except that she was born in Venice in 1856 from an old Jewish family. Steeped in the ideals of the Risorgimento, she grew up in the Venetian Ghetto. She married Isidoro Monis, a Catholic pharmacist, while she was still very young, and moved with him to the town of S. Giorgio al Tagliamento. Had two daughters, Silvia and Lia, who were raised as Catholics, although Virginia herself never converted. A good polemical writer, who advocated both divorce and women’s rights, she published many articles in the literary journals of the time, such as La donna, Vita Italiana, L’Illustrazione italiana, and Il Gazzettino. Died in Venice in 1919. selected works Racconti veneziani e novelle sentimentali, 1893 Miutte. Bozzetto friulano, 1898

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In memoria di Silvio Olper, 1899 Il movimento etico-sociale e l’Unione Morale, 1899 Il raggio. Romanzo, 1903 La cieca. Racconto educativo, 1904 La Donna nella Realtà, 1908 selected studies on virginia olper monis Chiarot, Fiorenza. Una donna senza ‘festa.’ Vita e scritti di Virginia Olper Monis. Portogruaro: Ediciclo, 2002. Reim, Riccardo. Controcanto. Novelle femminili dell’Ottocento italiano. Rome: Sovera, 1991. Tonon, Diana Giorgia. ‘Virginia Olper Monis: una dimenticata scrittrice ebrea.’ Scorpione Letterario 1.1 (2004) 78–81. – ‘Virginia Olper Monis: una dimenticata scrittrice veneta fra Otto e Novecento.’ Master’s thesis, University of Padua, 2004.

Bruno Sperani Pseudonym of Beatrice Speraz. Born in Split, on the Dalmatian coast, in 1839, but lived most of her life with her daughters in Milan, where she worked at first as a translator and a journalist for Gazzetta Letteraria, Perseveranza, Il Fracassa, and the Florentine La Nazione. After a first unhappy marriage, she married the painter Vespasiano Bignami. Her literary career began in 1876 when she published her first short story, which was followed soon by her first novel, Cesare, in 1879. She was very popular in the liberal milieu of Milan. Died in 1923. selected works Cesare, 1879 Sotto l’incubo, 1881 Nell’ingranaggio, 1885 Numeri e sogni, 1887 Nella nebbia, 1889 Il romanzo della morte, 1890 Emma Walder, 1893 La fabbrica, 1894 Le vinte, 1896

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Ricordi della mia infanzia in Dalmazia, 1915 Nel turbine della vita, 1920 selected studies on bruno sperani Baio, Gian Luca. ‘Bruno Sperani: cenni di vita e arte.’ In Ritratto di Signora: Neera (Anna Radius Zuccari) e il suo tempo, ed. Antonia Arslan and Marina Pasqui, 87–94. Milan: Guerini, 1999. Bandini Buti, Maria. Enciclopedia biografica e bibliografica italiana. Rome: I.E.I., 1942. Colummi Camerino, Marinella. ‘Donne nell’ingranaggio. La narrativa di Bruno Sperani.’ In Les femmes-écrivains en Italie (1870–1920): Ordres et libertés. Croniques italiennes 39/40. Paris: Université de la Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1994. Lovric-Lilic, Sonja. ‘Il mare nella novella “Quelli che pagano” di Beatrice Speraz.’ In ‘E c’è di mezzo il mare.’ Lingua, Letteratura e civiltà marina, ed. Bart van den Bossche, Michel Bastiaensen, and Corinna Salvadori Lonergan. Florence: Cesati, 2002. Morandini, Giuliana. La voce che è in lei. Antologia della narrativa femminile italiana fra ’800 e ’900. Milan: Bompiani, 1980. Nash-Marshall, Siobhan. ‘Luisina, “La fabbrica” e la ciotola di ciliegie.’ Preface to Bruno Sperani, La fabbrica. Como: Periplo, 1996. Paris, Renzo. Il mito del proletariato nel romanzo popolare italiano. Milan: Garzanti, 1976.