A Life (28 page)

A few days later the boy died, and while Alfonso was wondering how to show his sympathy to his surviving friend, to console him for his brother’s loss and console himself, he was told that the latter too and his sister and father had been struck by the same terrible disease. Every day a coffin left the house; the first held the girl’s body, the second the father’s, while the building remained mute and indifferent as if merely some merchandise had gone.

Only when there was no bedside at which to watch did a
window
finally open behind the coffin of the last son, and there, held back by two men whom he had never seen, appeared the mother shouting that she wanted to jump out of the window so that she could join her family. She was still a young woman. She asked them to leave her and seemed amazed that they should hold her back. Alfonso too hated the violence of those two men who were preventing her from dying.

The house was put up for sale, but no one wanted to buy it after such disasters had happened there, and eventually it was sold for very little to the Silinis who had just come to settle in the village. Even Signora Carolina would not hear of buying it, though the Nittis would have done a very much better deal by buying that house instead of the larger one so far out of the village.

Certainly the notary too, as he passed in front of it, thought of the contract for that building, because, ingenuously making Alfonso think of the similarity between the two business deals, he said to him: “Faldelli tells me he’d be willing to buy your house.”

Alfonso started. “It’s not for sale!” he said shortly.

“What d’you want to do with it, then?”

The notary’s tactlessness made Alfonso realize how much more the man had been influenced by his long sojourn among peasants than by his university studies.

“What about my mother?”

The notary had been on another train of thought and was
obviously
surprised that Signora Carolina should still be considered as alive. With good grace he resigned himself to this fiction.

“Your mother told me she intended to live with you!”

“I’ll think it over!” said Alfonso sadly. The night spent by his mother had destroyed all his hopes, and Mascotti’s words had made him turn his thoughts to the conclusions to be drawn from that state of things. In fact what would he do with the house when alone?

“Is old Signora Doritti still alive?”

This local character, hardworking, formerly always labouring in the fields or at home where she did everything rather than call in help from outside—so that it was said in the village that she even sat on eggs with broody hens to hatch chicks quicker—used to live, Alfonso remembered, in a little coloured house, greenish round the windows, dirty grey on walls crumbled here and there. It was said that the hut had not fallen down only because it could not decide which side should go first, but its foundations were solid though rather out of line with the other houses.

On the ground floor of that house, Doritti, the old woman’s husband, had for many years kept a grocer’s shop and was said to have made a heap of money. Then Creglingi had arrived and, with his better-stocked shop in the centre of the village, had taken away Doritti’s customers. Doritti could not believe at first that he could be allowed to be ruined in that way; beside himself with rage he quarrelled with half the village, with Creglingi and with the customers whom he surprised in the act of betraying him, that is in making purchases in his rival’s shop, beside which he would often stand in order to catch them. Then he calmed down. He waited without impatience for the two or three customers he still had to consume the last provisions in his shop, then shut the doors and took down the sign. The two old folk had lived on for another few years together without talking to a soul, because the wrong done made them hate all the inhabitants of the village. The old man died without seeing a doctor, and from then on his widow only left the house on Sundays to go to Mass, dressed in black silk covered with twirls of black embroidery which made the material look very heavy. As this was a weekday, she was sure to be behind a window knitting or weaving. She was an old soul just like her home, small, bent, but vigorous.

Alfonso had forgotten these two old creatures and on
remembering
them was surprised as at something new.

“They must have led happy lives though.”

On leaving the village in that direction there was another mile or so of patchy green, then a stone hillock marking the stretch of stones.

The cemetery was behind the village on a small hill, all fresh bright green interspersed now and again with white stones. There at least the dead slept very close to the living, and death seemed less of a separation.

Mascotti wanted to come with him to see how his mother was, then stopped at the door of the house.

“It’s too depressing,” he asserted. When Alfonso came out to tell him that his mother was worse, he said “Poor boy” seeing him so overwhelmed. But in spite of his emotion he rushed off to warm himself up and on reaching the main road skipped along it like a young man.

Signora Carolina was definitely poorly, and Alfonso chided himself for having left her alone for a whole hour.

Feeling relief after taking the medicine given by Alfonso, she had naturally attributed her improvement to it and taken another spoonful half-an-hour later according to the prescription. But she was gripped by a feeling very different from that which she had had in the night but no less agonizing. This was utter exhaustion, the feeling that every one of her organs was rejecting life. Her forehead was pouring with sweat as during a heart-attack, but her eyes, instead of looking dull, were shining and dilated with anguish. She could give Alfonso no explanations, but his words of sympathy made her cry.

“That diabolical medicine!” he muttered, forgetting the benefits it had brought her.

It was a very bad day, as it had been a bad night. She never declared herself any better because towards evening she was again overcome by breathlessness which lasted almost the whole night.

From then on there were no improvements, not even slight ones. The worse the sick woman became the more she clung to life, and it was always easy to persuade her to take the medicine which, according to the doctor, was her only chance of life. Her suffering was constant, either from her illness or from its remedy. Another sign of her increased affection for life was her polite attitude to
Doctor Frontini. Her state was such that it had broken down all her resistance, and she forgot all her antipathies. She had been told that salvation could come from Doctor Frontini, and she believed it.

So the doctor came more often and stayed for hours, chatting to Alfonso, usually about other things than Signora Carolina’s
illness
. He had been unable to display his knowledge with her and tried to show it by talking of other subjects. Alfonso was glad to see him stay for long periods in the sick woman’s room; if during that time Signora Carolina felt worse, even though Frontini could scarcely help her at all, it was better that he was there.

Mascotti often came but stopped at the door, called out some words of encouragement, but did not come in. The sick woman noticed his repugnance to entering and asked Alfonso:

“Do I stink such a lot that he avoids me so?”

The atmosphere in that room was becoming heavier and
heavier
, and even Alfonso felt relieved to go out into the open for
half-an
-hour. The room could no longer be ventilated; in the last few days there had been a snowfall, and the temperature had dropped so low that the window-panes were covered with a streaky film of ice. Even when she felt her breath failing, the sick woman no longer asked for the window to be opened as before; when she had hoped for relief in fresh air, she had been nearly killed by the biting cold.

It was a strange life he led in that room, busy all day either
convincing
the sick woman that her sickness was not serious or trying to alleviate it. One day was so like another that he could not tell how long he had been in the country. How far away seemed the time of his love-making to Annetta!

One day Marco the postman brought him two letters. One, according to Marco who, on his long rounds, amused himself studying the handwriting on envelopes, must be from a woman. On receiving it Alfonso had an unpleasant sensation—not
everyone
considered that enough time had passed for persons and events to be forgotten.

The other was from a man, in the familiar writing of Sanneo, but signed by Cellani. This turned out to be a letter from the Maller bank. In the cold and measured style used by the bank in
business communications with its clients, it informed him that the managers had learnt of the seriousness of his mother’s illness from the telegram sent to him signed Mascotti, and so they were spontaneously extending the leave granted him from a fortnight to a month. The bureaucratic style of this, signed by Cellani with the stamp he used for notes to cashiers, did not surprise Alfonso. He was grateful for the month’s leave and at once read out the letter to Signora Carolina, who, being in a moment of desperation, muttered dully, “A month’s enough!”

The other letter was from Francesca.

What I foresaw has already happened or is about to. I am not sure exactly what point negotiations have reached between father and daughter, but these are going on daily, and the proof of their being already quite advanced is that Annetta says nothing to me. I suppose that secretly she already agrees with her father, but as she was still genuinely yours until a few days ago, maybe she is ashamed of having entirely forgotten you so soon.

Immediately after your departure she had a long talk to Signor Maller; according to Santo, who was listening at the keyhole, he shouted a lot, so much that Annetta cried for the first time in her life I think. Then, finding she did not talk to me, I looked at her with an air of reproof which cost me a great effort, as does everything that I do to help you. Annetta told me that she still loved you, but would have a great struggle with her father to get his consent to your union. So she asked me to write and tell you to find some excuse to stay in the country longer.

I warn you, Alfonso, her not wanting to write directly is a bad sign. I agreed to do what she asked but did not write, hoping to find you’d arrive unannounced today when your leave is up; I know how you must be counting the days. But you have not come! You’re piling mistake upon mistake until you ruin yourself. I am writing to you with a last warning. By leaving at once you may still be in time, for nothing is lost yet. Annetta is hesitating, struggling between her wish to please her father, who is ranting away, and her love for you, because she has loved you. Now I can guarantee nothing, and on your arrival you might be told she’s engaged to Macario. I don’t know if this letter of mine will achieve the aim for which it was written. I’ve done far more than my duty to you. If you hesitate to leave in spite of this warning, it’ll be quite useless for you to reply or write to Annetta. I expect no words or excuses from you. They would be quite useless. Only your presence here can save you, save us.

What she called a warning looked to him very much like a plea for help, and it shook him. Of course he could not even think of leaving the country and abandoning his dying mother; so he was saved from all doubt, and however much Francesca warned and called he could not listen to her. But it was very sad that, by an act which had seemed natural and necessary to him but would have seemed unreasonable to any other man, he had set out on the road that Francesca was so energetically pursuing. Instead of finding him an ally in the struggle which she should win in the name of honesty and justice, he had blocked her way. Maller had seduced her, and it was right that he should marry her. This was Alfonso’s only remorse. He regretted betraying not Annetta but Francesca.

For an hour he sat by his mother’s bedside absorbed in his thoughts.

“Does that letter worry you a lot?” asked Signora Carolina, who had been watching him a long time.

She spoke little because it was an effort for her, and the few words which she said sometimes came out a long time after she thought them. Perhaps she had been watching his face from the moment in which he had abandoned himself to reflection.

He started.

“No!” he replied. “It’s a man I know gossiping about things that make me laugh.”

She asked nothing more. It cost her a great deal of effort to turn her attention to outside matters, and deceiving her was easy.

Francesca’s letter did bring some good news though. As she had foreseen, his departure from town was equivalent to renouncing Annetta. Now he was sure that the one jilted would be himself, and this role pleased him much more than that of the betrayer’s. He guessed that Annetta would hate being the jilted party and be far more pleased to leave him first. So he had no regrets in that respect.

Settling down to write the answer he must give to Francesca, although she had not asked for one, he realized that, to make it effective, and also without attracting Frencesca’s hatred, his main difficulty was to convince her that his mother was seriously ill. The two women seemed to have had no news about this from the bank. Eventually he struck the right note. Avoiding all artifice
he was brief, like someone giving true facts without bothering to adduce proofs of their truth. He said that his mother was in danger of her life and that for the moment he could think of
nothing
else. He ended with a phrase which seemed a real inspiration. He pretended not to believe that his presence in town could be as necessary as Francesca asserted.

“Annetta loves me, as you confirm in your letter. Then why should she leave me? Anyway, here I’m only doing my duty.”

After sending the letter he felt relieved, a relief, if less intense, like the one he had felt at his departure from town. After a plunge back into urban intrigues he was out in the country again, and the sight of his mother’s corpse-like face could not quite rob him of the joy of being safe from such intrigues.