Her Husband (15 page)

However, rather than turning her against that ignorant old woman, Silvia’s sense of injustice turned her against her absent husband. He was the reason for that injustice. He, so blinded by his frenzy that he no longer saw what he was doing to himself or to her. She had to stop him, to tell him to quit. But how? Was it possible now that things had gotten so out of hand, now that that play, composed in silence, in solitude, and in secret had become such a hit and put her name in lights? How could she judge from that corner of the world, without having seen anything yet, what she could or should do? She realized confusedly that she couldn’t and shouldn’t be more than she had been up to now; that she had to rid herself forever of what she had wanted to preserve in her life that was limiting and primitive, and instead give herself up to the secret power she had in herself, and which up to now she hadn’t wanted to recognize. Just thinking about it made her feel the agitation seethe deep within her. This only affirmed the obvious: she had changed. Her husband could no longer remain in charge, riding
her
fame, blowing
his
trumpet.

Into what weird shapes the skeleton trees were twisted, sunk in the snow, with scraps, strips, tatters of fog caught in the distorted limbs! Looking at them from the window she mechanically brushed a hand over her forehead and eyes, almost as though to remove those scraps of fog from her distorted thoughts, shaped weirdly in her frozen soul like those trees. She stared at the drops of rain lining the moldy, damp wooden porch railing, shining against the leaden sky. A breeze struck the quivering drops, one flowed into another, and together they ran in a rivulet down the railing post. From the posts she looked as far as the priest’s house next to the church; she saw the five green windows overlooking the lonely snow-covered garden hung with curtains that declared in their gleaming whiteness that they had been washed and ironed along with the altar cloths. What a peaceful sweetness in that white house! There, next to the cemetery . . .

Suddenly Silvia stood up, put her shawl over her head, and went out into the snow, heading straight for the cemetery to visit her uncle. Her gloomy spirit was as hard and cold as death.

The coming of spring began to break this gloom, when her mother-in-law, who had so often begged her not to go to the cemetery every day in that snow, wind, and rain, began to beg her, now that the weather was good, to go down Via Giaveno in the sun with the nurse and the little one.

So she had begun to go out with the baby. Sending the nurse ahead on that road, telling her to wait at the first shrine, she would go to the cemetery for the customary visit with her uncle.

One morning, in front of the first shrine, she found with the nurse a young journalist with a camera. He had come up from Turin just to see her, or, as he put it: “on the trail of Silvia Roncella and her hermitage.”

How that goofy charmer had made her talk and laugh. He wanted to know everything, see everything, and photograph everything, especially her, in all sorts of poses, with the nurse and without, with her baby and without. He said he was really happy to have discovered a mine, a mine completely unexplored, a virgin mine, a gold mine.

After he left, Silvia remained astonished at herself for some time. She, too, had discovered someone new, with that journalist. She had even felt happy to talk and talk…. And now she couldn’t even remember what she had said. So many things! Foolish things? Perhaps . . . But she had talked–finally! She had been what she should have been before now.

The next day she immensely enjoyed seeing her image reproduced in so many different poses in the newspaper he sent her, and reading all the things he had her saying. But above all she enjoyed the journalist’s profuse expressions of surprise and enthusiasm, more for her as a
woman
still unknown to everyone than for a now famous artist.

It was Silvia’s turn. She wanted to send a copy of that newspaper to her husband right away to show him that when she put her mind to it,
she
could do things well, too. He wasn’t the only one.

5
THE CHRYSALIS AND THE CATERPILLAR

Disappointed, always. But on top of everything, to be discouraged after you put all your efforts into something from which you expected praise and gratitude seemed too much. And yet. . .

Giustino wanted the two carriages to fly, fly home quickly from the train station where he had gone to meet Silvia, along with Dora Barmis and Attilio Raceni.

His wife’s appearance on her arrival had disconcerted him, even more so her few words and looks during the short walk to the station exit, where she got into a carriage with Signora Barmis and he jumped into another with Raceni.

“The trip … She’s probably tired…. Then, so alone…” Raceni said to Giustino, also disturbed by Signora Roncella’s glum expression and icy demeanor.

“Ah, yes …” Giustino agreed at once. “I see now. I should have gone up there to get her. But how could I have? Here, with the house to take care of, everything topsy-turvy. And then there was her uncle’s death. That, too. She felt it. Yes, she took that death very hard. . . .”

This time Raceni agreed at once: “Yes . . . yes.”

“See?” Giustino went on. “She was with him on the trip up–now she’s come back alone. . . . She left him there. . . . But it’s not just her uncle! Of course! I most certainly should have gone to get her at Cargiore…. There’s also the separation from her child, for heaven’s sake! You see, don’t you?”

And Raceni again: “Yes. Yes. Certainly. Certainly.”

How many things had slipped their minds, the three of them working so hard to get the new house ready!

They had gone to the station in a festive mood, with the satisfaction of having managed, with incredible effort, to get everything in order for her, only to realize suddenly that not only did they not deserve any thanks or gratitude, but they had to regret not only having forgot about the mourning of that recent death, but also about the mother’s torment at leaving her baby.

Every moment seemed an hour to Giustino. He hoped that as soon as Silvia saw her new house, the surprise would make her forget everything. … He had deliberately not mentioned it in his letters.

Miracles–that was the right word–he had performed miracles, with the assiduous advice and help of Signora Barmis and… yes, also of Raceni, poor man!

He had said
house
, but just as a manner of speaking. House? It wasn’t a house. It was … “But hush, for heaven’s sake, because Silvia doesn’t know yet!” It was a small villa–sshh! A small villa on that new street lined with other villas, beyond Margherita Bridge, at the Prati, on Via Plinio. One of the first, with a little yard around it, gate, and everything. Out of the way? What do you mean out of the way! A short walk and you’re on the Corso, Rome’s main street. A high-class neighborhood, quiet; it couldn’t be better for a writer! But there’s more. He wasn’t renting that little villa. “Hush, for heaven’s sake!” He had bought it. Yes, sir, bought it, for ninety thousand lire. Sixty thousand down, the other thirty to pay in three years. And–hush!–about another twenty thousand spent on furniture. Wonderful! With Signora Barmis’s expertise … All new, stylish furniture: simple, sober, delicate, and solid: furniture by Ducrot! You should see the parlor at the left of the entrance, and then the other one next to it, and then the dining room that opened onto the garden. The study was upstairs, on the top floor, reached by way of a wide, beautiful marble stairway with a pillared banister that began just beyond the parlor door. Upstairs the study and two beautiful twin bedrooms next to it. Giustino didn’t know what Silvia would
think about this, but as far as he was concerned, he wanted a room to himself.

Dora Barmis had seemed indignant, horrified: “For heaven’s sake! Don’t even say it…. Do you want to ruin everything? Separate rooms! … Learn to live, darling! Remember you told me that from now on you would always take tea. . . .”

Two bedrooms. And then the little bathroom, and the washstand, and the clothes closet. . . Marvels! Or insanities? To tell the truth, it seemed like Boggiolo had lost his famous notebook on this occasion. He had gone berserk, and how! But he had so much money at his disposal! And the temptation… Of all the objects shown him, he had only been interested in the few most expensive models, in order to select the most beautiful. Yes, sir, when all those very few were finally added up, it had rounded out to a string of nice fat zeros for the furnishings.

On the other hand, he had no regrets about buying the little villa. Why should he! Since he could afford it, since he had enough money on hand to avoid the high interest rates, it would have been crazy not to buy, and to keep on throwing away two to three hundred lire a month for a barely decent apartment. The house was theirs, and that rent money would have flown into the landlord’s pocket. True, if he hadn’t bought the villino, they would still have the capital. All right! Now he needed to figure out if with the profit from ninety thousand he could have paid a monthly rent of three hundred lire. It wouldn’t have paid it! And in the meanwhile, instead of a barely decent apartment, with ninety thousand lire he had that villino, that palace! But the expenses? Yes, it’s true, the taxes, and then so many other additional expenses. Maintenance, lights, servants . . . With a house like that, one maid from the south would certainly not be enough. It would take three servants at least. For the time being, Giustino had hired two on trial, or rather one and a half, or rather two halves: that is, half a cook and half a servant (
valet de chambre
, as Signora Barmis had suggested he be called): a bright boy in a nice livery for cleaning, waiting on the table, and opening the door.

Now, right away … as soon as the two carriages arrived at the gate, Èmere (his name was Èmere) . . .

“Hey, Èmere! . . . Èmere! . . .” shouted Giustino into the night, stepping down. Then, turning to Raceni: “You see? . . . He’s not in his place. . . . What did I tell him?”

Oh, here he is. He’s turning on the lights, first upstairs, then down. There. The entire villino looks splendid with its windows illuminated, under the starry sky. It’s enchanting! But Silvia, already out of the carriage with Signora Barmis, is waiting behind the closed gate, waiting for Raceni to take down the suitcases, while a dog barks from the neighboring house. Giustino hurriedly pays the drivers and runs at once to his wife to show her on one of the gate pillars the marble plaque with the inscription:
Villa Silvia
.

First he looked into her eyes. During the drive he had supposed that while talking to Signora Barmis in the other carriage about her uncle’s death and having to leave her son, she would have cried. Unfortunately, no, she hadn’t cried. She had the same appearance as before: glum, stiff, cold.

“See? Ours!” he said to her. “Yours . . . yours . . . Villa Silvia, see? Yours . . . I bought it!”

Silvia frowned. She looked first at her husband, then at the bright windows. “A villa?”

“You’ll see how beautiful it is, Signora Silvia!” Raceni exclaimed.

Èmere ran to open the gate and took his place, flourishing his striped hat in the air without the slightest concern about the reprimand Giustino was shouting in his face: “Thanks a lot for having everything so nice and ready!”

Giustino’s vexation grew on seeing Signora Barmis’s long face. Without a doubt Silvia hadn’t been nice to her in the carriage. And the poor woman had worked so hard with him, exhausting herself! A nice way to thank people!

“See?” he tried again, turning to his wife, as soon as they entered the vestibule. “See? I didn’t come to Cargiore to get you, because . . . See? In order to get this surprise ready for you! With the help of. . . What do you say, eh? What a vestibule! With the help of this dear friend of ours and Raceni . . .”

“No! What are you saying! Be quiet!” Signora Barmis quickly tried to interrupt him.

Raceni also protested.

“Not at all!” Giustino insisted. “If it hadn’t been for you two! Yes, in fact… alone, I… Now–this is nothing! You’ll see…. We have good reason not only to thank you both, but to remain eternally grateful….”

“Dear me, how you exaggerate!” smiled Signora Barmis. “Stop it. Look after your wife. She must be very tired. . . .”

“Yes, really very tired…” Silvia said, with a smile at once sweet and cold. “And please excuse me if I don’t thank you as I should. . . . The long trip . . .”

“Yes, supper must be ready,” Raceni hastened to say, moved by that smile (finally!) and by those nice words (what a voice Silvia Roncella had! What sweetness! A different voice . . . Yes, it seemed completely different!). “A little refreshment, then off to rest!”

“But first,” said Giustino, opening the parlor door, “first you have to see the upstairs. … Go ahead. … Or better, I’ll lead the way. . . .”

And he began his explanation, interrupted from time to time by Signora Barmis with words such as “of course . . . go on . . . but she can see this later” for every detail on which he lingered, repeating awkwardly, in jarring tones, everything he had already told her about the property, the refinements, the comfort, the taste.

“See? Porcelain . . . They are by . . . Who are they by, Signora? Oh, yes, by Lerche . . . Lerche, Norwegian . . . They seem like nothing, yet my dear . . . they’re expensive! Expensive! But how refined, eh? . . . This little cat, eh? How lovely! Yes, let’s proceed, let’s proceed. … All by Ducrot! . . . He’s number one, you know? These days he’s number one, isn’t he, Signora? There’s nothing better…. Ducrot furniture! All Ducrot furniture!… This, too … Look here at this armchair…. What do they call it? All fine leather… I don’t know what kind of leather…. You have two of them upstairs in your study… . Ducrot! Wait till you see your study!”

If Silvia had said one word, or had shown by the slightest gesture any curiosity, pleasure, or surprise, Dora Barmis would have taken
over to show her with the proper tact, the proper remarks, the proper delicacy, all those exquisite things; she felt extremely uncomfortable because it seemed that Boggiolo’s grotesque explanations crumpled, crippled, ruined everything.

But Silvia was more uncomfortable than Signora Barmis by seeing and hearing her husband ramble on like that. She was uncomfortable for herself and for him; and right now she was imagining how much enjoyment that woman, if not Raceni, must have had decorating that house in her way with his money. The disdain, spite, shame she was feeling made her stiffer than ever. And yet she didn’t break off that torture, restrained by the curiosity (that she forced herself not to show) of seeing that house that did not seem like hers, but alien, made not for living as she had lived up till now, but like a place in which to perform an obligatory play from now on; even for herself. She would be obliged to treat with due regard all those objects of exquisite elegance that would keep her in continual subjection, obliged always to remember her part to recite among them. And she was thinking that just as she no longer had her baby, so she also no longer had the house she knew and loved. But it had to be like this, unfortunately. And so soon, like a good actress, she would take possession of those rooms, of that stage furniture from which all familial intimacy would be banished.

When, upstairs, she saw the separate bedrooms: Ah, yes,” she said. “Good, good.”

And it was the only sound of approval that came from her mouth that evening.

The thought that Silvia might not appreciate this arrangement had been like a heavy weight on Giustino’s chest. He had racked his brain for the most convincing way to present this novelty without offending his wife on the one hand, and without moving Signora Barmis to laughter on the other. He suddenly felt relieved and happy, completely misunderstanding the reason for his wife’s delight.

’And I’m here, see? Next to you,” he hurriedly explained. “Here, right here… What kind of bedrooms are they called? Ah, twins, yes… twin
bedrooms, because see? they’re just alike . . . This is mine! And what do you have there? My picture. And what do I have here? Your picture. See? Twin bedrooms. You like them, don’t you? Everyone does it like this now. All right! I’m glad. . . .”

Signora Barmis and Raceni exchanged looks and smiles of amazement at the sight of him following his wife around like a puppy that evening.

But Giustino was so subdued and anxious for Silvia’s approval that evening, not just because the successful tour of
The New Colony
through the big cities of the peninsula had increased his regard for her and this now obliged him to show her greater respect and consideration; nor was it because he guessed from her appearance, or at least sensed, his wife’s change of heart toward him. His esteem was the same as before. He had never actually considered himself a good judge of her artistic merit, and now he could not care less, happy if this merit was recognized by others and really convinced that it was because of the extraordinary work that he had done and continued to do. Of course that recognition was entirely due to his work. As for her, how could she doubt his admiration and gratitude? Now more than ever.

And so what was the problem? There had to be other reasons that neither Signora Barmis nor Raceni could imagine.