Tales of Madness (17 page)

"No, that's not why!" cried Gabriella Vanzi, stretching her arms towards her in a gesture of supplication and despair.

"That's not why, that's not why, Bice! Your husband went mad on your account, on your account, not because of me!"

"He went mad on my account? What do you mean? Out of remorse?"

"No! What remorse? There's no reason to feel remorse when you haven't willfully committed the sin. You can't understand! Just as I wouldn't have been able to understand it if, considering what's now happened to your husband, I had not thought about my own! Yes, yes, I now understand your husband's madness, because I think about my own husband, who would go mad in the same way, if what happened to your husband with me, ever happened to him! Without remorse! Without remorse! And precisely because it is without remorse... Do you understand? And this is the horrible thing about it! I don't know how to make you understand! I understand it, I repeat, only if I think of my husband and see myself like this, without remorse for a sin I didn't intend to commit. Do you see how I can speak to you about it without blushing? Because I don't know, Bice, I really don't know how your husband is, just as he certainly doesn't know, he can't know, how I am... It was like a whirlpool. Understand? Like a whirlpool that suddenly, without any forewarning, opened up between us and took hold of us, and in an instant swept us away. And then it immediately closed without leaving behind the slightest trace of itself! Immediately afterwards, his conscience and mine became clear, just like they were before. We no longer thought about what had occurred between us, not even for an instant. Our turmoil was only momentary. We rushed out of the room, he going in one direction, I in another. But as soon as we were alone — nothing. It was as if nothing at all had happened. Not only when we were in your presence after your return to the villa a short time later, but even when we were alone together. We could look into one another's eyes and talk to one another, just as before, exactly as before, because no longer was there in us any vestige of what had been, I swear it. Nothing, nothing, not even the shadow of a memory, not even the shadow of a desire. Nothing! It was all over. It had disappeared. The secret of an instant, buried forever. Well, this is what made your husband go mad. Not the sin, which neither of us thought of committing! No, it was this: the thought that an honest woman who is in love with her husband can fall into the arms of another man instantly, unwillingly, as a result of a sudden surprise attack from the senses, because of a mysterious complicity of time and place; and that a moment later it would all be over forever. The whirlpool would be closed and the secret buried. There would be no remorse, no turmoil, no effort expended to lie to others or to one another. He waited one, two, three days. He felt no stirring within himself, neither in your presence nor in mine. He saw me go back to being as I was before, exactly as I was before, with you, with him. A little later he saw my husband return to the villa, remember? He saw how I welcomed him, with what concern, with what love... and so then the watery abyss in which our secret had sunk and disappeared forever without the slightest trace gradually began to attract his attention, until it ultimately destroyed his mind. He thought of you. He thought that perhaps you, too..."

"Me. too?"

"Oh, Bice, no doubt it's never happened to you. That I believe,
Bice, my dear! But we, that is, he and I, know from experience that it can happen, and that, since it was possible in our case, without our wanting it, it can be possible for anyone at all! He probably thought that there were times when, returning home, he found you alone in the living room with some friend of his, and that what happened to me and to him could in an instant and in exactly the same way have happened to you and to that friend. And he probably thought that you could have been able to shut up inside yourself without leaving a trace, and hide without lying, that same secret that I shut up inside myself and hid from my husband without lying. And as soon as this thought entered his mind, a subtle, sharp, burning sensation began to gnaw away at his brain, in seeing you so detached, so happy, so loving with him, just as I was with my husband, my husband whom I love, I swear it, more than myself, more than anything in the world! He began thinking: And yet, this woman, who is behaving like this towards her husband, was for a
moment in my arms! So then maybe my wife too, in a moment...
Who knows?... Who can ever know?... And he went mad. Oh! Quiet, Bice, keep quiet, for heaven's sake!" Gabriella Vanzi got up. She was trembling and extremely pale. She had heard the door open out there in the entrance hall. Her husband had just returned home.

Nothing. Yes, it was true: no more anxiety, no remorse, no hint of anything...

And Donna Bicetta understood perfectly well why her husband, Romeo Daddi, had gone mad.

It seemed that everything he said had the same indisputable to ascendency as his good looks. Since there could be no question about the fact that he was an exceedingly handsome man — really handsome in all respects — it was as if likewise there could never be any question about anything he said.

And yet he understood nothing. He really understood nothing about what was happening within her!

She felt this way also because, with that same coolness and self-confidence, and that pride that came to him from being a handsome young man, he would fail her in certain other moments when he approached her to satisfy a need. In those moments he was timid, humble, suppliant; in a word, just the opposite of how she would have liked him to be. Hence, even then she had another reason to feel irritated, and so much so that, though inclined to submit to him, she became reluctant to do so, and would freeze up. The recollection of every submission, poisoned at the crucial moment by that feeling of irritation, would transform itself into rancor.

He maintained that the awkwardness, the embarrassment she said she felt in the presence of all men was a fixation.

"You feel these things, my dear, because you think about them," he continued obstinately to repeat to her.

"I think about them, my dear, because I feel them," she would retort. "A fixation? Certainly not! I feel them. That's the way it is, and I have my father to thank for them, because of the fine way he brought me up! Do you want to question that, too?"

Oh dear, at least not that, hopefully. He himself had experienced the problem during their engagement. In the four months preceding their marriage, there, in the small town where she was born, he had not even been allowed to exchange a couple of affectionate, softly-spoken words with her, let alone hold her hand.

Already for the past six years, it's true, she had freed herself . from the nightmare created by her father's ferocious jealousy. She saw people in her home or on the street, and yet... Certainly it no longer was her former childish fear, but rather this feeling of embarrassment, yes, that's it! However much she tried, she could not stand up to anyone's gaze, and when she spoke, her tongue became tangled in her mouth. Moreover, without her knowing why, she would suddenly blush, and there was the possibility, therefore, that everyone might think that she was thinking who knows what, while actually she wasn't thinking about anything. In a word, she saw herself condemned, time and time again, to make a bad impression and to pass for a foolish or stupid young lady. And that she didn't want. To insist on the contrary was useless! Thanks to her father, she now had to stay locked up and not see anyone, at least if she didn't want to experience the annoyance of that extremely stupid, that extremely ridiculous feeling of embarrassment that she could not control.

His best friends, the ones he cared most for, the ones he would
have liked to consider as a valuable addition to his home and to the small world that six years previously he had hoped he could build around himself by getting married, had already deserted him, one by one. Of course! They would come to the house and ask:

"Where's your wife?"

His wife had inevitably dashed away at breakneck speed at
the first ring of the doorbell. He would pretend to go call her and
actually would go to her. He would appear before her with a pained expression on his face and with outstretched hands, though he always knew that it would be useless, that his wife would cast him a withering look with her eyes inflamed with anger, and would shout "Stupid!" at him through clenched teeth. He would turn around and go back to his guest, feeling God only knows what inside, but outside wearing a smile. Then
he would announce: "You must excuse her, my dear friend, she's
not feeling well and has gone to lie down."

At times his wife had let herself be seen by these few remaining friends. This happened either when she had been caught off guard or had yielded to his pleading in a propitious moment. And... no sir, it wasn't at all true that she had made a bad impression. On the contrary!

"Because when you don't think about it, see... when you give in to your natural inclinations... you're vivacious..."

"Thanks!"

"You're intelligent"...

"Thanks!"

"And you're anything but awkward, that I assure you! Pardon me, but what pleasure could I derive from having you make a bad impression? You speak frankly, why yes,
sometimes even too much so... Yes, yes, you're quite charming, I
swear it! You completely light up, and you always stand up to another person's gaze. Why, your eyes sparkle, my dear... And you say... and you even say bold things, you really do... Does that surprise you? I don't say they're improper... but for a woman, they're bold. You say them with ease, with self-confidence, and, in a word, with spirit. I swear it!"

He would be carried away in singing her praises, noticing that, though she protested that she didn't believe them one bit, all things considered she enjoyed hearing them. And she would blush, not knowing whether to smile or to frown.

"That's the way it is, exactly the way it is. Believe me, yours is
a real fixation..."

The fact that she didn't protest against the word "fixation," which he used a hundred times, should have at least put him on guard. Moreover, she had received those praises about her speech being frank, self-confident, and even bold, with obvious satisfaction.

When and with whom had she spoken in that manner?