WIFE AND MISTRESS (continued 3)

One reason why I had waited so long was that it was clear that Carla, even without a master, would be capable of working seriously at her new art. Each week she had a new song to recite to me, carefully thought out both as to expression and articulation of the words. Perhaps certain tones ought to have been lighter, but no doubt she would find the right balance in time. One decisive proof that Carla was an artist was the way she went on perfecting her songs without letting go of what was best in her first conception. I often used to make her recite her earliest songs again, and there was always some new touch which was very much to the point.

Seeing how ignorant she was, it was remarkable that in spite of her efforts to give the utmost expression to the song she never introduced a false or exaggerated note. Like a true artist she added a small stone to the building daily, without destroying what was there already. The song was not stereotyped, only the sentiment which inspired it. Before she began singing Carla used always to pass her hand over her face, and that moment’s quiet sufficed to plunge her in the drama she had to create. Nor was the drama always puerile. The ironic mentor of

Rosina te xe nata in un casoto

must not be taken too seriously. The speaker seemed to wish it to be treated as an everyday story. Carla had a different conception of it but she arrived at the same conclusion:

“My sympathy is with Rosina, for otherwise the song would not be worth singing,” she said.

It sometimes happened that Carla would quite unconsciously rekindle my love for Augusta and my remorse on her account. In fact it happened whenever she did anything which seemed to aim at undermining the unassailable position held by my wife. She was still as anxious as ever to have me to herself for one whole night; she confided to me that it seemed to her something was wanting in our intimacy because we had never slept together.

As I wished to get into the habit of treating her more gently I did not absolutely refuse to do what she wanted, but it almost always seemed to me that it would be impossible to do so unless I could make up my mind to find Augusta looking out of the window, after having sat up for me all night. Besides, would it not be a fresh infidelity to my wife? Sometimes, especially when desire had driven me to Carla, I felt inclined to satisfy her, but almost immediately afterwards the difficulty and impossibility of the situation was borne in on me. So that for a long time the idea remained in abeyance, neither realised nor actually dismissed. It was understood that we had agreed sooner or later to spend a whole night together; and there was every facility now for doing so, for I had persuaded the Gercos to give notice to the tenants who lived in the middle part of their flat, cutting it in two; so that Carla at last had a bedroom to herself.

Soon after Guido’s wedding my father-in-law had the attack which finally killed him, and I was foolish enough to tell Carla that my wife was obliged to spend the night at her father’s bedside, so as to allow my mother-in-law to get a little rest. Having done so there was no way of getting out of it; Carla insisted on my spending that night with her—the very night that was to be so painful for my wife. I had not the courage to refuse, and agreed with a heavy heart.

I prepared for the sacrifice by not going to see Carla in the morning, so that I rushed round to her in the evening full of unsatisfied desire, saying to myself that it was childish to think I was being more unfaithful to Augusta just because at that moment she was obliged to suffer owing to quite a different cause. I even felt impatient with poor Augusta for delaying me while she explained to me where to find everything I might need for supper, for the night and for breakfast the next morning.

Carla received me in her studio. Soon after, the old woman who was at once her mother and maid-of-all-work, served us a delicious little meal which I supplemented with what I had brought for dessert. Then she came in and cleared away, and I should have been only too glad to go to bed at once; but it was really too early, and Carla persuaded me to let her sing first. She went through the whole of her repertory, and that was the part of the evening I enjoyed most, for the excitement with which I waited for the moment when I might enjoy my mistress added to the pleasure I always took in listening to her recitations.

“The audience would load you with flowers and applause,” I said, forgetting that it would be impossible for a whole audience to share my present state of mind.

We went to bed at last in a small, bare room, meanly furnished. It looked like part of a passage, divided in two by a wall. I was not at all sleepy, but even if I had been, I reflected with horror that it would have been impossible to sleep in such a stuffy place.

Carla’s mother called to her in a timid voice. She went to the door to answer, and half closed it again behind her. I heard her asking the old woman crossly what she wanted. The other said something I could not hear, and then Carla cried out angrily, as she slammed the door in her mother’s face:

“Leave me alone, I’ve told you that I am going to sleep here to-night!”

Then I discovered that Carla, who was afraid of the dark, always slept in her old bedroom with her mother, where there was another bed, and that the bed we were sleeping on was generally empty. It was of course fear which had made her try to get me to desert Augusta. She admitted with a malicious satisfaction, which I did not share, that she felt safer with me than with her mother. That bed, all alone there in the little room next door to the studio, gave me food for reflection. I had never seen it before. I felt jealous! And I did not at all like the way Carla had spoken to her mother. How different from Augusta, who had denied herself my company in order to wait on her parents. I am particularly sensitive to any lack of consideration in children towards their parents. How patiently I put up with my own dear father’s whims!

Carla was quite unconscious both of my jealousy and my unfavourable criticism of her. I suppressed any inclination to show that I was jealous, for I felt I hardly had the right to be so, seeing that I had spent a good part of my time in wishing that someone would take my mistress off my hands. And there was no point in showing the poor girl that I despised her just when I was again toying with the idea of giving her up finally; though I despised her all the more for the very reasons which a short time ago would have made me still more jealous. The important thing was to get away as quickly as possible from that horrible little room containing barely three cubic feet of air, and overheated into the bargain.

I can’t remember exactly what excuse I made for going away almost at once. I threw on my clothes in frantic haste. I think I said something about having forgotten to give my wife a key, so that she would not be able to get in, supposing she needed something from the house. I showed her the key, which was really the one I always carried about in my pocket, but which I produced as a tangible proof of the truth of my statements. Carla did not attempt to keep me; she dressed too, and came with me to light me down the stairs. In the darkness I thought I felt her cast searching glances at me now and then, and wondered in some anxiety whether she was beginning to understand me. It was not so easy, seeing how good I was at pretending. To show my gratitude to her for letting me go I touched her cheek with my lips several times and pretended to be still under the influence of the emotion which had driven me to her. That I acted well was obvious from the results. Carla had told me shortly before, in an access of lyrical enthusiasm, that the ugly name of Zeno which my parents had given me was not worthy of me. According to her I ought to have been called Dario, and when she said good-bye to me at the foot of the dark staircase, that was the name she called me by. But I felt that I could not endure her for another second, and fled with the key still in my hand. I had almost come to believe myself that it really was the one I said it was.

The night was intensely dark, but the darkness was broken from time to time by dazzling flashes of lightning. Thunder rumbled far away in the distance. The air was very still and as suffocating as in Carla’s room. Even the few drops which fell at intervals were warm. Evidently a storm was threatening, and I ran at full speed. By good luck I found a lighted entrance still open in the Corsa Stadion and took shelter there just in time. Immediately afterwards the deluge came. The downpour of rain was lashed by a furious wind which seemed to bring the thunder along with it until it was almost above one’s head. I shuddered to think how compromising it would be for me to be found struck dead by lightning at that hour in the Corsa Stadion. Fortunately my wife knew that I was a man of strange tastes who might even take it into his head to walk as far as that at night, so probably an excuse would be found.

I had to stay in that entrance for over an hour. I kept on thinking that the weather was going to get better, but each time the rain came on again with greater fury. And now it had turned to hail.

The porter of the house came to keep me company in the entrance, and I had to give him something for keeping the outer door open a little longer. Then a gentleman joined us, who was dressed in white and dripping with water. He was old and thin and withered. I never saw him again, but I cannot forget the light in his black eyes and the vitality which emanated from each point of his small person. He swore at the weather for making him so dirty.

I have always loved talking to people I don’t know. I feel quite safe and sound with them; it is quite a rest to be with them. If only I take care not to limp I am all right.

When at last the rain began to give over I went as quickly as I could, not to my own house but to my father-in-law’s. I felt at that moment that it was my duty to be on the spot in case I was needed.

My father-in-law was asleep and Augusta, who had her sister to help her, was able to join me. She said it was so nice of me to have come, and flung herself weeping into my arms. She had seen her father suffer horribly.

She noticed that I was quite wet. She made me sit down in an arm-chair and covered me with some rugs. Then she sat down beside me for a little while. I was very tired and found it hard work to keep awake, even during the short time she was with me. I felt very innocent in not having been unfaithful to the extent of staying away from home all night. Innocence was so delightful that I tried to increase the sensation of it. I began putting a few words together which sounded like a confession. I said I felt weak and guilty but, seeing that she looked at me inquiringly at this point as if in need of an explanation, I drew in my horns again and began talking about the sense of sin which I had in every word I spoke or breath I drew in.

“That is what the monks believe,” said Augusta. “Perhaps it is for the sins we have unconsciously committed that we are being punished now.”

The words were well suited to her tears which continued to flow. It seemed to me that she had not quite understood the difference between my way of thinking and that of the monks, but I did not want to discuss it, and to the monotonous accompaniment of the wind which had now risen, I soon fell into a long, refreshing sleep, my mind quite eased by my attempted confession.

When the question of the singing-master came up again I arranged everything within a few hours. I had made up my mind some time who it was to be, and to tell the truth I chose him because his fees were lower than those of any other teacher in Trieste. I thought it better not to come into it myself, so I sent Carla to call on him. In fact I have never seen him, but I know a great deal about him now and he is one of the people in the world whom I most respect. He is evidently a very simple-minded, healthy creature, which is strange in an artist who lives so entirely for art as Vittorio Lali. I must say that I envy him for being such a genius and at the same time so healthy.

I at once noticed a change in Carla’s voice; it became softer and at the same time surer and more flexible. We were so afraid that he might force it, like the teacher whom Copler had chosen. He may have adapted himself to Carla’s wishes, in any case he always kept to the style of singing which she preferred. It was only some months afterwards that I found she had departed from it slightly as her feeling became finer. She no longer sang Triestine or Neapolitan canzonettas, but old Italian songs; and from them she passed to Mozart and Schubert.

I remember specially a cradle song attributed to Mozart, and sometimes when I am most conscious of the sadness of life, and think regretfully of the fragile girl who was my mistress but whom I never loved, the cradle song rings reproachfully in my ears. I see again Carla in her rôle of mother, summoning her sweetest tones to woo her baby to sleep. But she, who was unforgettable as a lover, was too bad a daughter ever to become a good mother. She could sing like a mother though, and that was a gift that covered a multitude of sins.

Carla told me her singing-master’s story. He had studied for several years at the Vienna Conservatoire and had then come to Trieste, where he had the good fortune to work for our best composer who was stricken with blindness. He took down all his compositions to dictation, and was treated by him with the confidence which all blind people feel the need of reposing absolutely in anyone on whom they are dependent. So he got to know his ideas and schemes, which though they were mature remained always eternally youthful. He soon became familiar with every kind of music, and knew just what Carla needed. She described his appearance to me: he was young and fair and rather solidly built, negligently dressed with a soft shirt that sometimes might have been cleaner, a large flowing tie that must once have been black, and a shabby broad-brimmed hat. He was a man of few words, according to Carla; and I think she was speaking the truth, for a few months later when he became more confidential she told me at once. He was entirely absorbed in his work.

Fresh complications very soon set in. It was with a feeling of bitter jealousy, as well as love, that I went to see Carla in the morning, though it passed off somewhat during the day. I could not believe that the young man would not take advantage of such an easy prey. Carla appeared surprised at my thinking of such a thing, but her surprise made me think it all the more. Had she forgotten already what had happened between her and me?

I arrived one day wild with jealousy, and frightened her so much that she offered at once to dismiss the singing-master. I don’t think that it was only because she was afraid of losing my support, for she showed me many genuine signs of affection at that time, which sometimes made me intensely happy, and, when I was in another frame of mind, irritated me because I felt them to be directed against Augusta; and yet, however much I wanted to, I could not dissociate myself from them. I was embarrassed by her suggestion, which I felt I could not accept whatever mood I might be in at the moment. I felt the need of keeping the channel open between my two states of being, and I did not want to curtail in any way my freedom to pass from one to the other at will. Though I could not accept her suggestion it made me realise that I must be more careful, and I resolved, however jealous I might feel, not to show it. My love became more and more a source of irritation to me, and I ended by feeling Carla to be an inferior being, whether I desired her or not. At times I did not care whether she was unfaithful to me or not; she seemed quite unimportant. When I was not hating her I no longer remembered her existence. I belonged to the sphere of health and respectability wherein Augusta reigned supreme, and I returned to her body and soul as soon as I could escape from Carla.

Carla was in reality absolutely sincere, so that I know exactly for how long I could call her completely mine—and it was a very long time. My periodical jealousy was no doubt the expression of an obscure sense of justice. What I deserved actually did happen. The singing-master fell in love first. The first intimation I had of it was something which Carla triumphantly repeated to me, as a sign that she had scored her first artistic success as an artist and earned my congratulations. He said that he enjoyed teaching her so much that if at any time she could not afford to pay for more lessons he would go on giving them to her gratis. I felt inclined to box her ears, but I soon recovered and pretended to be as glad as she was about her success. She forgot the grimace I had made on hearing the news (like when one bites into a lemon), and accepted my tardy praise quite calmly. He had told her all his private affairs which were nothing very much: music, poverty, family worries. His sister had been a great trouble to him, and he had succeeded in making Carla take a great dislike to a woman she had never seen. I thought her dislike very compromising. They sang together songs of his own composition, which I thought very poor both when I was in love with Carla and when I found her a burden. Perhaps they were good all the same, but I have never heard anyone speak of them since. He later conducted an orchestra in the United States, and it may be that they sing those songs over there.

But the day she told me that he had asked her to marry him and that she had refused I passed two horrible half-hours; the first because I was so furious with the singing-master that I should have liked to wait till he came in order to kick him out; the second because I could see no means of reconciling the continuation of my liaison with Carla’s marriage, which I yet felt to be a much more satisfactory and moral solution of our relationship than the career which Carla had pictured starting in my company.

Why did that God-forsaken teacher want to take fire so soon? During the year which our liaison had lasted, so much had adjusted itself between Carla and me; even my frown had vanished when I said good-bye to her. If I still reproached myself I felt hardly any remorse, and though Carla would still have been right in saying that I made love roughly she seemed to have got used to it. This was not so difficult for her, for I had never again treated her with the brutality of the first days of our liaison, and having endured that, the rest must have seemed to her comparatively mild.

So that even if Carla no longer meant very much to me I could easily foresee that I should be by no means content to come to see my mistress and not find her. Of course it would be wonderful to be able to go back to Augusta without having enjoyed the usual interlude with Carla, and at that moment I felt quite equal to doing so. But I should have liked to have given it a trial first. The resolution I made was more or less as follows: To-morrow I will beg her to accept his proposal but I will prevent her doing so to-day. And by a great effort I continued to behave as a lover. Now that I am able to look back on every phase of my adventure, I see that it looks as if I wanted to make another man marry my mistress and yet keep her for myself, as somebody much more experienced and of a much colder temperament than myself might have done. But I was far from being as immoral as that, and such a design never entered my head. I wanted her to marry the singing-master, but to postpone her decision till to-morrow. It was only now that what I persist in calling my state of innocence came to an end. I could no longer adore Carla for a short time every day and then hate her for twenty-four hours on end; or wake every morning as innocent as a new-born babe, and pass the day in wonderment at the adventures it brought, though it was just like all the other days, and I ought to have known those adventures by heart.

This was no longer possible. I saw before me the probability of losing my mistress for ever unless I could overcome my desire to get rid of her. I instantly overcame it.

And so it came about that just the very day when she had ceased to matter anything at all to me, I made Carla a scene which in its falsity and jealous rage resembled the scene I had made Augusta that night in the carriage. But on this occasion I was not drunk with wine; I was only genuinely moved by the sound of my own words. I told her I loved her, that I could not live without her, but that I did not see how I could ask her to sacrifice her whole life to me, when I had nothing to offer in comparison with what she offered me.

It struck an altogether new note in our relationship, already rich in passionate experiences. She listened enraptured to my words, and it was a long time before she made up her mind to tell me that I need not worry about Lali being in love with her, because she did not care for him in the least.

I thanked her with the same ardour as before, though I was no longer moved by it myself. I felt a certain weight on my chest; evidently I was more deeply involved than ever. Instead of diminishing, my feigned ardour increased in order to give me the opportunity to say a word of eulogy for poor Lali. I did not want to let him go; I wanted to reserve him—but for the following day.

When we had to consider the question of keeping him on or of dismissing him as a singing-master, we were in complete agreement; I had no wish to rob her of her career as well as of a husband. She admitted that she thought a great deal of him as a teacher; at every lesson she realised more how much she needed his help. She begged me not to worry, and to have complete confidence in her; assuring me that she loved me and me only.

Evidently my adultery was growing in scope and importance. I had now become bound more closely than ever to my mistress. New links had become forged in our relationship, which threatened to invade a territory reserved hitherto to my married love. But directly I got home my new affection for Carla was diverted into an increasing tenderness for my wife. For Carla I felt nothing but profound mistrust. Who knows what truth there was in that proposal of marriage? I should not have been surprised if one fine day Carla had presented me with a son who had a great gift for music. I again made iron resolutions, which I took with me to Carla, forgot while I was with her and remembered again almost before I left her. The resolutions existed for their own sake, and had no practical results whatever.

And for the time being everything remained as before. The summer passed away, and carried off my father-in-law. I found plenty to occupy me in Guido’s new house of business, where I did more work than I had ever done before, not excepting my varied studies at the University. I will say more later about this new activity of mine. The winter went by, and the first green leaves that opened in my garden found me more sure of myself than those of the year before. My daughter Antonia was born. Carla’s master was still at our disposition, but Carla would not hear of marrying him at present, and I still wanted to put it off too.

But events which seemed at the time to be of no importance produced very serious results in my relations with Carla. They passed almost unobserved at the time, and it was only their consequences which drew my attention to them.

It was just at the beginning of spring that I consented to go for a walk with Carla in the Giardino Pubblico. I felt it to be terribly compromising for me, but Carla was so anxious to walk in the sunshine leaning on my arm that I at last consented. We were not to be allowed to spend even a few moments together as husband and wife, for even this attempt ended badly.

We sat down on a seat, the better to enjoy the sudden warmth; the sun for the first time seemed to be entering again into his kingdom. On weekday mornings the garden was deserted, and I thought if we sat still we should run still less danger of being seen. But we had not been sitting long when I saw Tullio approaching, with slow but mighty strides, leaning on his crutch. (He was the individual of the fifty-four muscles.) He sat down beside us without looking at us. Then he raised his head, his eyes met mine and he said:

“Well, how are you after all this long time? Are you less busy than you were?”

He had sat down quite close to me, and after I had recovered from my surprise my first instinct was to prevent him catching sight of Carla. But directly he had shaken hands with me he asked:

“Is that your wife?”

He waited for me to introduce him.

I had to give way.

“Signorina Carla Gerco, a friend of my wife’s.”

Then I went on lying, and Tullio told me afterwards himself that my second lie sufficed to make everything clear to him. I said with a forced smile:

“The young lady sat down beside me too, without seeing me.”

It is important to remember, if one is going to tell lies, that one must only tell essential ones if one wants to be believed. When we next met, Tullio said to me with his native common sense:

“You explained too much; I guessed at once that that charming young lady was your mistress.”

I had already lost Carla, and it was a satisfaction to be able to tell Tullio that he was right, but that she had, alas, given me up. He did not believe me, for which I was grateful to him. I thought his incredulity was somehow a good omen.

That meeting in the garden produced in Carla an ill-humour which I had never seen in her before. I know now that her rebellion dated from that moment, but I did not notice it at once because I had turned my back on her in order to listen to Tullio telling me about his illness and the various cures he had tried. I afterwards discovered that no woman can consent to be slighted in public, whatever treatment she may put up with in private. She vented her wrath on the poor cripple rather than on me, refusing to reply when he spoke to her. I could not listen to him either with any patience, for at the moment I could not interest myself in his cures. I looked hard at him and tried to read in his little eyes what he was really thinking about our meeting. I knew he had retired, and that having nothing to do all day he might easily amuse himself by gossiping about us in the narrow circle of Triestine society which was all that existed in those days.

After reflecting on it for some time Carla got up as if to leave us. She murmured “good-bye” and began to move away.

I knew she was angry with me and, while still reckoning with Tullio’s presence, I tried to snatch an opportunity for reconciling myself with Carla. I asked her to allow me to accompany her as I was going in the direction of her house. Her cold good-bye had sounded like a final farewell, and this was the first time I feared she would leave me for good. Such a cruel threat quite took my breath away.

But Carla did not know herself where she was going with such a firm step. She was giving vent to a momentary exasperation, which would soon have passed.

She waited for me and we walked along side by side without speaking. When we got home she burst into a flood of tears, which distressed me less, because they forced her to take refuge in my arms. I explained to her who Tullio was and what harm his tongue might do me. As she still went on crying in my arms I ventured on a firmer tone: Did she want to compromise me? Had we not agreed to do all in our power to give as little suffering as possible to the poor woman who was my wife and the mother of my child?

Carla seemed to agree, but she wanted to be alone to recover herself. I went away in quite good spirits.

It must have been this adventure which made her keep wanting to appear in public as my wife. It seemed that as she did not want to marry the singing-master she was bent on making me fill a good part of the place which she had refused him. She kept on plaguing me to take two seats at the theatre, which we were to occupy as if by chance, both coming in by different doors and sitting down next to each other. But I would only consent to go with her several times to the Giardino Pubblico, which marked the limit of my excursions on foot; only now I arrived from the opposite direction. I would never go beyond. My mistress was beginning to resemble me a little too much. For no reason at all she would break out into sudden bursts of anger. She soon came to her senses again, but the fear of these outbursts sufficed to make me very docile and attentive to her. I would often find her dissolved in tears, and could never succeed in getting any explanation of the cause of her grief. Perhaps it was my fault for not insisting enough on her telling me. When I got to know her better, that is to say when she left me, no further explanation was necessary. Necessity had compelled her to fling herself into that adventure with me, though I was not really what she wanted. In my arms she had become a woman and, as I like to think, an honest woman. Naturally this is not to be attributed to any merit of mine, especially as I had nothing but disappointment in the end.

She developed a new caprice, which at first surprised me and then moved me deeply; she wanted to see my wife. She swore she would not go near her and that she would take care not to be seen by her. I promised her that if I happened to hear my wife was going out at a particular time I would let her know. She must not see my wife near my villa, which was in a lonely spot where every passer-by attracts attention, but in one of the crowded streets of the city.

About this time my mother-in-law had some disease of the eyes which obliged her to keep a bandage over them for several days. This bored her terribly, and to see that she obeyed the doctor’s orders exactly, her daughters took it in turn to sit with her; my wife in the morning and Ada from four o’clock in the afternoon. I don’t know even now what led me to indicate Ada to Carla as my wife. No doubt after the singing-master’s proposal I felt the need of attaching her more closely to me, and I may have thought that the lovelier my wife seemed to her the more she would love the man who, in some sort, had sacrificed such a woman to her. Augusta was at that time no more than a splendidly healthy nursing mother. Perhaps I was guided to a certain extent by considerations of prudence. I had good reasons to fear Carla’s capricious humour, and if she had let herself be carried away into some indiscretion before Ada it would not have mattered so much, seeing that I already had sufficient proof that Ada would never try to damage me in Augusta’s eyes.

If Carla had compromised me with Ada I should have told the latter the whole story, and not without a certain secret satisfaction.

But my stratagem had results which I could never have foreseen. Feeling slightly anxious as to how things had gone, I went to see Carla earlier than usual next morning. I found her quite changed from the day before. The pure oval of her face wore an expression of great seriousness. I was going to kiss her but she repulsed me at first, then let me just touch her cheeks with my lips to induce me to listen to her quietly. I sat down at the table facing her. She took up a sheet of paper on which she had been writing till I came in, and put it with some deliberation amongst some music which was lying on the table. I took no notice of the sheet of paper and it was only later that I learned it was a letter to Lali.

I know now that up to that moment Carla’s soul had been torn by doubts. She gazed at me questioningly with her serious eyes; then she turned towards the window, as if she sought to be alone with herself and to look into her own heart. Perhaps if I had been quicker to divine what was going on in her mind I might even then have kept my exquisite mistress for myself.

She told me about her meeting with Ada. She had waited for her outside my mother-in-law’s house, and when she came out had recognised her at once.

“Nobody could have mistaken her. You had described her chief features to me. Oh, how well you know her!”

She was silent for a moment, trying to control the tumult of her senses, which made it difficult for her to speak. Then she went on:

“I don’t know what has happened between you, but I don’t want ever again to betray that woman. She is so beautiful and so sad! I shall write to the singing-master to-day, saying that I am willing to marry him!”

“Sad?” I exclaimed in astonishment. “You must have made a mistake, or she may have had a shoe which pinched her at that moment.”

Ada sad! Why, she was always laughing and smiling; even that very morning when I had seen her at my house.

But Carla knew more about it than I did.

“A shoe that pinched her! She had the carriage of a goddess walking on the clouds!”

She told me with ever-growing agitation that she had even had a few words addressed to her—ah, such sweet ones—by Ada. The latter had dropped her handkerchief and Carla had picked it up and given it back to her. Her brief words of thanks had moved Carla to tears. Something else had also happened between the two women. Carla maintained that Ada had noticed she was crying and had given her a parting look of tender sympathy. Everything was plain to Carla; my wife knew that I was unfaithful to her, and was suffering. That was why she had decided not to see me any more, and to marry Lali.

I did not know what to say in my own defence. It would have been easy for me to talk about Ada as if I disliked her, but not about my wife, who was so busy doing her duty as a good mother that she did not perceive what was going on in my mind. I asked Carla if she had not noticed a certain hard look in Ada’s eyes, and that her voice was low and harsh without any touch of gentleness. If only I could have had Carla’s love again, there on the spot, I would gladly have attributed many other failings to my wife; but how could I, seeing that for about a year now I had been praising her to the skies before my mistress?

I got out of it another way. I was so deeply moved myself that the tears rose to my eyes. I felt I was greatly deserving of pity. Without at all intending it, I had fallen head-first into a dilemma from which I could see no way out. It was intolerable to have Ada and Augusta mistaken for each other like that. The real facts were that my wife was not at all beautiful, and that Ada, who so keenly aroused Carla’s compassion, had treated me very badly. Carla was really unjust in her judgment of me.

My tears softened Carla a little towards me.

“Dear Dario,” she said, “it does me good to see you cry. There must have been some misunderstanding between you two, and it has got to be cleared up. I don’t want to be too hard on you but I have made up my mind never to betray her again. I am determined she shan’t have to cry because of me. I swear it!”

In spite of having sworn it, she did betray Augusta one last time. She wanted to part from me for ever with a final kiss, but I would only allow this kiss to take one form, otherwise I should have parted from her full of resentment. So she submitted. We both murmured: “For the last time.”

It was an exquisite moment. That resolution taken by both of us in common had the power to wipe out all our guilt. We were innocent and happy. Kind fate had requited me with one moment of perfect bliss.

I felt so happy that I went on with the comedy up to the moment of saying good-bye. We were never to see each other again. She refused the envelope which I always carried in my pocket, and would not even accept any memento from me. Every trace of our past must be banished from the new life on which we were entering. Then I consented to kiss her on the forehead like a father, as she had wanted me to at first.

On the stairs I had a sudden misgiving that the matter was becoming too serious. If I could have known that she would still be at my disposition the next day I should not have been troubled so soon with thoughts of the future. She watched me go downstairs from her landing, and I called up to her, laughingly:

“Till to-morrow!”

She gave a start of shocked surprise and went away, saying:

“Never again!”

All the same I felt relieved to think I had dared to say something which left the way open for a last embrace, if I felt the desire for it. With nothing I wanted to do and no business to attend to, I spent the whole day with Augusta and in Guido’s office. My complete idleness gave me the opportunity to see more of my wife and child than usual. I was not only kind to them but played a father’s part in the direction of the household, giving orders and looking into everything. As I was going to bed I said to myself:

“Every day ought to be like this.”

Before we went to sleep Augusta felt she must confide a great secret to me; her mother had told her only to-day. A few days ago Ada had come upon Guido kissing one of the maids. Ada would have preferred to have taken a high line about it, but the girl had been insolent and she had sent her away on the spot. Yesterday they had all been anxious to hear what Guido would do about it; if he had complained Ada had intended to ask for a separation. But Guido had laughed and protested that Ada had made a mistake; he had nothing against her being sent away as he could not bear the girl, he said. The matter appeared to have been smoothed over.

I was very curious to know whether Ada really had been wrong when she surprised her husband in that position; was there any possible room for doubt? For after all when two people are kissing each other they are in quite a different position from when one is tying the other’s shoe-laces. I felt in the best of humours. I even felt the need of displaying a very calm and equable mind in my judgment of Guido. Ada was certainly of a jealous temperament which might have made her see them nearer together than they really were, and doing something quite different.

Augusta said sadly that she was sure Ada had not made a mistake, and that it was excess of affection which made her take another view now. She added:

“She would have done better to have married you!”

I was feeling more and more innocent, and boldly replied:

“We have yet to see whether I should have made a better bargain if I had married her instead of you!”

As I was dropping off to sleep I murmured:

“What a scandal! Deceiving his wife in her own house!”

I had sufficient decency to reproach him only with that part of his conduct which I had no need to reproach in myself.

Next morning I rose with the ardent hope that the first day at least would be exactly like the preceding one. Probably Carla would not feel any more bound than myself by the delicious resolutions we had taken in common the day before, and I for my part felt completely free. They had been too pleasant to be binding. But my anxiety to know what Carla really thought about it made me hasten to see her. What I hoped was that I should find her in the mood for forming a fresh resolution. So life would flow on, rich in enjoyment but more still in efforts to get better; a great part of each day would be devoted to well-doing, only a small part to regrets. I felt a certain anxiety, it is true, because during the whole of this year, which for me had abounded in resolutions, Carla had only formed one: to show me she loved me. She had kept hers, and it was rather difficult for me to argue from this whether or not she would find it easy to keep a new resolution which was the direct opposite of the old.

Carla was not at home. I was terribly disappointed and bit my nails in mortification. The old woman made me go into the kitchen. She said that Carla would be back before night. She had told her that she would be feeding out, so there was not even the usual small fire on the hearth.

“Didn’t you know?” asked the old woman, her eyes wide with astonishment.

I muttered absent-mindedly, and with a heavy heart:

“I knew yesterday. But I wasn’t sure whether Carla’s plans held good for to-day or not.”

I went away after having said good-bye as graciously as I could. I ground my teeth, but in secret. It took me some time to pluck up sufficient courage to be angry in public. I went to the Giardino Pubblico and walked about for half an hour, to give myself time to think things over. They had become so clear as to baffle me altogether. Suddenly, piteously, I found myself forced to keep a resolution like that. I felt ill, really ill. I limped along, trying in vain to contend with my bodily distress. I sometimes have attacks like this; I can breathe perfectly well, but I count each breath I draw, because each requires a special effort of the will. I have the feeling that if I were not careful I should die of suffocation.

At that hour I ought to have gone to the office, or better still to Guido’s. But I had not the strength of mind to leave that spot. What should I do if I did? How different to-day was from yesterday. If only I had known the address of that wretched singing-master who by dint of singing at my expense had carried off my mistress!

I ended at last by going back to the old woman. I might be able to think of some message which would induce Carla to see me again. The problem was how to get hold of her, and that as quickly as possible. The rest, I felt, would not present any great difficulty.

I found the old woman sitting by one of the windows of the kitchen, busy darning a stocking. She took off her spectacles and eyed me curiously and half timidly. I hesitated a moment and then said:

“You know that Carla has decided to marry Lali?”

I felt as if I were telling myself the news for the first time. It is true that Carla had told me twice, but the day before I had not paid much attention to her. Her words had struck my ear, and so clearly that I recalled them perfectly; but they had slipped off again without penetrating my mind. Now, for the first time, they reached my vitals and I writhed with pain.

The old woman looked at me, and she too seemed to hesitate. She was obviously afraid of committing some indiscretion with which she would be reproached afterwards. Then she burst out in great delight:

“Has Carla told you that? Then it must be true. I think she is quite right! What do you think about it?”

She laughed with joy, the horrid old witch; and I had always imagined she knew all about my liaison with Carla. I longed to hit her, but contented myself with saying that I should have preferred to wait till the singing-master had attained a better position. For my part I thought they were being too hasty.

In her joy the old woman became quite talkative for the first time. She did not agree with me. If one married young one must make a career for oneself afterwards. Why must one always make it first? Carla needed so little. And the training of her voice would cost less too, as it was her singing-master she was going to marry.

These words, which might be interpreted as a reproof to my avarice, gave me an idea which struck me at the time as magnificent, and relieved my mind for the moment. The money which I still always carried in an envelope in my breast-pocket must have reached by now a considerable sum. I took it out and handed it to the old woman, asking her to give it to Carla for me. Perhaps I felt the need of making my mistress some proper return, but my chief desire was to see her and possess her again. Carla would surely see me again in either case, whether she wanted to return the money or whether she found it more convenient to keep it; then she would feel that she must say thank you for it. I breathed again: it was not the end of everything!

I told her mother that the envelope contained the remains of the money collected among his friends by Copler, which he had entrusted to me. Then, with my spirits quite restored, I asked her to tell Carla that I should always be a good friend to her and that she was to come to me in case she ever needed help. This enabled me to give her my address: I gave Guido’s office.

I went away with a much lighter step than I had come. But that day I had a violent quarrel with Augusta. It was all about nothing. I said the soup was too salt, while she maintained it was not. I suddenly got into a violent rage because I thought she was laughing at me, and pulled the cloth towards me with a jerk, so that everything was scattered on the floor. The baby, who was in the nurse’s arms, began to howl; which humiliated me very much because I thought it was trying to reproach me too. Augusta grew pale as only she knew how, took the baby in her arms and left the room. I thought this was really going too far; was I to be left to eat my food alone like a dog? But she returned almost at once without the baby, put the cloth to rights and sat down again in front of her plate. She took up some soup in her spoon as if she were going to begin eating again.

I was inwardly swearing, but I had come to look upon myself as a plaything in the hands of the uncontrolled forces of nature. Nature found no difficulty in accumulating them, and less still in unchaining them on the world. My curses were directed against Carla who pretended to be acting entirely in the interests of my wife. It was all her fault that I had behaved like this!

Augusta has her own method of dealing with me when I am in this condition, a method from which she has never departed. She does not argue, or weep or protest. When I began humbly apologising, she only wanted to explain one thing: she had not laughed, she had only smiled, as she had done so many times before when I had seemed to like it.

I was properly ashamed of myself. I begged Augusta to have the baby brought back, and took it in my arms and played with it for a long time. Then I made it sit on my head, and dried my eyes—wet with the tears Augusta had not shed—with its little frock which hung down over my face. I played with the baby because I knew that without having to make any more excuses for my conduct I was really making it up with Augusta; and sure enough her cheeks had already resumed their normal colour.

The day, after all, ended well, the afternoon being very much like the preceding one. It was almost as good as if I had found Carla in her usual place that morning. I felt the same sort of stimulus. I kept on telling Augusta how sorry I was, because I wanted to induce her to put on her motherly smile again when I said or did anything ridiculous. I could not have borne it if she had felt constrained to adopt a certain attitude towards me, or if my conduct had obliged her to repress a single one of those tender smiles of hers, which seemed to me the kindest and most final judgment that anyone could pass on me.

In the evening we talked again about Guido. He had apparently entirely made his peace with Ada. Augusta wondered how her sister could be such a saint. This time it was my turn to laugh, for she had evidently forgotten how very charitable she was herself. I said to her:

“Supposing I were to do the same thing in our house, wouldn’t you forgive me?”

She hesitated a moment and then exclaimed:

“We have our child, but Ada has no children to bind her to that man.”

She did not like Guido; I sometimes think that she continued to bear him a grudge for having made me suffer.

A few months later Ada presented Guido with twins, and Guido could never understand why I congratulated him so warmly. According to Augusta’s theory, now that he had children he could amuse himself as much as he liked with the maids without danger to himself.

Next morning when I went to the office and found on my desk an envelope in Carla’s handwriting, I breathed again. So nothing was at an end, and I was still to be provided with all the elements essential to my life. In a few brief words Carla gave me an appointment for eleven o’clock in the Giardino Pubblico, by the entrance opposite her house. We were not to meet in her room, it is true, but somewhere very near to it.

I could not control my impatience, and arrived at the rendezvous a quarter of an hour too soon. If Carla had failed to appear at the appointed place I decided I would go straight to her house, which would have been much more convenient.

It was another of those delicious spring days, fresh and soft and luminous. When I left the noisy Corsa Stadion and went into the garden, the silence seemed almost rural, hardly broken by the faint rustling of leaves in the mild breeze.

As I walked quickly towards the other gate of the garden, I saw Carla coming to meet me. She had my envelope in her hand, and advanced towards me without a smile of greeting, and with a stern, fixed expression on her pale face. She had on a simple dress of rather loosely woven linen with a blue stripe in it, which suited her very well. She seemed to be part of the garden. Afterwards, during the times which I felt I hated her most, I accused her in my own mind having put on that dress so as to make herself more desirable at the very moment she meant to refuse herself to me. But she was really clothed in the first fine day of spring. Besides, one must remember that the personal adornment of my mistress had played a very small part in our long but hurried liaison. I had always gone straight to her studio, and modest women when they are at home always dress very simply.

She gave me her hand, which I pressed, saying:

“Thank you for coming!”

How much better it would have been if I had remained as unexacting as that during the whole interview!

Carla seemed to me to be very agitated, and when she spoke a nervous tremor passed through her, and her lips trembled. Sometimes when she was singing that movement of the lips prevented her from producing the tone she wanted. She said:

“I wish I could please you by accepting this money from you, but I can’t, I simply can’t. Please take it back again.”

When I saw that she was almost in tears I did what she wanted at once, and took the envelope from her. Long after I had left her I found it still in my hand.

“Do you really want to have nothing more to do with me?”

I asked her this, quite forgetting that she had already answered me the day before. But was it likely that she would continue to withstand me, when I desired her so much?

“Zeno,” she replied in a softer tone, “didn’t we promise never to see each other again? It is because of that promise that I have taken certain vows which you had already taken before you met me. They are as sacred as yours, and I hope by now your wife knows that you belong entirely to her.”

She was evidently still troubled by the thought of Ada’s beauty. If I could have been sure that this was the real reason she had given me up I might have been able to avert it. I might have told her that Ada was not my wife and have shown her the cast in Augusta’s eye and her spoilt figure. But the vows she said she had taken were more important still, and I was obliged to discuss them with her.

I tried to talk calmly to her, though my lips were trembling too—but with desire. I said she did not seem to know how much she meant to me, and that she had not the right to dispose of herself like that. The scientific proof of what I wanted to say passed through my mind—to wit, Darwin’s famous experiment on an Arab mare—but thank God I don’t think I mentioned it. But I am sure I talked about animals and their physical fidelity, babbling on incoherently. I abandoned the more difficult arguments which were beyond us both at that moment, and said:

“What vows can you have taken? And how can they be of any importance compared to a love like ours, which has bound us for over a year?”

I seized her roughly by the hand, for I felt the need of some violent movement to take the place of the words I could not utter.

She snatched her hand away from me as resolutely as if it were the first time I had dared to take hold of it.

“But,” she said as solemnly as if she were taking an oath, “I have taken the most sacred of all vows, and with a man who did exactly the same to me.”

There was no longer any room for doubt. The blood which suddenly coloured her cheeks was driven there by anger against the man who had never taken any vows towards her. And she proceeded to make her meaning still clearer:

“Yesterday we went for a walk together, with my mother, and we walked through the streets arm in arm.”

She was running away from me, that was clear; farther and farther away. I began running madly after her, making hasty leaps like a dog who has had tasty bits of meat taken away from him. I seized her hand again and cried:

“Very well, we will walk hand in hand from one end of the town to the other. In that unusual position we will go right down the Corsa Stadion, along the Volti di Chiozza, and on and on down the Corso to Sant’ Andrea; and we will come back to our room quite a different way, so that the whole city may have a chance of looking at us.”

For the first time I was proposing really to give up Augusta! And I was glad I was going to get free, for it was she who was really robbing me of Carla.

She again released herself from my grasp and said coldly:

“That is about the same route we took yesterday.”

I made another leap:

“But does he know everything? Does he know you gave yourself to me yesterday?”

“Yes,” she answered proudly. “He knows everything, everything.”

I felt I was lost, and like a dog who, when he can no longer get the desired morsel, worries with his teeth the person who has refused it him, I exclaimed in my rage:

“That bridegroom of yours must have an excellent digestion. He can swallow me to-day, and to-morrow he will swallow whatever you like to give him.”

I hardly knew what I was saying. I only know I was crying out with pain. But her face assumed an expression of indignation of which I should hardly have thought her soft gazelle-like brown eyes would have been capable.

“You dare say that to me? Why haven’t you got the courage to say it to him?”

She turned her back on me and walked swiftly towards the gate. I was already regretting my words, but was stupefied to discover that I was no longer allowed to speak roughly to Carla. This discovery rooted me to the spot. It was only when the little figure in blue and white had already reached the gate with rapid steps that I decided to run after her. I had no idea what I should say to her, but we could not part like that.

I caught her up just as she was going in at the front door, and said out of the fullness of my heart:

“Are we really going to part like this, after having loved each other so much?”

She continued to walk on without answering me, and I followed her up the stairs. Then she looked at me with the same hostile eye and said:

“If you want to see my fiancé, come in with me. Don’t you hear? That is him playing the piano.”

Then I heard the syncopations of Schubert’s Gruss arranged by Liszt.

Although I have never at any time practised with a sabre or sword-stick, I am not at all a timid man. The intense desire which had moved me up to that moment suddenly died down; all that remained of the male in me was my combativeness. I had imperiously demanded something which I could not have. To put myself less in the wrong it was essential for me to fight, otherwise the memory of that woman, threatening to have me punished by her fiancé, would be too atrocious.

“Very well, then!” I said. “If you allow me I will come with you.” My heart was beating fast, not from fear but because I was afraid I might not behave properly.

I continued to walk upstairs beside her. But suddenly she stopped, leaned against the wall and began crying silently. The strains of Schubert’s Gruss on the piano I had paid for, still floated down to us. Carla’s tears made it seem much more moving.

“I will do whatever you like,” I said. “Do you want me to go away?”

“Yes,” she murmured, hardly able to articulate that one short word.

“Good-bye,” I said. “Since you wish it, good-bye for ever.”

I went slowly downstairs, whistling the tune of Schubert’s song. Was it a dream, or did she really call after me: “Zeno?” At that moment I would not have stopped even if she had called me by her strange pet name, Dario. I was longing to get away and return, pure again, to Augusta. Even a dog, prevented by kicks from approaching the female, runs away perfectly pure for the time being.

Next day when I was again reduced to the state I had been in on my way to the Giardino Pubblico, I simply felt that I had been a cad; she had called me, even though not by my pet name, and I had not answered. It was my first day of unhappiness, and was followed by many in which I suffered bitter pangs of loneliness. I could not understand why I had gone away like that, and concluded it must have been because I was afraid of that man or of a scandal. I felt now that I would gladly compromise myself to any extent, as for instance when I had suggested to Carla that we should take the long walk together in the town. I had lost a favourable moment, and I knew well enough that with certain women those moments only come once. Once would have been enough for me.

I decided to write to Carla immediately. I could not let pass a single day without trying to get into touch with her again. I wrote and re-wrote that letter, trying to put into a few words all the understanding of which I was capable. I re-wrote it so many times partly because writing was a great comfort to me; it gave me just the outlet I needed. I asked her to forgive me for getting so angry, telling her that my great love would take a long time to calm down. I added: “Every day that passes brings me a fresh grain of peace.” I wrote these sentences several times over, grinding my teeth as I wrote. I went on to say that I could not forgive myself for having spoken to her like that, and that I felt the need of asking her forgiveness. I could not, alas, offer her what Lali offered, and what she so richly deserved.

I pictured the letter making a great impression on her. Since Lali knew all about it Carla would be sure to show him the letter and Lali might easily feel that it was a great advantage to him to have a friend of my standing. I even dreamed of our having a very agreeable life together à trois, for my love was so great at the moment that I should have felt it an alleviation of my lot to have even been allowed to pay court to Carla.

On the third day I received a short note from her. In it she called me neither Zeno nor Dario. She only said “Thank you! I hope you will be happy too with your wife who so much deserves to be happy!” She was, of course, speaking of Ada.

The favourable moment had not lasted, and it never does last with women unless you take hold of them by the hair of their head. My desire had taken the form of mad rage. Not with Augusta! My mind was so full of Carla that I felt quite remorseful, and all the time I was with Augusta I wore a forced, idiotic smile which she took to be genuine.

But something must be done. I could not just wait and go on suffering like this day after day! I did not want to write to her again. It is a waste of time to cover paper with ink for a woman. I must find something better than that.

With no definite plan in my mind I made my way to the Giardino Pubblico. Then, much more slowly, I went on to Carla’s house, and when I had reached the landing knocked at the kitchen door. I would have preferred if possible not to meet Lali, but I felt I should not mind running into him. It would be just the climax I was needing.

The old lady was by the hearth as usual, where two good fires were burning. She was surprised to see me, but the kind old thing at once made me welcome, and said laughingly:

“Well I am pleased to see you! You had got so used to coming to see us every day that it’s no wonder you can’t get out of it as soon as all that.”

It was easy enough to set her talking. She told me that Carla and Vittorio were very much in love with each other. He and his mother were coming to dinner that very day. She added, laughing:

“I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t soon persuade her to go with him to his singing lessons. He has such a lot to give every day. They can’t bear to be separated for a moment.”

She laughed with motherly pride to think they were so happy. She told me they were going to be married in a few weeks’ time.

I had a bad taste in my mouth and was on the point of going away. But I refrained, in the hope that the old woman’s gossip might suggest something to my mind, or give me some sort of hope. The last mistake I had made with Carla had been just that—that I had run away before having studied every possible loophole that might be offered me of staying.

For a moment I really did think I had got an idea. I asked the old woman if it was her intention to act as her daughter’s servant for the rest of her life. I said I knew that Carla was not very nice to her.

She went on with what she was doing at the fire, but listened to me while she worked. She was extraordinarily frank with me, though I had done nothing to deserve it. She complained that Carla lost patience with her over every little trifle. She tried to excuse herself.

“I know I get older every day,” she said. “And I forget everything. It is not my fault!”

But she hoped things were beginning to go better. Carla was much less bad-tempered now that she was happy. And then Vittorio had treated her with great respect from the very first. She went on making a paste of flour and fruit into various shapes while she talked.

“It is my duty to stay with my daughter,” she said. “I can’t do otherwise.”

I took some pains to make her change her mind. I said she might very well escape from such slavery. Could not I help her? I would continue to pay her the monthly allowance which had hitherto been paid to Carla. It had become a necessity to me to support somebody! I wanted to keep the old woman, because she seemed to me to be part of her daughter.

She expressed her gratitude warmly. She said how good it was of me, but she laughed at the idea of leaving her daughter. She could never dream of such a thing. This was a hard saying for me, and left me with a terrible weight on my mind. I had got to return then to my state of loneliness, where there was no Carla and no way by which I could return to her. I remember I made one last effort to deceive myself into thinking that a way might still be open. Before going away I told the old woman that if she were at any time to change her mind she had only got to let me know.

I left the house full of scorn and indignation, feeling as if I had been maltreated by the very people to whom I was intending to show kindness. The old woman had insulted me by bursting out laughing like that. Her laughter still sounded in my ears, and meant much more than that she had mocked at my last proposal.

I did not want to go back to Augusta feeling like that. I knew exactly what would happen. If I had gone I should have behaved badly to her and she would have avenged herself by that strange pallor which made me feel so unhappy. I preferred to walk up and down the streets with a rhythmic tread which I hoped might produce a little order in my thoughts. And that order did in fact come. I ceased lamenting my fate, and saw myself as if I had been projected by a great light on the wall in front of me. I did not want Carla, but only her embrace, and preferably her final embrace. The thing was ridiculous! I bit my lips, hoping the pain might give some sort of substance to my ludicrous fancy. I knew myself thoroughly, and it was inexcusable that I should suffer so much when I had such a unique opportunity for freeing myself. Carla had ceased to exist just as I had so often wished she might.

Such was my lucidity of mind that when a little later, in an out of the way part of the town which I found my way to at random, a woman of the streets accosted me, I unhesitatingly went with her.

I got home very late for lunch, but was so nice to Augusta that her spirits rose at once. But I could not bring myself to kiss my child, and for several hours was incapable of eating anything. I felt unclean! I did not feign sickness, as I had done on several other occasions to conceal my misdeeds and remorse. I thought I should never again find comfort in any resolution, and for the first time I failed to make one. It took me a good many hours to recover the accustomed rhythm which might bridge the gulf between my gloomy present and the bright future.

Augusta noticed that something had happened to me. She said, laughing:

“One can never be bored if one is with you. Every day you become a different man.”

It was true! That woman in the suburban street was quite different from any other, and I had her in my blood.

I spent the whole afternoon and evening with Augusta. She was very busy, and I stayed beside her doing nothing. I felt as if I were being carried along by a stream, a stream of clear water: my respectable home life.

I abandoned myself to the stream, which carried me along but did not purify me. On the contrary it only emphasised my stain.

Naturally during the long night which followed I formed a fresh resolution. The first was the most iron of all. I determined to buy a pistol, and shoot myself directly I found myself turning towards that part of the town. This resolution made me feel better, and less disgusted with myself.

I never groaned in bed; instead I imitated the regular breathing of someone who is asleep. I returned to my old idea of making a confession to my wife, just as when I had been on the point of committing adultery with Carla. But this confession would have been much more difficult to make, not so much on account of the gravity of my offence as of the complications which had preceded it. Face to face with a judge like my wife, I should have had to plead attenuating circumstances, and this I could only have done if I had been free to tell her of my unexpected and violent rupture with Carla. But in that case I should have been obliged to have gone back over the whole story of my infidelity, and confess everything to her.

By a process of self-analysis my resolutions became more and more reasonable. I thought I could prevent a similar thing happening again by taking immediate steps to form another liaison like the one that was just at an end, and which it was obvious I could not do without. But the thought of another woman alarmed me considerably. Too many perils threatened me and my little family. There was not another Carla to be found in the world, and I shed bitter tears at the thought of what I had lost; she was so sweet and good, and had even tried to love the woman I loved. She had only not succeeded because I had shown her another woman instead, and precisely the one I did not love!