Conjugal Love

She was already in bed, sitting upright, in a magnificent nightdress adorned with openwork and lace. The room was in darkness except for the head of the bed, upon which fell the light of the bedside lamp. She was leaning against the pillows, her arms stretched out on the sheet in front of her, with a welcoming, expectant air. Her face was exquisitely made up, all her curls were in place, there was a new bunch of fresh flowers above her left temple. She was very beautifuclass="underline" and upon her face lay that sparkling mysterious serenity in which her beauty seemed, above all, to consist. I was astonished, as I looked at her, at the thought that that face, now so calm and luminous, could have been distorted, a short time before, into that hectic grimace of lust. Smiling, she said: 'Cheer up! You see I've put on my best nightie to listen to you.'

I sat down, slantwise, on the edge of the bed, and said: 'I'm reading it to you only because you want me to. . I've already told you it's bad.'

'Never mind. . Come on. I'm listening.'

I took up the first page and began reading. I read the whole story straight through without stopping, merely casting a glance at her, now and then, as she listened seriously and attentively. As I read I was confirmed in my former opinion: the thing was respectable, and that was all. Nevertheless this 'respectability' which, not long before, had seemed to me a characteristic which had no importance, now — I do not know why — appeared to have more weight than I had imagined. This less unfavourable impression, however, did not distract my mind from its main preoccupation, which was my wife. I was wondering all the time what she would say at the end of the reading. There seemed to me to be two courses open to her: the first consisted in exclaiming immediately: 'But, Silvio, what do you mean, it's very fine indeed'; the second, in admitting that the story was mediocre. The first was the way of indifference and deceit. By giving me to understand that the story was good when she thought it was not (and she could not but think so), she would be showing clearly that she wished to lead me by the nose, and that between her and me there could be a relationship merely of falsity and pity. The second was the way of love, even if it was only a love like hers, made up of goodwill and affection. I wondered, not without anxiety, which way she would choose. If she said that the story was good, I had made up my mind to cry: 'The story's bad and you're nothing but a whore!'

I read through the whole story with this idea in mind, and, the nearer I drew towards the end, the more I slowed down the pace of my reading, being fearful of what would happen. Finally I read the last sentence, and then said: 'That's all,' raising my eyes towards her.

We looked at each other in silence; and, like a passing cloud in a clear sky, I saw a shadow of deceit spread, for one moment, over her face. For one moment, certainly, she thought of lying to me, of crying out that the story was good and thus revealing herself in all her coldness and cunning and in the act of administering the false comfort of a pitying flattery. But this shadow vanished almost at once; and it seemed to be replaced by a love for me which consisted, first of all, in truth towards me and respect for me. In a voice full of a sincere disappointment, she said: 'Perhaps you're right… It isn't the masterpiece you thought. . But neither is it as bad as you think now. It's interesting to listen to.'

Greatly relieved, I answered almost joyfully: 'Didn't I tell you so?'

'It's very well written,' she went on.

'It's not enough, to write well.'

'But perhaps,' she said,' perhaps you haven't worked at it enough…. If you re-wrote it — more than once, if necessary — in the end it would be just as you want it to be.'

She was thinking, then, that in art too, goodwill was of greater value than the gifts of instinct. 'But I want it to be,' I said, 'exactly as inspiration produces it — or lack of inspiration.. . And if there isn't inspiration it's not worth while working and worrying at it.'

'That's just where you're wrong,' she exclaimed with animation.' You don't give enough importance to work and worry. . but really they're extremely important. That's the way things get done — they don't just happen, as though by a miracle.'

We went on arguing for some time, both of us firm in our own very different points of view. Finally, I folded the manuscript in four and thrust it into my pocket, saying: 'Well, well, don't let's talk about it any more.'

There was a moment's silence. Then I said softly: 'You don't mind having an unsuccessful writer for a husband?'

She answered at once: 'I've never thought of you as a writer.'

'How have you thought of me, then?'

'Well, I don't know,' she said, smiling. 'How can I possibly say? I know you too well by now… I know just what you're like.. . You're the same for me, always — whether you write or don't write.'

'But if you had to pronounce an opinion, what would it be?'

She hesitated, and then said, with sincerity: 'But one can't pronounce an opinion when one loves.'

And so we always came back again to the same point. There was, in this protestation of hers that she loved me, a touching persistence that moved me deeply. I took her hand and said: 'You're right. . And I too, just because I love you, although I know you very well, couldn't pass judgement upon you.'

With a flash of intelligence in her eyes, she exclaimed: 'It is so, isn't it? When one loves someone, one loves every aspect of that person — defects and all.'

I should have liked to say to her at that moment, with perfect sincerity: 'I love you as you are now, sitting up in bed, calm and serene in your beautiful nightdress, with your curls and your bunch of flowers and your clear, shining eyes. And I love you as you were a little time ago when you were dancing the dance of desire and gnashing your teeth and pulling up your dress and clinging to Antonio. . And I shall love you always.' But I said nothing of all this, because I realized that she understood that I knew everything, and that everything was now settled between us. Instead, I said: 'Perhaps one day I'll rewrite the story… it's not finished with yet. . Some day, when I think I'm capable of expressing certain things.'

'I'm convinced too,' she said cheerfully, 'that you ought to rewrite it — after some time.'

I kissed her good night and went off to bed. I slept extremely well, with a deep, harsh sleep like the sleep of a child who has been beaten by its parents for some fault or caprice, and has screamed and wept a great deal and then, finally, been forgiven. Next morning I rose late, shaved myself and, after breakfast, suggested to my wife that we should go for a walk before lunch. She agreed and we went out together.

A little beyond the farm buildings, on the top of another mound, were the ruins of a small church. We climbed up to it by a mule-track and sat down on the low wall that ran round the churchyard, in full view of the vast panorama. The church was of great antiquity, as could be seen from the Romanesque capitals of the two pillars supporting the exterior porch. Apart from this porch, nothing was left but a portion of the walls, a fallen apse and the almost unrecognizable stump of a tower. The churchyard, paved with old grey stones, was all grass-grown, and beneath the little porch one could catch a glimpse, through the cracks in the gaping boards of the rustic door, of the rampant bushes, their foliage gleaming in the sunshine, that ran riot in the apse. Then, as I looked at the church, I noticed that there was a face or mask carved on one of the capitals. Time had worn and smoothed away the sculpture, which must have always been rather rudimentary and now seemed almost formless; not so much so, however, that one could not distinguish the sinister face of a demon, such as the sculptors of those days were in the habit of portraying in church bas-reliefs for the admonishment of the faithful. I was suddenly struck by a remote resemblance between this ancient, half-effaced grin and the grimace that I had seen upon my wife's face the previous night. Yes, it was the same grimace, and that stonemason of bygone times had certainly intended, by stressing the mournful sensuality of the heavy lips and the feverish, greedy expression in the eyes, to suggest the same kind of temptation. I turned my eyes from the capital and looked at Leda. She was gazing at the view and appeared to be meditating. Then she turned towards me and said: 'Listen… I was thinking last night about your story… I believe I know why it's not convincing.'