Authors: Alberto Moravia
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had all come to nothing.
Stopping every so often to take a sip from my glass, I affected a blasé, worldly attitude as I stepped
through the French doors onto the terrace. Outside, there was a paved courtyard surrounded by trimmed hedges with lights hidden inside, illuminating the open space. A few couples danced, others sat on benches, iron chairs, or on the low garden walls. Beyond the hedges one could make out the soaring silhouettes of tall, leafy trees, rising up toward the limpid May sky. The garden, which from the road looked like little more than a slender strip, was in fact quite large. After gazing at the couples and small groups to see if I could identify Maurizio, I began to walk down a small lateral path in the garden. My glass was almost empty, and suddenly I felt very silly walking through the garden clutching an empty glass. My drunken state, however, kept me from carrying this observation further. I continued down one path, took another, walked a good distance, and found myself standing in front of a small fountain consisting of a small basin and a mask which spat out a small dribble of water. The fountain was built into the garden wall and illuminated by the moon; the path ended there, and I was forced to turn back. I took another path. I reflected that if I met Maurizio, I would take the offensive; I would tell him exactly what I thought of him, of his house, of the people he frequented, and I would remind him once again, but this time more brutally, that he and the class he belonged to were doomed and destined to imminent destruction at the hands of the revolution. Meditating on the “writing on the wall” with which I hoped to confront Maurizio once and for all, I was filled with a violent hostility and an aggressive desire for victory. As I walked down another long, meandering path, I suddenly came to
an abrupt stop. I could see Nella and Maurizio sitting on a nearby bench in a twist in the path. They were talking; Nella was closer to me, with her back turned, but I could see Maurizio’s face. Nella stood up and said, in a clear voice: “I’m going home,” and walked away. She seemed unsteady, and it occurred to me that she too was drunk. Maurizio was still sitting on the bench, smoking, staring straight ahead. As I approached him, I said, “Ah, there you are … I was looking for you.”
He said nothing as I approached him unsteadily. I
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thought I noticed a look on his face that I had never seen before, one of boredom, disgust, and irritation which, for some reason, I attributed to the party. As I said earlier, I was moved by the aggressive desire to attack and defeat him with a few cutting words. But when I saw the look on his face, I thought: “He knows that the people he has invited to his party are stupid and contemptible … He knows that his social circle is doomed … He is better than they are … He could be one of us.” All of a sudden, my hostility disappeared, replaced by an unexpected, intoxicating feeling of affection and solidarity. As I sat on the bench beside him I asked almost timidly, “Am I disturbing you?”
He started, looking up at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Not at all …”
“What are you doing here, all alone in the garden?” I asked. “I thought you were dancing.”
He looked at me and said, slowly, “I’m smoking a cigarette … as you can see.”
“You’re bored …,” I said, my voice full of hope and understanding. “You needed a break …”
He looked at me again with some surprise. “I was dancing with Nella,” he said curtly, “and then we came here to talk for a moment.”
I noticed that he said her name casually, and also that he mentioned her before I did, as if to protect himself. But strangely, perhaps because of my drunken state, this observation did not inspire any particular reflections. At that moment, Nella was the furthest thing from my mind; even if I had caught her kissing Maurizio, I would not have reacted in any way. Making no reference to his response, I said, “Maurizio, why can’t you be sincere for once in your life?”
He shuddered and stared at me in silence. Then, slowly, cautiously, he said, “What do you mean?”
I told him I was drunk. Up to that moment my
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drunkenness had manifested itself only physically: an unsteady walk, clouded vision, confused logic. But as soon as I opened my mouth I realized that my drunkenness would also be revealed in my speech. As usual, this knowledge did not stop me; quite the contrary: “Even if you refuse to be honest with me,” I said, vehemently, “I’ll be honest with you … The time has come to speak openly.”
I wanted to shock him, but at the same time, because of the typical confused logic brought on by drink, I also thought that what I said was true and just, and that what I was about to say was even more so. “There is a kind of silent, wordless war going on between us,” I said, stumbling over my words with a fiery impulsiveness, “I know it and you know it … but at least I have the courage to admit it.”
“A silent … wordless war?”
“For as long as we’ve known each other,” I went on, unflinching, “we’ve been engaged in a battle, and each of us wants to declare victory over the other … One could say that our struggle began on the day we first laid eyes on each other … I don’t know why, really … Perhaps because of the social chasm between us … You’re rich and I’m poor, you come from an established family, and my roots are obscure … Or perhaps the real reason is that you feel more powerful and want to impose your strength, and I cannot help but react to this imposition … But at the same time,” I continued in a triumphant tone, “even though we hate each other, we also love each other … It’s useless to deny it … I am mysteriously drawn to you, and you to me … We avoid each other and seek each other out … I don’t know what you feel, but I know very well what I feel.”
“What do you feel?” he asked slowly. If I had been less over-excited and more sober, I might have noticed a sudden coldness in his voice, almost like a clinical curiosity.
“I feel a sort of attraction,” I said, “and I know why … I consider you to be an extraordinary person, highly intelligent, with great charm. These are rare qualities … At the same time I hate to see these qualities go to waste, not be put to any good purpose … You lead a useless life, among useless, or worse, contemptible, people”—I made a vague gesture in the direction of the house—“and you don’t
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realize that your strength, which is already considerable, would be increased many times over if it were put to use.”
“By becoming a Communist?” he asked, quite serious and without the slightest touch of irony, now observing me with real curiosity.
“That’s right,” I said confidently, “why not become a Communist, like me?” As I said this I put my hand on his arm. “Don’t deny it, you know that the people here tonight are empty, contemptible, awful … You know that the social class you belong to is doomed … You know it … so why don’t you draw the logical conclusion?”
He was studying me closely. With a slight effort, he said, “Yes, I know … What about it?”
If I had been less drunk, I would have noticed that he was not looking directly at me but rather above my head, dreamily, at the trees. His distracted state was significant. I noted it without reflecting on its significance. I went on, ardently: “If you already know this, then why, why …”
“Why don’t I follow your example?” he said, casually finishing my sentence.
“Yes, why?”
He was quiet for a moment. “We’ll discuss it another time … Tell me more about this battle we’ve been waging … How do you see it?”
I felt a wave of aggravation and anger, and yelled out: “See? You don’t have the courage to look squarely at the logical conclusions of your feelings and thoughts … Nevertheless, the battle between us will end with my victory …”
“Why is that?” he asked, smiling slightly.
“Because after being the weaker combatant for a long time, I am now in a position of strength, that’s
why … Because you insist on untenable positions, while I have the courage to overcome them … Because I am no longer the useless little intellectual that you used to make fun of … I am a new man, and you are a relic of the past, like all the people you know. Everything around you is old … this house, the furniture, the fabrics, the chairs … the people … everything is old … and if you don’t watch out, you’ll suffer the same fate … you’ll die.”
“Everyone dies,” he said, lightly.
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“Don’t pretend you don’t understand,” I said, violently; “you’re an intelligent man, Maurizio, very intelligent, and you know better than I do what I mean … Don’t pretend not to.”
He peered at his cigarette and then flung it into the bushes. “Let’s go inside,” he said, “it’s time.”
“But, Maurizio,” I cried out, running after him and grabbing his sleeve, “why don’t you answer me? Why can’t you be honest? I’ve been open with you.”
He stopped. “You have been honest with me,” he said, uttering each syllable clearly, “and you’ve told me that there is a silent, wordless war between us … Well, thank you for the warning … I suppose we will continue to do battle.”
“That’s it?”
I don’t know what I had expected: perhaps that he would strike me, or concede defeat and pronounce himself ready to join the Party. “That’s it,” he said with a smile, “and it’s already quite a lot … I didn’t know that you were my enemy.”
“But, Maurizio, why do you say ‘enemy’? Why do you pretend not to understand?”
“And I will act accordingly.”
I grabbed his sleeve desperately. “How can you call me your enemy? Only a friend, a true friend, could speak to you as I have.”
He began to laugh, almost like a child. “Of course,” he said, tapping me on the face almost affectionately, “what do you think I am, a fool? I understand … We’re friends, all right? And you’re drunk, that’s also a fact.”
I did not have the strength to react. He walked off, leaving me standing there as he receded from view. Once he was gone, I sat down on the bench mechanically. I realized I had behaved like a fool. What had I done since arriving at that house? Not only had I let myself blurt out an absurd, ridiculous declaration—almost a declaration of love—but I had spoken of our
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struggle and my plans to vanquish him, to achieve a final victory. Now I was ashamed, and I understood that once again I had surrendered to my drunken state and, more important, to my ever-present sense of inferiority. For a moment I felt such regret and anger that I almost gave in to the impulse to run after Maurizio, strike him, and say, “This is what you deserve … This is how I really feel about you.” But I realized that such a scene would be inopportune at the very least. Since there was no question of taking back my words and repairing the gravely compromised situation between us, I could only hope to put them in the context of a new plan of action. I felt comforted by the thought that he had admitted to feeling contempt toward the people at his party, and had almost promised to continue our conversation in the future with the words “We’ll discuss it another time.” I reassured myself with the thought that perhaps my
drunken honesty had not yet ruined everything, and that I might return to battle with weapons that were not yet completely blunted.
Meanwhile, despite my thoughts of regrouping and second rounds, I was still drunk and I knew that my drunkenness would not pass anytime soon and might still lead me to say or do something regrettable. I decided it was time to leave the party which inspired such contempt in me and where I had managed to behave so contemptibly. I headed down the path toward the villa. I was very drunk and realized that I could neither walk straight nor think clearly. My drunkenness insinuated itself into my thoughts, clouding them with the very idea that I was drunk. I walked a bit farther until suddenly I found myself in front of the wall with the little fountain and the mask spitting water from its mouth, beneath the light of the moon. Instead of walking toward the house, I had gone in the opposite direction, toward the back of the garden. The mask seemed to jeer at my deflated, unhappy state and my sense of defeat after so many dreams of victory. I dunked my head in the cool water and held my breath for as long as I could. I came up to draw a breath and dunked my head again. I did this several times until I was convinced that I felt more clearheaded, and then began to walk quickly toward the villa.
This time I found my way without difficulty. The
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first thing I saw on the terrace in front of the French doors was Nella, dancing with Maurizio. I went up to her with a decided step and took her arm abruptly. They stopped dancing and stared quizzically at me. “We have to leave,” I said, suddenly realizing that my
tongue, blunted by alcohol, was moving with difficulty: “We’ve got to go now.”
“But I’m dancing,” Nella said. I looked into her face and realized that she too was drunk. Her hair was messy and her eyes more beautiful than ever, filled with the vague, drowsy, uncertain, tremulous beauty of drink. Despite her naïveté she wore a somewhat infatuated expression on her flushed face: “I’m dancing,” she repeated uncertainly, her voice plaintive as she looked toward Maurizio, pleading for his help.
Maurizio intervened: “Yes, we have to finish this dance,” he said, once again taking her in his arms. “Come on, Sergio, be nice, sit on that chair,” he said, pointing to a small wicker chair against the wall and preparing to continue dancing.
I felt a stubborn, drunken desire to have my way: “I want you to come with me now,” I said angrily to Nella.
Nella faced me: “You go … I’ll catch up with you,” she said, quite seriously, and not a little drunk.
“But you’re drunk,” I retorted angrily, trying to grab her arm.
“Oh, and you’re not?” she answered, childishly. Maurizio began to laugh. “Come on, don’t be angry, wait for me,” she continued after a brief pause, stumbling a bit over her words. “I only have, let’s see, five dances left,” she said, looking at me tenderly, “one with Maurizio, and four more.”
“And then a last dance with me,” Maurizio added, clearly amused by my disgruntled air.
“And then a last dance with him.”
“But I don’t feel like staying,” I began, “I want to go home.”
Maurizio, who seemed to be enjoying himself, suddenly called out: “Gisella …” I turned in the direction