The Beach By Cesare Pavese English translation of LaSpiaggia, 1941, by R.W. Flint

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1 For some time my friend Doro and I had

agreed that I would be his guest. I wasvery fond of Doro, and when he marriedand went to Genoa to live, I was half sickover it. When I wrote to refuse hisinvitation to the wedding, I got a dry andrather haughty note replying that if hismoney wasn't good for establishinghimself in a city that pleased his wife, hedidn't know what it was good for. Then,one fine day as I was passing throughGenoa I stopped at his house and we made

peace. I liked his wife very much, atomboy type who graciously asked me tocall her Clelia and left us alone as muchas she should, and when she showed upagain in the evening to go out with us, shehad become a charming woman whosehand I would have kissed had I beenanyone else but myself.

I happened to be in Genoa several timesthat year and always went to see them.They were rarely alone, and Doro with hisfree and easy manner seemed entirely athome in his wife's world. Or perhaps Ishould say that his wife's world had seentheir own man in Doro and he had playedalong, careless and in love. Once in awhile he and Clelia would take the trainand go off somewhere, a kind of

intermittent honeymoon. This went on forabout a year. But they had the tact not tosay much about it. I, who knew Doro,appreciated this silence, but I was envioustoo. Doro is one of those people who stoptalking when they are happy, and to findhim always contented and absorbed inClelia made me realize how much he wasenjoying his new life. It was rather Cleliawho told me one day, after she had begunto feel easier with me, when Doro had leftus alone: "Oh, yes, he is happy"with afurtive but irrepressible smile.

They had a small villa on the GenoeseRiviera, where they often went on theirexpeditions. This was the villa where Iwas supposed to be their guest, but duringthat first summer my work took me

elsewhere, and then I must add that I felt alittle embarrassed at the idea of intrudingon their privacy. On the other hand, tokeep on seeing them as usual, alwaysamong their Genoese friends, passingbreathlessly from one conversation toanother, to have to keep up with them onthese hectic evenings was scarcely worththe trouble,- going all that way just to get aglimpse of him or exchange a few wordswith her. My trips became fewer and Ibegan to write lettersformal notes witha little gossip added now and then, toserve as best they could in place of my oldcompanionship with Doro. Sometimes itwas Clelia who answereda quick, openhandwriting, cheerful bits of newsintelligently chosen from a mass of varied

thoughts and events that belonged toanother life and another world. But I hadthe impression that it was in fact Doro inhis indifference who left the responsibilityto Clelia, which irritated me, so thatwithout even any special pangs ofjealousy I neglected them even more. Inthe space of a year I may have writtenperhaps three more times, and one winter Ihad a surprise visit from Doro, who for awhole day didn't leave me alone for onehour, talking about his affairshe camefor thisbut also of our good old timestogether. He seemed more expansive onthis occasion, logically enough,considering our long separation. Herenewed his invitation to spend myholidays with them at their villa. I told

him I would accept on the condition that Ilive by myself at a hotel and see them onlywhen we were all in the mood for it."Fine," Doro said, laughing. "Do what youlike. We don't want to eat you." Then foralmost another year I had no news, andwhen midsummer came, I happened to befree and without any special plans. So Iwrote to see if they wanted to have me. Atelegram shot back from Doro: "Staywhere you are. Am coming to you."

2 When he was there in front of me,

looking so sunburned and summery that I

almost didn't recognize him, my anxietychanged to annoyance.

"This is no way to behave," I told him.He laughed.

"Have you quarreled with Clelia?""What do you mean? I have things to

do," he said. "Keep me company."We walked all that morning, discussing

even politics. Doro talked strangely.Several times I asked him to keep hisvoice down: he was behavingaggressively and sardonically, in a way Ihadn't seen in him for a long time. I triedto steer the conversation back to his ownaffairs, hoping to hear something aboutClelia, but he immediately began laughingand said: "Hands off. I think we'll let thatpass." Then we walked a little more in

silence, until I started to feel hungry andasked if he would let me treat him.

"We might as well sit down," he said."Have you something to do?"

"I was supposed to be going to see you.""In that case, you can keep me company"He sat down first. The whites of his

eyes as he talked were as restless as adog's. Now that I saw him closely, Irealized he seemed sardonic chieflybecause of the contrast between his faceand his teeth. But he didn't leave me timeto mention it, saying suddenly: "How longit's been."

I wanted to know what he was getting at.I was annoyed. So I lit my pipe to let himsee I had plenty of time. Doro pulled outhis gold-tipped cigarettes, lit one and

blew the smoke in my face. I kept quiet,waiting.

But it was not until it began to get darkthat he let himself go. At noon we hadlunch in a trattoria, both of us drippingwith sweat. Then we continued our walk,and he kept entering various shops to letme know he had errands to take care of.Toward evening we took the old roadtoward the hill that we had walkedtogether so often in the past, ending up in alittle room halfway between a restaurantand a brothel that had seemed the ne plusultra of vice when we were students. Westrolled under a fresh summer moon thatrevived us a little from the day'ssultriness.

"Are those relatives of yours still living

up here?" I asked Doro."Yes, but I'm still not going to look them

up. I want to be alone."From Doro this was a compliment. I

decided to make peace with him."Forgive me," I said quietly. "Can I

come to the sea?""Whenever you like. But first keep me

company. I want to escape to the oldplaces."

We talked about this as we ate. One ofthe owner's daughters served us, a pale,disheveled girl, maybe the same one whohad lured us up so often in the past. But Inoticed that Doro paid no attention to heror to her younger sisters, who appearedfrom time to time to serve couples in thecorners. Doro drank; this he did, and with

gusto, egging me on to drink, growingenthusiastic as he talked about his hills.

He had been thinking about them forsome time, he told me; it had beenhowlong?three years since he had seenthem,- he needed a vacation. I listened andhis talk got under my skin. Many yearsbefore he married, the two of us on footand with knapsacks had made a tour of theregion, carefree and ready for anything,around the farms, below hillside villas,along streams, sleeping sometimes inhaylofts. And the talks we had hadIblushed to remember, they seemed hardlybelievable. We were at the age when afriend's conversation seems like oneselftalking, when one shares a life in commonthe way I still think, bachelor though I am,

some married couples are able to live."But why don't you make the trip with

Clelia?" I asked innocently."Clelia can't, she doesn't want to," Doro

stammered, putting down his glass. "Iwant to do it with you." He said thisemphatically, furrowing his brow andlaughing as he used to during our wilderdiscussions.

"In other words, we are boys again," Imuttered; but perhaps Doro didn't hear.

One thing I couldn't get straight thatevening was whether Clelia was aware ofthis escapade. From something in Doro'smanner I had the idea that she wasn't. Buthow to get back to a subject my friend haddropped so conclusively? That night Imade him sleep on my sofahe didn't

sleep very welland I wondered why thedevil, just to suggest a project as innocentas a trip, he had waited until evening. Itbothered me to think that perhaps I wasmerely a screen for a quarrel between himand Clelia. I have said already that I hadalways been jealous of Doro.

This time we took an early-morningtrain and arrived while it was still cool.Deep in a landscape so vast that the treesseemed tiny, Doro's hills rose up; dark,wooded hills that stretched long morningshadows over their yellow lower slopesdotted with farmhouses. DoroI made upmy mind to watch him closelywastaking things very calmly now. I had beenable to make him concede that the tripwould last no more than three days,-1 had

even persuaded him not to bring hissuitcase.

We walked down, looking around us,and while Doro, who knew everybody,entered the station hotel, I stayed in theempty squareso empty I glanced at theclock hoping it might already be noon. Butit wasn't yet nine, so I carefully examinedthe cool cobblestones and the low houseswith their green shutters and balconiesbright with wisteria and geraniums. Thevilla where Doro used to live stoodoutside the village on a spur of a valleyopen to the plain. We had spent a nightthere during our famous expedition, in anancient room with flowered panels overthe doors, leaving our beds unmade in themorning and giving ourselves no more

trouble than to close the gate. I had not hadtime to explore the surrounding park. Dorohad been born in that house,- his peoplehad lived there the year round and diedthere. Doro sold it when he married. I wascurious to see his face in front of that gate.

But when we left the hotel to walk, Dorotook a completely different route. Wecrossed the tracks and went down the bedof the stream. He was obviously lookingfor a shady place the way one looks for acafe in the city. "I thought we would begoing to the villa," I muttered. "Isn't thatwhy we came?"

Doro stopped and looked me up anddown. "What's got into your head? ThatI'm returning to my origins? The importantthings I have in my blood and nobody is

going to take them away. I'm here to drinka little of my wine and sing a littlewithanybody. I'm going to have a good time,and that's all."

I wanted to say: "It's not true," but keptquiet. I kicked a stone and pulled out mypipe. "You know I can't sing," I mutteredbetween my teeth. Doro shrugged.

The morning and afternoon we spent inpeaceful exploration, climbing anddescending the hill. Doro seemed to likepaths that led nowhere in particular, thatpetered out by a sultry riverbank, against ahedge, or beside a locked gate. Towardevening when a low sun reddened the finedust of the plain and the acacias began toshiver in the breeze, we went up a stretchof the main road that crossed the valley. I

could feel myself reviving and Doro alsobecame more talkative. He told about acertain peasant notorious in his day fordriving his sisters out of the househehad several and then making the roundsof the farms where they used to takerefuge, working himself into a lather anddemanding a supper of reconciliation. "Iwonder if he's still alive/7 Doro said. Helived in a farmhouse down below whichone could see, a small dry man who spokelittle and was feared by everyone. Still, hehad a point; he didn't want to marrybecause he said he would hate to have todrive his wife away too. One of his sistersactually escaped altogether, to the generalsatisfaction of the countryside.

"What was he? A representative man?" I

asked."No, a man born for something quite

different, a misfit, one of those peoplewho learn to be sly because they don'tcare much for their lives."

"Everybody should be sly, at that rate.""Exactly.""Did he marry?""No, he did not. He hung on to one

sister, the strongest, who bore him sonsand worked the vineyard. And they didwell. Perhaps they are still doing well."

Doro spoke sarcastically, and as hespoke swept the hill with his eyes.

"Did you ever tell Clelia this story?"Doro didn't answer; he seemed

distracted."Clelia is the kind to enjoy it," I went

on, "especially since it isn't your sister."But I only got a smile in reply. Doro,

when he liked, smiled like a young boy.He stopped, putting his hand on myshoulder. "Did I ever tell you that one yearI brought Clelia up here?" he said. Then Istopped, too. I said nothing and waited.

Doro resumed: "I thought I told you. Sheasked me herself. We came in a car withfriends. We were always driving aroundin those days."

He looked at me, and looked at the hillsbehind me. He began to walk again and Imoved off, too.

"No, you didn't tell me," I said. "Whenwas it?"

"Not long ago. A couple of years ago.""And she asked you?"

Doro nodded."Still, you waited too long," I said. "You

should have brought her here earlier. Whydid you leave her at the sea this year?"

But Doro went on smiling in that way ofhis. He looked meaningfully at the steepslope of the highest hill and didn't answer.We climbed in silence as long as therewas still light. From high up we stoppedto look down on the plain, where wethought we could just make out in the dustyhaze the dark crest of the forbidden villa.

When night came, cheerful faces beganto appear at the inn. Billiards wereplayed. Doro's contemporariessomeclerks and a bricklayer splashed all overwith limerecognized him and mademuch of him. Then an old gentleman

showed up. He had a gold chain across hisvest and said he was very happy to makemy acquaintance. While Doro was playingbilliards and horsing around, the old manhad a coffee with grappa and, leaningconfidentially across the table, started totell me Doro's history. He told me aboutthe villa, bought by a certain Matteo whenit was only a hay barn, together with allthe surrounding land. This Matteo wassome mysterious ancestor, but then Doro'sgrandfather had started to sell off thegrounds to build the house, and finallythere was this big house with no groundsleft; and he, my ancient friend, prophesiedto his friend, Doro's father, that one fineday his sons would sell the house too andleave him in the cemetery like a tramp. He

spoke a homely Italian, flavored withdialect; I don't know why I got theimpression he was a notary. Then bottlesappeared and Doro drank on his feet,leaning on his cue, winking here and there.Finally the only people left were thebricklayerGinio by name the two ofus, and a big lout in a red necktie whomDoro had not met before. We left the innto stretch our legs, the moon showing usthe way. Under the moon we all lookedlike the bricklayer; his coat of plastermade him seem dressed for a charade.Doro had begun talking his dialect. I couldunderstand them but not reply easily,which made us all laugh. The moondrenched everything, even the great hills,in a transparent vapor that blotted out

every memory of the day. The vapors ofwine did the rest. I no longer bothered towonder what Doro had in mind. I justwalked beside him, surprised and happythat we should have recovered the secretof so many years before.

The bricklayer led us to his house. Hetold us to keep quiet so as not to wake thewomen and his father. He left us on thethreshing floor in front of the big darkopenings of the hayloft, in a streak ofshadow from a haystack, and showed upagain in a few minutes with two blackbottles under his arm, laughing like anidiot. Taking the dog with us, we alllurched down the field behind the houseand sat on the edge of a ditch. We had todrink from the bottle, something that

bothered the young man with the necktie,-but Ginio said with a laugh: "All right,you s.o.b.'s... drink," and we all drank.

"Here we can sing," Ginio said, clearinghis throat. He let go with a solo, his voicefilling the valley. The dog couldn't containhimself any longer: other dogs answeredfrom far and near, and ours also kept uphis barking. Doro laughed in a large,happy voice, took another swig, andjoined in Ginio's song. The two of themtogether soon silenced the dogs, whichwas at least enough to make me realize thesong was melancholy, with much lingeringon the lowest notes and words oddlygentle in that rough dialect. It may well bethat the moon and the wine played theirpart in making them seem so. What I am

sure of is the joy, the sudden happiness Ifelt as I stretched out my hand to touchDoro's shoulder. I felt a catch in mybreath, and suddenly loved him becausewe had come back together after such along time.

That other charactera certain Biagio,it turned outevery so often yowled anote, a phrase, and then dropped his headand picked up the conversation with mewhere he had left it. I explained to himthat I was not from Genoa and that mywork was paid by the state because of myuniversity degree. Then he told me hewanted to get married but wanted to do itup brown, and to do it up brown oneneeded Doro's luck, who at Genoa hadpicked up both a wife and an agency. The

word "agency" gives me the creeps,- I lostpatience and said sharply: "But do youknow Doro's wife?... If you don't, keepyour mouth shut."

It's when I talk like that to people that Iknow I'm over thirty. I thought about this awhile, that night, while Doro and thebricklayer started on their army stories.The bottle came around to me, after lime-stained Ginio had wiped the mouth withthe palm of his hand, and I took a longpull, the better to relieve in wine thefeelings I couldn't relieve in song.

"Yes, sir, excuse me," Ginio said as hetook the bottle back, "but if you come backnext year I'll be married and we'll crackone in my house."

"Do you always let your father order

you around?" Doro said."It's not me who lets, it's he who

orders.""He's been ordering you around for

thirty years now. Hasn't he broken hisneck yet?"

"It would be easier for you to breakhis," said the type with the necktie,laughing nervously.

"And what does he say about Orsolina?Will he let you marry her?"

"I don't know yet," Ginio said, drawingback from the ditch and squirming on theground like an eel. "If he doesn't, so muchthe better," he grumbled, two yards away.That little man as white as a baker, whodid monkeyshines and used the familiar tuwith Doro I remember him every time I

see the moon. Later I made Clelia laughheartily when I described him. Shelaughed in that charming way of hers andsaid: "What a boy Doro is! He will neverchange."

But I didn't tell Clelia what happenedafterward. Ginio and Doro started anothersong and this time we all bawled it out. Itended with a furious voice from thefarmhouse yelling to shut up. In the suddenquiet Biagio shouted back some insolenceand took the song up again defiantly. Dorobegan again too, when Ginio jumped to hisfeet. "No," he stammered, "he recognizedme. It's my father." But Biagio didn't givea damn. Ginio and Doro had to jump himto stop his mouth. We were still swayingand sliding around on the same spot of

grass when Doro had an idea. "TheMurette sisters," he said to Ginio. "Wecan't sing here, but they used to sing once.Let's go see Rosa." And he set off rightaway, while the Biagio character grabbedmy arm and whispered in a panic: "Oh, myGod. That's where the brigadiere lives."The situation looked bad, but I caught upwith Doro and pulled him back. "Don'tmix wine and women, Doro," I shouted."Remember we're supposed to begentlemen."

But Ginio came up in a determinedmanner, admitted that the three girls musthave put on weight, still, we weren't goingfor that but only to sing a little, andsuppose they are fat, what the hell? awoman should be well-rounded. He

yanked and hauled at Doro, saying: "Rosawill remember, you'll see." We were onthe main road under the moon, all millingexcitedly around Doro, who was strangelyundecided.

Rosa won, because Biagio said nastily:"Can't you see they won't want youbecause you're filthy with lime?", at whichpoint he got a punch in the face that senthim stumbling to the ground three yardsaway. He then disappeared as if by magicand we heard him calling out in thesilence of the moon: "Thanks, engineer.Ginio's father will hear about this."

Doro and Ginio had already started upagain, and I with them. I couldn't make upmy mind what to say. If I had secondthoughts, it was only that this dirty

bricklayer would shame me in front ofDoro in the intensity of their commonmemories, which they ran throughexcitedly as they approached the village.They talked at random, and that roughdialect was enough to restore to Doro thetrue flavor of his life, of the wine, flesh,and joy in which he had been born. I feltcut off, helpless. I took Doro's arm andjoined them, grumbling. After all, I haddrunk the same wine.

What we did under those windows wasrash. I realized that Biagio must have hidhimself in some corner of the little squareand said so to Doro, who ignored it.Laughing and grinning like an idiot, Ginioled off by knocking at the worm-eatendoor, under the moon. We were talking in

stage whispers, amused and half cocked.But nobody answered; the windowsstayed shut. Then Doro began to cough;then Ginio collected pebbles and beganthrowing them up,- then we arguedbecause I said he was going to crack thewindows; then Doro finally let himself gowith a terrible howl, bestial, like countrydrunks at the end of a song. All thesilences of the moon seemed to shudder.Various distant dogs from who knowswhat courtyards joined in hideously.

Doors slammed and shutters creaked.Ginio started singing, something like theearlier song, but Doro's voice soon joinedin and blanketed his. Someone wasshouting from the other side of the square;a light glimmered at a window. A chorus

of curses and threats had just begun whenthe bricklayer threw himself against thedoor, raining kicks and thumps with hisfists. Doro grabbed my shoulders andpulled me into the belt of shadow from anearby house.

"Let's see if they douse him with awashbasin," he whispered hoarsely,laughing. "I want to see him drenched likea goose."

A dog howled from very close by. Ibegan to feel ashamed. Then we weresilent. Even Ginio, who was holding onebare foot in his hands and hopping aroundon the cobblestones. When we shut up, sodid the voices from the windows. Thelight disappeared. Only the intermittentbarking kept on. It was then we heard a

shutter up above being carefully creakedopen.

Ginio squatted in the shadow betweenus. "They've opened," he breathed in myface. I pushed him away, remembering hewas dusted with lime. "Go on, introduceyourself," Doro told him dryly. Ginioshouted from the darkness, peering up. Ifelt his cold, rough neck under my hand."Let's sing," he said to Doro. Doroignored him and gave a low whistle as ifhe were calling a dog. They werechattering among themselves up there.

"Come on," said Doro, "introduceyourself," and shoved him out into themoonlight.

Ginio, lurching into the light, keptlaughing and raised his arm as if to ward

off some missile. All was quiet at thewindow. His trousers began falling,tangled a foot, and nearly toppled him. Hestumbled and sat down.

"Rosina, O Rosina." He stretched hismouth but choked back his voice. "Do youknow who it is?"

A low laugh came from topside, thensuddenly stopped.

Ginio went back to playing the eel, thistime on hard ground. Pushing with hishands, he wriggled back toward the edgeof the shadow. Doro was now standing,ready to give him a kick. But Giniojumped out quickly, shouting meantime:"It's Doro, Doro of the Ca Rosse, comeback from Genoa to see you all." Heseemed out of his mind.

There was a movement above and acreak of lighted windows being opened.Then a heavy thump from behind the door,swinging it out, splitting the moonlight thatsoaked it. Ginio, nailed to the spot in themiddle of his dance, was two steps fromthe doorway. A thickset man inshirtsleeves had appeared.

Just at that moment a harsh, insolentvoice sounded from the bottom of thesquarethe voice of that Biagio. "Marina,don't open,- they're drunk as beasts."Exclamations and scufflings came from thewindow. I could vaguely see wavingarms.

But already the man and Ginio hadcollided on the stairs and were crashingaround, panting like mad dogs. The man

had black trousers with red piping. Doro,who was gripping my shoulder, let gosuddenly and joined the fight. He kickedout at random, trying to find an opening,circling around. Then he quit and stoodunder the window. "Are you Rosina orMarina?" he said, looking up. No reply."Are you Rosina or Marina?" he yelled,his foot on the doorstep.

A crash followed; something had fallen,a vase of flowers as we discovered later.Doro jumped back, still looking up towhere at least two women were fussingaround. "We didn't do it on purpose," saida sharp-voiced woman in exasperation."Did we hurt you?"

"Who is speaking?" Doro shouted."I'm Marina," a softer, rather caressing

voice answered. "Are you hurt?"At that point I left the shadow, too, to

speak my piece. Ginio and that other manhad broken apart and were circling eachother, grunting and fanning the air. Butsuddenly the carabiniere jumped over tothe door, pulled Doro away, and shovedhim back. The women upstairs squealed.

All around the square, windows openedagain; there was a cross fire of hard, angryvoices. The man had shut the door and onecould hear him slamming down thewooden bar behind. A rosary of insultsand complaints cascaded around us,dominated by the sharp voice of the firstof the two women. I heardand this iswhat finally sobered meDoro's namerunning from window to window. Ginio

set up a new storm of shouting and kickingthe door. From windows around thesquare, apples and other hard projectilespeach stones perhapsbegan to raindown, and then, when Doro was seizinghold of Ginio and pulling him away, aflash from the window and a greatexplosion that silenced everybody.

3 The first evening, walking along the

seashore with Clelia, I told her what Icould about Doro's exploit, which wasn'tmuch. Still, the extravagance of the thingbrought a grudging smile. "What egotists,"

she said. "And me bored down here. Whydidn't you take me with you?"

Seeing us arrive the afternoon after ourescapade, Clelia showed no sign ofsurprise. I had not seen her for more thantwo years. We met her on the stairs of thevilla, she in her shorts, sunburned andchestnut-haired. She held out her hand tome with a confident smile, her eyes underthe tan showing brighter and harder thanwhen I last saw her. Right away she beganto discuss what we were going to do thenext day. Just to please me, she postponedher descent to the beach. I jokinglypointed out how sleepy Doro was and leftthem alone to make their explanations.That first evening I went looking for aroom and found it in a secluded back

alley, with a window that gave on a big,twisted olive tree unaccountably growingup from among the cobbles. Many timesafterward, coming home alone, I foundmyself contemplating that tree, which isperhaps what I remember best from thewhole summer. Seen from below, it wasknotty and bare, but made a solid, silverymass of dry, paperlike leaves. It gave methe sensation of being in the country, anunknown country; often I sniffed to see ifperhaps it might smell of salt. It hasalways seemed peculiar to me that on theouter rim of the coast, between land andocean, flowers and trees should grow andgood fresh water should run.

A steep, angular stone stairway led upthe outside of the house to my room.

Underneath, on the ground floor, every sooften, while I was washing or shaving, anuproar of discordant voices broke out, oneof them a woman's. I couldn't quite makeout if they were cheerful or angry. Ilooked through the window grating on myway down, but it was too dark by then tosee in. Only when I was a good distanceaway did one of the voices gain the upperhand, a fresh, strong voice I couldn't quiteidentify but which I'd heard already. I wasabout to go back and clear up the mysterywhen it occurred to me that, after all, wewere neighbors and one always meetsone's neighbors too soon in any case.

"Doro is in the woods," Clelia said thatevening as we walked along the beach."He's painting the sea." She turned as she

walked, widening her eyes a little. "Thesea is worth it. You watch it too."

We looked at the sea, and then I told herI couldn't understand why she was bored.Clelia said, laughing: "Tell me againabout that little man under the moon. Whatwas it he shouted? I was also looking atthe moon the other night."

"Probably he was making faces. Justfour drunks weren't enough to make thewoman laugh."

"Were you drunk?""Evidently.""What boys!" Clelia said.Ginio's night became a joke between the

two of us; all I had to do was allude to thelittle white man and his monkeyshines forClelia to brighten up and laugh. But when

that night I told her that Ginio was not alittle bald old man but a contemporary ofDoro's, she looked alarmed. "Why didn'tyou tell me? Now you've spoiledeverything. Was he a peasant?"

"A bricklayer's assistant, to be precise."Clelia sighed. "After all," I told her,

"you had seen that place, too. You canpicture it. If Doro had been born twodoors up, you might be Ginio's wife rightnow."

"What a horrible idea!" Clelia said,smiling.

That night, after we had dined on thebalcony, while Doro was stretched in thearmchair smoking and silent and Cleliahad gone to dress for the evening, my mindkept going over our previous

conversation. A certain Guido had beenmentioned, a forty-year-old colleague ofDoro's and a bachelor, whom I'd alreadymet at Genoa and found again on the beachin Clelia's circle. He was one of herfriends and it came out that he had beenwith them on that auto trip when they hadpassed through Doro's village. Clelia,without being asked, and stirred by a fit ofmalice, told the whole story of thatexpedition, speaking with the air ofanswering a question I hadn't asked. Theywere coming home from some trip to themountains,- the friend Guido was at thewheel and Doro had remarked: "Did youknow that I was born in those hills thirtyyears ago?" Then all of them, Clelia mostof all, had pestered Guido until he agreed

to take them up there. It had been a crazybusiness,- they had to warn the followingcar of the delay and it never did keep upwith them. They waited for it more than anhour at the crossroads. Night was fallingwhen it finally caught up; having eaten asbest they could in the village, they had towind through mysterious little roads noton the map and cross so many hills it wasnearly dawn when the cars rejoined on theGenoa road. Doro sat next to Guido topoint out the places, and nobody managedto sleep. A real madness.

Now that Clelia had left, I asked Doro ifhe had made peace again. As I spoke, Ithought to myself: "What they need is ason," but I had never brought the subjectup with Doro, not even as a joke. And

Doro said: "You can only make peace ifyou've made war. What kind of war haveyou ever seen me make?" At first I keptstill. For all our openness, Clelia hadnever been a subject to discuss. I wasabout to say that one could, for instance,make war by catching a train andescaping, but I hesitated, and just thenClelia called me.

"What's Doro's mood?" she askedthrough the closed door.

"Fine," I said."Sure?"Clelia came to the door, still fixing her

hair. She looked for me in the shadowwhere I was waiting for her.

"What, you're friends and you don'tknow that when Doro doesn't rise when I

tease him it means he's bored, fed up?"Then I began on her. "Haven't you two

made up yet?"Clelia drew back to the bedroom and

fell silent. Then she reappeared quickly,saying: "Why don't you turn on the light?"She took my arm and we crossed the roomtogether in shadow. As we were about toemerge on the lighted landing, she grippedmy arm and whispered: "I'm desperate. Iwish Doro could be with you a lotbecause you're friends. I know you'regood for him and distract him..."

I tried to stop and say something."... No, we haven't quarreled," Clelia

added quickly. "He isn't even jealous. Hedoesn't even dislike me. It's only that he'sbecome someone else. We can't make

peace because we haven't fought. Do youunderstand? But don't say anything."

That night, in Guido's car as usual, wearrived at a spot high over the sea at theend of a winding road that swarmed withbathers. There was a small orchestra anda few people dancing. But the charm of theplace lay in the small tables with shadedlamps scattered around in niches of therock, looking sheerly down on the water.Flowers and aromatic plants added theirscent to a breeze off the sea. Way below,along the shore, one could make out a tinyrim of lights.

I did my best to be alone with Clelia,but without success. First it was Doro,then Guido, then one of her female friends,who showed up one by one but kept

changing partners so often that no realconversation was possible. Clelia wasalways busy. Finally I caught her and said:"I dance, too, you know," to her mildsurprise, and took her off under the pinesaway from the floor. "Let's sit down," Isaid, "and you can tell me the wholestory."

I tried to get her to explain why shedidn't have it out with Doro. One has tobring things to a head, I told her, the wayone shakes a watch to get it started again. Irefused to believe that a woman like hercouldn't with a simple tone of her voicebring to his senses a man who, after all,was only behaving like a boy.

"But Doro is open with me," Clelia said."He even told me about the serenade to

Rosina. Was it fun?"I think I blushed, but more from

irritation than embarrassment."And I am open, too," Clelia continued,

smiling. She sounded sulky. "Our friendGuido tells me, in fact, that my fault is tobe open with everybody; I never giveanyone the illusion of having a privatesecret with him alone. Sweeties! But that'show I'm made. It's why I fell for Doro..."

Here she stopped and gave me a swiftglance. "Do you find me improper?" I saidnothing. I was bothered. Clelia fell silent,then resumed: "You see that I am right. ButI am improper... like Doro. That's why weare fond of each other."

"Well then, peace ... What's all the fussabout?"

Clelia groaned in that childish way ofhers.

"See, you're like all the others. But don'tyou understand that we can't quarrel? Welove each other. If I could hate him theway I hate myself, then of course I wouldabuse him. But neither of us deserves it.See?"

"No."Clelia fell silent again. We listened to

the shuffling on the dance floor, theorchestra stopping and someone starting tosing.

"What advice did your Guido give you?"I asked in the same tone as before.

Clelia shrugged her shoulders. "Selfishadvice. He's making love to me."

"For instance? To have a secret from

Doro?""To make him jealous," Clelia said,

embarrassed. "That fool. He doesn'trealize that Doro would leave me aloneand suffer in silence."

At this point, one of Clelia's femalefriends arrived, looking for her, callingher and laughing. I stayed by myself on thestone bench. I was finding my usualperverse pleasure in keeping apart,knowing that a few steps away in the lightsomeone else was moving around,laughing and dancing. Nor did I lack forsomething to reflect upon. I lit my pipeand smoked it through. Then I got up andcircled among the tables until I met Doro."Let's have a drink at the bar," I suggested.

"Just to have things straight," I began

when we were alone. "May I tell yourwife that to avoid a beating we had to runoff the next morning?"

We stood there laughing, and Doroanswered with the shadow of a snicker."Did she ask you that?"

"No, I'm asking you.""Go ahead. Tell her anything you like.""But aren't you fighting?"Doro raised his glass and stared at me

thoughtfully. "No," he said quietly."Well, why is it then that every so often

Clelia looks at you with that scared,doglike expression? She has the look of awoman who's been beaten up. Have youbeen beating her?"

Just then Clelia's voice reached us. Shewas walking across the dance floor with a

man. "Drunks..." We saw her waving atus. Doro followed her with his eyes,vaguely nodding until she was hiddenagain by her partner's back.

"As you can see for yourself, she'shappy," he said quietly. "Why should Ibeat her? We get on better than a lot ofpeople. She's never tried to anger me. Weeven agree about amusements, which isthe hardest thing."

"I know you get on well." I stoppedshort.

Doro said nothing. He looked at hisglass with a depressed air, lowered hishead, held the glass away, then emptied itquickly, half turning around as if to clearhis throat.

"The trouble is," he said brusquely,

getting up, "we trust each other too much.One of us says certain things just to makethe other happy."

Clelia and Guido were approaching usamong the tables.

"Does that apply to me?" I asked."To you, too," Doro muttered.

4 When I came to the sea, I was afraid I

might have to spend whole days withhordes of strangers, shaking hands andpassing compliments and makingconversationa regular labor ofSisyphus. Instead, except for our

inevitable evenings with friends, Cleliaand Doro lived reasonably calm lives.Every evening I had dinner with them atthe villa, and their friends didn't arriveuntil after dark. Our little trio was gayenough. However much the three of us hadto disguise our worries, we discussedmany things quite freely and openly.

I soon began to have some littleadventures of my own to tell gossip ofthe trattoria where I had lunch, peculiarepisodes and stranger conjectures that asloppy seaside existence seems toencourage. That voice I had heard ringingthrough the window bars the first eveningI went upstairsthe next morning I madeits owner's acquaintance. A sunburnedyoung man passed me on the beach, gave

me a polite wave of the hand, and passedon. I recognized him as soon as he hadpassed. None other than one of mystudents of the year before. One fine dayhe had passed up his usual lesson in mystudy and never showed up again. Thatvery morning I was baking in the sun whena black and vigorous body plumped downon the sand next to me; the same boyagain. He showed his teeth in a smile andasked if I were on vacation. I answeredwithout raising my head: I happened to bea good distance from my friends' umbrellaand had hoped to be alone. He explainedto me, quite simply, that he had come bymere chance and liked it here. He didn'tmention the lesson business. I wasirritated enough to tell him that the evening

before I had heard his family quarreling.He smiled again and said it wasimpossible because his family wasn'tthere. But he admitted he was living in astreet with an olive tree. As he got up togo, he spoke of friends who were waitingfor him. That evening I looked into theground floora pungent smell of fryingand saw children, a woman with her headwrapped in a handkerchief, an unmadebed and a stove. When they noticed me, Iasked about him, and the womanmylandlady came to the door and,jabbering away, thanked heaven I knewher tenant because she rued the day shehad taken him in and wanted to write tohis familysuch nice people, who hadsent their son to the beach to give him a

good timeand only the evening beforehe had brought a woman into his room."There are some things ..." she said. "He'snot eighteen yet."

I told Clelia and Doro this incident anddescribed the visit Berti paid me themorning after, when he met me at the topof the stairs, held out his hand, and said:"Seeing that now I know where you live,it's better to be friends."

"That fellow will be asking for yourroom next, you'll see," Doro said.

Encouraged by Clelia's attention, I wenton. I explained that Berti's brass wasmerely timidity become aggressive in self-defense. I said that the year before, beforedisappearing and probably squanderingthe money he was supposed to spend in

lessons, that boy showed signs of being inawe of me and gave an embarrassed nodwhen he saw me. What happens toeveryone had happened to him,- the truthwas masquerading as its opposite. Likethose sensitive spirits who pretend to betough. I envied him, I said, because, beingstill a boy, he could still delude himselfabout his real nature.

"I think," said Clelia, "that I ought to bea closed, diffident, perverse charactermyself."

Doro smiled to himself. "Doro doesn'tbelieve it," I said, "but he's the same;when he plays gruff is when he wants tocry."

The maid, who was changing the plates,stopped to listen, blushed, and hurried off.

I went on. "He's been like that since hewas a boy. I remember him. He was oneof those people who are offended if youask them how they feel."

"If all this were true, how easy it wouldbe to understand people," Clelia said.

These conversations stopped afterdinner when the others arrived. Guidocame as usualif he left his car, it wasonly to play cards; some older women,some girls, an occasional husbandinother words, the Genoese circle. It was nosurprise to me that more than three peoplemake a crowd, that nothing more could besaid that was worth the effort. I almostpreferred the nights we took the car anddrove along the coast looking for fresh air.Sometimes, on some belvedere, when the

others were dancing, I could get in a fewwords with Doro or Clelia. Or exchangesome serious nonsense with one of theolder women. Then all I needed to feelalive again was a glass of wine or abreeze off the sea.

On the beach in the daytime it wasanother story. People talk with an oddcaution when they are half naked; wordsno longer sound the same. When they stoptalking, the very silence seems to containambiguities. Clelia, stretched on a rock,had an ecstatic way of enjoying the sun.Offering herself to the sky, she seemed tosink into the rock, answering with faintmurmurs, a sigh, a twitch of her knee orelbow, whatever might be said to her bythe nearest person. I soon realized that

Clelia really didn't hear anything when shewas stretched out like that. Dorounderstood and never spoke to her at all.He sat on his towel, hugging his knees,gloomy and restless. He never sprawledlike Clelia. If he ever tried, before long hewas twisting around, turning on hisstomach or sitting up again.

But we were never alone. The wholebeach swarmed and babbled. So Cleliapreferred the rocks to the common sand,the hard and slippery stone. Now and thenshe would get up, shake out her hair,dazed and laughing, would ask us what wehad been talking about, would look aroundto see who was there. Someone might beleaving the water, someone else trying itwith his toes. Guido in his wrapper of

white toweling was always turning upwith new acquaintances and droppingthem at the foot of the beach umbrella.And then he would climb to the rock, teaseClelia, and never go in swimming.

The best time was the afternoon orsunset when the warmth or color of the seapersuaded the most reluctant to take a dipor walk along the beach. Then we werealmost alone, or there was just Guidotalking cheerfully. Doro, who found a darkdistraction in his painting, sometimesplanted his easel on the rock and drewboats, umbrellas, streaks of color, happyenough to watch us from above andoverhear our gossip. Once in a while, oneof the group would appear in a boat,carefully beach it, and call out to us. In the

silences that followed, we would listen tothe slapping of the waves among thestones.

Friend Guido was always saying thatthis wave rustle was Clelia's vice, hersecret, her unfaithfulness to all of us.

"I don't think so," Clelia said. "I listen toit when I'm naked and stretched out. I don'tcare who sees us."

"Who knows?" Guido said. "Who knowswhat conversations a woman like thatcarries on with the waves? I can imaginewhat you say, you and the sea, whenyou're in each other's arms."

Doro's seascapeshe finished two inthose few dayswere done in pale, fuzzycolors, almost as though the very violenceof the sun and air, dazzling and deafening,

had muted his strokes. Someone hadclimbed up behind Doro, followed hishand, and given him advice. He didn'treply. Once he told me that one amusesoneself the best one can. I tried to tell himthat he wasn't painting from life becausethe sea was a good deal more beautifulthan his pictures; it was enough just tolook at it. In his place and with the talenthe had, I would have done portraits; it'ssatisfying to guess at people's natures.Doro laughed and said that when theseason was over he would close hispaintbox and think no more about it.

We were joking about this one eveningand strolling with Doro to a cafe foraperitifs when friend Guido observed inthat crafty tone of his that nobody would

have said that under the hard, dynamicshell of a man of the world thereslumbered in Doro the soul of an artist."Slumbers is right," Doro answered,careless and happy. "What doesn'tslumber under the shells of us all? Onejust needs courage to uncover it and beoneself. Or at least to discuss it. Thereisn't enough discussion in the world."

"Out with it," I told him. "What have youdiscovered?"

"I've discovered nothing. But do youremember how much we talked when wewere boys? We talked just for the fun of it.We knew very well it was only talk, butstill we enjoyed it."

"Doro, Doro," I said. "You're gettingold. You should leave these things to those

children you don't have."Then Guido burst out laughing, a

pleasant laugh that screwed up his eyes.He put his hand on Doro's shoulder andheld himself up, laughing. Incredulously,we looked at the half-bald head and hardeyes of a handsome man on vacation.

"Something is slumbering in Guido,too," Doro said. "Sometimes he laughslike a half-wit."

Later I noticed that Guido laughed thisway only among men.

That evening, after we had left Doro andClelia at the gate of their villa, wedropped the car at the hotel and took ashort walk together. Following the shore,we talked about our friends, almostagainst our wills. Guido explained Doro's

trip and his unexpected return, making funof the restless artist. Curious how Dorohad succeeded in convincing everyone ofthe seriousness of his game. Our littlecircle was even talking about encouraginghim to show his work and make of his artsomething one might call a profession."But of course," Clelia chimed in later,"that's what I always tell him myself."

"Bunk!" Guido said that evening."But Doro is fooling," I said.Guido shut up for a whilehe was

wearing sandals and we shuffled alonglike a couple of monks. Then he stoppedand declared sharply: "I know those two. Iknow what they are doing and what theywant. But I don't know why Doro paintspictures."

"What's the harm in it? It distracts him."What was wrong was that like all artists

Doro was not satisfying his wife."Meaning?" It meant that all this nervousbrainwork was weakening his potency, thereason why all painters suffer periods oftremendous depression.

"Not sculptors?""All of them," Guido grumbled, "all

those idiots who force their brains anddon't know when to stop."

We were standing in front of the hotel. Iasked him what kind of life, then, oughtone to lead. "A healthy life," he said."Work but not slavery. Have a good time,eat and talk. Above all, have a good time."

He stood in front of me, hands behindhis back, swaying from side to side. His

shirt, open and pulled back, gave him theair of a wise adolescent who knows thewhole story, of a forty-year-old who hasstayed adolescent out of sheer laziness."You've got to understand life," he added,narrowing his eyes with an uneasyexpression, "understand it when you'reyoung."

5

Clelia had told me that every morningDoro escaped and went swimming in themilky sea of dawn. That was why he lazedbehind his easel until noon. Sometimesshe went along too, she said, but not

tomorrow because tonight she was toosleepy. I promised Doro to keep himcompany and on that particular night Ihappened not to sleep. I got up with thefirst light and walked the cool and emptystreets down to the still damp beach. I hadto stop and watch the golden sunlightpicking out and setting on fire the littletrees along the mountain ridge, but as soonas I had sat down I saw a head comingashore in the still water and then thereemerged the dark, dripping figure of myyoung friend, the boy.

Naturally he came up to speak to me,rubbing his short, lean body dry with atowel. I looked out to sea, trying todiscover Doro.

"How is it you're alone?" I asked.

He didn't replyhe was absorbed indrying off. When he finished, he sat downa short distance away, with his back to thewater. I swung around sideways to watchthe mountain burning with gold. Bertipoked around with his fingertips in a littlebundle, took out one cigarette, and lit it.Then he excused himself for having onlyone.

I said I was amazed to find him up soearly. Berti gestured vaguely and askedme if I were waiting for somebody. I toldhim that by the sea one didn't wait forpeople. Then Berti slid down on hisstomach, propped himself on his elbows,and looked at me while he smoked.

He told me he was disgusted with thecarnival air the beach took on in the sun

all those babies, umbrellas, nurses,families. For his part, he would prohibitit. So I asked him why he came to the sea;he could stay in the city, where thereweren't any umbrellas.

"The sun will come up soon," he said,twisting to look at the mountain.

We were quiet for a while in the almostcomplete silence.

"Are you staying long?" he asked me. Itold him I didn't know, and looked out tosea again. A black spot began to appear.Berti also looked out and said: "It's yourfriend. He was on the buoy when I firstcame down. How well he swims! Do youswim?"

After a short while he threw away hiscigarette and got up. "Will you be at home

today?" he said. "I want to talk to you.""You can just as well talk here," I said,

raising my eyes."But you're expecting people."I told him not to play the fool. What was

the trouble, lessons?Then Berti sat up and contemplated his

knees. He began to talk like someonebeing cross-examined, stumbling every sooften. The gist was that he was bored; hehad no company and would be very, veryhappy to talk to me, to read some booktogetherno, not lessonsbut just to readthe way I sometimes had at school,explaining and discussing, telling them alot of things he knew he didn't know.

I squinted at him coolly but interested.Berti was one of those boys who go to

school because they are sent, who watchyour mouth as you talk and pop their eyesat you vacantly. Now, bronzed and naked,he clasped his knees and smiledrestlessly. Who knows, it occurred to me,perhaps these types are the most wideawake.

By this time Doro's head had almostreached the shore. Berti got up suddenlyand said: "Goodbye." Other bathers werebeginning to circulate among thebathhouses and I had the impression thatBerti was chasing a skirt that haddisappeared behind these cabins. But herewas Doro coming out of the water, headdown as if climbing a slope, smooth anddripping, his head glistening under the capthat made him look quite professional. He

stopped and stood swaying in front of me,panting hard. His lungs were still heavingunder his ribs from the swimming.Irresistibly I thought of Guido, and ourconversation of the previous night. I musthave smiled vaguely because Doro,pulling off his cap, said: "What's up?"

"Nothing," I replied. "I was thinking ofthat fine fellow Guido who is getting fat.Great thing not to be married!"

"If he took an hour's swim everymorning, he'd become a new man," Dorosaid and fell to his knees on the sand.

At noon in the trattoria Berti showed upagain looking for me. He paused amongthe tables with his jacket on his shouldersover a dark blue sports shirt. I beckonedhim over. Grabbing a chair from one of

the tables, he came over, but my look musthave embarrassed him because hestopped, his jacket slipped to the floor, hereached for it and dropped the chair. I toldhim to sit down.

This time he offered me a cigarette andbegan immediately to talk. I lit my pipewithout answering. I let him say whateverhe wanted. He told me that for familyreasons he had had to stop studying buthad not yet found a joband now that he'dstopped studying and seeing me heunderstood that studying, not like aschoolboy but on his own, was a smartthing to do. He said he envied me and hadknown for some time that I wasn't merelya teacher but also a good man. He hadmany things to discuss with me.

"For instance?" I said.For instance, he replied, why didn't they

talk things over with the teacher at schooland perhaps even take walks with him?Was it really necessary to waste one'stime because a few dumb clucks keepholding up the class?

"In fact, you wanted so much to studythat school wasn't enough for you and youtook lessons."

Berti smiled and said that was anothermatter.

"And I'm sorry to hear," I went on, "thatyour parents are not millionaires. Why doyou make them spend money on privatelessons?"

He smiled again, in a way that hadsomething feminine about it and also

contemptuous. It's women who answerlike that. Some woman had taught him thetrick, I thought.

Berti kept me company part of the waybackI was going on an expedition withClelia's friends that dayand told meagain that he understood very well that Ihad come to the sea for a rest and that hehad no intention of forcing me to give himlessons, but at least he hoped I mighttolerate his company and might exchange afew words with him sometime on thebeach. This time I was the one to give hima womanly smirk. Leaving him in themiddle of the road, I said: "By all means,if you are really alone."

That day's tripwe were all packedinto Guido's carhad a sorry outcome.

One of the women, a certain Mara, arelative of Guido's, slipped on a rockwhile she was gathering blackberries, andbroke a collarbone. We had climbed alongour usual mountain road beyond the nightspot, beyond the last little scatteredhouses, among pines and red cliffs, to thelevel place where I had seen the sunbreaking out the morning before. When wecarried the poor girl to the road, it wasplain that we couldn't all get in the car. Avery worried Guido wanted to stretch thegroaning Mara out on the cushions. Therewas still room for Clelia and two otherwomen, who grinned back at Doro andme; so it ended with the two of us walkingback on foot. A couple of hundred yardsalong, we saw the second of the two girls

sitting on a heap of gravel.Doro wound up our conversation in a

hurry: "This is what it means to live in acrowd of women."

They had obliged the other girl to get outto make more room for Mara, who mightreally have broken her back for the fussshe made. It fell to her because she wasthe only girl in the bunch. "We othersaren't women," she grumbled. "Mara hashad her fun for this year. They are takingher back to Genoa." She gave us sidelonglooks as she walked. Doro smiled her awelcoming smile. They talked aboutMara, about how her husband was goingto take it, a man so energetic that he lefthis office at Sestri only on Sundays. "He'llbe happy his wife had an accident," Doro

said. "Finally he'll get to spend a summerwith her."

The girlher name was Ginettalaughed spitefully. "Do you think so?" shesaid, fixing us with her gray eyes. "I knowthat men like to have their wives a goodway off. They're egotists."

Doro laughed. "What wisdom, Ginetta!I'll bet that right now Mara is thinking ofsomething else." Then he looked at me. "Ittakes boys or bachelors to make remarkslike that."

"I'm not saying anything," I muttered.That Ginetta was a handsome girl. She

walked vigorously and had a habit oftossing back her hair like a mane. She wasabout to say something when Doro cut hershort.

"Is Umberto coming this year?""Bachelors are hypocrites," she replied."Oh, I don't know," he said."You're getting the best of both worlds,

Ginetta, marrying a bachelor who isalready leaving you alone. What will hedo to you next?"

Half serious, Ginetta gazed in front ofher and tossed her head.

"It's quite usual for a husband to havebeen a bachelor first," I observed quietly."One has to begin somewhere."

But Ginetta was discussing Umberto.She told us that he wrote that at night thehyenas howled like babies who refuse togo off to sleep. Darling Ginetta, he toldher, if our children make so much noiseI'll go sleep in a hotel. Then he told her

that the chief difference between thedesert and civilization was that in the firstyou couldn't shut your eyes because of thenoise.

"What an idiot!" Ginetta laughed. "We'realways joking."

Ginetta's chatter and the way the roadtwisted among the pines, allowingfrequent glimpses of the sea, made mecheerful and light-headed. It seemed as ifthe sea, way off below, were drawing uson. Even Doro swung along more freely.Evening came almost at once.

"Poor Mara," Ginetta said. "When willshe be able to swim?"

That evening we found the umbrelladeserted and the beach already empty. Wewent into the water, Ginetta and I, and

swam side by side as if racing, not daringto part company in the silence of the emptysea. We returned without a word, and Icould see between my strokes the pine-covered hillside we had descended ashort while before. We reached shallowwater,- Ginetta emerged gleaming like afish and went to her bathhouse. Dorothrew away the cigarette he had beensmoking while he waited.

We walked together up to the villa.Clelia had already gone. At dinner thatevening I learned that Mara had returnedto Sestri with Guido and that we would bealone without a car for several days. Thenews pleased me, because I loved tospend the nights in peaceful conversation.

"That fool," Clelia said. "She might

have waited for the end of the seasonbefore breaking her collarbone."

"Ginetta says that we men are theegotists," Doro observed.

"Do you like Ginetta?" Clelia asked me."She's a very healthy girl," I said.

"Why? Is there something else?""Oh, nothing. Doro maintains that I

looked like her when I was a girl."I ventured the opinion that all girls look

alike. One had to see them as women totell them apart.

Clelia shrugged her shoulders. "Iwonder how you judge me?" shemurmured.

"I lack the necessary evidence," I said."Only Doro could judge you properly."

Doro surprised us by joking about it,

saying that a man in love has lost the useof his eyes, that his judgment doesn'tcount. The way he talked, he sounded likeGuido. I stared at him in amazement. Thebest of it was that Clelia ignored us andmerely shrugged her shoulders again,grumbling that we were all the same.

"What's the matter?" I said with a laugh.Nothing was the matter, and Clelia

began to complain in a small voice that itwas like listening to some old fossiltalking, that just to think of her girlhood,her childhood rather, when she was aschoolgirl and went to her first dance andput on her first long stockings, made hershudder. Doro listened abstractedly,barely smiling. "I was an overanxiouschild," Clelia said gloomily. "I kept

thinking that if tomorrow Papa shouldsuddenly lose his money and if the kitchenshould burn down, we wouldn't haveenough to eat. I made a little cache of nutsand dried figs in the garden and waited fordisaster so that I could offer Papa myprovisions. I would have said to Papa andMama: 'Don't despair. Clelia thinks ofeverything. You've punished her, but nowforgive her and never do it again.' What afool I was!"

"We are all fools at that age," I said."I believed everything they told me. I

didn't dare poke my face between the barsof the gate for fear that someone passingmight put my eyes out. Still, from the gateyou could even see the water; I had noother distractions because they always

kept me shut up. I used to stand on thegarden bench and listen to the passers-by,listen to the noises. Whenever a sirensounded in the harbor, I was happy."

"Why are you telling us these things?"Doro said. "To bear someone else'schildhood memories, one must be in lovewith her."

"But he does love me," Clelia said.We talked a long time that night and then

went to see the ocean under the stars. Thenight was so clear that one could make outa thin foam breaking along the promenade.I said that I really didn't believe in all thatwater and that the sea made me feel as if Iwere living under a glass bell. I describedmy olive tree as some kind of lunarvegetation, even when there wasn't a

moon. Clelia, turning between me andDoro, exclaimed: "It sounds lovely! Let'sgo see it."

But crossing the square, we met someacquaintances to whom we had to tell thestory of Mara. It wasn't long before Cleliahad forgotten the olive tree, and we allwent back to the villa to play cards.Slightly annoyed, I left them, saying I wastired.

At the other side of the square I metBerti, who wasn't quick enough to getback into the shadow out of sight. Iwalked on. Berti spoke first.

"What's all this spying?" I said finally.An hour before, I'd noticed him below

the villa. He had been hanging around onthe promenade a short distance away. His

white jacket showed up too well againstthe sports shirt. He told mebold in thedarknessthat he'd heard there had beenan accident in the pine woods and wantedto find out if it were true.

6 "As you see, I'm alive," I said. "Did you

really need to shadow me all evening?"He asked if I were going to bed. We

stopped under the olive tree, a black stainin the darkness. "They said that a womanwas killed," Berti said.

"Are you interested in women, too?"Berti looked up at my window. He spun

around quickly and said that an accidentcould make a vacationer decide to leave.He had thought that I and my friendswould be leaving.

"And that relative of theirs?" he asked.I realized that evening that when he

mentioned my friends he was thinking ofClelia and Doro. He asked once more ifMara were a relative of theirs. Just thesuspicion of his interesting himself in thethirty-year-old Mara made me smile. Iasked him if he knew her.

"No," he said. "So what?"I arranged to meet him next day on the

beach, teasing him about his discovery ofthe pleasures of reading in company. "Ifyou imagine I'm going to introduce you togirls, you're mistaken. You seem able to

make out pretty well on your own."That night I sat by the window smoking,

thinking over Clelia's confessions,bothered by the thought that Ginetta wouldnever have made similar ones to me. Afamiliar depression took hold. Thememory of my talk with Guido, added tothat, sank me completely. Luckily I was bythe sea where the days don't count. "I'mhere to have a good time," I told myself.

The next day we were sitting on thehighest seaside rock, Doro and I, andbeneath us Clelia was spread out flat,covering her eyes. The beach umbrellawas deserted. We discussed Mara againand decided that a beach is composed ofwomen, or at any rate of children. A manmay be missing and nobody notices,- if a

Mara is missing, a whole circle disbands."Look," Doro said, "these umbrellas areso many houses; they knit, eat, change theirclothes, pay visits: those few husbandsjust stand there in the sun where theirwives have put them. It's a republic ofwomen."

"One might deduce that they hadinvented society themselves."

At that moment a swimmer came upbelow the rocks. He lifted his head fromthe water, getting a handhold. It was Berti.

I watched him without saying a word.Perhaps he hadn't noticed me up thereIcan't see two yards ahead myself when Ifirst leave the water. He swayed back andforth in the surf, hanging on. On a levelwith his forehead, a few inches away,

Clelia was basking, motionless on herback. Berti's hair kept falling over hiseyes; to keep it in place he made thosetentacular gestures of the arms that suggestthe instabilities of swimming. Then hesuddenly broke away and paddled on hisback, circling a submerged reef at thepoint where the sand gave way to rock. Hecalled something to me from out there. Iwaved at him and went on talking to Doro.

Later, when Clelia had shaken herselfout of her blissful state and the other girlsand acquaintances showed up, I scannedthe beach and saw Berti standing amongthe bathhouses reading a newspaper. Itwasn't the first time, but that morning hewas obviously waiting for something. Isignaled him to come up. I insisted.

Berti moved a bit, folding his paperwithout looking at us. He stopped belowthe rocks. I said to Doro: "Here is thatenterprising type I was telling you about."Doro looked and smiled, then turned in thedirection of the bathhouse. So I felt I hadto go down and say something to Berti.

To introduce a boy in black trunks togirls coming and going in swimsuits, or tomen in beach robes, is no great affair,- inother words, no apology was required.But Berti's solemn, bored face irritatedme,-1 felt silly. "We all know each otherhere," I brought out curtly, and coming upto Ginetta as she was about to go in thewater, I said: "Wait for me."

When I got back to the shoreGinettastayed in for more than an hourI caught

sight of Berti again sitting on the beachbetween our umbrella and the next,hugging his knees.

I left him alone. I wanted to talk a whilewith Clelia. She had just emerged fromher bathhouse, putting on a white boleroover her suit. I went up to her and we gaveeach other a mock bow. We walkedslowly away, talking, and when Berti haddisappeared behind the umbrella, I feltbetter. We made our usual tour of thebeach, between the foam and the noisy,sprawling groups of people.

"I've just been swimming with Ginetta,"I said. "You're not going in?"

From the first day I had hinted at myreadiness to swim with her out ofpoliteness, but Clelia had stopped to look

at me with an ambiguous smile. "No, no,"she had said. I looked at her, surprised."No, no, I go swimming alone." And thatwas that. She explained that she dideverything in public, but in the sea she hadto be alone. "That's peculiar," I said."Peculiar it may be, but that's how it is."She was a good swimmer, so there was noembarrassment for her there. She had justmade up her mind. "The company of thesea is enough. I don't want anybody. I havenothing of my own in life. At least leaveme the sea..." She swam away, hardlymoving the water, and I was waiting forher on the sand when she came back. Istarted the conversation again; Clelia justsmiled at my protests.

"Not even with Doro?" I asked.

"Not even with Doro."Next morning we joked about her

mysterious swim as we picked our wayamong the bodies, laughing at fat belliesand criticizing the women. "That redumbrella," said Clelia. "Do you knowwho's underneath?" One could make out abony nakedness clad in a two-piece suit ofthe bikini variety. It was tanned in streaks;the bare stomach showed the mark of anearlier, normal bathing suit. Toes andfingernails were blood red. Over the backof the deck chair hung a luxurious pinktowel. "It's Guido's friend," Cleliawhispered, laughing. "He keeps her on thestring and lets nobody see her, and whenhe meets her he kisses her hand and paysher all the compliments." Then she took

my arm and leaned forward."Why are you men so vulgar?""It seems to me that Guido has all sorts

of tastes," I said. "As for vulgarity, he'sgot plenty of that."

"But no," Clelia said, "it's that womanwho's vulgar. The poor fellow is veryfond of me."

I started explaining to her that nothing isvulgar in itself but that talking and thinkingmake it so, but Clelia had already lostinterest and was laughing at a child's littlered beret.

We strolled to the end of the beach andstopped for a smoke on the rocks. Then,dazed by the sun, we went back. Lookingblankly around, I noticed Berti walkingaway from our umbrellaburned back

and shortstalking nervously to a strangelittle woman in a flowered dress, highsandals, and bright, powdered cheeks. Justthen Clelia shouted something to Doro,waving, and the two turned around, Bertihurriedly escaping as soon as he saw us,the little woman sauntering along behind,calling his name none too respectfully.

"That geisha who was following you," Isaid when he came to meet me at thetrattoria. "Was she by any chance thewoman you took to your room that day?"

Berti smiled vaguely around hiscigarette.

"I see you have good company," Icontinued. "Why are you looking formore? Lucky thing I didn't introduce you tothose girls."

Berti looked at me hard, the way onedoes when one is pretending to think aboutsomething. "It's not my fault," he burst out,"if I met her. Excuse me to your friends."

Then I changed the subject and askedhim if his parents knew about theseundertakings. With his usual vague smilehe said slowly that that woman was worthmore than many well-brought- up girls, as,for that matter, was true of all her sort,who at least had one advantage in theirhard lives over the proper ones.

"And that might be?""Yes. Men all agree that by going to

prostitutes and letting off steam they areprotecting the others. So prostitutes shouldbe respected."

"Very well," I told him. "But you, then,

why do you run away and act ashamed ofher?"

"I?" Berti stammered. That was anotherstory, he explained. He was repelled bywomen; it made him furious that all menlived just for that. Women were stupid andaffected; the infatuation of men made themnecessary. One should agree to leave themalone, to take them all down a few pegs.

"Berti, Berti," I said, "you're ahypocrite, too."

He looked surprised. "Making use of aperson and then cutting her the nextminute; no, that is out." I noticed that hewas smiling and ostentatiously crushinghis cigarette. He said in his mildest tonethat he had not made use of that woman,buthe smiled she had been making

use of him. She was alone, she was boredby the sea; they found themselves togetheron the beachshe herself had begun byjoking and swapping stories. "You see,"he told me, "I couldn't say no because Ifelt sorry for her. She has a littlepocketbook with the mirror all broken. Iunderstand her. She's only looking forcompany and doesn't want a penny. Shesays that by the sea one doesn't work. Butshe's malicious. She's like all women andwants to embarrass men by making themlook foolish."

We went home through the desertedstreets at two in the afternoon. I had madeup my mind to give no more advice to thatboy: he was the kind one must give a longrein, to see where they end up. I asked if

that woman, that lady, he had not bychance brought from Turin himself."You're crazy," he replied snappishly. Butthe snap left him when I asked who hadtaught him to apologize for things thatnobody cared about one way or the other."When?" he stammered. "Didn't you askme a short while ago to excuse you to myfriends?" I said.

He told me that, considering I was withthe others, he was sorry we had seen himwith that woman. "There are people," hesaid, "in front of whom one is ashamed tobe ridiculous."

"Who, for instance?"He was silent a moment. "Your friends,"

he said carelessly.He left me at the foot of the stairs and

walked off under the sun. Because Doroliked to rest during the hottest hours and Iam unable to sleep during the day, I wentinside merely to rid myself of Berti. Nowthe daily tedium of the hot and emptyhours began. I wandered through thevillage, as always, but by now I knewevery corner by heart. Then I took the roadto the villa in the hope of talking to Clelia.But it was still very early and I stayed fora while ruminating on a low wall behindsome trees that were silhouetted againstthe sea. Among other things I thought forthe first time that somebody not knowingClelia well and seeing the two of usstrolling and laughing together would havesaid there was something between us alittle stronger than friendly acquaintance.

I found Clelia in the garden, lying backin the shade on a wicker chair. Sheseemed glad to see me and started talking.She told me that Doro was sick of alwayspainting the sea and wanted to stop. Icouldn't hold back a smile. "Your friendGuido will be happy," I said. "Why?"Then I tried to explain that, according toGuido, Doro was thinking more of hispainting than of her and that this was thereason for their quarrels.

"Quarrels?" Clelia said, frowning.I was irritated. "Come now, Clelia,

don't try to make me believe that youhaven't been fighting a little. Rememberthe evening when you asked me to keephim company and distract him..."

Clelia listened, slightly offended, and

kept shaking her head. "I never said athing," she muttered. "I don't remember."She smiled. "I don't want to remember.And don't you play the home- wrecker."

"Ye gods," I said. "The first day I washere. We had just got back from that tripwhere we were shot at..."

"Wonderful!" Clelia exclaimed. "Thatlittle white man and his monkey shines ?"

I had to smile, and Clelia said:"Everyone takes me literally. You allremember what I say. And you grill me,you want to know." She clouded overagain. "It's like being back in school."

"For my part..." I grumbled."People should never remember the

things I say. I talk and talk because I havea tongue in my head, because I don't know

how to be alone. Don't you take meseriously too,- it's not worth the trouble."

"Oh, Clelia," I said, "are we tired oflife?"

"Of course not. It's so beautiful," shesaid, laughing.

Then I said that I no longer understoodpoor Doro. Why should he want to stoppainting? He had become so good at it.

Clelia grew pensive and said that if sheweren't what she was a bad child whodidn't know how to make anythingshewould have painted the sea herself, sheliked it so much. It was something of herown; not only the sea but the houses, thepeople, the steep stairs, all of Genoa. "Ilike it all so much," she said.

"Perhaps this is why Doro ran away.

For the same reason. He likes the hills.""That might be. But he says his country

is beautiful only in his memory. I couldn'tbe like that. I have nothing beyondmyself."

We were waiting for Doro, facing oneanother across a small table. Clelia wentback to telling me about her girlhood andlaughed a great deal about theingenuousness of that lifein the closedatmosphere of elderly men who wanted tomake her a countess and bounced heraround between three houses: a shop, apalazzo, and a villa. What pleased herwas the triangle of streets that linked themtogether through all that mass of city. Heruncle's palazzo was an ancient buildingwith frescoes and brocades, full of glass

cases like a museum. From the road its bigleaded windows seemed to jut out overthe sea. As a child, she said, it had been anightmare to enter that immense hallwayand spend her afternoons in the gloomydarkness of the small rooms. Beyond theroof was the sea, the air, the busy street.She had to wait until her mother hadfinished whispering with the old lady, andendlessly, martyred by boredom, she usedto raise her eyes to the dark pictureswhere mustaches glimmered, cardinals'hats, pale cheeks of ageless, doll-likewomen.

"You see how silly I am," Clelia said."When the palazzo was almost in ourhands, I couldn't stand it. Now that we'repoor and transplanted, I would give

anything to see it again."Before Doro appeared on the balcony,

Clelia told me that her mother didn't wanther to stay at the shop where Papa wasbecause it wasn't nice for a little girl likeher to hear arguments behind the counterand learn so many awful words. But theshop was full of things and had shiningshowcasesthe same that filled thepalazzoand here people came and went;little Clelia was glad to see her fatherhappy. She was always asking him whythey did not sell the pictures and lamps atthe palazzo so as not to go always deeperinto trouble. "I had an anxious childhood,"she told me, smiling. "I would wake up atnight in a panic at the thought that Papamight become poor."

"Why were you so afraid?"Clelia said that in those years she was a

little bundle of apprehensions. Her firstinklings of love had come to her in front ofa picture of St. Sebastian, the martyr, anaked youth lurid with blood and peelingpaint, arrows stuck in his stomach. Thesad, amorous eyes of that saint made herashamed to look at him. This scene cameto represent love.

"Why am I telling you this?" she said.Doro soon appeared on the balcony,

intent on drying his neck with a towel. Henodded to me and went in again. I askedClelia if she had changed her ideas aboutlove.

"Naturally," she said.

7 When I got back at night, I used to stand

at my window smoking. One supposes thatsmoking promotes meditation, whereas thetruth is that it disperses one's thoughts likeso much fog; at best, one fantasticates in amanner quite different from thinking. Realdiscoveries or inspirations, on the otherhand, arrive unexpectedly; at the table,swimming, talking of something entirelydifferent. Doro was aware of my habit ofdropping off for a moment in the middle ofa conversation to chase an unexpectedidea with my eyes. He did the same thinghimself; in the old days we had takenmany walks together, each of us silentlyruminating. But now his silences, like

mine, seemed distracted, estranged; in aword, unusual. I had been only a shortwhile by the sea and it seemed a hundredyears. And nothing had happened even so.But tonight when I went home I had theidea that the whole past daythe banalsummer dayrequired of me goodnessknows what effort of mind before I couldmake sense of it.

The day after Mara's accident, when Isaw friend Guido with his cursedautomobile, I divined more things in thefew seconds it took me to cross the roadand shake his hand than during an entireevening of pipe smoking. That is to say, Irealized that Clelia's confidences were anunconscious defense against Guido'svulgarity, a man otherwise very courteous

and well-bred. Guido was sitting there,bronzed and glowing, holding out his handand showing his teeth in a smile. Guidowas rich and bovine. Clelia was reactingagainst him but without showing it;therefore, she took him seriously andbegan to resemble him. Who knows whatinspiration would have turned up next ifGuido had not started laughing andobliged me to talk. I climbed into the carand he took me to the cafe whereeverybody would be gathered.

While they were discussing Mara, Iwent on exploring my thoughts and askedmyself if Doro understood Clelia'scomplaints as I did and why it didn't seemto bother him that Clelia kept no secretseven from me. Meanwhile, the two of

them arrived, and after the first greetingsGuido told Clelia that when he wascrossing Genoa he had been thinking ofher. Clelia looked at him archly, in fun,but it was enough to make me suspect thatsometime before she had told Guido thesame girlhood secretsand I felt put out.

After dinner Guido arrived at the villa;he was in high spirits and had broughtGinetta with him in the car. While Doroand Guido were talking about their work, Ilistened to Clelia and Ginetta. Iremembered what Doro had said as wewent down the mountain, that thecharacteristic thing for someone whomarries is to live with more than onewoman. But was Ginetta a woman? Herfrowning smile and some of her busybody

opinions made her seem more like asexless adolescent. Still less could Iimagine how Clelia was supposed to haveresembled her as a girl. There was acertain tomboyishness in Ginetta,restrained most of the time, that every sooften seemed to shake loose her wholebody. She was certainly not given toconfessing herself with friends;

still, to look at her talking, one had thesense that there was nothing there to hide.Those gray eyes were as clear and candidas the air itself.

They were discussing some scandal orotherI don't remember whatbut Irecall that Ginetta was defending thepeople involved and appealed to Doro,interrupting all the time, while Clelia very

gently reminded her that it wasn't aquestion of morals but rather of taste.

"But they will get married," Ginettasaid.

That was no solution, Clelia put in,-marriage is a choice, not a remedy, achoice that should be made calmly.

"Damn it, it will be a choice," Guidointerrupted, "after all the experimentsthey've made."

Ginetta didn't smile,- she repeated that ifthe purpose of marriage was to have afamily, all the better to make up one'smind right away.

"But the purpose isn't just to have afamily," Doro said. "It's to prepare abackground for a family."

"Better a child without a background

than a background without children,"Ginetta said. Then she blushed and caughtmy glance. Clelia got up to serve thedrinks.

Then we played cards. It was late whenGuido finally drove us home. Afterdropping Ginetta in front of the garage, wewalked back to the hotel. I would haveliked to walk alone, but having said littleall evening and played cards withaggressive indifference, Guido wanted tokeep me company. I brought up Maraagain, but Guido didn't seem interested.Mara was in good hands and in no danger.When we reached the hotel, he kept onwalking.

We arrived at the end of my little alleyin silence. I made as if to stop. Guido

went on a few steps, then turned andremarked casually: "Let them wait. Comeas far as the station with me."

I asked him who would be waiting forme, and Guido replied indifferently that,what the devil, I must have company ofsome sort. "Nobody," I replied. "I'm abachelor and alone."

Then Guido muttered something, whichstarted us walking again.

Who would be waiting for me, I askedagain. Perhaps that boy of the beach?

"No, no, professor, I meant somerelationship ... some affair."

"Why? Have you seen me in company?""No, I don't say that. But, after all, one

needs some relief.""I'm here to rest," I said. "My relief is

being alone.""I see," Guido said absent-mindedly.We were on the little square, before the

cafe, when I spoke. "And you have afriend?"

Guido looked up. "That I have," he saidbelligerently. "That I have. We're not allsaints. And she costs me a pile."

"Engineer," I exclaimed, "you manage tokeep her well hidden."

Guido gave a self-satisfied smirk."That's why it costs me a pile. Twoaccounts, two establishments, two tables.Believe me, a mistress is more expensivethan a wife."

"Get married," I said.Guido showed his gold teeth. "It would

always be a double expense. You don't

know women. A girl is modest enoughwhile she's still hoping. She haseverything to gain. But the fool whomarries is at her mercy."

"And you marry the lady.""We're fooling. Leave those things to

old men."I dropped him in front of his hotel,

promising to meet his woman the next day.He shook my hand enthusiastically.Entering my place, I thought of Berti andlooked around, but he wasn't there.

The next morning I was busy writinguntil the sun was well up, then I wanderedthe streets chewing over the last evening'sconversations. Now, in the noise andbrilliance of the day, they seemed off-color and inconsistent. I aimed for the

beach, where everybody was gathered bynow.

But I met Guido at the entrance to thebathhouses, this time in a maroonwrapper. He drew me aside and steeredme without a word toward that certainumbrella. When we were there, Guidobroke into a boyish smile and exclaimed:"Nina darling, how did you sleep? Allowme..." and he told her my name. I touchedthe fingers of that skinny hand, butbetween the glare and obstruction of theumbrella, I saw chiefly two long,blackened legs and the complicatedsandals in which they ended. She got up tosit in the deck chair and looked me overwith eyes as hard, as fleshless as thevoice she directed at Guido.

We exchanged a few compliments. Iasked how she had enjoyed her swim. Shesaid she only went in toward evening,when the water had warmed. She honoredmy joke with a few barks of laughter andheld my hand a good while when I saidgoodbye, asking me to come back. Guidostayed with her.

I reached the rocks and saw Berti sittingback, chatting with a sixteen-year-oldfriend of Ginetta's. Doro, stretched on thesand between them, left them alone. Bythis time Clelia was in the water.

8 One morning Doro took me by the arm

and explained why he was tired ofpainting. We were slowly leaving thevillage on the road that climbed above thesea.

"If I could be a boy again," he told me,"I'd do nothing but paint. I'd leave homeand slam the door behind me. It would besomething definite."

This show of feeling pleased me. I toldhim in that case he wouldn't have marriedClelia. Doro said laughing that that wasthe only thing he hadn't been mistakenabout. Yes. Clelia was a true vocation.Still, he said, it wasn't those stupidpaintings he did to pass the time that madehim furious; it was his having lost theenthusiasm and will to discuss things withme.

"What things?"He paused and looked at me rather

haughtily and said that if this was how Iwas going to take it he would complain nomore. Because I was also getting old andobviously it happened that way toeverybody.

"It could be," I said, "but if you havelost the desire to talk, I don't come into it."

I didn't warm to this line of speculation.The fuss was ridiculous, but I kept silentand Doro dropped my arm. I looked downat the sea beneath us and an idea occurredto me: Could his quarrels with Clelia haveconsisted of nonsense like this?

But here was Doro talking again in thesame careless tone as before. I saw thatmy annoyance had made no impression. I

answered in the same vein, but my rancorgrew into a quite genuine anger.

"You still haven't told me why youquarreled with Clelia," I finally said.

But Doro eluded me again. At first hedidn't understand what I was getting at,then he looked at me quizzically and said:"Are you still thinking about that? You arestubborn. It happens every day betweenmarried people."

The same day I told Clelia, after she hadbeen complaining about a boring novel,that in such cases the fault lies with thereader. Clelia raised her eyes and smiled."It always happens," she said. "One comeshere for a rest and ends up beingimpertinent."

"Everybody?"

"Guido, too. But Guido has the excusethat his mistress torments him. You, no."

I shrugged my shoulders and lookedfoolish. When I told her I had met theaforesaid lady, Clelia blushed withpleasure and almost clapping her handsbegged me: "Tell me, tell me, what's shelike?"

I knew only that Guido had half a mindto get rid of herpalm her off on me, forinstance. I said this in a quiet way thatClelia seemed to like; she was pleased."He complains that she costs too much," Iadded. "Why doesn't he marry her?"

"That's all we need!" Clelia said. "Butthat woman is a fool. Look at theintelligence she shows in letting herself beshut up in a cupboard like a Christmas

present.""So far I've only seen her legs. Who is

she? A ballerina?""A cashier," said Clelia. "A witch

whom everyone in Genoa knew beforeGuido fell into her clutches."

"She's a clever one, is she?""It doesn't take much with Guido."

Clelia smiled."I think she's putting on this submissive

act the better to snare him," I said. "It's agood sign when a woman lets herself bekept in a closet. It must mean she alreadyconsiders herself at home."

"If you like to think it a good sign,"Clelia said sulkily.

"But surely he can't do better than marryher?"

"No, no," Clelia bridled. "I wouldn'treceive