7

IN talking to him, I had no definite purpose in mind, as I think I have already made clear; yet, after some time, I realized that, in spite of all the confidences I had forced from him, I had never penetrated the centre of his mind nor fathomed its chief preoccupation. Although he was poor and had a large family, he did not seem to worry much about money. He spoke of his family with detachment, without either affection or severity or any other particular feeling, as one speaks of something inevitable and perfectly natural. In politics, as I at once saw, he took no interest at all. His trade, although he knew it thoroughly and liked his work, did not appear to mean anything more to him than the mere means of earning a living. In the end I said to myself that there was something mysterious about him; but not more so than in the case of many people of the working class, to whom wealthier people like to attribute thoughts and cares that match their position and then find that they are engrossed by the same things that matter to everybody.

While Antonio was shaving me, my wife would usually come into the room and sit in the sun in the open window, with her manicure-case or else a book. I do not know why, but this morning visit of my wife's while Antonio was shaving me gave me great pleasure. Like Antonio, she was a mirror in which I gazed at the reflection of my own happiness. Like Antonio, though in a different manner, by coming in and sitting down in the room where I had just been working, she helped to carry me back into the atmosphere of everyday life — I mean that indulgent, calm, ordered atmosphere which permitted me to go forward with my work in security and tranquility. Every now and then I would interrupt my chatter with the barber and ask her how she was, or what book she was reading, or what she was doing. She would answer quietly, soberly, without raising her eyes and without breaking off her reading or the filing of her nails. The sun shone on her fair hair falling loose in two long waves on either side of her face; behind her bent head I could see, through the wide-open window, no less luminous, the trees in the garden and the blue sky. This same sunshine awakened tawny reflections in the furniture, darted blinding rays from Antonio's razor, and spread benignly from the window-sill to the most distant corners of the room, bringing to life the faded colours and dusty surfaces of the worn stuffs and the old tables and chairs. I was so happy that I thought, on one of those mornings: 'As long as I live, I shall remember this scene. . myself lying back in the armchair, with Antonio shaving me. . the window open, the room filled with sunshine and my wife sitting over there, in the sun.'

One day my wife came in in a dressing-gown and told Antonio that she wanted him to dress her hair for her. All that was needed, she said, was a touch with the curling-iron; she had already washed it herself, that morning. She asked Antonio whether he knew how to wave hair, and when he said yes, she requested him, after he had finished with me, to go to her room. When my wife had gone out, I asked Antonio if he had ever been a ladies' hairdresser and he replied, not without vanity, that all the girls of the countryside came to him to have their hair done. I was surprised, and he confirmed that nowadays even the most rustic peasant-girls wanted permanent waves. 'They're more particular than town ladies,' he concluded with a smile; 'they're never satisfied. . sometimes they're enough to drive you mad.' He shaved me with his usual slowness and precision. Then, after putting the razors all in order, he left me and went to my wife's room.

After Antonio had gone, I sat down in the sun in the armchair in which my wife generally sat, a book in my hand. I remember that it was Tasso's Aminta, which I had started to re-read at that time. I was conscious of being in a particularly lucid and sensitive state of mind, and the charm of that graceful poem, which accorded so well with the luminous, gentle quality of the day, soon made me forget that I was waiting. Now and then, at a more than usually melodious line, I would raise my eyes to the window, repeating it in my mind; and each time I made this movement I seemed to become conscious of my happiness, like someone who moves about in a well-warmed bed and is conscious, each time he moves, of its comfort. Antonio's job with my wife took about three-quarters of an hour. Finally I heard him go out on to the drive, say good-bye to the maid in a quiet voice, and then I heard the crunch of the gravel under his bicycle wheels as he went further and further away. A few minutes later my wife came into the room.

I rose to my feet in order to look at her. Antonio, so it seemed, had solved the problem by covering her whole head with curls and transforming the smooth, loose arrangement of her hair into a sort of eighteenth-century wig. All those curls piled one on top of another and sprouting out round her long, thin face gave her, at first sight, an odd appearance, like a smartly dressed peasant woman. This look of rusticity was enhanced by a little bunch of fresh flowers — I think they were red geraniums — pinned on just above her left temple.

'Splendid!' I cried, with a burst of gaiety. 'Antonio's certainly a wizard. . Mario and Attilio in Rome can go and bury their heads, they're not worthy even to tie his shoes.. . You look just like one of the little peasant girls from round about here when they go to the fair on Sunday. . and those flowers are really marvellous. . Let's look at you.' As I said this I tried to make her turn slowly round, so as better to admire the barber's achievement.

But, to my surprise, my wife's face was clouded by an ill-humour that I could not account for. Her big lower lip was trembling — always a sign of anger with her. Finally, with a movement of intense disgust, she pushed me away, saying: 'Please don't make jokes.. . I'm not at all in the mood for joking.'

I did not understand, and I went on: 'Come on, you don't need to be ashamed. I assure you, Antonio's done an excellent job. . you look splendid.. .Don't worry, you'll cut a good figure at the fair next Sunday — and if you go to the dance, you'll certainly have several proposals of marriage!'

As can be seen, I imagined that her ill-humour was due to what Antonio had done: I knew her to be extremely vain and it would not have been the first time that an unskilful hairdresser had aroused her anger. But she thrust me away again, this time with a look of resentment, and repeated: 'I've already asked you not to make jokes.'

It suddenly dawned upon me that her displeasure was caused by something other than her coiffure. 'But why?' I asked. 'What has happened?'

She had walked over to the window and was looking out, her two hands on the sill.

Suddenly she turned. 'What has happened is that tomorrow you must kindly do me the favour of changing your barber. I don't want that Antonio here any more.'

I was astonished.' But why? He's not a town barber, I know that of course. . but he does all right for me. . You don't have to make use of him again.'

'Oh, Silvio,' she burst forth in anger, 'why won't you understand me? It's not a question of whether he's good at his job — what does that matter?'

'But what's it all about, then?'

'He was disrespectful to me. . and I don't want to see him any more — ever again.'

'He was disrespectful to you? What d'you mean?'

There must have been in my expression and the tone of my voice still something of the thoughtless indifference that possessed me every morning at that time, for she added scornfully: 'But what does it matter to you if Antonio is disrespectful to me? Of course, it means nothing to you.'

I was afraid I had offended her; going up to her, I said, seriously: 'Forgive me. . perhaps I hadn't quite understood. But do please tell me in what way he was lacking in respect.'

'I tell you, he was disrespectful,' she cried with sudden rage, turning towards me a second time, with nostrils quivering and an expression of hardness in her eyes; 'that's quite enough. .. He's a horrible man… send him away, get someone else… I don't want him about the place any more.'

'I don't understand,' I said; 'he's a man who's usually most respectful — serious, in fact… A family man. . '

'Yes,' she repeated, with a sarcastic shrug of the shoulders, 'a family man.'

'But now will you please tell me what he did to you?'

We went on disputing like this for a while, I insisting on knowing in what way Antonio had shown lack of respect, and she refusing to provide any explanation but merely repeating her accusation. In the end, after a great deal of furious wrangling, I thought I understood what had happened. In order to dress her hair, it had been necessary for Antonio to stand very close to the armchair in which she was sitting. It had appeared to her that more than once he had tried to brush against her shoulder and her arm with his body. I say it appeared to her; for she herself admitted that the barber had continued his work imperturbably, remaining all the time silent and respectful. But these contacts, she swore, were not fortuitous; she had observed that they had an intention, a purpose behind them. She was sure that-Antonio had intended, by means of these contacts, to establish a relationship with her, to make her an improper proposal.

'But are you quite sure?' I asked at last, astonished.

'How could I not be sure? Oh, Silvio, how can you doubt what I say?'

'But it might have been just an impression.'

'Impression? — nonsense. . Besides, it's enough just to look at him. He's sinister, that man. . completely bald, and with that neck and those eyes that always look up at you from under his eyelids and never straight in the face. . That man's baldness is outrageous. . Don't you see what I mean? Are you blind?'

'It might have been an accident…. A barber's work forces him to come very close to his client.'

'No, it wasn't an accident. . Once might perhaps have been an accident, but several times, all the time — no, it wasn't an accident.'

'Let's see,' I said; and I cannot deny that I felt some amusement in carrying out this species of inquest: 'you sit down on this chair… I'll be Antonio. Now, let's see.'

She was boiling over with impatience and anger; but she obeyed, though with a bad grace, and sat down on the chair. I took up a pencil, pretending it was the curling-iron, and leant over as though to curl her hair. And in fact, in that position, just as I had imagined, the lower part of my stomach was exactly at the level of her arm and shoulder and I could not help brushing against her.

'Look,' I said, 'it's just as I thought… He couldn't help touching you. If anything, then, it was you who ought to have drawn away a little to the other side.'

'That's just what I did; but then he went round to the other side.'

'Perhaps he had to do that in order to do your hair on that side.'

'But, Silvio — is it possible you can be so blind, so stupid? One would say you were doing it on purpose… I tell you, there was a deliberate intention in those contacts.'

A question was on my lips, but I hesitated to ask it. Finally I said: 'There's contact and contact. . Did it seem to you that while he was touching you he was — how shall I say? — excited?'

She was sitting huddled in the armchair, a finger between her teeth, with an expression of strange perplexity on her still angry face. 'Certainly,' she answered, shrugging her shoulders.

I was afraid I had not understood properly, or had not made myself clear. 'In fact,' I insisted, 'it was obvious that he was excited?'

'Well, yes.'

I now realized that I was perhaps even more astonished by my wife's behaviour than by Antonio's. She was no longer a girl, but a woman of considerable experience; besides, I was not ignorant that, with regard to things of this kind, she had always had a sort of gay cynicism. All that I knew of her led me to think that she would not have made any fuss over this incident; or, at most, that she would have told me about it in a detached, ironical way. Instead of which, all this rage and hatred! I said, perplexed: 'But look, all this still doesn't mean anything… It might happen to anybody to get excited by certain contacts without wanting to, in fact not wanting to at all.. . It's happened to me sometimes in a crowd or in a tram, that I found myself wedged against some woman and got excited without meaning to.. . The spirit is willing,' I added jokingly, intending to calm her down, 'but the flesh is weak.. . Why, good heavens. .'

She said nothing. She appeared to be thinking deeply, biting the tip of her finger and looking towards the window. I thought she had calmed down and I went on, still in a joking manner: 'Even saints have their temptations, so what about barbers!. . Poor Antonio, when he least expected it, made the unwilling discovery that you're a very beautiful and very desirable woman. Being close to you, he wasn't able to control himself. . probably it was just as disagreeable for him as for you — and that's all there is to it.'

She was still silent. I concluded, cheerfully: 'When all's said and done, I think you ought to make light of this incident. It wasn't so much lack of respect as a kind of homage — a bit coarse and countrified, I agree, but — well, fashions vary, you know.'

Carried away by the usual bold gaiety that came over me after my work, I was becoming, as can be seen, deplorably facetious. I realized this just in time and, forcing myself to be serious again, I added hastily: 'Forgive me, I know I'm being vulgar — but to tell you the truth I cannot manage to take this whole business seriously… all the more so because I'm sure Antonio is innocent.'

She spoke at last. 'None of this interests me,' she said; 'what I want to know is whether you're prepared to send him away — that's all.'

I have already observed that happiness makes us selfish. At that moment, probably, my selfishness reached its highest point. For I knew that there was no other barber in the village. I knew, besides, that it would be impossible to find one in the town who would be ready to travel several miles every day in order to come and shave me. It would mean giving up the idea of a barber altogether and shaving myself. But, since I don't really know how to shave myself, it would have led to skin inflammations, scratches, cuts and, in fact, all sorts of unpleasantnesses. Instead of that, I wanted everything to go on undisturbed and unchanged as long as I was working. I wanted nothing to come and upset the state of profound quietness which, rightly or wrongly, I considered to be absolutely indispensable if my work were to go well. I forced myself, all at once, to be very serious and said: 'But, my dear, you haven't succeeded in convincing me that Antonio was really lacking in respect towards you — I mean intentionally. . Why should I sack him? For what reason? What excuse could I make?'

'Any excuse. . Tell him we're leaving.'

'It isn't true. . and he would find out at once.'

'What does that matter to me? — provided I don't see him again.'

'But it's not possible. . '

'You won't even do this to oblige me,' she cried, exasperated.

'But, my dear, think for a moment. . Why should I give gratuitous offence to a poor man who. .?'

'Poor man, indeed! He's an outrageous, horrible, sinister man.'

'Besides, what am I to do about shaving? You know perfectly well that there are no barbers within fifteen miles of this house.'

'Shave yourself, then.'

'But I can't shave myself.'

'What sort of a man are you, if you can't even shave yourself?'

'No, I can't shave myself- so what am I to do?'

'Grow a beard, then.'

'Please, for goodness sake! I shouldn't be able to sleep a wink.'

She was silent for a time, and then, in a voice in which there seemed to be an echo of despair, she cried: 'Well then, you refuse to do what I ask you — you refuse to do it.'

'But, Leda. .'

'Yes, you refuse to do it. . and you want to force me to see that horrible, disgusting man again. . you want to force me to come into contact with him.'

'But I don't want to force you to do anything. You needn't appear.. .You can stay in your own room.. .'

'So I've got to hide myself in my own house, because you won't do this to oblige me.'

'But, Leda.. '

'Leave me alone.' I had moved close beside her, and I was trying to take her hand. 'Leave me alone… I want you to send him away, d'you understand?'

I decided that I must at last take up an attitude of firmness. 'Listen, Leda,' I said, 'please don't go on like this. This is just an idle caprice and I don't intend to yield to caprices. . Now I shall try and find out whether what you state is true; but only if the truth of your accusations can be proved shall I dismiss this man — not otherwise.'

She looked at me for some time and then, without saying a word, got up and left the room.

When I was alone, I spent some time thinking over the incident. I was sincerely convinced that the truth of the matter was as I had said. No doubt Antonio had been excited by the contact with her arm and had been unable to control his excitement. But I was sure that he had done nothing to facilitate or repeat such contacts, which anyway, in the postion he was in, were unavoidable. He was, in fact, to be blamed only for having failed to elude his involuntary desire. Such, moreover, is still my conviction, for I consider that certain temptations are all the stronger for being neither premeditated nor courted.

These considerations, made in solitude and in perfect good faith, dissipated the last of my remorse. I knew that, fundamentally, I had acted from selfishness; but this selfishness did not contradict what I held to be true justice. I was convinced of Antonio's innocence; and I therefore felt no scruple about placing my own convenience before what I judged to be a mere caprice on the part of my wife.

A few minutes later, I joined Leda at table. She seemed perfectly calm, not to say serene. During a moment when the maid had gone out of the room with the dishes, she said to me: 'All right. . you can go on employing Antonio, but you must arrange things so that I don't see him… If I even meet him on the stairs, I won't answer for myself.. You've been warned.'

Filled with embarrassment, I pretended not to have heard. She added: 'It may be that it's only a caprice. . but my caprices ought to be more important to you than your own convenience, don't you think?'

It was just exactly the opposite of what I myself had decided; and I could not help making a mental note of it.

It so happened that, at that moment, the maid came in again and the conversation dropped. Later, during our walk, I tried to resume it: I was feeling remorse again and I wanted her to be convinced of my reasons. But this time, to my surprise, she said gently: 'Don't let's talk about it any more, Silvio, if you don't mind. This morning it seemed to matter a lot to me, I don't myself know why; but now, after having thought it over, I see that I was exaggerating…. I can assure you now that it no longer matters to me in the least. . '

She appeared sincere, and, in a way, to be almost sorry for her anger of the morning. 'Are you quite sure?' I insisted.

'Yes, I swear,' she said warmly; 'what reason could I have for lying about it?'

I was silent; and we continued our walk talking of other things. And so I was convinced that my wife had really dismissed the subject from her mind.