Confessions of Zeno

See my childhood? Now that I am separated from it by over fifty years, my presbyopic eyes might perhaps reach to it if the light were not obscured by so many obstacles. The years like impassable mountains rise between me and it, my past years and a few brief hours in my life.

The doctor advised me not to insist too much on looking so far back. Recent events, he says, are equally valuable for him, and above all my fancies and dreams of the night before. But I like to do things in their order, so directly I left the doctor (who was going to be away from Trieste for some time) I bought and read a book on psycho-analysis, so that I might begin from the very beginning, and make the doctor’s task easier. It is not difficult to understand, but very boring. I have stretched myself out after lunch in an easy chair, pencil and paper in hand. All the lines have disappeared from my forehead, as I sit here with mind completely relaxed. I seem to be able to see my thoughts as something quite apart from myself. I can watch them rising, falling, their only form of activity. I seize my pencil in order to remind them that it is the duty of thought to manifest itself. At once the wrinkles collect on my brow, thinking of the letters which make up every word. The present surges up and dominates me, the past is blotted out.

I explained to the doctor that I had only brought two and that I was going to stop smoking on the stroke of midnight.

My wife said good-bye and went away at the same time as the doctor. She smiled and said:

“Be strong and carry it through.”

I suddenly felt that her smile, which I loved so much, was mocking me. Immediately a new suspicion awoke in my mind, which was to be responsible for the swift failure of an undertaking on which I had entered with such serious purpose. I felt suddenly unwell, but it was only when I was left alone that I realised the nature of my disorder. I was frantically, madly jealous of the young doctor. He was handsome, he was free! His colleagues called him “The Venus de Medici.” What was there to prevent my wife falling in love with him? As he went out after her I saw him looking at her elegantly shod feet. It was the first time I had been jealous since we were married. How miserable I felt! No doubt my abject state as a captive had something to do with it. I fought against the idea. That smile was just my wife’s usual smile and not one of mockery because she had succeeded in getting rid of me. Yet it was she who suggested my being shut up, though she attached no importance to my vice. But surely she had only done it to humour me. Surely I had not forgotten that one did not so very readily fall in love with my wife? It is true the doctor eyed her feet, but of course he had only been planning what shoes he should buy for his mistress.

It is difficult to discover the first beginnings of a sentiment which was later to become so passionate, but I am certain that in this case the so-called coup de foudre was lacking. But the absence of that lightning flash was compensated by my immediate conviction that she was the woman I wanted for my wife, the woman who was to guide me to moral and physical health in the holy monogamy of marriage. Looking back I am surprised that the coup de foudre should have been lacking and that I should have had that conviction instead. Men usually do not seek in a wife the qualities they both adore and despise in a mistress. So I suppose all Ada’s grace and beauty was not revealed to me at first, and I was charmed and delighted with qualities that I myself endowed her with, such as seriousness and energy; the very qualities, slightly modified, which I already loved in her father. If, as I still believe, Ada really did possess these qualities as a girl, I can account myself a good observer, though a rather blind one. The first time I saw Ada I was only conscious of one desire: to fall in love with her, because that was the first step necessary to marrying her. I applied myself to it with the energy that I always devote to measures of hygiene. I don’t really remember how long it took me; perhaps I succeeded in the relatively short period of my first visit.

Tullio and I began talking again about his illness, which was his principal distraction. He had studied the anatomy of the leg and foot. He told me with amusement that when one is walking rapidly each step takes no more than half a second, and in that half second no fewer than fifty-four muscles are set in motion. I listened in bewilderment. I at once directed my attention to my legs and tried to discover the infernal machine. I thought I had succeeded in finding it. I could not of course distinguish all its fifty-four parts, but I discovered something terrifically complicated which seemed to get out of order directly I began thinking about it.

I limped as I left the café, and for several days afterwards walking became a burden to me and even caused me a certain amount of pain. I felt as if the whole machine needed oiling. All the muscles seemed to grate together whenever one moved. A few days later my first trouble got better, but was followed by a much more serious one, which I shall have cause to speak of soon. Even to-day, if anyone watches me walking, the fifty-four movements get tied up in a knot, and I feel as if I shall fall down.

Ada was responsible for this trouble too. Many animals fall a prey to the hunter or to other animals when they are in love.

Then something happened, unimportant in itself, but crucial for me. From a fairly remote part of the house came the sound of little Anna screaming. It appeared later that she had cut her lip. They all hurried out of the room, leaving me alone with Ada, to whom Guido had trusted his precious violin before following the others.

“Shall I take the violin?” I asked, seeing her hesitate as to whether she should go too. I had not had time to grasp that the longed-for moment had arrived at last.

She hesitated, but her distrust of me won the day. Holding the violin still closer she said:

“No. There is no need for me to go too. I don’t expect Anna has really hurt herself. It takes nothing to make her cry.”

She sat down, still holding the violin, and by doing so she seemed to be inviting me to speak. Besides, how could I have gone home without speaking to her? What should I have done all the long night through? I pictured myself tossing from side to side in bed, or roaming about the streets in search of distraction. No! I must not leave that house without obtaining the assurance I needed for my peace of mind.

I tried to be as simple and brief as possible. I was also compelled to be, for I could hardly breathe. I said:

“I love you, Ada. May I speak to your father?”