Contempt - Alberto Moravia [43]
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.” Her voice sounded flat and unmusical, from some unexplained passion of contempt. “Nothing...do you understand? nothing!”
“But yesterday you said you cared very much about staying in this flat.”
“I only said it to please you...because I thought it was you who cared.”
I was inwardly amazed: so it was I, I who had sacrificed my theatrical ambitions, I who had never held such things to be of great importance, it was I who cared about the flat! I saw that she had now entered, for some reason unknown to me, upon the path of deceit, and I told myself that it would serve no purpose to exasperate her by contradicting her and reminding her of how much she had once desired what she now made such a show of despising. In any case, the flat was a mere detail; what really mattered was something quite different. “Never mind the flat,” I said, trying to control my voice and adopt a conciliating, sensible tone; “it’s not the flat I wanted to talk about, but your feeling towards me. You lied to me yesterday when you said, for some reason or other, that you loved me. You lied to me, and that’s why I have no further desire to work for the cinema...because I did it entirely for you, and if you no longer love me I have no reason for going on with it.”
“But what makes you think I lied to you?”
“Nothing and everything. We talked about that yesterday, too, and I don’t want to begin all over again. There are things that can’t be explained, but which one feels...and I feel you no longer love me...”
She showed, suddenly, a first impulse of sincerity. “Why do you want to know these things?” she asked unexpectedly, in a sad, tired voice, looking away towards the window: “why? Let it alone...it will be better for us both.”
“Well then,” I persisted, “you admit that I may be right?”
“I admit nothing. I only want to be left in peace. Leave me in peace!” There was a hint of tears in these last words. Then she added: “I’m going now. I want to change my clothes”; and she rose and went off towards the door. But I caught her as she went, seizing her by the wrist. I had made this gesture more than once before: when she had risen, saying she must leave me, and I, as she passed in front of my chair, had taken hold of her by her long, slender wrist. But formerly I had seized hold of her because I felt a sudden desire for her, and she knew it and would stop obediently, awaiting my second gesture, which consisted in embracing her legs and burying my face in her lap, or in pulling her down on to my knees. All this would end in love-making—after a little resistance and a few caresses—just where we found ourselves, in the armchair or on the divan close by. This time, however, my intention was different, and I could not help being aware of it, with some bitterness. She did not resist but remained standing close beside me, looking down at me from her great height. “Really,” she said, “what do you want, I should like to know?”
“I want the truth.”
“You want to insist on making trouble between us—that’s what you want!”
“Then you admit that the truth would not please me?”
“I admit nothing.”
“But you said it yourself—making trouble between us...”
“Oh well, I had to say something...Now let me go!”
She did not struggle, however, nor did she move; she simply waited for me to release her. I felt I should have preferred violent rebellion to this cold, contemptuous patience; and, as though hoping, by a renewal of the old gesture which once had been the prelude to love, to arouse in her a feeling of affection, I let go of her wrist and put my arms around her legs. She was wearing a long, very ample skirt, full of folds; and as I embraced her I felt it shrink