Contempt - Alberto Moravia [92]
Once again she did not speak; and I saw I had hit the mark. Perhaps she really did not know why she despised me, and in any case preferred not to know but to continue looking upon me as a contemptible figure—just like that, without reasons, without any references to my behavior, just as one might happen to have dark hair or blue eyes. I saw also that I had not achieved the effect I desired; but, I thought, innocence does not always succeed in being convincing. Urged on by an impulse beyond control, I felt the necessity of adding a physical argument to my words. I rose and went over to her—she was still standing by the window, looking out—and seized her by the arm, saying: “Emilia, why do you hate me so?...Why can’t you take things for granted, even for a moment?”
I noticed that she turned her face aside, as if to hide it. But she allowed me to hold her arm; and, when I came close to her, so that my side was touching hers, she did not draw back. Then I grew bolder and put my arm around her waist. At last she turned, and I saw that her whole face was wet with tears. “I shall never forgive you,” she cried; “never shall I forgive you for having ruined our love. I loved you so much, and I’d never loved anyone but you...and I shall never love anyone else ...and you’ve ruined everything because of your character... We might have been so happy together...and instead of that, it’s all quite impossible now. How can I possibly take things for granted? How can I possibly not dislike you?”
A faint hope was born in me: after all, she was saying that she had loved me, that she had never loved anyone but me. “Now listen,” I suggested, seeking to draw her to me, “you go and pack now, and we’ll leave tomorrow morning...and when we get to Rome I’ll explain everything to you...and you’ll be convinced, I’m sure of that.”
This time she freed herself, almost furiously, from my grasp. “I’m not going,” she cried. “What’s the point of my going back to Rome? I should have to leave the flat, and, since my mother doesn’t want me, I should have to go and live in a furnished room and become a typist again. No, I’m not going...I’m staying here...I need quiet and rest, and I’m staying here...You go, if you want to. I’m staying here. Battista told me I could stay as long as I like...so I’m staying.”
Now I became furious too. “You’re going with me,” I cried. “Tomorrow morning.”
“You poor fool, you’re quite wrong; I’m staying here.”
“Then I shall stay here too...and I shall see to it that Battista turns us out of the house, both of us.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I shall.”
She looked at me for a moment; then, without saying a word, she left the room. The door of her bedroom banged violently; and then I heard the sound of the key being turned in the lock.
21
AND SO I found myself bound by a declaration made in a moment of anger: “I shall stay here.” In truth, as I realized after Emilia had left the room, it was impossible for me to stay there any longer: the one person who had to leave was, in fact, myself. I had broken off relations with Rheingold, I had broken off relations with Battista, and now, in all probability, I had broken them off with Emilia too. I had become—to put it briefly—superfluous, and it was up to me to go. But I had cried to Emilia that I intended to stay, and, in my heart, whether as a last hope, or out of pique, I felt I wanted to stay. Such a situation in other circumstances would have been positively ridiculous,