near his chin as if waving goodbye, to indicate: I don’t feel like it any more, I can’t. For another while he remained silent, dejected, absorbed in the vision he had just seen, then he murmured:
“How she’s turned out …”
And he saw that Aunt Marta was shaking her head bitterly and that she too had stopped eating, as if in expectation.
“It’s not even to be thought of … ,” he then added, as if to himself, closing his eyes.
Now he saw, in that darkness of his, the gulf that had opened between the two of them. No, she—that woman—was no longer his Teresina. It was all over … for some time, for some time, and he, the fool, he, the imbecile, was realizing it only now. They had told him so back home, and he had stubbornly refused to believe it … And now, how would he look staying on in that house? If all those gentlemen, if even that servant had known that he, Micuccio Bonavino, had worn himself out coming such a distance, thirty-six hours by train, seriously believing he was still the fiancé of that queen, what laughs they would raise, those gentlemen and that servant and the cook and the scullery boy and Dorina! What laughs, if Teresina had dragged him into their presence, in the salon there, saying: “Look, this pauper, this flute player, says he wants to become my husband!” She, yes, she had promised him this; but how could she herself suppose at that time that one day she would become what she now was? And it was also true, yes, that he had opened that path for her and had given her the means to travel it; but, there! by this time she had come so very far, how could he, who had stayed where he was, always the same, playing the flute on Sundays in the town square, catch up to her any more? It wasn’t even to be thought of! And, then, what were those few paltry cents spent on her back then, now that she had become a great lady? He was ashamed merely to think that someone might suspect that he, with his coming, wanted to assert some rights in exchange for those few miserable pennies …—But at that moment he remembered
avere in tasca il denaro inviatogli da Teresina durante la malattia. Arrossì: ne provò onta, e si cacciò una mano nella tasca in petto della giacca, dov’era il portafogli.
—Ero venuto, zia Marta,—disse in fretta,—anche per restituirvi questo denaro che mi avete mandato. Vuol esser pagamento? restituzione? Che c’entrava! Vedo che Teresina è divenuta una … mi pare una regina! vedo che … niente! manco a pensarci più! Ma, questo denaro, no: non mi meritavo questo da lei … Che c’entra! È finita, e non se ne parla più … ma, denari, niente! Mi dispiace solo che non son tutti …
—Che dici, figliuolo mio?—cercò di interromperlo, tremante, afflitta e con le lagrime a gli occhi, zia Marta.
Micuccio le fe’ cenno di star zitta.
—Non li ho spesi io: li hanno spesi i miei parenti, durante la malattia, senza ch’io lo sapessi. Ma vanno per quella miseria che spesi io allora … vi ricordate? Non ci fa nulla … Non ci pensiamo più. Qua c’è il resto. E io me ne vado.
—Ma come! Così d’un colpo?—esclamò zia Marta, cercando di trattenerlo.—Aspetta almeno che lo dica a Teresina. Non hai sentito che voleva rivederti? Vado a dirglielo …
—No, è inutile,—le rispose Micuccio, deciso.—Lasciatela star lì con quei signori; lì sta bene, al suo posto. Io, poveretto … L’ho veduta; m’è bastato … O piuttosto, andate pure … andate pure voi di là … Sentite come si ride? Io non voglio che si rida di me … Me ne vado.
Zia Marta interpretò nel peggior senso quella risoluzione improvvisa di Micuccio: come un atto di sdegno, un moto di gelosia. Le sembrava ormai, poverina, che tutti—vedendo sua figlia—dovessero d’un tratto concepire il più tristo dei sospetti, quello appunto per cui ella piangeva inconsolabile, trascinando senza requie il suo cordoglio segreto fra il tumulto di quella vita di lusso odioso che disonorava la sua vecchiaja vituperosamente.
—Ma io,—le scappò detto,—io ormai non posso più mica farle la guardia, figliuolo mio …
—Perché?—domandò Micuccio, leggendole a un tratto negli occhi il sospetto ch’egli non aveva ancora avuto; e si rabbujò in volto.
that he had in his pocket the money sent him by Teresina during his illness. He blushed: he felt a twinge of shame, and he plunged one hand into the breast pocket of his jacket, where his wallet was.
“I’ve come, Aunt Marta,” he said hastily, “also to return to you this money you sent me. Is it meant as a payment? As repayment of a loan? What would that have to do with anything? I see that Teresina has become a … she looks like a queen to me! I see that … never mind! It’s not even to be thought of any longer! But as for this money, no: I didn’t deserve such treatment from her … Where does that come in? It’s all over, and we won’t talk about it any more … but money, no way! I’m only sorry that it’s not all here …”
“What are you saying, son?” Aunt Marta tried to interrupt him, trembling, pained and with tears in her eyes.
Micuccio signaled to her to be silent.
“It wasn’t I who spent it: my family spent it, during my illness, without my knowledge. But let’s say it makes up for that trifle I spent back then … you remember? It doesn’t matter … Let’s think no more about it. Here is the difference. And I’m leaving.”
“What! Like that, all of a sudden?” exclaimed Aunt Marta, trying to hold him back. “At least wait until I tell Teresina. Didn’t you hear that she wanted to see you again? I’m going over to tell her …”
“No, it’s no use,” Micuccio replied, with determination. “Let her stay there with those gentlemen; it suits her there, she belongs there. I, poor fool … I got to see her; that was enough for me … No, now that I think of it, do go over there … you go there, too … Do you hear how they’re laughing? I don’t want the laugh to be on me … I’m leaving.”
Aunt Marta interpreted that sudden determination of Micuccio’s in the worst possible light: as an act of anger, a jealous reaction. By now it seemed to her, the poor woman, as if everybody—seeing her daughter—ought immediately to conceive the meanest of suspicions, that very one which caused her to weep inconsolably as, without a moment’s rest, she bore the burden of her secret heartbreak amid the hubbub of that life of detestable luxury which ignominiously dishonored her old age.
“But I,” the words escaped her, “by this time there’s no way for me to stand guard over her, son …”
“Why?” asked Micuccio, suddenly reading in her eyes the suspicion he had not yet formulated; and his face turned dark.
La vecchietta si smarrì nella sua pena e si nascose la faccia con le mani tremule, ma non riuscì a frenar l’impeto delle lagrime irrompenti.
—Sì, sì, vattene, figlio mio, vattene …—disse soffocata dai singhiozzi.—Non è più per te, hai ragione … Se mi aveste dato ascolto …
—Dunque, —proruppe Micuccio chinandosi su lei e strappandole a forza una mano dal volto. Ma fu tanto accorato e miserevole lo sguardo con cui ella gli chiese pietà portandosi un dito su le labbra, che egli si frenò e aggiunse con altro tono, forzandosi a parlar piano:—Ah, lei dunque, lei … lei non è più degna di me. Basta, basta, me ne vado lo stesso … anzi, tanto più, ora … Che sciocco, zia Marta: non l’avevo capito! Non piangete … Tanto, che ci fa? Fortuna … fortuna …
Prese la valigetta e il sacchetto di sotto la tavola e s’avviava per uscire, quando gli venne in mente che lì dentro il sacchetto c’eran le belle
