 CHAPTER XIV Max turns a trick. Uneasiness? No, nothing of the kind, but a keen curiosity and a curious dreadlust papiano should be on the verge of a humiliating failure. I might have gloated over such a prospect, but I didn't. Who can escape a chill of mortification on witnessing a comedy badly played by actors who do not know their parts? One thing or the other I speculated, either he is deeper than I thought, or he is walking blindly into his own trap. In his anxiety to keep Adriana for himself, he has made the mistake of leaving Bernaldes and Pepita, Adriana and me, dissatisfied and therefore in a position to catch him at his game, without any motive for calling it amusing or worth our time. Most likely Adriana will be the one to find him out. She is nearest to him and is suspicious already. She will be on her guard. She came here only to be with me. I imagine she is already asking herself why she consents to aid and obey at a farce, which is not only stupid in itself but irreverent to religion and discreditable to all who take part in it. Bernaldes and Pepita must be feeling the same way about it. How is it a man as shrewd as Papiano can't understand that, once he failed to bring me and the Pantogada girl together? Is he so sure of himself as all that? How is he going to save his face? Busied with all these reflections I had quite forgotten Silvia Caporale, who now suddenly began to speak as though she were in the first stages of her trance. The chain, said she, the chain, it must be altered. Have we got Max already, asked dear old Anselmo, concernedly? The woman allowed some time to elapse. Yes, she finally answered in a dreamy, hollow voice. He says there are too many of us here this evening. That's true, exclaimed Papiano, but still I think we ought to be able to manage. Hush, whispered Pagliari, let's hear what Max says. The chain, Miss Caporale resumed, the chain. He finds it out of balance. Here on this side, and she raised my hand in hers, there are two women next to each other. He says that Mr. Pagliari should take the place of Miss Pantogada, and vice versa. Easy to fix, cried Anselmo, rising from his chair. Here, Signorina, won't you have my chair? This time Pepita did not protest. She could now hold hands with her painter. Next added the medium, Signora Candida might, Papiano interrupted. I have it, in Adriana's place. The same thing had occurred to me. Let's try it that way. The moment I found Adriana's hand in mine, I squeezed it till it hurt. On the other side I felt a significant pressure from Miss Caporale's fingers, as though asking me, is that better? I returned her clasp with enthusiasm, shaking her hand to signify more or less clearly anything you wish now. Silence suggested Anselmo in a solemn voice. And who had spoken? One, two, three, four, the table, four taps, darkness. I was sure I had heard nothing. But the moment the lantern was extinguished, something happened which suddenly upset all my calculations. Miss Caporale uttered a shrill, blood-curdling scream which brought us all up, standing in our places. Light, light! Light had taken place. As Bernaldes scratched a match, we could see that Miss Caporale's nose and mouth were bleeding. She had received a tremendous blow in the face. Pepita and Signora Candida shrank back from the table. Papiano, too, got up to light the red lantern again. Adriana loosened her hand from mine. Bernaldes stood at his chair, the burnt match in his fingers, smiling in astonishment and incredulity. Old Anselmo was muttering in utter consternation. So he struck her as hard as that. What can it mean? What can it mean? In one way, I was as puzzled as he. Why had he given her that blow? So that change in the mystic circle had not been pre-arranged between them? The piano teacher had rebelled against Papiano. With these results? Well, what next? Miss Caporale had pushed her chair back from the table and stood there pressing her handkerchief to her bleeding lips. She was refusing to go on with the sales. And Pepita Pantogada was chattering in her quaint Italo-Spanish. Gracias, senorita, gracias. Aquí se dan el cachetas. Thanks, thanks. This is too rough for me. But no, please, exclaimed Paleari, my ladies and gentlemen, this is the most amazing occurrence in the history of spiritualism. We must get to the bottom of it. We must ask him to explain. Ask Max, I queried. Max, of course, said he. Why, Sylvia, do you suppose you misunderstood him in rearranging the chain? I'm sure she did. I'm sure she did, said Bernaldes, laughing. What do you think, Mr. Mays, asked Paleari of me, not liking Bernaldes' attitude at all? Well, I should think that was a good guess, I evaded. But Sylvia Caporale kept shaking her head with decision. So you say no, Paleari resumed. Well, how do you account for it? Max losing his head. It's beyond me. What do you say, Terencio? Terencio, secure there in the faint light from the red lantern, was not saying anything. He just shrugged his shoulders. Please, Mr. Caporale, I now ventured. Suppose we do as Mr. Paleari suggests. Let's ask Max all about it. And then if he proves too frisky to work with tonight, we'll call it all off. You agree, Mr. Papiano? Certainly, he answered, ask him anything you want. I'm willing. But I'm not, in this condition, said the Caporale woman sharply, turning frankly upon him. Why put it up to me, said Papiano, if you want to stop. Yes, let's, ventured Adriana. But old Anselmo raised his voice in ridicule. Yes, let's. Did you ever see such a stupid? Say, I'm ashamed of you, Adriana. Well, now Sylvia. Look, I leave it to you. You have been communicating with Max all these years, and you know very well that this is the first time he ever—oh, I say, it would be a shame to spoil it. Too bad he hurt you so, but the phenomena were beginning to develop this evening with unusual energy. Even too much energy, titted Bernaldes with a laugh that proved contagious. But please, I added in the same spirit, if there are to be any more punches, I hope they'll miss this eye of mine. Amir Tambien, chirped Miss Pepita. Back to the table, then, ordered Papiano resolutely. Let's follow Mr May's suggestion and ask an explanation. If things get too exciting, we'll stop. To your seats, ladies. And he blew out the lantern. This time I found Adriana's hand cold and trembling. Respectful of her state of mind, I did not clutch her fingers with the same gay fervour, but pressed them gently and firmly to express a mood of earnest tranquility. It was probable that Papiano had repented of his burst of temper and would change his tack. In any event, we could rely upon a breathing space before Max became interested in Adriana or me. If he tries anything of the kind on this girl, I said to myself, it will be all over before he knows it. Anselmo was by this time in conversation with Max, whom he addressed as naturally as though he were talking to a living person present in the room. Are you with us, Max? Two barely audible taps on the table. He was. And how is this, Max? The old man asked in a tone of mild reproach. You've always been so kind and courteous hitherto. Why were you so rough with poor Miss Caporale? Are you willing to tell us? The table moved this way and that for a second or more. Then three solid wraps in the middle of it. No, Max would not discuss the question. Well, we won't insist, Anselmo continued. I suppose you're put out over something, eh? Yes, I can see you're not in a happy frame of mind. I know you, Max, understand? I know you, but perhaps you'll be willing to say whether you like the chain arranged as it is. Pagliari had hardly finished the question when I felt two quick light touches as though from the tip of a finger in the centre of my forehead. Yes, I called, declaring the manifestation and squeezing Adriana's hand. I must confess that this tiptoe-logical touch gave me at the moment an uncanny shiver. I was sure that had I been able to raise my hand at once I would have caught Papianos, but at the same time I had not been expecting such a thing and the lightness and precision of the taps amazed me. But meantime, why had Papiano picked me out for this revelation of his tolerance? Was he trying to make me feel easier in my mind, or was it rather a provocation and a challenge? I'll show you whether I like it. That's nice of you, Max, and Selmo encouraged, and I, annotating mentally. Yes, mighty nice of you, but if you go one step too far. Now, the old man began again, you would make us all happy if you would give some sign of your good will towards us. Five taps on the table. Talk. What does that mean, asked Signore Candida nervously. It means we must talk, Papiano exclaimed quietly, and Pepita, to whom I talk. To anybody, the person next to you, for example. Loud? Out loud, volunteered Anselmo. This means, Mr. Mays, that Max is working up something interesting for us. Perhaps he will show a light or something. So talk, talk. As for talking, I had, through my fingertips, been carrying on a long, tender, and yet impulsive conversation with Adriana, and now, frankly, there was not a thought in my brain. A thrilling intoxication had come over me as I twined her fingers around mine, noting with mad delight the anxiety she betrayed to express her own feelings with a reserve in keeping with the timid, gentle candour of her innocence. But now, while our hands were continuing this intense communion, I suddenly became aware of something that was rubbing against the rung between the rear legs of my chair. A creepy sensation ran over me. Papiano could not possibly reach that far with his toes, let alone the obstacles the front of the chair would have given him. Had he risen from the table and gone around behind me? But in such a case, Signora Candida, unless you were a complete fool, would have announced the breaking of the chain. Before giving warning of the manifestation, I wanted to understand it myself. But then I thought that since I had consented to the seance only to be near Adriana, it was only fair play to follow the rules. Without delay, and to avoid irritating Papiano unnecessarily, I declared what I was hearing. Really exclaimed Papiano from his place, in an astonishment which I thought was sincere. At Miska Porale, he evinced just as much surprise. A rubbing asked Old Anselmo with the deepest concern. What is it like? What is it like? Yes, a rubbing, I answered almost angrily. And it's still there. It's as though an animal, a dog, was scratching himself against my chair. A loud burst of laughter greeted this guest of mine. Why, it's Minerva, it's Minerva, cried Pepita Pantogada. And who is Minerva? I asked in some mortification. Why, my naughty, naughty little doggy, she continued almost in convulsions. La viequia mia, signore, che segrata assi sotto tutte le sedie. She scratches that way every time she gets near a chair. Con permiso, con permiso. The chain was broken, Bernalde's lighted a match while Pepita came and fished Minerva out from under my chair to cuddle her in her arms. Now I understand why Max was so out of humour this evening, Old Anselmo commented with some heat. There has been a bit too much frivolity, if I may say so. Nor, except possibly for Anselmo, was there much less on succeeding evenings, so far as spiritualism was concerned, that is. There is no telling all the tricks that Max performed there in the dark. The table writhed, twisted, creaked, tapping and tapping, now lightly, now noisily. There were taps on the seats of our chairs, on the furniture here and there about the room. You could hear the rasping of fingernails on wood and the swish of garments in the air. Strange phosphorescent lights would flash and go wandering off through the air, like willow the wisps astray. The curtain would bulge and swell, brightening at times with a weird supernatural glow. A small smoking stand went gavorting around the room, finally leaping over our heads and coming to rest on the table in front of us. The guitar seemed to have grown wings, for it took flight from the chest on which it lay and hung in the air above us, all its strings vibrating. But I thought that Max showed his musical talents best with the bells on the dog-collar, which at one point jumped and buckled itself around Miss Caporale's neck. Old Anselmo interpreted that as a very witty demonstration of affection on Max's part, though the lady herself did not seem to relish the joke at all. Evidently Scipione, Papiano's brother, had come on the scene under cover of the dark and was doing all these things on detailed instructions from Terenzio. The young fellow was really an epileptic, but he was not so much of a dunce as his brother and even himself wanted people to think. I suppose by long practice at the same tricks he felt quite at home in the dark. To tell the truth, I never went to the trouble to find out exactly how well he executed the hoaxes he rehearsed beforehand with Papiano and the Caporale woman. For the four of us, Bernaldes and Pepita, Adriana and I, were satisfied so long as he kept Anselmo and the governess interested. And that he seemed to be doing marvelously, though neither of them really was very hard to please. Old Anselmo just bubbled over with joy, shortling and gurgling like some child at a puppet show. His comments indeed sometimes gave me a most uncomfortable feeling of mortification, not only because it was painful to see a man of his intelligence after all, even such extremes of gullibility, but because Adriana made me understand more than once that it hurt her conscience to be owing her own joy to her father's making a fool of himself. This scruple came to our minds occasionally to interrupt our blissfulness, and it was the only thing to disturb us. Nevertheless, knowing Papiano as I did, I should have been on my metal. I should have suspected that if he consented to leave Adriana to me, and contrary to my guess, never allowed Max to interfere with us, but rather made the spirit play our game, he must be having some other scheme in mind. I was so completely carried away, however, by the delights of my love-making in the security of that darkened room, that I am sure the idea that anything might be wrong never once occurred to me. No screamed Pepita at a certain point. And Anselmo, speak up, Signorina, what was it? What did you feel? Bernalde's also urged the girl to speak. Why, she said, a touch here on my cheek. Fingers asked Paliari, a light one I'll warrant. Cold, furtive, but light, very light. Oh, I can tell you, Max has a fine way with women. What do you say, Max? Won't you just pat the lady again? Ooh, screamed Pepita, but laughing this time. Aquí esta, aquí esta. What do you mean, asked Anselmo, not understanding the Spanish words? He's doing it again. He's tickling me. And now a kiss, eh, Max, proposed Paliari. No, no, no, screamed Pepita. But a loud, sonorous smack echoed from her cheek. Almost involuntarily, I raised Adriana's hand to my lips, and that caress quite maddened me. I bent over and sought her lips. Thus it was that the first kiss, a long, a silent, an impassioned kiss, was exchanged to between us. And now immediately, what was it that took place? For some moments, in a bewilderment of shame and confusion, I was too much flurried to grasp the cause of the sudden disorder. Had I been detected spooning? Everyone was shouting and screaming. One match was struck, and then a second, a candle was lighted, a candle inside the red lantern. All the people present had jumped to their feet. Why? Why? And now, there in the lighted room, in plain view of us all, a blow, a heavy blow, as from the fist of an invisible giant, landed squarely in the middle of the table. We all paled with fright, Papiano and the Caporale woman more terrified than anyone else. Shippione, Shippione, called Terenzio. There the boy was. He had fallen to the floor in one of his attacks and was gasping strangely for breath. Keep your seats, cried Anselmo. He's in the trance, too. Oh, look, look, the table, the table. It's moving, a levitation, a real levitation. Good for you, Max, good for you. And the table, in fact, without anyone's touching it, rose four inches or more and fell back with a thud heavily to the floor. Silvio Caporale, pale as death, trembling, terror-stricken, shrank against me, hiding her face in my coat. Pepita and the governess ran shrieking from the room. Paleare was beside himself. Sit down, sit down, for heaven's sake, people. Don't break the chain. We're coming to the best of it. Max, Max. Max Nonsense exclaimed Papiano, recovering finally from the consternation that had frozen him in his tracks to the floor, running over to his brother to bring him to. All thought of the kiss I had stolen had been momentarily driven from my mind by the strange and unexplainable manifestation that I had witnessed. If, as Paleare contended, the mysterious power that had worked there in that light had room under my very eyes, came from an invisible spirit, that spirit was surely not Max. The expression of the faces of Papiano and Silvio Caporale were good proof of that. Max was a hoax of their invention. Who had acted then? Who had struck that terrific blow on the table? All the things that I had read in old Paleare's books now came crowding in a tumult into my mind. With a shiver I thought of the poor, unknown man who had drowned himself back there in the Miragno flume, a man whom I had robbed of the tears of his people and of the sorrow of the strangers who found him. It might be he, I said to myself, supposing he had come here to seek me out and get his revenge by revealing everything. Paleare, meantime, the only one of us neither surprised nor alarmed by what had occurred, stood there unable to understand how such a commonplace phenomenon as the levitation of a table had been able to affect us so deeply after all the other marvels we had seen. The mere fact that the room was lighted made little difference to him. What puzzled him, rather, was the presence in the room of the boy, Scipione, who he had supposed was in bed. I am surprised because ordinarily he takes no interest in our researches. I imagine our secret gathering aroused his curiosity, so he crept in to see what we were doing and then, slam, bang! Because it is well-established, Mr. Mayes, that the more unusual manifestations of mediumism derive from the epileptic, catalytic, and hysterical neurosis. Max gets the energy he uses from all of us and it takes quite a little to produce the phenomena we have seen. There is no doubt on this point. Don't you feel as though you had lost something? Not as yet, to tell the truth, I answered. Till dawn almost I tossed uneasily on my bed, thinking of the unfortunate man who lay buried in the Miranio cemetery under my name. Who was he? Where had he come from? Why had he killed himself? Perhaps he had hoped his unhappy end would become an own, as an expiation, a restitution in a sense, and I had profited by it all. More than once I confess as I lay there in the dark a chill of cold terror ran up and down my body. It had all taken place right there in my room, the sounds that blow on the table, the levitation, others had seen as I had. Was he responsible? Might he not be standing there invisible at my bedside? I would hold my breath and listen to catch any sound in the room. Finally I fell into an uneasy slumber made horrible by frightful dreams. When morning came I drew my curtains and opened my windows wide to the full sunlight. End of Section 14. Section 15 of the late Mathia Pascal by Luigi Pirandello, translated by Arthur Livingston. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please contact LibriVox.org. Chapter 15, I and My Shadow. Many a time on a waking in the heart of the night can such a cruel thing as night have a heart. I have experienced in the darkness and in the silence a curious surprise, a strange perplexity on suddenly thinking of something I have done during the daytime without noticing. And on such occasions I have wondered whether the shapes, the colors, the sounds of things that surround us in the varied world of life may not somehow determine our actions. I am sure they do. Are we not, as old Anselmo says, in relation with the universe? It would be interesting to know how many idiotic things this blessed universe impels us to do, for which we hold our much overworked consciences responsible, while these poor things are really the victims of exterior forces blinded by a light that is not of themselves. And on the other hand, how many schemes we form during the night time, how many decisions we make, how many projects we conceive, only to have their vanity and foolishness become apparent with the return of day. Day is one thing and night is another. So we perhaps may be one thing by day and another by night, though little enough we amount to in either case I am afraid. I know that on letting the light into my room, after 40 days of confinement, I did not feel the least joy. The memory of what I had been doing during all those days took the radiance out of the sunshine. All the reasons, arguments, excuses, which had had their weight and convincingness in the dark either lost these when the curtains were drawn aside and the windows opened or seemed to acquire wholly different values. Vainly the poor eye, which had been shut in so long behind darkened shutters and had striven in every way to alleviate the tedium of its imprisonment, trailed along after the other eye that had let in the bright sun and severe frowning aggressive was turning its face to the new day. Vainly did it seek to banish all irksome thoughts, noting, for example, in front of the mirror the success of my operation, the attractiveness of the long beard that had come out again and a certain fineness, a certain delicacy in the pallor that had settled on my features. You ass, what have you done? What have you done? What had I done? Nothing really, when you come down to it. I had made love to a girl. In the dark was I responsible for the dark. I had not been aware of difficulties and I had lost the reserve which I had so rigidly prescribed for myself. Pappiano had tried to keep Adriana away from me. Sylvia Caporale had given her back, assigning her to a seat at my side, poor Sylvia getting a punch in the face for her kindness. I was a sick man in pain and naturally I thought, as any other rich, say man if you want to, would have thought under the circumstances that I had a right to some compensation and so, since the said compensation was sitting in a chair at my elbow, I had accepted it. While old Anselmo was messing around with ghosts and dead people, I had preferred the life at my side, a life ready to bloom forth into joy under a kiss of love. Well, Manuel Bernaldes had kissed his Pepita in the dark, so I accordingly, oof, I sank into an armchair, my face in my hands. I could feel my lips quiver at the memory of that kiss. Adriana, Adriana, what hopes might I have aroused in her heart by it? Engaged, eh? And now with the curtains drawn and the windows opened, mishmash and good appetite, a pleasant time for all. I sat there in the chair, I don't know how long, thinking, thinking with my eyes wide open into space, drawing myself up now and then in an angry shudder as though to free myself from the torture within me. At last I could see in all its rawness the humbug in my illusion, the cheat that underlay what in the first intoxication of my freedom I had called the greatest of good fortunes. In the beginning, this freedom had seemed to me boundless without restriction. Then I had discovered that it had a limit in the modest funds at my disposal. Next I had perceived that liberty though it be, it was a liberty which exacted a fearful price, condemning me to solitude and lonesomeness, precluding all companionship. So I had approached people to escape from that, determined nevertheless to avoid any relationships, even the slightest that might feta me. Well, what had that determination amounted to? Life, life that was no longer for me, had respliced the bonds I had broken with it. Life in all its irresistible insurgents had, despite my weariness and caution, sucked me back into its vortex. I could not close my eyes to that fact now. I could no longer refuse on one fatuous pretext or another, with one pitiable excuse or another to recognize my feelings for Adriana, nor attenuate the consequence of my intentions, my words, my acts. I had said too much without saying anything, just by pressing her hand in mine, by twining her fingers around my fingers, and a kiss, a kiss at last, had consecrated our love beyond recall. How make my promise good? Could I marry Adriana? But those two women back home, Romilda and the widow Pescatore, had thrown me, not themselves, into the mill flume at the coops. Romilda was free enough, yes, but I wasn't. I had set out to play the part of a dead man, thinking I might live another life, become an entirely different person, and I could be indeed another man. But on what condition? On condition that I refrain from doing anything, that I keep clear of activity of any kind, a fine sort of man that, the shadow of a man, that's it, a ghost in flesh and blood, and what a life. So long as I had been content to keep shut up within myself and to be a mere spectator of the life others were living, so long was it possible to maintain, after a fashion, the illusion that I was really living another life. But let me venture forth even so little as to snatch a kiss from two pretty lips. I was repelled in horror as though I had kissed Adriana with the lips of a corpse, a corpse who could never come to life again for her. Oh, if Adriana, oh no, no. If Adriana were to understand my strange predicament. Adriana? Impossible. Not that pure innocent child. And supposing love were strong enough in her, stronger than any social or moral scruple. Oh, poor Adriana. Could I take her with me into the empty world to which my lot confined me, make her the wife of a man who could never dare declare and prove himself alive? What then? What could I do? Two knocks on my door brought me from my chair with a bound. It was she, Adriana. Though I tried with the supreme effort to master my emotions, I could not suppress on my face all traces of the tumult within me. She too was somewhat constrained from a natural reserve of modesty which did not allow her to show all the pleasure she felt had seen me quite well again with light in my room once more, and happy. Yet no, not happy. Why not? She looked up at me furtively and she blushed. Finally she handed me a sealed envelope. Here is something for you. A letter? I don't think so. It's probably Dr. Ambrosini's bill. The messenger is waiting to see if there's an answer. Her voice trembled, she smiled. Right away I answered, but a wave of tenderness swept over me as I devined that she had seized the pretext of the note to come herself and hear from me one word that would encourage the leaping hope she had conceived. A deep anguished pity gripped me, pity for her, pity for myself, a cruel pity that impelled me irresistibly to caress her, to find some little balm for my own agony which could seek comfort only in her who was the cause of it. Knowing very well that I would be still further compromised, I was unable to restrain myself. I held out both my hands. Trustful, humble, her face aglow, she slowly raised her own and placed them in mine. I drew her little blonde-headed to my breast and gently stroked her hair. Poor Arianna, I said. Why, she asked under my caress, are we not happy? Yes. Why, poor Arianna then. At that moment I almost lost control of myself. I was tempted to rebel, to reveal everything, to answer, why, listen, little girl, I love you and I cannot. I must not love you, but if you are willing, if you are willing, what could that tiny defenseless creature decide for herself in such a matter? I pressed her little head hard against me, realizing what unspeakable cruelty it would be to hurl her from the supreme joy in which, unsuspecting, she felt herself at that moment of exultation, into the abyss of desperation where I was writhing in torment. Because, I actually said, releasing her, because I know of many things that might make you unhappy. A sharp pain was visible on her face as she looked up. I had abruptly ended my tender caress and I had avoided the intimate word for you. Surely she had not been expecting such aloofness. She gazed at me for a moment, then, noting my distress, she asked fearfully, you know things about yourself or about us, the house here? I replied with a gesture that meant here, here, but it was really to escape the violent impulse that was driving me to full confession. Had I but yielded then, one great shock would have come to her, but many others would have been spared her and I should have saved myself from new and more harassing complications. But my sad discovery was still too recent for me to have grasped its full significance. Love and pity outweighed stern resolution in me. I had not the heart to destroy at one blow her hopes and my own life, at least that illusion of living, which, so long as I kept silent, I could still preserve. How odious, how hateful to me the revelation I would have to make, a wife already. Yes, there was no evading it. The moment I should admit I was not Adriano Meis, I would become Mattia Pascal again, perforce. Mattia Pascal, dead and buried, but married still. How could I put such a thing into words? Was this not the extreme of persecution that a wife may inflict upon a husband, to get rid of him by the false identification of a corpse, but then to cling to him, to be a perpetual weight upon him in this way after his death? I could have refused to accept the situation, it is true. I could have gone home and declared myself alive. But who would not have done as I did in my place? Any man in the fix I was in at that time would have seized such an unexpected, such an unhoped for, such an incredible opportunity to cast off at once a wife, a mother-in-law, a ruinous debt, a sickly miserable meaningless existence. Could I have realized at that time that officially pronounced dead, I would not be free from my wife, that she could marry again while I could not, that the life which opened ahead of me, free, free, limitlessly, boundlessly free, was only a dream which could never attain more than a superficial realization, was only a vile humiliating slavery to the lies I would be forced to tell, to the pretenses I would be forced to make, to the fear of detection that would relentlessly pursue me, though I had done no wrong. Adriana recognized that there was little in her home surroundings to make her happy. But now a mournful smile gathered about her lips and eyes as she stood there looking up at me. Could things that were a source of sorrow to her really be obstacles between her and me? Surely not, that mournful smile and that appealing gaze seemed to say. But we must give Dr. Ambrosini his money, I exclaimed gaily, pretending suddenly to remember that the messenger was waiting in the other room. I tore open the envelope and remarked in a light, laughing tone. 600 lira, what do you think of that, Adriana? Signora Nature is playing me one of her usual tricks. Notice now, for years and years I had to go around with a, what shall we say, an unruly, a disobedient eye in my face. Now I have a doctor cut me up and I spend 40 days in a dark cell, just because Madam Nature made a mistake, you see. Well, after it's all over, I have to foot the bill. Do you call that square? Adriana smiled with an effort. Perhaps Dr. Ambrosini would make a fuss, though, if you told him to send his bill to Mrs. Nature. I'll bet he wants a word of thanks and appreciation into the bargain, because you're eye. Do you think it's an improvement? She tried to look up into my face, but soon turned away, replying faintly. Yes, much better. Eye or the eye? You. I was afraid these whiskers, no, why? They are very becoming. I could have dug that eye out with my fingers. Lots of good it did me to have it in place again. And yet, I said, perhaps the eye itself was better satisfied to remain as it used to be. It complains a little every now and then. However, I'll get over it. I stepped toward the cabinet where I kept my money. Adriana turned to go away, but I detained her, stupidly. And yet how could I have foreseen? In all the crises, big and little in my life, fortune, as my story shows, had always stood by me. Well, she did in this case too, with a vengeance. As I started to open the cabinet, I noticed that the key would not turn in the lock. I pulled gently and the doors swung out. It was open. What in the world, I exclaimed? Could I have left it this way? Noting my sudden commotion, Adriana turned to deathly pale. I looked at her. Why, Signorina, I said, someone must have been prying into this. Things inside the case were topsy-tervy. My banknotes had been extracted from the leather purse in which I carried them and lay strewn about on the bottom of the cabinet. Adriana buried her face in her hands aghast. Feverishly I gathered up the scattered bills and began to count them. Is it possible, I murmured, on finishing the count, passing my trembling hands over my forehead to wipe the cold sweat away? Adriana clutched at the edge of my table to keep from falling in her faint. Then she asked in a hollow voice that was not her own. Have they robbed you? Why, how can this be? Wait, wait! I began to count the bills over again, digging my nails furiously into the paper as though violence could bring to light the banknotes that were missing. How much, asked Adriana in a tone that betrayed an inner convulsion of horror and dismay. Twelve, twelve thousand, I faulted. There were sixty-five, and there are now fifty-three. You count them! Had I not rushed to catch her, Adriana would have collapsed as under a hammer-blow. However, with a great effort upon herself, she straightened up, and sobbing, choking, tore herself from my arms as I tried to let her down into a chair. I shall call Papa, she said, pushing toward the door. I shall call Papa. No, I almost shouted, forcing her back into the chair. No, please don't get excited, Signorina. You make it harder for me this way. I won't let you. I won't let you. What have you to do with it? Please, stop crying now. I must look around, make sure, because, yes, the cabinet was open, but I cannot, I must not believe, that such a large sum of money has been stolen. Now be good, little girl, promise. Once more, as a last precaution, I counted the money over. Then, though I was absolutely certain that I had placed it all there in the cabinet, I searched my room from floor to ceiling, looking even in places where I should never have hidden such a sum except in a moment of dire insanity. To justify the absurd hunt to my own mind, I kept trying to emphasize the incredible audacity of the thief, until Adriana, hysterical now, weeping and sobbing, her hands to her face groaned, oh, don't, don't, a thief, a thief, even a thief. And it was all planned in advance. I heard it in the dark. I suspected something, but I refused to believe he would go that far. Papiano, yes, Papiano. It could be no one but he, using his half-witted brother, during the experiments in the darkened room. But I don't understand, Adriana wept again. I don't understand. How could you ever keep so much money with you in a cabinet like that, at home? I turned toward her and stood silent as in a stupa. How answer that question? Could I tell her that I was obliged in my circumstances to keep my money with me, that I did not dare deposit it in any bank or entrust it to any broker, since in case I should have the least difficulty in withdrawing it, I could never establish my legal identity and ownership. Not to arouse her suspicions by my embarrassment, I was simply cruel. How could I ever have supposed? The poor girl was now in a paroxysm of anguish. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, she wept. The terror that might properly have assailed the person guilty of the theft, now came over me instead, as I thought of possible consequences. Papiano would guess that I could not charge the Spanish painter with the crime, nor Old Anselmo, nor Pepita Pantogada, nor Silvia Caporale, nor the spirit of Mark Solis. He would know mighty well that I would accuse him, him and his brother. Well, knowing that, he had gone ahead just the same, defying me. What could I do, indeed? Have him arrested? How could I do that? Never in the world. I could do nothing, nothing, nothing. The reflection crushed me utterly. A second of discovery and all in one day, I knew who the thief was and I could not have him punished. What right had I to the law's protection? I was outside every law. Who was I, please? Nobody. I did not exist in the eyes of the law. Anybody could pick my pocket and I, hush, hush. But come to think of it, how could Papiano be sure of just that? He couldn't. Well then. How did he manage it, I said almost to myself. Where did he ever get the courage? Adriana raised her head from her hands and looked at me in astonishment as much as to say, don't you understand? Yes, I see, I answered, catching what she meant. But you will have him arrested, she exclaimed resolutely, rising to her feet. I'm going to call Papa. He will have him arrested. Again, I was in time to stop her. That would have been the last straw. Adriana, of all people, compelling me to have recourse to the law. I had lost 12,000 lira, but that was nothing. I had also to fear lest the crime become known. I had also to get down on my knees and beg Adriana not to talk, not for heaven's sake to let anybody know. But nonsense, Adriana, I see it all clearly enough now, could not possibly allow me to be silent and force silence also upon her. She could not accept what must have looked like a generous act on my part, could not for a number of reasons. First, on account of her love for me, then for the good reputation of her house. Finally, out of fear and hatred for her brother-in-law. But at that painful moment, her well-justified rebellion seemed to me just one nuisance too much. Angrily, I menaced. But you will keep this to yourself, do you hear? You won't say a word to a living soul, do you hear? Do you want to cause a scandal? The poor child began to sob again. No, no, I don't want to make a scandal, but I'm going to rid my home of that disgraceful rascal. But he'll say he didn't do it, I persisted. And then you and all the rest of us as suspects in court. Can't you see that? Well, what of it, answered Adriana, quivering now with anger? Let him deny it, let him deny it. But we, you know, have plenty of other things to say against him. Have him arrested, Mr. Mace. Don't be afraid for us. You will be doing us a great service, believe me. You will be paying him back for what he did to my poor sister. You ought to see that you will be doing me a wrong, not to report him to the police. If you don't, I will, so there. How can you expect Papa and me to live under such a disgrace? No, I won't, I won't, I won't. Besides, I caught the little girl up in my arms, forgetting all about the money for the moment in my anguish at seeing her suffer so desperately. I promised her that I would do as she said, if only she would dry her tears. How did it reflect on her and her Papa? I knew who was to blame. Papiano had decided my love for her was worth 12,000 lira. Well, should I show him he was wrong by having him arrested? You want him arrested? Well, I'll report him. There, there, little girl. Not on account of the money, but just to get him out of the house. Yes, yes, right away. But on one condition, little girl, that you wipe away those tears and stop crying that way, eh? Yes, yes. But you must promise, promise by all you hold most dear, that you'll not mention the theft to a living soul till I've had time to consult a lawyer. There, there. And see what all the consequences might be. Because now, we're too excited. We might make some mistake. You promise? You promise? By all you hold most dear. Adriana took the oath and with a look through her tears that told me what she was swearing by, what it was she held most dear in all the world. Poor, poor Adriana. When she went out, I stood there in the middle of the room, stunned, vacant, confounded as though all the world had vanished from around me. How long was it before I came to myself again? And how did I revive? Plain idiocy. Plain idiocy. Only an imbecile could stand there looking at the cabinet as I was doing. Had the lock been jimmyed? No, there was not a trace of violence on the varnish. The door had been opened with a duplicate while I was keeping my key so carefully in my pocket. Don't you feel as though you had lost something? Paleari had asked me at the end of the last séance. 12,000 lira. Again the thought of my absolute helplessness, of my absolute nothingness came over me, flattening me to earth. That I might be robbed, that I could say nothing in such a case, that indeed I should have to fear the crime might be discovered quite as much as though I myself were the thief, had not occurred even remotely to my mind. 12,000 lira, but that's nothing. They could take every cent I have, strip the shirt off my back and still I, hush, hush, what right have I to speak? Question, who are you? Question, where did you get that money? Well, never mind the police. This evening say I go up to him and I seize him by the collar. Here you miserable scoundrel, just hand back that money you took out of my cabinet. He raises his voice in holy wrath, he denies. Can you imagine him saying, why yes, here you are, old man, I took it by mistake. And that isn't the worst of it. You might even sue me for slander. No, hush, the soft pedal. Ah, and I thought I was so lucky when they declared me dead. Well, now I'm really dead. Dead? I'm worse than dead, as old Anselmo reminded me. The dead are through with dying, while I have to die again. Alive as regards the dead, dead as regards the living. What kind of a life can I live after all? Again alone, all by myself. Solitude. With a shudder of horror, I buried my face in my hands and sank into a chair. Ah, were I but a criminal outright? I could reconcile myself to a life like that, getting used to wandering and continual danger, living indeed in constant suspense, without fixed purposes, without definite connections. But I, I could do nothing. But something I had to do. Well, what? Go away, for instance. Yes, but where? And Adriana, what could I do for her? Nothing, nothing. Yet how, after what had happened, could I just go away without any explanation? She would attribute my conduct to the theft. But then she would ask, why did he choose to protect the thief and punish me? Oh no, no, poor Adriana. But since I could not act, how could I hope to save appearances with her? I had to see me logical and cruel. There was no escape from that. Cruelty, inconsistency, for that matter, were part and parcel of my situation in the world. And I was the first to suffer from them. Even Papiano, the thief, was more coherent and less brutal in committing the theft than I would have to show myself in forgiving him. What better logic, in fact? He wanted Adriana to avoid repaying the dowry of his first wife. I had tried to deprive him of Adriana. Was it not fair, therefore, that I should pay the money to Anselmo? As logical as Euclid, barring the detail of Thievery, a mere detail. Hardly Thievery at all when you look at it right. For my loss would be more apparent than real. Adriana being the girl she was, Papiano understood that I would make her my wife and not my lover. Well, in that case, I would get my money back in the dowry. My money back and the dearest, sweetest little woman in the world. What more could I ask for? Oh, I was absolutely sure. If we could only wait, if Adriana could manage to hold her tongue, we would see Papiano paying the money he owed to Anselmo, even before the note fell due. Well, to be sure, I wouldn't get the money because I could never marry Adriana, but she would get it. Provided, that is, she would follow my advice and keep quiet. And provided I could stay on for some time in the house. A tough job, lots of skill, and the patience of Job. But in the end, Adriana could look forward to the return of the dowry. This conclusion quieted my apprehensions, at least in her regard. As regards myself, alas, I was still faced by all the horror of my discovery, the fallacy in my new life, in comparison with which the loss of 12,000 lira was nothing, even a blessing if it proved in the end to help Adriana a little. For my part, I was cut off now from life forever. I had no conceivable chance of re-entering it again. With that bitter sorrow in my heart, with all this terrifying experience of the reality before me, I would leave that house where I had begun to feel at home, where I had found a little rest and quiet. Yes, out upon the roads again, roads leading to nowhere, an aimless, purposeless, unending vagabondage. Fear of being caught again by the tentacles of life would keep me more than ever aloof from men. Alone, alone, utterly alone, morose, diffident, suspicious, the tortures of tantalus. I picked up my hat and coat and ran out of the house like mad. When I came to my senses, I found myself on the Via Flaminia near the Ponte Mole. Why had I come just there? I looked around. The sun was shining brightly. My eyes chanced to fall upon my shadow, clean cut on the white pavement. I stood contemplating it for a time. Finally, I raised my foot to stamp on it. But no, no, I could not. I could not stamp on my own shadow. Which was more of a shadow? I or my shadow itself? Two shadows. There, there, on the ground. And anybody could walk on it, grind his heels into my head, into my heart. And I could say nothing, or my shadow, either. The shadow of a dead man, that's what I am. A wagon was approaching. I stood just as I was to see if it were not so. Yes, first the horse, one hoof after another. Then the two wheels. Exactly, let him have it, right across the neck. Aha, that's good, you too, eh, doggy? That's right, but you're leg a little higher, eh? Just a little higher, eh? And I burst into a bitter laugh. The dog scampered off, afraid of me. The teamster turned and looked, wondering what I was laughing at. But I started away, my shadow moving along the ground in front of me. With a mad ferocious delight, I amused myself pushing the shadow under the wheels of carriages, the hooves of horses, the feet of passers-by. At one moment I failed to find it where I had been expecting, and the queer idea came to me that I might have kicked it loose. But I turned around. It was there on the ground behind me now. And if I start running, it will keep up with me to the end, I amused. Had I gone crazy? Had I fallen prey to a fixed idea? I pinched my forehead to be sure I was myself. But yes, I was thinking straight, I was thinking soundly. That shadow was the symbol, the spectre of my real life. I was really lying flat on the ground, and everybody could walk on me with impunity. To such depths, the late Mattia Pascal had fallen. He lay buried back there at the cemetery at Miranio. His ghost, his shadow, was walking the streets of Rome. That shadow had a heart, and it could not love. That shadow had money, and anyone could steal it. That shadow had a head, and the head could think, could think just enough to understand that it was the head of a shadow, but not the shadow of a head. Just so, ladies and gentlemen, how it ached that head. It ached as though all those wheels and hooves had really passed over it, pinching, crushing, bruising it. Well, why not lift it out of the gutter for a while? A street car came along, and I leapt aboard on my way back to my house. End of section 15. Section 16 of the late Mattia Pascal by Luigi Pirandello, translated by Arthur Livingston. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please contact LibriVox.org. Chapter 16. Minerva's picture. Quite before the door was opened to my ring, I knew that something serious had happened inside. I could hear the voices of Papiano and Pagliari away out in the street. It was the Caporale woman who finally came, pale and in great agitation to let me in. So it's true, is it? she cried. Twelve thousand. I stopped in my tracks, breathless, dismayed. Shippioni Papiano, the half-wit, crossed the entry at just that moment. Barefooted, his shoes in his hand and his coat off. He too was pale and frightened. I could hear his brother Terenzio versiferating violently. Well called the police, called him and be damned. A flash of bitter anger at Adriana ran through me. In spite of my prohibition, in spite of her promise, she had spoken. Who told you that? I almost shouted at Miss Caporale. Nothing of the kind. I have found it again. The Piano teacher looked at me in amazement. The money? Found again? Really? Oh, thank God, thank God, she exclaimed, raising her arms devoutly. Then she ran on ahead of me into the dining room, where Papiano and Old Anselmo were screaming at each other at the tops of their voices while Adriana was weeping and sobbing. He's found it, he's found it again, Sylvia called exultantly. Here is Mr. May's now. He's gotten his money back. What's that? Back? Really? The three of them stood there in utter astonishment. Adriana and her father with flushed faces, however, while Papiano, wild-eyed, ashen pale, seemed staggered at the news. I eyed him fixedly for a second. I must have been paler than he and I was quivering from head to toe. He could not meet my gaze. His body seemed to sag at the knees. His brother's coat fell from his grasp. I went close up to him and held out my hand. I'm so sorry, excuse me please, and all the rest of you. No, cried Adriana indignantly, but she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. Papiano looked at her and dared not offer me his hand. Again I said, I beg your pardon, and I forced my clasp upon him for the satisfaction of sensing the tremor that was vibrating through his whole body. His hand was as limp as a rag. He had the look of a corpse, especially about his dead and glassy eyes. I'm extremely sorry, I added, for all the trouble for the very serious trouble I have caused you. Unintentionally, you may be sure. Not at all, Pagliari stammered. Not at all, or rather, yes, if I may. You see, it was something that really, yes, it couldn't be so. There, delighted, Mr. Meese, my congratulations. So glad you got it back, your money, because Papiano passed his two hands over his perspiring brow, ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, and then, turning his back to us, stood looking through the French doors out upon the balcony. I'm like the man in the story, I began again, smiling. I was looking for the donkey and I was on its back all the time. I had the 12,000 lira in my pocketbook. The joke is on me. Adriana could not stand this. But you looked in your pocketbook and everywhere else in my presence. Why there in the cabinet? Yes, Signorina, I interrupted severely and firmly. But I couldn't have looked carefully enough. Since now, as you see, I have found the money. I ask your pardon, particularly, Signorina, for this oversight on my part must have cost you more suffering than any of the others. I hope, however, that now, no, no, no, cried Adriana, breaking into sobs and dashing out of the room with Silvia Caporale pursuing her. I don't understand, exclaimed Pagliari in amazement. Papiano turned angrily towards us. Well, anyhow, I'm going to clear out today. It would seem that now there is no further need of he gagged as if his breath were giving out. Finally, he decided to address me, though he did not have the effrontery to look me in the eye. I couldn't believe me. I couldn't even say no. When they, right here, while I went right after my brother, who you're responsible, sick as he is, who could be sure, he might have dragged him in here by the collar, a terrible scene. I made him take off all his clothes to search him, even under his shirt and in his shoes and stockings. And he, oh, at this point, his voice choked again at his eyes filled with tears. Then he added in a broken husky tone. Well, they were able to see, but of course, since you, but after what has taken place, I am going away. No, you're not, I said, by no means. On my account? No, you must stay here. I'm the one who's going to move if anybody is. Why, the idea, Mr. May said old Anselmo in sincere protest. Even Papiano, struggling with the tears he was trying to suppress, made a negative gesture. At last, he was able to explain. I was, I was going away anyhow. In fact, all this happened because I, without meaning anything in the world, announced that I was intending to leave on account of my brother, who really should not be kept at home any longer. Fact is, the Marquis gave me, see for yourself, I have it here, a letter for the director of a sanatorium in Naples. I have to go to Naples anyway for some more documents the Marquis wants. And my sister-in-law, who holds you quite properly in high, in the very highest esteem, jumps up and says no one is to leave the house, that every one of us should remain indoors because you, well, because you had discovered to me, her own brother, you might say. Yes, sir, she said it to me. I suppose because I, poor, I grant you, but honest after all, I am under obligations to pay to my father-in-law, Mr. Paleare here. What in the world are you dreaming of now, exclaimed Paleare, interrupting? No, said Papiano, drawing up quarterly. It's on my mind. I'm bearing it in mind, don't you worry. And if I go away, poor, poor Cipione. Papiano seemed unable to control his feelings any longer and burst into tears outright. Paleare deeply moved and very much perplexed, did not know what to make of it all. Well, what's Cipione got to do with that? My poor little brother Papiano continued with such a ring of sincerity in his voice that even I felt a choke gathering in my throat. I concluded that his emotion was due to an access of remorse on account of his brother, whom he had used in the venture, whom, if I reported the matter to the police, he would have blamed for the theft and whom he had actually humiliated by the insulting search. No one understood better than Papiano that I had not recovered the stolen money. My unexpected declaration, coming to save him just when he was thinking himself lost and was about to accuse Cipione, or according to his premeditated plan, to suggest that the half-wit alone could be responsible for such a thing, had thrown him completely off his pins. He was weeping now, either from an uncontrollable necessity for giving some vent to his inner strain, or because he felt that he could not face me except in tears. These tears clearly enough were an overture of peace to me. He was kneeling in humble surrender at my feet, but on one condition, that I stick to what I had said about finding the money again. For if, profiting by his present abasement, I were to return to my charge, he would rise against me in a fury. Put it this way, he did not know, he was never to know anything at all about the theft. My generous falsehood was saving only his brother, who, as I should understand, could not be punished anyhow in view of the boy's mental infirmity. On his side, I should observe, he was pledging himself indirectly, but clearly to repay the palaeari dowry. All this I read in his tears. But at last, Anselmo's exhortations and my own prevailed upon him to master his agitation. He said he would go to Naples, but returned the moment he had found a good hospital for his brother, cashed certain interests he owned in a business he had recently started with a friend, and copied the papers the Marquis needed. By the way, he concluded, turning now to me, it had quite gone out of my mind. The Marquis requested me to invite you for today, if you are free, along with my father-in-law and Adriana. Oh, that's a good idea, exclaimed Anselmo, without letting him finish. Yes, we'll all go, splendid. We have a good excuse for a bit of diversion now. What do you say, Mr. Meese? Shall we go? So far as I am concerned, I said with a gesture of compliance. Well, shall we make it four o'clock then? Papiano proposed, wiping his eyes for good this time. I went to my room, my thoughts all on Adriana, who had answered my story about the money by running away from us in tears. Supposing she should come now and demand an explanation. Certainly she could not have believed what I said. What then could she be thinking? That in denying the theft I had intended to punish her for breaking her promise? Why had I done so? Come to think of it. Of course, because the lawyer whom I had gone out to consult before bringing criminal charges had assured me that she and everybody else in the house would be brought under suspicion. She, to be sure, had announced her willingness to face the scandal, but I obviously could not allow that, just for the sake of 12,000 lira. She, accordingly, could interpret such generosity on my part as a sacrifice made out of love for her. Another humiliating lie forced upon me by my circumstances, a loathsome lie which credited me with an exquisite and delicate act of unselfishness, all the finer, because in no sense had she requested or desired it. Was this the way I should reason? Why, no, not at all, not at all. Was I crazy? Following the logic of my necessary and inevitable falsehood, I could reach quite different conclusions. Bosh, this notion of generosity, of sacrifice, of affection. Could I engage the poor child's emotions any further? No, I must suppress, I must strangle my own passion and neither speak to Adriana again, nor look at her again in any intimate way. Well, in that case, how could she reconcile my apparent generosity with the demeanour I should henceforth maintain toward her? Along this line, I would be forced to use her revelation of the theft, a revelation of which I repudiated at the first opportunity, as a pretext for breaking off relations with her. But was there any sense to that? No, there were but two possibilities. Either I had lost the money, in which case, why was it I did not have the thief arrested, but instead withdrew my affection from her as though she were the guilty one, or else I had really gotten my money back, in which case, why should I cease loving her? A sense of nausea, disgust, loathing for myself seized upon me. At least I should be able to explain to her that there was no wit of kindness involved in the matter, that I took no legal steps because I couldn't, because I couldn't. Well, I would have to give some reason. I couldn't let it drop like that. Perhaps I had stolen the money myself in the first place. Yes, she might easily draw that conclusion. I could let her think so. Or I could explain that I was a fugitive from persecution, a man in trouble, compelled to drop out of sight, and so unable to share his lot with a wife. Lies, lies, nothing but lies for that poor innocent creature. Well, the truth, perhaps. A truth so improbable that even I, who had lived it, could hardly believe it so. Could I tell her such an absurd tale, such a disordered fancy? And in that case, to avoid one more lie, I should have to confess that I had told nothing but lies hitherto. That would be all a truthful explanation could possibly amount to. And it would neither make me less of a scoundrel nor ease her suffering. I do believe that in the state of exasperation and disgust in which I then found myself, I would have made a clean breast of everything to Adriana, if, instead of sending Silvia Caporale, she had come to my room herself to tell me why she had gone back on her promise not to talk. For that matter, I knew already from what Papiano had said. Miss Caporale added that Adriana was inconsolable. Why should she be, I asked, with forced indifference? Because, the piano teacher answered, she does not believe you have found the money. It occurred to me just then, an impulse quite in harmony moreover with my mood at the time, that one way out of it would be to make Adriana lose all respect for me, let her think me a hard, selfish, treacherous trifle whom she could not love. That would serve me right for the harm I had done her. She would be terribly hurt for a while, to be sure, but in the end she would be the gainer. She doesn't believe it? How is that? And I smiled shrewdly at the Caporale woman, 12,000 lire senora, that much money doesn't grow on every bush. Do you think I would be as cheerful as I am if I had really lost it? But Adriana said, she tried to add, nonsense, plain nonsense, I continued interrupting. It's true that, look, I did suspect for a moment, but I also told Miss Pagliari that I could not believe such a thing possible. And in fact, well, you say it for me. What reason could I have for claiming I had recovered the money if I hadn't? Miss Caporale shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps Adriana thinks you may have some reason. But I told you no, and no it is, I hurriedly interjected. Remember, it was a matter of 12,000 lire. Now, a lire or two would not have made much difference, but 12,000, my generosity is not so great as all that. She must be thinking I'm a hero. When Silvia Caporale went away to report to Adriana, I wrung my hands and dug my teeth into my knuckles. Was that the way to go about it? As it were, trying to pay her for her crushed illusions in my regard with the money they had stolen from me. Could anything be meaner, cheaper, more cowardly? I thought of her in the next room there, raging at me probably, despising me, not being in a position to understand that her grief was my grief too. Yet that was the way it had to be. She had to hate me, despise me, as I hated and despised myself. What was more, to increase that hatred and contempt, I would now be very courteous toward Papiano, her enemy, as though to compensate him in her eyes for the suspicions I and she had had of him. And my thief himself would be disconcerted, confounded, even to the point of thinking me perhaps a lunatic. What was left? Could I do anything worse? Yes, one thing. We were going to the Gilios. That very day I would begin paying open court to Pepita Pantogada. That will make you scorn me more than ever, Adriana, I groaned, writhing on my bed. What else, what else can I do for you? Shortly after four o'clock old Anselmo, in formal dress, came and knocked on my door. I'm all ready, I called, rising and throwing on my coat. Are you going that way, asked Paleari in astonishment? Why, I asked. But then I noticed that I had on a Scottish cap with a visor that I usually wore about the house. I put it into my pocket and reached for my hat, while Anselmo stood chuckling and chuckling to himself. Where are you going, Mr. Paleari? I asked, as he suddenly turned away. Why, I'm as daft as you are, he answered, pointing to his feet. I was going in my slippers. Just step into the other room, Mr. Mace. Adriana is there, and what, is she coming to? She didn't want to, called Paleari, moving along toward his quarters. But I made her change her mind. She's in the dining room with her things on. With what cold and severe reproachfulness Miss Caporale stared at me as I entered the room. Caught in a hopeless passion herself, she had been so often comforted by this simple inexperienced little child. Now that Adriana understood what the world was like, now that Adriana had been hurt, Sylvia rushed, grateful and solicitous to her rescue. What right had I to make such a good and pretty little child unhappy? As for herself, Sylvia, neither good nor pretty, men might have some excuse for being mean to her, but not to Adriana, not to Adriana. This she seemed to be saying with her eyes as she invited me to survey the wreckage I had made in the life beside her. And in truth, how pale, how bravely pale Adriana was. Her eyes were red with weeping. What an anguished effort it must have cost to get up and to dress to go out for an afternoon. With me. Notwithstanding the state of mind in which I went on the party, the personality and the home of the Marquis Giglio D'Olletta aroused some curiosity in me. I knew the reason for his residence in Rome. He saw no possible way to the restoration of the kingdom of the two Sicilies, except through the victory of the temporal power. Once the pope could recover his capital, the kingdom of Italy might go to pieces and in the upset, who could tell? Marquis was not strong on prophesying. One thing at a time, attention to the job in front of you. For the moment, war without asking or giving quarter and in the clerical camp. And his salon in fact was the rallying place of the most intransigent prelates of the Coria and the most valorous leg champions of the blacks. On that day, however, we found no other call as in the vast and sumptuous drawing room. Conspicuous in the middle of the floor was a painter's easel with a canvas about half finished. It was Minerva, Pepita's lapdog, a black little beast, stretched out on a white sofa, her pointed snout resting on her two front paws. By Bernaldes, the Spanish artist announced Papiano Gravely as though he were making an introduction that required an unusually low bow from the rest of us. Pepita Pantogada came in, followed shortly by her governess, Signora Candida. On previous occasions, I had seen these two women in the semi-darkness of my room. Now under a full light, Miss Pantogada seemed a different woman, not as a whole perhaps, but in respect of her nose. What? Had I ever seen that nose before? I had imagined it as a small upturned affair, impudent rather than not. But no, it was strong, robust, aquiline. A stunning girl all the same, dark complexion, flashing black eyes, cold black hair, wavy and shiny. Thin lips, sharp, keen, sarcastic, bright red, painted almost, rather than fitted on her slender shapely form. A dark dress with white lacework. The soft, placid beauty of the blonde Adriana faded under the brilliancy of this superior glow. And bless me, at last I solved the mystery of that steeple on Signora Candida's head. It was, it was first of all, a magnificent blondish wig of waved hair and pitched, if I may say so, on the wig, a sort of tent, a broad light blue kerchief or mantilla of silk that was drawn down and knotted coily under her chin. A magnificent frame, truly for such a plain, lean, angular, washed out face, which inches of rouge and powder and so forth could not improve. Meantime Minerva was barking so vociferously that we were hardly able to exchange formalities. But the poor doggy was not barking at us. She was barking at the easel and at the white sofa which she remembered as instruments of torture, apparently. The protestant lamented of an incensed soul. Yelp, get out of this room. Yelp, get out of this room. But the easel stood there unperturbed on its three legs. So Minerva retreated slowly on her four, barking, showing her teeth returning to the charge, retreating again in terrible commotion. A fat, chubby body on four over slender legs, Minerva was not a pretty dog. Many times grandmother, I imagine. There was no sparkle in her eyes and her hair had turned gray in places. On her back, just forward of her tail was a bare spot, resulting from the habit she had of scratching herself furiously on the rungs of chairs, on the corners of bookcases, on anything hard and sharp that would reach that particular trouble. This I knew already, however. Finally, Pepita seized Minerva by the nape of the neck and tossed her at Signora Candida, scolding Chito, which was pantogadiz for zitto. Shut up! And Doni Gniatiogilio D'Auletta came hurrying in. He trotted, so round-shouldered he bent almost double. To an armchair he always sat in next to a window, fell into his seat, brought his cane to rest between his two legs and finally sighed a heavy sigh and smiled a one smile at his mortal weariness. His face, clean shaven, shrunken, furrowed all over with deep vertical wrinkles, was of a corpse-like pallor, in contrast with his gleaming, ardent, almost youthful eyes. Down over his cheeks, his temples and the sides of his head, thick shags of hair trickled like tongues of wet ashes. Speaking in an obstrucive, neapolitan sing-song, the Marquis welcomed us with great cordiality, asking his secretary to continue showing me the mementos of which the room was full, all testimonials of his fidelity to the Bourbon dynasty. Here was a small framed picture, as I took it to be, curtained by a green cloth which bore in letters of gold the legend, nun nascondo, riparo, alzami, elegi. I conceal not, but defend, lift me and read. The Marquis asked Papiano to take down the picture and bring it to him. It was not a picture at all, but a letter framed under glass, through which Pietro Aulois, writing in September 1860, among the last casps of the two Sicilies, that is, invited the Marquis Gilio D'Auleta to assume a portfolio in the cabinet, which was destined never to take office. In the margins was a transcript of the Marquis' acceptance, a ringing document, the latter, branding within for me those men of prominence in the realm who, in the moment of supreme danger and anguish for their sovereign, with the filibuster of Garibaldi hammering at the gates of Naples, declined to shoulder the responsibilities of power. As the old Marquis enunciated these documents aloud, he became so wrought up that I could not help admiring him, although everything he said offended my sensibilities as an Italian. He, too, besides, had been a hero after his fashion. As I learned from a story he told in comment on a fleur de l'île in Gilded Wood that was also on show in the parlor there. It happened on the 5th of September 1860. The king was leaving the royal palace in an open carriage attended only by the queen and a few gentlemen of the court. On the Via di Gheorgia, the carriage was held up by a jam in the traffic in front of a pharmacy which bore the sign of the lilies of gold. A ladder running up to the side of the building from the middle of the street was the cause of the congestion. Carpenters were at work on top of the ladder, removing the lilies from the front of the shop. The king called the queen's attention to that act of cowardice on the part of the druggist, who in more peaceful times had been only too glad to vaunt his royal brevets and honor to his store. Well, he, the Marquis d'Auleta, happened to be passing at the moment and in a rage of indignant loyalty, he ran into the shop, collared the offending pharmacist, pointed to the king out in the street, spat in the man's face and went away, brandishing one of the fallen lilies as a trophy. Viva il re! The Marquis was as proud of that old shop sign as he was of this golden fleece, his keys as a gentleman of the king's chamber, his trappings as a chevalier of Saint Genaro and all the other decorations on display in the drawing room under two full-length portraits of their majesties Ferdinand and Francis II. As soon as I could, I broke away from Papiano and Paleari to execute my base design. I approached Pepita Pantogada. He did not take me long to see that the young lady was in a very bad humor with a case of nerves. She first wanted to know what time it was. Quattro e meccio, for firti, very well, very well. That she was not overjoyed to find it was for firti. I gathered from the tone of the very worlds and from the voluble and, in the circumstances, bad-mannered tirade on which she then launched out against Italy in general and against Rome in particular. Rome so stuck up over its blessed glories of the past. The Colosseum, what was the Colosseum? They had a Colosseum tambien in Spain, just as big and just as old. And we don't swell up and burst every time we walk by it. Pale of dirty stone, piedra muerta, anyhow. If you want to know what a theater is, come to Spain and see one of our plazas de torros. And your old paintings, why I'd rather have this picture of Minerva here that Bernaldes is poking along, trying to finish in time for Kingdom Come. Yes, that was it. Pepita wanted that picture and she wanted it right away. It was for firti and Bernaldes had not appeared. She fidgeted around on her chair, rubbed her nose, opened and closed her hands with her eyes fastened on the drawing room door. At last the butler announced Bernaldes and the painter came into the room, panting and perspiring as though he had had the run of his life. But Pepita's attitude at once changed. With a flounce, she turned her back on him and stared the other way, affecting an air of cool and collected indifference. Bernaldes went over and shook hands with the Marquis, bowed to us each in turn and then approached Pepita, speaking in Spanish and begging pardon for his tardiness. Pepita now boiled over and when she spoke, it was in a torrent of Pantagodese. First of all, you speak Italian since these people do not know Spanish and I think it bad manners for you to use Spanish with me. In the second place, I care not for you, for your picture, for you come late, for your excuse, for nothing. Bernaldes did the best a fellow could do in such a case. He smiled nervously, he bowed chivalrously. Finally he asked if he might resume work on the picture since there would be still an hour of light. As you say, she answered in the same manner, you paint the picture without me or you rub it all out, it is one to me. Bernaldes bowed again and turned to Signora Candida who was still holding the dog Pepita had thrown into her arms. Poor Minerva's hour of torture was beginning again, but her suffering was as nothing compared to that of her executioner. To punish Bernaldes for being late, Pepita began to flirt with me and with an ardour that seemed to me excessive even for the purpose I had in view. A glance in Adriana's direction warned me of the extent of that poor girl's distress. He could not, for that matter, have been much greater than Minerva's. Nor Manuel Bernaldes' nor mine. I could feel my face flaming redder and redder as though I were intoxicated with the anger I knew I was arousing in that unfortunate young man. I had no pity for him but just a finished delight in his torment. My thoughts were all for Adriana. She was being hurt to the quick. Why should he not be also? In fact, I seemed to feel that the more he suffered, the less her pain might be. Certain it was that the air in the room was becoming electric with the tension that must soon reach the breaking point. It was Minerva who brought on the storm. Since Pepita was sitting with her back to the easel and the sofa, the little dog was not being cowed as usual by her mistresses' sharp eyes. So the moment that the painter turned to his canvas, Minerva would cautiously rise from her pose and first one paw forward and then another would eventually get her nose and head under the cushions as though she were trying to hide. At any rate, when Bernaldes would turn around again, he would find himself confronted not by his pose but by the hind legs and the curly upturned tail of his unwilling subject. Several times already, Signora Candida had put Minerva in place again. Bernaldes, fuming with rage meantime and commenting under his breath on a word of endearment that he would catch every now and then from Pepita's conversation with me. I say, under his breath, his remarks were not always inaudible exactly and more than once I was tempted to inquire, did you say something, Mr. Bernaldes? Finally, his patience gave out and he exploded. Miss Pantogada, will you at least be kind enough to keep this little bitch of yours where she belongs? Vitch, Vitch, Vitch, cried Pepita, jumping to her feet and turning upon the poor painter, livid with rage, you dare call my dog a witch? But a dog doesn't mind coarse language, I was unhappily prompted to observe. I didn't realize at the moment that a man in Bernaldes' state of excitement might catch an illusion where none in the least was intended. I was not criticizing his choice of words, nor did I even think that he might take my dog as referring to himself. But he broke out, my language is no business of yours, Monsieur, under his fixed aggressive, provoking stare, I felt my temper begin to rise. I could not help replying. I must say, Signor Bernaldes, you may be a great painter. What's the matter, piped the Marquess, noticing our hostile mood? Bernaldes dropped his brush and his palette and strode over till his face was a few inches from mine. A great painter, say what you are going to say, Monsieur. A great painter, yes, but your manners aren't all they might be. And besides, you frighten the dog. There was a sting of contempt in the tone of every word I uttered. Yes, said he, but we'll see whether it's only four-legged dogs that are afraid of me. And he drew back. Pepita now began to shriek hysterically and she had technique enough to fall fainting into the arms of Papiano and Signora Candida. In the confusion, I turned my attention naturally to the girl whom they were easing on a sofa. But I suddenly felt a clutch on my arm. Bernaldes was upon me. I was just in time to parry the blow he had aimed at my face and to throw him back with a hard push. Again, he rushed, barely missing my cheek with a furious stroke. It was my turn to attack, but Papiano and Pagliari had jumped between us. Bernaldes was backing out of the room, shaking his fist at me. Consider yourself thrashed, Monsieur. Consider yourself thrashed. I am at your service at any time. The people here know my address. The Marquis was standing in front of his chair, trembling and shouting. I was struggling to get free from Pagliari and Papiano to pursue my assailant. The Marquis at last was able to make himself heard. You are a gentleman, said he. You must send two of your friends to settle your accounts with this fellow. To me he must explain how he dared attack a guest of mine in my house. I was quivering with excitement and barely had breath enough to wish the Marquis good day. I left at once followed by Papiano and old Anselmo. Adriano remained to assist in reviving Pepita, whom they had carried to another room. Now I had the privilege of getting down on my knees to the thief who had robbed me and asking him, along with Pagliari, to be my second. To whom else could I appeal? Me, asked Anselmo in honest stupor. Me? Why, my dear Mr. Mays, you must be joking. Me? Never in the world. Why, I know nothing about such business. All nonsense anyhow. Really now, isn't it? You must, I retorted energetically, not choosing to begin an argument at just that moment. You and Mr. Papiano will be so good as to go at once to that gentleman's house. I? I? Not a single step, my dear boy. Ask me anything else, at your service. But just this? No, sir, not my line in the first place. And anyhow, nonsense. Nothing serious, little rumpus like that. Why so excited? No, you're wrong there, interrupted Papiano, noticing my furious rage. It is a serious matter. Mr. Mays has a right to demand satisfaction. In fact, he's in honor bound to demand satisfaction. He's got to fight. He's got to fight. So you then, I said, you go with a friend of yours. I had not expected a refusal from Papiano, but he opened his arms in a gesture of apologetic helplessness. You know how I should like to help you out, but you won't? I stormed, stopping in the middle of the street. Wait, let me explain, Mr. Mays, he answered humbly. Just see, listen, notice the fix I'm in. Remember, I'm bound hand and foot, secretary, servant, slave of the Marquis. What's that got to do with it? The Marquis himself, don't you remember? Yes, I know, but tomorrow, a clerical and the party, his private secretary mixed up in a duel. The end of me, I can tell you. And besides that little wench there, didn't you get the point? Head over heels in love with Bernaldes. Tomorrow they kiss and make up. And then where do I stand, eh? The end of me. So sorry, Mr. Mays, but try to understand my position, just as I say. So you're both going to ditch me, I answered at my wit's end. I don't know another soul here in Rome. But listen, there's a way, there's a way, Papiano hastened to advise. I was going to suggest, you see both my father-in-law here and I would find it difficult, impossible in fact. You are right, no question of that, you're right. Every reason to see it through can't overlook a matter like this. Well, you just applied to two officers in the army. They can't refuse to represent a gentleman in an affair of honor. You go to them, explain how it all happened. They often do such favors for people not known in town. We had reached the door of the house. So you won't. Very well, I said to Papiano. And I turned on my heel without another word, walking away aimlessly, my brain reeling from my overwrought emotion. Again, the thought of my crushing, my annihilating impotence had taken possession of my whole consciousness. Could a man in my circumstances fight a duel? Could I never get it through my head that I could no longer do one single blessed thing? Two army officers, excellent. But just as a starter, two very proper questions. Who was I? Where did I come from? No, a plain simple fact. People could spit on me, slapped my face, thrashed me with a whip. And I could ask them to lay on a little harder, please, but for heaven's sake, to be quiet about it. Two army officers. And let me give them just the least wee little inkling of my real status. Well, in the first place, they wouldn't believe me. And who knows what they might suspect? In the second place, I would be as badly off as with Adriana. If they did believe, they would suggest I come to life again. Since a dead man, what's the use? Had no standing vis-a-vis the code of honor. So I could swallow a good appetite to you, the insult of Bernaldes as I had swallowed the theft of Papiano, slink away with my dignity wounded, my courage challenged, yes, with my face slapped, slink away like a coward out of sight, into the dark again, the dark of an intolerable future where I would be an object of hateful loathing even to myself. Future, indeed. Could there be any future? How could I go on living? How endure the sight of myself? No, enough of this. Enough of this. I stopped, everything whirling disly about me, my legs giving way at the knees. A sinister impulse rose suddenly in my heart, giving me a cold shiver of horror from head to foot. But before that, I said to myself, my brain rambling. Before that, why not try? If I should succeed. But try anyhow, just to get back a little of my own self-respect. If I should succeed, not quite such a craven coward in my own eyes. And what's there to lose by trying? Why not try? I was a few blocks away from the Café Arrano. There, there, catch as catch can, the first one I come to. In my blind agony, I went in. In the outside room around a table sat five or six artillery officers. And when one of them noticed me standing there, pale, wild-eyed, hesitating, I bowed to him slightly, and with faltering voice began, I'm sorry, excuse me, might I have a word with you? He was a beardless young chap, hardly graduated from the academy, it seemed to me. He rose and came over toward me, answering me courteously. What can I do for you, signore? Why, it's this way. May I introduce myself? Adriano Maze. I am a stranger in town. I have no friends here. I've had trouble, a point of honor. I need a couple of seconds. I don't know whom I could ask. If you and one of your friends? Surprised, perplexed, the man stood looking at me for a time. Then, turning to his comrades, he called Grigliotti. Grigliotti was a lieutenant of the Upper Numbers with an up-curled moustache, a monocle crammed willy-nilly into an eye socket and smooth, well-massaged cheeks. He got up from his seat, still talking to the men at the table. I noticed he spoke with ours that would really W's and stepped our way, making a slight somewhat constrained bow to me. The moment I saw which man Grigliotti was, I felt like saying to my cadet, not that man, please, not that man. But as I afterwards recognized, no one else in the group could have been so well qualified for the task in hand as he. The articles of the Code of Chivalry he knew from A to Z. Such a line of talk as he gave me about my case and all that I must do. I was to telegraph, I forget exactly what, to a certain colonel, state my grievance, fix the main points clearly, and then go in person to see him, sa va s'endir, see the colonel, that is, precisely as he, Grigliotti, had done once before. He was not yet in the Army at the time, when something similar had happened to him, in Pavia it was. Because in these matters of honor, you see, laws of chivalry and so on and so on till my head was afoul of articles, precedence, courts of honor and points well established in practice. I had not liked the man from the moment I set eyes on him. Imagine how I felt now when confronted with this dissertation on chivalry. Finally I could endure the strain no longer and I exclaimed impatiently, but my dear sir, that's all very well. You're quite right, I dare say. But how will a telegram help in my present situation? I am all alone here in a strange city and I want to fight a duel, understand, right away, tomorrow if possible, and without so much nonsense. What difference does all this stuff make to me? I mentioned the matter to you gentlemen in the hope, well, excuse me, in the hope that I could get somewhere without all this fussing there. My outburst provoked an answer from Grigliotti in the same tone and we were soon engaged in what amounted to a brawl, both talking at the same time and at the top of our lungs. But at a certain moment, loud guffaws of ridicule from the officers about me brought me up short. I turned and hurried away, my face aflame with indignant humiliation as though I had been whipped with a lash. Where could I hide? The laughter of those soldiers seemed to pursue me as I fled, my hands to my head, my brain in utter confusion. Should I go home? No, I shuddered at the thought of that. I kept on walking, walking, straight ahead, frantically. At last I noticed that I had slackened my pace and then finally I stopped to catch my breath to rest a little. For I had no strength left to sustain the stinging smart of that ridicule which kept pulsing through me in waves of frenzied vengefulness. I say that I stopped, I did stop and I stood some moments without moving, my mind gradually becoming a blank. Then I began walking again, but now I was strangely relieved. All feelings of bitterness gone from my mind, a curious stupor replacing them. Here was a shop window bright with its display of wares. I approached and studied the objects with a meticulous absorbing interest. The lights went out, the stores all along the street were closing. Yes, they were closing for me eternally. People were going home, leaving me alone, a solitary wanderer on deserted streets, all doors and windows closed, all lights extinguished, silence and solitude for me eternally. I moved along. As the city went to sleep, life itself seemed to recede from about me as though it was something remote, intangible, without meaning or purpose. Had the sinister intention matured spontaneously within me? I do not know, but at last involuntarily, guided as it were by that inner determination, I found myself on the Margarita Bridge, leaning over the parapet and gazing terror-stricken down into the black swirling stream. Down there, in that water, I shuddered. But it was not with fear. It was a violent outburst of anger, an uprising of all my instincts of life in ferocious hatred against those who were now bringing me here to the end they had assigned me back in the flume of the Coupes at Miranio. Yes, those women, Romilda and the widow Pescatore, they had brought me to this pass. I would never have thought of feigning suicide to get rid of them. And yet now, after two years of living like a ghost in the illusion of a life beyond the death they had wished upon me, here I was, dragged by the collar to executing their sentence upon myself. They were right after all. I had really died like the Coupes they found. They were free of me, though I was not free of them. And I rebelled. Could I not get even with them somehow instead of killing myself? Suicide. How could a dead man, ha ha, a dead man commit suicide? And nobody commits suicide. I straightened up as suddenly everything seemed strangely lucid and clear to me. Get even with them. But what did that mean? It meant going back to Miranjo, didn't it? It meant shaking off the lie that had throttled me. It meant coming to life again, to spite them, to chastise them. With my real name, my real personality, my very, very real misfortunes. Ah yes, but my present fix. Could I cut loose from the present that easily? Could I throw aside my life in the Villarripeta as one did a bundle of rubbish for which there is no further use? No, no, that I could not do. I knew I could not do so. So I stood there, in anguished bewilderment, uncertain as to a decision. By chance, I put my hand into my pocket and my nervous fingers came in contact with something which I did not at once recognize. With an angry twitch, I pulled it out. It was the cap that I had always worn on my trains and about the house, the cap in which, to old Anselmo's delight, I had started out to make my call on the marquis and which I had thrust into my pocket, distractedly. I was about to toss the thing into the water when, in a flash, an idea came to me. Something I had thought of long before on my trip from Alenga to Turin rose clearly to my consciousness. Here, I muttered almost involuntarily to myself, here on the railing of this bridge, my hat, my cane. Yes, just as they did on the bank of the mill-plume at Miranjo. There, Mathia Pascal, here I, Adriano Meis, tit for tat, I come to life again, to their undoing. The joy that seized on me amounted to an exultant, inspiring frenzy. Of course, of course, to kill myself, the self which they had killed, would be absurd, absurd. I must kill rather the ridiculous fiction which had tortured and tormented me for two long years. I must put an end to that wretch of an Adriano Meis, who, to live at all, had to be a coward, a liar, a worthless, miserable outcast. Adriano Meis, a false name for a mannequin with a brain of sawdust, a heart of rags, and veins, perhaps, of rubber, with coloured water for a weak, diluted blood. Away with such an odious fiction, drown him as they had drowned Mathia Pascal. Exactly, tit for tat. First their turn and now mine. Adriano Meis, a ghastly life springing from a ghastly lie. Finish him, then, with another falsehood, just as gruesome. And that was a way out of everything. What better reparation could I make to Adriano for the wrong I had done her? But could I swallow the insult from that boar of a Spaniard, the coward, assailing me there by surprise under conditions where a fight was impossible? Could I swallow it? I, the eye that was really I, had not a trace of fear for the man. Of that I was sure. He had not insulted me. He had insulted Adriano Meis. Well, Adriano Meis could swallow anything. Of course he could. Was he not killing himself? Yes, that was the way, the only way out. I was trembling from head to foot as though I were really about to kill someone. But my brain was clear as crystal, my heart light with a sudden buoyancy that was almost gay. I looked about me, over in that direction on the Lungo Tevere, someone must have noticed me standing on the bridge at that hour, a policeman perhaps, on lookout for just such tragedies. I had to make sure. So I walked along, first into the Piazza della Libertà, then along the River Boulevard, the Lungo Tevere dei Melini. No one. I retraced my steps. But before going out on the bridge again, I stopped under a street lamp in the shadow of some trees. My notebook. I tore out a page and wrote on it in pencil, Adriano Meis. Anything else? Well, my address perhaps. Yes, and the date. That would do. That would tell the whole story. Adriano Meis, his hat and his cane. As for the rest, well, a few clothes and a few books. I could leave them back at the house, nothing much. The money left from the robbery I had with me. I stole along the bridge, bending low behind the railings. My legs were shaking under me and my heart was all a throb. I selected the darkest spot over the river, took off my hat, slipped the note behind the ribbon and set the hat with my cane on the broad stone top of the parapet. On my head I crammed the cap I so luckily had with me. The cap that had suggested to me the means of my escape. And keeping to the shadows, I moved stealthily away, sneaking along like a thief in the dark, not daring to turn my head. End of section 16.