The Woman of Rome by Alberto Moravia Read Free Book Online

glass, saying as he did so, “A little more wine?”
    Poor Mother could not help saying, “Thanks,” and she accepted the glass he offered her. People who saw us drinking together as if nothing had occurred, despite her vehement outburst, went on with their own conversations.
    “Adriana, with all her beauty, ought to lead the sort of life my mistress does,” said Gino.
    “What sort of life?” I asked eagerly, being anxious to lead the conversation away from myself.
    “In the morning,” he said in a vain and fatuous voice, as if bathing in the reflected glory of his employers’ wealth, “she gets up at eleven or twelve. She has her breakfast taken up to bed on a silver salver with heavy silverware. Then she has a bath, but first the maid puts some salts in the water to make it smell nice. At midday I take her out in the car — she goes to have a vermouth or to do some shopping. Then she goes home, has her lunch, lies down and then spends a couple of hours dressing. You ought to see how many dresses she’s got! Closets full of them. Then she goes out visiting in her car or has people over. They play cards, drink, put on music. They’re awfully rich people! She must have several millions’ worth of jewels alone.”
    Mother’s thoughts were as easily distracted as a child’s, whom a trifle will put into a good mood. She had now forgotten all about me and the injustice of my fate, and was enthralled by the picture of such splendor.
    “Millions!” she repeated greedily. “And is she beautiful?”
    Gino, who was smoking, spat out a shred of tobacco scornfully. “Beautiful? She’s ugly — thin, looks like an old witch.”
    They went on talking about the wealth of Gino’s mistress, or rather, Gino went on singing the praises of her wealth as if it were his own. But Mother, after her moment of curiosity, had fallen once more into a depressed and dissatisfied mood and did not utter another word all evening. Perhaps she was ashamed of her outburst; perhaps she was envious of all that wealth and was thinking resentfully of my engagement to a poor man.
    Next day I asked Gino apprehensively whether Mother had offended him; he replied that although he did not share her ideas, he understood them perfectly, inspired as they were by a wretched life of deprivation. She was to be pitied, he said, and anyway, obviously she only spoke like that because she loved me. This was my feeling, too, and I was grateful to Gino for having understood her so well. Gino’s moderation not only filled me with gratitude, but was one more item to be added to the list of his perfections. If I had been less blinded and inexperienced, I would have reflected that only calculated deceit can create such a sense of perfection, and that real sincerity gives a picture of many faults and shortcomings, together with a few good qualities.
    The fact of the matter is that I now found myself, in comparison with Gino, in a constant state of inferiority. I seemed to have given him almost nothing in exchange for his patience and understanding. Perhaps my state of mind, as one who had received many kindnesses and felt called upon to reciprocate them, explains why I made no resistance, as I would have done earlier, when his love making became even bolder. But I must also admit, as I have already said about our first kiss, that I felt impelled to give myself to him by a most powerful yet, at the same time, most exquisite force; it was something akin to the power of sleep, which occasionally, in order to conquer our contrary will, induces us to drop off by means of a dream that we are still awake; and so we yield, being convinced that we are still resisting.
    I can remember all the phases of my seduction perfectly, because I desired and at the same time repulsed each step taken by Gino; it gave me both pleasure and remorse. Each step, too, was taken gradually. He proceeded neither hurriedly nor impatiently, but as if he were a general invading a country rather