only some people a little bespattered, or some kids..."
"The fact is," Morelli said, "that we're younger than the kids. They're still nowhere."
"I mean the old people like you and me, those with the time and means. Do they at least enjoy their vices? If I didn't have to work, I'd have terrible vices. At bottom I'm not at all satisfied with my life..."
Morelli, serious, told me that one vice I did have: I had the vice of working, of never taking a vacation. "You're worse than the industrialist fathers of families," he said, "but they at least were men with mustaches and built Turin."
"I don't have a family and I don't have mustaches yet," I said.
Morelli looked around.
"There is one who's really been serious," I said. "The Mola girl..."
"You think so?" he said dubiously. Then he suddenly became irritated. "Working night and day for one's family ought to mean something. If I had a daughter who played such tricks on me, I'd have shut her in a convent long ago. Once they knew how to do such things."
"I believe," I said, looking around, "that girls in convents always begin by making love together."
"But gentlewomen came out"—Morelli warmed up—"ladies, real mistresses of the house. At least they knew how to talk."
"Not that that's so bad," I went on. "A girl always falls in love with the one who's most on her toes. But here in Turin they don't even take these things seriously. They are sad and have a bellyache."
"They talk..." Morelli said.
And what were we doing? The only good moments I had in Turin were really the evenings when I dropped in on a movie alone, or mornings over my coffee behind a window in Via Roma where nobody knew me and I sketched projects and imagined myself setting up some kind of shop. My real vice, which Morelli hadn't mentioned, was my pleasure in being alone. It's not young girls who are better off in convents, but ourselves. I thought of that grandmother of Mariella's who at eighty liked to see people and listen from her bed to other people's noise. I thought of Carlotta, who had led her own life. All in all, living is really putting up with someone else and going to bed with him, whether you feel like it or not. Having money means you can isolate yourself. But then why do leisured people with money always look for company and noise?
When I was a girl, I envied people like Momina, Mariella, and the others. I envied them and didn't know what they were. I imagined them free, admired, mistresses of the world. Thinking it over now, I wouldn't exchange places with any of them. Their lives seemed foolish to me, all the more so because they didn't realize it themselves. But could they act otherwise? Would I have acted otherwise in their place? Rosetta Mola was naive, but she had taken things seriously. At bottom it was true she had no motive for wanting to kill herself, certainly not because of that stupid story of her first love for Momina, or some other mess. She wanted to be alone, to isolate herself from the uproar; and in her world you can't be alone or do anything alone unless you take yourself out of it completely. Now Momina and the others had already taken her up again: we all went together to pick her up at Montalto. Just remembering that day depressed me.
20
Rosetta returned, days later. This time too she stopped hesitatingly at the door. Becuccio saw her and said: "She's not looking for me."
That morning we were taking photographs to send to Rome and Febo turned the lights in the niches on and off, rearranging the position of a statuette that served as a model. He joked with Rosetta and told her that at Ivrea he had been seduced and deserted by two bad women. Then he wanted to photograph the two of us in front of the windows to let them know in Rome what Turin women are like.
"We need Mariella," I said.
We ended by talking about the play and Rosetta said that now Nene was preparing the set. "That's all she knows how to do," Febo said.
I asked Rosetta if she
"The fact is," Morelli said, "that we're younger than the kids. They're still nowhere."
"I mean the old people like you and me, those with the time and means. Do they at least enjoy their vices? If I didn't have to work, I'd have terrible vices. At bottom I'm not at all satisfied with my life..."
Morelli, serious, told me that one vice I did have: I had the vice of working, of never taking a vacation. "You're worse than the industrialist fathers of families," he said, "but they at least were men with mustaches and built Turin."
"I don't have a family and I don't have mustaches yet," I said.
Morelli looked around.
"There is one who's really been serious," I said. "The Mola girl..."
"You think so?" he said dubiously. Then he suddenly became irritated. "Working night and day for one's family ought to mean something. If I had a daughter who played such tricks on me, I'd have shut her in a convent long ago. Once they knew how to do such things."
"I believe," I said, looking around, "that girls in convents always begin by making love together."
"But gentlewomen came out"—Morelli warmed up—"ladies, real mistresses of the house. At least they knew how to talk."
"Not that that's so bad," I went on. "A girl always falls in love with the one who's most on her toes. But here in Turin they don't even take these things seriously. They are sad and have a bellyache."
"They talk..." Morelli said.
And what were we doing? The only good moments I had in Turin were really the evenings when I dropped in on a movie alone, or mornings over my coffee behind a window in Via Roma where nobody knew me and I sketched projects and imagined myself setting up some kind of shop. My real vice, which Morelli hadn't mentioned, was my pleasure in being alone. It's not young girls who are better off in convents, but ourselves. I thought of that grandmother of Mariella's who at eighty liked to see people and listen from her bed to other people's noise. I thought of Carlotta, who had led her own life. All in all, living is really putting up with someone else and going to bed with him, whether you feel like it or not. Having money means you can isolate yourself. But then why do leisured people with money always look for company and noise?
When I was a girl, I envied people like Momina, Mariella, and the others. I envied them and didn't know what they were. I imagined them free, admired, mistresses of the world. Thinking it over now, I wouldn't exchange places with any of them. Their lives seemed foolish to me, all the more so because they didn't realize it themselves. But could they act otherwise? Would I have acted otherwise in their place? Rosetta Mola was naive, but she had taken things seriously. At bottom it was true she had no motive for wanting to kill herself, certainly not because of that stupid story of her first love for Momina, or some other mess. She wanted to be alone, to isolate herself from the uproar; and in her world you can't be alone or do anything alone unless you take yourself out of it completely. Now Momina and the others had already taken her up again: we all went together to pick her up at Montalto. Just remembering that day depressed me.
20
Rosetta returned, days later. This time too she stopped hesitatingly at the door. Becuccio saw her and said: "She's not looking for me."
That morning we were taking photographs to send to Rome and Febo turned the lights in the niches on and off, rearranging the position of a statuette that served as a model. He joked with Rosetta and told her that at Ivrea he had been seduced and deserted by two bad women. Then he wanted to photograph the two of us in front of the windows to let them know in Rome what Turin women are like.
"We need Mariella," I said.
We ended by talking about the play and Rosetta said that now Nene was preparing the set. "That's all she knows how to do," Febo said.
I asked Rosetta if she
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