painted any more.
"It was just for fun," she said. "You can't play all the time."
"These Turin girls," Febo said, "know how to paint, act, play instruments, dance, knit. Some of them never leave off."
Rosetta looked at me sadly. Her dress reminded me that there was sun outside, a beautiful March day.
"Only the trades that hunger drives you to, you never drop," Rosetta said. "I'd like to have to earn my living knitting."
Febo said that hunger wasn't enough to make you succeed: you had to know your trade the way starving people know hunger, and practice it like gentlemen.
"Everybody who wants to doesn't die of hunger," Rosetta said, looking at us with those still eyes, "and the gentleman is not always the one with money."
Becuccio stood there listening, and the photographer—black bow tie, like Loris—rubbed his hands.
I said we must hurry. While they were shooting pictures I took Rosetta upstairs and down and showed her how the shop had turned out. She also liked the curtains and the other materials. We discussed the lighting. I was called to the phone.
"I'm leaving," Rosetta said. "Thanks."
"We'll see each other again," I said.
In the evening I saw Momina with some other people—new people, possible future clients—and there was talk of an auto trip, of going to the Riviera some Sunday. "Let's tell Rosetta, too," Momina said.
"Of course."
Some days later, Mariella and Rosetta drove up to Via Po, and Mariella, blond and fresh, shouted from the driver's seat that I should take a ride with them. "I work mornings," I said.
"Come and visit us," she said. "Grandmother wants to get to know you better."
I waved to Rosetta and they left.
The next day Rosetta appeared at the door, alone.
"Come in," I said. "How are you?"
We walked under the porticoes, talking, and stopped to look at the copper engravings and dark leather bindings in Bussola's window.
"It might almost do for a living room the way it is," I said.
"Do you like books?" Rosetta said, livening up. "Do you read much?"
"During the war. One didn't know what to do. But now I don't manage at all. I always feel I'm putting my nose into somebody else's business..."
Rosetta was amused and look hard at me.
"... It seems indecent. Like opening other people's letters ..."
Rosetta, however, had read a little of everything. She had gone to the university, she admitted with embarrassment, almost ashamed.
"How was it that Momina studied in Switzerland?" I said.
Momina was the daughter of nobles who had spent their last penny in bringing her up. Then she had married a Tuscan landowner, and it was nice that she had never let herself be called baroness. Anyhow, she no longer had the title. Rosetta knew Neri, her husband; she had been with Momina at Versailles the very summer that Neri was courting her. It had been a wonderful summer for Rosetta, too. She had enjoyed watching Momina torment Neri, like a mouse. Four years ago. Poor Neri, he was elegant and stupid.
"Just what one needs," I observed.
But after the marriage Neri had got his revenge. After all, his grandfather had only been a steward, one of those who go around on horseback, wearing riding boots. Neri had an excuse to stay in the country to look after his lands, and Momina had left him.
"You, Rosetta, are you like Neri or like Momina?" I asked her.
"How do you mean?"
"Your father's a working man," I said. "Do you admire your father?"
"I'm more like Momina," she said without hesitation, and smiled.
So we went to the Riviera. The novelty of this trip was Nene's coming too. We took two cars, two magnificent Studebakers. I was seated between Nene and Rosetta, and some baron drove us, a young man, a donkey who didn't know the score but did know paintings. He drove all the time, half turned around to talk to Nene about plays and Frenchmen. Momina was up ahead in Mariella's car, which was full of people I had barely met. It was still dark and rain was threatening. But everyone swore the sun always shone
"It was just for fun," she said. "You can't play all the time."
"These Turin girls," Febo said, "know how to paint, act, play instruments, dance, knit. Some of them never leave off."
Rosetta looked at me sadly. Her dress reminded me that there was sun outside, a beautiful March day.
"Only the trades that hunger drives you to, you never drop," Rosetta said. "I'd like to have to earn my living knitting."
Febo said that hunger wasn't enough to make you succeed: you had to know your trade the way starving people know hunger, and practice it like gentlemen.
"Everybody who wants to doesn't die of hunger," Rosetta said, looking at us with those still eyes, "and the gentleman is not always the one with money."
Becuccio stood there listening, and the photographer—black bow tie, like Loris—rubbed his hands.
I said we must hurry. While they were shooting pictures I took Rosetta upstairs and down and showed her how the shop had turned out. She also liked the curtains and the other materials. We discussed the lighting. I was called to the phone.
"I'm leaving," Rosetta said. "Thanks."
"We'll see each other again," I said.
In the evening I saw Momina with some other people—new people, possible future clients—and there was talk of an auto trip, of going to the Riviera some Sunday. "Let's tell Rosetta, too," Momina said.
"Of course."
Some days later, Mariella and Rosetta drove up to Via Po, and Mariella, blond and fresh, shouted from the driver's seat that I should take a ride with them. "I work mornings," I said.
"Come and visit us," she said. "Grandmother wants to get to know you better."
I waved to Rosetta and they left.
The next day Rosetta appeared at the door, alone.
"Come in," I said. "How are you?"
We walked under the porticoes, talking, and stopped to look at the copper engravings and dark leather bindings in Bussola's window.
"It might almost do for a living room the way it is," I said.
"Do you like books?" Rosetta said, livening up. "Do you read much?"
"During the war. One didn't know what to do. But now I don't manage at all. I always feel I'm putting my nose into somebody else's business..."
Rosetta was amused and look hard at me.
"... It seems indecent. Like opening other people's letters ..."
Rosetta, however, had read a little of everything. She had gone to the university, she admitted with embarrassment, almost ashamed.
"How was it that Momina studied in Switzerland?" I said.
Momina was the daughter of nobles who had spent their last penny in bringing her up. Then she had married a Tuscan landowner, and it was nice that she had never let herself be called baroness. Anyhow, she no longer had the title. Rosetta knew Neri, her husband; she had been with Momina at Versailles the very summer that Neri was courting her. It had been a wonderful summer for Rosetta, too. She had enjoyed watching Momina torment Neri, like a mouse. Four years ago. Poor Neri, he was elegant and stupid.
"Just what one needs," I observed.
But after the marriage Neri had got his revenge. After all, his grandfather had only been a steward, one of those who go around on horseback, wearing riding boots. Neri had an excuse to stay in the country to look after his lands, and Momina had left him.
"You, Rosetta, are you like Neri or like Momina?" I asked her.
"How do you mean?"
"Your father's a working man," I said. "Do you admire your father?"
"I'm more like Momina," she said without hesitation, and smiled.
So we went to the Riviera. The novelty of this trip was Nene's coming too. We took two cars, two magnificent Studebakers. I was seated between Nene and Rosetta, and some baron drove us, a young man, a donkey who didn't know the score but did know paintings. He drove all the time, half turned around to talk to Nene about plays and Frenchmen. Momina was up ahead in Mariella's car, which was full of people I had barely met. It was still dark and rain was threatening. But everyone swore the sun always shone
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