inseparable from his character. He had always been sad like this, or better, lacking in gaiety, like certain lakes whose waters mirror a very high mountain that blocks the light of the sun, making them black and melancholy. One knows that if the mountain were removed, the sun would make the waters sparkle; but the mountain is always there and the lake is sad. He was sad like those lakes; but what the mountain was, he couldn’t have said.
The waiting room, a little room just beyond the porter’s lodge in the palazzo, was full of odd people, the very opposite of what you would expect to find in the anteroom of a minister like that, famous for his elegance and the worldliness of his officials. Three individuals of a debauched and sinister cast, perhaps informers or plainclothes agents, were smoking and chatting in low voices next to a young woman with black hair and a white and red face, very flashily dressed and made up, to all appearances the lowest kind of prostitute. Then there was an old man, dressed neatly but poorly in black, with a white beard and moustache, maybe a professor. Then a thin little woman with gray hair and a breathless, anxious expression, maybe the mother of a family. Then him.
He observed all these people from under his lashes with urgent repugnance. It always happened like this: he thought he was normal, like everyone else, when he imagined the crowd in abstract, a great, positive army united by the same feelings, the same ideas, the same aims; and it was comforting to be part of this. But as soon as individuals emerged out of that crowd, his illusion of normality shattered against the fact of diversity. He did not recognizehimself at all in them and felt both disgust and detachment. What did he have in common with those three sinister, vulgar individuals, that streetwalker, that white-haired old man, that breathless and humble mother? Nothing except this disgust, this pity.
“Clerici,” yelled the voice of the usher. He started and rose to his feet. “The first stairway to the right.” Without turning, he headed toward the place the man had pointed out.
He climbed up a long, very wide staircase with a red carpet snaking up its center and found himself, after the second flight, on a vast landing with three big double doors. He went to the one in the middle, opened it, and stepped into the half-light of a large room. There was a long, massive table in it and in the middle of the table was a globe of the world. Marcello wandered around this room for a few moments; it was probably not in use, judging by the locked shutters on the windows and the dustcovers draped over the couches lined up against the walls. Then he opened one of its many doors and looked out into a dark, narrow corridor between two rows of glass shelves. At the end of the corridor he could see a door that had been left ajar, through which a little light was filtering. Marcello approached it, hesitated, and then very slowly and gently pushed on it. It was not curiosity but the desire to find an usher who could point out the room he wanted that led him to do it. Putting his eye to the crack, he realized that his suspicion of being in the wrong place was not unfounded. Before him stretched a long, narrow room, blandly illuminated by a window curtained in yellow. In front of the window was a table and sitting at the table in profile, his back to the window, was a young man with a broad, heavy face and corpulent body. Standing up against the table with her back to Marcello was a woman clothed in a light dress of big black flowers on a white background, a wide, black lace hat with a veil on her head. She was very tall and very slender in the waist, but broad at the shoulders and hips, with long legs and thin ankles. She was leaning over the table and speaking softly to the man, who was listening to her and sitting still, in profile, looking not at her but at his own hand fiddling with a pencil on the table. Then she came around to the
The waiting room, a little room just beyond the porter’s lodge in the palazzo, was full of odd people, the very opposite of what you would expect to find in the anteroom of a minister like that, famous for his elegance and the worldliness of his officials. Three individuals of a debauched and sinister cast, perhaps informers or plainclothes agents, were smoking and chatting in low voices next to a young woman with black hair and a white and red face, very flashily dressed and made up, to all appearances the lowest kind of prostitute. Then there was an old man, dressed neatly but poorly in black, with a white beard and moustache, maybe a professor. Then a thin little woman with gray hair and a breathless, anxious expression, maybe the mother of a family. Then him.
He observed all these people from under his lashes with urgent repugnance. It always happened like this: he thought he was normal, like everyone else, when he imagined the crowd in abstract, a great, positive army united by the same feelings, the same ideas, the same aims; and it was comforting to be part of this. But as soon as individuals emerged out of that crowd, his illusion of normality shattered against the fact of diversity. He did not recognizehimself at all in them and felt both disgust and detachment. What did he have in common with those three sinister, vulgar individuals, that streetwalker, that white-haired old man, that breathless and humble mother? Nothing except this disgust, this pity.
“Clerici,” yelled the voice of the usher. He started and rose to his feet. “The first stairway to the right.” Without turning, he headed toward the place the man had pointed out.
He climbed up a long, very wide staircase with a red carpet snaking up its center and found himself, after the second flight, on a vast landing with three big double doors. He went to the one in the middle, opened it, and stepped into the half-light of a large room. There was a long, massive table in it and in the middle of the table was a globe of the world. Marcello wandered around this room for a few moments; it was probably not in use, judging by the locked shutters on the windows and the dustcovers draped over the couches lined up against the walls. Then he opened one of its many doors and looked out into a dark, narrow corridor between two rows of glass shelves. At the end of the corridor he could see a door that had been left ajar, through which a little light was filtering. Marcello approached it, hesitated, and then very slowly and gently pushed on it. It was not curiosity but the desire to find an usher who could point out the room he wanted that led him to do it. Putting his eye to the crack, he realized that his suspicion of being in the wrong place was not unfounded. Before him stretched a long, narrow room, blandly illuminated by a window curtained in yellow. In front of the window was a table and sitting at the table in profile, his back to the window, was a young man with a broad, heavy face and corpulent body. Standing up against the table with her back to Marcello was a woman clothed in a light dress of big black flowers on a white background, a wide, black lace hat with a veil on her head. She was very tall and very slender in the waist, but broad at the shoulders and hips, with long legs and thin ankles. She was leaning over the table and speaking softly to the man, who was listening to her and sitting still, in profile, looking not at her but at his own hand fiddling with a pencil on the table. Then she came around to the
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