on the days.'
'You haven't told me what happened that day when you met Balestrieri at Elisa's home.'
'Nothing happened.'
'I see, nothing happened. But then, in the end, Balestrieri gave drawing lessons to you as well. How did that come about?'
This time she looked at me and said nothing. 'Did you hear what I said?' I persisted.
Finally she made up her mind to break her silence. 'Why do you want to know these things?' she asked.
'Suppose I'm interested in you,' I said, with the consciousness not so much of lying as of telling a lie which, in the very moment in which I told it, became true.
She looked up in the air, like a schoolgirl on the point of reciting a lesson before an exacting master, and then said: 'I saw Balestrieri again at Elisa's because she and I were friends and I used often to go there. One day I asked him to give me drawing lessons too, but he said he couldn't.'
I had always thought that Balestrieri ran after all the women he happened to come across; and now, here he was refusing the pretext which the girl offered him. 'Why d'you think Balestrieri refused?' I asked.
'I don't know, he didn't want to.'
'Perhaps he was in love with Elisa.'
'I don't think so.'
'Then why didn't he want to?'
Uncompromisingly she replied: 'At first I thought it was Elisa who had persuaded him: then I found out that Elisa knew nothing about it. He didn't want to, that was all. I thought he was annoyed at the idea of my coming to the studio and I suggested he should give me the lessons at my home, but he refused again. In fact, he didn't want to.'
'But you, why were you so anxious for Balestrieri to give you lessons?'
She hesitated, and then I saw her pale face grow red, in an uneven way, in light patches that succeeded one another. 'I had fallen in love with him,' she said, 'or rather, I thought I had.'
'And he paid no attention to you? But why?'
'I don't know.' She hesitated again, then, as though she had succeeded in finally overcoming her last remnant of waywardness, she broke into a kind of loquacity which, though still precise and economical, had in it less of reserve than her former manner. 'I suppose I didn't attract him, and that was all there was to it. We went on in that way for two or three months, and by then he was positively avoiding me and it made me unhappy. At that time I was really in love with him. In the end I resorted to a trick.'
'A trick?'
'Yes. One day when Elisa was due to go to his studio and I knew about it, I asked Elisa to lunch and told her he had telephoned to tell her not to come after all because he was busy, and I went myself instead.'
'How did Balestrieri take your trick?'
'At first he wanted to send me away. Later on he became kinder.'
'You and he made love that day, did you?'
Again she blushed, in the same gradual, uneven way, and nodded her head in assent, without speaking.
'How about Elisa?'
'Elisa never knew that I had gone in her place. But she and Balestrieri parted, shortly afterwards.'
'Are you still friends with Elisa?'
'No, we never see each other now.'
Silence followed. I realized that I was cross-questioning her almost like a policeman, and that further more she seemed to submit to my examination quite willingly; and I asked myself what it was that I really wanted to know. It was clear that it was not so much the facts that interested me as something which lay beyond the facts and which constituted their background and their justification. But what was this something? I asked bluntly: 'Why did you fall in love with Balestrieri?'
'What d'you mean?'
'What I mean is—why, exactly, with Balestrieri, a man old enough to have been your father's father?'
'There's no reason for falling in love with someone. You just fall in love and that's that.'
'There are always reasons, for everything.'
She looked at me and, in some strange way, seemed now to have come closer to me on the divan on which we were both sitting. Or was this possibly an optical illusion due to the
'You haven't told me what happened that day when you met Balestrieri at Elisa's home.'
'Nothing happened.'
'I see, nothing happened. But then, in the end, Balestrieri gave drawing lessons to you as well. How did that come about?'
This time she looked at me and said nothing. 'Did you hear what I said?' I persisted.
Finally she made up her mind to break her silence. 'Why do you want to know these things?' she asked.
'Suppose I'm interested in you,' I said, with the consciousness not so much of lying as of telling a lie which, in the very moment in which I told it, became true.
She looked up in the air, like a schoolgirl on the point of reciting a lesson before an exacting master, and then said: 'I saw Balestrieri again at Elisa's because she and I were friends and I used often to go there. One day I asked him to give me drawing lessons too, but he said he couldn't.'
I had always thought that Balestrieri ran after all the women he happened to come across; and now, here he was refusing the pretext which the girl offered him. 'Why d'you think Balestrieri refused?' I asked.
'I don't know, he didn't want to.'
'Perhaps he was in love with Elisa.'
'I don't think so.'
'Then why didn't he want to?'
Uncompromisingly she replied: 'At first I thought it was Elisa who had persuaded him: then I found out that Elisa knew nothing about it. He didn't want to, that was all. I thought he was annoyed at the idea of my coming to the studio and I suggested he should give me the lessons at my home, but he refused again. In fact, he didn't want to.'
'But you, why were you so anxious for Balestrieri to give you lessons?'
She hesitated, and then I saw her pale face grow red, in an uneven way, in light patches that succeeded one another. 'I had fallen in love with him,' she said, 'or rather, I thought I had.'
'And he paid no attention to you? But why?'
'I don't know.' She hesitated again, then, as though she had succeeded in finally overcoming her last remnant of waywardness, she broke into a kind of loquacity which, though still precise and economical, had in it less of reserve than her former manner. 'I suppose I didn't attract him, and that was all there was to it. We went on in that way for two or three months, and by then he was positively avoiding me and it made me unhappy. At that time I was really in love with him. In the end I resorted to a trick.'
'A trick?'
'Yes. One day when Elisa was due to go to his studio and I knew about it, I asked Elisa to lunch and told her he had telephoned to tell her not to come after all because he was busy, and I went myself instead.'
'How did Balestrieri take your trick?'
'At first he wanted to send me away. Later on he became kinder.'
'You and he made love that day, did you?'
Again she blushed, in the same gradual, uneven way, and nodded her head in assent, without speaking.
'How about Elisa?'
'Elisa never knew that I had gone in her place. But she and Balestrieri parted, shortly afterwards.'
'Are you still friends with Elisa?'
'No, we never see each other now.'
Silence followed. I realized that I was cross-questioning her almost like a policeman, and that further more she seemed to submit to my examination quite willingly; and I asked myself what it was that I really wanted to know. It was clear that it was not so much the facts that interested me as something which lay beyond the facts and which constituted their background and their justification. But what was this something? I asked bluntly: 'Why did you fall in love with Balestrieri?'
'What d'you mean?'
'What I mean is—why, exactly, with Balestrieri, a man old enough to have been your father's father?'
'There's no reason for falling in love with someone. You just fall in love and that's that.'
'There are always reasons, for everything.'
She looked at me and, in some strange way, seemed now to have come closer to me on the divan on which we were both sitting. Or was this possibly an optical illusion due to the
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