Old men, on the other hand, who are said to be better protected against the passions, give themselves up to them in full knowledge and enter the bed of sin with no other precaution than a due regard for catching chills.
Not that love is simple, even for old men. For them its motives are complicated. They know that they must make excuses. Our old man said to himself: “This is my first real adventure since the death of my wife.” In the language of the old an adventure is real when it involves the heart. It may be said that an old man is rarely young enough to be able to have an adventure that is not real, because this is an extension that serves to mask a weakness. Similarly, when weak men give a punch, they use not only the hand, the arm and the shoulder, but also the chest and the other shoulder. The blow is feeble owing to the excessive extension of the effort, while the adventure loses in distinctness and becomes more risky.
Then the old man thought that it was the childlike eye of the girl that had conquered him. Old men, when they fall in love, always pass through a stage of paternity and each embrace is an act of incest, carrying with it the bitter savour of incest.
And the third important idea the old man had when he felt himself deliciously guilty and deliciouslyyoung, was: “My youth is returning.” So great is the selfishness of an old man that his thoughts do not remain fixed on the object of his love for a single moment without immediately turning back to contemplate himself. When he wants a woman, he is like king David, expecting to have his youth renewed by young girls.
The old man of classical comedy who is convinced that he can rival youth must be very rare to-day, if indeed he still exists. My old man continued to soliloquise and said to himself: “Here is a girl I shall buy, if she is for sale.”
“Tergesteo—Are you not getting off?” asked the girl before starting the tram. The nice old man, rather confused, looked at his watch. “I shall go on a little further,” he said.
There was no longer a crowd, and he had no further excuse for remaining so near the girl. He stood up and leant back in a corner whence he could see her comfortably. She must have been aware that she was being looked at, because, when she was not busy driving, she examined him curiously.
He asked her how long she had been at this tiring job. “A month.” It was not so very tiring, she said, just as she was forced to lean the whole of her small body against a lever to apply the brake, but sometimes very dull. Worst of all, the pay was not enough. Her father still worked, but with food at such a price, it was hard to make ends meet. And, still intent upon her work,she addressed him by his surname: “If you liked, it would be easy for you to find me something better.” She glanced quickly at him to judge from his expression the effect of her request.
The sudden use of his own name gave the nice old man rather a shock. The name of an old man is always a little ancient, and therefore imposes obligations on its bearer. He concealed all traces of strain that might betray his desire in his face. He was not surprised that the girl should know his name, because nearly all the richest families had left town, and the few well-to-do ones remaining were the more conspicuous. He looked away and said with great seriousness: “It is rather difficult now, but I will think it over. What can you do?” She could read and write and do accounts. The only languages she knew were Triestine and Friulian.
An old woman on the footboard began to laugh noisily: “Triestine and Friulian her only languages! Ah, that’s good!” The girl laughed too, and the old man, still rigid from his efforts to conceal the excitement within him, laughed unnaturally. The peasant woman, pleased to talk with a gentleman of his position, kept up a continual chatter, and the old man encouraged her the better to appear indifferent. At last she left them alone.
Not that love is simple, even for old men. For them its motives are complicated. They know that they must make excuses. Our old man said to himself: “This is my first real adventure since the death of my wife.” In the language of the old an adventure is real when it involves the heart. It may be said that an old man is rarely young enough to be able to have an adventure that is not real, because this is an extension that serves to mask a weakness. Similarly, when weak men give a punch, they use not only the hand, the arm and the shoulder, but also the chest and the other shoulder. The blow is feeble owing to the excessive extension of the effort, while the adventure loses in distinctness and becomes more risky.
Then the old man thought that it was the childlike eye of the girl that had conquered him. Old men, when they fall in love, always pass through a stage of paternity and each embrace is an act of incest, carrying with it the bitter savour of incest.
And the third important idea the old man had when he felt himself deliciously guilty and deliciouslyyoung, was: “My youth is returning.” So great is the selfishness of an old man that his thoughts do not remain fixed on the object of his love for a single moment without immediately turning back to contemplate himself. When he wants a woman, he is like king David, expecting to have his youth renewed by young girls.
The old man of classical comedy who is convinced that he can rival youth must be very rare to-day, if indeed he still exists. My old man continued to soliloquise and said to himself: “Here is a girl I shall buy, if she is for sale.”
“Tergesteo—Are you not getting off?” asked the girl before starting the tram. The nice old man, rather confused, looked at his watch. “I shall go on a little further,” he said.
There was no longer a crowd, and he had no further excuse for remaining so near the girl. He stood up and leant back in a corner whence he could see her comfortably. She must have been aware that she was being looked at, because, when she was not busy driving, she examined him curiously.
He asked her how long she had been at this tiring job. “A month.” It was not so very tiring, she said, just as she was forced to lean the whole of her small body against a lever to apply the brake, but sometimes very dull. Worst of all, the pay was not enough. Her father still worked, but with food at such a price, it was hard to make ends meet. And, still intent upon her work,she addressed him by his surname: “If you liked, it would be easy for you to find me something better.” She glanced quickly at him to judge from his expression the effect of her request.
The sudden use of his own name gave the nice old man rather a shock. The name of an old man is always a little ancient, and therefore imposes obligations on its bearer. He concealed all traces of strain that might betray his desire in his face. He was not surprised that the girl should know his name, because nearly all the richest families had left town, and the few well-to-do ones remaining were the more conspicuous. He looked away and said with great seriousness: “It is rather difficult now, but I will think it over. What can you do?” She could read and write and do accounts. The only languages she knew were Triestine and Friulian.
An old woman on the footboard began to laugh noisily: “Triestine and Friulian her only languages! Ah, that’s good!” The girl laughed too, and the old man, still rigid from his efforts to conceal the excitement within him, laughed unnaturally. The peasant woman, pleased to talk with a gentleman of his position, kept up a continual chatter, and the old man encouraged her the better to appear indifferent. At last she left them alone.
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