He said nothing as I approached him unsteadily. I
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thought I noticed a look on his face that I had never seen before, one of boredom, disgust, and irritation which, for some reason, I attributed to the party. As I said earlier, I was moved by the aggressive desire to attack and defeat him with a few cutting words. But when I saw the look on his face, I thought: “He knows that the people he has invited to his party are stupid and contemptible … He knows that his social circle is doomed … He is better than they are … He could be one of us.” All of a sudden, my hostility disappeared, replaced by an unexpected, intoxicating feeling of affection and solidarity. As I sat on the bench beside him I asked almost timidly, “Am I disturbing you?”
He started, looking up at me as if seeing me for the first time. “Not at all …”
“What are you doing here, all alone in the garden?” I asked. “I thought you were dancing.”
He looked at me and said, slowly, “I’m smoking a cigarette … as you can see.”
“You’re bored …,” I said, my voice full of hope and understanding. “You needed a break …”
He looked at me again with some surprise. “I was dancing with Nella,” he said curtly, “and then we came here to talk for a moment.”
I noticed that he said her name casually, and also that he mentioned her before I did, as if to protect himself. But strangely, perhaps because of my drunken state, this observation did not inspire any particular reflections. At that moment, Nella was the furthest thing from my mind; even if I had caught her kissing Maurizio, I would not have reacted in any way. Making no reference to his response, I said, “Maurizio, why can’t you be sincere for once in your life?”
He shuddered and stared at me in silence. Then, slowly, cautiously, he said, “What do you mean?”
I told him I was drunk. Up to that moment my
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drunkenness had manifested itself only physically: an unsteady walk, clouded vision, confused logic. But as soon as I opened my mouth I realized that my drunkenness would also be revealed in my speech. As usual, this knowledge did not stop me; quite the contrary: “Even if you refuse to be honest with me,” I said, vehemently, “I’ll be honest with you … The time has come to speak openly.”
I wanted to shock him, but at the same time, because of the typical confused logic brought on by drink, I also thought that what I said was true and just, and that what I was about to say was even more so. “There is a kind of silent, wordless war going on between us,” I said, stumbling over my words with a fiery impulsiveness, “I know it and you know it … but at least I have the courage to admit it.”
“A silent … wordless war?”
“For as long as we’ve known each other,” I went on, unflinching, “we’ve been engaged in a battle, and each of us wants to declare victory over the other … One could say that our struggle began on the day we first laid eyes on each other … I don’t know why, really … Perhaps because of the social chasm between us … You’re rich and I’m poor, you come from an established family, and my roots are obscure … Or perhaps the real reason is that you feel more powerful and want to impose your strength, and I cannot help but react to this imposition … But at the same time,” I continued in a triumphant tone, “even though we hate each other, we also love each other … It’s useless to deny it … I am mysteriously drawn to you, and you to me … We avoid each other and seek each other out … I don’t know what you feel, but I know very well what I feel.”
“What do you feel?” he asked slowly. If I had been less over-excited and more sober, I might have noticed a sudden coldness in his voice, almost like a clinical curiosity.
“I feel a sort of attraction,” I said, “and I know why … I consider you to be an extraordinary person, highly intelligent, with great charm. These are rare qualities … At the same time I hate to see these qualities go to waste, not be put to any good purpose … You lead a useless life, among useless, or worse, contemptible, people”—I made a vague gesture in the direction of the house—“and you don’t
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realize that your strength, which is already considerable, would be increased many times over if it were put to use.”
“By becoming a Communist?” he asked, quite serious and without the slightest touch of irony, now observing me with real curiosity.
“That’s right,” I said confidently, “why not become a Communist, like me?” As I said this I put my hand on his arm. “Don’t deny it, you know that the people here tonight are empty, contemptible, awful … You know that the social class you belong to is doomed … You know it … so why don’t you draw the logical conclusion?”
He was studying me closely. With a slight effort, he said, “Yes, I know … What about it?”
If I had been less drunk, I would have noticed that he was not looking directly at me but rather above my head, dreamily, at the trees. His distracted state was significant. I noted it without reflecting on its significance. I went on, ardently: “If you already know this, then why, why …”
“Why don’t I follow your example?” he said, casually finishing my sentence.
“Yes, why?”
He was quiet for a moment. “We’ll discuss it another time … Tell me more about this battle we’ve been waging … How do you see it?”
I felt a wave of aggravation and anger, and yelled out: “See? You don’t have the courage to look squarely at the logical conclusions of your feelings and thoughts … Nevertheless, the battle between us will end with my victory …”
“Why is that?” he asked, smiling slightly.
“Because after being the weaker combatant for a long time, I am now in a position of strength, that’s why … Because you insist on untenable positions, while I have the courage to overcome them … Because I am no longer the useless little intellectual that you used to make fun of … I am a new man, and you are a relic of the past, like all the people you know. Everything around you is old … this house, the furniture, the fabrics, the chairs … the people … everything is old … and if you don’t watch out, you’ll suffer the same fate … you’ll die.”