Zeno's Conscience Page 6

  I wasn’t in the least offended, and I was so grateful to him for his acquiescence that I thought to reward him by making him laugh. I went to Dr. Canestrini for an examination and a certificate. It wasn’t an easy matter because I had to submit to long and thorough tests. When I was given a clean bill of mental health, I triumphantly carried the document to my father, but he couldn’t laugh at it. In a heartbroken voice, tears in his eyes, he cried: “Ah, you really are crazy.”

  And that was my reward for the laborious and innocuous little farce. He never forgave me and so never laughed at it. To persuade a doctor to examine you as a joke? To have a certificate drawn up, as a joke, complete with tax stamps? Madness!

  In short, compared with him I represented strength, and at times I think that the disappearance of his weakness, which had strengthened me, was something I felt as a reduction.

  I remember how he demonstrated his weakness when that rascal Olivi persuaded him to make a will. The ‘will was important for Olivi, who wanted to have my affairs placed under his guardianship; and apparently he worked for a long time on the old man to induce him to perform that painful task. Finally my father made up his mind, but his broad, peaceful face turned grim. He thought constantly of death, as if that document had brought him into contact with it.

  One evening he asked me: “Do you think everything stops when we’re dead?”

  The mystery of death is something Ï think about every day, but I was not yet in a position to give him the information he was asking of me. To please him, I invented the happiest faith in our future.

  “I believe pleasure survives, because sorrow is no longer necessary. Decomposition could recall sexual pleasure. Certainly it will be accompanied by happiness and repose, since recomposition would be so toilsome. Decomposition should be the reward of life!”

  I was a total failure. We were at table after supper. Without answering, he rose from his chair, drained another glass, and said, “This is no moment for philosophizing—least of all, with you!”

  And he went out. Distressed, I followed him, thinking to stay with him and distract him from his sad thoughts. He sent me away, saying I reminded him of death and its pleasures.

  He could not dismiss the thought of his will until he was able to announce it to me as a fact. He remembered it every time he saw me. One evening he blurted: “I have to tell you something: I’ve made my will.”

  To relieve his nightmare, I immediately mastered my surprise at his communication and said to him: “I’ll never have to undergo that nuisance, because I hope all my heirs will die before me!”

  He was promptly disturbed by my laughing at such a grave matter, and he rediscovered all his desire to punish me. So it was easy for him to inform me of the fine trick he had played on me, making me Olivi’s ward.

  I must say I behaved like a good boy. I gave up any idea of objection, and to tear him from the thought that was making him suffer, I declared that I would comply with his last wishes, whatever they might be.

  “Perhaps,” I added, “my future behavior will lead you to alter your last wishes.”

  He liked that, also because he saw that I was attributing a very, very long life to him. Still, he actually wanted me to swear that, unless he decreed otherwise, I would never try to reduce Olivi’s authority. 1 swore a formal oath, since my simple promise wasn’t enough for him. I was then so meek that now, when I’m tortured by remorse for not having loved him enough before he died, I always summon up that scene. To be sincere, I have to add that it was easy for me to submit to his arrangements because at that time I found the idea of being forced not to work rather attractive.

  About a year before his death, I once took rather vigorous action for the sake of his health. He confided to me that he felt unwell, and I forced him to go to a doctor, accompanying him there myself. The doctor prescribed some medicine and told us to come back the following week. But then my father refused, insisting that he hated doctors as much as undertakers, and he didn’t even take the prescribed medicine because that also reminded him of doctors and undertakers. For a couple of hours he didn’t smoke, and for a single meal, he gave up wine. He felt very well when he could say good-bye to the treatment, and I, seeing him happier, thought no more about it.

  There were also times when I saw him sad. But I would have been amazed to see him really happy, alone and old as he was.

  *

  One evening toward the end of March, I was a bit late coming home. Nothing unusual: I had fallen into the hands of a learned friend, who wanted to expound to me some of his ideas about the origins of Christianity. For the first time I was obliged to think about those origins, yet I endured the long lesson to please my friend. It was cold and drizzling. Everything was unpleasant and gloomy, including the Greeks and the Jews of whom my friend spoke; still, I submitted to that suffering for a good two hours. My usual weakness! I could bet that even today I’d be equally incapable of resisting, if someone made a serious attempt to persuade me to study astronomy for a while.

  I entered the garden surrounding our villa, which was reached by a short driveway. Maria, our maid, was waiting for me at the window and, hearing me approach, she cried into the darkness: “Is that you, Signor Zeno?”

  Maria was one of those maidservants who are no longer to be found. She had been with us for about fifteen years. Every month she deposited a part of her wages in the savings bank against her old age: savings that proved of no use to her, however, for she died in our house, still on the job, shortly after my marriage.

  She told me that my father had come home a few hours before, but had insisted on holding supper for me. When she protested that meanwhile he should begin eating, she was dismissed rather rudely. Afterwards he asked for me several times, anxious and uneasy. Maria hinted that she thought my father wasn’t feeling well. He seemed to be having difficulty speaking and was short of breath. I must say that, being alone with him so much, she often got it into her head that he was ill. There were few things for the poor woman to observe in that lonely house, and—after the experience with my mother—she expected everyone to die before her.

  I rushed to the dining room, somewhat curious, not yet concerned. My father rose immediately from the sofa where he was lying, and welcomed me with a great joy that did not move me because I first caught his expression of reproach. But at the same time his joy reassured me, as it seemed a sign of health. I didn’t notice the stammering and shortness of breath Maria had mentioned. Then, instead of scolding me, he apologized for having been obstinate.

  “I can’t help it,” he said, in a good-natured tone. “The two of us are alone in the world, and I wanted to see you before going to bed.”

  If only I had behaved with simplicity, putting my arms around my dear father, whom illness had made so meek and affectionate! Instead, I began coldly to make a diagnosis: Had the old Silva become so meek? Was he ill? I looked at him suspiciously and could find nothing better to do than scold him myself: “Why did you wait this long to eat your supper? You could have eaten, and then waited for me.”

  He laughed, very youthfully: “I eat better in company.”

  This jollity could also indicate a good appetite: I was reassured, and I started eating. In his house slippers, his legs unsteady, he came to the table and occupied his usual place. Then he sat and watched me as I ate, while he, after a few scant spoonfuls, took no more food and even pushed away the plate, which revolted him. But the smile persisted on his aged face. I remember only, as if it were something that had happened yesterday, how a couple of times, when I looked into his eyes, he avoided meeting my gaze. They say this is a sign of insincerity, but now I know it’s a sign of illness. The sick animal will not allow himself to be observed at any orifice through which disease or weakness can be perceived.

  He was still expecting to hear how I had spent all those hours during which he had waited for me. And seeing that it meant so much to him, I stopped eating for a moment and said curtly that until now I had been discu
ssing the origins of Christianity.

  He looked at me, dubious and perplexed: “So you, too, are thinking about religion these days?”

  It was obvious that if I had agreed to think about it with him, I would have given him consolation. But, on the contrary, as long as my father was alive, I felt combative (afterwards no longer); and I replied with one of those trite remarks heard every day in the cafés around the University: “For me religion is merely an ordinary phenomenon, something to be studied.”

  “Phenomenon?” he said, disoriented. He groped for a ready retort and opened his mouth to utter it. Then he hesitated and looked at the second dish, which at that moment Maria was offering him. He didn’t touch it. Then, to gag himself, he stuck into his mouth a cigar stub and lighted it, allowing it to go out at once. He had granted himself a kind of interval, to reflect calmly. For an instant he looked at me resolutely: “Surely you don’t mean to laugh at religion?”

  Like the perfect idle student I had always been, I replied, with my mouth full: “Laugh? No, I study it!”

  He was silent, and looked for a long time at the cigar stub he had laid on a plate. I understand now why he said that to me. Now I understand everything that passed through that already clouded mind, and I am surprised how I then understood nothing. I believe my spirit then lacked the affection that renders so many things comprehensible. Afterwards it was so easy for me! He avoided engaging my skepticism: a challenge too difficult for him at that moment, but he thought he could attack it on the flank, gently, as befitted a sick man. I remember that when he spoke, his breath came in gasps and impeded his speech. It’s a great effort, to prepare yourself for combat. But I thought he would not resign himself to going to bed without pitching into me, and I prepared myself for discussions that then didn’t take place.

  “I… ” he said, still looking at his now-spent cigar stub, “I feel how great my experience is, and my knowledge of life. A man doesn’t live all these years for nothing. I know many things, and unfortunately I’m unable to teach them all to you as I would like. Oh, how I would like that! I see into things; and I see what is right and true and also what isn’t.”

  I could raise no objection here. I mumbled, unconvinced, as I went on eating: “Yes, Papà.”

  I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  “Too bad you came home so late. I wasn’t so tired before, and I could have said many things to you.”

  I thought he wanted to annoy me once again because I had been late, and I suggested saving that argument for the next day.

  “It’s not an argument,” he replied, with a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s something entirely different. Something that can’t be discussed and that you’ll know, too, as soon as I’ve told it to you. But it’s hard to say!”

  At this point I felt a suspicion: “You don’t feel well?”

  “I can’t say I feel bad, but I’m very tired and I’m going off to bed at once.”

  He rang the bell and at the same time called out for Maria. When she came, he asked if everything was ready in his room. He then started off immediately, his slippers shuffling over the floor. When he was at my side, he bent his head to offer his cheek for my nightly kiss.

  Seeing him move so unsteadily, I again suspected that he was ill and I asked him. We both repeated the same words several times, and he confirmed that he was tired but not ill. Then he added, “Now I’ll think of the right words I’ll say to you tomorrow. They’ll convince you, you’ll see.”

  “Papà,” I declared with emotion, “I’ll be happy to listen to you.”

  Seeing me so willing to bow to his experience, he hesitated to leave me: a favorable moment like this should be exploited! He ran his hand over his forehead and sat down in the chair he had been leaning on when he extended his cheek for the kiss. He was breathing with a little difficulty.

  “Strange!” he said. “I can’t say anything to you. Nothing at all.”

  He looked around as if he sought outside himself whatever he was unable to grasp within.

  “And yet I know so many things. Indeed, I know everything. It must be the result of my great experience.”

  He wasn’t suffering all that much at his inability to express himself because he smiled at his own strength, at his own greatness.

  I don’t know why I didn’t call the doctor immediately. Instead, with sorrow and remorse, I must confess that I considered my father’s words dictated by presumption, something I thought I’d observed in him several times. But I couldn’t fail to notice his evident weakness, and only for that reason I didn’t argue. I liked seeing him happy in his illusion of being so strong when, on the contrary, he was very weak. I was, besides, flattered by the affection he was displaying, showing his desire to pass on to me the knowledge he thought he possessed, though I was convinced I could learn nothing from him. And to encourage him and calm him, I said he shouldn’t strive to find immediately the words he lacked, because in similar predicaments even the greatest scientists stored overcomplicated questions in some cranny of the brain until they simplified themselves.

  He answered: “What I’m looking for isn’t complicated. No, it’s a matter of finding a word, just one, and I’ll find it! But not tonight because I’m going to sleep straight through till morning, without the slightest concern.”

  Still he didn’t rise from the chair. Hesitantly, after studying my face for a moment, he said: “I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell you what I mean, thanks to your habit of laughing at everything. “

  He smiled as if to beg me not to take offense at his words, and got up from the chair and proffered his cheek for the second time. I abandoned any idea of arguing, of convincing him that in this world there are many things that could and should be laughed at, and I tried to reassure him with a strong embrace. Perhaps my action was too strong, because as he freed himself from my hug, he was even shorter of breath, but he surely understood my affection, because he said good night with a friendly wave of his hand.

  “Off to bed!” he cried joyfully, and went out, followed by Maria.

  And left alone (this, too, was strange) I didn’t think about my father’s health, but instead, moved and—I may say—filled with proper filial respect, I regretted that for such a mind, aspiring to lofty goals, a finer education had not been possible. Today, as I write, approaching the age reached by my father, I know for certain that a man can feel the existence of his own lofty intelligence, which gives no other sign of itself beyond that strong feeling. Thus, you take a deep breath, you accept yourself and you admire all nature as it is and as, unchanging, it is offered to us. This is a manifestation of the same intelligence that decreed all Creation. Certainly, in the last lucid moment of his life, my father’s feeling of intelligence originated in his sudden religious inspiration, and in fact he was led to speak to me about it because I had told him of my discussion of the origins of Christianity. Now, however, I know also that this feeling of his was the first symptom of a cerebral hemorrhage.

  Maria came back to clear the table and to tell me that my father had apparently fallen asleep immediately. So I also went off to bed, completely reassured. Outside, the wind was blowing and howling. I could hear it from my warm bed, like a lullaby gradually moving away from me, as I sank into sleep.

  I don’t know how long I slept. I was wakened by Maria. Apparently she had come into my room several times to call me and had then run out again. In my deep sleep I felt at first a certain agitation, then I glimpsed the old woman hopping about the room, and finally I understood. She had wanted to wake me, but by the time she succeeded, she was no longer in my room. The wind continued singing to me of sleep, and to tell the truth, I must confess that I went to my father’s room with pain at having been wrenched from my sleep. God help her if he wasn’t ill this time!

  My father’s room, not large, was somewhat overfurnished. After my mother’s death, to lessen memories, he had changed rooms, taking all his furniture with him into the new, smaller room. Faintly illuminate
d by a little gas flame on the very low night table, the room was now immersed in darkness. Maria was supporting my father, who lay supine, but with a part of his torso extending from the bed. My father’s face, covered with sweat, was ruddy in the light nearby. His head was resting on Maria’s faithful bosom. He was growling with pain, and his mouth was so slack that saliva was trickling down his chin. Motionless, he stared at the wall opposite and didn’t look around when I entered.

  Maria told me she had heard his groans and had arrived in time to prevent his falling out of bed. At first—she assured me—he had been more distressed, but now he seemed relatively calm. Still she would not risk leaving him alone. Perhaps she meant to apologize for having called me, though I had already realized she had been right to wake me up. She wept as she spoke to me, but as yet I didn’t weep with her; indeed, I admonished her to keep quiet and not to make the fright of this moment worse with her lamentations. I hadn’t grasped the full situation. The poor woman made every effort to quell her sobs.

  I put my lips to my father’s ear and shouted: “Why are you groaning, Papà? Are you in pain?”

  I believe he heard, because his moaning grew fainter and he looked away from the wall opposite as if he were trying to see me, though he couldn’t manage to direct his gaze at me. Several times I shouted the same question into his ear, and always with the same result. My manly demeanor at once disappeared. My father, by that time, was closer to death than to me, so my shouting no longer reached him. A great fear overcame me, and I remembered first of all the words we had exchanged earlier in the evening. After just a few hours he had taken a step to see which of the two of us was right. Strange! My grief was accompanied by remorse. I hid my face in my father’s pillow and wept desperately, the same sobbing for which I had reproached Maria a little earlier.

  Now it was her turn to calm me, but she did this in a curious way. She begged me to be calm, but she spoke of my father, still moaning, his eyes all too open, as she might speak of a dead man.