Ever since he had become a clerk, deprived of the physical exercise of country life and mentally stifled in his work, his great vitality had taken to creating imaginary worlds.

The centre of these dreams was Alfonso himself, all self-mastery, wealth and happiness. Only when daydreaming was he aware of the extent of his ambitions. To make himself into someone overwhelmingly clever and rich was not enough. In his dreams he changed his father. Unable to bring him back to life, he turned him into a rich nobleman who had married his mother for love, though Alfonso loved her so much that even in his dreams she was left as she was. Actually he had almost entirely forgotten his father, which accounted for his giving himself the blue blood needed for his daydreams. He would picture himself meeting Maller, Sanneo, Cellani with that blood and those riches. Then, of course, roles were entirely reversed. It was no longer he but they who were timid! But he treated them graciously, with true nobility, not as they had treated him.

Santo came to warn him that Signor Maller was asking for him. Surprised and rather alarmed, Alfonso returned to the room where he had been shortly before. Now it was all lit up; his chief’s bare head and red beard glistened in the glare.

Signor Maller was sitting with both hands on his desk.

“I’m glad to see you’re still here, a proof of diligence, which anyway I’d never doubted.”

Remembering Sanneo’s outburst a short time before, Alfonso glanced at him fearing that he was being ironic, but his chief ’s red face was serious, with blue eyes staring at a far corner of the desk.

“Thanks!” muttered Alfonso.

“I’d be pleased if you could come to my home tomorrow evening for some tea.”

“Thanks!” repeated Alfonso.

Suddenly Maller, as if he’d had difficulty in making up his mind, looked at him and spoke less carelessly.

“Why d’you make your mother desperate by writing to her that you’re not content with me or with you? Don’t look so surprised! I’ve seen a letter from your mother to our housekeeper. The good lady complains a lot about me, but about you too. Read it and see!”

He proffered a piece of paper which Alfonso recognized as coming from Creglingi’s shop. A glance told that it really was in his mother’s handwriting. He blushed, ashamed of the ugly writing and bad style. In some vague way he felt offended that the letter was being made public.

“I’ve changed my mind now,” he stuttered. “I’m quite content! You know how it is … distance … homesickness …”

“I understand, I understand! But we’re men, you know!” He repeated the phrase a number of times, then warmly assured Alfonso that he was well-liked in the office not only by himself and Signor Cellani but by the head of the correspondence department, Signor Sanneo, and by everyone else, all of whom hoped to see him make rapid progress. In dismissing him Signor Maller repeated, “We’re men, you know!” and gave him a friendly nod. Alfonso went out, feeling confused.

He had to admit that Signor Maller seemed decent enough, and easily impressed, Alfonso felt his position in the bank to be improved; at last someone was taking notice of him!

But he regretted not having behaved more frankly and sincerely; why had he denied truths confessed to his mother? He should have answered his chief’s kindness by telling him frankly of his hopes, and thereby had some chance of seeing some of them satisfied; anyway he would have got on to friendlier terms, since no one is ever offended by being asked for protection. He told himself he would be more frank on some other occasion, which would soon come up after this.

Meanwhile, to avoid contradictions between what he had told Signor Maller and what he had written to his mother, he wrote to her again, saying that his prospects at the bank were improving and that for the moment he renounced open air, oak trees and rest. Either he would return home rich or never return at all.

III

THE LANUCCIS, with whom Alfonso lodged, lived in a small apartment in a house in the old town near San Giusto. From there he had more than quarter of an hour’s walk to the office.

Just before her marriage Signora Lucinda Lanucci had spent a summer in Alfonso’s village as housekeeper to a family. She had then made the acquaintance of Alfonso’s mother, who had recommended her son. This introduction from Signora Carolina might have been worthless had the Lanuccis not been looking for someone to rent a small extra room in their house. And so Alfonso came along at the right moment and was welcomed.

A few years before, seduced by a longing for independence, Signor Lanucci had left a job which was not particularly good but did keep his family adequately, and had begun acting as agent for a variety of companies representing almost every conceivable article. But though the poor man wrote off every day to companies whose addresses he took from the back pages of newspapers, he still earned less than he had before as a clerk. And so now the family’s finances were so precarious that their mood was sad.

This had increased Alfonso’s homesickness, for sad people make places sad.

They treated him affectionately, but Signor Lanucci aroused Alfonso’s pity, particularly when he saw the poor man making an effort to be polite, to smile and to show interest in his affairs, though Alfonso realized that he himself was only a source of revenue.

Signora Lanucci, long accustomed to consoling her husband for his fruitless efforts, soon assumed a similar attitude to Alfonso’s and came to take such an intense interest in the young man’s affairs that she spoke of them as if they were her own. Signor Maller’s invitation, which Alfonso mentioned, aroused a most flattering reaction in her; she spoke of it as if it were sure to make the clerk’s fortune; so little was she used to good fortune that it took her by surprise.

Lucinda was about forty but, being small and plump with thick grey hair, looked more. She had never been beautiful. The small dowry she had brought her husband had melted away in some speculation with Turkish shares.