Go gently, and think about things. If we find out that she really is as she should be, good, wise, virtuous (we know she’s beautiful and you do like her, don’t you?) — now then, suppose she really is in serious danger, thanks to the villainy of her mother and that other scoundrel, and might well be sacrificed in some infamous bargain, would you flinch from taking suitable action, being her saviour?”

“Me? No, of course not!” cried Pomino, “But … my father?”

“Why should he oppose the marriage? Because of the dowry, I suppose? Nothing else! Do you know that she is the daughter of a very talented engraver, who died … well, who died in Turin … but your father is rich and he only has you. He could make sure you were comfortable without worrying about any dowry! And in any case, if, with the best will in the world, you cannot convince him, you should not flinch: fly the nest and everything else will sort itself out. Pomino, is your heart of straw?”

Pomino laughed, and I proved to him that he was a born husband, like some people are born poets. I described in vivid, seductive detail the joys of conjugal life with Romilda: the affection, the attention, the gratitude she would bestow on him, her saviour; and in conclusion:

“Now you,” I said, “must find the ways and means of getting noticed by her and speaking or writing to her. You see, at the moment, a letter from you could be a lifeline, hemmed in as she is by that fat spider. Meanwhile, I’ll go on visiting and I’ll watch for the right opportunity to introduce you. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Why was I so eager to get Romilda wed? For no reason, just, as I said earlier, for the sheer pleasure of impressing Pomino. As I talked, all the difficulties melted away. I was impetuous and took nothing seriously. Perhaps this was the reason women liked me, in spite of my slightly wayward eye and my body like a piece of firewood. This time, however, I must admit, my zeal derived in part from a desire to destroy the squalid web woven by the hideous old man and cock a snook at him into the bargain. This zeal was fed by thoughts of the unfortunate Oliva and also, quite naturally, by the desire to help a girl who really had made a profound impression on me.

Is it my fault if Pomino was too timid in following my advice? Is it my fault if Romilda, instead of falling in love with Pomino, fell in love with me? Even though I only ever spoke about him … Is it my fault indeed if Marianna Dondi, the widow Pescatore, was deceitful enough to convince me that it was my skill that had overcome her diffidence in no time at all, and had even achieved a miracle: making her laugh more than once with my madcap jokes? Gradually she made a truce with me and I was welcomed. I thought that having a rich young man in the house (I thought I was still rich) who showed unmistakeable signs of being in love with her daughter, had made her finally give up her iniquitous idea, if indeed it had ever crossed her mind in the first place. I had actually begun to doubt it myself.

It is true, I should have noticed that Malagna was never there any more, and that it might not have been insignificant that I was only received in the mornings. But who notices that sort of thing? It was, in any case, quite natural, since, in order to have more privacy, I would always propose an outing into the countryside, and these are more agreeable in the morning. Furthermore, I had fallen in love with Romilda, though I went on talking about Pomino’s love. I was madly in love with those beautiful eyes, that pretty nose, that mouth, everything, even a little mole she had on the back of her neck, even an almost invisible scar on her hand, which I kissed and kissed and kissed … on Pomino’s behalf of course, but passionately.

Yet, possibly, nothing more serious would have happened, if one morning, Romilda (we were at La Stia and had left her mother behind admiring the mill) had not suddenly abandoned the by now tired pretence of the timid, far-off suitor, burst into tears and threw her arms round my neck, trembling and begging me to take pity on her. She wanted me to take her away by any means possible, but far away, far from home, far from her dreadful mother, from everyone, now, immediately ….

Far away? How could I take her far away immediately? Afterwards, for several days, still intoxicated by thoughts of her, I strove to find an honest means of helping her, ready for anything. I began to prepare my mother for the news of my forthcoming marriage, now inevitable, for reasons of conscience, when, without knowing why, I received a chilly letter from Romilda, telling me not to bother with her at all and never to come to her house, seeing as how our relationship had finished.

How? What had happened?

That same day, Oliva ran into our house in tears and announced to my mother that she was the unhappiest woman in the world and that her family honour had been ruined for ever. Her husband had managed to prove that he was not the one at fault regarding their lack of children; he had come and announced it to her, triumphantly.

I was present at this scene. How I managed to restrain myself there and then, I shall never know. Perhaps respect for my mother held me back. Choking with anger and disgust, I escaped and locked myself in my room. Alone, tearing my hair, I asked myself how Romilda, after everything that had happened between us, could have lent herself to this ignominy. A daughter worthy of the mother! Not only had they shamefully deceived the old man, but myself as well. Like the mother then, she had used me, cynically, in her refined infamy, to serve her thieving desires. Meanwhile, poor Oliva was ruined.

Before nightfall, I went out, still trembling, and went straight to Oliva’s house. I had Romilda’s letter in my pocket.

Oliva, in tears, was gathering her belongings. She had decided to go back to her father, to whom, up until now, she had given no hint of how much she was suffering.

“Why should I stay now?” she said.