Selected Cronicas

THE ITALIAN WOMAN

Rosa lost her parents when she was small. Her brothers and sisters were dispersed throughout the world and she was sent to an orphanage attached to a convent. There she led an austere and deprived existence with the other inmates. During the winter the great mansion was permanently cold, and the work never ceased. Rosa did the washing, she swept out the rooms, and mended clothes. Meantime, the seasons passed. With her head shaved and wearing a long tunic made of coarse material, she often interrupted her sweeping to gaze out of the window. Autumn was the season she liked best, for she could savour it without going outdoors: through the window-panes she would watch the yellowing leaves fall into the courtyard, and that was autumn.

In this particular Swiss convent, whenever a man crossed the doorway, the floor had to be scrubbed and alcohol burned over the spot where he had been standing.

Then winter would return once more and Rosa’s hands became inflamed and covered with chilblains. Her bed was so cold that it was impossible to sleep. In that darkened dormitory, with her open eyes peering over the sheet, she would espy those tiny glancing thoughts. In some strange way those thoughts were paradise.

How and why, at the age of twenty, Rosa suddenly decided to leave the convent, I cannot say, nor could she herself explain. But she had made up her mind, although everyone opposed the idea. Her resolve was firm, her resistance passive. The nuns were horrified and warned her that she would go to Hell. But because Rosa made no attempt to justify her decision, she got her way. She left the convent and found employment as a housemaid.

She left carrying her small bundle of possessions, her head shaved, her skirt down to her ankles.

‘The world struck me as being…’ but she could not explain.

With her Southern Italian features, her oval eyes, and curves which were slow in asserting themselves, Rosa went to live with a family which had been recommended. There she remained day and night, month after month, never going out. She explained to me that at that time she did not know how ‘to go out’. She contemplated the wonders of winter from the windows without venturing out into that Paradise: she observed everything through those windows and no one could say for certain whether she was happy or sad. Her face was still incapable of expressing emotion. She looked through those windows with the rapt attention of someone at prayer, her arms folded, her hands tucked into her sleeves.

One afternoon when everything struck her as being much too vast — a free afternoon without any household chores was almost sinful — she felt that she should apply herself to something, adopt a much more disciplined, even pious attitude. She went downstairs, went into the drawing-room and selected a book from the bookcase. She went back upstairs and sat bolt upright in a chair, for she was unaccustomed to seeking comfort and pleasure. She began to read with concentration. But her spherical head — where tufts of vigorous hair had begun to sprout — her head became muddled. She closed the book, lay down, and closed her eyes.

The family waited for her to serve dinner, but Rosa did not appear. They went to look for her. Her eyes were swollen, inflamed, expressionless: she was burning with fever. The mistress of the house spent that night looking after her, but there was nothing anyone could do: Rosa complained of nothing and asked for nothing as the fever gripped her. Next morning, she looked thinner, her eyes half-closed. And she passed another day and night in the same condition. The family sent for the doctor.

He enquired what had happened, for there were clear symptoms of a nervous disorder. Rosa made no reply, nor did it occur to her to answer the doctor’s questions, for she was not accustomed to speaking up for herself. At this point, the doctor chanced to look at the bedside table and his eye caught sight of the book. He examined it, and looked at her with some alarm. The book was entitled Le corset rouge. He warned Rosa that she should not read such a book under any circumstances. She had barely left the convent, and her innocence constituted a threat. Rosa said nothing. The doctor continued:

— You must not read such books because they are false.

Rosa opened her eyes a little more widely for the first time. The doctor swore to her that the book was full of lies. He had sworn…

Rosa sighed and shyly gave a wistful smile:

— I thought that everything which was written and published in a book was the truth, she said, looking modestly at the first honest man she had ever known.

The doctor said — and one can imagine in what tone of voice:

— Nonsense.

Rosa slept, thin and pallid. Her fever abated and she was soon back on her feet. With time, people began to notice: what lovely black hair you have, they told her. Touching her hair, Rosa would reply: really!

How Rosa could be so happy at the age of forty continues to be a mystery. How she laughed. I know that on one occasion she tried to commit suicide. Not because she had left the convent. But because of a love affair. She explained that, when she fell in love, she had no idea that ‘things were really like that’. Like what? She made no attempt to answer my question. Ten years older than her lover, she laughs under that great mane of black hair and insists: I really cannot explain why I prefer autumn to the other seasons. I think it’s because in the autumn things wither so quickly.

She also insists: I’m not very bright. I have the impression that Madam is much more intelligent than I am. She also asks me: ‘Has Madam ever cried like a fool without knowing why? for I have!’ — and she bursts into laughter.