Martora was delighted. “Oh, your charming friend! We had such a wonderful discussion the other day . . . there’s a young man who knows what he wants.”
“He may be as intelligent as you like, my dear Martora,” said Signora Gron, “but I find that quite the least affecting of all qualities. These people who do nothing but argue . . . I don’t say Massigher isn’t a fine boy. . . . You, Giorgina,” she added quietly, “when you’ve said hello, be a good girl and go to bed. It’s getting late, you know.”
“If you liked Massigher better,” retorted her daughter boldly, though trying to speak jokingly, “if you liked him better I bet it wouldn’t be late just yet.”
“That’s enough nonsense, Giorgina. . . . Oh, good evening, Massigher. We hardly expected to see you tonight . . . you’re usually earlier than this . . .”
The young man, his hair ruffled, stopped short on the threshold and looked at the family in horror. “But—don’t you know?” He moved forward, slightly embarrassed.
“Good evening, Signora Maria,” he went on, ignoring the reproach. “Good evening, Signor Gron, Giorgina, Fedri, excuse me, doctor, I didn’t notice you there in the shadow . . .”
He was plainly very nervous, pacing around from one person to the next as if bursting with some important news.
“Have you heard?” he began at last, since the others gave him no encouragement. “Have you heard that the riverbank . . .”
“Quite,” interrupted Signora Gron with masterly calm. “Terrible weather, isn’t it?” And she smiled, half-closing her eyes, trying to transmit some kind of understanding to her guest (Almost impossible, she thought to herself while doing so, a sense of occasion really isn’t his strong point).
But the father had already risen from his chair. “Tell me, what have you heard? Something new?”
“What do you mean, new?” interrupted his wife quickly. “I really don’t understand, my dear, you’re so nervous this evening . . .”
Massigher was puzzled. “Quite,” he admitted, casting around for a way out, “nothing new that I know of. Except that from the bridge you can see . . .”
“Well, naturally, the river in flood!” interrupted Signora Gron, helping him out. “Most impressive I should think. You remember the Niagara. Stefano? So many years ago . . .”
At this point Massigher moved closer to the signora and whispered, choosing a moment when Giorgina and Fedri were speaking to one another: “But signora, signora,” his eyes sparkled, “the river is right below the house, it’s most unwise to stay, can’t you hear the . . .”
“Do you remember, Stefano?” she went on as though she hadn’t heard him, “do you remember how frightened the two Dutchmen were? They wouldn’t go anywhere near it, they said it was an absurd risk, that one might get carried away . . .”
“Well,” retorted her husband, “it has sometimes happened, apparently, people leaning too far over, getting dizzy perhaps . . .”
He seemed to have recovered his calm, put on his glasses and sat down by the hearth again, stretching out his hands toward the fire to warm them.
Now for the second time they heard the disturbing muffled roar. It seemed to come from deep in the earth below them, from the farthest recesses of the cellars. Despite herself, Signora Gron stopped to listen.
“Did you hear that, Giorgina?” exclaimed her father, puckering his forehead. “Did you?”
“Yes, I did. I can’t imagine what it is,” she replied, the color gone from her face.
“Thunder, of course!” retorted her mother in a tone that admitted of no argument. “Just thunder . . . what do you think it is? . . . Not ghosts, by any chance?”
“Thunder doesn’t sound like that, Maria,” remarked her husband, shaking his head. “It seemed to come from right beneath us.”
“You know quite well how it is, my dear: every time there’s a storm it feels as if the house is going to collapse,” insisted his wife. “Then you hear the strangest noises in this house. All you heard was thunder, wasn’t it, Massigher?” she concluded, certain that he, a guest, would not dare to contradict her.
He smiled with polite resignation and answered evasively: “You mentioned ghosts, signora . . . this evening, as I was crossing the garden, I had the curious sensation of being followed . . . I heard footsteps, as if . . . quite definite footsteps on the gravel in the main avenue . . .”
“And rattling bones, and groans as well, of course?” suggested Signora Gron.
“No, just footsteps, probably my own,” he replied, “you sometimes get strange echoes.”
“Quite right, my dear boy . . . or mice, that’s far more likely, isn’t it? It’s certainly not a good idea to be as imaginative as you are, or goodness knows what one might hear . . .”
“Signora,” he began again in a low voice, “surely you can hear it? The river is right below us, can’t you hear?”
“No, I hear nothing,” she said curtly, replying in an equally low voice. Then, louder: “You’re not at all amusing with these anecdotes, you know.”
The boy could think of nothing to reply. He tried to laugh, amazed at the woman’s obstinacy. So you don’t want to believe it, Signora Gron? he thought bitterly. (Even in his thoughts he addressed her just as in real life, using the polite form.) Unpleasant things don’t concern you, do they? You think it’s uncouth to talk about them. Your precious world has always withdrawn from them, hasn’t it? Well, let’s see where your ivory-tower viewpoint gets you in the end.
“Just listen to this, Stefano,” she went on with sudden eagerness, addressing him across the whole room, “Massigher claims to have seen ghosts out in the park and he’s not joking . . . these young people certainly set a fine example.”
“Signor Gron, don’t believe a word of it,” and he laughed effortfully. “I didn’t say that at all, I . . .”
He broke off to listen. In the ensuing silence, above the sound of the rain, he thought he heard another sound swelling, threatening and ominous. He was standing in an arc of light from a slightly blue-tinted lamp, his lips parted a little; not frightened but throbbing with life, strangely unlike the people and objects surrounding him. Giorgina watched him with a feeling of desire.
But don’t you understand, Massigher? she thought. Don’t you feel sufficiently safe in this great old
