Read Online The Empty Canvas by Alberto Moravia - Free Book Online
Authors: Alberto Moravia
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champagne.
'Now let us drink a glass of champagne to your health.'
I watched Rita as, with movements which bore witness to a long-established habit, she drew the bottle from its bucket, undid the silver paper and, almost without any sound or gush of foam, pulled out the big cork. She poured champagne into our two glasses, and then hurried out of the room, as though she did not wish to disturb the festive rite with her presence.
There was I, then, champagne-glass in hand, standing opposite my mother, who had also risen to her feet and was holding out her glass towards me. 'Many happy returns of the day!' I exclaimed, not knowing what to say.
My mother started laughing. 'It's I who ought to say that to you,' she said, 'You're forgetting that it's your birthday, not mine.'
I could not help replying: 'The real celebration is yours. I've given up painting, I'm coming back to live with you, and so—many happy returns of the day!' And I bent forward and clinked glasses with my mother, who, this time, pretended not to have heard what I said. Then, after drinking, she placed her glass on the table and said: 'It's not cold enough.'
'Why? It seems to me very good.'
'Yes, but it hasn't been long enough on the ice.'
She took up her glass again and emptied it completely. Then she pressed a bell on the table. Rita reappeared. My mother made the same remark to her about the champagne not being cold enough, without receiving or, apparently, expecting any reply. Then she added that we would have our coffee in the study. Luncheon was over.
We left the dining-room and went into the study, a not very large room occupying a whole corner of the ground floor. Into this study I did not willingly go, in fact I avoided entering it because, I often reflected, it was a kind of temple of a religion which certainly was not mine. Indeed in this room my mother, seated in a big leather, gilt-studded chair, in front of a large baroque table of carved oak, against a background of bookshelves in which there were few books but many rows of files, devoted herself, either alone or in company with her men of business, to the ritual, so deeply moving to her, of the management of her affairs. That day, too, I followed her unwillingly; and, once we were in the study, I could not help asking her: 'Why here, couldn't we go into the drawing-room?'
My mother appeared not to hear me. She installed herself behind the table, beckoning to me to sit down opposite her in the armchair usually reserved for those who came to talk to her on business. Then she fumbled in her bag, pulled out a key, drew back slightly, opened a drawer and took out a long, narrow ledger which struck me as looking like a book to be used in church, or anyhow connected in some way with religion. However, as I suddenly recollected, it was the ledger in which a list of all our property was kept, tidily and in order. My mother closed the drawer, put down the ledger on the table in front of her, looked intently at me for a moment with eyes glassier than ever, and then said: 'A few minutes ago you asked me if we were rich, and I preferred not to answer because the maid was present. All the same, I'm glad you asked me that question. And now I'll give you all the information you wish — partly because,' she added at this point in a reasonable tone of voice, 'partly because I should very much like you to help me in the management of our affairs and to gain experience and take my place in a number of ways. As you've given up painting, you'll have plenty of time to do this.'
I could not repress a shudder at these last words. How serenely, how complacently my mother had pronounced the phrase, 'as you've given up painting'—without the least idea that, for me, it was equivalent to hearing someone say, 'as you've given up living.' With an effort, but this time without any spiteful intent, I asked: 'Well then, are we rich or are we not?'
For a moment she sat silent, looking at me with a strange solemnity.
'Now let us drink a glass of champagne to your health.'
I watched Rita as, with movements which bore witness to a long-established habit, she drew the bottle from its bucket, undid the silver paper and, almost without any sound or gush of foam, pulled out the big cork. She poured champagne into our two glasses, and then hurried out of the room, as though she did not wish to disturb the festive rite with her presence.
There was I, then, champagne-glass in hand, standing opposite my mother, who had also risen to her feet and was holding out her glass towards me. 'Many happy returns of the day!' I exclaimed, not knowing what to say.
My mother started laughing. 'It's I who ought to say that to you,' she said, 'You're forgetting that it's your birthday, not mine.'
I could not help replying: 'The real celebration is yours. I've given up painting, I'm coming back to live with you, and so—many happy returns of the day!' And I bent forward and clinked glasses with my mother, who, this time, pretended not to have heard what I said. Then, after drinking, she placed her glass on the table and said: 'It's not cold enough.'
'Why? It seems to me very good.'
'Yes, but it hasn't been long enough on the ice.'
She took up her glass again and emptied it completely. Then she pressed a bell on the table. Rita reappeared. My mother made the same remark to her about the champagne not being cold enough, without receiving or, apparently, expecting any reply. Then she added that we would have our coffee in the study. Luncheon was over.
We left the dining-room and went into the study, a not very large room occupying a whole corner of the ground floor. Into this study I did not willingly go, in fact I avoided entering it because, I often reflected, it was a kind of temple of a religion which certainly was not mine. Indeed in this room my mother, seated in a big leather, gilt-studded chair, in front of a large baroque table of carved oak, against a background of bookshelves in which there were few books but many rows of files, devoted herself, either alone or in company with her men of business, to the ritual, so deeply moving to her, of the management of her affairs. That day, too, I followed her unwillingly; and, once we were in the study, I could not help asking her: 'Why here, couldn't we go into the drawing-room?'
My mother appeared not to hear me. She installed herself behind the table, beckoning to me to sit down opposite her in the armchair usually reserved for those who came to talk to her on business. Then she fumbled in her bag, pulled out a key, drew back slightly, opened a drawer and took out a long, narrow ledger which struck me as looking like a book to be used in church, or anyhow connected in some way with religion. However, as I suddenly recollected, it was the ledger in which a list of all our property was kept, tidily and in order. My mother closed the drawer, put down the ledger on the table in front of her, looked intently at me for a moment with eyes glassier than ever, and then said: 'A few minutes ago you asked me if we were rich, and I preferred not to answer because the maid was present. All the same, I'm glad you asked me that question. And now I'll give you all the information you wish — partly because,' she added at this point in a reasonable tone of voice, 'partly because I should very much like you to help me in the management of our affairs and to gain experience and take my place in a number of ways. As you've given up painting, you'll have plenty of time to do this.'
I could not repress a shudder at these last words. How serenely, how complacently my mother had pronounced the phrase, 'as you've given up painting'—without the least idea that, for me, it was equivalent to hearing someone say, 'as you've given up living.' With an effort, but this time without any spiteful intent, I asked: 'Well then, are we rich or are we not?'
For a moment she sat silent, looking at me with a strange solemnity.
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