Goliarda Sapienza - The Art of Joy

‘And who was this midget?’

‘Who is , you should say, Beatrice. He’s alive and well, fortunately. His name is Antonio Gramsci.’

From Beatrice’s diary, found many years later by Modesta:

7 January 1921

Why can’t one be happy for ever? Why does something always get in the way of our happiness?

It’s been a year since I turned to you, dear diary, and that’s because I was so happy and had so many things to do: get ready for the evening, rummage through the wardrobes or chest for a blouse or shawl to smarten up the dresses and skirts that Modesta had made for me when we were wealthy.

What beautiful things Grandmother had! Who would have imagined! I found so many ribbons and belts! And then, with Argentovivo, I would try new ways to wear my hair. How important it is to change one’s hairstyle! Modesta should do it too, I’ve told her so many times. All it takes is a new comb, a ribbon, some flowers; but of course, she’s like Nonna; she doesn’t care much about her personal appearance. Maybe because like Nonna she’s too intelligent. But it’s a shame because whenever I’ve managed to persuade her to let me do her hair, she looked fabulous, as even Carlo noted. Then too, it was so wonderful to find new flowers for the parlour and dining room, in the garden or at the market, and with Argentovivo, discover Carlo’s tastes — they have very different tastes on the continent — so that he wouldn’t tire of our food. It wasn’t easy because, as Argentovivo rightly says, men don’t like to talk about cooking and you have to be deft at discovering their preferences without asking. What’s more, they like to eat well even if they are intelligent and preoccupied like Carlo. Dear diary, I think I will stop here because seeing his name in writing hurts so much. It’s been a month since he left for Livorno to organize the birth of this new party. Who knows why it’s taking such a long time! Besides, everything should already be done according to what he said. What if that midget and the communist party that frightens me so still need him, and won’t ever let him come back?

5 March 1921

The more time passes, the more I hate this new party and all those comrades of his. What a disaster, that Sunday he took us to them. Before, we always spent evenings down in the parlour, and on Sunday afternoons he took us to the movies or the theatre. But that Sunday Modesta insisted so much … I have to stop because it makes me cry to think of those Sundays in that big sad, cold house, but at least he was still with us. It’s really true what Dante says:

There is no greater sorrow

than thinking back upon a happy time

in misery . 37

I must stop because I can already see tears spotting the paper. I don’t want to stain you, dear diary.

12 March 1921, five o’clock in the afternoon

I’ve wept so much, dear diary, but now I’m here with you again. Talking with you gives me great consolation. Another week has passed and no word from Carlo. Modesta doesn’t know when he’ll be back either. Or does she know he won’t ever return and doesn’t want to upset me? She must know, since she spends all her time with those socialists now, afternoons and even evenings. She comes to dinner and then runs off to them. I hate them, plus I just don’t see how she can enjoy being in that big room full of dusty books with only a table and some uncomfortable chairs — there isn’t even a sofa — with all those badly dressed men who talk loudly and smoke, with no respect for us women. I was so uncomfortable that Sunday! Not only were we practically the only women in there, but no one stood up when we entered. Not that I think they’re rude; they’re Carlo’s friends. It’s just that when they start debating, they’re not aware of anything anymore, as that woman told me. The only woman who was there besides us.

12 March 1921, 10:30 p.m.

I’m ashamed to tell even you, dear diary, but I’m jealous of that woman. She stole Modesta from me with her glib tongue and that high forehead, her hair cut short just like a man. Modesta doesn’t say so, but I know she admires her greatly. All she does is read. As if the books and magazines Carlo gave her weren’t enough! Now she always comes back with bundles of newspapers. She told me they’re back issues of the newspaper that this woman edits. Besides going to her house, I’m afraid she also goes to the print shop because she sometimes comes back with ink stains on her blouse. Of course I shouldn’t speak about it and I would never do so with strangers, but you are my one true friend. We’ve known each other since I was eleven years old and you have never betrayed me. I know I shouldn’t judge that woman and be jealous of her, and I ask forgiveness here before you and God, but I can’t help it. I hate her and, what’s even more shameful, it’s because she’s so beautiful … There, I said it. I’ll leave you now so I can go and pray and try to rid myself of this vile feeling that haunts me night and day.

13 March

I prayed and I hope I can manage to think of her neutrally, even if not as a friend. Mainly because she is a good friend of Carlo and, as Carlo told us, a champion of their ‘ideal’. She’s worked with the unions since she was a young girl; she’s been imprisoned and tortured many times. 38 She must not be as young as she seems, because Carlo said she was a comrade who took part in the strikes up on the continent — she isn’t Sicilian either — to promote a nine-hour day instead of the eleven hours which is the workday for all workers today. I remember now that on the few occasions that I went to her place, she insisted that a man can’t work for more than six hours a day. I did the wrong thing with Modesta, and now I’m paying the price for it. I should have let her talk when she wanted to speak with Carlo, rather than always interrupting her and acting silly. Nonna was right: I’m spoiled and lazy, but that will change, I swear to you and to God. And if Carlo comes back — I pray to the Madonna every night to grant me this favour — if he comes back, I’ll let them talk about anything they want and I too will try to study those books. I’ll do it for Modesta and to correct this self-centred nature of mine.

15 March

I tried to read the Communist Party Manifesto, but I couldn’t get through more than one page, at least for today. I understand it, but it makes me feel sad. I don’t know why, but it makes me sad and a little fearful. Can it be because of that spectre 39 that is haunting Europe? Why did Marx choose that dreadful word, ‘spectre’? Couldn’t he have found another word, ‘angel’, maybe? But so it is, and I have to overcome this fear! Starting tomorrow I will continue reading it each day.

20 March

I am no longer hopeful that Carlo will return. Just today, a postcard arrived saying: ‘Foggy greetings from foggy Turin to the goddesses of the sun.’ I seem to hear his voice in those few words. But if he sent the card, it means he’s still not coming back. I don’t have the strength to cry and pray anymore, dear diary, and I don’t think I even have the strength to talk to you. Besides, what would I tell you? It’s raining. If it weren’t for Eriprando with his games and high spirits, Argentovivo says this house would be sombre as … never mind.

25 March, afternoon

Though Carlo hasn’t returned, the Madonna has at least granted my prayer as far as Modesta is concerned: starting yesterday, she’s stopped going to those socialists. I wonder why? Whatever the reason, for me it’s a relief from the loneliness I had sunk into. Naturally I’m curious to know why she isn’t going there anymore. If I have the courage, I’ll ask her tonight. She too is very sad.