La Figlia che Piange

It was late and the deepening streets were dumb. I could not hear the shops, or the traffic on the river. Some one else was playing the piano in the next room, and the tune was of those which keep the heart serene. My thoughts were of you, and of the times when I had been with you, and when I had been less alone than now. You were sitting on the floor leaning against the sofa. Your hands were clasped; your head was bent forward; you were weeping quietly.

You wept for the poverty of the world, for the waste of life and for the futility of endeavour. You did not weep for the loss of one man, but for the losses of all men: for the failure of effort, for the ambitions that find their end in nothing, for the loves that have no consummation. You did not raise your head; you did not speak. I sat looking at you, and now and again I made some light remark to keep the conversation going.

Once, when you looked up and I saw you, I thought of the tower of Babel and of those who laboured there, adding stone to stone with a single voice, and in the end could not agree. You smiled as though at some remembered jest. 'Why do you laugh?' I said. 'Because one must laugh,' you answered. 'If one does not laugh, one must cry; and these things are so large that laughter seems better.'

I tried to soothe you with words. I told you that the city was full of lights, that the night was young, that there were good things yet to be done. You drew your breath in, and the tears came back and fell upon your hands. 'It is not that,' you said. 'It is not the city's fault, nor the night; it is only that I remember certain faces, and certain voices, and certain promises which were once given and are now broken.'

I thought of the faces you mentioned: their thinness, the way they smiled in the sunlight, the way they were sometimes harsh and sometimes patient. I thought of the voices which had spoken to you like a wind through a field, and then had passed away. 'And yet,' I said, 'after all this, why should you be sad? You are young. There are so many things. The world will give you new faces, new voices.'

You shook your head. 'No,' you said; 'the faces that mattered to me are gone, and the others are only substitutes. One does not replace a face that was the face of destiny; one only makes an arrangement with accident.' Then you grew silent and looked at the floor as if you had seen there some inscrutable mark.

I took your hand in mine. It was cold. I pressed it to my lips. You did not withdraw it. For a moment I fancied that your tears had ceased. The piano in the next room played the same tune; the lamp burned steadily; the night went on. 'Promise me,' you said suddenly, 'that if ever I break my word I shall be forgiven.'

'I cannot promise,' I answered. 'I do not know if one can promise anything when one is young. But I will try. I will try for your sake.' You smiled faintly and your eyes were wet again. 'That is all one can ask,' you whispered. 'One can ask no more than that.'

So we sat there till the dawn began to pale. The city grew slowly less obscure; the lamps paled; the piano ceased. You rose and put on your hat. 'Good-bye,' you said. 'Good-bye,' I answered. You went out into the morning and I saw your figure vanish into the crowd. For a long time I stood at the window and watched the street where you had gone, thinking of the small brave acts and the greater tragedies that make up a life.