H o m e P a g e
IN THE PO RIVER DELTA WITH PAVESE, MORSELLI AND HEMINGWAY
(By Vincenzo Guerrazzi)
At that time I suffered from insomnia, not being able to sleep more than
three hours each night. My house is as noisy as a factory, it had been
built between two highways, so I decided to go to the Po delta - that
desolate marsh land large as a fragment of the sea, endlessly cultivated
with maize and alfa grass. I stayed at Oca Marina, only a few houses
scattered here and there in the lowland with a church and a cafè built with
the funds of the Land Reform. Behind the cafè there was the bank of the Po
river. I looked at the water which seemed to me as still as that of a
lake.
I entered the cafè. Sitting at the table there was a gentleman, about
sixty,
not so tall, rather thin and well dressed.
"Good day" the barmaid answered, while the man mumbled:
"I knew it, I knew it would end like that..." His face was troubled.
"It's as I imagined - he went on to himself. - I've always had faith in
myself, yet what has happened couldn't be worse. I've been a fool and like
all fools I've made many mistakes. I've done all this work for nothing."
He turned towards me and said: "Come along, Guerazzi, sit down here with
me".
'How can he know my name?' - I thought, sitting at his table. He offered
me a coffee, his hair was as yellow as gorse and plastered with
brilliantine.
He cleared his throat as we exchanged glances, and said:
"I'm Guido Morselli." We shook hands. My expression must have seemed a
little strange as I scrutinized him, his eyes shining like a cat's in the
darkness gave me a shock. Noticing my uneasiness he shifted his glance,
offered me a cigarette and we smoked together.
"One can live very well in the Valle dell'Oca," he said. As I was silent,
he repeated: "Here in the Valle dell'Oca one lives well, because the
people
here are simple". Somewhat confused I answered:
"It's the first time I come, so I cannot say."
Morselli didn't speak for a moment as though reflecting, then he pushed
back
his chair, drew out and opened a letter. Having considered it with
uncertainty,
he placed it on the table. Then he said:
"One wet afternoon I was in the cafè of my town drinking a coffee like
now,
more from habit than need. I had just received this letter, I studied it
then
as I'm doing now, because I hadn't the courage to open it. It was from the
Mondadori Publishers."
His delicate hands trembled as he took up the letter and began to read:
"Dear Dr. Morselli, referring to your phonecall we return your typescript.
Its creased condition, for which we apologise, shows that it has been read
and discussed by many people at length. To explain our doubts we will pick
out the important passages of the critics - To make the script 'The
Communist'
more readable, some radical changes are necessary. The subjects should be
arranged differently, more transversal, a more solid effort of
intervention
and explanation should be made. - However, the Author does not seem to
accept
this, therefore I advise not to publish the novel in its present form,
explaining to him as follows: - In literature one is free to expound one's
own
truths, with all the lights, shadows and underlying significance one wants
to
hide in it, but the political requisites of a political novel are a very
different thing -."
He returned the letter to his pocket, on his face an expression of mingled
pain
and disgust:
"My God! - he exclaimed, - what a hideous judgement! What way have these
people taken my writing?" He began to walk unsteadily up and down the
cafè,
unable to give vent to his feelings by either words or actions. Finally he
approached me and said:
"Come on, let's go for a walk on the river bank."
We walked along together in silence.
"Did you find somewhere to sleep? - Morselli asked me. I shook my head,
he continued: - I have a little house I share with a friend nearby at
Gorino
Sullam, there's room for you too." I nodded.
The evening was darkening and the shadows falling as we walked along the
bank,
the waters of the river vibrating in the perfumed breeze as twilight gently
came. The house was dark and silent, with no lights shining. I don't know
why I was following that quiet mannered man, why I felt so completely at
ease,
even though I had just barely met him.
"Come in, come in," he said.
Following him into the room I saw reflected in the glass a man with a comb
in his hand. He was breathless and very pale, his thin hands wavering like
flowers through his hair. He turned towards us and Morselli said looking at
me:
"This is Pavese."
The man examined me rapidly with an expression of dislike. He shook hands
and
repeated my name, surveying me out of dark black eyes. We followed
Morselli
into another room, Pavese remained standing, adjusting his lightly smoked
glasses. He repeated my name - Guerazzi -, and put a hand on my shoulder
but
I shivered and drew back slightly at the contact.
"Don't touch him, leave him alone", said Morselli.
At these words his face paled even more and in a cold harsh voice he said:
"Why the devil did you come to the Valle dell'Oca?"
"He can't sleep at home because of the noise, - Morselli answered for me.
- He has come for a rest".
The suit Pavese wore seemed like a sack covering the skeleton of a
scarecrow.
We sat down in one of the armchairs which were scattered untidily
throughout
the room. Morselli leant his forehead on the edge of the table close to
his
chair and remained a moment thinking. Then raising his head he gave Pavese
an indifferent glance, got up and opened the window. A half moonbeam
spreading
through the humid air with a pale diluted light illuminated part of the
room
and the face of Pavese. Morselli inhaled a breath of cool damp dewy air.
His
face appeared bitter and perturbed. He said:
"People are satisfied to live in a miserable world, provided they live."
Pavese passed a delicate hand across his forehead and approached him, they
were surprisingly alike. Moving to the desk Morselli took out another
letter.
Pavese repeated:
"Man is a coward because he accepts any kind of life, it's enough to
live."
He sat down and I looked at him with a tinge of curiosity. Morselli began
to
read, the words dancing before his eyes. He glanced through the letter,
stopped at a point and read aloud: 'As a reader in a Publishing House, it
is
a problem which does not concern me too closely. If rewritten, Mr.
Morselli,
I would find your book definitely stimulating. From what you say in your
accompanying letter, your life as an unlucky writer is divided in three
parts.
Be not a pessimist and have faith in life. Let me give you some friendly
advice - read the new American narrators and then rewrite your novel. We
from
the Enauidi Publishers will be proud to make you become a lucky narrator.
Yours Cesare Pavese'
Pavese's tense face reddened slowly. He answered:
"The basic reason for which I rejected your book at Enaudi - writing this
rubbish to you - has been an act of love, an act of love towards a young
man
who feels he can realize himself only through writing. In one's life there
are
other more important things, like the love of a child, or the warm body of
a
woman who loves you and stays close to you: much more than writing books!"
Morselli still clutching the letter in his hands, trembling, tried to
reply,
but his voice cracked. He made an effort and finally said:
"The body of a woman can warm you for five minutes, an hour a day at the
utmost if you're a particularly chilly fellow, and then there is only the
memory which lasts at the most another day. It's too easy to talk so, when
one has already had so much published, so many prizes and success which
don't
last the span of a day or a life." Agitated Morselli interrupted himself.
Pavese answered:
"You're wrong, I've seen my name on all the newspapers and I assure you I
was not happy. I felt like an invalid forcing himself out into the night
to
beg, but I didn't even have this strength because I was a weak and ghostly
invalid as the inexorable moment of death was approaching."
Morselli looked at him in silence, his face was pale, almost sad. His
companion continued:
"No, I don't believe I was wrong to refuse your novel."
Pavese made a long pause, looking absently at Morselli. I noticed a sudden
change in him, his absentminded expression had shifted to an attentive
interested one, like a camera lens when focusing the object. He asked
almost abruptly:
"Now that you're successful, are you always happy?"
Morselli, clearing his throat, answered without enthousiasm:
"No, not really"
Pavese's thin face had a strange expression, he said:
"Writing can never give you happiness, I'm glad, so very glad that you are
not happy with the success you have."
"Enough, - Morselli exclaimed decidedly. - You're envious because you
don't
want others to reach your success, your terrible success."
Pavese frowned in deep thought and answered:
"Guido, get rid of the shadows, the false triumphs, the ghosts of success.
I've never envied another's triumphs, I've only been envious of those who
succeeded in having a woman in their life. You are right, I have had a lot
of
success, a terrible success as you call it. But bear this in mind: at the
very moment that my name was dancing frantically from one newspaper to
another,
my life continued halfheartedly. I assure you that I suffered deeply
anyway."
"Nothing! there is nothing more terrible than working all your life and
obtaining nothing!", Morselli cried. They stared at each other:
"Women! - Morselli repeated again. - I have had all the beautiful women,
also the wrinkled ones who cover themselves with jewels and try to show
eternal
youth. I have frequented all of them but haven't found that serenity and
peace you think they give! Only the written page can make you taste the
joy
of
life."
"A rich and beautifully written page won't ever give you that warmth and
serenity that you can get from the voice and body of a woman, - Pavese
answered.
- When I was able to write a beautiful page, coloured with adjectives and
nouns, I read and re-read it many times, but in the end couldn't feel or
find
any warmth. I only felt that warmth when I found the strength and courage
to
burn it, but it was a strength that lasted just an instant or little more,
the
ephemeral heat of a rapid blaze. On the contrary, when I happened to meet
with an authentic beauty in the first bloom of her youth, I felt sensations
no
written page had ever given me. When my pleading look wandered, searching
for
comfort however passing and superficial, I became alive and filled with an
emotion no literary success could ever give me."
Morselli rose and walked around, a prey to some great inner agitation.
"Do you want to know what I think? - he said. - You're raving."
"No, I'm not raving, - replied Pavese very quietly, then added: - It
wasn't
pleasant entering a house where the air stagnated with the musty smell of
books, where I suffered, tortured myself, often unaware of my surroundings
or
of my actions. Alone with my writings, but without the voice of a woman.
Thus for one, two, three years I continued alone with my success, with the
silent words of my books which came to life only when I read them aloud."
Morselli stared him up and down and said:
"I've climbed all the stairs which lead to women. I've been in lively
company, I've had a merry life, always with different women, the same life
that you have always searched for. They gave me everything, but of this
nothing has remained. Only of a few do I remember some detail, some
particular, some expression which was already fading the day after our
meeting.
No Cesare, you've had it all, you have it all still."
Pavese remained stiff and motionless as death. He slowly removed his
glasses
and looked at his companion. The room was silent now: a tomb like silence
which lasted a few minutes. He rose again and moving slowly towards
Morselli,
tried to speak, but his voice trembled and died in his throat. He put on
his
glasses, his whole frame shaking. After a pause he finally said:
"If you don't have that special woman, it's as though the moon is sailing
higher and higher, piercing you and your heart again and again." He winced
as
if some deep trouble had assailed him and sunk into a chair as Morselli
shook
his head and mumbled something to himself. Pavese continued:
"I remember those swathed shoulders and that neck, she had prepared
herself
with extraordinary care, revealing just enough to carry me to perdition!"
"These are false problems, they're none of my business, - Morselli said
coldly. - I've thought a lot about this, spending sleepless nights
tormented
by the noise and the Publishers refusals. - His face reddened: - There's
not a
woman in the world who can give you the warmth and feeling of a well
written
page. You don't want to accept this because you've already had
everything."
Pavese turned and looked at him touched by his words:
"Think whatever you like, I'm not sure of anything except that we're on
the
same road now and that we have the same goal," he said.
Morselli's face became immensely sad: "I don't understand..." he murmured.
Pavese smiled faintly and bitterly:
"You don't understand, it's not that you don't understand, you don't want
to understand. Didn't you do the same thing yourself too? I mean, you
jumped
the fences as well, you also came over the obstacles. You didn't have to
jump
them, because you could have been happy with your women and your friends,
but
you couldn't resist the temptation of the written page, of success. I
wonder
you have never seen a child hidden in the warm body of any woman of yours."
Morselli ran his hands through his hair, he appeared listless and tired.
He murmured crossly - turning away as though ashamed:
"Noise bothers me and children make a lot of it."
Pavese raised his head, looking at him with a hard almost wild expression,
then said:
"I haven't had children because I've never had a woman. I've only had
success, that success you've searched in vain for and which has never freed
me from solitude. Children didn't bother me, I liked their noise, to me it
signified the continuance of life."
"Now you have a family, we are a family, we live together" - answered
Morselli, his eyes flashing angrily.
"This house is oppressive, let's go out," said Pavese turning towards me.
Morselli went to a small fridge in the corner:
"Let's drink something first, I'm so thirsty I could drain the Po! - and
took out some orange juice which he offered us both. He continued: - I
always
loved to write, my stories are not imitations, not even original, but they
are
true. In the cafè of my town, almost always deserted, I spent whole days
writing." While he spoke his agitation increased. Pavese smiled a trifle
maliciously. His friend pretended not to notice it and went on:
"Perhaps what I wrote was not intelligent, but it is the world which is
stupid... - He placed his empty glass on the table and burst out: - May all
Publishers go to the devil!"
Pavese replied:
"The best thing to do was to go and dance, you did go but you didn't stay
and thus you betrayed yourself."
"Ugh - a shaken Morselli sneered, his face taking on an expression of
pain.
- Dancing is horrible, disgusting. I dislike dancing. Let the critics do
the dancing."
He appeared disturbed and upset. As he turned his eyes towards me, I saw
great
anger in that usually kind face, but it immediately dissolved as he burst
into
laughter.
"Why don't we go out, we'll walk by the river and see what the eel fishers
and Hemingway have caught!" repeated Pavese rising. Morselli, sinking even
deeper into his armchair, didn't answer: a thousand thoughts seemed to be
flowing through his mind.
"Let's go and see them fishing!" Pavese insisted.
We went out, the moon was high in the sky, mirrored in the deep waters of
the
Po river. Thousands of fireflys flashed intermittently in the dark damp
night
of Gorino Sullam. A cock crowed answered by another, they began to
compete.
Every now and then the moon disappeared behind clouds heavy with rain and
it
was difficult to distinguish the surroundings.
"Ernest, Ernest!" Pavese called.
"Go to the devil you son of a bitch, - a hard rough voice answered.-
You've
made me loose a twelve pound carp!"
Some dogs began to bark as we arrived at the shore of the river. Hidden in
the reeds growing in the low water there were many small fishing boats,
while
in the center there was a punt with a man inside with massive slightly
curved
shoulders, the moonlight reflecting on his white beard.
"Ernest?" Pavese repeated, almost timidly.
"Shut up - shouted the man - For God's sake, it's no time to come here
and disturb me."
"What's going on, Ernest?" Pavese insisted.
"Who's there?" asked the man uncertainly.
"It's us, Guido and Cesare," Pavese said reassuringly.
The man in the boat didn't answer immediately, then shouted in an angry
voice:
"Go and look for tarts, you haven't a clue about life. Leave me in peace,
at least here in Gorino Sullam, to breathe in this air full of the scent of
the sea, the river and the damp grass. "
Pavese looked at Morselli and said:
"You see, Guido, the two of us joined together make one Hemingway - you
with your women and I with my success."
Morselli was silent. In the meantime the evening mist rose gently from the
river. Pavese and Morselli walked on ahead with me trying to follow, but
in vain:
"Wait for me, wait for me, - I called out to them. - I can't keep the pace
because your legs are much too long."
I got no reply and remained alone as they vanished silently, swallowed up
in
the milky mist of the Po river delta.
Trans. by Elaine Bennett
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Vincenzo Guerrazzi H o m e P a g e |
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