But is the sight of another’s suffering ever enough to open a man’s eyes? Instead, it takes the sweat of agony, the bitter pain that comes as we awake, lives with us as we walk the streets, lies beside us through sleepless nights, always raw and pitiless, covering us with shame.

Dawn broke wet and cloudy. The avenue was still deserted as I wandered back to the hotel. I saw Cilia and the landlady quarrelling on the stairs, both in their nightclothes. Cilia was crying. The landlady, in a dressing gown, gave a shriek as I went in. Cilia stood motionless, leaning on the handrail. Her face was white with shock, her hair and her clothes in wild disorder.

‘Here he is!’

‘Whatever’s going on here, at this time in the morning?’ I asked harshly.

The landlady, clutching her bosom, started shouting that she had been disturbed in the middle of the night because of a missing husband; there had been tears, handkerchiefs ripped to shreds, telephone calls, police enquiries. Was that the way to behave? Where did I come from?

I was so weary I could hardly stand. I gave her a listless glance of disgust. Cilia had not moved. She stood there breathing deeply through her open mouth, her face red and distorted. ‘Cilia,’ I cried, ‘haven’t you been to sleep?’

She still did not reply. She just stood there, motionless, making no attempt to wipe away the tears that streamed from her eyes. Her hands were clasped at her waist, tearing at her handkerchief.

‘I went for a walk,’ I said in a hollow voice. ‘I stopped by the harbour.’ The landlady seemed about to interrupt me, then shrugged her shoulders. ‘Anyway, I’m alive, and dying for the want of sleep. Let me throw myself on the bed.’

I slept until two, heavily as a drunkard, then I awoke with a start. The light in the room was dim, but I could hear noises in the street. Instinctively I did not move. Cilia was there, sitting in a corner, looking at me, staring at the walls, examining her fingers, jumping up now and then. After a while I whispered cautiously: ‘Cilia, are you watching me?’ Swiftly she raised her eyes. The shattered look I had seen earlier now seemed engraved on her face. She moved her lips to speak, but no sound came.

‘Cilia, a husband shouldn’t be watched,’ I said in a playful voice like a child’s. ‘Have you had anything to eat today?’ The poor girl shook her head. I jumped out of bed and looked at the clock. ‘The train goes at half past three,’ I cried. ‘Come on, Cilia, hurry! Let’s try to look happy in front of the landlady.’ She did not move, so I went over and pulled her up by her cheeks.

‘Listen,’ I went on. ‘Is it because of last night?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I could have lied, said I had got lost, smoothed things over. I didn’t do that, because I hate lies. Cheer up! I have always liked to be alone. Still, even I,’ and I felt her give a start, ‘even I haven’t enjoyed myself much at Genoa. Yet I’m not crying.’