How was anyone to know, however, that the thing everyone called ‘life’ had yet to even begin for her, that destiny would turn everything upside-down and thrust her into the hands, the clenched hands, of that unforgettable Friend? Happiness is terrible, it leaves you naked, defenceless, anonymous. One Easter morning, the ‘Miss’ was walking among the columns of the Roman forum, dissolving in the morning air, disintegrating under the sun, amidst the sound of church bells; neither of them offered an explanation or recrimination, the naturalness of this new encounter assuring a perfect congruity that years of ambiguity – oh, how futile! – never succeeded in corroding. Younger at twenty-five than she had been at eighteen, the young woman, who had been so covetous of her own unhappiness, now reveals absolutely no trace or sign of her former self, her wide smile showing bright white teeth, all her pores exuding a steadily ecstatic amazement. Perhaps the Friend says, How beautiful you are, but she doesn’t react. She has no interest in comparing herself to any former images of herself now that she is being offered – but she was a little afraid of it – a new name, a new situation, new tools that she didn’t know how to use. On her horizon everything is too ‘ready’, too planned out in advance. It is not easy to get used to being a ‘young wife’; it embarrasses her, makes her ashamed. She feels she no longer has any words or actions of her own, that her joyous triumph actually conceals a trap that every so often paralyses her, despite the enchantment of living in the Beloved’s home, sitting at his table, certain that every evening, sooner or later, delightedly, she would hear the sound of his key turning in the lock, the sound of his approaching footsteps. A boundless sweetness suffocates her, clouds her eyes and ears, tatters her will. Passivity is dangerous: her life now like that of a sated and playful animal, she’s aware of the hidden perils of swathes of free time, her susceptibility to caprice. The acts of love, once nettlesome and shocking, from one day to the next are not only validated, but virtually imposed by a new code. And it greatly disturbs her. Something, then, has changed: for better or for worse? For the better, for the better, she swiftly concludes, but instinctively she hesitates. In fact, the imposition of certain rights seems to her a vile hoax.

Unemployed, she throws herself into the subordinate work of secretarial duties. This is a misguided fallback plan since order, precision, patient study eludes her nature. Her husband – indeed yes! her husband – laughs good-naturedly, corrects the oversights, and she, recognizing her incompetence, hates herself, retreats, proposes that she do even more menial tasks such as typing, filling out forms. What does it matter? Even hidden in a corner she would be happy. It’s nice that each day is the same as the next, and abandoning herself to their passing, it’s no longer necessary to use her brain. Not that her brain can just stop working: but it wanders aimlessly or ruminates on frivolities, oddities, petty rebellions. Her will oscillates, swinging like a little monkey from tree to tree. Deciding whether or not to cut her long hair – one of her more attractive features – is a profound event. Leaping into the abyss, she returns to practising the piano; the generous Listener is surprised, tells her she’s not bad, gives his approval. Suddenly a black cloud appears, the worst of all threats – eventually he’s sure to get tired of a companion with no interests or problems. She’s too docile, always happy, a silly kitten who romps about his feet.