Free The Empty Canvas by Alberto Moravia Page B

painter's door appeared to be more numerous; furthermore, I noticed that they were now almost always very young girls: like all vicious men, Balestrieri, with the years, inclined towards adolescents. I spoke of a phase of 'paroxysm' in his love life; it would be more correct to say that it was a question, if anything, of a fixation, probably unconscious, upon one single type of woman to the exclusion of all others. Balestrieri, in fact, without realizing it, was at that time ceasing to be the Don Juan, the collector of adventures, that he had always been, and was for the first time devoting himself, or wishing to devote himself, to one woman only. The numerous girls, all more or less of the same age, were therefore nothing more than progressive experiments in a type which, little by little, was becoming precisely defined, tentative approaches towards an ideal figure which, some day, would become flesh and blood. And indeed, all of a sudden the flow of adolescent girls to Balestrieri's studio ceased, giving place to a single feminine visitor for whom, evidently, they had prepared the way and who, in herself, summarized them all.
    I was enabled to observe her with some attention, if only because I became aware, almost at once, that she was observing me. Dressed always like a little ballet-dancer according to the fashion of the moment, in a light puffy blouse and a very short, wide skirt that appeared to be supported by a crinoline, she looked rather like an inverted flower with a crooked, oscillating corolla, walking about on its pistils. She had a round face, like a child; but it was a child that had grown too hastily and had been initiated too soon into the experiences of womanhood. She was pale, with a slight shadow underneath her cheekbones which made her cheeks look hollow, and a mass of thick, brown, curly hair all round her face. Her small mouth, childish both in shape and expression, reminded one of a bud that had withered prematurely on the bough, without opening; and its corners were marked by two thin furrows, which struck me particularly because of the feeling of intense aridity which they suggested. Finally her eyes, her best feature, were large and dark, and they too were childish in shape beneath a rather prominent forehead; and their glance, indefinably remote, indirect, unsteady, was lacking in innocence.
    Unlike Balestrieri's other women, who walked straight and with bent heads towards the old painter's studio, this one crossed the courtyard with what appeared to be a studied slowness, letting herself be drawn along, so it seemed, by the indolent, meditative movement of her hips. She looked not so much as though she were going unwillingly to see Balestrieri, as that on her way she were searching, at the same time, for something else that she herself could not have defined. And almost always, as she crossed the courtyard, she would look up towards my studio, and if—as often happened, since I had my easel close to the window—I were visible behind the glass, she would never fail to accompany her look with a smile. For some time I was uncertain about this smile, which was so slight as to make me doubt whether it was intentional. But later, when I happened to meet her at closer quarters in the corridor, I was forced to the conviction that the smile was for me and that a very precise meaning was attached to it.
    This mute invitation on her part inspired in me an obscure feeling of aversion which I will try to explain. In the first place, I am not given to such adventures, especially if, as was the case here, the adventure is, so to speak, suggested and almost imposed upon me by the woman; in fact, the very persistence of the smile aroused in me an almost spiteful impulse not to return it and to pretend not to have noticed it. In the second place, the girl did not attract me: I had never made love to any but fully grown-up women, and this girl, who could not have been more than seventeen, looked less than fifteen,