This work, largely autobiographical, though lessened from her own pain. Born Milanese, she went with her father to the Papal Marches where he headed a factory. Married at 15 to her older rapist, she bore one child, Walter. Leaving her brutal husband, she was encouraged by friends to write about her life, which eventually included an affair with Umberto Boccioni, whose paintings and sculpture I have seen in the Brera Museo, Milano. (Boccioni’s life ended terribly, age 33, when drafted into the WWI Italian army horse troops, he fell from his horse in training and was trampled to death.)
In Una Donna, the father, Babbo, heads a factory, and stupefies local women, rejecting their offers of chicken to favor hiring their kids; but they had “bontà istintiva,” reproving only the manager, not the man. Babbo, at first amused, grew rancorous, and through isolation unknowingly lost, “perdeva l’equilibria del giudizio” and exaggerated his own superiorità (34). To avoid expected female timidity, the writer wears a red beret (like my artist wife) and walks in front.
When Babbo hosts forty people for dinner and live music, his and Mama’s dancing makes them seem younger. Her mother had a son and two other daughters, but jumps from a balcony. And, “viveva” (38). Soon after, Babbo observes that the writer “diventerà bella.” As for Mama, old men seeing her pass made the sign of the cross, “demonietta.” Her suicide attempt was seen as a disgrace, not the natural consequence of women’s diminished position in Italy.
When Babbo takes a mistress, young Aleramo finally revolts against her always-admired father. Her criticism of him results in his firing her from the factory, though her fellow office-worker, a guy, pays court. She spends hours at the beach, but when not there, alone in her room, looking at her hands. She marries her co-worker, who’s told she’s an enviable wife, with “ingegno,” though he finds her sleepy. She discovers his letters from women, one during their engagement.
Her sister-in-law, a witch of thirty, “zitellone sui trent’anni” always complaining, imperious and cold, bound by chains of land and name (57). This leaves young Aleramo repugnant, torpid, not overcoming their frigidity. She sleeps the sleep of childhood, “fanciulla” (age under 17); her interesting conversation, with a young physician with a maeditative, independent spirit (59). She finds women’s inertia enviable.
Her torpor leaves her without the energy to judge her father, though eh felt he contributed to the shipwreck of her consciousness, “quel naufragio della sea conscienza”(60). When her mother arrives “in disorder”— probably beaten by Babbo— the writer feels much of her mother’s defeat she shares: common to all Italian women. Later, after her mother declines, she discovers many similarities in her mother's spirit in youth, say her writing poetry vibrant with "una tragica sincerita"(181).
When she’s pregnant with a son, her mother-in-law brags, “I had ten children,” but six were early dead; this multi-mom claimed children needed to undergo five or six illnesses, from whom God chose to take his angeli. Our author responds, “Povera vecchia!” At the same time, her father-in-law lay in bed from long illness, as did her husband, with angina. Her suocero dies, the first death in her experience.
This town was filled with, “Questa paese regnava una grande ipocrisia”(68). Youngters exploited parents, no wife confided her true expenses. No husband brought home his full pay. Few couples were faithful. Shortly earlier, a son had killed his father whom he caught sleeping with his own wife. Many women sold themselves for the love of ornament.
“E mio figlio nasceva in quest’ambiente!”(69). She begins Ch.VII with birthing, and writes freshly, enthused. On a rainy April morning she first kisses her son, life for the first time assuming in her eyes “un aspetto celestiale,” in which she becomes an atom of the Infinite, “un atom felice, abbandonato new Mistero radioso”(70).
Ch VIII. Birth of son leads to her plan to write, “il mio esordio di scrittrice” of her libriccino (76). Her son’s hands, “irrequiete, prepotenti, sempre occupate,” the best description of a baby’s hands, trying to grasp what they cannot yet. Her mart, husband, plans to leave for awhile, sits her on his lap as he did while courting, but has never loved him.
She writes letters to another man, feels now that life offers her love, she must accept (83).
They meet, but she feels nauseous, rejects his carress. In the next chapter, IX, she feels she is on the same abject level as her husband, only worse, “più abbietto perché lei lo sapeva”(87). Of course, the wife finds one of her letters, and confides in the doctor, a personal friend of our author. The doctor fails to elicit her promise never to see the man. Our writer combats her feelings, describing her combat as a shipwreck, "naufragio"-- a metaphor she repeats.
Her husband blames her for her incomplete affair, but soon accepts her story, finds it a minor incident, "un episodio insignificate" (97). She was forbidden to leave her house during the day, but found it a respite, a forced repose, though still "mio carciere."
Chapter XI graces us with a brilliant passage on awaking,"Tavolta al mattino abbiamo la sensazione nitida d'aver passato una notte densa di sogni e di fantasmi grandiosi, e d'avuto vissuto in fuggevoli istanti di dormiveglia una vita profuna, ma non riusciamo a ricostruire le visione né a rifare i pensieri notturni"(105). I suppose this is why I record dreams in my journal, for instance one last night where I attended a huge party in Obama's multi-roomed house, filled with guests; when I saw Obama, he looked older, and I realized I hadn't seen him during his entire presidency (this is true!).
Halfway through the novel, Ch XII, she uses her title for the first time, "una donna" as the object of her birth, not merely a person of sacrifice. As she forgets everything (even her son) in order to write, she discovers her life purpose, partly through an engineer who's worked all over, often for railroads (track laid in Amherst, MA, in the 1850's) and organizes factory workers--thus, he's banned by Babbo, the factory manager. Her purpose, like his to raise workers, hers to raise her sisters (one enamored of the engineer), her mother now declined, almost a child: to raise women, "emacipazione." Almost a religious dismay invaded her, the solemn hours of her life (115).
Her final purpose, to write her life so her son now distant will know her life.
Her purposefulness comes from fearing she may die amidst hostile strangers, "senza aver lasciato traccia della mia anima"(180). That resonates with me as a writer of books and with my wife, the artist Susan Mohl Powers, both of us trying to leave traces of our soul.