Read Online Her Husband by Luigi Pirandello - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Luigi Pirandello
Ads: Link
serious. Her inner battle had begun at that time. Then she met Giustino.
It was clear that her husband didn’t understand her, or rather, didn’t understand that part of herself that, in order not to appear differentfrom others, she kept locked inside, that she herself didn’t want to investigate or penetrate in depth. If some day this part got the upper hand in her where would it drag her? At first, when Giustino (though without understanding) had begun to urge her and force her to work, enticed by an unexpected source of revenue, she had been pleased, but really more for him than for herself. However, she would have liked him to stop there, and above all–after the stir caused by her novel House of Dwarves –not to have schemed and planned to come to Rome.
When she left Taranto, she had the impression that she was lost, and that it would take a tremendous effort to find herself again in such a vastly different life. How would she do it? She didn’t understand herself yet, and didn’t want to. She would have to talk, to be on exhibit … to say what? She was ignorant of everything. What was deliberately provincial, primitive, homely in her had rebelled, especially when the first signs of pregnancy appeared. How she had suffered during that banquet, on display as if at a fair! She had appeared to herself like a badly assembled windup mechanism. For fear that she might go off any moment she held herself in with all her strength. But then the thought that inside this automaton the germ of a life was growing for which she would soon have such tremendous responsibility had given her sharp pangs of remorse and had made the spectacle of that fatuous and foolish vanity unbearable.
Once the bewilderment and confusion of the first days had passed she had begun to walk around Rome with Zio Ippolito. What nice conversations they had had! What delightful explanations her uncle had given her! It had been a great comfort having him in Rome with her.
It was enough merely to utter this name–Rome–for many to feel obligated to express their admiration and enthusiasm. Yes, she had also admired it, but with a constant feeling of sadness. She had admired the solitary villas guarded by cypresses, the silent gardens on the Celio and Aventino hills, the tragic solemnity of the ruins and of certain ancient roads like the Appian Way, the clear freshness of the Tiber. She had little interest in what men had done and said to shore uptheir greatness in their own eyes. And Rome . . . yes, was also a large prison where the more exaggerated the prisoners’ talk and gestures, the smaller and clumsier they appeared.
She still sought refuge in the most humble occupations, applying herself to the most modest and simple, almost elemental, things. She knew she couldn’t say what she would wish, what she was thinking, because that same wish and thought often made no sense even to her, if she reflected a little.
To keep Giustino from sulking, she forced herself to be cheerful, to strike a certain attitude, to maintain a certain humor. She read, she read a lot, but among the many books only Gueli’s were able to interest her greatly. There was a man who must have an inner demon similar to hers but was much more learned!
It wasn’t enough for Giustino that she read. He also wanted her to feel comfortable speaking French and to practice it with Signora Ely Faciolli, who knew many languages, and to go to museums and galleries of ancient and modern art with her in order to be able to speak about such things if the occasion arose. He also wanted her to take more interest in her appearance and even to do her hair better, for goodness sake!
Sometimes she started laughing in front of the mirror. She was fascinated by her reflection. Oh, why did she have to be like this, with this face, this body? She would raise her hand unconsciously, and the gesture would remain there suspended in the air. It seemed strange that it was she who had performed that
It was clear that her husband didn’t understand her, or rather, didn’t understand that part of herself that, in order not to appear differentfrom others, she kept locked inside, that she herself didn’t want to investigate or penetrate in depth. If some day this part got the upper hand in her where would it drag her? At first, when Giustino (though without understanding) had begun to urge her and force her to work, enticed by an unexpected source of revenue, she had been pleased, but really more for him than for herself. However, she would have liked him to stop there, and above all–after the stir caused by her novel House of Dwarves –not to have schemed and planned to come to Rome.
When she left Taranto, she had the impression that she was lost, and that it would take a tremendous effort to find herself again in such a vastly different life. How would she do it? She didn’t understand herself yet, and didn’t want to. She would have to talk, to be on exhibit … to say what? She was ignorant of everything. What was deliberately provincial, primitive, homely in her had rebelled, especially when the first signs of pregnancy appeared. How she had suffered during that banquet, on display as if at a fair! She had appeared to herself like a badly assembled windup mechanism. For fear that she might go off any moment she held herself in with all her strength. But then the thought that inside this automaton the germ of a life was growing for which she would soon have such tremendous responsibility had given her sharp pangs of remorse and had made the spectacle of that fatuous and foolish vanity unbearable.
Once the bewilderment and confusion of the first days had passed she had begun to walk around Rome with Zio Ippolito. What nice conversations they had had! What delightful explanations her uncle had given her! It had been a great comfort having him in Rome with her.
It was enough merely to utter this name–Rome–for many to feel obligated to express their admiration and enthusiasm. Yes, she had also admired it, but with a constant feeling of sadness. She had admired the solitary villas guarded by cypresses, the silent gardens on the Celio and Aventino hills, the tragic solemnity of the ruins and of certain ancient roads like the Appian Way, the clear freshness of the Tiber. She had little interest in what men had done and said to shore uptheir greatness in their own eyes. And Rome . . . yes, was also a large prison where the more exaggerated the prisoners’ talk and gestures, the smaller and clumsier they appeared.
She still sought refuge in the most humble occupations, applying herself to the most modest and simple, almost elemental, things. She knew she couldn’t say what she would wish, what she was thinking, because that same wish and thought often made no sense even to her, if she reflected a little.
To keep Giustino from sulking, she forced herself to be cheerful, to strike a certain attitude, to maintain a certain humor. She read, she read a lot, but among the many books only Gueli’s were able to interest her greatly. There was a man who must have an inner demon similar to hers but was much more learned!
It wasn’t enough for Giustino that she read. He also wanted her to feel comfortable speaking French and to practice it with Signora Ely Faciolli, who knew many languages, and to go to museums and galleries of ancient and modern art with her in order to be able to speak about such things if the occasion arose. He also wanted her to take more interest in her appearance and even to do her hair better, for goodness sake!
Sometimes she started laughing in front of the mirror. She was fascinated by her reflection. Oh, why did she have to be like this, with this face, this body? She would raise her hand unconsciously, and the gesture would remain there suspended in the air. It seemed strange that it was she who had performed that
Similar Books
