Her Husband by Luigi Pirandello Read Free Book Online Page B

time.
    Signora Ely’s mother had been English, as could still be seen by the blond color of the curly wig her daughter wore over her forehead. She had never married because she had been too sharply critical as a young woman, paying too much attention to the slightly crooked nose of this suitor, or to the fat fingers of that one. Regretting, too late, such fastidiousness, she was now all honey around men. But she wasn’t dangerous. Yes, she wore that little wig over her forehead and built up her eyelashes with mascara a little, but only in order not to frighten the mirror too much and to induce a small smile of compassion. That was enough.
    “Good morning, Signor Ippolito,” she said, entering with many bows and squeezing a smile from her eyes and little mouth. She need nothave bothered since Roncella had solemnly lowered his eyes to avoid looking at her.
    “Good morning to you, Signora,” he replied. “I’ll keep my hat on as usual and not get up. All right? Make yourself at home. . . .”
    “Certainly, thank you . . . don’t get up, for heaven’s sake!” Signora Ely hastened to say, holding out her hands full of newspapers. “Is Signor Boggiolo still in bed? I came in a hurry because I read here . . . Oh, if you only knew how many many nice things the newspapers say about yesterday’s banquet, Signor Ippolito! They report Senator Borghi’s magnificent toast! They announce Signora Silvia’s play with the greatest anticipation! Signor Giustino will be so happy!”
    “It’s raining, isn’t it?”
    “What did you say?”
    “It’s not raining? I thought it was raining,” Signor Ippolito grumbled, turning toward the window.
    Signora Ely was accustomed to Signor Ippolito’s habit of giving brusque turns to the conversation. Nevertheless it left her a bit bewildered this time. Then she understood and rallied quickly: “No, no. But perhaps it will. It’s cloudy. So beautiful yesterday, and today. Oh, yesterday, yesterday, a day that will never be … A day . . . What did you say?”
    “Gifts,” shouted Signor Ippolito. “Gifts, I say, from Our Eternal Father, my dear Signora, freely given for men’s happiness. How are the English lessons going?”
    “Ah, very well, indeed!” the old woman exclaimed. “Signor Boggiolo shows an aptitude for learning languages, an aptitude that never before . . . He’s already mastered French fairly well and he’ll speak English well in four or five months (oh, even sooner!). Then we’ll begin German.”
    “German, too?”
    “Oh, yes … he has to! It’s so useful, you know?”
    “For the Lombards?”
    “You’re always joking about my Lombards, you naughty man!” said Signora Ely, gracefully threatening him with a finger. “It will help himread the contracts, to know who to trust with the translations, and also to keep abreast of literary trends, to read the articles and criticism in the newspapers . ..”
    “But Adelchi, Adelchi,” bellowed Signor Ippolito. “How’s this business with Adelchi going? Is it really true?”
    “True? But there’s a tombstone, didn’t I tell you? I discovered it in the little church of San Eustachio at Catino near Farfa by a fortunate coincidence, around seven months ago while I was on vacation. Believe me, Signor Ippolito, King Adelchi did not die in Calabria as Gregorovius says.”
    “Died in a canteen?”
    “At Catino! Irrefutable evidence. The tombstone says: Loparius et judex Hubertus .”
    “Well, here’s Giustino!” Signor Ippolito interrupted, rubbing his hands together. “I recognize his footsteps.”
    And very speedily he puffed out five or six large mouthfuls of smoke.
    He knew his nephew couldn’t stand him to be there at the desk. Actually, he had his own room, the best in the apartment, where no one would disturb him. But he preferred to stay here and fill the little cubbyhole with smoke.
    (“Olympus Cloudmaker!” he snickered to himself.)
    Boggiolo did not smoke. Every morning when he appeared in the