The Oil Jar and Other Stories by Luigi Pirandello Read Free Book Online

couldn’t see himself : he saw nothing within himself but his own unhappiness; nevertheless, he was handsome—very much so—and as delicate as a little girl; and she, looking at him, delighting in him, without his being aware of it, could think: “There, you’re all mine because you don’t see yourself and you don’t know yourself; because your soul is like a prisoner of your misery and needs me to see, to feel.” But wasn’t it first necessary, complying with his wishes, to confess to him that she was not like his mental image of her? Wouldn’t keeping silent be a deception on her part? Yes, a deception. And yet he was blind, and so he could be satisfied with a heart like hers, devoted and ardent, and with the illusion of beauty. Besides, she was not ugly. And then, a woman who was beautiful, really beautiful, might be able——who knows?—to deceive him in a much worse way, taking advantage of his misfortune, if he really had need of a loving heart rather than a pretty face, which he could never see.
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    After several days of anguished uncertainty, the wedding was arranged. It would be celebrated unostentatiously and quickly, just as soon as the sixth month of mourning for his mother had passed.
    Therefore she had about a month and a half’s time ahead of her to make the necessary preparations as best she could. They were days of tremendous happiness: the hours flew by, divided between her joyful, busy furnishing of their home together and his caresses, from which she would free herself in a mild state of delirium, with gentle force. She wished to preserve that one, most intense, pleasure from the license which their sharing one roof gave to their love, and to save it for their wedding day.
    Now there remained little more than a week, when Lydia unexpectedly received the announcement of a visit from Dr. Giunio Falci.
    Her first impulse was to answer:
    â€œI’m not home!”
    But the blind man, who had heard people talking in low tones, asked:
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œDr. Falci,” the servant repeated.
    â€œYou know,” said Lydia, “that doctor your late mother called for a few days before the sad occurrence.”
    â€œOh, yes!” Borghi exclaimed, recalling it to mind. “He gave me a long examination ... a long one, I remember it clearly, and he said he wanted to come back, in order to ... ”
    â€œWait,” Lydia suddenly interrupted him, in a state of great agitation. “I’ll see what he wants.”
    Dr. Giunio Falci was standing in the center of the reception room, with his large bald head thrown back and his eyes half-closed, and with one hand he was absentmindedly smoothing out the rough little beard on his chin.
    â€œHave a seat, Doctor,” said Miss Lydia, who had come in without his noticing.
    Falci roused himself, bowed and began saying:
    â€œYou will excuse me if ... ”
    But she, upset, excited, insisted on saying first:
    â€œYou really weren’t sent for up to now because ... ”
    â€œMy last call was out of place,” said Falci, with a light, sarcastic smile on his lips. “But you will forgive me, Miss.”
    â€œNo ... Why? Not at all ... ,” said Lydia, blushing.
    â€œYou don’t know,” Falci continued, “how great an interest a poor man concerned with science can take in certain medical cases ... But I want to tell you the whole truth, Miss: I had forgotten this case of the Marchese Borghi’s, even though in my opinion it was very unusual and strange. But yesterday, while chatting about this and that with some friends, I learned about his forthcoming marriage to you, Miss. Is it true?”
    Lydia turned pale and nodded affirmatively, in a haughty manner.
    â€œAllow me to congratulate you,” Falci added. “But, you see, at that moment, all at once, I remembered. I remembered the diagnosis of glaucoma made by a number of famous colleagues