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

of mine, if I’m not mistaken. A diagnosis that is very easy to explain, in general, I assure you. In fact, I’m certain that if the Marchesa had had those colleagues of mine examine her son at the time I called on him, even they would have said readily that it was no longer proper to speak of a genuine glaucoma. But let that be. I also remembered my second, extremely unfortunate, call, and I thought that you, Miss, at first in the confusion caused by the unexpected death of the Marchesa, and later in the happiness of this new event, had surely forgotten—am I correct?—forgotten ... ”
    â€œNo!” said Lydia at that point, contradicting him sharply, in protest against the torture that the doctor’s long, poisonous speech was inflicting on her.
    â€œAh, no?” said Falci.
    â€œNo,” she repeated, with glowering firmness. “Rather, I remembered how little confidence—actually none at all, forgive me!—the Marchesa had about her son’s cure even after your call.”
    â€œBut I didn’t tell the Marchesa,” Falci rebutted at once, “that her son’s ailment from my point of view ... ”
    â€œIt’s true, you told that to me,” Lydia cut in again. “But I also, like the Marchesa ... ”
    â€œLittle confidence—actually none at all, right? It doesn’t matter,” Falci interrupted in his turn. “But in the meantime you did not inform the Marchese of my coming and the reason for it ... ”
    â€œNot all at once, no.”
    â€œAnd later on?”
    â€œNot then, either. Because ... ”
    Dr. Falci raised one hand:
    â€œI understand. After love was born ... But pardon me, Miss: it’s true they say that love is blind; but do you really wish the Marchese’s love to be as blind as all that? Blind physically as well?”
    Lydia realized that, to combat this man’s self-assured, biting coldness, she couldn’t make do with the haughty deportment in which she was gradually wrapping herself more and more tightly in order to defend her dignity from an odious suspicion. Nevertheless, she made an effort to contain herself further, and asked with apparent calm:
    â€œYou insist on maintaining that the Marchese, with your help, can regain his sight?”
    â€œDon’t be hasty, Miss,” Falci answered, raising his hand again. “I am not all-powerful. I examined the Marchese’s eyes only once, and I thought it proper to rule out glaucoma as a diagnosis absolutely. Now: I think that this conclusion, which may be merely a doubt, or which may be a source of hope, ought to be enough for you if, as I believe, you really have your fiance’s welfare at heart.”
    â€œAnd what if the doubt,” Lydia hurriedly replied, in a challenging manner, “could no longer be sustained after your examination, what if the hopes were dashed? Wouldn’t you now have uselessly, cruelly perturbed a soul that has already resigned itself to its lot?”
    â€œNo, Miss,” Falci answered with hard, serious calm. “So little so, that I esteemed it my duty as a physician to come uninvited. Because in this instance, I’d like you to know, I believe I am involved not merely in a medical case but also in a case of conscience.”
    â€œYou suspect ... ,” Lydia tried to interrupt him, but Falci gave her no time to continue.
    â€œYou yourself,” he proceeded, “said just now that you failed to inform the Marchese of my call, using an excuse I cannot accept, not because it is insulting to me, but because the confidence or lack of confidence in me ought to come not from you, but from the Marchese, if from anyone. Look, Miss: it may also be obstinacy on my part, I don’t deny it; but I tell you that I won’t take any payment from the Marchese if he comes to my clinic, where he will have every care and aid that science can offer him, disinterestedly. After this declaration,