The Oil Jar and Other Stories

by Luigi Pirandello

  “Hey!” I yelled. “Ladies and gentlemen, is this any way to behave? Dr. Fileno, I’ve already wasted too much time on you, you know! You don’t belong to me. Let me now listen to my characters in peace and quiet, and go away. You surely understand that they are right in looking on you and treating you as an intruder and disturber of the peace. Go away!”

  Such an intense, despairing anguish was portrayed in Dr. Fileno’s face that suddenly all those others, those characters of mine who were still in the act of restraining him, turned pale with mortification and drew back.

  “Don’t throw me out, for heaven’s sake don’t throw me out! Grant me just five minutes’ audience, and let me persuade you, I beg of you!”

  Perplexed and yet filled with pity, I asked him:

  “But persuade me about what? I am fully persuaded that you, dear Doctor, deserved to fall into better hands. What do you want me to do for you? I have already lamented your fate sufficiently; now I condole with you personally, and that’s the end of it.”

  “The end of it? No, by God!” exclaimed Dr. Fileno with a shudder of indignation all over his body. “You say that because I’m not one of yours! Believe me, if you showed nonchalance or contempt, it would be much less cruel than this passive pity, unworthy of an artist, if you allow me to say so! No one is in a better position than you to know that we are living beings, more alive than those who breathe and wear clothes; perhaps less real, but truer! There are so many ways of coming to life, sir; and you know very well that nature makes use of the human imagination as a tool for pursuing its work of creation. And anyone who is born thanks to this creative activity which has its seat in the human spirit is ordained by nature for a life that is higher than the life of those born from the mortal womb of a woman. Whoever is born as a character, whoever has the good fortune to be born as a living character, can even thumb his nose at death. He will no longer die! The man will die, the writer who was the natural instrument of his creation; but the creature will no longer die! And in order to live eternally, he hasn’t the slightest need of extraordinary gifts or prodigious feats. Tell me, who was Sancho Panza? Tell me, who was Don Abbondio?10 And yet they live eternally because—as living germs—they had the good fortune to find a fertile womb, an imagination that was able to raise and nourish them.

  “Yes, yes, dear Doctor: all that is quite so,” I said. “I agree entirely. But, forgive me, I don’t yet see what you want of me.”

  “No? You really don’t?” said Dr. Fileno. “Have I perhaps come to the wrong place? Have I by chance landed on the world of the Moon? What kind of writer are you? So you seriously don’t understand the horror of my tragedy? To have the inestimable privilege of being born as a character, now of all times, when material life is so beset with tawdry difficulties which create obstacles for, denature and impoverish every existence; to have the privilege of being born as a living character, and therefore, petty as I may be, ordained for immortality and—just think of it!—to fall into those hands, to be condemned to perish unjustly, to suffocate in that artificial world in which I can’t draw a free breath or take one step, because it’s all made up, fake, contrived, a sham! Words and paper! Paper and words! If a man finds himself entangled in circumstances of living to which he is physically or mentally unable to adapt, he can escape, run away; but a poor character can’t: he’s stuck there, nailed to an endless martyrdom! Air! Air! Life! Just look … ‘Fileno’ … He gave me the name ‘Fileno’ … Do you seriously think that I can be called Fileno? The imbecile, the imbecile! He couldn’t even give me a proper name! I, Fileno! And then, I, I, the author of The Philosophy of Distance, I of all people had to end up in that wretched way in order to unravel that whole stupid tangle of incidents! Did I really have to marry her, that ninny Graziella, instead of the notary Negroni? Don’t give me that! These are crimes, my good man, crimes that should be atoned for with tears of blood! Now, what will happen instead? Nothing. Silence. Or perhaps some bad reviews in two or three minor newspapers. Maybe some critic will exclaim: “That poor Fileno, what a shame! He really was a good character.” And that will be the end of the whole thing. Condemned to death—I, the author of The Philosophy of Distance, which that imbecile didn’t even see his way to have me publish at my own expense! Otherwise, tell me, how could I have married that ninny Graziella after that? Oh, don’t even let me think about it! Come, come, get to work, get to work, my dear sir! Redeem me, at once, at once! You, who have clearly understood all the life there is in me, let me live!”

  On hearing this proposal, furiously flung out as the conclusion to this very lengthy outburst, I was stunned for a while and just stared at Dr. Fileno’s face.

  “Do you have qualms about it?” he asked, growing disturbed. “Do you have any qualms? It’s perfectly legitimate, you know! It’s your sacrosanct right to take me over and give me the life that that imbecile was unable to give me! It’s your right and mine, understand?”

  “It may be your right, dear Doctor,” I replied, “and it may even be legitimate, as you believe; but I just don’t do things like that. There’s no use your insisting. I don’t do that. Try applying to somebody else.”

  “And to whom would you have me apply, if you … ”

  “I don’t know! Try. Maybe you won’t have much trouble finding someone who is perfectly convinced of the legitimacy of that right. Or else there’s this: listen a moment, dear Dr. Fileno. Yes or no, are you really the author of The Philosophy of Distance?”

  “Of course!” said Dr. Fileno, taking a step backward and placing both hands on his chest. “Do you dare doubt it? I understand, I understand! As usual, it’s the fault of that man who murdered me! He just barely, in summary, in passing, gave an idea of my theories, not even remotely imagining all the benefit that could be derived from that discovery of mine of looking through the wrong end of the telescope!”

  I put out my hands to stop him, smiling and saying:

  “All right … all right … but, tell me, what about you?”

  “I? Where do I come in?”

  “You’re complaining about your author; but, my dear Doctor, were you really able to derive benefit from your theory? There, that’s exactly what I wanted to say to you. Let me speak. If you seriously believe, as I do, in the efficacy of your philosophy, why don’t you apply a little of it to your own case? Here you are, seeking out from among us a writer who will make you immortal. But look at us all, one by one, putting me at the very end of the line, naturally. And, along with us, look through your celebrated wrong-end-of-the-telescope at the most notable events, the most burning questions and the most admirable accomplishments of our day. My dear Doctor, I’m very much afraid that you will no longer see anything or anybody. And so, come now, cheer up or, rather, resign yourself, and let me listen to my own poor characters, who may be a bad lot and may be peevish, but at least don’t have your wild ambition.”

  A PRANCING HORSE

  The moment the head groom left, cursing more than usual, Fofo turned toward Blackie, his newly arrived mangermate, and sighed:

  “I get it! Saddlecloths, tassels and plumes. You’re off to a good start, fellow! It’s a first-class one today.”

  Blackie turned his head in the other direction. He didn’t snort, because he was a well-brought-up horse. But he didn’t want to confide in that Fofo.

  He came from a princely stable, he did, where it was possible to see your reflection on the walls: beechwood cribs for every stall, brass rings, partition bars padded with leather and posts with shiny rounded tops.

  Oh, well!

  The young Prince, entirely devoted to those noisy carriages which create not only (bear with me!) a stink but also a trail of smoke at the rear, and which dash off on their own power, wasn’t satisfied with having already three times run the risk of breaking his neck: just as soon as the old Princess (who, bless her, had never wanted to have anything to do with those devils) had been stricken with paralysis, he had lost no time in getting rid of him (Blackie) as well a
s Raven Black, the last two horses left in the stable, for his mother’s tranquil landau.

  Poor Raven Black, who knows where he had ended up, after so many years of honorable service!

  Kind Giuseppe, the old coachman, had promised them that he would go and, together with the other old, trusted servants, kiss the hand of the Princess, who was now confined to an armchair for good, and would intercede for them.

  But no! From the way in which the kind old man, who had returned quickly, had patted their necks and flanks, immediately both of them had understood that all hope was lost and their fate decided. They would be sold.

  And indeed …

  Blackie still failed to comprehend where he had gotten to. It wasn’t bad, not really bad. Of course, it wasn’t the Princess’ stable. But this was a good stable, too. More than twenty horses, all black and on the old side, but with a good presence, dignified and full of gravity. Oh, as for gravity, they may even have had too much!

  Blackie doubted whether even they understood properly the work to which they were assigned. On the contrary, it seemed to him that they were all constantly thinking about it, but without coming to any conclusion. That slow swaying of flowing tails, that scraping of hooves, from time to time, were unerring indicators of horses in deep reflection.

  Only that Fofo was sure, perfectly sure, that he had fully understood everything.

  Vulgar and presumptuous animal!

  An old army horse, rejected after three years of service, because—to hear him tell it—some light-cavalry bumpkin from the Abruzzi had broken his wind, he did nothing but talk and talk and talk.

  Blackie, with his heart still full of regret for his old friend Raven Black, couldn’t stand Fofo. What jarred him most of all was that familiar behavior of his, and then his constant criticism of their stablemates.

  God, what a tongue!

  Not one of the twenty escaped! This one was like this, that one was like that …

  “That tail … just look over there, if you please, and tell me whether that’s a tail! If that’s any way to move one’s tail! Some energy, huh?

  “That’s a doctor’s horse, I’m telling you.

  “And over there, there, look at that fine Calabrian nag, how gracefully he wiggles his pig’s ears … And what a fine forelock! And what a fine chin groove! He’s another live wire, don’t you think?

  “Every once in a while he dreams he’s not a gelding, and he wants to make love to that mare over there, three stalls to the right, see her?—with a face that looks so old, low in the forequarters, with her belly scraping the ground.

  “But would you even call that a mare? That’s a cow, let me tell you. And if you knew how she moves, as if in riding school! She looks as if her hooves were scalded whenever she touched the ground! … And yet, does she get foamed up! Sure, because she has a tender mouth. She has yet to grow her incisors to an even height, imagine that!”

  It did Blackie no good to show that Fofo in every possible way that he was paying him no mind. Fofo would just rage on all the more.

  To spite him.

  “You know where we are? We’re in a shipping agency. There are all kinds. This one is called the funeral type.

  “You know what funeral means? It means pulling a black wagon with a peculiar shape—high, with four posts that support the canopy—and decorated all over with flounces and curtains and gilding: in short, a big, beautiful, luxury carriage; but it’s all a waste, I assure you, all a waste, because you’ll see that no one ever gets into it.

  “There’s only the coachman, looking as serious as he can, on his box.

  “And they move slowly, always at a walking pace. Oh, there’s no danger of your working up a sweat and getting a rubdown when you come back, or that the coachman will ever give you a lash or hurry you up in any other way!

  “Slow—slow—slow.

  “You always get where you need to get to in plenty of time.

  “And that wagon—I understand it clearly—must be something held in special veneration by man.

  “As I mentioned, no one dares to get inside; and, as soon as it’s seen standing in front of a house, everybody stops and stares at it with long, frightened faces; many people even gather around it with lighted tapers; and then, as soon as we start to move, all of them accompany it from behind, in total silence.

  “Often there’s a band in front of us, too, a band, my friend, playing a kind of music that makes your guts drop out.

  “Listen, you’ve got the bad habit of snorting and moving your head too much. Well, you’ve got to get rid of habits like that. If you snort for no reason, just imagine what will happen when you hear that music!

  “Our work is easy, there’s no denying; but it takes orderliness and solemnity. No snorting, no pitching. It’s already too much when they allow you to shake your tail, just barely.

  “Because the wagon that we’re pulling, I’m telling you again, is highly respected. You’ll find out that, on seeing us pass by, everybody lifts his hat.

  “Do you know how I understood that it must be connected with shipping? I understood it from this.

  “About two years ago, I was standing still, with one of our canopied wagons, in front of the big railing of the building that is our normal destination.

  “You’ll see that big railing! Behind it there are many dark, pointed trees that extend in two long, straight, endless lines, leaving some beautiful green lawns here and there with plenty of good, rich grass to eat; but that’s all wasted, too: woe to you if you put out your lips toward it as you pass by.

  “Enough of that. I was standing still there when a poor old comrade of mine from my days of army service came up beside me; he had really come down in the world: imagine, he was pulling an iron-fitted truck, one of those long, low, springless ones.

  “He said:

  “‘Do you see me? Oh, Fofo, I’m really worn out!’

  ‘“What line of work?’ I asked him.”

  “And he:

  ‘“Transporting boxes, all day long, from a shipping agency to the customs office.’

  “‘Boxes?’ I said. ‘What boxes?’

  ‘“Heavy ones!’ he said. ‘Really heavy! Boxes full of goods to be shipped … ’

  “That was a relevation to me.

  “Because you ought to know that we, too, transport a kind of very long box. They place it very slowly (everything always goes very slowly) into our wagon, from the back; and while that procedure is going on, the people all around take off their hats and just stare in an awed way. Who knows why? But surely, if we, too, deal in boxes, it must be connected with shipping, don’t you think so?

  “What the devil does that box contain? It’s heavy, just you believe me! Lucky that we always transport one at a time …

  “Merchandise to be shipped, certainly. But what kind of merchandise, if—as soon as it comes into view—every passerby gives so many indications of respect, and the shipping is done with so much pomp and ceremony?

  “At a given moment, usually (not always), we stop in front of a majestic building that may be the customs office for our shipments. From the doorway there step forward certain men decked out in a black underskirt, with their shirt worn outside (I suppose they’re the customs officers); the box is taken out of the wagon; everybody takes his hat off again; and those men mark the box with an official permit.

  “Where all those precious goods that we ship go to—that, you see, I haven’t yet managed to understand. But I have some suspicion that not even the humans understand it perfectly, and I console myself.

  “To tell the truth, the magnificence of the boxes and the solemnity of the proceedings could lead you to believe that the humans must know something about these shipments of theirs: But they look too uncertain and awed to me. And from the long acquaintance I now have with them, I have derived this much experience: humans do many, many things, my friend, without knowing at all why they do them!”

  As Fofo had deduced that morning from the head groom’s c
urses: saddlecloths, tassels and plumes. Four horses to draw the carriage. It was really a first-class job.

  “Did you see?”

  Blackie found himself harnessed between the shafts with Fofo. And Fofo, naturally, continued to bore him with his eternal explanations.

  But he, too, was bothered that morning by the imposition put on him by the head groom, who, when there were four horses, always harnessed him between the shafts and never to the splinter bar for extra horses.11

  “What a dog! Because, you realize, these two here in front of us are just for show. What do they pull? They don’t pull a damn thing! We’re the ones who pull. And we go so slowly! Now they’re taking a nice little walk to stretch their legs, all decked out in gala … And just look at what sort of animals I’m forced to see get the preference over myself! Recognize them?”

  They were the two black horses that Fofo had dubbed “doctor’s horse” and “Calabrian nag.”

  “That damned Calabrian … You have him in front of you, lucky you! You’ll smell him, my friend; you’ll become aware that his ears aren’t the only piglike thing about him, and you’ll thank the head groom, who protects him and gives him double rations of fodder … It takes luck in this world—don’t snort. Are you starting already? Keep your head still! Whew, if you act like that today, my friend, you’ll get so many tugs on the reins that you’ll have a bloody mouth, I’m telling you. There will be speeches today. You’ll see how jolly it is! One speech, two speeches, three speeches … I’ve even come across a first-class funeral with five speeches! Enough to make you crazy … Three hours of standing still, with all these decorations on you that don’t allow you to breathe: your legs cramped, your tail imprisoned, your ears between two holes … Jolly, with the flies biting you under your tail! What are the speeches? Who knows? I really don’t understand, to tell the truth … These first-class shipments must be very complicated ones. And maybe, in those speeches, they’re giving the instructions. One isn’t enough, and they make two; two aren’t enough, and they make three. They sometimes make as many as five, as I said: there I was, my friend, with an urge to kick out right and left, and then start rolling on the ground like a madcap … Maybe it will be the same today. Full gala! Did you see the coachmen, how he’s tricked out, too? And there are also the ushers, the taper-bearers … Tell me, are you skittish?”