Her Husband

by Luigi Pirandello

  Closed there in her study, wide-eyed and in a state of agitation, she caught herself following thoughts that made her shudder with horror. These thoughts were like an easy staircase on which she could descend to her ruin; they were a sequence of justifications to calm her old conscience, to hide what her old conscience still represented to her as guilt, and to attenuate the condemnation of others.

  Gueli’s austere gravity and age wouldn’t arouse suspicions that she, out of some perversion, saw a lover in him instead of a worthy and almost paternal guide, a noble, ideal companion. And perhaps Gueli looked for the same in her, and through her would find the strength to break the sorry bond with that woman who had oppressed him for years.

  And her son?

  This word intruding itself on her turbid musings scattered them for a moment. But the thought of her son anxiously brought back memories of an orderly life, chaste duties, a holy intimacy that not she but others had wanted to shatter violently.

  If she could have clung to her son who had been torn away from her, and not think about or expect anything else, she would undoubtedly have found in her child the strength to involve herself entirely in her maternal role and be nothing but a mother. Then she would have found the strength to resist the temptation of art, and her husband would have had no excuse to offend her and reduce her to desperation with that passion for making money and that show of bravura.

  She could continue to live with her husband only under one condition, that is, by giving up her writing. But was that possible now? Not any longer. Since he had no other employment except as agent for her work, she was forced to work, but she couldn’t go on like this. She could be neither a mother nor work anymore. Work was mandatory? Well, then, get away from there! Get away from him! He could have the house and all the rest. She couldn’t go on like this. But what would become of her?

  This question threw her into confusion, and she drew back in horror. But what joy could come from realizing it was all in her imagination? Soon after, she fell back into those turbid thoughts, but, unfortunately, with less guilt because of her husband’s stupid arrogance, which continued to importune her whenever he saw her restlessly slacking off work.

  That is why, when finally Maurizio Gueli appeared suddenly and unexpectedly at the little villa with a strange, resolute expression and behaving strangely, looking into her eyes and treating Giustino’s bows, ceremony, and hearty welcome with obvious disdain, she suddenly saw she was lost. Fortunately, while listening to her husband chatter on with Gueli without understanding a thing, she, at a certain point, had the strong and vivid impression of almost being pushed and shoved and pulled by her hair to do something mad. She was so ashamed of her state of mind, and felt so dishonored by it, that she was able to react fiercely against Gueli, who, emboldened by her disturbed manner, turned bitterly against her husband and in her presence nearly treated him like a common exploiter.

  After his unexpected outburst, Gueli seemed dazed.

  “I understand … I understand … I understand …” he said, closing his eyes, with a tone and air of such intense, profound, desperate bitterness that it suddenly became clear to Silvia what he had understood without scorn or offense.

  And then he abruptly left.

  Giustino, on the one hand confused and resentful, and on the other mortified by the way Gueli had gone away, and unwilling to defend himself or criticize Gueli, decided to rid himself of this perplexity by scolding his wife for the violent manner in which … But before he could reproach her, Silvia faced up to him, trembling and profoundly disturbed, shouting: “Go away! Shut up! Or I’ll jump out the window!”

  The order and threat were so ferocious and peremptory, her expression and voice so changed, that Giustino hunched his shoulders and slunk out of the study.

  He thought his wife had gone insane. What in the world had happened to her? He didn’t know her anymore! “I’ll jump out the window…. Shut up!… go away!” She had never talked to him like that. … Women! Do too much for them … And look what happens! “Go away! Shut up!…” As if she didn’t get where she was because of him! If it wasn’t insanity, it was something much worse–ingratitude.

  With his narrow, turned-up nose, Giustino, wounded to the quick, tried to make sense of it all. But yes, of course, yes! Now she selfishly wanted to make him feel the necessity of her work, when for her–he –without ever complaining, without ever giving himself a moment’s rest, had taken on so much, and for her, so he could devote himself entirely to her, he had given up his job without hesitation! That was it: she no longer thought she owed everything to him. The way she saw it, he was unemployed and waiting for her work, and she took advantage of it by treating him like a servant: “Go away! Shut up!”

  Well, for less than a year … no, what was he saying? He’d like to see her without him for less than a month, with a play to produce or with a contract to settle with some publisher! Then she’d find out if she needed him.…

  But no! She had to know this. … It must be something else! The change since she came back from Cargiore, the discontent, the restlessness, the tantrums, all that bitterness toward him … Or did she perhaps seriously entertain the thought that he and Signora Barmis . .. ?

  Giustino stretched his neck and screwed the corners of his mouth down to express his amazement at that doubt, shrugged, and continued thinking.

  The fact was that just after she returned from Cargiore and saw those two damned twin bedrooms Signora Barmis had wanted, she seemed to turn away from him, as if she had suspected it was Signora Barmis’s idea to keep them separated. Maybe her pride and jealousy wouldn’t let her show this rancorous feeling openly, and that was the way she vented her feelings.

  But good heavens, how could she imagine him capable of such a thing? If at the table he had seemed displeased by Signora Barmis’s brusque departure, this displeasure–she should have understood–was only because she would be missing the wise advice and useful instruction a woman of such taste and experience could have given her. Because he understood that she couldn’t remain so stubbornly withdrawn, so alone, without friends. She didn’t want to work, she didn’t like the house, she probably had unworthy suspicions about him: she didn’t want to see anyone or go out for a little fun…. What kind of life was that? The other day when a letter came from Cargiore in which his mother spoke of her grandchild with such tenderness, she had burst into tears, into tears… .

  After several days of his wife’s sulking, Giustino mulled over the idea of bringing the baby to Rome with a wet nurse. It was hard on him, too, to keep the baby so far away, but not for the baby, who couldn’t be in better hands. He thought that her child would certainly fill the emptiness she was feeling in that house and even in her soul at that moment. But he also had other things to think about, other compelling necessities, many undertakings contracted in view of the new works that she would have to do. Now, if it was so hard for her to work with her hands free, imagine how it would be with the baby there, who would absorb all her time with maternal cares… .

  Suddenly a long-awaited notice came to distract Giustino from this and every other thought. In Paris The New Colony, translated by Desroches, would be performed early next month. In Paris! In Paris! He had to go.

  Giving himself over to the frenzy of preparation, armed with that telegram from Desroches calling him to Paris, he started off on his rounds from one newspaper office to the other. And every morning on the desk in the study and at noon on the dining room table and at night on the nightstand in the bedroom Silvia found three or four newspapers at a time, not only from Rome, but also from Milan, Turin, Naples, Florence, Bologna, where those Parisian performances were announced as a new and grand event, a new triumph for Italian creativity.

  Silvia pretended not to notice them. But he didn’t have the slightest doubt that this new preparatory work of his had had a big effect on her when one night he heard his wife in the next room suddenly get out of bed and dress to go shut herself in the study. At firs
t, to tell the truth, he was a bit apprehensive. But after peeking through the keyhole and seeing that she was sitting at the desk in the attitude she usually struck when she was inspired to start writing, he managed, by some miracle, to contain his overwhelming joy, just as he was in his nightshirt and barefoot in the dark. There she was! There she was! Back to work! As before! At work! At work!

  And in his fever of anticipation he didn’t sleep that night either; and when day came he ran with outstretched hands to Èmere to keep him absolutely quiet, and immediately sent him to the kitchen to order the cook to prepare coffee and breakfast for the signora, immediately! As soon as it was ready: “Pst! Listen … Knock, but softly, softly, and ask if she wants … but softly, eh? Softly, please!”

  Èmere returned shortly with the tray in hand, saying the signora didn’t want anything.

  “Well, all right! Quiet… let… the signora work … quiet everyone!”

  He was a little concerned when even at noon Èmere, sent with the same orders to announce that it was time to eat, returned to say the signora didn’t want anything.

  “What’s she doing? Writing?”

  “She’s writing, yes, sir.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “I don’t want anything, go away!”

  “And she’s still writing?”

  “She’s writing, yes, sir.”

  “All right, all right; we’ll let her write… . Quiet everyone!”

  “Will the signore have something at the table in the meanwhile?” Èmere asked in a whisper.

  Giustino was very hungry after a sleepless night, but to sit at the table alone while his wife was working on an empty stomach didn’t seem right. He was dying to know what she was working on with such fervor. On the play? Certainly on the play. But did she want to finish it all in one sitting? Did she want to wait until she was finished to eat? Even this was crazy… .

  Toward three in the afternoon, Silvia left her study exhausted and groggy and threw herself on her bed in the darkened room. Giustino ran to the desk to look: he was disappointed. What he found was a short story. A long short story. On the last page, under the signature, was written: For Senator Borghi. Without any pleasure he started reading it, but after the first few lines he began to get interested. … So that’s what it’s about! Cargiore … Don Buti with his telescope … Signor Martino … Mamma’s history … the suicide of Prever’s brother … A strange short story, fantastical, full of bitterness and sweetness at the same time, pulsing with all the impressions that she had had during that unforgettable sojourn up there. She must have had the vision suddenly in the middle of the night… .

  Never mind if it wasn’t the play! It was something, anyway. And now it was up to him! He would show her what could be done with what little he had in hand. The senator should pay at least five hundred lire for that short story: five hundred lire immediately or nothing.

  That evening he went to see Borghi at the editorial office of Vita Italiana.

  Perhaps Maurizio Gueli had been there earlier and had spoken ill of him to Romualdo Borghi. Giustino wasn’t bothered by the fastidious coldness of his reception. In fact he was pleased because this way, with all former debts of gratitude removed, he could be equally cold and clearly dictate the terms. Borghi could think whatever he pleased about him; his only interest was in showing his wife what she owed to him alone.

  A few days after the publication of the short story in Vita Italiana, Silvia received a note of enthusiastic admiration and heartfelt congratulations from Gueli.

  Victory! Victory! Victory! As soon as Giustino glanced at the note, frantic with joy, he ran to get his hat and cane: “I’m going to his home to thank him! You see? Self-invited.”

  Silvia came up to him. “Where? When?” she fumed. “This is nothing but a note of congratulations. I forbid you to …”

  “Good heavens!” he interrupted her. “Is it so hard to understand? After the scene he made, he writes you a note like this… . Let me do it, my dear! Let me do it! I understood that Baldani was a bother. I understood that, didn’t I? And you see I didn’t let him come again. But Gueli is something else! Gueli is a maestro, a real maestro! You will read him your play, you will follow his advice, you’ll both closet yourselves here, you’ll work together… . Tomorrow I have to leave; let me leave in peace! A short story, all right; but I’m worried about the play, my dear! Right now we need a play, a play, a play! Leave this to me, please!”

  And he took off for Gueli’s house.

  Silvia didn’t try to detain him any longer. She screwed her face into a grimace of nausea and hate, wringing her hands.

  Ah, he wanted a play? Well, then, after so much comedy, he would have his drama.

  6 THE FLIGHT

  1

  Maurizio Gueli was going through one of the cruelest moments of his miserable life. For the ninth or tenth time, at the end of his patience, he had found the strength in his desperation to wrench his head out of the halter. This animal comparison was of his own making, and he repeated it to himself with pleasure. For two weeks Livia Frezzi had been in the villa at Monteporzio, alone, and he in Rome, alone.

  He said “alone,” but not free, knowing from sorry experience that the more strongly he insisted he was through with that woman forever, the sooner came the day of reconciliation. Because if it was true that he could no longer live with her, it was also true he couldn’t live without her.

  Gueli had come from Genoa to Rome some twenty years ago at a judicious moment, right after the publication of his Demented Socrates, when his fame as a strange and profound writer was indisputably established in Italy and elsewhere. As a writer of inventive brilliance he juggled the most weighty ideas and erudite knowledge with the graceful agility of an acrobat. He had been welcomed into the home of his old friend Angelo Frezzi, a mediocre historian, who had recently married his second wife, Livia Maduri. At that time Gueli was thirty-five, and Livia little more than twenty.

  However, Livia Frezzi had not fallen in love with Gueli’s fame, as so many believed. In fact, from the beginning she had shown herself to be so coldly disdainful of his fame and his euphoria over it at that time that out of spite he immediately got it into his head to conquer her. This forced him to close his eyes to his obligations toward his friend and host with the same hardness with which she belligerently and openly faced her husband, without taking into account his old friendship for him, and without any regard for his hospitality.

  In his defense, Maurizio Gueli remembered that in the beginning he had really tried to leave in order not to betray the friendship and hospitality. But by now his vexation with himself and everyone else, his disgust with his cowardice toward that woman, and the shame of his slavery had filled his soul with such bitterness, and had made him so cruelly merciless with himself, that he could no longer allow himself this hypocrisy. Even though he remembered his attempt to flee, deep down he knew it didn’t really count in his favor, because if he really had wanted to save himself and not betray his friend, he would undoubtedly have turned his back and left that hospitable house.

  But instead … Of course! That farce involving the four or five or ten or twenty conflicting personalities that he believed each man harbors in himself, distinct and alterable, according to his own capacity, had played itself out in him for the thousandth time. With marvelous clarity he had always been able to pinpoint the varied, simultaneous play of characters going on inside himself and other people.

  We assume one of those many personalities, often unconsciously, as a pretense suggested by the advantage or imposed by the spontaneous need of wanting to be one way instead of another, of appearing to ourselves to be different from what we are. And in pursuing this personality we accept the most favorable fictional interpretation of all our acts that, hidden from our consciousness, slyly works on the others. We tend to marry ourselves for a lifetime to one personality, the most comfortable, the one that brings as a dowry the characteristic most suited to attaining our goal
. But outside the honest conjugal roof of our conscious mind we are apt to have affairs and encounters with the other rejected personalities, who give birth to bastard actions and thoughts that we quickly try to legitimize.

  Didn’t his old friend Angelo Frezzi notice that it didn’t take much to persuade Gueli to stay, after he had expressed his wish to leave, a wish doubly and astutely fabricated, since he wanted to stay, and had disguised it as regret for being unable to please his wife? If Angelo Frezzi had noticed the fabrication, then why had he gone to such lengths to make him stay? No doubt he had performed a farce, too! Two personalities, the social and the moral: the first made him go around in a frock coat, putting his friendliest smile on his thick pale lips strung with saliva, while the second often made him lower his watery, anguished eyelids over his bluish, egg-shaped, veined, impudent eyes with languid dignity. The two had flaunted their virtue in him, maintaining with frowning firmness that his friend, come worthily into such fame, would never stoop to betray his friend and host. At the same time a third little character, shrewd and derisive, whispered to the old man so softly that he could very well pretend not to listen:

  “Bravo, old boy, make him stay! You know very well how lucky you would be if he would take away this second wife, so wrong for you, so stuck up, bitter, hard, and stubborn–even against you, poor man, too old, oh, too old for her! Keep insisting, and the more you pretend to believe him incapable of betraying you, the more trusting you show yourself to be, the easier it will be to make a trifle into a scandal.”

  In fact, Angelo Frezzi, although without the slightest reason, at least as far as his wife was concerned, had immediately made accusations of betrayal. A year had to pass before Livia, who had gone to live alone, gave herself to Gueli.

  Over that year he became bound in such a way as never to be free again, capitulating entirely, committing himself to accepting and following her every thought and feeling without any compromise.