Three Plays. Luigi Pirandello

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СКАЧАТЬ sense, that is, that the author who created us alive no longer wished, or was no longer able, materially to put us into a work of art. And this was a real crime, sir; because he who has had the luck to be born a character can laugh even at death. He cannot die. The man, the writer, the instrument of the creation will die, but his creation does not die. And to live for ever, it does not need to have extraordinary gifts or to be able to work wonders. Who was Sancho Panza? Who was Don Abbondio? Yet they live eternally because—live germs as they were—they had the fortune to find a fecundating matrix, a fantasy which could raise and nourish them: make them live for ever!

      THE MANAGER. That is quite all right. But what do you want here, all of you?

      THE FATHER. We want to live.

      THE MANAGER (ironically). For Eternity?

      THE FATHER. No, sir, only for a moment … in you.

      AN ACTOR. Just listen to him!

      LEADING LADY. They want to live, in us … !

      JUVENILE LEAD (pointing to the Step-Daughter). I've no objection, as far as that one is concerned!

      THE FATHER. Look here! look here! The comedy has to be made. (To the Manager): But if you and your actors are willing, we can soon concert it among ourselves.

      THE MANAGER (annoyed). But what do you want to concert? We don't go in for concerts here. Here we play dramas and comedies!

      THE FATHER. Exactly! That is just why we have come to you.

      THE MANAGER. And where is the "book"?

      THE FATHER. It is in us! (The actors laugh). The drama is in us, and we are the drama. We are impatient to play it. Our inner passion drives us on to this.

      THE STEP-DAUGHTER (disdainful, alluring, treacherous, full of impudence). My passion, sir! Ah, if you only knew! My passion for him! (Points to the Father and makes a pretence of embracing him. Then she breaks out into a loud laugh).

      THE FATHER (angrily). Behave yourself! And please don't laugh in that fashion.

      THE STEP-DAUGHTER. With your permission, gentlemen, I, who am a two months' orphan, will show you how I can dance and sing.

      (Sings and then dances). Prenez garde a Tchou-Thin-Tchou.

      Les chinois sont un peuple malin,

       De Shangaî à Pekin,

       Ils ont mis des écriteux partout:

       Prenez garde à Tchou-Thin-Tchou.

      ACTORS and ACTRESSES. Bravo! Well done! Tip-top!

      THE MANAGER. Silence! This isn't a café concert, you know! (Turning to the Father in consternation): Is she mad?

      THE FATHER. Mad? No, she's worse than mad.

      THE STEP-DAUGHTER (to Manager). Worse? Worse? Listen! Stage this drama for us at once! Then you will see that at a certain moment I … when this little darling here … (Takes the Child by the hand and leads her to the Manager): Isn't she a dear? (Takes her up and kisses her). Darling! Darling! (Puts her down again and adds feelingly): Well, when God suddenly takes this dear little child away from that poor mother there; and this imbecile here (seizing hold of the Boy roughly and pushing him forward) does the stupidest things, like the fool he is, you will see me run away. Yes, gentleman, I shall be off. But the moment hasn't arrived yet. After what has taken place between him and me (indicates the Father with a horrible wink), I can't remain any longer in this society, to have to witness the anguish of this mother here for that fool. … (indicates the Son). Look at him! Look at him! See how indifferent, how frigid he is, because he is the legitimate son. He despises me, despises him (pointing to the Boy), despises this baby here; because … we are bastards (goes to the Mother and embraces her). And he doesn't want to recognize her as his mother—she who is the common mother of us all. He looks down upon her as if she were only the mother of us three bastards. Wretch! (She says all this very rapidly, excitedly. At the word "bastards" she raises her voice, and almost spits out the final "Wretch!").

      THE MOTHER (to the Manager, in anguish). In the name of these two little children, I beg you. … (She grows faint and is about to fall). Oh God!

      THE FATHER (coming forward to support her as do some of the actors). Quick a chair, a chair for this poor widow!

      THE ACTORS. Is it true? Has she really fainted?

      THE MANAGER. Quick, a chair! Here!

      (One of the actors brings a chair, the others proffer assistance. The Mother tries to prevent the Father from lifting the veil which covers her face).

      THE FATHER. Look at her! Look at her!

      THE MOTHER. No, no; stop it please!

      THE FATHER (raising her veil). Let them see you!

      THE MOTHER (rising and covering her face with her hands, in desperation). I beg you, sir, to prevent this man from carrying out his plan which is loathsome to me.

      THE MANAGER (dumbfounded). I don't understand at all. What is the situation? Is this lady your wife? (to the Father).

      THE FATHER. Yes, gentlemen: my wife!

      THE MANAGER. But how can she be a widow if you are alive? (The actors find relief for their astonishment in a loud laugh).

      THE FATHER. Don't laugh! Don't laugh like that, for Heaven's sake. Her drama lies just here in this: she has had a lover, a man who ought to be here.

      THE MOTHER (with a cry). No! No!

      THE STEP-DAUGHTER. Fortunately for her, he is dead. Two months ago as I said. We are in mourning, as you see.

      THE FATHER. He isn't here you see, not because he is dead. He isn't here—look at her a moment and you will understand—because her drama isn't a drama of the love of two men for whom she was incapable of feeling anything except possibly a little gratitude—gratitude not for me but for the other. She isn't a woman, she is a mother, and her drama—powerful sir, I assure you—lies, as a matter of fact, all in these four children she has had by two men.

      THE MOTHER. I had them? Have you got the courage to say that I wanted them? (To the company). It was his doing. It was he who gave me that other man, who forced me to go away with him.

      THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It isn't true.

      THE MOTHER (startled). Not true, isn't it?

      THE STEP-DAUGHTER. No, it isn't true, it just isn't true.

      THE MOTHER. And what can you know about it?

      THE STEP-DAUGHTER. It isn't true. Don't believe it. (To Manager). Do you know why she says so? For that fellow there (indicates the Son). She tortures herself, destroys herself on account of the neglect of that son there; and she wants him to believe that if she abandoned him when he was only two years old, it was because he (indicates the Father) made her do so.

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