WAR
Luigi Pirandello
The passengers who had left Rome by the night express had to stop until dawn at the small station of Fabriano in order to continue their journey by the small old-fashioned local joining the main line with Sulmona.
At dawn, in a stuffy and smoky second-class carriage in which five people had already spent the night, a bulky woman in deep mourning was hoisted in – almost like a shapeless bundle. Behind her – puffing and moaning, followed her husband – a tiny man, thin and weakly, his face death-white, and his eyes small and bright and looking shy and uneasy.
Having at last taken a seat, he politely thanked the passengers who had helped his wife and who had made room for her; then he turned round to that woman trying to pull down the collar of her coat, and politely inquired:
“Are you all right, dear?”
The wife, instead of answering, pulled up her collar again to her eyes, so as to hide her face. “Nasty world,” muttered the husband with a sad smile.
And he felt it his duty to explain to his traveling companions that the poor woman was to be pities for the war was taking away from her only son, a boy of twenty whom both had devoted their entire life, even breaking up their home at Sulmona to follow him to Rome where he had to go as a student; then allowing him to volunteer for war with an assurance, however, that at least for six months he would not be sent to the front and now, all of a sudden, receiving a wire saying that he was due to leave in three days’ time and asking them to go and see him off.
The woman under the big coat was twisting and wriggling, at times growling like a wild animal, feeling certain that all those explanations would not have aroused often a shadow of sympathy from those people who most likely were in the same plight as herself. One of them, who had been listening with particular attention said:
“You should thank God that your son is only leaving now for the front. Mine has been there since the first day of war. He has already come back again to the front.” “What about me? I have two sons and three nephews at the front,” said another passenger. “Maybe, but in our case it is our only son,” ventured the husband. “What difference can it make? You may spoil your only son with excessive attentions, but you cannot love him more that you would all your other children if you had any. Paternal love is not like bread that
can be broken into pieces and split amongst the children in equal shares. A father gives all his love to each one of his children without discrimination, not suffering half for each of them but double…” “True… true…” sighed the embarrassed husband, “but suppose (of course we all hope it will never be your case) a father has two sons at the front and he loses one of them, there is still one left to console him… while…”
“Yes,” answered the other, getting cross, “a son left to console him but also a son left for whom he must survive, while in the case of the father of an only son, if the son dies the father can die too and put an end to his distress. Which of the two positions is the worse? Don’t you see how my case would be worse than yours?”
“Nonsense,” interrupted another traveler, a fat, red-face man with bloodshot eyes of the palest gray. He was painting. From his bulging eyes seemed to spurt inner violence of an uncontrolled vitality, which his weakened could hardly contain.
“Nonsense,” he repeated, trying to cover his mouth with his hand so as to hide the two missing front teeth. “Nonsense. Do we give life to our own children for our own benefit?” The other travelers stared at him in distress. The one who has his son at the front since the first day of the war sighed: “You are right. Our children do not belong to us; they belong to the Country…” “Bosh,” retorted the fat traveler. “Do we think the Country when we give life to our children? Our sons our born because… well, because they must be born and when they come to life and they take our own life with them. This is the truth. We belong to them but they never belong to us. And when they reach twenty they are exactly what were at their age. We too had a father and mother, but there were so many other things as well… girls, cigarettes, illusions, new ties… and the Country, of course, whose call we would have answered when we were twenty – even if father and mother had said no. Now at your age, the love of our Country is still great of course, but stronger than it is the love for our children.
Is there any one of us here who wouldn’t gladly take his son’s place at the front if he could?” There was a silence all round, everybody nodding as to approve. “Why then,” continued the fat man, “shouldn’t we consider the feelings of our children when they are twenty? Isn’t it natural that theirs is (I am speaking of a decent boy, of course) even greater than the love for us? Isn’t it natural that it should be so, as after all they must look upon us as old boys who cannot move anymore and must stay at home? If Country exists, if Country is a natural necessity, like bread, of which each of us must eat in order not to die of hunger, somebody must go to defend it. And our sons go, when they are twenty, and they don’t want tears, because if they die, they die inflamed and happy (I am speaking, of course, of decent boys). Now if one dies young and happy, without having the ugly sides of life, the boredom of it, the pettiness, the bitterness of delusion… what more can we ask for him? Everyone should stop crying; everyone should laugh, as I do… or at least thank God – as I do – because my son, before dying, sent me a message that he was dying satisfied at having ended his life in the best way he could have wished. That is why, as you see, I do not even wear mourning…”
He shook his light fawn coat as to show it; his vivid over his missing teeth was trembling, his eyes were watery and motionless, and soon after he ended with a shrill laugh, which might well, have been a sob. “Quite so… quite so…” agreed the others.
The woman who, bundled in a corner under her coat, had been sitting and listening had – fort the last three months – tried to find in the words of her husband and her friends something to console her deep sorrow, something that might show her how a mother should resign herself to send her son not even to death but to a probably dangerous life. Yet not a word had she found amongst the many, which had been said, and her grief had been greater in seeing that nobody – as she thought – could share her feelings.
But now the words of the traveler amazed and almost stunned her. She suddenly realized that it wasn’t the others who were wrong and could not understand her but herself who could not rise up to the same height of those fathers and mothers willing to resign themselves, without crying, not only to the departure of their sons but even to their death.
She lifted her head; she bent over from her corner trying to listen with great attention to the details which the fat man was giving to his companions about the way his son had fallen as a hero, for his King and his Country, happy and without regrets. It seemed to her that she had stumbled into a world she never dreamt of, a world so far unknown to her and she was so please to hear everyone joining in congratulating that brave father who could so stoically speak of his child’s death. Then suddenly, just as if she had heard nothing of what had been said and almost as if waking up from a dream, she turned to the old man, asking him:
“Then … is your son really dead?” Everybody stared at her. The old man, too, turned to look at her, fixing his great, bulging, horribly watery light gray eyes deep in her face. For some little time he tried to answer, but words failed him. He looked and looked at her, almost as if only then – at that silly, incongruous question – he had suddenly realize at last that his son was really dead – gone forever – forever. His face contracted, became horribly distorted, then he snatched in haste a handkerchief from his pocket and to, the amazement of everyone broke into harrowing, heart-rending, uncontrollable sobs.
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Luigi Pirandello (1867-1936), Italian playwright, short story writer, novelist, and winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature (1934), was one of the main revolutionary innovators in the 20th century drama. Of his own art, he said. “I think that life is a very sad piece of buffoonery … My art is full of bitter compassion for all those who deceive themselves.” His main themes are the necessity and the vanity of illusion, the multiform and unreal appearances, of what is supposed to be the truth. In Six characters in Search of and Author and Henry IV he shows humanity, and a power to dramatize the problems being met by men, making the writings certain masterpieces.
