Eleven Short Stories. Luigi Pirandello

hands, but failed to check the onrush of the tears that now gushed forth.

      “Yes, yes, go, son, go …,” she said, strangled by sobs. “She’s not for you any more, you’re right … If the two of you had listened to me …”

      “And so,” Micuccio burst out, bending over her and violently pulling one hand away from her face. But so afflicted and wretched was the look with which she begged him for mercy, as she put a finger to her lips, that he restrained himself and added in a different tone of voice, making an effort to speak softly: “And so she, she … she is no longer worthy of me. Enough, enough, I’m leaving just the same … in fact, all the more, now … What a dumbbell, Aunt Marta: I hadn’t understood! Don’t cry … Anyway, what does it matter? Fate … fate …”

      He took his little suitcase and little sack from under the table and was on his way out when he recalled that there, in the sack, were the beautiful citrons he had brought for Teresina from their hometown.

      “Oh, look, Aunt Marta,” he continued. He opened the top of the sack and, creating a barrier with one arm, he emptied that fresh, aromatic fruit onto the table. “And what if I started tossing all these citrons I brought for her at the heads of those honorable gentlemen?”

      “For mercy’s sake,” the old lady groaned amid her tears, once more making a beseeching sign to him to be silent.

      “No, of course I won’t,” added Micuccio, smiling sourly and putting the empty sack in his pocket. “I’m leaving them for you alone, Aunt Marta. And to think that I even paid duty on them … Enough. For you alone, mind me now. As for her, tell her ‘Good luck!’ from me.”

      He picked up the valise again and left. But on the stairs, a sense of anguished bewilderment overpowered him: alone, deserted, at night, in a big city he didn’t know, far from his home; disappointed, dejected, put to shame. He made it to the street door, saw that there was a downpour of rain. He didn’t have the courage to venture onto those unfamiliar streets in a rain like that. He went back in very quietly, walked back up one flight of stairs, then sat down on the first step and, leaning his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands, began to weep silently.

      When the supper was finished, Sina Marnis made another ap-

      cameretta; ma trovò sola la mamma che piangeva, mentre di là quei signori schiamazzavano e ridevano.

      —È andato via?—domandò sorpresa.

      Zia Marta accennò di sì col capo, sensa guardarla. Sina fissò gli occhi nel vuoto, assorta, poi sospirò:

      —Poveretto …

      —Guarda,—le disse la madre, senza frenar più le lagrime col tovagliuolo.—Ti aveva portato le lumie …

      —Oh, belle!—esclamò Sina rallegrandosi. Strinse un braccio alla vita e ne prese con l’altra mano quanto più poteva portarne.

      —No, di là no!—protestò vivamente la madre.

      Ma Sina scrollò le spalle nude e corse in sala gridando:

      —Lumie di Sicilia! Lumie di Sicilia!

      pearance in the little room; but she found her mother alone crying, while back there the gentlemen were clamoring and laughing.

      “He left?” she asked in surprise.

      Aunt Marta nodded affirmatively, without looking at her. Sina stared into space, lost in thoughts, then sighed:

      “Poor guy …”

      “Look,” her mother said to her, no longer stemming her tears with the tablecloth. “He had brought citrons for you …”

      “Oh, what beauties!” exclaimed Sina, cheering up. She clutched one arm to her waist and with the other hand gathered up as many as she could carry.

      “No, not in there!” her mother vigorously protested.

      But Sina shrugged her bare shoulders and ran into the salon shouting:

      “Citrons from Sicily! Citrons from Sicily!”