The Oil Jar and Other Stories by Luigi Pirandello

marry her? Out of gratitude? Out of pity? Ah, for no other reason! And, in that case, no, no! And even if he were willing, she wouldn’t be; how could she accept that?—she who loved him and wanted him for no other reason; she who saw in his misfortune the reason for her love and almost the excuse for it in the face of other people’s malice. Can one, then, make compromises with one’s own conscience that way, without realizing it, to the point of committing a crime, to the point of founding one’s own happiness on someone else’s suffering? To be perfectly honest, at that time she had not believed that he, her enemy, could perform the miracle of restoring her Silvio’s sight; she didn’t believe it even now; but why had she remained silent? Was it really because she had not thought it proper to lend credence to that doctor, or wasn’t it rather because the doubt the doctor had expressed, which would have been like a ray of hope for Silvio, would have meant death instead for her, the death of her love, if it later proved to be true? Even now she could believe that her love would have been sufficient to compensate that blind man for the loss of his sight; she could believe that, even if by some miracle he now regained his sight, neither that supreme blessing, nor all the pleasures he could buy himself with his wealth, nor the love of some other woman, could compensate him for the loss of her love. But these were reasons for herself, not for him. If she had gone to him and said, “Silvio, you have to choose between the joy of seeing and my love,” he surely would have replied, “And why do you want to leave me blind?” Because only this way, that is, on the condition of his misfortune, was her happiness possible.
    All at once she stood up, as if in answer to a sudden call. Was the examination still going on in that other room? What was the doctor saying? What was he thinking? She was tempted to tiptoe over and eavesdrop behind that door she herself had closed; but she restrained herself. There you had it: she was left behind the door; she herself, with her own hands, had closed it on herself, forever. But could she really accept that man’s poisonous offers? He had gone so far as to propose postponing his call until after the wedding.—If she had accepted ... No! No! She felt herself tighten up with disgust, with nausea. What a hateful deal that would have been! The most loathsome of deceptions! And later on? Contempt in place of love ...
    She heard the door open; she shuddered; instinctively she ran to the corridor through which Falci had to pass.
    â€œI made up for your excessive frankness, Miss,” he said coldly. “I have confirmed my diagnosis. The Marchese will come to my clinic tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, go to him, go, he’s waiting for you. Goodbye.”
    She stood there annihilated, drained; she watched him go all the way to the door at the far end of the corridor; then she heard Silvio’s voice calling her from his room. She felt all confused, dizzy; she was on the point of falling; she put her hands to her face to hold back her tears; she hastened toward him.
    He was sitting and awaiting her with open arms; he hugged her to himself with tremendous strength, shouting his happiness in short, choppy phrases, saying that it was for her alone that he wanted to regain his sight, to see her face, to see his beautiful, sweet bride; for her!
    â€œYou’re crying? Why? But I’m crying, too, see? Oh, what joy! I’ll see you ... I’ll see! I’ll see!”
    Every word was death to her; so much so that, happy as he was, he realized that her tears were not the same as his, and he then started to tell her that surely—oh, but surely—not even he, on a day like that one, would have believed what the doctor said, and so, forget it, enough now! What was she still thinking about? Today was a holiday! Away with all sorrows! Away