The Oil Jar and Other Stories by Luigi Pirandello Page B

loudly asked:
    â€œWho did it?”
    â€œNobody, God!” Neli shouted from the distance.
    They turned a corner and ran to the little village square, where the house of the municipal doctor stood.
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    The physician in question, Sidoro Lopiccolo, in his shirt sleeves, with his chest exposed, with a rough beard of at least ten days’ growth on his flabby cheeks, unkempt, with swollen, watery, sunken eyes, was moving about through the rooms, dragging his slippers, and carrying in his arms a poor little sick girl—nothing but skin and bones, with a sallow complexion—about nine years old. His wife, bedridden for eleven months, unable to help; six little children in the house—besides the one he was holding in his arms, who was the eldest—all in tatters, dirty, running wild; the whole house upside down, a ruin; broken dishes, rinds, the garbage piled on the floor; broken chairs, bottomless armchairs, beds that hadn’t been made for who knows how long, with the blankets in shreds, because the boys enjoyed playing war on the beds with the pillows as weapons, the little dears! The only thing still intact, in a room that had once been the little parlor, was an enlarged photographic portrait hung on the wall: the portrait of him, Dr. Sidoro Lopiccolo, when he was a young man, recently graduated: handsome, well dressed, fresh-looking and smiling.
    To this portrait he now made his way, with flopping slippers; he bared his yellow teeth at it, in a frightening leer; he shook his head; he showed it his sick daughter:
    â€œSisinello, Sisinè!”
    Sisinello, that’s what his mother used to call him as a pet name back then; his mother, who expected great things of him, the favorite son, the golden pillar, the banner of the household.
    â€œSisinello, Sisinè!”
    He greeted the two farmhands like a rabid mastiff:
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    It was Saro Tortorici who spoke, short of breath, with his cap in his hand:
    â€œDoctor, there’s a poor man, our cousin, who’s dying ...”
    â€œGood for him! Ring the church bells to celebrate!” the doctor shouted.
    â€œNo, sir ... He’s dying just like that, nobody knows what from,” the other man continued. “On the Montelusa property, in a stable.”
    The doctor took a step backward and exploded in fury:
    â€œAt Montelusa?”
    From the village it was a good seven miles along the road. And what a road!
    â€œYes, sir, hurry, hurry, for mercy’s sake!” Tortorici begged. “He’s black, like a liver! So swollen up, it’s frightening. Please!”
    â€œBut how, on foot?” the doctor howled. “Ten miles on foot? You’re crazy! A mule! I want a mule. Did you bring one?”
    â€œI’ll run right over and get one,” Tortorici hastened to reply. “I’ll borrow one.”
    â€œIn that case,” said Neli, the younger brother, “I’ll dash over in the meantime and get a shave.”
    The doctor turned around and looked at him as if he wanted to eat him up alive.
    â€œIt’s Sunday, sir,” Neli apologized, smiling in confusion. “I’m engaged.”
    â€œAh, you’re engaged?” the doctor then sneered, beside himself. “If that’s the case, take this one!”
    So saying, he dumped his sick daughter into his arms; then, one by one, he took the other little ones who had crowded around him and furiously shoved them between his knees:
    â€œAnd this one! And this one! And this one! And this one! Fool! Fool! Fool!”
    He turned his back on him, started to leave, but came back again, took back the sick girl and shouted at the two:
    â€œGo away! Get the mule! I’ll be right with you.”
    Neli Tortorici resumed smiling as he went down the stairs behind his brother. He was twenty; his fiancée, Luzza, sixteen: a rose. Seven children? That’s not many! He wanted twelve. And to support them he would rely on