Free Her Husband by Luigi Pirandello Page A

face.
    Giustino Boggiolo entered a little flustered and nodded to Cosimo Zago, who, downcast and very pale, was getting up. Bowing his large disheveled head, he leaned painfully against the back of a chair.
    “I’m going. Good-bye,” he said in a voice he hoped sounded calm.
    “Addio,” Dora replied at once, contemptuously, without looking at him; and she turned to smile at Giustino. “Sit down, sit down, Boggiolo. How good of you . . . About time, eh?”
    As soon as Zago, limping badly, was gone, she threw herself into a chair and, arms in the air, sighed deeply: “I can’t take anymore! Ah, my dear friend, how people can make you regret having a little heart! But if a poor unfortunate man comes to tell you: ‘I’m ugly … I’m crippled …’ what can you say? ‘No, dear: why? Then just think how Nature hascompensated you with other gifts.’ It’s the truth! You know what beautiful poetry that poor man can make. I tell everyone. I even told him. I’ve published it. But now he makes me regret it. C’est toujours ainsi! Because I’m a woman, you see? But I told him tout bonnemont , you can believe that. Just like a colleague … I’m a woman because … because I’m not a man, for God’s sake! But I don’t often even think about being a woman, and that’s the truth! I completely forget about it. You know how I’m reminded of it? By the way some men look at me. . . . Oh, God! I burst out laughing. Yes, of course! I say to myself. I really am a woman. They love me. Ha, ha, ha. And now, what can I do, dear Boggiolo, I’m old now, aren’t I? Come on, for heaven’s sake! Give me a compliment, tell me I’m not old.”
    “There’s no need to say it,” Giustino said, blushing and lowering his eyes.
    Dora Barmis burst out laughing in her usual way, wrinkling her nose: “Darling! Are you embarrassed? But no, come on! Will you have some tea? Vermouth? Here!”
    She offered him the box of cigarettes with one hand and with the other pressed the button of the electric bell situated under a shelf loaded with books, knickknacks, statuettes, and photographs.
    “Thank you, I don’t smoke,” Giustino said.
    Dora placed the cigarettes on the bottom shelf of a small, round coffee table in front of the divan. The maid entered.
    “Bring the vermouth. For me, tea. Bring it here, Nina. I’ll pour myself.”
    The maid returned shortly with the tea, the vermouth, and sweet rolls in a silver-plated bowl. Dora poured the vermouth and said: “Now that I think of it there’s something else you should be ashamed of, silly boy! Pay attention, because I’m serious now.”
    “What should I be ashamed of?” asked Giustino, who had already caught her drift. So much so that a foolish smile took shape under his mustache.
    “Nature has given you a treasure, Boggiolo!” Signora Barmis said in a threatening and admonishing tone, wagging a finger. “Have a fondant . . . .Your wife doesn’t belong just to you. Your rights, darling, must be limited. If it won’t make your wife unhappy, you should even . . . Tell me, is your wife jealous of you?”
    “Of course not,” Giustino replied. “Anyway, I can’t say, because .. .”
    “You’ve never given her the slightest reason,” Dora finished his sentence. “You really are a good boy. That’s obvious. Perhaps too good. Huh? Tell the truth. No, you must spare her, Boggiolo. Besides . . . men give a bad name to the thing.” She bent the middle and ring finger of one hand to make the sign of the cuckold. “But a woman with any spirit doesn’t give a hoot: women have their peccadilloes, too. Look at me! Why don’t you look at me? Do I seem very peculiar? Oh, fine, just like that! You laugh? Certainly, darling, being a good boy is not enough when one has the good fortune of having a wife like yours. Do you know the poetess Bertolè-Viazzi? She didn’t come to the banquet because, poor woman . . .”
    “She is, also?” Giustino Boggiolo asked piteously
    “Eh . . . but