Journal of Italian Translation - Brooklyn College - Academic Home ...

Ellen McRae / Luigi Pirandello
Her mother had believed they said it out of envy, because Batà
was well-off. And the more determined she was that she marry
him, the more they, dejectedly, showed reluctance to join in her
satisfaction at the good fortune that had befallen her daughter. No,
in all conscience, nothing bad was ever said about Batà, but nor was
anything good. Cast out there all the time, on that far-off piece of
land of his, no one knew how he lived; he was always alone, like
an animal in the company of his animals, two she-mules, a she-ass
and the guard dog; and he certainly had a strange demeanour,
menacing and sometimes like that of a fool.
There had actually been another reason, and perhaps a stronger
one, why her mother was determined that she marry that man.
Sidora remembered this other reason too, which at that moment
seemed far, far away, as if in another life, but still distinct, detailed.
She could see two fresh witty, vermilion lips, like two carnation petals,
opening into a smile that made all the blood in her veins throb
and tingle. They were the lips of Saro, her cousin, who couldn’t
find the strength in his love for her to come to his senses, to break
free from the company of his wretched friends, so as to remove
any excuse of her mother’s for opposing their marriage.
Oh, certainly, Saro would have made an awful husband; but
what kind of husband was this one, now? The troubles the other
one would undoubtedly have given her, were they perhaps not
preferable to the anguish, the revulsion, the fear, that this one
aroused in her?
Batà, finally, pulled out of his crouching position, but as soon
as he was on his feet, he turned halfway round, almost overcome
by vertigo; his legs, as if fettered, buckled; his arms in the air, he
could barely hold himself upright. A moaning, almost of rage,
sprang from his throat.
Sidora, terrified, rushed towards him, but he stopped her with
a wave of his arms. A gush of saliva, inexhaustible, prevented him
from speaking. Struggling, he swallowed it back down; he fought
against the convulsions, with a horrible gurgling in his throat. And
his face was pale, turbid, ashen; his eyes dark and veiled; behind
their madness an almost childlike fear could be made out, still
conscious, never ending. He continued to signal to her with his
hands to wait and not to be frightened and to keep her distance.
At last, in a voice that was no longer his, he said:
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