War by Luigi Pirandello

1

War

by Luigi Pirandello

The passengers who had left Rome by the night express had had to stop until

dawn at the small station of Fabriano in order to continue their journey by the

small old-fashioned local joining the main line with Sulmona.

At dawn, in a stuffy and smoky second-class carriage in which five people had

already

spent

the

night,

a

bulky

woman

in

deep

mourning

was

hosted

in

--

almost

like

a

shapeless

bundle.

Behind

her,

puffing

and

moaning,

followed

her

husband

--

a

tiny

man;

thin

and

weakly,

his

face

death- white,

his

eyes

small and bright and looking shy and uneasy.

Having at last taken a seat he politely thanked the passengers who had helped

his wife and who had made room for her; then he turned round to the woman

trying to pull down the collar of her coat and politely inquired:

The wife, instead of answering, pulled up her collar again to her eyes, so as to

hide her face.

And

he

felt

it

his

duty

to

explain

to

his

traveling

companions

that

the

poor

woman was to be pitied for the war was taking away from her her only son, a

boy

of

twenty

to

whom

both

had

devoted

their

entire

life,

even

breaking

up

their home at Sulmona to follow him to Rome, where he had to go as a student,

then

allowing

him

to

volunteer

for

war

with

an

assurance,

however,

that

at

least six months he would not be sent to the front and now, all of a sudden,

receiving a wire saying that he was due to leave in three days' time and asking

them to go and see him off.

The woman under the big coat was twisting and wriggling, at times growling

like a wild animal, feeling certain that all those explanations would not have

aroused even a shadow of sympathy from those people who--most likely--were

in

the

same

plight

as

herself.

One

of

them,

who

had

been

listening

with

particular attention, said:

Mine

has been sent there the first day of the war.

He has already come back twice

wounded and been sent back again to the front.

2

about

me?

I

have

two

sons

and

three

nephews

at

the

front,

said

another passenger.

only

son,

difference

can

it

make?

You

may

spoil

your

only

son

by

excessive

attentions,

but

you

cannot

love

him

more

than

you

would

all

your

other

children if you had any.

Parental love is not like bread that can be broken to

pieces

and

split

amongst

the

children

in

equal

shares. A

father

gives

all

his

love to each one of his children without discrimination, whether it be one or

ten, and if I am suffering now for my two sons, I am not suffering half for each

of them but double...

sighed

the

embarrassed

husband,

suppose

(of

course

we

all hope it will never be your case) a father has two sons at the front and he

loses one of them, there is still one left to console him...while...

son left for whom he must survive, while in the case of the father of an only

son if the son dies the father can die too and put an end to his distress.

Which

of

the

two

positions

is

worse?

Don't

you

see

how

my

case

would

be

worse

than yours?

eyes of the palest gray.

He was panting. From his bulging eyes seemed to spurt inner violence of an

uncontrolled vitality which his weakened body could hardly contain.

the two missing front teeth.

Do we give life to our own children

for our own benefit?

The other travelers stared at him in distress.

The one who had had his son at

the front since the first day of the war sighed:

Our children

do not belong to us, they belong to the country...

of the country when we give

life to our children?

Our sons are born because...well, because they must be

born and when they come to life they take our own life with them.

This is the

truth.

We belong to them but they never belong to us.

And when they reach

twenty they are exactly what we were at their age.

We too had a father and

mother, but there were so many other things as well...girls, cigarettes, illusions,

new

ties...and

the

Country,

of

course,

whose

call

we

would

have

answered--when

we

were

twenty-- even

if

father

and

mother

had

said