Six Characters in Search of an Author, Luigi Pirandello [e ink ebook reader .txt] 📗

But I say, please face three-quarters. Otherwise, what with the abstruseness of the dialogue, and the public that won’t be able to hear you, the whole thing will go to hell. Come on! come on! Prompter Pardon sir, may I get into my box? There’s a bit of a draught. The Manager Yes, yes, of course! At this point, the Door-Keeper has entered from the stage door and advances towards the manager’s table, taking off his braided cap. During this manoeuvre, the Six Characters enter, and stop by the door at back of stage, so that when the Door-Keeper is about to announce their coming to The Manager, they are already on the stage. A tenuous light surrounds them, almost as if irradiated by them⁠—the faint breath of their fantastic reality. This light will disappear when they come forward towards the Actors. They preserve, however, something of the dream lightness in which they seem almost suspended; but this does not detract from the essential reality of their forms and expressions. He who is known as The Father is a man of about 50: hair, reddish in colour, thin at the temples; he is not bald, however; thick moustaches, falling over his still fresh mouth, which often opens in an empty and uncertain smile. He is fattish, pale; with an especially wide forehead. He has blue, oval-shaped eyes, very clear and piercing. Wears light trousers and a dark jacket. He is alternatively mellifluous and violent in his manner. The Mother seems crushed and terrified as if by an intolerable weight of shame and abasement. She is dressed in modest black and wears a thick widow’s veil of crêpe. When she lifts this, she reveals a wax-like face. She always keeps her eyes downcast. The Step-Daughter, is dashing, almost impudent, beautiful. She wears mourning too, but with great elegance. She shows contempt for the timid half-frightened manner of the wretched Boy (14 years old, and also dressed in black); on the other hand, she displays a lively tenderness for her little sister, The Child (about four), who is dressed in white, with a black silk sash at the waist. The Son (22) tall, severe in his attitude of contempt for The Father, supercilious and indifferent to The Mother. He looks as if he had come on the stage against his will. Door-Keeper Cap in hand. Excuse me, sir⁠ ⁠… The Manager Rudely. Eh? What is it? Door-Keeper Timidly. These people are asking for you, sir. The Manager Furious. I am rehearsing, and you know perfectly well no one’s allowed to come in during rehearsals! Turning to the Characters. Who are you, please? What do you want? The Father Coming forward a little, followed by the others who seem embarrassed. As a matter of fact⁠ ⁠… we have come here in search of an author⁠ ⁠… The Manager Half angry, half amazed. An author? What author? The Father Any author, sir. The Manager But there’s no author here. We are not rehearsing a new piece. The Step-Daughter Vivaciously. So much the better, so much the better! We can be your new piece. An Actor Coming forward from the others. Oh, do you hear that? The Father To The Step-Daughter. Yes, but if the author isn’t here⁠ ⁠… To The Manager.⁠ ⁠… unless you would be willing⁠ ⁠… The Manager You are trying to be funny. The Father No, for Heaven’s sake, what are you saying? We bring you a drama, sir. The Step-Daughter We may be your fortune. The Manager Will you oblige me by going away? We haven’t time to waste with mad people. The Father Mellifluously. Oh sir, you know well that life is full of infinite absurdities, which, strangely enough, do not even need to appear plausible, since they are true. The Manager What the devil is he talking about? The Father I say that to reverse the ordinary process may well be considered a madness: that is, to create credible situations, in order that they may appear true. But permit me to observe that if this be madness, it is the sole raison d’être of your profession, gentlemen. The Actors look hurt and perplexed. The Manager Getting up and looking at him. So our profession seems to you one worthy of madmen then? The Father Well, to make seem true that which isn’t true⁠ ⁠… without any need⁠ ⁠… for a joke as it were.⁠ ⁠… Isn’t that your mission, gentlemen: to give life to fantastic characters on the stage? The Manager Interpreting the rising anger of the company. But I would beg you to believe, my dear sir, that the profession of the comedian is a noble one. If today, as things go, the playwrights give us stupid comedies to play and puppets to represent instead of men, remember we are proud to have given life to immortal works here on these very boards! The Actors, satisfied, applaud their Manager. The Father Interrupting furiously. Exactly, perfectly, to living beings more alive than those who breathe and wear clothes: beings less real perhaps, but truer! I agree with you entirely. The Actors look at one another in amazement. The Manager But what do you mean? Before, you said⁠ ⁠… The Father No, excuse me, I meant it for you, sir, who were crying out that you had no time to lose with madmen, while no one better than yourself knows that nature uses the instrument of human fantasy in order to pursue her high creative purpose. The Manager Very well⁠—but where does all this take us? The Father Nowhere! It is merely to show you that one is born to life in many forms, in many shapes, as tree, or as stone, as water, as butterfly, or as woman. So one may also be born a character in a play. The Manager With feigned comic dismay. So you and these other friends of yours have been born characters? The Father Exactly, and alive as you see! The Manager