The Oil Jar and Other Stories Read Free

remarks his family would hurl at Teresina and her mother. Then he had fallen sick; he had been on the point of dying; and on that occasion, without his knowledge, Aunt Marta and Teresina had sent to his address a large sum of money; part had been spent during his illness, but the rest he had violently torn out of his family’s hands and now, precisely, he was coming to return it to Teresina. Because money—no! He didn’t want any. Not because it seemed like a handout, seeing that he had already spent so much on her; but ... no! He himself was unable to say why, and now more than ever, there, in that house ... money, no! Just as he had waited all those years, he could wait some more ... Because if Teresina actually had money to spare, it was a sign that the future was now open to her, and therefore it was time for the old promise to be kept, in spite of anyone who refused to believe it.
    Micuccio stood up with his brows knitted, as if to reassure himself about that conclusion; once again he blew on his ice-cold hands and stamped on the floor.
    â€œCold?” the servant said to him passing by. “It won’t be long now. Come here into the kitchen. You’ll be more comfortable.”
    Micuccio didn’t want to follow the advice of the servant, who confused and irritated him with that lordly air. He sat down again and resumed thinking in dismay. Shortly afterward a loud ring roused him.
    â€œDorina, the mistress!” screamed the servant, hurriedly slipping on his tailcoat as he ran to open the door; but seeing that Micuccio was about to follow him, he stopped short and issued an order:
    â€œYou stay there; let me notify her first.”
    â€œOhi, ohi, ohi ... ,” lamented a sleepy voice behind the curtain; and after a moment there appeared a large, stocky, carelessly dressed woman who trailed one leg on the ground and was still unable to keep her eyes open; she had a woolen shawl pulled up over her nose and her hair was dyed gold.
    Micuccio kept looking at her foolishly. She too, in her surprise, opened her eyes wide when confronted by the outsider.
    â€œThe mistress,” Micuccio repeated.
    Then Dorina suddenly returned to consciousness:
    â€œHere I am, here I am ...,” she said, taking off the shawl and flinging it behind the curtain, and exerting her whole heavy body to run toward the entrance.
    The apparition of that dyed witch, and the order given by the servant, suddenly gave Micuccio, in his dejection, an anguished presentiment. He heard Aunt Marta’s shrill voice:
    â€œOver there, into the salon, into the salon, Dorina!”
    And the servant and Dorina passed by him carrying magnificent baskets of flowers. He leaned his head forward so he could observe the illuminated room at the far end, and he saw a great number of gentlemen in tailcoats talking confusedly. His sight grew dim; his amazement and agitation were so great that he himself didn’t realize that his eyes had filled with tears; he closed them, and he shut himself up completely in that darkness, as if to resist the torment that a long, ringing laugh was causing him. It was Teresina laughing like that, in the other room.
    A muffled cry made him open his eyes again, and he saw before him—unrecognizable—Aunt Marta, with her hat on her head, poor thing! and laden down by a costly and splendid velvet mantilla.
    â€œWhat! Micuccio ... you here?”
    â€œAunt Marta ... ,” exclaimed Micuccio, almost frightened, pausing to examine her closely.
    â€œWhatever for?” continued the old lady, who was upset. “Without letting us know? What happened? When did you get here? ... Tonight of all nights ... Oh, God, God ...”
    â€œI’ve come to ... ,” Micuccio stammered, not knowing what more to say.
    â€œWait!” Aunt Marta interrupted him. “What’s to be done? What’s to be done? See all those people, son? It’s Teresina’s celebration ... her night