A DAY DAWNS

By LUIGI PIRANDELLO THE dawn seemed somehow to have paused—to be lingering on the dim window-pane, too fatigued to breathe into the squalid room. Then slowly, like a ghost, it crept on ; first glimmering on the edge of the cheap curtain ; then filtering through the thin bars of a birdcage, without, however, wakening the canary inside it ; then gropingly moving across a deal table, to finger, one by one, the objects on top of it: a burnt-out candle in an iron candle-stick ; some torn-up letters ; a pile of books ; and propped against the books an unframed photograph of a handsome, debonair young man, smiling impudently, in spite of a rusty, black-headed hatpin jabbed viciously into his throat, as though to kill . . .

Anything else on that table? Yes, a revolver. And an arm. And another arm. And between them the tousled head of a girl, sunk on one cheek, prone, abandoned, the chestnut curls half-hiding the pure young profile, waxlike and motionless. The girl seemed dead.

The light crept across her without a tremor. That head, those arms, were of no more importance to it than the curtain, the bird-cage, or the bone-handled revolver. Diffusing itself into the room it showed a wooden wash- stand ; a bed, unslept-in ; and on the smooth counterpane, pitched hugger-mugger, some school-books and papers, a cotton umbrella, a jaunty little hat in red plush, a black scarf, and a shabby handbag in red leather.

The canary woke up, and with a flirt and flutter of wings began to preen himself ; then with a sudden twist of his yellow head took a peek at the sky, then straightened him- self again with a brief whistle—Gheeep!

" Good morning, Mistress!"

The head, the arms, did not move.

Hopping restlessly from perch to perch, the canary eyed the bed ; then with a quick tap of his beak pushed the cage door open, popped out his head, popped it in again, then out again, three or four times, as if bowing He seemed waiting for a call.

The call did not come.

Huffed, he sat bunched on his swing, sulking ; then, with a quick change of mind flew straight for the bed, half- swerved on the wing, perplexed, then settled on the pillow, swaying up and down, hopped towards the handbag, took a look at it, then a peck, stared at the umbrella, quite bewildered, then back into the cage.

The young man in the photograph continued to smile. Perhaps he knew of the pretty habit of leaving the cage-door open like that, every night, so that in the morning the dear little bird could fly to her in bed, at her call, to jump among her fingers or seek the warmth of her breast.

From the street, far below, had grown the sounds of traffic, the scrape of brooms, the rumble of carts. The light, spread now over the room, was vibrating merrily. The canary, as if taking a resolution, gave a cry, as if for help ; and the girl stirred.

For hours her young body had lain stretched on that table ; her muscles ached, one foot was numb. For a day and night she had eaten nothing. With a groan she drew her fists to her neck, to unstiffen it, opened her eyes slightly, then wide—and stared blankly at the revolver, her face con- tracting in a spasm. To the horrible sickness at her stomach was added a sickness, more horrible, at her heart, from the consciousness of a deed not carried out.

She had not killed herself.

Fatigue had conquered her. Before screwing herself up to the act she had let her head drop for an instant on her arms—and had fallen asleep. Now, confronting her, was the revolver. She had it all to do again. But not there, in that room. Outside, in the open. She must escape from that room, at once, at once. Not another moment could she stay in it. Hobbling to the window, she threw it wide, and with her bursting head on the sill drew the air into her oppressed lungs ; then turned and snatched the photograph with bitter rage, tearing it into small fragments and scatter- ing them about the room, stamping on them wildly. Then seizing her hat she pulled it on her disordered hair, shoved the revolver into her handbag, and stole on to the dark landing, on tiptoe, like a thief.

But at once came an ambush. From below screamed a coarse voice, intercepting her : " Heh! . . . held Where are you going? "

She stopped, and half-retreated ; then shaking herself angrily ran quickly downstairs—to be baulked on the first floor by a mountainous, red-faced woman, half-naked, tugging with her stumpy fingers at a soiled chemise, which she had pulled over her head, while she screamed from her bedroom doorway, half-in, half-out of it, at every sentence jerking herself forward, then backward, like a dog barking from its kennel: " Oh, you would, would you? You'd escape? But I'm dressing, you know. And I'm off for the police. You slut! Aren't you ashamed? Running away like that. Cheating me. D'ye think that your dirty books and few rags are going to pay me my fortnight's rent? You slut! Oh, but I'm dressing, and I'm off for the police. Aren't you ashamed? . . ."

The young girl, though carrying herself proudly, felt annihilated. She was done, beaten. What, what was she to say? What pretext could she give, to make the voice stop—to escape, get beyond it, into the street? What on earth was she to say? . . . At last she made a sign, to show that, yes, she was going . . .

" To the rich old gent? " asked the voice quickly.

She nodded ; several times. And having nodded she con- tinued her way comfortably, as if now she had the right, taking the stairs sedately, even producing from her handbag a pair of shabby gloves, to put them on ; while the woman, instantly placated, retired into her kennel, muttering: " Oh well, she's sensible at last." . . .