“A Single Day” (Una giornata)

Translated by Arianna Autieri and Charlotte Spear

How to cite this work:

Pirandello, Luigi. “A Single Day” (Una giornata), tr. Arianna Autieri and Charlotte Spear. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2024.

A Single Day” (“Una giornata”) was first published in the newspaper Il Corriere della Sera on September 24, 1936, just a few months before Pirandello’s unexpected and untimely death. This makes it the penultimate short story to be published during his lifetime, followed only by “Effects of an Interrupted Dream” (“Effetti di un sogno interrotto,” 1936), which came out in December just a day before he passed. “A Single Day” was then collected posthumously and added as the final story in the fifteenth Collection of Stories for a Year, A Single Day (Una giornata), published by Mondadori in 1937.

Like the thematically-related publication to follow it, this late short story blurs the distinction between dream and reality and engages modernist narrative techniques that resonate with those developed by avant-garde movements across Europe in the early decades of the twentieth century. Here, the protagonist is anonymous – in a sense, faceless, echoing the visual vocabulary of Giorgio De Chirico’s metaphysical art, which is closely related to that of Surrealism. The anonymous protagonist moves through a strange and alien landscape that seems to shift and transform constantly, replicating the dream logic of Surrealist composition lauded by André Breton in his manifestos from a decade earlier and visualized by painters and filmmakers alike. Meanwhile, the narrative focus that gradually emerges is likewise a kind of cinematic special effect, accelerating events in a kind of narrative time-lapse that allows Pirandello to condense the entire life of an individual into a single (dream) day. Importantly, though, the reality of this apparent “dream” is left in question, allowing the story to hover at the uneasy juncture of reality and illusion that fascinated Pirandello throughout his writerly career. The idea of condensing an entire lifetime into a single day or scene had also been experimented with earlier by Futurist playwrights in short theatrical sintesi that hinge on the effects of simultaneity (see for instance FT Marinetti’s collection of Teatro futurista sintetico published in Milan by the Istituto editoriale Italiano in 1921; in another light, Bruno Corra and Emilio Settimelli’s short sintesi “Passatismo” uses this effect to criticize the lack of dynamic change in the historical life of the modern Italian bourgeoisie). However, Pirandello’s re-envisioning of this technique shifts from the violent vitalism of Futurist experimentation to the pensively existential modernism that typifies his work across decades. Ultimately, “A Single Day” challenges the reader to consider both the fleetingness of life and the alienation we experience from our own existence, failing to see ourselves in the way others see and react to us – typically Pirandellian themes reworked in a dreamlike, even Surreal, modernist form.

The Editors

Abruptly awoken from sleep, perhaps by mistake, and thrown out of my train at a small station. At night; with no belongings, nothing.[1]

I can’t get over my astonishment. But what shocks me the most is that I can’t find any sign of this violence on my body; not only that but also, I don’t seem to remember anything, I don’t even have the confused shadow of a memory.

I lie on the ground, alone, in the darkness of a deserted station; and I don’t know who I should ask about what happened to me, where I am.

I only saw a dark lantern, as it rushed to close the train door from which I have been thrown. The train left at once. And at once, the lamp disappeared inside the station, its vain light reverberating uncertainly. Stunned, I did not even think of running after it, to ask for an explanation or to make a complaint.

But a complaint about what?

In absolute dismay, I realize that I have no memory of setting off on a train journey. I don’t remember at all where I was leaving, or heading; and if I had anything with me when I left. I think, nothing.

In the vacuum of this horrible uncertainty, all of a sudden, I am terrified by that ghostly dark lantern, which had vanished at once with no regard for the way in which I was thrown from the train. Is this then the most normal way to get off a train at this station?

In the dark, I can’t distinguish the station’s name. But the city is certainly unknown to me. In the first squalid glimmer of dawn, it seems deserted. In the vast blue piazza in front of the station, a light is still on. I get closer, I stop, and, not daring to raise my eyes, terrified as I am by the echo of my own footsteps in the silence, I look at my hands. I observe one side, and the other. I close them, I re-open them. I examine myself with them, my own body, also to know the shape of my own body, because I can’t even be sure of this: that I really exist, and that all of this is real.

Shortly afterwards, entering the city center, at every step I see things that would stop me in amazement, had I not already been shocked by the fact that everyone else, despite looking similar to me, seems to move past them without paying any attention. As if these were the most natural and usual things in the world. I feel as though I am being dragged, but without any sensation of force. I sense only that, in my inner self, unaware of everything, I am almost totally restrained. But I suppose that I must certainly be the one who is wrong if I don’t even know how, from where, and why I came here. All the others must be right, not only because they seem to know what I do not know, but also because they seem to know what to do. They are confident that they will make no mistakes, without the slightest uncertainty. They are so naturally convinced that they should act as they do that I would attract their wonder, reprehension, even their indignation, if I laughed or showed my amazement at their appearance or some of their actions or expressions. In my ardent desire to find something out without them noticing, I need to keep dismissing from my eyes that sort of defensiveness that often shows fleetingly in the eyes of dogs. It’s my fault, it’s my fault if I don’t understand anything, if I still can’t figure anything out. I should force myself to also appear persuaded, and to try and act like the others, despite lacking any criteria for or practical notion of even the most common and simple things.[2]

I don’t know where to start, which path to take, what I should do.

But how is it possible, how can I have grown up so much, whilst always remaining like a child? Without having ever done anything? I’ve had a job in my dreams, perhaps, I don’t know how. But I have surely worked, worked always, and a lot, a lot. Everyone seems to know this, in any case, because many people turn their heads to look at me, and several also greet me, even people I don’t know. Initially, I am puzzled. Are they really greeting me? I look around me, behind me. Have they been greeting me by mistake? No, no. It’s really me that they’re greeting. Embarrassed, I fight with a sort of vanity which would like to but can’t deceive itself. I keep going, almost suspended. I am not able to get rid of a strange awkwardness over something which—I admit—is really petty: I am not sure about the suit I am wearing; it seems strange that it should be mine; and now I feel as though they are greeting my suit, and not me. And at the same time, other than this suit, I have nothing else, not anymore![3]

Rummaging through my clothes, a surprise. Hidden in the pocket of my jacket I can feel a small leather bag. I take it out. I am almost certain that it doesn’t belong to me but to this suit, which is not mine. A really old leather bag, yellow, discolored, washed-out, almost as though it has fallen into the water of a stream or a well, before being fished out. I open it, or, rather, I peel it apart and look inside. Among a few folded papers, illegible from the splashes of water diluting the ink, I find a small, yellowed, sacred image, [4] one of those images that children are given at church; and, glued to it, a similarly faded picture of almost the same size. I unglue it and look at it. Oh. It is a picture of a beautiful young woman, in a swimsuit, almost naked, the wind in her hair, excitedly waving a greeting with arms raised. Admiring her, albeit with a certain feeling of, I don’t know, almost remote sorrow, I feel, or perhaps I am sure, that the greeting of these arms, so excitedly waving in the wind, is directed at me. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot recognize her. Is it even possible that the memory of such a beautiful woman could slip from my mind, blown away by the same wind that ruffles her hair? Of course, in this small leather pouch that once fell into the water, this image, next to the sacred one, takes the place reserved for a fiancée.

I keep searching inside the small pouch, and more taken aback than pleased, doubting that it belongs to me, I find a large banknote in a secret pocket. Put away there, forgotten from who knows when, folded in four, tattered, and here and there, on its already worn folds, riddled with holes.

Can I make use of it, deprived as I am of anything else? With what strength of conviction I don’t know, but that small picture’s figure reassures me that the banknote is mine. But can this girl, this wind-ruffled little head, be trusted? It’s past noon; I am starving: I need to eat something, so I head into a trattoria. [5]

Surprisingly, here as well I am received as a most distinguished guest. I am shown a set table, a chair is pulled out for me, and I am offered a seat. But something is holding me back. I make a sign to the owner, and, quietly, I show him the worn-out banknote. Amazed, he looks at it; he examines it sympathetically because of the state it is in; then he tells me that it is certainly of great value, but it has long since gone out of circulation. But, do not fear: if presented to the bank by somebody like me, it could certainly be swapped for small change in currency.

Having said so, the owner of the trattoria accompanies me outside, and shows me the bank nearby.

I go in, and the bank tellers seem happy to do me a favor. That banknote of mine—they tell me—is one of the few not yet returned to the bank. The bank had some time ago taken out of circulation all but the smallest notes. They give me so many of these in return that I am ill at ease, almost oppressed. All I have with me is that small, castaway leather bag. But they urge me not to get confused. There is a solution for everything. I can leave my money at the bank, and deposit it in a current account. I pretend I have understood; I put some of the notes in my pocket, together with a booklet that they give me in place of all the other notes I am leaving there, and go back to the trattoria. I don’t find any food that I like; I am afraid I can’t digest it. But there must have been rumors about the fact that, if not rich, I am certainly not poor anymore; and indeed, outside the trattoria, a car is waiting for me. A driver takes his hat off with one hand, and with the other opens the car door to let me in. I don’t know where he is taking me. But, just as I own a car, one can see that I must also own a house without knowing it. Indeed yes, a beautiful house, ancient, where many people have certainly lived before me, and many will live after me. Is all this furniture really mine? I feel like a stranger around it, like an intruder. As with the city at dawn this morning, now also this house seems deserted; I’m again afraid of the echo of my own footsteps as I move in the silence. In winter, it gets dark very early; I am cold, and I feel tired. I find the courage; I move; I randomly open one of the doors. I am amazed to find the room illuminated, the bedroom, and on the bed, her, the young girl from the picture come to life, still waving her naked arms excitedly.[6] This time she invites me to rush to her to be embraced by them, jubilant.

Is it a dream?

Sure enough, as happens in dreams, after the night, at dawn, she is not there anymore. No trace of her. And the bed, so warm during the night, is now icy as a tomb to the touch. And all through the house is that odor that breeds in dusty places where life has long withered, and that dull sense of tiredness that requires regular, practical routines to sustain itself. I have always been horrified by this. I want to run away. This cannot possibly be my house. This is a nightmare. Surely, I have dreamed one of the most absurd dreams. As if to prove it, I go to look at myself in a mirror which hangs from the opposite wall, and at once I feel like I am drowning, terrified, in endless bewilderment. From what remoteness do my eyes, the same I seem to have had since I was a child, now stare, emptied by terror, unconvinced of themselves, at this old man’s face? Myself, already old? So soon? And how is this possible?

I hear a knock at the door. I’m startled. They announce that my children have arrived.

My children?

It seems dreadful that I could have borne children. But when? I must have had them yesterday. Yesterday, I was still young. It is only right that now, in old age, I know them.

They come in, holding the hands of their own children. They rush to support me, lovingly scolding me for having got up from bed. Considerately, they sit me down, to let me catch my breath. Me, breathless? Indeed yes, they know very well that I cannot stand anymore and that I am very, very ill.

Seated, I look at them, I listen to them; and it seems to me that they are playing a joke on me in a dream.

Is it already over, my life?

And while I observe them, as they bend over me, I can see white hairs sprouting on their heads, maliciously, as if I should not notice it; before my very eyes, growing, and growing; and not a few, not a few white hairs.

“Isn’t it a joke? You too, you see, already have white hair.”

And look, look at these children who have just come in: well, it took only the time to get near my armchair for them to grow up; and one of them, that one, is already a young girl who strives to be admired. If her dad does not stop her, she throws herself on my knees, and puts her arm around my neck, resting her little head on my chest.

I feel the need to jump to my feet. But I am forced to admit that I no longer actually can. And with the same eyes that those children, now so grown up, had just a few moments ago, I keep looking at them. With more and more compassion, I look for as long as I can at my old children, behind these new ones.