Tales of Madness (14 page)

And so he had put it back down, and a little later, lo and behold, the turtle would repeat its eternal labor of scaling that first step by itself.

"What an animal!" Feroni exclaimed the first time he saw it happen.

This, in brief, is how he reasoned.

Feroni, moreover, had his own particular reasons for feeling scorn for the old turtle's integrity — or prudence, if that's what it was — and for a while he enjoyed seeing the ridiculous and desperate kicks it thrust in the air, as it lay there upside down. Finally, tired of seeing it suffer, he would extend it a mighty kick.

Never, never had anyone ever wanted to lend him a hand in all his efforts to climb. And yet, all things considered, not even that would have greatly upset Fabio Feroni, since he was aware of life's harsh difficulties and of the selfishness that they bring
out in people, if it had not been his lot in life to have another and
much sadder experience. Because of it, he felt that he had virtually earned the right, if not exactly to people's assistance, at least to their compassion.

The experience he had had was this: whenever he was just about to achieve a goal for which he had striven patiently, tenaciously, and with all the strength of his spirit, chance, despite all his efforts, would arrive with the sudden spring of a grasshopper and take pleasure in throwing him down, belly up — just like that turtle.

It was a ferocious game. A gust of wind, a puff of air, a little shake at the crucial moment, and then everything would collapse.

Nor could it be said that, because of the modesty of his aspirations, his sudden falls merited little sympathy. First of all, his aspirations had not always been modest, as they were of
late. But then... yes, of course, the higher you fly, the harder you
fall... But isn't the fall of an ant from a twig six inches high, in effect equivalent to the fall of a man from a bell tower? Besides, if anything, the modesty of his aspirations should have made that little game that chance played on him seem a greater cruelty. A fine sort of pleasure it was, taking it out on an ant, that is, on a poor individual who for so many years has been
scraping along and doing all he can by hook or by crook to bring
about and set into motion some small enterprise to slightly improve his condition! A fine sort of pleasure it was, surprising him suddenly, and in an instant frustrating all his subtle strategies and the long, painful hope that was ever so carefully nurtured, but that remained ever more illusory.

To hope no more, delude oneself no longer, desire nothing more; to continue along in this manner, in total submission, abandoned to the whims of chance —
that
would be his only alternative, and Fabio Feroni knew it well. But alas, hopes, desires, and illusions germinated again within him irresistibly, almost as if to spite him. They were seeds that life itself sowed, and that fell even on his ground, ground that, no matter how hardened by the chill of experience, could not reject them, nor prevent them from sending out even a weak root and sprouting palely and with inconsolable timidity in the frigid, gloomy air of his hopelessness.

The best he could do was to pretend not to notice them, or tell himself that it wasn't at all true that he hoped for this, or desired that, or that he had the slightest illusion that this hope or that desire could ever be realized. He kept on, just as if he no longer either hoped or desired anything more, just as if he no longer had any illusions at all. Yet he kept looking at hope, desire, and secret illusion, as if from the corner of his eye, and he followed them in all seriousness, almost behind his own back.

So when chance suddenly, inevitably tripped them up as usual, he certainly did give a start, but would pretend that it was a shrug of the shoulders, and he laughed sadly, drowning the pain in the bitter satisfaction of not having hoped at all, not having desired at all, not having entertained any illusions whatsoever. Thus, he would pretend that chance, that wily old demon, really didn't get him this time, oh no, not this time!

His friends would look at him without quite understanding what he meant.

"But don't you see? The government fell!" Feroni would add.

"But of course!"

In short, Fabio Feroni had already become obsessed with what he called "the spring of the grasshopper," and thus obsessed, had naturally fallen prey to the most fantastic superstitions. These superstitions, which diverted him increasingly from his former calm philosophical meditations made him commit several truly strange acts, as well as endless frivolities.

One fine day, so as not to give chance the time to turn everything topsy-turvy, he got married on the spur of the moment, as quick as one can suck an egg from its shell.

Actually for some time he had been watching (usually from
the corner of his eye) that young lady, Miss Molesi, who worked
at the library. The more Dreetta Molesi appeared beautiful and charming to him, the more he told everyone how ugly and affected she was.

When his fiancée complained that his hurry was excessive,
though she, too, was in a hurry to get married, he told her that he
had had everything ready for some time; the house had this in it and it had that. However, she was not to ask to visit it ahead of time, because he was saving it as a beautiful surprise for her on their wedding day. And he even refused to tell her on which street it was located, fearing that after being tempted by his detailed descriptions of all the comforts it offered, of the view one enjoyed from its windows, and of the furniture he had purchased and arranged with loving care in the various rooms, she would secretly go see it with her mother or brother.

He discussed the honeymoon at length with her. Florence? Venice? But when the time came, he departed for Naples, certain that he had fooled chance, that is, that he had sent it to Florence and Venice, knowing that it would make the rounds of
the hotels in an effort to spoil the delights of his honeymoon, while
he, peaceful and sheltered, would be enjoying them in Naples.

Dreetta, as well as her relatives, were bewildered by his sudden decision to leave for Naples, though they were already somewhat used to similar brusque changes in his moods and intentions. Little did the relatives imagine that a much greater surprise awaited them upon the couple's return from the honey-moon.

This time, anger and indignation broke loose from the shackles imposed by good manners and lack of familiarity. Dreetta and her relatives accused him loudly of being deceitful or, what is worse, of being an imposter. Why lie like that? Why pretend that he had a completely furnished house, replete with all the comforts? Why?

Fabio Feroni, who had been expecting this explosion, patiently waited for their initial anger to dissipate, smiling contentedly at his own martyrdom, while searching his nostrils for some little hair to pluck. Was Dreetta crying? Were her relatives insulting him? That was all right. It was all right that
it should be so, in exchange for all the joy he had just now had in
Naples, for all the love that filled his soul. It was all right that it should be so.

Why was Dreetta crying? Because of a house they didn't have? Oh, come on now, that wasn't so bad! Someday they would have one!

And he explained to her relatives why he had not prepared a little house beforehand, and why he had lied. He also explained that, after all, it was also a bit their fault that his lie appeared to be so terrible, because they had asked him too many questions when he had first stated that everything had been ready for some time and that he wanted to give his fiancée a beautiful surprise. He did have the money for it. Here it was: 20,000 lire, collected and saved over a period of so many years, by dint of so, so many sacrifices. The surprise he was preparing for Dreetta was this: he was going to place the money into her hands so that she, she alone, could set up a nest that would conform to her tastes, as a necessity, not as a dream. But for heaven's sake, she was in no way to follow the imaginary description that he had once given her! It had to be completely different. She was to make the arrangements with the help of her mother and brother. He didn't want to know anything about it, because if he would in the least bit approve of one choice or another, or show himself to be happy over it, all would be lost! And finally, he warned them that if they hoped that he would express satisfaction over their purchases, the arrangement of the furniture in the house, or anything else, they should get that idea out of their heads, because from then on, no matter what, he would declare that he was dissatisfied, quite dissatisfied.

Fabio Feroni essentially desired everything that could make his little wife happy. But knowing that if he were to manifest or pursue such desires, chance would immediately overturn them, he manifested and pursued contrary desires to prevent such an eventuality. Consequently his little wife lived unhappily. When she finally became aware of this situation and began to do everything his way, that is, to do the opposite of what he told her to do, Fabio Feroni's gratitude, affection, and admiration for
her reached their climax. But the poor man took great care not to
express them. He, too, felt happy, and began to fear because of that.

How could he hide his feelings of overwhelming joy? How could he say that he was unhappy?