Tales of Madness (2 page)

Unifying the author's varied treatment of madness is his
bleak view of the human condition. Hence, whenever we find an
instance of folly or unreason in his works — madness in Pirandello is never an end in itself— we also inevitably find the
expression of one or more of his somber philosophical concerns,
e.g., the confusion of reality and illusion, the tyranny of society, the tension between the public mask and the private face, and the problem of man's solitude. To be sure, this pessimism was largely inspired by the social, political, and economical turmoil experienced by the bourgeoisie in late 19th and early 20th century Europe, but its scope extends far beyond any specific historical crisis. Strictly speaking, Pirandello was an artist, not a philosopher, but many of his grim reflections still strike chords within us today, given their seemingly universal validity and the harsh realities of our times.

In conclusion, since Pirandello was a creative thinker as well as a masterful storyteller, and madness itself is an intriguing subject, we should find the tales collected here both aesthetically satisfying and thought-provoking. The characters populating these stories might at first seem rather strange, if not utterly foreign to us, but upon closer examination we cannot fail to see reflected in each of them some of our own illusions, fears, and frustrations, and more importantly, a bit of our own "madness." The images we perceive, though compellingly interesting, are far from cheerful. Nevertheless, it is only in coming to grips with our total humanity, including the shadowy, irrational dimension of our nature (as mirrored in Pirandello's art), that there can be any hope for sanity in our world — the authentic sort, which engenders such virtues as tolerance, compassion, sincerity, and love.

^{Tales of Madness}

In Rome, at my mother's house, I again see Andrea Sanserra, whom I had not seen for seven years. He had returned from America two months before. My mother entrusts me to him. We had grown up together as children, and we knew one another better than the poor old woman knew us. In the sanctity of her mind she had a better opinion of us than we actually deserved. She thought we were two angels, we who were twenty-six years old! But I had led her into having this fine opinion by the way I had lived during the five years of my engagement. Enough said. With Andrea I continued along the miserable path that I had taken in Naples three months before. And now I will get to the main issue. One evening he suggests... But first let me tell you that Sanserra didn't know the person I must now tell you about; he had only heard of her from others. He suggests, as I was saying, that I go meet a — this is the way he expresses himself— a sort of special attraction. He spoke to me about... I can't tell you exactly what he said; I only recall the visual impression his words made on me: a dark room with a large bed at the foot of which there was a screen; a girl wrapped in a sheet like a ghost; behind the screen an elderly woman, the girl's aunt, who sat knitting by a small round table; on the table a lamp that projected onto the wall, the enlarged shadow of the old woman with her agile hands in motion. The girl did not speak and hardly let you see her face; instead, it was her aunt who did the talking, recounting to the few faithful clients a world of miseries: her niece was engaged to an outstanding young man who had a well-paying job in northern Italy; their marriage had
been called off on account of the dowry; there had been a dowry,
but a family tragedy had swallowed it up. They had to make it up, and in a very short time, before the outstanding young man found out. "On the door of that room," concluded Andrea Sanserra, "one could write 'heartache'."

Naturally, I was tempted. And so Andrea and I planned to meet the following evening at eight thirty, just outside Porta del Popolo. He lives on Via Flaminia. The house of the two women is on Via Laurina; I no longer remember the number.

It was a Saturday night, and it was raining. Via Flaminia stretched out directly in front of us. It was muddy and illuminated here and there by streetlamps whose light bounced about and vanished under the gusts of wind that shook the dark, rain-pelted trees of Villa Borghese, behind me. Because of the terrible weather, I thought that he would not show up, and yet I could not make up my mind whether or not to leave, and remained there perplexed, gazing at the streams of water falling from all around the edge of my umbrella. Should I go to Via
Laurina by myself? No, no... A profound sensation of nausea for
the life I had been leading during the past three months won me over at that point. I felt ashamed of myself, abandoned by my companion there on the road to vice. I thought that Andrea probably had gone to spend the evening in an honest house, not suspecting that I was so corrupt as to keep our appointment on such a dreadful evening. And yet, that's not it, I thought. More than being corrupt, I'm miserable. Where could I go now? And there came to mind the happy peaceful evenings spent with my loved one beside me, my former life, her little house. Oh, Tuda! Tuda! All of a sudden, out of the central arch of that city gate there appeared an old man, hunched over, with a cloak reaching down to his ankles. He held up an old tattered umbrella with both hands. He was going down Via Flaminia, almost as if swept along by the wind. I focus my eyes on him... A chill runs through my entire body. Mr. Jacopo, Jacopo Sturzi, Tuda's father, my ex-fiancèe's father!... How can it be, if I, I myself, with these hands, a year ago, laid him out in a coffin and accompanied him to Campo Verano cemetery? Yet, lo and behold, there he is. He passes in front of me. Oh, Cod!... And he turns around to look at me, and bends his head to one side as if to let me see his smile. And what a smile! I'm nailed to the ground, gripped by a convulsive tremor. I try to shout, but my
voice doesn't issue from my throat. I follow him a while with my
eyes. Finally I manage to overcome my fear, and dash after him.

Believe me, I beg you. I'm unable to invent a story of this sort.
It would be impossible to repeat what he told me word for word; but you can easily understand that certain ideas can't be produced by my mind, because Jacopo Sturzi, though quite an intemperate man, was a true philosopher, a most original philosopher, and he spoke to me with the wisdom of the dead.

I caught up with him while he was already about to place his small, trembling hand on the handle of the glass door of a tavern. He swung around, took hold of my arm, and, dragging me over into the shady darkness, said:

"Luzzi, for heaven's sake, please don't say I'm alive!"

"Why, how... you?" I stuttered.

"Yes, I'm dead, Luzzi," he added, "but my bad habit, you understand, is stronger! I'll explain right away. There are those who, when they die, are mature for another life, and those who are not. The former die and never again return, because they have succeeded in finding their way... The latter instead return, because they were unable to find it; and naturally they seek it right where they lost it. For me, that's here, in the tavern. But it's not like you think. It's my punishment. I drink, and it's as if I'm not drinking, because the more I drink, the thirstier I become. And then, as you can readily understand, I can't afford to treat myself too lavishly."

And, rubbing together the forefinger and thumb of his right hand, he contracted his face into a grimace, intending to signify with that gesture: I don't have any money.

I looked at him, stupefied. Was I dreaming? And this foolish question came to my lips:

"Oh, of course! And how do you get by?"

He smiled and then, placing a hand on my shoulder, answered:

"If you only knew!... The very day after my burial, I began by selling back the beautiful porcelain plaque that my wife had ordered placed on my tomb. In the center it bore the inscription 'To my adored spouse.' Now, we, the dead, cannot stand certain lies, so I sold it back for a few lire. In that way I managed to get along for a week. There's no danger that my wife might come to pay me a visit and notice that the plaque is no longer there. Now I play cards with the customers, and since I win, I drink at the loser's expense. In short... it's an enterprise. And what do you do?"

I was unable to answer him. I looked at him for a moment, then, in an outburst of madness, I seized him by the arm.

"Tell me the truth! Who are you? How is it that you're here?"

He didn't lose his composure, but smiled and said:

"But if it was you yourself who recognized me!... How is it that I'm here? I'll tell you, but first let's go in. Can't you see? It's raining."

And he coaxed me into the tavern. There, he forced me to drink and drink again, certainly with the intention of getting me drunk. I was so astonished and dismayed that I was unable to put up a struggle. I don't drink wine, and yet I drank I no longer recall how much of it. I remember a suffocating cloud of smoke, the acrid stench of wine, the dull clatter of dishes, the hot and heavy smell of the kitchen, and the subdued mumbling of hoarse voices. Hunched over-- almost as if wanting to steal each other's breath, two old men were playing cards nearby, amid the angry or approving grunts of the spectators who crowded at their backs, absorbed in the game. A lamp, hanging from the low ceiling, diffused its yellow light through the dense cloud. But what astonished me more was seeing that, among the many people there, no one suspected that someone no longer living was in there. And looking now at one person, now at another, I felt the temptation to point to my companion and say: "This fellow is a dead man!" But then, almost as if he had read this temptation on my lips, Jacopo Sturzi, his shoulders propped against the wall and his chin on his breast, smiled without taking his eyes off me. His eyes were inflamed and full of tears!
He continued looking at me, even as he drank. All of a sudden he
stirred and began to speak to me in a low voice. My head was already spinning from the effect of the wine, but those strange words of his about matters of life and death made it spin even more. He noticed that and, laughing, concluded:

"They're not matters for you. Let's talk about something else. Tuda?"

"Tuda?" I uttered. "Don't you know? It's all over..."

He nodded his head affirmatively several times but then instead said:

"How?" I answered. "I've stopped asking about them."

"Come on, you know," he continued. "They told you last night."