Tales of Madness

by Luigi Pirandello

  Spatolino repeated what he had said to Ciancarella and, carried away by the praises of the feisty priest, added other things he had not said.

  “Very good! And he? That ugly dog!”

  “He says he had a dream.”

  “That swindler! Don’t believe him! That swindler! If God had really spoken to him in a dream, He would have suggested rather that he help the Lattugas, those poor souls. To think that he won’t accept them as relatives because they are religious and loyal to us, while, on the other hand, he protects the Montoros — understand? — those socialistic atheists to whom he’ll leave all his wealth! But enough of this! What do you want from me? Go ahead and build him a shrine. If you don’t, somebody else will. Anyway, as far as we’re concerned, it’ll always be a good thing when a sinner the likes of him gives an indication of wanting somehow to make his peace with God. That swindler! That ugly dog!”

  As soon as he returned home, Spatolino spent the entire day designing shrines. Towards nightfall he went to arrange for the building materials and to hire two laborers and a mortar boy. The following day, at daybreak, he began the work.

  V

  People passing along the dusty highway either on foot, on horseback, or with their carts, would stop to ask Spatolino what he was building.

  “A shrine.”

  “Who ordered it?”

  And pointing his finger to the sky, he would gloomily say:

  “The Ecco Homo.”

  He gave no other answer during the entire period of construction. People would laugh or shrug their shoulders.

  But some of them, looking towards the gate of the villa, would ask:

  “Right here?”

  It occurred to no one that the notary himself could have ordered the shrine. On the contrary, because no one was aware that that piece of land belonged to Ciancarella too, and they all thought that everyone was quite familiar with Spatolino’s religious fanaticism, they believed that, either due to an order from the bishop or to some vow made by the Catholic Society, he was building the shrine right there to spite the old usurer. And they laughed about it.

  Meanwhile, as if God actually resented the construction, every sort of misfortune befell Spatolino as he was doing his work. First of all, it took four whole days of digging before he found solid ground for the foundation. Then there were arguments up there at the quarry over the stone, arguments over the lime, arguments with the kiln man; and finally, when the center was being set up to construct the arch, it fell and only a miracle saved the mortar boy from being killed.

  At the very end came the bombshell. On the very day Spatolino was to show him the shrine completely finished, Ciancarella suffered a stroke, one of those serious kinds, and within three hours was dead.

  No one could then convince Spatolino that the notary’s sudden death was not a punishment from a wrathful God. But he didn’t believe at first that God’s wrath could rain upon him too, for having lent his services — though reluctantly — for the building of the accursed structure.

  But he believed it when he called on the Montoros, the notary’s heirs, to seek payment for his work, for he heard them answer that they knew nothing about it, and therefore would not acknowledge liability for a debt unsubstantiated by documentary proof.

  “What!” exclaimed Spatolino. “And for whom do you think I built the shrine?”

  “For the Ecce Homo.”

  “So it was my idea?”

  “Why, of course…” they said to rid themselves of him. “We would feel that we were showing little respect for the memory of our uncle if we imagined even for one moment that he could actually have given you a job to do which was so contrary to his way of thinking and feeling. There’s no proof of it. So what do you expect from us? Keep the shrine for yourself, and if that doesn’t suit you, you can take legal action.”

  Spatolino took legal action immediately. Why, of course! Could he possibly lose the case? Could the judges seriously believe that it was all his idea to build a shrine? Moreover, there was the servant who would act as a witness, Ciancarella’s very own servant who had summoned him on behalf of his master. And there was Father Lagaipa, to whom he had gone for advice that very day; then there was his wife, whom he had informed, and the laborers, who had worked with him the whole time. How could he lose the case?

  He did lose it, he did lose it, yes sir! He lost it because Ciancarella’s servant, who had now gone over to serve the Montoros, went to court to testify that he had indeed summoned Spatolino on behalf of his master — bless his soul — but certainly not because his master — bless his soul — intended to have him build a shrine on that site; no, it was rather because he had heard from the gardener, who was now dead (what a coincidence!) that Spatolino himself intended to build a shrine right there, in front of the gate, and he had wanted to warn him that the parcel of land on the other side of the road was his, and that he should therefore take great care in not erecting such an idiotic structure in that place. The servant added that one day he even told his master — bless his soul — that Spatolino, despite the prohibition, was over there digging with three laborers, and his master — bless his soul — had answered: “Oh, let him dig! Don’t you know he’s crazy? He’s probably looking for treasure in order to complete St. Catherine’s Church!” Father Lagaipa’s testimony did him no good since it was well known that the priest had inspired Spatolino to commit so many other foolish acts. What is more, the laborers themselves testified that they had never seen Ciancarella and had always received their daily wages from the master builder.

  Spatolino rushed out of the courtroom as if he had lost his mind. He felt crushed, not so much on account of the loss of the small fortune he had spent in the building of the shrine, and not so much for the expenses of the trial, which he was condemned to pay, but rather because of the collapse of his belief in divine justice.

  “So then,” he repeatedly asked himself, “so then, does God no longer exist?”

  At Father Lagaipa’s instigation, he appealed the verdict. It was his ruin. The day the news reached him that he had lost even in the court of appeal, Spatolino didn’t so much as bat an eye. With the last coins remaining in his pocket, he bought a yard and a half of red cotton cloth and three old sacks, and then returned home.

  “Make me a tunic,” he told his wife, flinging the three sacks onto her lap.

  His wife looked at him as if she didn’t understand.

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “I told you: ‘make me a tunic…’ No? Then I’ll make one myself.”

  In less than no time, he undid the bottoms of two of the sacks, and then sewed them together lengthwise. He made a slit down the front of the upper one, and two holes at the sides. With the third sack he made sleeves and sewed them around the two holes. Finally he sewed together the top edges of the upper sack a few inches on each side so that there would be an opening for his neck. He then rolled it all into a little bundle, picked up the red cotton cloth, and went off without saying goodbye to anyone.

  About an hour later, the news spread around town that Spatolino, having gone mad, had placed himself like a statue of Christ at the Pillar, there in the new shrine on the highway, opposite Ciancarella’s villa.

  “Placed himself? What does that mean?”

  “Why, yes, he, like Christ, there inside the shrine!”

  “Are you speaking seriously?”

  “Yes, indeed!”

  A great crowd rushed over to see him there inside the shrine, behind the gate. He was standing there wrapped in that tunic with the grocer’s labels still imprinted on it, the red cotton cloth thrown across his shoulders like a cloak. He had a crown of thorns on his head and a reed in his hand.

  He kept his head bowed and inclined to one side, and his eyes fixed on the ground. He didn’t lose his composure the slightest bit, despite the laughter, whistles, and dreadful shouts of a crowd that grew continuously larger. Several youngsters threw fruit peels at him, and quite a number of spectators
at close range flung extremely cruel insults at him. But he remained there, staunch and motionless like a real statue, except for an occasional blink from his eyes.

  Neither the pleas and later the curses of his wife, who had rushed over with the other ladies of the neighborhood, nor the weeping of his children, could make him budge from that spot. To put an end to the hullabaloo it took the intervention of two policemen, who forced open the shrine’s little gate and arrested Spatolino.

  “Leave me alone! Who’s more of a Christ than I?” Spatolino began screaming, as he struggled to free himself. “Can’t you see how they’re mocking and insulting me? Who’s more of a Christ than I? Leave me alone! This is my house! I built it myself with my money and my hands! I sweated blood to complete it! Leave me alone, you heathens!”

  But those heathens wouldn’t let him go until evening.

  “Go home!” the police commissioner commanded him. “Go home, and I warn you, be sensible!”

  “Yes, Mr. Pontius Pilate,” answered Spatolino, bowing.

  And quite stealthily he returned to the shrine. Once inside, he again dressed up like Christ. He spent the entire night there, and never budged from that spot again.

  They tried to drive him out by starvation; they tried to drive him out by intimidation and ridicule, but all was in vain. Finally they left him in peace, as you would a poor harmless lunatic.

  VI

  There is someone now who brings him oil for his lamp and someone who brings him food and drink. Some old woman begins to quietly spread the word that he’s a saint, and goes to beg him to pray for her and for her family; another brought him a new tunic made of finer material, and in exchange asked him for three numbers to play in the lottery.

  Cart drivers passing along the highway during the night have become accustomed to that little lamp burning in the shrine, and delight in seeing it from afar. They stop for a while in front of it to chat with the poor Christ, who benevolently smiles at their occasional jokes. Then they set out again. Gradually the noise of the carts fades away in the silence, and the poor Christ falls asleep again or goes off to relieve himself behind the wall, not bothering to consider that at that moment he is dressed up like Christ with the sackcloth tunic and the cloak of red cotton cloth.

  But often some cricket, attracted by the light, springs upon him and makes him awaken with a start. He then resumes his prayers; but not infrequently, while praying, another cricket, that old chirping cricket, awakens again within him. Spatolino then removes from his forehead the crown of thorns to which he has already become accustomed, and scratching himself there where the thorns have left their mark, his eyes wandering here and there, again begins to whistle:

  “Fififi… fififi… fififi..”

  Pitagora’s Misfortune

  By golly!

  And, putting my hat back on, I turned around to gaze at that beautiful young bride-to-be between her fiancée and her elderly mother.

  Dree, dree, dree… Oh how happily my friend’s new shoes squeaked on the pavement of the sunny square that Sunday morning! And the bride-to-be, her spirit beaming charmingly from her restless, childlike blue eyes, from her rosy cheeks and her tiny gleaming teeth, fanned, fanned, and fanned herself under her gaudy red silk umbrella, as if to temper the bursts of joy and feelings of modesty that she was experiencing. For it was the first time she was appearing this way in public; she, a young lady, with that fine figure of a fiancée at her side — dree, dree, dree — who wore conspicuously new clothes, had not a hair out of place, and was perfumed and contented.

  Putting his hat back on (slowly, so as not to ruffle his well-combed hair), my friend turned around to gaze at me too. Why did he do that? He saw me standing in the middle of the square, and nodded with an embarrassed smile. I answered with another smile and with a lively gesture of the hand, as if to say: “Congratulations! Congratulations!”

  And, after taking a few steps, I turned around again. It wasn’t so much the sprightly, slender figure of his little bride-to-be, all excited as she was, that I liked, as the demeanor of my friend, my friend whom I had not seen for about three years. Hadn’t he turned around to look at me a second time, too?

  Could he be jealous? I wondered, setting out with my head bowed. After all, he would have reason to be! She’s really pretty, by golly. But him, him!

  I don’t know why, but he seemed even taller. Wonders of love! Moreover, he was completely rejuvenated, especially his eyes. And his entire outward appearance seemed to have been caressed by certain tender cares that I would never have deemed him capable of, knowing him to be opposed to all those intimate and quite curious grooming engagements that every young man usually has with his own image for hours on end in front of a mirror. Wonders of love!

  Where had he been these last three years? Here in Rome he had once lived in the home of Quirino Renzi, his brother-in-law, who of the two was my true friend. In fact, for me he was more “Renzi’s brother-in-law,” than Bindi in his own right. He had gone to Forli two years before Renzi left Rome, and I had not seen him since. Now here he is back in Rome, and engaged to be married.

  Oh, my dear fellow, I continued to think, you’re certainly not a painter any longer. Dree, dree, dree. Your shoes squeak too much. I bet you’ve taken up some other occupation, that is, a much more remunerative one. I commend you for it, despite the fact that this new occupation has persuaded you to get married.

  I saw him again two or three days later, almost at the same time, again with his bride-to-be and his future mother-in-law. Another exchange of greetings accompanied by smiles. Nodding slightly, yet ever so graciously, even the bride-to-be smiled at me this time.

  From that smile I deduced that Tito certainly had spoken at length of me, of my famous spells of absent mindedness, and had also probably told her that Quirino Renzi, his brother-in-law, calls me Pitagora because I don’t eat beans. No doubt, he had also explained to her why you can jokingly call a person Pitagora if he doesn’t eat beans, etc., etc. Things that are so amusing.

  I noticed that this business about the beans probably made the funniest impression, particularly on the mother-in-law. Meeting her again subsequently, I don’t know how many times — the three of them always together — that old goose, after returning my greeting, would actually burst out laughing without even trying to hide her laughter, and she would also turn around to look at me as she continued to laugh.

  I would have liked to take Tito aside one day and ask him, just between the two of us, if his present happiness didn’t offer him, his bride-to-be, and his future mother-in-law, any other occasion for laughter than this. If this were the case, I would pity him; but I never had the opportunity to do so. I also wanted to get some news from him concerning Renzi and his wife.

  But, one fine day, lo and behold, I receive this telegram from Forli: “A terrible jam, Pitagora. Will be in Rome day after tomorrow. Be at station 8:20 a.m. — Renzi.”

  What! I thought, he has his brother-in-law here, and wants me to meet him at the station? Concerning that “terrible jam,” I ran through countless suppositions, the most reasonable of which seemed to me to be this: Tito was about to contract a horrible marriage and Renzi was coming to Rome to attempt to foil the plan. After about three months of greetings and smiles, I confess that I had already begun to feel an irresistible dislike for that dollish bride-to-be, and something worse for her mother.

  The next day, at eight a.m., I was at the station. And now, you judge for yourself whether I’m not really being hounded by a nonsensical destiny. The train arrives, and there’s Renzi at the window of one of the coaches. I rush forward… but my legs suddenly double up under me and my arms fall to my side.

  “I’ve got poor Tito here with me,” says Renzi, pointing compassionately to his brother-in-law.

  That’s Tito Bindi? How can it be? Whom then have I been greeting for three months along the streets of Rome? There he is, Tito… Oh, my God, what a state he has been reduced to!

  “Tito, Tito… bu
t how can it be?… you…” I stammer.

  Tito throws his arms around my neck and bursts out crying profusely. Dumbfounded, I look at Renzi. How can it be? Why? I feel I am going mad. Renzi then points to his forehead, shuts his eyes, and sighs. (Who? He, I, or Tito? Which of us is the madman?)

  “Come on now, Tito,” Renzi exhorts his brother-in-law, “calm down!. Calm down! Wait here a moment. Keep an eye on these suitcases. I’m going with Pitagora to retrieve the trunk.”

  And as we walk, he gives me a brief account of the pitiful story, of his poor brother-in-law, who had gotten married in Forli about two and a half years before. He had had two children. Four months later, one of them had gone blind. This misfortune, the inability to provide for the needs of his family by his own means, the constant quarrels with his mother-in-law and with his foolish and egotistical wife — all these things had unbalanced his mind. Now Renzi was bringing him to Rome to have him seen by doctors and to provide some distraction for him.

  If I had not seen Tito reduced to that state with my own eyes, doubtlessly I would have believed that Renzi had wanted to play a joke on me, as he had so many times before. Feeling both dizziness and pity, I then confess to him the mistake I had made, that is, how until the previous day I had greeted Tito, the fiancée, on the streets of Rome. Renzi, despite his concern for his brother-in-law, is unable to keep from laughing.

  “I assure you!” I tell him. “Exactly like him! Really him in person! For three months we have been greeting and exchanging smiles. We’ve become the1 best of friends! But now, yes, now I can see the difference. But it’s because Tito, poor fellow, I must say, no longer looks like himself. Instead, every day I’ve been greeting Tito as he was before going to Forli, three years ago. He looks exactly like him, you know? Tito, Tito who looks, Tito who speaks, Tito who smiles, Tito who walks, Tito who recognizes and greets me… Exactly like him! Exactly like him! You can imagine how it struck me seeing him again like this, now, after having seen him yesterday around four o’clock, beaming with happiness in the company of his little bride-to-be.”