The Late Mattia Pascal E-Book

Luigi Pirandello

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

A novel about the nature of identity and belonging set in 1904.

Das E-Book The Late Mattia Pascal wird angeboten von Dedalus und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

The Translator

Chronology

Introduction

The Late Mattia Pascal

Foreword

II Second foreword (philosophical) by way of an excuse

III The house and the mole

IV The way it was

V The ripening

VI The roulette wheel

VII I change trains

VIII Adrian Meis

IX A little fog

X The holywater stoup and the ashtray

XI Evenings gazing at the river

XII The Eye of Papiano

XIII The Lantern

XIV Max’s Marvels

XV Me and My Shadow

XVI The Portrait of Minerva

XVII Reincarnation

XVIII The Late Mattia Pascal

Author’s Afterword

Note on the scruples involved in controlling the imagination.

Endnotes

Copyright

THE TRANSLATOR

Nicoletta Simborowski read Modern Languages at Oxford and then worked in publishing and as a teacher at Westminster School.

She has translated several books from French and Italian, including for Dedalus the Octave Mirbeau novels Abbé Jules and Sébastien Roch.

She combines a career as a lecturer in Italian at Christ Church, Oxford with freelance interpreting and translating for television and video.

Chronology:

Life and works of Pirandello (1867-1936)

1987

Luigi Pirandello born on 28th June in Girgenti (Agrigento), Sicily

1886

Starts studying law at Palermo University.

1887

Enrols at Rome University. Writes somes plays, now lost.

1889/91

Publishes collection of poems, Mai Giocondo. Leaves Rome University and completes studies at Bonn University, where he writes more poetry.

1892

Returns to Rome and writes for various literary magazines.

1894

Marries Maria Antonietta Portulano (from whom has three children between 1895 and 1899).

Publishes collection of short stories, Amori senza Amore.

1897

Starts teaching Italian literature.

1898

One-act play published in “Ariel”, originally called L’Epilogo then retitled La Morsa.

1901

Publishes first novel, L’Esclusa.

1902

Publishes Il Turno.

1903

Father’s sulphur-mine destroyed in landslide and Pirandello loses all his own and his wife’s money. Wife is ill, both mentally and physically. Pirandello thinks of suicide.

1904

Publishes Il Fu Mattia Pascal and it achieves immediate success in Italy and abroad. Increases literary activity, writes for press, including Il Corriere della Sera, becomes a well-known literary figure.

1910

Two one-act plays, La Morsa and Lumié di Sicilia performed in Rome.

Short stories, La Vita Nuda, published.

1911/17

Increases literary activity still more: writes about fifty short stories, achieves success in theatre with Pensaci Giacomino! (1916). Meanwhile wife’s mental and physical health deteriorating.

1917

Writes Così è(se vi pare), Il Berretto a Sonagli, La Giara and Il Piacere dell ’Onesta. All are performed and can be described as the first truly characteristic ‘Piran- dellian’ works.

1918/36

More highly successful literary activity: Sei Personaggi in cerca d’Autore produced in 1921 in Italy and then in 1922 in London and New York. Enrico IV produced in 1922. Now internationally established as playwright. Travels widely; plays produced all over world.

1934

Receives Nobel prize for literature.

1936

Dies on 10th December.

Introduction

Pirandello is best known as a playwright and it is amongst his plays that we find his finest and most characteristic work. However his writing career was launched in earnest by the success of the novel IL FU MATTIA PASCAL (THE LATE MATTIA PASCAL), published in 1904 and well-received both in Italy and other countries.

Pirandello was born in 1867 in Sicily into a reasonably prosperous middleclass family. He was always interested in writing and published some poetry in 1889, some short stories in 1894 and a first novel in 1901. However, it was only when he ran into severe financial difficulties that he really needed to make a living by writing. His father’s sulphur mine was flooded, making Pirandello bankrupt and at the same time his wife fell ill both mentally and physically. In 1903 Pirandello was considering suicide and it is against this background that THE LATE MATTIA PASCAL was written.

There are undoubtedly biographical elements in the novel: a formerly wealthy, middleclass landowner has suffered financial ruin and finds himself trapped in an unhappy marriage. He runs away from home for a brief respite but in his absence a body is discovered in the millrace in his village and identified as his corpse. Meanwhile he has acquired a substantial sum of money at the gambling tables in Monte Carlo and so decides to seize the gift of freedom handed to him by a benign Fate, renounce his old life and create a new identity for himself. This apparent liberty is initially exactly as he had hoped, but it soon becomes clear that exemption from the rules of society entails exclusion from the benefits of human society too. In his new identity the hero is no longer able to forge friendships, to fall in love, to defend his property or his honour. He has become a mere shadow of a man since man is a social creature and of necessity acquires a role and responsibilities within the society he inhabits.

Those who are familiar with Pirandello’s later and more celebrated work will notice some recurrent themes. Pirandello is often concerned with the struggle of the individual against the demands imposed on him by convention. He often debates the problem of identity and is convinced that no man is made up of a single personality but of several, any of which may dominate in a given situation. He often concerns himself with the moment when reality intrudes to destroy an individual’s illusion that he is living a worthwhile existence and makes him realise that he is merely going through the motions of living. All these ideas are expressed in this early novel: Mattia Pascal is a caricature of the unhappy petty bourgeois, trapped by convention, however unconventional his behaviour might have been initially. (His involvement in the pattern of relationships Romilda-Pomino, Oliva-Malagna, is a good example of unconventional, even amoral behaviour leading nevertheless inexorably to a traditional solution: obligatory marriage and acceptance of paternity.) In his moment of crisis he is sprung free by a twist of fate, is able to select any identity he likes and can explore what freedom is available to a man. Ironically, and here the Pirandellian vision is merciless, he is still a prisoner of social conventions and of his own former personality, and suffers even more restrictions since he has to contend with fear of discovery of his guilty secret. He is never able to escape from the demands of society nor those of his own conscience and it is some kind of moral sense that eventually makes him return to his old identity. However, he never quite reacquires his old status: he will always be “the late Mattia Pascal” and he does not reclaim his wife. This could be seen as a sort of victory since he has succeeded in stepping outside his old existence, but it is hardly freedom, nor a real escape, so this new title merely serves to emphasise the loss of identity he has suffered and he continues to bear the scar of his experience, the sad knowledge that total freedom is an illusion. The novel is permeated with this sense of disillusionment and there are many images (men as puppets or as shadows, Mattia contemplating his own grave, Paleari’s obsession with spiritualism) which remind us of the imminence of death and the transcience and unimportance of the individual man.

The message of the book is pessimistic but is unlikely to depress the reader because of the many humorous elements woven into the narrative. Pirandello himself distinguished between the humorous and the comic, stating that the comic arises from a perceived contradiction between reality and illusion, so the theme of the book would be comic in his own terms. There are touches of straightforward humour too in the depiction of characters such as the viperish widow Pescatore, the foolish and aristocratic characters encountered in Rome and on Mattia’s travels after his presumed death. Pirandello’s gifts for theatre emerges often too and lightens the tone of the book: he delights in dialogue and in set pieces that would lend themselves splendidly to a stage production, such as the physical battle across the bread dough between Aunt Scolastica and the widow Pescatore, the ludicrous sequence of séances in Rome (but which end with an apparently genuine manifestation) and Mattia’s sudden return home from the dead to a stunned and dismayed family, all scenes where drama and farce have equal force.

There are flaws in the novel, not necessarily the question of verisimilitude, an accusation which Pirandello was able to refute in later editions of the novel by citing a similar case that had occurred in reality: the most unsatisfying aspect is probably the lack of psychological depth in the main character. His motives are never quite explored fully enough, he is never quite a whole human being and therefore is difficult to identify with and occasionally seems a mere vehicle for Pirandello’s theories. A particularly disturbing example of this is the ease with which Mattia is able to shrug off his love for Adriana when he decides he cannot maintain his fictitious identity any longer, an ease which throws doubt on all his earlier reactions to her. However, this could be part of a deliberately constructed effect, an antithesis to the image of the superhuman hero, as depicted in the works of D’Annunzio, for example, a contemporary of Pirandello, whose concept of the Nietz-schean superman was exerting a powerful literary influence. Mattia Pascal is surely a parody of the romantic, passionate, capable hero, with his muddled liaisons and unfortunate marriage, his seizing of destiny’s opportunities but only in order to live an extraordinarily quiet and self-effacing life, his ineffectual attempts at organising a duel to salvage a pathetically tattered honour, his supposedly triumphant return home, but to a situation where he is hardly victorious and no-one even recognises him in the street. The style of the book accords with this antiheroic stance: there are no linguistic frills, little emotion, a minimum of tragic effects, deliberately jerky prose full of self-mockery and argument, constant shifts between past and present to dissipate tension, with the ironic, self-critical eye of the first person narrator surveying all. The novel is a tour de force of cynicism about the human condition.

For the student of Pirandello, THE LATE MATTIA PASCAL offers some interesting insights into his later work. Any reader however, will be caught up in the intricacies of the plot and will enjoy encountering the gallery of minor characters portrayed and savouring Pirandello’s highly individual view of the world.

Nicoletta Simborowski

THE LATE MATTIA PASCAL

Foreword

One of the few things I knew for certain, in fact, perhaps the only thing, was this: that my name was Mattia Pascal. I used to take advantage of it too. Whenever one of my friends or acquaintances was foolish enough to come to me for advice or guidance, I used to shrug my shoulders, narrow my eyes and reply:

“I’m only Mattia Pascal.”

“Thanks old man. I do know that.”

“And are you saying it doesn’t mean much to you?”

To tell the truth, it didn’t mean a lot to me either, but at that time I didn’t realise what it was like not to know even that much, not to be able to reply like that, as I always had done, when the occasion demanded it.

“I’m Mattia Pascal.”

There will be those who feel like pitying me (it costs so little after all), imagining the atrocious suffering of this poor devil, who suddenly happens to discover …. well, nothing really: that he has no father, no mother, no background and no past. These same people might feel like getting angry (it costs even less) about changing morals, increased vice and the lowering standards of the times, which can give rise to so much suffering for a poor, innocent fellow.

Very well then, they can go ahead. But it is my duty to warn them that this really isn’t what it’s all about. I could in fact set out here a full family tree showing my origins and ancestry, and demonstrate how not only did I know my father and mother, but I also know all about my forebears and their activities over a long period of time, and not all that they did was necessarily praiseworthy.

What, then, happened to me?

Well: my case is much stranger and more unusual than all this; so strange and unusual that I feel compelled to describe it.

For about two years I worked in a library; whether my job was as rat-catcher or librarian is a matter of opinion. The library had been left to the borough by a certain Monsignor Boccarnazza on his death in 1803. It is clear that this monsignor knew precious little about the natural inclinations and habits of his fellow citizens; or perhaps he hoped his legacy would, in time, by its accessibility, kindle in their hearts a passion for learning. Up until now, as I can confirm, no such passion has been kindled: and I say this as a compliment to my fellow citizens. Indeed, the townsfolk proved so ungrateful towards Boccarnazza that they didn’t even feel like erecting a small statue in his honour. As for the books, for many years they were left heaped up in a vast, damp warehouse and eventually dragged out, you can imagine in what condition, to be housed in a little out-of-the-way church, Santa Maria Liberale, which had been deconsecrated for some reason. There they were entrusted, quite indiscriminately, as a kind of benefice or sinecure, to any well-connected good-for-nothing, who for two lire a day was prepared to stand and watch over them or even not watch over them at all, but could put up with the smell of must and mildew for a few hours.

Such was the fate that befell me; and right from the first day I conceived such a low esteem for books, whether in print or in manuscript form (as were certain very old ones in our library) that now I would never have dreamt of writing one if, as I said, I had not considered my case particularly strange, and such as to serve as an example to any curious reader who, at last fulfilling the hopes of the good-hearted Monsignor Boccarnazza, might happen to find himself in this library, to which I leave my manuscript, with the proviso however, that no-one may read it until fifty years after my third, final and definitive death.

For the fact is that for the moment (and God only knows what suffering it caused me) I am dead; yes, I have died twice already, but the first time it was a mistake and the second …. well, you will hear.

II Second foreword (philosophical) by way of an excuse.

The idea, or rather, the advice to write a book, was given me by my respected friend don Eligio Pellegrinotto, who at the moment is in charge of Boccamazza’s books, and who will be entrusted with my manuscript as soon as it is complete, if that day ever comes.

I am writing here in the deconsecrated church, by the light of the lamp hanging above me in the dome. Here I sit, in what was once the apse, but is now designated for the librarian, and enclosed by some low, wooden railings. Meanwhile, don Eligio puffs and pants, struggling with the task he has heroically taken on, to sort out this absolute Babylon of books. I fear he may never complete the project. Before him, no-one bothered to find out, even in general terms, by glancing briefly at the spines, what kind of books the monsignor had bequeathed to the town: it was assumed that all or almost all would deal with religious subjects. Now Pellegrinotto has discovered, to his great satisfaction, that there is a huge variety of subjects in the monsignor’s library; and since the books were taken haphazardly from the warehouse and flung together at random, the chaos is indescribable. The most specious liaisons have occurred, owing to the proximity of certain of these books: for instance, don Eligio Pellegrinotto told me how it was no small task to separate an extremely licentious tract, On the art of loving women, three volumes by Anton Muzio Porro, dated 1571, from The life and death of Faustino Materucci, Benedictine of Poll rone, called The Blessed, a biography published in Mantua in 1625. The damp had caused the bindings of the two books to become quite fraternally bonded to one another. It is worth noting that the second volume of the licentious tract describes amorous adventures in a convent, at some length.

Perched all day on a lamplighter’s ladder, don Eligio Pelegrinotto has managed to fish many curious and delightful books out of the library shelves. Every now and again, he finds one, and tosses it down gently from his vantage point, onto the large table in the middle. The church resounds; a cloud of dust rises and two or three spiders scuttle away terrified; I hurry across from the apse, leaping over the wooden railings, first I chase the spiders away along the dusty table top, using the actual book, then I open the book and begin to read.

In this way, I have gradually acquired a taste for a certain kind of reading matter. Don Eligio says that my book should be modelled on the ones he has dug out in the library, that is, have the same flavour. I shrug my shoulders and reply that it is not my sort of work and I have other interests.

All sweaty and dusty, don Eligio climbs down the ladder and comes to take a breath of air in the little garden which he has managed to create here behind the apse, surrounded by a protective fence of stakes and poles.

“Well my dear Reverend,” I say, seated on the low wall, my chin resting on the knob of my walking-stick, while he attends to his lettuces. “I don’t think these are times for writing books, not even as a joke. As regards literature, like everything else, as usual I blame Copernicus.”

“Now now, what’s Copernicus got to do with it?” exclaims don Eligio, straightening up, his face flushed beneath his broad-brimmed, straw hat.

“He does come into it, don Eligio, because when the earth didn’t go round …”

“Get away with you! It’s always gone round!”

“That’s not true. Man didn’t know about it, and so it was as if it didn’t go round. As far as lots of people are concerned, even now it doesn’t go round. I mentioned it the other day to an old farmer, and do you know what he replied? That it was a good excuse for drunks. In any case, even you must admit that Josuah stopped the sun. But enough of this, I say that in the days when the earth didn’t go round, and men looked so good in their Greek or Roman togas, felt so much at ease and were so sure of their own dignity, then perhaps they might have accepted a careful narrative, full of superfluous detail. Isn’t it true, as you yourself told me, that we read in Quintilian that history was created for the telling, not to be proven?”

“I don’t deny it,” replies don Eligio, “but it is equally true that there have never been such detailed books written, indeed such scrupulously minutely precise books, as since, to use your words, the earth began to go round the sun.”

“Ah, right! ‘The Count rose at 8.30 precisely …. the Countess put on a lilac gown, richly decorated with lace at the throat …. Teresina was dying of hunger …. Lucretia suffered for love ….’ Good God! What do I care? Are we or are we not on an invisible spinning-top, whipped by a thread of sunlight, on a grain of crazed sand which turns and turns without ever knowing why, without ever reaching a destination, as if it enjoyed turning like that, to make us feel a little colder or warmer, and make us die (often feeling that we have merely carried out a series of meaningless gestures) after fifty or sixty turns? Copernicus, Copernicus, my dear don Eligio, was the ruin of mankind, quite irremediably. By now we have all gradually adapted to the new idea of our own infinite puniness, to considering ourselves less than nothing in the universe, in spite of all our discoveries and inventions. What value then, can you expect any detail to have, not only regarding our individual problems but even regarding general calamities? They are just accounts of the lives of worms, they are. Did you read about that little disaster in the West Indies? It was nothing. The earth, poor thing, tired of revolving aimlessly as that Polish cleric decreed, made a small gesture of defiance, and puffed out a bit of fire through one of her many mouths. Heaven knows what inspired that kind of bile. Perhaps men’s stupidity: men have never been as boring as they are now. Enough of this. So many thousand toasted worms, and we just carry on. What more is there to say?”

Don Eligo Pellegrinotto nevertheless points out that however hard and ruthlessly we try to tear up and destroy the illusions that provident nature has created for our own good, we are not successful, because, luckily, man’s attention is easily diverted.

This is true. On certain dates set aside in the year, our local council fails to light the streetlamps and often, if the night is cloudy, we are left in the dark. This means that even nowadays we are inclined to believe that the moon’s only reason for hanging in the sky is to give us light by night, just as the sun does by day, and the stars are there in order to offer us a glorious spectacle. Of course. And we often forget, willingly too, that we are only tiny atoms and we respect and admire one another, or else we are quite capable of coming to blows over a small piece of land or of suffering over problems which would seem truly insignificant, if we were genuinely aware of what we really are.

I will therefore take advantage of this useful tendency to enjoy distraction, as well as the strangeness of my particular case, and I will describe myself and my life, but as briefly as possible, giving only the details I think strictly necessary.

Some of them, certainly, will not be very flattering; but at present I find myself in such extraordinary circumstances that I feel I can consider myself beyond normal existence, and therefore without obligation or scruples of any kind. Here then is my story.

III The house and the mole.

I spoke too soon when I said at the beginning that I knew my father. I never really knew him. I was four and a half when he died. He had gone off to Corsica in a small sailing-boat he had, to attend to some business over there, and he never came back; he died of a three day fever, at the age of 38. However, he left his family comfortably off: his wife and two sons, Mattia (as I was and still am) and Roberto, who is two years older than me.

Some of the old people in the village still enjoy implying that my father’s wealth (which in any case ought not to weigh too heavily on them any more, as it has long since passed into other hands) had, shall we say, mysterious origins. They suggest that he won it at cards in Marseilles, in a game with the captain of an English merchant steamship, who, having lost all the money he had on him, which was a fair amount, also gambled a large cargo of sulphur which had been taken on board in far-off Sicily on behalf of a Liverpool trader (they know so much I wonder why they can’t supply his name!) who had hired the steamship. In despair, when he set sail, he drowned himself on the high seas. Thus the steamship docked in Liverpool relieved not only of its load of sulphur but also of its captain. He was lucky to have the spite of my fellow-villagers as ballast.

We owned land and some houses. My father was both sensible and adventurous, but he never had a firm base for his business: he was always out and about in his sailing-boat, buying merchandise of all kinds wherever he found the best deal, and reselling immediately; and in order not to be tempted into too large or risky enterprises, he gradually invested his earnings in land and houses here in his own little village, where he probably hoped eventually to be able to retire in peace and contentment with his wife and children amid the possessions so laboriously acquired.

First of all, he bought the land known as Le Due Riviere, which was rich in olive groves and mulberry trees. Then he bought the holding called La Stia, which was also very fertile and had a lovely spring which we used to power the mill. Then he bought the entire hillside called Lo Sperone which had the best vineyard in the county, and finally San Rocchino, where he built a charming villa. In the village itself, besides the house where we lived, he bought two other houses and the whole of the block which has now been run down and made into a dockyard.

His sudden death spelled our ruin. My mother did not feel capable of handling the organisation of the estate and had to entrust it to someone else. She chose a man who had been given so much by my father that his life had altered completely, and who she therefore considered ought to feel obliged to be slightly grateful to the family. The task would not have cost him anything apart from enthusiasm and honesty, since he was magnificently remunerated.

My mother was such a saintly woman. She was very reserved and inward-looking and had scant experience of life or people. She sounded like a child when she spoke. She had a nasal accent and laughed through her nose too, since she always felt embarrassed to laugh and kept her lips tightly shut. She had a very delicate constitution, and after my father’s death constantly suffered ill-health. However, she never complained of her problems, nor did she even worry about them herself I think, she just accepted them, resigned to them as a natural consequence of her misfortune. Perhaps she had thought she too would die, from sorrow, and so had to thank God for keeping her alive, however wretched and troubled, for the sake of her children.

She had an almost unhealthy attitude towards us, a tenderness made up of fear and trembling: we always had to be nearby, as if she feared losing us, and she often sent the maids round the vast house to search for us, if one of us had strayed a little distance.

She had abandoned herself blindly to her husband’s guidance and without him she was lost in the world. She never left the house except on Sundays, to go to mass in the nearby church, accompanied by two elderly maids, whom she treated like members of the family. Even in the house, she restricted herself to living in three rooms only, abandoning the others to the casual care of the maids and to our pranks. Those rooms, with their ancient furniture and faded curtains gave off that special odour that old things have, almost the breath of the past; and I remember more than once looking about me, strangely disturbed by the stillness and silence of those ancient objects, there for so long, unused and lifeless.

Amongst those who visited my mother most often was one of my father’s sisters, a tetchy spinster, dark and proud, with eyes like a ferret. However, she never stayed long, because she would suddenly fly into a frenzy in the middle of a conversation and disappear without saying goodbye to anyone. As a boy, I was terrified of her. I used to gaze at her, wide-eyed, particularly when she would leap to her feet furiously, stamping angrily on the floor and shouting at my mother:

“Can’t you hear there’s a cavity? It’s the mole! The mole!” She was referring to Malagna, who administered our affairs, and who she said was secretly digging out a tunnel beneath our feet.

Aunt Scolastica (as I found out later) was determined that my mother should marry again. Usually sisters-in-law do not think like this or give such advice. However, she had a harsh, proud sense of justice; and more for this reason, certainly, than for affection for us, she could not abide the idea that the man should steal from us like this and get away with it. Given my mother’s absolute ineptitude and blindness, she saw no other solution but a second husband. She also had someone in mind, a poor fellow called Gerolamo Pomino.

Pomino was a widower with one son, who is still alive, and is called Gerolamo like his father. He is a geat friend of mine, indeed more than a friend, as I shall explain shortly. As a child he used to visit us with his father and was the despair of my brother Berto and me.

His father had always aspired to the hand of Aunt Scolastica, ever since he was a young man, but she would have none of it, and this had been her attitude to all her suitors. This was not because she felt unable to fall in love, but because the vaguest suspicion that a man she loved might betray her, even in thought alone, would have driven her to crime (she used to say). Men, according to her, were all false, knaves and traitors. Did this include Pomino? Well no, not Pomino, but she had realised this too late. She had observed all the men who had asked for her hand, and had eventually succeeded in discovering some treachery of theirs and had derived fierce enjoyment from it. Only Pomino gave no grounds for suspicion: indeed the poor man had been a martyr to his wife.

So why did she not marry him now herself? The sad reason was because he was a widower! He had belonged to another woman and might occasionally have thought of her. There was another reason too: you could tell a mile off, in spite of his shyness, he was in love, in love with …. someone else, poor Signor Pomino. As if my mother would ever have consented. It would truly have seemed a sacrilege; but she did not even believe, poor thing, that Aunt Scolastica was serious, and she laughed in that special way of hers at her sister-in-law’s outbursts and at the protestations of poor Signor Pomino, who would be present at these discussions, and on whom the spinster lavished the most elaborate praises.

I sometimes try to count how many times he must have exclaimed as he squirmed on his seat as if under torture,

“Oh in God’s holy name!”

He was a neat little man, with gentle, pale-blue eyes. I think he used face powder and a tiny bit of rouge, just the merest hint, on his cheeks. Certainly he was proud of having kept his hair, and styled it with great care, with a centre parting, and constantly smoothed it with his hands.

I do not know what would have happened to our family if my mother, not of course for herself, but for the sake of her children’s future, had followed Aunt Scolastica’s advice and married Signor Pomino. It is beyond any doubt however, that things could not have been worse than they were, entrusted to Malagna (the mole).

By the time Berto and I were grown up, a large part of our holdings had already gone up in smoke, but we could at least have saved the rest from the clutches of that thief, and this, whilst no longer allowing us to live in luxury, would at least have protected us from actual hardship. Neither of us worked; we did not want to think about anything, but continued as adults to live as our mother had accustomed us to live when we were children.

She had not even wanted to send us to school. A fellow called Pinzone was our guardian and tutor. His real name was Francesco or Giovanni Del Cinque, but everyone called him Pinzone, and he had grown so used to this that he actually called himself Pinzone.

He was so thin it was repellent; he was also extremely tall and, God preserve us, might have been even taller if his torso, almost as if tired of towering upwards, had not suddenly curved at the shoulders in a modest little hump, from which his neck protruded painfully like a plucked chicken’s, with its huge Adam’s apple, which moved up and down. Pinzone often bit his lips in a struggle to nip, punish or conceal a sharp little smile, which was his typical expression. The effect was partially vain, because this smile, if imprisoned at the lips, escaped via his eyes, making them sharper and more mischievous than ever.

He must have noticed many things in our house with those little eyes, things which neither we nor my mother could see. He said nothing, perhaps because he did not think it his place to speak, but more probably, I think, because he took a malicious, secret pleasure in it.

We could do anything we liked with him, he just left us alone; but then, as if he wanted to appease his own conscience, when we least expected it, he would betray us.

One day, for example, my mother told him to take us to church. It was near Easter time and we had to go to confession. After confession, there was to be a brief visit to Malagna’s sick wife and then home again immediately. You can imagine how we looked forward to all that. As soon as we were in the street, my brother and I proposed a deal with Pinzone: we would buy him a full litre of wine if instead of taking us to church and Malagna’s place, he let us go birdnesting at La Stia. Pinzone agreed, delighted, rubbing his hands, his eyes sparkling. He drank, we went to the farm. He joined in our games for about three hours, helping us to climb the trees and climbing up himself. But when we returned home in the evening, as soon as my mother asked him if we had gone to confession and visited Malagna’s wife, he replied, “Well, I’ll tell you,” and with the straightest face in the world reported the afternoon’s activities in every detail.

The reprisals we took as a result of these betrayals did no good, even though I remember they were often no joke. For instance, Pinzone used to sit and sleep on the wooden chest in the entrance hall, whilst waiting for supper, so one evening, Berto and I crept surreptitiously out of bed, where we had been sent earlier than usual as a punishment. We managed to get hold of a tin tube, meant for enemas and about eight inches long, filled it with soapy water from the washing copper, and thus armed, sneaked up to him, positioned the end of the tube right under his nostrils and – whoosh! – we watched him hit the ceiling.

It is not difficult to deduce how much learning was achieved with a tutor of this kind. The fault however was not entirely Pinzone’s; he, in fact, wanted us to learn something, but had neither method nor discipline, so used a thousands expedients to try to somehow grip our attention. Often he succeeded with me, as I was extremely impressionable, but his brand of learning was somewhat peculiar, in fact eccentric. For instance, he was extremely skilled in puns: he knew pedantic, macaronic, enigmatic and leporeambic poems, and he could recite alliterations, puns, correlative, interwoven and reverse-reading poems by all the most worthless poets, and he composed quite a few crackbrained rhymes himself.

I remember one day when we were at San Rocchino, he made us shout at the cliffwall heaven knows how many times this composition of his, called ‘Echo’:

In cuor di donna quanto dura amore? — (Ore).

Ed ella non mi amò quant’io l’amai? — (Mai).

Or chi sei tu che si ti lagni meco? — (Eco).

(How long before the love in a woman’s heart sours? — Hours.

Did she love me as I loved her ever? — Never.

And who art thou that laments with me so? — Echo.)

He made us solve all the riddles written in ottava rima by Giulio Cesare Croce, and those in sonnet form by Moneti and some others, also in sonnet form, by another total good-for-nothing, who had dared to hide behind the pen-name, Cato. He had copied them all out in snuff-tinted ink into an old folder with yellowed pages.

“Listen! Listen to this other one by Stigliani! Lovely! What could it be? Listen:

‘At one and the same time, I am one, and two,

And I make two what was one at first.

One uses me with her five,

Against infinite numbers that people have on top.

I am all mouth from the waist up,

And I bite more toothless than with teeth.

I have two navels in opposite position,

My eyes are in my feet, and my fingers often in my eyes.’

I can see him now, declaiming, joy emanating from his whole face, his eyes half-closed, his hand aloft, forefinger and thumb pressed together.