Meanwhile Donna Cristina Lamonica gave orders to send for Cinigia, a
woman of the people, who practised magic and empirical medicine with
considerable success. Cinigia had several times before discovered
stolen goods; and it was said that she was secretly in league with the
thieves.
“Find that spoon for me,” Donna Cristina told her, “and you shall have
a big reward.”
“Very well,” Cinigia replied; “twenty-four hours are all I need.”
And twenty-four hours later she brought back her answer; the spoon was
to be found in a hole in the courtyard, near the well.
Donna Cristina and Maria descended to the courtyard, made search, and,
to their great amazement, found the spoon.
Swiftly the news spread throughout Pescara.
Then triumphantly Candia Marcanda went the rounds of all the streets.
She seemed to have grown taller; she held her head erect; she smiled,
looking every one straight in the eye, as if to say, “I told you so! I
told you so!”
[Illustration: =Gabriele D’Annunzio=]
The people in the shops, seeing her pass by, would murmur something and
then break forth into a significantly sneering laugh. Filippo La Selvi,
who sat drinking a glass of liqueur brandy in the Café d’Ange, called
Candia in.
“Another glass for Candia, the same as mine!”
The woman, who was fond of strong spirits, pursed up her lips
covetously.
“You certainly deserve it, there’s no denying that!” added Filippo La
Selvi.
An idle crowd had gathered in front of the café. They all had the
spirit of mischief in their faces. While the woman drank, Filippo La
Selvi turned and addressed his audience:
“Say, she knew how to work it, didn’t she? Isn’t she the foxy one?” and
he slapped the laundress familiarly upon her bony shoulder.
The crowd laughed. A little dwarf, called Magnafave, or “Big Beans,”
weak-minded and stuttering, joined the forefinger of his right hand to
that of his left, and striking a grotesque attitude and dwelling upon
each syllable, said:
“Ca--ca--ca--Candia--Ci--ci--Cinigia!” and he continued to make
gestures, and to stammer forth vulgar witticisms, all implying that
Candia and Cinigia were in league together. His spectators indulged in
contortions of merriment.
For a moment Candia sat there bewildered, with the glass still in her
hand. Then in a flash she understood--they did not believe in her
innocence. They accused her of having brought back the silver spoon
secretly, by agreement with the sorceress, to save herself further
trouble.
An access of blind anger came upon her. Speechless with passion, she
flung herself upon the weakest of them, upon the little hunchback, in a
hurricane of blows and scratches. And the crowd, at the sight of this
struggle, formed a circle and jeered at them in cruel glee, as at a
fight between two animals, and egged on the two combatants with voice
and gesture.
Big Beans, badly scared by her unexpected violence, tried to escape,
hopping about like a little ape; and held fast by the laundress’s
terrible arms, whirled round and round with increasing velocity, like a
stone in a sling, until at last he fell violently upon his face.
Some of the men hastened to pick him up. Candia withdrew in the midst
of hisses, shut herself within her house, and flung herself across
her bed, sobbing and gnawing her fingers, in the keenness of her
suffering. The new accusation cut her deeper than the first, and all
the more that she knew herself capable of such a subterfuge. How was
she to clear herself now? How was she to establish the truth? She grew
hopeless as she realized that she could not allege in defense any
material difficulties that might have interfered with carrying out the
deception. Access to the courtyard was perfectly simple; a door, that
was never fastened, opened from the ground floor of the main stairway;
people came and went freely through that door, to remove the garbage,
or for other causes. So it was impossible for her to close the lips
of her accusers by saying, “How could I have got in?” The means of
successfully carrying out such a plan were many and easy.
Candia proceeded to conjure up new arguments to convince them; she
sharpened up her wits; she invented three, four, five different cases
to prove that the spoon never could have been found in that hole in
the courtyard; she spilt hairs with marvelous ingenuity. Next she took
to making the rounds of the shops and the houses, seeking in every
possible way to overcome the people’s incredulity. They listened to
her, greatly entertained by her captious reasoning; and they would end
by saying, “Oh, it’s all right!”
But there was a certain tone in their voice that left Candia
annihilated. So, then, all her trouble was for nothing! No one would
believe her! Yet with marvelous persistence she would return to the
attack, spending whole nights in thinking out new arguments. And little
by little, under this continued strain, her mind gave way; she could no
longer follow any sustained thought but that of the silver spoon.
Neglecting her work, she had sunk to a state of actual want. When she
went down to the river bank, under the iron bridge, where the other
wash-women congregated, she would sometimes let slip from between her
fingers the garments that the current swept away forever. And she would
talk continually, unweariedly, of the one single subject. In order not
to hear her, the young laundresses would begin to sing, and would mock
her with the improvised rimes of their songs. And she meanwhile would
shout and gesticulate like a crazy woman.
No one could give her work any longer. Out of pity, some of her former
employers would send her food. Little by little she fell into the habit
of begging, and wandered through the streets, bowed over, unkempt, and
all in rags. The street urchins would tag behind her, shouting: “Tell
us the story of the spoon, ’cause we never heard it, Auntie Candia!”
She would stop strangers sometimes as they passed by, to tell them the
story and to argue out her defense. Young fellows would sometimes send
for her, and pay her a copper to tell it all over, two, three, or four
times; they would raise up difficulties against her arguments; they
would hear her all the way through, and then at last stab her with a
final word. She would shake her head, and go on her way; she found
companionship among other beggars and would reason with them endlessly,
indefatigably, invincibly. Her chosen friend was a deaf woman, whose
skin was a mass of angry blotches, and who limped on one leg.
In the winter of 1874 she was at last stricken with serious illness.
The woman with the blotches cared for her. Donna Cristina Lamonica sent
her a cordial and a scuttle of coals.
The sick woman, lying on her pallet, still raved of the silver spoon.
She would raise herself on her elbow and struggle to wave her arm, to
give emphasis to her fevered arguments.
And at the last, when her staring eyes already seemed overspread with a
veil of troubled waters that rose from within, Candia gasped forth:
“It wasn’t I, madam--because you see--the spoon--”
SIGNORA SPERANZA
BY LUIGI PIRANDELLO
[Illustration]
_Luigi Pirandello, master of style, the humorist of a group
of young Italian writers who are said to be inaugurating a
renaissance in Italian literature, was born at Girgenti,
Sicily, in 1867. He appeared first as a poet, pure in style,
severe in inspiration, but later “found himself” in the writing
of humorous tales. His humor, though at bottom sad and almost
pessimistic, is not of the quiet sort. To him man appears
as a creature more miserable than grotesque, eternally made
sport of by the irony of fate. Such is the philosophy in his
lugubriously fanciful “Mathias Pascal,” skeptical in spirit,
in “Il Turno,” with its cruel pictures of Sicilian peasant
life, and in “Signora Speranza,” one of the latest and most
characteristic of his novelettes. For the purpose of this work
the discursive passages have been here and there condensed and
made more direct._
[Illustration]
SIGNORA SPERANZA
BY LUIGI PIRANDELLO
Translated by Elise Lathrop. Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier
& Son.
I
The family boarding-house of Signora Carolina Pentoni (Big Carolini,
or Carolinona, as she was called, because of the excessive flesh which
distressed her) was patronized by certain scatterbrains, droll fellows,
who were the delight of the well-behaved who frequented the table, not
so much because of the good cooking perhaps, but that they might be
present at the gratuitous gaiety offered them during the meals.
One of these excellent, well-mannered people, without the least
suspicion that he might be included among the so-called amusing types
of the pension, had been for some time the butt of the scatterbrains,
Biagio Speranza and Dario Scossi, who played all sorts of tricks on
him; but he remained calm; so calm and obstinate that they were finally
forced to let him alone. “Laughter is healthy. You gentlemen make me
laugh, so I shall remain.”
And he did remain, cordially disliked by all. His name was Cedebonis;
he was a physician, professor of philosophy in the _liceo_, and of
pedagogy in a normal school for girls; he was a Calabrian, short,
thick-set, dark, bald, with an oval-shaped head, with no neck to speak
of; mulish, with a leather-colored face, enormous bushy eyebrows,
and mustache the color of ebony. As the resigned victim of his many
scientific doctrines, both philosophical and pedagogical, he had come
to live almost automatically, with a brain like a warehouse, in which
his thoughts, precise, well-weighed, and classified, were arranged
in perfect order according to their various categories. Possibly his
robust and vigorous body would gladly have lent itself to violent
exercises, but Cedebonis made himself a storehouse for archives, or so
said Scossi, and did not permit himself any expansiveness that was not
according to the dictates of science, philosophy, and pedagogy. “To
live is not enough; live to do good,” he used to say placidly, in his
big, oily voice. And he would ask: “Reason, reason, gentlemen, for what
was it given us?”
“That we might be worse than beasts,” once replied scornfully the music
teacher Trunfo, who could not endure him.
Separated with much scandal from his wife, always scowling, gloomy,
grumbling, and at times explosive, Trunfo passed almost the whole day
in the house of Carolinona, in the dining-room there, intent, like a
dog who licks the bruises he has received, on correcting and rewriting
the most hissed parts of his opera, for the production of which he had
half beggared himself. He smoked continually. Biagio Speranza called
him “Vesuvius.”
Sometimes Cedebonis would go quietly up behind him, and sit beside him
in order to inhale the odor of the tobacco, which he delighted in.
Trunfo, grumbling, would squint at him a couple of times, then fuming,
fidgeting with annoyance, would draw a cigar from his pocket, and offer
it to him rudely: “Pray take it. Smoke, for Heaven’s sake!”
“No, thank you,” Cedebonis would reply, without the least discomfiture.
“You must know that nicotine is very injurious. I only like to inhale
the smoke, to smell its fragrance.”
“At my expense,” Trunfo would then burst out furiously. “How about the
damage to _my_ health? Get out of here, I say! Shame on you! If you
want your pleasure you can pay for it!”
“Cedebonis,” said Scossi--who every time he began to speak would shove
out the tip of his terrible tongue like an arrow-head--“Cedebonis,
with that face of his, like a happy monk, would be quite capable of
presenting himself calmly in the house of our dear Martinelli, and,
with the pretext that woman, like nicotine, is injurious, ask him to
lend him, yes, I say, for a moment--”
“His wife?” asked Biagio Speranza.
“Oh, shocking! Her powder puff.”
“But what has my wife to do with the matter?” exclaims harmless Martino
Martinelli, hit when least expecting it, his eyelashes quivering
rapidly over his round, owl-like eyes, very close together, separated
by an extremely long, thin nose, and which seemed to draw up and leave
his upper lip suspended in the air.
“Calm yourself,” replied Scossi; “I merely mentioned her because I know
that your excellent wife is in Sicily, Signor Martinelli.” And good
Martinelli became calm, sighed, and shook his head bitterly. Ah, he
thought continually of his poor wife, banished to a normal school in
Sicily, and he spoke of her always in his own peculiar manner, groping
along in his discourse, half helping himself, half covering every pause
with a “Yes, I say,” an interjection which they all imitated, without
his perceiving it. The poor fellow could not resign himself to the
bureaucratic cruelty which, at a blow and without cause, had separated
him at sixty-four from his wife, thus destroying his home and family,
forcing him to live alone, in a furnished lodging, and to dine there at
the boarding-house of Carolinona, whom he alone called Signora Carolina.
King of Romancers was Momo Cariolin, a little dwarf, who seemed like
a living joke. To look at him, it seemed impossible that such a tiny
frame could conceive such enormous lies, uttered imperturbably, with
the air of a diplomat.
“But tell me,” Biagio Speranza once asked him seriously, “have you ever
looked in a mirror?” because Momo Cariolin boasted with particular
pride of the favor which women showed him. They had been women of his
own rank at the very least, or ladies of the nobility; or they were
of royal blood or imperial archduchesses (notably Austrian), these
victims of Cariolin. And such adventures had befallen him during the
various congresses of Orientalists in the capitals of Europe! For
Cariolin professed himself, although a dilettante, a profound student
of Oriental languages.
“But for Heaven’s sake, look at Martino’s nose!” Biagio Speranza would
suddenly cry out, interrupting the marvelous narrations of Cariolin.
And good Martinelli, abruptly roused amid the laughter of the others,
would begin to smile.
Biagio Speranza’s jokes, Dario Scossi’s sarcasms, Trunfo’s outbursts
and sneers did not disturb Martino Martinelli. But another of the
boarders frightened him, and this was none other than the poet
Giannantonio Cocco Bertolli, who undoubtedly was the most ridiculous
type of the house. But the poet had been absent for nearly a month,
owing to a serious misfortune which had befallen him. A single one?
No. All the misfortunes in the world had befallen the poor poet Cocco
Bertolli, who for this reason was given to railings against injustice,
both human and divine. What worse misfortune could befall him than
this? To defend himself from celestial and terrestrial perfidies he had
had only his powerful voice, his tongue of fire, and now he could not
even whisper. Everybody knew it; those who had declared they were his
friends had even done it purposely; they had teased him, tormented him,
that they might utterly ruin him, might actually kill him; he roared,
roared, until it seemed as though his enormous bovine eyes would burst
out of his congested face. His bile accumulated. “My muse is bile! It
was with bile that Shakespeare created Othello, King Lear!”
And he prepared a poem, “Erostratus,” a tremendous poem. Ah, the
magnificent temple of Imposture, the temple of so-called Civilization,
where infamous Hypocrisy was enthroned and adored, he would kindle it
with his verses. But as soon as people knew that he was at work on this
poem he was attacked on all sides. Though deprived of his professorship
at the _ginnasio_ because of these tragic bestialities, thrown out on
the streets, until a short time before, Giannantonio Cocco Bertolli
had not been cast down. Sleep? Why, for two cents he could sleep at a
resort of beggars and of sublime, ragged, louse-covered fellows. Eat?
Good Carolinona had given him credit for more than a year already. “And
I, Carolina, I will make you immortal,” he would repeat to her. “You
only love me, you who beneath a rough exterior conceal a heart of gold,
a most noble soul, Carolina!”
“Yes, sir, do not worry,” Carolina would hasten to reply, for she, like
good Martinelli, was afraid of those great eyes which opened so widely
whenever he began to speak, while his mouth wore so complacent a sneer
that one never knew, even when he paid a compliment, but that he was
satirizing in his own way.
Signora Pentoni also feared that her other patrons, those who paid,
would stay away because of him, would be annoyed or disgusted by his
presence at table; and although, whether from good-heartedness or from
fear, she could not show him the door, she lovingly advised him to be
calm, prudent, sought with all politeness to tame him, and also took
care of him and the garments in which he draped himself, mended them,
brushed them, and finally even made him cravats out of the ribbons from
her discarded hats.
Not understanding why all this care was taken of him, Giannantonio
Cocco Bertolli finally--and why not?--fell in love with Signora
Pentoni. He took to composing odes, sonnets, anacreonic songs, and read
them while she sewed buttons on his coat or vest, or brushed them.
Carolinona did not comprehend that these verses were addressed to her,
and why he read them; but since she thought him mad, she did not ask
for a reason, and allowed him to read on.
Giannantonio Cocco Bertolli, violent and bestial in everything else,
was most timid in love. Not knowing how to confess directly to Pentoni
the passion she had inspired, he poured it out in poetry, hoping
to arrive by means of the monstrous flowery paths of his limping
metaphors. But seeing that Carolinona remained impassive, he became
frenzied, violent.
“And what is the matter with you now?” the poor woman asked him in
amazement.
“What?” cried Cocco Bertolli in a trembling voice, folding the paper on
which he had scrawled the poetry, and opening his eyes very wide, as
usual, and stamping his feet. “You ask me? Nothing! But I know! This is
to be my lot! Thus my accursed fate has decreed! I am to be understood
by no one! Not even by you!”
“I? Why?”
“She does not even say that she seems to understand!”
“Understand what? The poetry? But good gracious! I understand nothing.
You know that. Be good, come now! Why do you act thus?”
“Because--because--” In vain! He could not pour out his heart in a
declaration.
For this was needed the impelling force of an odious suspicion that
came upon him suddenly, during one of these scenes, while poor Pentoni
was urging him to be quiet, at least to speak softly, since nearby was
the musician correcting his music.
“Ah, so it is for him?” Cocco Bertolli had thundered forth. “You love
him? He is your lover? Confess! Viper, viper, viper--and why, then,
have you flattered me until now?”
“I? Leave me!” Pentoni had cried, trembling with fear. “You are mad!”
“Cry; yes, cry out so that he will hear! I wish to see your knight; he
too is a viper!”
“But be quiet, hush!” Carolinona had implored him. “Are you speaking
seriously, Signor Bertolli? What do you want of me? Let me alone!”
“I can not! I love you. Do you love another? We shall see.”
“But I love no one. Are you trying to make fun of me? At my age? This
is the last straw! And pray who would fall in love with me, Signor
Bertolli?”
“I! And I have told you so!”
“Pardon me, but this is madness. And not even laughable. Let me be--I
am a poor woman.”
The Pentoni knew very well the vile calumnies which had been circulated
about her, but she had not even tried to contradict them. What did
it matter to her? She was conscious of her virtue, long resigned to
discretion because of her sad lot, and that sufficed her. And how could
calumnies harm her now? She knew that she was ugly; she was already
thirty-five years old, and might have been fifty as far as she was
concerned; she had never flattered herself that a man could fall in
love with her; she had never even had the time to think that fate might
perhaps concede her a different lot, the compensation of some affection
in the dark poverty which had always oppressed her, weighed upon her,
and against which she had sought courageously to defend herself with
every means in her power. Did people believe that in her life there had
been some slip from the path of virtue, or even more than one? Very
well, let them believe it! At heart this not only no longer offended
her, but almost flattered her self-love, her deep-rooted feminine
instinct. She closed her eyes. But it was not true. No one had ever
cared for her, save this insane Cocco Bertolli. It would have been
laughable had the poor fellow not worn such a tragic expression.
“Must I go away then?” he asked.
“Why, no; stay!” she hastened to reply. “But you must think no more of
such madness.”
“I can not help it! When an idea has taken root here, it will not leave
me, even if my head were to be broken open with Vulcan’s hammer. You
know that. And know that my proposals were honest, and always will be.
Carolina, will you be my wife?”
She had begun to laugh at such a precipitate proposal, but Cocco
Bertolli, furious, checked the laugh on her very lips.
“Do not laugh, do not laugh, by Heaven! At least believe me, you who
are a woman of heart. Save me! I have need of some one who loves me
and calms me. I will resume my position as professor; you shall be
the wife of a great poet, who is now miserably wasting his talent.
And if you do not understand the poet, no matter; you shall be the
wife of a professor; does that content you? and I will liberate you
from all these good-for-nothings who came to play the buffoon at your
table. Listen; I will give you the greatest proof of my love, of the
seriousness of my proposal. When I leave here I must go to the hospital
and submit myself to a terrible operation. The doctors have told me
that it may kill me. So be it! But if I recover, I will be yours,
Carolina. Leave me this hope. Farewell!” And he rushed away without
giving the poor woman time even to try to dissuade him.
At the hospital he had compelled the physicians to risk the terrible
operation, declaring: “I neither can nor will go on living thus. It
would kill me! Therefore operate on me without fear, without remorse.
At the worst I am but anticipating my death by a few days.”
Two days after the operation good Martinelli, to whom Pentoni had
weepingly confided this fresh outburst of madness on the part of
Bertolli, was despatched to the hospital for news. Poor Signor
Martinelli returned with his great nose pale with terror, his eyes
round and glassy.
Cocco Bertolli was dying, and had asked him as a favor to persuade
“his” Carolina to see him for the last time. The physician had assured
Martinelli that the dying man would not outlive the night. Signora
Pentoni, overcome with pity, had gone to the hospital, and there had
been obliged to promise, solemnly to swear to the dying man, that if he
should escape death she would be his wife.
“But there will be no danger, you will see, there will be no danger!”
good Martinelli had said to her, reassuringly, as they were returning
from this visit. “Because--yes, I say--”
And he had raised one hand as though to bless the dying man.