Read Online Tales of Madness by Luigi Pirandello - Free Book Online
Authors: Luigi Pirandello
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it yourself, expenses and all, without bothering me. When you're finished we'll settle the account. As for the shrine... did you understand how I want it to be?"
"Yes, sir."
"When will you start the work?"
"As far as I'm concerned, even tomorrow."
"And when can it be completed?"
Spatolino hesitated a while to think.
"Well," he then said, "if it's to be as large as that, it'll take at least... what should I say?... a month."
"That's fine. Now let's go see the site together."
The land on the other side of the road also belonged to Ciancarella, who left it uncultivated and in a state of complete neglect. He had bought it so that he wouldn't be bothered by anyone who might want to live there in front of his villa. He allowed the shepherds to bring their small flocks to graze there, as if the land belonged to no one. Therefore it wasn't necessary to ask anyone's permission to build the shrine. As soon as the site had been established there, right in front of his gate, the old man went back into his villa, and Spatolino, left to himself,
began an interminable fififi fififi— fififi... Then he set off. He
walked and walked and finally found himself, almost without knowing how, in front of the door of Father Lagaipa, who was his confessor. Only after he knocked, did he remember that the priest had been sick in bed for the past several days. He should not have disturbed him with that morning visit, but the matter was serious, so he entered.
IV
Father Lagaipa was on his feet, dressed only in a shirt and trousers. He was cleaning the barrels of a shotgun right in the middle of the room, amid the confusion arising from the fact that his womenfolk, a maidservant and his niece, were unable to follow the orders he was giving.
His huge, fleshy nose, all covered with pockmarks like a sponge, seemed to have become even larger as a result of his recent illness. His dark, shiny eyes, one pointing in one direction, the other in another, as if out of fear of that nose, seemed to want to escape from that yellow, worn-out face.
"They're ruining me, Spatolino, ruining me! A short time ago my young farmhand, 'Baccala,' came by to tell me that my fields have become communal property. Why, of course, they belong to everybody! It's the socialists, understand? They're stealing my grapes while they're still green, my prickly pears, everything! What's yours is mine, understand? What's yours is mine! I'll send him this shotgun. 'Their legs!' I told him. 'Shoot them in the legs. The best medicine for them is lead! That's what they need!' (Rosina, you silly little goose, I told you to bring me some more vinegar and a clean rag.) What did you want to tell me, my son?"
Spatolino no longer knew where to start. As soon as he pronounced Ciancarella's name, he heard a torrent of angry curse words, and when he but mentioned the building of the shrine, he saw Father Lagaipa gaze in openmouthed surprise.
"A shrine?"
"Yes, Father, dedicated to the Ecce Homo. I would like to ask your advice, reverend Father, concerning whether I ought to build it for him."
"You're asking me? That stupid fool, what did you answer him?"
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
"Yes, sir."
"When will you start the work?"
"As far as I'm concerned, even tomorrow."
"And when can it be completed?"
Spatolino hesitated a while to think.
"Well," he then said, "if it's to be as large as that, it'll take at least... what should I say?... a month."
"That's fine. Now let's go see the site together."
The land on the other side of the road also belonged to Ciancarella, who left it uncultivated and in a state of complete neglect. He had bought it so that he wouldn't be bothered by anyone who might want to live there in front of his villa. He allowed the shepherds to bring their small flocks to graze there, as if the land belonged to no one. Therefore it wasn't necessary to ask anyone's permission to build the shrine. As soon as the site had been established there, right in front of his gate, the old man went back into his villa, and Spatolino, left to himself,
began an interminable fififi fififi— fififi... Then he set off. He
walked and walked and finally found himself, almost without knowing how, in front of the door of Father Lagaipa, who was his confessor. Only after he knocked, did he remember that the priest had been sick in bed for the past several days. He should not have disturbed him with that morning visit, but the matter was serious, so he entered.
IV
Father Lagaipa was on his feet, dressed only in a shirt and trousers. He was cleaning the barrels of a shotgun right in the middle of the room, amid the confusion arising from the fact that his womenfolk, a maidservant and his niece, were unable to follow the orders he was giving.
His huge, fleshy nose, all covered with pockmarks like a sponge, seemed to have become even larger as a result of his recent illness. His dark, shiny eyes, one pointing in one direction, the other in another, as if out of fear of that nose, seemed to want to escape from that yellow, worn-out face.
"They're ruining me, Spatolino, ruining me! A short time ago my young farmhand, 'Baccala,' came by to tell me that my fields have become communal property. Why, of course, they belong to everybody! It's the socialists, understand? They're stealing my grapes while they're still green, my prickly pears, everything! What's yours is mine, understand? What's yours is mine! I'll send him this shotgun. 'Their legs!' I told him. 'Shoot them in the legs. The best medicine for them is lead! That's what they need!' (Rosina, you silly little goose, I told you to bring me some more vinegar and a clean rag.) What did you want to tell me, my son?"
Spatolino no longer knew where to start. As soon as he pronounced Ciancarella's name, he heard a torrent of angry curse words, and when he but mentioned the building of the shrine, he saw Father Lagaipa gaze in openmouthed surprise.
"A shrine?"
"Yes, Father, dedicated to the Ecce Homo. I would like to ask your advice, reverend Father, concerning whether I ought to build it for him."
"You're asking me? That stupid fool, what did you answer him?"
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
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