Read Online Tales of Madness by Luigi Pirandello - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Luigi Pirandello
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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
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
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