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Luigi Pirandello is the late Mattia Pascal. Noble heart, open soul, voluntarily rested here

Luigi Pirandello is the late Mattia Pascal. Noble heart, open soul, voluntarily rested here

31.03.2019

18. Late Mattia Pascal

Torn apart by two feelings - anxiety and rage (I can’t tell which of them worried me more; probably it was, in essence, one feeling - anxious rage or violent anxiety), I no longer worried that someone outside would know me before I reach Mirano or as soon as I get off the train.

I took only one precaution: I got into a first-class carriage. It was already evening, and besides, the experience with Berto reassured me: the confidence in my sad death two whole years ago was so rooted in everyone that the idea that I was Mattia Pascal would never have occurred to anyone. I tried to stick my head out of the window, hoping that the sight of familiar places would give me a different, milder feeling, but this only increased my anxiety and rage. In the moonlight I could make out a hill at Stia from a distance.

- The killers! I said through my teeth. - Well wait...

How many important things I forgot to ask Roberto, stunned by unexpected news! Have the estate and mill been sold? Or did the creditors agree among themselves on the temporary return of them under guardianship? Is Malanya dead? How is Aunt Skolastica?

I couldn't believe that only two years and a few months had passed. It seemed that an eternity had passed, and since extraordinary things had happened to me, I believed that the same extraordinary things must have happened in Mirano. And, however, nothing happened there, except for the marriage of Romilda and Pomino, that is, the most ordinary thing, which only now, with my return, became an extraordinary incident.

Where should I go once I am in Mirano? Where did the new married couple nestle?

For Pomino, a rich man and the only heir, the house where I lived, a poor man, was too poor. Besides, Pomino, with his tender heart, would feel unwell where everything would remind him of me. Perhaps he settled with his father in a large house. I imagined the widow Pescatore - what kind of matron she now puts on herself! And the poor cavalier Pomino Gerolamo the First, so scrupulous, soft, good-natured, is in the clutches of this vixen! What are the scenes! Certainly neither father nor son had the courage to get rid of her. And now - well, isn't it annoying? I will spare them...

Yes, I must go straight to Pomino’s house: if I don’t find them there, then, in any case, I’ll find out from the doorkeeper where to look.

O my peacefully sleeping town, what a shock awaits you tomorrow at the news of my resurrection! It was a moonlit night, the lights had already gone out in the nearly dead streets, and many were having dinner at that hour.

Due to extreme nervous excitement, I did not feel my feet under me and walked as if not touching the ground. Can't even tell which one I was in state of mind; I only had the feeling that all my insides were turned over by Homeric laughter, which, however, could not escape; had it escaped, the pavement stones would have bared their teeth like teeth, and the houses would have staggered.

In an instant I found myself at Pomino's house, but did not find in the entrance "the old doorkeeper in her glass booth. Trembling with impatience, I waited a few minutes and suddenly noticed over one of the wings of the front door an already faded and dusty mourning ribbon, which was clearly nailed here a few months ago. Who died? Widow Pescatore? Cavalier Pomino? Of course, one of them. Maybe, cavalier... Then I'll probably find my mate here in the big house. I didn't have the strength to wait any longer. I ran up the stairs, walking two steps, and on the second flight I met the porter:

- Is Pomino's cavalier at home?

The old tortoise looked at me so dazedly that I knew at once that the poor fellow Pomino had died.

- Son! Son! – I immediately corrected myself, continuing to climb the stairs.

I don't know what the old woman muttered under her breath as she went downstairs. Having reached almost to the top, I had to stop - there was not enough breath. I looked at the door and thought: “Maybe they are still having dinner, all three of them are sitting at the table, suspecting nothing. But a few seconds will pass - and as soon as I knock on the door, their whole life will turn upside down ... Now I am the carrier of the fate that threatens them.

I climbed the last steps and grabbed the bell cord. My heart was pounding, I listened. Not a sound. And in this silence, I heard a light ding-ding of a bell, which I myself slowly, carefully pulled on the cord.

The blood rushed to my head, my ears buzzed, as if this slight ringing, barely reaching me in the silence, sounded sharp and deafening in myself.

A few minutes later I shuddered, recognizing the voice of the widow Pescatore behind the door:

- Who's there?

I couldn't answer right away and clenched my fists tightly to my chest, as if to keep my heart from jumping out. Then, muffled, chanting each syllable, he said:

— Mattia Pascal.

“Mattia Pascal,” I repeated, trying to sound even more sepulchral.

I heard the old witch—apparently horrified—run away from the door, and I suddenly imagined what was going on there. Now a man should appear - Pomino himself, this brave man!

I, however, had to slowly, as before, consider my course of action.

As soon as Pomino opened the door with an angry jerk and saw me, straightened to my full height and as if advancing on him, he backed away in horror. I burst into the room, shouting:

- Mattia Pascal! From that world!

Pomino flopped backwards onto the floor with a heavy thud. He instinctively threw his hands behind his back and now leaned on them with his whole body, staring at me:

- Mattia? You?!

The widow Pescatore, who came running with a candle in her hand, let out a heart-rending cry, like a woman in labor. With a kick I slammed the door shut and snatched the candle from her, which she nearly dropped on the floor.

- Quiet! I shouted right in her face. “Do you think you really mistook me for a ghost?”

- Are you alive? she squeezed out, turning white with fear and digging her fingers into her hair.

- Alive! Alive! Alive! I said with a kind of ferocious joy. “Did you recognize me as a dead man?” In a drowned man?

– Where are you from? she asked in horror.

- From the mill, witch! I growled. “Here, hold the candle and look at me well!” It's me? Do you recognize? Or does it seem to you that before you is the unfortunate one who drowned in the Stia?

"So it wasn't you?"

"Go to hell, witch!" I'm standing here, alive! And you get up, weirdo! Where is Romilda?

- For God's sake! .. - Pomino groaned, hastily getting up from the floor ... - Baby ... I'm afraid ... Milk ...

I grabbed his hand, and, in turn, dumbfounded:

- What's the little one?

“My…my…daughter…” Pomino muttered.

- Oh, you're a killer! yelled the widow Pescatore. Stunned by this new news, I could not answer a word.

- Your daughter? I whispered. “To everything else, and a daughter ... And now she ...

“Mom, for God’s sake, go to Romilda…” Pomino said in an imploring tone.

But it was already too late. Romilda, with her breasts open, to which the baby was clinging, half-dressed, as if, having heard our cries, she jumped out of bed in a hurry - Romilda entered the room and saw me:

- Mattia!

She fell into the arms of Pomino and her mother, who carried her away, leaving the baby in my arms in the confusion as I rushed to Romilda with them.

I was left alone in the darkness of the hallway with this fragile baby, who screamed piercingly for milk. I was embarrassed, confused, in my ears there was a desperate cry of a woman who was mine, and now she gave birth to this girl, and not from me, not from me! And then she didn’t love mine, mine! So, I, damn it, have nothing to feel sorry for either her child or all of them. Did she get married? Well, now I... But the little one continued to scream, and then... What was left to do? To calm the girl, I gently pressed her to my chest and began to gently pat her tiny shoulders and rock her, pacing back and forth. My rage subsided, my ardor faded. Little by little the girl fell silent.

- Mattia! What about a girl?

- Quiet you! I have her.

- What are you doing with her?

- Eat it ... What am I doing! You shoved it into my hands... Let it lie with me now. She calmed down. Where is Romilda?

He came up to me, trembling and looking apprehensively, like a bitch who sees that the owner has taken her puppy in his arms.

- Romilda? And what? he asked.

“And the fact that I need to talk to her,” I answered rudely.

- You know, she's fainting.

- In a faint? Well, let's bring her to her senses.

Pomino, with an imploring look, tried to block my way:

– For God's sake... Listen... I'm afraid... How is it... you... alive?... Where have you been?... Oh, my God... Listen... Maybe you'd better talk to me?

- No! I shouted. - I'll talk to her. You're nobody in this business now.

Your marriage is invalid.

- How! .. What are you talking about? And the girl?

“Girl… Girl…” I gritted through my teeth. - I would be ashamed! Only two years have passed, and you already managed to get a daughter. Hush, little one, hush! Let's go to mom! .. Okay, lead me! Where to go?

Before I entered the bedroom with the child in my arms, the widow Pescatore pounced on me like a hyena. I pushed her away with a furious wave of my hand.

- And you get out! There is your son-in-law. If you want to yell, yell at him. I don't know you.

I bent over Romilda, who was weeping bitterly, and placed the girl beside her.

– Here, take it… Are you crying? From what? Because I'm alive? Would you rather that I was dead? Look at me... Come on, look at my face. Do you like me better, dead or alive?

She tried to look at me through her tears and whispered in a voice broken by sobs:

“But… how… are you?” What did you do?

- What did you do? I chuckled. Are you asking me what I did? You got remarried... to that fool... You gave birth to a daughter and now you still ask me what I was doing?

- What will happen now? groaned Pomino, covering his face with his hands.

“But you, you… Where have you been?” Since you were pretending to be dead, since you were hiding…” Pescatore’s widow began to yell, advancing on me with raised fists.

I grabbed one of her hands, twisted it and growled:

- Shut up, I tell you! Shut up now, and if you just squeak, I will forget the pity I feel for this fool, your son-in-law, and this little one, and I will do according to the law! Do you know what the law says? That I should restore my marriage to Romilda...

- With my daughter? Are you?... Are you out of your mind! – not embarrassed, she yelled.

But Pomino, hearing my threat, began to persuade her that for the sake of all that was holy, she would be silent and calm down.

Then the vixen, lagging behind me, attacked him, a fool, a blockhead, a nonentity who can only whimper and complain like a woman.

I was laughing so hard that my stomach hurt.

- Enough! I yelled when I calmed down a bit. - Yes, I'll leave him Romilda! I'll gladly leave! Do you really think me such a fool that I want to be your son-in-law again? Oh, my poor Pomino! I'm sorry, my poor friend, that I called you a fool. But did you hear? And your mother-in-law called you that, and - honestly! - even earlier, Romilda, our little wife, spoke of you like that, yes, yes, she is no one else. You seemed to her both a blockhead, and a dumbass, and a vulgar one, and I don’t remember what else. Isn't that right, Romilda? Well, admit it... Well, well, stop crying, dear, dry your eyes, otherwise you'll spoil the milk... I'm alive now - you see? - and I want to enjoy life, yes, rejoice, as one of my tipsy friends used to say ... Rejoice. Remember! Do you think I want to take mother away from daughter? Oh, no, no! I already have a son without a father... Do you see, Romilda? You and I are even now: I have a son, he is the son of Malanya, and you have a daughter, and she is the daughter of Pomino. If it's God's will, we'll marry them someday! But now my son is no longer an insult to you ... Let's talk about more cheerful things ... Tell me, how did you and your mother manage to identify my corpse there, in Stia.

“But I recognized it too! cried Pomino, losing his patience. - The whole district recognized! They are not alone!

- Well done! Well done! Did he look like me?

- Your height ... Beard ... Dressed like you ... in black. Besides, you've been gone for so long...

“Well, of course, I hid, you heard that already, didn’t you?” As if I didn't hide because of them. Because of her, because of her ... And now, you know, I still decided to return ... Yes, yes, loaded with gold! Suddenly, it turns out that I died, drowned, even decomposed ... And in addition, I was identified by everyone! Thank God for two years I hung around like prodigal son, and you are here - engagement, wedding, honeymoon, feasts, fun, daughter ...

Sleeping in a coffin - sleep peacefully,
Enjoy life, living...

– And now how? Now, how will it be? - groaning, repeated Pomino, sitting as if on pins and needles. - That's what I'm asking!

Romilda got up and carried the girl to the cradle.

"Come on, let's get out of here," I said. - The little one fell asleep. Let's talk elsewhere.

We went into the dining room, where the remains of dinner were visible on the still laid table. With a deathly pale, dazed, contorted face, trembling all over and incessantly blinking his clouded eyes, the pupils of which narrowed from agony seemed like two black dots, Pomino did nothing but scratch his forehead and repeated as if in delirium:

- Alive ... Alive ... How is it? How is it?

- Stop whining! I shouted. - Let's discuss everything now.

Romilda, dressed in a dressing gown, joined us. By the light of the lamp, I just stared at her: she got prettier and became just like in the old days, even more beautiful.

“Let me look at you… Permission, Pomino?” There is nothing wrong with that: after all, I became her husband before yours and was her husband longer than you. Don't be shy, Romilda! Look, look how Mino is writhing! As long as I'm not actually dead, it's all right!

- It is unacceptable! panted a pale Pomino.

- Worried! I winked at Romilda. “Well, calm down, Mino… I told you I won’t take her away from you, and I will keep my word.” Just wait... With your permission!

I went up to Romilda and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

- Mattia! - all trembling, shouted Pomino.

I laughed again.

- Are you jealous? To me? Here's another! I have the lead. However, Romilda, you can consign this to oblivion. You know, when I came here, I assumed (forgive me, Romilda), I assumed, dear Mino, that I would make you very happy with the opportunity to be freed, and, I confess, this made me very sad: I wanted to take revenge. Believe me, even now, perhaps, I am not averse to taking Romilda away from you - you, apparently, love her, and she ... Yes, yes, it looks like a dream, but she is the same as she once was ... Remember, Romilda ?... Don't cry! Again you began to whimper!.. There were good times... There is no return for them... All right, all right: now you have a daughter, which means there is nothing to talk about! I'll leave you alone, damn it!

“But our marriage will be invalid!” shouted Pomino.

“And let it be,” I replied. - If it is canceled, it is purely formal. I will not declare my rights, and I will not seek official recognition of me as alive, if I am not forced to do so. I will be quite satisfied if everyone sees me and knows that in fact I am alive. I just want to not be listed as dead. Believe me, this state is the most real death. Yes, you yourself understand this, since Romilda became your wife ... The rest is indifferent to me! You openly, in front of everyone, got married; everyone knows that she already whole year your wife; let it stay that way. Do you really think that anyone will ask if her first marriage was still legal? All this - last year's snow… Romilda was my wife; now, for a year now, she is your wife, the mother of your child. In a month, they will stop talking about it. Is it true I say, you mother-in-law twice?

Widow Pescatore nodded her head grimly. But Pomino, who was becoming more and more worried, asked:

“Will you stay here in Mirano?”

- Yes, and sometimes in the evening I will come to you to drink a cup of coffee or a glass of wine for your health.

- Well, it's not! blurted the widow Pescatore, jumping up.

“Yes, he is joking!” Romilda remarked without looking up.

Do you see Romilda? I turned to her. “They are afraid that love will not start again with you ... That would be nice of you!” No, no, don't torture Pomino. I want to say that since he does not want to receive me in his house, I will walk along the street under your windows. Fine? And arrange wonderful serenades for you.

Pomino, pale and trembling, paced up and down the room, muttering:

- It's impossible ... Impossible ... - Suddenly he stopped and said: - The fact is that she, since you are alive and here, will no longer be my wife ...

"And you think I'm dead!" I answered calmly.

He started pacing back and forth again.

- Well, do not count! Well, judge for yourself carefully: if you don’t have any troubles from Romilda on this score, then from whom else can you expect them? Let Romilda speak... Come on, Romilda, tell me which of us is better: him or me?

“But I mean in the face of the law!” In the face of the law! he shouted, stopping.

Romilda looked at him with concern and hesitation.

“If we talk about the law,” I remarked, “forgive me, it seems to me that I will suffer the most, since from now on I will have to witness how my fair half leads a married life with you.

“But since she,” objected Pomino, “is no longer your wife…”

“Well, in general,” I sighed loudly, “I intended to take revenge and do not take revenge; I leave you a wife, I leave you alone, and you are still dissatisfied with something? Okay, Romilda, get up and let's get out of here together! I offer you brilliant Honeymoon... You and I will have fun! Quit that boring crybaby! As you like? He wants me to really throw myself into Stia's mill pond.

- I don't want that at all! yelled Pomino, infuriated. But at least you go! Get out of here, since you enjoyed pretending to be dead! Leave now, and away, so that no one can see you. Because if you're... here... alive... I can't...

I stood up, patted him reassuringly on the shoulder, and announced that I had already been to Oneglia with my brother. Everyone there now knows that I am alive, and tomorrow this news will inevitably reach Mirano. Then I cried out:

- So I pretended to be dead again ?! Vegetated somewhere far from Mirano? You're kidding, my dear! Calm down: live a peaceful married life and do not worry about anything ... Be that as it may, your wedding was celebrated. Everyone will approve what I propose, taking into account the presence of a child. I promise, I promise with oath that I will never come to bother you, even to drink an unfortunate cup of coffee, even to enjoy the joyful and invigorating spectacle of your love, your consent, your happiness, built on my death ... Oh, you ungrateful! I bet that no one, not even you, most devoted friend, none of you has ever gone to the cemetery to hang a wreath, to put even a miserable flower on my grave ... Is it true? Answer me!

- You're joking anyway! - all shrinking, said Pomino.

- Kidding? And I don't think so! After all, there is a human corpse lying there, but they are not joking with this. Have you been there?

“No… I didn’t… I didn’t have the courage…” muttered Pomino.

- And take my wife away - you had enough courage for this, you kind of mischievous!

- Are you with me? he quickly retorted. "Weren't you the first to take her from me when you were alive?"

- I? Here's another! She didn't want you! Do you really need to repeat that she thought you were a fool? Please confirm to him, Romilda - you see, he accuses me of betrayal. OK! Let's not talk about it anymore, he's your husband after all. But I don’t have any fault ... That’s enough, that’s enough ... Tomorrow I myself will visit this poor dead man, who lies there without a single flower, without a single shed tear ... And tell me, did they at least put a stone on his grave?

“Yes,” Pomino answered briskly. - At the expense of the municipality ... My poor dad ...

“He gave a speech at my grave. I know. If the poor dead man had heard... And what is written on the stove?

– I don’t know… The inscription was composed by Lark.

- I imagine! I sighed. - OK. Let's put an end to this. Tell me better how you got married so quickly ... Yes, you didn’t mourn me for a very long time, my widow! Or maybe she didn't cry at all? A? Yes, say a word. Am I never going to hear your voice? Look: it's late at night, the day will dawn a little, I'll leave, and everything will be as if we had never known each other ... Let's use the remaining time. Well, tell me...

Romilda shrugged her shoulders, glanced at Pomino, and smiled nervously. Then she lowered her eyes again and looked at her hands.

- What can I say? Of course I cried...

What do you not deserve! grumbled the widow Pescatore.

- Thank you! But not for long, right? I continued. - These Perfect eyes they often made mistakes, but, of course, they did not spoil themselves for long with tears.

“It was very bad for us,” Romilda said, as if justifying herself. “And if it wasn’t for him…

- Well done, Pomino! I exclaimed. - And this scoundrel Malanya, then nothing?

“Nothing,” said the widow Pescatore dryly.

He did everything...

“I mean… no…” Pomino corrected her, “poor dad… You know, he was a member of the municipal council, after all. Well, first of all, he got a small pension, taking into account the accident, and then ...

- Agreed to your wedding?

- He was just happy! And he wanted everyone to live here, with him ... Alas! Two months ago...

He began to tell me about the death of his father, about how he fell in love with Romilda and his little granddaughter, how his death was mourned in the whole district. Then I asked what I heard about Aunt Skolastika, who was so friendly with Pomino's cavalier. Widow Pescatore, who still remembered well how the formidable old woman threw a lump of dough in her face, fidgeted in her chair. Pomino answered me that she was alive, but he had not seen her for two years; then he, in turn, began to ask what I was doing, where I lived, etc. I told everything that could be told, without naming places or names, and two years. And so, talking, we waited for the day to come, the day when everyone was to know about my resurrection from the dead.

vigil and strong feelings tired us out. Besides, we are cold. To keep us warm at least a little, Romilda made coffee herself. While pouring me a cup, she looked at me with a light, sad, and somehow distant smile:

- You, as always, without sugar?

What did she read at that moment in my gaze? Her eyes immediately dropped.

In that pale pre-dawn twilight, I suddenly felt a ball rolling up to my throat, and looked at Pomino with hatred. But coffee was smoking under my nose, intoxicating me with its aroma, and I began to slowly sip it. Then I asked Pomino for permission to leave my suitcase with them - I will send for it when I find a place for myself.

- Well, of course, of course! he replied warningly. Don't worry, I'll deliver it to you myself.

“Well,” I said, “it's empty. By the way, Romilda, do you by any chance keep any of my things - clothes, underwear?

“No, nothing…” she answered regretfully, spreading her arms. - You know, after this misfortune ...

Who could imagine? exclaimed Pomino.

But I can swear that he, the miserly Pomino, had my old silk handkerchief tied around his neck.

- Well, that's enough. Farewell and be happy,” I said, shaking hands with them and looking intently at Romilda, who did not raise her eyes to me. When she responded to my shaking, her hand trembled. - Farewell! Farewell!

Finding myself on the street, I again felt at home, although I was at home: alone, without a home, without a goal.

“What to do now? I thought. - Where to go?" I walked down the street, looking at the passers-by. Is it possible to? Nobody recognized me. But I have not changed so much - everyone, seeing me, could, in any case, think: “How this newcomer looks like poor Mattia Pascal! If his eye had squinted a little, he would have been the spitting image of a dead man. But no, no one recognized me, because no one thought of me anymore. I did not arouse any curiosity, not even the slightest surprise ... And I imagined what a noise, a commotion would rise, as soon as I showed up on the streets of Mirano! Deeply disappointed, I experienced such acute humiliation, annoyance, bitterness that I cannot even convey. Annoyance and humiliation prevented me from attracting the attention of those whom I myself knew very well. Still would! Two years have passed!.. That's what it means to die! No one, no one else remembered me, as if I had never existed.

Twice I walked through the town from end to end, and no one stopped me. My irritation reached such a point that I was already thinking of returning to Pomino, declaring to him that our agreement did not suit me, and taking out on him the insult that, as I believed, our town had inflicted on me, not recognizing me. But neither Romilda would follow me of her own free will, nor would I know where to lead her. First, I needed to get a place to live. I thought about going straight to the city council, to the civil registry office, to have me immediately struck off the list of the dead. But on the way there, I changed my mind and went to the library of Santa Maria Liberale, where I found my venerable friend, Don Eligio Pellegrinotto, in his place, who also did not recognize me at first. True, Don Elijo claimed that he recognized me at first sight and was ready to throw himself on my neck, but he was only waiting for me to give my name, since my appearance seemed to him so incredible that he simply could not hug the person who seemed to him Mattia Pascal.

So be it! He was the first to warmly and joyfully greet me, and then almost by force dragged me out into the street in order to erase from my memory the bad impression made on me by the forgetfulness of my fellow citizens.

But now, to spite them, I will not describe everything that happened first in the Brisigo drugstore, then in the Café del Unione, when, still choking with joy, Don Eligio introduced the resurrected dead man to the regulars. In an instant, the news spread throughout the town, and people who came running to look at me bombarded me with questions. They wanted me to tell them who the man who drowned in the Stia was, as if they themselves, one by one, did not recognize me in him. And where was I, myself? Where did you return from? "From that world." What did you do? "Pretending to be dead!" I decided to limit myself to these two answers - let curiosity gnaw harder on the talkers, and it really gnawed at them quite for a long time. No luckier than the others was my friend Skylark, who came to interview me for Foletto. In vain, in order to move me and make me talk, he brought me a two-year-old issue of his newspaper with my obituary. I told him that I knew it by heart: "Folietto" is very common in hell.

“Yes, yes, thank you, dear. And for the tombstone, too... You know, I'll go look at her.

I will not retell the "nail" of his next Sunday issue, where large print header was set:

MATTIA PASCAL IS ALIVE

Among the few who did not want to appear before my eyes was, besides my creditors, Batta Malanya, who, however, according to fellow citizens, two years ago expressed the deepest regret at my barbaric suicide. I willingly believe. Then, at the news of my disappearance for all eternity, - the deepest grief; now, with the news of my return to life, an equally great displeasure. I understand the reason for both. And Oliva? One Sunday I met her on the street - she was leaving the church, holding her five-year-old boy by the hand, beautiful, blooming, like herself. My son! She cast a friendly, laughing look at me - and this one fleeting ray told me so much ...

Enough. Now I live peacefully with my old aunt Skolastika, who has agreed to take me into her house. My strange adventure immediately elevated me in her eyes. I sleep on the very bed where my poor mother died, and spend most of my time here in the library, in the company of Don Eligio, who is still far from putting the dusty old books in order.

With his help, in six months I put on paper my strange story. And everything that is written here, he will keep secret, as if he learned it in confession.

We discussed for a long time everything that had happened to me, and I often told him that I did not see what morality could be drawn from it.

“Here’s what,” he told me in response. – Outside the established law, outside those particular circumstances, joyful or sad, that make us ourselves, dear signor Pascal, it is impossible to live.

But I objected to him that, in essence, I did not legitimize my existence and did not return to my private personal circumstances. My wife is now the wife of Pomino, and I cannot say exactly who I am, in fact.

In the Miragno cemetery, on the grave of the poor unknown who committed suicide in Stia, there is still a slab with an inscription composed by my friend Skylark:

SUFFERING FROM THE vicissitudes of FATE, MATTIA PASCAL, LIBRARY. A NOBLE HEART, AN OPEN SOUL, HAVE VOLUNTARILY RESTED HERE. THIS PLATE IS PLACED BY THE CARE OF HIS FELLOW-CITIZENS.

I took a wreath of flowers to the grave, as I intended, and now sometimes I come here to look at myself - dead and buried. Some curious person is watching me from afar and, having a good look at me, asks:

“But who are you to him?”

I shrug, squint and answer:

“Ah, my dear… I am the late Mattia Pascal.

Current page: 1 (total book has 17 pages)

Luigi Pirandello
The late Mattia Pascal

1. The first premise of the syllogism

I knew very little, and I knew only one thing for sure: my name is Mattia Pascal. And I used it. If one of my friends or acquaintances lost his mind to such an extent that he came to ask me for advice or instructions, I shrugged my shoulders, screwed up my eyes and answered:

My name is Mattia Pascal.

- Thank you, darling. I know it.

“And that’s not enough for you?”

To tell the truth, it was not enough even for me. But then I still did not understand what it was like for a person who does not know even this smallness and is deprived of the opportunity to answer on occasion:

My name is Mattia Pascal.

Others, perhaps, will sympathize with me (it's so easy!), imagining the grief of the unfortunate who suddenly finds out that ... well, in a word, that he has no one - neither father nor mother, and that he himself does not know whether he lived or didn't live. Of course, such people will begin to resent (it's even easier!) the corruption of morals and the vices of our miserable age, which dooms the innocent poor to immeasurable suffering.

Well, listen! I could imagine family tree, depicting the origin of my family, and to document that I knew not only my parents, but also my ancestors, as well as their not always laudable deeds in times long past.

But here's the thing: everything that happened to me is very strange and completely exceptional, yes, yes, so exceptional and strange that I decided to tell about it.

For almost two years in a row I was the curator of books, or rather, the rat hunter in the library, which was bequeathed to our city by a certain Monsignor Boccamazza, who died in 1803. There is no doubt that this prelate knew little of the habits and character of his fellow citizens, if he entertained the hope that his gift would gradually awaken in their souls the love of knowledge. I can testify that such love has not yet awakened, and I say this in praise of my countrymen. The town was so little grateful to Boccamazza for his gift that they did not even think of erecting a statue to him - even a bust, and for many years the books lay in a heap in a large damp warehouse. Then they were pulled out of there - you can imagine in what form! - and transported to the remote chapel of Santa Maria Liberale, where, I don't know why, worship was forbidden. Here, without any instructions, they were entrusted, like a benefice or sinecure, to a kind of loafer with good protection, so that for two lire a day he would spend several hours a day in the library, looking or not even looking at books and breathing the smell of decay and mold.

Such a lot fell to me. From the very first day I was imbued with such a deep contempt for books, printed and handwritten (for example, for some old folios of our library), that neither then nor now would I have taken up a pen for anything. However, I have already said above that I consider my story really strange and even instructive for the curious reader if, having fulfilled the long hope of the late Monsignor Boccamazza, he wanders into the library where my manuscript will be kept. However, this manuscript can be given to him for reading not earlier than fifty years after my third, last and final death.

Because at the moment (God knows, I am infinitely bitter to realize this!) I am dead. Yes, yes, I have died twice already - the first time by mistake, and the second ... However, listen to everything in order.

2. The second premise of the syllogism (philosophical) instead of an apology

The idea, or rather the advice to write, was given to me by my esteemed friend Don Eligio Pellegrinotto, curator of the books of Boccamazza, to whom I will entrust my manuscript as soon as it is finished, if that ever happens.

I am writing these notes in an abandoned chapel by the light of a lantern hanging from the dome, in an apse set aside for the librarian and separated from the hall by a low wooden lattice with small pilasters. Don Elijo, meanwhile, is puffing, fulfilling his voluntary duty and trying to restore at least an approximate order in this bookish Babylonian pandemonium. I fear, however, that he will not be able to complete the task. None of the former librarians tried to find out, even from the spines, what kind of books the prelate had given the city. It was believed that all of them are soul-saving properties. Now Pellegrinotto, to his great joy, found in the library books on the most different topics; and since they were transported and dumped at random, the confusion turned out to be unimaginable. The books that were in the neighborhood stuck together, forming the most unimaginable combinations. Don Eligio told me, for example, that he had great difficulty separating The Life and Death of Faustino Materrucci, a Benedictine of Poli-Rhone, whom some call blessed, a biography published in Mantua in 1625, from a highly obscene treatise in three books. The Art of Loving Women, written by Antony Mucius Porro in 1571. Because of the dampness, the bindings of these two books were fraternally joined. By the way, the second book of this obscene treatise speaks in detail about the life and love affairs of the monks.

Don Eligio Pellegrinotto extracted many amusing and most pleasant works from the bookcases of the library, sitting all day long on a ladder he had borrowed from a lamplighter. Sometimes, finding some interesting book, he deftly threw it from above onto a huge table that stood in the middle of the chapel; the echo resonantly echoed the impact, a cloud of dust rose, from which several spiders jumped out in fright; I ran from the apse, jumping over the fence, and first with the same book drove the spiders off the dusty table, and then opened it and began to look through.

So gradually I became addicted to this kind of reading. Don Elijo told me that my book should be modeled on those he finds in the library, that is, it should have its own special flavor. I shrugged my shoulders and replied that this task was not for me. Besides, there was something else holding me back.

Sweaty and dusty, Don Eligio descended the stairs and went for a breath of air into the small garden surrounded by a fence of twigs and pegs, which he managed to plant behind the apse.

“You know, my esteemed friend,” I said to him one day, sitting on a low garden wall and resting my chin on the head of a cane, while Don Eligio was digging in lettuce, “I don’t think now is the time to write books even for fun. With regard to literature, as with everything else, I must repeat my favorite saying: "Damn Copernicus!"

– Oh-oh-oh, what does Copernicus have to do with it? Don Elijo exclaimed, straightening up and raising his face, flushed from work, shaded by his straw hat.

“Besides, Don Elijo, when the Earth did not rotate...”

- Well, here's more! She was always spinning!

- Not true! The man did not know this, which means that it did not spin for him. For many, she still does not spin. The other day I said this to an old peasant, and do you know what he answered me? What a convenient excuse for drunkards. Forgive me, but you yourself have no right, after all, to doubt that Joshua stopped the sun. However, enough about that. I only want to say that when the earth did not rotate, a person dressed as a Greek or Roman looked very majestic, felt at the height of the position and enjoyed dignity; for this reason he succeeded in detailed stories full of unnecessary details. As you yourself taught me, Quintilian says that history exists to be written, not to be experienced. So or not?

“Yes,” agreed Don Elijo, “but it is also true that no more detailed books have ever been written, never have entered into more insignificant details, as since, as you say, the Earth began to spin.

- OK then! “Mr. Count got up early, exactly at half past nine ... Madam Countess put on a lilac dress with luxurious lace trim around her neck ... Teresina was dying of hunger, Lucrezia was exhausted from love ... “Oh, Lord, what do I care about that! Aren't we all on an invisible top, scorched by the rays of the sun, on a crazy grain of sand that spins and spins, without knowing why, without any purpose, as if it just likes to spin, so that we would be a little warmer, then a little colder? And after sixty-seven-ten turns of it, we die, and often with the knowledge that our life is a string of petty and stupid deeds. My dear Don Elijo, Copernicus, Copernicus - that's who irrevocably ruined humanity. Now we have all gradually adjusted to the concept of our infinite insignificance, to the idea that we, with all our wonderful inventions and discoveries, are less than nothing in the universe. What value can stories have, not to mention our personal suffering, but even general disasters? Now this is just a story of puny worms. Have you read about the little disaster in the Antilles? No? Poor Earth, tired of spinning aimlessly at the request of the Polish canon, flared up a little and vomited a little fire through one of her countless mouths. Who knows what caused this spill of bile? Maybe the stupidity of people who have never been so annoying as they are now. OK. Several thousand worms were fried. We will live on. Who will remember them?

Don Eligio Pellegrinotto nevertheless remarked to me that no matter how cruelly we try to crush, to destroy the illusions created for our benefit by caring nature, we will not succeed: fortunately, man is forgetful.

This is true. On other nights marked on the calendar, our municipality does not light any lanterns and often, on cloudy days, leaves us in the dark.

And this proves the following: in the depths of our souls, we still believe that the moon burns in the sky only to illuminate us at night, as the sun illuminates during the day, and the stars to delight us with a magnificent spectacle. Exactly. We often want to forget that we are only insignificant atoms and that we have no reason to respect and appreciate each other, because we are able to fight over a piece of land and be sad about such things that would seem to us infinitely small if we really imbued with the consciousness of what we are.

Despite this forewarning, in view of the unusual nature of my story, I will nevertheless tell about myself, but I will tell you as briefly as possible, giving only such information as I consider necessary.

Some of them, of course, will not present me in a very favorable light; but I am now in such exceptional circumstances that I can consider myself, as it were, standing outside life, and therefore free from any obligations and any scrupulousness. So, let's begin.

3. House and mole

At first I was too hasty in saying that I knew my father. I didn't know him. I was four and a half years old when he died. Thirty-eight years old, he rode commercial affairs on one of his ships to Corsica and did not return: he died there in three days from a malignant fever, leaving a decent fortune to his wife and two children - Mattia (which I was and someday will be again) and Roberto, who was born two years before me .

Some of the local old-timers sometimes like to hint that my father's wealth (which now should not cast a shadow on him, because it has completely passed into other hands) was, to put it mildly, of a mysterious origin.

It is said that he got it in Marseilles by playing cards with the captain of an English merchant ship, who, having spent all the money he had with him (probably a considerable amount), also lost a large number of sulfur, loaded in distant Sicily for a Liverpool merchant who chartered a steamer - they even know this! What about the name? It doesn't interest anyone; after the loss, the captain, in desperation, weighed anchor, went out to sea and drowned himself, so that on arrival at Liverpool the tonnage of the ship was reduced by the weight of the captain. So, the envy of his fellow citizens served as a ballast for my father's good fortune.

We owned land and houses. My father was enterprising and cunning, and therefore did not do business in any one particular place, but traveled in his two-masted boat, buying where it was more convenient and profitable for him, and immediately reselling the most diverse goods; but he did not indulge in too great and risky transactions, and gradually turned his profits into lands and houses here in his native place, where he probably expected to soon rest in peace and contentment with his wife and children, enjoying the prosperity obtained with such labor. Thus, he bought first the Due Riviera, rich in olives and mulberries, then the Stia estate, richly watered by a stream, on which he built a mill, then the whole hill of Sperone - the best vineyards in our area - and, finally, San Rocchino, where he built lovely villa. In the town, in addition to the house in which we lived, my father bought two others, as well as large building, now adapted for the shipyard.

Its almost sudden death brought us ruin. My mother, unable to manage the inheritance herself, was forced to trust the man to whom my father had done so many good deeds that his social position completely changed. This man has received so much from us that he ought to have a modicum of gratitude for us that would require no sacrifice from him, except perhaps a little zeal and honesty.

The holy woman is my mother! Quiet and shy by nature, she did not know life and people and reasoned just like a child. She spoke through her nose and laughed in the same way, although, as if ashamed of her laughter, she invariably pressed her lips together. Very fragile, she became ill after the death of her father, but never complained of her suffering; I think that she never even mentally got annoyed with them, dutifully accepting everything as a natural consequence of her misfortune. Maybe she just thought that she should have died of grief, and thanked God that, for the sake of her children, he leaves life to such a tortured and pitiful creature as she.

She had an almost morbid tenderness for us, tremulous and timid. She wanted us to be constantly near her, as if she was afraid of losing us, and as soon as any of us left for a minute, the servants were immediately sent to look for the missing person throughout our large house.

She blindly obeyed her husband and, having lost him, felt lost in this world. Now she only left the house early on Sunday mornings, when she went to mass at the nearest church, accompanied by two old maids, whom she treated like relatives. We occupied only three rooms in the big house; in the rest, which were somehow looked after by the servants, we were naughty. The shabby furniture and faded curtains in these rooms gave off a musty odor antiques and seeming to be the breath of another era; I remember that I often looked around there for a long time, amazed and depressed by the silent immobility of these objects, which had stood motionless, lifeless for so many years.

One of my mother's most frequent visitors was my father's sister, an old maid with eyes like a ferret, grumbling, swarthy, proud. Her name was Skolastika. But she never stayed with us for long, because during the conversation she would suddenly become furious and run away without saying goodbye to anyone. As a child, I was very afraid of her. I looked at her with all my eyes, especially when she jumped up in a rage and began to shout to my mother, angrily stamping her foot:

- Do you hear? Pit under the floor. It's a mole! Mole!

She alluded to our manager, Malanya, who was surreptitiously digging a hole under our feet. Aunt Skolastica (I learned this later) wanted her mother to remarry at all costs. Usually sister-in-laws do not have such thoughts and they do not give such advice. But Skolastica had a keen and proud sense of justice; it, even more than love for us, did not allow her to calmly watch how this man robs us with impunity. That is why, realizing how impractical and blindly trusting my mother was, Skolastica saw only one way out - a second marriage. And she gave her mother a poor man named Gerolamo Pomino as her husband. He was a widower and lived with a son who lives to this day; his name, like his father, is Gerolamo; he is mine big friend and even more than a friend, as will be clear from what follows. As a boy, he came to us with his father and drove me and my brother Berto to despair. His father in his youth sought the hand of Aunt Skolastika for a long time, but she did not want to hear about him, just as, by the way, she did not want anyone else, and not because she was by nature incapable of loving, but because, as she herself admitted , even a remote suggestion of betrayal, at least mentally, of a loved one could bring her to a crime. All men, in her opinion, were pretenders, swindlers and deceivers. And Pomino too? No. Mind - no. But she found out too late. For every man who wooed her, and then married another, she managed to recognize some traitor act, which she rejoiced fiercely. For Pomino, there were no such sins: the unfortunate man was the victim of his wife.

Why didn't she want to marry him now? Here's another! He's already a widower! It belonged to another woman, whom he might remember from time to time. And then ... Well, of course, you can see it from a mile away, despite all his timidity! Poor signor Pomino is in love, yes, in love, and it’s clear with whom!

How could my mother agree to such a marriage? He seemed to her a real blasphemy. Besides, the poor thing did not believe that Aunt Skolastica was serious; she laughed with her unique laugh at the angry outbursts of her sister-in-law and the protests of poor Pomino, who was usually present at these disputes and whom the old maid showered with the most exaggerated praises. How many times did he exclaim, fidgeting in his chair as if on a bed of torture:

- Good God!

This clean, neat little man with kind blue eyes had one weakness - he powdered and, it seems to me, even slightly rouged his cheeks; he was obviously proud of the fact that he had preserved his hair to his advanced years, which he carefully fluffed up and constantly prettified.

I don’t know how our affairs would have gone if my mother, not for her own sake, but only caring about the future of her children, followed Aunt Skolastika’s advice and married Pomino. One thing is certain: in any case, they would have gone no worse than under this mole, Signor Malanya.

When Berto and I grew up, most of state has already disappeared. If we saved at least a remnant from the clutches of a thief, this would allow us to live, if not in full contentment, then at least not in need. But we were lazy and did not want to think about anything, continuing to live as adults as our mother taught us from childhood.

We didn't even go to school. Our teacher was a certain Tsirkul. His real name was either Francesco or Giovanni del Cinque, but he was known to everyone as the Compass and got so used to it that he himself began to call himself by this nickname.

It was disgustingly thin and unbelievably A tall man. My God, he would have seemed even taller if his back had not bent under the very back of his head in a sudden small hump, as if she was tired of stretching up with a thin shoot. His neck was like that of a plucked rooster, and his huge Adam's apple was constantly moving up and down. The compass was always trying to bite his lips, as if in order to hold back and hide deeper the sharp chuckle that constantly made its way through them. But all his efforts turned out to be in vain: if this chuckle did not manage to escape from his compressed lips, it shone mockingly and evilly in the eyes of the Compass.

With those little eyes, he saw many things in our house that neither we nor mother noticed. But he was silent, perhaps considering that it was not his business to interfere, secretly maliciously enjoying what he saw.

We did with him whatever we wanted, and he allowed us everything, and then, as if to appease his conscience, betrayed us when we least expected it.

Once, for example, my mother told him to take us to church; Easter was coming, and we were getting ready to confess. After confession, we had to drop in on Malanya's sick wife for a minute, then return straight home. But, as soon as we were on the street, we offered Circulus a deal: we put him a liter of good wine, and he allows us to go to Stia for bird nests instead of the church and visiting Malanya. Circle agreed. He was very pleased, he rubbed his hands, his eyes sparkled. Then he drank the wine and we went to the estate. He ran with us like crazy for three hours, helped us, climbed trees with us. But in the evening, when we returned home and my mother asked if we had confessed and if we had been to Malania, he answered with the most innocent look:

“Now I’ll tell you…

And he went into detail about everything we did.

And although we each time avenged the betrayal, nothing helped. But our revenge was often by no means a joke. For example, one evening, knowing that Compass was dozing on a chest in the hall while waiting for dinner, Berto and I quietly jumped out of bed, where we had been put earlier than usual as a punishment, got a tin clyster tube two spans long and filled it with soapy water from a basin with underwear; armed in this way, we quietly approached the teacher, put the tube to the nostril and - pffff! .. The compass jumped almost to the ceiling. It is not difficult to imagine how we succeeded in the sciences under the guidance of such a mentor. Of course, it was not only Compass that was to blame; he still tried to teach us something and, having no idea what the method and discipline were, he invented all sorts of tricks to make us at least somehow concentrate. With me, he succeeded relatively often, because I am by nature much more impressionable than my brother. But Cirkul's erudition was very peculiar, amusing and strange. He was, for example, very well versed in wordplay, knew fidenzian and macaronic, burlesque and learned poetry, 1
Fidencian poetry- in fact, a kind of pasta. Received its name from the pseudonym of its founder, Count Camillo Scroff Fidenzio Glottocrisio Ludima-Gistro (1527–1565). Fidenzian poetry is based on a satirical parody of the style and language of pseudo-scientific pedants. macaronic poetry originated in Italy at the end of the 15th century among humanists, developed in the 16th and XVII centuries. Its distinctive features: parody, sharp satire, often a very obscene vocabulary (and corresponding topics), a mixture (in terms of parody and satire) of Italian and Latin. Burlesque poetry- from ital. burla (joke). One of the common names for any comic, comic poetry based on the parodic reduction of all high literary genres. It arose in the ancient era, in modern times it received a special development in the 17th-18th centuries. learned poetry- the general name of the poetic exercises of the humanists of the Renaissance and writers of the XV-XVI centuries, where there was no genuine creative inspiration, but the authors' acquaintance with Latin and Greek philology, mythology, philosophy, where they imitated ancient metrics, etc., was brought to the fore. Scientific poetry also includes works of a didactic nature (such as Lomonosov's message to Shuvalov "On the Benefits of Glass").

could endlessly recite verses - tautograms and lipograms, crypts, centones and palindromes 2
Tautograms- poems built entirely on the same alliteration (each word of a poem of any length begins with the same letter). Lipograms- poems built on words in which one letter is missing. crypts, or “piecewise” verses, are verses in which each line breaks into two halves. If these halves of the lines are read one after the other, an independent poem is obtained. Thus, each poem is three separate poems: one consisting of left halves, another of right halves, and finally a third, "full" poem, in which both halves are read as one line. Centones- poems that have certain meaning, but composed of various poetic lines different poets. palindromes- poems consisting of lines that can be read the same way from right to left and from left to right.

- in a word, works of all genres in which idle talk poets labored, and he composed many such comic poems himself.

I remember that one day in San Rocchino he led us to a hill with special acoustic properties and began repeating his "Echo" with us:

Will she ever forget me?
(Will!)
Or maybe you never loved?
(Yes!)
mocker, who are you? I'm not laughing!
(Echo!)

He made us solve the Octave Riddles by Giulio Cesare Croce, 3
Giulio Cesare Croce (1550–1609) was an Italian poet, satirist and humorist who wrote primarily in the Bolognese dialect.

as well as "Riddles-sonnets" by Monety 4
Francesco Moneti (1635–1712), Italian monk and satirical poet, famous as a clever versifier.

and another idler who found the courage to hide under the pseudonym of Cato of Utica. He transcribed them in tobacco-colored ink in old notebook with yellowed leaves.

“Listen to this poem by Stiliani. 5
Stigliani Tommaso (1573–1651) was an Italian poet who declaratively opposed the extreme formalism of the “Baroque” poets and their sophisticated, refined imagery, but in practice pursued the same line in his work.

How beautiful! Well, who's to guess? Listen:

I am one and two. But at the right time
What was two - one suddenly happens.
There are no numbers on our heads,
In whom one stabs me with five.
I also grew into a huge mouth,
That without teeth bites even more painfully.
And two navels are given to me by fate,
And fingers on the eyes, and eyes on the foot.

I think I can still see him reciting with his eyes half closed, beaming with delight and snapping his fingers.

My mother thought that what the compass teaches us is quite enough for us; perhaps, listening to us recite the riddles of Croce or Stiliani, she even thought that we knew too much. However, Aunt Skolastika, who failed to marry her mother to her pet Pomino, took on Berto and me. We, under the protection of my mother, did not succumb to her, and this made her so furious that if she managed to stay alone with us, without witnesses, she would certainly tear our skin off. I remember one day, running out of our house in a rage as usual, she ran into me in one of the uninhabited rooms; grabbing my chin, she squeezed it with all her might with her fingers and, leaning closer and closer to my face and staring into my eyes, repeated several times: “Handsome! Handsome! Handsome!" - and then, with a strange grunt, she released me and growled through her teeth: “Dog brat!”

For some reason, she pursued me more than Berto, although I was incomparably more attentive than my brother to the extravagant teachings of Compass. She must have been particularly annoyed by my placid expression and the large glasses I was forced to wear to correct one eye that looked off to the side for some unknown reason.

For me, these glasses were a real torture. One day I threw them away and let my eye look where it liked best. But even if my eye were not slanting, it would not add to my beauty. I was perfectly healthy, and that was enough for me.

At the age of eighteen, my face was overgrown with a reddish curly beard to the detriment of my nose, which was small and almost lost between my beard and a large stern forehead.

If it were given to a man to choose his own nose according to the face, or if we could say to him, at the sight of some poor fellow, crushed by an oversized nose on a skinny face: “This nose suits me, I take it,” I, perhaps I would change it, and at the same time my eyes and other parts of my person. But, knowing perfectly well that this was impossible, I reconciled myself to my charms and thought no more about them.

On the contrary, Berto, who was handsome both in body and face (at least in comparison with me), did not leave the mirror, prettified himself in every possible way and spent money endlessly on new ties, on ever finer perfumes, on linen and clothes. To tease him, I once took from his wardrobe a brand new, brand-new tailcoat, an elegant black velvet waistcoat and a top hat, and in this form I went hunting.

Batta Malanya, meanwhile, was crying to his mother about the bad harvests, which forced him to take on large debts to pay for our excessive expenses, and for the big expenses that are inevitable if you want to keep the estate in order.

We have received another serious blow! he announced every time he entered.

The fog destroyed all the olives in the Douai Riviera, and the phylloxera the grapes in Sperona. We need to plant an American vine that can resist this disease. So, debt again. Then the advice is to sell Sperone in order to get rid of the usurers besieging him, Malanya. And so they were sold first to Sperone, then Due Riviera, then San Rocchino. There were still houses and Stia's estate with a mill, but my mother waited from day to day for a message that the stream had dried up.

Of course, we were bums and spent without counting. But it is also true that such a thief as Batta Malanya has never been seen. This is the mildest thing that can be said, taking into account the family relations that I was forced to enter into with him.

While my mother was alive, he deftly delivered to us everything that we desired. But behind all this contentment and the ability to easily satisfy every whim, there was an abyss that, after the death of my mother, swallowed me alone; my brother, fortunately, got married on time. My marriage, on the other hand...

“What do you think, Don Elijo, should I tell about my marriage?”

– But how? Of course! .. In a good way ... - don Eligio answered from the height of his lantern ladder.

- How is that good? You know very well that...

Don Elijo laughs, and the former chapel echoes him. Then he remarks:

“If I were you, signor Pascal, I would first read some novel by Boccaccio or Bandello. For style, for tone...

God be with him, with your tone, Don Elijo. Phew! I write as it comes to my mind.

Well, boldly go ahead!

Mattia Pascal, former curator of books in the library bequeathed by a certain Signor Boccamazza hometown writes the story of his life. Mattia's father died early, and the mother was left with two children - six-year-old Roberto and four-year-old Mattia. All affairs were managed by the manager Batta Malanya, who soon ruined the family of the former owner. After the death of his first wife, the elderly Malanya married the young Oliva, to whom Mattia was not indifferent, but they had no children, and Malanya began to offend Oliva, considering her to blame for this. Oliva suspected that it was not about her, but about Malanya, but decency prevented her from verifying her suspicions. Friend Mattia Pomino told him that he was in love with Malania's cousin Romilda. Her mother wanted to marry the girl to the rich man Malanya, but this did not work out, and now, when Malanya began to repent of his marriage to the childless Oliva, she is plotting new intrigues. Mattia wants to help Pomino marry Romilda and makes acquaintance with her. He keeps telling Romilda about Pomino, but the lover himself is so timid that she eventually falls in love not with him, but with Mattia. The girl is so good that Mattia cannot resist and becomes her lover. He is going to marry her, and then she suddenly breaks up with him. Oliva complains to Mattia's mother about Malanya: he received evidence that they do not have children through no fault of his, and triumphantly told her about it. Mattia realizes that Romilda and her mother have vilely deceived both him and Malanya, and in retaliation makes Oliva a child. Then Malanya accuses Mattia of having dishonored and killed his niece Romilda. Malanya says that out of pity for poor girl wanted to adopt her child when he was born, but now that the Lord sent him a legitimate child from his own wife as a consolation, he can no longer call himself the father of another child who will be born to his niece. Mattia is left in the cold and forced to marry Romilda, as her mother threatens him with a scandal. Immediately after the wedding, Mattia's relationship with Romilda deteriorates. She and her mother cannot forgive him for berefting his legitimate child, for now all of Malanya's fortune will go to Oliva's child. Romilda gives birth to twin girls, Oliva has a boy .. One of the girls dies in a few days, the other, to whom Mattia manages to become very attached, does not live up to a year. Pomino, whose father becomes a member of the municipality, helps Mattia get a job as a librarian at the Boccamazzi library. One day after family scandal Mattia, who happens to have a small amount of money in his hands, which neither his wife nor mother-in-law knows about, leaves home and goes to Monte Carlo. There he goes to the casino, where he wins about eighty-two thousand lire. The suicide of one of the players makes him change his mind, he stops the game and goes home. Mattia imagines how his wife and mother-in-law will be amazed at the unexpected wealth, he is going to buy out the mill in Stia and live in peace in the village. Having bought a newspaper, Mattia reads it on the train and stumbles upon an announcement that in his homeland, in Miragno, a heavily decomposed corpse was found in the mill lock in Stia, in which everyone identified the librarian Mattia Pascal, who disappeared a few days ago. People believe that the cause of suicide was financial difficulties. Mattia is shocked, he suddenly realizes that he is completely free: everyone considers him dead - which means that he now has no debts, no wife, no mother-in-law, and he can do whatever he pleases. He rejoices at the opportunity; to live, as it were, two lives and decides to live them in two different guises. From his former life, he will only have a squinting eye. He chooses a new name for himself: henceforth his name is Adriano Meis. He changes his hair, clothes, invents himself new biography, throws out wedding ring. He travels, but is forced to live modestly, as he must stretch his money for the rest of his life: the lack of documents deprives him of the opportunity to enter the service. He can't even buy a dog: you have to pay taxes for it, and this also requires documents.

Mattia decides to settle in Rome. He rents a room from Anselmo Paleari, an old eccentric who is fond of spiritualism. Mattia is imbued with great sympathy for his youngest daughter Adriana - modest good girl, fair and decent. Adriana's son-in-law Terenzio Papiano, after the death of his sister Adriana, must return the dowry to Anselmo, since his wife died childless. He asked Anselmo for a delay and wants to marry Adriana so as not to return the money. But Adriana is afraid and hates her rude, prudent son-in-law, she falls in love with Mattia Pascal. Papiano is sure that Mattia is rich and wants to introduce him to an enviable bride, Pepita Pantogada, in order to distract him from Adriana. He invites Pepita to Anselmo for a séance. Pepita arrives with the governess and Spanish artist Bernaldes.

During a séance, in which all the inhabitants of the house take part, twelve thousand lire disappear from Mattia's locker. Only Papiano could steal them.

Adriana invites Mattia to report to the police, but he cannot report the theft - he is nobody, a living dead man. Nor can he marry Adrian, no matter how much he loves her, because he is married. To hush up the case, he prefers to lie, as if the money was found. In order not to torment Adriana, Mattia decides to behave in such a way that Adriana stops loving him. He wants to start courting Pepita Pantogada. But the jealous Bernaldes, whom Mattia accidentally offended, insults him, and the code of honor obliges Mattia to challenge Bernaldes to a duel. D Mattia cannot find seconds - it turns out that for this you need to follow a bunch of formalities, which cannot be done without documents.

Mattia sees that his second life has come to a standstill, and leaving his cane and hat on the bridge so that everyone would think that he had thrown himself into the water, he gets on the train and goes home.

From Adriano Meis, he only has a healthy eye: Mattia had an operation and no longer mows.

Arriving at home, Mattia first of all visits his brother Roberto. Roberto is shocked and does not believe his eyes. He tells Mattia that Romilda, after his imaginary suicide, married Pomino, but now her second marriage will be considered invalid by law, and she is obliged to return to Mattia. Mattia does not want this at all: Pomino and Romilda have a little daughter - why destroy their family happiness? Yes, he does not like Romilda. Pomino and Romilda are shocked and confused to see Mattia alive, after more than two years have passed since his disappearance. Mattia reassures them: he does not need anything from them.

On the street, no one recognizes Mattia Pascal: everyone considers him dead.

Mattia goes to the cemetery, finds the grave of an unknown person whom everyone took for him, reads the heartfelt inscription on the gravestone and puts flowers on the grave.

He settles in the house of his old aunt. From time to time he comes to the cemetery “to look at himself – dead and buried. Someone curious asks; “But who will you be to him?” In response, Mattia shrugs, squints, and replies: “I am the late Mattia Pascal.”

With the help of Don Eligio, who replaced Mattia as curator of books at the Boccamaody Library, Mattia puts his strange story on paper in six months. In a conversation with Don Elijo, he says that he does not understand what morality can be drawn from it. But Don Elijo objects that there is undoubtedly a moral in this story, and this is what it is: “Outside of the established law, outside of those particular circumstances, joyful or sad, that make us ourselves ... it is impossible to live.”

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Summary of the novel by L. Pirandello “The Late Mattia Pascal”

Luigi Pirandello is the late Mattia Pascal. Noble heart, open soul, voluntarily rested here

Luigi Pirandello The late Mattia Pascal

1. The first premise of the syllogism

2. The second premise of the syllogism (philosophical) instead of an apology

3. House and mole

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