The plight of Fabio Feroni in the short story Paura d'essere felice (Fear of Being Happy) is a case in point. After countless endeavors to improve his position in life, the all-too-logical Feroni eventually becomes obsessed with the notion that "chance" is always lying in wait to catch him in its snare. The obsession ultimately gets the better of him, and consequently he becomes a raving lunatic.

Pirandello also dealt with madness as a social fiction. As such, it is usually seen as a cruel label which others impose on whoever thinks or acts in an unconventional manner. In fact, the most common insult that Pirandello's characters fling at one another is the word "pazzo" (madman), which not infrequently is intended as something more than a mere figure of speech.

An interesting variation of this motif is found in the short story Quando ero matto (When I Was Crazy). Here the protagonist-narrator Fausto Bandini reveals to us that he was considered mad by society because of his uncommon altruism. Ironically, however, he concurs with this judgment, making it his own, now that he has learned to become selfish, and hence "sane"!

The social fiction of madness also appears as a feigned condition used tactically by an individual in his struggle against society. Although this motif is not developed in Pirandello's short stories, we should note that it is an important element in the plots of two of his most famous plays, Enrico IV (Henry IV) and II berretto a sonagli (Cap and Bells). In the former work, the tragic hero pretends to be mad, not only to elude the stultifying life reserved for him by society, but also to punish and unmask his hypocritical visitors. In the latter work, Beatrice, one of the main characters, assumes the role of a madwoman to prevent a senseless carnage that otherwise would have been required by a barbarous local code.

Unifying the author's varied treatment of madness is his bleak view of the human condition. Hence, whenever we find an instance of folly or unreason in his works — madness in Pirandello is never an end in itself— we also inevitably find the expression of one or more of his somber philosophical concerns, e.g., the confusion of reality and illusion, the tyranny of society, the tension between the public mask and the private face, and the problem of man's solitude. To be sure, this pessimism was largely inspired by the social, political, and economical turmoil experienced by the bourgeoisie in late 19th and early 20th century Europe, but its scope extends far beyond any specific historical crisis. Strictly speaking, Pirandello was an artist, not a philosopher, but many of his grim reflections still strike chords within us today, given their seemingly universal validity and the harsh realities of our times.

In conclusion, since Pirandello was a creative thinker as well as a masterful storyteller, and madness itself is an intriguing subject, we should find the tales collected here both aesthetically satisfying and thought-provoking. The characters populating these stories might at first seem rather strange, if not utterly foreign to us, but upon closer examination we cannot fail to see reflected in each of them some of our own illusions, fears, and frustrations, and more importantly, a bit of our own "madness." The images we perceive, though compellingly interesting, are far from cheerful. Nevertheless, it is only in coming to grips with our total humanity, including the shadowy, irrational dimension of our nature (as mirrored in Pirandello's art), that there can be any hope for sanity in our world — the authentic sort, which engenders such virtues as tolerance, compassion, sincerity, and love.

Tales of Madness

Who Did It?

Then you tell me who did it, if what I say just makes all of you laugh. But at least free Andrea Sanserra, who is innocent. He didn't keep our appointment, I repeat for the hundredth time. And now let's talk about me.

The proof of my guislt is probably the fact that I returned to Rome in October, right? Whereas the other years I always used to come only once, and that was for the month of June. But then shouldn't you take into account the fact that this past June my engagement was broken off? In Naples, from July to October, I behaved like a madman, and so much so that my office manager insisted on my taking another month's vacation right in October. My dream, the dream I had had for so many years, was shattered. And whoever says that I began drinking in Naples in order to forget is a bold-faced liar. I have never drunk wine. I had a pain here in my head that made me delirious and dizzy and made me feel like vomiting. Me, drunk? But of course, little wonder if they are now trying to convince everybody that I'm pretending to be mad in order to excuse myself. Instead, I had foolishly dedicated myself to... yes, to casual relationships in order to get even, or rather I should say, to take revenge for the many years I had fought with my conscience and was faithful and chaste. That I did, and I admit that in doing so I went too far.

In Rome, at my mother's house, I again see Andrea Sanserra, whom I had not seen for seven years. He had returned from America two months before. My mother entrusts me to him. We had grown up together as children, and we knew one another better than the poor old woman knew us. In the sanctity of her mind she had a better opinion of us than we actually deserved. She thought we were two angels, we who were twenty-six years old! But I had led her into having this fine opinion by the way I had lived during the five years of my engagement.