His motives are never quite explored fully enough, he is never quite a whole human being and therefore is difficult to identify with and occasionally seems a mere vehicle for Pirandello’s theories. A particularly disturbing example of this is the ease with which Mattia is able to shrug off his love for Adriana when he decides he cannot maintain his fictitious identity any longer, an ease which throws doubt on all his earlier reactions to her. However, this could be part of a deliberately constructed effect, an antithesis to the image of the superhuman hero, as depicted in the works of D’Annunzio, for example, a contemporary of Pirandello, whose concept of the Nietz-schean superman was exerting a powerful literary influence. Mattia Pascal is surely a parody of the romantic, passionate, capable hero, with his muddled liaisons and unfortunate marriage, his seizing of destiny’s opportunities but only in order to live an extraordinarily quiet and self-effacing life, his ineffectual attempts at organising a duel to salvage a pathetically tattered honour, his supposedly triumphant return home, but to a situation where he is hardly victorious and no-one even recognises him in the street. The style of the book accords with this antiheroic stance: there are no linguistic frills, little emotion, a minimum of tragic effects, deliberately jerky prose full of self-mockery and argument, constant shifts between past and present to dissipate tension, with the ironic, self-critical eye of the first person narrator surveying all. The novel is a tour de force of cynicism about the human condition.
For the student of Pirandello, THE LATE MATTIA PASCAL offers some interesting insights into his later work. Any reader however, will be caught up in the intricacies of the plot and will enjoy encountering the gallery of minor characters portrayed and savouring Pirandello’s highly individual view of the world.
Nicoletta Simborowski
One of the few things I knew for certain, in fact, perhaps the only thing, was this: that my name was Mattia Pascal. I used to take advantage of it too. Whenever one of my friends or acquaintances was foolish enough to come to me for advice or guidance, I used to shrug my shoulders, narrow my eyes and reply:
“I’m only Mattia Pascal.”
“Thanks old man. I do know that.”
“And are you saying it doesn’t mean much to you?”
To tell the truth, it didn’t mean a lot to me either, but at that time I didn’t realise what it was like not to know even that much, not to be able to reply like that, as I always had done, when the occasion demanded it.
“I’m Mattia Pascal.”
There will be those who feel like pitying me (it costs so little after all), imagining the atrocious suffering of this poor devil, who suddenly happens to discover …. well, nothing really: that he has no father, no mother, no background and no past. These same people might feel like getting angry (it costs even less) about changing morals, increased vice and the lowering standards of the times, which can give rise to so much suffering for a poor, innocent fellow.
Very well then, they can go ahead. But it is my duty to warn them that this really isn’t what it’s all about. I could in fact set out here a full family tree showing my origins and ancestry, and demonstrate how not only did I know my father and mother, but I also know all about my forebears and their activities over a long period of time, and not all that they did was necessarily praiseworthy.
What, then, happened to me?
Well: my case is much stranger and more unusual than all this; so strange and unusual that I feel compelled to describe it.
For about two years I worked in a library; whether my job was as rat-catcher or librarian is a matter of opinion. The library had been left to the borough by a certain Monsignor Boccarnazza on his death in 1803. It is clear that this monsignor knew precious little about the natural inclinations and habits of his fellow citizens; or perhaps he hoped his legacy would, in time, by its accessibility, kindle in their hearts a passion for learning. Up until now, as I can confirm, no such passion has been kindled: and I say this as a compliment to my fellow citizens. Indeed, the townsfolk proved so ungrateful towards Boccarnazza that they didn’t even feel like erecting a small statue in his honour. As for the books, for many years they were left heaped up in a vast, damp warehouse and eventually dragged out, you can imagine in what condition, to be housed in a little out-of-the-way church, Santa Maria Liberale, which had been deconsecrated for some reason. There they were entrusted, quite indiscriminately, as a kind of benefice or sinecure, to any well-connected good-for-nothing, who for two lire a day was prepared to stand and watch over them or even not watch over them at all, but could put up with the smell of must and mildew for a few hours.
Such was the fate that befell me; and right from the first day I conceived such a low esteem for books, whether in print or in manuscript form (as were certain very old ones in our library) that now I would never have dreamt of writing one if, as I said, I had not considered my case particularly strange, and such as to serve as an example to any curious reader who, at last fulfilling the hopes of the good-hearted Monsignor Boccarnazza, might happen to find himself in this library, to which I leave my manuscript, with the proviso however, that no-one may read it until fifty years after my third, final and definitive death.
For the fact is that for the moment (and God only knows what suffering it caused me) I am dead; yes, I have died twice already, but the first time it was a mistake and the second …. well, you will hear.
The idea, or rather, the advice to write a book, was given me by my respected friend don Eligio Pellegrinotto, who at the moment is in charge of Boccamazza’s books, and who will be entrusted with my manuscript as soon as it is complete, if that day ever comes.
I am writing here in the deconsecrated church, by the light of the lamp hanging above me in the dome. Here I sit, in what was once the apse, but is now designated for the librarian, and enclosed by some low, wooden railings. Meanwhile, don Eligio puffs and pants, struggling with the task he has heroically taken on, to sort out this absolute Babylon of books. I fear he may never complete the project. Before him, no-one bothered to find out, even in general terms, by glancing briefly at the spines, what kind of books the monsignor had bequeathed to the town: it was assumed that all or almost all would deal with religious subjects. Now Pellegrinotto has discovered, to his great satisfaction, that there is a huge variety of subjects in the monsignor’s library; and since the books were taken haphazardly from the warehouse and flung together at random, the chaos is indescribable. The most specious liaisons have occurred, owing to the proximity of certain of these books: for instance, don Eligio Pellegrinotto told me how it was no small task to separate an extremely licentious tract, On the art of loving women, three volumes by Anton Muzio Porro, dated 1571, from The life and death of Faustino Materucci, Benedictine of Poll rone, called The Blessed, a biography published in Mantua in 1625. The damp had caused the bindings of the two books to become quite fraternally bonded to one another. It is worth noting that the second volume of the licentious tract describes amorous adventures in a convent, at some length.
Perched all day on a lamplighter’s ladder, don Eligio Pelegrinotto has managed to fish many curious and delightful books out of the library shelves. Every now and again, he finds one, and tosses it down gently from his vantage point, onto the large table in the middle.
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