| Roma, 16 Dic. ’93 Antonietta mia, a chi, prima di partire per la Sicilia, m’ avesse detto: – «Tu, mio caro, ritornerai guarito» – io avrei semplicemente risposto: – «Ignori il mio male» – E davvero questo mio male mi pareva inguaribile. M’ero sciolto completamente d’ogni legame; guardavo gli altri vivere, indagavo la vita come un complesso di vane assurdità e di contraddizioni; e dalla considerazione degli atti e dalle parole altrui, su per giù sempre gli stessi, m’era venuto un tedio pesante e una noja smaniosa. – E dopo? E dopo? mi domandavo. È tutto qui? E sarà sempre cosi? Dunque è la vita il mio male: solo la morte potrà guarirmi. Mi pareva impossibile che io avessi potuto mettermi a fare, a pensare, a vivere come tutti gli altri uomini, dei quali per tanto tempo avevo seguito senza interesse e senza curiosità le azioni, i pensieri, la vita. Mi pareva impossibile innamorarmi, sentir la gioia d’offrirsi interamente a un’altra persona e viver quasi della sua vita. Eppur questo m’è avvenuto, e a me par di sognare, e non so credere quasi a me stesso, al mio cuore. Io penso a Te, penso a tutto ciò che potrebbe farti piacere, ai mezzi più lieti e più gentili per renderti bella e cara la vita che condurremo insieme; penso al nostro nido, alla casa che ci accoglierà; faccio un mondo di bei progetti per l’avvenire… io, questo, io che vedevo tutto nero innanzi a me; io che, fino a un mese fa, ridevo svogliato delle sciocchezze (dicevo io) degli innamorati. Ebbene, si, la vita è fatta di queste sante sciocchezze; tristo chi non le cura e non sa dar loro importanza! L’alba della mia nuova vita ha per sempre scacciato le nebbie che m’ ingombravano la mente. Ora mi si apre dinanzi chiaro l’avvenire. Io ho potuto finalmente congiungere queste due supreme idealità: l’Amore e l’ Arte. E tu che pensi di me, Antonietta mia? Che ti dicono i sogni di me? Non ti mentiscano, non ti rimpiccioliscano l’amore e la tenerezza ch’io sento! Come stai in codesta nuova casa? Io già t’immagino e ti seguo col pensiero per le note stanze: tutto il giorno ti son vicino, e tu non t’ avvedi di me… oggi ancora sono andato in giro con Rocco a visitare altre case: ne ho trovata una assai bella, piena d’aria e di luce, ma un po’ troppo alta. Domani girerò ancora, e poi ti descriverò la prescelta, come ieri ti scrissi. M’è capitato giusto ora, a sproposito, un gran da fare: dovrei consegnare fra quindici giorni all’editore Bontempelli un volume di novelle. – Le novelle io ce l’ho, ma dovrei ricopiarle e correggerle un po’ qua e là. – Basta, vedremo, nei ritagli di tempo.. . Sei andata dal fotografo? E arrivato l’abito da Palermo? Quando mi arriveranno questi tuoi ritratti? Sono un ragazzaccio impaziente… Non me ne importa! voglio i ritratti. L’abito t’è arrivato, già te lo vedo addosso… Dio, come ti sta bene! Lascia vedere, voltati un po’, che bel colore! Com’è elegante! Che bella signorina! Su, su, via! Andiamo dal fotografo, che Luigi aspetta, poverino, solo, a Roma, lontano, senza ritratti. Non faccio neanche oggi a tempo a scrivere la lettera a Papà. Pazienza! Domani immancabilmente gliela scriverò. Tu salutami tutti, ti prego, e non dire ahi! se i stringo più forte di jeri la mano. Sempre tuo Luigi | Rome, Dec. 16, ‘93 Antonietta mia, to anyone who had told me before I left for Sicily, “You, my dear, will come back cured”, I would simply have answered, “You don’t comprehend my affliction.” And my affliction really did seem incurable to me. I had freed myself completely of all ties. I watched others live. I viewed life as an assemblage of vain absurdities and contradictions. And the contemplation of other people’s actions and words, more or less always the same, had produced in me an extreme tediousness and an anxious listlessness. And afterwards? And afterwards? I asked myself. Is this all there is? Will it always be like this? So, life is my affliction, and only death will cure me. I believed it was impossible for me to behave, to think, and to live like other man―men whose actions, thoughts, and lives I had observed for so long without interest or curiosity. I believed it was impossible for me to fall in love, to feel the joy of giving oneself completely to another person and almost living on their life. And yet, that is what happened, and I feel like I’m dreaming, and I can hardly trust myself, my heart. I think of You, I think of all the things that could make you happy, of all the most joyful, the most loving ways to make our future life pleasant and dear to you. I think of our home, of the house that will welcome us; I make a world of plans for our future…I, this man, who saw only darkness before me, I who, until a month ago, laughed idly at the silly things (I said) lovers did. Well, yes, life is made of these divinely silly things. I feel sad for those who disregard them and can’t see how important they are! The dawn of my new life has forever dissipated the fog that was clouding my mind. Now the future is clear to me. I have finally been able to unite these two supreme idealities: Love and Art. And what do you think of me, Antonietta mia? What do your dreams tell you of me? They don’t lie to you; they don’t diminish the love and fondness I feel! How are you in that home? I can just see you there! And, in my mind, I follow you through those familiar rooms: I am near you all day, and you don’t notice me…Again today, I went looking at other houses with Rocco: I found one that was very nice, full of air and light, but a bit too high up. I’ll go looking again tomorrow, and then I’ll write and describe the one I choose, as I wrote to you yesterday. I just happened to receive, rather inopportunely, a lot of work: within fifteen days, I will have to hand in a volume of short stories to the publisher Bontempelli. I have the short stories, but I should copy them and make some corrections here and there. But enough, we’ll see, in my spare time… Have you gone to the photographer? Has your dress arrived from Palermo? When will I get your new portraits? I’m an impatient rascal…I don’t care! I want those portraits. Have you received the dress? I can already see you in it…God, how good it looks on you! Let me see…turn around a bit, what a nice colour! How elegant it is! What a beautiful young woman! Go on now! Off you go to the photographer! Luigi is waiting, that poor dear, alone, in Rome, far away, with no portraits. Again today, I won’t have the time to write to Papà. Oh well! I will definitely write to him tomorrow. Please say hello to everyone for me, and don’t say ouch! if I hold your hand more tightly than yesterday. Yours forever, Luigi Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2023 |
This letter can be found in the collection Antonietta mia, Lettere di Luigi Pirandello alla fidanzata Antonietta Portolano. Edited by BIAGIO ALESSI. Edizioni Centro Culturale Pirandello – Agrigento Gennaio 1994, and here: https://www.pirandelloweb.com/le-lettere-di-pirandello-allamata-antonietta/?print=pdf
The happiness in Pirandello’s voice rings clear in this letter. The use of the word “ragazzaccio” to describe himself is so unlike the Pirandello we have learned to know, and there is a leggerezza, a lightness and playfulness in his words. There is so much passion.
That lightness, however, would not last. In fact, in 1903, after nine years of marriage, the Pirandello family received terrible news: they lost everything they possessed. The letter with this news would reach Antonietta first, and it would have a devastating effect on her already precarious mental state. Pirandello, it is said, was walking in the park when his wife received the letter, and upon entering the house, he found her in bed, her legs semi-paralysed by the shock. Afterwards, his wife’s mental state would first improve slightly and then worsen considerably: Antonietta became insanely jealous and her fits of jealous rage, evermore frequent and violent, conditioned the life of the entire Pirandello family. She was jealous of everyone and anyone. She distrusted any woman who spoke to her husband: his students, the actresses he worked with, and, finally, their own daughter, Lietta, who was so affected by her mother’s wild accusations she tried to commit suicide.
The situation at home was, therefore, dramatic.
This letter to Antonietta and the family situation that ensued made me think of the sentence that follows the abovementioned quote from I vecchi e i giovani, “In the heat of passion, everything seems to soar together with those who experience it. Illusions: soap bubbles that can suddenly become balls of lead.”
In 1914, in fact, and for the very first time, Pirandello opened up about the situation with his wife. In a letter to his dear friend Ugo Ojetti, he wrote:
“For five years now, dear Ugo, my wife has been totally mad. And my wife’s madness is me, which proves without a doubt that her madness is real. I have always lived exclusively for my family and for my work, exiled from the company of others so as not to give her, to give her madness, any reason to take umbrage. But it was all useless, unfortunately, because nothing can make it better.”
In January 1919, after years of caring for his wife, Pirandello and his children were forced to make the most painful decision: they committed Antonietta to a psychiatric facility in Rome, because, as her doctor stated then, “her paranoid delusion” made her “dangerous to herself and others.”
parallel texts: words reflected 