THE LATE MATTIA PASCAL - 1904
Chapter 7
I CHANGE CARS
"First I'll get 'The Coops' out of
Purgatory, and go to live there,
working the mill. Good idea to keep
close to the soil--better still if
you can get under it....
"Any trade, when you think of it,
has its good points. ... Even a
grave digger's.... A miller has the
satisfaction of hearing the stones
go round... and the flour flies all
about and covers you white.... Some
fun in that....
"Bet they haven't opened a bag of
grain in that mill in a dog's age...
but the moment I take hold of it....
"Signer Mattia, the belt is off the
fly-wheel! Eh, Signer Mattia, need a
new shaft here! This gear is loose,
Signor Mattia!... As it was in the
old days, when mamma was still alive
and Malagna was running things....
"While I'm busy at the mill, I'll
have to have somebody look after the
farming... and he'll skin the
eye-teeth out of me!... Or, if I
attend to that myself, my miller
will do me at the mill.... A sort of
see-saw ... miller up, farm-hand
down, farm-hand up, miller down... I
sitting in the middle, to balance
and enjoy the performance....
"Ah, I have it... I get into one of
those old chests where the widow
keeps the clothes of the late
Francesco Antonio Pescatore... in
camphor and moth balls... like holy
relics... dress her up in a suit of
them... and let her be miller...
and run the other fellow too, for
that matter, while I continue
holding down my job at old
Boccamazza's library.... And life in
the country would do Romilda
good...."
Such my rambling thoughts as the
train ran along. I could not close
my eyes, but the vivid picture of
that boy lying there on the driveway
at Monte Carlo... so naturally, so
much at ease, under the green trees,
in the cool of the bright morning...
would crowd its way to the forefront
of my mind. Or, if I succeeded in
expelling that horrible vision,
another, less bloody but not less
terrifying, would take its place:
the picture of my mother-in-law and
my wife, waiting for me at home.
I had been gone just two weeks minus
one day.... How would they welcome
my return? I amused myself building
up the scene in anticipation....
I walk into the house....
The two of them... just a glance, a
glance of supreme indifference, as
much as to say:
"Huh, back again? And without your
neck broken, worse luck!"
For a time, everybody mum, they on
their side, I on mine....
Then the widow pipes up.... "How
about that job you've gone and
lost?"
That's so! When I went away, I took
the library key off in my pocket....
I fail to show up, so the constable
breaks down the door. I am nowhere
to be found. ... Reported
missing!... No news from me
anywhere.... Four, five, six
days... and they give the place to
some other loafer like me....
So then.... "What is His Royal
Highness doing here? Waiting for his
dinner? No sir.... Been off on a
toot for a week or so, eh? Well,
you've found your level! Stick to
it! But there's no obligation on two
hard-working women to support a
vagrant about the house! Off on a
tear... with who knows what
gutter-wench. ..."
And I... mum as an oyster....
And the old woman growing madder and
madder, because she can't get a word
out of me....
I, in fact, still mum as an
oyster....
Until, when she's really blowing off
steam... I take a little bundle out
of my inside pocket... and begin to
count it out on the table... two...
six... ten thousand, in that
pile... five, seven... ten thousand,
in that pile... forty, fifty,
sixty.... (Four eyes and two mouths
wide open: "Who have you been
holding up now?"...)
"... seventy thousand, seventy-five
thousand... eighty... eighty-one
thousand seven hundred and
twenty-five... and forty centimes
for good measure! ..."
And I gather up the money, stuff it
into my purse, put it into my
pocket, and get up....
"So you're firing me out? Better
than I hoped for! Thanks! Goodbye
and good luck, fair ladies!..."
And I laughed aloud.... The people
in my compartment had been watching
me as I sat there gloating over my
triumph.... They tried to suppress
their mirth when I looked up....
To conceal my humiliation under a
scowl, I applied myself to the
question of my creditors, who would
pounce upon me the moment reports of
all that money got around....
"No hiding such a sum.... Besides
what's the use of money if you can't
use it?... A slim chance of spending
any of it on myself.... Well, so I
start in business at the mill, with
the income from the farm on the
side... but there's the overhead
and the repairs ... money here,
money there... years and years
before I could pay them all off...
whereas, for cash, they'd probably
settle for little or nothing...."
I went into this latter recourse,
dividing my bank notes up between
the lot of them:
"That pig-snout of a Recchioni...
ten thousand. ... And five more for
Filippo Brisigo... wish to God it
was for his funeral... seven to
Lunaro, the old skinflint. Turin
was a better place, after he left...
and old woman Lippani.... That's
about all, I guess.... No...
there's also Delia Piana, and
there's Bossi, and there's
Margottini... and--Good God, the
whole blamed eighty is gone.... So I
was working for those people up at
Monte Carlo? Why the devil didn't I
stop after I won that pile.... But
for those last two days, I could pay
them all, and still be a rich
man...."
By this time I was swearing under my
breath, and my fellow passengers
laughed aloud without restraint. I
hitched nervously about in my
seat.... Daylight was fading from
the windows of the car.... The air
was dry and dusty. Ugh! What a
nuisance, a railroad train!
Anything to kill time....
I thought I might read myself to
sleep... so I bought a newspaper at
a station just across the Italian
frontier.... The electric lights
came on. I unfolded the paper and
started on the front page.
Interesting!... The Castle of
Valencay sold at auction! Two
million three hundred thousand
francs!
Counting the lands that go with it,
the largest single holding in
France! Count de Castellane bought
it in....
"Same way I lost 'The Coops,' I
guess!"
The King of Spain, at one thirty
today, entertained a delegation of
Moroccan chiefs at luncheon at the
Palace.... The mission then paid its
respects to the Queen....
"Must have been a good feed."
Paris, the 28th. Envoys from Tibet
bringing gifts from the Lama to the
President of France.
"What the deuce is a Lama!...
Thought it was a kind of camel...."
I did not settle the point, for I
fell asleep.
I was awakened by the bumping of my
car,. as the brakes stopped us
short. We were coming into another
station. I looked at my watch. Eight
fifteen.... In another hour I would
be arriving at my destination.
The newspaper was still open on my
knees. I skipped the item about the
Lama and turned the page. My eyes
fell on a head-line in extra-heavy
type:
SUICIDE
Supposing the story referred to the
tragedy of that morning at Monte
Carlo, I straightened up to read it
more carefully.... At the first
line, which was printed in very
small type, I stopped in surprise.
"Special despatch, by telegraph,
from Miragno."
Miragno? Who's been killing himself
down there in my village?
I read on:
"Yesterday, the 28th, a body, in an
advanced state of decomposition, was
discovered in the mill-flume of the
farm called...."
At this point my sight seemed
suddenly to go blurred, for I
thought the next word was a name
familiar to me. The lighting in the
compartment was very dim, and that
added to the difficulty I
experienced in reading with my one
eye. I stood up to bring the paper
closer to the bulbs...
"... decomposition, was discovered
in the mill-flume of the farm called
'The Coops,' located about two miles
from this town. The police were
notified and proceeded to the spot.
The body was recovered from the
water and, as the law requires, laid
out on the bank under guard, for an
inquest by the State's physician.
The corpse was later identified as
that of our..."
My heart leapt to my throat, and in
utter bewilderment I looked about at
my companions. They were all asleep.
"body was recovered... laid out on
the bank... identified as that of
our..."
"I? I?"
"... by the State's physician. The
corpse was later identified as that
of our village librarian, Mattia
Pascal, who has been missing for
some days. Financial troubles are
assigned as the cause of the
tragedy."
"I? Missing? Identified?... Mattia
Pascal?"
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A ferocious grin upon my face, my
heart thumping tumultuously in my
breast, I read and reread the lines,
I know not how many times. At a
first impulse, all my being rebelled
in bitter protest, as though that
cold, laconic item in the news
required a denial from me, to
convince even myself that it was not
true. True it was for other people,
at any rate; and the
conviction--already a day old--that
they had of my death impressed me as
a crushing, overwhelming,
intolerable act of vio-lence
unjustly delivered against me,
leaving me destroyed for ever. My
eyes turned wildly again upon my
fellow passengers. Could they be
thinking so too? There they sat,
sleeping, snoring, in various
positions of torture. I felt like
shaking them all awake, to scream
into their faces that it was not,
that it could not be, true.
"But I must be dreaming!"
I caught up the paper again to read
the item once more.
I was in a frenzy of excitement.
Should I not pull the emergency
brake and stop the train? No!
Well--what was it poking along that
way for? Its monotonous, grinding,
bumping, rattling grated on my
nerves till I was in a paroxysm of
irritation. I opened and closed my
hands spasmodically, sinking my
nails into my palms. Again I
unfolded the paper, holding the two
sheets out flat before me, my two
arms extended. ... Then I folded it
up again, with the article on the
outside. But I knew what it said, by
heart.
"Identified! How? How could they
have identified me? In an advanced
state of decomposition... a-a-ah!"
I thought of myself for a moment
floating there in the green water of
the Flume--my body blackened,
swollen, bursting, disgusting to
look upon.... With a shudder of
horrified loathing, I crossed my
arms over my breast, pinching my
biceps with either hand:
"I? No, not I!..." Who can it have
been? Someone like me, certainly...
my beard, perhaps... my build... And
they identified me!...
"'Missing for some days.'... A-ah
yes! But one thing I should like to
know: I should like to know who was
in such a hurry to get me identified?
That poor devil... as much like me
as all that? Just like me--clothes,
everything? Ah, I see! It was she...
it was Marianna Dondi... that
Pescatore woman! Hoping it would be
I, she made it so! She identified
me, at once, off hand! Too good
almost to be true! Just hear her
taking on: 'Oh my poor, poor boy! Oh
my poor, poor Mattia! Yes, it's he!
It's he! What will my daughter ever
do now...!' And she probably found a
few tears too--and improvised a
scene beside the corpse! The poor
devil was too dead to boot her out
of there with a 'Give us a rest: I
don't know you!'"
I was quite beside myself. The train
drew into another station and came
to a stop. I threw open the side
door and jumped to the ground, with
the idea of doing something about it
immediately--a telegram perhaps
contradicting the report of my death.
But I struck so hard upon the
platform of the station, that I was
jarred from head to foot; and to
that I owed my salvation. For a
sudden realization flashed through
my mind, as though the stupid
obsession that had taken hold on me
had been shaken loose:
"Of course! Freedom! Liberty! Why
did you not think of it before?
Freedom! Freedom! The chance for a
new life!"
Eighty-two thousand lire in my
inside pocket, and no obligations to
anyone. I was dead! And a dead man
has no debts! A dead man has no wife!
A dead man has no mother-in-law!
What more could a fellow ash for? I
was free, free, free!
I must have had a very queer look as
I stood there beside my car with
this new inspiration written over my
face. In any case, I had left the
compartment door open behind me; and
I was suddenly aware of a number of
trainmen calling to me, I did not
know why. One of them ran up to me
at last, shook me by the arm, and
shouted angrily: "Get aboard, man!
The train is starting!"
"Let her start!" I answered. "Let
her start! I'm changing cars!"
But now a terrifying doubt came into
my mind. That report--supposing it
had already been denied? Supposing
people at Miragno had discovered the
mistake--relatives of the dead man
perhaps, making a real
identification.... Before counting
my chickens, I had better wait for
them to hatch.... I ought to get
confirmation of the whole story. And
how, how?
I felt for the newspaper in my
pockets, but, unfortunately, I had
left it in the train. Instinctively
my eyes turned down along the
deserted track that stretched away
into the night, its two lines of
cold steel shining bright from the
lamps of the station. A pang of
utter loneliness came over me and
for a second I quite lost my head
again. What a nightmare! And
supposing it were all just a dream!
But no... I had really read the
thing: "Special despatch, by
telegraph, from Miragno, yesterday,
the 28th....
"You see? You can say it over word
for word! No dream then! And yet...
well, you need proof, more proof
than that!"
Where was I, anyhow?
I looked for the sign on the front
of the station: ALENGA.
Not much of a place! And it was
Sunday, too. Poor chance of a
fellow's finding a newspaper in that
hole on a holiday! And yet, Miragno
was not so far away! Well, at
Miragno, that morning, there must
have been an edition of the
_Compendium_, the only paper
published in the neighborhood. I
must get a copy, somehow. The
_Compendium_ would be sure to have
the story, down to the last detail.
But Alenga! How expect anybody in
Alenga to have the _Compendium_? But
I could telegraph. Ah, that was an
idea! I could telegraph--assumed
name of course! I could telegraph to
the editor--Miro Colzi--everybody
knew Miro Colzi--the "Meadow Lark"
as we called him, after he got out a
volume of poems--his first and
last--under that title. But the
"Meadow Lark!" Wouldn't he think it
suspicious to be getting an order
for his paper from Alenga? Certainly
the leading story for that
issue--the paper was a weekly--would
be my suicide.
Wouldn't there be some risk in
telegraphing--telegraphing
especially for that particular
number?
"But, no, how could there be?" I
then thought. "Colzi will have it
in his head that I am dead! Meantime
he has ambitions of his own. He is
attacking this administration on the
water and gas question. He'll
imagine people here have heard about
him and want to read his last
editorial."
I went along into the station.
Luckily the mail carrier had stopped
for a chat with the freight agent;
and his wagon was still there. It
was some four miles from the station
to the village of Alenga proper, and
uphill all the way.
I climbed into the rickety cart; and
we drove off into the dark, without
lights on the wagon of any kind.
There were many things for me to
think about; and yet, from time to
time, in the black solitude all
about me now, I would be overwhelmed
by the same violent emotion I had
received in the train from the
reading of that disconcerting piece
of news. It was that same sense of
loneliness I had experienced at
sight of the rails of the deserted
track, a feeling of fear and
uneasiness, as though I were the
ghost of my dead self, astray
somewhere, cut off from life, and
yet certain to continue living,
beyond my death, without knowing
just how.
To shake off my uncanny oppression,
I struck up a conversation with my
driver.
"Is there a news agency at Alenga?"
"Agency?--No, sir!"
"What? Can't you buy a newspaper in
the place?"
"Ah, newspapers! Yes, you can get
them from Grot-tanelli, at the drug
store!"
"I suppose there's a hotel?"
"There's a boarding
house--Palmentino's."
We had come to a steep incline; and
the man got down from his seat to
make a lighter load for his poor
winded nag. In the almost total
darkness I could scarcely
distinguish his figure as he walked
along. But at one point he stopped
to light his pipe, and I could see
him clearly. A shudder ran over me:
"If he only knew who it is he has
with him tonight...!"
But then I turned the same query
upon myself!
"Well, who is it he has with him! I
couldn't say! am I? I shall have to
decide. I need a name, at least--and
before long! When they send the
telegram, I shall have to give them
a name to sign; and I mustn't be
embarrassed when they ask for one at
the boarding house. Yes, a
name--just a name will do, for a
starter. Let's see: what is my
name?"
I should never have dreamed it would
be so hard to find a name,
especially a last name. I began
fitting syllables together just as
they cam into my mind; and I got all
sorts of queer things as a result!
"Strozzani," "Parbetta," "Martoni,"
"Bartusi." Ugh!
The problem began to grip my nerves.
The names I found seemed all so
meaningless, so empty!--"Nonsense!
As though names needed to have
meanings! Come, pull yourself
together! Anything will do! You had
Martoni! What's the matter with
Martoni? Charles Martoni--there you
are!" But a moment later, I would
shrug my shoulders! "Yes,
Charles--Martel!" And so, all over
again!
We arrived at the village and still
I had failed to make up my mind.
Fortunately there was no occasion
for using a name for the druggist,
who proved to be telegraph clerk,
postal clerk, pharmacist, stationer,
newsboy, all around donkey, and I
don't know what else.
I bought copies of the newspapers he
had in stock, the _Carriere_ and the
_Secolo_ from Milan, the _Caffaro_,
and one or two others, from Genoa.
"I don't suppose you have the
_Compendium_ of Miragno?"
Grottanelli had a pair of big round
owl's eyes, that looked like balls
of glass. Every so often he would
force a pair of stiff, thick eyelids
down over them. "The _Compendium_?
of Miragno?... Never heard of it!"
"It's a small town sheet, weekly, I
believe! I thought I would like to
see it--today's number, that is!"
"The _Compendium_? Miragno? Never
heard of it!" And he kept repeating
this, stolidly.
"That doesn't matter. Few people
have! Nevertheless, I've got to have
ten or dozen copies of the thing
right away. Can you get them for me?
I'll pay the expenses for
telegraphing the order tonight."
The man made no answer. A blank
expression on his face, he persisted
still: "The _Compendium_? Miragno?
Never heard of it!" But he finally
consented to make up the telegram,
at my dictation, and to give his
store as the address.
It was a horrible night I passed
there in the boarding house of
Palmentino's, a sleepless night of
distracted tossing on a sea of
tumultuous thoughts and worries.
But the afternoon mail of the
following day brought me fifteen
copies of the _Compendium_.
The Genoa papers of the day before
had said nothing whatever about the
tragedy at Miragno; and now my hands
trembled as I opened the bundle
before me.
On the first page, nothing.
Feverishly I turned to the inner
sheets.
Ah! Across two columns of the third
page ran lines of mourning in heavy
black. Under them was my name in big
broadfaced type:
MATTIA PASCAL
"He had been missing for some
days--days of consternation and
unspeakable anguish for his family,
and of concern for the people of
this town who had learned to love
Mattia Pascal for that goodness of
heart and joviality of temperament
which, with his other gifts of
character, enabled him to meet
misfortune with dignity and courage,
and to fall, without loss of public
esteem, from the moneyed ease that
once was his to the humble
circumstances in which he lived in
recent years.
"After a day of unexplained absence
on his part, his family went, in
some alarm, to the Boccamazza
Library where Mattia Pascal,
passionately devoted to his work as
a public servant, spent most of his
time, enriching with wide and varied
readings his native endowments as a
scholar. The door of the Library was
closed and locked, a fact which at
first gave rise to very grave
suspicions. For the moment, however,
these were shown to be groundless;
and it was hoped that our beloved
Librarian had slipped out of town on
private business which he had
divulged to no one. But alas, the
sorry truth was soon to be revealed.
The death of his mother, whom he
adored, and on the same day, of his
only child, together with financial
worries arising from the loss of his
ancestral properties, had shaken our
poor friend too deeply!
"It seems that, on a previous
occasion, some three months ago,
Mattia Pascal tried to put an end to
his unhappy days in the very water
where his body has just been
found--the mill-flume of the estate
known as 'The Coops,' which, in days
gone by, had been one of the prides
of the Pascal inheritance. We got
the story from a former employee of
the family, Filippo Brina, miller on
the farm. Standing there beside the
corpse--it was night, and two
policemen, with lanterns, were on
guard about the body--the old man
with tears in his eyes, told the
reporter of the _Compendium_ how he
had prevented the grieving son and
father from executing his violent
intention at that time. But Filippo
Brina could not always be on hand.
On his second attempt to end his own
life, Mattia Pascal threw himself
into the Flume and there his body
lay for two whole days.
"There was a heartrending scene
when, night before last, the
desperate widow was led down to the
water's edge to view the now
unrecognizable remains of her loved
companion who had gone to join his
daughter and his mother in the other
world.
"In token of sympathy for her
bereavement and of esteem for the
departed, the people of the town
turned out, en masse, to accompany
the body to its last resting place,
over which our Superintendent of
Schools, Mr. Gerolamo Pomino,
Chevalier of the Crown, pronounced a
touching eulogy.
"The _Compendium_ extends to the
bereaved family and to Mr. Roberto
Pascal, brother of the deceased and
formerly a resident of this town,
expressions of its sincerest
sympathy. _Vale, dilecte amice,
vale_!
M. C."
Though I should have been quite
dismayed had I found nothing in the
paper, I must confess that my name,
printed there, under that black
line, did not give me the pleasure I
had expected. On the contrary, it
filled me with such painful emotions
that after a few lines I had to give
up. That touch about the
"consternation" and "anguish" of my
"bereaved" family did not amuse me
at all; nor did the bosh about the
"esteem" of my fellow townsmen, or
my "passionate" devotion to my work
a public servant. Rather I was
impressed by the reference to the
night of mourning I had passed at
"The Coops" after the death of
mother and my little girl. The fact
that that had served as a proof,
indeed as the strongest proof, of my
suicide at first surprised me as an
unforeseen and cynical irony of
fate. Then it caused me shame and
remorse.
No, I had no right to the profits of
such a cruel misunderstanding. I
had not killed myself in sorrow for
my two dearest ones, though the
thought of doing so had indeed
occurred to me that night. To be
sure, I had run away, in sheer
despair at that great bereavement.
But here I was on my way home again;
and from a gambling house where
Fortune had smiled on me in the
strangest manner!
Just as she was continuing to smile!
For here, now, if you please,
someone else, someone surely whom I
did not even know, had killed
himself in my place; and, depriving
this benefactor of mine of the pity
and the sorrow of friends and
relatives which rightfully belonged
to him, I was also compelling him to
submit to the hypocritical weeping
of my wife and my mother-in-law and
even to a eulogy from the painted
lips of Mr. Gerolamo Pomino!
Yes, these were my first impressions
on reading my obituary in the
Miragno _Compendium_. But then I
reflected that, of course, the poor
fellow had not really died on my
account, and that I could not render
him the slightest service by coming
to life again. The fact that I would
gain incidentally from his
misfortune imposed no sacrifice on
his people. Indeed I would be doing
them a favor by keeping still. In
their eyes, the suicide was I,
Mattia Pascal. They could still hope
that their man had simply
disappeared, that he might return
again almost any day.
As for my wife and my mother-in-law,
did I owe them any consideration in
the matter? All that "anguish," all
that "consternation"--was it really
so? Were they not, more probably,
phrases, invented by the "Meadow
Lark"? To make sure whether it was I
or not, all they had to do, was lift
the eyelid of my left eye! And
anyhow--even if there had been no
eyes left--a woman isn't fooled so
easily as that where her own husband
is concerned! Why were they so
anxious to have it me? Doubtless the
widow Pescatore hoped that Ma-lagna
would feel just a little bit
responsible for my terrible end, and
come to the rescue of his poor
"niece" again.
Well, if that was their game, why
should I try to spoil it?
"Dead? Buried? That suits me! A
cross on the grave, and good-bye,
fair ladies!"
I arose from the table where I had
been reading, stretched my arms and
legs deliriously and heaved a deep
sigh of relief.
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