“Faith” (“La fede”)

Translated by Marella Feltrin-Morris

How to cite this work:

Pirandello, Luigi. “Faith” (“La fede”), tr. Marella Feltrin-Morris. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2021.

“Faith” was originally published in the literary journal Il Mondo in January 1922. It was included in the Collection The Fly (La mosca) in 1923, together with the other fourteen short stories that comprise this Collection of Pirandello’s Stories for a Year. “Faith” was not previously collected in any other volumes before its inclusion there.

A story exploring religious expression through the opposing behaviors of the traditionalist, Don Pietro, and a progressive, Don Angelino, “Faith” highlights elements of Pirandello’s lifelong anticlericalism. By exploring the motives that lead an old peasant to make donations to the local parish, Pirandello indirectly denounces the wrongdoing of those men of the church who take advantage of people’s fears. Don Angelino questions his own role as a minister of God, and he finds that he must reconceive his idea of faith based on feelings of charity and compassion. By reflecting on the control a priest may exert over believers, Pirandello offers insights into his own anti-dogmatic stance—a viewpoint he addressed both from a theoretical and literary perspective at different stages of his career. As early as 1893, in Art and Conscience Today (Arte e coscienza oggi), he investigated the clash between science and faith, while in his 1928 “myth” play Lazarus (Lazzaro) he suggests elements of a faith in a more primal religion, one increasingly connected to nature.

This translation was previously published in PSA – The Journal of the Pirandello Society of America, 32 (2019): 169-176.

The Editors

The priest’s humble little room was filled with light and peace. Here and there, the old ceramic tiles of the floor had lost their gleam, but a rectangular patch of sunlight quietly cast its golden, dusty glow over them. Reflected in that glow, as if in a print, were the shadows of the lace curtains and the green bird cage hanging from the splayed window, its canary hopping inside. The warm fragrance of bread just out of the oven rose up from the courtyard and blended with the humid scent of incense from the nearby church and the pungent aroma of lavender sprigs in the linen drawers of the antique chest.

It felt as if nothing could happen in that little room anymore. The sunlight was motionless. Motionless, too, was that peace. And motionless, if one leaned out of the window, were the blades of grass among the gray pebbles of the courtyard and the straw fallen from the manger in a little corner under the low roof, its blood-red tiles covered with gravel from the ragged crag above it.

Inside the room, each of the antique, black-lacquered little chairs on either side of the chest bore a tiny silver star on its back. They resembled elderly nuns, quite content to sit there, well-kept and guarded, untouched by all. They looked pleased to be gazing at the priest’s modest iron bed, at the head of which, against the whitewashed wall, hung a crucifix, the old, ivory figure of Christ frail and discolored against the black cross.

The most prominent item was a large wax baby Jesus which lay in a basket lined with blue silk on top of the chest, protected from flies by a light blue veil. It seemed to be taking advantage of the silence and the sunlight to enjoy its rosy sleep, with its little hand resting under its plump cheek, amidst the varied aromas of incense, lavender and warm homemade bread.

In a jute armchair at the foot of the bed, his bald, wizened head reclining painfully against the back, Don Pietro also slept. But his sleep was quite different. It was the open-mouthed sleep of a tired, sick old man. His thin eyelids looked as if they no longer had the strength to close over his hard, aching, clouded eyeballs. His nostrils tensed up in the wheezing struggle of his irregular breathing, an undeniable symptom of his heart disease.

While he slept, his yellow, sunken, pointy face had assumed, almost sneakily, a mean, vulgar expression, as if, during that temporary unconsciousness, the body had taken revenge on the spirit that had tortured it over the course of so many years with its austerity, turning it into a desperately exhausted, miserable slave. With that vulgar lapse, that thread of saliva hanging from its drooping lower lip, that body meant to say it couldn’t take it anymore. And thus, almost obscenely, it acted out its beastly suffering.

Don Angelino had rushed into the little room, but had immediately stopped in his tracks and then proceeded slowly, on tiptoes. He stared at the sleeping priest in silence for about ten minutes, but his dismay was such that, as his exasperation increased, it was turning progressively into anger, so much so that he kept opening and balling up his hands into fists, digging his nails into his flesh. He wanted to wake him up screaming:

“I’ve made up my mind, Don Pietro: I’m defrocking myself!”

But he made an effort to hold his breath lest the holy old man, upon waking, suddenly see before him the look of angry dismay that was certainly blazing through his eyes and disgusted grimace. He was actually tempted to smack his hand against the hanging cage and cause it to fly out of the splayed window, so rattled was he by the fear that the old man might wake up hearing the noise of the canary scratching against the zinc bottom.

The previous day, he had paced for over four hours up and down that little room, twisting and turning as if he wanted to prevent his cassock from touching his scrawny, rebellious body, and moving his legs under it as if he wanted to kick it away. During those four hours he had vehemently conferred with Don Pietro about his decision to leave the priesthood—not because he had lost his faith, no, but because, through his studies and meditation, he had become sincerely convinced that he had acquired another, stronger and freer faith. And because of that, he could no longer accept or bear the dogmas, obligations and humiliations that the older faith demanded. The discussion had become more and more furious— but only on his end. He was exasperated not so much by Don Pietro’s replies as by an ever-increasing self-loathing for having felt the irresistible, absurd need to confide in that holy elder. Don Pietro had been his first tutor and then his confessor for many years, but Don Angelino knew all the while that Don Pietro was incapable of understanding his torment, his anguish and desperation.

Predictably, Don Pietro had let him vent, half closing his eyes every now and then and curving his blanched lips into a faint smile. That gently ironic little smile didn’t even seem suitable to those blanched lips while he murmured kindly, devoid of any indignation:

“Vanity… vanity…”

Another faith? What other faith could Don Angelino possibly be referring to, since there was only one? A stronger faith? A freer faith? That was exactly where vanity came into place, and once the blood cooled down in his veins and that youthful passion, that devil-born fervor, died out, he would realize it. Gone would be that fire in his daring little eyes when, white-haired or bald, he was no longer so winsome and proud. In short, Don Pietro had treated him like a boy, nothing more; a good boy who surely wouldn’t cause the scandal that he threatened to raise, also in consideration of the heartbreak he would give his old mother, who had made so many sacrifices for him.

Indeed, at the thought of his mother, Don Angelino once again felt tears welling up in his eyes. But it was precisely for her sake that he had come to that decision, for the sake of not lying to her anymore, and also to end the torment of seeing her worship him like a little saint. What a cruel spectacle, that old man’s slumber! The infinite squalor of that exhausted, sprawled-out body was itself the most obvious proof of the new truths that had become apparent to him.

But right then the door of the room opened and Don Pietro’s old sister walked in. Tiny, waxen, dressed in black with a black woolen shawl wrapped around her head, she was even more stooped and tremulous than her brother. To Don Angelino it seemed as if his own mother, beckoned by his tears, had entered the room, tiny, waxen and dressed in black like this one. He raised his eyes to look at her, almost in panic, at first failing to understand the interrogative gesture with which she was asking him:

“What’s he doing? Is he sleeping?” Don Angelino nodded.

“Why are you crying?”

But at that moment the old man opened his dazed eyes and, with his mouth still open, he lifted his head from the back of the armchair.

“Ah, is that you, Angelino? What’s the matter?”

His sister approached him, bent over the armchair and whispered something in his ear. Don Pietro struggled to get up and, shuffling his feet, walked over to place his hand on Don Angelino’s shoulder. He asked him:

“Would you do me a favor, my son? A poor old woman just came from the countryside looking for me. You see I can barely stand up on my feet. Would you go in my stead? She’s downstairs in the vestry. You can take the indoor staircase over there. Go, go, you’re always my good boy. God bless you!”

Don Angelino went without a word. Perhaps he hadn’t really understood. As he climbed down the dark, narrow spiral staircase, he stopped. He leaned his head against his hand, with which he had been brushing the wall while he descended, and started to cry again, like a child. Tears stung his eyes and choked him. Tears of dejection, of anger and pity at the same time. When he finally reached the vestry, all of a sudden he felt alienated from it all. The room looked different, as if he were entering it for the first time. Frigid, dreary, and filled with light. Finding the old woman sitting there, he almost wondered what she was waiting for, and whether she was even real.

She was a decrepit peasant woman, all bundled up and filthy, her bloodshot lower eyelids horribly folded inward. She kept clapping her toothless gums together, and every time her pointy chin would almost spring up to her nose. In one hand she was carrying two cockerels by their feet, and in the palm of the other she had three silver lire, which she must have been saving for who knows how long. On the floor, before feet engulfed in a pair of huge, worn men’s shoes, lay a grimy sack filled with dried almonds and walnuts.

Don Angelino stared at her with disgust. “What do you want?”

The old woman, squinting with difficulty, mumbled something with her tongue tangled inside her hollow, sunken cheeks and toothless gum.

“What did you say? I can’t hear you. Your name is Zia Croce?” [1]

Yes, Zia Croce. She was Zia Croce. Don Pietro knew her well. Zia Croce Scoma. [2] Her husband had drowned many years earlier in the Naro [3]. She had walked all the way there—over six miles—from the Cannatello plains, [4] carrying that sack. And now she was there, with that offering of two cockerels, a sack of almonds and walnuts, and three lire for the mass, to placate (as Don Pietro well knew) St. Calogerus, [5] the saint of all graces, who had healed her son of a deadly illness. As soon as her son had recovered, however, he had left for America. He had promised he would write to her from there and send her enough money every month to provide for her sustenance. Sixteen months had gone by; she had not received any news from him, she didn’t even know if he was dead or alive. It wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t sending her money if at least she knew he was alive. But not even a word from him, not a letter, nothing. Everyone in the countryside had told her this was happening because, though her son had recovered, she had not fulfilled her vow to St. Calogerus. Surely it must be true, she herself acknowledged. However, she had not fulfilled that vow (Don Pietro knew this, too) because she had deprived herself of everything during her son’s illness, and all she had left were her eyes to cry with. Cry blood! That’s right, blood! When her son had left, old as she was and with no one to help her, how could she possibly scrape together the offering and those three lire for the mass if day by day she barely made enough to keep from starving? It had taken her sixteen months, and God only knew what strife! But now, here were the two cockerels, the three lire, the almonds and the walnuts. The merciful St. Calogerus would be appeased, and soon, without a doubt, she would receive news from America that her son was alive and thriving.

While the old woman said all this, Don Angelino kept pacing up and down the vestry, glaring left and right, stretching out his hands and then balling them up into fists to keep himself from grabbing the old woman by her shoulders, shaking her furiously and screaming in her face:

“Is this your faith?”

But no, no, it wasn’t that poor old woman. It was others, others, he wanted to grab by the shoulders and shake, such as his fellow priests who kept so many poor people tied to the poverty of faith and who made a business out of it. Oh, God, how could they charge that old woman three lire, the cockerels, almonds and walnuts, in exchange for one mass?

“Take your sack and leave!” he yelled at her, quivering with anger. She stared at him,

dumbfounded.

“You may leave, I’m telling you!” added Don Angelino, becoming more and more infuriated. “St. Calogerus does not need any cockerels or dried figs! If your son is meant to write to you, rest assured that he will. As for the mass, Don Pietro is ill. Now leave! Leave!”

As if stunned by those wrathful words, the old woman asked him:

“How can you say that? Don’t you understand this is a vow? A vow!”

She uttered that word deliberately, but in it he could hear her disbelief, her shock, at his failure to comprehend. So much so that it gave him pause. It occurred to him he was there in Don Pietro’s stead, and held himself back. With less angry words he tried to persuade the old woman to take back her cockerels, almonds and walnuts, and told her that, if she really wanted a mass, perhaps he could celebrate it in Don Pietro’s place, on condition that she keep the three lire. The old woman stared at him again, almost terrified, and repeated:

“But how? How can you say that? What kind of vow would that be, then? If I don’t give what I promised, where’s the value in it? But excuse me, who am I talking to? Am I not talking to a priest? Then why do you treat me like this? Or is it because you don’t believe I’m giving what I promised to the blessed St. Calogerus with all my heart? Oh, God! Oh, God! Maybe because I told you of how I struggled to put it together?”

As she said that, she broke down crying inconsolably through those horribly bloodshot eyes.

Touched and made remorseful by her weeping, Don Angelino regretted his harshness. He suddenly felt overwhelmed with respect, a respect that almost shamed him, towards that old woman who cried before him for her abused faith. He walked over to her, comforted her, and told her he had not had the thoughts she suspected. He told her to leave everything there; the three lire, too, yes. And to go into the church, as he would celebrate the mass for her right away.

He called the sexton and hurried to wash his hands. While the sexton helped him put on his vestment, he thought about somehow returning, after the mass, the three lire, the cockerels, and the contents of the sack. But wasn’t the point that, in order for that act of charity to be acceptable to that poor old woman, it should require something of him that he no longer felt in himself? What act of charity would the price of a mass be if, in exchange for all the struggles and sacrifices she had endured to fulfill her vow, he didn’t celebrate that mass with the most sincere, fervent piety? Wouldn’t it be an ignoble pretense for an offering of three lire?

Don Angelino, already with his vestment on and the chalice in his hands, stopped for a moment, uncertain and crushed with anguish, at the door of the vestry. He stared into the deserted church, considering whether he, faithless as he was, ought to get up on the altar. But he saw, kneeling in front of it, the old woman with her head bowed all the way down to the ground, and felt his chest lifted by something like a breath, not his own, and his back traversed by an unknown shiver. Why, until then, had he pictured faith to be something beautiful, radiant like the sun? There it was, right there, in the squalor of that kneeling sorrow, in the wretched deprivation of that prostrated fear—there was faith!

Don Angelino climbed up to the altar as if he were being pulled forward, so intoxicated by all that charity that his hands trembled and his whole soul trembled like the first time he had approached it.

And for that faith he prayed, with his eyes closed, stepping into the soul of that old woman as if he were entering the dark, cramped temple where it burned. He prayed to the God of that temple, whoever it was, whoever it may be. Because no matter what, it was the only good, the only comfort for that misery.

When the mass was over, he kept the offering and the three lire, so as not to belittle, with some small charity, the great charity of that faith.