“The Faithfulness of the Dog” (“La fedeltà del cane”)

Translated by Martha and Mary Ann Witt

How to cite this work:

Pirandello, Luigi. “The Faithfulness of the Dog” (“La fedeltà del cane”), tr. Martha and Mary Ann Witt. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2023.

“The Faithfulness of the Dog” (“La fedeltà del cane”) was originally published in the literary journal Il Marzocco on November 20, 1904 and later gathered with other selected stories in Pirandello’s miscellaneous edition Naked Life (La vita nuda, Treves: 1910). In 1922, the story became part of the second Collection of Stories for a Year (Novelle per un anno), also titled Naked Life although it gathered a different group of stories from those included in the previous edition.

This story humorously explores the emotional implications of adultery and the stuffy and conventional dynamics of the bourgeois love triangle, a typical narrative in the literature and theater of the early twentieth century. Despite the plot primarily centering on Donna Livia’s habit of bringing her dog along to her extramarital rendezvous, the female protagonist in this tale remains silent. The reader instead feels her presence and is asked to fill in the gaps that Pirandello chooses to leave unexplored, such as the identity of Donna Livia’s current lover, her feelings toward the other men in her life, and her own emotional involvement in these affairs. In contrast, Donna Livia’s husband, Don Giulio, becomes a focus of the story’s humorous lens due to his arrogant, chauvinistic behavior. Although Don Giulio feels entitled to have his own relationship with the wife of one of the men he suspects to be Donna Livia’s lover, he still cannot accept his wife’s alleged infidelity with the husband of his own mistress. His own behavior aside, the disgrace of being cuckolded is unacceptable to Don Giulio’s version of a man’s code of honor. This paradoxical situation leads to an improbable encounter between Don Giulio and the man he thinks may be his wife’s lover; but ironically both of these men are themselves made risible by the discovery of a third man in the woman’s life – one who is both younger and more handsome. To everybody’s dismay, the faithful dog Liri is the only moral winner in this story, the only one capable of loyalty towards all three of the men he recognizes as his friends. This humorous approach to adultery, which satirizes or critiques the typical form of the bourgeois love triangle story so prominent at the time, recurs throughout Pirandello’s creative writing and theatrical works. See for example earlier and later stories, such as “The Nest” (“Il nido,” 1895), “In Silence” (“In silenzio,” 1905), “The Light in the House Across the Street” (“Il lume dell’altra casa,” 1909), and “Such Is Life” (“Pena di vivere cosi,” 1920); but also seminal plays whose plot revolves around the repercussions of adultery on the family’s emotional stability, such as The Reason of Others (La ragione degli altri, written in 1895 but not staged until 1915), The Vise (La morsa, 1910), and Cap and Bells (Il beretto a sonagli, 1916). This critique of the conventional love triangle plot is also present in Pirandello’s earlier novel, The Late Mattia Pascal (Il fu Mattia Pascal, 1904/5). These works all align in some ways with the theatrical current that would soon become important in Italy, and with which some of Pirandello’s early theater was often associated, the theater of the grotesque (teatro grottesco) typical of the works of Luigi Chiarelli, Luigi Antonelli, and others.

In 1967, together with nine other tales from various collections of Stories for a Year, “The Faithfulness of the Dog” became part of a movie titled Il mondo di Pirandello (The World of Pirandello), a film anthology directed by Benedetto Ghiglia and produced by Ultra Film for RAI, Italy's national broadcasting agency.

The Editors

Donna Giannetta, still in her slip, her shoulders and arms bare and her breasts a little bare too (more than a little, really) was styling her lovely raven-black hair before the mirror. Marquis don Giulio del Carpine finished smoking a cigarette. He stretched out on the armchair at the foot of the unmade bed with such a scowl it seemed as though he wanted to destroy something––who knows what––in that cigarette from the way he looked at it while taking it from his lips, and the anger with which he inhaled the smoke and then blew it out again. Suddenly, he sat up straight and, shaking his head, said, “But no, come on, it’s not possible!”

Donna Giannetta turned to look at him, smiling, her beautiful arms raised and her hands in her hair, like a woman unafraid of showing too much of her body. “Are you still thinking about that?”

“Because it is not logical,” he snapped, getting up, irked. “Between me and that––what’s his name–– that… Lulu…come on, you don't need to tell me about it…”

Donna Giannetta leaned her head to one side and continued standing like that, observing Don Giulio from under her arm as though to make a disinterested appraisal before passing judgment. Then, comically,[3] as though her conscience simply would not allow her to concede without some reservation, she sighed, “Ah, it depends…”

“What do you mean ‘it depends’? Please!”

“It depends, it depends… my dear,” Donna Giannetta then repeated. Del Carpine shrugged his shoulders and moved around the room.

When he had a beard, he was truly a handsome man: tall in stature, robust. But now, shaven in deference to fashion, with an overly small chin and an overly large nose, it could no longer be said that he was handsome, especially since he seemed to expect it, despite his shaven beard––in fact, precisely because he had shaved it. “Jealousy, after all,” he pontificated, “does not depend so much on the low esteem a man has of a woman, or vice versa, but rather on the low esteem we have of ourselves. And so…” But glancing casually at his fingernails, he lost his train of thought and stared at Donna Giannetta as though she had spoken and not he. Donna Giannetta, who was still standing at the dressing table with her back turned, saw him in the mirror, and with a twitch of her eyes, she asked him, “And then what?”

“Of course, that's it! It stems from this!” he resumed, angrily. “From this low esteem of ourselves, which makes us believe, or rather, fear, that we are not enough to fill the heart or mind and satisfy the tastes or whims of those we love. That's it!”

“Oh,” she then said, with a sigh of relief. “And you don’t have this low self-esteem, do you?”

“What?”

“This low esteem that you are talking about.”

“I don't have it, I don't have it, I don't have it. If I compare myself with that… that Lulu, then, no!”

“My poor Lulu!” Donna Giannetta then exclaimed, breaking into her usual giggle, which was like a bubbling waterfall. “And your wife?” she then asked. “We’d now have to see how much your wife esteems you.”

“Oh, listen!” Don Giulio hastened to respond, enraged. “I cannot in any way believe that she is capable of preferring…”

“What’s-his-name.”

“There is no logic! There is no logic! My wife is… she is whatever you think, but she is intelligent. And as far as I know, she suspects nothing about us. Why would she?”

“And with Lulu, then?” Donna Giannetta, having finished styling her hair, rose from her seat at the dresser. “In short, you,” she said, “defend logic; yours, however. Get me the brassiere over there. Yes, that one. Thank you. Not your wife's logic, my dear. How will Livia reason? Because Lulu is affectionate, Lulu is prudent, Lulu is helpful... And not so foolish, you know? Look at me, for example. I don't have the slightest doubt that he…”

“Oh, go on!” Don Giulio repudiated, turning his back to her. “Besides, what do you know? Who told you?”

“Uff,” said Donna Giannetta, approaching him, taking him by the arms, and looking him in the eyes. “Are you upset? Does this really trouble you? Excuse me, but it's simply ridiculous... while we, here…”

“Not because of that!” snapped del Carpine, reddening. “I can't believe it, that's all! It seems impossible to me; it seems absurd that Livia…”

“Oh really? Wait,” Donna Gianetta interrupted him. He handed her the brassiere made of fine muslin so he could adjust it and help her put it on.[4] She went to the shelf to get a handbag, took from it a little gold-threaded card torn from the notebook, and handed it to him. On it was an address hastily written in pencil: 96 via Sardegna.[5] “If you’d like, out of sheer curiosity...”

Don Giulio del Carpine stood looking at her, stunned, with the little piece of paper in his hand. “How... how did you discover this?”

“Eh,” Donna Gianetta said, shrugging her shoulders and maliciously half-closing her eyes. “Lulu is prudent, but I... For our safety… My dear, you are overly concerned about yourself... Haven't you noticed, for example, how I've been coming here for some time and leaving more tranquil?”

“Ah…” he sighed inattentively, upset. “And Livia, then... ? Via Sardegna: would that be a cross street off Via Veneto?”[6]

“Yes: number 96, one of the last houses at the end of the street. There's a sculpture studio underneath, also rented by Lulu. Ah! ah! ah! Can you imagine Lulu… a sculptor?” She laughed loudly, at length, and continued to laugh sporadically and fitfully as she finished dressing. The thought of Lulu, her husband, a sculptor in an artist’s studio with nude models, Livia del Carpine one of them, aroused comical images in her mind. And she looked obliquely at Don Giulio, who had sat back down in the armchair with the little card rolled between his fingers. When she was ready, her small hat on her head and her veil pulled down, she looked in the mirror, straight on and then side to side, then said, “You mustn’t ask too much of yourself, dear! I take pleasure in it for poor Lulu, and also for myself. You, too, for that matter, should be pleased.” Seeing the face he made at her, she burst out laughing again, and ran to sit on his lap and caress him. “Avenge yourself on me. Go on, Giugiu![7] How terrible you are... But what goes around comes around, dear: the proverb! Since Lulu is happy, we now…”

“I want to make sure first, you understand?” he asked harshly, his fit of anger badly suppressed, almost dismissing her.

Donna Gianetta immediately stood up, resentful, and said very coldly, “Go ahead. Farewell, then, right?”

But he hastened to rise as well, repentant. However, the feeling of affection to which he almost surrendered was interrupted by the persistent sting. Nevertheless, he said, “Excuse me, Gianna... You... you've bewildered me; that's it. Yes, you are right. We have to take full revenge. You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine…” As he spoke, he took her by the waist and held her tightly to him.

“No... God... you’ll mess up my outfit again!” she cried, but happily, trying to push him away with her arms. Then she kissed him softly, tenderly from behind the veil, and ran off.

Giugiu del Carpine, frowning, his eyes staring into emptiness, remained scratching at his shaven cheeks with the fingers of the hand that was covering his mouth. He was roused as if stung by a sudden revulsion for that woman who had venomously wanted to bite him just for fun. She was happy about it, but not for their safety. No! She was glad not to be alone but also (she had made clear) glad to have punished his presumption. She had not understood, the imbecile, that by having Lulu for a husband she had an excuse for betrayal, but not Livia, by God, not Livia! He had now hammered in this nail and could not find peace. He had never much trusted his wife's honesty, or that of women in general. But he held the greatest faith in himself, in his strength, and his masculine prowess; he therefore firmly believed that his wife…

Perhaps, though, she took up with Lulu Sacchi out of revenge.

Revenge?

But my God, what revenge for her? If anything, she might have taken revenge on behalf of Lulu Sacchi, but not on her own behalf, by getting involved with a man who was worth much less than her husband.

Indeed! But hadn't he foolishly gotten involved with a woman who was undoubtedly worth much less than his wife? That's why, then, Lulu Sacchi showed so little interest in Donna Giannetta's betrayal. Of course! He reaped all the advantages of that exchange. From his relationship with Donna Giannetta, he had even acquired the right to be left in peace. Harm and mockery, then. Ah, no, by God! No, and no! He went out, furious and full of rancor. All that day he argued with himself over these most opposite resolutions, because the more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed to him. During their six years of marriage, he had found his wife, if not entirely insensitive, certainly not very inclined to love. Was it possible that he had deceived himself?

He stayed out the whole day and returned late at night in order not to encounter his wife. He was afraid of betraying himself, though he still told himself that, before believing, he wanted to see. The next day he woke up, at last firmly resolved to go and find out. But just as he was about to leave, he started feeling a bitter irritation, despondency, and nausea. For, if she really were betraying him, what could he do? Nothing. Only pretend not to know. And wasn't there a risk of running into one or the other of them on that path? Perhaps it would have been more prudent to go earlier in the morning, only to see the house, make the first inquiries, and then deliberate on the spot about what he should do.

He dressed quickly and left. Thus, he saw the house at number 96, which actually did have, on the ground floor, the sculpture studio that had made Donna Giannetta laugh so much. The truth of that remark stirred his blood, as though it were proof of betrayal. From the doorway of a house across the street, a little further down, he paused to look at the windows of that house and to wonder which were those of the little apartment that Lulu rented. He finally thought that the unguarded doorway might be a good place for him to watch without being watched, when, in due time, he could start to spy.

Knowing his wife's habits, the time when she usually left the house, he argued that the meeting with her lover could take place either in the morning, between ten and eleven o'clock, or in the afternoon, shortly after four o'clock. But more probably in the morning. Well, since he was already there, why not stay there? It might very well be possible for him to rid himself of the doubt this very morning. He looked at his watch; in a little over an hour it would be ten o'clock. It was impossible to stand there, in that doorway, for so long. Since the entrance to Villa Borghese from Porta Pinciana was so close, well, he could just stroll around Villa Borghese for an hour or so.[8]

It was a beautiful November morning, a bit brisk.

As Don Giulio entered Villa Borghese, he saw on the next trail over two artillery officers together with two young ladies who looked English, sisters, blond and svelte in gray riding outfits, with two long scarlet ribbons knotted like ties around their collars. Under Don Giulio's gaze, they all four at once began to race, as if having accepted a challenge. And Don Giulio was distracted: he went down the edge of the avenue, approached the trail to follow that race and, with his expert eye, immediately noticed that one horse, a sorrel,[9] mounted by the young lady on the right, was kicking out his back hooves. The four of them disappeared around the track. And Don Giulio remained there watching while imagining his wife, Donna Livia, on a big fiery bay.[10] No woman looked as good in the saddle as his wife. It was truly a pleasure to see her. A born horsewoman! And with such a passion for horses, such an enemy of feminine idleness, had she really gotten together with that insipid, weak Lulu Sacchi? ... That remained to be seen, indeed!

He walked around, lost in thought, absorbed, down the avenues, wherever his feet took him. At a certain point, he looked at his watch and hurried back. It was already almost ten o'clock, for heaven’s sake, and it was now practically a feat to cross Via Sardegna and get to that door at the end. Certainly his wife would not have come from the Via Veneto side, but from over there, by one of Via Boncompagni’s cross streets. There was a risk, however, that Lulu would come this way and catch sight of him.

Simulating great nonchalance, without looking back, but extending his gaze all the way to the end of the street, Del Carpine went on, his heart beating so hard that it roared in his ears, almost deafening him. Little by little, as he continued, his anxiety grew. But here was the door: just a few more steps... And Don Giulio was about to draw a great breath of relief, slipping inside the door, when...

“You, here?”

He was transfixed. Lulu Sacchi was there too, in the same doorway. Bent over, he was petting a very long-bodied but short little dog with black fur; and that little dog was so excited, celebrating his arrival, all quivering and twisting, stretching, scratching, paws on his legs, and jumping up to try to lick his face. But wasn't that Liri? Yes, Liri, his wife's little dog.

Lulu was pale, changed by emotion; his eyes were full of tears, evidently from the welcome that the little dog was giving him, that good beast, that dear beast, knew him well and was faithful to him. Ah, yes, he was. He was faithful! Not like that shameful mistress of his, that unworthy woman, that vile woman, yes, yes, oh, good Liri, she is vile, vile! Because a woman who brings into the apartment paid for by one lover, another lover, a wretch, a lowlife, oh, good Liri, she must be a vile, vile, vile woman.

So said Lulu Sacchi to himself, petting the little dog and weeping from disgrace and pain, before Giulio del Carpine entered the doorway, where he, too, had come to spy.

Because of a misunderstanding on the part of the old maidservant who came to tidy up the little apartment after each rendezvous, Lulu had discovered Donna Livia’s disgrace and, having come to spy, had found Liri on the street where he had strayed from his mistress in her haste to get upstairs to the rendezvous.

The presence of the little dog, there in that street, had proven to Lulu Sacchi that the betrayal was true; it was true! He had not wanted to believe it, either, but even more justifiably, for truly such indignity was beyond the pale. And this now explained why she had not wanted him to keep the key to the apartment and had kept it instead, forcing him each time to wait there, in the sculpture studio, for her to come. Oh how idiotic, how stupid, how blind he had been!

Poor Lulu might have expected anything, except that Don Giulio del Carpine would have surprised him in his hiding place.

The two men looked at each other, dumbfounded. Lulu Sacchi did not think that his eyes were red with tears, but instinctively, as tears cooled on his burning face, he wiped them away with two fingers and, to the first question that Don Giulio hurled at him in astonishment, You, here? Lulu replied, stammering and opening his lips in a dismal smile, “Eh?... so... yes…I was wa-waiting for...”

Del Carpine, scowling, looked at the dog. “And Liri?”

Lulu Sacchi lowered his eyes to look at the dog, as though he’d not seen him before, and said, “... I don't know... here he is...”

Confronted with that bewildered, dumb behavior, Don Giulio felt, as it were, a tremor of annoyance; he went down to the sidewalk by the street and looked up at the number over the doorway. “So, is she here? Where is she?”

“What are you saying?” asked Lulu Sacchi, looking as though he no longer had a drop of blood in his veins, that dismal smile still on his lips.

Del Carpine stared at him, eyes wide open. “Who were you waiting for here?”

“A... a friend of mine,” Lulu stammered. “He's... gone upstairs...”

“With Livia?” Del Carpine asked.

“No! What are you saying?” Lulu Sacchi said, growing increasingly pale.

“But if Liri is here…”

“Yes, he's here; but I swear that I found him on the street,” Lulu Sacchi said in the heat of truth, suddenly darkening.

“Here? On the street?” repeated Del Carpine, bending down to the dog. “So you know the way, eh, Liri? How is that? How is that?”

The poor little beast, hearing his master's unusually soothing voice, was seized with sudden joy; and, wiggling all over, he sprang up on his master’s legs. He began to pant, and scratch crazily with his little paws. He stretched out, whining; then he rolled on the ground and, as if he had suddenly gone mad, began to whirl furiously around the entranceway. Then, he leapt on his master and then on Lulu, now barking loudly as if, in that delirium of affection, in that spark of instinctive loyalty, he wanted to unite those two men, between whom he did not know how to divide his joy and devotion.

It was truly a moving spectacle: the faithfulness of this dog, who belonged to an unfaithful woman, to these two deceived men. Both, now, in order to get out of this most painfully embarrassing situation that they found themselves facing, took great pleasure in the dog’s frenzied celebration of them, and started egging him on, snapping their fingers––“Here, Liri! Poor Liri!”––both of them laughing convulsively.

Suddenly, however, Liri came to a halt, as if having abruptly caught a scent. He went up to the threshold of the doorway, sat back on his hindlegs, waiting, anxious, looking into the street, his two ears perked up, and his little head bent to one side, then he sprinted away.

Don Giulio peeked out for a look, and he saw his wife turning away from the street, followed by the little dog. But he felt his arm grabbed by Lulu Sacchi who, pale, distraught, quivering, said to him, “Wait! Let me see with whom…”

“What!” Don Giulio said, still stunned.

But Lulu Sacchi was no longer reasoning; he pulled Don Giulio back, repeating, “Let me see, I tell you! Be quiet…” He saw Liri, who had stopped at the corner of the street, puzzled, as if uncertain, looking toward the doorway, waiting. Shortly afterwards, out of the door marked with the number 96, came a large young man in his early twenties, smug, red in the face, with a mustache rising up on either side––unbelievable!

“Toti!” Lulu Sacchi then exclaimed with a horrible grin that covered his entire face. And, without letting go of Don Giulio's arm, he added, “Toti, do you understand? A lousy kid! A little schoolboy! Do you understand what your wife is doing? But I'll take care of him, now! Let me do it––did you see? And that's enough, Giulio! Enough for everyone, you know?”

And off he ran in a rage.

Don Giulio del Carpine stood there as though numbed. What? Two, then. Lulu has been set aside, passed over? There, another man, in those same small quarters? A young man… his wife! And how come Lulu?... So, she was waiting for him, too?... And that little dog lost there, in the middle of the street, confused... yes, of course!... among so many men... and jumped up upon seeing him, too... how sweet…sweet... sweet... “Ah!” Don Giulio said, shaking all over from nausea and disgust, but also secretly satisfied that he had at least been right about Lulu; that is, his wife had not been able to take him seriously and had deceived him; not only that, but she had also scorned him! Scorned him, too!

He drew out his handkerchief and wiped his hands, which the devoted beast had licked; he wiped them to the point of rubbing off skin.

But, all of a sudden, he saw Liri next to him, quiet, his ears down, his tail between his legs, that poor Liri, who had tried to follow first his owner, Livia, then Toti, then Lulu, and who had now finally taken to following him.

Don Giulio was assailed by a furious rage: the faithfulness of that ugly beast struck him as obscenely scandalous, and he gave the dog a violent kick.

“Go away!”