“The New Suit” (“L’abito nuovo”)
Translated by Fabio Battista
How to cite this work:
Pirandello, Luigi. “The New Suit” (“L’abito nuovo”), tr. Fabio Battista. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2023.
“The New Suit” (“L’abito nuovo”) initially appeared in the daily newspaper Corriere della Sera, on June 16, 1913. It was then collected as part of a volume of miscellaneous stories, The Two Masks (Le due maschere), printed by the Florentine publisher Quattrini in 1914. In 1925, the story was included in Donna Mimma, the ninth Collection of Stories for a Year (Novelle per un anno).
Unlike other “choral” tales written in the same year, such as “In the Whirlpool” (“Nel gorgo”), “Moon Fever” (“Mal di luna”), and “When You’ve Understood the Game” (“Quando s’è capito il gioco”), to name a few, in “The New Suit” the plot is built around a character’s absence: here, the late wife of the male protagonist, Crispucci. A ridiculous man, mocked for his shabby mode of dress, Crispucci is a widower, and the story’s plot ostensibly focuses on the question of his inheritance. However, as the story unfolds, the good fortune of this inheritance becomes clouded by the true situation behind his marriage and his wife’s death, which emerges through interactions and dialogues among the characters. There is thus an ironic reversal, where what appears to be good fortune is revealed to weigh on him as a burden, instead – to the consternation of those around him, who are themselves revealed to be worried about how they might or might not benefit from his decision about whether to accept this supposedly “tainted” inheritance. The story’s humoristic finale offers another reversal, which is again ironic in a new form: the titular new suit that the protagonist wears in the final scene both reveals his decision and how his circumstances have changed while also confirming that the laughable aspect of his character has, in fact, remained the same. The story can thus be read in both a comic and serious way, coinciding with the double-faced nature of Pirandello’s own theory of humor, as articulated in his famous essay On Humor (L’umorismo, 1908 and 1920). In addition to revealing a typically Pirandellian sense of humor, “The New Suit” also engages a key theme that recurs across Pirandello’s works: the representation of clothing as a kind of exterior shell covering a character, a “mask” hiding their true self (if there is such a thing) and their inner pain. A metaphor for personal transformation or the crumbling of illusions, clothing that is taken off, altered, or destroyed reveals the illuminating moment when a character is forced to face their new identity or reality. Other examples of this theme can be found in stories from both before and after this one, such as “The Tight Frock Coat” (“Marsina stretta,” 1901), “The Catara Heresy” (“L’eresia catara,” 1905), and “The Button of the Overcoat” (“Il bottone della palandrana,” 1913); but also in other genres, as in his three-act play To Clothe the Naked (Vestire gli ignudi, 1922).
The play and its metaphor of clothing as a figure for social and behavioral metamorphosis also found an interesting afterlife: in 1935, Pirandello began a collaboration with Neapolitan actor and playwright Eduardo De Filippo (1900-1984), working on a possible adaptation. The result was a three-act comedy with the same title, “L’abito nuovo,” dramatized by De Filippo with Pirandello’s supervision and staged for the first time in 1937 under De Filippo’s direction in Milan. Since Pirandello died during the early rehearsals of the play, he was never able to see this work successfully put on stage. However, its afterlife went on: in 1964 De Filippo directed a televised adaptation of the play for RAI.
The Editors
No longer could one conceive the suit that poor Crispucci had worn since time immemorial as an addition to his body, something that could be changed. To everyone’s eyes, he belonged in that suit, just like an old stray dog in his discolored, patchy fur.
For this reason, the lawyer Mr. Boccanera,[1] his boss, had never thought of handing him down one of his many suits that were still in good shape, although he no longer wore them. He served his boss wonderfully as he was: a scrivener and an errand boy for one hundred twenty liras a month.
On that day, Mr. Boccanera was giving him an interminable, affectionate speech. Usually, he just needed to wink at him and say, “Crispucci, eh?” and Crispucci would understand at once. In that moment, however, he was standing before the desk, bent over and slippery like an S, his long, ape-like arms dangling, and he looked like he didn’t understand anything anymore.
He would open his mouth from time to time, but not to speak. It was a contraction of his cheeks, or rather, something like a ripple on his yellowish face that, by unveiling his teeth, could look like a smirk either of scorn or pain. But perhaps it was just a sign of attention.
“So, dear Crispucci, all things considered, I’d advise you to leave. It will be a big problem for me, but please, do leave. I can be patient for a fortnight. Well, you’ll need at least a fortnight for all the paperwork and formalities, since I guess you’ll sell everything.”
Crispucci opened his arms, with his light-blue eyes staring blankly.
“Yes, selling, selling is your best bet. Jewels, clothing, furniture. Jewels will bring in the most. At first glance, looking at the inventory, you could make between one hundred and fifty and two hundred thousand liras; perhaps some more. There’s also a pearl necklace. As for the clothes (you’ll understand), your daughter certainly won’t be able to wear them. I wonder what clothes they are! But you won’t make much from those, don’t kid yourself. Clothes sell cheaply, even if they’re very expensive. Perhaps, if you play it well, you can make something off of the fur coats (it looks like there’s a collection). Oh, mind that for the jewels you should make sure to find out the shops where they were bought. You may be able to learn that from their cases. Just so you know, diamonds have gone up in price. And there are many on this list. Here: a brooch... another brooch... ring... ring... a bracelet... another ring... yet one more ring... a brooch... bracelet... bracelet... Several, as you can see.”
At this point, Crispucci raised his hand, a sign that he wanted to speak. The extremely rare times when this happened, he signaled it like that. And this hand gesture was accompanied by a wrinkle in his face that expressed the effort and pain of retrieving his voice from the abyss of silence in which his soul had sunk long ago.
“Cou... could I,” he said, “be so bold... one of... one of those rings... for your wife?”
“No, what are you saying, dear Crispucci?” the lawyer exclaimed. “My wife, you think? One of those rings?”
Crispucci lowered his hand and nodded a few times.
“I apologize.”
“No, no, on the contrary, I would like to thank you. You’re crying? No, come on now, dear Crispucci! I didn’t mean to offend you! There, there. I know, I understand. It’s a very sad thing for you. But think that you’re not accepting this inheritance for yourself: you’re not alone, you have a daughter who won’t be able to find a husband easily without a good dowry, and now... Oh, I know, it’s a high price! But money is money, dear Crispucci, and it can make you turn a blind eye to many things. You also have a mother. Your health isn’t so good and…”
Crispucci had nodded at the lawyer’s previous comments approvingly, but when it came to the one about his health, his eyes opened wide in a surly fashion. He bowed and made to leave.
“Aren’t you taking the papers?” the lawyer said to him, handing them over to him on his desk.
Crispucci went back, drying his eyes with a filthy handkerchief, and took the papers.
“So, you’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Mister Lawyer, sir,” answered Crispucci, staring at him as if he were determined to say something that made his chin tremble. But he stopped, he fought a little to push what he was about to say back into the abyss of silence, he shrugged slightly, opened his arms a touch, and left.
He was about to say: I’ll leave if you, sir, will accept a little ring for his lady from my inheritance!
In the other room Outside, gritting his teeth, he had promised the firm’s other scriveners—who had been enjoying torturing him for the past three days, teasing him with cold cruelty—a silk dress for one’s wife, a feathered hat for another’s daughter, a muff for yet another’s fiancée.
“Why not!”
“And a few mesh, embroidered, fine blouses, open at the front, for your sister?”
“Why not!”
He wanted everyone to be soiled by that inheritance along with him.
Reading in the inventory the description of the dead woman’s rich wardrobe, and what linen was contained in the armoires and chests of drawers, he’d figured he could dress every woman in the city.
If a leftover ounce of reason had not held him back, he would have gone down the street to stop passers-by and tell them,
My wife was so and so, she just dropped dead in Naples, she left me this and that. Would you like half a dozen silk stockings, thigh high, very fine, laced, for your wife, your sister, your daughters?
A balding youngster with a jaundiced face, who desperately longed to look elegant, had been feeling his stomach sink for the past three days hearing about those offers in the scriveners’ room. He had been at the firm for only a week, and more than a scrivener, he worked as an errand boy. But he wanted to keep his dignity; he rarely ever spoke, also because no one ever addressed him; he was content to display a hint of an empty smirk on his lips, not without some very light contempt, when he listened to the others’ conversations, and he pulled his yellowed cuffs out of his too-short sleeves or pushed them back inside with a few expert moves.
That day, as soon as Crispucci stepped out of his office, the lawyer grabbed his hat and cane from the coat rack to go after him, while the other scriveners, laughing, yelled from the top of the staircase:
“Crispucci, remember! The blouse for my sister!”
“The silk dress for my wife!”
“The muff for my fiancée!”
“The ostrich feather for my daughter!”
Down in the street, he confronted him, with his face more discolored than ever by his bile:
“But why are you doing something so silly? Why are you wasting stuff like this? Will it by any chance keep its provenance impressed somewhere? You got lucky like this, and yet you can’t profit from it. Have you gone insane?”
Crispucci paused a second to look at him sideways.
“Lucky indeed!” he retorted. “Lucky before and lucky now! Before, for setting yourself free years ago when she left your house.”
“You’ve found out about it?”
“I’ve found out. So what? What bother, what inconvenience, what concerns did you get from it afterwards? Now she’s dead: don’t you think this is yet more luck? By God! Not only because she’s dead, but also because your condition will improve for it!”
Crispucci paused again to look at him.
“Did someone maybe tell you I have a daughter to marry off?”
“That’s why I’m saying these things!”
“Ah! Very honest of you.”
“Extremely honest.”
“And you want me to take the inheritance?”
“You’d be a fool not to! Two hundred thousand liras!”
“And with two hundred thousand liras, you would like me to give my daughter to you?”
“Why not?”
“Because, in that case, with two hundred thousand liras I could buy a less filthy disgrace than yours.
“Oh, you offend me!”
“No, I respect you. You respect me, I respect you. To have your disgrace, I wouldn’t pay more than three thousand liras.”
“Three?”
“Come on, five! And some linen. You have a sister, too? Three silk blouses for her as well, open at the front! If you want, I’ll give them to you.”
And he left him there, in the middle of the street.
At home, he said not a word to either his mother or his daughter. After all—for sixteen years, from the day of the tragedy onwards—he had never allowed discussion of any topic except those focused on the needs of daily life. If one or the other would dare to hint at some consideration beyond these needs, he would give them such a look that their voice died on their lips.
The day after, he left for Naples, leaving both mother and daughter not only with the most anguishing uncertainty about the inheritance, but also with great consternation, should he—heaven forbid—do something crazy.
The women in the neighborhood fanned the flames of this consternation, reporting and commenting on all the strange behaviors Crispucci had displayed over those three days. One of them, with rosy, fresh innocence, alluding to the dead woman, would ask:
“But how come she was so rich?”
And another:
“I heard she was called Margherita. The linen, however, is said to be initialed R and B.”
“B? No, R and C,” another one would jump in to correct. “Rosa Clairon, I heard.”[2]
“Ah, look, Clairon... Did she sing?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“Yes, she did! Not lately, no. But she used to sing.”
“Rosa Clairon, yes... I think so.”
When she heard these conversations, the daughter would turn to her old grandmother with a feverish look in her sunken eyes and a dark flame on her bony cheeks. The old grandmother, with her large, yellow, sebaceous face, almost cracked by deep, precise wrinkles, would adjust her big glasses—after her cataract surgery, they made her eyes look monstrously large and empty between her sparse lashes, long like insect antennae—on her nose, and receive all the neighbors’ nonsense with dull grunts.
Many of them heatedly maintained that, at the end of the day, poor Mr. Crispucci not only shouldn’t be deemed crazy, but shouldn’t even be blamed if he wanted none of that linen to touch his daughter’s immaculate flesh. Better to give it away, if he didn’t want to sell it off. Naturally, as neighbors, they believed they could expect it to be distributed among them according to their preference. Hell, at least a few little presents! Who knew what river of cheerful, shiny silks, what foams of lace, between waves of soft velvets and tufts of white hat feathers, would enter the squalor of that shack in a matter of days.
Just thinking about it, their eyes would shrink in anticipation. And Fina, the daughter, hearing them and seeing them all so inebriated, would wring her hands under her apron, and eventually jump up and leave.
“Poor girl,” one of them would sigh. “It’s the sorrow.”
And another would ask the grandmother:
“Do you think her father will have her dress in black?”
The old woman would reply with another grunt, signifying she knew nothing about it.
“But of course! She will have to!”
“It’s her mother, after all.”
“If he accepts the inheritance!”
“He, too, will dress in mourning, you’ll see.”
“No, no, not him.”
“If he accepts the inheritance!”
The old woman would fidget in her chair, just as Fina would fidget on her bed in the other room. Because this was their eager doubt: would he accept the inheritance?
Upon first hearing about the death, both had secretly gone to the lawyer, Mr. Boccanera, scared by the frenzy with which Crispucci had received the news of that inheritance. They had begged and prayed Mr. Boccanera to persuade Crispucci not to go through with the madness he had threatened. What would have become, upon his death, of his poor daughter, who never once had enjoyed a moment of happiness since she’d been born? He was putting on a scale an inheritance of dishonesty and an inheritance of pride: the pride of honest destitution. But why use this scale to weigh the fortune that had fallen on his poor daughter? She had been brought into the world unwittingly, that poor girl, and with much suffering she had thus far atoned for her mother’s dishonor: did she now also have to be sacrificed in the name of her father’s pride?
The anguish of this doubt lasted an eternity—eighteen days. Not even a line of a letter over those eighteen days. Finally, one night, the two women heard some labored bustle coming from the long, steep, narrow staircase. It was the bellboys from the station who were taking eleven heavy packages of baskets and trunks upstairs.
At the foot of the stairs, Crispucci waited for the bellboys to drop the load in his fourth-floor apartment. He paid them, and when the staircase became quiet again, he started to climb up slowly.
His mother and daughter were waiting anxiously for him on the landing, holding a light. At last, they saw him appear, with his head bowed, a new, greenish hat stuffed inside a new suit, furry and tobacco-colored, which he had certainly bought ready-made in some popular department store in Naples.[3] His long pants were dragging down past the heels of his shoes, which were also new. The jacket puffed out around his neck.
Neither of the women dared to ask him a question. That suit spoke for itself. Only his daughter, seeing him walk towards his bedroom, asked, just before he closed the door behind him:
“Have you eaten your dinner, papa?”
From the threshold, Crispucci turned his head and, with a new smirk of laughter and a new voice, replied: “Wagon-restaurant.”
Endnotes
1. Boccanera’s colorful name, which translates as “Blackmouth,” aptly captures the lawyer’s judgmental disposition and outspoken comments on Crispucci’s inheritance. It also implies that what he says cannot be trusted, a fact also revealed through his self-interested actions in the story.
2. To reinforce the idea of the neighborhood fantasizing about the mysterious identity of Crispucci’s wife, Pirandello comes up with the exotic, imaginary name of Rosa Clairon for her character, picturing her as a charming, bizarre singer whose extravagant whim was to put her initials on her clothes.
3. Although the tradition of Neapolitan tailoring dates to the 1300s and is still well known worldwide, Pirandello’s story focuses instead on a less impressive version of the city, picturing Naples as a low-class environment populated with cheap, unstylish stores.