“The Rising Sun” (“La levata del sole)

Translated by John Colin Marston

How to cite this work:

Pirandello, Luigi. “The Rising Sun” (“La levata del sole”), tr. John Colin Marston. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2024.

First published in the literary journal Il Marzocco on January 6, 1901, “The Rising Sun” was reprinted just a year later when Pirandello added it to his collection of short stories When I Was Mad… (Quand’ero matto; Turin: Streglio, 1902); it was reprinted again as part of the collection with the same name issued by the Milanese Treves publishing house in 1919. Pirandello later added the story to his tenth Collection of Stories for a Year, titled The Old God (Il Vecchio Dio; Florence: Bemporad, 1926).

“The Rising Sun” touches on a number of key themes that are frequently prominent in Pirandello’s work while also developing a more intensely poetic language than some of the other stories from the same period, which have often been seen as reflecting the realist impulse of Sicilian verismo to document the trials and tribulations of social life and poverty on the island. Here, instead, is a meditation on both melancholy and the intense beauty of nature, cast in the ironic light of Pirandellian humor. The story’s protagonist is a typical type for Pirandello: the dissatisfied man, living in a marriage he despises, trapped and without a sense of purpose, on the verge of suicide. Similar figures appear in other short stories, such as “The Train Has Whistled” (“Il treno ha fischiato,” 1914), but also in Pirandello’s novel from just a couple of years later, The Late Mattia Pascal (Il fu Mattia Pascal, 1904). When these figures reflect on their own lives, they are often overcome by a melancholy that brings them toward suicidal thoughts – and suicide is itself a prominent theme in Pirandello’s work across his entire corpus, already central for earlier stories like “Sun and Shade” (“Sole e ombra,” 1896) and continuing through his later writings, as well. However, this “negative” or pessimistic side of the story is in tension with the intense, lyrical beauty that Pirandello attributes to the natural world, with the rising sun serving as a symbol of how nature can console and compensate the disappointments of the world. The protagonist’s quest to see the sun rise at least once in his life before he ends it all resonates with themes typical both for Pirandello and for a wider tradition, spanning back to nineteenth-century Romanticism as well as in contemporaries like the great Italian poet and novelist Gabriele d’Annunzio. What makes it distinctly Pirandellian, however, is the ironic humor of the story’s finale, which undercuts the intensity of both the natural beauty and human suffering that have defined the story.

The Editors

I

In short the little lamp there on the desktop couldn’t take it anymore. Sheltered by a green shade, it sobbed desperately; with each sob the lamp made the shadows of the room’s objects jolt, as if to send them down to the devil; it couldn’t have been said in any better way.

It may very well have seemed terrifying. Because from the deep silence of the night came his wife’s hoarse voice, which every now and then called to him from the lower rooms of the house, as if from underground, while Bombichi paced back and forth in that room, alternately swallowed by shadow and spewed back into the light by the hiccups of that little lamp:

“Gosto! Gosto!”

Except that invariably he stopped, responding softly with two bows:

“Drop dead! Drop dead!”

And in the meantime, so waxen white, all decked out for a grand occasion, in a tailcoat, in that shiny tux, with laughter flickering over that face like a dead man's, with those gestures and jerks that also leapt to the ceiling—who knows what other impression he could have given. Especially since next to that little lamp on the desk, a small revolver with a mother-of-pearl handle was also flickering... I kid you not!

“So pretty, eh?”

Because—although Gosto Bombichi seemed to be alone—there are moments when you begin to talk to yourself as if you were someone else with your exact likeness. For example, three hours ago, that other version of him had said not to go to the Club; and despite this—nossiree—he had absolutely wanted to go! To the Circolo dei Buoni Amici.[1] And yessiree—what a bounty! You really needed to witness the depths of generosity in those birds of prey that had clawed away his last, lonely few thousand liras, satisfying themselves with his word to be creditors for two or three thousand more: he could no longer remember the precise amount.

“Within twenty-four hours.”

The revolver. That was all he had left. When time slams the door in the face of all hope and says it’s over, there’s no use to keep knocking: it’s better to turn around and go.

Besides which, he was fed up. He had such a bitter taste in his mouth! Bile, no; not quite bile. Nausea. For he had really enjoyed himself, hadn’t he, holding his life in his hand like a rubber ball, bouncing it with well-placed throws, down and up, up and down, knocking it to the ground and having it come back to his hand, finding a companion and sending it racing to her with surging heartbeats, running back and forth, blocking here, catching there; missing the shot and rushing after her. Now it was irreparably punctured, deflated in his hands.

“Gosto! Gosto!”

“Drop dead! Drop dead!”

The worst misfortune was exactly this, hitting him unexpectedly six years ago, when he was traveling in Germany, in the pleasant neighborhoods near the Rhine in Cologne, on the last night of Carnival, when the ancient Catholic city seemed completely deranged.[2] It was still no excuse.

He had come out of a café on Höhe Strasse with every intention of going back to his hotel to sleep.[3] Suddenly, he felt the tickle of a peacock feather behind his ear. To hell with this atavistic, degenerative finesse! Just as soon as it was launched, he seized that tempting feather and, whipping around triumphantly (stupidly!), saw before him three women, three young ladies laughing, shouting, pawing like wild foals and waving before his eyes hands with innumerable ringed, glittering fingers. To which of the three did the feather belong? No one wanted to tell him; and so instead of getting into a tussle with all of them, he unluckily chose the middle one, graciously returning the feather to her, strictly following the Carnival convention: a kiss or a pat on the nose.

A pat on the nose.

But that wench, while receivingit, had squinted her eyes shut in such a way to make his blood stir. And then after a year, she was his wife. Now, after six:

“Gosto!”

“Drop dead!”

No children fortunately. And yet, who knows! If he had had them, maybe he wouldn’t be… no, enough! It’s useless to think about it. As for her, that painted-up hag, she would’ve adapted to living somehow, if she really, truly, didn’t want to drop dead as he had affectionately suggested to her.

Now, two tiny words in a letter—that should do the trick, right?

“I won’t see tomorrow’s sunrise!”

My God! Gosto Bombichi was at this point struck by an idea with so much force, he was almost blinded. Tomorrow’s sunrise? In the 45 years of his life, he could not remember ever seeing the sunrise, not even once, never! What was a sunrise? What was it like? He had often heard it described as a beautiful performance, one that nature offers up freely to those who wake up in time; he had also read several accounts of it by poets and novelists, and yes, in short, he knew more or less what a sunrise might be; but with his own eyes, no, he had never seen one, a sunrise: cross my heart and hope to die.

“Damn! I need to see it… as an experience, I have to see it. If the poets have puffed it up so much, it may only be a silly show; but I crave it, and I'd sure like to see it before I leave everything behind. It will be in a couple of hours... But look what an idea! Beautiful. To see the sun rise, at least once, and then....”

He rubbed his hands together, delighted at this sudden resolution. Stripped of all miseries, naked of all thought, there, outside in the open, in the countryside, like the first or last man on the face of the earth, standing on two feet, or better yet comfortably seated on some stone, or better, leaning his shoulders against a tree trunk with the rising sun, but yes, what a pleasure it would have been! To see another day begin for the others but not for himself! The usual nuisances, the usual business, the usual faces, the usual words, and the flies, my God! And to be able to say: you don’t belong to me anymore.

He sat at his desk in the intervals of the dying lamp’s sobs and wrote in these terms to his wife:

Dear Aennchen,

I’m leaving you. Life, I have told you many times, has always seemed to me just a game for gambling. I’ve lost: and I have to pay for it.[4] Don't cry, dear. You would needlessly wear out your eyes, and you know I don't want that. Besides, I assure you it's not worth it at all. So, goodbye. Before dawn, I’ll be somewhere, in some place, where I can enjoy the rising sun. A vivid curiosity has arisen in me at this moment to witness, at least once, this much-vaunted spectacle of nature. You know that for those who are condemned to die, the satisfaction of some practicable wish is allowed. And I choose this one.

Without anything else to add, I beg you not to believe in me anymore.

Yours affectionately,

GOSTO

Since his wife was still awake downstairs and could come upstairs any moment now, notice that letter, and throw everything to the wind; he decided to take it away with him and deposit it without a stamp in some mailbox in the city.

“She would have to pay a fine and perhaps that would be her only grief.”

“You, there,” he then said to the little revolver, making room for it in a pocket of the black velvet waistcoat resting unbuttoned over his dress shirt. And just as he was, in tux and tails, he left the house to greet the rising sun, giving his sincere regards to those who would remain behind.

II

It had rained earlier, and the drowsy streetlights reflected a flickering yellowish glow on the wet pavement of the deserted streets. But now the sky was beginning to clear up; it glistened here and there with stars. Thank heavens! It wouldn’t spoil his show.

He checked his watch; a quarter past two! How long would he have to wait there in the street, three hours maybe, maybe more? When did the sun usually rise at that time of year? Even nature, like any theater, staged its shows at set times. But he wasn’t ready for this schedule.

Accustomed to coming home every night extremely late, he had gotten used to the echo of his footsteps in the long, silent streets of the city. Yet on those other nights, his footsteps had a well-known destination: each new step brought him closer to his home, to his bed. Now, however...

He stopped for a moment. In the distance, a lamp close to the ground was moving along the sidewalk, leaving in its wake a staggering shadow, like that of an animal unable to stand upright.

A ciccajolo with his little lantern[5].

There he was! And that man could scratch out a living on what others threw away; on such bitter, poisonous, revolting little things.

“My God, life itself is nothing but a revolting melancholia.”

He was suddenly tempted, however, to make contact with that ciccajolo. And why not? There was nothing stopping him now. It would be a distraction, another type of experience. For God’s sake, he had renounced so many, renounced so many. He called out to him, handed him the freshly lit cigar.

“Hey, have a smoke?”

Filthy and stubbly, his toothless stinky mouth broke out into an idiotic laugh; he replied:

“First I’ll break it off and keep the stub. Then I’ll put it together with all the others. Thank you, mister.”

Gosto Bombichi glared at him in disgust. But the man glared back with red-rimmed eyes, glassy with frozen tears from the cold, and with an obscene sneer congealed on his lips, as if...

“If you’d like mister,” he said sure enough after a while, winking one of his eyes. “She’s just a stone’s throw away.”

Gosto Bombichi turned his back to him. Time to go! Time to get out of this town as soon as possible, out of this cesspool. As far away as possible! Strolling in the open air, he would find the best spot to enjoy the last show, and then farewell forever.[6]

He walked at a brisk pace until he passed the last houses on that road leading into the countryside. Here he paused again and looked around, lost. Then he looked up. Ah the wide free sky, incandescent with stars! So many innumerable flickers of light, such constant palpitation! He let out a sigh of relief: he felt soothed by it all. What tranquility! What peace! How different the night here was, just a stone’s throw from the city… where there in the world of men it was war, machinations of wretched suffering, bitter and restless tedium, here it was stunned, self-forgetful stillness. A stone's throw away, another world. Who knows why, nonetheless, he felt a strange resistance to step over there, almost out of fear.

The trees, shorn by the first autumn breezes, rose around him like ghosts moving mysteriously. It was the first time he had seen them in such a fashion, and he felt an undefinable torment. Once more he came to a standstill perplexed, almost oppressed by a fearsome awe; he went back to look around in the dark.

The stars’ twinkling, which both knit together and stretched apart the sky, did not touch the ground as light; yet to the shining tremble up above, there seemed to come as a response from far away, from the whole earth, another resounding continuous tremble: the chirping of crickets. He strained his ear to that call with his whole heart and soul: he sensed from that moment on the elusive rustling of the receding leaves, the bewildering nocturnal flurry of the sprawling countryside, and felt a mysterious angst, an agonizing dismay for all that unknown formlessness, swarming in the silence. In order to dodge these extremely piercing perceptions, he instinctively moved on.

In the ditch on the right side of that country lane flowed a quiet spring in the shadows, which here and there would dazzle brightly for a moment, perhaps from the reflection of some star or perhaps from a flying firefly flashing in intervals its green glow.

He walked along that ditch until he spotted a stepping-stone and climbed over the edge of the roadside to enter the countryside. The ground was soaked from fresh rainfall; the brushwood was still dripping. He advanced for a few steps through the muck and then stopped, discouraged. Poor black suit! Poor polished leather shoes! But come on, in the end any and all refined taste gets spoiled anyway!

A dog barked not too far away.

“And if it’s not… if it’s not allowed… well to die yes, but with presentable legs.”

He tried to make his way back to the street: splat! he slipped down the mucky slope; and one leg, needless to say, into the water of the ditch.

“A little footbath... meh, it’s whatever. I won't have time to get sick.”

He shook off the water from his leg and scrambled to the other side of the street. Here the ground was firmer and the countryside less forested. With each step he expected another howl.

Bit by bit his eyes grew used to the darkness; even at a distance he was able to recognize the trees. There appeared no sign of any dwelling nearby. Focused only on surmounting the difficulties of the path, with that soaking wet foot tugging him down like lead, he stopped thinking about the violent purpose which had driven him there to the countryside at night. He kept going for a long time, moving forward at a slant. The countryside began to slope slightly downwards. Far, far away, in the depths of the sky, a long mountain range was outlined in black by the starry dawn. The horizon was widening; there hadn’t been any trees for a while. Come on, it makes sense to stop here doesn’t it? Perhaps the sun would rise up over those distant mountains.

He looked at his watch again and upon first glance it seemed impossible it was already around four in the morning. He lit a match: indeed, it was six minutes to four. He was astonished at having walked so far, and sure enough he was exhausted. He sat on the ground; then, catching sight of a boulder not far away, he thought it looked better than his current spot and went to sit on it. Where was he? “Darkness and solitude!”

“Sheer madness...”

The exclamation came instinctively to his lips, like a gasp from his strangled common sense. Even so, stirred from his momentary daze, the strange spirit which had dragged him along on so many mad escapades immediately regained control over his common sense and coopted the meaning of the exclamation. It was sheer madness, yes, that joyless nocturnal jaunt to the countryside. It would have been far better if he had killed himself in the comfort of his own home: he wouldn’t have gotten so tired, would’ve skipped the footbath, and avoided soiling his shoes, pants, and tailcoat. It was true that in just a little while, he would have all the time in the world to rest. And besides, since he had already made it all the way there… Yes: but who knew how much longer he would have to wait for this darn sun to rise... Maybe more than an hour: an eternity... And he opened his mouth to a tremendous yawn.

“Yikes... if I fell asleep... brrr... it's cold too: clammy.”

He pulled up the lapels of his tailcoat, shoved his hands into his pockets, and closed his eyes–creating a type of cocoon. He wasn’t comfortable that was for sure. Mah! Anything for the sake of the show… He called to mind the beautifully furnished halls of the Circolo, aglow in electric light, its temperature warm and cozy... He saw his friends again... and was already giving in to sleep when suddenly...

“What was that?”

He opened his eyes wide, and the black night spread out around him in the fearsome wilderness. His blood tingled through his veins. He found himself in the throes of an extremely intense agitation. A rooster, a rooster had crowed far away somewhere... ah and now listen, another one from even further away answered him... over there in the pitch-black darkness.

“Good grief a rooster... how scary!”

He sprung to his feet and began pacing back and forth, without moving away from the spot where he had hunkered down for a moment. He imagined himself as a dog who, before returning to his kennel, feels the need to circle around it two or three times. Sure enough he went back to sit, but this time on the ground next to the boulder, so that he would be uncomfortable and fight the temptation to sleep.

There it was, the soil: firm... firm… actually as a matter of fact, old… old Earth! He was still able to feel it! For a little while longer... He outstretched his hand to a shrub rooted under the boulder and caressed it as one caresses a woman, by passing a hand over her hair.

“You wait for the plow to tear you apart; you wait for the seed to inseminate you....”

He pulled away his hand, which gave off a sharp fragrance of mint.

“Farewell, my dear!” he said gratefully, as if that woman had offered him the fragrance in exchange for his caress.

Sad and gloomy, he sank back down, reflecting on his turbulent life; all the despair, all the nausea of it gradually crystallized in the figure of his wife: he imagined her reading his letter in four or five hours’ time... what would she do?

“I’ll be here...” he said; and he saw himself there, dead, his body outstretched in the middle of the countryside, decomposing in the sun, with flies around his lips and his eyes shut.

A short while later, behind the distant mountains, the darkness began to slowly dissipate at the first sign of the dawn. Oh how sad, how tormenting was that very first light of heaven while earth was still bathed in night, making it seem as if that celestial body felt reluctant to reawaken the planet. But bit by bit the sun rose over the mountains and the sky with a soft, reinvigorating greenish light, which little by little grew, gilded and vibrating with its own intensity. The mountains in that light—soft, fragile and rosy—seemed almost to be breathing in the distance. And then finally it rose, fiery, delirious in its triumphant ardor, the disc of the sun.

Dirty and bundled up on the ground, Gosto Bombichi slept deeply with his head leaning against the boulder, the full breadth of his chest heaving, his snores making noisy bellows.