Tales of Madness (21 page)

This, mind you, is what Mrs. Frola says, not to demonstrate all the more that he is the one who's mad, but rather to prove even to herself that her suspicion is well-founded.

"And meanwhile," she concludes, with a sigh on her lips that assumes the form of a sweet and extremely sad smile, "meanwhile my poor daughter has to pretend that she's not herself, but someone else, and I, too, am forced to pretend that I'm mad because I believe my daughter is still alive. It doesn't cost me much, thank God, because my daughter is there — healthy and full of life. I can see her, I can talk to her. But I'm condemned to live apart from her and to see and talk to her from a distance so that he can believe — or pretend to believe — that my daughter (oh, God forbid!) is dead, and that the woman he lives with is his second wife. But I repeat, what does it matter if, by doing this, we've succeeded in giving them both their peace of mind? I know that my daughter is adored and happy. I can see her, I can talk to her. And I resign myself out of my love for her and for him to living like this and even to passing for a madwoman. My dear lady..., one must have patience..."

I ask you, don't you think that in Valdana there's reason enough for all of us to stand about staring into one another's eyes, open-mouthed like so many fools? Which of the two should we believe? Which of them is mad? Where does reality begin? Where does fantasy end?

Mr. Ponza's wife could tell us. But you can no more rely on her
if, in his presence, she should say she's his second wife than if, in Mrs. Frola's presence, she should agree that she's her daughter. You would have to take her aside and have her tell you the truth privately. But that's not possible. Mr. Ponza, whether or not he's the one who's mad, is really quite jealous and doesn't allow anyone to see his wife. He keeps her up there under lock and key, as if in a prison. And this fact undoubtedly reinforces Mrs. Frola's argument. But Mr. Ponza says he's forced to do so, and that actually it's his wife herself who insists on his doing it, out of fear that Mrs. Frola might enter their home at any time to pay her a surprise visit. It could be an excuse. But there's also the fact that Mr. Ponza doesn't keep a single servant in the house. He says he does it to save money, since he's obliged to pay the rent for two apartments. In the meantime, he takes it upon himself to do the daily shopping while his wife, whom he maintains is not Mrs. Frola's daughter, takes it upon herself to do all the housework—even the most menial chores—depriving herself of the help of a servant. She does all this out of compassion for her, that is, for the poor old woman who was her husband's mother-in-law. It all seems a bit preposterous to everyone.
But
it's also true that this state of affairs, even if it can't be explained in terms of compassion, can be viewed as resulting from his jealousy.

Meanwhile, the prefect of Valdana has expressed his satisfaction with Mr. Ponza's declaration. But certainly Mr. Ponza's appearance and, to a great extent, his behavior, don't speak in his favor, at least as far as the ladies of Valdana are concerned,
all of whom tend rather to believe Mrs. Frola. She, in fact, comes
along to eagerly show them the affectionate little letters that her daughter lowers to her in a little basket. She also shows them a good many other private documents whose authenticity, however, is utterly denied by Mr. Ponza. He states that they have been issued to her only to further comfort her in this piteous deception.

At any rate, there's one thing that's for certain: they both show a marvelous spirit of self-sacrifice towards one another. It's most touching! And each has for the presumed madness of the other the most exquisitely compassionate consideration. Both of them argue their cases marvelously. So well do they reason, that in Valdana it would not have occurred to anyone to say that one of them was mad, if they themselves had not said
so, Mr. Ponza about Mrs. Frola, and Mrs. Frola about Mr. Ponza.

Mrs. Frola often goes to see her son-in-law at the prefecture to
ask him for some advice, or else she waits for him at the exit to have him accompany her on one of her shopping errands. As for Mr. Ponza, very often during his free time and every evening he pays Mrs. Frola a visit in her furnished apartment. And whenever one of them happens to run into the other along the street, they immediately get together with the utmost cordiality. He walks along the street side and, if she's tired, offers her his arm. And they proceed along together like that, amid the puzzled annoyance and the stupor and consternation of the people who examine them well, look them up and down, spy on them and... nothing comes of it. They still are unable in any way to find out which of the two is mad, where fantasy ends and where reality begins.

When there's someone around, I never look at her, but I feel that she's looking at me, she's looking at me without taking her eyes off me for a moment.

I'd like to make her understand in private that it's nothing, that she should relax, that I couldn't allow myself to perform this brief act in front of others, that for her it's of no importance, but for me it's everything. I perform it every day at the right moment in utmost secrecy and with frightful joy because, trembling, I experience the delight of a divine, conscious madness that for an instant frees me and allows me to get even with everything.

The terror that would take hold of everybody if this act of mine were discovered, yes, there it is, I can read it now in my victim's eyes.

I have been entrusted with the life, honor, freedom, and possessions of countless people who besiege me from morning to night for my work, advice, and help. I'm burdened with other extremely great responsibilities, both public as well as private. I've got a wife and children, who often don't behave as they should, and who, therefore, continually need to be kept in check by my strict authority and by the constant example of my inflexible and faultless fidelity towards all my obligations, one more serious than the other: that of husband, father, citizen, law professor, attorney. So heaven help us if my secret were discovered!

It's true, my victim can't speak. Nonetheless, for some days now, I've no longer felt sure of it. I'm upset and restless because, though it's true she can't speak, she does look at me, she looks at me with such strange eyes, and the terror in those eyes is so obvious that I fear someone might become aware of it from one moment to the next and be led to seek an explanation.

Actually I shouldn't say I saw nothing. My eyes did see. They saw and perhaps enjoyed the grace and beauty of the Umbrian countryside on their own. But I certainly paid no attention to what my eyes were seeing.

Nevertheless, the attention I was paying to the problem occupying my mind gradually began to wane, without meanwhile increasing my awareness of the countryside that continued to pass before my eyes, limpid, light, and relaxing.

I wasn't thinking about what I was seeing, and finally I ceased thinking about anything. I remained for an incalculable spell as if in an indefinite, eerie state of suspension, and yet one that was clear and peaceful. Ethereal. My spirit had almost become estranged from my senses and had taken refuge in an indefinitely distant place where, inexplicably and with a sense of joy that didn't seem its own, it caught a glimpse of the seething of a different life. Not its own, but one that could have been its own. Not here, not now, but there in that infinitely distant place. It was the seething of a remote life which perhaps had been its own, it knew not how or when, and of which it had
a vague recollection, not of acts, not of images but, as it were, of
desires that vanished even before they were formed. And there was the feeling of not existing, which, though empty, was sad and painful. It was perhaps the same sorrow felt by flowers that were unable to bloom. In short, it was the seething of a life that had not come into being, but that was to be lived, there, far, far away, where it was beckoning with throbs and flickers of light. There, ah yes, certainly there, my spirit would find itself quite complete and full, ready not only to enjoy itself but also to endure sufferings — sufferings, however, that would be truly its own.