Free Tales of Madness by Luigi Pirandello Page A

have deemed him capable of, knowing him to be opposed to all those intimate and quite curious grooming engagements that every young man usually has with his own image for hours on end in front of a mirror. Wonders of love!
    Where had he been these last three years? Here in Rome he had once lived in the home of Quirino Renzi, his brother-in-law, who of the two was my true friend. In fact, for me he was more "Renzi's brother-in-law," than Bindi in his own right. He had gone to Forli two years before Renzi left Rome, and I had not seen him since. Now here he is back in Rome, and engaged to be married.
    Oh, my dear fellow, I continued to think, you're certainly not a painter any longer. Dree, dree, dree. Your shoes squeak too much. I bet you've taken up some other occupation, that is, a much more remunerative one. I commend you for it, despite the fact that this new occupation has persuaded you to get married.
    I saw him again two or three days later, almost at the same time, again with his bride-to-be and his future mother-in-law. Another exchange of greetings accompanied by smiles. Nodding slightly, yet ever so graciously, even the bride-to-be smiled at me this time.
    From that smile I deduced that Tito certainly had spoken at length of me, of my famous spells of absent mindedness, and had also probably told her that Quirino Renzi, his brother-in-law, calls me Pitagora because I don't eat beans. No doubt, he had also explained to her why you can jokingly call a person Pitagora if he doesn't eat beans, etc., etc. Things that are so amusing.
    I noticed that this business about the beans probably made the funniest impression, particularly on the mother-in-law. Meeting her again subsequently, I don't know how many times — the three of them always together — that old goose, after returning my greeting, would actually burst out laughing without even trying to hide her laughter, and she would also turn around to look at me as she continued to laugh.
    I would have liked to take Tito aside one day and ask him, just between the two of us, if his present happiness didn't offer him, his bride-to-be, and his future mother-in-law, any other occasion for laughter than this. If this were the case, I would pity him; but I never had the opportunity to do so. I also wanted to get some news from him concerning Renzi and his wife.
    But, one fine day, lo and behold, I receive this telegram from Forli: "A terrible jam, Pitagora. Will be in Rome day after tomorrow. Be at station 8:20 a.m. — Renzi."
    What! I thought, he has his brother-in-law here, and wants me to meet him at the station? Concerning that "terrible jam," I ran through countless suppositions, the most reasonable of which seemed to me to be this: Tito was about to contract a horrible marriage and Renzi was coming to Rome to attempt to foil the plan. After about three months of greetings and smiles, I confess that I had already begun to feel an irresistible dislike for that dollish bride-to-be, and something worse for her mother.
    The next day, at eight a.m., I was at the station. And now, you judge for yourself whether I'm not really being hounded by a nonsensical destiny. The train arrives, and there's Renzi at the window of one of the coaches. I rush forward... but my legs suddenly double up under me and my arms fall to my side.
    "I've got poor Tito here with me," says Renzi, pointing compassionately to his brother-in-law.
    That's Tito Bindi? How can it be? Whom then have I been greeting for three months along the streets of Rome? There he is, Tito... Oh, my God, what a state he has been reduced to!
    "Tito, Tito... but how can it be?... you..." I stammer.
    Tito throws his arms around my neck and bursts out crying profusely. Dumbfounded, I look at Renzi. How can it be? Why? I feel I am going mad. Renzi then points to his forehead, shuts his eyes, and sighs. (Who? He, I, or Tito? Which of us is the madman?)
    "Come on now, Tito," Renzi exhorts his brother-in-law, "calm down!. Calm