“Happiness” (“Felicità”)

Translated by Shirley Vinall

How to cite this work:

Pirandello, Luigi. “Happiness” (“Felicità”), tr. Shirley Vinall. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2026.

“Happiness” was published for the first time in the Corriere della Sera on April 26, 1911, and was later included in the miscellany collection Tercets (Terzetti) in 1912 (Treves, Milan). In 1928, the story became part of The Trip (Il viaggio), the twelfth collection of Stories for a Year (Novelle per un anno).

“Happiness” is set in Palermo, and the plot focuses on the personal vicissitudes of a noble but decaying aristocratic family. Pirandello explores the crisis of a social class that clings to empty privileges while affection and real feelings are callously overlooked. The story moves between the suffocating gloom of the family palazzo and the modest house where the female protagonist, Elisabetta, tries to build a new life, dramatizing the conflict between dead social forms and the vitality of maternal love. The story centers on Elisabetta’s feelings. The neglected daughter of a once-powerful aristocratic family in decline, she lives in the oppressive atmosphere of a noble palazzo ruled by a rigid, prideful father. Forced to ask for permission to marry a humble schoolteacher, Elisabetta receives a cold and humiliating consent that leads her to become even more isolated from her world of privilege. Elisabetta’s pregnancy becomes the occasion for a profound transformation; she experiences this new state not with fear or as a burden but rather as a fulfillment that absorbs her completely. As such, the plot is less concerned with the external events of marriage and family conflict as the intense, private drama of a woman who discovers the deepest purpose for her own existence through maternity.

This story thus contrasts the dead social norms of an aristocracy that survives only through appearances and the quiet behavior of a woman who reveals an inner strength that the others do not suspect. With lucid psychological realism, Pirandello examines how Elisabetta’s understanding of her own situation, namely that her husband is only willing to marry her for her dowry without truly loving her; and yet she deliberately accepts this humiliation and sacrifice in order to become a mother. The story thus highlights a form of radical and almost mystical motherhood that is different from what we see in other stories, where pregnancy is often associated with violence and horror for the woman—see, for example, “Black Shawl” (“Scialle nero,” 1904) or “Oblivion” (“Ignare,” 1912). While pregnancy in Pirandello’s works frequently binds women to life through suffering, here Elisabetta’s gestation becomes an experience that absorbs her entire personality, revealing her enthusiasm for generating life. The titular “happiness” seems to frame not just the blessing brought by a baby (which for Elisabetta will be “tutto suo,”“wholly hers”), but also the moral of the story, which suggests that true nobility lies not in noble titles but in the quiet dignity of a woman who chooses love and life over appearances.The Editors

The duchess, an elderly mother, as if stunned, came out of the room in which her husband had shut himself, ever since the day when their daughter-in-law had abandoned the palace and the city to return, with their two grandsons, to her family in Nicosìa.[1]

Feeling as though she were being torn apart inside, she grimaced and tensed up completely at the mournful creak of the door, which she would have liked to close very gradually. What was that creak? Nothing. Probably the duke had not even noticed it. And yet for a while it left the old duchess quivering, panting, and gripped by a dull fury, as if that door, even though handled with such care, had wanted to spite her in a most cruel way.

Like the souls of those living there, all the objects in that house, filled with so many family memories, seemed as if they had been violently restrained for some time: at the slightest touch, they would break out in a groan.

She listened intently for a while; then, with a distraught look on her pale face and her neck bowed as though bearing a yoke, she walked over the thick carpets through several dimly-lit rooms where, amongst the ancient drapes and the tall, dark, almost funereal furniture, there lingered a strange dryness, like a stuffiness from the past, and she reached the doorway of the distant room where Elisabetta, her daughter, stood waiting for her in anxious agitation.

At the sight of her mother’s manner, Elisabetta felt she might collapse. The energy with which she had intended to run towards her mother just as soon as she appeared, suddenly vanished, and all of her limbs immediately went slack, so that she could not even lift her frail hands to hide her face.

But her elderly mother came close to her and gently put her hand on her shoulder:

“My dear girl,” she told her, “He has said yes.”

The daughter gave a sudden start and stared at her mother with a dazed look. The contrast between the exultation aroused in her by this announcement, and the stifling feeling provoked by her mother’s stunned and sad expression, was so violent that the poor creature, wringing her hands, half laughing and half crying, let out a shriek:

“Yes? Yes? But how? Yes?”

“Yes,” repeated her mother, more by nodding than by speaking.

“Did he shout? Was he furious?”

“No, not at all.”

“So what, then?”

But she immediately realized that it was precisely because her father had said yes without shouting or losing his temper that her mother was so deeply distressed and bewildered.

She had asked her to ask her father to agree to her marriage to the tutor of the two sons of the recently departed daughter-in-law.

But her father’s agreement, granted in this way, with no shouting or rage, meant something very different to her from what it did to her mother.

Very different; but no less painful.

Perhaps because she was a woman, and the second born, or perhaps because she was not beautiful, and so timid seeming, with a humble heart and manner, so shy and quiet, she had never been regarded by him as a daughter. He had seen her rather as an encumbrance in the house, an encumbrance who only bothered him when he felt himself being watched. There was no point, therefore, in his getting angry or making his own life a misery if she wanted to marry a servant, a good-for-nothing tutor, a humble elementary school teacher; perhaps in his opinion she was not worthy of any other marriage.

Her mother, on the other hand, in such a state of fear but driven by love for her daughter, had put forward this proposal to her husband in full knowledge of his pride. She knew that the more worrying the family’s financial circumstances had gradually become, the more his fanaticism and arrogance had increased; and she was aware of the furious outbursts that assailed him whenever the common people did something that he took for an attempt on his aristocratic privileges. She thought therefore that if he was deviating so much from his usual self, and his most firmly-held feelings, then this must undoubtedly be the beginning of the final breakdown of his spirit—after the last blow dealt him by his son, the only heir to his name, who had been seduced by a common woman of the stage and had run off with her a year before.[2]

Don Gaspare Grisanti, the Duke of Rosàbia, the Marquis of Collemagno, Baron Fontana and Gibella, was a lifelong supporter of the former Kingdom of the Two Sicilies,[3] a member of the Neapolitan Court’s chivalric order of the Golden Key,[4] and had the honor of still being in correspondence with the last survivors of the fallen dynasty. During the daily promenade along the Via Marqueda,[5] it was he who dominated the scene, from the heights of his ancient coach, with two footmen behind him, bewigged and motionless as statues, and another one alongside the gigantic coachman; stiff, gloomy and disdainful, he never greeted anyone on his way to the lonely Favorita Park.[6] And yet it was he who was agreeing that his daughter should marry a certain Fabrizio Pingiterra,[7] an elementary school and physical training teacher, who had been a tutor to his grandsons. That things should come to this! He had hoped that his son’s marriage, with a very rich heiress, the only daughter of a country baron, would restore his family’s fortunes. But then the wicked fellow had got himself embroiled in a love affair because of which, amid much disgrace, he had had to run away; the Duke’s daughter-in-law, deaf to all entreaties, had obtained a legal separation from her husband and had gone back to her family home. Everything was over. Only, whatever other sacrifices were necessary, he wanted to retain that sumptuous coach with the three bewigged footmen for his daily public appearance, and to keep the liveried doorman with his mace down at the palace entrance, despite the fact that for a month, that is since the day of his daughter-in-law’s departure, the gate to the grand staircase had been closed to prevent anyone from entering ever again.

“Aren’t you dead?” he had asked his wife. “And me too,” he had added. “The children, in the gutter; and we, like the dead, carry on our masquerade.”[8]

Elisabetta sighed, shook herself, and asked her mother:

“What did he tell you?”

Her mother wanted to somehow soften the harshness of the terms and conditions that her father had laid down in a cold, calm, and defiant manner which admitted no objection; but the daughter begged her to tell her everything, unvarnished.

“Well, you know that for a while he has no longer wanted to see anyone.”

“So, he is unwilling to see him. And what else?”

“Also, the staircase, you know, is shut off, since your sister-in-law…”

“So he wants him to carry on coming up by the servants’ stairs. And what else?”

Her mother was even more reluctant to speak. She did not know how to tell her daughter that after her marriage she must no longer set foot in the palace, even on her own.

“So… so that we can see each other,” she stammered, “yes, then… when you are married, I’ll come, I’ll come every day to your house.”

Elisabetta took her mother’s hand and kissed it, bathing it with her tears and sighing:

“Oh mother… poor mother…”

“Do you know what?” her mother continued, “it almost, it almost made me laugh… You know how important his coach is to him… well, not that, he says, not that!”

And as though this really were something to laugh about, her mother, the elderly duchess, burst out laughing, laughing and pretending that her laughter was preventing her from carrying on to tell her daughter about this further condition which, indeed, was nothing other than ridiculous.[9]

“He wants me to hire a little carriage, he says, to visit you. He is willing, however, for us to go out together for a ride, in that… but not in the coach! Not in the coach! Ah, that coach… that coach…”

“How much is he willing to give me?” asked Elisabetta. Her mother pretended not to understand, or rather not to understand properly, in order to take time to formulate this further answer, which was the most distressing.

“How much of what?” she said.

“How much of a dowry, mother.”

This was the point. Elisabetta was not under the slightest illusion. She knew that the tutor would not marry her for any other reason. She was also seven years older than he was, and she recognized that, already faded, or worse, shriveled up, without ever having been in bloom, in the silence and shadow of that house weighed down by so many dead things, she had nothing, precisely nothing within her, to arouse and kindle a man’s desire. If no money was involved, not even the ambition to become the son-in-law of the Duke of Rosàbia—even in name only—would be enough to make him accept her. He had already made it clear to her, possibly foreseeing that the Duke would never lower himself to consider and treat him as a son-in-law; indeed, he had even dared to confess that since he, Fabrizio Pingiterra, possessed democratic and liberal views like his friend, the Duke’s son, it would almost be a sacrifice to ally himself with a patrician of such notoriously reactionary ideas: but he was doing it willingly for her, for her who was so gentle and good; solely for her. That is to say, solely for the money, she had translated to herself, without revulsion or disgust.

No, no: neither revulsion nor disgust. She needed to keep the nobility and purity of her thoughts and feelings aloft, very high up, at the summit of her spirits, carefully guarded and hidden away so that they would not become soiled in the slightest through this unworthy contact. But then, lowering herself to him, allowing him to suspect the basest things about her, humiliating herself, giving herself, abandoning herself—no, that should not cause her revulsion or disgust, because it was necessary, inevitable, to achieve her aim. She wanted to live, to live: that is to say she wanted to become a mother; she wanted a child of her own, all her own; and she could not have one in any other way.

This furious desire had been born and flared up in her while she was devoting her whole heart, her whole soul, all the care of a mother and even her sleep at night to those two nephews who had left a month before, to her sister-in-law’s two children who, opening her eyes, had brought daylight not only into the darkness of that palace, but also into her soul, which was full of it, the dawning light of an inexpressible sweetness and freshness, which had renewed her completely.[10]

What a burning pain and torment it was, not being able to make them her own, her own flesh and blood, those little ones, by hugging them so tightly, kissing them, and putting herself completely in their power, with their tiny little pink feet up against her face, just like that, against her breast, just like that.

Why could she not have one herself, a child of her own, truly her own? She would go mad with happiness! She would have suffered any humiliation, any shame, even martyrdom, for the joy of having a child of her own!

Could he not realize this, the young tutor, who had been employed to put the two children through the first trials of the alphabet, when he saw them in their aunt’s lap, not wanting to leave her even for a moment?

Now, everything depended on his accepting those terms and conditions. No dowry, sadly: a simple allowance of twenty lire a day, and funds to furnish a modest little house. Elisabetta understood that the harsher the terms—if he accepted them—the higher the price of her happiness.

Trembling with anxiety, she waited for her mother to inform him that same evening. That was it, he was in the next room. Poor, good mother, who knows what she must be suffering at that moment! And as for herself, what about her? Wringing her hands, covering her eyes, holding her head, clenching her teeth, and with her entire being focused on him, she cried out: Accept! Accept! You don’t know what a blessing I could give you, if you accept! Then she strained her ears to listen. That was it: if he did not accept the agreement, her mother would appear at the door like a shadow, poor mother, her arms hanging limply at her sides. If he accepted, on the other hand, oh! if he accepted, they would call her from the other room… Oh God, when? When? How much longer?

Her elderly mother appeared at the door like a shadow, and once again, on seeing her, Elisabetta felt she was going to die. But just as she had done that morning, her mother came close to her, and, putting her hand on her shoulder, told her that he had accepted, only he had been enraged by the condition that he had to enter via the servants’ stairs. But, for goodness’ sake, the grand staircase was closed to everyone! And he had always entered that way! That was all; he had become very angry, and so as not to grieve her too much with the sight of—how did he put it?—yes, his agitation, he had gone away, never to set foot in the palace ever again. However, they would meet outside, every day, to choose their house and buy the furniture: he wanted everything done in the shortest possible time.

As if! Immediately, like a flash! It seemed that happiness gave Elisabetta wings; and while it could not make her beautiful, it filled her eyes with such brightness, gave her smiles such sweet, sad charm, and her manners such timid grace, in order to calm that man’s indignation, make up for the insults to his dignity, and show him—if not love exactly—then complete submissiveness and gratitude!

The little house was soon found, out of the way, almost in the countryside, in Via Cuba,[11] fragrant with the scent of orange blossom and jasmine. The trousseau, richly decorated with frills, ribbons, and embroidery, had been ready for some time; the simple, almost rustic furniture was arranged just as soon as it was purchased, and it proved possible for the almost secret wedding, to which no-one was invited and in which the duke was not involved, to be concluded within the minimum time required for the civic and religious practices and formalities.

In this flurry of activity, no bride about to tie the knot was more aware of the seriousness and sanctity of the act than Elisabetta. And for around four months, with the joy that radiated like a charm from her changed body, she succeeded in binding her husband to her in love, that is to say, for as long as she had need of him. Then she became blinded by the thrill of the first sign of pregnancy, and no longer saw anything else; nothing else mattered to her any longer. It did not matter to her if he went out and came home late, or if he did not come home at all; it did not matter if he lacked respect towards her and ill-treated her; and as for the allowance of a few lire which her mother brought her each day, it did not matter to her if he took it all and spent it goodness knows how, where, or with whom. She did not want to take offence at anything, or care about anything, so as not to disturb in any way the blessed workings of nature, which were being fulfilled in her and which had to be fulfilled in a state of joy, as she drank into her soul the azure purity of the sky, the enchantment of that ring of mountains which breathed the warm and throbbing air as though they were not made of solid rock, and the sun which poured into her little rooms as it had never done in the gloomy chambers of her father’s palace.

“But yes, mother, can’t you see? I am happy! Happy!”

The rented carriage moved almost at walking pace so as not to shake the expectant mother too much, and everyone turned and stopped in the road to stare pityingly at the elderly Duchess of Rosàbia in that humble little vehicle with her daughter at her side, so shabbily dressed and having come down so far in the world—thrown out by her father, married in secret, goodness knew when or to whom. She was more wretched than ever, misshapen through pregnancy, and yet she was so full of smiles: oh yes, poor thing, just look at her there, all smiles while her mother looked down at her with pitying eyes.

And the Duchess of Rosàbia, taken in by this happiness, would never have suspected that that despicable man had gone so far as to leave her daughter without food. But one day, when the Duchess signaled to the coachman to stop outside a confectioner’s so that she could buy her daughter some pastries, Elisabetta managed to say to her, in a lighthearted tone, that rather than those pastries, if her mother had money to spend, she would prefer something more substantial, and she would show her, herself, where she could buy her something to eat: near her little house, in a vegetable garden, in the shack belonging to an old peasant woman who owned many doves and hens and sold their eggs every day. She was hungry, hungry, really hungry.

“But aren’t you eating proper meals?” her mother asked her when, a few hours later, she saw her daughter sitting at a rough table in front of the little shack in the peasant woman’s garden, gazing hungrily at a roast chicken and devouring it.

And Elisabetta, laughing and without stopping eating, said:

“But yes! I eat a lot, ever such a lot! But I never have enough, don’t you see? I am eating for two!”

Meanwhile, behind her back, the old peasant woman nodded and glanced at the Duchess, making signs that she did not understand.  

She did understand some time later when, on entering her daughter’s house, she found it full of police officers carrying out an official search. Fabrizio Pingiterra, who was accused of forgery and belonging to a gang of fraudsters, had fled to Greece or America, no one was sure.

When she saw her, Elisabetta rushed towards her as though to shield her and prevent her from witnessing such a sight, and started to say hurriedly:

“It’s nothing, mother, nothing! Don’t be afraid!... Look, I’m quite calm! Rather, let’s thank God, mother, let’s thank God!” And she added quietly, in her ear, shaking all over: “Like this, he won’t see him! He won’t get to know him, do you understand? And he will be mine all the more, all mine, completely mine!”

But the agitation precipitated the birth, not without risk, for both her and the baby. However, when she saw that she was safe, and so was the baby, when she saw her own flesh living and breathing apart from her, crying outside her, blindly seeking her breast and her warmth, when she was able to offer her nipple to her child, taking pleasure in the fact that her warm mother’s milk could immediately enter that tiny body that had so recently emerged from her own, so that the infant could still feel the warmth of her womb in the warmth of the milk, it truly seemed that she wished to go mad with joy.

And she could not understand why her mother, on her daily visits, became increasingly sad and gloomy even when she saw her like this. But why?

Her elderly mother finally explained: she had hoped that her father, now that his daughter was abandoned and all alone, would give in and welcome her back into the home; but no, he refused.

“Is that why?” exclaimed Elisabetta. “Oh my poor dear mother! I am sorry about it for your sake; but I would weep, believe me, if I had to take my child into that sadness, that oppression, when the light has given him such joy, here, don’t you see? Such delight!”

And surrounded by the bare, blessed simplicity of the little house, she lifted her baby boy in her arms, into the sunlight which poured in gaily, bringing with it the freshness of the gardens, through the wide-open windows of the balcony.