“Set Fire to the Straw” (“Fuoco alla paglia”)

Translated by Scott Belluz

How to cite this work:

Pirandello, Luigi.“Set Fire to the Straw” (“Fuoco alla paglia”), tr. Scott Belluz. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2024.

“Set Fire to the Straw" was first published in the literary magazine Il Marzocco on January 15, 1905, where it appeared with an exclamation mark at the end of the title. Pirandello then added it to the second Collection of his Stories for a Year, Naked Life (La vita nuda), which was published in Florence by Bemporad in 1922.

“Set Fire to the Straw" centers on a story of downfall and redemption, but with a humorous twist typical of Pirandello’s approach to combining tragedy and comedy to evoke both laughter and compassion in what he dubs umorismo (humor). The main character, Simone Lampo, has become a social misfit after losing his wealth through bad investments in the sulfur mining industry, which was very prominent in Sicily at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century. Banding together with another outcast, a vagabond “madman,” Nàzzaro, he seeks to free himself from his own suffering. But the madman’s plan requires more than he expected, leaving him in an ambiguous place at the end of the story, both liberated as he wished but also unhappy at the cost of that liberation. The narrative development of this plot reflects key elements of Pirandello’s outlook, and it likewise draws on his own biography. Structured in a way that makes use of umorismo, it demonstrates Pirandello’s intense interest in the suffering caused by the ways in which life fails to meet our expectations, and the human desire to escape that distress. That, in turn, is inflected by Pirandello’s own family history with the sulfur mining industry. His father, Stefano, made a small fortune investing in sulfur mining, and Luigi and his wife, Antonietta, lived off of those earnings when they moved to Rome. However, in 1903 there was a tragic turn of events when the mines in Porto Empedocle, Sicily, flooded, ruining Luigi’s family as well as Antonietta’s (her father was one of Stefano Pirandello’s business associates, and so their wealth was invested in the same mines). After this disaster left the family suddenly impoverished, Antonietta began to suffer a serious mental health collapse that deteriorated for more than a decade until she was eventually moved to a psychiatric institution in 1919. So, for Luigi, the sulfur mines and their promise of riches were deeply suspicious and a source of great pain, something we see manifested in this story, alongside an interest in thinking about how it would be possible to escape from that suffering. For Pirandello, that escape seems to have been possible only through the imaginative work of literary and artistic creation; but in this story, as in others, Pirandello’s characters also suggest a kind of madness and rejection of social norms, conventions, and roles, as another way out.

The Editors

It had been a while since he’d had someone to order about, so Simone Lampo had taken to ordering himself around. And he didn't spare himself the rod:

“Here, Simone! There, Simone!”

Spiteful because of his circumstances, he deliberately forced the most thankless chores upon himself. Sometimes he’d pretend to rebel, then force himself to obey, simultaneously acting out both roles in the farce. For example, he’d cry out in a rage:

“I don’t want to do it!”

“Simone, I said pick up that manure or I’ll beat you! No?”

Whack!... He gave himself a tremendous smack, then picked up the manure.

That day, after visiting his small estate, the only remaining parcel of all the land he’d once owned (barely five acres, abandoned up there, without a single farmhand to tend to it), he ordered himself to saddle up the old donkey that he’d often engage in contrived conversation on his way back to town.

The little donkey, presently pricking up first one, then another balding ear, seemed to listen patiently to her master, even though he’d been inflicting a certain irritation upon her for some time now that she could not explain: it was something that bumped under her tail as she went along.

It was a wicker basket without a handle that had been tied to the crupper of the saddle with two laces and suspended under the poor beast’s tail, to collect and carry the steaming hot pellets of dung, which she would otherwise have planted along the road.

Everyone laughed at the sight of that old donkey, the basket behind her at the ready; and Simone Lampo reveled in it.

The townsfolk knew very well how lavishly he’d once lived and what little regard he’d had for money. But now, he’d been schooled by the ants who, b-a-ba, b-a-ba, had taught him about this device to prevent losing even the slightest amount of those droppings which were so good for enriching the soil.[1] Yessiree!

“Come now, Nina, come, let me put the pretty trim on! What are we anymore, Nina? You’re nothing, and I’m no one. All we’re good for is making the town laugh. But don’t you worry. We’ve still got a few hundred birds at home. Chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp… They don't want to be eaten! But I eat them, and the whole town laughs. Here’s to happiness!”

He was referring to another one of his bright ideas that was truly as good as the basket hanging under the donkey’s tail.

Months ago, he’d pretended to believe that he could become rich again by raising birds. He’d converted five of the rooms of his house in town into a bird cage (thus it was known as the madman’s cage). He’d confined himself to living in two small rooms on the upper floor among scant furnishings salvaged from the shipwreck of his finances, and had screened in the doors, blinds, and panes of the small and large windows to provide ventilation for the birds.

From morning to night, much to the neighborhood’s great delight, from the five rooms arose squawks and screeches and shrieks and cheeps, the cackling of blackbirds and the warbling of finches: a twittering and a dense chirping that was continuous and deafening.

For many days, however, discouraged by the results of his business venture, Simone Lampo had begun eating the small birds at every meal and had destroyed the apparatus of rods and nets that he’d used to capture the little birds by the hundreds on his little estate.

Having saddled the donkey, he rode towards town.

Even if her master had stormed her with lashes, Nina would not have quickened her step. She seemed to deliberately slow down so he’d fully appreciate the sad thoughts that, according to him, came because of her––or rather, because of the way his head bobbed on account of her slow gait. Yessiree. From atop his mount, his head bobbing constantly, he looked around at the desolation of fields that grew dark with the last glimmers of twilight, and he couldn’t help but pity his own ruin.

It was the sulfur mines that had ruined him.

How many mountains had been disemboweled following the illusion of hidden treasure! He’d believed that inside every mountain, there was another California to discover. Californias everywhere![2] Pits as deep as two- or three-hundred meters, ventilation shafts, steam engine systems, aqueducts to draw water, and so many other expenses––all for a vein of sulfur that ultimately wasn’t worth pursuing. Neither the repetition of this sad experience nor his vows to never again dabble in other ventures was enough to distract him from subsequent attempts, until he finally ended up, as he was now, nearly broke.[3] Even his wife had left him to go live with her rich brother since their only daughter, in desperation, had become a nun.

Now he was alone, without even a minion to order around the house; alone and consumed by a constant compulsive preoccupation that caused him to commit such foolish acts.

Yes, he knew it: he was conscious of his foolish acts; he committed them on purpose, to spite the people who had fawned over him when he was rich and who now turned their backs and laughed at him. Everyone, everyone laughed at him and avoided him; nobody wanted to help him. Not one person said: My fellow, what are you doing? Come here. You know how to work and have always worked honestly. Enough of this madness. Come join me in a good venture! Nobody.

And in his abandonment, in that stark, bitter solitude, the frenzy, the gnawing grew within him, exasperating him even further.

It was the uncertainty of his situation that tortured him the most. Yes, because now he was neither rich nor poor. He could no longer mingle with the rich, and the poor wouldn’t recognize him as one of their own due to his house in town and his little estate up there. But what did the house yield him? Nothing. Taxes were all it yielded. And as for the estate, well: the fact was that it only produced a small amount of grain which, if harvested within a few days, would more or less give him just enough to pay the bishop’s land tax. How would he eat then? And those poor little birds… even this was pitiful! It could be overlooked if he was just trapping them for his bird shop in an attempt to bring people joy, transeat;[4] but now that he was going down into that enormous cage to catch, kill, and eat them…

“Come on, Nina, let’s go! Are you asleep this evening? Let’s go!”

That damned house and that damned farm kept him from being even a decent pauper, poor and mad there in the middle of the road, poor and carefree like so many he knew, and of whom he was painfully envious, given his current state of exasperation.[5]

All of a sudden Nina baulked, her ears stiffening.

“Who’s there?” Simone Lampo cried.

On the parapet of a bridge alongside the boulevard he thought he could see someone lying there in the dark.

“Who’s there?”

Whoever it was there lying down lifted their head slightly and let out a kind of grunt.

“Oh, is that you Nàzzaro? What are you doing there?”

“I’m waiting for the stars.”

“Are you going to eat them?”

“No, I’m going to count them.”

“And then?”

Annoyed by these questions, Nàzzaro sat up on the parapet and shouted crossly through his thick, wadded beard:

“Go away, Don Simo’, don’t bother me![6] You know very well that I’m finished doing business for the day and I don’t want to talk to you!”

So saying, he lay back down on the parapet, belly up, to wait for the stars.

Whenever he earned a little money, either by grooming a few animals or by doing some other odd job, so long as it was quick, Nàzzaro felt like the king of the world. A few coins-worth of bread and a few coins-worth of fruit. That was all he needed. And if someone offered him another job where he could earn more than that, say one or even ten liras, he’d turn them down, responding disdainfully, as was his way:

“I’m through doing business!”

And he’d set off wandering through the countryside or along the seashore or up into the mountains. One ran into him everywhere. Even in the most unexpected places, there he’d be; barefoot and silent, hands behind his back, his clear eyes roving and laughing.

“Well, will you go away or not?” he shouted, sitting up again on the parapet, incensed to see that Simone had stopped with his donkey and was watching him.

“You don’t want me either?” Simone Lampo said, shaking his head. “But come on now, we could make a fine pair, you and I.”

“You and the devil would make a fine pair!” Nàzzaro muttered, lying back again. “As I said, you’re in mortal sin!”

“On account of those little birds?”

“Your soul, your soul, your heart… don’t you feel anything gnawing at your heart? Those are all creatures of God that you’ve eaten! Go away… It’s a mortal sin!”

“Giddyup,” Simone Lampo said to the donkey.

He went a few steps, then stopping again, he turned around and called:

“Nàzzaro!”

The vagabond didn’t answer him.

“Nàzzaro,” Simone Lampo repeated. “Do you want to come with me and set the birds free?”

Nàzzaro sprang to his feet.

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to save your soul? It’s not enough. You must set fire to the straw too!”

“What straw?”

“All the straw!” Nàzzaro said, drawing near, swift and agile as a shadow.[7]

He placed one hand on the donkey’s neck, the other on Simone Lampo’s leg. Looking him in the eye, he asked again:

“Do you really want to save your soul?”

Simone Lampo smiled.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Really and truly? Swear it! Listen here, I know what it would take. I burn the midnight oil, and I know what it would take, not just for you, but for all thieves, for all those imposters who live down there in our town; the salvation that God would owe sooner or later, and––make no mistake––that He always gives! Do you really want to free the birds?”

“Why yes, I told you so.”

“And set fire to the straw?”

“And set fire to the straw!”

“All right, I’ll take you on your word. Go ahead and wait for me. I still have to count up to one hundred.”

Smiling, Simone Lampo set off again, saying:

“Watch your step, I’ll be waiting for you.”

By now, the dim lights of the village could be seen along the beach. From that road on the loamy plateau overlooking the town, the mysterious emptiness of the sea opened wide in the night, making the constellation of lights below seem more forlorn.

Simone Lampo heaved a deep sigh and frowned. This was always how he greeted, from afar, the apparition of those lights.

For the people living down there, crowded and oppressed, there were two certifiable madmen: himself and Nàzzaro. Fine, now they would join forces to bring more joy to the town! Free the little birds and set fire to the straw! He liked this exclamation of Nàzzaro’s and repeated it to himself many times with increasing satisfaction on his way into town.

“Set fire to the straw!”

At that hour, all the little birds were sleeping in the five rooms on the ground floor. It would be the last night they would spend there. Tomorrow, they’d be off! Free. The great flight! And they’d scatter across the sky; they’d return to the fields, happy and free. Yes, Nàzzaro had been right, he had been terribly cruel. A mortal sin! Better to eat dry bread, nothing more.

He tied up the donkey in the small stable and with an oil lamp in hand, went up to wait for Nàzzaro to finish counting up to a hundred stars, as he’d told him. “It was madness! Who knows why? But perhaps it was devotional…”

After waiting and waiting, Simone Lampo began to feel sleepy. A hundred stars? More than three hours must have passed. He could have counted half the firmament by now… Enough! Enough! Perhaps he’d said in jest that he would come. It was useless to keep waiting for him. He was about to throw himself on the bed fully dressed, when he heard a loud knocking on the front door.

And there stood Nàzzaro gasping, all cheerful and fidgety.

“Did you run here?”

“Yes. It’s done!”

“What did you do?”

“Everything. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Don Simo’! I’m dead tired.”

He plopped himself down on a chair and began rubbing his legs with both hands, while his eyes, like those of a wild animal, shone with a strange laughter that his lips hinted at from within his thick beard.

“The birds?” he asked.

“Downstairs. They’re asleep.”

“Good. Aren’t you sleepy?”

“Yes. I waited such a long time for you…”

“I couldn’t come any earlier. Go to bed. I’m sleepy too. I’ll just sleep here in this chair. I’m fine, don’t trouble yourself! Remember, you’re still in mortal sin! Tomorrow we’ll take care of your atonement.”

Simone Lampo gazed at him from the bed, leaning contentedly on one elbow. He really liked that crazy vagabond! He wasn’t sleepy anymore and wanted to continue the conversation.

“Tell me, why do you count the stars, Nàzzaro?”

“Because I like counting them. Go to sleep!”

“Wait. Tell me: are you happy?”

“About what?” Nàzzaro asked, lifting his head which he’d already buried between his folded arms on the side table.

“About everything,” Simone Lampo said. “Living this way…”

“Happy? We’re all suffering, Don Simo’! But don’t worry about it. It’ll pass. Let’s sleep.”

And he buried his head between his arms again.

Simone Lampo stuck his head out to blow out the candle, but then suddenly held his breath. The idea of sharing the darkness with that madman was slightly alarming.

“Tell me, Nàzzaro: would you like to stay with me forever?”

“One shouldn’t say forever. I’ll stay as long as you like. Why not?”

“And you’ll treat me nicely?”

“Why wouldn’t I? But neither will be master or servant to the other. I’ve been following you for quite some time, you know? When I heard you talking to your donkey and to yourself, I said to myself: the sorb apple is almost ripe…[8] But I didn’t want to approach you because you’d imprisoned those birds in your house. Now that you’ve told me you want to save your soul, I’ll stay with you as long as you’d like me to. In the meantime, I’ve taken you on your word––and the first step has been taken. Good night.”

“And you’re not going to say the rosary? You’re always talking about God!”

“I’ve already said it. My rosary is in the sky. A Hail Mary for each star.”

“Ah, is that why you count them?”

“That’s why. Good night.”

Reassured by these words, Simone Lampo put out the candle. Soon after, they were both sleeping.

At daybreak, the first chirps of the imprisoned birds immediately woke the vagabond, who’d thrown himself out of the chair to sleep on the floor. Simone Lampo, used to the chirping, continued to snore.

Nàzzaro went to wake him.

“Don Simo’, the birds are calling us.”

“Ah, yes!” said Simone Lampo, waking with a start and opening his eyes wide at the sight of Nàzzaro.

He couldn’t remember a thing. He led his companion into the other little room and, lifting the trap door in the floorboards, they went down the wooden ladder of the floodgate to the ground floor, which was clogged with droppings from all the imprisoned little beasts.

The frightened birds began screeching all at once, rising up towards the ceiling with a great flapping of wings.

“So many! So many poor creatures of God!” Nàzzaro exclaimed compassionately, with tears in his eyes.

“And there were even more!” Simone Lampo exclaimed, shaking his head.

“You deserve to be hanged, Don Simo’!” the vagabond shouted, waving his fists. “I’m not sure the atonement I’ve planned for you will be enough! Come on, let’s go! We’ll need to get them all into one room first.”

“There’s no need. Look!” said Simone Lampo, grasping a bundle of ropes that, by means of a complicated mechanism, kept the screens flush against the openings of the large and small windows.

He yanked at the ropes, suspending himself, and boom! The screens made a devilish racket as they all came crashing down.

“Now let’s chase them out! Chase them out! Freedom! Freedom! Shoo! Shoo! Shoo!”

Having been cooped up for several months, the birds, dismayed by the sudden upheaval and suspended on trembling wings, weren’t sure how to take flight at first: several of the more spirited birds had to take the lead, flinging themselves like arrows, screeching with both jubilation and fear before the others followed suit, driven out, flock after flock in great confusion, first scattering themselves as if recovering from a stupor, on the roof-tops, the chimneys, the windowsills, the railings of neighboring balconies, stirring up a great clamor of amazement in the street below. Nàzzaro wept with great emotion as he and Simone Lampo continued shouting through the now-empty rooms:

“Shoo! Shoo! Freedom! Freedom!”

Then, they too went to enjoy the show, looking down at the street swarming with all those little birds that had been released in the early light of dawn. But windows were already opening; a boy, then a woman, tried laughingly to get their hands on this or that bird until Nàzzaro, infuriated, stretched out his arms and started screaming like a madman:

“Leave them alone! Don’t risk it! Oh, you rascal! Thief of God! Let them go!”

Simone Lampo tried to calm him:

“Come now, don’t worry! They won’t allow themselves to be caught again…”

They went back upstairs, relieved and happy. Simone went to light the stove to make some coffee but Nàzzaro furiously grabbed his arm to pull him away.

“Who needs coffee, Don Simo’! The fire is already lit. I lit it myself last night. Come on, let’s go see what’s taking off over there!”

“Taking off?” Simone Lampo asked, stunned. “What are you talking about?”

“One here, one there!” Nàzzaro said. “The atonement for all the birds you’ve eaten. Set fire to the straw, didn’t I tell you? Let’s go saddle the donkey, and you’ll see.”

Like lightning, it flashed before Simone Lampo’s eyes. He feared he understood all too well. He took Nàzzaro by the arm and, shaking him, shouted:

“What did you do?”

“I burned the grain on your little estate,” Nàzzaro answered calmly.

At first, Simone Lampo went pale; then transformed by rage, he hurled himself against the madman.

“You? The grain? Murderer! Is it true? You burned my grain?”

Nàzzaro pushed him away with a violent shove.

“Don Simo’, what kind of game are we playing? How many players are there? Set fire to the straw, you told me. And for the good of your soul, I set fire to the straw!”

“But I’ll send you to jail now!” roared Simone Lampo.

Nàzzaro burst into hearty laughter, and said to him loud and clear:

“You’re crazy! What about your soul, eh? Is that how you’re going to save your soul? Forget about it, Don Simo’, let’s just forget about saving your soul.”

“But you’ve ruined me, you murderer!” Simone Lampo yelled in a new tone of voice, now on the verge of tears. “How could I have imagined that’s what you meant? Burn my grain? And what am I supposed to do now? How will I pay the bishop’s land tax that weighs so heavily on my little estate?”

Nàzzaro looked at him with an air of disdainful pity:

“You child! Sell the house which is of no use to you and free your fields from tax. It’s quickly done.”

“Yes,” sneered Simone Lampo. “And what will I eat in the meantime, with no birds and no grain?”

“I’ll take care of that,” answered Nàzzaro with calm sincerity. “Didn’t I say I’d stay by your side? We have the donkey; we have the land; we’ll do some hoeing and we’ll eat. Chin up, Don Simo’!”

Simone Lampo was astonished by the serene confidence of that madman standing there before him, his hand raised in a gesture of disdainful nonchalance with a clever, carefree smile both in his clear eyes and on his lips within the thick, wadded, beard.