To Our Health! (“Alla salute!”)
Translated by Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka
How to cite this work:
Pirandello, Luigi. “To Our Health! (“Alla salute!”), tr. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka. In Stories for a Year, eds. Lisa Sarti and Michael Subialka, Digital Edition, www.pirandellointranslation.org, 2025.
“To Our Health!” (“Alla salute!”) is at present the latest addition to Luigi Pirandello’s corpus of short stories. In 2020, it was recovered by Professor Riccardo Castellana (University of Siena, Italy), who was conducting archival research and rediscovered this story in the Italian political newspaper L’idea nazionale (a. VII, n. 59, February 28, 1917). Due to this recent discovery, the story has so far never been included in any printed volume of Stories for a Year (Novelle per un anno). But what makes its recovery even more exceptional is the fact that it was not even cited in the list of Pirandello’s works that are known to have existed but are still missing. In other words, this was a completely unexpected find, and one that has changed the count of Pirandello’s stories from all previous collections. In future reprints of Stories for a Year, we would hypothesize that “To Our Health!” will likely be placed in the Appendix, alongside other works that Pirandello never added to any specific Collection – a structure which of course leaves room for the possibility of additional future discoveries, as well.
“To Our Health!” is written as an ironic tableau that reveals the tensions of class, nationalism, and personal sacrifice in Italy as it battled along with the other Entente powers in World War I. Coming out of a time of intense national trauma, it offers a complex reflection on Italy's moral and social fabric through a deceptively comic episode set at a crowded bank. Here, amidst the elbowing masses of citizens attempting to redeem their government war bonds (what in Italy was called the National Loan), Pirandello reflects on the fractures in Italian society, dramatizing the different meanings that patriotism can assume depending on one's social standing. However, the story gains additional layers of meaning when read alongside Pirandello’s biographical experience: his eldest son, Stefano, served in the Italian army during the war and lived firsthand through its atrocities. This personal context deepens the narrative’s emotional undertones, especially in its moving final scenes, where sacrifice transcends rhetoric and becomes intimately human.
This war-time story resonates well with others from the same period that explore the war’s personal and moral costs, such as “Interviews with Characters” (“Colloquii coi personaggi,” 1915) and “Berecche and the War” (“Berecche e la guerra,” 1915). Like those stories, “To Our Health!” interrogates the disparities between patriotic rhetoric and lived experience, often revealing that the deepest sacrifices are made by those who have the least to give. In “Berecche and the War,” for instance, the protagonist begins as a nationalist but gradually confronts the absurdity and devastation of war. Likewise, in “To Our Health!” Pirandello critiques superficial patriotism, which he symbolizes humorously in the character of an ostentatious old lady who seems smugly impressed by the superior size of her own war bonds relative to the pittances held by the others around her; at the same time, he elevates the quiet but dignified suffering of ordinary people. The figure of the “made-up old lady” (the “vecchia imbellettata”) is itself a significant element of Pirandello’s poetics, and he uses that image in his seminal essay On Humor (L’umorismo, 1908) to characterize his particular concept of ironic double-vision that pairs comic laughter with tragic compassion. In “To Our Health!” Pirandello crafts his narrative around the ridiculous appearance of the old lady, who is comic in her overwrought attempt to maintain dignity and superiority, but also tragic in her clinging to a distorted image of social status that is disconnected from the democratic spirit of collective sacrifice. In the end, this story provides further confirmation of how Pirandello looked at fiction as a tool to reflect not only on the ideological dimensions of the war, but also its psychological and emotional impact – especially for the older generation, who could not fight physically but were still left with the internal burden of grief and loss.
The Editors
“But I’m telling you, what a crowd! It looked like a rally!” Bertoni went on with his story. “Everyone like this, with their arm up, holding on tight to their brand-new bond certificate from the latest National Loan, making sure it didn’t get crumpled in that crush of the mob.[1] The Carabinieri were there, sure, and the bank ushers;[2] but what kind of line could you even form? Impossible! Everyone packed in, squeezed up against the glass where the teller windows opened. Some were huffing, some were swearing, some were grumbling. And the best part is that in the middle of all that suffocation, there were a few who actually expected to be comfortable and not everyone all on top of one another, can you imagine? They were glaring at the people around them, shouting that it was an outrageous mess, a disgraceful sight, all that chaos just to cash in on the same day! As if they weren’t there to cash in, too, you follow?
“But these were the old holders of the government bonds from way back when, the ones who felt right at home at the Bank and saw us—this crowd of poor nobodies, newcomers—as intruders. We had all suddenly become rentiers thanks to that blessed last national loan.[3] In truth, it must have seemed like an unheard-of indecency to them, a disgrace.
“I was next to a lady who, I swear, really looked like an old fox struggling in a trap amidst that crowd. Totally artificial from head to toe, overdone with make-up, marked by age, shadowed like an actress in her dressing room, with a wig that looked like straw and these pale, cloudy eyes floating behind her wrinkled, tired eyelids, laced with red veins:[4] disgusting, let me tell you. She had a big, hairy mole on one side of her chin, black as night, twitching with a tic that would always flare up in her moments of fiercest irritation.[5] Right then, it seemed to be completely out of control.
“Oh, she had quite a little bundle of bonds, she did: bonds with a 3%, 3.5%, and 4% return. But she also had a big bond, no less than two hundred thousand lire,[6] from the latest Loan; and surely, she thought, at least this one, for heaven’s sake, should earn her a bit more respect, among all these rats with their measly hundred-lire bonds.
“She would throw these nasty glances, my friend, or pretend she didn’t know where to look anymore. She would make these weird gestures with that crazy little mole of hers, these smiles with her nose all scrunched up, and then long sighs, like she just could no longer stand the bad smells coming from us poor folks dressed so terribly. Oh God! Oh God! She looked like she was about to faint, almost! If only she could’ve found a way to get out of there!
“What a scene, let me tell you! It was right there in front of me, and I started to really enjoy it, you know, savoring it. The way she was doing everything to show me that her folder was worth a good two hundred thousand lire, two-hundred-thou-sand, that folder, mind you; and I, just being a bit mischievous, kept my pathetic little folder of a hundred measly lire right there, under those goat-like, half-dead eyes of hers, just so she could see clearly, you know, that yes, indeed, it was just a pathetic hundred lousy lire I had, and because of that, oh yes, madam, I had become a rentier too! Sure, a rentier! And if it wasn’t enough to keep it right there in front of her eyes, I swear, I almost wished someone from behind or the side would shove my arm to rub it against her mug ace, that miserable little folder of mine.
“She pretended not to see me!; But I could tell she’d bottled up more bile for me than she ever had in her life. However, she must have also figured out that, with me, she wouldn’t be able to win or even get a draw. So I was expecting her to blow off steam by turning on someone else soon enough. And sure enough, not long after: there she was, throwing nasty words at a poor old man who was as yellow as wax and was doing his best, I swear, to take up as little space as possible and not to bother anyone, with his little folder of a hundred lire held up modestly, so that it wouldn't get all wrinkled.
“Listen, that witch must have been really mean to pick on an old man like him, especially since he was wearing black, and you could tell it was because of a recent loss. You wouldn’t believe all the nasty things she said to him: that it was indecent to throw oneself against a lady like that; that if you're coming to collect a sum as large as two lire and fifty centesimi, you could at least show a little discretion, a little patience, and come back another day, clear out, clear out, to make way for the people who were there for much more substantial collections. Did he have to buy bread with those two lire and fifty cents? Yeah? Well, she'd give him that amount herself, as long as he got the hell off her back!
“Ah, my friend, I couldn't take it anymore. I snapped. I was blind with rage. If she had insulted me, I swear, maybe I would have kept on enjoying it; but seeing her insult that poor old man who became the scapegoat for the bile I had made her swallow, I completely lost it. I stepped in front of her, started shouting, and I can't remember what I said. All I know is that the whole room burst into applause, cheers, shouts of anger, even laughter. It was a moment of inspiration. But anyway, I took the side of that poor ragtag bunch of hundred-lira bondholders, outraged by the big-timers with their hundred-thousand-lira bonds. I shouted to that lady that if she had subscribed to the National Loan for two hundred thousand lire, well, good for her, no doubt about it; but she had also made a good deal: ten thousand lire in interest for two hundred thousand in capital! The real sacrifice, however, the real sacrifice had been ours, the poor ragtag bunch who scraped together a hundred lire from our pockets to lend to the country; and we all did it willingly, only sad that we couldn’t do more – not to buy a title of income, no, but a title of merit! She should have been glad to see so many like us, all these people here, who had taken a hundred lire out of their pockets in times of need like this, to get back two fifty every six months. No, no, my dear lady: we weren’t using them to buy ourselves bread, thank God, but twice a year we would drink up that two fifty, to our health, the health of the country, and now to the health of our dear boys, our brave sons fighting up there![7]
“That’s when the laughter and applause broke out. And everyone started shouting with me: ‘To our health, yes! To the health of the Motherland![8] To the health of our sons!’ But then I felt someone grab my arm. It was that poor old man, crying on my sleeve, shaking all over.
“He was dressed in black, like I told you. He could no longer toast with the two-lira-fifty he earned that period, not to his son’s health, anyway. His son had died, eight months earlier, fighting on the Carso.[9] He told me the story when I took him along with the others to drink to the Motherland, at least, since it doesn’t die. And he drank, yes, he drank through his tears, that poor old man; and he said no, no way could he really afford to part with those hundred lire he used to buy the bond. But he had done it anyway, because—he was old, he couldn’t go up there and fight, couldn’t avenge his son—his revenge had to be victory. And since everyone was saying that to win, we needed money and everyone’s sacrifice, well, he gave those hundred lire. And he said he would give more, so much more, if he could: everything, everything he had!
“You see?” Bertoni said, turning his head so that I wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes.
“I really couldn’t afford it either; but I think of that poor old man, I think of that old, painted witch, and I’m going now to sign up for another hundred lire in the new loan!”
“And that way,” I told him, “you’ll be drinking ten lire a year?”
“Yes, to the health of the Motherland!” Bertoni shouted, running off. And also to the glory of that poor old man’s son!
Endnotes
1. To help finance its participation in the Great War, the Italian government issued a series of “National Loans,” borrowing money from both domestic and international investors in a system much like the American war bonds. The Prestito Nazionale (National Loan) issued by the Italian government in 1917 was the third in a series of five issued between 1915 and 1919. As the war intensified, the need for funds grew, and these loans were crucial to cover military expenses, including the procurement of weapons, ammunition, and other supplies for the front lines. The loans were marketed as a patriotic duty, encouraging citizens of all social classes to invest in the nation's future by purchasing bonds, as Pirandello dramatizes in the story. The government promoted these loans not only as financial instruments but as symbols of national unity and collective responsibility in the war effort.
2. The Carabinieri are a branch of the Italian Armed Forces, the nation’s gendarmerie or military force with law enforcement duties. Their role overlaps with that of the state police, though the Carabinieri are often looked at as the more vaunted and trusted institution for upholding national law and order.
3. A rentier is someone who lives off the income (or yield) from a passive investment, like these bonds. The word is in italics in Pirandello’s original text, indicating its status as a foreign loan (from French).
4. This description of the old woman makes clear reference to Pirandello’s essay On Humor (L’umorismo, 1908), where he similarly describes an old woman who is excessively made-up and ridiculous looking as part of his illustration of the distinction between comic laughter and humorous reflection. At first glance, the old woman might provoke laughter, as the incongruity between her age and her artificial attempts to appear youthful may seem ridiculous. This immediate reaction represents the comic, which is a spontaneous and superficial response to incongruity. But, as Pirandello argues, if we pause to reflect on a deeper “feeling the opposite,” as he puts it, we might instead experience a sense of sadness or tenderness. We begin to imagine the old woman’s loneliness, her fear of aging, her desire to still feel beautiful or loved. This deeper emotional insight is what Pirandello calls humor (umorismo); it arises not simply from contradiction, but from an empathetic understanding of the nature of that human contradiction. When looked at with the humorist’s double-lens, the old woman is no longer merely laughable but also becomes a figure of pathos.
5. The hairy mole is a recurrent trope in Pirandello’s narrative; it functions as a symbolic marker of otherness, grotesqueness, or social marginalization. Consistent with his themes of the relativity or uncertainty of identity and perception, as well as his explorations of the fragmentation of the self, this physical feature can provoke revulsion, fear, or fascination in others, often reflecting a character’s outsider status or the ways in which society projects meaning onto the body. The mole appears in its humorous nuances in stories including “The Wet Nurse” (“La balia,” 1903) and “Two Double Beds” (“Due letti a due,” 1909).
6. At the time of this story, the Lira was the official currency of Italy. It was in use from 1861, right after the Unification, until 2002, when it was replaced by the Euro. It was subdivided into 100 centesimi and symbolized Italy's economic and cultural identity for over a century. The Lira was used in everyday transactions, and its value fluctuated significantly during periods of economic turmoil. The adoption of the Euro marked the end of the Lira, though it remains a nostalgic and historical symbol of Italy’s past. While World War I did lead to a decrease in the value of the Lira, this amount (200,000) would still be equivalent to something close to 450,000-500,000 Euros today, after accounting for inflation. In other words, it was indeed a significant sum of money.
7. The toast “to our health” (“alla salute”) here creates a collective picture of the Italian war effort. In World War I, Italy fought alongside the Triple Entente forces of France, Great Britain, and Russia against the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Germany. The front line for Italy was against Austria-Hungary, on Italy’s northern border – the “up there” being referred to in these lines.
8. The word we have translated as Motherland here is “patria” in Italian, which might also be rendered as “Fatherland” (to capture the etymological link to “padre” – father). Interestingly, though, the word is a feminine noun in Italian, and we have opted to preserve that element in our translation.
9. The fight on the Carso refers to a series of brutal battles between Italian and Austro-Hungarian forces during World War I in the Carso (or Karst) Plateau region, near the Isonzo River in present-day Slovenia and northeastern Italy. These battles, especially the Eleven Battles of the Isonzo (1915–1917), were characterized by trench warfare and harsh terrain, and became emblematic of the futility and human cost of the war on the Italian front. Pirandello’s son Stefano also served as a soldier on the Italian Front during WWI and likely experienced some of the harsh realities of battles like those on the Carso. The war deeply impacted the Pirandello family, both emotionally and artistically, and Luigi himself wrote extensively about the disillusionment and trauma it caused, both in his short stories and plays.