The Old and the Young

The year 1893, in which much of the novel unfolds, was fraught with grave events for Italy, and for Sicily in particular.
The government was embroiled in the Banca Romana scandal.
In Sicily, the revolutionary outburst of the Fasci Siciliani movement, which had rallied a large part of the subproletariat (peasants and sulfur miners), was bloodily repressed by an army corps dispatched from the mainland.
The dread of social revolution forged an alliance between the Bourbon loyalists and the patriotic factions of the island’s ruling class, as well as between the latter and the northern bourgeoisie.
It was a decisive year for the history of the Mezzogiorno, sounding the death knell for the lingering hopes of a southern renaissance fostered by the Unification of Italy.
Against this backdrop, Pirandello, still under the sway of verismo, penned an ostensibly historical novel, yet one deeply woven with memories of his native soil and family, steeped in a bitter sense of dejection that only estrangement from the affairs of life can render bearable.
The novel is divided into two parts.
The first, undeniably the more accomplished, is set in Agrigento, which,

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The gulf between past grandeur and present decay is conveyed not merely by the landscape, but also by the clash between the old and the young.
The former are emblematically embodied by Prince Ippolito (an unyielding Bourbon loyalist) and Mauro Mortara, an aging Garibaldian soldier who subsists on the glorious memory of Risorgimento exploits.
While the old remain entrenched in the roles thrust upon them by history, moving with steadfast conviction, the young are instead adrift, weighed down by a present life ever further removed from Risorgimento ideals, at a loss as to which values might offer them roots.
Between the old and the young stir the opportunists—those who, out of self-interest or sheer indolence, capitalize on the moral decay of Italian society.
There exists, furthermore, another faction, which has grasped “the vanity of time” and retreated into isolation on the fringes of madness.
As the reading progresses, one becomes keenly aware of the narrative’s contemporary resonance.
Are we reading of nineteenth-century Sicily, or of contemporary Italy? Is the rift between the old and the young the eternal generational conflict, or rather the consequence of a dispiriting, desolating inheritance bequeathed by past generations to their successors?

Yet so long as the social order remains immutable, each can comfortably enact the role assigned to them or assumed by choice: the revolutionaries can shout slogans against the powerful, the latter can hatch illicit schemes and villainies, the old can cling to their values, while the young let themselves be swept along and, ultimately, ruled by the opportunists.
It is a comedy whose tragic nature stems not from the characters’ awareness, but from the desolation of the landscape and the blinding poverty of the common people.
What a stark contrast between Pirandello’s prose, which betrays an intimate communion with his land, and that of Camilleri, where Sicily is reduced to mere folklore and facile irony! This, too, bears witness to our country's decline.
Social revolution and political upheavals forcefully intrude upon the play of fictions.
The second part of the novel, largely set in Rome, charts the disintegration of roles and the necessity for each individual to confront the truth.
All the characters find themselves in the predicament of Corrado Selmi, a Risorgimento hero turned hollow, corrupt deputy:

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And each reacts according to their own strength, stripped of all pretense: Corrado Selmi takes his own life.
In a desperate bid to dissociate himself from the deceits of the powerful Flaminio Salvo, the decent yet submissive Aurelio Costa is slaughtered by the sulfur miners alongside Nicoletta Capolino, who had hitherto been a social climber, eager to trade her feminine charms for success.
Dianella, the sole daughter of the wealthy Flaminio Salvo, descends into madness at the sight of her father’s depravities.
Lando, Prince Ippolito’s son, concedes in the face of the violent uprisings that his socialist ideals were nothing more than intellectual yearnings.
Even Flaminio Salvo confesses that his greed has culminated in nothingness, in vanity.
Who, then, holds the truth? Perhaps Don Cosmo, Lando’s uncle, was right when he remarked:

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Pirandello the novelist is entirely subordinate to Pirandello the playwright.
This trait is particularly pronounced in the second half of the book, where the narrative erupts into rigorous, tight, impassioned dialogues between characters who seem to perform upon a stage.
In the first part, while one cannot speak of Pirandello as a verista or a social writer in the vein of Zola, the prose succeeds admirably in conveying the tragic essence of Sicily—a profound, infinite sorrow for a desolate land once resonant with life and culture.

Why read it? It remains an acutely relevant book, for it portrays the Italy of today as well.