I have never understood very clearly,
in a satisfactory fashion, how some
people can cut a man’s throat as if he
were a pig, and pay no heed to their
crime after committing it, while
others suffer horrible remorse.
I have referred in vain to differences
in nervous organization, to differences
in education; it has remained evident to
me nevertheless that remorse, like disease,
destroys some people while leaving others
untouched.
D.-M. Fabien, De l’Organisation morale de l’Homme, ch. VII.
Happy is he who feels no remorse! If he throws himself on his bed, he soon abandons himself to a refreshing and peaceful sleep; he does not pant in the grip of a nightmare; he does not wake up with a start; he does not dart wild glances in all directions.
He does not yearn for daybreak as a blessing; and during the day, he does not have one implacable idea, and one alone, a frightful phantom that attaches an insupportable gaze to him, which never lowers the accusing finger extended toward him.
He does not reply in a brusque tone to the loving words of his young wife; he does not push away his child, who comes to kiss him; he is not irritated by his noisy games.
He has no remorse!
People envy me my renown and my glory: it is a crown of red hot iron that burns my head, and which I cannot tear off.
People envy me my palazzo, my villa, my domains, my carriage, my horses: I would give them all, I would give everything, to whomever could take away my remorse.
But that is impossible, alas. No, that is quite impossible, for I have done everything to rid myself of my remorse.
I have never been able to do it!
I have knelt in a priest’s confessional; I uttered such sobs there; I struck my breast there with such despair that the man of God said: “My son, there is no sin that cannot be redeemed by such great repentance.”
I spoke; the priest fled.
After that, young artists sometimes demanded why I was pale, why my lips never wore a smile any longer. “Come with us; a secret pain is eating you away, but there is no pain that joyful orgies cannot cure; come to lewd songs repeated in chorus; come to wine that will intoxicate, to semi-naked women who will intoxicate even more; there—that is what you need!”
I followed them, and when their speech became noisier; when, tottering, they were rolling on the grass in the arms of their mistresses, I drank, I drank, and I drank more, for I said to myself: What joy! I shall be like them! I shall no longer have reason!
Alas, wine has no drunkenness for me.
Once, I saw a hermit who lived far away from men; he boasted to me of the calm he had found in his retreat, and I ran away into a desert.
I prayed, in vain; I imposed the greatest austerities upon myself, in vain; I tore myself with blows of the disciplinary lash, in vain: there, always there, my execrable idea!
I was told that women have marvelous secrets to render peace to those who have lost it; that no one in the world knows how they are able to put dolor and despair to sleep; I was told that, cradled in their arms, with one’s head laid on their bosom, one becomes placid again, devoid of remorse; that they purify and enable forgetfulness.
I married Marianna, an angel of beauty, tenderness and love, the most celestial of creatures who ever murmured intoxicating words in a man’s ear.
Her caresses make me feel sick; they are killing me; I have no response to make but gestures of refusal, indifferent, harsh words.
She calls me Ghigi.
Ghigi, Ghigi! Always and everywhere that execrable name!
Romans, foreigners, my wife, my son, always Ghigi, always Ghigi!
If they knew how much it hurts me, what dagger they’re showing me, what muffled death-rattle they’re causing me to hear!
For I’m not Ghigi. Antonio Ferragio is my name. Ghigi is a name I’ve stolen, a name in which there’s ingratitude, treason, adultery, theft and murder!
Oh, if there were no Hell, if death were oblivion, how immediately I would die!
But a life without end, a life of eternal punishment, a life in which I always hear that name: Ghigi! Ghigi!
Never can my head, never can my soul conceive an idea with which that name is not alloyed; it has become inherent in my nature; it torments me; for me, it is a necessity. And now that I’m alone here again, alone in the midst of darkness and silence, tell me how it is that I find, in writing ideas that drive one to despair, a horrible pleasure, a torment that Hell does not have; tell me how an imperious force is attaching me to this table, is making this pen move.
Oh, may you never experience remorse!
There was once a time when I never experienced remorse myself. I was a young man then, with a slim figure and black curly hair, a young man who abandoned himself with delight to a precarious and nonchalant life. Pleasure was my great, my only affair: I enjoyed the present moment, and never had a care for the quarter-hour that would follow it, much less for the next day.
One night, one single night, arrived, however, to change my destiny, and make me the most rascally and miserable of men.
I had spent a part of that fatal night in debauchery; my head heated by wine, I was wandering aimlessly in the ruins of Palermo with a friend when we encountered a senora escorted by two cavaliers. “I’ll wager,” I cried, that I can lift the veil of that unknown beauty!”
“I’ll help you,” replied the madman who was accompanying me.
That cost the lives of two men—one of the cavaliers and my friend were killed.
In the meantime, I lifted the senora’s veil; it was the governor’s mother.
“Antonio Ferragio,” she said to me, your head will expiate my brother’s death.”
Where could I find refuge? Already, sbirri were running in response to the senora’s screams, those implacable screams that never ceased naming Antonio Ferragio.
I fled aimlessly, and when day broke, I was alone a few leagues from Palermo, on the shore of the sea.
I let myself fall on to the sand, in a stupid torpor produced by fatigue and despair. I resolved to wait there for the fate that I could not escape. For I could not deny my murder; one of the victims had recognized me. I could not leave the country; I did not have a sequin. I could not find a refuge; anyone who had given me shelter would have perished with me.
A man, still young, passed by on horseback. Seeing me pale and unmoving, he thought that I had been robbed and stabbed by thieves, and came to help me. His questions and his pity wearied me. “Leave me alone,” I said. “I’ve murdered the governor’s uncle.”
“Climb up on the rump of the horse with me,” He said. “I’ll give you a safe hiding-place where I defy the governor to find you.”
My death was inevitable, death on the scaffold! Imagine what I experienced in hearing those words, which gave me hope! I leapt on to the horse, and after riding for three hours, we arrived at a villa of meager appearance.
The interior of the villa matched its exterior: poor walls with no wallpaper—but they were partly covered by paintings worthy of a celebrated master.
Then the stranger said to me: I have your secret, and to reassure you as to my fidelity, I’ll give you mine. You’ve heard mention of the Neapolitan painter Ghigi, whom some say has been dead or ten years and others say has gone to Mexico. I’m Ghigi.
“After having studied my art for a long time in foreign lands, I returned to Naples, where no one recognized me, for I was an orphan, and fifteen years of absence and traveling have changed me considerably. I was nevertheless about to take up residence in Naples and devote myself to works of art, when I saw the young daughter of Count Rienzi, when I succeeded in becoming Paola’s lover.
“Then all my plans changed; I liquidated my fortune, abducted Paola and, fleeing the vengeance of a noble family, we came to seek refuge in Palermo under assumed names. I bought this villa, where I live a happier existence with Paola than I can say.
“Yes, the mystery that surrounds us, never being apart from one another, living only for one another, cultivating the art that I adore—unknown, it’s true, but also without being harassed by envy—all extends over our existence a peaceful, inexpressible charm. I’ve exchanged glory for happiness, and the deceptive amity of men for Paola’s love; not a day goes by when I do not bless Heaven!
“I’ve revealed to you what no one in the world knows, other than myself and Paola; you can see now that your refuge is safe.”
Wretch! I destroyed that happiness, destroyed it irredeemably! Oh, Ghigi, how have I repaid you for your kindness!
My idleness and my solitude in that retreat, set my Sicilian blood on fire. One day, beside myself, I took the sleeping Paola in my arms. She was mine.
Attracted by the poor woman’s screams, Ghigi came running to take revenge. A dagger-thrust laid him at my feet.
Then I thought I heard infernal laughter; I thought I heard a voice whispering in my ear: “Leave for Rome with Ghigi’s gold; take his paintings. Say: ‘I’m the painter Ghigi; I’ve come back from Mexico.’”
Yes, it was the Demon that gave me that advice, for what man could conceive such a sin? Yes, it was the Demon; I felt his burning breath exhaling into my ear!
But that woman! Ghigi’s body…he might yet revive; his tongue might speak; his hand might write...
A delirious rage, a fiery vertigo took possession of me…and when I recovered my reason, I was aboard a ship whose cannon was saluting the port of Nettuno, and I was sitting on a crate that contained all of Ghigi’s paintings.
Arrived in Rome, I exhibited a few of the paintings; I said that I had painted them. Soon, the name of Ghigi was being repeated enthusiastically; his paintings were snatched up. I had glory; I became rich, and the intoxication of glory and fortune stunned the memory of my crime; it sometimes came back, at long intervals, to persecute me, but the whirlwind of pleasure and prestige stifled it.
I thus had, for nearly ten years, a kind of happiness.
I had sold all my paintings except for one, representing a Madonna nursing her son; Prince Borgia saw it, gave me a considerable sum for it, and immediately had it transported to his gallery. The painting was not covered by any veil during the journey, and, gripped by admiration, a crowd soon assembled around the masterpiece and started following it to the prince’s gallery, saluting wildly the name of Ghigi. The excitement went so far as to require me to participate in that improvised triumph and follow the painting in the prince’s uncovered carriage, in the midst of enthusiastic shouts.
There were so many people that a cart carrying a victim to execution could not get past; it was a mute beggar who, driven by need, had stolen a loaf of bread. At the sight of me, and hearing the name of Ghigi, he stood up, extended two mutilated hands toward me, tried to say a few words with his severed tongue…and fell back in despair.
It was Ghigi.
Oh, may you never feel remorse!