Born in Caos, near Girgenti (the modern Agrigento) in Sicily in 1867, in the middle of a cholera epidemic, Pirandello studied literature in Palermo, Rome and Bonn. He began publishing plays in 1889, but success did not arrive fully until 1921, by which time his wife had entered a nursing home for the insane. His two plays that will be considered here, Six Characters in Search of an Author (1921), and Henry IV (1922), are united in being concerned with the impossibility of describing, or even conceiving, reality. ‘He dramatises the subconscious.’ In the earlier title, six characters invade the rehearsal of a play, a play Pirandello had himself written a few years earlier, insisting that they are not actors, nor yet people, but characters who need an ‘author’ to arrange the story that is within them. As with Wittgenstein, Einstein, and Freud, Pirandello is drawing attention to the way words break down in describing reality. What is the difference – and the overlap – between character and personality, and can we ever hope to pin them down in art? Just as Eliot was trying to produce a new form of poetry, Pirandello was creating a new form of drama, where theatre itself comes under the spotlight as a form of truth-telling. The characters in his plays know the limits to their understanding, that truth is relative, and that their problem, like ours, is to realise themselves.
Six Characters created a scandal when it was first performed, in Rome, but a year later received a rapturous reception in Paris. Henry IV had a much better reception in Italy when it was premiered in Milan, and after that Pirandello’s reputation was made. As did Eliot’s, his wife descended into madness and Pirandello later formed a relationship with the Italian actress Marta Abba.20 Unlike Eliot, whose art was forged despite his personal circumstances, Pirandello several times used madness as a dramatic device.21 Henry IV tells the story of a man who, twenty years before, had fallen from his horse during a masquerade in which he was dressed as the German emperor Henry IV, and was knocked unconscious when he hit his head on the paving. In preparation for the masquerade, the man had read widely about the emperor and, on coming to, believed he was in fact Henry IV. To accommodate his illness his wealthy sister has placed him in a mediaeval castle surrounded by actors dressed as eleventh-century courtiers who enable him to live exactly as Henry IV did, though they move in and out of their roles, confusingly and at times hilariously (without warning, a costumed actor will suddenly light up a cigarette). Into this scene are introduced old friends, including Donna Matilda, still beautiful, her daughter Frida, and a doctor. Here Pirandello’s mischief is at its highest, for we can never be sure whether Henry is still mad, or only playing a part. Like the fool in earlier forms of theatre, Henry asks his fellow characters penetrating questions: ‘Do you remember always being the same?’ Therefore, we never quite know whether Henry is a tragic figure, and aware that he is. This would make him moving – and also sane. It would also make all the others in the play either fools or mad, or possibly both. But if Henry is fully sane, does it make sense for him to live on as he does? Everyone in the play, though real enough, is also desperate, living a lie.
The real tragedy occurs when the doctor, in order to ‘treat’ Henry by facing him with a shocking reality, provokes him into murder. In Henry IV no one really understands themselves completely, least of all the man of science who, so certain of himself and his methods, precipitates the greatest calamity. Devastated by the wasteland of his life, Henry had opted for a ‘planned’ madness, only to have that backfire on him too. Life, for Pirandello, was like a play within a play, a device he used many times: one can never be entirely sure who is acting and who is not. One cannot even be sure when one is acting oneself.
Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, discussed in chapter 9, was actually published in the annus mirabilis of 1922. So too was The Last Days of Mankind, the great work of Wittgenstein’s Viennese friend Karl Kraus. Kraus, who was Jewish, had been part of Jung Wien at the Café Griensteidl in the early years of the century, mixing with Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Arthur Schnitzler, Adolf Loos, and Arnold Schoenberg. He was a difficult and slightly deformed man, with a congenital abnormality in his shoulders that gave him a stoop. A satirist of almost unrivalled mordancy, he earned most of his considerable income from lectures and readings. At the same time, he published a magazine, Die Fackel (The Torch), three times a month, from 1899 until his death in 1936. This made him a lot of enemies but also earned him a wide following, which even extended to the troops on the front line in World War I. Punctilious to a degree, he was no less interested in language than his philosopher friend and was genuinely pained by solecisms, infelicitous turns of phrase, ungainly constructions. His aim, he once said, ‘is to pin down the Age between quotation marks.’22 Bitterly opposed to feminine emancipation, which he regarded as ‘a hysterical response to sexual neurosis,’ he hated the smugness and anti-Semitism of the Viennese press, together with the freewheeling freemasonry that, more than once, led him into the libel courts. Kraus was in effect doing in literature and society what Loos was doing in architecture, attacking the pompous, self-regarding self-satisfaction of the ancien régime. As he himself described his aim in Die Fackel: ‘What has been laid down here is nothing else than a drainage system for the broad marshes of phraseology.’23
The Last Days of Mankind was written – usually late at night – during the summers of World War I and immediately afterward. On occasions Kraus escaped to Switzerland, to avoid the turmoil of Vienna and the attentions of the censor. His deformity had helped him avoid military service, which made him already suspect in the eyes of certain critics, but his opposition to the aims of the Central Powers earned him even more opprobrium. The play was his verdict on the war, and although certain passages appeared in Die Fackel in 1919 it wasn’t completed until 1921, by which time Kraus had added much new material.24 The play draws a cumulative strength from hundreds of small vignettes, all taken from newspaper reports and, therefore, not invented. Life at the front, in all its horror and absurdity, is juxtaposed (in a verbal equivalent of Kurt Schwitters’s technique) with events back in Vienna, in all their absurdity and venality. Language is still the central element for Kraus (Last Days is essentially a play for voices rather than action). We witness the Kaiser’s voice, that of the poet, the man at the front, Jewish dialects from Vienna, deliberately cheek-by-jowl with one another to throw each crime – of thought or action – into relief. The satirist’s technique, of holding one phrase (or thought, or belief, or conviction) against its opposite, or reciprocal, is devastatingly effective, the more so as time passes.
The play has been rarely performed because of its length – ten hours – and Kraus himself claimed that it was intended only for performances on Mars because ‘people on Earth could not bear the reality presented to them.’25 At the end of the play, mankind destroys itself in a hail of fire, and the last lines, put into the mouth of God, are those attributed to the Kaiser at the start of the war: ‘I did not want it.’ Brecht’s epitaph of Kraus was: ‘As the epoch raised its hand to end its life, he was this hand.’26