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The Soul in the Brain
This page intentionally left blank
 The Soul in the Brain

The Cerebral Basis of Language, Art, and Belief

michael r. trimble, m.d., f.r.c.p.,

f.r.c.psych.
Professor of Behavioral Neurology
Institute of Neurology
University of London
London, United Kingdom

The Johns Hopkins University Press

Baltimore
 © 2007 The Johns Hopkins University Press
All rights reserved. Published 2007
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper
2 4 6 8 9 7 5 3 1

The Johns Hopkins University Press

2715 North Charles Street
Baltimore, Maryland 21218-4363
www.press.jhu.edu

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Trimble, Michael R.
The soul in the brain : the cerebral basis of language, art, and belief /
Michael R. Trimble.
p. ; cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 0-8018-8481-0 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Brain—Miscellanea. 2. Neuropsychology. 3. Language and culture.
4. Neurobiology. 5. Art. I. Title.
[DNLM: 1. Neuropsychology. 2. Brain Diseases—physiopathology.
3. Language Disorders—psychology. 4. Language. 5. Religion and medicine.
wl 103.5 t831s 2006]
qp376.t 75 2006
612.8—dc22 2006012325

A catalog record for this book is available from the British Library.
 To Graham, who has the gift of laughter
which he has shared with so many of us over the years,
as a reminder of the important things in life
This page intentionally left blank
Gods withdraw, but their rituals live on, and no one except a few
intellectuals notices that they have ceased to mean anything
—E. R. Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational
This page intentionally left blank
 contents

Acknowledgments xi

Introduction 1

1 Where Did It All Begin? 8

2 The Neuroanatomy of Emotion 25

3 Language and the Human Brain 56

4 The Other Way of Using Language 72

5 The Breakdown of Language 95

6 Music and the Brain 119

7 Neurotheology I: Epilepsy 133

8 Neurotheology II: Other Neurological Conditions 159

9 God, Music, and the Poetry of the Brain 176

Epilogue 204

Appendix 1. Brief Biographies of Some Poets with Bipolar Disorder 215

Appendix 2. Some Notable Religious Poets 222
Notes 227
References 263
Index 279
This page intentionally left blank
 acknowledgments

The author is grateful to several people who have viewed parts or the whole of var-
ious portions of the final manuscript. He is especially grateful to Andrea Cavanna,
John Cutting, Tim Griªths, Lennart Heimer, Lisa Hughes, Gavin Selerei, John
Smythies, Liane Strauss, Shakti Temple-Smith, Jason Warren, Jenifer Wilson-
Barnett, and Adam Zeman.
This page intentionally left blank
 introduction

If you fear that opening your mind will cause your brain to fall out, then this book
is not for you. If you are unhappy discussing neuroscience in the context of po-
etry, music, and, above all, religion, then again this text cannot be recommended.
For what I have attempted to do is to understand how it is that the human species,
so enamored with its own logical and critical facilities, has held strong religious
beliefs and a reverence for the arts, apparently since the dawn of what we call civ-
ilization. The period of the Enlightenment, with its lifting of the veils on so many
mysteries; the conceptual revolutions of Copernicus, Darwin, and Freud; and the
past hundred years of astonishing development in all the sciences has seemingly
not shifted the overall tone of human thought and behavior on these matters one
iota. How did such faithful knowledge arise, and what might neuroscience have
to contribute to such a question?
I was first driven to think on these matters by my patients, many of whom have
epilepsy, mood disorders, or combinations of the neurological and the psycho-
pathological, who would often either bring me some of their writings or regale
me with their religious experiences. I should make it clear that epilepsy, bipolar
disorder, and schizophrenia can be devastating human conditions, but we now
accept them to be related to disturbed brain structure or function, as opposed to
being the wages of sin, and in the past few years many people have benefited from
treatments that have arisen from our understanding of how the brain works and
how it may be disordered in such illnesses.
The path of knowledge over the past three hundred years has extended toward
a deeper and more coherent picture of the nature of humankind and of the
natural forces that drive behavior. The human brain has been central to this en-
deavor, but only in the past thirty years or so have newer techniques of investiga-
tion of brain structure and function become available, allowing further penetra-
tion of the mysteries of human feelings, thoughts, and emotions. Alongside these
 2 The Soul in the Brain

methods, in medical practice, much more attention has been given to under-
standing what happens when the mind goes wrong as a consequence of either
neurological or psychiatric illness. This has established the somatic nature of
much mental illness, as a profusion of neural systems, neurotransmitters, and
neuromodulators have become implicated in pathogeneses.
Religion, in a more general sense, has not generated much scientific interest
until recently. The well-known Cartesian dualism idealized the split between res
cogitans, things of the mind, including the soul, and res extensa, dimensional ob-
jects, extended in space, which could be measured. Science became a matter of
measurement; the soul could rest peacefully, protected from the prying intrusion
of progress.
An interest in religious practices and the meaning of, for example, religious
rituals stems to a large extent from the anthropological studies of the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries, when the predominant Judeo-Christian beliefs of the
Western world became subject to comparison with a multitude of religious prac-
tices from around the world. Attempts to usurp the concepts of religion alto-
gether, atheism by any other name, have an even longer history, although a care-
ful line was drawn between skepticism, such as that promoted by the interesting
Scottish philosopher David Hume (1711–76), and atheism, which was against the
law, at least in England. However, these and related concepts should not be con-
fused with a desire by scientists to understand human behavior and its meaning,
in its complexity and entirety. Any question about the existence of God or the gods
should be an empirical issue, seen in the same context as, for example, questions
about the spherical nature of the world or the composition of the moon. In the
same way that the seventeenth century gave the inquisitive investigator the ap-
propriate methods with which to test hypotheses about the nature of the world,
the twenty-first century allows for the study of human feelings and experiences
in ways never before imagined. This book explores the ground of some of those
feelings.
I have taken clinical observations and investigations of several neuropsychi-
atric disorders to launch an investigation into some aspects of the way the human
brain modulates artistic and religious experiences. Many of the symptoms of peo-
ple with the disorders I describe are not universal and, especially in the case of
epilepsy, a¤ect a minority of patients. Furthermore, although I am fascinated by
the phenomena I am writing about, I hope my interest has never been intrusive
for such patients, especially by my inquiries about their deeply held personal be-
liefs and practices.
 Introduction 3

The ideas in this book originated with a simple observation that, in the grow-
ing literature on the literary talents of people with epilepsy (from Dostoevsky on),
few poets seem to be included. In fact, I came to the conclusion that writing e¤ec-
tive poetry is probably incompatible with certain disorders, schizophrenia being
one, and seems highly restrained by epilepsy. In contrast, there seem to be legions
of poets with what used to be called manic-depressive illness, or cyclothymia. I
agree with the sentiments of the neuroscientist J. Z. Young who noted that poets
teach us to use words with special force. We may need their help finding new ways
to talk about brains.1
My neuroscientific interests have straddled the borders between neuropsychi-
atry, behavioral neurology, and biological psychiatry, and in the past few decades
a wealth of information has become available about brain function and dysfunc-
tion in the kinds of disorder mentioned above. A central question then became
whether a study of the alterations of language in these conditions might lead to
an understanding of the cerebral representations and anatomical circuitry asso-
ciated with poetry as opposed to, say, prose. The studies bearing on these issues
are reviewed, and certain conclusions emerge, especially about the brain hemi-
sphere contributions that relate to poetic expression.
Other fascinating features of some of the neuropsychiatric disorders discussed
in the text are the associated change of religious behaviors and the often profound
religious experiences reported in subgroups of patients. The term hyperreligiosity
is often used to describe this phenomenon, and it has been the subject now of
several investigations, which also hint at its possible relationship with neuro-
anatomical circuits, giving us a handle on yet another distinctly human capacity
that simply has to have cerebral counterparts.
A linking theme between poetry and religion is music. Many have argued that
music is di¤erent from the other arts, especially in not having a representational
capacity in the way that, for example, a painting of an apple has. Others maintain
that music could or should be treated as a language in its own right. This is a con-
troversial issue, but following on such lines of thought, my review of the litera-
ture suggests that areas of the brain that are involved in mediating poetry and re-
ligious experiences may also link, in part, to our capacity to respond to music.
Why do we cry when we listen to music? I suspect that music brings tears to
people’s eyes more often than any other art form, followed by poetry, with novels
and the visual arts farther down the list. In one survey of emotional experiences
to paintings, James Elkins, who admits never having cried before a painting, has
found few people who did and notes that neither the art historian Sir Ernst Gom-
 4 The Soul in the Brain

brich nor Leonardo da Vinci were so moved.2 These observations take me into
some speculations about the meaning of tragedy and lead me to ask, as have oth-
ers, Why do we go to the theater to cry? Tragedy, poetry, music, religious feelings,
and tears are all intertwined, but I would suggest that this coalescence reflects our
biological heritage, starting with an evolutionary development of the brains of pri-
mates and leading up to Homo sapiens, where such behaviors become manifest.
The study of disorders of the brain can shed light on how the brain works, and
clinical observation followed by attempts to reveal underlying anatomy, physiol-
ogy, and pathology is a time-honored methodology. The path less taken has been
to study the influence of disorders, especially neuropsychiatric disorders, on be-
haviors that relate to artistic expression or religiosity. This neglect has occurred
in spite of a well-trod history of observations, which I suggest form solid enough
stepping stones on which to venture forth. In part, this relates to a lack of inter-
est in such topics on the part of practitioners and neuroscientists and an even
greater lack of interest among those who fund research. It also reflects on the
now-closing but still-present gap between neurology and psychiatry as academic
disciplines, driven by an irrational attachment to a Cartesian dichotomy between
mind and brain. Especially from the time of Freud, psychiatry took a psychologi-
cal as opposed to a neurobiological approach to psychopathology, and it was
eclipsed in terms of understanding the brain in relation to psychiatric symptoms
by the success of a localizational approach to neurology. This became successful
in predicting, in the days before adequate brain scanning, the sites of lesions in
the brains of patients and was the basis of neurological clinical practice.
Many things have changed in the past thirty years, some of which are explored
in this book. Not the least has been the resurgence of the discipline of neuropsy-
chiatry, a parent of neuroscience, whose practitioners have an interest in the way
brain disorders alter behaviors in their wider context. This embraces changes
of personality and associations with psychiatric disorders such as depression,
mania, and psychoses, in general, but must also embrace changes in a person’s
approach to cultural phenomena—hence the interest in hyperreligiosity and a re-
lated phenomenon, hypergraphia, the tendency toward extensive and often repet-
itive writing, seen in some neuropsychiatric conditions.
Advances in neuroanatomy, neurophysiology, neurochemistry, and brain-
imaging techniques and a greater willingness to accept the primacy of the brain
as the organ that controls and modulates our experiences and behavior have
spurned new, though barely nascent, disciplines referred to here as neuro-
aesthetics and neurotheology. I suggest that explorations of patients with para-
 Introduction 5

digmatic neuropsychiatric conditions, such as epilepsy and bipolar a¤ective

disorders, are the key to unraveling some of the mysteries of the cerebral repre-
sentations of our highest cultural experiences. These, however, like the discipline
of neurophilosophy, are jealously guarded fields.
An earlier version of this manuscript was reviewed by an unknown reader,
whose comments were helpful in allowing me to anticipate some of the criticisms
that will emerge, especially about links between the brain and artistic activities.
Sometimes a controversy is not labeled as such, and in medical science generally
one can find nine papers that lead to a conclusion and one that does not. There
clearly is a controversy, but the data lean in one direction; such leaning is impor-
tant as long as one does not fall over.
I have taken an evolutionary stance to the whole subject. Anyone who chooses
to ignore the fact that we, and our brains, are, at least for now, at the summit of
a mountain of evolutionary development that is millions of years old simply has
not got a grasp on reality. The paleopsychic processes embedded in the human
central nervous system did not simply arrive a few thousand years ago; the drives
and cognitions that have brought us this far have millions of years of selection
and evolutionary pressure behind them. Furthermore, anyone who cannot work
out that, far from our having descended from a golden age, a time before the
Fisher King was wounded and when the Grail was here on earth, we have arrived
at this point in time through an evolutionary progression from nature itself, red
in tooth and claw, again simply has not got it.
In addition to the historical evolutionary context of the book, there is also a his-
torical approach taken to several of the topics. This arises, in part, from a personal
interest in the development of ideas that over the past two millennia have been
rich and fertile, though in the neurosciences and in neurophilosophy they took
o¤ in the eighteenth century. This approach also emphasizes how ideas have ac-
creted over time, giving due credit, I trust, to past masters. If I quote some poetry
to enhance a text, it is because this book is, in part, about poetry, but it is also with
the hope that those who hold little brief for poetry at present may be stimulated
to read a little more.
Naturally, I have a task to maintain a view that poetry is di¤erent from prose,
an argument developed in chapter 4, but I do not stand alone on such matters
and have sought backers for my view. Of course, there is a point at which poetic
prose may be referred to as poetry, and, I suppose, prose poetry may be referred
to as prose. My point is not that there are always clear-cut di¤erences between the
two but that there are di¤erent reflections from their surfaces to which we re-
 6 The Soul in the Brain

spond di¤erently, and, in spite of the arguments about the borderlands (where all
wars are fought), there are many creations that everyone would agree are pieces
of poetry and many others that are clearly prose.
Similarly, I do not want to be seen to have adopted a simple right brain–left
brain dichotomy in my view of brain function. I do urge investigators to take more
interest in the functions of the right hemisphere of the human brain, and I am
suggesting that there is something special about the way the right brain modu-
lates language, unifying the languages of poetry, music, and religion. But our
brains in health act holistically, in harmony, and only when that harmony is dis-
turbed does one see disorders that clinicians refer to as neurological or psychi-
atric or neuropsychiatric.
In the final chapter the ideas developed in the first eight are summarized, but
they spill over into other areas that have to do with our cultural experiences, in-
cluding a return to considering tragedy and suggesting perhaps a new theory of
why we go to the theater to cry. I say return, because some years ago I was awarded
a university prize based, in part, on an essay on tragedy (mainly about the works
of Thomas Hardy), which I turned to again while writing this book. I have cho-
sen to quote quite a lot of Nietzsche, again in the hope that those readers unfa-
miliar with his writings will be stimulated to read more. However, he has so much
to say about the topics in the book that I unashamedly quote him liberally.
Of course, having viewed the criticisms, I could have removed some sections
of the text that my reviewer found unsatisfactory, but instead I have elaborated on
such ideas, in hopes of making them clearer. If I have made a slip in my refer-
ences to the structure or function of poetry, I can only apologize. My intention in
this book is not to please the too-focused academic but to stimulate ideas.
No doubt many will take me to task for really believing that the brain is it—no
brain, no sensations, no feelings, no movements, and no philosophy. Most neu-
roscientists now take such a view (there have been notable exceptions, such as the
neurosurgeon Wilder Penfield or the neurophysiologist Sir John Eccles), but
many writers, especially those wedded to folk psychology, including many phil-
osophers, are resistant to it. So be it. But the neuroscientific explorations of hu-
man behavior and motives will continue, the conclusions may simply become
facts of life (or death), and people will have to come to terms with them in their
own perspectives, in the same way that they embrace or ignore Copernicus or
Darwin or the ravages of dementia.
This book does not examine the issue of the existence of gods or God; such
discussions can be found in countless other books, and they go beyond the neu-
roscience presented here. However, that question and related ones, such as the
 Introduction 7

basis of truth or morality, usually viewed as questions for theology or philosophy,

are not immune from neuroscientific enquiry. I would venture to speculate that
they cannot advance (beyond the speculations of the past two thousand or so
years) without the implantation of a neuroscientific perspective. What we know
and how we know it are topics that firmly cross the horizon of neurobiology, and
only the naïve will continue to ignore that eventuality.
My first degree was in neuroanatomy, and it is still with a sense of awe and
wonder that I view the human brain, when seen in vivo during anatomical dis-
section or reconstructed through one of the wonderful high-resolution brain
scanners that we now have at our disposal. Dissect a brain and you will alter your
perspective on the world and your place in it. If you open up a brain, the mind
will, eventually, fall out.
Another random document with
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— Paride è un giovinotto sui ventitrè anni, biondo, bello, snello, con
tutti i requisiti necessari al suo genere d’esercizio.
— Vive di rendite ereditate onestamente dalla famiglia, di cui è
l’unico superstite. Per quanto riguarda la sua educazione abbiamo
poco da dire; stette in collegio fino ai dicianove anni, ove imparò di
esser possessore di diecimila lire di rendita, e ciò gli parve più che a
sufficenza per le sue cognizioni, per non curarsi d’altro.
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domandasse quanti denti ha in bocca, risponderebbe: Diecimila.
— A suo onore dobbiamo notare che egli veste con garbo, che i suoi
capelli sono profumati alla vaniglia, ed i suoi guanti sono sempre
freschi di fabbrica.
— Come tutti gli individui della sua specie Paride è dedito alla
conquista di donne; ma, per vero dire, non è troppo fortunato nelle
sue aspirazioni; pare che le donne gli siano avare d’affetti, per cui
sarà facile comprendere che, se il poverino vuol conquistare, deve
acquistare.
— Ciò malgrado, con una costanza a tutta prova egli tende sempre
nuovi tranelli, corteggia le signore, e sorride alle vezzose sartine. —
Per lui non c’è ostacolo; nel genere basso ed accessibile ha fatto
qualche vittima, seminando molti soldi.
— Per solito è sempre di buon umore, si lascia canzonare
discretamente dalle signore dell’alta società, le quali ebbero tutte la
sorte di innamorarlo, e di godersi i suoi confetti, di cui fa un
consumo non indifferente.
— Un tempo fu innamorato, rapito, entusiasmato di una certa Fanny,
la quale, malgrado un passato di trent’anni, fra cui sei di vita
coniugale, conservava ancora qualche rovina di quella bellezza che
l’aveva resa celebre nei tempi di sua gioventù.
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Fanny a 15 anni entrò in una sartoria della città onde apprendere i
primi rudimenti del mestiere.
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sua umilissima foggia di vestiario; ma un giorno osservò per caso
che le sue scarpe erano troppo rozze, ed all’indomani ebbe un bel
paio di stivaletti. Ma a quei piedini così ben calzati faceva brutto
contrasto la vesticciola di tela, e pochi giorni dopo la veste era
cambiata con un’altra più fina.
— Di questo passo, nel breve periodo d’un mese la colomba era
diventata civetta...; ma siccome non tutte le civette mangiano la
polenta, come dice quella celebre traduzione del «Civitas magna et
opulenta..... ecc., così un bel giorno Fanny diede un addio alla
bottega ed alla casa, e prese possesso di un piccolo appartamento
situato nel centro della città.
— A quell’epoca il nostro Paride sbadigliava ancora sui banchi della
scuola da cui ne usci tre anni dopo, vale a dire quando l’astro di
Fanny erasi completamente eclissato sotto il provvidenziale mantello
di un marito.
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cavalieri, Fanny amò ardemente uno speziale in ritiro che possedeva
quarantacinque anni, ed un reddito di due mila lire.
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sfrondato tutte le suo risorse.
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giorno seguente la felicissima coppia s’installò in due camere d’un
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ma tutto passa, ed infine anche le male lingue cessarono di
mormorare. Per altra parte non vi era più elemento a maldicenza,
giacchè il volto di Fanny portava traccie assai rassicuranti per la sua
condotta avvenire.
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che si era goduti nei primi anni. — Il suo sposino era carico di malori
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turbava spesso i placidi sonni della consorte; a cui, ci affrettiamo a
dichiararlo, non dava altro incomodo.
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si ha ancora il sangue molto caldo e facilmente accendibile. Il signor
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come il frutto nella sua completa maturazione; coglierlo prima sa di
agro, dopo riesce amaro. È Balzac che lo dice, e basta.
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più che una stretta di mano ed un’occhiata satura di tenerezza.
— Più volte egli aveva chiesto all’amante il permesso di farle una
visita in casa, ma quel barbaro signor Gregorio colla sua diurèsi non
usciva mai, e la sua presenza incomodava.
— Una sera, mentre Paride pranzava, ebbe da uno sconosciuto una
lettera con grande mistero. — Appena fu solo scorse avidamente il
foglio, mandò un grido di gioia, e sospendendo il pranzo ordinò
subito un bagno caldo, nulla curandosi del pericolo di rimanervi
soffocato per indigestione.
Mentre il domestico lo asciugava ed incipriava, lo zerbinotto era in
preda a convulsioni di contentezza, ed i suoi sguardi stavano
costantemente rivolti al pendolo.
— La toeletta che si fece fu oltremodo accurata; basti dire che
impiegò due ore per bardarsi.
— Terminò verso le sei; essendo d’inverno era già notte avanzata.
Calzò i guanti, accese un sigaretto, aguzzò i baffi, si acconciò il
cappello sulla profumata criniera, e se ne andò dicendo al domestico
in tuono malizioso: «Non aspettarmi, stanotte dormo fuori.» — Ci
affrettiamo a soddisfare il lettore mettendogli in vista la lettera che
destò tanto entusiasmo a quel poverino. Eccola:

«Mio adorato Paride!

«Dio ha esaudito le nostre preghiere.
«Mio marito sta più male del solito per quell’incomodo che
tu sai. Parte questa sera col convoglio delle 6½ per recarsi
da un prete che si dice pratico di medicina. Saremo liberi
per tutta la notte. Ti amo, e ti aspetto!
«Fanny.»

Ecco il famoso perchè della splendida toeletta di Paride, il quale

gongolava per gioia pensando di trovarsi al punto d’appagare i suoi
più vivi desiderii.
— Anche il male è buono a qualche cosa, così dice il proverbio, e
difatti la recrudescenza diurètica del signor Gregorio non poteva
cader più a proposito. Da qualche giorno l’infelice sentiva accrescersi
l’incomodo della sua noiosa infermità, e stanco di pazientare, decise
di consultarsi con un prete di campagna che aveva fama di empirico
maraviglioso.
Tutto ben pensato Gregorio decise di partire alla sera per potere alla
dimane portarsi sul luogo per tempo.
— Fanny era trepidante per ansietà; durante la giornata stette col
cuore sospeso temendo che il marito cambiasse d’avviso; ma quando
verso le quattro vide che egli disponevasi proprio a partire, scrisse
subito a Paride quella lettera che il lettore già conosce.
— Mentre il signor Gregorio si avviava alla Stazione, Fanny si accinse
di fretta e furia a dar ordine alle sue camerette, specialmente a
quella da letto, di cui principale ornamento era un grosso...
recipiente che, senza dar tante spiegazioni, era serbato per uso
esclusivo del marito. — Quel... mobile era di una capacità
straordinaria, e ciò spiega quanto gravissimo fosse l’incomodo del
povero Gregorio.
Prima cura di Fanny fu di celare quel gigantesco strumento, ma
sgraziatamente mentre tentava di riporlo in un armadio, le scivolò di
mano e cadde frantumandosi in mille pezzi.
— Fortuna che per quella sera il marito non tornava, e per l’indomani
c’era tempo di provvederne un altro.

— Intanto che faceva il nostro Paride?

— Eccolo; noi lo vediamo al caffè venti minuti prima del sospirato
abboccamento. Sdraiato nobilmente sopra un sofà, sembra che stia
pensando alla felicità che lo attende, e noi approfittiamo di questo
momento per farlo meglio conoscere al nostro lettore.
— È lui, proprio lui! guardala bene codesta curiosa bestiolina. — Chi
direbbe che sotto quel cappello a cilindro si nasconde una testa di
rapa? chi direbbe che da quella bocchina adorna di profumati baffi
sortano tante sciocchezze?
Certo che se dall’abito si potesse dedurre il carattere d’un individuo,
il nostro Paride si troverebbe in condizione favorevolissima; ma
sgraziatamente non è così: malgrado quella cravatta annodata
scientificamente e quei guanti color d’arancio, malgrado quei
pantaloni finissimi tirati all’ultima moda, e quel lungo catenaccio
d’oro carico di gingilli, il poverino è sempre un minuscolo somarello.
— Eppure ha un’aria di sussiego, ed al vederlo sembra immerso in
grandi pensieri; ma nulla di tutto ciò, egli non ha mai pensato. Ha
delle idee, dei ghiribizzi, non dei pensieri.
— Chi ci spiega lo straordinario contrasto che ci sta fra cervello e
cervello? perchè taluni hanno la testa piena d’entusiasmo, mentre
altri l’hanno gonfia di sciocchezze?
— Cos’è che determina tanta disparità che fugge all’esame
anatomico?
— Coloro che s’affannano per cercare quel famoso anello di
congiunzione fra la scimia e l’uomo, parmi non dovrebbe sudar
tanto, giacchè si vedono tutto giorno uomini più gaglioffi delle
bertuccie e dei chimpenzè. Resta a provarsi se l’essere imbecille
possa riuscire svantaggioso e non dobbiamo dimenticare che il più
grande degli uomini sclamò in un giorno di dolorosa esaltazione:
BEATI I POVERI DI SPIRITO! Ciò stabilito, è chiaro che Paride
starebbe fra i beatissimi.

La mezza dopo le sei era appena battuta, che già il nuovo Don
Giovanni saliva di volo le scale che conducevano alle stanze di Fanny.
Giunto all’uscio suonò il campanello, e poco dopo quelle due anime
erano confuse, strette insieme in estasi da non potersi dire.
— Fanny aveva appena terminato il piramidale lavoro della sua
toeletta, ma noi ci guardiamo bene dal descrivere nei suoi particolari
quest’opera di raffinamento, che nella donna va progredendo cogli
anni.
— La gioventù si abbiglia poco; è questa una riserva istintiva che si
dilegua man mano che s’invecchia.
Ci limitiamo puramente a constatare che giammai Fanny fu tanto
sublime nell’arte di acconciarsi. L’amore l’aveva inspirata, ed ella
riuscì con maravigliosa abilità a rubare qualche anno all’apparenza.
— Un bel fuoco rallegrante, crepitava nel caminetto della camera
nuziale, ed a quel benefico calore Paride rinfrancò le membra
assiderate dal freddo.
— Davvero che non sappiamo dove cominciare per descrivere
l’amorosa scena. Le carezze di due colombe non danno che una
pallida immagine del poetico abbandono che invadeva quelle due
anime innamorate. Si guardavano con occhio smorto, si stringevano
le mani, sospiravano come soffioni.
— La conversazione era poco animata.
Paride sapeva più tacere che parlare, e ad ogni aprir di labbro l’era
un torrente di sciocchezze.
— Fanny, che non mancava d’un certo spirito naturale, si accorse
subito della scarsa loquacità dell’amante, ma ne diede causa
all’emozione ed al fuoco del suo sguardo che ella compiacevasi di
roteare voluttuosamente.
— Com’è naturale, dopo tanti arzigogoli e circonlocuzioni, si venne al
grande argomento del loro amore; il soggetto era eccitante, e gli
effetti non tardarono a manifestarsi su Paride che in un lampo
d’esaltazione giunse al punto di dire com’ei non vivesse d’altro che di
sospiri e d’angoscie.
— Al primo bacio di Fanny, offerse le sue ricchezze, al secondo la
vita, al terzo l’anima addirittura, e chissà cosa avrebbe offerto, se
una forte scampanellata non fosse venuta a frenarlo nei suoi
trasporti.

Un colpo di cannone, un guizzo di folgore, lo scoppio di una

polveriera, non avrebbero tanto spaventato quei poverini.
— La corrente di poesia e d’amore che li travolgeva in un mare di
voluttà, si arrestò d’un lampo; n’ebbero il sangue gelato, ed
entrambi stettero a contemplarsi atterriti.
— Una seconda suonata più violenta della prima tolse ogni dubbio;
oltre a ciò si sentì la voce del signor Gregorio che brontolava per
impazienza.
— Mio marito! sclamò Fanny con tale accento di terrore che a Paride
si rizzarono i capelli.
— Ah! me disgraziata... egli ci ucciderà entrambi.
— Ma... madama! balbettò Paride tremando, è così feroce suo
marito?
— È una tigre — Oh! noi siamo perduti!
— Dove mi nascondo? sclamava l’infelice trottolando per la stanza.
— Fanny non sapeva che risolvere, infine come côlta da un pensiero
corse ad aprire la finestra e con un cenno imperativo sclamò; — Giù
dalla finestra, signore.
— Madama, mormorò Paride spalancando gli occhi, siamo al quarto
piano.
— Salvatemi l’onore!..., ribattè fieramente Fanny.
— Ma l’onore non era gran stimolo per Paride, che in quel frangente
avrebbe dato tutto l’onore del mondo per una scala. Ei sapeva
troppo bene che la vita vale più assai di certe inezie, ed infatti si
appigliò al consiglio di evitare il pericolo anche a costo di perdere
l’amore e la stima dell’amante.
— Gregorio dalla porta urlava come un energumeno, e Paride, non
vedendo altro scampo, si ficcò sotto il letto.
— Finalmente il povero marito potè entrare, ma era tanta la sua
stizza che non s’accorse del turbamento della moglie.
— Ci voleva tanto ad aprire?
— Scusami, Gregorio... mi era addormentata accanto al fuoco...
— Menzogna... come va che siete vestita a festa?... si direbbe che
aspettate qualcuno.
— Ma che dici, ti pare?
— Vivaddio, se fosse vero ciò che mi si disse, vi giuro che strozzerei
prima voi, poi lui. Tenetelo a memoria.
— Paride all’udire cotali discorsi non si sentiva per nulla tranquillo,
era tutto in convulsione, e tremolava come se si trovasse sotto una
pressione elettrica. Egli non aveva mai pensato che il signor Gregorio
fosse quel feroce che appariva, e pentivasi amaramente di non
essere saltato dalla finestra; ma era tardi, e già parevagli di sentirsi
stringere per la gola da quel rabbioso speziale.
— Maledisse a Fanny ed alla sua malaugurata avventura, pensò alla
sua casa, al suo letto, agli amici, ed a tutte quelle facili conquiste,
per le quali non correva alcun pericolo — ma intanto doveva
starsene accovacciato sotto il letto economizzando il respiro per
paura di tradirsi.
— Gregorio dopo di aver brontolato per una mezz’ora cominciò a
spogliarsi e se ne andò fra le coltri.

— Mentre egli si avvoltola per il letto cercando ristoro nel sonno,

approfittiamone per dare qualche schiarimento su quel ritorno
inaspettato che fu cagione di tanto sgomento.
— La diuresi del signor Gregorio, causa di tanti inconvenienti, fu
pure quella che gli fece perdere il convoglio di partenza.
— Costretto a fermarsi per via, giunse alla stazione proprio quando il
treno se ne andava salutandolo col fischio.
— Fu tanto il dispetto del pover’uomo, che il sangue gli rifluì alla
testa, e per riavere un po’ di calma entrò in un caffè per prendere
qualche rinfresco.
— Aveva già finito e disponevasi ad andarsene, quando
sopraggiunse un suo antico amico, che in vederlo mandò
un’esclamazione di sorpresa.
— Gregorio... tu qui?
— Sì, e me ne vado adesso.
— Come stai?... dacchè ti ammogliasti più nessuno ti ha visto.
— Eh! mio caro, gli affari... addio.
— Senti, fermati — È molto che desidero di parlar teco. — Ho cose
importanti da dirti.
— Sarà per altra volta; ora non posso.
— Ascolta, Gregorio. — Si tratta del tuo onore.
— L’onore è gran parola per tutti. Gregorio si fermò coll’amico, il
quale pietosamente gli riferì la voce che già correva per la città sugli
amori di madama Fanny con Paride.
— Checchè se ne dica, il mondo è ancor pieno d’uomini di cuore. I
pessimisti e gli scettici che guardano biecamente il nostro edifizio
sociale, hanno una grande smentita in questi esempi d’amicizia.
— Ah! son ben pochi quei disgraziati che traditi dalla moglie o
dall’amante, non trovino poi un caritatevole amico che non faccia ad
essi confidenziali rivelazioni.
— Anime benedette, che tanta parte prendete nelle sventure degli
amici! il gran premio, che si compete alla vostra sincerità, è senza
dubbio quello di venir contraccambiati largamente in altre occasioni
in cui toccheranno a voi le parti di marito o di padre.
— Quanto bene arrechino codeste rivelazioni ne può far prova il
signor Gregorio che se ne andò dal caffè in uno stato tale da non
bastare tutto un ghiacciaio a calmarlo.
— La prima idea che gli passò per la mente fu quella di pugnalare la
perfida moglie — abbiamo detto pugnalare, dicasi avvelenare, è più
proprio per uno speziale.
— La seconda idea fu di uccidere l’amante ma per fortuna una terza
riflessione, quella cioè che sua moglie potesse essere ingiustamente
calunniata, venne a calmarlo alquanto, e decise perciò di aspettare
qualche avvenimento che gli schiarisse il vero.
— Fortuna per lui che il nostro Paride non era quello di Elena,
altrimenti sarebbero andati a nulla i più savii proponimenti; vale a
dire che sarebbe stato tardi.
— Fanny aspettava ansiosamente che il marito si addormentasse per
far libero il merlo, ma sia per il male, o pel racconto dell’amico
incontrato al caffè, il signor Gregorio non trovava pace, e nè per
voltarsi e rivoltarsi poteva pigliar sonno.
— Se non dormiva il marito, puoi figurarti come gli altri ci riuscissero.
— Paride, oltre al trovarsi in una posizione non comodissima, non
poteva voltarsi per nessun verso, e fu per lui buona ventura che il
letto distasse alquanto dal muro, tanto da poter, sebbene con molta
fatica, liberarsi un poco mettendo fuori prima la testa e le braccia,
poi tutta la persona, restando infine rannicchiato nel vano fra muro e
letto.
— Già da un’ora regnava un silenzio profondo, quando Gregorio,
come spinto da una molla, balzò in terra con gran pericolo del naso
di Paride, che fu ad un pelo per venirne schiacciato.
— Il giovinotto rabbrividì, accorgendosi che quel feroce marito
tastava colle mani sotto il letto, e credette di essersi tradito con
qualche movimento. — Fanny pure si sentì stringere il cuore per
paura. — Fu un istante di terribile ansietà.
— Dove avete messo il mio recipiente? sclamò Gregorio.
— Fanny non rispose.
— Madama, il mio vaso dov’è, urlò egli scuotendola per il braccio.
— Che vuoi? chiese Fanny fingendo di svegliarsi.
— Si può sapere ove sia... quel mobile?
— Oh! mio caro, oggi m’è accaduta una disgrazia...
— Il mio vaso, vi replico, interruppe Gregorio, battendo siffattamente
il piede da far traballare i vetri.
— Appunto, mormorò Fanny, nel riporlo sotto il letto mi scivolò di
mano e si ruppe.
— È un’infamia... una scelleraggine. Come ne farò senza?
— È una disgrazia...
— La disgrazia mia è quella di avere una pettegola di moglie che si
cura di tutti fuorchè del marito.
«Perdio mi prenderò un’infreddatura, e domani starò male; canchero
che vi pigli, vecchia senza giudizio! Intanto come farò senza...
— Fanny non rispose, e poco dopo Gregorio rientrò fra le coltri
borbottando.
— Se egli avesse fatto senza il suo strumento, potrai chiederlo al bel
Paride che n’ebbe il viso inondato.
— Intanto i coniugi avevano ripreso la disputa, durante la quale
Gregorio discese quattro o cinque volte per rimediare al difetto del
vaso che era surrogato dall’elegante zerbinotto.
— Valeva proprio la pena di prendere un bagno profumato! in meno
di due ore il poverino era inzuppato come se si fosse tuffato in un
fiume.
— Più volte tentò di sottrarsi a quel torrente che lo investiva, ma era
assolutamente impossibile, a meno di muovere un seggiolone che gli
sbarrava la via.
— Che fare? Aspettò rassegnato il fine di quell’episodio riparando alla
meglio i ripetuti assalti del nemico.
Le notti d’inverno sono lunghe, e lasciamo pensare quanto
lunghissima sembrasse quella all’infelice Paride, che se la passò
quasi tutta con un’agitazione terribile, e con un’umidità addosso che
gli agghiacciava le membra.
— Finalmente verso le quattro il signor Gregorio avvertì con un sordo
russare che stava per prender sonno.
— Fanny discese dal letto con molta precauzione, ed aprì la porta
mormorando sommessamente a Paride di andarsene.
— La metamorfosi più strana non si vide mai. L’infelice giovinotto
sembrava uno spazzacamino tanto era insudiciato e sporco.
Narciso si era mutato in un fascio di letame.
— Malgrado tutto, allorquando il povero Paride pose il piede sulla
strada, alzò un inno al cielo, ed affrettandosi tutto intirizzito verso
casa fece le riflessioni più savie che abbia mai fatto in vita sua.
— Stette malato un mese per una seria raffreddatura, e non credo
necessario dirti che diede un addio all’amore di Fanny ed alla
infausta memoria di quell’avventura galante.

FINE DEL PRIMO VOLUME.

 INDICE

VOLUME PRIMO

Prefazione Pag. 5
Un Soldo 15
Un’Avventura galante 87
 Nota del Trascrittore

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mantenute, correggendo senza annotazione minimi errori
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Copertina creata dal trascrittore e posta nel pubblico
dominio.
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