One of the few things, indeed perhaps the only one I knew for certain was that I was called Mattia Pascal. And I made good use of it. Every time someone of my friends or acquaintances demonstrated that they had lost their senses until they came to me for some advice or suggestion, I would hunch my shoulders, close my eyes, and respond:

— I am Mattia Pascal.

— Thank you, dear. I know that.

— And is it not a little?

It didn’t seem little, to tell the truth, not even to me. But until last year, I would often have my name and surname lent to me, as objects of some need: a poor devil who wanted to appear under other appearances, a woman who was embarrassed to receive someone, a boy who wanted to impress himself. And I would lend my name to good intentions, although I didn’t derive any direct advantage.
