The humour of Italy

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Title: The humour of Italy
Author: Werner, Alice
Language: English
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*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The humour of Italy" ***

_THE INTERNATIONAL HUMOUR SERIES._

EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS.

THE HUMOUR OF ITALY.

[Illustration:

STORY OF DANTE AND THE SMITH. [P. 290.
]

THE
HUMOUR OF ITALY

[Illustration]

SELECTED AND TRANSLATED,
WITH INTRODUCTION,
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX, AND
NOTES, BY A. WERNER: WITH
FIFTY-ONE ILLUSTRATIONS
BY ARTURO FALDI

LONDON WALTER SCOTT
1892 LTD.

CONTENTS

PAGE
INTRODUCTION xi
THE POET COMPLAINS OF UNREASONABLE FRIENDS—_Antonio Pucci_ (1375) 1
CALANDRINO FINDS THE STONE HELIOTROPE—_Giovanni Boccaccio_
(1313–1375) 2
STORY OF DANTE AND THE SMITH—_Franco Sacchetti_ (1335–1400) 10
MESSER BERNABÒ AND THE MILLER—_Franco Sacchetti_ 11
HOW SER NASTAGIO WAS COLLECTED FOR IN CHURCH—_Girolamo Parabosco_
(16th century) 14
HOW A BARRISTER GOT HIS MONEY’S WORTH—_Sabadino degli Arienti_
(_c._ 1450–1500) 19
THE MERRY JESTS OF BUFFALMACCO THE PAINTER—_Vasari_ (1512–1574) 21
ANECDOTES—_Vasari_ 25
CHORUS FROM “LA MANDRAGOLA”—_Niccolo Machiavelli_ (1469–1527) 26
FRA TIMOTEO’S MONOLOGUE—_Niccolo Machiavelli_ 26
THE MEDIÆVAL UNDERGRADUATE—_Baldassarre Castiglione_ (1478–1529) 27
ANECDOTES—_Baldassarre Castiglione_ 28
A ROMAN PRELATE OF 1519—_Lodovico Ariosto_ (1474–1533) 30
THE VALLEY OF LOST LUMBER—_Lodovico Ariosto_ 32
THE POET TO HIS PATRON—_Francesco Berni_ (1490?–1536) 35
BENVENUTO CELLINI OFFENDS THE POPE—_Benvenuto Cellini_ (1500–1570) 36
HE RESCUES A FOOL FROM DROWNING—_Benvenuto Cellini_ 37
OPENING STANZAS OF “THE RAPE OF THE BUCKET”—_Alessandro Tassoni_
(1565–1635) 39
THE CALL TO ARMS—_Alessandro Tassoni_ 40
THE ASSEMBLY OF THE GODS—_Alessandro Tassoni_ 41
PRAISES OF THE WINE OF MONTEPULCIANO—_Francesco Redi_ (1626–1696) 45
FROM A LETTER TO PIER MARIA BALDI—_Francesco Redi_ 48
PULCINELLA’S DUEL—_Francesco Cerlone_ (_c._ 1750–1800) 49
A BERGAMASC PETER PEEBLES—_Gasparo Gozzi_ (1713–1786) 53
HOW TO SUCCEED IN LITERATURE—_Gasparo Gozzi_ 55
A FABLE—_Gasparo Gozzi_ 56
KING TEODORO AND HIS CREDITORS (From the Comic Opera, “Il Re
Teodoro”)—_Giovanni Battista Casti_ (1721–1803) 57
THE POET AND HIS CREDITORS: FOUR SONNETS—_Giovanni Battista Casti_ 60
DIDYMUS, THE CLERIC, ON THE ITALIAN UNIVERSITIES—_Ugo Foscolo_
(1778–1827) 62
THE FIRST HOUR AND THE SUN—_Giacomo Leopardi_ (1798–1837) 63
FASHION AND DEATH—_Giacomo Leopardi_ 66
THE POET ON TRAMP—_Filippo Pananti_ (1776–1837) 70
LOVE AND A QUIET LIFE—_Giuseppe Giusti_ (1809–1850) 74
INSTRUCTIONS TO A YOUNG ASPIRANT FOR OFFICE—_Giuseppe Giusti_ 76
LETTER TO TOMMASO GROSSI—_Giuseppe Giusti_ 78
DON ABBONDIO AND THE BRAVOES—_Alessandro Manzoni_ (1784–1873) 82
THE INTERRUPTED WEDDING—_Alessandro Manzoni_ 85
OUR CHILDREN—_Collodi_ 90
STRAY THOUGHTS OF AN IDLER—_Antonio Ghislanzoni_ 94
MEN AND INSTRUMENTS—_Antonio Ghislanzoni_ 95
THE DELIGHTS OF JOURNALISM—_Enrico Onufrio_ 100
WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK—_Napoleone Corazzini_ 103
THE FAMOUS TENOR, SPALLETTI—_Napoleone Corazzini_ 104
RIVAL EARTHQUAKES—_Luigi Capuana_ 107
QUACQUARÀ—_Luigi Capuana_ 121
THE EXCAVATIONS OF MASTRO ROCCO—_Luigi Capuana_ 134
THE WAR OF THE SAINTS—_Giovanni Verga_ 137
HIS REVERENCE—_Giovanni Verga_ 148
PADRON ’NTONI’S POLITICS—_Giovanni Verga_ 154
MASTRO PEPPE’S MAGIC—_Gabriele d’Annunzio_ 155
A DAY IN THE COUNTRY—_Renato Fucini_ 168
THE THEOREM OF PYTHAGORAS—_Enrico Castelnuovo_ 191
AN ECCENTRIC ORDERLY—_Edmondo de Amicis_ 199
A PROVINCIAL ORACLE—_Mario Pratesi_ 206
DOCTOR PHŒBUS—_Mario Pratesi_ 208
OUR SCHOOL AND SCHOOLMISTRESS—_Mario Pratesi_ 229
LOCAL JEALOUSIES—_P. C. Ferrigni_ (“_Yorick_”) 232
SUNSHINE—_P. C. Ferrigni_ 234
WHEN IT RAINS—_P. C. Ferrigni_ 235
THE PATENT ADAPTABLE SONNET—_Paolo Ferrari_ 237
LOVE BY PROXY—_P. Ferrari_ 238
A WET NIGHT IN THE COUNTRY—_P. Ferrari_ 239
A LOST EXPLORER—_C. Lotti_ 254
THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION—_Vittorio Bersezio_ 259
TRUTH—_Achille Torelli_ 262
PASQUIN—(From _Roba di Roma_, by Story) 266
EPIGRAMS 283
PROVERBS, FOLK-LORE, AND TRADITIONAL ANECDOTES 284
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 305
NOTES 323
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS 327

INTRODUCTION.

Italian humour, says Mr. J. A. Symonds, died with Ariosto; and, in the
face of such a declaration, any attempt to bring together a collection
of specimens, some of which at any rate belong to a more recent date,
would seem to savour of presumption. Yet, even at the risk of differing
from such a recognised authority on Italian literature, we venture to
think that a good deal has been produced since the age of Ariosto which
may legitimately be defined as humour, though, for various reasons
presently to be detailed, there are peculiar difficulties connected with
its presentation in a foreign tongue.

It may as well be said at once that the professed humorist, the writer
who is comic and nothing else, or, at any rate, whose main scope is to
be funny, is all but unknown in modern Italian literature. Strictly
speaking, he is perhaps a Germanic rather than a Latin product. The
jokes in Italian comic and other papers are not, as a rule,
overpoweringly amusing; and if we do come across a book which sets
itself forth as _Umoristico_, the chances are that it turns out to be
very tragical mirth indeed. But in novels and tales, even in essays and
descriptions, which have no specially humorous intention, you often come
across passages of a pure and spontaneous humour, inimitable in its own
kind.

Italian humour may be said to fall into two great divisions, or
rather—for it is impossible to draw hard and fast lines—to present two
main characteristics, which are sometimes present together, sometimes
separately. The first of these is what we may call the humour of
_ludicrous incident_—a very elementary kind indeed, comprising what is
usually known as “broad farce,” and finding its most rudimentary
expression in horse-play and practical jokes of the Theodore Hook kind.
The early stages of all literatures afford abundant examples of this;
indeed, there are some stories which appear to be so universally
pleasing to human nature that they reappear, in various forms, all the
world over, sometimes making their way into literature, sometimes
surviving in oral tradition to the present day. Boccaccio and his
predecessor, Franco Sacchetti, with numberless other writers of the
“novelle” or short stories in prose, which very early became a striking
feature in Italian literature, afford plenty of examples. Such are the
tricks played on the unlucky Calandrino, the various “burle” (historical
or not) ascribed to the painter Buffalmacco, and the story of the wicked
Franciscan friar, who, after having been caught in his own trap and, as
was confidently hoped, exposed before a whole congregation, had the wit
to turn the situation to his own profit after all, and preached a most
eloquent sermon on the incident. The same tendency is also seen in the
“Morgante Maggiore” of Pulci, which in its turn gave birth to a large
number of “heroico-comic” poems, most of them celebrating the adventures
of some more or less fabulous hero, and also, it must be confessed,
somewhat heavy and long-winded, the cumbrous _ottava rima_ contributing
not a little to this result.[1] Ariosto’s great poem, of course, though
having some points in common with these—(he had two predecessors in his
treatment of the Roland legend in epic form)—stands on an entirely
different footing.

The other characteristic is difficult to define, and its best examples
are almost impossible to render into another language. It consists in a
peculiar, naïve drollery,—a something which reminds one of the Irish way
of relating a story, only that it is quieter and more restrained,—a
simplicity which seems almost unconscious of the ludicrous side of what
it is describing, till we are undeceived by a sly hit here and there.
This, though more developed in modern writers, exists side by side with
the broader comic element in the older literature. There is a certain
childlike quality about the Italian of the age of Dante that lends
itself admirably to the expression of this trait.

The French are said to possess wit, but not humour; the Italians have
humour, but not wit—or, at any rate, more of the former than the latter.
True humour is never divorced from pathos; and it is usually allied with
the power of seeing the poetry in common things. This one notices in
many writers of the present day, such as Verga and Pratesi—whose works
are full of humour, though not of a kind that appears to advantage in
selections. It is shown in delicate elusive touches of description and
narration, and provokes smiles—sometimes sad smiles—rather than
laughter. Verga’s humour is often grim and bitter—the tragedy of the
hard lives he writes of has its farce too, but even that is a sad one.
Something of this grimness comes out in his cynical sketch of the
village priest, who was also farmer and money-lender—hated by his flock
in one capacity, reverenced in the other, and dreaded in both.

Italy is so intimately associated with music and the drama, that, in
such a selection as the following, one might expect to find a large
number of quotations from comedies. This, however, is not the case. With
hundreds of comedies to choose from, it is almost impossible to find
anything adapted for quotation. It is quite true that quoting from a
drama must always be more or less like handing round a brick as a sample
of the house; but in Shakespeare, for instance, we can find abundance of
single passages which will stand well enough by themselves to give a
taste of his humorous quality. Had we been able to find in all the works
of Goldoni or Gozzi, of Gherardi del Testa, Torelli, or Ferrari, a
speech approaching—I do not say in degree, but in kind—any one of some
dozen which one might pick out almost at random, on opening _Twelfth
Night_, or _Henry IV._, or _Much Ado About Nothing_, the task would have
been much easier than it is. But in the best classical plays, such as
Goldoni’s, the interest is much more dependent on plot and situation
than on character, and no short selection can either give an idea of the
whole or be very amusing in itself. The liveliest bits of dialogue lose
point apart from their context, and in any case are better adapted for
acting than reading. The same might be said of any play worth the name,
but it is perhaps peculiarly true of the eighteenth century “comedy of
intrigue.”

The comedy of the present day has not quite the same disadvantage. The
stereotyped characters are done away with, and there is more play of
individuality. But it will be noticed that the specimens given consist
of one or more whole scenes, sometimes of considerable length—_i.e._,
there is the same deficiency, or nearly so, of quotable speeches. This,
of course, is not a fault from the dramatic point of view; but it is
embarrassing for the maker of selections.

Making all these allowances, one finds some of Torelli’s and Ferrari’s
plays fairly amusing in the reading, whatever they may be when well
acted; but even so the reflection is forced upon one that some of them
are lamentable comedies indeed. It is not that they lack spirit and
vivacity, but one is astonished at the subjects chosen. That any man
should write a play called _The Duel_, in which the principal incident
is a duel, which really does come off, and in which a man is killed, and
then call it a comedy, passes one’s comprehension. Not that the subject
is made light of; there are comic characters and situations, it is true,
but these are subsidiary, and the main treatment is dignified and even
pathetic. Again, we have Torelli’s _I Mariti_,—no tragedy could cause
one acuter misery than this drama of ill-assorted marriages and
slowly-tortured hearts. _La Verità_, by the same author, would be a
bright and amusing play, were it not for the cynical bitterness of the
main idea running through it. The hero, a simple, honest young fellow
from the country, gets into trouble by his outspokenness all through the
first act or two; then, having found out that honesty does not pay, he
takes to lying and flattery, and gets on in the world accordingly.
Another example of the same tendency is Ferrari’s _Suicidio_.

It is true that the word _commedia_ in Italian does not always denote
what we mean by a comedy (as witness the _Divina Commedia_), but that
the distinction is to some extent observed in the modern drama is proved
by the fact that some plays are designated _commedia_, others “dramma”
or “tragedia.”

There is a peculiarly national development of the drama in Italy, which
demands a word or two to itself. I mean the _Commedia dell’ Arte_, so
fully and ably discussed by Mr. Symonds in the introduction to his
recent translation of Gozzi’s _Memoirs_. Briefly speaking, this is a
play of which the author furnishes only the outline—the plot, the
division into acts and scenes, and a certain number of stage
directions—the words being wholly or partly extemporised by the actors.
In fact, the dialogue of these plays consisted chiefly of “gag,” though
the extent to which this was the case appears to have varied, the
playwright sometimes supplying hints for every speech, and even entire
speeches,—sometimes only indicating the general line taken during the
scene. The _Commedia dell’ Arte_ was immensely popular during the first
half of the eighteenth century; but then declined, owing to the
influence of Goldoni, who introduced the _Comedy of Manners_, in which
he largely followed French models. It is curious that Molière, who thus,
one might say, was indirectly instrumental in superseding the _Commedia
dell’ Arte_, should have received his first impulse from this very form
of the drama, as brought into France by Italian companies.

Most plays of this description partook rather of the character of farce
than of legitimate comedy. The principal personages—Harlequin,
Columbine, Pantaloon, Coviello, Scaramouch, etc.—who make their
appearance in every one, had certain fixed traditional costumes and
masks, which were never departed from. The familiar figure of Punch,
which has been so completely naturalised as to appear one of the most
English of all English institutions, was handed down through many
generations of Italian players before he reached our shores. As
“Pulcinella” or “Polecenella” he is a typically Neapolitan figure; while
Stenterello, another favourite mask, is as typically Tuscan. The name is
supposed to be derived from “Stentare” (to be in great want)—the
Tuscans, and more especially the Florentines, being famous throughout
the Peninsula for economy—not to say meanness—which is a prominent
feature in Stenterello’s character.

The _Commedia dell’ Arte_ was eminently suited to the Italian national
character, with its fluent eloquence and spontaneous drollery, so much
of which depends on facial and vocal expression, on ready repartee and
apt allusion, that it loses enormously on being written down.

The _scenario_, or outline of the acts and scenes, while it kept the
action in a definite shape and prevented over-much diffuseness, allowed
the most unlimited scope for both the tendencies already described,
though perhaps that towards broad farce and practical joking is the most
prominent. Indeed, the coarseness into which it has ever been apt to
degenerate is throughout unpleasantly prominent. Symonds—surely not a
very squeamish critic—speaks of these farces in terms to make one think
that the oblivion into which they have fallen is not a matter for
regret. Moreover, while the coarseness of the story (independent of what
might be incidentally introduced into the dialogue) forms part of the
groundwork of the play, and would thus be perpetuated, the subtler play
of humour is much more easily lost. The numerous comedies and farces of
Francesco Cerlone, if not actually coming within the category of the
_Commedia dell’ Arte_, may be regarded as a development of it. They are
real plays, with the speeches written out in full, and usually a plot of
the kind found in what is called the “comedy of intrigue,” while the
characters are bound by no fixed rules. But there is always a more or
less farcical underplot, in which some of the above-mentioned
stereotyped personages figure, Pulcinella and Columbine being the
principal ones. The greater part of these scenes is in the Neapolitan
dialect, traditionally assigned to Pulcinella throughout the _Commedia
dell’ Arte_. Each of the “masks,” by-the-bye, speaks some provincial
dialect; and a great deal of humour appears to be got out of the device
of bringing two or more speakers of different dialects on the stage at
once. Molière has to a certain extent done the same thing, notably in
_Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_.

Further information concerning these masks may be found in that
delightful book, Story’s _Roba di Roma_.

Another development of the Italian drama which must not be passed over
without notice is the comic opera, which came into fashion during the
latter half of the eighteenth century. Casti (the author of a somewhat
dreary satire, “Gli Animali Parlanti,” the sonnet-cycle, “I Tre Giuli,”
a good idea worked to death, and some unspeakably vile _Novelle_)
excelled in this line, producing, among others, _La Grotta di Trofonio_
and _Il Re Teodoro_, which are something like Gilbert and Sullivan’s
librettos in their tripping measures and rattling fun. Other comic
operas of the same period are _Il Paese di Cuccagna_, by Carlo Goldoni,
and _L’Opera Seria_ by Ramieri Calsabigi, a parody on the serious operas
which were just then becoming fashionable. The poet and the composer are
introduced respectively as Don Delirio and Don Sospiro (“Sighing”), and
the manager asks them in turn, “What the devil is the good of so many
sentences just at the crisis of passion?” and “Who can stand all those
cadences in the midst of an _aria_ full of action?” More modern works of
this kind have been written by Pananti, Gherardini, Lorenzo del Ponte,
and Angelo Anelli (died 1820).

“The Italians are good actors,” says Story, “and entirely without
self-consciousness and inflated affectation.... They are simple and
natural. Their life, which is public, out of doors, and gregarious,
gives them confidence, and by nature they are free from
self-consciousness. The same absence of artificiality that marks their
manners in life is visible on the stage. One should, however, understand
the Italian character, and know their habits and peculiarities in order
fitly to relish their acting. It is as different from the French acting
as their character is different from that of the French.... In
character-parts, comedy and farce, they are admirable; and out of Italy
the real _buffo_ does not exist. Their impersonations, without
overstepping the truth of natural oddity, exhibit a humour of character
and a general susceptibility to the absurd which could hardly be
excelled. Their farce is not dry, witty, and sarcastic like the French,
but rich, humorous, and droll. The _primo comico_, who is always rushing
from one scrape to another, is so full of chatter and blunder, ingenuity
and good-nature, that it is impossible not to laugh with him and wish
him well; while the heavy father or irascible old uncle, in the midst of
the most grotesque and absurdly natural imitation, without altering in
the least his character, will often move you by sudden touches of pathos
when you are least prepared. The old man is particularly well
represented on the Italian stage. In moments of excitement and emotion,
despite his red bandanna handkerchief, his spasmodic taking of snuff,
and his blowing of his nose, all of which are given with a truth which,
at first, to a stranger, trenches not slightly on the bounds of the
ludicrous—look out—by an unexpected and exquisitely natural turn he will
bring the tears at once into your eyes. I know nothing so like this
suddenness and unexpectedness of pathos in Italian acting as certain
passages in _Uncle Tom’s Cabin_, which catch you quite unprepared, and,
expecting to laugh, you find yourself crying.

“If one would see the characteristic theatres of the _basso popolo_, and
study their manners, he should go to the Teatro Emiliano in the Piazza
Navona, or the Fico, so called from the street in which it is situated.
At the former the acting is by respectable puppets; at the latter the
plays are performed by actors or _personaggi_, as they are called. The
love for the acting of _burattini_, or puppets, is universal among the
lower classes throughout Italy, and in some cities, especially Genoa, no
pains are spared in their costume, construction, and movement to render
them life-like. They are made of wood, are generally from two to three
feet in height, with very large heads and supernatural, glaring eyes
that never wink, and are clad in all the splendour of tinsel, velvet,
and steel. Their joints are so flexible that the least weight or strain
upon them effects a dislocation, and they are moved by wires attached to
their heads and extremities. Though the largest are only about half the
height of a man, yet, as the stage and all the appointments and scenery
are upon the same scale of proportion, the eye is soon deceived, and
accepts them as if life-size. But if by accident a hand or arm of one of
the wire-pullers appears from behind the scenes, or descends below the
hangings, it startles you by its portentous size, and the audience in
the stage-boxes, instead of reducing the _burattini_ to Lilliputians by
contrast, as they lean forward, become themselves Brobdingnagians, with
elephantine heads and hands.

“Do not allow yourself to suppose that there is anything ludicrous to
the audience in the performances of these wooden _burattini_. Nothing,
on the contrary, is more serious. No human being could be so serious.
Their countenances are solemn as death, and more unchanging than the
face of a clock. Their terrible gravity when, with drooping heads and
collapsed arms, they fix on you their great goggle eyes, is at times
ghastly. They never descend into the regions of conscious farce. The
plays they perform are mostly heroic, romantic, and historical.... The
audience listen with grave and profound interest. To them the actors are
not _fantoccini_, but heroes. Their inflated and extravagant discourse
is simply grand and noble. They are the mighty _x_ which represents the
unknown quantity of boasting which potentially exists in the bosom of
every one. Do not laugh when you enter, or the general look of surprise
and annoyance will at once recall you to the proprieties of the
occasion. You might as well laugh in a church....

“At every theatre there are two performances, or _camerate_, every
evening, one commencing at _Ave Maria_ (sunset), the other at ten
o’clock. We arrived at the Teatro Emiliano just too late for the first,
as we learned at the ticket-office. ‘What is that great noise of drums
inside?’ asked we. ‘_Battaglie_,’ said the ticket-seller. ‘Shall we see
a battle in the next piece?’ ‘_Eh, sempre battaglie!_’ (Always battles)
was the reproving answer....

“The bill pasted outside informed us that the _burattini_ were to play
to-night ‘The _grandiose_ opera, entitled, _Belisarius, or the
Adventures of Orestes, Ersilia, Falsierone, Selenguerro, and the
terrible Hunchback_.’ In the names themselves there was a sound of
horror and fear.”

The writer goes on to describe the play in a very humorous fashion, but
as the humour is only apparent from the spectator’s point of view, and
does not belong to the work represented, we must not digress so far as
to quote it at full length. The conclusion, however, may be given. “...
Suffice it to say that there was the ‘Serpent-man,’ ending in a long
green tail, and a terrible giant with a negro head and pock-marked face,
each of which was a _Deus ex machina_, descending at opportune moments
to assist one or the other side, the _uomo serpente_ on one occasion
crushing a warrior who was engaged in an encounter with Ersilia, by
flinging a great tower on him. What Belisario had to do with this
_grandiosa opera_, besides giving it his name, I did not plainly see, as
he never made his appearance on the stage. However, the audience seemed
greatly delighted with the performance. They ate voraciously of
_bruscolini_ (pumpkin seeds, salted and cooked in a furnace, of which
the Romans are very fond) and cakes, partook largely of lemonade, and
when I left the stage was strewn with _cornetti_, or paper horns, which
they had emptied of their seeds.”[2]

The use of dialect in the comic drama has been already adverted to. At
the present day “dialect stories” are almost as popular in Italy as they
have been, for some time past, in the American magazines. The Neapolitan
dialect, so closely connected with Pulcinella, has become as much a
stock property of the Italian comic muse, as the brogue of the stage
Irishman is of the English. A paper, entirely in this dialect, entitled,
“Lo Cuorpo de Napole e lo Sebbeto,” was published for some time at
Naples, in the early sixties; but its humour was exclusively political,
and of a local and temporary character. The Sicilian dialect has been
brought into notice by Verga (whose actual use of it, however, is
sparing), Navarro della Miraglia, Capuana, and other writers. Goldoni
used the Venetian throughout some of his best comedies (_Le Baruffe
Chiozzote_, for instance), but it seems to have fallen comparatively out
of favour of late years. D’Annunzio, in his _San Pantaleone_, and other
stories, has made very effective use of the dialect spoken along the
Adriatic coast, about Pescara and Ortona, which is a kind of cross
between the Venetian and Neapolitan. In Piedmont there appears to be a
mass of popular literature in the (to outsiders) singularly unattractive
_patois_ which was so dear to Cavour and Victor Emmanuel.

Among the cities of the Peninsula, Milan and Florence enjoy a
pre-eminent reputation for humour. The Florentines of the Middle Ages
were famous for their biting wit and satirical speeches, their “motti”
and “frizzi.” Franco Sacchetti and Luigi Pulci were Florentines, and
Boccaccio was next door to one, being a native of Certaldo. Even Dante,
though the last man in the world of whom one would expect anything in
the way of humorous utterance, was not without a certain grim
facetiousness of his own, as when he turned on the jeering courtiers at
Verona with a bitter play on the name of _Can Grande_, or annihilated
the harmless bore in Santa Maria Novella, with his “Or bene, o
lionfante, non mi dar noia.” Giusti, whose poems are described as
“rather satirical than humorous” (though, as satire is one department of
humour, it is rather difficult to see the point of the definition), is
in many respects a typical Florentine, though not one by birth, his
native place being Monsummano, in the Lucca district. His poems exhibit
a singular union of caustic sarcasm and irony, fierce earnestness and
merry, rattling _disinvoltura_—light-hearted Tuscan laughter. He wrote
chiefly on political subjects, and never did political poet have
worthier themes for his verse. The times in which he lived were
sufficient to call forth any amount of _saeva indignatio_, and if the
bitterness sometimes ran so high as to leave no heart for mirth at the
pitiful incongruity of human affairs (as in _A noi, larve d’Italia_), no
one who cares for freedom, or to whom the name of Italy is dear, can
blame him. Irish hearts can understand the note of deep personal pain
that breaks out in “King Log,” or “Weathercock’s Toast,” or the scathing
scorn of “Gingillino”;—we have nothing quite like it in English
literature. The cause is wanting. We see the same thing in looking over
a collection of Italian political caricatures extending over the last
thirty or forty years. Some of the cartoons in _Lo Spirito Folletto_ are
equal (I am not speaking of minor technical details, of which I am no
judge) to the best of Tenniel’s, and the ideal figure of Italy is of
rare beauty; but they do not give us what, as a rule, we are accustomed
to look for in a cartoon. Now and then, in a serious mood, the artist
just named gives us a noble drawing, which is in no sense a caricature;
but no work of his causes—nor is it in nature that it should do so—the
thrill, the _serrement de cœur_, we feel before the Aspromonte drawing,
with its mournful legend, “Behold and see if there is any sorrow like
unto my sorrow;” or that haunting picture of the “Italia Irredenta”
riots of 1882, where Italy looks on the dead body of young Oberdank. We
have not fought against hopeless odds for a suffering country.

But in spite of this earnestness (which is usually said to be fatal to a
sense of humour), the Tuscan love of fun was always bubbling up in
Giusti. His letters, in which he was continually falling into the racy
idioms of his native hill-country, are full of it; and some of his poems
are purely playful, without political or satiric intention—or, if
satiric, only in a kindly spirit. Such is the poem of “Love and a Quiet
Life,” from which we have given an extract. There seems to be no English
version of the best of Giusti’s works, and these offer peculiar
difficulties to the translator. I have not ventured to lay hands on the
“Brindisi di Girella”—a process which could only result in spoiling that
inimitable poem—and have contented myself with the excellent renderings
of “L’Amor Pacifico,” and some stanzas from “Gingillino,” contributed
some thirty years ago to the _Cornhill Magazine_ by an anonymous writer.

Tuscan rural life has been admirably painted of late years by, among
others, Mario Pratesi and Renato Fucini, both writers of considerable
graphic power and a certain “pawky” humour, though they seem to prefer
tragedy to comedy. The latter’s sketch of a day in a Tuscan
country-house has been included in the present collection.

So much for Florence and Tuscany. Milan is famous in Italy for various
things—for its Duomo and the singing at La Scala—for the gallant fight
for liberty during the Five Days in ’48—and for the mysterious
delicacies known as _polpette_ and _panettone_. But besides all these
things, the Milanese are noted for a love of jokes and laughter, which
they endeavoured heroically to suppress in the days of the Austrian
dominion. They possess a dialect which seems as though it were intended
for the comic stage, and lends itself excellently well to Aristophanic
wit; and they have had a dialect-poet of some note—Giacomo Porta, the
friend of Grossi and Giusti. Giusti had a great sense of the humorous
capabilities of the Milanese dialect, and quoted verses in it (or, more
probably, improvised quotations) in letters to his Milanese friends.
Unfortunately Porta’s poems are so strictly local, and lose so much by
translation, that none of them have been found available for this book.

As a rule, the prose specimens of Italian humour have been more
satisfactory (as far as the present work is concerned) than the
poetical, for two reasons—first, the latter are more difficult to
translate with any degree of point and spirit; and secondly, whether
from the choice of metre or other causes, they are apt to become
long-winded, if not heavy. The favourite measure for humorous poems,
which cannot exactly be described as satires, is a six-line stanza, like
that of Horace Smith’s “Address to the Mummy”; in fact, the _ottava
rima_ stanza, docked of two lines. Now, a division into stanzas is not,
as a rule, favourable to rapid or spirited narration, and the longer the
stanza the greater the difficulty. Unless the thought exactly fits the
limit, it must be either abruptly contracted to bring it within the
compass of the stanza, or expanded by feeble paraphrase and repetition;
otherwise the _enjambements_ resulting from the carrying on of a
sentence from one stanza into another are apt to be awkward and obscure,
unless very skilfully managed. Pananti, in his “Poeta di Teatro” (from
which I have given a quotation), is very happy in this stanza; the
measure flows easily, and the poem is not, in the original, too diffuse,
the accumulation of trivial details having a naïvely ludicrous effect,
which is lost to some extent in English. Pananti, by-the-bye, was a
Tuscan, as was also the genial physician, Redi, whose dithyramb in
praise of the wine of Montepulciano (he also wrote a great number of
pleasant letters, and some papers on natural history, which show him to
have been an accurate observer as well as an enthusiastic lover of
nature) has been spiritedly translated by Leigh Hunt. So, too, was
another doctor, Guadagnoli, whose collection of _Poesie giocose_
contains some good things, but none in a sufficiently concentrated form
for quotation.

In speaking of the humorous literature of Italy, we must not forget to
notice the English influence which made itself so strongly felt during
the eighteenth century. Swift, Addison, and Sterne found not only eager
readers, but imitators. Giuseppe Baretti, the friend of Johnson, who,
after a prolonged residence in London, returned to Italy for a few
years, probably did something towards popularising the language and
literature of his adopted country. Count Gasparo Gozzi (elder brother to
Carlo Gozzi, of the _Memorie_ and the _Fiabe_) founded and carried on
for some time, at Venice, a journal called _L’Osservatore_, avowedly on
the model of the _Spectator_; and though he was no servile imitator, his
writings have an unmistakable Addisonian flavour. Sterne’s influence
was, perhaps, more widely felt than any other. Ugo Foscolo probably came
under it when writing _Didimo Chierico_; and the frequent allusions to
the _Sentimental Journey_ in Italian writers prove it to have been
widely read. Leopardi’s intensely original individuality owed little to
any writer; yet I cannot help thinking that he may have found Swift, to
whom he was in some respects akin, both suggestive and stimulating.
Certainly, the masterly dialogues exhibit a bitter saturnine humour very
like Swift’s misanthropic irony, though more subtle and refined, and
rendered still more striking by that innocent-seeming _naïveté_ of
expression which is so peculiarly Italian. The dialogue between the
“First Hour and the Sun,” now translated, is one of the best; but “The
Wager of Prometheus” is exceedingly fine, though too long to quote
entire, and difficult to select from. I have examined the translation of
some of these dialogues by Mr. Charles Edwards in Trübner’s
_Philosophical Library_, but, after consideration, found myself unable
to make use of them. Apart from a few minor inaccuracies, which could
easily have been corrected, it was evident that the translator had his
mind fixed on Leopardi’s philosophy, and the peculiar humorous quality
of the dialogues had almost disappeared in his version. The bull, which
the Edgeworths laboured so hard to prove not indigenous to Ireland, or
at least not peculiar to the Green Isle, flourishes vigorously in Italy.
It naturally would be of frequent occurrence among a quick-witted
people, ready of speech, who, in their haste to reach the salient points
which have struck their imagination, omit to express the connecting
links, and so make that absurd which is perfectly clear to their own
minds. Into the wilderness of definition we will not enter; but there
appear to be two principal kinds of bulls,—one in which the man’s idea
is sensible enough, though it appears nonsense to others, because of his
excessive brevity, as in “He sent me to the devil and I came straight to
your honour;” and another in which it is in itself nonsense, because he
has overlooked one essential condition. Thus, when the blind man in
Pratesi’s _Dottor Febo_ is eagerly asseverating something, he exclaims,
“May I _become blind_ if...!” Castiglione records another bull of this
kind (it will be found on page 28), which will at once be recognised as
an old and familiar friend; and others will be met with in the course of
the volume.

It must be confessed that Italian humour is often of the Aristophanic
order, not merely in that (as has been already hinted) a great deal of
it is concerned with topics usually (among us) omitted from polite
conversation, but also in the more than free-and-easy way in which the
Unseen is frequently dealt with. The worship of the saints—whatever may
be said to the contrary—stands much upon the same footing among the
ignorant and superstitious peasantry of Southern Italy (it is not so
true of the Tuscans) as the polytheism of ancient Greece and Rome. And
if familiarity bred contempt in the case of Aristophanes (it may not
have been so—and we dare not say, in the face of learned commentators,
that it was—but it certainly looks like it), like causes have produced
like effects in Naples and Sicily. The Neapolitan lazzaroni has scant
respect for San Gennaro, when the latter shows no signs of acceding to
his wishes, but calls him _animale_ and _canaglia_, and worse names than
that. Capuana has an exceedingly characteristic sketch, entitled
“Rottura col Patriarca,” in which a gentleman, who considers himself
badly treated by St. Joseph, the patron of married couples (being
disappointed in his hopes of an heir, besides numerous other
misfortunes), declares that he has formally broken with that saint, and
throws his picture out of window. His confessor remonstrates with him
for his language on the subject, which is, to say the least,
unparliamentary; but the gentleman replies, “As a patriarch, and the
husband of the Virgin, I am willing to accord him all due respect,
but ... in short, he has behaved very shabbily, and I will have no more
to do with him.”

This suggests the subject of ejaculations, oaths, and imprecations, of
which the Italians have an infinite variety, and as some of the most
characteristic occur untranslated in the following selections, a few
words of explanation may not be out of place. The subject has been
treated so well by Story, that I cannot forbear quoting him once more,
especially as the passage throws curious side-lights on some aspects of
the national character.

“... By the way, a curious feature in the oaths of the Italians may be
remarked. ‘_Dio mio!_’ is merely an exclamation of sudden surprise or
wonder; ‘_Madonna mia_,’ of pity and sorrow; and ‘_Per Cristo_,’ of
hatred and revenge. It is in the name of Christ (and not of God, as with
us) that imprecations, curses, and maledictions are invoked by an
Italian upon persons and things which have excited his rage; and the
reason is very simple. Christ is to him the judge and avenger of all,
and so represented in every picture he sees, from Orcagna’s and Michael
Angelo’s ‘Last Judgment’ down, while the Eternal Father is a peaceful
old figure bending over him as he hurls down denunciations on the
damned. Christ has but two aspects for him—one as the _bambino_, or
baby, for which he cares nothing, and one as the terrible avenger of
all. The oath comes from the Middle Ages, when Christ was looked upon
mostly in the latter aspect; but in modern days, He is regarded as the
innocent babe upon the lap of the Madonna. Generally, the oaths of the
Italians are pleasant, and they have not forgotten some which their
ancient ancestors used. They still swear by the loveliest of the heathen
deities, the god of genial nature, Bacchus; and among their commonest
exclamations are, ‘_Per Bacco_,’ ‘_Corpo di Bacco_,’ and even sometimes,
in Tuscany particularly, ‘_Per Bacco d’India_,’ or ‘_Per Dingi_’
(sometimes _Perdinci_) _Bacco_ (for _Dionigi_).” (To this we may add,
“_Per Diana_,” “_Corpo di Diana_,” which are still common.)

“It is very common among them also to swear by some beautiful plant, as
by capers (_capperi_) or the arbutus fruit (_corbezzoli_), as well as by
the arch-priest, _arciprete_, whoever he may be. Nor do they disdain to
give force to their sentiments on special occasions even by calling the
cabbage to witness (_Cavolo_).”

To this category belongs “_Persicomele!_” (“Peaches and apples!”) the
favourite exclamation of the jolly ecclesiastic in a sketch of Mario
Pratesi’s, quoted in this volume. It will also be remembered how another
Tuscan writer, Renato Fucini, makes a conscientious priest—shocked at
the strong language used by his ecclesiastical superior, who flings
“_Giuraddio’s_” and “_Per Dio’s_” about him on the smallest
provocation—neutralise the effect, so to speak, by adding the milder and
more legitimate “_Bacco_.” The Tuscans are celebrated throughout Italy
for profane swearing. Pratesi speaks of “blaspheming according to the
brutal Tuscan use,” and a recent writer, spending a few weeks at
Sorrento, when in conversation with a boatman, challenged the latter to
guess what part of Italy he came from. The man guessed several provinces
unsuccessfully, and when told that his fare was a Florentine was
unwilling to believe it, “perchè non avete bestemmiato il Santo nome di
Dio.” But in this respect I believe the Sicilians and Neapolitans are
not much behind the Tuscans. Their profanity is not like that of the
English costermonger or bargeman—a repetition of more or less
unreportable “swear-words,” without much coherence or meaning; but
rather a system of elaborate cursing, in which the most appalling evils
are wished in detail to the offending party, or else a volley of
undisguised abuse addressed to the unseen powers, who are apostrophised
without any circumlocution whatever. “He went away, blaspheming bad
words (_bestemmiando parolacce_), enough to make heaven and earth
tremble,” says Verga.

“But the most general oath,” to continue our quotation, “is _accidente_,
or apoplexy, which one hears on all occasions. This word as ordinarily
employed is merely an expletive or exclamation, but when used in anger
intentionally as a malediction, under the form ‘_Ch’un accidente te
piglia_’ (May an apoplexy overtake you!), it is the most terrible
imprecation that ever came from the lips of a Catholic; for its real
meaning is, ‘May so sudden a death strike you that you may have no
chance of absolution by the priest, and so go down to hell.’ And as
every true Catholic hopes by confession on his death-bed to obtain
remission and absolution for all the sins of his life, this malediction,
by cutting him off from such an arrangement, puts his soul in absolute
danger of damnation; nay, if he have not accidentally confessed
immediately before the apoplexy comes, sends him posting straight to
hell. The being not utterable to ears polite is seldom referred to in
Rome by his actual name, _Diavolo_, and our phrase, ‘Go to the devil,’
is shocking to an Italian; but they smooth down his name into
‘_Diamine_,’ or ‘_Diascane_,’ and thus save their consciences and their
tongues from offence.”[3]

Another Aristophanic feature, and one which seems to have appealed to
the mediæval imagination all over Europe, so strongly as to have
survived far beyond mediæval times, is the constant insistence on the
folly and worthlessness of women. This proves, if anything (as in the
fable of the lion and the statue), that it was the men who told the
stories and made the proverbs; at the same time, the tendency is perhaps
more marked in Italy than in other countries, and in a collection
intended to be representative, it seemed right to give a sufficient
number of specimens to illustrate it. Such is the rather pointless story
about Domenico da Cigoli, preserved in a collection of 1600—and a glance
down our two pages of proverbs will show what might otherwise seem an
unfair proportion of misogynistic sentiment.

No survey of the humorous literature of Italy would be complete which
did not take into account the blighting influence of the censorship,
only abolished within the last thirty years. Dangerous, if not fatal, as
such an institution must be to literature in general, the humorous
_genre_ feels its effects more than any other. It may be said that,
considering the astonishing length which the earlier satirists, and even
more modern writers of fairly decent repute, have gone in the direction
of offences against good taste, to say nothing of morality, it is
astonishing that they should have had anything to complain of in the way
of restrictions. But the animus of the political censorship seems to
have been reserved for anything that savoured of liberalism—a term which
included the very mildest approach to a criticism on the Government or
its actions; while the Inquisition has always been inclined to regard
the faintest suspicion of a heretical dogma in theology as a far worse
offence than any amount of mere indecency. Even had the censorship been
exercised with more strictness in this direction, the facilities for
contraband production would have neutralised its restraints, while it
lay like a dead weight on all healthy intellectual activity. For though
professedly free in some directions, the human mind is enslaved if
fettered in any. The knowledge that politics, religion, or any other
topic is a forbidden subject, exercises a paralysing influence on the
mind, even of writers who have no particular inclination to take up that
line. It is like Bluebeard’s prohibition of the hundredth room—not only
does the locked door immediately arouse the desire to enter, but the
ninety-nine open ones immediately lose all interest. If a practical
commentary on Milton’s _Areopagitica_ were needed it might be found in
the history of the short-lived _Conciliatore_, the journal started by
Silvio Pellico and his friends at Milan about 1818. Story gives a
striking picture of the Roman censorship under the Papal Government
previous to 1870.

“Nothing can be either published or performed in Rome without first
submitting to the censorship and obtaining the permission of the
‘Custodes morum et rotulorum.’ Nor is this a mere form; on the contrary,
it is a severe ordeal, out of which many a play comes so mangled as
scarcely to be recognisable. The pen of the censor is sometimes so
ruthlessly struck through whole acts and scenes that the fragments do
not sufficiently hang together to make the action intelligible, and
sometimes permission is absolutely refused to act the play at all. In
these latter days the wicked people are so ready to catch at any words
expressing liberal sentiments, and so apt to give a political
significance to innocent phrases, that it behoves the censor to put on
his best spectacles. Yet such is the perversity of the audience that his
utmost care often proves unavailing, and sometimes plays are ordered to
be withdrawn from the boards after they have been played by permission.

“The same process goes on with the _libretti_ of the operas, and some of
the requirements recall the fable of the ostrich, which, by merely
hiding its head, fondly imagines it can render its whole body invisible.
Imitating this remarkable bird, they have attempted to conceal the
offence of certain well-known operas, with every air and word of which
the Romans are familiar, simply by changing the title and the names of
the characters, while the story remains intact. Thus certain scandalous
and shameful stories attaching to the name of Alexander VI. and to the
family of the Borgia, the title of Donizetti’s famous opera, which every
_gamin_ of Rome can sing, has been altered to that of _Elena da Fosca_,
and under this name alone is it permitted to be played. In like manner
_I Puritani_ is whitewashed in _Elvira Walton_; and in the famous _duo_
of _Suoni la Tromba_ the words _gridando libertà_ (shouting liberty)
become _gridando lealtà_ (shouting loyalty)—liberty being a kind of
thing of which the less that is said or sung in Rome the better. This
amiable Government also, unwilling to foster a belief in devils,
rebaptises _Roberto il Diavolo_ into _Roberto in Picardia_, and conceals
the name of William Tell under that of Rodolfo di Sterlink. _Les
Huguenots_ in the same way becomes in Rome _Gli Anglicani_, and _Norma_
sinks into _La Foresta d’Irminsac_. Yet notwithstanding this, the
principal airs and concerted pieces are publicly sold with their
original names at all the shops. Oh, Papal ostrich! what bird is more
foolish than thou?”

We find, from Minghetti’s _Memoirs_, that in 1864, at Bologna (then in
the Papal State), any publication had to run the gauntlet of no less
than _seven_ censorships, and obtain the approval of—(1) The Literary
Censor; (2) the Ecclesiastical Censor; (3) the Political Censor; (4) the
Sant’ Uffizio (Inquisition). Then came—(5) Permission from the Bishop of
the Diocese; (6) Permission from the Police; (7) Final Revision by the
Inquisition.

It remains to say a few words about the translations included in this
volume. When I could find any existing versions suited to my purpose, I
have adopted them, always acknowledging their source; in other cases, I
have myself translated the necessary passages. In doing this I have
rather aimed at giving a coherent picture of what the author had in his
mind, in a style which would at least give some idea of his tone and
method of treatment, than at rendering his exact words, and any one
having the curiosity to examine the originals would often find
considerable liberties taken with the text. I have expanded here and
contracted there—sometimes paraphrased, by giving corresponding English
idioms or proverbs—sometimes tried to preserve the racy quaintness of
the original, by rendering a mode of speech as it stands. “He said he
would tie it to his finger till doomsday”—to indicate undying
remembrance of an injury; and “It costs the very eyes out of one’s
head”—“making a hole in the water” (for labour in vain)—“As pleased as
an Easter day” (_contento come una pasqua_)—are vivid and picturesque
locutions which it is a pity to disguise under more commonplace
phraseology. The specimens are taken from all periods of Italian
literature; and represent, as far as possible, all its departments;
though, as has been already pointed out, there are some rich and
fruitful tracts of country in that wide region, in which we have been
able to gather little or nothing. That the collection is in any sense
complete or exhaustive cannot be pretended; but a _Florilegium_ of
translations can never be other than a very sorry representative of an
original literature.

_NOTE._

Acknowledgments are due to the following publishing houses for the
permissions which they have courteously granted for translations of
extracts from works published by them to be included in this
volume:—To Mr. Ulrico Hoepli, for permission to include the extract
from the _Veglie di Neri_, by Renato Fucini; to Mr. G. Barbera, of
Florence, for permission to include the extract from his edition of
_In Provincia_, by Mario Pratesi, and the extract from _San
Pantaleone_, by Gabriele d’Annunzio; to Messrs. Fratelli Trèves, for
permission to include the extracts from Verga and Edmondo de Amicis;
and to Messrs. Chapman & Hall, for permission to include the extract
from Mr. Story’s _Roba di Roma_. Thanks are also due to Mr. Luigi
Capuana for his courteous permission to include the translations
contained in this volume of extracts from his works.

THE HUMOUR OF ITALY.

_THE POET COMPLAINS OF UNREASONABLE FRIENDS._

“Make me a sonnet or a canzonet,”
Says one who’s scant and short of memory.
It seems to him that, having given me
The theme, he’s left me nought my soul should fret.
Alas! he knows not how I’m sorely let
And hindered,—nor what sleepless nights I dree,
Tossing from side to side most painfully,
Ere from my heart I squeeze those rhymes—my debt.
At my own charges, three fair copies then
I make.—’Tis well it were correct before
I send it forth among the sons of men;
But one thing, ’bove all else, doth vex me sore—
No man had ever manners ’nough to say,—
“Here, friend, take this, and for the paper pay!”
Sometimes, indeed, they may
Treat me to half a pint of Malvoisie,
And think they’ve recompensed me royally.
_Antonio Pucci_ (1375).

_CALANDRINO FINDS THE STONE HELIOTROPE._

[Illustration]

There dwelt not long since in our city of Florence a painter named
Calandrino, a man of simple mind, and much addicted to novelties. The
most of his time he spent in the company of two brother painters, Bruno
and Buffalmacco, both men of humour and mirth, and somewhat satirical.
There lived in Florence, at the same time, a young man of very engaging
manners, witty and agreeable, called Maso del Saggio, who, hearing of
the extreme simplicity of Calandrino, resolved to derive some amusement
from his love of the marvellous, and to excite his curiosity by some
novel and wonderful tales. Happening, therefore, to meet him one day in
the Church of St. John, and observing him attentively engaged in
admiring the painting and sculpture of the tabernacle which had been
lately placed over the altar in that church, he thought he had found a
fit opportunity of putting his scheme into execution; and acquainting
one of his friends with his intentions, they walked together to the spot
where Calandrino was seated by himself, and, seeming not to be aware of
his presence, began to converse on the qualities of precious stones, of
which Maso spoke with all the confidence of an experienced and skilful
lapidary. Calandrino lent a ready ear to this conference, and,
perceiving from their loud speaking that their conversation was not of a
private nature, he accosted them. Maso was not a little delighted at
this, and, pursuing his discourse, Calandrino asked him where these
stones were to be found. Maso replied, “They mostly abound in
Berlinzone, near a city of the Baschi, in a country called Bengodi, in
which the vines are tied with sausages, a goose is sold for a penny, and
the goslings given into the bargain; where there is also a high mountain
made of Parmesan grated cheese, whereon dwell people whose sole employ
is to make macaroni and other dainties, boiling them with capon broth,
and afterwards throwing them out to all who choose to catch them; and
near to the mountain runs a river of white wine, the best that ever was
drunk, and without one drop of water in it.” “Oh!” exclaimed Calandrino,
“what a delightful country to live in! But pray, sir, tell me, what do
they with the capons after they have boiled them?” “The Baschi,” said
Maso, “eat them all!” “Have you,” said Calandrino, “ever been in that
country?” “How,” answered Maso; “do you ask me if I were ever there? A
thousand times at the least!” “And how far, I pray you, is this happy
land from our city?” quoth Calandrino. “In truth,” replied Maso, “the
miles are scarcely to be numbered; but, for the most part, we travel
when we are in our beds at night, and if a man dream aright, he may be
there in a few minutes.”... Calandrino, observing that Maso delivered
all these speeches with a steadfast and grave countenance, believed them
all, and said with much simplicity, “Believe me, sir, the journey is too
far for me to undertake, but if it were somewhat nearer, I should like
to accompany you thither. But now we are conversing, allow me to ask
you, sir, whether or not any of the precious stones you spoke of are to
be found in that country?” “Yes, indeed,” replied Maso; “there are two
kinds of them to be found in those territories, and both possessing
eminent virtues. The one kind are the sandstones of Settigniano and of
Montisei.... The other is a stone which most of our lapidaries call
heliotropium, and is of admirable virtue, for whoever carries it about
his person is thereby rendered invisible as long as he pleases.”
Calandrino then said, “This is wonderful indeed; but where else are
these latter kind to be found?” To which Maso replied, “They are not
infrequently to be found on our Mugnone.” “Of what size and colour is
this stone?” said Calandrino. “It is of various sizes,” replied Maso,
“some larger than others, but uniformly black.” Calandrino, treasuring
up all these things in his mind, and pretending to have some urgent
business on hand, took leave of Maso, secretly proposing to himself to
go in quest of these stones, but resolved to do nothing until he had
first seen his friends, Bruno and Buffalmacco, to whom he was much
attached. Having found them, and told them about the wonderful stone, he
proposed that they should at once go in search of it. Bruno signified
his assent, but turning to Buffalmacco, said, “I fully agree with
Calandrino, but I do not think that this is the proper time for our
search, as the sun is now high, and so hot that we shall find all the
stones on Mugnone dried and parched, and the very blackest will now seem
the whitest. But in the morning, when the dew is on the ground, and
before the sun has dried the earth, every stone will have its true
colour. Besides, there are many labourers now working in the plain, who,
seeing us occupied in so serious a search, may guess what we are seeking
for, and may chance to find the stones before us, and we may then have
our labour for our pains. Therefore, in my opinion, this is an
enterprise that should be taken in hand early in the morning, when the
black stones will be easily distinguished from the white, and a festival
day were the best of all others, as there will be nobody abroad to
discover us.” Buffalmacco applauded the advice of Bruno, and Calandrino
assenting to it, they agreed that Sunday morning next ensuing should be
the time when they would all go in pursuit of the stone; but Calandrino
entreated them above all things not to reveal it to any person living,
as it was confided to him in strict secrecy. Calandrino waited
impatiently for Sunday morning, when he called upon his companions
before break of day. They all then went out of the city at the gate of
San Gallo, and did not halt until they came to the plain of Mugnone,
where they immediately commenced their search for the marvellous stone.
Calandrino went stealing on before the other two, persuading himself
that he was born to find the heliotropium; and, looking on every side of
him, he rejected all other stones but the black, with which he filled
first his breast, and afterwards both of his pockets. He then took off
his large painting-apron, which he fastened with his girdle in the
manner of a sack, and filled that also; and, still not satisfied, he
spread abroad his cloak, which, being also loaded with stones, he bound
up carefully, for fear of losing the very best of them. Buffalmacco and
Bruno during this time attentively eyed Calandrino, and observing that
he had now completely loaded himself, and that their dinner-hour was
drawing nigh, Bruno, according to their arrangement, said to
Buffalmacco, pretending not to see Calandrino, although he was not far
from them, “Buffalmacco, what has become of Calandrino?” Buffalmacco,
who saw him close at hand, gazing all round, as if desirous to find him,
replied, “I saw him even now before us, hard by.” “Undoubtedly,” said
Bruno, “he has given us the slip and gone secretly home to dinner, and,
making fools of us, has left us to pick up black stones on these
scorching plains of Mugnone.” Calandrino, hearing them make use of these
words while he stood so near to them, imagined that he had possessed
himself of the genuine stone, and that by virtue of its qualities he was
become invisible to his companions. His joy was now unbounded, and
without saying a word, he resolved to return home with all speed,
leaving his friends to provide for themselves. Buffalmacco, perceiving
his intent, said to Bruno, “Why should we remain here any longer? Let us
return to the city.” To which Bruno replied, “Yes, let us go; but I vow
that Calandrino shall no more make a fool of me; and were I now as near
him as I was not long since, I would give him such a remembrance on the
heel with this flint stone as should stick by him a month, and give him
a lasting lesson;” and ere he had well finished the words he struck
Calandrino a violent blow on the heel with the stone. Though the blow
was evidently very painful, Calandrino still preserved his silence, and
only mended his pace. Buffalmacco then, selecting another large flint
stone, said to Bruno, “Thou seest this pebble! If Calandrino were but
here he should have a brave knock on the loins;” and, taking aim, he
threw it and struck Calandrino a violent blow on the back; and then all
the way along the plains of Mugnone they did nothing but pelt him with
stones, jesting and laughing until they came to the gate of San Gallo.
They then threw down the remainder of the stones they had gathered, and,
stepping before Calandrino into the gateway, acquainted the guards with
the whole matter, who, in order to support the jest, would not seem to
see Calandrino as he passed by them, and were exceedingly amused to
observe him sweat and groan under his burdensome load. Without resting
himself in any place, he proceeded straight to his own house, which was
near the mills, and was neither met nor seen by any one, as everybody
was then at dinner. When he entered his own house, ready to sink under
his burden, his wife—a handsome and discreet woman of the name of Monna
Tessa—happened to be standing at the head of the stairs, and being
disconcerted and impatient at his long absence, somewhat angrily
exclaimed, “I thought the devil would never let thee come home! All the
city have dined, and yet we must remain without our dinner.” When
Calandrino heard these words, and found that he was not invisible to his
wife, he fell into a fit of rage, and exclaimed, “Wretch as thou art,
thou hast utterly undone me; but I will reward thee for it;” and
ascending into a small room, and ridding himself of the stones, he ran
down again to his wife, and seizing her by the hair of the head threw
her on the ground, beat and kicked her in the most unmerciful manner.
Buffalmacco and Bruno, after they had spent some time in laughter with
the guards at the gate, followed Calandrino at their leisure, and,
arriving at his house and hearing the disturbance upstairs, they called
out to him. Calandrino, still in a furious rage, came to the window and
entreated they would come up to him. They, counterfeiting great
surprise, ascended the stairs, and found the chamber floor covered with
stones and Calandrino’s wife seated in a corner, her limbs severely
bruised, her hair dishevelled, and her face bleeding; and on the other
side Calandrino himself, weary and exhausted, flung on a chair. After
regarding him for some time, they said, “How now, Calandrino, art thou
building a house, that thou hast provided thyself with so many loads of
stones?” and then added, “And Monna Tessa—what has happened to her? You
surely have been beating her! What is the meaning of this?” Calandrino,
exhausted with carrying the stones, and with his furious gust of
passion, and moreover, with the misfortune which he considered had
befallen him, could not collect sufficient spirits to speak a single
word in reply. Whereupon Buffalmacco said further, “Calandrino, if you
have cause for anger in any other quarter, yet you should not have made
such mockery of your friends as you have done to-day, carrying us out to
the plains of Mugnone, like a couple of fools, and leaving us there
without taking leave of us, or so much as bidding good-day. But, be
assured, this is the last time thou wilt ever serve us in this manner.”
Calandrino, somewhat recovered, replied, “Alas! my friends, be not
offended; the case is very different from what you think! Unfortunate
man that I am! the rare and precious stone that you speak of, I found,
and will relate the whole truth to you. When you asked each other the
first time what was become of me, I was hard by you, not more than two
yards away; and, perceiving that you saw me not, I went before you,
smiling to myself to hear you vent your rage upon me;” and recounted all
that had happened on his way home, and, to convince them, showed them
where he was struck on the back and on the heel; and further added, “As
I passed through the gates, I saw you standing with the guards, but by
virtue of the stone I carried in my bosom, was undiscovered by you all;
and in going through the streets I met many friends and acquaintances,
who are in the daily habit of stopping and conversing with me, and yet
none of them addressed me, as I passed invisible to them all. But at
length arriving at my own house, this fiend of a woman waiting on the
stair-head by ill luck happened to see me,—and you well know that women
cause all things to lose their virtue,—so that I, who might have called
myself the only happy man in Florence, am now the most miserable of all.
Therefore did I justly beat her, as long as my strength would allow me,
and I know no reason why I should not yet tear her in a thousand pieces,
for I may well curse the day of our marriage, and the hour she entered
my house.” Buffalmacco and Bruno, when they heard this, feigned the
greatest astonishment, though they were ready to burst with laughter;
but when they saw Calandrino rise in a rage, with intent to beat his
wife again, they stepped between them, protesting that she was in no way
to blame, but rather he himself, who, knowing beforehand that women
cause all things to lose their virtue, had not expressly commanded her
not to be seen in his presence all that day, until he had satisfied
himself of the real qualities of the stone; and that, doubtless,
Providence had deprived him of his good fortune, because, though his
friends had accompanied him and assisted in the search, he had deceived
them and not allowed them a share in the benefit of the discovery. After
much more conversation, they with difficulty reconciled him to his wife,
and, leaving him overwhelmed with grief for the loss of the
heliotropium, took their departure.

[Illustration]

_Giovanni Boccaccio_ (1313–1375).

_STORY OF DANTE AND THE SMITH._

When Dante had dined he went out, and passing by the Porta S. Pietro,
heard a blacksmith beating iron upon the anvil, and singing some of his
verses like a song, jumbling the lines together, mutilating and
confusing them, so that it seemed to Dante he was receiving a great
injury. He said nothing, but going into the blacksmith’s shop, where
there were many articles made in iron, he took up his hammer and pincers
and scales and many other things, and threw them out into the road. The
blacksmith, turning round upon him, cried out, “What the devil are you
doing? are you mad?” “What are _you_ doing?” said Dante. “I am working
at my proper business,” said the blacksmith, “and you are spoiling my
work, throwing it out into the road.” Said Dante, “If you do not like me
to spoil your things, do not spoil mine.” “What thing of yours am I
spoiling?” said the man. And Dante replied, “You are singing something
of mine, but not as I made it. I have no other trade but this, and you
spoil it for me.” The blacksmith, too proud to acknowledge his fault,
but not knowing how to reply, gathered up his things and returned to his
work; and when he sang again, sang Tristram and Launcelot, and left
Dante alone.

_Franco Sacchetti._ (1335–1400).

_MESSER BERNABÒ AND THE MILLER._

Messer Bernabò, Lord of Milan, being outwitted by the clever reasoning
of a miller, bestowed upon him a valuable benefice. Now this lord was in
his time greatly feared beyond all other rulers, and though he was
cruel, yet was there in his cruelty a great measure of justice. Among
many cases which happened to him was this—that a rich abbot, for a
certain act of negligence (in that he had not properly fed two hounds
belonging to the said lord, and so had spoilt their tempers), was by him
fined 4000 _scudi_. At this the abbot began to ask for mercy, and the
said lord thereupon said to him: “If thou declarest unto me four things,
I will remit everything; and the things are these—I will that thou
shouldst tell me how far it is from here to heaven; how much water there
is in the sea; what they are doing in hell; and what is the worth of my
person.” The abbot hearing this began to sigh, and thought himself in
worse plight than before; yet, for the sake of peace and to gain time,
he prayed Bernabò that it would please him to grant him a term for the
answering of such deep questions. And the lord granted him the whole of
the following day, and, as one impatient to hear the end of the matter,
made him give security that he would return. The abbot returned to his
abbey exceeding sorrowful and full of thought, and puffing and blowing
like a frightened horse. When he had got thither, he met with a miller
who was one of his tenants, and who, seeing him thus afflicted, said:
“My lord, what is the matter, that ye puff and blow on this wise?” Said
the abbot: “I have good cause, for his lordship is going to be the ruin
of me if I do not declare unto him four things, which neither Solomon
nor Aristotle could do.” Said the miller: “What things are these?” The
abbot told him. Then the miller thought for a while, and said to the
abbot: “Sir, I will get ye out of this strait, an ye will.” The abbot
replied: “Would to God it might be so!” Said the miller: “I think both
God and the saints will be willing.” The abbot, who knew not what he
would be at, said: “If thou doest it, take from me what thou wilt, for
thou shalt ask me for nothing that I will not give thee, if it be
possible.”... Then said the miller: “I must put on your tunic and hood,
and I will shave my beard, and to-morrow morning, very early, I will go
into his presence, saying that I am the abbot, and I will settle the
four questions in such a way that I think he will be content.” The abbot
could not wait a moment before he had put the miller in his place, and
so it was done. Early in the morning the miller set out, and when he had
reached the gate of Bernabò’s house, he knocked and said that such and
such an abbot wished to answer certain questions which the lord had put
to him. The lord, willing to hear what the abbot had to say, and
wondering that he had returned so quickly, had him called. The miller,
coming into his presence in a room which was not very well lighted, made
his obeisance, holding his hand as much as possible before his face, and
was asked by Bernabò whether he were able to answer the four questions.
And he replied: “My lord, I am. Ye asked how far it is from here to
heaven; from this spot it is just thirty-six millions, eight hundred and
fifty-four thousand, seventy-two and a half miles, and twenty-two
paces.” Said Bernabò: “Thou hast given it very accurately; how wilt thou
prove this?” The miller replied: “Have the distance measured, and if it
be not even as I say, ye may have me hanged by the neck. In the second
place, ye asked how much water there is in the sea. This was very hard
to find out, since it is a thing that is never still, and there is
always more being added; but I have found out that there are in the sea
25,982,000,000 hogsheads, 7 barrels, 12 gallons, and 2 glasses.” Said
the lord: “How knowest thou this?” The miller answered: “I reckoned it
as well as I could,—if ye do not believe me, send and fetch barrels, and
have it measured. And if it be not correct, ye may have me quartered. In
the third place, your lordship asked what was being done in hell. In
hell there is hanging, drawing, quartering, and cutting off of heads
going on,—neither less nor more than what your lordship is doing here.”
Bernabò asked: “What reason dost thou give for this?” He replied: “I
have talked with a man who had been there, and it was from this man
Dante the Florentine heard what he wrote concerning the things of hell;
but this man is dead, and if ye do not believe me, send and ask him.
Fourthly, ye would know what was the value of your lordship’s person,
and I say that it is worth twenty-nine pence.” When Messer Bernabò heard
this, he turned to him in a fury, saying, “May the plague seize thee!
Dost think I am worth no more than an earthen pipkin?” The miller
replied, and not without great fear: “My Lord, listen to reason; ye know
that our Lord was sold for thirty pence,—I am surely right in supposing
that ye are worth one penny less than he.” When Bernabò heard this, he
imagined that this man could not be the abbot, and, looking fixedly at
him, perceiving that he was a man of far more sense than the abbot, he
said to him: “Thou art not the abbot.” The terror which the miller then
had, every one may imagine for himself; he knelt down, and with clasped
hands asked for mercy, telling Bernabò that he was the tenant of the
abbey mill, and how and why he had appeared before him in this disguise,
and that it was rather to please him than from any ill intention. But
Bernabò, hearing this, said: “Well, then, since he has made thee abbot,
and thou art worth more than he, by the faith of God, I will confirm
thee in thine office; and it is my will that from henceforth thou be the
abbot, and he the miller, and that thou have all the revenue of the
monastery, and he of the mill.” And thus he caused it to be during all
the rest of his life, that the miller should be an abbot, and the abbot
a miller.

_Franco Sacchetti._

_HOW SER NASTAGIO WAS COLLECTED FOR IN CHURCH._

Faustino, of Bologna, was in love with the beautiful Eugenia, but was
unable to meet her on account of the hostility of her parents, who kept
a very strict watch over her, and debarred her from the very sight of
him as much as they possibly could. Yet her mother, being of a religious
turn of mind, was unwilling that she should relinquish her usual
attendance on divine worship, and herself accompanied her daughter every
morning to hear mass at a church near their own house, but at so very
early an hour that not even the artisans of the city, much less the
young gentry of the place, were stirring. And there she heard service
performed by a priest expressly on her own account, though several other
persons might happen to be present, who were in the habit of rising
early.

[Illustration]

Now among these was a certain corn merchant named Ser Nastagio de’
Rodiotti, a man who had driven many a hard bargain and thriven
wonderfully in his trade, but of so devout a turn withal that he would
not for the world have made an usurious contract, or even speculated to
any extent, without having first attended mass. He lost not a single
opportunity of showing himself at church among the earliest of the
congregation, and was ready for business before a great portion of his
fellow-citizens were stirring.

Now in a short time it also reached the ears of Faustino, through the
good offices, it is supposed, of the young lady, that High Mass was to
be heard every morning at a certain church, with every particular
relating to the devotees who attended, and the nearest way thither.
Rejoiced at this news, her lover now resolved to rise somewhat earlier
than he had been accustomed to do, that he might avail himself of the
same advantage the lady enjoyed, in beginning the day with religious
duties. For this purpose he assumed a different dress, the better to
deceive the eyes of her careful mother, being perfectly aware that she
only made her appearance thus early with her daughter for the sake of
concealing her from his sight. In this way the young lady had the merit
of bringing Faustino to church, where they gazed at each other with the
utmost devotion, except, indeed, when the unlucky tradesman just
mentioned happened to place himself, as was frequently the case, exactly
in their way, so as to interrupt the silent communion of souls. And this
he did in so vexatious a manner that they could hardly observe each
other for a moment without exposing themselves to his searching eye and
keen observation. Greatly displeased at this kind of inquisition, the
lover frequently wished the devout corn dealer in Purgatory, or that he
would at least offer up his prayers in another church. Such an antipathy
did he at length conceive to Ser Nastagio, that he resolved to employ
his utmost efforts to prevail upon him to withdraw himself from that
spot. He at last hit upon a plan which he thought sure to succeed, in a
manner equally safe and amusing. He hastened without delay to the
officiating priest, whom he addressed as follows:—“It has ever been
esteemed, my good Messer Pastore, a most heavenly and laudable
disposition to devote ourselves to the relief of our poorer brethren.
And this you doubtless know far better than I can tell you.... But there
are many who, however destitute, feel ashamed to come forward for the
purpose of begging alms. Now I think that I have of late observed one of
them in a person who frequents your church. He was formerly a Jew, but
not long ago he became a Christian, and one whose exemplary life and
conduct render him in all respects worthy of the name. There is not a
more destitute being on the face of the earth; while such is his modesty
that I assure you I have frequently had the utmost difficulty in
persuading him to accept of alms. It would really be a meritorious act
were you to touch some morning on his cruel misfortunes, relating his
conversion to our faith, and the singular modesty with which he attempts
to conceal his wants. This would probably procure for him a handsome
contribution; and if you will only have the kindness to apprise me of
the day, I will bring a number of my friends along with me, and we shall
be sure to find this poor fellow seated in your church.”

Our kind-hearted priest cheerfully complied with the wily lover’s
request. He proposed the next Sunday morning, when a large number of
people would be present, regretting that he had not been sooner informed
of the affair. Faustino next gave an exact description of the corn
merchant, observing that the poor man always appeared neat and clean, so
that he could not possibly mistake him. Then, taking leave of the good
friar, he hastened to communicate this piece of mischief to some of his
young companions. Punctually next Sunday they were at the church, even
early enough to hear the first mass; and there Messer Nastagio was seen
at his usual post, surrounded by a crowd of people. After going through
the Evangelists and the Creed, and muttering a few Aves, the good priest
paused and looked about him; then, wiping his forehead, and taking
breath for a while, he again addressed the congregation as
follows:—“Dearly beloved brethren, you must be aware that the most
pleasing thing you can do in the eyes of the Lord is to show your
charity towards poorer Christians.... As I know you are not wanting in
charity, but rather abounding in good works, I am not afraid to inform
you that there is a most deserving yet destitute object before you, who,
though too modest to urge your compassion, is in every way worthy of it.
Pray take pity upon him. Behold him!” he cried, pointing full at Ser
Nastagio: “Lo! thou art the man. Yes!” he continued, while the corn
merchant stared at him in the utmost astonishment; “yes, thou art the
man! Thy modesty shall no longer conceal thee from the eyes of the
people which are now fixed upon thee. For though thou wert once an
Israelite, my friend, thou art now one of the lost sheep which are
found, and if thou hast not much temporal, thou hast a hoard of eternal
wealth.” He addressed himself during the whole of this time, both by
words and signs, to Ser Nastagio, yet the poor merchant could by no
means persuade himself against the evidence of his own reason that he
was the person pointed out. Without stirring, therefore, he somewhat
reluctantly put his hand into his pocket, preparing to bestow his alms
in the same manner as the rest of the congregation. The first person to
present his contribution was the author of the trick, who, approaching
the spot where the merchant stood, offered his alms, and, in spite of
Ser Nastagio, dropped them into his hat. And though the incensed
tradesman exclaimed, “I have a longer purse than thou hast ears!” it
availed him nothing. The good priest pursued his theme without noticing
Ser Nastagio’s remark, except by saying, “Give no credit to his words,
good people, but give him alms, give him alms; it is his modest merit
which prevents him from accepting them. Yes, go thrust them into the
good man’s pockets; fill his hat, his shoes, his clothes with them, and
make him bear away with him the good fruits of your charity.” Then once
more directing his attention to the confused and angry merchant, he
exclaimed, “Do not look thus ashamed, but take them, take them; for,
believe me, good friend, many greater and better men have been reduced
to the same piteous plight. You should rather consider it as an honour
than otherwise, inasmuch as your necessities have not been the
consequence of your own misconduct, but solely arise from your embracing
the light of truth.”

The priest had no sooner ended than there was a general rush of the
whole congregation towards the place where the merchant stood,
endeavouring who should be first to deposit their donations in his
hands, while he in vain attempted to resist the tide of charitable
contributions which now poured in on every side. He had likewise to
struggle against his own avarice, for he would willingly have received
the money, though he did all in his power to repulse their gifts. When
the tumult had a little subsided, Ser Nastagio began to attack the
priest in the most virulent terms, until the preacher was inclined to
suspect that in some way he had been misinformed. He thus began to make
his excuses, as well as he could, for the error into which he had
fallen; but the lover’s purpose was accomplished, and the deed could not
be recalled. For the story was quickly circulated through the whole
city, to the infinite amusement of all its inhabitants, and Ser Nastagio
was never known to enter that church again.

_Girolamo Parabosco (16th century)._

_HOW A BARRISTER GOT HIS MONEY’S WORTH._

In our city there flourished a certain learned advocate, a member of the
great Castello family, Messer Dionisio by name. Having occasion to enter
into the legal arena with another advocate, whose name I cannot just now
recollect, Messer Dionisio was retained as counsel to Signor Giovanni
de’ Bentivogli. The case was tried before our worthy magistrate, Messer
Nicoluzzo de’ Piccoluomini, of Siena; and as it often happens to these
gentlemen of the robe, when deeply engaged in the interests of their
clients, they became so very personal in the cause of their principals,
that at length our friend’s adversary, unable to bear his bitter taunts,
fairly challenged his honour and veracity, which so incensed Messer
Dionisio that, in a fit of sudden passion, he clenched his fist and
smote his learned antagonist very severely on the mouth. The presiding
magistrate, greatly scandalised at our friend’s new method of enforcing
his arguments, vigorously remonstrated with him, and threatened to
enforce the full penalty of the law, assuring him that he dealt too
mildly in not committing him on the spot. He would have executed his
menace, had not the high qualities and connections of Messer Dionisio
restrained him. He replied to the judge’s threats, with the most perfect
composure, “Most noble prætor, according to the tenor of our civil law,
I believe you will only be able to demand about ten pieces from me;” and
putting his hand in his pocket, he drew forth ten broad gold ducats,
saying, “Take only what the law allows you, and hand me the remainder
back.” But the judge, seizing in a rage upon the whole, cried, “You must
apply elsewhere for the remainder;” which again brought the angry
counsellor upon his legs. Turning quickly round upon his adversary, now
busily employed in repairing the ruins of his jaws, and uttering fierce
exclamations for justice, our friend again addressed him: “If this be
the case, I must have what I have paid for, over and above;” and he
struck him a more violent blow than before upon his left cheek. He then
addressed the judge: “My lord, you have made me pay for more than the
amount of both the arguments I have applied in the very face of my
learned brother; but keep the money—he is a pitiful advocate indeed who
would scruple to take advantage of his opponent for the sake of ten
ducats. I have had my revenge.” And turning his back upon the court, he
left his brother advocate quite unable to make any reply, and grievously
lamenting and appealing to the magistrate for justice. He was at last
obliged to be patient, for though somewhat incensed the court could not
refrain from indulging a degree of mirth at Dionisio’s singular
arguments. The only sentence obtained that day in court was, “He who
received the injury sustained all the loss.”

_Sabadino degli Arienti (c. 1450–1500)._

_THE MERRY JESTS OF BUFFALMACCO THE PAINTER._

Buonamico di Cristofano, nicknamed Buffalmacco, was a pupil of Andrea
Tafi, and has been celebrated as a jester by Boccaccio. Franco Sacchetti
also tells how, when Buffalmacco was still a boy with Andrea, his master
had the habit, when the nights were long, of getting up before day to
work, and calling his boys. This was displeasing to Buonamico, who had
to rise in the middle of his best sleep, and he considered how he might
prevent Andrea from getting up before day to work, and this was what
occurred to him. Having found thirty great beetles in an ill-kept
cellar, he fastened on each of their backs a little candle, and at the
hour when Andrea was used to rise, he put them one by one through a hole
in the door into Andrea’s chamber, having first lighted the candles. His
master awaking at the hour for calling Buffalmacco, and seeing the
lights, was seized with terror and began to tremble like a fearful old
man as he was, and to say his prayers and repeat the psalms; and at
last, putting his head under the clothes, he thought no more that night
of calling Buffalmacco, but lay trembling with fear till daybreak. The
morning being come, he asked Buonamico if, like him, he had seen more
than a thousand devils. Buonamico answered, “No,” for he had kept his
eyes closed, and wondered he had not been called. “What!” said Tafi, “I
had something else to think of than painting, and am resolved to go into
another house.” The next night, although Buonamico only put three
beetles into Tafi’s chamber, yet he, from the last night’s terror and
the fear of those few devils, could get no sleep at all, and, as soon as
it was day, left the house determined never to return, and it took a
great deal of good counsel to make him change his mind. At last
Buonamico brought the priest to him, to console him. And Tafi and
Buonamico discussing the matter, Buonamico said: “I have always heard
say that demons are the greatest enemies of God, and consequently they
ought to be the chief adversaries of painters, because not only do we
always make them hideous, but we also never cease making saints on all
the walls, and so cause men in despite of the devils to become more and
more devout. So these devils being enraged against us, as they have
greater power by night than by day, they come playing us these tricks,
and it will be worse if this custom of getting up early is not quite
given up.” With such words Buffalmacco managed the matter, what the
priest said helping him; so that Tafi left off getting up early, and the
devils no longer went about the house at night with candles. But not
many months after, Tafi, drawn by the desire of gain, and having
forgotten his fears, began afresh to get up early and to call
Buffalmacco; whereon the beetles began again to appear, until he was
forced by his fears to give it up entirely, being earnestly counselled
to do so by the priest. And the matter being noised abroad in the city
for a time, neither Tafi nor any other painter ventured to get up at
night to work.

[Illustration]

While painting the church of the convent of Faenza, at Florence,
Buffalmacco, who was very careless and negligent in his dress, as in
other things, did not always wear his hood and mantle, as was the
fashion at the time; and the nuns, watching him through the screen they
had erected, began to complain that it did not please them to see him in
his doublet. At last, as he always appeared in the same fashion, they
began to think that he was only some boy employed in mixing colours; and
they gave him to understand, through their abbess, that they should
prefer to see his master, and not always him. To this Buonamico answered
good-humouredly that when the master came he would let them know,
understanding, nevertheless, how little confidence they had in him. Then
he took a stool, and placed upon it another, and on the top he put a
pitcher or water-jug, and fastened a hood on the handle, and covered up
the rest of the jug with a cloak, fastening it well behind the tables;
and having fixed a pencil in the spout of the jug, he went away. The
nuns coming again to see the picture through a hole that they had made
in the screen, saw the supposed master in his fine attire, and not
doubting that he was working with all his might, doing very different
work from what that boy did, for several days were quite content. At
last, being desirous to see what fine things the master had done in the
last fortnight (during which time Buonamico had not been there at all),
one night, thinking he was gone, they went to see his picture, and were
overcome with confusion when one more bold than the rest detected the
solemn master, who during the fortnight had done no work at all. But,
acknowledging that he had only treated them as they deserved, and that
the work which he had done was worthy of praise, they sent their steward
to call Buonamico back; and he with great laughter went back to his
work, letting them see the difference between men and water-jugs, and
that it does not always do to judge a man’s work by his clothes. So in a
few days he finished a picture with which they were greatly pleased,
except that the faces seemed to them to be too pale and wan. Buonamico
having heard this, and knowing that the Abbess had some wine which was
the best in Florence, told them that if they wished to remedy the
defect, it could only be done by mixing the colours with good wine; and
then if the cheeks were touched with the colour, they would become red
and of a more lively aspect. The good sisters hearing this, and ready to
believe everything, kept him always supplied with excellent wine while
he worked; and he, while enjoying the wine himself, to please them, made
his colours more fresh and bright.

[Illustration]

_Vasari_ (1512–1574).

A certain painter had a picture, wherein was an ox which looked better
than the rest. Michael Angelo Buonarotti being asked why the painter had
made it more life-like than the rest, replied, “Every painter succeeds
best in a portrait of himself.”

_Vasari._

Another painter had executed a historical picture, in which every figure
was copied from some other artist, insomuch that no part of the picture
was his own. It was shown to Michael Angelo Buonarotti, who, when he had
seen it, was asked by a very intimate friend of his what he thought of
it. He replied: “He has done well, but, at the Day of Judgment, when all
bodies will resume their own limbs again, I do not know what will become
of that historical picture, for there will be nothing left of it.”

_Vasari._

_CHORUS FROM “LA MANDRAGOLA.”_

How happy is he, as all may see
Who has the good fortune a fool to be,
And what you tell him will always believe!
No ambition can grieve,
No fear can affright him
Which are wont to be seeds
Of pain and annoy.
This doctor of ours,
’Tis not hard to delight him—
If you tell him ‘twill gain him
His heart’s wish and joy,
He’ll believe in good faith that an ass can fly,—
Or that black is white, and the truth a lie,—
All things in the world he may well forget—
Save the one whereon his whole heart is set.
_Niccolo Machiavelli_ (1469–1527).

_FRA TIMOTEO’S MONOLOGUE._
FRA TIMOTEO (_alone_).

I have not been able to get a wink of sleep to-night, for wondering how
Callimaco and the rest have been getting on. I have been trying to pass
the time, while waiting, by attending to various matters. I said the
morning prayers, read a chapter of the _Lives of the Holy Fathers_, went
into church and lit a lamp which had gone out, and changed the veil of a
statue of the Madonna which works miracles. How many times have I told
the monks to keep that image clean? And then they wonder why there is a
lack of devotion! I remember the time when there were five hundred
images here, and now there are not twenty. This is all our own fault; we
have not been able to keep up the reputation of the place. We used to go
in procession after service every evening, and have the Lauds sung every
Saturday. We always made vows here, so as to get fresh images, and we
used to encourage the men and women who came to confession to make vows
likewise. Nowadays none of these things are done, and we are astonished
that there is so little enthusiasm! What an amazingly small quantity of
brains these monks of mine have among them!

_Niccolo Machiavelli._

THE MEDIÆVAL UNDERGRADUATE.

There was once at Padua a Sicilian scholar called Pontius, who seeing
one day a countryman with a pair of fat fowls, pretending that he wanted
to buy them, made a bargain with him and said, “Come home with me, and
over and above the price I will give thee some breakfast.” So he led him
to a place where there was a bell-tower, which is separate from the
church, so that one can go all round it; and opposite one of the four
faces of the Campanile was the end of a little street. Here Pontius,
having first thought of what he wished to do, said to the countryman: “I
have wagered these fowls with one of my comrades, who says that this
tower is certainly forty feet in circumference; and I say no. So just at
that moment when I met you I had been buying this string to measure it
with; and before we go home, I want to ascertain which of us has won.”
Thus saying, he took the string out of his sleeve, and gave one end of
it to the countryman to hold, and saying, “Give here!” he took the fowls
from him, and holding the other end of the string, began to go round the
tower, as if to measure it, making the countryman stop on that side of
the tower which was opposite the end of the little street. When he had
reached this side he drove a nail into the wall and tied the string to
it, and thus leaving it, went off quietly down the street with the
fowls. The countryman remained for a great space of time, waiting till
he should have finished measuring; but at last, when he had several
times said, “What are you doing so long?” he went to see, and found that
the one who held the string was not Pontius, but a nail driven into the
wall, which was all that remained to him as payment for the fowls.

_Baldassarre Castiglione_ (1478–1529).

The Bishop of Corvia, in order to find out the intentions of the Pope,
one day said to him: “Holy father, it is commonly reported in all Rome,
and even in the palace, that your holiness is about to make me
governor.” Then the Pope replied, “Never mind what they say; they are
nothing but low-tongued rascals.”

_Baldassarre Castiglione._

A certain pleader, to whom his adversary said, in presence of the judge:
“What art thou barking for?” replied, “Because I see a thief.”

_Baldassarre Castiglione._

The Archbishop of Florence once said to Cardinal Alessandrino that a man
has nothing but his goods, his body, and his soul; and that the first is
ruined for him by the lawyers, the second by the doctors, and the third
by the theologians. Then Giuliano the Magnificent quoted the remarks by
Nicoletto—viz., that it was rare to find a lawyer who would go to law, a
doctor who would take physic, or a theologian who was a good Christian.

_Baldassarre Castiglione._

A miser, who had refused to sell his corn while it was dear, seeing that
the price had gone down, hanged himself in despair to one of the beams
in his chamber. One of his servants, having heard the noise, ran in, and
finding his master hanging from the ceiling, forthwith cut the rope and
so saved his life. When the miser had come to himself, he insisted that
the servant should pay for the rope which he had cut.

_Baldassarre Castiglione._

As Duke Frederic of Urbino was one day talking of what was to be done
with a large quantity of earth, which had been dug up in order to lay
the foundation of his palace, an abbot who was present said: “My lord, I
have been thinking where it should be put, and I have a good idea: order
a great ditch to be dug, and you may then dispose of the earth without
further hindrance.” The duke replied, not without a smile: “What are we
to do with the earth which will be dug from this new ditch?” The abbot
answered: “Let it be made big enough to hold both.” And thus, although
the duke tried to show him that the larger the ditch the more earth
would be dug out of it, he could not understand that it could not be
made large enough to contain both heaps, but only replied, “Make it so
much the larger.”

_Baldassarre Castiglione._

_A ROMAN PRELATE OF 1519._

[Illustration]

... His hungry congregation waits in vain,
Wishing he’d come the Gospel to explain,
Begin, or rather end, his dull tho’ noisy strain.
At last he comes, deep-crimson’d o’er his face,
A certain token of unlettered grace;
He mounts, the pulpit crackles with his weight,
His awful eyebrows the most distant threat;
Against his brethren he exclaims aloud
That they are too luxurious in their food,
In taverns more than churches take delight,
Feast on fat capons; quaff the livelong night;
While, could you rummage his own private cell,
No noble’s larder e’er was stuffed so well.
Let me have books those moments to beguile,
When the rich prelate, in his haughty style,
Roars to his porter, “Here, let who will come,
Be sure you tell them I am not at home.”
So monks, carousing at their favourite meals,
Silence the interrupting sound of bells.
“Sir,” should I say (for _Sir’s_ the proper word
Even at a cobbler’s stall, or tailor’s board),
“Good sir,” though to a tattered Swiss, “I pray,
May I not see His Eminence to-day?”
“_No sproka to my Maister bater goud,
You go your lodgèe, come as when you coud._”[4]
“Sir, be so kind at least to let him know
That Lewis Ariosto is below.”
He answers that his Rev’rence would not see
St Paul himself, though on an embassy....
_Lodovico Ariosto_ (1474–1533).

_THE VALLEY OF LOST LUMBER._

[Astolfo journeys to the Moon, on the winged steed Hippogrif, to
recover the wits which Orlando has lost for love of the Princess
Angelica.]

[Illustration]

... Now Astolfo was conducted by his guide into a narrow valley between
two steep mountains. And in this place there was miraculously collected
together everything which gets lost on earth, either through some
failing of our own, or by the fault of time or fortune. I mean not only
riches and power, but also those things which fortune alone can neither
give nor take away. Many a reputation lies up there, which time, like a
moth, has long been gnawing at here below, and also numberless vows and
good resolutions made by sinners. There we should find the tears and
sighs of lovers, the time lost in gaming, all the wasted leisure of
ignorant men, and all vain intentions which have never been put into
action. Of fruitless desires there are so many that they lumber up the
greater part of that place. In short, whatever you have lost here below
you will find again if you ascend thither.

Our Paladin, as he passed along, now and again asking questions of his
guide, saw a mountain of blown bladders, which seemed to be full of
noise inside. And he knew that these were the ancient crowns of the
Assyrians, and of Lydia, and of the Persians and Greeks, which once were
famous, while now their very names are almost forgotten. Close by he saw
great masses of gold and silver piled up in heaps, which were those
gifts that people made, in hopes of getting a reward, to kings and
princes. He saw wreaths of flowers with traps hidden among them, and
heard, in asking, that they were flatteries. Verses that men made in
praise of their patrons are seen there, under the form of grasshoppers,
who have hurt themselves with chirping.... He saw many broken bottles of
different kinds, and found that they stand for the service men pay to
courts, and the thanks they get for it. Then he came to a great pool of
spilt broth, and asking what it was, his guide told him that it
represented the alms people direct to be given after their deaths. Then
he passed by a great heap of various flowers, which once were
sweet-scented, but now have a foul odour; this was the gift (if we may
be permitted to say so) that Constantine bestowed on the good Pope
Sylvester.

He saw a great quantity of twigs covered with bird-lime, there, O fair
ladies, are your beauty! He saw ... but it would be an endless task to
count up the things which were shown him there. The only thing he did
not find was folly: that remains here on earth, for no one ever parts
with it.

At last he came to that which we are all so firmly persuaded we possess,
that no one ever prayed to have it given him—I mean common sense. There
was a huge heap of it, as big as all the other things put together. It
was like a clear, soft liquid, which easily evaporates if it is not kept
tightly corked, and was contained in bottles of various shapes and
sizes, each one being labelled with the name of its owner. Astolfo
noticed one which was much larger than the rest, and read on the label,
“_Orlando’s Wits_.” He saw also a great part of his own; but what made
him marvel more than anything was the fact that many people whom he had
believed to have plenty of sense were now shown to have little or none,
the bottles marked with their names being nearly full. Some lose it
through love, others in striving after honours; yet others, in seeking
for riches by land and sea, or by putting their trust in great lords and
princes, or in pursuing after follies of magic and sorcery, or gems or
pictures, or anything else which a man values above others. There was a
great quantity of the wits of philosophers and astrologers stored there,
and also of those of poets. Astolfo took up his own, having received
permission to do so, and put the flask to his nose; and it appears that
his wits returned to their place right enough, for Turpin confesses that
from thenceforth Astolfo lived very wisely indeed for a long time. But
afterwards, it is true, he made one mistake which once more deprived him
of his brains. Then he took up the large flask which contained
Orlando’s, and which was no light weight, and turned to depart....

_Lodovico Ariosto._

_THE POET TO HIS PATRON._

O, Master Anthony, I am in love
With that fine doublet you’ve _not_ given me!
I love, and wish it well as heartily
As ’twere the lady I call “Flower” and “Dove.”
I look on’t front and back—a perfect fit!
The more I look, the more I long for it.
It pleases me, inside and out,
And up and down. Oh! heaven,
That you have only lent me it, not given!
Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!

When in the morn I see it on my back,
I always think that it must be my own;
That cunning stitchery of herring-bone,
How great a marvel! I am on the rack!
I shall do something desperate,—good lack!
And will not—cannot understand
I must restore it to your hand—
Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!

Oh! Master Anthony, if you knew how
To set about it, you a faction-chief
Might be. Look at me in this doublet now,—
Am I not gallant?—half a Mars, in brief?
Make up your mind you want it not again,
And I will be your brave,
Your foot-page and your slave,
And walk, with sword on thigh, among your train!

O canzonet!
If thou dost fail this doublet for to get,
Thou well may’st say, I have
Been such a fool, I should be called a knave!
_Francesco Berni_ (1490?–1536).

_BENVENUTO CELLINI OFFENDS THE POPE._

When I made this speech, there was present that gentleman of Cardinal
Santa Fiore’s with whom I had had words, and confirmed to the Pope all
that had been told him! The Pope remained swelling with rage, and said
nothing. Now I do _not_ wish to fail in stating my reasons in a just and
righteous manner. That gentleman of Santa Fiore’s came to me one day,
and brought me a little ring all tarnished with quicksilver, saying,
“Burnish this ring for me, and make haste about it.” I had a great many
pieces of goldsmith’s work in hand, with most valuable jewels waiting to
be set, and hearing myself, moreover, ordered about with so much
assurance by a man whom I had never seen or spoken to before, answered
that I had not a burnisher by me just then, and that he had better go to
another. He, without any reason in the world, told me that I was an ass.
To these words of his I replied that he did not speak the truth, and
that I was a man, on every account worth more than he; but that, if he
bothered me, I would certainly kick harder than any ass. He went
straight to the cardinal, and made out that I had all but murdered him.
Two days after this I was shooting behind the palace at a wild pigeon,
which had its nest in a hole, very high up; and that same pigeon I had
seen shot at by a goldsmith named Giovan Francesco della Tacca, a
Milanese, who had never hit it. On the day when I was shooting, it had
become shy, and scarcely showed its head; and because this Giovan
Francesco and I were rival marksmen, certain gentlemen and friends of
mine who were in my workshop pointed it out to me, and said, “That is
Tacca’s pigeon which he has so often shot at. See, the poor bird has
grown suspicious, and scarcely shows its head.” I looked up, and said,
“It shows quite enough for me to hit it, if I only had time to take aim
first.” Those gentlemen said that the man himself who invented the
firelock could never hit it. I replied I was willing to wager a pitcher
of the best Greek wine that I would do so; and, taking aim, and shooting
from the arm, without any support for my piece, I did what I had
promised, without thinking of the cardinal or anybody else; nay, I had
the less reason to do so, as I believed the cardinal to be very much my
patron. Thus may the world see what divers ways Fortune takes, when she
wishes to be the ruin of a man. To return to the Pope: he remained, all
swollen and sulky, brooding over what he had heard....

_Benvenuto Cellini_ (1500–1570).

_HE RESCUES A FOOL FROM DROWNING._

When we had passed the Mount Simplon aforesaid, we found a river near a
place called Indevedro. This river was very wide and rather deep, and
crossed by a little narrow bridge without a parapet. There was a hard
frost that morning, and when I reached the bridge—for I was in front of
the rest, and saw that it was very dangerous—I ordered my young men and
the servants to dismount, and lead their horses by the bridle. Thus I
passed the said bridge in safety, and went on talking with one of those
two Frenchmen, who was a gentleman. The other was a notary, who had
remained somewhat behind, and jeered at that gentleman and at me, saying
that for fear of nothing at all we had preferred the discomfort of going
on foot; to whom I turned, and seeing him on the middle of the bridge,
prayed him to come softly, for that it was a very dangerous place. This
man, who could not help showing his French nature, said to me in French
that I was a man of little courage, and that there was no danger at all.
While he was saying these words he pricked his horse with the spur,
through which means it suddenly slipped over the edge of the bridge, and
fell close beside a large stone, turning over with its legs in the air;
and as God very often shows compassion to fools, this beast, along with
the other beast, his horse, fell into a great and deep hole, wherein
both he and his horse went under water. As soon as I saw this I began to
run, and with great difficulty leaped upon the stone aforesaid, and,
holding on by it and hanging over the brink, I seized the edge of a gown
which that man was wearing, and by that gown I pulled him up, while he
was still under water; and because he had drunk a great quantity of
water, and within a little would have been drowned, I, seeing him out of
danger, told him I was rejoiced at having saved his life. Whereat he
answered me that I had done nothing—that the most important thing were
his parchments, which were worth much money. It seemed that he spoke
thus in anger, all soaked through as he was, and muttering confusedly.
At this I turned to the guides we had with us, and promised to pay them
if they would help this beast. One of the guides valorously, and with
great difficulty, set himself to do what he could, and fished up all the
parchments, so that he lost nothing; the other would not put himself to
any trouble to help him....

_Benvenuto Cellini._

_OPENING STANZAS OF “THE RAPE OF THE BUCKET.”_

[Illustration]

Fain would I sing that direful wrath which swayed
Men’s bosoms for a Bucket, spoil renowned!
Stolen from Bologna, and in pomp displayed,
By hostile Modenese with conquest crowned.
Phœbus! the conflicts and adventures dread
Of horrid war assist me to resound.
Inspiring God! till I am grown acuter,
Lend me thy helping hand, and be my tutor.

And thou, the nephew of the Pope of Rome!
And of the generous Carlo, son the second;
Thou who hast wisdom in thy youthful bloom,
In tender years of high endowments reckoned;
From studies deep, in which thou’rt quite at home,
If thou canst turn, by recreation beckoned,
List to my song; see here the Grecian Helen
Transformed into a Bucket, war compelling!
_Alessandro Tassoni_ (1565–1635).

_THE CALL TO ARMS._

Then like the Spartans lived the Modenese
Unfortified, without a parapet;
So shallow were the fosses that with ease
Men might run in and out early or late;
The Great Bell’s toll now echoed on the breeze,
And up from bed jumped all the people straight;
Summoned to arm, some bolted quick downstairs,
Some to the windows rushed—and some to prayers.

Some snatched a shoe and slipper, some in haste
Had only one leg stockinged, others again
In petticoats turned inside out were dressed,
Lovers exchanged their shirts; some with disdain
Took frying-pans for shields, and forward pressed
With buckets on for helms, others were fain
To brandish hedge-bills, and in breast-plates bright
Ran swaggering to the Square, prepared for fight.

There had the Potta, ready at his post,
The City Standard valorously spread;
Himself on horseback armed, and he could boast
Bright scarlet breeches, shoes too, lively red:
The Modenese, abridging, to their cost,
Potestà, wrote but Potta in its stead;
And hence the Bolognese in joke had got a
Cognomen, and they called his Mayorship Potta!

Messer Lorenzo Scotti, sage and strong,
Was Potta then, and suits at law decided;
Now foot and horsemen, a promiscuous throng,
All hurry to the Square, and these divided
Are posted at the gateways; from among
The rest a chosen squadron is confided
To Rangon’s son Gherardo,—to his hand
The Standard too is given and chief command.
_Alessandro Tassoni._

_THE ASSEMBLY OF THE GODS._

[Illustration]

O’er rolling stars, from heavenly stalls advancing,
The coaches soon were seen, and a long train
Of mules with litters, horses fleet and prancing,
Their trappings all embroidery, nothing plain;
And with fine liveries, in the sunbeams glancing,
More than a hundred servants, rather vain
Of handsome looks and of their stature tall,
Followed their masters to the Council Hall.

First came the Prince of Delos, Phœbus hight,
In a gay travelling carriage, fleetly drawn
By six smart Spanish chestnuts, shining bright,
Which with their tramping shook the aerial lawn;
Red was his cloak, three-cocked his hat, and light
Around his neck the golden fleece was thrown;
And twenty-four sweet damsels, nectar-sippers,
Were running near him in their pumps or slippers.

Pallas, with lovely but disdainful mien,
Came on a nag of Basignanian race;
Tight round her leg, and gathered up, was seen
Her gown, half Greek, half Spanish; o’er her face
Part of her hair hung loose, a natural screen,
Part was tied up, and with becoming grace;
A bunch of feathers on her head she wore,
And on her saddle-bow her falchion bore.

The Paphian Queen for her accommodation
Had two stage-coaches; richly decorated
Was that wherein she sat in conversation
With Cupid and the Graces; on them waited
Pages in habits suited to their station;
The other coach with courtiers gay was freighted,
The chamberlain and tutor debonnair,
And the chief cook, Dan Bacon, too was there.

But Ceres and the God of Wine appeared
At once, conversing; and the God of Ocean
Upon a dolphin’s back his form upreared,
Floating through waves of air with graceful motion;
Naked, all sea-weed, and with mud besmeared;
For whom his mother Rhea feels emotion,
Reproaching his proud brother,[5] when she meets him,
Because so like a fisherman he treats him.

Diana, the sweet virgin, was not there;
She had risen early, and o’er woodland green
Had gone to wash her clothes in fountain fair
Upon the Tuscan shore—romantic scene.
And not returning till the northern star
Had rolled through dusky air and lost its sheen,
Her mother made excuses, quite provoking,
Knitting, at the same time, a worsted stocking.

Juno-Lucina did not go—and why?
She anxious wished to wash her sacred head.
Menippus, Jove’s chief taster, standing by,
For the disastrous Fates excuses made.
They had much tow to spin, and lint to dry,
And they were also busy baking bread.
The cellarman, Silenus, kept away,
To water the domestics’ wine that day.

· · · · ·

On starry benches sit the famous warriors
Of the immortal kingdom, in a ring;
Now drums and cymbals, echoing to the barriers,
Announce the coming of the gorgeous king;
A hundred pages, valets, napkin-carriers
Attend, and their peculiar offerings bring.
And after them, armed with his club so hard,
Alcides, captain of the city guard.

And as the madness which his brain affected
Was not quite cured, officiously he strode,
And swung aloft his club, and blows directed
Along the crowd to clear the royal road.
Like drunken Swiss he looked, and seemed connected
With ruffians low who hire themselves abroad
On festal days, before the Pope to bluster,
Breaking of arms and skull-caps in a fluster.

With Jove’s broad hat and spectacles arrived
The light-heeled Mercury; in his hand he bore
A sack, in which, of other means deprived,
He damned poor mortals’ prayers, some million score;
Those he disposed in vessels, well contrived,
Which graced his father’s cabinet of yore;
And, wont attention to all claims to pay,
He regularly signed them twice a day.

Then Jove himself, in royal habit dressed,
With starry diadem upon his head,
And o’er his shoulders an imperial vest,
Worn upon holidays.—The king displayed
A sceptre, pastoral shape, with hooked crest;
In a rich jacket too was he arrayed,
Given by the inhabitants of Sericane,
And Ganymede held up his splendid train.
_Alessandro Tassoni._

[Illustration]

_PRAISES OF THE WINE OF MONTEPULCIANO._

[Illustration]

Oh! how widely wandereth he
Who, in the search of verity,
Keeps aloof from glorious wine!
Lo! the knowledge it bringeth to me.
For Barbarossa, this wine so bright,
With its rich red look and its strawberry light,
So invites me
And so delights me,
I should infallibly quench my inside with it,
Had not Hippocrates
And old Andromachus
Strictly forbidden it
And loudly chidden it,
So many stomachs have sickened and died with it.
Yet discordant as it is,
Two good biggins will not come amiss;
Because I know, while I’m drinking them down,
What is the finish and what is the crown.
A cup of good Corsican
Does it at once;
Or a cup of old Spanish
Is next for the nonce:
Quackish resources are things for a dunce.
Cups of chocolate,
Ay, or tea,
Are not medicines
Made for me.
I would sooner take to poison,
Than a single cup set eyes on
Of that bitter and guilty stuff ye
Talk of by the name of coffee.
Let the Arabs and the Turks
Count it ’mongst their cruel works:
Foe of mankind black and turbid,
Let the throats of slaves absorb it.
Down in Tartarus,
Down in Erebus,
’Twas the detestable Fifty invented it;
The Furies then took it,
To grind and to cook it,
And to Proserpine all these presented it.
If the Mussulman in Asia
Doats on a beverage so unseemly,
I differ with the man extremely.

· · · · ·

There’s a squalid thing called beer:—
The man whose lips that thing comes near
Swiftly dies, or falling foolish,
Grows, at forty, old and owlish.
She that in the ground would hide her,
Let her take to English cider:
He who’d have his death come quicker,
Any other Northern liquor.
Those Norwegians and those Laps
Have extraordinary taps:
Those Laps especially have strange fancies:
To see them drink,
I verily think
Would make me lose my senses.
But a truce to such vile subjects
With their impious, shocking objects,
Let me purify my mouth
In an holy cup o’ the south:
In a golden pitcher let me
Head and ears for comfort get me,
And drink of the vine of the wine benign
That sparkles warm in Sansovine;
Or of that vermillion charmer
And heart-warmer,
Which brought up in Tregonzano
And on stony Giggiano,[6]
Blooms so bright and lifts the head so
Of the toasters of Arezzo.
_Francesco Redi_ (1626–1696).

[Illustration]

_FROM A LETTER TO PIER MARIA BALDI._

Buffalmacco was a famous painter in his day; and in my judgment—and I am
not altogether a fool in these matters—he still deserves to be preferred
to Titian and the divine Michael Angelo—and one can go no further than
that. If you wish, Signor Baldi, to know the reasons and motives of this
judgment of mine, do not expect me to say that Buffalmacco was so
skilled and perfect a master as to be able to teach the art of painting
in its greatest refinements to an ape which the Bishop of Arezzo kept
for his pastime; but I shall certainly tell you that Buffalmacco was he
who discovered that noble and ever-to-be-remembered and
ever-to-be-praised invention of tempering colours, not with water from
the well, but with the most brilliant white wine that could ever be
produced by the best shoots of the most renowned vines on the Florentine
hills. Before Buffalmacco had made this discovery, he used to execute
paintings which—you may rely upon it—were exactly like your own face;
that is to say, pale, washed-out, and mouldy-looking; and in many of
them I fancy I recognise my own portrait, with a face like a mummy,
thin, dry, hollow-cheeked, worn to a shadow, and coloured with a certain
hue like that of bread-crust or a quince baked in the oven, and so
melancholy as to make people weep who were quite ready to laugh. But
when this great master of all masters began to use wine with his
colours—

[Illustration:

“PULCINELLA.”
]

“His painted saints on the wall he discloses
With fresh, blooming faces, all milk and roses!”

and they were all the right sort of folk—jovial, cheerful, wholesome,
and good-tempered, so that people talked about them even as far as the
gates of Paris, and the ladies of Faenza—certain knowing nuns, whose
convent stood where the lower fort is now—had more faith in Buffalmacco
than in all the Apelleses and Protogeneses who were in credit with the
ancient Greeks. Now, what do I mean by all this screed of nonsense? I
mean to draw the conclusion, that since you are so kind as to draw the
illustrations to that book of mine, you will most assuredly come to
grief unless you mix your colours with _Vernaccia_ or some other good
wine, and you will do no work that is worth looking at. And since it is
not right that you should be at any expense in consequence of this work
of mine, I send you a sample of white wine of Syracuse, with other
samples of wine given me by his Serene Highness the Grand Duke; with
which, if you mix your colours, you will not only give a good appearance
to your pictures, but also get back your former healthy looks, in spite
of those disgusting messes which you are made to swallow, every morning,
by those two physicians, your friends. Try this new prescription, and
you will soon be well.

_Francesco Redi._

_PULCINELLA’S DUEL._
COLBRAND AND PULCINELLA (_both armed_).

_Col._ I am beside myself with joy; the master evidently thinks
something of me; he has given me a nag! Now we shall see whether or no
it is possible for an idiot of a rustic to take Nanon from me. I’ll
ornament his face for him! If he is a man of his word, and keeps his
appointment, woe to him!

_Pul._ Perdition! Who is here?

_Col._ If he comes——! (_Threatens him._)

_Pul._ After all, I am a man—I remember the saying; for necessity
teaches one many things.

_Col._ Oh! bravo! You have kept your word, and come in time.

_Pul._ Listen, Colbrand. If you want to fight, I am quite ready; but you
must tell me, first, how long you have learnt fencing.

_Col._ What does that matter?

_Pul._ It matters to me.

_Col._ Five years.

_Pul._ I have been learning for ten. I don’t want to take a mean
advantage of you; go and take lessons five years more, and then come,
and I’ll give you satisfaction.

_Col._ Ah! you coward!

_Pul._ Ah! get out of the way!

_Col._ You shall not go away—you are caught—one of us has to remain
here.

_Pul._ Very well, you remain, and I will go away.

_Col._ You pretend not to understand me. I mean that one of us has to
remain here dead.

_Pul._ Oh! dead?

_Col._ Certainly.

_Pul._ Well, do you remain dead, and then we shall be all right.

_Col._ Who is to kill me?

_Pul._ I, if you wish.

_Col._ No, I do not wish. I shall defend myself to the utmost.

_Pul._ Come, let’s say no more about it. Is it worth while to kill a man
for the sake of a woman?

_Col._ These excuses will not serve you—draw your sword, or I will
strike.

_Pul._ (_aside_). Oh! the devil! I’m dead. (_Aloud._) Listen to me. The
first time I girt on my sword I made a vow that it should never be
stained with blood.

_Col._ You ass in clothes! You shall either give up Nanon to me, or I
will rid the world of you.

_Pul._ Listen to me. You have a quarrel with me out of jealousy, because
I have taken your sweetheart from you; but I have none with you—on the
contrary, I am sorry for you; it would be too bad to kill you, after
having made a fool of you.

_Col._ I am not listening to you. Come, this blade shall be your answer.

_Pul._ I have no quarrel with you.

_Col._ What am I to do, then?

_Pul._ Call me some vile names, then I shall get angry, and come to
blows with you.

_Col._ Very well. You are a scoundrel, a ruffian, a cowardly knave.

_Pul._ Supposing that what you say is the truth, what reason have I to
be angry?

_Col._ You are a dissolute wretch, the son of vile parents.

_Pul._ I think you must be a gipsy to know this. You are telling me
nothing but the truth.

_Col._ In this way we shall do nothing.

_Pul._ But if what you say is true?

_Col._ (_aside_). Oh! the base wretch! Come on, will you?

_Pul._ Softly, softly. (_Aside._) I see no one coming. Tell me things
that are not true, and then I shall fire up like any Englishman. I know
what my nature is.

_Col._ Very well, you are a gentleman.

_Pul._ A gentleman! I! and when was I ever that?

_Col._ Yes, a gentleman—a valiant and honourable gentleman.

_Pul._ And I am to fight with a pig—a dirty blackguard like you?

_Col._ This to me! Power of the world! draw your sword this moment, or
I’ll strike.

_Pul._ Steady, steady. Wait a bit—don’t you see I have to get it drawn.

_Col._ Well, if you do not draw it, I won’t strike. I am waiting for
you.

_Pul._ If I do not draw, you will not strike?

_Col._ No.

_Pul._ I am not going to draw for ten years to come at the very
least.... Very well, come on. (_Draws his sword._) Here I am, quite
ready. How do you wish to have it?

_Col._ At the first blood.

_Pul._ Very well. Ah! ah! eh! (_He strikes at Colbrand, standing as far
from him as he can, and crying out loudly._)

_Col._ Do be quiet. Some one will come, and we shall be disturbed.

[Pulcinella makes more noise than ever, when _Logman_ arrives on the
scene, and demands an explanation of the quarrel. The presence of a
third person revives Pulcinella’s courage, and he loudly declares his
intention of running Colbrand through and through till his person is
like a sieve. He then falls to chaffing the pompous steward, who loses
his temper, and finally dismisses him. Pulcinella, leaving the stage,
asks, “Do you know why I am going?” and candidly adds, “because I am
afraid.” While Colbrand, seeing that he is well out of the way, remarks
to Logman, “For your sake I will remain quiet—but, another time ...”
leaving the terrible threat incomplete.]

_Francesco Cerlone_ (_c._ 1750–1800).

_A BERGAMASC PETER PEEBLES._

A certain Bergamasc, an honest fellow, and ignorant as a log, came up
here some years ago, with five or six thousand scudi in cash. He at once
encountered certain astute rustics, who, making him believe that black
was white, and dazzling him with the most extraordinary promises, soon
succeeded in borrowing the greater part of his money. Now, alleging as
excuses, sometimes storms, sometimes drought, and then again thunder and
lightning, they have managed so to spin out matters that the poor man
cannot get back a farthing of his money to this day. Do not imagine,
however, that this difficulty causes him any sorrow; on the contrary, it
gives him the greatest delight in the world, for it has opened up to him
the possibility of unlimited law-suits—a prospect as dear to his heart
as sugar to flies. And, not content with civil suits, he worried so long
at his debtors that, at last, one of them—better at paying up than the
rest—attempted to pay his whole debt at a blow, which he did with a
scythe, on the top of the creditor’s head. It was well for him that the
blow did not reach the neck, at which it was aimed, and which it would
have cut through like a stalk of clover; but glanced off on the
forehead, only wounding the skin. You never saw greater joy than he
experienced when he felt the blood running down his face, and made sure
of it by putting up his hand. I think he would have died of sheer
satisfaction, had his delight not been tempered by the disappointed
reflection that, after all, he had not had his skull broken. He went off
at once to find me,—and, nearly frightening me out of my wits with his
ensanguined countenance, shouted, “I am going. I am off to Venice this
minute! Give me an introduction to an honest solicitor!” I, seeing the
state he was in, thought he was wandering in his mind, and that, instead
of a solicitor, he meant to ask for a surgeon. But when I had heard what
had happened, and understood what his intention was, I promised to do
what he asked, and so far pacified him that he allowed the steward’s
wife to dress his head with a little white-of-egg and tow, and bandage
it with a piece of rag. Then he insisted on telling me his story all
over again, and how fortunate he was in having another plea to enter;—he
would not, he said, part with his broken head for several ducats—in
fact, he was quite ready to pay his debtor a dozen ducats or so for the
favour done him. Now, having got together all his documents, and,
further, written out on a sheet of paper, in the Bergamasc dialect, the
whole history of the quarrel—a curious and valuable manuscript—he is
coming to Venice, to get legal advice about it, and be directed how to
get back his own, by means of his broken head. Here he is, then, with
his spurs on, like a fighting-cock, and I have charged him with this
present letter to you; so please to send him to some man with a
conscience, who may try and help him get back his money, and also
persuade him that he will do well to leave this part of the country—for
it is ill jesting with our farmers, and if he tries it, he will soon
find himself skinned. I recommend him to you most earnestly, because he
is in the right,—because he is a good fellow by nature,—and because of
his shocking ignorance. Before sending him to the solicitor, get him to
tell you a little about his litigations. I promise you that you will
hear words which all the commentators on the Pandects would never have
discovered. Besides this, he begins to speak in a big bass voice which
gradually rises and ends in a falsetto, so that his conversation is a
species of music. His eloquence and arrangement of facts are something
marvellous; he will begin by telling you of his broken head, and his
disputes with the farmers; he will then go on to say that he has lent
them money, and end up by telling you that he was from Bergamo. In
short, he begins with the death, and goes backwards till he gets to the
christening. When you find him a lawyer, be sure, in the first place, to
choose one who understands stories told upside down. Help him all you
can, and let me know what you think of him when you see him. Good-bye.

_Gasparo Gozzi_ (1713–1786).

_HOW TO SUCCEED IN LITERATURE._

In those old-fashioned times, when people lived, so to speak, at
haphazard, and when, if a man wished to gain a reputation for learning,
he forgot himself and all he had and stuck to his books day and
night—the ways of acquiring for one’s self an honoured and illustrious
name were very different from what they are now. But in those days the
business was a long one, and the path to be trodden was steep and
rugged; and few were those who reached the top of the mountain, where
Learning sheds abroad her gifts and graces. In our own day, however, we
have shortened the journey, and opened a level and easy road, wherein
you may walk, as it were, on cotton, with no other trouble than that of
elbowing back those rival competitors who are pressing forward too
boldly, or firing a snap-shot at those who are spreading their wings too
rapidly. If any young man wishes to get on quickly, and to be greatly
honoured, let him lay up a good store of _mots_ and jests against his
rivals, and have his head so full of them that they may fall from his
tongue in showers like hailstones; and let him utter them on every
possible occasion, whether in or out of season does not matter. Let him
remember, moreover, that it is not enough to speak ill of others, but
that he must also speak well of himself, and remember that Horace and
Ovid, both of them, said that neither time, nor fire, nor any other
calamity could destroy their works out of the world. If he cannot
imitate those two writers in any other respect, let him do it in this.
He should not spend much time and labour in composition, but dash off
everything in hot haste; for the file and the foot-rule will spoil all
the fire of his writing. Once upon a time the great art was to use art
and yet conceal it; nowadays, in order to make no mistake in the using
of it, it is considered the safest thing to have none at all. Those who
are considered good authors he should leave alone, otherwise he may be
accused of plagiarism; let him make capital of himself and his own
brain, and fly wherever the latter is disposed to carry him. These are
the general principles through following which I promise eternal fame to
the young man in question. It is true that in this way a man does not
leave a great literary reputation behind him after his death;—but what
matters this last vanity, or the glory of an epitaph either?

_Gasparo Gozzi._

_A FABLE._

Jove, having one day drank more nectar than usual, and being in a
pleasant humour, the fancy took him to make some present to mankind. And
having called Momus, he gave him what he had decided upon, packed in a
portmanteau, and sent him down to the earth. “Oh!” cried Momus (when he
arrived in a chariot) to the human race, “Oh! truly blessed generation.
Behold how Jove, liberal of his benefits towards you, opens his generous
hand! Come, hasten, receive! Never complain again that he has made you
short-sighted. His gift quite compensates you for this defect.” So
saying, he unfastened the portmanteau, and emptied out of it an enormous
heap of spectacles. Behold, then, the whole of mankind busy picking them
up; every man has his pair—all are content, and thank Jove for having
acquired so excellent an aid to their eyesight. But the spectacles
caused them to see things under a deceitful appearance. To one man a
thing seems blue, while another sees it yellow; one thinks it is white,
and another black, so that to every one it appears different. But what
of that? Every individual was delighted with his pair, and quite taken
up with it, and insisted on its being the best. My dear friends, we are
the heirs of these people, and the spectacles have fallen to our lot.
Some see things one way, and some another, and every one thinks he is
right.

_Gasparo Gozzi._

_KING TEODORO AND HIS CREDITORS._
FROM THE COMIC OPERA, “IL RE TEODORO.”

[About 1730, the Corsicans rose in rebellion against the Genoese, who
had long been masters of the island; and a German baron of the name of
Theodor von Neuhoff, who landed with supplies for the insurgents,
received the title of king. Being obliged to leave in order to raise
additional forces, he was arrested for debt. Casti’s opera is founded
on this circumstance, and represents him as coming to Venice, under a
feigned name, with his companion Gafforio, in desperate straits for
money.]

_Gafforio._ Cast away grief, my king!—this sorrow,

Surely, is most unworthy thee!

_Teodoro._ I’ve neither kingdom nor coin,—and borrow

I cannot—a monarch who would be?

_Gaff._ Ah! remember the great Darius,

Marius, and Themistocles—

And many a worthy man and pious,—

Surely the fate of such as these,

Heroes of every age and nation,

Ought to be a consolation.

_Teod._ All these stories, my son, I know,

Having read history, like yourself,

But the want that presses so

Is not history now, but pelf.

[_Achmet, Sultan of Turkey, dethroned and banished, but plentifully
supplied with funds, takes up his quarters at the same hotel as
Theodore. The latter’s creditors, hearing he is at Venice, demand his
arrest, and he is imprisoned._]

_Teod._ Then this catacomb

Is the tomb

Of all my vast design?

Is this the kingdom, this the throne,

Are these the glorious realms unknown,

I thought should yet be mine?

_Belisa_ (_his sister_). With your passion for reigning,

I’ve told you, my brother,

One day or another

To gaol you would go!

_Gaff._ Keep courage, O Leader,

For Regulus olden

And Bajazet, Soldan,

Had worse fates, you know!

_Teod._ Have done, once for all,

With your musty old stories,

Your heroes and glories,—

Don’t bother me so!

[_All Theodore’s friends come to take leave of him, and he adjures
them_:]

Oh! go, and do not grieve me!

For pity’s sake be still.

_All._ That which attracts the human heart,

How vain and frail it seems to be!

_Teod._ Good heavens! how very weary,

How infinitely dreary,

Are good and virtuous people

That preach morality!

_Gaff._ In order to avenging

Your wrongs and impositions,

At all the courts of Europe

I will present petitions.

_Achmet._ For Theodore the banished

We’ll take up a collection,

And I shall be most happy,

Contributing my fraction.

_Taddeo_ (_landlord_). As long as, in this city,

In prison, sir, you stay,

I shall be glad to send you

Your dinner every day!

_Belisa._ Cheer up, O my brother!

The laws of this day

Are always in favour

Of him who can’t pay!

As soon as they see

That you have not a groat

They must set you free,

If they wish it, or not!

_All._ Take comfort, farewell!—

Never anything stable

In this world did dwell!

_Teod._ In peace kindly leave me,

I’ve told you before—

I’ve had enough preaching,

And wish for no more!

_Giovanni Battista Casti_ (1721–1803).

_THE POET PROMISES TO PAY HIS CREDITOR—WHEN HE HAS MONEY._

[Illustration]

Thou askest me for money (while I’ve none),
And losest time in vain which thou might’st save:
If thou an “_I promise to pay_” dost crave,
I’ll make no bones at all to give thee one:
I neither grant thee nor refuse the boon;
Since what one never had one never gave;
I promise that I’ll pay thee when I have;
And thou’rt content with my goodwill thereon.
Then let’s have peace, nor let me thus be bored
For those three groats a hundred times a day:
When got, I’ll give them of my own accord.
Why wilt thou thus torment and wear me out?
Why worry a poor devil in this way?
Canst thou not say, “Where nothing is—there’s nought.”

_The Poet laments the good old times previous to the existence of Duns,
Bailiffs, Writs, and I.O.U.’s._

Oh! blissful days, what time Queen Bertha spun![7]
Most fortunate and highly favoured season!
That age hight anciently the golden one,
No doubt because so happy was the reason:
No I.O.U.’s were then, nor writs, to dun,
Nor frequent law-suits, such as now, with fees on;
Nor people then were summoned, should they run
In debt, nor lost their liberty in prison.
But times are changed—not now what once they were;
And woe to that poor devil who gets in debt!
For he must go to gaol and perish there!
And should his dun not be so hard on, yet
He plagues him night and day, wherever met,
As thou dost me—pursuing me everywhere!

_He complains that his Creditor uses him worse than would a Pirate._

Algiers and Tunis, Tripoli, Salé,
Places that lie where are the days most hot,
So brute a race of men perhaps have not,
As brutal as my creditor with me:
This man not born like other men could be:
But in ill-will and rancorousness begot,
By one that ne’er sucked mercy’s milk, I wot,
And daily made him bad examples see.
The Barbary Pirate, when he makes a slave,
Robs him of cash that he may find on one,
But does not want his money when he has none:
But, using me more cruelly than a pirate,
My dun don’t care whether or not I have;
When I’ve no money, still he doth require it.

_He declares his Dun to be ubiquitous in pursuit of him._

Philosophers hold that if in one place
One body is, another is elsewhere;
Two bodies being quite separate, in no case
A single one can be both here and there.
Moreo’er of that should any person care
To know the physical reason, ’tis to trace....
But, not to wait the causes to deduce,
Suffice we know the fact, as on its face.
Yet if the thing were otherwise than so—
(To cite a case in point) I should pronounce
One body may be here and there at once;
For, by the body o’ me! now there as well,
And now I find thee here, where’er I go:
But how the devil thou dost, I cannot tell.
_Gio. Battista Casti._

_DIDYMUS, THE CLERIC,[8] ON THE ITALIAN UNIVERSITIES._

He thought that all the schools of Italy were full, either of
mathematicians, who could understand one another without speaking; or of
grammarians, who shouted themselves hoarse lecturing on the art of
eloquence, yet could not make any living soul understand what they said;
or of poets, who did their best to deafen those who did not listen to
them, and were loud in welcoming every new tyrant who gained power over
their nation. This is the reason why, as troublesome fools, they were
exiled—with more justice than any other class—by Socrates, who,
according to our author, was endowed with the spirit of
prophecy—especially as regards the things which are taking place in our
own day.

_Ugo Foscolo_ (1778–1827).

_THE FIRST HOUR AND THE SUN._

_First Hour._ Good morning, your Excellency.

_Sun._ Yes, or rather good-night.

_First Hour._ The horses are ready.

_Sun._ Very good.

_First Hour._ The morning star has been out some time.

_Sun._ Very good—let her come or go as it suits her.

_First Hour._ What does your Excellency mean?

_Sun._ I mean that I want you to leave me alone.

_First Hour._ But, your Excellency, the night has already lasted so long
that it cannot last any longer,—and if we were to wait, you see, your
Excellency, it might give rise to some disorder.

_Sun._ Let come of it what will—I shall not move.

_First Hour._ Oh! your Excellency, what is this? don’t you feel well?

_Sun._ No, no—I don’t feel anything, except that I don’t want to move,
so you may go about your business.

_First Hour._ How can I go, if you do not come?—for I am the first hour
of the day. And how can there be any day at all if your Excellency does
not deign to come out as usual?

_Sun._ If you are not the first hour of the day, you can be the first
hour of the night; or else the night hours can go on double duty, and
you and your companions may take it easy. Because—I tell you what it is:
I am tired of this continual going round and round in order to give
light to a few wretched little animals living on a handful of mud, so
small that I, though I have pretty good sight, cannot manage to see it.
So this night I have made up my mind that I can’t be bothered any more;
and if men want light, let them keep their fires burning, or provide it
in some other way.

[Illustration]

_First Hour._ But how does your Excellency expect the poor wretches to
manage it? And then it will be an enormous expense for them to keep up
their lamps and provide candles enough to burn all day long. If they had
already discovered that kind of air which will burn, and could use it to
light up their streets, and rooms, and shops, and cellars, and
everything else—and all at a small expense—why, then I should say that
the thing was not so bad. But the fact is, that it will be three hundred
years, more or less, till men find out that expedient; and in the
meantime they will get to the end of all the oil, and wax, and pitch,
and tallow, and have nothing more to burn.

_Sun._ Let them go and catch fireflies, or those little worms which
shine in the dark.

_First Hour._ And how will they provide against the cold?—for without
the help they have had from you the wood of all the forests will never
be enough to warm them. Besides which they will also die of hunger; for
the earth will no longer yield its fruits. And so, at the end of a few
years, the race of those poor animals will be entirely lost. They will
crawl about for a time, groping in the dark after something to eat and
warm themselves at; and, in the end, when the last spark of fire has
died out, and they have eaten everything that a human being could
possibly swallow, they will all die in the dark, frozen hard like bits
of rock crystal.

_Sun._ And if they do, what business is that of mine? Am I the nurse of
the human race?—or perhaps their cook, who has to provide and prepare
their food for them? What is it to me that a certain small quantity of
invisible animalcules, thousands of miles distant from me, cannot see,
or bear the cold, without my light? Besides, even though it were my duty
to serve as stove or hearth, so to speak, to this human family, it is
surely reasonable that, if the family want to warm themselves, they
should come and stand round the stove—not that the stove should walk
round the house. And so, if the earth has need of my presence, let her
bestir herself, and see that she gets it; for, as far as I am concerned,
I want nothing of her, and there is no reason why I should go after her.

_First Hour._ Your Excellency means, if I understand aright, that what
you did formerly is now to be done by the Earth.

_Sun._ Yes, now—and henceforward for ever.

_Giacomo Leopardi_ (1798–1837).

NOTE.—This dialogue is supposed to take place at the date of Galileo’s
discovery of the real relations of the Solar System.

_FASHION AND DEATH._

[Illustration]

_Fashion._ Madam Death! Madam Death!

_Death._ Wait till my time comes, and I’ll come without your calling.

_F._ Madam Death!

_D._ Go!—and the Devil go with you! I shall come fast enough when you
don’t want me.

_F._ As if I were not immortal!

_D._ Immortal? Past is already the thousandth year since the days of the
immortals were ended.

_F._ Why, madam, you are talking in the manner of Petrarch, as though
you were a lyric poet of the sixteenth—or the nineteenth century.

_D._ I am very fond of Petrarch’s rhymes, because there is my _Triumph_
among them, and the rest of them are nearly all about me too. But,
anyway, get out of my sight at once.

_F._ Come—for the love you bear to the seven deadly sins, stop a little,
and look at me.

_D._ I am looking at you.

_F._ Don’t you know me?

_D._ You ought to know that my sight is not good, and that I cannot use
spectacles, because the English do not make any that would serve me—and
even though they made them, I have no nose to put them on.

_F._ I am Fashion, your sister.

_D._ My sister?

_F._ Yes—don’t you remember that we are both daughters of Decadence?

_D._ What should I remember, whose business it is to destroy all memory?

_F._ But I do, and I know that we are both equally busy, continually
undoing and changing the things of this world, although you set about
this task in one way, and I in another.

_D._ If you are not talking to your own thoughts, or to some person whom
you have inside your throat, do raise your voice a little, and pronounce
your words more clearly; for if you go on mumbling between your teeth
with that thin cobweb of a voice of yours, I shall take till to-morrow
to hear you. My hearing, as you know, is no better than my sight.

_F._ Although it is not exactly usual,—and in France people do not speak
in order to be heard,—yet, as we are sisters, and can drop ceremony
between ourselves, I will speak as you wish. I say that the nature and
custom of both of us is continually to ruin the world; but you, from the
beginning, have thrown yourself on the person and the blood, whereas I
mostly content myself with beards, hair, clothes, furniture, palaces,
and such-like. It is true that I have not failed to carry on certain
games which may well be compared to yours—as, for instance, piercing
holes in ears, lips, or noses,—burning the flesh of men with red-hot
irons, with which I make them mark themselves for the sake of
beauty,—forming the heads of babies by means of bandages and other
contrivances, so that all the people in a country may have heads of the
same shape, as I have done in Africa and in America,—laming people with
narrow shoes,—choking the breath out of them, and making their eyes
start out of their heads with the tightness of their stays,—and a
hundred other things of the same kind. Not only so, but, generally
speaking, I persuade and force all people of any position to bear
unending fatigue and discomfort, every day of their lives—oftentimes
pain and torture; and some of them will even die gloriously for the love
they bear to me. I say nothing of the headaches, chills, colds of every
kind,—daily, tertian, and quartan fevers, which men get through obeying
me,—submitting to shiver with cold and be suffocated with heat, as I
please,—to cover their bodies with woollen stuff, and their chests with
linen, and do everything in the way I tell them, even though it be to
their own hurt.

_D._ Well,—I am quite willing to believe that you are my sister, and, if
you wish to have it so, I will consider it more certain than death—and
you need not prove it out of the parish register. But if I stand still
in this way, I turn faint; yet, if you have courage to run alongside of
me, take care not to kill yourself, as I go at a great pace. If you can
run you can tell me all you have to say as we go along; if not, I must
leave you with a salutation, and promise you, in consideration of our
relationship, to leave you all my property when I die.

_F._ If we had to run a race together, I don’t know which of us would
win; for if you run, I do more than gallop. And as for standing still in
one place,—if in turns you faint, it kills me. So then, let us run
together, and, as you say, speak of our affairs as we go.

_D._ Let it be so. Since, then, you are my sister, it would be the right
thing if you could help me somehow or other in my business.

_F._ I have already done so, more than you think. In the first place,
though I am continually destroying or changing all other customs, I have
never in any place induced people to leave off dying; and for this
reason, you see, the practice has universally remained in force from the
beginning of the world up to the present day.

_D._ It is a mighty miracle that you should not have done what you
cannot do.

_F._ What I cannot do? You do not seem to know the power of fashion.

_D._ Well, well—it will be time to talk about this when the fashion of
not dying has come in. But meanwhile, I should like you, as a good
sister, to help me to obtain the contrary result more easily and quickly
than I have hitherto done.

_F._ I have already told you of some of my work which is very profitable
to you. But that is a trifle in comparison with what I am going to tell
you. For your sake I have gradually—especially in the later times—caused
people to disuse and forget the exercises which are beneficial to
health, and brought in other customs which weaken the body and shorten
life. Besides which, I have introduced into the world such rules and
customs, that life itself, as well for the body as the soul, is rather
dead than alive, so that this century may truly be called the Age of
Death.... Besides, whereas formerly you used to be hated and abused,
nowadays, thanks to me, things have reached such a pass, that whoever
has any intellect at all values and praises you, preferring you above
life, and turns his eyes to you as to his greatest hope. Finally, seeing
that many had made their boast of living after death in the memories of
their fellow-men, ... I have abolished this habit of seeking after
immortality, and of conferring it in case there should be any who
deserved it.... These things, which are neither few nor small, I have,
up to now, accomplished for the love of you, wishing to increase your
state and power on earth, as has, in fact, been the case. I am disposed
to do as much as this, and more, every day, and it was with this
intention I set out to seek you; and I think it would be well that, for
the future, we should remain together. Thus we could lay our plans
better than formerly, and also carry them out more effectually.

_D._ You speak truly; and I am quite willing we should do so.

_Giacomo Leopardi._

_THE POET ON TRAMP._

[Illustration]

Poets have ever been a roving crew,
And honoured in their travels east and west.
Old Homer with his alms-dish wandered through
Ionia—Tasso ranged like one possessed;
And Ovid was escorted ’gainst his will
To a place whose like ’s seen in Volterra still.

I travel too, and not so meanly either,
In a way which is most natural and meet,—
I do not take account of wind or weather,
But go, as nature meant, on my own feet,
Step after step, in douce and measured wise
Taking, for pastime and for exercise.

I am not taken for a vagabond,
Nor do the folk call me a lackpenny;
I pass for one who roves the world around,
And goes afoot the better for to see.
As Crœsus, it is true, I am not prized,
But as a gentleman am recognised.

For my part, I do everything I may
To merit this respect, with all my might—
With step most leisurely I take my way.
To show I’m walking for my own delight,
And as a proof that I have coin to spend,
I always ask, “Where’s the best inn, my friend?”

Sometimes most like a botanist I go,
Keenly observing plants, with head bent down—
Pick flowers, or make pretence of doing so,
And pocket pebbles with a sapient frown.
Or sometimes, like a painter, I stand still
And gaze for half-an-hour on vale and hill.

When nearing some small village I retire
Into a ditch, or else behind a mound,
To sit and cool myself, if I perspire,
Awhile—and dust my hat, and look around
For a fresh spring in some convenient place,
To smarten up, and wash my hands and face.

· · · · ·

As I pass on, with slow and easy pace,
“A gentleman from town,” the people say,
“Most likely lodging in some neighbouring place,
And sauntering forth t’ enjoy this summer day;”
Ploughman and labourer lift their hats and stare,
And take me for the Worshipful the Mayor.

Entering the inn in unembarrassed wise,
I say, “I think I’ll stay awhile,” and then
To find my horse they cast inquiring eyes;
“They wanted me to take one,” I explain,
“But not to walk a bit were sin, I say,
In such fine weather as we have to-day.”

And that they may not think that I am tired,
I stamp about the kitchen till it shakes.
“How well I feel!” I shout like one inspired,—
“A little exercise such difference makes!”
They ask me where I stay—’tis not amiss
If I reply, “Within a walk of this!”

And, after all, Dame Nature legs has given
For to support the person, more or less,
And carry us to all the airts of heaven,—
Not to be dangled in mere idleness;
So any gentleman may use this limb,
Nor cause his ancestors to blush for him.

[But a walking-tour is not without its inconveniences. The poet dwells
on the discomforts of heat, cold weather, and muddy roads.]

Then, if perchance a carriage passes by,
Me the postillion eyes with savage mind,
And backward cracks his whip, suspecting I,
To steal a ride, am getting up behind.
I look not like a knave, yet constantly
The travellers on their luggage keep an eye.

I ask mine host o’ the inn if there’s a bed;
From head to foot he looks me coldly o’er,
Then turns his back, with haughtiness ill-bred,
And deigns no answer. I seem to be once more
In London, where the man in livery
Asks first your name, then “Not at home,” says he.

[Respectable inns always have some excuse for refusing to entertain the
wayfarer. Some one at last takes pity on him and points out a low
pot-house, with a green branch for a sign, where every one is welcome.
Here too, however, he is contemptuously received. The landlord looks at
the dust on his boots, and hesitates about admitting him; the
chambermaids address him, not as “Sir,” but as “You, there!” and when
dinner is served he is not asked to sit down to table.]

And when I ask to go to bed, appears
The stable-boy with rushlight in his hand,
And takes me up some seven flights of stairs
To a den with neither chair nor washhand stand;
He sets the candle down upon the floor,
And, after going out, he locks the door.

[Yet these inconveniences are not the invariable rule; and, after all,
they are outweighed by the advantages of travelling on foot. One is
perfectly independent, and can do as one likes, which is not always the
case with wealthy people.]

And thus on foot I take my cheerful way,—
Moreover, with economy ’tis fraught;
My shoes are paid for—I take leave to say,
I doubt my lord’s fine equipage is not.
Since then I pay my way respectably—
Henceforth, none but St. Francis’ nag[9] for me!
_Filippo Pananti_ (1776–1837).

_LOVE AND A QUIET LIFE._
FROM “L’AMOR PACIFICO.”

[Illustration]

O blessed peace! O close and sacred tie!
Long life to Veneranda and her dove!
But I must needs inform you how and why
This faithful pair first told their tender love.
At a friend’s house they’d dined, and when upstairs
Found themselves side by side in two arm-chairs.

When half-an-hour had mutely passed away,
Taddeo plucked up heart and broke the ice.
“Pray, madam, ... did you like the cream to-day?”
“Delicious!” “I’m so glad you thought it nice.
The ham too?” “Exquisite!” “And then the birds?”
“Perfection!” “And the fish?” “Beyond all words!”

“’Tis true that we had hardly room to sit.”
“Nay, ’twas a pleasure, when one sat by _you_;
But if, dear ma’am, I jogged your arm a bit,
Trust me, ’twas what I could not choose but do.”
“Don’t mention it. _You_ suffered, I suspect?
I’m stout, you see!” “An excellent defect!”

“Indeed?” “Indeed! That face now, in my eyes,
Blooms like May day. Long may it last in blow!”
“I’m healthy!” “Healthy! Fresh as Paradise!”
“Come, come! I’m somewhat stout!” “And better so!
For my part, if I might, I’d very fain
Have leave to call upon you now and then.”

“Oh! you’d be bored!” “I bored! What words are these?
’Twould rather be my best and primest pleasure.”
“Fie! Now you’re flattering! Well! Come when you please!”
“I think, dear madam, in no common measure,
Our characters are fitted to unite,
What do _you_ say?”
“La!—Well—perhaps they might!”
_Giuseppe Giusti_ (1809–1850).

_INSTRUCTIONS TO A YOUNG ASPIRANT FOR OFFICE._

[Illustration]

That you must cut all liberals whatever,
All men of genius, all the “dangerous” crew,
Not prate of books or papers, but endeavour
To prove that they are all High Dutch to you;
That you must bolt your heart, and hold your tongue,
You’ve known, yourself, I’m well aware, for long....

... Now, first and foremost, learn to bend your back!—
Be Veneration’s self personified.
Dress ill; your clothes should fit you like a sack,
And always take some big-wig for your guide.
The cowl does make the monk in such a case,
And the wall’s valued by its plaster face....

Get introduced, and every blessed night
Visit some lout they’ve made a minister.
There choose your time, and change your stops aright,
According as his tastes or whims prefer.
And if tomfoolery’s the thing for winning,
Play the tomfool, and set the folks a-grinning.

Keep him supplied with news, and ferret out
Fresh scandal, gossip, all that folks will tell you;
And, so to speak, what the whole town’s about,
Down from His Highness even to Stenterello....[10]

· · · · ·

Say there arise a scandal, a dispute,
A hurly-burly in your patron’s house,—
“_Know-nought knew much, who knew when to be mute_,”
Says the old saw. Be mute, then, as a mouse!
Great men will sometimes act like fools, ’tis certain,
In their own homes. Be ours to—drop the curtain!

Jump at all hints. Keep begging every way.
Take all they give you, so they let you serve;
But—beg! “_The toad refused to beg_,” they say,
“_And therefore got no tail_.” Besides, observe
That, if not propped and fostered by our need,
Great men’s authority’s a dream indeed.

Remember to ignore and overpass
Each rude rebuff, each peevish look and tone,
And, like Pope Sixtus, write yourself an ass
If you’re resolved to reach _your_ papal throne.
After the bitters, sweets will come at length,
And sturdy begging beat close-fisted strength.

With profit Gingillino did attend
To the sage preaching of his vulpine friend.
He went; he knuckled down; he bared his crown;
He crept, crawled, coaxed, and cringed to sword and gown;
And when they’d dried him, tried him, sifted him, drifted him,
From Dan to Beersheba, at last they lifted him—
When the whole process they’d gone through and through,
With rites baptismal and with chrismal too—
Their heaven of three-piled roguedom to ascend,
Took him within the fold—and that’s his end!
_Giuseppe Giusti._

_LETTER TO TOMMASO GROSSI._

PISA, _Nov. 15, 1845_.

Well done! Signor Grossi! Well done, indeed! Your lordship is over there
enjoying yourself; and nobody even dreams of talking about a poor wretch
like me, who is neither here nor there. But don’t you feel a singing in
your ears from morning to night? You, I mean, you lazy, luxurious,
thankless, forgetful wretch! Is it so much trouble to write on a piece
of paper, “I am well—the family ditto, and we all remember you”? Is this
what comes of your having a good time—eh? Now my gentleman is at
Bellano, in his own house, away from everything that can possibly worry
him, surrounded with every earthly blessing, and thinks he has the Pope
in his pocket.... As for his friends, they are “out of sight, out of
mind,” with him. Only let me come to Milan again, and you shall see. If
ever you dare to try your old tricks again in my presence, I shall say
to you, with a face a yard long—

Let Signor Grossi hook!
On him I will not look (_facit indignatio versum_).

But, joking apart, what infernal airs are these you are giving yourself
in not answering? Are all the pens used in your house made of lead? I,
who am one of the laziest men living under the vault of heaven, have
written you people letters upon letters, and you are no more to be moved
than so many blocks. Only M. has had pity on me; but he is so upset on
account of a certain promise of ——’s, that, out of a page and a half of
letter, there were only about three lines for me. But even this is
something, and something is better than nothing. But against _you_ I
have a grudge—one big enough to make me do something outrageous....

I ought not to say so—because not one of the whole lot of you deserves
it—but the parting from you threw me into a deep melancholy, which still
continues. My liver, or some other fiend who has his dwelling under the
ribs, has again got out of order,—and no one knows how much trouble it
will give me before getting right again. If I had to endure another
winter like the last, Job might be said to have lived and died in the
greatest comfort in comparison with me. I do not wish to have anything
more to do with doctors—I have always found them just like the fog,
which leaves the weather as it finds it. I trust in the climate of Pisa,
and if there is anything that I wish for, it is a little bottle of
“_Never-mind-it_,” which is a medicine good for many diseases. Though, I
think, when one has it, one must prepare it for himself, and measure out
his own doses; and I have never been a skilled apothecary as regards
this particular drug. On the contrary, it has always been a failing of
mine to thrust my head too deeply into the affairs of this ridiculous
world,—and my own, which are the most ridiculous of all,—and once in, it
is no easy matter to get it out again. How many times I have made up my
mind to think only of myself, and let things go as they like! and every
time I do so, this idiotic heart, which, through no fault of my own, I
have to drag about with me, has made me look like a fool of the first
magnitude. Certainly it is quite evident that I was intended by nature
for burlesque; since every time I have taken a thing seriously, I have
been sure, sooner or later, to act the harlequin before my own eyes. So
that now, whenever I have to do with worthy people who are firm and
solid, and (so to speak) all in one piece, I am always secretly in dread
lest one day or other they should belie their natures and turn out the
veriest quicksilver. Do you know that in the end it really cannot be
such a very great misfortune to leave this puppetshow that they call
life? Surely it cannot be that we shall have people playing Punch and
Judy tricks in the other world! Either we shall all have become wise, or
at least, if we are destined to carry with us a grain or so of folly and
ridiculousness, I do believe that we shall be permitted to divide into
sets according to our own particular fancy. And, look you, if, when I
have arrived up there, I happen to see two or three men that I know of,
I shall join that clique at once, and stay there _per omnia sæcula
sæculorum_. With these certain ones I should hope that (the weakness of
our mortal nature being once left behind) a thing once said would be
looked upon as settled, and that we should have an end of—

“_Yes_, I answered you last night—
_No_, this morning, sir, I say!”

But I hope you understand that I want neither you nor Sandrino Manzoni
near me, either in this world or the next; for I shall never forget the
way you have treated me, letting me go without so much as a
“Good-bye”—not even a “_Go and be hanged to you._” I have made a note of
it, and shall remember it against you till Doomsday.

Why is it that rascals like you can always put honest men in the wrong?
In the very act of closing this letter I receive yours of the 2nd! Well,
well, that is not so bad, but I have yet to see Manzoni’s; and you, by
promising it, have done me more harm than good.

[Illustration:

“STENTERELLO.”
]

Let us hope that our dear Alessandro Manzoni (who, by-the-bye, is a——;
never mind, I won’t write it!) will be able to come to Pisa with Donna
Teresa and Vittorina. Apropos of Vittorina, is it true that she has not
been well of late? Arconati told me she had a cold when she left: I
should be very sorry to think she was suffering from anything worse.
Remember me to every one, not forgetting our friends Torti and Rossari;
I have been going to write to them over and over again. I am glad to
hear you are all well at home; were it not that I am still angry with
you for that silence of a month and more, I should be inclined to tell
you that you deserve this and every other good fortune. Well, good-bye,
you rascal, and since there are some wrongs for which it is useless to
claim compensation, I may as well send you my love.

P.S.—As for work, I have a great number of irons in the fire, but I am
terribly afraid my stock of wood will not last long enough to heat them.
When a perfect anarchy of plans and projects comes to life in my brain,
this is a sign that it is not a time for finishing anything at all at
all. Meanwhile, I shall dawdle along, reading this and that, as it
happens,—and when the hour for production strikes, I shall produce.

_Giuseppe Giusti._

_DON ABBONDIO AND THE BRAVOES._
FROM “I PROMESSI SPOSI.”

[Illustration:

[Don Abbondio, a village priest, walking by himself in a lonely place,
sees two bravoes waiting for him in a narrow lane.]
]

... He quickened his pace, recited a verse in a louder tone, composed
his countenance to all the calm and cheerfulness he could summon up for
the moment, made every effort to prepare a smile, and when he found
himself right in front of the two swashbucklers, he ejaculated,
mentally, “Now we’re in for it!” and stopped short.

“Your Reverence!” said one of the two, looking him full in the face.

“Who wants me?” replied Don Abbondio, raising his eyes from his book,
and holding it open in both hands.

“You intend,” pursued the other, with the threatening and angry look of
a man who has caught his inferior in the commission of a crime—“you
intend to perform the ceremony of marriage, to-morrow, between Renzo
Tramaglino and Lucia Mondella.”

“That is ...” answered Don Abbondio, in a quavering voice—“that is ...
gentlemen, you are men of the world, and you know how these matters take
place. The poor priest has nothing whatever to say in the business; they
arrange everything between themselves, and then ... then they come to
us, as you would come to a bank to draw out your money, and we—well, we
are the servants of the congregation.”

“Well, then,” said the bravo, in an undertone, but with an impressive
air of command, “this marriage is not to take place, either to-morrow,
or at any other time.”

“But, gentlemen,” expostulated Don Abbondio, in the meek and gentle
voice of a man trying to persuade an impatient listener—“but, gentlemen,
do be good enough to put yourselves in my place. If the thing depended
on me, now ... you see perfectly well that it matters nothing to me, one
way or the other.”

“Come!” interrupted the bravo; “if the business had to be settled by
talk, you would have us all, in a moment. We know nothing more about it,
and do not want to. A man warned ... you understand?”

“But, gentlemen, you are too just, too reasonable——”

“But,” interrupted the second bravo, who now spoke for the first
time—“but either the marriage will not take place, or—or the man who
performs it will not repent of doing so, because he will not have time,
and——” he finished off his sentence with a good round oath.

“Hush!” returned the first speaker; “his Reverence knows the ways of the
world; and we are gentlemen, and do not want to do him any harm, if he
will only have a little common sense. Your Reverence, the most
illustrious Signor Don Rodrigo, our master, sends you his most
respectful salutations.”

This name was like a flash of light in the darkness and confusion of Don
Abbondio’s mind, but only served to increase his terror. He
instinctively made a low bow, and said, “If you could suggest to me....”

“Oh! Suggest to you who know Latin!” interrupted the bravo, with a laugh
which was half ferocious and half foolish. “That is your business. And,
above all, never let a word escape you about this hint which we have
given you for your good; otherwise ... ahem!... it would be the same
thing as if you were to perform that marriage. Come! What message do you
wish us to give to the illustrious Don Rodrigo?”

“My respects.”

“Explain yourself, your Reverence!”

“... Disposed ... always disposed to obedience....” In uttering these
words he did not quite know, himself, whether he was giving a promise,
or merely bestowing a commonplace compliment. The bravoes took it—or
appeared to do so—in the more serious sense.

“Very good. Good-night, your Reverence,” said one of them, and turned,
with his comrade, to depart. Don Abbondio, who a few minutes before
would have given one of the eyes out of his head to get rid of them, now
would have liked to prolong the conversation. “Gentlemen,” he began,
shutting his book with both hands; but, without listening to him, they
took the road by which he had come, singing the while a ditty better not
transcribed, and were soon out of sight. Poor Don Abbondio remained for
a moment with his mouth wide open, as if spell-bound; then he turned up
the lane leading to his house, walking slowly, and seeming scarcely able
to drag one leg after the other....

_Alessandro Manzoni_ (1784–1873).

_THE INTERRUPTED WEDDING._

[Don Abbondio, by finding one excuse after another for deferring the
marriage, has driven Renzo nearly to despair. At last, having
discovered the reason for the priest’s hesitation, in Don Rodrigo’s
hostility, he eagerly adopts a suggestion of Lucia’s mother, Agnese,
to the effect that a perfectly legal, though irregular, marriage may
be performed by the parties severally pronouncing, before a priest,
and in the presence of witnesses, the words, “This is my wife,” and
“This is my husband.” Renzo easily secures two witnesses, in the
persons of his friend Tonio and the latter’s half-witted brother.
Tonio owes Don Abbondio twenty-five _lire_, for which the priest holds
his wife’s necklace in pledge, and Renzo secures his co-operation by
giving him the amount of the debt. The five start at dusk for Don
Abbondio’s house. Agnese engages the priest’s housekeeper in
conversation outside the front door, and the others slip upstairs
unnoticed—the bride and bridegroom waiting on the landing, while Tonio
knocks at the door of Don Abbondio’s sitting-room.]

“_Deo gratias!_” said Tonio, in a loud voice.

“Tonio, eh? Come in,” replied a voice from within.

Tonio opened the door just wide enough to admit himself and his brother,
one at a time, and then closed it after him, while Renzo and Lucia
remained silent and motionless in the dark.

Don Abbondio was sitting in an old arm-chair, wrapped in a dilapidated
dressing-gown, with an ancient cap on his head, which made a frame all
round his face. By the faint light of a small lamp the two thick white
tufts of hair which projected from under the cap, his bushy white
eyebrows, moustache, and pointed beard all seemed, on his brown and
wrinkled face, like bushes covered with snow on a rocky hillside seen by
moonlight.

“Ah! ah!” was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and put them
into the book he was reading.

“Your Reverence will say we are late in coming,” said Tonio, bowing, as
did Gervaso, but more awkwardly.

[Illustration]

“Certainly it is late—late in every way. Do you know that I am ill?”

“Oh! I am very sorry, sir!”

“You surely must have heard that I am ill, and don’t know when I can see
any one.... But why have you brought that—that fellow with you?”

“Oh! just for company, like, sir!”

“Very good—now let us see.”

“There are twenty-five new _berlinghe_, sir—those with Saint Ambrose on
horseback on them,” said Tonio, drawing a folded paper from his pocket.

“Let us see,” returned Abbondio, and taking the paper, he put on his
spectacles, unfolded it, took out the silver pieces, turned them over
and over, counted them, and found them correct.

“Now, your Reverence, will you kindly give me my Tecla’s necklace?”

“Quite right,” replied Don Abbondio; and going to a cupboard, he
unlocked it, and having first looked round, as if to keep away any
spectators, opened one side, stood in front of the open door, so that no
one could see in, put in his head to look for the pledge, and his arm to
take it out, and, having extracted it, locked the cupboard, unwrapped
the paper, said interrogatively, “All right?” wrapped it up again, and
handed it over to Tonio.

“Now,” said the latter, “would you please let me have a little black and
white, sir?”

“This, too!” exclaimed Don Abbondio; “they are up to every trick! Eh!
how suspicious the world has grown! Can’t you trust me?”

“How, your Reverence, not trust you? You do me wrong! But as my name is
down on your book, on the debtor side, ... and you have already had the
trouble of writing it once, so ... in case anything were to happen, you
know...”

[Illustration]

“All right, all right,” interrupted Don Abbondio, and, grumbling to
himself, he opened the table drawer, took out pen, paper, and inkstand,
and began to write, repeating the words out loud as he set them down.
Meanwhile, Tonio, and, at a sign from him, Gervaso, placed themselves in
front of the table, so as to prevent the writer from seeing the door,
and, as if in mere idleness, began to move their feet about noisily on
the floor, in order to serve as a signal to those outside, and, at the
same time, to deaden the sound of their footsteps. Don Abbondio, intent
on his work, noticed nothing. Renzo and Lucia hearing the signal,
entered on tiptoe, holding their breath, and stood close behind the two
brothers. Meanwhile, Don Abbondio, who had finished writing, read over
the document attentively, without raising his eyes from the paper,
folded it, and saying, “Will you be satisfied now?” took off his
spectacles with one hand, and held out the sheet to Tonio with the
other. Tonio, while stretching out his hand to take it, stepped back on
one side, and Gervaso, at a sign from him, on the other, and between the
two appeared Renzo and Lucia. Don Abbondio saw them, started, was
dumfoundered, became furious, thought it over, and came to a resolution,
all in the time that Renzo took in uttering these words: “Your
Reverence, in the presence of these witnesses, this is my wife!” His
lips had not yet ceased moving when Don Abbondio let fall the receipt,
which he was holding in his left hand, raised the lamp, and seizing the
table-cloth with his right hand, dragged it violently towards him,
throwing book, papers, and inkstand to the ground, and, springing
between the chair and table, approached Lucia. The poor girl, with her
sweet voice all trembling, had only just been able to say “This is ...”
when Don Abbondio rudely flung the table-cloth over her head, and
immediately dropping the lamp which he held in his other hand, used the
latter to wrap it tightly round her face, nearly suffocating her, while
he roared at the top of his voice, like a wounded bull, “Perpetua!
Perpetua! treason! help!” When the light was out the priest let go his
hold of the girl, went groping about for the door leading into an inner
room, and, having found it, entered and locked himself in, still
shouting, “Perpetua! treason! help! get out of this house! get out of
this house!” In the other room all was confusion; Renzo, trying to catch
the priest, and waving his hands about as though he had been playing at
blindman’s buff, had reached the door, and kept knocking, crying out,
“Open! open! don’t make a noise!” Lucia called Renzo in a feeble voice,
and said supplicatingly, “Let us go! do let us go!” Tonio was down on
his hands and knees, feeling about the floor to find his receipt, while
Gervaso jumped about and yelled like one possessed, trying to get out by
the door leading to the stairs.

In the midst of this confusion we cannot refrain from a momentary
reflection. Renzo, raising a noise by night in another man’s house,
which he had surreptitiously entered, and keeping its owner besieged in
an inner room, has every appearance of being an oppressor,—yet, after
all, when you come to look at it, he was the oppressed. Don Abbondio,
surprised, put to flight, frightened out of his wits while quietly
attending to his own business, would seem to be the victim; and yet in
reality, it was he who did the wrong. So goes the world, as it often
happens; at least, so it used to go in the seventeenth century.

_A. Manzoni._

_OUR CHILDREN._

[Illustration]

Nowadays, things are not what they were.

There are no children,—no boys; instead, we have a swarm of little
politicians as yet unchristened—a crowd of Machiavellis seen through the
wrong end of an opera-glass, who, if they do go to school every day,
only do so for the sake of teaching their masters something—the latter
being sorely in need of instruction.

What is it that has exterminated our boys from off the face of the
earth?

The reading of political papers!

This is a warning to fathers and mothers.

Fathers of families, of course, are perfectly at liberty to buy a daily
paper—or two, or five, or ten. For newspapers, even if taken to excess,
are like tamarind jelly—if they do no good, they cannot do much harm.
They are quite safe, if you know how to read them—the right way of the
stuff, like English broadcloth.

But the mischief is this: fathers of families, when they have glanced
over the paper, usually leave it on the table, or the sofa, or the
mantelpiece—in short, in one of many places that are within sight and
reach of small boys. This is great imprudence; because we must remember
that our boys are victims to a gluttonous, eager, devouring passion for
the reading of political papers. Perhaps this is an outcome of that
inborn instinct which shows itself at a very early age in the love for
fables and fairy tales.

Then begin the troubles in the family.

A small boy comes with the newspaper in his hand and asks, his mother—

“Do tell me, mamma, what is the difference between ‘Authentic News’ and
‘Various News’?”

“‘Authentic,’” replies the mother at random, “is what really happens,
and ‘Various’ is what the journalists invent to fill up the paper.”

“Oh! what story-tellers!”

“Well, then, you should be very careful always to tell the truth; if you
don’t, you will go to Purgatory for seventy years, and in this world
every one will take you for a journalist!”

Amid the infinitely varied ranks of youth there are many who, through
innate depravity, and a fatally precocious hankering after political
life, carry their reckless temerity so far as to read all the
Parliamentary reports, from the first line to the last!

Let us say it once for all. When a boy gives himself up without
restraint, and without shame, to the reading of the Parliamentary
debates, it is all up with him! Good-bye to candour; good-bye to
innocence, and the simple language of the age of infancy.

One day Cecco receives a maternal reprimand, because, with his customary
negligence, he has omitted to wash his hands.

“I repudiate the malignant insinuation,” replies the culprit,
immediately hiding the two inconvenient “documents” in the pockets of
his knickerbockers.

Another day Gigino refuses to go to school unless his mother will give
him the money to buy a cardboard Punch.

“Yes, dear,” says his mother; “go away to school, and I will buy you the
Punch when you come home.”

[Illustration]

“No, no, no; I want it now! And if I don’t get it, I will make it a
Cabinet question!”

The poor mother, at this speech, finds her understanding failing her,
and remains open-mouthed. Then enters Raffaello, the elder brother, who
says to the younger—

“Instead of thinking about Punches, you would do better to study your
grammar. Remember how yesterday the master, after having three times
called you a donkey, ‘passed on to the order of the day, pure and
simple.’”

Gigino was about to reply with an impertinence, but, unwilling to fail
in respect towards his elder brother, he contented himself with making
faces at him.

Mamma (who has meanwhile recovered): “Is that the way you treat your
brother? He is older than you, and you ought to respect him.”

Gigino (raising his voice): “I have all possible esteem and respect for
the honourable member who has just preceded me”—(the Debates again!);
“but, on the other hand, as far as I am concerned, he will always be a
liar and a spy....”

Beppino is made of quicksilver. While carrying out one trick he is
already thinking of a new one, so that neither in school nor at home is
there any peace to be had for him.

At last his father, unable to stand it any longer, called him into the
study for a parental lecture.

During the first division of the lecture Beppino was surreptitiously
gnawing a dried plum. At the opening of the second division he removed
the stone, and shot it at the nose of a plaster Dante on the
writing-desk. At the third head Beppino lost all patience, and began to
yell—

“Enough! enough! The closure!”

“Closure or no closure!” cried his infuriated parent; “if you interrupt
me again with your impudence—rascal, street-boy, chatterbox——”

“Order! order!” cried Beppino, pulling at the bell-rope.

“I’ll order you——”

But, just as his father was about to rise, Beppino snatched the
smoking-cap from his head, and, putting it on himself, remarked, in a
nasal voice—

“Gentlemen, the President has put on his hat, and the discussion is
adjourned.”

The violent ringing of the bell summons the mother, two aunts, the
housemaid, and the lady’s little dog. These having heard the narrative
of Beppino’s unparalleled insolence, are seized with such indignation
that they begin to laugh like mad.

The little dog, being unable to laugh like the rest, barks, and
evidences his share in the family joys and sorrows by beginning to gnaw
his dear master’s embroidered slippers.

_Collodi._

_STRAY THOUGHTS OF AN IDLER._

“He who sleeps catches no fish,”—but he who keeps awake catches crabs
every moment of his life.

All professions can yield a man enough to live on,—except professions of
faith.

When attending the performance of some modern operas, it has struck me
that the conductor was only beating time because he could not beat the
composer.

If in the sight of the law all men are equal, Heaven save us from
getting into its sight.

When you want to get rid of a dog, you take off his collar;—when the
king wants to get rid of a minister, he gives him the collar—of the
Order of the Annunziata.

The place where they ruin people’s voices, and throw aside all the
canons of art, is called the _Conservatoire_; and a hospital full of
sick people is called a “house of health” (_Casa di Salute_).

Among the many motives which induce me to stay away from the theatre is
the utter absence of all motive in modern operas.

How many old phrases are required to make a new electoral programme!

All musical notes may express cheerful ideas; it is only the notes of
creditors which arouse none but melancholy reflections.

I entered the shop of a pork-butcher at the moment when his son, aged
eight, was returning from school. The poor boy was weeping bitterly.

“The old story!” exclaimed his parent; “I suppose you did not learn your
lessons, and the master called you an ass, as you deserved!”

“Yes!” replied the child, sobbing, “he _did_ call me an ass,—and then——”

“Well,—and then—what else?”

“He said, ‘Well, after all, it is no wonder—_like father, like son_!’”

“Did he, indeed? the animal!” exclaimed the pork-butcher. “And to think
that perhaps he has not yet eaten the whole of those two sausages I sent
him at Christmas!”

_Antonio Ghislanzoni._

_MEN AND INSTRUMENTS._

We have been told over and over again that “the style is the man.”

I would substitute for this “The instrument is the man.”

And whereas the proverb runs, “Tell me who your friends are, and I will
tell you who you are,” I would amend it thus, “Tell me what you blow
into or scrape upon, and I will tell your fortune.”

After this, I must request professional gentlemen, employed in
orchestras and otherwise, not to suspect any malicious intent in my
remarks, which are principally aimed at amateurs—those who murder some
instrument or other out of pure conviction,—all who began to twang the
guitar when they were studying medicine, or to practise on the cornet
after a year’s experience of matrimony.

THE CLARIONET.

This instrument consists of a severe cold in the head, contained in a
tube of yellow wood.

The clarionet was not invented by the Conservatoire, but by Fate.

A chiropodist may be produced by study and hard work; but the clarionet
player is born, not made.

The citizen predestined to the clarionet has an intelligence which is
almost obtuse up to the age of eighteen—an epoch of incubation, when he
begins to feel in his nose the first thrills of his fatal vocation.

Then his intellect—limited even then—ceases its development altogether;
but his nasal organ, in revenge, assumes colossal dimensions.

At twenty he buys his first clarionet for fourteen francs; and three
months later his landlord gives him notice. At twenty-five he is
admitted into the band of the National Guard.

He dies of a broken heart on finding that not one of his three sons
shows the slightest inclination for the instrument with which he has
blown all his wits.

THE TROMBONE.

The man who plays on this instrument is always one who seeks oblivion in
its society—oblivion of domestic troubles, or consolation for love
betrayed.

The man who has held a metal tube in his mouth for six months finds
himself proof against every disillusion.

At the age of fifty he finds that, of all human passions and feelings,
nothing is left him but an insatiable thirst.

Later on, if he wants to obtain the position of porter in a gentleman’s
house, or aspires to the hand of a woman with a delicate ear, he tries
to lay aside his instrument, but the taste for loud notes and strong
liquors only leaves him with life. Finally, after a harmonious career of
seventy-eight years, he is apt to die of grief because the public-house
keeper will not let him have a glass of wine on credit.

THE ACCORDEON.

This is the first instrument of youth and innocent hearts.

The individual in question begins playing it in the back room of his
father’s shop—the latter, as a rule, is a chemist by profession—and
continues it up to the age of fifteen. At this period, if he does not
die, he deserts the accordeon for the

HARMONIFLUTE.

This instrument, on account of the nature of its monotonous sounds and
its tremendous plaintiveness, acts on the nerves of those who hear, and
predisposes to melancholy those who play it.

The harmoniflautist is usually tender and lymphatic of constitution,
with blue eyes, and eats only white meats and farinaceous food.

If a man, he is called Oscar; those of the other sex are named Adelaide.

At home, he or she is in the habit of bringing out the instrument at
dessert, and dinner being over, and the spirits of the family,
therefore, more or less cheerfully disposed, will entertain the company
with the _Miserere_ in _Il Trovatore_, or some similar melody.

The harmoniflautist weeps easily. After practising on the instrument for
fifteen years or so, he or she dissolves altogether, and is converted
into a brook.

THE ORGAN.

This complicated and majestic instrument is of a clerical character, and
destined, by its great volume of sound, to drown the flat singing of
clergy and congregation in church.

The organist is usually a person sent into the world with the vocation
of making a great noise without undue expenditure of strength; one who
wants to blow harder than others without wearing out his own bellows.

He becomes at forty the intimate friend of the parish priest, and the
most influential person connected with the church. By dint of repeating
the same refrains every day at matins and vespers, he acquires a
knowledge of Latin, and gets all the anthems, hymns, and masses by
heart. At fifty he marries a devout spinster recommended by the parish
priest.

He makes a kind and good-tempered husband; his only defect in that
capacity being his habit of dreaming out loud on the eve of every
ecclesiastical solemnity. On Easter Eve, for instance, he nearly always
awakens his wife by intoning, with the full force of his lungs,
“_Resurrexit_.” The good woman, thus abruptly aroused, never fails to
answer him with the orthodox “_Alleluia!_”

At the age of sixty he becomes deaf, and then begins to think his own
playing perfection. At seventy he usually dies of a broken heart,
because the new priest, who knows not Joseph, instead of asking him to
dine at the principal table with the ecclesiastics and other church
authorities, has relegated him to an inferior place, and the society of
the sacristan and the grave-digger.

THE FLUTE.

The unhappy man who succumbs to the fascinations of this instrument is
never one who has attained the full development of his intellectual
faculties. He always has a pointed nose, marries a short-sighted woman,
and dies run over by an omnibus.

The flute is the most fatal of all instruments. It requires a peculiar
conformation and special culture of the thumb-nail, with a view to those
holes which have to be only half closed.

The man who plays the flute frequently adds to his other infirmities a
mania for keeping tame weasels, turtle-doves, or guinea-pigs.

THE VIOLONCELLO.

To play the ’cello you require to have long, thin fingers; but it is
still more indispensable to have very long hair falling over a greasy
coat-collar.

In case of fire, the ’cellist who sees his wife and his ’cello in danger
will save the latter first.

His greatest satisfaction, as a general thing, is that of “making the
strings weep.” Sometimes, indeed, he succeeds in making his wife and
family do the same thing in consequence of a regimen of excessive
frugality. Sometimes, too, it happens to him to make people laugh and
yawn, but this, according to him, is the result of atmospheric
influences.

He can express, through his loftily-attuned strings, all possible griefs
and sorrows, except those of his audience and his creditors.

THE DRUM.

An immense apparatus of wood and sheepskin, full of air and of sinister
presages. In melodrama the roll of the drum serves to announce the
arrival of a fatal personage, an agent of Destiny; in most cases, an
ill-used husband. Sometimes this funereal rumbling serves to describe
silence—sometimes to indicate the depths of the _prima donna’s_ despair.

The drummer is a serious man, possessed with the sense of his high
dramatic mission. He is able, however, to conceal his conscious pride,
and sleep on his instrument when the rest of the orchestra is making all
the noise it can. In such cases he commissions the nearest of his
colleagues to awaken him at the proper moment.

On awaking, he seizes the two drum-sticks and begins to beat; but,
should his neighbour forget to rouse him, he prolongs his slumbers till
the fall of the curtain. Then he shakes himself, perceives that the
opera is over, and rubs his eyes; and if it happens that the conductor
reprimands him for his remissness at the _attack_, he shrugs his
shoulders and replies, “Never mind, the tenor died all the same. A roll
of the drum more or less, what does it signify?”

THE BIG DRUM.

Of this it is quite unnecessary to speak. It is the instrument of the
age; and ministers, deputies, men of science, poets, hairdressers, and
dentists have all learned to perform on it to perfection.... The
multitude will always answer the summons of its “_boom! boom!_”—and he
will always be in the right who thumps it hardest.

_A. Ghislanzoni._

_THE DELIGHTS OF JOURNALISM._

“My dear boy,” said Giuntini, almost seriously, “I lost all my illusions
at eighteen. At that epoch I believed that I possessed a sweetheart; I
was also guilty of the audacity of writing verses to her. I lived on
blue sky, diluted with milk and honey. Afterwards I found out that my
verses were based on a false supposition, and that the girl I loved had
married a custom house officer. This contributed in great part to the
catastrophe which took place in my sentiments. At the present moment I
have been writing in the papers for seventeen years. I get 250 francs a
month here, on the _Progressist_; eighty francs from a paper at Udine,
whose politics I do not even know; another sixty from the _Courier of
Fashion_; and beside that, I send leading articles, at five francs
apiece, to the Radical _Phrygian Cap_, of Rimini, and others to the
_Catholic Banner_, of Genoa, which pays me eight francs for each. Add to
this a sermon written now and then for the parish priest of our village
at home—a conceited old fanatic who wants to be thought eloquent. Then I
have to compile the _Young Wife’s Almanac_ every year, and the
_Sportsman’s and Angler’s Calendar_ for the publisher, Corretti; so
that, taking one month with another, I can reckon on about 500 francs. I
say nothing of contriving to advertise various tradesmen and
contractors, in the course of my daily paragraphs, which brings me in
nice little sums now and then. Very well; every month I manage not to
spend more than 200 francs, the rest I put aside. I don’t go to the
theatre; I am not to be seen at _cafés_; as for lending money to my
friends, you have perceived——”

“I have, alas!”

“There you have the explanation of my easy life. My dear fellow, the
world is for him who knows how to take it.”

“It may be,” said Lauri; “the fault is mine. I don’t deny it. Sometimes,
do you know, I think of the little village at the foot of the Alps, all
white with snow in winter.... What a fuss they used to make over me when
I came home for the holidays!... How my father used to rest his great
rough hand on my head, and say, “There’s plenty inside here!” ... Well,
and then came Sixty-six. Venice! Venice for ever! Garibaldi! Italy!
Liberty!... In those days, as you know, we believed in all that—and I
went to the Tyrol after Garibaldi. There was no holding me after that. I
thought I had the whole world at my feet. I never even thought of the
University Entrance Examination. To think of it! A warrior who has smelt
powder to go back to a schoolboy’s tasks!... I could not even dream of
such a thing—and of returning to the village even less. I should have
had to talk politics with the chemist and the police-sergeant, when I
had in my own person contributed to the unity of Italy. I do not know
myself what grand dreams were shaping themselves in this stupid brain of
mine. I went to Florence, and passed some months in wearing out the
pavement of Via Tornabuoni and Via Calzaioli, and my father, poor dear
old man! used to send me postal orders.... But I was going to make a
career at Florence! I was always in company with some of my old comrades
of the Tyrol, all of them fervent patriots, who passed most of their
time in speaking ill of their neighbours on the sofas of the
_Bottegone_. I began to make the acquaintance of deputies and
journalists, lounged about the editorial offices of the _Diritto_ and
the _Riforma_, and talked glibly about the crisis, Reconstruction, and
the fusion of parties. In short, I was well on the way to imbecility;
and from thence to journalism is, as you know, but a step. And now, as
I’ve made my bed, I’ve got to lie upon it, or throw myself out of the
window.... There’s no father to send me postal orders now....”

Giuntini suddenly interrupted the flow of his reflections.

“I say, Manfredo, do you know it’s ten o’clock, and you have not written
a line of the daily ‘summary’ yet?”

Lauri shook himself, re-lit his cigar, which had gone out, and once more
began turning over the papers. Giuntini, too, had gone back to work; but
he, like all journalists, could cut all Europe to pieces, though his
thoughts were wandering in the sphere of the moon.

“What telegrams has the _Times_ to-day?” he asked while scribbling away.

“None; neither the _Times_, nor the _Daily News_, nor the _Temps_, nor
the _Nord_; they are all empty as my pockets. I don’t in the least know
how to make up this evening’s Foreign Intelligence. There is a little
about Afghanistan in the _République_, but all stale matter hashed up
for the third or fourth time. I shall have to end by translating the
latest Assembly scandal from the _Figaro_.”

_Enrico Onufrio._

_WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK._

It is said among business men that it requires twelve Jews to cheat a
Genoese; but twelve Genoese are not enough to cheat a Greek.... Only one
person, that I ever heard of, enjoys the not very enviable distinction
of having cheated—not merely one Greek, but two.

He was a Bari man.

He was returning to Italy, but had no boots—or rather, the things he had
were no longer boots. He carefully counted up his money, found that he
had not enough to buy a new pair, and so quieted his conscience. Then he
went to a shoemaker’s in the Street of Hermes.[11]

“I want a pair of shoes by Monday morning, to fit me exactly, with round
toes,” etc.; in short, he gave the fullest directions.

“Certainly, sir. You shall have them without fail. They shall be sent to
your house at ten on Monday morning.”

The Bari man left his address and departed.

In the Street of Æolus he entered another shoemaker’s shop and ordered a
precisely similar pair of shoes in the same terms.

“Have I made myself understood?”

“Perfectly. Let me have the address, and on Monday at ten——”

“I shall not be in at ten. Don’t send them before eleven.”

“At eleven you may count on having them, without fail.”

On Monday at ten the first victim appeared. The gentleman tried on the
shoes; the right was a perfect fit, the left was fearfully tight over
the instep; it wanted stretching a little.

“All right,” said the obliging tradesman; “I will take it away, and
bring it back to you to-morrow.”

“Very well; and I will settle your account then.”

The shoemaker bowed himself out with the left shoe.

At eleven, punctual as a creditor, arrived the second predestined
victim. The same scene was repeated; but this time it was the right shoe
that did not fit.

“You will have to put it over the last again, my friend.”

“We’ll soon set that right, sir.” And this shoemaker, more knowing than
the other, was about to take both shoes away with him.

“Leave the other,” said the Bari man. “It’s a fancy of mine ... if you
take them both, some one may come in and find that they fit him, and you
will sell them to him, and I shall have to wait another week.”

“But I assure you, sir——”

“No, no, my friend; I know how things go. I want this pair of shoes and
no other, and I insist on keeping the one.” The shoemaker bowed his head
with a sigh, and went away to stretch the right shoe.

An hour later the Bari man and his shoes were already on board the
Piræus steamer; and on the following day the two victims met on his
doorstep, each with a shoe in his hand, and looked into each other’s
rapidly lengthening faces.

_Napoleone Corazzini._

_THE FAMOUS TENOR, SPALLETTI._

About a week after my arrival at Athens I was enjoying a _tête-à-tête_,
at the Samos Restaurant, with a lamb cutlet of most unexampled obduracy,
when there entered a stout individual, somewhere on the wrong side of
fifty, dressed with great care, and sporting a gold chain of such length
and massiveness that it might have served to fasten up a mastiff. His
hands were covered with rings; and, in entering, he made noise enough
for ten. Accosting a waiter who could speak Italian, he roared—

[Illustration:

“WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.”
]

“_Giuraddio!_ What has become of my place?”

“This way,—this way, sir; there are four places at this table.”

It was the one where I was sitting.

The stout gentleman contorted his features with disgust, uttered
language which would have been enough for any Arian, and came and sat
beside me, remarking—

“_Giuraddio!_ I don’t want my place taken!”

Every one present was looking at him, and smiling compassionately.

Before he had finished unfolding his napkin he was already asking me—

“Are you Italian, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Been in Athens long?”

“A few days.”

“I have been here three months. Every one knows me.”

“I should think so, if you always make as much noise as that.”

“You see how they are looking at me?”

“I have noticed it.”

“I ... I suppose you know who I am?”

“I have not that honour.”

“I am the celebrated Spalletti.... You will know——”

“No. I confess my ignorance.”

“_Giuraddio!_ half the newspapers in the world have noticed me.”

“I read very few newspapers.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a journalist.”

“I am here. I have already given six representations of _Le Prophète_.”

“And you are——”

“The celebrated tenor, Spalletti.”

“Blessed be modesty!”

“Eh!—What?”

“Nothing—only a remark on my part. A fine opera, _Le Prophète_.”

“Yes—so they say!”

“How—they say? Have you never heard it?”

“I!—I have other things to do. I get through my scenes, and that’s
enough.”

“But have you not even read the words?”

“I have read my part,—and even that is too much. However, I think I will
read it over one evening when I am going to bed, because I want to know
who on earth this _Prophet_ is.”

Yet it was this very part of the Prophet which he had just enacted for
the sixth time!

He then told me that he had been engaged to sing in Thomas’s _Omeleto_—I
should not have been surprised had he said _omelette_—and left, after
telling me that he put up at the Gran Bretagna, and requesting me to
come and see him there.

At the door he turned back, and said—

“You must come and hear me at the theatre to-night! I am quite convinced
I shall make you shed tears.”

I went—and found that the worthy man was right. His performance was such
that it would have drawn tears from a stone.

I afterwards heard that the same gentleman had been asked to sing at a
charity concert, and, being told that in this way he would perform an
_act of philanthropy_, had replied that it was unfortunately impossible,
because he was not acquainted with the play of that name, and therefore
could not sing in any act of it.

_Napoleone Corazzini._

_RIVAL EARTHQUAKES._

There was a long-standing rivalry—and one that was not professional
alone—between the telegraph clerks of Pietranera and Golastretta. It is
said to have begun at the Technical College, when the former carried off
a silver medal hotly contested by the other; but this is not quite
certain.

What is certain is that Pippo Corradi could not undertake the smallest
thing but Nino d’Arco immediately proceeded to do likewise. Thus when
the former took a fancy to become an amateur conjurer, Nino at once went
in search of the necessary apparatus for amusing his friends with the
miracles of white magic. He was not a success; he raised many a laugh by
his want of skill; but this did not prevent him from throwing away more
money still on boxes with false bottoms, pistols to shoot playing cards
instead of balls, wonderful balls which multiply and grow larger in your
hands, and the like. Cost what it might, he was determined to astonish
his Golastretta friends, who extolled in his presence the portents they
had seen accomplished at Pietranera by Corradi, and derided him by way
of contrast.

Then when Pippo Corradi, who was of a strange fickleness in his tastes,
gave up white magic in order to devote himself to music, and the study
of the clarionet in particular, Nino d’Arco suddenly laid aside the
magic toys, which had already wearied him not a little, took music
lessons from the parish organist, bought a brand new ebony clarionet,
and rode over on a donkey to call on Corradi, under the pretext of
consulting him on his choice, but with the sole intention of humiliating
him. It was the only time he ever succeeded. He found him blowing into
the mouthpiece of a box-wood instrument, which he had bought second-hand
for a few francs from an old clarionet player in the town band. Nino
swelled visibly with satisfaction at seeing the admiration and envy in
his rival’s eyes when he opened the leather case and showed him the
polished keys of white metal, shining even more than the freshly
varnished wood.

[Illustration]

Nino put the instrument together delicately, and set it to his mouth,
thinking to astonish Pippo with a scale in semitones, but he unluckily
broke down in the middle. Then was Corradi able to take his revenge; and
not content with having played scales in all tones, major, minor,
diatonic, and chromatic, suddenly, without warning Nino, who kept
staring at his fingers manœuvring over the holes and keys, he dashed
point-blank into his _pièce-de-résistance_, _La Donna è Mobile_,
tootling away quite divinely, till checked by the imperative need of
taking breath. His eyes were nearly starting out of his head; his face
was purple—but that was nothing! He chuckled inwardly at Nino’s
crestfallen look; and the latter, taking his instrument to pieces, put
it back in the case, thus declaring himself vanquished.

[Illustration]

Nino, returning to Golastretta, vented his vexation on his ass, because
she would not go at a trot—just as though it had been she who taught
Corradi to play _La Donna è Mobile_. So true it is that passion renders
man unjust! He rushed at once to his master to learn _La Donna è Mobile_
for himself, so as to be able, in a short time, to play it before his
hated rival. The latter, however, had another great advantage, besides
that of being able to murder _Rigoletto_; he was the local post-master.
In this point it was useless trying to rival him, however much Nino
might dream of a spacious office, like that at Pietranera, where
Corradi, between the sale of one stamp and the next, between registering
a letter, and administering a reprimand to the postman, could divert
himself by blowing into his clarionet to his heart’s content! Whereas
he, Nino, was forced to escape from the house if he wished to practise
and remain at peace with his family! Corradi, in his post-office,
disturbed no one.

Nino did not know what a torment for the neighbourhood that clarionet
was, shrilling from morning to night, with Corradi’s usual obstinacy in
anything he undertook. The shopkeeper opposite, poor wretch, swore all
day long worse than a Turk, and did not know whether he was standing on
his head or his feet every time that Pippo began to repeat the _Donna è
Mobile_—that is to say, swore seven or eight times in the day. He made
mistakes in his weights, he counted his change wrong;—though it is only
fair to say that these errors were oftener in his own favour than in
that of his customers. And if by any chance he saw Corradi at the
window, he raised his hands towards him with a supplicating gesture,
pretending to be jocular.

“You want to make me die of a fit! Good Lord!”

Of all this Nino d’Arco was quite ignorant when he started for
Pietranera a month later, to surprise Corradi with _Mira Norma_, which
he had learnt, in addition to the air which first roused his emulation.
He found Pippo adding up his monthly accounts, and not disposed to talk
about music or anything else. The fact was that the shopkeeper opposite
had indeed fallen down dead in a fit at the third or fourth rendering of
_La Donna è Mobile_, as he had said, just as though he had had a
presentiment of what was to happen. The occurrence had such an effect on
Pippo that he felt as if he had killed the man, and could not bear to
touch the clarionet again. He would not even mention the subject. Nino
bit his lips and returned home, without having so much as opened his
clarionet case. Once more it was the ass who paid the penalty. He had to
relieve his feelings on some one or something.

If there were any need of an instance to prove that emulation is the
most powerful agent in the development of the human faculties, this one
would suffice. Seeing that Corradi had renounced the clarionet and all
its delights, Nino no longer felt the slightest inclination to go on
wasting his breath on his instrument, though it were of ebony, with keys
of white metal. As a faithful historian, I ought to add that for one
moment he was tempted by the idea of trying to attain to the glory of
causing some one’s death by a fit; but whether the Golastretta people
had harder tympanums than those of Pietranera, or whether he himself was
not possessed of the necessary strength and perseverance, certain it is
that no human victim fell to Nino d’Arco’s clarionet. And the fact of
having no death on his conscience made him feel degraded in his own eyes
for some time.

These had been the preludes to deeper and more difficult contests with
his old schoolfellow.

Golastretta was situated between the central office of the province and
the rival station of Pietranera; and thus it was Nino’s duty to signal
to his hated colleague the mean time by which he was to regulate his
clock—a supremacy which Corradi could never take from him. But this was
a joy of short duration.

Having very little to do, he was wont, after he had finished reading the
_Gazette_ or the last paper-covered novel, to snatch forty winks at his
ease in the office. One morning, when he least expected it, the machine
began clicking, and would not stop. It was his dear friend at Pietranera
who kept sending despatches on despatches, and would not let him drop
off comfortably.

By listening attentively, he soon made out what was the matter. The
village of Pietranera had begun, on the previous evening, to dance like
a man bitten by the tarantula, set in motion by earthquake-shocks
repeated from hour to hour. The Syndic was telegraphing to the
Vice-Prefect, the Prefect, the Meteorological Office of the province, in
the name of the terrified population. And Corradi, too, was telegraphing
on his own account, signalling the shocks as fast as they occurred, and
indicating their length, or the nature of the movement—in order to gain
credit with his superiors, said Nino d’Arco, vexed that Golastretta
should not have its half-dozen earthquakes as well.

How cruelly partial was Nature! Scarcely twenty kilomètres away she was
rendering Corradi an immense service with eight, ten, twenty
shocks—between day and night—within the week; and for him not even the
smallest vestige of any shock whatever. He could get no peace, and kept
his ear to the instrument.

One day, behold! there passed the announcement of a scientific
commission on its way to Pietranera in order to study these persistent
seismic phenomena. A few days later he became aware of the transit of
another despatch appointing the Pietranera telegraph-agent director of
the Meteorologico-Seismic station, which the commission had thought it
advisable to establish at that place. In a month from that time the
speedy arrival of a large number of scientific instruments was wired
down from headquarters.

Nino d’Arco could stand it no longer; nothing would serve but he must
go and see with his own eyes what under the canopy that
Meteorologico-Seismic Observatory could be which would not let him
live in peace.

He could not recover from the astonishment into which he was thrown by
the sight of all these machines already set up in position, whose
strange names Pippo Corradi reeled off with the greatest ease, as he
explained the working of each. Rain-gauge, wind-gauge, barometers,
maximum and minimum thermometers, hygrometers, and besides that a
tromometer, and all sorts of devilries for marking the very slightest
shocks of earthquake, indicating their nature, and recording the very
hour at which they occurred, by means of stop-watches.... Nino was very
far from understanding it all, but made believe to do so; and, at last,
he remained quite a time gazing through a magnifying-glass at the
pendulum constructed to register the movements of the earthquake by
marking them with a sharp point on a sheet of smoked glass placed
beneath it.... The pendulum was at that moment moving, sometimes from
right to left, sometimes backwards and forwards, but with so
imperceptible a movement that it could not be discerned by the naked
eye.... Suddenly—_drin! drin!_—there is a ringing of bells, the pendulum
quivers....

“A shock!” And Pippo, triumphant, rushes to the telegraph instrument to
announce it.

“I did not feel anything!” said Nino d’Arco, white with terror.

And he hastened to go. But he was simply knocked to pieces by all those
machines and the satisfied air of his colleague. The latter already
signed himself “Director of the Meteorologico-Seismic Observatory at
Pietranera,” and seemed a great personage—reflected Nino—even to him,
who knew very well who he was, a telegraph clerk just like himself!

All along the homeward road, when he had finished settling accounts with
the ass, he ruminated over the hundreds of francs which all that
apparatus must have cost.... The seismographic pendulum, however, was
only worth eighteen.... He would like to have at least a pendulum....
What would he do with it when he had it? No one could tell; least of all
himself. But the pendulum kept vibrating in his brain all the week,
backwards and forwards, right and left, scratching the smoked glass at
every stroke. Nino seemed to himself to be always standing behind the
magnifying-glass, as he had done at Pietranera. It was a diabolical
persecution!

He had to humble himself before his detested colleague, in order to get
information, explanations and instruments; but after all, in the end,
the pendulum was there in its place, near the office window. It had cost
him nearly half his month’s salary. But what of that? Now, he too could
telegraph the most beautiful earthquakes, on occasion.

But just look at the perversity of things! That infamous pendulum—as if
on purpose to spite him—remained perfectly motionless, even if one
looked at it through the magnifying-glass. Nino, who passed whole days
ruining his eyes with that glass, anxious to observe the first trace of
movement, so as to signal it, and thus begin his competition with the
Pietranera observatory, ground his teeth with rage. Especially on the
days when his fortunate rival seemed to be mocking him with the ticking
of the messages which announced to the Provincial Office some little
shock recorded by the instruments at Pietranera. For an earthquake—a
real earthquake—Nino would have given, who can tell what? perhaps his
very soul. In the meantime he dreamt of earthquakes, often awaking
terrified in the night, uncertain whether it were a dream, or the shock
had really taken place; but the pendulum remained stern and immovable.
It was enough to drive the veriest saint desperate. Ah! Was that the
game? Did the earthquakes obstinately refuse to manifest themselves?
Well, he would invent them. After all, who could contradict him? And so
that unlucky parish, which had been for centuries quietly anchored to
the rocky mountain-side, began to perform in its turn—in the Reports of
the Meteorological Office at Rome—an intricate dance of shocks, slight
shocks, and approaches to shocks; there was no means of keeping it still
any longer. And as Nino could not forego the glory of showing his
friends the sheet where his name appeared in print beside those of
several famous men of science, the report spread through the country
that the mountain was moving, imperceptibly, and threatened to come down
in a landslip.

“Is it really true?” the most timid came to ask.

“True, indeed!” replied Nino solemnly, and pointed to the pendulum; but
he would allow no one to examine it at close quarters.

Just as though it had been done on purpose, the Pietranera observatory
no longer signalled any disturbances since Golastretta had begun to
amuse itself by frequent vibrations; and Pippo Corradi, suspecting the
trick of his colleague, was gnawing his own heart out over all the false
indications which were quietly being foisted in among the genuine ones
of the official report, and making a mock of Science.

He, for his own part, did his work seriously and scrupulously, even
leaving his dinner when the hour for observation came; and his reports
might be called models of scientific accuracy. Ought he to denounce his
colleague? to unmask him? He could not make up his mind. The latter, as
bold as brass, went on making his village quake and tremble, as though
it were nothing at all.

This time the proverb that “lies have short legs” did not hold good; for
the lies in question reached Tacchini at Rome, and Father Denza at
Moncalieri. Perhaps, even, they confused the calculations of those
unfortunate scientists, who were very far from suspecting, in the
remotest degree, the wickedness of Nino.

But one day, all of a sudden, the Golastretta pendulum awoke from its
torpor, and began to move behind the magnifying-glass, although to the
naked eye its motion was scarcely perceptible.

Nino gave a howl of joy. “At last! at last!”

[Illustration]

To the first person who happened to come into the office he said, with a
majestic sweep of the arm, “Look here!”

“What does it mean?”

“We shall have a big earthquake!” and he rubbed his hands.

“Mercy!”

The man, who had felt his head turning round with the continued
agitation of the pendulum, and was struck with consternation to find
that it could scarcely be perceived without the magnifier, rushed at
once to spread the terrible news in streets, shops, and _cafés_. In an
hour the telegraph office was invaded—besieged. Everybody wished to see
with his or her own eyes, so as to be certain, and then take a
resolution. And the people who had seen frightened the others with their
accounts, exaggerating matters, giving explanations more terrifying than
those they had received and half understood, and so increasing the
panic, which now began to seize on the most sceptical spirits. An
extraordinary success for Nino d’Arco! He seemed to see before him the
image of his colleague, jaundiced with envy, and again rubbed his hands
with delight. Outside, the street was full of people discussing the
affair with comments. Women were crying, boys shouting, “Is it still
moving?” “Worse than before.” “Oh! blessed Madonna!” The parish priest
hastened to the spot, frightened as badly as the rest by the news which
had been carried to him by the sacristan; and scarcely had he looked
through the glass than he sprang from his chair as if he had felt the
ground rocking under his feet.

“It is the judgment of God, gentlemen! On account of our sins,
gentlemen!”

Then the people began to get away as fast as they could.

There was a banging of shutters, a hurried closing of doors, a rushing
about, a shouting of each other’s names. “Is it still moving?” “Worse
than ever!” So that at last Nino d’Arco himself no longer felt easy. And
from time to time he turned back to look once more at the pendulum,
which continued to vibrate. It was the first time that Nino found
himself indeed, as it were, face to face with a distant indication of
earthquake, after the hundred or so of shocks, of all sorts, strengths,
and sizes, which he had invented and caused to be published in the
Report at Rome. And now it was not exactly an amusing thing—that dumb
menace, to which his ignorance gave a false significance. Pendulum of
the devil! Would it never be still? A beautiful invention of science,
calculated to kill a peaceful citizen with anticipatory fear! Who ever
heard of the earth being shaken without people becoming aware of it?

It seemed to him that the vibrations increased from hour to hour, and
that the danger of a general fall of buildings became more imminent
every minute. He was alone in the office,—there was not a soul to be
seen in the street,—every one had left the village, to seek safety in
the open plain. And his duty, as telegraph operator, forbade him to
move!

Towards evening he closed the office, and went out into the plain
himself. The people were standing about in groups, telling their beads
and chanting litanies. When they saw him they were near falling upon
him, as the cause of the mischief. Was it not he who had turned the
whole village upside down, with that accursed pendulum of his? The whole
scene had a depressing effect on him, however much he might try to keep
up his courage, and convince his fellow-townsmen of the great benefits
of his warning, which might, for all they knew, have been the saving of
many lives.

But at noon on the following day nothing had yet happened.

Every quarter of an hour some one of the bravest came in from the
country to the telegraph office, to find out how things were going. The
pendulum still vibrated—but there were no news of the predicted
earthquake.

[Illustration]

The evening came. Not the ghost of an earthquake! A few, here and there,
began to turn the thing into ridicule. The syndic—who had a head on his
shoulders—had sent a boy to the Pietranera. When the boy returned with
Pippo Corradi’s answer, “It’s all nonsense—make your minds easy!” there
was an explosion of “Oh!—oh!—oh!” and those who had been most
frightened, and felt that they had been made fools of, began to yell,
“Imbecile! Blockhead! Idiot!”

They rushed in a tumultuous noisy crowd to the telegraph office; and had
they not met with the lieutenant of the Carbineers, who had hastened up
on receipt of a cipher telegram from the chief constable, who knows how
the matter might have ended for Nino d’Arco?

“What on earth have you been doing?” said the lieutenant. “You have been
disturbing the public peace.”

Nino was petrified for a moment; then, seeking to excuse himself by
proof positive, pointed to the pendulum.

“Well?” said the lieutenant.

“Look—it moves!”

“You must be seeing double. There is nothing moving here.”

“Do look carefully.”

“Allow me.... Nothing moving!”

In fact, the pendulum had stopped. Nino would not believe his own eyes.

“I confiscate it, for the present!” cried the lieutenant.

And, raising the glass of the case, he took out the tube in which the
pendulum was fixed.

“When one is as ignorant as you, sir, ...” Every one present applauded
vigorously. “And I shall report the matter to headquarters.”

To Nino it mattered nothing that the crowd should applaud and hiss, or
that the lieutenant of the Carbineers should report him at headquarters.
He was thinking only of Pippo Corradi, and how he would laugh behind his
back when he heard it; and the tears stood in his eyes.

And, as though all this had not been enough, behold, on the following
day, the following message clicked along the wires from Corradi:—

“To-day, 2 P.M., upward shock of first degree, lasting three seconds;
followed, after interval of seven seconds, by undulatory shock,
south-north, also first degree, lasting five seconds. No damage.”

“Infamous fate!” stammered Nino d’Arco. And he shut off the current, to
escape from the clicks which seemed to deride him.

_Luigi Capuana._

_QUACQUARÀ._

[Illustration]

Poor Don Mario! No sooner was he seen coming round the corner with his
rusty, narrow-brimmed, stove-pipe hat, nearly a foot high, and his
overcoat with long tails fluttering in the wind, than every one—first
the boys, then the men, the loafers on Piazza Buglio, and even the
gentlemen at the Casino—began to salute him, on every side, with the cry
of the quail, “_Quacquarà! Quacquarà!_” just because they knew that it
enraged him.

He stopped and stood at bay, staring round, brandishing his great
cudgel, and shaking his head threateningly. Then he would take two or
three steps forward, looking fixedly at them, in order to discover one
or other of the impudent wretches who so far forgot the respect due to
him, the son and grandson of lawyers—to him who stood a hundred times
higher than all those gentlemen of the Casino.... But in vain! On the
right hand and the left, before and behind, rose the shouts and
whistles, “_Quacquarà! Quacquarà!_”

“Don’t excite yourself! Let them shout!”

“If I do not kill some one, they will never be quiet!”

“Do you want to go to the convict prison for nothing?”

“I will send them there!”

He became red as a turkey-cock, raving and gesticulating and foaming at
the mouth.

“They would be quiet enough, if you did not get angry.”

“They are cowards! Why don’t they come out like men, and say it to my
face?”

“_Quacquarà!_”——

“Ah! would you hit a child?” This time, if they had not stopped him, he
would have broken the head of the barber’s boy, who had boldly
approached him near enough to utter the objectionable cry under his very
nose. There was trouble enough before Don Mario would let himself be
dragged away into the chemist’s shop, which was filled with a laughing
crowd. Vito, the chemist’s young man, came forward, very seriously, and
said to him—

“What does it matter if they _do_ say _Quacquarà_ to you? You don’t
happen to be a quail, do you?”

Don Mario turned furious eyes on him.

“Well; it’s not as if they called you a thief!”

“I am a gentleman, and the son of a gentleman.”

“Well? What does _Quacquarà_ mean? Nothing at all. _Quacquarà_ let it
be!”

The chemist and the others present were writhing in convulsions of
suppressed laughter at the serious countenance of Vito, who, under the
pretext of lecturing Don Mario for his folly, kept on repeating the
quail’s cry to his very face, without his perceiving that it was done on
purpose.

“Now I,” said he, “if a man were to cry _Quacquarà_ after me, I would
give him a halfpenny every time. _Quacquarà! Quacquarà!_ Shout
yourselves hoarse, if you like!”

“And, meanwhile, you scoundrel, you’re repeating it to my face,” yelled
Don Mario, as he raised his cudgel, perceiving at last that he had been
made a fool of. At this point the chemist, who was terrified for the
safety of his plate-glass windows, thought it time to interfere; and,
taking his arm, drew him out of the shop, condoling with his grievances,
and soothing his ruffled feelings as well as he could.

“Come out this way; no one will see you.”

“Am I to hide myself? To please those louts? I am a gentleman, and the
son of a gentleman!”

True—very true! The Majori had always been respectable people, son
succeeding father in the notary’s office from generation to generation,
up to the year 1819; in which year there issued forth from the infernal
regions that judgment of Heaven called the Code Napoléon, specially
created for the despair of the notary Majori, Don Mario’s father, who
never could understand it, and was forced to retire from his profession.

“What? No more Latin formulas?... And documents to be headed ‘In the
King’s Name’! But what has his Majesty the King to do with private
contracts?”

And he relieved his conscience by having no more to do with the whole
business. And so the ink had dried up in the great brass inkstand in his
office, and the quill pens were all worn out; and the quiet in the house
contrasted strangely with the bustle there had been formerly, when every
one came to consult him, for he was honesty in person, and never set
down on the papers a single word more or less than the interested
parties wished. And thus, Don Mario, who had hitherto acted as clerk in
his father’s office, and knew by heart all the Latin formulas, without
understanding a syllable thereof, found his occupation gone. So did his
brother Don Ignazio, who was not much more capable than himself; and
after the old notary had died of a broken heart, on account of that
unholy Code which had no Latin formulas, and insisted on having
documents headed _In the King’s Name_, the two brothers eked out a
sordid livelihood on the little they inherited from him. But they were
proud in their honourable poverty, and rigidly faithful to the past,
even in their dress, continuing for a time to wear their old clothes,
carefully brushed and mended, regardless of the fact that they were out
of fashion and excited ridicule.

Don Ignazio, however, could not stand it long. When his beaver hat
seemed to him quite useless, and his overcoat too threadbare, he bought
a second-hand hat for a few pence from Don Saverio, the old-clothes
dealer, and a coat which had also been worn already, but presented a
better appearance than his old one. Don Mario, on the other hand, stood
firm, and went about in his rusty tall hat and long coat of half a
century ago, shabby and darned, but without a spot. He was not going to
derogate from his past—he, the son and grandson of notaries.

Then came hard times,—bad harvests,—the epidemic of 1837,—the
cholera,—the revolution of ’48;—and the two brothers passed disagreeable
days and still more unpleasant nights, racking their brains for the
means of procuring a glass of wine for the morrow, or a little oil for
the salad or the soup.

“To-morrow I will go to So-and-so,” Don Mario would say. “Meanwhile we
must sweep out the house.”

They did everything themselves; and while Don Ignazio cut up an onion to
put into the evening’s salad, Don Mario, in his father’s indoor coat,
all faded and mended, began carefully to sweep the rooms like a
housemaid. He dusted the rickety tables and the old ragged,
leather-covered arm-chairs; and then, having gathered up all the dirt
into a basket, he would cautiously open the door, to make sure there was
no one within sight, and, late at night, carried it out and deposited it
behind the wall of a ruined house which had become the dust-bin of the
neighbourhood.

And on the way he would pick up stones, cabbage-stumps, bits of orange
or pumpkin-peel, so as to clean up the street also, seeing that no one
troubled about it, every one being too much occupied with his or her own
business to pay any attention to cleanliness. Cleanliness was his fixed
idea—indoors and out. It often happened that Don Ignazio, finding that
he was late in coming home, was forced to go out and call him in to
supper.

“You are not the public scavenger, are you?”

“Cleanliness is a commandment of the Lord!” Don Mario would reply.

And, having washed his hands, he sat down to the meagre supper of onion
salad and bread as if it had been the daintiest of dishes.

“This is Donna Rosa’s oil; and do you know there is no more left?” said
Don Ignazio one evening between two mouthfuls.

“To-morrow I will go to the Cavaliere!”

“But his father was a peasant farmer!”

“His grandfather was a day labourer!”

“And now he is made of money!”

“His grandfather became the Prince’s agent—and made his fortune.”

“Let us go to bed; the light is going out.”

They had to economise even their candles. But afterwards, in the dark,
the interrupted conversation was continued—not very consecutively—from
one bed to another.

“Have you seen the band in their new uniforms?”

“Yes.... Farmer Cola has got in a hundred bushels of grain this year.”

“Who knows if it is true? Much good may it do him!”

“To-morrow I will go to the Cavaliere for some oil.”...

“The wine is all gone, too.”

“I will go for the wine as well.... _Ave Maria!_”

“_Pater Noster!_” And so they went to sleep.

In the morning, after carefully brushing his shabby and much-mended coat
and his rusty hat, Don Mario dressed hastily and began his day by going
to mass at San Francesco.... This ceremony over, he proceeded on his
errand, hugging the oil-flask tightly under his coat.

He presented himself with humble and ceremonious courtesy.

“Is the Cavaliere at home?”

“No, but his lady is.”

“Announce me to the lady.”

Now all the domestics in the place knew perfectly well the meaning of a
visit from Don Mario, and at most houses they would leave him to wait in
the anteroom, or say to him without more ado—

“Give me the bottle, Don Mario.”

It often happened that while they were filling it for him he could not
control himself at the sight of the disorder in the room where they left
him. He would mount a chair in order to remove, with the end of his
stick, the cobwebs clustering on the ceiling; and if he found a broom
within reach of his hand—what was to be done? he could not resist!—he
began to sweep the floor, to dust the pictures, or to pick up the scraps
of paper or stuff scattered about.

“What are you doing, Don Mario?”

“The Lord has commanded us to be clean.... Thank the lady for me!”

Donna Rosa, who was amused with him and his ways, always had him shown
up to the drawing-room, and asked him to sit down.

“How are you, dear Don Mario?”

“Well, thank God. And how is your Excellency?”

“As well as most old women, dear Don Mario!”

“None are old but those that die. Your Excellency is so charitable, that
you ought to be spared for a hundred years to come.”

Donna Rosa kept up the conversation as though she had no idea of the
real object of this visit; and Don Mario, still hugging his bottle,
awaited the favourable moment for presenting his request without
appearing troublesome. From time to time, after wriggling on his chair,
as if in pain, for a few minutes, he would rise, and with “Excuse me, my
lady!” wipe the dust from a table, or stoop to pick up a flake of wool,
or bit of thread from the floor, and throw it out of the window,—as
though the sight of these things actually made him feel ill.

“Oh! never mind, Don Mario!”

“The Lord has commanded us to be clean.... I had come....”

“How does your brother like his new employment?” Donna Rosa interrupted
him, one day.

“Very much indeed.”

“You ought to try and get appointed inspector of weights yourself. There
is one wanted at the Archi mill.”

“But the addition, madam! the addition! Ignazio knows how to do it!”

He turned up his eyes, with a sigh—as if this arithmetical process were
a most complicated calculation.

“Poor Ignazio!” he went on. “He comes back from the mill so tired! Just
imagine, madam—four miles uphill, on foot!... I had come for this....”

And he produced the flask.

“With pleasure!” Who was there that could say “No” to Don Mario?

But when that unfortunate addition was mentioned, not even the gift of a
bottle of wine could restore him to good humour. He had tried so many
times to do an addition sum. The tens were the difficulty.

“Nine and one are ten.... Very good!... But ... put down nought and
carry one.... Why carry one if there are ten?”

He had found it utterly impossible to understand this. And yet he was no
fool. You should have heard him read, quite correctly, all those old
legal documents, with their strange Latin abbreviations, which the
modern notaries and advocates could not succeed in deciphering. It is
true that he recited them parrot-fashion, without understanding them;
but all the same he could earn half a franc at a time when required for
this service; and this meant two _litres_ of wine and half a _kilo_ of
lamb—quite a festive meal, although, nowadays, with Don Ignazio’s
position, the two brothers were not quite so badly off as before.

They would even have been happy if it had not been for the irritating
behaviour of the street boys. One day matters reached a crisis. Don
Mario, administering a cuff to an ill-conditioned fellow who assaulted
him with the cry of _Quacquarà_, received the same back with interest,
and got his coat torn into the bargain. The magistrate, before whom the
case was brought, kept the vagabond under arrest for a couple of hours,
and got up a subscription at the Casino, to present Don Mario with a new
coat and hat. But the latter would never consent to be measured for it,
and when the coat—cut out by guess-work—was sent him, together with the
most spick and span of hats, he thanked the donors politely, and sent
the whole back.

“You have been a fool!” said his brother, who, on his return from the
mill that evening, found him intent on repairing his ancient garment.
“You can’t go out again in that.”

“I shall stay at home,” replied Don Mario loftily.

And he was no longer seen about the town.

He passed his days sitting on the front doorstep, talking to the
neighbours, or wandering through the many empty rooms of the dilapidated
house. No repairs had been undertaken for years past; the shutters were
loose on their hinges. Two floors had given way, and had to be passed by
means of planks, laid like bridges from one room to another; and the
tiles were off the roof in many places, so that some of the upper rooms
were flooded when it rained.

“Sell half the house,” said one of the neighbours; “it is much too large
for you two alone!”

But that evening, discussing the matter at supper, Don Mario and Don
Ignazio found themselves greatly embarrassed.

“Sell! Easily said.... But what? The room that had been their father’s
office?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Don Mario indignantly.

It is true that the big volumes, bound in dark leather, were no longer
in the shelves all round the walls. The government had taken possession
of them, as though they had been its property, and not that of the
notaries, who had drawn up all those documents. But what matter? The
shelves, moth-eaten and rickety, reduced to receptacles for dishes,
frying-pans, and utensils of all sorts, remained, to their eyes, living
witnesses, as it were, to past glories. The two brothers looked at one
another.

“Was it possible?... Well.... What _should_ they sell? Their
grandmother’s room?”

A mysterious chamber, which had been kept locked for seventy years, and
of which now even the key was lost. Their grandfather’s wife—a saint on
earth—had died there, and the widower had ordered it to be shut up, in
sign of perpetual mourning. Every night the mice kept up a terrible
racket there. But what matter? A master notary—one of the Majori—had
willed that no one should open it and no one had done so. Were _they_ to
profane it? They were both agreed ... it was impossible!

“What then? The portrait-room?”

There were arranged on its walls half-a-dozen canvases, blackened with
years and smoke, on which you could make out—here, the severe profile of
Don Gasparo Majori, 1592; there, the grey eyes, white moustache, and
pointed beard of Don Carlo, 1690; beside it, the wig and round shaven
face of Don Paolo, 1687; and further on, the lean and narrow head of Don
Antonio, 1805, framed in an enormous collar, with white neckcloth, and
showy waistcoat with watch-chain and seals dangling from its pockets.
Don Mario knew by heart the life, death, and miracles of each one, and
so did Don Ignazio.

Could they turn them out of their own house? No; it was impossible.
Better let the whole fall into ruins.

They went to bed and put out the light.

“Well, it will last our time. We are old, Mario!”

“You are two years older than I!”

“... To-morrow, Notary Patrizio is coming to get an old deed read out to
him.”

“So we shall be able to buy half a _kilo_ of meat.”

“Saverio the butcher cheats in his weights. I shall keep my eyes open.”

“I have lent the rolling-pin to Comare Nina.”

“I will get the wine from Scatá.... Vittoria wine this time.... _Pater
Noster!_”

“_Ave Maria!_”

So they went to sleep.

They were growing old. Ignazio was right.

Don Mario sometimes wondered which of the two would die first, and the
thought left him sad and depressed.

“I am the younger.... But, after me, the house will go to distant
relatives, ... they will divide it up and sell it.... But, after all,
what does it matter to us? We shall both be gone then.... We are the
real Majori; when we are dead, the world is dead!”

Yet he went on sweeping out the tumble-down old house with the same
tenderness and care as ever, removing the cobwebs from the walls, and
dusting the moth-eaten and ragged remnants of furniture; driving a nail
into the back of a chair or the leg of a table; pasting a sheet of oiled
paper in the place of a missing window-pane, and carrying out the dust
and rubbish as usual, late at night.

Moreover, since he now frequently went to sleep in the daytime—with the
loneliness, and having nothing to do—he sometimes passed the night out
of doors, sweeping the whole length and breadth of the street, and
pleased to hear the wonder of the neighbourhood next morning, and have
people say to him—

“The angel passed by last night. Is it so, Don Mario?”

He would smile, without replying. He was now quite resigned to his
voluntary imprisonment, as he could no longer wear his old coat and hat,
which were still there, quite spotless and free from dust, though
perfectly useless.

One day, however, Don Mario lost all his peace of mind.

Standing at a window in the portrait-room, he had been looking along the
street at Reina’s house, with its fantastically-sculptured gateway and
the twisted stone monsters.

“A fine palace—quite a royal one,” said Don Mario, who had never seen
anything richer or more beautiful in his life.

“Yet, how was it the proprietor had never noticed those tufts of
pellitory growing between the carvings over the arch of the great
gateway, quite spoiling the building? It was a sin and a shame!”

Scarcely had Don Ignazio come home from the mill that evening, tired and
out of breath, when his brother said to him—

“Look here; you ought to go to Signor Reina. He is letting nasty weeds
grow between the carvings of the gateway, under the middle balcony. It
quite worries one to see them.”

“Well?”

“You ought to tell him of it—at least when you meet him again.”

“I will tell him.”

Don Ignazio, quite worn out with his long walk, had other matters to
think of; he wanted to have his supper and go to bed.

But from that day he too got no peace. Every evening, when he came home,
Don Mario never failed to ask him, even before he had laid aside his
stick: “Have you spoken to Reina?”

“No.”

“Go and tell him at once. It is a pity; those weeds are spoiling the
building.”

They were quite an eyesore to him; he could not make out how Reina could
put up with such a sacrilege. And several times a day he would go to the
attic window, mounting a pair of steps at the risk of his neck, in order
to look out. Those weeds were always there! They grew from day to day;
they made great bushes that waved in the wind. If they had been fungous
growths in the interior of his own system, he could not have suffered
more from them.

“Have you told Reina about them?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He swore at me.”

That night Don Mario never closed his eyes. As soon as he found that his
brother was snoring, then he lit the lamp, dressed himself, took the
steps on his shoulder, which they nearly dislocated, and made his way to
Reina’s house, keeping in the shadow of the wall, and avoiding the
moonlight, as if he had been a burglar.

As indeed the gendarmes thought him when they came upon him, perched on
the top of the gateway, pulling away for dear life at the parasitic
herbs, in spite of the proprietor, who did not care whether they grew
there or not.

“What are you doing up there?”

[Illustration]

“I am pulling out these weeds.”

“Come down.”

“Let me finish.”

“Come down, I tell you!”

At this unceremonious summons poor Don Mario had to descend, leaving
several bushes of pellitory to spoil the beautiful building
unchecked....

They were nearly taking him off to the police station!... And all for a
good action! He died within three months, with the nightmare of those
weeds weighing on his heart.... Poor old Don Mario!

_Luigi Capuana._

_THE EXCAVATIONS OF MASTRO ROCCO._

Ever since he had taken it into his head to “take off the charm,” in the
_Grotto of the Seven Gates_, Mastro Rocco had given up his
pork-butcher’s shop, and was always on the top of the hill, baking his
hump-back in the sun, digging here and there from morning to night, to
find some trace of the treasure which the Saracens had enchanted in that
neighbourhood.

Mastro Rocco used to talk as though he had seen it with his little
red-rimmed eyes, and touched it with the horny hands which now wielded
the spade both day and night, excavating ancient tombs,—by day on his
own little plot of ground which looked like the destruction of
Jerusalem—all yawning holes and heaps of earth;—by night, on his
neighbours’ farms, by moonlight, or by that of a lantern, when there was
no moon; for the neighbours did not like their ground cut up, and
laughed at his finds of useless earthen vessels, and old coins with
which you could not even buy a pennyworth of bread.

Mastro Rocco laughed to himself at these ignorant rustics who understood
nothing. _He_ knew, and had proved it, that those earthen vases,
especially if they had figures on them, and that oxidised money, could
be speedily converted into good coin of the realm, when he carried them
to Baron Padullo, who put on his spectacles to examine them, and then
opened certain huge books, as big as missals, and full of pictures, to
make comparisons. Thus he had become convinced that the trade of selling
ham and sausages was far inferior to that of digging up antiquities....

* * * * *

One day he found some beautiful terra-cotta figures, for which the baron
paid him ten _scudi_. Who could tell what they might be worth, when the
old gentleman could bring himself to give as much as that.

After that he went much more frequently to the baron’s house,
accompanied by a little old man, whom Mastro Rocco called his assistant.
But they always brought figures exactly like the first ones, all soiled
with the earth they had been dug from; and at last, one day, the baron
said—

“Mastro Rocco, if you do not find something different, you might as well
save yourself the trouble of coming. Look here, I have a whole cupboard
full of these.”

He pointed to a number of statuettes of Ceres, seated with her hands on
her knees, arranged in rows behind the glass doors, along with Greek
vases, lamps, bronzes of every sort, and antique coins of every size....

It was a long time before Mastro Rocco was seen again at the baron’s.
When he next presented himself, along with the little old man, he
carefully set down a basket full of hay which he had carried up under
his arm, and began to gesticulate vehemently as he pointed out the
precious objects reposing in the basket and covered with the hay.

“Ah! _signor barone!_ what a novelty! what a novelty! Your worship will
be enchanted, upon my word of honour!”

The baron had put on his spectacles in order the better to admire; and
when he saw some half-dozen figures of Ceres, exactly like the others,
but with unmistakable pipes in their mouths, instead of being enchanted,
he roared aloud—

“Ah! Mastro Rocco, you thief! Ah! you scoundrel!”

And he would have put a pistol-bullet through the head of each if they
had not jumped from the window regardless of possible broken necks;
though, after all, it was not very high. Mastro Rocco only broke his
arm, and had a mass said to his patron saint for assistance rendered in
this extremity. With his arm in a sling he imprecated curses on his
rascally partner, who had suggested the charming novelty of the pipes!

[Illustration]

“Was it not enough to have imitated the form of the little idols well
enough to take in even Baron Padullo?”

_Luigi Capuana._

_THE WAR OF THE SAINTS._

[Illustration]

All of a sudden, while San Rocco was quietly proceeding on his way,
under his baldachin, with a number of wax candles lit all round him, and
the band, and the procession, and the crowd of devout people—there came
to pass a general helter-skelter, tumult, and confusion worse
confounded. There were priests running away, with the skirts of their
cassocks flying wildly, drummers and fifers upset on their faces, women
screaming, blood flowing in streams, and cudgels playing even under the
very nose of the blessed San Rocco. The Prætor, the Syndic, the
Carbineers all hastened to the spot;—the broken bones were carried off
to the hospital,—a few of the more riotous members of the community were
marched off to pass the night in prison,—the saint returned to his
church at a run rather than a processional step,—and the festival ended
like the comedies of Pulcinella.

And all this through the spite of the people in the parish of San
Pasquale. That year the pious souls of San Rocco had been spending the
very eyes out of their heads in order to do things in grand style;—they
had sent for the band from town,—they had let off more than two thousand
squibs,—and they had now got a new banner, all embroidered with gold,
which, it was said, weighed over a quintal, and tossed up and down in
the midst of the crowd, like a wave crested with golden foam. Which
thing, by sheer contrivance of the Evil One, was a thorn in the sides of
the followers of S. Pasquale,—so that one of the latter at last lost
patience, and began, pale as death, to yell at the top of his voice,
“_Viva San Pasquale!_” Then it was that the cudgels began to fly.

Because, after all, to go and cry “_Viva San Pasquale_” in the very face
of San Rocco, is really a good, sound, indisputable provocation;—it is
just like going and spitting in a man’s house, or amusing yourself by
pinching the girl who is walking arm in arm with him. In such a case
there is no longer any sense of right and wrong,—and that slight amount
of respect which people still have for the other saints—who, after all,
are all related to each other—is trampled under foot. If it happens in
church, seats are flung into the air,—if during a procession, there are
showers of torch stumps like swarms of bats, and at table the dishes
fly.

“_Santo diavolone!_” cried Compare Nino, panting, heated, and
dishevelled. “I’d like to know who has the face to cry _Viva San
Pasquale_ again!”

“I!” yelled Turi the tanner, who looked forward to being his
brother-in-law, quite beside himself with rage, and nearly blinded by a
chance blow received in the _mêlée_. “_Viva San Pasquale_ till death!”

“For the love of Heaven! for the love of Heaven!” shrieked his sister
Saridda, throwing herself between her brother and her betrothed. All
three had been going for a walk in all love and good fellowship up to
that moment.

Compare Nino, the expectant bridegroom, kept crying in derision, “Long
live my boots—_viva San Stivale!_”

“Take that!” howled Turi, foaming at the mouth, his eyes swollen and his
face like a tomato. “Take that for San Rocco, you and your boots!
There!”

In this way they exchanged blows which would have felled an ox, till
their friends succeeded in separating them by dint of cuffs and kicks.
Saridda, who by this time had grown excited on her own account, now
cried _Viva San Pasquale_, and was very nearly coming to blows with her
lover, as if they had already been husband and wife.

At such times parents quarrel most desperately with their sons and
daughters, and wives separate from their husbands, if by misfortune a
woman of the parish of San Pasquale has married a man from San Rocco.

“I won’t hear another word about that man!” cried Saridda, standing with
her hands on her hips, to the neighbours, when they asked her how it
happened that the marriage had not come off. “I won’t have him, if they
give him to me dressed in gold and silver from head to foot! Do you
hear?”

“Saridda may stay where she is till she turns mouldy, for all I care!”
said Compare Nino, in his turn, as he was getting the blood washed from
his face at the public-house. “A parcel of beggars and cowards, over in
the tanner’s quarter! I must have been drunk when it came into my head
to look for a sweetheart over there!”

“Since it is this way,” had been the Syndic’s conclusion, “and they
can’t carry a saint out into the square without sticks and fighting, so
that it’s perfectly beastly,—I will have no more festivals, nor
processions, nor services; and if they bring out so much as one single
candle—what you may call a candle—I’ll have them every one in gaol.”

In time, the matter became important; for the bishop of the diocese had
granted to the priests of San Pasquale the privilege of wearing copes.
The parishioners of San Rocco, whose priests had no copes, had even gone
to Rome to raise an outcry at the foot of the Holy Father, carrying with
them documents on stamped paper, and everything else; but all had been
in vain, for their adversaries of the lower town—who, as every one
remembered, had once been without shoes to their feet—had now grown as
rich as Jews, through this new industry of tanning. And, in this world,
one knows that justice is bought and sold like the soul of Judas.

At San Pasquale they were awaiting Monsignor’s delegate, who was a
person of importance, and had silver buckles on his shoes weighing half
a pound apiece—and a fine sight they were to see—and he was coming to
bring the copes to the canons. And for this reason, they, in their turn,
had now sent for the band, and they were going to meet Monsignor’s
delegate three miles outside the town; and it was said that in the
evening there were to be fireworks in the square, with _Viva San
Pasquale_ over and over again, in letters as big as those on a
shop-front.

The inhabitants of the upper town were therefore in a great ferment; and
some, more excited than others, were trimming certain staves of pear and
cherry wood, as big as clothes-props, and muttering—

“If there is to be music, we shall want to beat time!”

The Bishop’s delegate ran a great risk of coming out of his triumphal
entry with broken bones. But the reverend gentleman was cunning enough
to leave the band waiting for him outside the town, while he, taking a
short cut, quietly walked to the parish priest’s house, whither he
summoned the principal men of the two parties.

When these gentlemen found themselves face to face—after all this time
that the feud had lasted—each man began to look into the whites of his
neighbour’s eyes, as if he could scarcely keep his nails out of them;
and it required all the authority of his Reverence—who had put on his
new cloth soutane for the occasion—to get the ices and the other
refreshments served without accidents.

“That’s right!” said the Syndic approvingly, with his nose in his glass.
“When you want me for the cause of peace, you’ll always find me on the
spot.”

The delegate, in fact, said that he had come for the sake of
conciliation, with the olive-branch in his mouth, like Noah’s dove, and
made his exhortation, distributing smiles and hand-clasps all round, and
saying, “Gentlemen, will you do me the favour of coming into the
sacristy to take a cup of chocolate on the day of the festival?”

“Do leave the festival alone!” said the Vice-Prætor; “if not, more
mischief will come of it.”

“Mischief will come of it if this tyranny is to be allowed—if a man is
not to be free to amuse himself as he likes, and pay for it with his own
money!” exclaimed Bruno, the carter.

“I wash my hands of the matter. The orders of the Government are
explicit. If you celebrate the festival I shall send for the Carbineers.
I am for order.”

“I will answer for order!” said the Syndic, tapping the ground for
emphasis with his umbrella, and looking slowly around.

“Bravo! as if we did not know that it is your brother-in-law Bruno who
blows the bellows for you in the Town Council!” retorted the
Vice-Prætor.

“And you have joined the opposition party only on account of that
bye-law about the washing, which you can’t get over!”

“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” entreated the delegate. “We shall do nothing if
we go on in this way.”

“We’ll have a revolution, that we will!” shouted Bruno, gesticulating
with his hands in the air.

Fortunately the parish priest had quietly put away the cups and glasses,
and the sacristan had rushed off at the top of his speed to dismiss the
band, who, having heard of the delegate’s arrival, were already
hastening up to welcome him, blowing their cornets and clarionets.

“In this way we shall do nothing at all!” muttered the delegate, worried
to death by the thought that the harvest was already ripe for cutting in
his own village, while he was wasting his time here talking to Compare
Bruno and the Vice-Prætor, who were ready to tear one another’s souls
out. “What is this story about the prohibition of the washing?”

“The usual interference. Nowadays one can’t hang a handkerchief out of
the window to dry without getting fined for it. The Vice-Prætor’s
wife—feeling safe because her husband was in a position of trust, for
till now people always had some little regard for the authorities—used
to hang out the whole week’s washing—it was not much to boast of—on the
terrace.... But now, under the new law, that’s a mortal sin; and now
even the dogs and fowls are prohibited, and the other animals[12]—saving
your presence—that used to do the scavenging in the streets; and now the
first rain that comes it will be Heaven’s mercy if we don’t all get
smothered in the filth. The real truth is that Bruno, the assessor, has
a grudge against the Vice-Prætor, on account of a certain decision he
has given against him.”

The delegate, in order to conciliate the local mind, used to sit boxed
up in his confessional, like an owl in its nest, from morning till
evening, and all the women were eager to be shriven by the Bishop’s
representative, who had powers of plenary absolution for all sorts of
sins, just as though he had been Monsignor in person.

“Your Reverence,” said Saridda, with her nose at the grating, “Compare
Nino makes me commit sin every Sunday in church.”

“In what way, my daughter?”

“He was to have married me, before there was all this talk in the place;
but now that the marriage is broken off, he goes and stands near the
high altar, and stares at me, and laughs with his friends, all the time
holy mass is going on.”

And when his Reverence tried to touch Nino’s heart the countryman
replied—

“No, it is she who turns her back on me whenever she sees me—just as if
I were a beggar!”

He, on the other hand, if Gnà Saridda passed across the square on
Sundays, gave himself airs as if he had been the brigadier, or some
other great personage, and did not even seem to see her. Saridda was
exceedingly busy preparing little coloured paper-lanterns, and put them
out in a row on the window-sill, in his very face, under the pretext of
hanging them out to dry. Once they found themselves together in church,
at a christening, and took no notice of each other, just as though they
had never met before; nay, Saridda even Went so far as to flirt with the
godfather.

“A poor sort of a godfather!” sneered Nino. “Why the child’s a girl! And
when a girl is born, even the beams of the roof break down!”

Saridda turned away, and pretended to be talking to the baby’s mother.

“What’s bad does not always come to do harm. Sometimes, when you think
you’ve lost a treasure, you ought to thank God and St. Pasquale; for you
can never say you know a person till you have eaten seven measures of
salt.”

“After all, one must take troubles as they come, and the worst possible
way is to worry one’s self about things which are not worth the trouble.
When one Pope’s dead they make another.”

“It’s fore-ordained what sort of natures children are to be born with,
and it’s just like that with marriages. It’s far better to marry a man
who really cares for you and has no other ends to serve, even though he
has no money or fields, or mules or anything.”...

On the square the drum was beating to give notice of the festival.

“The Syndic says we shall have the festival,” was the murmur that went
through the crowd.

“I’ll go to law till doomsday, if it should leave me as poor as holy
Job, with nothing left but my shirt; but that five francs’ fine I will
not pay! not if I had to leave directions about it in my will!”

“Confound it all!” exclaimed Nino. “What sort of a festival are they
going to have, if we are all to die of hunger this year?”

Since March not a drop of rain had fallen, and the yellow corn, which
crackled like tinder, was “dying of thirst.” Bruno, the carter, however,
said that when San Pasquale was carried out in procession it would rain
for certain. But what did he care about rain? or all the tanners of his
neighbourhood either? In fact they carried San Pasquale in procession to
east and to west, and set him upon a hill to bless the country on a
stifling May day, when the sky was covered with clouds,—one of those
days when the farmers are ready to tear their hair before the burnt-up
fields, and the ears of corn droop as if they were dying.

“A curse on San Pasquale!” cried Nino, spitting in the air, and rushing
about among his crops like a madman. “You have ruined me, San Pasquale;
you’ve left me nothing but the reaping-hook to cut my throat with!”

The upper town was a desolate place enough. It was one of those long
years when the hunger begins in June, and the women stand at their doors
with their hair hanging about their shoulders—doing nothing—staring with
fixed eyes. Gnà Saridda, hearing that Compare Nino’s mule was to be sold
in the public square, to pay the rent of his farm, felt her anger melt
away in an instant, and sent her brother Turi in hot haste, with the few
_soldi_ they had put aside, to help him.

Nino was in one corner of the square, with his eyes averted and his
hands in his pockets, while they were selling his mule, with all its
ornaments and the new headstall.

“I don’t want anything,” he replied sullenly. “My arms are still left
me, please God. A fine saint that San Pasquale of yours, eh?”

Turi turned his back on him, to avoid unpleasantness, and went on his
way. But the truth is that people’s minds were thoroughly exasperated,
now that they had carried San Pasquale in procession to east and west,
with no more result than that. The worst of it was that many from the
parish of San Rocco had been induced to walk with the procession too,
thrashing themselves like asses, and with crowns of thorns on their
heads, for the sake of their crops. Now they relieved their feelings in
exceedingly bad language; and the Bishop’s delegate was obliged to leave
the town, as he entered it, on foot, and without the band.

The vice-prætor, by way of retaliation on his opponent, telegraphed that
people’s minds were excited, and the public peace compromised; so that
one fine day a report went through the town, that the soldiers had
arrived, and every one could go and see them.

“They have come on account of the cholera,” others; said, however. “Down
in the city, they say, the people are dying like flies.”

The chemist put up the chain of his shop door, and the doctor left the
place as speedily as possible, to escape being knocked on the head.[13]

“It will not come to anything,” said the few who had remained in the
place, having been unable to fly into the country like the rest. “The
blessed San Rocco will watch over his own town.”

Even the lower town folks had begun to go barefoot to San Rocco’s
church. But not long after that, deaths began to come thick and fast.
They said of one man that he was a glutton, and died of eating too many
prickly pears, and of another, that he had come in from the country
after nightfall.[14] But, in short, there was the cholera, there was no
disguising it,—in spite of the soldiers, and in the very teeth of San
Rocco,—notwithstanding the fact that an old woman in the odour of
sanctity had dreamed that the saint himself had said to her—

“Have no fear of the cholera, for I am looking after that. I am not like
that useless old ass of a San Pasquale.”

Nino and Turi had not met since the mule was sold; but scarcely had the
former heard that the brother and sister were both ill, than he hastened
to their house, and found Saridda, black in the face, and her features
all distorted, in a corner of the room. Her brother, who was with her,
was recovering, but could not tell what to do for her, and was nearly
beside himself with despair.

“Ah! thief of a San Rocco,” groaned Nino. “I never expected this. Gnà
Saridda, don’t you know me any more? Nino, your old friend Nino.”

Saridda looked at him with eyes so sunken that one had to hold a lantern
to her face before one could see them, and Nino felt his own running
over.

“Ah! San Rocco,” said he, “this is a worse trick than the one San
Pasquale played me!”

However, Saridda in time got better, and as she was standing at the
door, with her head tied up in a handkerchief, and her face yellow as
new wax, she said to Nino—

“San Rocco has worked a miracle for me, and you ought to come too, and
carry a candle at his festival.”

Nino’s heart was too full to speak, and he nodded assent. But before the
festival came round, he too was taken with the pestilence, and lay at
the point of death. Saridda tore her face with her nails, and said that
she wanted to die with him, and she would cut off her hair and have it
buried with him, and no one should ever look her in the face again as
long as she lived.

[Illustration]

“No, no,” replied Nino, his face all drawn with agony. “Your hair will
grow again, but it will be I that will never see you again, for I shall
be dead.”

“A fine miracle that San Rocco has worked for you!” said Turi, by way of
comforting him.

Both of them slowly recovered; and when they sat sunning themselves,
with their backs to the wall and very long faces, kept throwing San
Rocco and San Pasquale in each other’s teeth.

One day Bruno, the carter, coming back from the country after the
cholera was over, passed by them, and said—

“We’re going to have a grand festival to thank San Pasquale for having
saved us from the cholera. We shall have no more demagogues and no more
opposition, now, that the vice-prætor is dead. He has left the quarrel
behind him in his will.”

“All very well; a festival for the dead!” sneered Nino.

“Perhaps it was San Rocco that kept you alive?”

“There!—do have done with it!” cried Saridda. “If you don’t, we shall
need another cholera to make peace between you!”

_Giovanni Verga._

_HIS REVERENCE._

He no longer went about now with the long beard and scapulary of the
begging friar. He got shaved every Sunday, and went for a walk in his
best soutane of fine cloth, with his silk-lined cloak over his arm. When
he looked at his fields, his vineyards, his cattle, and his ploughmen,
with his hands in his pockets and his pipe in his mouth, if he had
remembered the time when he washed up the dishes for the Capuchin
fathers, and they put him into the frock out of charity, he would have
crossed himself with his left hand.

But if they had not taught him, for charity’s sake, to read and write
and say mass, he would never have succeeded in fixing himself in the
best property in the village, nor in getting into his books the names of
all those tenants who worked away and prayed for a good harvest for him,
and then blasphemed like Turks when settling-day came round. “Look at
what I am, and don’t ask who my parents were,” says the proverb. As for
his parents, every one knew about them; his mother swept out the house
for him. His Reverence was not ashamed of his family—not he; and when he
went to play at cards with the Baroness, he made his brother wait for
him in the anteroom, with the big lantern to light him home with.... He
was popular as a confessor, and always ready for a little paternal
gossip with his female penitents, after they had relieved their
consciences and emptied their pockets, of their own and other people’s
sins. You could always pick up some useful information, especially if
you were given to speculating in agricultural matters, in return for
your blessing!

Good gracious! He did not pretend to be a saint—not he! Holy men usually
died of hunger—like the vicar, who celebrated, even when his masses were
not paid for, and went about poor people’s houses in a ragged soutane
which was a perfect scandal to religion. His Reverence wanted to get on,
and get on he did, with the wind right aft, though a little hampered at
first by that unlucky monk’s frock, which would get in his way, till he
escaped from it by means of a suit before the Royal Courts. The rest of
the brethren backed him up in his application, only for the sake of
getting rid of him; for, as long as he was in the monastery, there was a
free fight in the refectory every time a new Provincial had to be
elected, and the forms and dishes flew about with such goodwill that
Father Battistino, who was sturdy as a muleteer, had been half-killed,
and Father Giammaria, the guardian, had had his teeth knocked down his
throat. His Reverence, after having stirred up the fire all he could,
always retired to his cell on those occasions, and remained quiet there;
and it was in this way that he had succeeded in becoming “His Reverence”
with a complete set of teeth, which served him exceedingly well; while
of Father Giammaria, who had been the man to get that scorpion up his
sleeve, every one said: “Serves him right!”

And Father Giammaria was still only guardian of the Capuchins, without a
shirt to his back or a sou in his pocket,—hearing confessions for the
love of God, and making soup for the poor.

When his Reverence was a boy, and saw his brother—the one who now
carried the lantern—breaking his back with digging, and his sisters
finding no husbands who would take them even at a gift, and his mother
spinning in the dark to save lamp-oil, he said, “I want to be a priest.”
His family sold their mule and their little plot of ground to send him
to school, in the hope that if ever they attained to having a priest in
the house, they would get something better than the land and the mule.
But more than that was required to keep him at the seminary. Then the
boy began to hang about the monastery, hoping to be taken on as a
novice; and one day when the Provincial was expected, and they were busy
in the kitchen, they called him in to help. Father Giammaria, a
kind-hearted old fellow, said to him, “Would you like to stay here?—so
you shall.” And Fra Carmelo, the porter—who was bored to death, sitting
for hours on the cloister wall, with nothing to do, swinging one sandal
against the other—patched him up a scapulary out of old rags which had
been hung out on the fig-tree to scare away the sparrows. His mother,
his brother, and sister protested that if he became a monk it was all up
with them—they would lose the money they had paid for his schooling, and
never get a brass farthing out of him in return. But he shrugged his
shoulders and replied, “It’s a fine thing if a man is not to follow the
vocation to which God has called him.”

Father Giammaria had taken a fancy to him because he was active and
handy in the kitchen, and at all other work; and served mass as though
he had never done anything else in his life, with his eyes cast down,
and his lips primmed up like a seraph. Now that he no longer served the
mass, he still had the same downcast eye and compressed lips, when it
was a question of some scandal among the gentry, or of the common lands
being put up to auction, or of swearing the truth before the magistrate.

No one dared to go to law with him; and if he cast his eyes on a farm
for sale, or on a lot of the common land up at auction, the magnates of
the place themselves, if they ventured to bid against him, did so with
obsequious bows, offering him pinches of snuff. One day he and no less a
person than the Baron himself were at it a whole day—pull devil, pull
baker. The Baron was doing the amiable, and his Reverence, seated
opposite to him, with his cloak gathered up between his legs, at every
advance in the bidding offered him his silver snuff-box, sighing, “What
are you going to do about it, Baron?” At last the lot was knocked down
to him, and the Baron took his pinch of snuff, green with vexation.

This sort of thing quite met the views of the peasants; they were used
to seeing the big dogs fight among themselves over a good bone, and
leave nothing for the little ones to gnaw. But what made them complain
was that this man of God ground them down worse than the very
Antichrist, when they had to share the crops with him; and he had no
scruples about seizing his neighbour’s goods, because the apparatus of
the confessional was all in his hands, and if he fell into mortal sin he
could easily give himself absolution. “It is everything to have the
priest in one’s own house,” they sighed. And the shrewdest of them
denied themselves the very bread out of their mouths, so as to send one
of their sons to the seminary.

“When one gives himself up to the land, one has to do it altogether,”
his Reverence used to say, as an excuse for considering no one. The mass
itself he only celebrated on Sundays, except when there was nothing else
to do; he was not one of those wretched starveling priests who have to
run after the three _tari_ of the mass fee. He had no need of it. So
much so that the Bishop, arriving at his house on a pastoral visit, and
finding his breviary covered with dust, wrote thereon with his finger,
“_Deo gratias!_” But his Reverence had other things to think of besides
wasting his time in reading the breviary, and laughed at the Bishop’s
reproof. If the breviary was covered with dust, his oxen were sleek and
shining, his sheep were thick in fleece, and the crops as tall as a man,
so that his tenants, at any rate, could enjoy the sight of them, and
build fine castles in the air—till they had to settle accounts with
their landlord. It was a relief to their hearts, poor souls. “Crops that
are like witchcraft! The Lord must have passed by them in the night! One
can see that they belong to a man of God, and it is a good thing to work
for him who has the mass and the blessing in his hand!” In May, at the
season when they watched the sky with anxious looks for every passing
cloud, they knew that their landlord was saying mass for the harvest,
and was a better protection against the Evil Eye and the bad season than
pictures of saints or blessed loaves. As for the latter, his Reverence
would not have them scattered about among the crops, because, as he
said, they only served to attract sparrows and other noxious birds. Of
sacred pictures he had his pockets full; he got as many as he wanted, of
the best kind, in the sacristy, without spending a penny, and made
presents of them to his labourers.

But at harvest-time he came riding up on horseback, along with his
brother, who acted as his bailiff, with his gun over his shoulder, and
never left the spot. He slept out in the fields, in spite of the
malaria, so as to look after his interests, without troubling himself
about God or man. The poor wretches who, in the fine season, had
forgotten the hard days of the winter, remained open-mouthed, hearing
him run over the litany of their debts. “So many pounds of beans that
your wife came to fetch at the time of the snow. So many faggots handed
over to your son. So many bushels of grain you have had in advance, for
seed, with interest, at so much a month. Now make up the account.” A
confused account enough. In that year of dearth, when Uncle Carmenio had
left his sweat and his health in his Reverence’s fields, he was forced,
when harvest came, to leave his donkey there too, to pay his debts, and
went off empty-handed, with ugly words in his mouth—blasphemies that
were enough to freeze your very blood. His Reverence, who was not there
to hear confessions, let him swear,—and led the ass into his own stable.

But after 1860, when heresy had triumphed, what good did all his power
and influence do him? The country people learning to read and write, and
able to add up accounts better than he himself; parties fighting for
office in the municipal government, and sharing the spoils without a
consideration in the world for any one but themselves; the next beggar
in the street able to get legal advice for nothing, if he had a quarrel
with you, and force you to pay the costs alone! A priest was nothing
whatever nowadays—either for the judge or the militia captain; he could
no longer, by dropping a hint, get people imprisoned if they failed in
respect to him; in fact, he was good for nothing but to say mass and
hear confessions, just as though he were a servant of the public. The
judge was afraid of the papers—of public opinion—of what Tom, Dick, and
Harry would say—and balanced his decisions like Solomon! They even
envied his Reverence the property he had acquired in the sweat of his
brow; they had “overlooked” him and cast spells on him; the little he
ate at dinner tortured him at night; while his brother, who led a hard
life and dined on bread and garlic, had the digestion of an ostrich, and
knew very well that, in a hundred years’ time, when he, the priest, was
dead, he would be his heir, and find himself rich without lifting a
finger. His mother, poor body, was past work now—she survived only to
suffer herself and be a trouble to other people—helpless in her bed with
paralysis; she had to be waited on, instead of waiting on him.
Everything went wrong in these days.

“There’s no religion now—no justice—no anything!” he would grumble, as
he was growing old. “Now everybody wants to have his say. Those who have
nothing want to grab your share. ‘Get out of that and let me get in!’
That’s it! They’d like to reduce the priests to sacristans—leave them
nothing to do but say mass and sweep out the church. They don’t want to
obey God’s commandments any more—that’s what’s the matter with _them_!”

_G. Verga._

_PADRON ’NTONI’S POLITICS._

... Padron ’Ntoni knew nothing about politics, and contented himself
with minding his own affairs, for he used to say, “He who has charge of
a house cannot sleep when he pleases,” and “He who commands has to give
account.”

In December 1863, ’Ntoni, the eldest of his grandsons, had been called
out for the naval conscription. Padron ’Ntoni went at once to all the
big-wigs of the village, thinking that they would be able to help him.
But Don Giammaria the priest said that it served him right, and that
this was the fruit of that revolution of Satan they had brought about
when they hoisted the tricolour on the church tower. On the other hand,
Don Franco the chemist began to laugh under his great beard, and assured
Padron ’Ntoni, rubbing his hands, that as soon as they were able to rig
up a bit of a republic, which was what was wanted, every one who had to
do with the conscription and the taxes should be kicked out; that there
would then be no more soldiers, but every man in the country would go to
war if it were needed. Then Padron ’Ntoni prayed and entreated him to
get the Republic made soon—before his grandson ’Ntoni had to go for a
soldier, just as though Don Franco had the Republic in his pocket,
insomuch that the chemist ended by losing his temper. Then Don
Silvestro, the Syndic’s secretary, nearly killed himself with laughing,
and said that a nice little sum paid into the pockets of such and such
personages he knew of would have the effect of producing in ’Ntoni some
defect which would make him ineligible for service.

_G. Verga._

_MASTRO PEPPE’S MAGIC._

Mastro Peppe La Bravetta was a stout, stupid, good-natured man, living
in Pescara, who sold pots and pans, and was terribly in awe of his wife,
the severe and miserly Donna Pelagia, who ruled him with a rod of iron.
Besides the income derived from his business, he possessed a piece of
land on the other side of the river which produced enough to keep a pig.
To this property the couple were wont to repair every January, to
preside over the killing and salting of the pig which had been fattening
through the year.

[Illustration]

Now one year it so happened that Pelagia was not very well, and La
Bravetta went to attend the execution alone. And to him, in the course
of the afternoon, came two of his friends, graceless vagabonds, Matteo
Puriello, nicknamed Ciávola, who was a poacher, and Biagio Quaglia,
better known as Il Ristabilito, whose most serious occupation was that
of playing the guitar at weddings and on other festive occasions.

When he saw these two approaching he welcomed them enthusiastically, and
then, leading them into the building where the wonderful pig was laid
out on the table, asked—

“What do you say to this, now? Isn’t he a beauty? What do you think of
him?”

The two friends contemplated the pig in silent wonder, and Ristabilito
clicked his tongue appreciatively against his palate. Ciávola asked,
“What are you going to do with it?”

“Salt it down,” replied La Bravetta, in a voice which trembled with
greedy delight of future banquets.

“Going to salt it?” cried Ristabilito suddenly. “Going to salt it? But,
Ciá, did you ever see any man so stupid as this fellow? To let such a
chance slip!”

La Bravetta, quite dumfoundered, stared first at one and then at the
other with his calf-like eyes.

“Donna Pelagge has always kept you under her thumb,” continued
Ristabilito. “This time she can’t see you; why shouldn’t you sell the
pig, and then we’ll feast on the money.”

“But Pelagge?” stammered La Bravetta, who was filled with an immense
consternation by the image of his wrathful wife presented to his mind’s
eye.

“Tell her that the pig was stolen,” said Ciávola, with a gesture of
impatience.

La Bravetta shuddered.

“How am I to go home and tell her that? Pelagge won’t believe me—she’ll
drive me—she’ll ... You don’t know what Pelagge is!”

[Illustration]

“Uh! Pelagge! uh! uh! Donna Pelagge!” jeered the two arch-plotters in
chorus. And then Ristabilito, imitating Peppe’s whining voice, and his
wife’s sharp and strident one, acted a comic scene in which Peppe was
utterly routed, scolded, and finally cuffed like a naughty boy.

Ciávola walked round the pig, scarcely able to move for laughing. The
unfortunate butt, seized with a violent fit of sneezing, waved his arms
helplessly, trying to interrupt the dramatic representation. All the
window-panes trembled with the noise. The flaming sunset streamed in on
three very different human faces.

When Ristabilito stopped, Ciávola said—

“Well, let’s go away!”

“If you’ll stay to have supper——” began Mastro Peppe, somewhat
constrainedly.

“No, no, my dear boy,” interrupted Ciávola, as he turned towards the
door, “you do as Pelagge tells you, and salt the pig.”

As the two friends walked along the road Ristabilito said to Ciávola—

“_Compare_, shall we steal that pig to-night?”

“How?” said Ciávola.

“I know how, if they leave it where it was when we saw it.”

“Well, let’s do it. But, then?” said Ciávola.

The other’s whole face lit up, and fairly vibrated with a grin of
delight.

“Never mind—_I_ know,” was all he said.

They saw Don Bergamino Camplone coming along in the moonlight—a black
figure between the rows of leafless poplars with their silvery trunks.
They immediately quickened their pace to meet him; and the jolly priest,
seeing their festive looks, asked with a smile—

“What’s up now?”

The friends briefly communicated their project to Don Bergamino, who
assented with much cheerfulness. And Ristabilito added, in a low voice—

“Here we shall have to manage things cunningly. You know that Peppe,
ever since he took up with that ugly old hag of a Donna Pelagge, has
been getting very stingy, and at the same time he’s very fond of wine.
Now we must go and fetch him and take him to Assaù’s tavern. You, Don
Bergamino, must treat us all round. Peppe will drink as much as ever he
can, seeing it costs him nothing, and will get as drunk as a pig; and
then——”

The others agreed, and they went to Peppe’s house, which was about two
rifle-shots distant. When they were near enough Ciávola lifted up his
voice—

“Ohé! La Bravetta-a-a! Are you coming to Assaù’s? The priest is here,
and he’s going to pay for a bottle of wine for us. Ohé-é-é!”

La Bravetta was not long in descending, and all four set off in a row,
joking and laughing in the moonlight. In the stillness the caterwauling
of a distant cat was heard at intervals, and Ristabilito remarked—

“Oh! Pé! don’t you hear Pelagge calling you to come back?”

* * * * *

They crossed the ferry, reached the tavern, and sat till late over
Assaù’s wine, which Mastro Peppe found so good that he was at last
discovered to be incapable of walking home. They assisted him back to
the house and left him to go upstairs alone, which he did with some
difficulty, talking disconnectedly all the time about Lepruccio the
butcher and the quantity of salt needed for the pig, and quite oblivious
of the fact that he had left the door unfastened. They waited a while,
and then, entering softly, found the pig on the table, and carried it
off between them, shaking with suppressed laughter. It was very heavy,
and they were quite out of breath when they reached the priest’s house.

In the morning, Mastro Peppe having slept off his wine, awoke, and lay
still a little while on his bed, stretching his limbs and listening to
the bells as they rang for the Eve of St. Anthony. Even in the confusion
of his first awakening he felt a contented sense of possession steal
through his mind, and tasted by anticipation the delight of seeing
Lepruccio cutting up and covering with salt the plump joints of pork.

[Illustration]

Under the impulse of this idea, he rose, and hurried out, rubbing his
eyes the while to get a better view. Nothing was to be seen on the table
but a stain of blood, with the morning sun shining on it.

“The pig! Where is the pig?” cried the bereaved one hoarsely.

A furious excitement seized upon him. He rushed downstairs, saw the open
door, struck his forehead with his fists, and burst into the open air
yelling aloud—calling all his farm labourers round him, and asking them
if they had seen the pig—if they had taken it. He multiplied his
complaints, raising his voice more and more; and at last the doleful
sound, echoing along the river-bank, reached the ears of Ciávola and Il
Ristabilito.

They therefore repaired to the spot at their ease, fully agreed to enjoy
the sight and keep up the joke. When they came in sight, Mastro Peppe
turned to them, all afflicted and in tears, and exclaimed, “Oh! poor me!
They have stolen the pig! Oh! poor me! What shall I do?—what shall I
do?”

Biagio Quaglia stood for a while, looking at this most unhappy man out
of his half-shut eyes, with an expression midway between derision and
admiration, and his head inclined to one shoulder, as if critically
judging of some dramatic effort. Then he came closer and said—

“Ah! yes, yes—one can’t deny it.... You play your part well.”

Peppe, not understanding, lifted his face all furrowed with the tracks
of tears....

“To tell the truth, I never thought you would have been so cute,”
Ristabilito went on. “Well done! Bravo! I’m delighted!”

“What’s that you’re saying?” asked La Bravetta between his sobs. “What’s
that you’re saying? Oh! poor me! How can I ever go home again?”

“Bravo! bravo! that’s right!” insisted Ristabilito. “Go on! Yell
harder!—cry!—tear your hair! Make them hear! That’s it! Make them
believe it!”

And Peppe, still weeping—

“But I say they have really and truly stolen it! Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

“That’s it! Go on! Don’t stop! Again!”

Peppe, quite beside himself with exasperation and grief, redoubled his
asseverations.

“I’m telling the truth! May I die now, at once, if they haven’t stolen
that pig from me!”

“Oh, poor innocent!” jeered Ciávola. “Put your finger in your eye! How
can we believe you, when we saw the pig here yesterday evening? Has St.
Anthony given him wings to fly away with?”

“Oh, blessed St. Anthony! It is just as I say!”

“It’s not so!”

“It is.”

“No!”

“Oh! oh! oh! It is! it is! I’m a dead man! I don’t know how in the world
I am to go home. Pelagge won’t believe me, and if she does, I shall
never hear the end of it.... Oh! I’m dead!...”

At last they pretended to be convinced, and proposed a remedy for the
misfortune.

“Listen here,” said Biagio Quaglia; “it must have been one of the people
hereabouts; for it is certain that no one would have come from India to
steal your pig, would they, Pé?”

“Of course, of course,” assented Peppe.

“Well then—attend to me now,” continued Ristabilito, delighted at the
devout attention accorded to his words; “if no one came from India to
rob you, it is certain that one of the people hereabouts must have been
the thief; don’t you think so?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Well, what have we to do? We must get all these labourers together, and
try some charm to discover the thief. And if we find the thief, we’ve
found the pig.”

Mastro Peppe’s eyes brightened with eagerness, and he came closer, for
the hint at a charm had awakened all his innate superstition.

“Now, you know, there are three kinds of magic—the black, the red, and
the white. And you know there are three women in the village skilled in
the art: Rosa Schiavona, Rosaria Pajara, and Ciniscia. You have only to
choose.”

Peppe remained a moment in doubt. Then he decided for Rosaria Pajara,
who enjoyed great fame as a sorceress, and had in past times performed
several marvellous feats.

“Very well,” concluded Ristabilito; “there is no time to be lost. Now,
just for your sake, and only to do you a pleasure, I am going to the
town to get everything that will be wanted. I will talk to Rosaria, get
her to give me everything, and come back before noon. Give me the
money.”

Peppe took three _carlini_ from his waistcoat pocket, and held them out
hesitatingly.

“Three _carlini_?” shouted the other, putting back his hand. “_Three
carlini!_ She’ll want ten at least!”

On hearing this Pelagge’s husband was almost struck dumb.

“What? Ten _carlini_ for a charm?” he stammered, feeling with trembling
fingers in his pocket. “Here are eight for you. I have no more.”

“Well, well,” said Quaglia dryly; “we’ll see what we can do. Are you
coming along, Ciá?”

The two companions set off at a smart pace for Pescara, along the
poplar-bordered path, in Indian file, Ciávola demonstrating his delight
by mighty thumps on Ristabilito’s back. When they reached the town, they
entered the shop of a certain Don Daniele Pacentro, a chemist of their
acquaintance. Here they purchased certain drugs and spices, and got him
to make them up into little balls the size of walnuts, which were then
well coated with sugar and baked. Biagio Quaglia (who had disappeared in
the meantime) then returned with a paper full of dirt swept up in the
road, of which he insisted on having two pills made, in appearance
exactly similar to the others, but mixed with bitter aloes, and only
very slightly coated with sugar. The chemist did as he was desired,
putting a mark on the two bitter pills, at Ristabilito’s suggestion.

The two jokers now returned to Peppe’s farm, and reached it about noon.
La Bravetta was awaiting them with great anxiety, and as soon as he saw
them shouted, “Well?”

“Everything is in order!” replied Ristabilito triumphantly, showing the
little box of magic confectionery. “Now, seeing to-day is the Eve of St.
Anthony, and the peasants are taking a holiday, you must call them all
together, out here in the open air, and give them a drink. You have some
casks of Montepulciano; you might as well have some of that out for
once. And when they are all assembled it will be my business to do and
say all that has to be said and done.”

Two hours later, the afternoon being very warm, bright, and clear, and
La Bravetta having spread the report, all the farmers of the
neighbourhood and their labourers came in response to the invitation. A
great flock of geese went waddling about among the heaps of straw in the
yard; the smell of the stable came in puffs on the air. They stood
there, quietly laughing and joking with one another, as they waited for
the wine,—these rustics, with their bow-legs, bent by heavy labour,—some
of them with faces wrinkled and ruddy as old apples, and eyes that had
been made gentle by long patience, or quick with years of cunning;
others young and limber, with beards just coming, and home care
evidenced in their patched and mended clothes.

Ciávola and Ristabilito did not keep them waiting long. The latter,
holding the box in his hand, directed them to make a circle round him,
and then, standing in the middle, addressed them in a short oration, not
without a certain gravity of voice and gesture.

“Neighbours,” he began, “none of you, I am sure, knows the real reason
why Mastro Peppe de’ Sieri has summoned you here....”

A movement of astonishment at this strange preamble passed round the
circle, and the joy at the promised wine gave place to uneasy
expectations of various kinds. The orator continued—

“But, as something disagreeable might happen, and you might afterwards
complain of me, I will tell you what it is all about before we make the
experiment.”

The listeners looked into one another’s eyes with a bewildered air, and
then cast curious and uncertain glances at the little box which the
orator held in his hand. One of them, as Ristabilito paused to consider
the effect of his words, exclaimed impatiently—

“Well?”

“Presently, presently, neighbours. Last night there was stolen from
Mastro Peppe a fine pig which was going to be salted down. No one knows
who the thief is; but it is quite certain that he will be found among
you, because no one would come from India to steal Mastro Peppe’s pig.”

[Illustration]

Whether it was a happy effect of the strange argument from India, or the
action of the mild winter sun, La Bravetta began to sneeze. The rustics
took a step backward, the whole flock of geese scattered in terror, and
seven consecutive sneezes resounded freely in the air, disturbing the
rural stillness of the spot. The noise restored some cheerfulness to the
minds of the assembly, who in a little while regained their composure,
and Ristabilito continued as gravely as ever—

“To find out the thief Mastro Peppe intends to give you to eat of
certain good _confetti_, and to drink of a certain old Montepulciano,
which he has tapped to-day on purpose. But I must tell you one thing
first. The thief, as soon as he puts the sweets into his mouth, will
find them bitter—so bitter that he will be forced to spit them out. Now,
are you willing to try? Or perhaps the thief, rather than be found out
in this way, would like to go and confess himself to the priest? Answer,
neighbours.”

“We are willing to eat and drink,” replied the assembly, almost with one
voice. And a wave of suppressed emotion passed through all these
guileless folk. Each one looked at his neighbour with a point of
interrogation in his eyes; and each one naturally tried to put a certain
ostentatious spontaneity into his laughter.

Said Ciávola: “You must all stand in a row, so that no one can hide
himself.”

When they were all ready he took the bottle and glasses, preparing to
pour out the wine. Ristabilito went to one end of the row, and began
quietly to distribute the _confetti_, which crunched and disappeared in
a moment under the splendid teeth of the rustics. When he reached Mastro
Peppe he handed him one of the pills prepared with aloes, and passed on
without giving any sign.

Mastro Peppe, who till then had been standing staring with his eyes wide
open, intent on surprising the culprit, put the pill into his mouth
almost with gluttonous eagerness and began to chew. Suddenly his cheeks
rose with a sudden movement towards his eyes, the corners of his mouth
and his temples were filled with wrinkles, the skin of his nose was
drawn up into folds, his lower jaw was twisted awry; all his features
formed a pantomimic expression of horror, and a sort of visible shudder
ran down the back of his neck and over his shoulders. Then, suddenly,
since the tongue could not endure the bitterness of the aloes, and a
lump rising in his throat made it simply impossible for him to swallow,
the miserable man was forced to spit.

“Ohé, Mastro Pé, what are you doing?” exclaimed the sharp, harsh voice
of Tulespre dei Passeri, an old goatherd, greenish and shaggy as a swamp
tortoise.

Hearing this, Ristabilito, who had not yet finished distributing the
pills, turned suddenly round. Seeing that La Bravetta was contorting his
features and limbs in agony, he said, with an air of the greatest
benevolence—

“Well, perhaps that one was too much done! Here is another! swallow it,
Peppe!”

And with his finger and thumb he crammed the second aloe-pill into
Peppe’s mouth.

The poor man took it, and, feeling the goatherd’s sharp, malignant eyes
fixed on him, made a supreme effort to overcome his disgust; he neither
chewed nor swallowed the pill, but kept his tongue motionless against
his teeth. But when the aloes began to dissolve, he could bear it no
longer; his lips began to writhe as before, his eyes filled with tears,
which soon overflowed and ran down his cheeks. At last he had to spit
the thing out.

“Ohé, Mastro Pé, and what are you doing _now_?” cried the goatherd
again, with a grin which showed his toothless, whitish gums. “Oh! and
indeed, now, what does this mean?”

All the peasants broke from their ranks and surrounded La Bravetta, some
with laughing derision, others with angry words. The sudden and brutal
revulsions of pride to which the sense of honour of the rustic
population is subject—the implacable rigidity of superstition—now
suddenly exploded in a tempest of abuse.

“What did you make us come here for? To try and lay the blame on us with
a false charm? To cheat us? What for? Thief! liar! son of a dog! etc.,
etc. Would you cheat us? You scoundrel! you thief, you! We are going to
break all your pots and dishes! Thief! son of a dog!” etc., etc., _da
capo_.

Having smashed the bottle and glasses, they went their ways, shouting
back their concluding imprecations from among the poplars.

There remained on the threshing-floor Ciávola, Ristabilito, the geese,
and La Bravetta. The latter, filled with shame, rage, and confusion, and
with his mouth still sore from the bitterness of the aloes, could not
utter a word. Ristabilito, with a refinement of cruelty, stood looking
at him, shaking his head ironically, and tapping the ground with his
foot. Ciávola crowed, with an indescribable mockery in his voice—

“Ah! ah! ah! ah! Bravo, La Bravetta! Now do tell us—how much did you
make by it? Ten ducats?”

_Gabriele d’Annunzio._

_A DAY IN THE COUNTRY._

“It is no use talking, my dear fellow!—there are times when it is simply
impossible to say no. They urge you—they worry you—they lay you under
obligation by so many kind attentions, that a refusal would be an actual
breach of good manners towards people whose only thought is to do you a
kindness.”

You allege business. “Oh!” they reply, “the world will not come to an
end for one day’s absence.” It is too hot? “Come in the morning, when it
is cool.” The village is such a long way from the station? “We will send
the gig for you.” You have engaged to pass the day with a friend? “Bring
him along with you....” In short, I said yes,—and so on Sunday morning I
went and did the deed.

When I had reached the village, and found myself in the midst of a crowd
of peasants coming out from early mass, who looked at me as if I had
been a wild beast, I asked for Signor Cosimo’s house. Eight or ten
people immediately offered to accompany me thither.

“There it is—up there; do you see that house with a little tower on the
top?—that’s it. Do you know Sor Cosimo? Ah! he’s a good gentleman! And
his brother the priest? And his wife, Sora Flavia? She’s a kind lady, so
she is, and gives away ever so much money. And Sora Olimpia, too, Signor
Cosimo’s sister.... She’s one who has her own ideas ... as who should
say that she has such a passion for books that she always has one in her
hands, and has nearly lost her head over them; but afterwards, do you
see? she repeats them all by heart, in a way that no one could believe
it! And she is a good creature too; and, as for her family, when there
is anything to be put on paper, I don’t see how they could ever do
without her.... There used to be Bistino, Sor Cosimo’s eldest son, but
now he is in the seminary at Volterra, and they say that he does them so
much credit there that they won’t even let him come home for the
holidays. There’s a boy for you! When he was at home, and used to help
his uncle the chaplain at his net,[15] the two between them caught more
birds in a day than all the other nets in a week.... Look, sir, you turn
this way and go up hill, and you can’t miss it!”

All this varied information about my hosts, with whom I was already
slightly acquainted, was given me on the way by the peasants, who, each
in turn, vied with the rest in bestowing it on me, till, having escorted
me to the end of a short avenue leading to the villa, they quitted me
with respectful salutations, after asking me whether I required any
servants.

Scarcely had I rung the bell when the door was opened by a youth in his
shirt sleeves, and a white apron tucked into the waistband of his
trousers.

“Is Signor Cosimo in?”

“Oh! yes, sir! Come in, come in! You are that gentleman from Florence
who sent yesterday to say that perhaps he would come to-day—eh?”

“Yes.”

“Come, then, come along! The master said I was to show you into the best
room, and he will come presently. That’s right, sir! You’ve done well to
come. Such a long time as they’ve been talking about you, and expecting
you! Are they all well at Florence? See; come in here and sit down. Will
you excuse me, sir?”

“Go on, go on, my good fellow.”

I went and sat down by the window, and began to turn over an old
photograph album. In the meantime I perceived that my arrival might
truly be said to have created a sensation, since I could hear on the
first floor a great banging of doors and a going and coming of shod and
unshod feet, which caused a thick shower of whitewash to descend from
the ceiling, and the window-panes and the glass shade covering a wax
figure on the sideboard to vibrate as with an earthquake.

After a few minutes I heard a scratching at the door, then a kick
against it; it opened, and I saw a child of about six years, with a
half-eaten apple in his hand. He looked at me with an air of
displeasure, and asked—

“I say, is that your book? You’ve got to put it down at once—if you
don’t, I’ll tell my uncle the priest.”

I laid aside the album, but he continued to look daggers at me.

“Are you that stranger that was to come to-day?”

“Yes, little one.” Affecting a caressing gentleness, in order to
conciliate him, I held out my hand. The small boy retreated two paces,
and showed symptoms of being about to throw the apple at my head.

“Will you keep your hands to yourself? What did you come up here for?”

I was beginning to feel annoyed, and did not answer.

“Yes, yes—father told you to come—I know that well enough; but mother
didn’t want you, because she had to have all those fowls killed. Gostino
is plucking them just now. But you’re going away this evening?... Won’t
you answer? But I hope you are,—because, when mother saw you coming
along the road, she wished you all sorts of bad luck.”...

The door opened, and there appeared, shod in slippers, the magnificent
bulk of Signor Cosimo, who, smiling cordially, clapped his great hands
on my shoulders, saying, three times over, “Bravo, bravo, bravo!” Then,
turning to the small boy, he demanded—

“What are you doing here?”

“Just what I think fit!” replied the infant, who was thereupon expelled
from the room with a tremendous box on the ear, after which his father
turned to me and invited me to be seated.

My eye was at once caught by the grease-spots, and stains of wine and
coffee, which adorned Signor Cosimo’s shirt and trousers. To tell the
truth, I was uncomfortably affected by the sense of a want of
consideration towards myself, but was soon appeased by his apologies for
having kept me waiting, because he had gone upstairs to his own room, to
“clean himself up a bit.”

“Oh! but.... Don’t mention it, Signor Cosimo!”

“Oh! bravo! bravo! bravo! But what a season, eh? Look here, you must be
in need of some refreshment.... Gostino-o-o-o! What are they saying?
What do they say in Florence about the crops?... Bravo! bravo! It is
very good of you to have come; you have given us a regular treat!”

“Did you call, sir?”

“Go upstairs, Gostino, and ask your mistress to give you the keys of the
sideboard, and bring this gentleman some refreshments.” Then to the
child, who had returned in the wake of the servitor, “Go at once and get
your face washed and make yourself fit to be seen.” With that, he boxed
the small boy’s ears a second time, and turned him out of the room.

“And as to fruit, my dear sir, there’s nothing at all this year.”

“Ah!”

“Well, what is one to say? For the last three years it’s clear there has
been witchcraft in it. Just imagine it. I used to put aside four hundred
pounds in a year, and now ... sometimes fifty, sometimes sixty.... And
then, what stuff it is! Every bit worm-eaten! I beg your pardon, but
will you come down into the granary with me? But, no—I hear my brother
coming down; we’ll wait for him.”

“Let us wait for him, by all means.”

“He’s a queer sort of customer, you know—a confirmed grumbler!—but,
after all, a good sort at bottom. The other day, for instance, do you
see——he suffers so much from——”

These preliminaries to the introduction were interrupted by the
appearance of Don Paolo himself, who entered the room with a profound
bow. I rose, and was going to meet him, but he protested.

“No, no, I won’t have it—don’t disturb yourself, sir. If you will excuse
me, I will keep my hat on, as that is my custom. Sit down, sit down,
pray.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Sor Cosimo resumed the
conversation.

“You see, Paolo, this is the gentleman whom we were speaking of——”

“I know! I know! Bless you! can’t you make an end of it? How many times
do you find it necessary to repeat a thing?”

“No—I wanted to tell you——”

“Have you sent for refreshments?”

“I told Gostino. He is just coming.”

“And so you’re from Florence, eh?” asked the chaplain, turning to me.

“At your service.”

“A wretched year, my dear sir! If it does not rain soon we shall never
get any crops to speak of.... A year ago this very day I had taken
fifty-six birds by ten o’clock; and this morning, before I came away to
mass at eight, we had caught three miserable little things, and an
accursed hawk that has half bitten my hand to pieces—look! Are they
taking any at Florence?”

“To tell the truth, I have never asked.”

“Is the Prior of San Gaggio catching any this year?—is he catching any?”

“To my knowledge ... I could not say at all.”

“Ah! because last Friday he sent to tell me that he had not even had the
decoy-cages made. He says that Father Lorenzo della Santissima
Annunziata is not well. Is that true?”

“To tell the truth ... I do not know.”

“What!—do you know nothing, then?”

“I will tell you.... Let us rather speak of yourself. Signor Cosimo was
telling me just now——”

“I must run out for a moment to the net. I say, Cosimo, what time is
dinner?”

“Tell the women to get it at any hour that suits you.”

“Ah! here’s one of them,” said Don Paolo, who was just in the doorway.
“What o’clock do we dine, Flavia?—at twelve?”

Signora Flavia, the wife of my host, bowed her head in assent as she
entered the room, while the chaplain, an unsaluted guest, went off to
his nets. She came to meet me, asked me how I was, said that she was
pleased to hear it before I had time to answer “Well,” and planted
herself in a chair to look at me. Sor Cosimo, upon Whom all the
conversation seemed to devolve, remarked—

“See, Flavia, this is the gentleman who, as I was telling you the other
evening——” Whereupon Sora Flavia began again, _da capo_.

“How are you?—Well?”

“Yes, madam.”

“And your wife?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Remember me to her.” Then, looking at her husband as if to ask him
whether she ought to say any more to me, she relapsed into silence, and
fell to contemplating me again.

Fortunately Signor Cosimo relieved me from the embarrassment of choosing
the subject of conversation by reverting to politics. The Tunis Question
being then at its height, he naturally fell upon it tooth and nail, grew
heated and excited, and blurted out, puffing and blowing, all his ideas
touching foreign politics, concluding with the statement that if he and
his brother the priest had been in the Cabinet, there would not be a
Frenchman in Tunis.... At this point Signora Flavia interrupted him by
asking me if there was any cotton in the material of my coat. I choked
down a burst of laughter, and hazarded the answer that there was not.

“Then it is very dear, is it not?”

“Yes; I think it was seven francs a mètre.”

“Ah! they measure by mètres, do they? It must be good stuff, though.
Just look, Cosimo; you ought to have one made like it——”

“Yes, yes; just like you—always interrupting! We’ll speak of that
afterwards.”... Then, turning to me again—

“Because, if France——” He was just about to recommence the attack on
Tunis when the door opened to admit his sister Olimpia, a maiden lady of
fifty or so, the same whose literary reputation had made so great an
impression on the peasants.

She had on a faded light blue dress, wore a crinoline, and carried a
puce-coloured mantilla over her arm. On her head she had a broad-brimmed
straw hat of a dingy yellow, adorned with a wreath of real ivy, and two
small locks of well-greased hair fell in soft folds on the slightly
roughened skin of her cheeks. In one hand she carried her parasol and a
bunch of lavender; in the other a book, in which she kept her finger to
mark the place. She advanced with ostentatious ease of manner, and
bowed, half-shutting her eyes.

“Sir,” she said, “you are welcome to this modest habitation.”

“A delicious habitation, Signorina, where I should be very sorry to be
troublesome.” She again half-shut her eyes, and smiled on me. Retiring
backwards, as gracefully as she could, she went and sat down with her
back to the window. She was evidently well acquainted with the clumsy
artifices of a very mature young lady.

I was contemplating her with the utmost attention, when I felt a heavy
hand on my shoulder, and Sor Cosimo said to me—

“You ought to hear what poetry this girl writes! Have you got it here,
Olimpia—that sonnet you made last Sunday?”

“That ode, you mean—come!”

“Well, well—sonnet or ode—it’s the same thing. But if you could hear
it—with rhymes, and all! I tell you! Come, let us hear it!”

“Afterwards, Cosimo, afterwards!”

Heaven preserve me! Turning to Signorina Olimpia, who still kept her
finger in her book, I asked—

“What are you reading, may I ask?”

“I am just glancing over Leopardi.”

“Ah! ah!” And Sor Cosimo broke in—

“Fine! fine!—ah! very fine!”

“Are you acquainted with his works, Sor Cosimo?”

“Oh! most certainly! She read it to us last Sunday at dessert, and made
us all cry like babies.”

“No, Cosimo, you do not understand. The gentleman means this book that I
have here.”

“Ah! what! Well, well!... I was speaking of the sonnet. But you shall
hear it afterwards.... And you must repeat that one too that you wrote
when Calamai’s son was made a priest. Oh! _that!_ And then.... But don’t
imagine, sir, that she has only one. She has a whole drawer full, and
you may say that, if one is fine, others are not so bad.... Well, you
shall hear.”

I was eager to hear her opinion of Leopardi, and asked—

“What do you think of this book, Signorina?”

“I will tell you,” she replied. “To say the truth, I have scarcely got
at the bottom of it as yet, ... but, if I must speak sincerely, it seems
to me there is not much interest in it.”

“Ah!”

“Don’t you think so too?”

“Well—yes—in a manner of speaking, yes!”

“If you will allow me to say so, no story is ever finished properly. You
find Consalvo—that, now, is stolen from Tasso, the scene of Clorinda and
Tancred.... Well, you find Consalvo. What then? Consalvo dies, and, at
least as far as I have got, one hears no more of her. And the same thing
with the characters. There is that one of that Nerina; it would be fine
enough, but, good heavens! it is so little developed ... and one does
not know what to make of it...! Do you agree with me?”

“Well ... to tell the truth ...”

“You see, Cosimo, whether or not I was right when we were discussing the
subject the other evening with Signora Amalia.”

“I should think so, indeed!” exclaimed Sor Cosimo, testifying his
approval by a great guffaw of laughter. “Do you mean to say you would
compare yourself with that conceited creature? Let her go for seven
years to school with the Sisters of St. Francis de Sales, as you have
been, and then come and talk to us....”

* * * * *

The amazing literary criticisms of Sor Cosimo and his sister completely
took away my breath. I was relieved from the necessity of answering by
the appearance of Gostino with a bottle and a tray of glasses.

“I am sure you’ll like this wine, sir; you’ll see!” said Gostino as he
poured me out some wine.

“Come, come, Gostino!” said Signorina Olimpia.

“Look sharp, Gostino,” continued Sor Cosimo; “go and fetch two more
bottles—one of ’62 (you’ll find it on the table at the end of the
cellar), and the other of ’59 (the year of the Revolution), and you
shall see”—he turned to me again—“you shall see you have never tasted
any like this!”

“But ... that’s enough, Signor Cosimo!”

“Come, come; no compliments. While it’s coming you’ll take another drop
of this, won’t you?”

“Thanks, but I could not.... I am not accustomed....”

“Sir—I’m going to have another glass too—as the friar took a wife, for
company’s sake.... Shall I pour you some out? You can throw it away
afterwards, if you like—but I must pour if out”

“Very well, then; since you wish it so, another sip.... Enough,—that’s
enough!”

“No, sir—the glass full, or none!”

Gostino returned with the other bottles, and then they all fell upon me,
beginning with Signora Flavia, and not excluding Gostino, beseeching me
to try those also. Signor Cosimo nudged my elbow, Gostino poured out the
wine, and the two ladies entreated me with eloquent glances not to do
them the wrong of refusing this attention.

I resisted for a little, but had to give way at last; and then my evil
genius inspired me with the notion of praising the quality of the wine,
and remarking that not only must the grapes have been exquisite, but the
casks and cellars first-rate also. I regretted the words the moment they
were out of my mouth.

“I’m going to show you them,” said Sor Cosimo immediately.

He took my arm, and, leaving the ladies in the dining-room, dragged me
off to the cellar, with Gostino to light the way—now warning me of a
step, and again requesting me to stoop where the ceiling was low, and at
last showing himself more astonished than I could possibly be at the
beauty of a cobwebbed vault, with a few casks along one wall, and two
smaller barrels in a corner.

As it was necessary for me to be astonished, and to admire something, I
began to praise the solid construction of the house, which I inferred
from an inspection of the basement walls.

“Well, you shall see it now!”

From the cellar we ascended to the ground floor, which I had to review
in detail—dining-room, ironing-room, kitchen, oven, larder,
cupboards.... Then the new staircase—the first one was where the
store-room is now.... Then the study, which his brother the priest had
wished to have on the site of the stable they had had pulled down, but
that was too damp.... Then up to the first floor—drawing-room,
sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, and everything,—in fact, before I knew what I
was about, I beheld Sora Olimpia trying on her puce-coloured mantle
before the looking-glass.... “Look out of the window—now isn’t that a
view? There’s the kitchen-garden. We’ll go there afterwards, but first
you must see the second floor.”

We went up to the second floor, where he led me round for some twenty
minutes, explaining in detail the destination of every apartment,
together with the most noteworthy events which had taken place in the
same—from the large room where the silkworms lived to the dark den where
the chaplain kept the bullfinches he was teaching to pipe....

At the foot of the stairs we met Don Paolo returning from his quail
nets, puffing and blowing, and grumbling at the Provost’s hurry to get
to church. “Was he afraid of not finishing mass in time to get back to
dinner, the great glutton? Do, for any sake, go on, Cosimo; do me the
kindness—bad luck to this sort of work!—and tell them to be getting
ready in the meantime, and I’ll come in ten minutes—if they don’t like
that, they may sing mass by themselves....”

“Do you see?” whispered Sor Cosimo to me, “that’s his way. If he doesn’t
catch any birds he becomes a regular beast. Come, let us go on; the
ladies will follow by themselves.”

“They have already started, sir,” said Gostino.

“All the better; come along.”

I should have been thankful to sit down and rest for a minute, but had
to follow Sor Cosimo, who, in order to get away from his brother, set
off at such a pace that it was difficult to keep up with him.

Mountains stand firm, and men move on. When Sor Cosimo, hurrying into
the door of the canon’s house, left me under the church-porch, my eye
fell on a well-dressed man whose face somehow seemed familiar. As we
passed each other, in walking up and down, I saw that his eyes were
fixed on me, and that he was smiling, as if about to address me. I was
just about to speak to him, as we met for the third time, when he
uttered my name, and I suddenly recalled his.

“After nineteen years! How in the world did you get here?”

“I’m the parish doctor. And you?”

“I only came out for the day.”

“You’ll come and dine with me?”

“I am engaged.”

“To whom?”

“We’ll speak of that afterwards. Now tell me about yourself.... How are
you getting on?”

“As well as a country doctor ever does.”

“And with the peasants.”

“Badly.”

“Why?”

“Because, being a gentleman, I am not a beast like themselves.”

“I understand. And how about the local authorities?”

“No better. I am not on good terms with the Syndic; and, by-the-bye, I
must be off before he comes.”

“The reason?”

“I was imprudent enough to contradict him in public—in the chemist’s
shop, when, speaking of books on etiquette, he mentioned Monsignor della
Casa and _Flavio_ Gioja!”[16]

“Who is this portent of erudition?”

“The wealthiest, the most cultured, the most respectable person in the
commune—a certain Signor Cosimo.”

“My host!”

“Are you staying at his house?”

“I am!”

“How in the world—— But never mind now,—after dinner you must come to me
and tell me about everything, and we shall be together till you leave. I
have a great deal to talk to you about—I’ll drive you down to the
station.... Now let us go in.”

“Here you see my masters,” he said, with a smile, as we came to a halt
in a corner at the upper end of the church. “They are all up there. Do
you know any of them?”

“Only Signor Cosimo’s family.”

“I’ll tell you the names of some—they are quite worth your attention.
They wouldn’t be bad sort of people if it were not for the intolerable
airs they give themselves on the strength of their ignorance. All well
known, though!—all honest folks,—and all of them very much admired,
because the rest of the parish are greater asses than they. Do you see
the priest who is celebrating? That is the Provost of Siepole. A
profound theologian—a thriving dealer in oil—confessor to the nunnery—a
great eater.... He doesn’t like me, but he puts up with me ever since I
cured him of an indigestion which he brought on by eating salted cheese
and beans.”

“He’s not young,” I observed.

“Over sixty. The one at his right is his chaplain, who is at daggers
drawn with me, and gives it out all over the country that I am a
lunatic, because I once refused to make him out a false certificate of
illness. I think there is not much love lost between the two, for family
reasons.... And yet they are never apart; the chaplain’s chief
occupation is to water down his superior’s oaths. Every time the Provost
takes a trick at cards he says ‘_Giuraddio_,’ and the chaplain qualifies
it with ‘_Bacco_.’ So they go on, for the sake of saving appearances and
their souls; but sometimes the Provost feels it as an insult to his
dignity, and takes it ill, and then he snubs the chaplain, and in his
wrath the oaths come dropping out like the beads off a broken rosary,
while the chaplain goes on counteracting them with his ‘_Bacco! bacco!_’
quite unmoved, and ready to face martyrdom rather than yield. He is the
best shot about here, and could beat the whole village at _briscola_.
The poor people adore him, because he says mass in ten minutes, is easy
at confession, and has no scruples about thrashing any man that tries to
play tricks on him.

“The little thin man on this side is an unattached priest—a good
fellow—miserably poor, and in wretched health. He contrives to worry
along somehow and support an elder sister and two grand-children of
hers, whom he teaches himself. He is master, father, and uncle to them,
all in one; and ekes out his means by the help of four or five other
pupils, whom he picks up wherever he can at a franc a month. No one
knows how he does it, but he pays his way, and keeps an honoured name as
a good citizen and blameless priest; and, above all, he is such a _rara
avis_ as not to call down the curse of heaven on his country.[17]... In
the village, as you may easily understand, people either don’t trouble
their heads about him, or else they despise him.

“That other is Sor Cosimo’s brother, whom you know.... I’ll tell you
something about him too; but hush!... every one is kneeling down....”

The silence was followed by the usual shuffling of feet, tinkling of
medals, and indispensable volley of previously suppressed coughs. The
air was becoming more and more unendurably close. The doctor recommenced
his remarks in an undertone.

“And Sor Cosimo’s brother ... he is nicknamed ‘Thickskull’, and yet...”
Here he leaned over and whispered in my ear....

“Never!” I exclaimed in astonishment. “Every day?”

“On my word of honour!”

Here Sor Cosimo smiled at me from the other side of the church, and
waved his hand at the organ, as if to say, “What an instrument we have,
and what an organist! You hear—eh?”

“That man beside Sor Cosimo, with the great black silk scarf round his
neck,” my friend went on, “is Stelloni the miller, a member of the
School Board. Sor Cosimo nominated him, because—considering the
antipathy which Stelloni has shown towards all schools from his
childhood up—he was able to assure the Council that he would never be
one to advocate _unnecessary_ expense! In fact, Stelloni, true to his
principles, has never set foot inside a schoolhouse. He says it is from
a desire not to compromise himself, knowing, as he does, that things are
not managed in the way he would approve of; low and unmannerly people
say it is because he is afraid of having to question the children. He’s
a good-natured sort of fellow, though, and hates no one in the world
except the schoolmaster—that pale young man standing over there by the
pillar,—because he once corrected a grammatical mistake in a composition
by the miller’s son. Stelloni felt a kindly compassion for the master as
long as the point remained doubtful; but when it was established beyond
question that the master was right, his compassion turned to implacable
hatred, and now he would be glad of any excuse for turning him out into
the road to starve.

“That little thin old man, at the end of the row on the right, is one of
the richest landowners in the place; a retired lawyer, and Sor Cosimo’s
predecessor as Syndic. His ruling passion is that of running his head
against stone walls, and systematically contradicting, at every meeting
of the Council, everything that Sor Cosimo proposes. He has immortalised
himself by means of two inscriptions which he had put up—with his own
name in capital letters—during his term of office: one on the public
well, when he had the pump put up,—the other you see opposite you—when
he had the ciborium in the Chapel of the Seven Sorrows re-gilt at his
own expense. He got himself elected Syndic in order to get the new
government road run past the gates of his villa. Afterwards, when he
found this impossible, and also failed to get the title of ‘Cavaliere,’
he retired in a rage. Now he relieves his feelings by taking the
opposition side in the Council;—he turns off one tenant every year, and
imprecates the wrath of Providence on the Government at every possible
opportunity—even when the frost ruined his early tomatoes.”

“And you are in the hands of these people?” I remarked.

“I am in the hands of these people.”

... At the moment of going to table, Sor Cosimo said to me, with a wink,
“We must keep up our spirits to-day—bravo! bravo!” Signora Flavia
repeated, for the sixth time, her fear that I should find it penitential
fare at best, seeing that they had made no alteration in their usual
Sunday’s dinner.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, ostensibly because I was hurt by these
apologies, but in reality because I felt I could not stand much more.
Signorina Olimpia preceded us, curtseying backwards, after having
presented me with a roguish glance and a little bunch of jessamine; and
we entered the dining-room, prepared for a great occasion, as was
evident from the odorous presence of table-linen fresh from the quinces
and lavender of the store-closet.

“Here we are,” Sor Cosimo began again. “We have no ceremony here—a
little soup, a bit of boiled meat, a sweet thing or two, and that’s
all!” He crossed himself and said grace.

The small boy whose acquaintance I had made in the morning, had, on
entering the room, remained open-mouthed for a time; but when he had
taken in all the preparations, and more especially a side-table covered
with pastry, sweets and bottles, he could control himself no longer, and
turning to me, yelled, bringing down both his fists on the table—

“Oh! I say, this is jolly! Look what a lot of nice things there are
to-day, because you’re here!”

Sor Cosimo aimed a kick at him under the table, which fortunately missed
its mark; and immediately a frozen silence fell upon the guests.

The women sighed,—the men glared upon that boy with looks which ought to
have reduced him to ashes on the spot,—and I turned to Signor Cosimo and
asked him, with an air of innocent bewilderment, what his son had said.
My stratagem was perfectly successful, and every one’s face had
brightened up when Gostino appeared in his shirt sleeves, bringing in
the soup. Signora Flavia called him to her, and whispered something in
his ear. At the next course Gostino returned in his shooting-jacket, and
with his hat on. Signora Flavia called him again; and when he next
appeared, with the boiled meat, he had left his hat behind, and cast a
questioning glance at his mistress, as much as to say, “Is it right
now?” She nodded an affirmative, but Sor Cosimo signified to him, by
another glance, that he ought to have known these things without being
told. Gostino signified, in reply, by a shrug of his shoulders, that
they had been bothering him unnecessarily, and requested me to take
another piece of chicken.

This politeness on Gostino’s part was the signal for attack. The wine
had begun to revive the spirits of the company, and had affected Sor
Cosimo more than the rest. A tenant came in to say that at Don Paolo’s
net in the garden they had taken seven bullfinches, by which means he
too was cheered up; and now I found myself overwhelmed by the avalanche
of attentions these good people bestowed on me. They heaped my plate
with eatables, and pressed on me one dish after another, new ones
appearing every time I imagined dinner was at an end. I must take some
spinach, because it was a rarity at this time of year; I must taste that
other dish, because Signorina Olimpia had made the sauce herself. And
all the time Gostino was behind my chair, reproaching me for eating
nothing, and Signora Flavia was lamenting that the dinner was not to my
taste....

At last it was at an end....

And the conversation during dinner? There was none! There was a
continual, dull succession of “Take some——”—“Thank you”—“You’re not
eating”—“You’re not drinking”—and of roars of laughter whenever they had
hit upon a new device for cramming me to death.

“The poems, Olimpia, the poems!” yelled Signor Cosimo at last. “The
sonnet for Calamai!”

I turned at once to Signorina Olimpia, to read in her eyes the gravity
of the calamity which threatened me, and I saw there an expression which
made me sorry for her. Signora Flavia had the same look, and even in the
face of that irrepressible child I thought I read something like fear.
They all gazed at Sor Cosimo in a piteously questioning manner, and then
simultaneously turned towards the place at the end of the table, at his
right.

At that point the master of the house called Gostino, in a tone of
vexation, and the latter appeared, in company with two tenants, who,
seizing Don Paolo under the arms, dragged him like a log out of the
room. I jumped up to offer my assistance, but Sor Cosimo stopped me,
telling me, with a look of mingled pain and humiliation, that I was not
to be frightened—it was quite a customary thing.

“In an hour or two he’ll be all right—heart complaint. The attacks come
on when he has over-eaten himself a little....”

“But why does he not try to moderate himself?”

Sor Cosimo shrugged his shoulders.

“Does it often happen?” I inquired.

“Every day, poor uncle!” replied Signorina Olimpia. “Ah! it is indeed a
great inconvenience!”

“And what does the doctor say?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Sor Cosimo. “Precisely!—you know him, that—that——” He
had no epithet wherewith to qualify the doctor. “The doctor laughs....
I’ll tell you what he says—he laughs; and when I sent for him the second
time, after one of these attacks, ... and when it was I who had got him
his appointment, you understand? _I_ got it for him! Well, he had the
audacity to say to that poor fellow, ‘Chaplain, if I were you, I’d put a
little water in it next time!’ There, do you understand now what the
doctor says? But he has never set foot in my house since, and I hope....
Where are you going to give us coffee, Flavia, here, or in the garden?”

The matter being referred to me, I voted at once for the garden, eager
to get a mouthful of fresh air, and all the more as it was a lovely
day.... There was a ring at the gate bell, and Gostino having opened, I
saw five persons advancing up the avenue—three priests and two laymen,
all red in the face as turkey-cocks, and talking at the very top of
their voices. Sor Cosimo took me by the arm, and drawing me forward,
introduced me to the Provost of Siepole and his chaplain, then to the
parish priest of the village, and lastly to the assessor Stelloni and
the communal secretary.

* * * * *

The talk went on, chiefly on personal and local topics, beginning with
the small-pox, which, according to Stelloni, was being “promulgated” in
the neighbouring villages, and ending with Sor Cosimo’s fountain, which
he regretted he could not turn on for our edification, as Don Paolo kept
the key of the mechanism in his own chest of drawers.

Signora Flavia looked at us absently, with sleepy eyes, which she opened
wide every time she heard an extra loud clatter of crockery from the
kitchen, where Gostino was washing up. Signorina Olimpia, perhaps
disgusted with a conversation which was unworthy of her, was wandering
round the garden, casting loving looks at her flowers, till at last,
stopping before a monthly rose with two bees on it, she exclaimed: “Dear
insects,

“Sucking, for one brief moment,
Now this, now the other flower,
Alas! she said——”

“Always a poetess, Signorina Olimpia!” cried the Provost, “always a
poetess! Are those your own verses, madam, are they yours?”

“Come now, Olimpia, out with it, before it is too late,” urged Sor
Cosimo. “The sonnet to Calamai—we must have that at once, for it’s a
beauty!”

“It is a wonder!” observed the Provost. “Do you know, I have it by
heart; I could say it off, as though it were before me in print. It is
the only one of yours I have heard.”

“Rejoice, O youthful boy...”

Signorina Olimpia was preparing to repeat the much-desired sonnet when
Don Paolo appeared in the doorway of the house, looking as though he had
gone to sleep in his clothes and were just out of bed, and stopped on
the threshold, looking fixedly on the ground. They all went up to him,
to congratulate him and ask how he felt....

“The heart, gentlemen! the heart!” He put both hands to the left side of
his chest, half closing his eyes and twisting his mouth, as if to
indicate a spasm which was taking away his breath. Then he asked—

“Have they done anything more at the nets, Cosimo?”

“Five more, Don Paolo!” shouted Gostino from the kitchen.

“Five! Then we’ve made it fifteen to-day!” cried Don Paolo, reviving as
if by magic. “Gostino, my hat and stick!”

Sor Cosimo cast a glance at us to signify that we ought to go to the
nets as well, and that this attention would be extremely grateful to his
brother. The clergy, however, were brave enough to refuse, alleging that
it would soon be time for vespers. The remaining four of us started—Sor
Cosimo, the Secretary, Stelloni, and myself—to the great delight of Don
Paolo, who led the way with somewhat uncertain steps, telling me that he
had reserved a fine cock bullfinch for the Prior of San Gaggio, and
hoped I would do him the favour of taking it to him.

It was now three, and the train left at six. I made various attempts to
get away and keep my engagement with my old friend, but no excuse would
serve. To say that I had an appointment with the doctor after what I had
heard would have been like dealing my hosts a slap in the face, and
every stratagem which I devised was vain. I said I wanted to go into the
village for cigars, as I had none left; Stelloni offered me half of his.
I said I wished to write a post-card; the Secretary informed me I should
find the post-office closed, and Sor Cosimo added that he would give me
one, and I should write it when we returned from the nets, so that there
was nothing for it but to give in.

We had to hurry back, as no one would have dreamed of beginning vespers
without Sor Cosimo and Stelloni in the choir. The ladies had a new set
of refreshments ready for us when we reached the house; Gostino came to
ask when the horse would be wanted, and we set off for the church at
increased speed.

* * * * *

Returning from church, I saw the doctor in the distance. He signed to me
that he hoped we should meet at Florence, and I went on, feeling like a
traitor going to execution, who sees his friends in the crowd and cannot
speak to or take leave of them....

Gostino had already harnessed the horse, and seeing this I uttered a
sigh of satisfaction. Truly, I was in a pitiable state. I could scarcely
stand, tired out with the dawdling but continued motion of the whole
day; my digestion was upset, for obvious reasons; my head was on fire,
and heavy as lead.... Oh, for my own house! But the sigh was abruptly
cut short when, just as I was settling myself in the gig, Signora Flavia
came calmly up and began to say, while the rest of the household stood
motionless to listen—

“See now, as you are so obliging, would you do us a kindness? I have
written out all the things, so that you will not forget anything.” And
she read out, by the twilight—

“1. _To take Sora Amalia’s spectacles to that spectacle-maker at the
Canto Alla Paglia_, and have the broken glass mended. Gostino has them
in his pocket, and will give them to you at the station.

“2. Five mètres, or else seven yards, just as you think best, of stuff
like that of your coat; to be sent on Thursday by the carrier——”

“Have you written down the bird-seed, Flavia?”

“I have put down everything. Now be quiet ... by the carrier who puts up
just outside the Porta San Frediano, where there is a board with
‘Stabling and coach-house.’”

“And about the wine?” asked Sor Cosimo.

“Here it is. To tell Scatizzi, the wine-seller in Borgognissanti—of
course you know him—that if he wants another cartload of the same wine,
now is the time.”

“But you’ve forgotten the bird-seed and the bullfinch, after all!” said
Don Paolo impatiently.

“Here—now comes your turn.

“4. Three pounds of bird-seed from the man in the little alley which
runs from the Via Calzaioli into the Ghetto. Have you put the measure
into the box, Gostino?”—

“Yes, ma’am; but please make haste, or we shall be late.”

“5. A bullfinch to be taken to the Prior of San Gaggio.”

“Have you taken it, Gostino?”

“Yes, Master Paolo. He’s tied under the gig.”

“And you’ll remember me to him?” said Don Paolo, “and tell him that I
caught fifteen to-day, and he is to send and tell me how his nets are
doing.”

“And here,” said Signora Flavia, pointing to a huge bundle tied up at
the back of the gig, “I have put together a little country green-stuff
for you, as you said you liked it.”

“But I ... really ... Thank you, Signora Flavia, many thanks.”

“And this,” said Signorina Olimpia, approaching, “will you keep this in
remembrance of me?” She handed me a sheet of paper folded in four, shook
my hand three times over, and wished me a pleasant journey.... The
farewells were said, and we were off....

When we had left the village behind us I cast my eye over Signorina
Olimpia’s souvenir, and relieved my feelings by one of those hearty
laughs which make one feel like a new creature. It was an autograph copy
of the sonnet on the ordination of Calamai’s son.

_Renato Fucini._

_THE THEOREM OF PYTHAGORAS._

“The forty-seventh proposition!” said Professor Roveni, in a tone of
mild sarcasm, as he unfolded a paper which I had extracted, very
gingerly, from an urn standing on his desk. Then he showed it to the
Government Inspector who stood beside him, and whispered something into
his ear. Finally, he handed me the document, so that I might read the
question with my own eyes.

“Go up to the blackboard,” added the Professor, rubbing his hands.

The candidate who had preceded me in the arduous trial, and had got out
of it as best he could, had left the school-room on tiptoe, and, in
opening the door, let in a long streak of sunshine, which flickered on
wall and floor, and in which I had the satisfaction of seeing my shadow.
The door closed again, and the room was once more plunged into twilight.
It was a stifling day in August, and the great sun-blinds of blue canvas
were a feeble defence against the glass, so that the Venetian shutters
had been closed as well. The little light which remained was
concentrated on the master’s desk and the blackboard, and was, at any
rate, sufficient to illuminate my defeat.

[Illustration]

“Go to the blackboard and draw the figure,” repeated Professor Roveni,
perceiving my hesitation.

Tracing the figure was the only thing I knew how to do; so I took a
piece of chalk and conscientiously went to work. I was in no hurry; the
more time I took up in this graphic part, the less remained for oral
explanation.

But the Professor was not the man to lend himself to my innocent
artifice.

“Make haste,” he said. “You are not going to draw one of Raphael’s
Madonnas.”

I had to come to an end.

“Put the letters now. Quick!—you are not giving specimens of
handwriting. Why did you erase that G?”

“Because it is too much like the C I have made already. I was going to
put an H instead of it.”

“What a subtle idea!” observed Roveni, with his usual irony. “Have you
finished?”

“Yes, sir,” said I; adding under my breath, “More’s the pity!”

“Come,—why are you standing there moonstruck? Enunciate the theorem!”

Then began my sorrows. The terms of the question had escaped my memory.

“In a triangle ...” I stammered.

“Go on.”

I took courage and said all I knew.

“In a triangle ... the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares
of the other two sides.”

“In any triangle?”

“No, no!” suggested a compassionate soul behind me.

“No, sir!” said I.

“Explain yourself. In what sort of a triangle?”

“A right-angled triangle,” whispered the prompting voice.

“A right-angled triangle,” I repeated, like a parrot.

“Silence there, behind!” shouted the Professor; and then continued,
turning to me, “Then, according to you, the big square is equal to each
of the smaller ones?”

Good gracious! the thing was absurd. But I had a happy inspiration.

“No, sir, to both of them added together.”

“To the sum then,—say to the sum. And you should say _equivalent_, not
equal. Now demonstrate.”

I was in a cold perspiration—icy cold—despite the tropical temperature.
I looked stupidly at the right-angled triangle, the square of the
hypothenuse, and its two subsidiary squares; I passed the chalk from one
hand to the other and back again, and said nothing, for the very good
reason that I had nothing to say.

No one prompted me any more. It was so still you might have heard a pin
drop. The Professor fixed his grey eyes on me, bright with a malignant
joy; the Government Inspector was making notes on a piece of paper.
Suddenly the latter respectable personage cleared his throat, and
Professor Roveni said in his most insinuating manner, “Well?”

I did not reply.

Instead of at once sending me about my business, the Professor wished to
imitate the cat which plays with the mouse before tearing it to pieces.

“How?” he added. “Perhaps you are seeking a new solution. I do not say
that such may not be found, but we shall be quite satisfied with one of
the old ones. Go on. Have you forgotten that you ought to produce the
two sides, DE, MF, till they meet? Produce them—go on!”

I obeyed mechanically. The figure seemed to attain a gigantic size, and
weighed on my chest like a block of stone.

“Put a letter at the point where they meet—an N. So. And now?”

I remained silent.

“Don’t you think it necessary to draw a line down from N through A to
the base of the square, BHIC?”

I thought nothing of the kind; however, I obeyed.

“Now you will have to produce the two sides, BH and IC.”

Ouf! I could endure no more.

“Now,” the Professor went on, “a child of two could do the
demonstration. Have you nothing to observe with reference to the two
triangles, BAC and NAE?”

As silence only prolonged my torture, I replied laconically, “Nothing.”

“In other words, you know nothing at all?”

“I think you ought to have seen that some time ago,” I replied, with a
calm worthy of Socrates.

“Very good, very good! Is that the tone you take? And don’t you even
know that the theorem of Pythagoras is also called the Asses’ Bridge,
because it is just the asses who cannot get past it? You can go. I hope
you understand that you have not passed in this examination. That will
teach you to read _Don Quixote_ and draw cats during my lessons!”

The Government Inspector took a pinch of snuff; I laid down the chalk
and the duster, and walked majestically out of the hall, amid the
stifled laughter of my school-fellows.

Three or four comrades who had already passed through the ordeal with no
very brilliant result were waiting for me outside.

“Ploughed, then?”

“Ploughed!” I replied, throwing myself into an attitude of heroic
defiance; adding presently, “I always said that mathematics were only
made for dunces.”

“Of course!” exclaimed one of my rivals.

“What question did you have?” asked another.

“The forty-seventh proposition. What can it matter to me whether the
square of the hypothenuse is or is not equal to the sum of the squares
of the two sides?”

“Of course it can’t matter to you—nor to me—nor to any one in the
world,” chimed in a third with all the petulant ignorance of fourteen.
“If it is equal, why do they want to have it repeated so often? and if
it is not, why do they bother us with it?”

“Believe me, you fellows,” said I, resuming the discussion with the air
of a person of long experience, “you may be quite certain of it, the
whole system of instruction is wrong; and as long as the Germans are in
the country, it will be so!”

So, being fully persuaded that our failure was a protest against the
Austrian dominion, and a proof of vivid and original genius, we went
home, where, for my part, I confess I found that the first enthusiasm
soon evaporated.

My ignominious failure in this examination had a great influence on my
future. Since it was absolutely impossible for me to understand
mathematics, it was decided that very day that I was to leave school,
especially as the family finances made it necessary for me to begin
earning something as soon as might be.

It was the most sensible resolution that could have been come to, and I
had no right to oppose it; yet, I confess, I was deeply saddened by it.
My aversion to mathematics did not extend to other branches of learning,
in which I had made quite a respectable show; and besides, I loved the
school. I loved those sacred cloisters which we boys filled with life
and noise,—I loved the benches carved with our names,—even the
blackboard which had been the witness of my irreparable defeat.

I blamed Pythagoras’ theorem for it all. With some other question—who
knows?—I might just have scraped through, by the skin of my teeth, as I
had done in past years. But, as Fate would have it, it was just that
one!

I dreamt about it all night. I saw it before me—the fatal square with
its triangle atop, and the two smaller squares, one sloping to the
right, and the other to the left, and a tangle of lines, and a great
confusion of letters; and heard beating through my head like the strokes
of a hammer—BAC = NAF; RNAB = DEAB.

It was some time before I was free from that nightmare and could forget
Pythagoras and his three squares. In the long run, however, Time, who
with his sponge wipes out so many things from the book of memory, had
nearly effaced this; when, a few weeks ago, the ill-omened figure
appeared to me in one of my son’s exercise-books.

“Has this curse been transmitted to my descendants?” I exclaimed. “Poor
boy! What if the theorem of Pythagoras should be as fatal to him as it
has been to me?”

I thought I would question him about it on his return from school.

“So,” I began gravely, “you have already reached the forty-seventh
proposition of Euclid in your geometry?”

[Illustration]

“Yes, father,” he replied simply.

“A difficult theorem,” I added, shaking my head.

“Do you think so?” he asked with a smile.

“Oh! you want to boast and make me think you find it easy?”

“But I do find it easy.”

“I should like to see you try it”—the words slipped out almost
involuntarily. “It’s no use—I can’t bear vanity and boasting.”

“At once,” replied the dauntless youth. And action succeeded words. He
took a piece of paper and a pencil, and quickly traced the cabalistic
figure.

“As for demonstrations,” he began, “there are plenty to choose from. Is
it all the same to you which I take?”

“Yes,” I replied mechanically. In fact it _had_ to be all the same to
me. If there had been a hundred demonstrations I should not have known
one from the other.

“Then we’ll take the most usual one,” my mathematician went on; and
proceeded to produce the lines which Professor Roveni, of respected
memory, had made me produce twenty-seven years before, and, with the
accents of the sincerest conviction, prepared to prove to me that the
triangle BAC was equal to the triangle NAF, and so on.

“And now,” said my son, when he had finished, “we can, if you wish,
arrive at the same conclusion in another way.”

“For pity’s sake!” I exclaimed in terror, “since we have reached the
journey’s end, let us rest.”

“But I am not tired.”

Not even tired! Was the boy an embryo Newton? And yet people talk about
the principle of heredity!

“I suppose you are at the top of your class in mathematics,” I said, not
untouched by a certain reverential awe.

“No, no,” he replied. “There are two better than I. Besides, you know
very well that everybody—except downright asses—understands the
forty-seventh proposition.”

“_Except downright asses!_” After twenty-seven years I heard, from the
lips of my own son, almost the very identical words which Professor
Roveni had used on the memorable day of the examination. And this time
they were heightened by the savage irony of the added “_You know very
well!_”

I wished to save appearances, and added in haste—

“Of course I know that. I was only in fun. I hope you would not be such
a fool as to be proud of a small thing like that.”

Meanwhile, however, my Newton had repented of his too sweeping
assertion.

“After all,” he went on, with some embarrassment, “there are some who
never attend to their lesson, and then ... even if they are not
asses....”

It seemed to me that he was offering me a loophole of escape, and with a
sudden impulse of candour—

“That must be the way of it,” I said. “I suppose I never paid
attention.”

“How! You?” exclaimed my boy, reddening to the roots of his hair.
Yet ... I would bet something that, at the bottom of his heart, he was
longing to laugh.

I put my hand over his mouth.

“Hush,” I said; “we will not pursue our inquiries into detail.”

Well, the Theorem of Pythagoras has, as you see, cost me a new and very
serious humiliation. In spite of this, I no longer keep up the old
grudge. There will never be any confidence between us, but I consider it
as a family friend whom we must not treat with rudeness, though he may
not be personally congenial to ourselves.

_Enrico Castelnuovo._

_AN ECCENTRIC ORDERLY._

Of originals there is a great variety under the canopy of heaven; and I
have enjoyed the acquaintance of several, but among them all I never met
his match.

He was a Sardinian peasant, twenty years old, unable to read or write,
and a private in an infantry regiment.

The first time I saw him, at Florence, in the office of a military
journal, he inspired me with a certain sympathy. I soon understood,
however, from his looks and some of his answers, that he was a
character. His very appearance was paradoxical: seen in front, he was
one man; looked at in profile, he was another. Of the full face there
was nothing particular to remark; it was a countenance like any other;
but it seemed as though in the act of turning his head he became a
different man, and the profile had something irresistibly ludicrous
about it. The point of his chin and the tip of his nose seemed to be
trying to meet, and to be hindered by an enormous thick-lipped mouth
which was always open, and showed two rows of teeth, uneven as a file of
national guards. His eyes were scarcely larger than pin-heads, and
disappeared altogether among the wrinkles into which his face was
puckered when he laughed. His eyebrows were shaped like two circumflex
accents, and his forehead was scarcely high enough to keep his hair out
of his eyes. A friend of mine remarked to me that he seemed to be one of
Nature’s practical jokes. And yet his face expressed intelligence and
good-nature; but an intelligence which was, so to speak, sporadic, and a
good-nature entirely _sui generis_. He spoke, in a harsh, hoarse voice,
an Italian for which he had every right to claim the inventor’s patent.

“How do you like Florence?” I asked, seeing that he had arrived in that
city the day before.

“It’s not bad,” he replied.

Coming from a man who had previously only seen Cagliari, and one or two
small towns in Northern Italy, the answer seemed to savour of a certain
austerity.

“Do you like Florence or Bergamo best?”

“I arrived yesterday—I couldn’t say yet.”

The following day he made his entry into my quarters.

During the first week I was more than once within an ace of losing all
patience, and sending him back to the regiment. If he had contented
himself with understanding nothing, I could have let that pass, but the
misfortune was, that partly through the difficulty he had in
understanding my Italian, partly through the unaccustomed nature of his
tasks, he understood about half, and did everything the wrong way. Were
I to relate how he carried my razors to the publisher, and my
manuscripts ready for the press to the razor grinder; how he left a
French novel with the shoemaker, and a pair of boots to be mended at a
lady’s house, no one who had not seen him would believe me. But I cannot
refrain from relating one or two of his most marvellous exploits.

[Illustration]

At eleven in the forenoon—which was the time when the morning papers
were cried about the streets—it was my custom to send him out for some
ham for my breakfast. One morning, knowing that there was an item in the
paper that I wished to see, I said to him hurriedly, “Quick! the ham,
and the _Corriere Italiano_.” He could never take in two distinct ideas
at once. He went out, and returned shortly afterwards with the ham
wrapped up in the _Corriere_.

One morning he was present when I was showing one of my friends a
splendid military atlas, which I had borrowed from the library; and he
heard me remark to the latter: “The mischief is that one cannot see all
these maps at a glance, and has to examine each one separately. To
follow the whole course of a battle I should like to have them nailed up
on the wall in their proper order, so as to form a single diagram.” On
coming in that evening—I shudder still when I think of it—all the maps
in that atlas were neatly nailed to the wall; and, to add to my
sufferings, he appeared before me next morning, with the modestly
complacent smile of the man who expects a compliment.

But all this is nothing to what I underwent before I had succeeded in
teaching him to put my rooms in order—I do not say as I wanted them—but
in a manner remotely suggesting the presence of a rational being. For
him, the supreme art of putting things to rights consisted in piling
them one on top of the other, and his great ambition was to build them
up into structures of the greatest possible altitude. During the first
few days of his tenure of office my books formed a semicircle of towers,
which trembled at the lightest breath; the washhand basin, turned upside
down, sustained a daring pyramid of plates, cups, and saucers, at the
top of which my shaving-brush was planted; and my hats, new and old,
rose, in the form of a triumphal pillar, to a dizzy height. As a
consequence there occurred—usually at dead of night—ruinous collapses,
which made a noise like a small earthquake, and scattered my property to
such an extent that, if it had not been for the walls of the room, no
one knows where it would have brought up. To make him understand that my
tooth-brush did not belong to the genus hair-brush, and that the
pomade-jar was not the same as the vessel which contained Liebig’s
extract, required the eloquence of Cicero and the patience of Job.

I have never been able to understand whether my attempts to treat him
kindly met with any response on his part. Once only he showed a certain
solicitude for my personal welfare, and this was exhibited in a manner
quite peculiar to himself. I had been ill in bed for about a fortnight,
and neither got worse nor showed any signs of recovery. One evening he
stopped the doctor—an exceedingly touchy man—on the stairs, and asked
him, abruptly, “But, once for all, are you going to cure him, or are you
not?” The doctor lost his temper, and fairly blew him up. “It’s only
that it’s lasting rather long,” was my orderly’s sole response.

It is difficult to give any idea of the language he spoke—a mixture of
Sardinian, Lombard, and Italian, with idioms all his own; elliptical
sentences, mutilated and contracted words, verbs in the infinitive flung
about haphazard. The whole was like the talk of a man in delirium. At
the end of five or six months, by dint of attending the regimental
schools, he learnt, to my misfortune, to read and write after a fashion.
While I was out of the house he used to practise writing at my table,
and would write the same word a couple of hundred times over. Usually it
was a word he had heard me pronounce when reading, and which, for some
reason or other, had made an impression on him. One day, for instance,
he was struck by the name of Vercingetorix. When I came home in the
evening I found _Vercingetorix_ written on the margins of the
newspapers, on the backs of my proofs, on the wrappers of my books, on
my letters, on the scraps in the waste-paper basket—in every place where
he could find room for the thirteen letters beloved of his heart.
Another day the word _Ostrogoths_ touched his soul, and on the next my
rooms were invaded by the _Ostrogoths_. In like manner, a little later,
the place was full of _rhinoceroses_.

On the other hand, I was so far a gainer by this extension of knowledge
on his part, that I was no longer obliged to mark with crosses, in
differently coloured chalks, the notes I gave him to deliver to various
people. There was no way of making him remember the names; but he got to
know my correspondents as the blue lady, the black journalist, the
yellow Government official, etc.

Speaking of writing, I discovered a habit of his, much more curious than
the one I have mentioned. He had bought himself a note-book, into which
he copied, from every book that fell into his hands, the author’s
dedication to his parents or relations, taking care always to substitute
for the names of the latter those of his father, his mother, and his
brothers, to whom he imagined he was thus giving a brilliant proof of
affection and gratitude. One day I opened this book and read, among
others, the following:—“Pietro Tranci (the Sardinian peasant, his
father), born in poverty, acquired, by study and perseverance, a
distinguished place among men of learning, assisted his parents and
brothers, and worthily educated his children. To the memory of his
excellent father this book is dedicated by the author, Antonio
Tranci”—instead of Michele Lessona.

On another page he had copied the dedication of Giovanni Prati’s poems,
beginning as follows:—“To Pietro Tranci, my father, who, announcing to
the Subalpine Parliament the disaster of Novara, fell fainting to the
ground and died within a few days, I consecrate this song,” etc., etc.

What astonished me most in one who had seen so little was an absolute
lack of the feeling of wonder. During the time he was at Florence he saw
the festivities at Prince Humbert’s marriage, the opera, and the dancing
at the Pergola (he had never been inside a theatre in his life), the
Carnival, and the fantastic illumination of the Celli Avenue. He saw a
hundred other things which were quite new to him, and which ought, one
would think, to have surprised him, amused him, made him talk. Nothing
of the sort. His admiration never went beyond the formula, “Not bad!”
Santa Maria del Fiore—not bad! Giotto’s tower—not bad! the Pitti
Palace—not bad! I really believe that if the Creator in person had asked
what he thought of the universe he would have replied that it was not
bad.

From the first day of his stay to the last his mood never changed; he
continually preserved a kind of cheerful seriousness: always obedient,
always muddle-headed, always most conscientious in understanding things
the wrong way, always plunged in a kind of apathetic beatitude, always
with the same extravagance of eccentricity. On the day when his term of
service expired he scribbled away for several hours in his note-book
with the same calm as on other days. Before leaving he came to say
good-bye to me. There was not much tenderness in our parting. I asked
him if he was sorry to leave Florence. He answered, “Why not?” I asked
him if he was glad to return home. He replied with a grimace which I did
not understand.

“If you ever want anything, sir,” he said at the last moment, “write to
me, and I shall always be pleased to do anything I can for you.”

“Many thanks,” I replied.

And so he left the house, after being with me over two years, without
the slightest sign either of regret or pleasure.

I looked after him as he went downstairs.

Suddenly he turned round.

“Ah!” thought I, “now we shall see! His heart has been awakened. He is
coming back to take leave in a different sort of way!”

Instead of which—

“Lieutenant,” he said, “your shaving-brush is in the drawer of the
biggest table, sir!”

With that he disappeared.

_Edmondo de Amicis._

_A PROVINCIAL ORACLE._

... The newly-married couple settled in a small country town, where they
were not long in gaining the hearts of all the inhabitants. The more
sensible and influential people in the place thought the advent of such
wealthy residents a great piece of good fortune. “They will be of so
much advantage to the place,” was the remark made in the chemist’s shop
of an evening. It soon began to rain advantages: dinner parties,
picnics, gifts, patronage, entertainments for charitable
objects—hospitalities of all sorts; and then the balls at carnival-tide!
A dash, a gaiety, a profusion that one could neither believe nor
imagine—a splendour, the memory of which, as all the local journals put
it, “would flourish with perennial vigour in the hearts of a grateful
community.” We thought we had returned to the very flower of the golden
age of Arcadia. It was two talents, more especially, which won golden
opinions for Signor Diego among the worthy citizens of our little
borough—his magnificent expenditure and his wit. Of Attic salt he had as
much as sufficed, within a very short space of time, to pickle the whole
place; whereby it became one of the wittiest towns in the world. I do
not say that the inhabitants did not possess a great deal of wit before
he arrived; nor do I wish to hint that the conversation of the educated
persons who visited at the house of Diego was mere insipid triviality
coloured with a little presumption, and that touch of perfidy which is,
so to speak, the _sauce piquante_ of empty gossip. No, indeed! for they,
too, took their share in public life and talked politics, speaking
highly of themselves and of the party in power, and exceedingly ill of
those who were not present to hear them. But what I mean is that Signor
Diego, profiting by all that he had learnt in his travels, showed them a
more excellent—that is to say, a more Parisian way, and taught them the
great mystery of _chic_. He instructed them in all those arts of gilding
and veneering, by means of which the most contemptible trifles may be
made to appear noble and graceful. He taught them to laugh at serious
matters, but to take the most religious care—practising the worship of
themselves with unheard-of austerity and entire self-devotion—of their
hair and their coats, and the dignity of their attitudes and movements;
and to pronounce sentence with the extremest rigour on the unfortunate
who should transgress the least important of the rules established by
social etiquette.

_Mario Pratesi._

_DOCTOR PHŒBUS._

[Illustration]

Many years ago a company, with capital to back it, took a lease of the
manganese mines in the province of Valle Amena. Perhaps the “Pleasant
Valley” may at one time have deserved its name; but nowadays there is
nothing pleasant about the monotonous barren hills, of no use to any one
but the goats, and the distant woods, too scanty to lend any tint of
green to the dry and desert landscape. The company’s employés were
scarcely to be blamed for not liking the place; everything was scarce,
even pretty faces—at least such as had had the benefit of soap and
water. But the pay was good, and more than one among them had hopes of
becoming a shareholder, or at least cashier; and so things went on
somehow or other. Two hundred navvies pushed the work rapidly forward,
and enormous trucks full of the grey metal blocked the postal road day
and night.

But all that glitters is not gold; and one day the report spread that
the flourishing company had failed, as though prosperity had undermined
its foundations like stagnant water. It made a great talk in the
neighbourhood, and every one concluded his or her comments by long
exclamations of astonishment.

“_Mah!_” ejaculated the old, dried-up chaplain of the
_Misericordia_,[18] with his hands in the pockets of the threadbare
shooting-coat which he always wore except when he put on his surplice to
go and fetch the dead. “In my opinion it was just like when a set of
people leave the gaming-table, where low cards have been dealt; but they
do not all leave with the same advantages.”

“There is no getting at the exact truth,” remarked the landlord of the
village inn, who did not repent nearly so much of his sins as he did of
having given credit; “but in this business I too believe that the rogues
have done the honest men who trust their neighbours, and never suspect
any cheating.”

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Signor Vincenzino; and perhaps he would have
said more, only that, being syndic, and very rich, he thought it
possible he might be risking the chance of a decoration. He rose from
his seat in the Caffé del Giappone. “In any case,” he continued, keeping
his back turned to the host, “there is the law.”

“I’d like to see it!” replied mine host. “But it’s very seldom that
rogues who have grown rich do not find some one to help them, in one way
or another, in keeping what they have stolen.”

“Precisely!” retorted the chaplain, holding up his finger like Dante
under the Uffizi. “There are certain experts and certain lawyers who
show a most extraordinary ability in this respect, and acquire enormous
credit, so that sometimes the Government is even forced to raise them to
the rank of _Commendatore_. You alone, poor Phœbus...”

And so on, and so on.... It would be tedious to repeat all the
conversation that took place at the Caffé del Giappone. As to Phœbus,
however, I should not be altogether disposed to agree with the chaplain.
If Phœbus found no one to make the best of the arguments on his side
when—having been blinded by the effects of an explosion at the works—he
asked for a miserable little pension, which the Company refused, saying
that his misfortune was due to his own carelessness, and not to the
necessities of his work,—if, I say, he had no one to plead his cause,
this must be regarded merely as an accident, which happened to him, as
it may happen to hundreds of others in a like condition. Then came the
crash; and if a company were going to give every man what he wants, what
motive could it have for declaring itself insolvent. In this case, to
recommend the fulfilment of any humane duties is like running after a
mist-wreath, or asking a routed army, in full retreat, to think of the
dead and wounded they are leaving behind.

I do not deny that the consequences were certainly unpleasant for
Phœbus, who had now eaten nothing for three days, and sat in the
chimney-corner, yawning and stretching his arms to such an amazing
extent, first in one direction, and then in another, that he looked like
the castle of St. Angelo when the fireworks are being let off on Easter
Day. A miserable hen, which sat motionless, not daring to attract
attention to itself, and a cat which seemed to have nothing more to wish
for in this life, having now reached the very utmost degree of leanness,
and lay curled up, with half-closed eyes, on the dead ashes of the
hearth, were the only creatures not audibly complaining in the
melancholy darkness of the hut, which covered so much misery. It seemed
as though they were meditating on the infinite vanity of things. But not
so Phœbus’s wife, nor Vittorino, his little son; for the one, by
continual whimpering, and the other with her reproaches, added notes of
sickening despair to the symphony of those sonorous, expansive, and
well-nourished yawns of the blind man. Yet the wife had not the
slightest reason for envying the cat; she was dry and thin as though she
had nothing left for hunger and grief to gnaw at;—she was near her
confinement, poor soul, and, with her face the colour of sodden dead
leaves, and her black eyes, greedy, feverishly bright, and sunken in
their sockets, she was a very different person from the comely young
Rosalinda whom Phœbus had married when he returned from serving in the
_Bersaglieri_. That was six months before the accident at the quarries;
and now she was more like one of the thirsty, dropsical wretches in
Dante’s “Malebolge.”

[Illustration]

“Go to Sor Vincenzino,” said Phœbus.

His wife did not reply.

“Go to the doctor.”

“Don’t you know that a hundred poor sinners might die before either of
_them_ would stir a finger? Don’t you know that the doctor keeps on
asking me for a franc for that tooth he pulled out last year?”

Phœbus moved his jaws for a little while, like an animal chewing the
cud; then he gave seven or eight more yawns, and rubbed his hands as if
he had just concluded a good stroke of business.

“Go to Nannone—go to the chaplain, to the archdeacon, to Lisetta—only go
to some one!”

“I went to Nannone this morning—he was not at home. I went to the
chaplain yesterday, and he gave me that bread. I went to Lisetta the day
before yesterday, and she gave me that _polenta_. And who’s going to the
archdeacon’s, with that vixen of a Modesta there? Not I!”

“Then, you ugly slug, you cannot be hungry, and must just eat your own
talk!”

The wife rose, sobbing and muttering curses, and went out, dragging the
water-jar with her as usual, as an excuse for knocking at people’s
doors. When they opened, however, it was something more than permission
to draw water at the well that she wanted—her errand was more serious
than that.

To-day she did not find them disposed to listen to tales of misery, for
it was the last day of the carnival, and the weather was bright and
clear. A cold wind kept the sky cloudless, and the sun, going down in
the west, seemed to embrace the whole sky and earth with its rays, and
smiled among the shadows and on the peaks of the snowy Apennines, which
gradually faded away into the distance on the last clear rim of the
horizon. But the village, all but the great ruined tower on the little
piazza, the upper part of which was still in light, began to grow dark;
and it was already dusk in the ancient, narrow streets, black as if
after a conflagration, filled with crowds of country folk, among which
the red shawls of the jolly peasant women made bright points here and
there, and noisy with cymbals and other instruments, laughter, and
shouting.

This, then, was not a propitious moment. In fact, Rosalinda was not long
in returning, with her pitcher and her hands both empty. The people,
nearly all poor, were tired of her continual requests, and by this time
the pitcher trick was becoming stale.

“Eh!” said her husband, rubbing his hands as usual. “I suppose they
would not open their doors to you, because it is winter, and they are
afraid of the cold coming in?”

“Be quiet!” screamed Rosalinda to the child. “Be quiet, or I’ll make an
end of you!”

“Be quiet, Vittorino,” repeated Phœbus. “This evening we shall have
twenty loaves and some roast meat! Wife! you be quiet too, and give me
those things that ought to be in the box!”

The things were a heap of rags, on the top of which lay a worn-out tall
hat, very old, but seeming still to remember its former owner; for to
those who had never seen him in any other hat for years and years it was
impossible not to be instantly reminded of that wrinkled, benevolent,
patient face, whose serious sadness was rather added to than diminished
by the somewhat long chin and Dantesque nose. The other things—a
waistcoat, knee-breeches, and a very long black overcoat—had very
evidently belonged to an extremely poor and unfortunate priest.

But Vittorino began to laugh and dance when he saw his father put on not
only this Court suit, as it seemed to him, which his wife handed him,
grumbling and crying at the same time, but a pair of huge horse-hair
whiskers and an enormous paper collar, the points of which reached
nearly to the tip of his nose.

Not only this, but a wave of merriment ran through the whole village,
like the ripple which a puff of wind makes in the surface of the lagoon,
when Phœbus issued from his door thus dressed, with a huge book
containing the whole series of ancient medical prescriptions under his
arm. Some people insisted on recognising in his icy smile, in those
remedies so learnedly prescribed in his slow, pompous manner, in that
awkward, straddling walk, Doctor Ambrogio, the village physician for
forty years, who was also surgeon, veterinary surgeon, and dentist. As
dentist his renown had attracted people from the remotest villages; and
for the expense and trouble he had undergone to acquire it he expected
compensation even from the poor, though in justice it must be said (and
this shows Doctor Ambrogio’s fair-mindedness), much less than from the
rich.

Other masks made a cheerful variation in the crowd—_stenterelli_,[19]
with painted faces and pigtails curled up like a point of interrogation,
harlequins, Turks, madmen, wizards, and big, bearded creatures got up as
nurses, and carrying turkeys swathed up in baby-clothes; which birds,
pushing their red-wattled heads out from among the bandages, never
imagined—though they seemed astonished and confused enough already—the
slaughter which was to befall them later on. The women, with bright eyes
and laughing lips, hung over each other’s shoulders, in the windows and
on the balconies, to get a sight of Phœbus. Only when he began to give
utterance to certain jokes at which no girl—and not even a married
woman—can very well laugh in public, then they knitted their brows,
while the men, looking at them, laughed fit to kill themselves. Then his
popularity grew; then it seemed as though Plenty thought fit to empty
her cornucopia over Phœbus; then the public liberality knew no limits,
and down were showered steaks, and bread, and sausages, and
_polpette_,[20] and _maritozzi_,[21] and _ballotte_,[22] and
_strozza-prete_,[23] and apples, and _schiacciatunta_,[24] and rosemary
cake, and millet puddings—all poured on the devoted head of Phœbus, who,
without putting the smallest morsel into his mouth, stuffed the whole
into the front of his waistcoat, into his hat, and into all the pockets
of his overcoat and trousers.

Yet none the less did he continue to look like Famine, or Lent
personified, come to play the fool in the midst of all that courteous
and kindly merriment. The clumsy black spectacles—with the glasses
broken and mended with black sealing-wax—with which he covered the
horrible sight presented by his burnt eyes, seemed of themselves to
darken him, and take away every touch of life and mobility from his worn
face, white as old wax, which might have been taken for that of an old
man or one far gone in consumption, if it had not been for the intensely
black hair, and the figure, which, though below the middle height, was
broad in the chest, and all muscles and sinews. If his hair had been
white he would not have moved people’s compassion so much as he did when
they saw him still fresh and robust; for thus his lot appeared
peculiarly unjust and cruel, paralysing his strong arms, and robbing him
of so many years of ease gained by hard labour, and reducing him instead
to the necessity of asking alms, which were so limited, and not always
kindly given. Nevertheless, on account of that habit he had of smiling
and rubbing his hands when speaking, many people thought him a merry and
light-hearted man who was fond of his joke.

The shouting crowd hustled him out on the little square, where rises the
gloomy tower—at that moment lit up by the last rays of the sun, with the
hawks wheeling, in the blue sky, round the top.

Doctor Ambrogio, standing at the door of the chemist’s shop, looked like
Æsculapius himself, with his ruddy, well-nourished face, full of severe
learning, and his long white beard, under which appeared, wound several
times round his neck, a heavy scarlet woollen scarf. If this physician,
who was great at blood-letting and cupping, had remained a little behind
the times, the chemist had by no means done so; and in this instance the
old and the new generation joined hands. For the chemist, emulous of his
city colleagues, had sold to a Florentine dealer in antiquities the
phials and vases of glazed terra-cotta and the dried Nile crocodile,
which, hanging with widely-opened jaws from the middle of the ceiling,
had formerly given an uncanny idea of medical science and the
apothecary’s art, as though they had been devouring monsters. Moreover,
he had decorated his shop with all the latest improvements—gilt boxes
and ornamental stoppers, chalybeate water, and purgative syrups enclosed
in cut-glass bottles; and he never sold an ounce of cream of tartar or
bitter salts without doing it up in a little bag of glazed paper. All
this elegance certainly raised the price of his commodities; but only
consider how much it added to the efficiency of the drugs!

Here, right in front of this luxurious establishment, Phœbus stood
still, in the midst of the crowd, opened his book, turned over the
pages, and after discoursing for some time, concluded by prescribing Dr.
Ambrogio, who was still standing in the doorway, and who suffered from
sciatica, _a decoction of asinine cucumber_.

Dr. Ambrogio turned his back, closed the glass door, and said to Sor
Vincenzino, who was seated on the sofa reading the paper: “This blind
man is a public nuisance, and I cannot think why you don’t get him out
of the way. If I were syndic....”

“If you were syndic you would know what red-tape and difficulties and
formalities are! Last year I tried to send him to the hospital for the
blind at ..., and they sent him back because he was not a native of the
place.”

“Yes, I remember. I gave him as full a certificate as I could to get him
away from here. Good heavens! If this town is not a nest of
wretchedness, I don’t know what is.”

The chaplain, who was also in the shop waiting for the chemist, seemed
touched to the quick, and said—

“It is the fault of the rich. If the rich were to think more about
giving work——”

But the doctor interrupted him.

“Here we are with the rich again! Can’t you understand, sir, that the
rich have too many taxes?” The syndic nodded approvingly. “It’s the
Government that’s in fault,” said the doctor. “Here’s the dilemma, and
there’s no getting out of it:—Either they ought to take off the
income-tax, or they, and not we, should see to the feeding of these
starving wretches.”

“Very true! Just the thing I have so often thought,” answered the
syndic. “Because if they were to take off the income-tax, that sum would
remain in the treasury; but it cannot remain there, because the funds
have to be turned to account; and for doing this labour is needed, and
labour being needed it has to be paid for, and being paid for, why,
there you are. Then people have something to eat! Why, that’s quite
clear, gentlemen! No difficulty in understanding that!”

“There was no need for your explanation,” returned the chaplain,
shrugging his shoulders with a slightly vexed look as he rose from the
sofa, stretching out his legs, which appeared, long and thin as those of
a blackbird, under the skirts of his wretched coat. “Even the poor
countess paid income-tax; yet at the end of the year she had spent a
pretty large sum in good works. But her heirs have inherited her money
and not her merciful heart.”

“That is just the sort of speech you might be expected to make,
belonging as you do to the _Misericordia_,” said the doctor, with a
quietly contemptuous smile.

“And a ruined man into the bargain!” whispered Sor Vincenzino into the
doctor’s ear. “Later on, some time, I’ll tell you a little story about
his niece.”

“Throwing away one’s own money in that fashion,” the doctor went on,
with a solemn air of wisdom, “is not charity; it is merely carrying out
the whims of hysteria; and the countess was hysterical from the tip of
her great toe to the ends of her hair. It’s a question of organisation.
You’re far behind the times, chaplain!”

“You had better take care. I may be in advance of you!”

“Everything _may_ be; but that there ought to be methods and limits even
in charity, for otherwise even great fortunes would fall into ruin, this
indisputable and precious axiom of economic science, I am afraid—excuse
me—you are not acquainted with. And with interest, you know, there is no
joking.”

Sor Vincenzino concluded his approving nods by one of final and
comprehensive assent; and wishing to convey clearly to the chaplain
that, in short, he thought nothing of him, he turned his back on him,
and set himself, with a diplomatic countenance, to meditate over his
newspaper. The chaplain understood that, and with his simple face full
of grave sadness, and his white hair curling over his temples, remained
standing, waiting patiently for the medicine for his poor, pretty niece,
who was ill. The doctor kept looking out of the window, and saying to
himself, “I should like to know what has become of the police! They
ought to make an example and dismiss them both! If I saw one of them I’d
tell him to make that rascal hold his tongue!”

“To-day I cure every one for nothing!” Doctor Phœbus was shouting in the
midst of the crowd. “To-morrow it will be too late! Yes, it will be too
late, unhappy people! If you have not enough to live upon—if you do not
pay me a proper fee for every visit—if you don’t want to pay a high
price for medicines, and buy them here of my good friend the chemist,
who is the only man who sells good ones—why then, unhappy wretches, you
can be no patients of mine! Then you will have to go to the hospital—our
hospital!—where he who goes in never comes out any more! What with
fasting, and poultices, and gruel without salt, mallow-water and
cuppings, in a week you will either be cured or gone where you want no
more curing.”

At this point the last glimmer of the fiery sunset, the sound of the
great church bell, and the rattle of a drum which was going round
announcing the “Last Wonderful Comedy of the Burattini,” distracted the
audience. A man slipped out of the Caffé del Giappone, in the dusk, with
baking-pan full of pastry, just out of the oven, and hastened to carry
it to the Casino for the evening’s festivity. It was duly evident from
all the going and coming that there were great things in the air. Not
only at the Casino, but there was to be dancing at Sora Carmelinda’s and
at Sor Gregorio’s; there was to be dancing at the taverns, in the space
between the wine-casks, and in the hay-lofts at the farms; for all which
occasions there had been secretly stored up in every house masks and
half-masks and _papier-mâché_ noses, in which one could be perfectly
certain of not being recognised. Time was pressing; the drum had ceased
to beat and the bell to ring, and instead one could hear stray
barrel-organs, to whose sound little companies of peasants came trooping
in along the dark lanes; and here and there, scattered through the
streets of the merry little town, the shouting and laughter which had
previously been all concentrated in the square. Then Phœbus found that
he had been left alone, in a deeper darkness than before. He stretched
out his numbed hands in order to give them a joyful rub; but the long
tight overcoat, now stuffed out with the bounty showered on him, got in
his way; he tried to stoop and to raise his arms, but this too was a
failure. He was impatient to get home quickly, and instead of being able
to do so he was forced to grope his way slowly along those noisy
streets, where he could scarcely find room to set his stick down.

“Wife! Vittorino! help! I can get no farther! Wife! Come and help me
unload the casks full of presents my patients have given me!” he began
to shout when he was a few paces from the house.

His wife and Vittorino hurried to meet him, and relieved him of his load
in a twinkling; and having entered the house, all three ate like wolves,
finding, moreover, here and there among the spoils, a piece of cod’s
head or a rotten apple, flung for a joke, which were thankfully received
by the cat and the hen, now awakened; so provident is Nature.

Then, unluckily, Phœbus said to his wife, “This evening, at least, dear,
you are not going to complain!” Alas! it was like putting the match to
the powder-magazine. She had been quiet; but the words seemed to set her
going afresh, and she began again—shrieks, tears, and lamentations; how
much reason she had for complaining, and how much for thinking of the
next day, and how much better it would have been if she had always
remained single.

Then Phœbus began, in good earnest, to blaspheme like a heretic, in the
brutal Tuscan way. Yet, being quick-witted and kind-hearted beyond the
average, he understood that such a burst of temper, after all anxiety
had been removed by so abundant a supper, could only have been caused by
the state of her health; and he resisted the temptation of bringing her
to her senses by a good beating. Instead of that, he shuddered, pitied
her, and sat down comfortably in the chimney-corner without saying
another word.

But poor little Vittorino, cheered by the unaccustomed supper, began to
sing and jump about in that gloomy den, just like a bird which has seen
the sun rise. Only the poor woman felt as if her nerves were being torn
to pieces by the noise; and she thought the child, young as he was,
ought to have understood that there was cause rather for crying than
laughing. Then he began to cry; but that, also, would not do; he was to
be quiet and not let himself be heard in any way. The child obeyed with
a sigh, and the mother then took him in her arms, soothing, petting, and
kissing him. But these caresses of his mother’s, who was sobbing after
having beaten him (the blind man was singing to himself the whole time),
could not draw a smile from him; tired out and very serious, he fell
asleep in her arms, and she laid him down on the ghastly mattress and
stretched herself beside him. And after that there was nothing more to
be seen or heard in the room....

They were all asleep, even Phœbus, who loved sleep because it gave him
back his liberty. By day, when he was awake, there was always a cloud
surrounding him, and he fancied that he had to bore his way through it,
as a mole bores through the ground, to find the sun he had lost. But
that dark path went on and on, and never came to an end; it was only in
the darkness of night that he could even see the sun again, when he
slept and dreamed that he was no longer blind, but could move about
freely as before, with his eyes open and seeing. Then he saw them all
again—not his little Vittorino, for the child had been born since his
misfortune, and the father had never looked on his bright eyes and
pretty features; but his wife, and his parents, and his mates, and
sometimes lovely distant landscapes that he had never seen before.... He
had never had such beautiful dreams before he became blind....

But that night he did not sleep sound, for a hand shook him roughly as
he sat in the dark corner of the hearth, and recalled him to the reality
of things—namely, to the belfry tower to ring the bells, according to
orders received from the archdeacon, from eleven o’clock to midnight, in
order to announce the beginning of Lent, and warn people against
breaking in on the fast and vigil.

At the command, then, of Phœbus, still masquerading as the doctor, two
beggars, acting as his subordinates, who had already entered the tower
and seized the bell-ropes, began bending their backs and rising again to
the swing of the bells—a “double” so loud and eloquent in the gloomy
silence as to reach even the most distant cabins, where some ancient
oaks marked the boundary of the parish. But for a great many the bells
tolled in vain. Nay, some masks even went and stood under the
archdeacon’s windows, making unseemly noises, howling and whistling with
the intention of annoying him. And in some hay-lofts the young men,
laughing at the remonstrances of the old and the continued tolling of
the bells, kept up the dancing till daybreak, amid the smoke of the
pipes and the sawing of the violins. The girls, it is true, were
somewhat recalcitrant; but with a few scruples of conscience and a
little remorse, they let themselves be whirled away, after a while,
willingly enough.

After ringing for an hour, Phœbus, hearing the archdeacon’s maid-servant
call him from a window, entered, with his companion, the corridor of
that dignitary’s house, and having cautiously knocked at a door, was
told to come in. They entered a large room lit by an old-fashioned brass
lamp. Facing the door, at a little round table, smoking and sipping
punch, after having finished their game at chess, sat the good
archdeacon, a jolly man of portly presence, verging upon seventy;
Cavalier Vincenzino, the syndic, with bye-laws and civic enactments
clearly written on the folds of his brow and the curves of his mouth;
and the preaching friar, an elderly and hypocritical Franciscan, with
red hair and a round face, who had arrived that very day to preach the
Lenten sermons. When Phœbus and his companions entered, the friar hid
his modest little pipe in his wide sleeve, and produced instead a
snuff-box,[25] from which he immediately offered a pinch to the syndic
and the archdeacon, who readily accepted. The archdeacon, seeing Phœbus
appear before him in that burlesque costume, and with that crushed and
battered chimney-pot hat, threw back the tassel of his black skull-cap,
which was dangling close to his left ear, and nearly choked himself with
laughter. Modesta, the maid, who made a glorious entry, carrying a large
dish of steaming meat-dumplings, hastened to set them down on the other
table, which was ready laid in the middle of the room, so that she might
scratch her head and laugh, like her master—or even louder and longer.
This pleased neither the preaching friar nor the syndic, and they
whispered together, looking deeply scandalised.

“_Persicomele!_”[26] exclaimed the archdeacon, “are you going about
masked after the stroke of twelve? And what sort of a costume might this
be?”

“It is the costume of a doctor of medicine!”

“Dear archdeacon, my dear sir!” said the Franciscan, pointing at Phœbus,
“this suit of clothes has belonged to a priest; do you not see the black
stockings, the knee-breeches, the waistcoat? Archdeacon, it is not the
proper thing to let the clothes of the clergy be seen in a masquerade.”

“_Persicomele!_” exclaimed the archdeacon, looking more closely, as he
passed his hand over his knees, as if dusting his breeches. “Who gave
you these clothes?”

“The chaplain!”

“Good! very good!” exclaimed the syndic, chuckling with delight, but he
immediately resumed the calm, severe, and munificent aspect of the
person who has to sign municipal edicts.

“It seems impossible that, at the present day, certain priests should
have so little respect for their cloth!” said the Franciscan
indignantly. “Fatal effects, my dear sir!...” And he took an enormous
pinch of snuff, with both hands.

“You must not believe, reverend father,” replied the syndic, with some
heat, “that the chaplain gives the law to our commune; he is a——”

“Sir!” exclaimed the archdeacon.

“But you don’t know——”

“I don’t want to know. The chaplain is a priest, and that’s enough! Find
me another who for 260 francs will take the services of the
_Misericordia_ the whole year round, who will go ten or twelve miles on
foot, in the depth of winter, or in the dog-days, to attend a funeral,
and that with seventy years on his back! And then he has all his
brother’s family to keep—seven persons! But you were only joking,
Cavalier!—so never mind, let it pass.... And as for you, you blind
rascal, I must speak to you again about this. You had no business to go
masquerading in these clothes, which were given you in charity.
To-morrow, I shall tell the chaplain to take them away from you again!”

“What a pity!” thought Doctor Phœbus to himself; “I was going to make
the overcoat into a nice jacket to wear only on feast-days!”

“But, to make a short story of it,” resumed the archdeacon after some
moments of anxious silence, “what did you come here for—eh?”

“We came to see whether it is time for the _polpette_.”

“The _polpette_ are on the table; sit down, therefore, and eat.”

“Fair and softly,” exclaimed one of the guests a little later, giving
Phœbus a tremendous nudge with his elbow.

“Blind man, you’re going too fast!” cried the archdeacon, looking at
him.

“May I lose my sight if I have eaten more than two!”

“Two!—you’ve eaten a dozen!”

“The blind man has a good appetite! Well, there’s no harm—his teeth will
stand it!” said Modesta, who was seated close by, counting the
mouthfuls.

“Well then, Modesta, my dear,” said Phœbus, “when his reverence says,
‘Modesta, give the blind man a piece of bread and some meat, poor
fellow!’ why do you give me nothing but little dry crusts and
cheese-parings? Do you take me for a mouse, Modesta?”

“Blind man, blind man, you are never satisfied!”

“Bless your reverence!” said Modesta, “it would take a great deal to
satisfy him!”

“Nay, ’twould take little enough. I would be quite content if I had the
sight of my eyes again.”

“Good luck to you!” exclaimed the syndic at last, after having for some
time looked on in admiring silence at the process of mastication and
deglutition. “The like of us would be dead in three days if they ate in
that fashion!”

“Just try a little abstinence!” said Doctor Phœbus. “Try living all the
year round on wild herbs and roots boiled without salt, or roasted in
the ashes. That’s my prescription for you, sir!”

“Well, well,” said the syndic, “I would willingly exchange my life for
yours. You have no expenses; you pay no taxes—do you think that a small
thing? Now, I have to spend the very soul out of my body; a little for
the cat and a little for the dog, and what remains for me? At the end of
the year—so much received, so much spent, everything paid, and nothing
over!”

“I should just like to take you by the neck and hold you down to our
life for a month or so, so that you could try it!”

“Is that the way to speak to me?” said the syndic, somewhat offended.
“You ought to be more respectful.”

“Oh! you must not think, my dear sir,” said the archdeacon, “that the
blind man is really wanting in respect towards the authorities. Not at
all! He may be a little quick-tempered now and then, but when he
recollects himself he is a perfect lamb!”

“A kind of lamb which——” began the Franciscan.

“What do you expect?” interrupted Phœbus. “I used to be as sweet as
sugar; but now I am a little spoilt with doing nothing. Now that I have
tried it I find, in truth, that the labour of a porter is better than
the idleness of a gentleman. Just set me to work in your factory, sir;
let me turn the wheel, and give me thirty centimes a day, and you’ll see
how the blind man works!”

“Oh! indeed; you and your blarney!” retorted the syndic. “Look here, I
would willingly help you, but I cannot. I shall have to shut up the
works soon, to turn off every one, even my cook. Are they making game of
us with these taxes? I don’t know how we can go on; I haven’t ten
shillings left in the world. It is not my place as syndic to say so, but
the fault certainly lies with the Government....”

“Heigho!” said the blind man, “we shall be disappointed indeed, if we
are putting our trust in you, Mr. Government!”

“You should put your trust in Providence, young man,” said the preaching
friar, “and come and hear my sermons!”

“Indeed and he shall come to the sermons, and be hanged to him!”
exclaimed the archdeacon. “I’ll give him a couple of eggs for every
sermon; at Easter, so many sermons and so many eggs. But if you miss one
sermon, you blind rascal, you shall get nothing at all!”

“Put it in writing, sir!”

“Why, you blind scoundrel, are you afraid of my dying first?”

“You, sir?—why, you’ll live to the age of Noah on the clerical soups
that Modesta makes for you! No; it’s I that may die before Easter, and I
should like to bequeath that little legacy of eggs to my family!”

“Come, come, Modesta! never mind the blind man; it’s time to clear the
table. Don’t sit there keeping the brazier warm.”

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed Modesta, looking into the dish; “there were
sixty, and there are only eleven left!”

“I’m very sorry I didn’t eat them too!” replied Phœbus, “but I’ll come
to breakfast after the sermon to-morrow and finish them!”

“Yes, come by all means; they’ll just do for you!” said the archdeacon,
giving a glance at the dish.

“Are they made of meat or potatoes?” asked the Franciscan, with another
great pinch of snuff.

“Of meat, of meat,” said Modesta testily.

“Yes, there’s just enough meat to swear by!” said Phœbus.

“Even though there were but a piece the size of a pin’s head,” said the
friar as he took another pinch, “that would be enough! To-morrow, you
know, archdeacon, it’s a black vigil.”

“The friar is right! Do you want to go to hell for eating _polpette_
to-morrow! Persicomele! there’ll be no more _polpette_ now till next
year,—so good-bye, my fine fellow! Modesta, light the syndic to the
door. Don’t you see that he has put on his cloak, and wants to go?
Good-night, sir!”

“Good-night, archdeacon!” said the syndic, and then turned to whisper in
his ear, “By-the-bye, the chaplain always stands up for all bad
characters ... and his niece....”

“Why, whatever has the chaplain done to you? Modesta, light these other
people out!”

“Never mind me, I can see in the dark!” replied Phœbus, going towards
the door. “Modestina, dear, don’t you bother yourself with the light;
you’re using up too much oil; you should be saving with it, Modestina!”

“What are you thinking of, poor blind man?—such a trifle as that!” cried
Modesta. “Good gracious! we’re all of us baptised Christians, and a
little light costs nothing.”

The blind man, in going out, closed the door with such a tremendous bang
that he put out Modesta’s lamp; and returning to his disconsolate hut,
wished two or three apoplexies to that meddling vagabond of a friar who
had deprived him of those poor clothes and the remains of the supper,
with which it was the archdeacon’s annual custom to reward the four poor
wretches for their labours in the belfry. Having reached his house, he
told his wife the good tidings of the eggs at Easter, and fell asleep in
the time it takes to tell it. But that night he saw in his dreams
neither flowers, nor cities, nor seas bright in the sunshine. He dreamed
instead that he was the stout director of the manganese mines, and that
he was sitting in a nicely-warmed room at a well-spread table, and just
tasting the full flavour of a fat roast fowl. He was just at work on one
of the legs when his wife began to turn him over and call him to get up.
He struggled with his hands, feeling the director of the mines gradually
disappear, and a moment later he became aware that he was only blind
Phœbus. Then he hit himself a great thump on the head, and started up
because he heard the bells ringing for sermon. When he had got into
church he sat down close to the sacristy door, so that the archdeacon
might be sure to see him. The preacher seemed to be flinging squalls of
rain and wind, and all the devils of hell down from the pulpit on all
the crowded, uncovered heads. Phœbus paid no attention to him. When he
came out, certain good-for-nothing youngsters, loafing outside, shouted
after him—

“Phœbus! Phœbus! what has the preacher been saying?”

“I don’t know!” he replied. “I was thinking of the eggs!”

“By Bacchus! the archdeacon is quite right in thinking him a little
cracked! But I do believe that he would be a true believer if he saw the
Divine Master’s teachings practised a little better, and also a little
to his advantage!”

This was what the chaplain said to himself as he came out from the
service, with displeasure still written on his face, and also a certain
timid disgust, whether provoked by living men or by the dead, whom he
was constantly obliged to see, I do not know.

_Mario Pratesi._

_OUR SCHOOL AND SCHOOLMISTRESS._

We used to go to school, Sofia and I, with a certain Signora Romola.
They were very lavish with Greek and Roman names in our village in those
days. Teofilo, Pompeo, Lucrezia, Collatino, Quintilia, were appellations
frequently bestowed in baptism. Signora Romola was a strongly-built
woman, plump and ruddy of face, and with a soft voice, too soft indeed
for the air of severity which she wished to assume. It was her aim to
strike awe into us with a glance. In fact we scarcely dared to breathe
in her presence, by reason of that terrible glance which slowly swept
the class, and she always used to say that it was quite sufficient. “I
make them tremble with a glance,” she often told people; and as soon as
she made her majestic entrance into school there was immediate silence,
a fact of which she was very proud. They used to say she had been a
beauty in her youth; I would not be persuaded of the truth of this
statement. Her husband was Signor Capponio the chemist, who formed a
complete contrast to her. He was a long, thin, thread-paper of a man,
with a pair of great spectacles on his big nose, and sharp chin and
cheek-bones which seemed to make a triangle in his honest face. He
always wore a buffalo-skin cap, with a peak curved like a bird’s beak. I
always imagined that he must have come into the world in that cap; I
never saw him without it. He could play the flute, and often performed a
tune for us boys during our play-hour, stamping vivaciously with one
foot, and accompanying with his head, no less vivaciously, the motion of
his fingers on the keys. We stood around him with our noses in the air,
as though we had been gazing up at the top of a church tower, and held
out our arms trying to seize the instrument, whose construction we were
eager to examine; but, refusing to let go, he played on as vigorously as
before—or even more so—and at last made his escape, saying, “You’ll
spoil it! you’ll spoil it!” He had the name of a learned man; and he
must, by what I have heard, have understood something of botany; but I
think his reputation was really founded on certain sentences from
Hippocrates and Galen, in Latin, written up in gilt letters over the
shelves in his ancient shop. The gilding of the letters had turned black
by reason of the flies which swarmed there, on which, in the summer,
Capponio used to wage war—standing in the middle of his shop—by means of
a stick with long strips of paper attached to it. I do not remember one
of his many proverbs. He must have had a large stock of them, for it was
often said, “As Capponio says, with his proverb! Eh!—honest man—_he_
knows a lot about the world!” I used to think that the proverb was a
person very much like Capponio himself—buffalo-skin cap and all—but
still taller and more serious—appearing now here, now there—always
unexpected, and at other times invisible.

Capponio was a great institution among us. Whenever we saw him we rushed
up to him, dragging him by the skirts of his long, double-breasted,
snuff-coloured coat. And then he would lift us up to let us see
Lucca,[27] or show us how to turn somersaults. If, passing through the
school-room, he saw one of us on his knees, with the fool’s cap on his
head, or his eyes blindfolded, he would try to make fun of his wife’s
austerities. She would sometimes inflict punishments even more
humiliating than these—for instance, that most terrible one of all, of
having to make crosses on the ground with one’s tongue.

“Come, come no sorrow—
If you’re not cured to-day, it will cure you to-morrow!”

Capponio used to say, in a nasal tone, to make the children cease crying
and begin to laugh instead, which, in fact, they did; and Sora Romola,
who claimed an infallible knowledge of “how to bring up young people,”
grew uneasy and said that Capponio was getting us into very bad ways.
But we were fonder of Capponio than ever, especially as he was always
giving us something—a bunch of grapes, an orange, a pomegranate, or
sticks of barley-sugar made by himself. I was particularly fond of these
last. In fact, I once succeeded in perpetrating a crime which weighed
heavily on my mind. One day I was not allowed to go home at twelve, but
kept in to learn my lessons alone, in school. Tired of catching flies, I
went down very softly into the shop while Capponio was at dinner. There
was no one there but a big cat comfortably asleep on the counter, near
the scales. I felt certain that the cat would not report my theft to any
one, and very quickly, with my heart beating in a way that is not to be
described, I filled my pockets with the delicious transparent morsels,
and ate at least half a jar full, being determined, for once in my life,
to have really as many as I wanted. But Capponio found it out; and,
laying the blame on Camillo, the shop boy, ran after him and seized him
by the ear, crying, “Ah! you greedy rascal! I’ve caught you!” When I saw
the innocent accused I could hold out no longer, and, coming forward, I
blurted out, “It was I!” ... I remembered standing there, very red, with
my eyes on the ground, and expecting a sound box on the ear. But
Capponio only said, “Will you promise me not to do it again?” “Yes,
sir.” “Mind you don’t, then. This time I will forgive you, because you
have told the truth; but if you ever do it again I shall tell Sora
Romola, and then woe be to you!”

_Mario Pratesi._

_LOCAL JEALOUSIES._

Men, as well as women, speak ill of their neighbours; there is no
denying that fact. But they can never do it as efficiently, and, in any
case, they do not do it for the same reason. Men nearly always speak ill
of others because they believe themselves greatly superior to those
others; and if there is a race in the world, every individual of which
believes that the phrase which calls man the lord of creation was made
for his own personal use, that race is the Tuscan. Yesterday evening I
was listening attentively to a dialogue between a Livornese and a
Florentine seated at a table in the Giardino Meyeri. The conversation
turned on the English nation.

“The English,” said the Livornese, “are a selfish, heartless nation,
who, if the world were on fire, would think that Providence had done it
on purpose that they might heat the boilers of their steam-engines
without expense!” “That is true,” replied the other; “the French——”
“Worse than ever!” interrupted the first; “a nation of barbers, of
Robert Macaires, who took Nice and Savoy out of our pockets—yes, sir,
out of our pockets, as a pickpocket does a handkerchief. The
Spaniards—boastful, proud, vain, ignorant, bigoted, talkers. Come!
speaking quite honestly, the Italians are the first people in the world,
after all! It’s true that the Piedmontese are a little hard, the Genoese
too keen after money, the Neapolitans superstitious, the Sicilians
ferocious, and that the proverb says: ‘Beware of a red-haired Venetian,
a black-haired Lombard, and any kind of a Romagnole!’ Every one must
agree that Tuscany is the garden of Italy, as Italy is the garden of the
world, and that the Tuscans, speaking without conceit, are the pearls of
mankind!”

“The home of civilisation is in Tuscany,” he went on. “I have heard that
said since my childhood, and always by Tuscans, who surely ought to
know! Not that I would not admit that the Pistojans are all voice and
pen, that the Aretines are excessively devout, not to say hypocrites,
that the Siennese are vain, and the Pisans—why, Dante called them ‘the
scorn of nations,’ and the Florentines—well! excuse me, a little given
to loud talking and short of action ... but the Livornese—ah! the
Livornese are really the flower of the Tuscans!... And you may say what
you please, but the finest street in Livorno is Via Vittorio Emmanuele,
where I live.... I don’t know how any one can stay at Livorno and not
have a house in that street.... It is good living there—at least, that
is to say, on the left-hand side, because the sun never shines on the
right, the houses are damp, and any one who takes one on that side is
certainly an idiot. But on the left one can live like a prince; and
among all the houses on that side there is not one like mine. I do not
say that the other tenants are very first-rate people—oh dear no!... On
the fourth floor there is an idiot, whose wife—well, never mind! on the
third, a nobleman, with plenty of pride, but no money; on the second, a
family all show and pretension, who spend their money right and left in
order to look more than they really are, and who will assuredly come to
ruin. On the ground floor there is a wretch—a turncoat, a crawling
insect who has made money—no more of him! On the first floor I live with
my family. My home, I may say, is a real paradise.... My father is
dead—he was a gentleman!—a little hot-tempered if you like, a little
obstinate; but no human being is without faults!... There is my mother,
who is old—well, one knows, inclined to be querulous and tiresome; and
my sister, who would be the best girl in Livorno if it were not for a
touch of ambition, and a slight tendency to flirting; and then ... there
is myself. There! it is not for me to say—but you know me. I am quiet,
peaceable, well educated; I am sincere; I know how to keep within my
means; I am—well, in short, I am what I am!”

He might as well have said at once—“_I am the lord of creation!_”

_P. C. Ferrigni (“Yorick”)._

_SUNSHINE._

I don’t say that the sun and I are great friends. I have too much
respect for my courteous readers (including those who get their reading
for nothing, by borrowing this book instead of buying it) to permit
myself the slightest and most harmless of falsehoods where they are
concerned. I am not a friend of the sun’s, because I do not esteem him.
That way he has of shining indiscriminately on all,—of working in
partnership with everybody, from the photographer who forges bank-notes,
to the laundress and the plasterer, seems to me to show a lamentable
want of dignity in the Prime Minister of Nature. Besides, I remember
that, many years ago, he was kept under arrest for twelve hours by a
gendarme of antiquity, Captain Joshua, who must have had his reasons for
taking so momentous a step.

Perhaps he was set at liberty again, because no grounds could be
discovered for taking proceedings; but, at the same time, entirely
respectable people do not, as a rule, get arrested for nothing!

However, the sun and I live so very far apart from one another, that I
cannot say I see the necessity of breaking with him altogether. Every
year, about the middle of spring, I take a run down to the Ardenza, stop
on the sea-shore, pass respectfully in front of the villas and palaces
of the neighbourhood, and return home with an easy conscience, and the
feeling of having left my card at summer’s door. So that, later in the
season, when I meet the July sun, a sun which is quite Livornese, a
municipal sun (the Corporation are extremely proud of it), we greet each
other like old acquaintances!...

The July sun is a great benefactor to the Livornese. If gratitude were
still the fashion, he ought to be made syndic of the city, and his
painted image ought to figure on the municipal shield, instead of the
present device of the two-towered fortress in the midst of the sea.

_P. C. Ferrigni._

_WHEN IT RAINS._

Suppose for a moment—and note, that when a man says _suppose_, he is
perfectly sure of his ground, and woe be to any who contradicts
him—suppose, then, for one moment, that man is really a rational animal.

The bizarre originality of being rational, which constitutes the _last
term_ of the definition, does not prejudice the wisely general character
of the _first term_, which is this: Man is an animal.

Now, I ask, what use is reason to a man, if it does not make him take an
umbrella when it rains? It is all very well for you to think yourself
superior to all other created beasts,—to be proud of your learning, your
science, your experience, your laws, your noble blood, or your ample
income;—if you find yourself out in the rain without an umbrella, you
will always be the most contemptible figure in creation.

Let us be just;—humanity is not lovely when seen through the falling
drops of rain, by the cold, dull light of a sunless day, under a dull,
leaden, low, foggy sky, resting like a cover on the circle of the
horizon. All men wear faces of portentous length; one can see that they
bear an undying grudge against meteorologic science, on account of that
phenomenon of aqueous infiltration which is so deadly to new hats and
old boots. They go their ways dripping along the rows of houses, under
the deluges from the water-pipes, picking their way between the puddles,
with countenances cloudier than the skies, muttering the devil’s
litanies between their teeth with a muffled murmur like the gurgling of
a boiling saucepan. At every corner, such accidents as making too close
an acquaintance with the ribs of an umbrella coming the other way,
getting splashed with liquid mud by a passing horse, or spoiling the
freshness of a new pair of trousers by means of an overflowing gutter,
provoke a glance which, if looks could kill, would be downright
murder,—a contraction of the facial muscles which recalls the grin of
the ancestral ape in a bad temper, and an explosion of _sotto voce_
ejaculations, expressing a pious desire to see one’s neighbours in
general attached to the muzzle of a breech-loading mitrailleuse in full
activity.

... Now, to orthodox minds there cannot be the slightest doubt on the
subject; rain is by no means a fitting and necessary part of the order
of things; it is rather of the nature of a judgment. The Scriptures make
no mention of bad weather before the time of the Flood. Rain-water was
in nowise needed for the development of germs or the ripening of the
harvest. Adam had been condemned to water the earth with the sweat of
his brow, and this irrigation would have been quite sufficient to raise
maize and beans over the whole surface of the globe....

From the preceding considerations it seems to me that one can draw two
principal conclusions:—

1. That rain is not a necessity of Nature, but rather what is commonly
called a judgment of Providence.

2. That human beings, when it rains, are exceedingly ugly.

Take these two conclusions and put them aside; for we may draw from them
later on the most curious and unexpected consequences....

_P. C. Ferrigni._

_THE PATENT ADAPTABLE SONNET._
FROM “IL SIGNOR LORENZO.”

... _Gianni._ I have three systems of making money; one is that of the
poet. Suppose, for example, there is a wedding, a young man who has just
taken his degree, a dancer who has been a great success, a celebrated
preacher, a new member of the Chamber of Deputies,—I have a sonnet which
will do for any of them; it only wants the last three lines varied to
suit the occasion. I have six alternative versions of those three lines.
It is a revolver-sonnet; you can fire six shots with it. Do you see? The
two quartets consist of philosophical observations on the joys and
sorrows of life; they will do for every one. In the first tercet I
descend from the general to the particular. “O thou!” I say without
further appellation. That _thou_ has neither sex nor age; it is equally
suitable for man or woman, old or young, noble or bourgeois. (Begins to
recite, gesticulating.)

And thou, into whose heart high Heaven all pure
Virtues did gather, and a noble need
Did grant of soothing woes that men endure.

You see that is adapted to all, and the point of the whole is the idea
of _soothing the woes that men endure_. Now the last tercet is, so to
speak, the loaded cartridge in the revolver. Suppose I am addressing a
bride—

Enjoy, O fair and gentle Bride, the crown
Due to all generous souls elect indeed;
May Heaven to-day send thee this guerdon down.

Or else, for a graduate—

Enjoy, O gentle scholar, thou the crown
Due to all generous souls elect indeed;
May Science send to-day this guerdon down!

Or, “Enjoy, O gentle artist;” or, again, “Enjoy, O offspring of a royal
race;” or, “O, industrious plebeian;” “O sacred order”—according to
circumstances.

_Gertrude._ And supposing there were a death in the family?

_Gianni._ Ah! certainly! There I should say, “Enjoy, O gentle heir!”

_Gertrude._ It is an ingenious idea.

_Paolo Ferrari._

_LOVE BY PROXY._

_Petronio._... I tell you I’m tired of it! And it is you I complain
of—you and your apathy, which poor Virginia thinks she can cure by means
of the stimulus of jealousy! And I am to act the part of stimulus! But
it is a part I don’t at all relish, because when you come to look into
it, the stimulus, instead of acting on you, acts on me! In other words,
I am falling in love—do you understand that? I am falling in love with
your Virginia, my Carlo! I am becoming your rival, my good friend!—and a
neglected rival, by all that’s contemptible! Because I am your friend I
speak of nothing but you when I am with her;—she accuses, and I defend
you—you idiot! She doubts you, and I keep on swearing that you adore
her—blind fool!... And all this is very dangerous to my virtue. For,
while it is quite true that I speak on your account, I feel my ears
burning on my own. It is true that Virginia is touched by my words,
because I, lying most vilely, keep telling her that they are yours. But
I know well enough that they are my own words; therefore, is the look
that flashes from those great eyes of hers, as she listens to them, mine
or yours? I can’t tell, and the effort to find out causes such a
confusion of emotions—mine, thine, his, ours, yours, everybody’s...—that
my head spins round faster than Angiolina’s reel. There, you have it
now!

_P. Ferrari._

_A WET NIGHT IN THE COUNTRY._

LUISA, _and_ LAURETTA, _her maid, packing up trunks_.

_Lauretta._ Here—this trunk is locked, and now we are all ready.

_Luisa._ Oh! I hear my husband’s voice.

_Giuliano_ (_behind the scenes_). Yes, yes—don’t worry yourselves; I
will be punctual.

_A Voice_ (_ditto_). Yes—and your wife too; don’t forget!

_Other Voices._ Yes, of course, your wife must come with you.

_Giu._ Yes, yes. Then it is understood——Good-bye for the present.
(_Enter Giuliano._) Good evening, dear. (_Lays aside his gun._) Here I
am, back again. (_Looking round._) Oh! good—the trunks are all ready,
and the smaller boxes have followed their laudable example!...
Everything is in order!... Law and order for ever!

_Luisa._ And you’re as mad as ever! Are you tired?

_Giu._ According to your own rule—which holds good under any
circumstances—I never get tired. And to prove it to you—there is to be
dancing this evening.

_Luisa_ and _Lauretta_ (_astonished_). Dancing this evening!

_Giu._ Dancing.

_Luisa._ But you don’t think——?

_Giu._ I never think—another general rule. Yes, I repeat, there is to be
dancing, and, what is better, you will dance too.

_Luisa._ I, indeed!

_Giu._ Oh, yes! you shall dance, dear;—you shall come with your husband
to the party we have got up on the spur of the moment—you will be
lovely—adorable! Oh! don’t say no—I beg you—I entreat you. As a friend,
I entreat you ... (_Unbuttoning his coat._) As a husband, I command you.

_Luisa_ (_laughing as if in spite of herself_). You are a queer
creature!

_Giu._ Ah! you laugh?

_Luisa._ I may laugh; but you must not think I am going to give way.

_Giu._ Then there is nothing for it but a story? the resource of
old-fashioned comedies. Well, listen now, and you shall have your
story.... This is how it happened. Coming back from shooting, as we drew
near the village, we began to debate how we might spend the remaining
hours of this evening, up to the time of our departure, most agreeably.
We stopped in a meadow to form a club and discuss matters. As usually
happens in clubs, much learned nonsense was talked and many absurd
measures proposed.... At last some one suggested getting up an extempore
dance. The motion was negatived by the mayor and his secretary, whose
figures are obviously incompatible with any kind of gymnastic
exercise—except perhaps that to be obtained on a see-saw. It was then
that I carried my _coup d’état_; we were all seated, look you, so I took
in the situation at a glance, and exclaimed, “The motion is put to the
vote. Those against it will kindly rise; those in favour of it will
remain seated.” Our two Falstaffs exchanged a look full of anguish, and
seeing that they could not record a negative vote without the frightful
exertion of rising from the ground, preferred to affirm by remaining as
they were. The resolution was therefore passed by acclamation, and the
dance is to begin immediately in the drawing-room of the Manfredi
Palace, not far from this house.

_Luisa._ And what results from all this? That _we_ are going to this
dance?—we, who have to start at daybreak! Do think of it, Giuliano—the
thing is impossible!

_Giu._ How impossible?

_Luisa._ Don’t you see? all my dresses are already packed in this trunk;
the tulle, the ribbons, and flowers in that box; the gold ornaments
locked up in my jewel-case.... I should have to open everything, turn
everything upside down; and the coachman may come any moment to fetch
the things.... No, no—it’s absolutely impossible!

_Giu._ Hm!—well, if there’s no help for it—if it is to cause so much
inconvenience.... Well—sometimes it is as well to be reasonable....

_Luisa._ Come now, that’s right.

_Giu._ Well—I’ll make this sacrifice.

_Luisa._ Yes, for my sake, well done!

_Giu._ Yes, for your sake, I’ll try to put up with it.... I’ll go alone.

_Lau._ (_aside, laughing_). Oh! I didn’t expect _that_.

_Luisa_ (_astonished_). What! you’re going?

_Giu._ Oh! certainly!

_Luisa._ But, my gracious! your clothes are all packed up!

_Giu._ They can be unpacked, I suppose.

_Luisa._ But the trunks are locked.

_Giu._ They can be opened.

_Luisa._ But do you, or don’t you, understand that the cabman may call
for them any moment?

_Giu._ Send him to the devil! I’ll take that much on myself.

_Luisa._ Oh! I tell you what, this is mere childishness, and I am not
going to be the victim of all your whims and fancies! Now that I’ve
nearly killed myself getting things straight, packing and getting ready
and all, ... and I’m to upset everything again. I tell you I just won’t
do it! I don’t feel fit for it, and I tell you I’m not going to open a
single trunk,—so there! (_Walks up and down._)

_Giu._ You’re not going to undo anything?

_Luisa._ I’m not.

_Giu._ Quite sure?

_Luisa._ Absolutely.

_Giu._ Then I will. (_Opens a trunk._)

_Lau._ (_aside_). It’s all up now!

_Luisa_ (_quickly_). Don’t—don’t! you’re turning everything upside down.

_Giu._ Either you or I.

_Luisa._ Do make an end of it!... There!—there’s no help for it—what can
one do with a lunatic? Get out of the way, do! What is it you want?

_Giu._ Not much—shirt, socks, white waistcoat, black necktie, dress
coat, gloves, crush-hat, handkerchief, breastpin, Eau-de-Cologne—nothing
else!

_Luisa._ Mercy on us! Oh! poor me!

_Giu._ Ah! and my boots.

_Luisa._ Anything else? Lauretta, where are the boots? Do come and help
me here!

_Lau._ They’re in the green trunk in the other room!

_Giu._ Francesco! (_Enter Francesco._) Go into the other room at once,
and look if there is a pair of patent leather boots in the green trunk.
(_Exit Francesco._) Ah! by Jove! I knew I had forgotten something!

_Luisa._ Oh! good gracious! what else?

_Giu._ Why, of course, my other pair of trousers.

_Luisa._ Why, they’re right at the bottom of the box.

_Giu._ Oh, indeed! You don’t expect me to go in these, do you? (_Enter
Francesco without the boots._) Well—about those boots?

_Fran._ They are there.

_Giu._ Well, what have you done with them?

_Fran._ They’re in the green trunk.

_Giu._ Haven’t you brought them?

_Fran._ You told me to look if they were there, sir; you didn’t say I
was to bring them.

_Giu._ I must say you’re wonderfully intelligent for your age. (_With
ironical amiability._) Go back again, my dearest boy, open the trunk,
take out that pair of varnished boots.... Do you know, by-the-bye, what
varnished means? It means that they have never been blacked by you.... A
new pair that has not been worn yet.... Take them in your hands, and
bring them here to me.

_Fran._ Am I to bring in the trunk as well, sir?

_Giu._ Tell me now, what did your mother say when she saw you were such
an idiot?

_Fran._ She said nothing, sir; she cried.

_Giu._ Very good! Well, you can leave the trunk in the other room.
(_Walking up and down, while Luisa and Lauretta are unpacking, and
talking as if to himself._) Oh! I’m not at all sorry to go out by myself
for once in a way.... After two years of marriage....

_Lau._ (_aside to Luisa_). Mistress, if I were you, I wouldn’t let him
go by himself.

_Luisa._ Oh! he’s only joking ... My dear girl, if I had not to turn so
many things out....

_Giu._ Let me see ... to whom should I devote my attention more
particularly?... Decidedly there is no one but the doctor’s wife....

_Luisa_ (_aside to Lauretta_). Where did you put my light blue gauze
dress?

_Lau._ (_aside_). In the other trunk, on the top.

_Giu._ (_as before_). Yes, yes; that’s it ... the doctor’s wife....
After the dance I will see her home.

_Luisa_ (_aside to Lauretta_). Just open the other trunk and take out my
blue dress. (_Aloud, to Giuliano._) Just listen, Giuliano, I have been
thinking it over, and ... I think I’ll come too.

_Giu._ But just think, dear; you’ll have to turn everything upside down
and undo all the boxes you have packed.

_Luisa._ Never mind.

_Giu._ Then, you see, you have your dresses in this trunk, your tulle
and flowers and lace in that box, your jewellery——

_Luisa._ Do stop, you wretch! You want to have your revenge on me; but
it won’t do. I tell you I don’t mind; I’ll turn out everything and
come ... that is, _if you want me_!

_Giu._ Want you? How can you doubt it? But you’ll have to be quick.

_Luisa_ (_running to Lauretta_). Oh! I’ll be ready directly, never fear.
Quick, Lauretta; just throw the things anywhere; never mind where, as
long as you can get at my dress.

_Giu._ Let us be clear about things, dear wife. Directly is a relative
term, and when it relates to a lady’s toilet it is difficult to find a
fixed standard by which one can judge. Well then—(_watch in hand_)—how
much time will you require?

_Luisa._ Oh! just think of it! A quarter of an hour—half-an-hour at
most.... I’m sure I shall not take three-quarters ... or at any rate
only a very little more.

_Giu._ Ah! ah! you’re just like Goldoni’s lawyer. Well, try to make an
effort, at any rate!

_Luisa._ Oh! don’t be afraid; I won’t be a minute.

_Giu._ I tell you what I’ll do: while you’re dressing I’m going to throw
myself on the bed to rest a little.... So when you are ready, just tell
me.... I shall not be a minute dressing. (_Exit, but goes on speaking
behind the scenes._) Mind, I want you to look your best. What dress are
you going to put on?

_Luisa._ The blue gauze.

_Giu._ All right.

_Fran._ (_returning with the boots_). Where’s the master?

_Lau._ In the bedroom. (_Exit Francesco._)

_Fran._ (_behind the scenes_). Sir!

_Giu._ (_in a sleepy voice_). Let me alone.

_Fran._ The boots are here, sir.

_Giu._ Go away with you.

_Fran._ But you told me ... (_Comes out on the stage, followed by a
pillow thrown by Giuliano. Mutters to himself_:) After all, the proverb
is right, “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

_Luisa._ Really, in this house we are not likely to die of melancholy.
Come, Lauretta, and help me to get my dress on.

(_Exeunt Luisa and Lauretta._)

_Fran._ As I’ve nothing to do, I might as well go to my room and sleep a
little. By Jove! I think it’s raining. (_Goes to look out of window._)
Yes, indeed, that’s good! I wonder how the mistress will manage to go to
that dance.

_Luisa_ (_within_). Francesco!

_Fran._ Yes, ma’am.

_Luisa._ Is it raining?

_Fran._ I’m afraid so.... If you’ll allow me, ma’am, I’ll go away to my
room; you can give a call whenever you want me.

_Luisa._ Yes, yes, you may go. (_Exit Francesco._)

(_Enter Cavallotto._)

_Cav._ What’s this? Everything was ready, and now ... Body o’ the
morning! what does all this mean?

_Luisa_ (_within, Lauretta_). My good man, we are going to a dance.

_Cav._ And when will you start?

_Luisa._ We shall start later.

_Cav._ But that does not suit me at all, ma’am! Do you know that we have
forty miles to go? And I don’t want to find myself on the road after
dark.

_Giuliano_ (_within, awaking_). What’s the matter there?

_Luisa._ Oh! that will be all right. Giuliano, would you mind speaking
to Cavallotto?

_Giu._ (_as before_). Ah! Cavallotto, is it you? What do you want? We’ll
start later....

_Cav._ But, I repeat, by all the——

_Giu._ (_half asleep_). Don’t bother me now.... I’ll pay you extra....
We’ll make two days’ journey of it.... Anything you like, as long as you
go away now.

_Cav._ Ah! if you’re willing to stop half-way, I have no more to say; on
the contrary, I am glad of it, because one of my horses has a pain——

_Giu._ Ah! you scoundrel! (_Exit Cavallotto, shrugging his shoulders._)
And if we wanted to leave at six, how would you get out of the
difficulty?... Answer!... Ah! you are dumb! Let us see now ... how ...
because we shall have to ... Yes, certainly! (_Falls asleep._)

(_Enter Luisa, in evening dress, arranging her ornaments._)

_Luisa._ My good Cavallotto——! Why! he’s gone. So much the better. Now I
must call Giuliano, and find out what he means to do if it rains.

_Lau._ After all, it is only a few steps to the Manfredi Palace.

_Luisa._ That is true; but at any rate it is time to call him, Giuliano!

_Giu._ (_within_). What is it?

_Luisa._ It’s time to get up.

_Giu._ What a bother! I was sleeping so comfortably.

_Luisa._ Come, be quick!

_Giu._ Tell me, Luisa, have you really set your heart on going to this
tiresome dance?

_Luisa._ Oh, indeed! if you’re not enough to provoke a saint!

_Giu._ Calm yourself, my dear; I’m coming. (_Enters in his
dressing-gown. He sits down near the front of the stage._) See here;
while I was in there on the bed, my dear girl, I was reflecting
seriously——

_Luisa._ Do tell the truth, and say you were sleeping deliciously!

_Giu._ That may be, but even in sleep the mind continues its
intellectual processes, and, as I said, I thought over your judicious
observations....

_Luisa_ (_vexed_). Really, this is too much! First you nearly drive me
out of my senses, till I made up my mind to come with you to the dance;
then, when I have turned out all my boxes, and taken the trouble to
dress, and am all but ready, you want ... _Will_ you be kind enough not
to carry the joke too far?

_Giu._ Enough! let us perform this heroic action! Francesco!

_Fran._ (_within_). Sir?

_Giu._ Come here directly. (_Enter Francesco._) Take my things and come
and help me to dress. (_Exit into his bedroom, followed by Francesco._)

_Luisa._ Oh! these men! these men! all tyrants and bullies—even the best
of them! Come! where are my bracelets?

_Lau._ This time it went off all right, though!

_Luisa._ Oh! it’s not ended yet.... If you only knew ... I am terribly
afraid.

_Lau._ What about?

_Luisa._ I am afraid I have given Giuliano the wrong pair of
trousers ... those that did not fit, and made him so angry....

_Lau._ Those that he threw at the tailor’s head after the first time of
trying them on?

_Luisa._ Yes, those....

_Giu._ (_from within_). Luisa!

_Luisa_ (_aside to Lauretta_). Ah! didn’t I say so? (_Aloud._) What is
it?

_Giu._ Which trousers have you given me?

_Luisa._ I ... I don’t know....

_Giu._ They are those that ass of a tailor made.... I kept them out of
charity, but I never meant to wear them ... never!

_Luisa._ Oh! they can’t be those.

(_Enter Giuliano from the bedroom._)

_Giu._ Can’t they? I tell you it is the very pair.

_Luisa._ But do be persuaded....

_Giu._ Persuaded, indeed! Why, of course they are the same; and if you
don’t give me another pair I shall not come.

_Luisa._ And I tell you that I don’t feel the least bit inclined to pull
all the things out of another trunk.... It’s nothing but excuses to make
me stay at home. But anyway——

_Giu._ Oh, heavens! another sermon! No, no—do be quiet. I’ll resign
myself, and try to endure.... Francesco, my boots! (_He puts them on at
the back of the stage, turning his back on the audience._) Gracious, how
tight they are!... curses on that shoemaker! How am I to hold out with
my feet in these? (_Rises and walks about stiffly and clumsily._)

_Luisa._ Another excuse!

_Giu._ Excuse! I tell you it feels as though I had my feet in a vice. I
can’t move.

_Luisa._ After all, you’re not going to play at tennis.

_Giu._ Well, and what then? If a gentleman does not feel disposed to
take part in the noble game of tennis, is he to be laced up so that he
cannot move?

_Luisa_ (_angrily_). In short—I understand! Do you wish to stay at home?
Does it bore you to come to the dance? Do you want to go to bed? We will
stay at home—we will not go to the dance—we _will_ go to bed!

_Giu._ Mind that I do not take you at your word.

_Luisa._ Much it matters to me if you do! Come, Lauretta, help me off
with these things!

_Giu._ Francesco, get these boots off for me! (_Exit._)

(_Luisa sits down R., with signs of vexation, and Lauretta begins to
undo her head-dress._)

_Fran._ (_following Giuliano_). I am really beginning to get tired of
this business.

_Luisa_ (_rises and walks to the door of Giuliano’s room, Lauretta
following her and taking off her ornaments as she goes_). I tell you all
the same, sir, that this is not the way to treat me; and if you play me
this sort of trick again, I know very well what I shall do. (_Returns to
the front of the stage, and sits down, still followed by Lauretta._)

(_Enter Giuliano, followed by Francesco._)

_Giu._ And what, if you please, do you want to do? This is very fine
indeed! Is it my fault if my clothes and boots are too tight? Am I to be
condemned to walk about like a wooden doll—like an elephant—for a whole
night, to please you? Your pretensions are truly wonderful! (_Exit._)

_Marco_ (_behind the scenes_). Is Giuliano here? May I come in?

_Luisa._ Come in.

(_Enter Marco, with an umbrella, in a black dress-coat._)

_Marco._ Madam——

(_Enter Giuliano, in dressing-gown and slippers._)

_Giu._ Marco, my dear fellow, are you looking for me?

_Marco._ Precisely.

_Luisa._ With your permission.... (_Exit, with Lauretta._)

_Marco._ Well done! you are just dressing.

_Giu._ _Just_ so—we were just dressing. What’s the news?

_Mar._ The news is, that it is raining, and in this weather none of the
ladies will be coming to our improvised party. We therefore thought of
sending a carriage for them.

_Giu._ Well?

_Mar._ It’s not so well. A carriage is not so easily found in our
village.

_Giu._ I understand. If it were a cart, now....

_Mar._ We found one, however; a fine, commodious coach, to hold six
people——

_Giu._ An ark, in short—just the thing for this threatened universal
deluge. Well, what then?

_Mar._ The worst is, we cannot get——

_Giu._ The horses?

_Mar._ Precisely. The owner sold them last week, to buy——

_Giu._ Hay?

_Mar._ No, to buy a yoke of oxen.

_Giu._ Well, why don’t you harness the oxen?

_Mar._ Just like you—you must have your joke. Listen, now—this is what
we thought of doing. There are two cab-drivers in the place; we have
made arrangements with them to fetch the ladies in their cabs.

_Giu._ Very good.

_Mar._ So I have come to give you notice that in a little while they
will be coming round for your wife and you—so try to be ready.

_Giu._ But really....

_Mar._ Oh! there is no “really” that will hold. If you don’t come in the
cab, we’ll come to fetch you with a stick.

_Giu._ No—not that. Bruises for bruises, I prefer those of the cab. I’ll
come.

_Mar._ With your wife, mind!

_Giu._ With my wife.

_Mar._ Good-bye till then. (_Exit._)

_Giu._ Good-bye.

(_Enter Luisa, still in evening dress, followed by Lauretta._)

_Giu._ So, you understand that you absolutely must go!

_Luisa._ And be quick about it. (_Laughing._)

_Giu._ Francesco!

_Fran._ Here I am.

_Giu._ Quick, I want to dress! (_Exit._)

_Fran._ (_aside_). Now, I am most decidedly disgusted!

(_Exit._)

_Giu._ (_within_). Luisa, pity me! I am putting my feet back into the
vice!

_Luisa._ For so sweet a cause one can suffer anything!

_Giu._ (_within_). Ah!... May you be bitten by a mad dog!

_Luisa._ What’s the matter?

_Giu._ That idiot of a Francesco has just tenderly trodden on my foot
with one of his iron-heeled boots.

_Fran._ (_within_). I beg your pardon, sir; but would you please reflect
that it was you who put your foot under my heel?

_Giu._ And hurt your heel, eh?

_Lau._ (_laughing_). I think, ma’am, the scenes that take place in this
house, especially this evening ... I must say it is a pity people can’t
see them in the theatre!

(_Enter Giuliano in his shirt sleeves, followed by Francesco._)

_Giu._ Here I am; where’s my necktie? (_Francesco hands it to him, and
he puts it on. Luisa looks on, laughing._) You laugh, eh?—unhappy woman!
You laugh because you cannot take in at a glance the seriousness of your
husband’s position!... My waistcoat! (_Francesco hands it._) For one has
to calculate all chances ... the chance of a declaration, for instance!

_Luisa._ What business have you making declarations, sir?

_Giu._ I have no business whatever to make any; but I might do so—go on
my knees, and all—and then ... My dress-coat! (_Francesco hands it, as
before._)... Give me a pin for my necktie. (_Luisa brings him one._) Do
me the favour to put it in for me, will you? But mind you don’t make a
hole in me—see?

_Luisa._ Now, let the cab come when it likes—we are all ready!

_Giu._ Yes; the victim is prepared for the sacrifice! Just imagine it!
My feet are so numb and dead I might be a Chinese—a remnant of the
Russian army—a survivor of the Beresina! And then to have to walk
upstairs in these same boots, and finish up by dancing a mazurka with
the mayor’s daughter!

(_Enter Marco._)

_Mar._ May I come in?

_Giu._ Oh! it’s you? Here we are, quite ready!

(_Luisa puts on her shawl and hood, helped by Lauretta. Giuliano takes
his hat and gloves._)

_Mar._ I came myself, because——

_Giu._ Thanks for the trouble, my dear fellow. Come along, Luisa.
(_Gives her his arm._)

_Mar._ But—one moment!

_Luisa._ What is it?

_Mar._ I am truly grieved.... But I must....

_Giu._ But what is it all about?

_Mar._ One of the two cabmen we were counting on is away, ... and the
other....

_Luisa._ That is our Cavallotto; he is here, surely?

_Mar._ But one of his horses is ill, and cannot be harnessed. The rain
continues to come down in torrents; and as we saw there was no help for
it, we determined to give up the idea of the dance, and have one instead
when you come again.

_Luisa._ The dance, then....

_Giu._ There is none?

_Mar._ There is none. I came to make my apologies to you, madam; and now
I must run off home to change my clothes, for I am as wet as a drowned
chicken. Madam—Giuliano, old fellow, I wish you good-night and a
pleasant journey. (_Exit._)

(_Giuliano and Luisa stand, arm in arm, looking at one another
comically._)

_Lauretta_ (_aside to Francesco_). Go and tell the cook to bring up
supper.

_Francesco._ A good idea. (_Exit._)

_Giu._ (_looking round_). A magnificent room, isn’t it?

_Luisa_ (_who has laid aside her wraps, imitating him_). Splendidly
illuminated.

_Giu._ Ladies in great numbers.

_Luisa._ Plenty of gentlemen.

_Giu._ (_looking at Luisa_). See, see, how gracious my wife is to the
mayor!

_Luisa_ (_looking at Giuliano_). Look at my husband doing the polite to
the doctor’s wife!

_Giu._ Madam, will you kindly favour me with this polka?

_Luisa._ With all the pleasure in the world, sir.

_Giu._ (_to Lauretta and Francesco, who are standing at the back of the
stage laughing_). Orchestra!—polka!

(_Lauretta sings a polka, Francesco taking the bass. Giuliano and Luisa
take a few steps together._)

(_Enter the Cook, in white cap and apron._)

_Cook._ The supper is served.

_Giu._ Now, shall we go to supper?

(_Exeunt._)

(_Curtain._)

_Paolo Ferrari_

_A LOST EXPLORER._
FROM THE COMEDY “CORVI” (CARRION CROWS).

Bertrando, the editor of the _Demos_, and Serpilli, the publisher, have
just received word of the death of their friend Arganti, who had gone on
an exploring expedition into the Soudan.

_Bertrando._ I have just sent the confirmation of the sad news. Poor
Arganti! This sudden loss has quite paralysed me. It is all very well to
make a parade of one’s want of feeling and pretend to be a cynic; but
when the thunderbolt falls at your very feet....

_Serpilli._ Just so; but, _I_ say, what mad notion was it that made him
go and get himself killed out there? At fifty, too! Were there not
enough hare-brained young fellows eager to discover new outlets, new
resources for commerce, for industry, for African humanity, which,
by-the-bye, loves us as well as people love the smoke in their eyes?...
Wasn’t he quite comfortable here, in this charming house, with the best
of wives? No, sir! He must needs be off poking his nose into other
people’s affairs!

_Ber._ You forget how many years he had travelled—and the love of
science——

_Ser._ One might get over it if the misfortune had been confined to the
dead, but it also touches the living!

_Ber._ Serpilli!

_Ser._ My dear fellow, it’s all very well for you to talk; but I have
undertaken a complete illustrated edition of all his travels.... Sixty
thousand francs, do you understand? I am ruined!

_Ber._ Do you think this is the time——?

_Ser._ Yes, yes, certainly—I mourn for him—I am deeply grieved; but who
will give me back my sixty thousand francs? It’s ruin—it’s
bankruptcy!... Oh! who would have thought it? And it must happen to me,
of all men in the world!

_Ber._ Come, have done with this! Who prevents your continuing the
issue? Surely Arganti’s writings have not lost their value through his
death?

_Ser._ What interest can attach to his expedition to Palestine,
undertaken twenty years ago, now that people can make a holiday
excursion of it and travel by rail? It needs something else to tickle
the palate of the public, who, nowadays, are perfectly familiar with
Afghanistan, Zululand, Basutoland,—not to mention journeys to the centre
of the earth, to the bottom of the sea, and the sphere of the moon! My
poor sixty thousand francs!... If he had lived it would not have been so
bad. With a Mutual Admiration Society such as the fashionable papers
know how to get up, something might have been done. But now that Arganti
is dead, who is going to waste his time in praising him? You will have
your time fully taken up in bringing out some new genius—one of those
startling and powerful ones who open new horizons to the heart and mind,
to science, and their country every quarter of an hour! And I shall be
sacrificed!

_Ber._ You are both ungrateful and mistaken. You have made quite a nice
little sum out of our poor friend’s works, which we advertised for you
at reduced prices and reviewed in special articles!

_Ser._ Why, I have spent the whole on advertising the new edition; and
now, just as I am about to reap the fruits of judicious puffing,
everything is upset by death—the one thing I had not calculated on.

_Ber._ Serpilli! Serpilli!

_Ser._ It is enough to bring on an attack of the jaundice! If Arganti
had at least confined himself to writing a couple of volumes!... No,
sir! Twenty-seven!

_Ber._ Would you, out of sordid self-interest, wish the scientific and
literary heritage of the nation to be diminished?

_Ser._ You are laughing at me. You are quite right; I have been an
idiot.

_Ber._ I respect every one’s convictions.

* * * * *

_Serpilli, Bertrando, Geronte (an embalmer). Enter Francesco._

_Francesco._ The telegraph messenger has just brought these six
telegrams.

_Ser._ Give them to me.

(_Francesco gives them, and exits._)

_Ser._ (_opening the telegrams and reading_). The Independent Liberal
Democratic Association—the syndic—the Association of Watchmakers’
Apprentices—the tribunal—the prefect.... “Unspeakable grief”—“sorrow of
the human race”—“words fail.”... (_Throws the telegrams on the table._)
“In great misfortunes vibrates the heart of great nations.”...

_Per._ (_enters hurriedly_). And of all great artists.

_Ger._ The sculptor Peralti, a dear friend, one of our associates.

_Ser._ (_to Peralti_). Have you heard, too?

_Per._ I have read some twenty or thirty telegrams posted up at the
street corners, and have at once hastened here to present to the widow
this design for a monument to be erected to her husband.

_Ser._ Did you have it ready?

_Per._ An artist never lets himself be taken unawares.

_Ger._ You have the instinct of genius!

_Per._ (_unrolling a sheet of paper which he holds in his hand, and
giving it to Geronte_). You see, a large pedestal with three steps—two
sleeping lions, in Canova’s manner—a cubic block of granite, which has a
philosophic signification. The statue is seated on a curule chair....
Just look at the subtlety, the diapason, the _tonality_, the depth of
the _tout ensemble_!

_Ser._ But surely this is the drawing you made for Professor Giulini.

_Ger._ (_handing the paper to Serpilli_). I thought I had seen it
exhibited as a design for a monument to General Quebrantador.

_Ser._ (_handing it to Peralti_). Not at all. I tell you——

_Ger._ And I maintain——

_Per._ Calm yourselves, gentlemen. The artist of any _élan_ dashes off
his idea just as genius inspires him.... It will then serve its purpose
when a purpose is made apparent. (_Rolls up the drawing._)

_Ger._ Bravo! I hold exactly the same theory with regard to my own
science. I prepare the acids....

(_Enter Francesco._)

_Fran._ What is all this, Signor Serpilli? Just look, what a bundle of
telegrams!

_Ser._ Excellent! Go and tell Signor Bertrando.

_Fran._ (_lays the telegrams on the table_). Oh! by-the-bye, I was
forgetting.... What has become of my head?... There is a photographer
outside who will insist on seeing the mistress.

_Ser._ Show him in. (_Exit Francesco._)

_Per._ Only give me 50,000 francs, and Arganti shall have the most
characteristic monument of the age!

(_Enter Photographer, with his camera._)

_Ser._ What do you want, sir?

_Pho._ I saw all the telegrams posted up. Every one was in a state of
consternation, asking who Arganti was.... Having made inquiries on the
subject, I hastened hither with my camera, and would now request the
favour of taking a photograph of the illustrious Arganti’s portrait....
Begging your pardon, what was his Christian name?

_Ser._ Ettore.

_Pho._ ... Poor Ettore’s portrait. I will guarantee a work of art
that shall be a tremendous success! I am also going to take
photographs of his bedroom, his study, his inkstand, the front of
the house—everything!—and to advertise them in all the papers.

_Ser._ (_shaking him by the hand_). I thank you in the name of the
family. To honour the noble dead is not only a work of merit—it is a
duty: a duty which we are here to carry out.

_Ger._ I alone can do nothing.... Ah! Signor Serpilli!

_Ser._ Since common feelings of delicacy have assembled us in this spot,
let us take steps for transferring to the public the conviction of the
greatness of our loss. (_Rings the bell._)

_Pho._ Poor Ettore!

_Per._ Poor, dear fellow!

_Ger._ My poor friend!

_Ser._ Well.... (_After a pause, rubbing his hands._) We are all mortal.

_C. Lotti._

_THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION._

_Pandolfo._ It is not to be tolerated! They do it on purpose to drive me
out of my senses!

_Paolo Galanti._ Who has made you angry, Signor Pandolfo?

_Pan._ Who? Does any one ask? My wife and daughter—— What! whom do I
see? You, Benini!

_Ben._ So you recognised me at once? I thought you had forgotten me
altogether.

_Pan._ No, sir, I had not forgotten you. Am I a man to forget old
friends?... For we certainly are old friends.

(_They shake hands cordially._)

_Ben._ We are, indeed! Twenty years——

_Pan._ No, not twenty years; eighteen or nineteen.... We used to see a
great deal of each other—do you remember?

_Ben._ Don’t I?

_Pan._ We often used to dispute; because you are of a most contradictory
temper.

_Ben._ I?

_Pan._ Would you deny it?

_Ben._ Well, no—I was young and impetuous in those days, and had not
much sense—or indeed none at all.

_Pan._ That is not the case—you were not altogether without sense.... It
is true you had your little eccentricities—but, after all....

_Ben._ And you never paid the slightest attention to my words....

_Pan._ That is not true! I always attended to you—I always had the
greatest consideration for you, I assure you; and it gives me more
pleasure than I can express to find you here again.

(_They shake hands again._)

_Pao._ (_aside to Benini_). My word! I have never yet seen him receive
any one so well!

_Pan._ You must come to see my wife.

_Ben._ I do not know whether Signora Angelica will be disposed to
welcome me after all these years.

_Pan._ Of course she will! I’ll answer for that! Why—an intimate friend
of mine! Yet she does everything she possibly can to contradict and
oppose me, that woman!—She has not a bad disposition—I would not say
that; but it is a certain perversity of humour. Just imagine that, at
this very moment, when all the visitors present in the place are going
to assemble in these rooms, she could find no better way of spending her
time than in going off for a long walk on the beach. Never lets herself
be seen—persists in withdrawing from society—mere madness, I call it!...
We have a daughter, and if this sort of thing goes on, how shall we ever
get her settled in life?

_Pao._ Oh! as to that, the young lady cannot fail to find——

_Pan._ What! are you, too, going to contradict me?

_Pao._ No, most certainly not! Only, since the ladies are going out, if
you will permit me, I should like to accompany them for part of the way.

_Pan._ Hm!

_Pao._ I will just go and fetch my hat and umbrella.

_Pan._ (_aside_). What a bore he is—always in the way!

_Pao._ (_aside to Benini_). Signor Pandolfo appears to have a great
regard for you.

_Ben._ (_aside to Paolo_). Quite true; there was a time when I could get
him to do anything I wanted.

_Pao._ (_as before_). Do, like a good fellow, one thing for me,—say a
word or two in my favour.

_Ben._ (_ditto_). In your favour? All right! It is just what I was
thinking of doing.

_Pao._ (_ditto_). Thanks!

_Ben._ (_ditto_). Oh! you’ve nothing to thank me for.

_Pao._ (_ditto_). I shall be back soon. (_Exit._)

_Ben._ (_aside_). Now I’ll do his business. (_To Pandolfo._) I
understand why you gave permission to that young man to escort your wife
and daughter.

_Pan._ I never gave him permission. And what did you understand?

_Ben._ Galanti is an amiable fellow——

_Pan._ Nothing of the sort!

_Ben._ Witty.

_Pan._ Do you see any wit in _him_?

_Ben._ Good-looking——

_Pan._ A dandified fool!

_Ben._ Courteous——

_Pan._ Too much so. The fellow agrees with every one.

_Ben._ He would be a son-in-law quite after your own heart. I would,
but——

_Pan._ Son-in-law, be hanged! If you don’t look out you will make me use
language I shall regret!

_Ben._ Well, don’t get angry.... Every one believes that he is going to
marry your daughter.

_Pan._ Then he may whistle for her. My Elisa’s husband ought to be a
young man with brains; and this Galanti of yours is a fool.

_Ben._ Well, not quite that.

_Pan._ He is! I want a man of character, and this jackanapes is nothing
but a weather-cock!

_Vittorio Bersezio._

TRUTH.

[Paolo Severi is in love with his cousin Evelina, who, unknown to him,
is being courted by his old schoolfellow, Adolfo Briga. Briga
purposely encourages his rival, who is from the country and unused to
society, thinking that he will be sure to make himself ridiculous, and
so fail. In order the better to carry out this plan he pretends to
devote himself to Graziosa, the daughter of the President Manlio, who
is visiting at the house of Evelina’s parents. Paolo, in his
simplicity, does his best to further Adolfo’s suit by pleading his
cause with Signora Vereconda, Graziosa’s mother, a lady whose love of
admiration has survived her youth, and who has taken Briga’s
attentions as a homage to herself.]

_Scene—A drawing-room in the house of the Advocate Scipioni, with a
door opening on the garden. Adolfo and Vereconda seated, in
conversation. Enter Paolo from the garden just as Adolfo kisses
Vereconda’s hand._

_Paolo_ (_aside_). “If you want canes, you must go to the cane-brake; if
you want the daughter, you must make yourself agreeable to the
mother.”[28]

_Vereconda_ (_aside to Adolfo_). Do not agitate yourself.... He cannot
have seen it.

_Pao._ Am I intruding?

_Ver._ Do you think...?

_Pao._ I have just come in to fetch a volume of my aunt’s poems.... Here
it is. I am very sorry that my aunt should expose herself to ridicule by
publishing verses like these, in which even the syntax and spelling are
wrong! I have a good mind to tell her so myself....

_Adol._ (_aside to Paolo_). So you have left Evelina? Well done!

_Pao._ (_aside_). Well done, indeed! It was not _my_ choice!

_Adol._ (_aside_). But, indeed, it is a capital manœuvre of war! A woman
entreated denies, and neglected entreats! Do you remain here instead of
me.

_Pao._ (_aside_). No, indeed!

_Adol._ (_aside_). Yes, indeed! I’ll go and speak artfully for you in
the other quarter, and put things right for you in no time!

_Pao._ (_aside_). But——

_Adol._ (_aside_). I’ll beat the big drum for you, you shall see! Let me
go!

_Pao._ (_aside_). All right. Go!

_Adol._ (_aside to Vereconda_). I have removed all suspicion on his
part.... I am going away to make things quite safe. (_Aloud._) Will you
excuse me, Signora Vereconda?

_Ver._ Do as you——

_Pao._ And take in my stead these ... well, let us call them verses. Don
Vincenzo, rest his soul, would have called them “uncultivated, rugged
songs, which have brought a blush to the revered countenances of Apollo
and the Muses.”

_Ver._ (_to Adolfo, aside_). Who in the world was this Don Vincenzo?

_Adol._ (_aside to Vereconda_). Who knows?... Ah! I have it: the
schoolmaster at Borgo di Castello! (_Exit._)

_Ver._ (_aside_). How one always recognises the country lout at once!

_Pao._ (_aside_). What a first-rate friend Adolfo is! And now that I am
with his Graziosa’s mother, could I do him a service? I should be
ungrateful if I did not try; but I too am a real friend.

_Ver._ (_aside_). He looks as though he had just come from the
plough-tail.

_Pao._ Madam....

_Ver._ Sir?...

_Pao._ If you permit ... if I am not wearisome to you ... may I stay and
talk to you a little?

_Ver._ Pray sit down.

_Pao._ To supply the place of my friend is no easy job.

_Ver._ (_aside_). How vilely he expresses himself!

_Pao._ There are very few like him; he is a fellow who is liked by every
one ... particularly by girls’ mothers....

_Ver._ (_aside_). Could he have noticed anything?

_Pao._ He is very fortunate; but he deserves to be so....

_Ver._ (_aside_). He must have noticed. (_Aloud._) I don’t
understand....

_Pao._ Now, look here; Adolfo has no secrets from me.... How could he?
We have been friends from childhood....

_Ver._ What is all this to lead up to?

_Pao._ This—that the poor old fellow has opened his whole heart to me,
and has told me in particular that you are inclined to look on him with
favour.

_Ver._ Infamous! To go and say so!

_Pao._ And he hopes ... yes, I say hopes, that you will grant his
request.

_Ver._ (_rising_). What does he want of me?

_Pao._ Why—from a mother as affectionate as you—what but the hand of
your daughter?

_Ver._ What do you say?

_Pao._ Believe me, there is no young man more worthy to possess her. He
loves her—loves her devotedly; but the poor fellow wants some
encouragement—some protection.... Oh, do take him under your protecting
wings!

_Ver._ (_choking with suppressed vexation_). Ah!... under my wings?

_Pao._ I have already given him a hint as to his right course. “If you
want canes, you must go to the cane-brake....”

_Ver._ (_aside_). You and your cane-brakes!

_Pao._ A mother who has attained a certain age....

_Ver._ (_aside_). A certain age!!

_Pao._ Such a mother, I say, should have no other thought than that of
settling her daughter comfortably before she dies....

_Ver._ (_aside_). Before she dies!!!

_Pao._ Particularly a good mother like yourself. What do you say—eh?
Will you be on his side?

_Ver._ I will.... I will be ... whatever my conscience dictates!...
(_Aside._) Traitor!—In love with Graziosa.... Was that the reason of his
attentions to me?

_Pao._ And shall I be able to give my friend some hope?

_Ver._ Why, yes ... yes ... give him ... whatever you think....
(_Aside._) At a certain age!... Before she dies!... (_Aloud._) Excuse
me.... (_Aside._) Only let me get at you!... (_Aloud._) I shall hope to
see you later. (_Exit._)

_Pao._ Upon my word! if Adolfo is a real friend, I am another;—if he has
been beating the big drum for me, I have certainly been blowing his
trumpet with all my might.

_Achille Torelli._

_PASQUIN._

[Illustration]

One species of wit and humour in which Italians have always excelled is
the impromptu epigram—the stinging comment in verse on passing events.
The language abounds in rhymes, and easily lends itself to metre; and it
is rare to meet with an Italian, however uneducated, who cannot string
together a few lines of at least passable quality. Any family event—a
marriage, a baptism, or a death—is sure to call forth a shower of
sonnets from friends and acquaintances; and on special occasions these
contributions are published in volume form. Most of these, indeed, are
dull enough reading; but the satirical verses suggested by public events
are often amusing enough, though sometimes so local in their application
as to have little meaning or interest to outsiders. Many of those
translated in the following pages are in Latin, but the knowledge of
this language was common enough in Rome to make them almost as popular
as verses in the vulgar tongue; and it must be remembered that any
Italian with the smallest pretension to culture can turn out a few Latin
elegiacs indifferent well. At least this was the case under the _ancien
régime_, when such education as was to be had was almost exclusively
classical.

This tendency to satiric comment was curbed, but never quite repressed,
by the censorship of the _ancien régime_. In Papal Rome it found an
outlet in Pasquin, whence the word _Pasquinade_ has passed into most of
the languages of Europe. Concerning Pasquin, and the epigrams for which
he became responsible, we cannot do better than quote from Story’s _Roba
di Roma_.[29]

“The only type of true Roman humour which now remains since the demise
of _Cassandrino_ is _Pasquino_. He is the public satirist, who lances
his pointed jests against every absurdity and abuse. There he sits on
his pedestal behind the Palazzo Braschi—a mutilated torso which, in the
days of its pride, was a portion of a noble group, representing, it is
supposed, Menelaus dragging the dead body of Patroclus from the
fight.... Whatever may have been the subject of this once beautiful and
now ruined work it is scarcely less famous under its modern name.
Pasquino is now the mouthpiece of the most pungent Roman wit.

“The companion and rival of Pasquin in the early days was Marforio. This
was a colossal statue representing a river-god, and received its name
from the Forum of Mars, where it was unearthed in the sixteenth century.
Other friends, too, had Pasquin, who took part in his satiric
_conversazioni_, and carried on dialogues with him. Among these was
Madama Lucrezia, whose ruined figure still may be seen near the Church
of St. Marco, behind the Venetian Palace; the Facchino, or porter, who
empties his barrel still in the Corso, though his wit has run dry; the
Abbate Luigi of the Palazzo Valle; and the battered Babbuino, who still
presides over his fountain in the Via del Babbuino, and gives his name
to the street, but who has now lost his features and his voice.
Marforio, however, was the chief speaker next to Pasquin, and he still
at times joins with him in a satiric dialogue. Formerly there was a
constant strife of wit between the two; and a lampoon from Pasquin was
sure to call out a reply from Marforio. But of late years Marforio has
been imprisoned in the Court of the Campidoglio, and, like many other
free speakers, locked up and forbidden to speak; so that Pasquin has it
all his own way. In the time of the Revolution of 1848 he made friends
with Don Pirlone and uttered in print his satires. _Il Don Pirlone_ was
the title of the Roman Charivari of this period. It was issued daily,
except on _festa_ days, and was very liberal in its politics, and
extremely bitter against the _Papalini_, French, and Austrians. The
caricatures, though coarsely executed, were full of humour and spirit,
and give strong evidence that the satiric fire for which Rome has been
always celebrated, though smouldering, is always ready to burst into
flame. Take, for instance, as a specimen, the caricature which appeared
on the 15th of June 1849. The Pope is here represented in the act of
celebrating mass. Oudinot, the French general, acts as the attendant
priest, kneeling at the step of the altar, and holding up the pontifical
robes. The bell of the mass is the imperial crown. A group of military
officers surrounds the altar, with a row of bayonets behind them. The
altar candles are in the shape of bayonets.... On the sole of one of
Oudinot’s boots are the words, ‘_Accomodamento Lesseps_,’ and of the
other, ‘_Articolo V. della Costituzione_,’ thus showing that he tramples
not only on the convention made by Lesseps with the Roman triumvirate on
the 31st May, but also on the French constitution, the fifth article of
which says, ‘La République Française n’emploie jamais ses forces contre
la liberté d’aucun peuple.’[30] Beneath the picture is the motto, ‘He
has begun the service with mass, and completed it with bombs.’

“On the 2nd July 1849 the French entered Rome, and _Il Don Pirlone_ was
issued for the last time. The engraving in this number represents a
naked female figure lying lifeless on the ground, with a cap of liberty
on her head. On a dunghill near by a cock is crowing loudly, while a
French general is covering the body with earth. Beneath are these
significant words, ‘But, dear Mr. Undertaker, are you so perfectly sure
that she is dead?’

“That day Don Pirlone died, and all his works were confiscated. Some,
however, still remain, guarded jealously in secret hiding-places, and
talked about in whispers; but if you are curious, you may have the luck
to buy a copy for 30 or 40 Roman scudi.

“The first acquaintance we make with Pasquin is as an abandoned,
limbless fragment of an antique statue, which serves as a butt for boys
to throw stones at, and for other slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune. Near by him lives a tailor, named Pasquino, skilful in his
trade, and still more skilful in his epigrams. At his shop many of the
_literati_, prelates, courtiers, and wits of the town meet to order
their robes and dresses, report scandal, to anatomise reputations, and
kill their time. Pasquino’s humour was contagious, and so many sharp
epigrams were made in his shop that it grew to be famous. After
Pasquino’s death, in mending the street, it became necessary to remove
the old statue, embedded in the ground near by; and to get it out of the
way it was set up at the side of his shop. The people then in joke said
that Pasquino had come back, and so the statue acquired this nickname,
which it has ever since retained. This, at least, is the account given
by Castelvetro, published in 1553.... However this be, there is no doubt
that the custom soon grew up to stick to the statue any lampoon,
epigram, or satiric verses which the author desired to be anonymous, and
to pretend that it was a _pasquinata_. From this time Pasquino becomes a
name and a power. His tongue could never be ruled. He had his bitter
saying on everything. Vainly Government strove to suppress him. At one
time he narrowly escaped being thrown into the Tiber by Adrian VI., who
was deeply offended by some of his sarcasms; but he was saved from this
fate by the wisdom of the Spanish Legate, who gravely counselled the
Pope to do no such act, lest he should thus teach all the frogs in the
river to croak pasquinades. In reference to the various attempts made to
silence him, he says in an epigram addressed to Paul III.—

“‘Great were the sums once paid to poets for singing;
How much will you, O Paul, give me to be silent?’

Finally, his popularity became so great that all epigrams, good or bad,
were affixed to him. Against this he remonstrated, crying—

“‘Alas! the veriest copyist sticks upon me his verses;
Every one now on me his wretched trifles bestows.’

This remonstrance seems to have been attended with good results, for
shortly after he says—

“‘No man at Rome is better than I; I seek nothing from any.
I am never verbose; here I sit, and am silent.’

Of late years no collection has been made, so far as I know, of the
sayings of Pasquin; and it is only here and there that they can be found
recorded in books or in the ‘hidden tablets of the brain.’ But in 1544 a
volume of 637 pages was printed, with the title, _Pasquillorum Tomi
Duo_, in which, among a mass of epigrams and satires drawn from various
sources, a considerable number of real pasquinades were preserved. This
volume is now very rare and costly, most of the copies having been burnt
at Rome and elsewhere, on account of the many satires it contained
against the Romish Church; so rare, indeed, that the celebrated scholar
Daniel Heinsius supposed his copy to be unique, as he stated in the
inscription written by him on its fly-leaf—

“‘Rome to the fire gave my brothers—I, the single phœnix,
Live—by Heinsius bought for a hundred pieces of gold.’

In this, however, he was mistaken. There are several other copies now
known to be in existence.

“This collection was edited by Cælius Secundus Curio, a Piedmontese,
who, being a reformer, had suffered persecution, confiscation, exile,
and imprisonment in the Inquisition. From the latter he escaped, and
while spending his later days in exile in Switzerland he printed this
volume and sent it forth to harass his enemies and bigoted opponents.
The chief aim of the book was to attack the Romish Church; and some of
the satires are evidently German, and probably from the hands of his
friends. It is greatly to be regretted that no other collection exists;
and since so great a success has attended the admirable collections of
popular songs and proverbs in Tuscany, it is to be hoped that some
competent Italian may soon be found who will have the spirit and
patience to collect the pasquinades of more modern days.

“The earliest pasquinades were directed against the Borgian Pope,
Alexander VI. (Sextus), the infamy of whose life can scarcely be
written. Of him says Pasquin—

“‘Sextus Tarquinus, Sextus Nero—Sextus et iste;
Semper sub Sextis perdita Roma fuit.’

(Always under the Sextuses Rome has been ruined.) Again, in allusion to
the fact that he obtained his election by the grossest bribery, and, as
Guicciardini expresses it, ‘infected the whole world by selling without
distinction holy and profane things,’ Pasquino says—

“‘Alexander sells the keys, the altar, Christ:
He who bought them first has a good right to sell.’

Here, too, is another savage epigram on the Borgian Pope, referring to
the murder of his son, Giovanni, Duca di Gandia. His brother, Cesare,
Duca di Valentino, slew him at night and threw his body into the Tiber,
from which it was fished out next morning—

“‘Lest we should think you not a fisher of men, O Sextus,
Lo, for your very son with nets you fish!’

“No epigrams worth recording seem to have been made during the short
reign of Pius III.; but Julius II., the warlike, fiery, impetuous
soldier drew upon himself the constant fire of Pasquin. Alluding to the
story that, when leading his army out of Rome, he threw the keys of
Peter into the Tiber, saying that he would henceforth trust to the sword
of Paul, Pasquin, merely repeating his impetuous words, says—

“‘Since nothing the keys of Peter for battle can profit,
The sword of Paul, perhaps, may be of use.’

And again, referring to the beard which Julius was the first among the
Popes of comparatively late days to wear—

“‘The beard of Paul, and the sword of Paul—I would fain have all things
of Paul—
As for that key-bearer Peter, he’s not to my liking at all.’

But of all the epigrams on Julius none is so stern and fierce as this—

“‘Julius is at Rome—what is wanting? Ye gods, give us Brutus.
For whenever at Rome is Julius, the city is lost!’

“If to Julius Pasquin was severe, he was scathing to his licentious and
venal successor, Leo X., who raised money for his vices by the sale of
cardinals’ hats and indulgences. Many of these epigrams are too coarse
to bear translation; here is one, however, more decent, if less bitter,
than many—

“‘Bring me gifts, spectators! bring me not verses.
Divine money alone rules the ethereal gods.’

And again, referring to Leo’s taste for buffoons, he says—

“‘Pasquin, why have you never asked to be made a buffoon?
All things now are permitted at Rome to buffoons.’

Here is another, referring to the story, current at Rome, that Leo’s
death was occasioned by poison, and on account of its suddenness there
was no time to administer to him the last sacraments—

“‘At the last hour of life, if, perchance, you ask why Leo
Could not the sacraments take—’tis plain he had sold them all!’

“During the short reign of the ascetic Adrian VI. Pasquin seems to have
been comparatively silent, perhaps through respect for that hard,
bigoted, but honest Pope. Under his successor, Clement VII., Rome was
besieged, taken, and sacked by the Constable de Bourbon, and through the
horrors of those days Pasquin’s voice was seldom heard. One saying of
his, however, has been preserved, which was uttered during the period of
the Pope’s imprisonment in the Castle Saint Angelo. With a sneer at his
infallibility and his imprisonment, he says: ‘Papa non potest
errare’—‘The Pope cannot err (or go astray’)—_errare_ having both
meanings. But if Pasquin spared the Pope during his life he threw a
handful of epigrams on his coffin at his death.... Thus in reference to
the physician, Matteo Curzio, or Curtius, to whose ignorance Clement’s
death was attributed—

“‘Curtius has killed our Clement—let gold then be given
To Curtius for thus securing the public health.’

“On Paul III., the Farnese Pope, Pasquin exercised his wit, but not
always very successfully. This Pope was celebrated for his nepotism, and
for the unscrupulous ways in which he endeavoured to build up his house
and enrich his family, and one of Pasquin’s epigrams refers to this, as
well as to the well-known fact that he built his palace by despoiling
the Colosseum of its travertine—

“‘Let us pray for Pope Paul, for his zeal,
For his house is eating him up.’

“With Paul III. ceases the record of the _Pasquillorum Tomi Duo_,
published at Eleutheropolis in 1544, and we now hunt out only rarely
here and there an epigram. Against Sextus V., that cruel, stern old man,
who never lifted his eyes from the ground until he had attained that
great reward for all his hypocritical humility, the papal chair, several
epigrams are recorded. One of these, in the form of dialogue, and given
by Leti in his life of Sextus, is worth recording for the story
connected with it. Pasquin makes his appearance in a very dirty shirt,
and being asked by Marforio the reason of this, answers that he cannot
procure a clean shirt because his washerwoman has been made a princess
by the Pope; thus referring to the story that the Pope’s sister had
formerly been a laundress. This soon came to the ears of the Pope, who
ordered that the satirist should be sought for and punished severely.
All researches, however, were vain. At last, by his order and in his
name, placards were posted in the public streets, promising, in case the
author would reveal his name, to grant him not only his life, but a
present of a thousand pistoles; but threatening, in case of his
discovery by any other person, to hang him forthwith, and give the
reward to the informer. The satirist thereupon avowed the authorship and
demanded the money. Sextus, true to the letter of his proclamation,
granted him his life and paid him the one thousand pistoles; but in
utter violation of its spirit, and saying that he had not promised
absolution from all punishment, ordered his hands to be struck off and
his tongue to be bored, ‘to hinder him from being so witty in future.’

“But Pasquin was not silenced even by this cruel revenge, and a short
time after, in reference to the tyranny of Sextus, appeared a caricature
representing the Pope as King Stork devouring the Romans as frogs, with
the motto, ‘_Merito haec patimur_,’ i.e. ‘_Serves us right._’

“Against Urban VIII., the Barberini Pope, whose noble palace was built
out of the quarry of the Colosseum, who tore the bronze plates from the
roof of the Pantheon, to cast into the tasteless _baldacchino_ of St.
Peter’s, and under whose pontificate so many antique buildings were
destroyed, Pasquin uttered the famous saying—

“‘What the barbarians have left undone, the Barberini have done.’

“And on the occasion of Urban’s issuing a bull, excommunicating all
persons who took snuff in the churches at Seville, Pasquin quoted from
Job this passage, ‘Against a leaf driven to and fro by the wind, wilt
thou show thy strength? and wilt thou pursue the light stubble?’

“The ignorant, indolent, profligate Innocent X., with the equally
profligate Donna Olympia Maidalchini, afforded also a target to
Pasquin’s arrows. Of the Pope, he says—

“‘Olympia he loves more than Olympus.’

“During the reign of Innocent XI., the Holy Office flourished, and its
prisons were put in requisition for those who dared to speak freely or
to think freely. Pasquin, in reference to this, says: ‘Se parliamo, in
galera; se scriviamo, impiccati; se stiamo in quiete, al Santo Uffizio.
Eh!—che bisogna fare?’ (If we speak, to the galleys; if we write, to the
gallows; if we keep quiet, to the Inquisition. Eh!—what are we to do?)

“Throughout Rome, the stranger is struck by the constant recurrence of
the inscription, ‘Munificentia Pii Sexti’ (By the munificence of Pius
VI.), on statues and monuments and repaired ruins, and big and little
antiquities. When, therefore, this Pope reduced the loaf of two
_baiocchi_ considerably in size, one of them was found hung on Pasquin’s
neck, with the same inscription, ‘Munificentia Pii Sexti.’

“Against the despotism of this same Pope, when he was building the great
Braschi Palace, Pasquin wrote these lines—

“‘Three jaws had Cerberus, and three mouths as well,
Which barked into the blackest deeps of hell.
Three hungry mouths have you—ay! even four,
Which bark at none, but every one devour.’

“During the French Revolution, and the occupation of Rome by the French,
Pasquin uttered some bitter sayings, and among them this—

“‘I Francesi son tutti ladri—
Non tutti—ma Buona parte.’

(The French are all thieves—nay, not all, but _a good part_—or, in the
original, _Buonaparte_.)

“Here also is one referring to the institution of the Cross of the
Legion of Honour in France, which is admirable in wit—

“‘In times less pleasant and more fierce, of old,
The thieves were hung on crosses, so we’re told;
In times less fierce, more pleasant, like to-day,
Crosses are hung upon the thieves, they say.’

“When the Emperor Francis of Austria visited Rome, Pasquin called him
‘Gaudium urbis—Fletus provinciorum—Risus mundi.’ (The joy of the
city—the tears of the provinces—the laughter of the world.)

“A clever epigram was also made on Canova’s draped statue of Italy—

“‘For once Canova surely has tripped:
Italy is not draped but stripped.’

[Illustration:

EPIGRAM ON CANOVA’S STATUE OF ITALY.
]

“The latter days of Pius IX. have opened a large field for Pasquin, and
his epigrams have a flavour quite equal to that of the best of which we
have any record. When, in 1858, the Pope made a journey through the
provinces of Tuscany, leaving the administration in the hands of
Cardinal Antonelli and other cardinals of the Sacred College, the
following dialogue was found on Pasquin:—

“‘The Shepherd then is gone away?’

“‘Yes, sir.’

“‘And whom has he left to take care of the flock?’

“‘The dogs.’

“‘And who keeps the dogs?’

“‘The mastiff.’

“The wit of Pasquin, as of all Romans, is never purely verbal, for the
pun, simply as a pun, is little relished in Italy; ordinarily the wit
lies in the thought and image, though sometimes it is expressed by a
play upon words as well, as in the epigram on Buonaparte. The ingenious
method adopted by the Italians to express their political sympathies
with Victor Emmanuel was thoroughly characteristic of Italian humour.
Forbidden by the police to make any public demonstration in his favour,
the Government were surprised by the constant shouts of ‘Viva Verdi!
Viva Verdi!’ at all the theatres, as well as by finding these words
scrawled on all the walls of the city. But they soon discovered that the
cries for Verdi were through no enthusiasm for the composer, but only
because his name was an acrostic signifying

‘VITTORIO EMANUELE, RE D’ ITALIA.’

“Of a similar character was a satire in dialogue, which appeared in
1859, when all the world at Rome was waiting and hoping for the death of
King Bomba, of execrated memory. Pasquin imagines a traveller just
returned from Naples, and inquires of him what he has seen there—

“‘Ho visto un tumore.’ (I have seen a tumour.)

“‘Un tumore? ma che cosa è un tumore?’ (A tumour? but what is a
tumour?)

“‘Leva il _t_ per risposta.’ (Take away the _t_ for answer.)

“‘Ah! un umore; ma questo umore porta danno?’ (Ah! a humour;[31] but
is this humour dangerous?)

“‘Leva l’_u_ per risposta.’ (Take away the _u_.)

“‘More! che peccato! ma quando? Fra breve?’ (He dies (_more_)! but
what a pity! When? Shortly?)

“‘Leva l’_m_.’ (Take away the _m_.)

“‘Ore! fra ore! ma chi dunque ha quest’ umore?’ (Hours! (_ore_) in a
few hours! but who then has this humour?)

“‘Leva l’_o_.’ (Take away the _o_.)

“‘Rè! Il Rè! Ho piacere davvero! Ma poi, dove andrà?’ (King! (_re_)
the king! I am delighted! But then where will he go?)

“‘Leva l’_r_.’ (Take away the _r_.)

“‘E-eh! e-e-e-h!’

with a shrug and a prolonged tone peculiarly Roman—indicative of an
immense doubt as to Paradise, and little question as to the other place.

“Two years ago Pasquin represents himself as having joined the other
plenipotentiaries at the conference of Zurich, where he represents the
Court of Rome. Austria speaks German, France speaks French, neither of
which languages Pasquin understands. On being interrogated as to the
views of Rome, he answers that, being a priest, he only speaks Latin,
not Italian; and that, in his opinion, is ‘Sicut erat in principio,’
etc. (As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world
without end! Amen.)

“This is as pure a specimen of true Roman wit as can be found. Of a
rather different and punning character was the epigram lately made upon
the movement of the Piedmontese and Garibaldians on Naples and Sicily:
‘Tutti stanno in viaggio—soldati vanno per terra—marinari vanno per
mare, e preti vanno in aria.’ (Everybody is in movement—the soldiers go
by land, the sailors by sea, and the priests vanish into air.)

“And here too is another, full of spirit and point, which shall be the
last in these pages. When the conference at Zurich was proposed, it was
rumoured that Cardinal Antonelli was to go as the representative of the
Roman States, and to be accompanied by Monsignor Barile, upon which
Pasquin said, ‘Il Cardinale di Stato va via con Barile, ma tornerà con
fiasco’—which is untranslatable.”[32]

There are several collections of Pasquinades in the British Museum, but
none appear to extend over more than a single year. None are later than
1536. The collection for that year has the following MS. note (in
English) on the fly-leaf: “The Author of these Pasquinades is quite
unknown. They have little of the Petulance or Wit of that species of
writing, and consist principally of grave and fulsome Compliments to the
Emperor Charles 5th on his late Victories over the Moors in Africa.”
There is, however, a humorous prose proclamation in Italian (the rest of
the book is mostly in Latin), “in order to enrich simple men who waste
their time in the practice of Alchemy.” To these persons he delivers ten
commandments, such as, “Always to have a pair of bellows and keep it in
its place, so that you may not have to send and borrow from the
neighbours—to know the properties of metals—to use good earthenware—and
to employ an honest lad who will stick to his work and not talk,” etc.,
etc.

About 1550 we find a curious little broadsheet entitled an “opera,” but
more like a street ballad—a kind of proclamation, announcing that
Pasquin has lost his nose, and is making search for it. In the course of
the next century several prose works were issued under the name of
Pasquin, which were mostly dialogues between Pasquin and Marforio. Many
of them were translated into English, and appear to have enjoyed a wide
popularity towards the end of Charles II.’s reign—which is not to be
wondered at, if we remember that this was the era of the Popish plot,
and that Pasquin is by no means sparing in his denunciations of the
Roman clergy. The _Visione Politiche_ were printed in 1671, probably at
Geneva, and _Pasquin risen from the Dead_ appeared in London in 1674.
This book must have been popular, as at least one other translation was
published. The version of 1674—the translator’s name is not given—is
quaint and spirited; and the general tenor of the work may be gathered
from the following extract:—

_Pasquin._ What, ho! Marforio! you’re in mighty haste, sure; what, not
so much as vouchsafe a word to an old friend, but to pass by as though
we had never seen one another before?

_Marforio._ God’s my life! what’s he that calls me? Sure I have known
that voice. It must certainly be Pasquin that talks in that statue. And
yet how can that be, since I am a witness of his death? ’Tis surely some
ghost that would fain make me believe he is yet living. What would I
give for some holy water to drive this devil away now!

_Pasquin._ Prithee, sweetheart, been’t frighted; I am Pasquin, very
Pasquin, thy old pot-companion. Why shouldst thou wish for holy water to
drive me hence, since I am miraculously risen?... And prithee, by the
way, be no longer cheated with that fond opinion that holy water is able
to drive away devils. Those are old wives’ fables, fit only to bubble
fools withal; for, were there any such thing, since there can be no
worse devil than the priests and friars, they had been all driven out of
the church long ago.

_Marforio._ Where the devil hadst thou this knowledge? Sure, thou hast
not been in hell to fetch it? I am almost in an ague to think of it, and
the more I look on thee the more I tremble.

_Pasquin._ Been’t such a fool to be afraid to look upon a friend, for
true friendship should last even to the other world: but I am no ghost
or goblin, but verily alive; or were I dead (as indeed I have been),
what reason hast thou to fear me? The dead are honest, quiet people:
they neither kill nor steal; they ramble not about the streets in the
night to murder poor tailors; they break no glass windows, nor beat no
watches, nor are any violators of the laws. Whilst I was in the world I
was never afraid of the dead. If I could but guard myself from the
living, who are a proud, revengeful generation, that scarce pardon men
in their graves, I thought all well enough; therefore, prithee, be of my
mind.... Take my counsel, keep as fair as thou canst with the living,
and leave the dead to their fate.

_Marforio._ Yet at least let me have commune with thee, that com’st to
seek mine with so much grace and civility.

_Pasquin._ I am alive and not dead, for my death was rather a wonderful
ecstasy than anything else.

_Marforio._ But tell me, prithee, how is it possible that thou, who art
a body of stone, as thou art, couldst first be animated, then die, and
be revived again?

_Pasquin._ And canst thou that art born a Roman be such a noddy as to
wonder at that—thou that seest daily so many greater wonders before thy
eyes? With how much more reason mayst thou wonder to see so many
tun-bellied friars (the good always excepted) that feed like pigs and
drink like fishes; that fatten themselves in the scoundrel laziness of
the convents, and yet have the impudence to think they shall one day
enjoy the felicities of Paradise? And yet greater wonders than this
there are. For thou knowest, or at least shouldst know, that all divines
agree that there is nothing in the world that can be equal in weight to
the nature of sin; for, say they, iron, lead, stones, brass, or gold
are, in comparison, lighter than feathers when put in the scale with
sin. So that he must needs be worse than a sot that believes that so
many bouncing friars, as well seculars as regulars, who are laden with
such a mass of sins that only to lift one of them from the ground would
require an engine like that wherewith Sixtus V. raised the great Pyramid
of St. Peter,[33] can ever mount up to heaven.... This, brother, must
needs be so great a folly that any man of reason cannot but imagine it a
less wonder to see a stone mount up to heaven than one of those sinful
monks.

Pasquin then describes his journey through the Unseen World, which is
made the vehicle for a great deal of strong invective against the Pope
and Clergy. No Pope, he says, has ever entered heaven since the year
800, “that is, soon after corruption was crept into the Pontificate;”
and the infernal regions are peopled with the various religious orders.
Pasquin sought in vain among them for the Jesuits—but only because a
separate and special place of torment was reserved for the latter.

_EPIGRAMS._

I do not please all my readers?—But see,——
Is it every reader that pleases me?——

The tolling of church-bells, O Doctor Ismenus,—dost find it a bore?
Write no more prescriptions, O Doctor, and then they will toll no more!

Here lies a cardinal
Who did more ill than good.
The good he did badly,
The ill as well as he could.

A monk to a dying sinner said, “Beware!
Just now, as I was coming up the stair,
I saw the devil come for you——” “But stay,—
What shape had he?” “An ass.” “Good father, nay!—
It was your shadow frightened you to-day!”

Professor Ardei’s ashes in this urn
Repose. Dame Nature intended him to teach——
So he was never able aught to learn.

Gian Maria’s ill-conditioned wife
Was bitten by a viper yester-eve.
“Then, I suppose, she’s yielded up her life?”
“No, sir—that ’twas the viper died, I grieve!”

“The abbey has been struck by lightning.” “Where?”
“’Twas in the library.” “Thank heaven’s care!——
The friars, holy men!—uninjured are!”——

_PROVERBS, FOLK-LORE, AND TRADITIONAL ANECDOTES._

[Illustration]

Don’t lend your knife in pumpkin-time.

Do not ask the host whether his wine is good.

All the brains are not in one head.

Pride went out on horseback, and came home afoot.

Heaven keep you from a bad neighbour, and from a man who is learning the
violin.

Better to be a lizard’s head than a dragon’s tail.

Drink wine, and let water go to drive the mill.

If I sleep, I sleep for myself; if I work, I don’t know whom I work for.

Let us have florins, and we shall find cousins.

Peel the fig for your friend and the peach for your enemy.[34]

In buying a horse and taking a wife, shut your eyes and trust God for
your life.

Women are saints in church, angels in the street, devils in the house,
owls (_civette_, _i.e. coquettes_) at the window, and magpies at the
door.

Women always tell the truth, but never the whole truth.

Maids weep with one eye, wives with two, and nuns with four.

When God gives flour, the devil takes away the sack.

Have nothing to do with an innkeeper’s daughter or a miller’s horse.

[Illustration]

He who wants canes should go to the cane-brake; and he who would court
the daughter should be polite to the mother.

For the buyer a hundred eyes are too few, for the seller one is enough.

If you want to have your hands full buy a watch, take a wife, or beat a
friar.

God keep thee from the fury of the wind, from a monk outside his
monastery, from a woman who can speak Latin, and from a man who cannot
hold up his head.

Brother Modestus was never made Prior.

Tie up the ass where his owner tells you, and if he breaks his neck the
blame is not yours.

You cannot drink and whistle at the same time; you cannot both carry the
cross and sing with the choir.

An unfrocked monk and warmed-up cabbage were never yet good for
anything.

There are no pockets in the shroud.

Where there are many cocks crowing it never gets light.

He carries both yes and no in his pocket.

Three are powerful—the Pope, the king, and the man who has nothing.

Make me your steward for one year, and I shall be a rich man.

Never give a woman as much as she wants—unless it be of flax to spin.

All the seven deadly sins are feminine.

Lies have short legs.

With time and straw medlars get ripe.

Beware of fire, of water, of dogs, and of the man who speaks under his
breath.

The poor man’s commandments are these—Thou shalt not eat meat on Friday,
nor on Saturday, nor yet on Sunday.

He who seeks better bread than is made of wheat must be either a fool or
a knave.

He who sleeps with dogs will get up with fleas.

He who eats a bone chokes himself.

Bread and kicks will get no thanks, even from a dog.

Make haste and get rich—and then I am your uncle.

You call on St. Paul without having seen the viper. (You cry out before
you are hurt.)

When two have set their minds on each other, a hundred cannot keep them
apart.

On a fool’s beard the barber learns to shave.

A man who was pleading asked a judge whether the lawyer or the physician
had the precedence in any judicial affair. Says the judge, “Pray, who
goes first, the criminal or the executioner?” “The criminal,” replied
the pleader. “Then,” says the judge, “the lawyer may go first as the
thief, and the physician follow after as the executioner.”

A certain person who had squandered away all his patrimony being at an
entertainment, one of the guests said, “The earth used to swallow up
men, but this man has swallowed up the earth.”

A poor man, presenting himself before the King of Spain, asked his
charity, telling him that he was his brother. The king desiring to know
how he claimed kindred to him, the poor fellow replied, “We are all
descended from one common father and mother—viz., Adam and Eve.” Upon
which the king gave him a little copper piece of money. The poor man
began to bemoan himself, saying, “Is it possible that your Majesty
should give no more than this to your brother?” “Away, away,” replies
the king; “if all the brothers you have in the world give you as much as
I have done, you’ll be richer than I am.”

A certain man reading a book that treated of the secrets of nature, fell
upon a chapter in which ’twas said that a man who has a long beard wears
the badge of a fool. Upon which our reader takes up the candle in his
hand, for ’twas in the night-time, and views himself in the glass, and
inconsiderately burns above half his beard off; whereupon he immediately
takes up the pen and writes in the margin of the book, “_Probatum
est_,”—that is, I know him to be a fool.

A certain person who was to engage with swords against another, knowing
that his antagonist was a braver man than himself, would not stand the
trial, but made off as fast as possible. Now it happened, as he was
discoursing one day with some of his acquaintance, they reproached him
for having run away in so scandalous a manner. “Pooh!” replied he, “I
had much rather the world should say that in such a place a coward had
been put to flight, than that a brave man had been killed.”

A soldier selling a horse, his captain asked him why he did so. He
replied that ’twas in order to fly from the tumult of arms. Says the
captain, “I wonder you should sell it for the very same reason for which
I imagined you had bought it.”

Tesetto was very angry with Zerbo the physician, when Zerbo saying to
him, “Hold your tongue, you scoundrel; don’t I know that your father was
a bricklayer?” Tesetto immediately replied, “No one could have told you
that but your own father, who carried the lime and the stones to mine.”

A criminal being carried to prison, and hearing his process read,
confessed that every article in it was true, and said, “I have done
still worse.” Being asked in what, he replied with a sigh, “In suffering
myself to be brought hither.”

A certain person, who was desirous to be thought young, said that he was
but thirty, when a friend of his who had been his schoolfellow replied,
“So, I warrant you, you were not born when we studied logic together.”

A thief going with a trunk full of valuable things from a citizen’s
house in the dusk of the evening, was met by some persons who asked him
how he came by them. The thief replied, “A man is dead in this house,
and I am carrying this trunk, with other things, to another house where
I am going to live.” “But if that man be lately dead,” said they, “why
don’t they weep and take on?” “You’ll hear them weep to-morrow morning,”
says the thief.

A man bemoaning himself to another for the great scarcity of corn, and
saying he believed that if it did not rain all the beasts would die, the
other replied to him, “Heaven preserve your worship!”

A physician, who had a son of his under cure, gave him no remedy, and
prescribed nothing, but only that he should observe a regular course of
diet. His daughter-in-law complained, and asked him why he did not treat
him like other sick people; and the physician replied, “Daughter, we
physicians have medicaments in order to sell them, and not to make use
of them ourselves.”

A certain lazzarone once came to confess himself to a missionary priest
who was confined to his bed with the gout, with the intention of
stealing a pair of new shoes which he had seen under the good father’s
bed. The priest having called him up to the bed, as he could not rise,
the man knelt down, and while reciting the _Confiteor_ got hold of the
shoes, and put them into the wallet which he had under his cloak. Having
finished the _Confiteor_, the first and last sin which he confessed was
that of having stolen a pair of shoes. The confessor replied, “Ah! my
son, you ought to restore them!” The penitent replied, “Father, do you
want them?” “No,” said the priest, “no, my son; but they ought to be
restored to the rightful owner, otherwise I cannot give you absolution.”
“But, father,” replied the man, “the owner says he does not want them;
what, then, shall I do?” The confessor answered, “Since that is so, keep
them for yourself,” and giving him absolution, he dismissed him, and the
penitent carried off the shoes.

Dante, meditating apart one day in the church of Santa Maria Novella,
was accosted by a bore, who asked him many foolish questions. After
vainly endeavouring to get rid of him, Dante at last said, “Before I
reply to thee do thou tell me the answer to a certain question,” and
then asked him, “_Which is the greatest of all beasts?_” The gentleman
replied that “on the authority of Pliny he believed it to be the
elephant.” Then said Dante, “O elephant, leave me in peace!” and so
saying, he turned and left him.

Domenico da Cigoli having gone to Rome, news was brought him a few days
after that his wife was dead; upon which he, in the utmost transports of
joy, immediately became priest and undertook the cure of souls in his
own village, when who should be the very first person that he meets but
his wife, who was not dead but living, which greatly afflicted him.

A certain rich man had a son who had but little sense, and wishing to
get him a wife, found a fair and gentle damsel; and her parents being
willing to overlook the defects of the man for the sake of his riches,
the marriage was concluded. Then the father, in order to hide as much as
he could the imbecile foolishness of his son, admonished him to speak
little, that his folly and light-mindedness might not be made manifest.
The son obeyed; and when they were seated at the wedding-feast it
happened that not only he but all the others kept silence, till at last
a lady of more courage than the rest said, looking round at the guests,
“Surely there must be a fool at this table, since no one ventures to
speak!” Then said the bridegroom, turning to his father, “Father, now
that they have found me out, pray give me permission to talk!”

[Illustration]

A countryman, benumbed with cold, alighted from his horse to walk on
foot, and two Franciscan friars observing this, one of them said to his
companion, “Had I a horse I would not be such a fool as to lead him by
the bridle, but would make use of him to carry me to the convent.” Says
the other, who was of a gay temper, “I would play this countryman a
trick, and steal his horse from him, if you would but help me.” The
friar immediately consenting, both of them stole very softly up to the
countryman, without his perceiving it; and one, slyly taking the bridle
off the horse, put it over his own head, while the other with a halter
led the horse aside. Not long after this the countryman, intending to
get on horseback again, turned himself about, but had like to have died
with fear when he saw the change; and, uttering terrible cries for help,
he was stopped by the Franciscan, who went down on his knees before him,
and begged him very humbly to give him his liberty, telling him that he
had been condemned to such a metamorphosis because of his
irregularities, and the enormities of his sins; and that the time of his
penance being expired, he was returned to his first shape. The peasant,
recovering himself a little, not only let him go, but also, not smelling
the trick in the least, foolishly replied, “Get you gone in Heaven’s
name; I now no longer wonder if, after having led so disorderly a life,
you should have been changed into so vile an animal.” The friar, telling
him that he was greatly obliged to him, made off, and went to look after
his companion, and when they saw the poor silly fellow at a good
distance, went another way to a neighbouring town. A few days after, the
Franciscans desired a friend of theirs to go and sell the horse at the
fair. This man sold the horse, and as he was going with the buyer to
receive the money for it, whom should they happen to meet but the
countryman, who, knowing the horse again, desired the buyer to let him
speak a word with him in private; and having asked him whom the horse
belonged to, the other replied that he had just bargained for it, but
had not yet paid for it. “For goodness’ sake,” said the countryman,
“return it to him again; don’t pay for it, for I assure you that ’tis
not a horse, but the soul of a cordelier, who is returned to his
dissolute way of life. Don’t buy him, I tell you, for he’s the most
wretched animal in the whole world, and has put me into a fury an
hundred thousand times.”

HOW PIOVANO ARLOTTO GOT HIS PLACE BY THE FIRE.

Piovano Arlotto, returning from Casentino one Sunday evening, worn out
and wet through (for it was raining heavily), dismounted before the inn
at Pontassieve and went in, to dry himself at the fire. But, as it
happened, there were over thirty villagers present, drinking and playing
cards, and they were crowded so closely about the fire that he could not
get near it, nor would they make room for him, though he asked them. At
last, mine host, who knew him for a fellow of infinite jest, said to
him, “Sir priest, why are ye so sad this evening, quite contrary to your
nature? If there be aught troubling ye, tell us, for there is nothing we
would not do for ye.” The priest said, “I am in evil case, for I have
lost, from this wallet, fourteen _lire_ of small change, and eighteen
gold florins. Yet I have hope of finding them again; for I think ’tis
but within the last five miles I dropped them, and the weather is so
bad, there is none will travel that road after me to-night. And if ye
will do me a service, then, to-morrow morning if it rain not, do thou
come, or send a man back along the road with me to find it.” Scarcely
had the priest finished speaking, when those countrymen went out softly,
by twos and fours, so that at the last there was none left, and went
back along the road in the rain, hoping to find the money, leaving the
priest to take the best place by the fire.

FAGIUOLI AND THE THIEVES.

One evening Fagiuoli was going home, and when he came to his door he saw
some men bringing out his furniture, for they were thieves who were
stealing his things. He said nothing, but remained quiet, wishing to see
where they would take the things. When they had brought them all down,
they put them on barrows and took them away, Fagiuoli walking after
them. When the thieves saw a gentleman following them, they stopped and
asked him what he wanted. Then he answered, “I am coming to see where I
am going to live, as you have moved my furniture.” Then the thieves
threw themselves down on their knees, and carried back his things; but
he did not bring the matter before the magistrates.

THE THREE WORDS.

There was once a husband and wife, and they had three sons who did not
know how to talk. The time came when their parents died, and, when they
were both dead, the eldest boy said, “Do you know what I have thought
of? We will go and travel about the world, and so we shall hear people
talk, and learn to talk ourselves.” So they set out, and they came to
three roads. “Let us each go a different way, and the first who has
learnt anything come back here; and then we will seek service with some
one.”

The eldest took the middle road, and came to a churchyard, and as he
passed it he saw two men talking together. He came up with them and
heard one of them say “_Yes_.” “Ah! I have learnt enough—I have learnt
to talk; now I will go back!” He went back to the place where the roads
met and found no one there. There was an inn near by, and he went in to
have something to eat.

The second brother went on till he came to two peasants carrying a
bundle of hay, who were talking. He listened to them, and heard one say,
“_It is true_.” “I have learnt enough—I will go back;” and he went back
to the cross-roads as his brother had done.

The youngest went on till evening, when he saw a herd-lassie getting her
sheep together, and heard her say, “_That’s right._” “I’ve learnt
enough,” he said; “I’m going back.”

He came to the cross-roads, and found his brothers there. “What have you
learnt?” “I know _Yes_.” “And you?” “_It is true._ And you?” “_That’s
right._” “Now we can go to the king’s palace to take service, now that
we know these words.” So they all three started by the same road. When
they had gone some distance they found a dog-kennel, got into it all
three, and slept soundly. At midnight the dog wanted to go to bed,—he
barked and barked, but they would not let him in, so that he had to
sleep outside. “See,” said they, “to-night we have a dog to guard us,
like other people, but to-morrow morning we shall have to go away
quietly, without waking him.”

They got up in the morning, but the dog was asleep, and did them no
harm. Further on along the road they found a dead man. “Look at this
poor man!—he ought to be taken into the city—we must let the police
know.”

One of them went on to the city, and gave notice, and the police came
out. “Who killed him? Did you do it?” The eldest answered “_Yes_,” for
he could say nothing else; and the second said, “_It is true_.” “Then
you will have to come to prison.” And the youngest said, “_That’s
right_.”

So they seized them, and took them away to the town along with the dead
man. In the town all the people cried out, “They ought to be torn to
pieces! They have said it themselves! the villains!” And they could
answer nothing but _Yes_, _It is true_, and _That’s right_.

So, after asking them a great many questions, and getting nothing else
out of them, they put them in prison; and after they had kept them there
some time, they let them go, because they found out that they were only
fools. So the three brothers went home again.

GIUCCA.

[Illustration]

One day Giucca’s mother said to him, “I want this cloth sold, but if I
let you take it to the market you will be at your old tricks again.”

“No, mother; you shall see I will do it all right. Tell me how much you
want for it.”

“Ten crowns; and mind you sell it to a person who does not talk much.”

Giucca took the cloth, and went away. He met a peasant, who said to him,
“Giucca, are you going to sell this cloth? How much do you want for it?”

“Ten crowns.”

“No, that is too much.”

“Now, look here—I can’t let you have it at all, because you talk too
much.”

“Why, do you want to sell your goods without people’s saying anything?”

“Oh! I can’t let you have it.”

Giucca went on. When he had gone a little further, he came to a statue
of plaster of Paris.

“Oh! good woman, do you want to buy some cloth?”

The statue said nothing.

Said Giucca: “This is just right. Mother told me to sell the cloth to
some one who does not talk. I couldn’t do better than this. I say, good
woman! I want ten crowns for it”—and he threw the cloth at her;
“to-morrow I will come and fetch them.”

And he went home, well pleased. His mother said, “Giucca, have you sold
the cloth?”

“Yes,” said Giucca; “they told me I was to come and fetch the money
to-morrow.”

“But tell me—did you give it to a trustworthy person?”

“I think so. She was a good sort of woman, you may believe that!”

Let us leave Giucca, and go back to the statue, which was hollow, and
was the place where some robbers hid their money. In the evening they
came with some more money to put away inside the image.

“Look,” they said, “some one has left this cloth; let us keep it.” They
hid the money and carried off the cloth.

In the morning, when Giucca got up, he said, “Mother, I am going to
fetch that money.”

“Very good; be quick about it, and mind they give you the whole of it.”

Giucca went to the statue. “Hallo, mistress, I’ve come for the money!”

The statue said nothing.

“Oh! look here! It must not be the same as yesterday; to-day I want the
money. I see you have used the cloth. Give me the money, or let me have
the cloth back.”

[Illustration]

So he picked up a stone and threw it at her. And then the statue was
broken, and all the money began to fall out. Giucca was well pleased; he
picked up the money and went home.

“Look, mother, how much money I have brought you! I told you she was a
good sort of woman. First she did not want to give it me, but then I
threw stones at her, and she gave me all this.”

“But tell me, Giucca, what have you done?”

“Why, don’t you know her?—the creature who has been standing there bolt
upright for ever so long!”

“Oh! you rascal! what have you done? Dear me! dear me! With all this
money I had better find you a wife to look after you!”

THE HERMIT AND THE THIEVES.

... Once, she said, there was a hermit, a poor sort of priest, who lived
all alone, and had no society but his pig, with whom he used to eat at
the same table as a sort of penance for his sins. Besides the pig he had
a box of money, which he had collected in little sums given in charity
till it amounted to a good large sum, and this he kept hidden away under
his bed. Now it happened that there were two bad men, two robbers, who
heard of this box, and desired very much to get possession of it. So
they put their heads together to construct a plan to deceive the poor
old hermit. At last they hit upon one, and it was this: Having first got
a good strong rope and a large basket, they went one night to his house,
and climbed upon the roof without his knowledge, and let down the basket
until it hung before the sill of his window. Both of them then began to
sing—

“Arise, arise, O hermit,
And come up in the basket, O;
The saints in glory ask it, O,
Waiting in Paradise!”

The poor hermit, hearing these words, thought that the angels had come
from heaven to bring him his reward. So up he jumped and opened the
window, and when he saw the basket his joy was very great at the
expectation of going in it up to Paradise. So after crossing himself
devoutly, in he jumped, murmuring—

“Lord, Lord! I am not so good
That I should get into a basket of wood.”[35]

Up the robbers then pulled him, until he was half-way to the roof, and
then, fastening the rope round the chimney, down they ran, got into his
room, plundered him of his money-box, and made off with themselves.

Meantime for a long space the hermit hung there, waiting and wondering
why he had stopped, and praying with shut eyes; but at last he grew
impatient, for he did not go up, and the voices had ceased, and he
wriggled about so much that the rope broke, and down he came to the
ground, not without some severe bruises. But what was his indignation
upon dragging himself up to his room to find his money-box gone, and
only the pig remaining! However, he put the best face on it, said
“_Pazienza!_” and prayed still more earnestly. Now the same two robbers,
after having got possession of the box, began to think that they had
been very great fools not to have taken the pig too, which they could
sell at a good price at the fair. So they determined to try the same
trick again in order to get the pig. Up they got therefore on the roof,
and let down the basket as before, singing the same song, “_Arise, O
hermit_,” etc. But this time the hermit was not to be taken in; and he
answered to the robbers, whom he still thought to be angels, in verse
which may thus be Englished—

“Go back, you blessed Angels,
And let the good saints know
That once they’ve come it over me,
But a second time’s no go!”

_THE OLD LADY AND THE DEVIL._

[Illustration]

“The most perverse creature in the world is an obstinate old woman.”

A certain aged lady was desirous of eating figs, and went out into her
garden, intending to knock down a few with a long pole; but finding
herself unable to do this, in spite of her infirmities she began
climbing the tree to pick them, and did not even take off her slippers.
At this juncture the Devil, in human shape, happened to pass by, and
thinking that the old lady was about to fall, said to her, “My good
woman, if you wish to climb a tree to gather figs, you should at least
remove your slippers, otherwise you will most assuredly fall and break
your bones.” To this the old lady replied angrily, “My good sir, it does
not matter to you whether I climb the tree with slippers or without
them; pray go about your business, that I may not say, to perdition!” So
she went on climbing; but just as she was about to seize the branch on
which the figs were, one of her slippers came off, and she fell to the
ground. Lying on the ground, she began to scream; and when her family
came to see what was the matter she would say nothing but “The Devil
blinded me!—the Devil blinded me!” The Devil, who was not far off, went
up to her, and hearing what she said, found it more than he could stand,
and really blinded both her eyes, saying, “I warned you, and asked you
not to climb the tree in slippers, telling you that you would fall, and
in return for that you gave me a very rude answer. And now, instead of
saying, ‘If I had listened to that wayfarer I should not have fallen,’
you say ‘The Devil blinded me;’ and I, who am really the Devil, have
blinded you in very truth. What’s the good of blaming the cat when the
mistress is mad?” So saying, the Devil vanished away, and the obstinate
old woman was left without her eyesight.

_THE SUITOR AND THE PICTURE._

[Illustration]

A certain man of Celento having come to Naples to attend to a law-suit,
was forced to take a house; and in order to be near the Vicaria,[36] he
took one close to the Convent of San Giovanni a Carbonara. In this house
he found an old picture hanging on the wall, all black and grimed with
smoke, to which, thinking it to represent some saint, he recommended
himself most fervently every time he left the house, praying that he
might be preserved from every misfortune, find a good lawyer, and gain
his case. The first time he said his prayers before this picture, on
returning home at night, he was attacked and beaten by thieves. On the
next day he fell down the stairs and bruised himself all over; and on
the third he was arrested and imprisoned for a theft which had been
committed near his lodging. On coming out of prison he once more
addressed his prayers to the unknown image for a good lawyer; but this
petition, too, was granted the wrong way, for he fell into the hands of
one who was the greatest scoundrel and blunderer that could be imagined.
The poor Celentano, quite broken down by his troubles, redoubled his
prayers to the smoky picture in hopes of at least gaining his law-suit;
but after this last attempt, seeing that things were going from bad to
worse, he came home, no longer able to contain himself. “Now,” he said,
“I want to see what the picture is which has gained me so many benefits
from Heaven, and worked so many miracles in my favour.” He therefore
took it down from the wall, and, after having carefully cleaned it,
perceived that it represented a lawyer in his robes. Whereat he cried,
“Ah! thou accursed race! none other could have worked such miracles! A
fine saint I had chosen as my protector!” And therewith he cut the
picture in pieces and threw it into the fire.

A peasant of Chiaramonte,[37] returning home by moonlight, on his ass,
with two panniers of fresh-plucked grapes, passed by a cypress-tree, on
which an owl was sitting. The owl began to hoot and moan in so piteous a
manner that it seemed as though he would moan out his very heart. Poor
Vito (every Chiaramonte man is called Vito) was a fool, but he had a
kind heart, and he was saddened by the moaning of the owl, thinking that
perhaps he was hungry. So, overcome by compassion, he called out, “Owl
of mine, dost thou want a bunch of grapes?” The owl went on hooting
“_Cciù_.”[38] “How? Is one bunch not enough?—dost thou want two?”
“_Cciù._” “Oh! how hungry thou must be!—dost want a basketful?”
“_Cciù._” “But—holy Death! thou art insatiable!—perhaps thou wouldst
like the whole pannier?” “_Cciù!_” “Go to the devil! I have a wife and
children, and I cannot give thee everything!”

_NEWSPAPER HUMOUR._

During the recent elections there was a large popular demonstration at
Bergamo, where the police mustered in great force to prevent a
disturbance. A fiery-spirited youth, seeing a gentleman escorted by two
policemen, made a sudden rush to deliver him from his captors. In vain
the supposed victim protested that his generous interposition was quite
uncalled for.

“Ah! Signore, I could not for a moment think of leaving you in the hands
of these minions of injustice.”

“Pray, sir, moderate yourself.”

“Moderate myself? We are not Moderates; we are Progressists, we are!”

“I daresay, but I’ll thank you all the same to let me alone.”

“Not a bit of it; come on.”

And the young fellow dragged the gentleman along in spite of his
protests. At last, in order to escape from his inexorable liberator, he
was compelled to inform him that he was Rizzi, the superintendent of
police himself. Our young hero was let off with a gentle
admonition.—_Fanfulla._

A gentleman and his valet had been out to a party, where both of them
indulged a little too freely. On returning home the valet got into his
master’s bed, mistaking it for his own, and the master, not knowing what
he did, lay down with his feet on the pillow and his head to the foot of
the bed (in the same bed). In the middle of the night one of them began
to kick and awoke the other.

“Signor Padrone!” exclaimed the valet, “there’s a scamp of a robber
hiding in my bed!”

“You don’t say so!” replied his master; “in that case there must be a
pair of them, for I have got one here in my bed. You try and get rid of
yours; I’ll make short work with mine.”

And seizing each other by the feet they rolled out of bed and alighted
on the floor, where they fell asleep again, and did not discover the
true state of affairs till they awoke the next morning.—_Gazzetta di
Malta._

An old beggar, sitting near a church door, had a board suspended from
his neck, inscribed: “Blind from my birth.”

Another beggar, reading the inscription as he passed, was heard to
remark—

“_Ebbene!_ There’s a chap who started young in business!”—_Il Mondo
Umoristico._

At a Socialist meeting a young orator inveighed furiously against the
spread of education, saying that it would be far better for society if
fewer people knew how to read and write.

“Why, you are an obscurantist!” exclaimed a progressist member of the
audience.

“Oh, no; I am merely a post-office clerk.”—_Il Cittadino._

Alberto Gelsomini has joined an amateur dramatic society. On the night
of his first appearance in public he had only a small part assigned to
him. All he had to say was—

“Signore, a gentleman of about fifty years has been some time in the
anteroom; shall I show him in?”

Instead of which Gelsomini blurted out, excitedly—

“Signore, a gentleman has been waiting fifty years in the anteroom;
shall I show him in?”—_Don Chisciotte._

_Customer._ “Do you happen to have any pianoforte pieces?”

_New Apprentice._ “No, signore; we only sell whole pianos.”—_Il
Cittadino._

A poor man in rags asked alms in a public thoroughfare. A gentleman gave
him two soldi, and said—

“You might at least take off your hat when you beg.”

“Quite true; but then the policeman yonder might run me in for breaking
the law; whereas, seeing us converse together, he will take us for a
couple of friends.”—_Fanfulla._

A young dramatic author took a play to the manager of a popular theatre.
Months passed and no reply. Overcoming his natural shyness, he at length
called for his manuscript. The _impresario_ looked, but could not find
it.

“Tell you what, my dear fellow, your paper is lost; now don’t get vexed,
but” (pointing to a pile of documents on the table) “pick one out of
that lot; they are every bit as good as your own.”—_Il Mondo
Umoristico._

A physician, already advanced in years, was asked what was the
difference between a young doctor and an old one. He replied, “This is
the only one of any importance: the young one turns red when he is
offered his fee—the old one when the patient forgets to give it him.”

Naldino was begging his father to get him a tin trumpet.

“No, I won’t,” said his father; “I don’t want to have my head split with
your noise!”

“Oh no, papa!—I should only blow it when you were asleep.”

Spippoletti has been threatened with a duel.

He told us the story himself.

“I was trying to persuade him, when he threw one of his gloves at me,
saying that he was going to wash it in my blood?”

“Good heavens!—and you?”

“Well ... I told him the best way to clean kid gloves was with benzine!”

Fasolacci is an elegant youth.

He had been spending right and left, so that he found himself unable to
pay the bill at the hotel where he was lodging.

Taking his courage in both hands, and laying it before him on his
writing-table, he determined to apply to his uncle—the well-known
avarice of his father precluding, all hope of assistance from _him_.

This was his letter:—

“DEAR UNCLE,—If you could see how I blush, with shame while I am
writing, you would pity me. Do you know why?... Because I have to ask
you for a hundred francs, and do not know how to express my humble
request.... No! it is impossible for me to tell you; I prefer to die!

“I send you this by a messenger, who will await your answer.

“Believe me, my dearest uncle, your most obedient and affectionate
nephew,

“FASOLACCI.”

“P.S.—Overcome with shame for what I have written, I have been running
after the messenger, in order to take the letter from him, but I could
not catch him up. Heaven grant that something may happen to stop him, or
this letter may get lost!”

The uncle was naturally touched; he considered the matter fully, and
then replied as follows:—

“MY BELOVED NEPHEW,—Console yourself, and blush no longer. Providence
has heard your prayers.

“The messenger lost your letter.

“Good-bye.

“Your affectionate uncle,

“ARISTIPPO.”

A book-collector has just purchased, at an exorbitant price, a volume
which, except its rarity, has no value whatever.

“It is very dear,” said a friend to him.

“Yes; but it is the only copy in existence.”

“But if it should be reprinted?”

“Are you mad? Who’d be fool enough to buy it?”

At a Restaurant.—_Customer_ (ostentatiously sniffing at his plate): “I
say, waiter, this fish isn’t fresh!”

“Oh yes, it is, sir!”

“What?—I assure you it smells.”

_Waiter_ (mysteriously): “No, sir, you’re mistaken; it’s that other
gentleman’s cutlet!”

A worthless poet showed Parini two sonnets he had written on the
occasion of a wedding, asking him to read them both, and suggest which
he should print. Parini read one, and restored it to the author, saying,
“Print the other!” The poet tried to insist on his reading the second,
but Parini would say nothing but “Print the other!”

Spippoletti’s son having reached an age when the heart is susceptible,
fell in love with a pretty little milliner, and wrote to her declaring
his eternal devotion. After filling four pages with passionate
adjurations and orthographical mistakes, he concluded thus—

“I hope that my offers will be acceptable to you, and expect from you
shortly an _affirmative_ reply, _in which you will say either yes or
no_.”

The mother of a seminary student sent her son a new black soutane, with
a letter in the pocket, which began thus—

“Dear Gigetto, look in the pocket of the soutane and you will find this
letter....”

At a _café_ some one asked, “Excuse me, sir; does the _Daily_ appear
every day?”

The grave man thus interrogated replied, in a solemn and professional
manner, not without a sting of bitter irony: “Of course, sir. You might
have seen that by the very title of the paper.”

“Then, sir, on your principle the _Century_ should only appear once
every hundred years.”

Collapse of the grave man.

The other day Spippoletti received an anonymous post-card which informed
him that he was an old imbecile. Thinking that he recognised the writing
of a facetious friend, he hastened at once to the latter and asked him—

“Was it you that sent me this infamous libel?”

“No,” replied the other very calmly.

“Who could it be, then?” demanded Spippoletti.

“Why, my dear fellow, I am not the only man who knows you!”

Spippoletti’s wife, not having much confidence in the abilities of her
servant, has been going to market herself. One day, approaching the
fishwife’s stall; she asked the price of a large carp.

“Six francs.”

The lady examined the fish, and exclaimed—

“It’s not fresh!”

“I tell you it is!”

“But it’s quite flabby.”

“Oh! go on insulting it!” replied the fishwife bitterly. “It can’t
answer you!”

And with that kindness of heart which is natural to her, Signora
Spippoletti bought the fish to make up for the injury to its feelings.

_A. to B._ The intelligence of animals is something extraordinary. For
example, my dog Fido is a wonderfully clever fellow. When I am staying
in the country I send him to the nearest village, and he executes all
the commissions I give him better than any servant.

_B._ Well, I have seen stranger things than that in India. I knew an old
elephant to whom they used to give orders for the next day’s purchases
every evening; and as his memory was not quite to be trusted, the
intelligent animal always tied a knot in his trunk, so that he might be
sure not to forget.

The celebrated mathematician Plana, in examining students _viva voce_,
was very fond of asking trivial and ridiculous questions, in order to
test their nerve and readiness.

On one occasion he asked a young man, “What is the half of eight?”

The youth at first looked inclined to be offended, but speedily
recovered his composure, and replied coolly, “Five!”

Baron Plana, cooler still, said, “Prove it!”

“Easily, sir,” replied the student. “If you take one lemonade it costs
eight sous; if you take half a one, you have to pay five.”

As it could not be denied that such was then the price of lemonade at
Turin, the candidate was passed.

—_Il Pappagallo._

Signor Merbi, the mayor of a small village, died while on a visit to the
capital. His neighbours erected to his memory a stone with the following
inscription:—

Here lies
Marco Benedetto Giulio Merbi,
Who died at Naples, and was buried there.

There are some people with a mania for suicide, and others with one for
saving life. Within the last few days a mason at Rovigo threw himself
under the wheels of a carriage. Death was imminent, when Ranchetti—this
is the name of our rescuer—sprang in front of the horses, and saved the
unfortunate workman at the risk of his own life.

The mason hastened home, shut the door of his house, and quietly hanged
himself. But he had reckoned without his unknown rescuer. Ranchetti,
foreseeing some fatal design, followed him, got into the room by
breaking a window, cut the rope, called for help, and saved the would-be
suicide a second time.

If this sort of thing goes on Ranchetti will have plenty to do.

A certain lawyer, in consequence of various political changes and his
own merits, obtained the title of Count, and took office under
Government.

“Why,” said an acquaintance one day, “do you not have your coat-of-arms
painted on your carriage?”

“Because my carriage is older than my title,” he replied.

A soldier in the Naples militia asked his captain for permission to go
out for half-an-hour, which was refused. Somewhat later he renewed his
request with the same result; and, after waiting some time, made a third
application—still to no purpose. At last, at the fourth time of asking,
permission was granted; the soldier went away, and was seen no more for
two hours.

“How is this?” said the captain on his return. “You asked leave for
half-an-hour.”

“That is true, sir—but I asked four times; and four half-hours make two
hours, I think.”

As a diligence was passing along a part of the road reputed dangerous,
some of the passengers expressed their fear of being attacked by
robbers. “Do not be afraid,” said an Englishman, who was one of them; “I
have foreseen everything—I have two loaded pistols at the bottom of my
portmanteau.”

A Neapolitan, paying a visit to Milan, said to a countryman of his who
had settled there, “Before leaving this place, I should like to have my
portrait done in oil.” “Impossible, my dear fellow!” said his friend;
“here they do everything in butter.”

So-and-so, who is in mourning for his mother, was one day riding out on
a mare with a crimson saddle. A wag, meeting him, said, “That saddle
does not look much like mourning.” “Excuse me,” replied our friend; “my
mare’s mother is not dead—why should she go into black?”

A young man of these days, whose reputation is none of the best, was
boasting in company of his skill as a physiognomist. “I have a thorough
knowledge of rascals,” he said. “I can not only recognise them, but also
thoroughly understand them, at first sight.” Hearing this, a respectable
man, who was acquainted with him, said, “Did you ever look in the
glass?”

A Knight Commander of Malta, who was exceedingly avaricious, had two
pages, who one day complained to him that they had no shirts to wear.
The miser called his major-domo, and said: “You will write to the
steward of my estates in Sicily, and tell him to have some hemp sown at
once. When the hemp is gathered, he is to have it spun, and then woven
into cloth, to make shirts for these young men.” At this the pages
laughed. “Ah! the rogues!” said the knight; “see how delighted they are,
now that they have their shirts.”

A gentleman of Naples fought fourteen duels in order to maintain that
Dante was a greater poet than Ariosto. The last of these encounters was
fatal to the enthusiast, who exclaimed on his death-bed: “And yet I have
never read either of them!”

An actor, asking the manager for his arrears of payment, told him that
he was in danger of dying of starvation. The manager, looking at his
plump and ruddy countenance, told him that his face did not bear out the
assertion. “Don’t let yourself be misled by that,” said the actor; “this
face is not mine; it belongs to my landlady, who has been letting me
live on credit for the last six months!”

Gennaro, of Naples, said one day to a friend, “I receive an immense
number of anonymous letters, which are quite insulting; but I despise
them too much to let it vex me. When _I_ lower myself so far as to write
anonymous letters, I always sign them.”

Francesco Gallina, the lawyer, was disputing a point with his colleague,
Giacomo Sanciotti. Being unable to support his reasoning, he improvised
a law which justified the position he took. Sanciotti, perceiving this
stratagem, immediately invented another which put Gallina in the wrong.
The latter, never having heard of such a law, said, “Can you give me the
reference?” “You will find it,” replied Sanciotti, without hesitating,
“on the same page as the Act you have just quoted.”

A countryman attending church at a distance from his own village, was
observed to sit unmoved through a sermon which affected the whole
congregation to tears. The priest, thinking him a hardened sinner,
singled him out for a personal address.

“Are you the only one to remain unshaken? Do you alone hear nothing?”

“Sir,” replied the peasant, “I don’t belong to this parish!”

A literary man recently applied to a journalistic friend, asking him to
get him work and make him known to the public. “My dear fellow,” replied
the friend, “in order to get work and become known you must publish.”

The author hastened with a volume of MS. to a publisher, and asked him
to print it.

“My dear sir, if you want to publish, you ought to become known first.”

Now what is he to do?

Our Paris correspondent, reporting a Socialist meeting, says, “The
orator made use of a set of commonplace catchwords and high-sounding
phrases, calculated to make a profound impression on the fools who
attend similar gatherings. I was present....”

A candid confession!

_Recruit_ (_to Corporal_). If I told you you were an ass, what would you
do, sir?

_Corporal._ I should put you under arrest.

_Rec._ And if I only thought it?

_Corp._ Then I could do nothing, for thoughts are not seen, and cannot
be brought up in evidence.

_Rec._ Then I _do_ think so.

At the Club.—_A._ Have you seen our friend Bortoletti lately?

_B._ Yes.

_A._ Then you must have noticed that he dyes his hair in front, and has
forgotten to do so at the back.

_B._ Well—that only proves that if he deceives himself he has no wish to
deceive others.

_Mistress._ Rosa, did you count the silver last night?

_Rosa._ Yes’m—there’s a fork and spoon wanting.

_Mis._ Do you know where they are?

_Rosa._ Yes’m.

_Mis._ Well—where are they?

_Rosa._ Under the kitchen table. You can find them there when they are
wanted.

A bereaved widower had ordered a bust of his late wife, and called on
the sculptor to inspect the work. “If you want any alterations,” said
the artist, “it is only in the clay, you see, and can easily be
retouched.

The widower gazed at it sadly.

“It is just like her ... the nose rather large ... a sure indication of
kindliness and benevolence....”

Then bursting into tears—

“She was _so_ good!... Can’t you make her nose a _great deal_ longer?”

A few days ago there appeared on the last page of a newspaper the
following advertisement:—

“RED NOSES.—Instant cure. Apply, enclosing P.O. for two francs, to
Signor Dulcamara.”

A worthy citizen, whose nose was “ruddier than the cherry,” hoping to
get rid of his affliction, immediately sent in his address and the two
francs.

Two days later he received a post-card—

“Go on drinking till your nose turns blue!”

“John, take this cup away; the beef-tea is cold!”

“Cold? sir; oh, no! that’s just a fancy of yours, sir; it’s quite hot
still, for I tried it, sir?”

“What! You dared to taste——”

“Oh no, sir; I only dipped my finger into it!”

At the Police Court.—_President_: “What! you here again? You are
perfectly incorrigible. You see, now, what bad company leads to.”

_Prisoner_: “Oh! sir, how can you say that? Why, I never see any one but
policemen and magistrates.”

A parvenu, in giving an invitation to dinner to a celebrated violinist
who had just given a concert at the house of a banker, said to him, with
pretended carelessness—

“Oh! by-the-bye—you will bring your violin, won’t you?”

“Thank you,” replied the artist, “but my violin never dines out.”

An old and knowing lawyer in the provinces, while waiting for the court
to open, fell into conversation with another lawyer, equally old and
knowing, who said to him—

“Who can that Fra Diavolo[39] be whose name occurs so often under the
heading, ‘The Milan theatres’?”

“Oh!” replied the first, with perfect seriousness, “he was a Terracina
lawyer.”

A provincial householder returned from a shooting expedition in the
marshes, wet to the skin. Entering the house, he called out, with
chattering teeth, to his wife, “Get the fire lit at once!” The latter,
after going to the window and looking at the neighbours’ chimneys,
replied—“No, indeed!—No one else has a fire lit, and I do not wish to
make myself the subject of remark!”

During dinner, at the Castle, the tutor was being questioned about the
progress made by the heir-presumptive to the coronet.

“Just now we are working at natural science. Our noble pupil is making
rapid progress in chemistry.”

“Is he learning about dynamite?” asked the Marchioness quickly.

“Not yet, madam;—dynamite comes under the head of political economy.”

At a Charity Concert.—(_The pianist is playing horribly out of
tune._)—“What is that brute doing? I understand that it is a charity
concert, but—all the same—”

“Why, that is just the reason he does not let his left hand know what
his right is doing!”

At the Manœuvres.—_Captain_: I want all the corporals, without
exception, to give the word of command together, and distinctly.

A moment after there is a general and vigorous shout of “Shoulder arms!”

_Captain_ (_furiously_). I _hear_ several corporals saying nothing at
all!

This must be the same officer who said, the other day—“In Company B, I
see a man who is not there!”

“Look here,” said the tenor, “I have sung in all the operas, and have
always taken the principal parts—in _Robert le Diable_ I was Robert; in
_Hernani_, Hernani——”

“And in the _Siege of Corinth_?”

“Why, Corinth, of course!”

What is a Secret Society?

A Secret Society is a greater or less number of individuals who meet
from time to time in the most secret way possible, in order to shout
their secrets in each other’s ears at the top of their voices.

Force of Habit.—A well-known artist suffers horribly from corns on his
feet. His toes, moreover, are deplorably sensitive, so that he calls out
if they are scarcely touched.

It has gone so far that, when he steps on his own boots, which he has
put out to be cleaned, he imagines that his feet are inside, and yells
like one possessed.

“Ah-h-h!—body of a rhinoceros!!—look out! Where are you going?”

A pretended pilgrim, tramping about the country, sells little pieces of
stuff, which, according to him, once formed part of the cloak of St.
Martin.

“What are they good for?” asked a rustic, one day.

“They will keep out the cold,” replied the pilgrim, and salved his
conscience by adding, aside—

“Taken in large quantities.”

At a country inn an English traveller ordered hare for dinner.

“Give him some hare,” said the landlady to her husband, without
hesitation.

“You know we have none,” replied he, in an undertone.

The wife answered, quite undisturbed—

“Give him some rabbit then. He’s an Englishman—he’ll never know the
difference.”

A clever man, who suffers from absence of mind, said to a friend—

“Oh!—So-and-so?—He died in September, and I have not seen him since!”

It is said that a rich Frenchman who was insane came to Milan, and after
two days recovered his reason.

Some people may think this surprising. We do not.

It is quite natural that, in a city where so many lose their wits, one
man should find some.

A telegram received from Lisbon informs us that “a terrible cyclone has
completely destroyed Manilla.”

A few hours later another despatch arrived—“The cholera has entirely
ceased in Manilla.”

We have no hesitation in believing it. Surely, if Manilla no longer
exists, everything, the cholera included, must have ceased there.

Filippo made a valuable confession the other day. Talking of
marionettes, he said, “I must acknowledge I have a great liking for this
kind of spectacle.”

Bravo, Filippo! Family affection is a sacred thing!

Some time ago the Government came to the decision of having the
_Official Gazette_ printed by convicts, in order, it is said, not to
introduce an alien element.

Now that the secret has transpired, the resolution has been rescinded,
and the convicts will no longer do the printing.

This second resolution has been explained by saying that the Government
wishes to give no cause for accusations of family favouritism. We are
quite willing to accept both excuses.

In the Naples police court a witness was once asked where he lived.

“With Gennaro.”

“And where does Gennaro live?”

“With me.”

“But where do you and Gennaro live?”

“Together.”

NOTES.

NOTE 1, p. 48.—This line is printed in the edition of 1825 (I am not
aware whether there is any other) as “An old stony Giggiano,” which
does not make sense, as there appears to be no such word as “Giggiano”
in Italian, except a proper name, applied to a district in Tuscany.
The emendation I have ventured upon gives the sense correctly. The
literal translation of the last six lines is—“Or of that which,
vermillion and brilliant, makes proud the Aretine who grows it on
Tregonzano, and amid the stones of Giggiano.” Leigh Hunt seems to have
sent the MS. of his translation from Florence, in January 1825, to
London, where it was published for him by his brother; so that it is
probable the proofs were not revised by the author.

NOTE 1A, p. 77.—A full description of Stenterello and the other comic
masks, with pictures of the principal ones, may be found in J. A.
Symonds’ _Memoirs of Count Carlo Gozzi_ (Introduction). See also
Introduction to the present volume, p. xv.

NOTE 2, p. 137.—Professor Th. Trede, in his recently published work,
_Das Heidentum in der römischen Kirche_, says that Modica, in the
south of Sicily, is divided into two rival camps, devoted respectively
to the worship of St. Peter and St. George. The festivals of these two
saints give rise to scenes more suggestive of Donnybrook Fair than
anything else. Similar conflicts between rival cities are by no means
rare in the Neapolitan territory. (Trede, _op. cit._, ii. 260.)

NOTE 3, p. 143.—“In the south of Italy, the birth of a girl is by no
means considered a particularly joyful event. The birth of a boy is
followed by rejoicings and festivities—no notice is taken of a girl.
Of the thousands of infants annually received into the Naples
foundling hospital, the boys only remain there a short time. They are
soon adopted by families who have lost a child, but it is very seldom
that any one thinks of taking a girl from the hospital. In Santa
Lucia, when a boy is born, the whole quarter is thrown into the
greatest excitement; he is handed round to all the _comari_, friends
and neighbours—kissed, squeezed, pinched, out of sheer love and
delight. But a girl-baby lies unnoticed in the clothes-basket, which
serves as a cradle, and is neither kissed nor admired. At baptism a
boy is always carried to church on the nurse’s right arm—a girl on the
left.” (Trede, _Das Heidentum in der römischen Kirche_, iii. p. 299.)

NOTE 4, p. 169.—Small birds of all kinds—thrushes, larks, sparrows,
bullfinches, even nightingales—are looked upon as fair game in Italy,
and caught wholesale in clap-nets for the table.

NOTE 5, p. 209.—The confraternities frequently mentioned in stories
depicting Italian life may need a word of explanation. When the scene
of the story is in Tuscany, the confraternity meant is that of the
_Misericordia_ (the “Chaplain of the Misericordia” figures in
Pratesi’s sketch of “Doctor Phœbus”), whose business it is to bury the
indigent dead, and attend what in England would be pauper funerals.
The procession of ghastly black figures, their heads and faces covered
by hoods with eye-holes cut in them, is familiar to every one who has
spent any time in an Italian town. The following account of their
origin is taken from Mrs. Oliphant’s _Makers of Florence_:—“This still
active and numerous society was established in the thirteenth century
by an honest porter, one Pietro Borsi, who had the fine inspiration of
at once reforming the vices and employing the idle moments of his
brother porters, hanging on waiting for work in the Piazza of San
Giovanni, by a most characteristic and appropriate charity. He
persuaded them to fine each other for swearing, a mutual tax, half
humorous, half pious, which pleased the rough fellows; then induced
them to buy litters with the money thus collected, and to give, each
in his turn, a cast of his trade to the service of the sick and
wounded, carrying the victims of accident or disease to the hospitals,
and the dead to their burial. In so warlike a city as Florence, amid
all the disturbances of the thirteenth century, no doubt they had
occupation enough, and this spontaneous good work, devised by the
people for the people, marks one of the finest and most characteristic
features of the charity of the Middle Ages. The institution grew, as
might be expected, developing into greater formality and more extended
operations, but always retaining the same object. There are no longer
street frays in Florence, to make the charitable succour of the
Misericordia a thing of hourly necessity, and the litters are no
longer carried by the rough, homely hands of labouring men snatching a
moment for charity out of their hard day’s labours. It is said that
all classes, up to the very highest, form part of the society
nowadays; called by their bell when their services are wanted, in all
the districts of the city, prince and artisan taking their turns
alike, and it may be together, but with this modification—and with the
one addition to its aims, that the Brothers often nurse as well as
carry the sick—the porters’ original undertaking is carried out with a
firm faithfulness at once to tradition and Christian charity. The
dress is in reality no sign of mysterious shame and expiation, but
merely a precaution against any trafficking on the part of the
brethren in the gratitude of their patients, from whom they are
allowed to receive nothing more than a draught of water, the first and
cheapest of necessities.”[40] The following, from Story’s _Roba di
Roma_, may also be interesting:—“The admirable institution of the
_Misericordia_, which is to be found throughout Tuscany, does not
exist in Rome; but several of the confraternities attend to the duties
of burying their own dead, and one of them, called the
_Arciconfraternita della Morte e dell’ Orazione_, assumes the duty of
burying the bodies of all poor persons found dead in the Campagna, or
in the city. This confraternity was founded in 1551 by a Siennese
priest, Crescenzio Selva, and confirmed by Pius IV. in 1560.... It is
composed of most respectable persons, who wear a _sacco_ of black,
coarse linen. Upon information being received that a dead body has
been found on the Campagna, notice of the fact is at once given to a
certain number of the brethren, who, without delay, meet at the
oratory, where they assume the black sack, and set out without delay
in search of the corpse. Day or night, cold or wet, calm or storm,
make no difference; the moment the news is received they set off on
their pious expedition. Nor is this duty always a light one, for
sometimes they are obliged to journey in search of the body more than
twenty miles; and, under the pontificate of Clement VIII., when there
was a great inundation of the Tiber, they reclaimed bodies which had
been borne down by the current as far as Ostia and Fiumicino. They
carry with them the bier, upon which they place the body when it is
found, and bring it back on their shoulders to the city. Besides this
duty on the Campagna, they also, in common with certain other
confraternities, bury the bodies of the dead found in the city, where
families are without means. The _Mandataro_ informs the brethren where
their services are needed, and, towards evening, dressed in thin black
sacks, their heads and faces covered, and with only two holes cut in
the _cappuccio_ to look through, they may be seen passing through the
street, bearing the body on their bier to the church, preceded by a
long, narrow standard of black, on which are worked a cross, skull,
and bones, bearing torches and chanting the _Miserere_ and other
psalms.”

NOTE 6, p. 223.—The Roman Catholic clergy are forbidden to smoke, but
allowed to take snuff. The point of this sentence is fully brought
out, a page or two later on, by the friar’s indignant denunciations of
eating meat in Lent.

NOTE 7, p. 230.—“Come, I will show you Lucca,” is said in joke to
children, the person addressing them seizing and lifting them by the
neck. The saying is probably connected with the idiom, “I shall see
you again at Lucca”—_i.e._, ironically, “I shall never see you again;”
so that “seeing Lucca” = “seeing nothing.” Tommaseo and Bellini
(_Dizionario_) suggest that the expression may refer to the fact that
the Lucchese were great travellers.

BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS.

EDMONDO DE AMICIS, born in 1846 at Oneglia (on the Genoa coast), was
educated at Cuneo, Turin, and the Military College of Modena,
which he left, with the grade of sub-lieutenant, in 1865. In 1866
he was present at the battle of Custozza, and in 1867 edited a
military periodical at Florence. After the Italian occupation of
Rome in 1870 he left the army, and devoted himself entirely to
literature. He is in a certain sense a follower of Manzoni, who
encouraged and directed his early efforts. His “Sketches of
Military Life” (one of which is translated in the present
collection) first saw the light in the pages of the _Italia
Militare_, and were followed by a collection of _Novelle_ (or
short stories), which, however, are inferior to the first-named
work. The construction is defective, and the characterisation,
though vivacious, not very deep or subtle. Another fault which De
Amicis frequently falls into is a certain straining after pathos,
which defeats its own object—a fault which Dickens, in his desire
to draw tears, was not always exempt from. This is perhaps most
apparent in his later works, of which _Cuore_ and another
depicting the life (a most wretched one, if De Amicis is to be
believed) of an Italian elementary schoolmaster, are examples. He
has travelled extensively, and given to the world several lively
and humorous volumes recording his experiences in Holland, Spain,
Morocco, and elsewhere—besides being well known as a lecturer. We
understand he is now resident at Turin, and has, quite recently,
proclaimed himself a convert to Socialistic ideas. (_Page 199._)

LODOVICO ARIOSTO was born at Reggio (near Modena, not to be confused
with Reggio in Calabria) in 1474. He has written his own
autobiography in the _Satires_. He studied law at Padua, but never
had any taste for that profession, and never practised it. In 1503
he entered the service of the Cardinal Ippolito d’Este, who
employed him on various diplomatic missions, but left him leisure
to continue his studies. In 1516 he published his great poem, the
_Orlando Furioso_, which he had spent ten years in writing. After
the death of his patron in 1520, Ariosto transferred his services
to the cardinal’s brother, Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, who, in 1522,
appointed him governor of the mountainous district of Garfagnana,
near Lucca—a post he has humorously described in his _Satires_. In
1524 he returned to Ferrara, and spent the rest of his life in
lettered leisure at Alfonso’s court. He now wrote his five blank
verse comedies (_La Cassaria_, _I Suppositi_, _La Lena_, _Il
Negromante_, and _La Scolastica_), which were acted before the
court in a theatre built for the purpose by order of the Duke. He
died in 1533 of a lingering illness. He was never married. The
_Orlando Furioso_, says one writer, “has been translated into most
European languages, but seldom successfully. Of the English
translations, that by Harrington is spirited, and much superior to
Hook’s, but Rose’s is considered the best, and is generally
faithful.” A specimen from the _Satires_ has been given in T. H.
Croker’s version. Of the _Orlando Furioso_, it has been thought
best, after consideration, to give a free prose translation
(selected and slightly adapted from _Stories from Ariosto_, by H.
C. Hollway-Calthrop[41]) of the passage describing Astolfo’s visit
to the moon, which is one of the best for exhibiting the humorous
side of Ariosto’s genius. The poem is a gigantic one, with legions
of characters, and a perfect maze of episodes more or less closely
connected with the main thread of the story: the war between
Charlemagne and the Saracens, ending with the defeat of the latter
and the death of their king, Agramante. If those who are in at the
death of Spenser’s Blatant Beast are very few and very weary, we
should imagine that those who have followed Agramante to his
bitter end must be fewer and wearier still. (_Page 30._)

FRANCESCO BERNI, a Tuscan, was born in 1490, and died in 1536 as canon
of the cathedral at Florence. He was a priest, and spent the
greater part of his life at the court of Rome, in the service of
various cardinals and prelates. A writer in the _National
Encyclopædia_ says, “Berni is one of the principal writers of
Italian jocose poetry, which has ever since retained the name of
_Poesia Bernesca_. This style had been introduced before him” (see
Note on _Pucci_), “but Berni carried it to a degree of perfection
which has rarely been equalled since.... His satire is generally
of the milder sort, but at times it rises to a bitter strain of
invective. His humour may be said to be untranslatable, for it
depends on the genius of the Italian language, the constitution of
the Italian mind, and the habits and associations of the Italian
people. His language is choice Tuscan. The worst feature in
Berni’s humorous poems is his frequent licentious allusions and
equivocations, which, though clothed in decent language, are well
understood by Italian readers.” It is, perhaps, curious that
another great offender in this respect—Casti—was also an
ecclesiastic. But we cannot help remembering in this connection a
remark made by a writer in an English magazine, who had been
invited to a wedding in an Italian country town—viz., that of the
congratulatory verses sent in by friends (some of which were very
far from being in accordance with our notions of propriety) the
most objectionable were written by priests. Three volumes of
Berni’s _Poesie Burlesche_ were collected and published after his
death. He also wrote what he called a _rifacimento_ of Bojardo’s
_Orlando Innamorata_, altering the diction of the poem into what
he considered purer Italian, and adding some stanzas of his own.
More satisfactory productions, perhaps, are _La Catrina_ and _Il
Migliazzo_, dramatic scenes written in the rustic dialect of
Tuscany. (_Page 35._)

GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO was born at Paris in 1313. His father, a native of
Certaldo, near Florence, brought him to the latter city when quite
a child, intending to educate him for commerce, in which he was
himself engaged. He escaped from this life at the age of twenty by
promising to study canonical law, which, however, proved not much
more to his taste than business, and his principal pursuits at the
University of Naples were Greek (then beginning to be studied in
Italy), Latin, and mathematics. At Naples, too, he made the
acquaintance of Petrarch, and fell in love with the Princess
Maria, a natural daughter of King Robert, for whom he wrote his
poem of the _Teseide_, containing the tale of “Palaemon and
Arcite,” afterwards made use of by Chaucer. In 1350 Boccaccio
returned to Florence, and appears to have gradually changed his
way of life, and become known as a quiet and orderly citizen. In
1361 he retired from the world altogether, and became a priest. He
visited Petrarch at Milan, and again (in 1363) at Venice, and kept
up his friendship with him to the end of his life. In 1373 he was
appointed by the Republic of Florence to give public readings,
with comments, of Dante’s _Divina Commedia_; but these lectures
were often interrupted by ill-health, and Boccaccio died in
December 1375. His earliest work was in verse, but finding that he
could not hope to attain first-rate excellence in poetry he turned
his attention chiefly to prose. The _Decameron_ was one of the
earliest prose works written in Italian, and is esteemed a classic
for its style. The plan, perhaps, suggested that of Chaucer’s
_Canterbury Tales_; the hundred tales of which it consists being
supposed to be told by ten persons on ten different days—hence the
name (from the Greek words for _ten days_). The introduction
relates how the narrators—seven ladies and three knights—having
fled to the country to escape from the plague which desolated
Florence in 1348, enlivened the solitude of their villa by telling
stories. Some of these tales are lively and humorous, some
pathetic and tragic. Many of them, as is well known, are better
left in oblivion; some, indeed, being good comedy spoilt by that
which renders it unquotable; while others, if ever they were found
amusing, must have been so by reason of their coarseness, for they
have no other claim. Others, again, reach a very high level, as
that of “Nathan and Mithridanes”; or that other of the three
rings, on which Lessing founded his drama of _Nathan der Weise_.
The story of “Calandrino and the Heliotrope” is, we believe, one
of the best farcical ones. Buffalmacco and his practical jokes
seem to have been the common property of the comic writers of the
period, and probably all “_burle_” or “japes” which were thought
more than commonly amusing were indiscriminately fathered upon
him. His real life is given by Vasari, from whom we have also
culled one or two of the more celebrated _burle_, which, however,
belonging to popular tradition, had previously been related by
Sacchetti. In the same way, at a later period, every witty saying
and ridiculous adventure current in Florence was attributed to the
dramatist G. B. Fagiuoli (1660–1742). Anecdotes of the latter may
be picked up among the Florentine populace even now; but the
practical joke related of him (we hope falsely) in Pitré’s
collection of folk-tales will not bear repetition. Other Joe
Millers of Italy are the Florentine Piovano Arlotto, Gonnella, and
Barlacchia, various collections of whose jests have from time to
time been published. The translation given (as also in the case of
the selections from Parabosco and Sabadino degli Arienti) is
Thomas Roscoe’s. (_Page 2._)

LUIGI CAPUANA, Sicilian novelist and critic, born at Mineo, in the
province of Catania, May 27, 1839. His first published works were
poems, among others an imitation of Tommy Moore’s _Loves of the
Angels_. In 1864 he went to Florence, where he was for two years
dramatic critic to _La Nazione_. The best of the articles written
for that paper he afterwards published in volume form, under the
title, _Teatro italiano Contemporaneo_. In 1868 he returned to his
native place, and remained there till 1876. During this time he
was chosen Syndic of the district, and in 1875 published an
official report on _The Commune of Mineo_, which is really worthy
of the name of a contribution to literature. In 1877 he removed to
Milan, and resumed his literary labours, writing critical articles
in the _Corriere delle Sera_, and also a number of sketches,
afterwards collected in volume form, under the title, _Profili di
donne_. Since then he has issued various works of fiction, mostly
collections of short stories—or rather character-sketches—for some
of them have scarcely any story to speak of. The specimens in the
present volume are taken from a collection entitled _Fumando_.
Capuana is a great admirer of Émile Zola, and aims at his style
and methods; but his Italian (or perhaps Greek, since he is a
Sicilian!) sense of beauty and proportion preserve him from the
grossest faults of the extreme naturalist school. He needs,
however, to guard against the dangers of Impressionism; at least
we suppose that is the name for the tendency to give detached
“bits” instead of pictures—a tendency which appears to excess in
his short stories. He has written two complete novels, _Giacinta_,
and _Storia Fosca_; and a charming collection of popular fairy
tales, retold for children under the title of _C’era una volta_
(“Once upon a time”). (_Page 107._)

ENRICO CASTELNUOVO, born at Florence, 1839, has passed the greater
part of his life at Venice, where he appears to be still resident.
From 1853 to 1870 he was engaged in business, but in the latter
year became editor of a political paper, _La Stampa_. Since then
he has published several novels and collections of short stories,
some of which have appeared in the _Perseveranza_. Some of the
best known of them are: _La Casa Bianca_, _Vittorina_, _Lauretta_
(1876), _Il Professõr Romualdo_ (1878), _Nuovi Racconti_, _Alla
Finestra_, and _Sorrisi e Lacrime_, from which the sketch in the
present volume is taken. Most of his stories deal with Venetian
life. (_Page 191._)

GIOVANNI BATTISTA CASTI, 1721–1803, was an ecclesiastic, and the
author of many satirical works, of which the best known is _Gli
Animali Parlanti_ (The Speaking Animals), which has, I believe,
been translated as _The Court and Parliament of Beasts_. He also
wrote a sequence of a hundred sonnets, entitled _I Tre Giuli_,
which is surely the most striking instance extant of an idea
ridden to death. The sonnets (of which one here and there is
fairly amusing) are all on the subject of a debt of about
eighteenpence which the author owed a friend. They hardly merit
the extremely laudatory language used about them by the
translator, M. Montague (1841). A much greater contribution to the
gaiety of nations is the “opera buffa” of _Il Re Teodoro_, for
which Paisiello wrote the music, and from which we have given an
extract. Casti wrote other comic operas, one of the best of which
is _Catiline’s Conspiracy_, in which the famous exordium of
Cicero’s oration, _Quousque tandem_, is rendered (and pretty
closely too) into burlesque verse. Cicero is shown in his study,
preparing his oration with infinite pains. When at length it is
delivered, the interruptions of Catiline and others are faithfully
reported.

_Cicero._ Fin a quando, o Catilina

L’esterminio e la rovina

Contro a noi mediterai?

Fino a quando abuserai

Con cotesta impertinenza

Della nostra pazienza?

Va, rubello, evadi, espatria,

Traditore, della patria,

Conciofossecosachè....

_Catil._ Traditor rubello a me?

_Cic._ Conciofossecosachè.

_People._ Si ch è’ ver....

_Others._ No chè non è!

_Cic._ Conciofossecosachè...

This is pretty good fooling, and the compound conjunction (a sort of
double-barrelled _Forasmuch as_, often used in legal phraseology),
to which the orator clings desperately, when so rudely thrown out
in his speech, comes in with the happiest effect. But the effect
of the rapid rush of the double-rhymed octo-syllables would be
quite lost in a translation. They have somewhat the character of
the smart and fluent verse in Mr. W. S. Gilbert’s operas. Besides
verse, Casti wrote prose _Novelle_, to which Cantù (_Letteratura
Italiana_, vol. ii.) gives the worst character. Of the _Animali
Parlanti_, the same author says that it “satirised Governments
with the liberalism of the _café_” (as we might say “of taproom
politicians”) “and in the style of an _improvisatore_.” It is a
somewhat long-winded work in six-line stanzas. (_Page 57._)

BALDASSARE CASTIGLIONE, born in the Mantuan territory in 1478, was
attached, first to the court of Lodovico the Moor, at Milan;
afterwards, in succession to those of Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis
of Mantua, and Guidobaldo, Duke of Urbino. He was a polished
gentleman and brilliant scholar, “a perfect knight, second to none
either in intellect or culture.” Charles V. pronounced him “one of
the best knights in the world.” The court of Urbino, at that time
“a school of courtesy and valour, as well as of learning,” was a
fitting home for such a man. He took part in more than one
campaign, and was sent as ambassador to England, to Milan, and to
Rome. He died at Toledo in 1529, while on a diplomatic mission to
the Emperor Charles V., it is said, of grief at the sack of Rome
by the Spaniards under the Constable de Bourbon. Raphael painted
his portrait in life; Guido Romano designed his tomb after his
death, and Pietro Bembo wrote his epitaph. He wrote many elegant
and scholarly poems, both in Latin and Italian; but his fame as an
author rests entirely on the book entitled _Il Cortigiano_ (The
Courtier). It consists of a series of dialogues in which the
qualities necessary to the character of a perfect courtier are
discussed. It seems to have been written at Mantua, during the
short period of his happy wedded life (his wife, Ippolita Torelli,
married in 1516, died three years later). The style is courtly and
polished, though with a certain simplicity in its stateliness. The
interlocutors sometimes relieve their grave philosophy by humorous
anecdotes, of which a few specimens are given in the text. (_Page
27._)

FRANCESCO CERLONE lived during the latter half of the eighteenth
century, and wrote an immense number of plays of the _Commedia
dell’ Arte_ type. His works were published, in a collected form,
at Bologna in 1787, and again (in twenty-two volumes) at Naples,
in 1825–29. Little seems to be known about him. Symonds calls him
“a plebeian poet of Naples.” The distinguished Italian critic,
Michele Scherillo, “discovered” him not many years ago. (_Page
49._)

C. COLLODI is the pseudonym of a brilliant Tuscan writer, Carlo
Lorenzini, a frequent contributor to _Fanfulla_. He was for some
time theatrical censor to the Prefecture of Florence. He has also
written children’s books, and one or more volumes of short
stories. (_Page 90._)

NAPOLEONE CORAZZINI, born in Tuscany about 1840, had a natural bent
towards humorous writing, but was prevented by circumstances from
following it out, though a farce (or rather parody) of his, called
_The Duel_, is sometimes acted. He spent some time in Herzegovina
as a newspaper correspondent, but was forced, on his return, to
forsake literature for commerce. (_Page 103._)

PAOLO FERRARI, writer of comedies, was born at Modena in 1822. His
father was an official in the service of the Duke, and young
Ferrari’s liberal sentiments were a great disadvantage to him at
the outset of his career. It is even said (with what truth I do
not know) that they induced the Duke to interfere with the
granting of his University degree, which was delayed for a long
time. But Ferrari’s legal studies had been pursued with so little
ardour as to suggest another reason for the action of the
University authorities. His first comedy was written in 1847, and
was called _Bartolommeo the Shoemaker_, a title afterwards changed
to _Uncle Venanzio’s Codicil_. After contending with many
difficulties, he wrote his _Goldoni_ in 1852, but had to wait two
years before it was produced, when it was a signal success. Since
then he has given to the world a long series of works, chiefly
comedies, and the Italians consider him their first comic
dramatist. Some of his greatest successes are his dramas, drawn
from Italian history, in which the characters—unlike those in the
ordinary historical drama—are rather literary than political. Such
are _Dante a Verona_, _Parini e la Satira_, and the
above-mentioned _Goldoni e le sue Sedici Commedie_. He writes
either in prose or in a kind of rhymed alexandrines called _Versi
Martelliani_. Of his other dramas the greatest are _Il Duello_,
_Il Suicidio_, _Gli amici rivali_, _Cause ed effetti_, _Il
Ridicolo_, _Gli Uomini Serii_. Nearly all of his plays which are
still on the stage have obtained the Government prize offered in
Italy for dramatic excellence. (_Page 237._)

PIERO FRANCESCO LEOPOLDO COCCOLUTO FERRIGNI, better known under the
name of “Yorick,” is a Tuscan writer; born at Leghorn in 1836,
though of Neapolitan descent. He began his literary career in 1854
by contributing “correspondence” to some of the Florentine papers.
In 1856 he first adopted the pseudonym which has become so
famous—from Hamlet, not from Sterne. Indeed, when he became
acquainted with the latter’s works, he felt as if he had been
guilty of presumption, and thenceforth signed his articles,
_Yorick, son of Yorick_. He took a brilliant law degree at Siena
in 1857, and has made his mark as an advocate, though his
reputation is principally journalistic and literary. Florentine
newsboys may be heard using his name to enhance the attractions of
their wares. “C’è l’articolo di Yorick,” they will say, or more
briefly, “C’è Yorick!” (There’s Yorick in it). Like many living
Italian writers, he bore his part in the War of Liberation. He
volunteered in 1859, when, for some time, he acted as Garibaldi’s
private secretary, and in 1860 he was wounded at Milazzo. He is a
writer of great ease and fluency—and not in his own language
only—sending contributions in French to the _Indépendance
Italienne_, and in German to the _Neue Freie Presse_. He appears
to be one of the few Italians who have found literature
profitable. Many of his newspaper articles have been collected in
volume form. The specimens here quoted are taken from “Cronache
dei Bagni di Mare” (part of which was reproduced in English by the
_Morning Post_), and “Su e giù per Firenze.” (_Page 232._)

ANTONIO GHISLANZONI, son of a doctor at Lecco, on the Lake of Como,
was born in 1824. His father first wished him to become a priest,
and then sent him to study medicine at Pavia; but the youth,
finding that he possessed a splendid baritone, studied singing
instead, and in 1846 obtained an engagement at the Lodi Theatre.
In 1848 he took to journalism, and ran two papers at Milan; the
extreme political opinions advocated in which soon landed him in
prison. After the return of the Austrians he was exiled, and,
after another imprisonment in Corsica, continued his musical
career there and in Paris, till he lost his voice (in 1854) in
consequence of an attack of bronchitis, and returned to literature
and Italy. He edited various papers, wrote a variety of articles,
mostly of a comic character, and composed the _libretti_ to
several operas, of which the best known is Verdi’s _Aida_. For
some time past he has resided in a little house of his own at
Lecco. He edited, and in great part wrote, the _Rivista Minima_,
which afterwards passed into the hands of his friend, Salvatore
Farina. (_Page 94._)

GIUSEPPE GIUSTI, born at Monsummano, in Val di Nievole (Tuscany), in
1809. He received his early education, between the ages of seven
and twelve, from a priest; its results being, to use his own
words, “sundry canings, not a shadow of Latin, a few glimmerings
of history, discouragement, irritation, weariness, and an inward
conviction that I was good for nothing.” He then attended a school
in Florence, where he came under the care of more intelligent and
sympathetic masters, and began to awaken to the love of knowledge.
He afterwards went to the University of Pisa, but (like our own
Wordsworth and others) made no special progress in the studies
proper to the place. In later life he lamented the idleness and
desultory habits of these years; but it is probable that, in
following the bent of his intellect towards popular and general
literature, and picking up songs and stories in the racy idiom of
the Tuscan hills, he was laying the best possible foundation for
his future career as a poet. His health was never good, and he
died, comparatively young, in 1850, thus disappointing the
brilliant expectations his friends had formed. What he did
accomplish, however, is sufficient to secure him a place in the
first rank of modern Italian literature. Besides the _Poems_ (of
which several collected editions have been published) his
principal works are a collection of Tuscan proverbs (with
introduction and notes) and a _Discourse on the Life and Works of
Giuseppe Parini_, the satirist. Since his death there have been
published a volume of his letters, and one of unpublished pieces
in prose and verse, the principal of which is a commentary on
Dante’s _Divina Commedia_. His poems are peculiarly difficult to
translate, on account of their exceedingly idiomatic character, as
well as, in many cases, of their personal and political bearing.
They have a directness, vigour, and pungency rare in the
literature of Italy during the first half of this century. His
political satire rises sometimes into noble indignation, as in the
fine poem beginning, _A noi, larve d’Italia_, which has been
translated into English, if we mistake not, at least twice. His
non-political satire is always kindly and good-humoured, and the
same spirit, along with an irrepressible cheerfulness and boyish
love of fun, comes out in his letters—especially those to his
intimate friend, Manzoni. (_Page 74._)

COUNT GASPARO GOZZI, elder brother of Carlo Gozzi, the dramatist, was
a Venetian, and lived from 1713 to 1786. The Gozzi family might be
described as that of “a penniless laird wi’ a lang pedigree,” and
the _Memoirs of Count Carlo_ contain a vivid account of the
straits and shifts to which they were put. Gasparo hoped to
retrieve the family circumstances by his marriage with a learned
lady given to poetry, Luisa Bergalli or Bargagli (who rejoiced in
the academic title of Irminda Partenide); but her extravagance and
shiftlessness only made matters worse, and he was forced to do
anonymous hack-work—translations from the French, and the like—for
a living; or, as he calls it, to wear himself out “in unknown
writings with the daily sweat of one’s brow, and drag works—either
insignificant or vile—out of the Gallic idiom into the Italian
language.” Notwithstanding this, he contrived to do a tolerable
amount of work which has lasted. His style is simple, clear, and
pure, though without much vigour; and, as Cantù says, he has the
gift of “coupling fancy with observation, and wit with feeling.”
He issued for some time a paper called _L’Osservatore_ on the plan
of Addison’s _Spectator_. He wrote a great many “Bernesque”
poems—sonnets _a coda_, and satirical pieces in blank verse. His
letters also are excellent. (_Page 53._)

GIACOMO LEOPARDI, born at Recanati, in the Duchy of Urbino, in 1798,
suffered all his life from ill-health and real or fancied
uncongenial surroundings. He was heavily handicapped in the race
of life, being hunchbacked, as well as constitutionally diseased;
and thus the pessimistic doctrines which he imbibed from Pietro
Giordani fell on a fertile soil. His father was rich and possessed
a splendid library, and though he refused to allow Giacomo to go
away to school, the boy threw himself into his studies at home
with so much ardour that at fifteen he was a brilliant classical
scholar, and wrote an ode in Greek which competent critics
believed to be ancient. Yet he long remained unknown, thwarted by
his father’s harshness in all his efforts to obtain a wider
culture and more literary opportunities. At last he was able to
escape from his hated home to Rome, where he enjoyed the society
of literary men; but could not succeed, as he had hoped, in
obtaining some professorship. He then, embittered and disgusted
with the world, retired to Milan, where he lived in the house of a
publisher and prepared his poems for the press. Here too he was
unable to escape from the misery which pursued him, and his health
became worse and worse. At last, in the autumn of 1831, he took
his last journey—to Naples, where Antonio Ranieri, his untiring
friend, received him into his house. There, worn out by dropsy and
consumption, he died on July 14th, 1837. Of his philosophical
works, and his splendid, gloomy verse, it is not the place to
speak. I have included him in this collection on account of some
of his dialogues, which are masterpieces of a subtle irony which
has the air of simplicity and bites to the bone. It is keener and
more delicate than Swift’s, but otherwise very difficult to
describe. One cannot easily imagine that Leopardi ever laughed;
but no one could read the “First Hour and the Sun,” or the “Wager
of Prometheus,” and think him wanting in humour. (_Page 63._)

NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI, a Florentine, lived from 1469 to 1527. His place
in this volume is due to his comedy of _La Mandragola_, of which a
scene is given; but this, of course, is not the work by which he
is best known in history. Macaulay’s well-known essay gives a very
good summary of his political and literary labours. He first took
part in public affairs in 1494; in 1498 he was elected Secretary
to the Florentine Republic, an office which he resigned in 1512,
after the return of the Medici. Some time afterwards, being
suspected of a conspiracy against the latter, he was imprisoned
and put to the torture, nearly dying under it. He was included in
the amnesty proclaimed by Giovanni di Medici, when raised to the
Papacy under the title of Leo X. Though restored to liberty, he
could take no part in politics, and finding himself unable to
serve Florence, and condemned to a hateful inaction, he retired to
his country-house, where he wrote the greater part of his works.
The last of these was the _History of Florence_, written at the
request of Pope Clement VII., and completed in 1525. In 1519 Leo
X. consulted him about reforming the government of Florence, but
his advice was not followed. In 1526, when the Constable Bourbon
began to threaten Tuscany and Rome, Clement VII. again consulted
Machiavelli, and entrusted him with the fortification of Florence,
and with the precautions to be taken for the safety of Rome; but
these precautions came too late. The Pope was taken prisoner, and
the Medici once more driven from Florence; and Machiavelli being
now looked upon as a partisan of that family, fell into neglect,
and may be said to have died of grief and disappointment. His
chief works besides the _History_, are the _Prince_, the _Art of
War_, and the _Discourses on the First Decade of Livy_. Besides
this, he wrote two or three comedies and a witty _novella_
(somewhat extravagant, though, in its satire), entitled
_Belphegor_. It relates how one of the devils, taking the form of
a man, came to earth in order to try the experiment of matrimony;
but was so very wretched in his married life, that, after a short
trial, he preferred returning to the region whence he came. It is
said that Machiavelli’s experiences in his own home gave point to
his descriptions of Madonna Onesta’s folly and extravagance. The
_Mandragola_, in spite of Macaulay’s high praise, offers scarcely
anything adapted for quotation. The play is admirably constructed,
but the story is one which would render it “impossible” for a
modern audience. We have been forced to confine ourselves to a
soliloquy of Fra Timoteo’s and one of the lyrical interludes
between the acts, which has the merit of brevity, if no other.
(_Page 26._)

ALESSANDRO MANZONI, born at Milan 1784, died 1873. One of the leaders
of the Romantic Movement in Italy, and the founder (in that
country) of the historical novel in the style of Scott. The
_Promessi Sposi_, published in 1827 (from which we have quoted a
scene or two), has probably been translated into every European
language. Less widely known are his tragedies, _Adelchi_ and _Il
Conte di Carmagnola_, and his _Odes_ (1815), the most famous of
which is that on the death of Napoleon—_Il Cinque Maggio_. He was
followed in the department of historical fiction by his
son-in-law, D’Azeglio, and by Grossi, Guerrazzi, Rosini, Ademollo,
and others. Though at first sight _I Promessi Sposi_ might seem
anything but a humorous work, there are scenes equal in this
respect to some of the best in Scott’s novels. That of the
attempted irregular marriage (which we have chosen for quotation)
is especially good, and the character of Don Abbondio is comically
conceived throughout. Perhaps the book has been somewhat neglected
of late years—it has certainly, like many other masterpieces,
suffered undeservedly through being used as a school-book. (_Page
82._)

FILIPPO PANANTI was born at Ronta, in the district of Mugello
(Tuscany), about 1776, and studied law at Pisa, but afterwards
gave himself up entirely to literature. He went abroad in 1799,
and after visiting France, Spain, and Holland, obtained a position
as libretto-writer to the Italian Opera in London. When returning
to Italy by sea he was taken prisoner by Algerine pirates, but
liberated through the intervention of the English consul. “He then
came to Florence, and published his works—viz., _Il Poeta di
Teatro_, _Prose e Versi_, _Viaggio in Algeria_, in which it may be
said that he is often negligent rather than simple, and that he
makes use unnecessarily of foreign expressions, or of such as are
not yet accepted as current in the conversation of the best
educated persons; yet he pleases, nevertheless, and deserves to do
so, by his vivid and racy way of expressing himself, and his ease
and fluency. He died in 1837.”—(AMBROSOLI.) _Il Poeta di Teatro_
is a lively and amusing poem descriptive of the miseries endured
by a poet of small means. It is thoroughly good-humoured
throughout, and has no “Grub Street bitterness” about it. We have
extracted one or two passages. (_Page 70._)

GIROLAMO PARABOSCO, born at Piacenza about the beginning of the
sixteenth century, died at Venice, 1557. He wrote “Rime” and prose
comedies, and was, moreover, esteemed one of the best musicians of
his time. He was for some time organist and choirmaster at St.
Mark’s, Venice. But he is best known by _I Diporti_, a collection
of stories after the model of Boccaccio’s _Decameron_, supposed to
be told by a fowling-party weatherbound on an island in the
Venetian lagoons. (_Page 14._)

MARIO PRATESI, a Tuscan writer, was born at Santafiora, in the
district of Monte Amiata, in 1842. At eighteen he became a clerk
in a Government office, and remained at this distasteful
employment till 1864, when he returned to his studies, and in 1872
obtained an appointment as lecturer on Italian literature at the
Pavia Technical Institute, whence he passed to a similar post at
Viterbo, and thence to Terni. Most of his stories, since collected
in volume form, first appeared in the _Nuova Antologia_, and he
has contributed to the _Diritto_, the _Rassegna Settimanale_, and
the _Nazione_ (Florence). He has also written poems. He is at his
best when describing the scenery of his native mountains. Monte
Amiata, it may be remembered, was the scene of the strange
religious revival led by the insane peasant-preacher, David
Lazzaretti, who was shot down by the gendarmes in August 1878. It
is a wild, lonely region, lying between the river Ombrone and the
Roman border—a land of craggy peaks and dark glens, inhabited by
simple, serious-minded people with a touch of gloomy mysticism in
their character, perhaps due to Etruscan ancestry. The immediate
neighbourhood of the district where the tragedy took place is
admirably described in “Sovana.” Pratesi is intensely sympathetic
in his manner of depicting life. He does not aim at an
“objectivity” which seems to glory in appearing cold and
heartless; but he does not dwell unnecessarily on his pathetic
scenes. He relates them with grim brevity, and leaves them to
produce their own effect. He has an eye for the ludicrous, but it
does not predominate in his view of life; he never laughs, but he
often smiles quietly, and sometimes grimly. _Dottor Febo_ is a
good example of his subtle irony, and has been given entire, as no
detached passage would show to advantage. He is fully alive to the
great evils of priestcraft and ignorance from which Italy has
suffered in the past, but he is no radical of the type which is
all negation and no affirmation. His attitude towards the clergy
is impartial enough—he has drawn them of all sorts, good and bad.
In the story before us there are three, and those who have resided
any length of time in Italy must have met them all: the spiteful,
hypocritical preaching friar, the jovial, easy-going _Arciprete_
(who would have overlooked the sin of a bit of meat on Ash
Wednesday if that meddling rascal of a Franciscan had not put his
finger in the pie), and the chaplain of the _Confraternità_, in
his threadbare coat,—own brother to Chaucer’s Parson. Though in
the stories here translated I have usually left all proper names
in their original form, I have in this instance departed from the
rule, in order to bring out the quaint incongruity of the hero’s
name with his pitifully sordid life and surroundings, _Febo_ not
being perhaps readily recognisable at first sight as _Phœbus_.
Names as classical as this are by no means uncommon in the Roman
and Tuscan country districts. Romolo and its feminine Romola are
frequently met with, as also Belisario, Ersilia, Flaminia, etc.
Naples and the Adriatic coast show a greater preference for Church
saints; and a peculiarity of the latter district is the frequent
occurrence of Old Testament names, which are not usual in other
parts. Perhaps this is due to Byzantine influence, and the more
comprehensive calendar of the Eastern Church; thus we find
Samuele, Zacchiele, Elia, etc. The subject of Christian names in
rural Italy is an interesting one, and would well repay study,
especially in villages where reading is almost unknown, and the
names in use must be to a large extent traditional, and probably
handed down from remote antiquity. (_Page 206._)

“ANTONIO PUCCI, the son of a bell-founder, was a poet, although he
kept a shop; and had not a little of that easy, sparkling vein
which, a century later, was so abundant in Berni, as to make the
latter seem like the creator of a new style of poetry. He died in
Florence, his native city, some time after 1375.” This is all I
can find with regard to Pucci in Ambrosoli’s _Manual of Italian
Literature_. The sonnet in which he describes the persecutions to
which a poet is subject at the hands of his friends is a not
unfavourable specimen of what the Italians call _poesia bernesca_.
This kind of sonnet is called “sonetto _a coda_,” or “with a
tail,” and is much used in humorous and satirical writing, as
being a kind in which more licence is allowable metrically, when
the idea cannot be brought within the limits of the strict sonnet
form. The “tail” may be lengthened at pleasure, but always in sets
of three lines—one short and two long—and sometimes attains to a
greater length than the original sonnet. (_Page 1._)

FRANCESCO REDI, born at Arezzo, in Tuscany, in 1626, was a jovial
physician, no less famed for his wit than for his learning and
medical skill. He studied philosophy and medicine at the
University of Pisa, and was then invited to Rome by the princes of
the House of Colonna, in whose palace he lectured on rhetoric. He
was afterwards court physician to the Grand Dukes of Tuscany.
During the last years of his life he was afflicted with epilepsy,
and retired to Pisa, as being a healthier place than Florence.
Here he died suddenly on March 1st, 1698. His published works
consist of poems, scientific treatises, and a large collection of
letters which show his wide learning, his shrewd sense, and the
merry, genial spirit which could see a funny side to his own
troubles. “To judge from the praises of his countrymen,” says
Leigh Hunt, “he partook of the wit and learning of Arbuthnot, the
science of Harvey, and the poetry and generosity of Garth.” His
humour is rather broad than subtle—but always sweet and kindly;
his laughter is the mellow mirth of one who enjoys life himself
and wishes others to enjoy it also. He was passionately fond of
natural history, and an acute and patient observer; his papers on
vipers, on the generation of insects, and on some other subjects,
were important contributions to the science of his time. His
replies (usually at great length) to the patients who consulted
him by letter have been preserved, and are printed among his
works. In medicine, he had a wholesome faith in the healing
efficacy of nature, and anticipated the modern revolt against the
excessive use of drugs, or, as he himself puts it, “that
hotch-potch of physic which physicians, out of sheer perversity,
are accustomed to prescribe to others, but would never dream of
swallowing themselves.” His poems are not numerous, nor of the
most elevated kind of poetry; but the best known, the dithyrambus
of “Bacco in Toscana,” with its fiery swing and rush, leap, and
lilt of melody, is perhaps the most perfect thing of its kind ever
done. It awakened the enthusiasm of Leigh Hunt, from whose
translation we have extracted a passage, and whose critically
appreciative introduction is quoted below. “Bacco in Toscana” is
not a poem to be looked on with favour by total abstainers; but
wine of Montepulciano is not the most pernicious form of alcohol
known to the world (the wine on which the German cavalier in the
ballad drank himself to death was that of Montefiascone, on the
other side of the Roman border), and, moreover, the poem is no
proof that the poet really was in the habit of taking more than
was good for him. “The ‘Bacco in Toscana,’” says Leigh Hunt, “was
the first poem of its kind, and when a trifle is original even a
trifle becomes worth something.... That the nature of the subject
is partly a cause for its popularity, and that, for the same
reason, it is impossible to convey a proper Italian sense of it to
an Englishman is equally certain. But I hope it is not impossible
to impart something of its spirit and vivacity. At all events,
there is a novelty in it; the wine has a tune in the pouring out;
and it is hard if some of the verses do not haunt a good-humoured
reader, like a new air brought from the South.... It is observable
that among the friends of our author were Carlo Dati, Francini,
and Antonio Malatesti, three of Milton’s acquaintances when he was
in Italy. Redi was only twelve years of age when Milton visited
his country; but he may have seen him, and surely heard of him. It
is pleasant to trace any kind of link between eminent men. There
is reason to believe that our author was well known in England.
Magalotti, who travelled there with Cosmo, and who afterwards
translated Phillips’s _Cyder_, was one of his particular friends;
and I cannot help thinking, from the irregularity of numbers in
Dryden’s nobler dithyrambic, as well as from another poem of his
(‘Dialogue of a Scholar and his Mistress’), that the ‘Bacco in
Toscana’ had been seen by that great writer. Nothing is more
likely; for, besides the connection between Cosmo and Charles II.,
James II. made a special request by his ambassador, Sir William
Trumball, to have the poem sent him. When Spence was in Italy,
many years afterwards, the name of Redi was still in great repute,
both for his humorous poetry and his serious, though the wits had
begun to find out that his real talent lay only in the former.
Crudeli, a poet of that time, still in repute, told Spence that
‘Redi’s “Bacco in Toscana” was as lively and excellent as his
sonnets were low and tasteless.’ And, after all, what is this
‘Bacco in Toscana’? It is an original, an effusion of animal
spirits, a piece of Bacchanalian music. This is all; but this will
not be regarded as nothing by those who know the value of
originality, and who are thankful for any addition to our
pleasures.... I wish that, by any process not interfering with the
spirit of my original, I could make up to the English reader for
the absence of that particular interest in a poem of this kind
which arises from its being national. But this is impossible; and
if he has neither a great understanding, nor a good-nature that
supplies the want of it; if he is deficient in animal spirits, or
does not value a supply of them; and, above all, if he has no ear
for a dancing measure, and no laughing welcome for a sudden turn
or two at the end of a passage—our author’s triumph over his cups
will fall on his ear like ‘a jest unprofitable.’ I confess I have
both enough melancholy and merriment in me to be at no time proof
against a passage like—

‘Non fia già che il Cioccolatte
V’adoprassi, ovvero il Tè’—etc.

A great deal of the effect of poems of this kind consists in their
hovering between jest and earnest.... The ‘Bacco in Toscana’
partakes more or less of the mock-heroic throughout, except in the
very gravest lines of the author’s personal panegyrics. It is to
the Ode and the Dithyrambic what the ‘Rape of the Lock’ is to the
Epic, with all the inferiority which such a distinction
implies.... The great fault of the poem is undoubtedly what his
friend Ménage objected to in it—namely, that Bacchus has all the
talk to himself, and Ariadne becomes a puppet by his side. Redi,
partly in answer to this objection, and partly, perhaps, out of a
certain medical conscience (for it must not be forgotten that his
vinosity is purely poetical, and that he was always insisting to
his patients on the necessity of temperance and dilutions),
projected a sort of counter-dithyrambic in praise of water, in
which all the talk was to be confined to Ariadne.... He wrote but
a paragraph of this _hydrambic_. The inspiration was not the same.
As to his drinking so little wine and yet writing so well upon it,
it is a triumph for Bacchus instead of a dishonour. It only shows
how little wine will suffice to set a genial brain in motion. A
poet has wine in his blood. The laurel and ivy were common, of
old, both to Bacchus and Apollo; at least Apollo shared the ivy
always, and Bacchus wore laurel when he was young and innocent,

‘What time he played about the nestling woods,
Heaping his head with ivy and with bay.’”

(_Page 45._)

GIOVANNI SABADINO DEGLI ARIENTI, a Bolognese, was the author of
one of those collections of short stories so numerous in Italian
literature, which often furnished subjects to our Elizabethan
playwrights. The dates of his birth and death are uncertain, but
the former must have been before 1450, and the latter not earlier
than 1506. Besides the _Porrettane_ (so called because the stories
are supposed to be told by a holiday party at the baths of
Porretta), he wrote poems, treatises, and biographies. (_Page
19._)

FRANCO SACCHETTI was a Florentine, about contemporary with
Chaucer, being born in 1335. He was brought up to a commercial
life, but afterwards devoted himself to literature, and took a
considerable part in politics, being sent on various embassies by
the Florentine Republic. On one of them he was plundered at sea by
the Pisan war-ships; and, at a later date, the property he
possessed near Florence was laid waste in the war with Gian
Galeazzo Visconti. The date of his death is uncertain, but it
probably took place during the first few years of the fifteenth
century. He wrote sonnets, _canzoni_, madrigals, and other poems;
but his best known works are his _Novelle_ or short stories. They
were originally 300 in number, but we only possess 258, the
remainder having been lost. They are not fitted into any
framework, like that of Boccaccio’s _Decameron_. The best of them
are of a humorous character; and the style is more simple and
colloquial than Boccaccio’s. The story given as a specimen
probably exists (under one form or another) in the folk-tales of
every European nation. We possess it in the ballad of “King John
and the Abbot of Canterbury.” (_Page 10._)

ALESSANDRO TASSONI was born at Modena in 1565, and died there in
1635, after many intermediate changes of abode. He belonged to a
noble family, but was early left an orphan, and his very moderate
patrimony was further diminished by law-suits, and by the
dishonesty of his guardians. The greater part of his life was
spent at court; he began his career by entering the service of
Cardinal Ascanio Colonna at Rome, and ended it at the Ducal Court
of Modena. He was, like so many Italians of that period, a skilled
politician as well as a finished scholar, and was entrusted with
various diplomatic missions. His principal works belong to the
departments of reflective philosophy and literary criticism, and
he was engaged in an acrimonious controversy wherein the chief
bones of contention were the poetry of Petrarch and the philosophy
of Aristotle, both which idols of the age he attacked unsparingly;
but he is best known to posterity by his heroico-comic poem of “La
Secchia Rapita” (The Stolen Bucket), said to have been written in
1611. It is based on the tradition that, during a war between
Modena and Bologna, the Modenese forces (in 1325) carried off a
wooden bucket from a public well in the hostile city. The trophy
was hung up in the Cathedral at Modena, and remained there as a
witness to the truth of the story—which, as a matter of history,
is somewhat doubtful, though none the worse on that account, as
the groundwork to Tassoni’s poem. Many contemporaries of the
author’s are introduced under fictitious names; and, no doubt, the
personal element (which is not the exclusive property of the New
Journalism) contributed largely to the success of the work on its
first appearance. But apart from this, it is genuine burlesque,
and good of its kind, the absurdity being heightened by the
introduction of the deities of Olympus in comically modern guise,
to represent (and parody) the “machinery” which was considered an
indispensable ingredient in a serious epic poem—the “machinery”
which, to a certain extent, spoils the _Jerusalem_ and the
_Lusiad_. The passage describing the assembly of the gods in order
to deliberate on the fortunes of Modena and Bologna, has been
chosen for quotation. The translation is by James Atkinson, and
was published in two volumes (London, 1825). After describing “the
rape of the bucket” by the Modenese, the poem goes on to narrate
how the Bolognese tried to recover it, and challenged the Modenese
to a war of extermination. The latter, though seeing their danger,
made no efforts to put their city in a state of defence by
repairing the ruined fortifications; but contented themselves with
appealing to the Emperor for help, and making alliances with Parma
and Cremona. Fame having carried the report of what had occurred
to Olympus, the Homeric gods assembled in council (as already
mentioned), with the result that Minerva and Apollo declared for
Bologna, as being a city given to arts and learning. Bacchus and
Venus took the part of the merry and pleasure-loving town of
Modena—Mars taking the same side for the love of Venus. These
incite the various terrestrial potentates to take sides in the
feud—in which, at length, the Pope himself interferes. In
conclusion, the bucket is left in possession of the Modenese,
while the citizens of Bologna keep Enzio, King of Sardinia—son of
the German Emperor—who, in fact, ended his days in captivity
there. The poem was defined by Tassoni himself as “a monstrous
caprice,” intended to make game of modern poets; and it is
impossible to give a concise summary of it, more especially as he
wove into it all the burlesque adventures which occurred to him,
whether real or fictitious. Tassoni was, according to an Italian
writer, “of a lively and grotesque fancy, of a cheerful
disposition, and fond of jesting, insomuch that he could not
refrain from jokes even in his will.” Moreover, he was “averse
from the prejudices of literary men, and a lover of novelty”—for
which reason he advanced the monstrous proposition that Petrarch’s
_Rime_ were not the sole standard of poetry for all ages and all
countries. (_Page 39._)

ACHILLE TORELLI, dramatic author, born at Naples, 1844, is said to
be of Albanian descent. His first success was the comedy, _After
Death_, written at the age of seventeen, and acted at Naples and
then at Turin. This was succeeded by several comedies, most of
which were successful. _La Verità_, from which the scene given in
this volume is extracted, was acted at Naples, Milan, and Turin in
1865. Torelli volunteered for the Italian army in the campaign of
1866, and was laid up for several months in consequence of a fall
from his horse at Custozza. Since then he has produced a long list
of plays, both tragedies and comedies, of which perhaps the best
is _Triste Realtà_ (1871), which won the applause of the veteran
Manzoni. Angelo de Gubernatis (in the _Dizionario Biografico degli
Scrittori Contemporanei_, whence the main facts of this notice are
gathered) considers _I Mariti_ Torelli’s masterpiece. The play is
a good one, but has about as much right to be called a comedy as
George Eliot’s _Janet’s Repentance_. He leads a very retired life,
seeing only a few friends, and spends most of his time in study
and writing. (_Page 262._)

GIORGIO VASARI, born at Arezzo, 1512. Studied drawing under
Michelangelo, Andrea del Sarto, and others. Between 1527 and 1529,
driven by necessity, and having several relations in need of help,
he worked as a goldsmith at Florence, but afterwards returned to
painting. Like Ruskin in our own day, however, he was rather a
writer on art than an artist. He was the author of several works
on painting and architecture, of an autobiography, and, above all,
of the celebrated _Lives of Famous Painters_. The anecdotes quoted
in this volume were traditionally current in Vasari’s time, and
had already been recorded by Franco Sacchetti. The translation
quoted is from _Stories of the Italian Artists_, by the author of
_Belt and Spur_ (Seeley & Co., 1884). (_Page 21._)

GIOVANNI VERGA, born at Catania, Sicily, in 1840. He wrote _Storia
d’una Capinera_, _Eva_, _Nedda_, _Eros_, _Tigre Reale_,
_Primavera_. He has also written two masterly collections of
stories and sketches from Sicilian life, entitled, _Vita dei
Campi_, and _Novelle Rusticane_, and a continued story, _I
Malavoglia_, which has recently been translated under the title,
_The House of the Medlar_. A Neapolitan journal describes him as
“thin and pale ... with iron-grey hair and moustache. His lips are
thin, chin somewhat too long, the mouth retreating, the nose
straight, the forehead spacious. He is not handsome, but has a
noble face, a little like that of Dante. His appearance is that of
a man of cold temperament. Some of his speeches—some pages in his
books—are those of a sceptic. As to the coldness, I do not know
whether it would be correct to apply the old image of Etna—the
fire under the snow, But as to the scepticism, I would take my
oath that—contrary to generally received opinion—it is only
apparent. Verga is not an effusive man—certainly not. But he
feels, and he respects—rather, he venerates feeling even under its
most formal manifestations. I met him at a time when he had
recently lost, first, a sister, and then his mother. His grief was
severe and restrained, but deeply felt and lasting. He is not by
any means a sentimental man. Sentimentalism in others always
contracts his lips in that fleeting, ironical smile which has
given him the name of a sceptic.... He is a slow worker. He
observes at his leisure, reflects for a long time, and then
retires into the quiet of his own home to work; but he works not
with the fire of inspiration, but with the sure hand of an artist
who has his picture clearly traced in his mind.” Verga’s most
successfully-drawn characters are taken from the peasantry. Jeli,
the horseherd; Rosso Malpelo, the red-haired waif who had never
had any one to care for him save the father who was buried in the
sand-pits; poor Lucia in _Pane Nero_, slowly driven to throw
herself away by sheer dread of starvation; La Santa, bewitched by
the love of Gramigna the brigand,—these, and many more, are
living, breathing figures. But Verga, according to the critic
above quoted, “is ambitious of attaining a perfect knowledge of
‘high life,’ and describing it truthfully. But in this he is not
always successful. If he draws from life, he certainly does not
choose the best models.” Certainly “Il Come, il Quando, e il
Perchè,” is not a happy effort, and “Jeli il Pastore” is worth a
dozen of it. (_Page 137._)

THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.

-----

Footnote 1:

A tolerable specimen of the humour of the “Morgante” is to be found in
Mr. J. A. Symonds’ “Renaissance in Italy” (vol. iv., _Italian
Literature_, p. 543). The passage translated contains the giant
Morgante’s confession of faith. He is a true believer (as he details
at great length) in the creed of “fat capons boiled or maybe roasted.”

Footnote 2:

_Roba di Roma_, i. pp. 202, 203, 269–279.

Footnote 3:

From _Roba di Roma_, ii. 221. (See also the Note to the story of “The
Hermit and the Thieves” on p. 251 of the same.) “These are certainly
views of heaven, angels, and good hermits, which are rather
extraordinary; but Rosa” (the _contadina_ who related the story), “on
being asked if the story she told was founded on fact, replied, ‘_Chi
lo sa?_—who knows? I did not see it, but everybody says so. _Perchè
no?_’”

Footnote 4:

In the original, these lines are a barbarous mixture of Spanish and
Italian.

Footnote 5:

Jupiter.

Footnote 6:

See note at end of volume.

Footnote 7:

An Italian expression for the Golden Age.

Footnote 8:

_Didimo Chièrico_ is a fictitious character, upon whom Foscolo has
fathered most of his opinions and experiences, in a curious piece of
writing purporting to be a sketch of Didimo and an account of his
works. It contains numerous references to Sterne, by whom Foscolo was
greatly influenced.

Footnote 9:

“_Il cavallo di San Francesco_” is a proverbial expression for going
on foot—like “Shanks’ mare” in Ireland.

Footnote 10:

A favourite comic character at Florence. See Notes at end.

Footnote 11:

Athens.

Footnote 12:

_I.e._, the pigs, which, for some reason or other, Italians do not
think fit to mention in polite society.

Footnote 13:

This is what usually happens when there is an outbreak of cholera in
Southern Italy.

Footnote 14:

_I.e._, that he had really died of malarial fever.

Footnote 15:

See Note 4 at end.

Footnote 16:

The confusion is between Flavio Gioja, inventor of the mariner’s
compass (_c._ 1300), and Melchiorre Gioja (1767–1829), author of a
well-known manual of good breeding.

Footnote 17:

Since 1870, of course, Italian priests have, as a rule, been hostile
to the Government.

Footnote 18:

See Note 5 at end.

Footnote 19:

See Introduction.

Footnote 20:

Dumplings, sometimes made of meat.

Footnote 21:

A kind of bun, filled with pine kernels inside.

Footnote 22:

Chestnuts boiled in the shell.

Footnote 23:

A sour kind of pear or plum.

Footnote 24:

A kind of flat cake, very popular in rural Tuscany.

Footnote 25:

See Note 6 at end.

Footnote 26:

“Peaches and apples!” See remarks on oaths, adjurations, etc., in
Introduction.

Footnote 27:

See Note 7 at end.

Footnote 28:

A rustic proverb.

Footnote 29:

Vol. i., pp. 254 _et seq._

Footnote 30:

When the French army advanced against Rome, they found the road from
Civita Vecchia strewn with large placards, on which this clause of
their constitution was printed; so that they were literally obliged to
trample its provisions under foot, in making as unjustifiable an
attack upon the liberties of a people as was ever recorded in history.

Footnote 31:

Used in the same sense as by our sixteenth and seventeenth century
writers. The old medical terminology still survives to a great extent
in Italy; as does, or did till recently, the ancient practice of
medicine which consisted chiefly in blood-letting.

Footnote 32:

The meaning is, “The Cardinal is going away with the Cask (_Barile_),
but he will come back with the flask,”—the word _fiasco_ having this
sense as well as that in which it is sometimes employed by us, of
“failure,” or “disaster.” Needless to add, the above was written
before the establishment of the Regno in 1870.

Footnote 33:

_I.e._, the obelisk in the Piazza di S. Pietro.

Footnote 34:

The skin of the fig is supposed to be injurious, that of the peach
wholesome.

Footnote 35:

The original is a ludicrous mixture of Latin and Italian.

Footnote 36:

The prison and court of justice.

Footnote 37:

A town in the south of Sicily.

Footnote 38:

This (pronounced in English spelling _chew_) is the local rendering of
the owl’s _tu-whoo_, and also the Sicilian and Calabrian dialectical
form of _più_, which means _more_. The same joke is current, in a
different form, in another part of Sicily, where an old church was
haunted by owls, and a countryman, taking their lamentable cries for
those of souls in purgatory, asked how many masses were required to
set them free, and got the answer “_More_” to every number he
suggested.

Footnote 39:

The famous brigand chief.

Footnote 40:

Pp. 232, 233.

Footnote 41:

Macmillan & Co., 1882.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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60 ANNALS OF TACITUS.

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62 BALZAC.

63 DE MUSSET’S COMEDIES.

64 CORAL REEFS.

65 SHERIDAN’S PLAYS.

66 OUR VILLAGE.

67 MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK.

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70 THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN.

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72 ESSAYS OF SAINTE-BEUVE.

73 SELECTIONS FROM PLATO.

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75 MAID OF ORLEANS.

76 SYDNEY SMITH.

77 THE NEW SPIRIT.

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79 HELPS’ ESSAYS & APHORISMS.

80 ESSAYS OF MONTAIGNE.

81 THACKERAY’S BARRY LYNDON.

82 SCHILLER’S WILLIAM TELL.

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85 WORDSWORTH’S PROSE

86 LEOPARDI’S DIALOGUES.

87 THE INSPECTOR-GENERAL

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89 PROSE OF MILTON.

90 PLATO’S REPUBLIC.

91 PASSAGES FROM FROISSART.

92 PROSE OF COLERIDGE

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1 CHRISTIAN YEAR

2 COLERIDGE

3 LONGFELLOW

4 CAMPBELL

5 SHELLEY

6 WORDSWORTH

7 BLAKE

8 WHITTIER

9 POE

10 CHATTERTON

11 BURNS. Songs

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14 KEATS

15 HERBERT

16 HUGO

17 COWPER

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34 RAMSAY

35 DOBELL

36 POPE

37 HEINE

38 BEAUMONT & FLETCHER

39 BOWLES, LAMB, etc.

40 SEA MUSIC

41 EARLY ENGLISH POETRY

42 HERRICK

43 BALLADES and RONDEAUS

44 IRISH MINSTRELSY

45 MILTON’S PARADISE LOST

46 JACOBITE BALLADS

47 DAYS OF THE YEAR

48 AUSTRALIAN BALLADS

49 MOORE

50 BORDER BALLADS

51 SONG-TIDE

52 ODES OF HORACE

53 OSSIAN

54 FAIRY MUSIC

55 SOUTHEY

56 CHAUCER

57 GOLDEN TREASURY

58 POEMS OF WILD LIFE

59 PARADISE REGAINED

60 CRABBE

61 DORA GREENWELL

62 FAUST

63 AMERICAN SONNETS

64 LANDOR’S POEMS

65 GREEK ANTHOLOGY

66 HUNT AND HOOD

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69 GREAT ODES

70 MEREDITH’S POEMS

71 IMITATION OF CHRIST

72 NAVAL SONGS

73 PAINTER POETS

74 WOMEN POETS

75 LOVE LYRICS

76 AMERICAN HUMOROUS VERSE

77 SCOTTISH MINOR POETS

78 CAVALIER LYRISTS

79 GERMAN BALLADS

80 SONGS OF BERANGER

81 RODEN NOEL’S POEMS

82 SONGS OF FREEDOM

83 CANADIAN POEMS

84 CONTEMPORARY SCOTTISH VERSE

85 POEMS OF NATURE

86 CRADLE SONGS

87 BALLADS OF SPORT

88 MATTHEW ARNOLD

89 CLOUGH’S BOTHIE

90 BROWNING’S POEMS

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91 BROWNING’S POEMS

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92 BROWNING’S POEMS

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93 MACKAY’S LOVER’S MISSAL

94 HENRY KIRKE WHITE

95 LYRA NICOTIANA

96 AURORA LEIGH

97 TENNYSON’S POEMS

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98 TENNYSON’S POEMS

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99 WAR SONGS

100 JAMES THOMSON

101 ALEXANDER SMITH

102 EUGÈNE LEE-HAMILTON

103 PAUL VERLAINE

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have grown strong and learned to face the naked—if necessary, the
flayed and bleeding—reality._’—SPEAKER (London).

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------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Re-indexed footnotes using numbers and collected together at the end
of the last chapter.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The humour of Italy" ***

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