While striving to acquire a good artistic position in my new residence,
I had still continued to work at my 'Fieramosca,' which was now almost
completed. Letters were at that time represented at Milan by Manzoni,
Grossi, Torti, Pompeo Litta, etc. The memories of the period of Monti,
Parini, Foscolo, Porta, Pellico, Verri, Beccaria, were still fresh; and
however much the living literary and scientific men might be inclined to
lead a secluded life, intrenched in their own houses, with the shyness
of people who disliked much intercourse with the world, yet by a little
tact those who wished for their company could overcome their reserve. As
Manzoni's son-in-law, I found myself naturally brought into contact with
them. I knew them all; but Grossi and I became particularly intimate,
and our close and uninterrupted friendship lasted until the day of his
but too premature death. I longed to show my work to him, and especially
to Manzoni, and ask their advice; but fear this time, not artistic but
literary, had again caught hold of me. Still, a resolve was necessary,
and was taken at last. I disclosed my secret, imploring forbearance and
advice, but no _indulgence_. I wanted the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth. I preferred the blame of a couple of trusted
friends to that of the public. Both seemed to have expected something a
great deal worse than what they heard, to judge by their startled but
also approving countenances, when my novel was read to them. Manzoni
remarked with a smile, "We literary men have a strange profession
indeed--any one can take it up in a day. Here is Massimo: the whim of
writing a novel seizes him, and upon my word he does not do badly,
after all!"
This high approbation inspired me with leonine courage, and I set to
work again in earnest, so that in 1833 the work was ready for
publication. On thinking it over now, it strikes me that I was guilty of
great impertinence in thus bringing out and publishing with undaunted
assurance my little novel among all those literary big-wigs; I who had
never done or written anything before. But it was successful; and this
is an answer to every objection.
The day I carried my bundle of manuscript to San Pietro all' Orto, and,
as Berni expresses it,--
"--ritrovato
Un che di stampar opere lavora,
Dissi, Stampami questa alla malora!"
(--having
Discovered one, a publisher by trade,
'Print me this book, bad luck to it!' I said.)
I was in a still greater funk than on the two previous occasions. But I
had yet to experience the worst I ever felt in the whole course of my
life, and that was on the day of publication; when I went out in the
morning, and read my illustrious name placarded in large letters on the
street walls! I felt blinded by a thousand sparks. Now indeed _alea
jacta erat_, and my fleet was burnt to ashes.
This great fear of the public may, with good-will, be taken for modesty;
but I hold that at bottom it is downright vanity. Of course I am
speaking of people endowed with a sufficient dose of talent and
common-sense; with fools, on the contrary, vanity takes the shape of
impudent self-confidence. Hence all the daily published amount of
nonsense; which would convey a strange idea of us to Europe, if it were
not our good fortune that Italian is not much understood abroad. As
regards our internal affairs, the two excesses are almost equally
noxious. In Parliament, for instance, the first, those of the timidly
vain genus, might give their opinion a little oftener with general
advantage; while if the others, the impudently vain, were not always
brawling, discussions would be more brief and rational, and public
business better and more quickly dispatched. The same reflection applies
to other branches--to journalism, literature, society, etc.; for vanity
is the bad weed which chokes up our political field; and as it is a
plant of hardy growth, blooming among us all the year round, it is just
as well to be on our guard.
Timid vanity was terribly at work within me the day 'Fieramosca' was
published. For the first twenty-four hours it was impossible to learn
anything; for even the most zealous require at least a day to form some
idea of a book. Next morning, on first going out, I encountered a friend
of mine, a young fellow then and now a man of mature age, who has never
had a suspicion of the cruel blow he unconsciously dealt me. I met him
in Piazza San Fedele, where I lived; and after a few words, he said, "By
the by, I hear you have published a novel. Well done!" and then talked
away about something quite different with the utmost heedlessness. Not a
drop of blood was left in my veins, and I said to myself, "Mercy on me!
I am done for: not even a word is said about my poor 'Fieramosca!'" It
seemed incredible that he, who belonged to a very numerous family,
connected with the best society of the town, should have heard nothing,
if the slightest notice had been taken of it. As he was besides an
excellent fellow and a friend, it seemed equally incredible that if a
word had been said and heard, he should not have repeated it to me.
Therefore, it was a failure; the worst of failures, that of silence.
With a bitter feeling at heart, I hardly knew where I went; but this
feeling soon changed, and the bitterness was superseded by quite an
opposite sensation.
'Fieramosca' succeeded, and succeeded so well that I felt _abasourdi_,
as the French express it; indeed, I could say "Je n'aurais jamais cru
être si fort savant." My success went on in an increasing ratio: it
passed from the papers and from the masculine half to the feminine half
of society; it found its way to the studios and the stage. I became the
vade-mecum of every prima-donna and tenor, the hidden treat of
school-girls; I penetrated between the pillow and the mattress of
college, boys, of the military academy cadet; and my apotheosis reached
such a height that some newspapers asserted it to be Manzoni's work. It
is superfluous to add that only the ignorant could entertain such an
idea; those who were better informed would never have made such
a blunder.
My aim, as I said, was to take the initiative in the slow work of the
regeneration of national character. I had no wish but to awaken high and
noble sentiments in Italian hearts; and if all the literary men in the
world had assembled to condemn me in virtue of strict rules, I should
not have cared a jot, if, in defiance of all existing rules, I succeeded
in inflaming the heart of one single individual. And I will also add,
who can say that what causes durable emotion is unorthodox? It may be at
variance with some rules and in harmony with others; and those which
move hearts and captivate intellects do not appear to me to be
the worst.