_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?”