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]
[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._