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.