in order to be heard,—yet, as we are sisters, and can drop ceremony
between ourselves, I will speak as you wish. I say that the nature and
custom of both of us is continually to ruin the world; but you, from the
beginning, have thrown yourself on the person and the blood, whereas I
mostly content myself with beards, hair, clothes, furniture, palaces,
and such-like. It is true that I have not failed to carry on certain
games which may well be compared to yours—as, for instance, piercing
holes in ears, lips, or noses,—burning the flesh of men with red-hot
irons, with which I make them mark themselves for the sake of
beauty,—forming the heads of babies by means of bandages and other
contrivances, so that all the people in a country may have heads of the
same shape, as I have done in Africa and in America,—laming people with
narrow shoes,—choking the breath out of them, and making their eyes
start out of their heads with the tightness of their stays,—and a
hundred other things of the same kind. Not only so, but, generally
speaking, I persuade and force all people of any position to bear
unending fatigue and discomfort, every day of their lives—oftentimes
pain and torture; and some of them will even die gloriously for the love
they bear to me. I say nothing of the headaches, chills, colds of every
kind,—daily, tertian, and quartan fevers, which men get through obeying
me,—submitting to shiver with cold and be suffocated with heat, as I
please,—to cover their bodies with woollen stuff, and their chests with
linen, and do everything in the way I tell them, even though it be to
their own hurt.
_D._ Well,—I am quite willing to believe that you are my sister, and, if
you wish to have it so, I will consider it more certain than death—and
you need not prove it out of the parish register. But if I stand still
in this way, I turn faint; yet, if you have courage to run alongside of
me, take care not to kill yourself, as I go at a great pace. If you can
run you can tell me all you have to say as we go along; if not, I must
leave you with a salutation, and promise you, in consideration of our
relationship, to leave you all my property when I die.
_F._ If we had to run a race together, I don’t know which of us would
win; for if you run, I do more than gallop. And as for standing still in
one place,—if in turns you faint, it kills me. So then, let us run
together, and, as you say, speak of our affairs as we go.
_D._ Let it be so. Since, then, you are my sister, it would be the right
thing if you could help me somehow or other in my business.
_F._ I have already done so, more than you think. In the first place,
though I am continually destroying or changing all other customs, I have
never in any place induced people to leave off dying; and for this
reason, you see, the practice has universally remained in force from the
beginning of the world up to the present day.
_D._ It is a mighty miracle that you should not have done what you
cannot do.
_F._ What I cannot do? You do not seem to know the power of fashion.
_D._ Well, well—it will be time to talk about this when the fashion of
not dying has come in. But meanwhile, I should like you, as a good
sister, to help me to obtain the contrary result more easily and quickly
than I have hitherto done.
_F._ I have already told you of some of my work which is very profitable
to you. But that is a trifle in comparison with what I am going to tell
you. For your sake I have gradually—especially in the later times—caused
people to disuse and forget the exercises which are beneficial to
health, and brought in other customs which weaken the body and shorten
life. Besides which, I have introduced into the world such rules and
customs, that life itself, as well for the body as the soul, is rather
dead than alive, so that this century may truly be called the Age of
Death.... Besides, whereas formerly you used to be hated and abused,
nowadays, thanks to me, things have reached such a pass, that whoever
has any intellect at all values and praises you, preferring you above
life, and turns his eyes to you as to his greatest hope. Finally, seeing
that many had made their boast of living after death in the memories of
their fellow-men, ... I have abolished this habit of seeking after
immortality, and of conferring it in case there should be any who
deserved it.... These things, which are neither few nor small, I have,
up to now, accomplished for the love of you, wishing to increase your
state and power on earth, as has, in fact, been the case. I am disposed
to do as much as this, and more, every day, and it was with this
intention I set out to seek you; and I think it would be well that, for
the future, we should remain together. Thus we could lay our plans
better than formerly, and also carry them out more effectually.
_D._ You speak truly; and I am quite willing we should do so.
_Giacomo Leopardi._
_THE POET ON TRAMP._
[Illustration]
Poets have ever been a roving crew,
And honoured in their travels east and west.
Old Homer with his alms-dish wandered through
Ionia—Tasso ranged like one possessed;
And Ovid was escorted ’gainst his will
To a place whose like ’s seen in Volterra still.
I travel too, and not so meanly either,
In a way which is most natural and meet,—
I do not take account of wind or weather,
But go, as nature meant, on my own feet,
Step after step, in douce and measured wise
Taking, for pastime and for exercise.
I am not taken for a vagabond,
Nor do the folk call me a lackpenny;
I pass for one who roves the world around,
And goes afoot the better for to see.
As Crœsus, it is true, I am not prized,
But as a gentleman am recognised.
For my part, I do everything I may
To merit this respect, with all my might—
With step most leisurely I take my way.
To show I’m walking for my own delight,
And as a proof that I have coin to spend,
I always ask, “Where’s the best inn, my friend?”
Sometimes most like a botanist I go,
Keenly observing plants, with head bent down—
Pick flowers, or make pretence of doing so,
And pocket pebbles with a sapient frown.
Or sometimes, like a painter, I stand still
And gaze for half-an-hour on vale and hill.
When nearing some small village I retire
Into a ditch, or else behind a mound,
To sit and cool myself, if I perspire,
Awhile—and dust my hat, and look around
For a fresh spring in some convenient place,
To smarten up, and wash my hands and face.
· · · · ·
As I pass on, with slow and easy pace,
“A gentleman from town,” the people say,
“Most likely lodging in some neighbouring place,
And sauntering forth t’ enjoy this summer day;”
Ploughman and labourer lift their hats and stare,
And take me for the Worshipful the Mayor.
Entering the inn in unembarrassed wise,
I say, “I think I’ll stay awhile,” and then
To find my horse they cast inquiring eyes;
“They wanted me to take one,” I explain,
“But not to walk a bit were sin, I say,
In such fine weather as we have to-day.”
And that they may not think that I am tired,
I stamp about the kitchen till it shakes.
“How well I feel!” I shout like one inspired,—
“A little exercise such difference makes!”
They ask me where I stay—’tis not amiss
If I reply, “Within a walk of this!”
And, after all, Dame Nature legs has given
For to support the person, more or less,
And carry us to all the airts of heaven,—
Not to be dangled in mere idleness;
So any gentleman may use this limb,
Nor cause his ancestors to blush for him.
[But a walking-tour is not without its inconveniences. The poet dwells
on the discomforts of heat, cold weather, and muddy roads.]
Then, if perchance a carriage passes by,
Me the postillion eyes with savage mind,
And backward cracks his whip, suspecting I,
To steal a ride, am getting up behind.
I look not like a knave, yet constantly
The travellers on their luggage keep an eye.
I ask mine host o’ the inn if there’s a bed;
From head to foot he looks me coldly o’er,
Then turns his back, with haughtiness ill-bred,
And deigns no answer. I seem to be once more
In London, where the man in livery
Asks first your name, then “Not at home,” says he.
[Respectable inns always have some excuse for refusing to entertain the
wayfarer. Some one at last takes pity on him and points out a low
pot-house, with a green branch for a sign, where every one is welcome.
Here too, however, he is contemptuously received. The landlord looks at
the dust on his boots, and hesitates about admitting him; the
chambermaids address him, not as “Sir,” but as “You, there!” and when
dinner is served he is not asked to sit down to table.]
And when I ask to go to bed, appears
The stable-boy with rushlight in his hand,
And takes me up some seven flights of stairs
To a den with neither chair nor washhand stand;
He sets the candle down upon the floor,
And, after going out, he locks the door.
[Yet these inconveniences are not the invariable rule; and, after all,
they are outweighed by the advantages of travelling on foot. One is
perfectly independent, and can do as one likes, which is not always the
case with wealthy people.]
And thus on foot I take my cheerful way,—
Moreover, with economy ’tis fraught;
My shoes are paid for—I take leave to say,
I doubt my lord’s fine equipage is not.
Since then I pay my way respectably—
Henceforth, none but St. Francis’ nag[9] for me!
_Filippo Pananti_ (1776–1837).
_LOVE AND A QUIET LIFE._
FROM “L’AMOR PACIFICO.”
[Illustration]
O blessed peace! O close and sacred tie!
Long life to Veneranda and her dove!
But I must needs inform you how and why
This faithful pair first told their tender love.
At a friend’s house they’d dined, and when upstairs
Found themselves side by side in two arm-chairs.
When half-an-hour had mutely passed away,
Taddeo plucked up heart and broke the ice.
“Pray, madam, ... did you like the cream to-day?”
“Delicious!” “I’m so glad you thought it nice.
The ham too?” “Exquisite!” “And then the birds?”
“Perfection!” “And the fish?” “Beyond all words!”
“’Tis true that we had hardly room to sit.”
“Nay, ’twas a pleasure, when one sat by _you_;
But if, dear ma’am, I jogged your arm a bit,
Trust me, ’twas what I could not choose but do.”
“Don’t mention it. _You_ suffered, I suspect?
I’m stout, you see!” “An excellent defect!”
“Indeed?” “Indeed! That face now, in my eyes,
Blooms like May day. Long may it last in blow!”
“I’m healthy!” “Healthy! Fresh as Paradise!”
“Come, come! I’m somewhat stout!” “And better so!
For my part, if I might, I’d very fain
Have leave to call upon you now and then.”
“Oh! you’d be bored!” “I bored! What words are these?
’Twould rather be my best and primest pleasure.”
“Fie! Now you’re flattering! Well! Come when you please!”
“I think, dear madam, in no common measure,
Our characters are fitted to unite,
What do _you_ say?”
“La!—Well—perhaps they might!”
_Giuseppe Giusti_ (1809–1850).
_INSTRUCTIONS TO A YOUNG ASPIRANT FOR OFFICE._
[Illustration]
That you must cut all liberals whatever,
All men of genius, all the “dangerous” crew,
Not prate of books or papers, but endeavour
To prove that they are all High Dutch to you;
That you must bolt your heart, and hold your tongue,
You’ve known, yourself, I’m well aware, for long....
... Now, first and foremost, learn to bend your back!—
Be Veneration’s self personified.
Dress ill; your clothes should fit you like a sack,
And always take some big-wig for your guide.
The cowl does make the monk in such a case,
And the wall’s valued by its plaster face....
Get introduced, and every blessed night
Visit some lout they’ve made a minister.
There choose your time, and change your stops aright,
According as his tastes or whims prefer.
And if tomfoolery’s the thing for winning,
Play the tomfool, and set the folks a-grinning.
Keep him supplied with news, and ferret out
Fresh scandal, gossip, all that folks will tell you;
And, so to speak, what the whole town’s about,
Down from His Highness even to Stenterello....[10]
· · · · ·
Say there arise a scandal, a dispute,
A hurly-burly in your patron’s house,—
“_Know-nought knew much, who knew when to be mute_,”
Says the old saw. Be mute, then, as a mouse!
Great men will sometimes act like fools, ’tis certain,
In their own homes. Be ours to—drop the curtain!
Jump at all hints. Keep begging every way.
Take all they give you, so they let you serve;
But—beg! “_The toad refused to beg_,” they say,
“_And therefore got no tail_.” Besides, observe
That, if not propped and fostered by our need,
Great men’s authority’s a dream indeed.
Remember to ignore and overpass
Each rude rebuff, each peevish look and tone,
And, like Pope Sixtus, write yourself an ass
If you’re resolved to reach _your_ papal throne.
After the bitters, sweets will come at length,
And sturdy begging beat close-fisted strength.
With profit Gingillino did attend
To the sage preaching of his vulpine friend.
He went; he knuckled down; he bared his crown;
He crept, crawled, coaxed, and cringed to sword and gown;
And when they’d dried him, tried him, sifted him, drifted him,
From Dan to Beersheba, at last they lifted him—
When the whole process they’d gone through and through,
With rites baptismal and with chrismal too—
Their heaven of three-piled roguedom to ascend,
Took him within the fold—and that’s his end!
_Giuseppe Giusti._
_LETTER TO TOMMASO GROSSI._
PISA, _Nov. 15, 1845_.
Well done! Signor Grossi! Well done, indeed! Your lordship is over there
enjoying yourself; and nobody even dreams of talking about a poor wretch
like me, who is neither here nor there. But don’t you feel a singing in
your ears from morning to night? You, I mean, you lazy, luxurious,
thankless, forgetful wretch! Is it so much trouble to write on a piece
of paper, “I am well—the family ditto, and we all remember you”? Is this
what comes of your having a good time—eh? Now my gentleman is at
Bellano, in his own house, away from everything that can possibly worry
him, surrounded with every earthly blessing, and thinks he has the Pope
in his pocket.... As for his friends, they are “out of sight, out of
mind,” with him. Only let me come to Milan again, and you shall see. If
ever you dare to try your old tricks again in my presence, I shall say
to you, with a face a yard long—
Let Signor Grossi hook!
On him I will not look (_facit indignatio versum_).
But, joking apart, what infernal airs are these you are giving yourself
in not answering? Are all the pens used in your house made of lead? I,
who am one of the laziest men living under the vault of heaven, have
written you people letters upon letters, and you are no more to be moved
than so many blocks. Only M. has had pity on me; but he is so upset on
account of a certain promise of ——’s, that, out of a page and a half of
letter, there were only about three lines for me. But even this is
something, and something is better than nothing. But against _you_ I
have a grudge—one big enough to make me do something outrageous....
I ought not to say so—because not one of the whole lot of you deserves
it—but the parting from you threw me into a deep melancholy, which still
continues. My liver, or some other fiend who has his dwelling under the
ribs, has again got out of order,—and no one knows how much trouble it
will give me before getting right again. If I had to endure another
winter like the last, Job might be said to have lived and died in the
greatest comfort in comparison with me. I do not wish to have anything
more to do with doctors—I have always found them just like the fog,
which leaves the weather as it finds it. I trust in the climate of Pisa,
and if there is anything that I wish for, it is a little bottle of
“_Never-mind-it_,” which is a medicine good for many diseases. Though, I
think, when one has it, one must prepare it for himself, and measure out
his own doses; and I have never been a skilled apothecary as regards
this particular drug. On the contrary, it has always been a failing of
mine to thrust my head too deeply into the affairs of this ridiculous
world,—and my own, which are the most ridiculous of all,—and once in, it
is no easy matter to get it out again. How many times I have made up my
mind to think only of myself, and let things go as they like! and every
time I do so, this idiotic heart, which, through no fault of my own, I
have to drag about with me, has made me look like a fool of the first
magnitude. Certainly it is quite evident that I was intended by nature
for burlesque; since every time I have taken a thing seriously, I have
been sure, sooner or later, to act the harlequin before my own eyes. So
that now, whenever I have to do with worthy people who are firm and
solid, and (so to speak) all in one piece, I am always secretly in dread
lest one day or other they should belie their natures and turn out the
veriest quicksilver. Do you know that in the end it really cannot be
such a very great misfortune to leave this puppetshow that they call
life? Surely it cannot be that we shall have people playing Punch and
Judy tricks in the other world! Either we shall all have become wise, or
at least, if we are destined to carry with us a grain or so of folly and
ridiculousness, I do believe that we shall be permitted to divide into
sets according to our own particular fancy. And, look you, if, when I
have arrived up there, I happen to see two or three men that I know of,
I shall join that clique at once, and stay there _per omnia sæcula
sæculorum_. With these certain ones I should hope that (the weakness of
our mortal nature being once left behind) a thing once said would be
looked upon as settled, and that we should have an end of—
“_Yes_, I answered you last night—
_No_, this morning, sir, I say!”
But I hope you understand that I want neither you nor Sandrino Manzoni
near me, either in this world or the next; for I shall never forget the
way you have treated me, letting me go without so much as a
“Good-bye”—not even a “_Go and be hanged to you._” I have made a note of
it, and shall remember it against you till Doomsday.
Why is it that rascals like you can always put honest men in the wrong?
In the very act of closing this letter I receive yours of the 2nd! Well,
well, that is not so bad, but I have yet to see Manzoni’s; and you, by
promising it, have done me more harm than good.
[Illustration:
“STENTERELLO.”
]
Let us hope that our dear Alessandro Manzoni (who, by-the-bye, is a——;
never mind, I won’t write it!) will be able to come to Pisa with Donna
Teresa and Vittorina. Apropos of Vittorina, is it true that she has not
been well of late? Arconati told me she had a cold when she left: I
should be very sorry to think she was suffering from anything worse.
Remember me to every one, not forgetting our friends Torti and Rossari;
I have been going to write to them over and over again. I am glad to
hear you are all well at home; were it not that I am still angry with
you for that silence of a month and more, I should be inclined to tell
you that you deserve this and every other good fortune. Well, good-bye,
you rascal, and since there are some wrongs for which it is useless to
claim compensation, I may as well send you my love.
P.S.—As for work, I have a great number of irons in the fire, but I am
terribly afraid my stock of wood will not last long enough to heat them.
When a perfect anarchy of plans and projects comes to life in my brain,
this is a sign that it is not a time for finishing anything at all at
all. Meanwhile, I shall dawdle along, reading this and that, as it
happens,—and when the hour for production strikes, I shall produce.
_Giuseppe Giusti._
_DON ABBONDIO AND THE BRAVOES._
FROM “I PROMESSI SPOSI.”
[Illustration:
[Don Abbondio, a village priest, walking by himself in a lonely place,
sees two bravoes waiting for him in a narrow lane.]
]
... He quickened his pace, recited a verse in a louder tone, composed
his countenance to all the calm and cheerfulness he could summon up for
the moment, made every effort to prepare a smile, and when he found
himself right in front of the two swashbucklers, he ejaculated,
mentally, “Now we’re in for it!” and stopped short.
“Your Reverence!” said one of the two, looking him full in the face.
“Who wants me?” replied Don Abbondio, raising his eyes from his book,
and holding it open in both hands.
“You intend,” pursued the other, with the threatening and angry look of
a man who has caught his inferior in the commission of a crime—“you
intend to perform the ceremony of marriage, to-morrow, between Renzo
Tramaglino and Lucia Mondella.”
“That is ...” answered Don Abbondio, in a quavering voice—“that is ...
gentlemen, you are men of the world, and you know how these matters take
place. The poor priest has nothing whatever to say in the business; they
arrange everything between themselves, and then ... then they come to
us, as you would come to a bank to draw out your money, and we—well, we
are the servants of the congregation.”
“Well, then,” said the bravo, in an undertone, but with an impressive
air of command, “this marriage is not to take place, either to-morrow,
or at any other time.”
“But, gentlemen,” expostulated Don Abbondio, in the meek and gentle
voice of a man trying to persuade an impatient listener—“but, gentlemen,
do be good enough to put yourselves in my place. If the thing depended
on me, now ... you see perfectly well that it matters nothing to me, one
way or the other.”
“Come!” interrupted the bravo; “if the business had to be settled by
talk, you would have us all, in a moment. We know nothing more about it,
and do not want to. A man warned ... you understand?”
“But, gentlemen, you are too just, too reasonable——”
“But,” interrupted the second bravo, who now spoke for the first
time—“but either the marriage will not take place, or—or the man who
performs it will not repent of doing so, because he will not have time,
and——” he finished off his sentence with a good round oath.
“Hush!” returned the first speaker; “his Reverence knows the ways of the
world; and we are gentlemen, and do not want to do him any harm, if he
will only have a little common sense. Your Reverence, the most
illustrious Signor Don Rodrigo, our master, sends you his most
respectful salutations.”
This name was like a flash of light in the darkness and confusion of Don
Abbondio’s mind, but only served to increase his terror. He
instinctively made a low bow, and said, “If you could suggest to me....”
“Oh! Suggest to you who know Latin!” interrupted the bravo, with a laugh
which was half ferocious and half foolish. “That is your business. And,
above all, never let a word escape you about this hint which we have
given you for your good; otherwise ... ahem!... it would be the same
thing as if you were to perform that marriage. Come! What message do you
wish us to give to the illustrious Don Rodrigo?”
“My respects.”
“Explain yourself, your Reverence!”
“... Disposed ... always disposed to obedience....” In uttering these
words he did not quite know, himself, whether he was giving a promise,
or merely bestowing a commonplace compliment. The bravoes took it—or
appeared to do so—in the more serious sense.
“Very good. Good-night, your Reverence,” said one of them, and turned,
with his comrade, to depart. Don Abbondio, who a few minutes before
would have given one of the eyes out of his head to get rid of them, now
would have liked to prolong the conversation. “Gentlemen,” he began,
shutting his book with both hands; but, without listening to him, they
took the road by which he had come, singing the while a ditty better not
transcribed, and were soon out of sight. Poor Don Abbondio remained for
a moment with his mouth wide open, as if spell-bound; then he turned up
the lane leading to his house, walking slowly, and seeming scarcely able
to drag one leg after the other....
_Alessandro Manzoni_ (1784–1873).
_THE INTERRUPTED WEDDING._
[Don Abbondio, by finding one excuse after another for deferring the
marriage, has driven Renzo nearly to despair. At last, having
discovered the reason for the priest’s hesitation, in Don Rodrigo’s
hostility, he eagerly adopts a suggestion of Lucia’s mother, Agnese,
to the effect that a perfectly legal, though irregular, marriage may
be performed by the parties severally pronouncing, before a priest,
and in the presence of witnesses, the words, “This is my wife,” and
“This is my husband.” Renzo easily secures two witnesses, in the
persons of his friend Tonio and the latter’s half-witted brother.
Tonio owes Don Abbondio twenty-five _lire_, for which the priest holds
his wife’s necklace in pledge, and Renzo secures his co-operation by
giving him the amount of the debt. The five start at dusk for Don
Abbondio’s house. Agnese engages the priest’s housekeeper in
conversation outside the front door, and the others slip upstairs
unnoticed—the bride and bridegroom waiting on the landing, while Tonio
knocks at the door of Don Abbondio’s sitting-room.]
“_Deo gratias!_” said Tonio, in a loud voice.
“Tonio, eh? Come in,” replied a voice from within.
Tonio opened the door just wide enough to admit himself and his brother,
one at a time, and then closed it after him, while Renzo and Lucia
remained silent and motionless in the dark.
Don Abbondio was sitting in an old arm-chair, wrapped in a dilapidated
dressing-gown, with an ancient cap on his head, which made a frame all
round his face. By the faint light of a small lamp the two thick white
tufts of hair which projected from under the cap, his bushy white
eyebrows, moustache, and pointed beard all seemed, on his brown and
wrinkled face, like bushes covered with snow on a rocky hillside seen by
moonlight.
“Ah! ah!” was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and put them
into the book he was reading.
“Your Reverence will say we are late in coming,” said Tonio, bowing, as
did Gervaso, but more awkwardly.
[Illustration]
“Certainly it is late—late in every way. Do you know that I am ill?”
“Oh! I am very sorry, sir!”