will give me back my sixty thousand francs? It’s ruin—it’s
bankruptcy!... Oh! who would have thought it? And it must happen to me,
of all men in the world!
_Ber._ Come, have done with this! Who prevents your continuing the
issue? Surely Arganti’s writings have not lost their value through his
death?
_Ser._ What interest can attach to his expedition to Palestine,
undertaken twenty years ago, now that people can make a holiday
excursion of it and travel by rail? It needs something else to tickle
the palate of the public, who, nowadays, are perfectly familiar with
Afghanistan, Zululand, Basutoland,—not to mention journeys to the centre
of the earth, to the bottom of the sea, and the sphere of the moon! My
poor sixty thousand francs!... If he had lived it would not have been so
bad. With a Mutual Admiration Society such as the fashionable papers
know how to get up, something might have been done. But now that Arganti
is dead, who is going to waste his time in praising him? You will have
your time fully taken up in bringing out some new genius—one of those
startling and powerful ones who open new horizons to the heart and mind,
to science, and their country every quarter of an hour! And I shall be
sacrificed!
_Ber._ You are both ungrateful and mistaken. You have made quite a nice
little sum out of our poor friend’s works, which we advertised for you
at reduced prices and reviewed in special articles!
_Ser._ Why, I have spent the whole on advertising the new edition; and
now, just as I am about to reap the fruits of judicious puffing,
everything is upset by death—the one thing I had not calculated on.
_Ber._ Serpilli! Serpilli!
_Ser._ It is enough to bring on an attack of the jaundice! If Arganti
had at least confined himself to writing a couple of volumes!... No,
sir! Twenty-seven!
_Ber._ Would you, out of sordid self-interest, wish the scientific and
literary heritage of the nation to be diminished?
_Ser._ You are laughing at me. You are quite right; I have been an
idiot.
_Ber._ I respect every one’s convictions.
* * * * *
_Serpilli, Bertrando, Geronte (an embalmer). Enter Francesco._
_Francesco._ The telegraph messenger has just brought these six
telegrams.
_Ser._ Give them to me.
(_Francesco gives them, and exits._)
_Ser._ (_opening the telegrams and reading_). The Independent Liberal
Democratic Association—the syndic—the Association of Watchmakers’
Apprentices—the tribunal—the prefect.... “Unspeakable grief”—“sorrow of
the human race”—“words fail.”... (_Throws the telegrams on the table._)
“In great misfortunes vibrates the heart of great nations.”...
_Per._ (_enters hurriedly_). And of all great artists.
_Ger._ The sculptor Peralti, a dear friend, one of our associates.
_Ser._ (_to Peralti_). Have you heard, too?
_Per._ I have read some twenty or thirty telegrams posted up at the
street corners, and have at once hastened here to present to the widow
this design for a monument to be erected to her husband.
_Ser._ Did you have it ready?
_Per._ An artist never lets himself be taken unawares.
_Ger._ You have the instinct of genius!
_Per._ (_unrolling a sheet of paper which he holds in his hand, and
giving it to Geronte_). You see, a large pedestal with three steps—two
sleeping lions, in Canova’s manner—a cubic block of granite, which has a
philosophic signification. The statue is seated on a curule chair....
Just look at the subtlety, the diapason, the _tonality_, the depth of
the _tout ensemble_!
_Ser._ But surely this is the drawing you made for Professor Giulini.
_Ger._ (_handing the paper to Serpilli_). I thought I had seen it
exhibited as a design for a monument to General Quebrantador.
_Ser._ (_handing it to Peralti_). Not at all. I tell you——
_Ger._ And I maintain——
_Per._ Calm yourselves, gentlemen. The artist of any _élan_ dashes off
his idea just as genius inspires him.... It will then serve its purpose
when a purpose is made apparent. (_Rolls up the drawing._)
_Ger._ Bravo! I hold exactly the same theory with regard to my own
science. I prepare the acids....
(_Enter Francesco._)
_Fran._ What is all this, Signor Serpilli? Just look, what a bundle of
telegrams!
_Ser._ Excellent! Go and tell Signor Bertrando.
_Fran._ (_lays the telegrams on the table_). Oh! by-the-bye, I was
forgetting.... What has become of my head?... There is a photographer
outside who will insist on seeing the mistress.
_Ser._ Show him in. (_Exit Francesco._)
_Per._ Only give me 50,000 francs, and Arganti shall have the most
characteristic monument of the age!
(_Enter Photographer, with his camera._)
_Ser._ What do you want, sir?
_Pho._ I saw all the telegrams posted up. Every one was in a state of
consternation, asking who Arganti was.... Having made inquiries on the
subject, I hastened hither with my camera, and would now request the
favour of taking a photograph of the illustrious Arganti’s portrait....
Begging your pardon, what was his Christian name?
_Ser._ Ettore.
_Pho._ ... Poor Ettore’s portrait. I will guarantee a work of art
that shall be a tremendous success! I am also going to take
photographs of his bedroom, his study, his inkstand, the front of
the house—everything!—and to advertise them in all the papers.
_Ser._ (_shaking him by the hand_). I thank you in the name of the
family. To honour the noble dead is not only a work of merit—it is a
duty: a duty which we are here to carry out.
_Ger._ I alone can do nothing.... Ah! Signor Serpilli!
_Ser._ Since common feelings of delicacy have assembled us in this spot,
let us take steps for transferring to the public the conviction of the
greatness of our loss. (_Rings the bell._)
_Pho._ Poor Ettore!
_Per._ Poor, dear fellow!
_Ger._ My poor friend!
_Ser._ Well.... (_After a pause, rubbing his hands._) We are all mortal.
_C. Lotti._
_THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION._
_Pandolfo._ It is not to be tolerated! They do it on purpose to drive me
out of my senses!
_Paolo Galanti._ Who has made you angry, Signor Pandolfo?
_Pan._ Who? Does any one ask? My wife and daughter—— What! whom do I
see? You, Benini!
_Ben._ So you recognised me at once? I thought you had forgotten me
altogether.
_Pan._ No, sir, I had not forgotten you. Am I a man to forget old
friends?... For we certainly are old friends.
(_They shake hands cordially._)
_Ben._ We are, indeed! Twenty years——
_Pan._ No, not twenty years; eighteen or nineteen.... We used to see a
great deal of each other—do you remember?
_Ben._ Don’t I?
_Pan._ We often used to dispute; because you are of a most contradictory
temper.
_Ben._ I?
_Pan._ Would you deny it?
_Ben._ Well, no—I was young and impetuous in those days, and had not
much sense—or indeed none at all.
_Pan._ That is not the case—you were not altogether without sense.... It
is true you had your little eccentricities—but, after all....
_Ben._ And you never paid the slightest attention to my words....
_Pan._ That is not true! I always attended to you—I always had the
greatest consideration for you, I assure you; and it gives me more
pleasure than I can express to find you here again.
(_They shake hands again._)
_Pao._ (_aside to Benini_). My word! I have never yet seen him receive
any one so well!
_Pan._ You must come to see my wife.
_Ben._ I do not know whether Signora Angelica will be disposed to
welcome me after all these years.
_Pan._ Of course she will! I’ll answer for that! Why—an intimate friend
of mine! Yet she does everything she possibly can to contradict and
oppose me, that woman!—She has not a bad disposition—I would not say
that; but it is a certain perversity of humour. Just imagine that, at
this very moment, when all the visitors present in the place are going
to assemble in these rooms, she could find no better way of spending her
time than in going off for a long walk on the beach. Never lets herself
be seen—persists in withdrawing from society—mere madness, I call it!...
We have a daughter, and if this sort of thing goes on, how shall we ever
get her settled in life?
_Pao._ Oh! as to that, the young lady cannot fail to find——
_Pan._ What! are you, too, going to contradict me?
_Pao._ No, most certainly not! Only, since the ladies are going out, if
you will permit me, I should like to accompany them for part of the way.
_Pan._ Hm!
_Pao._ I will just go and fetch my hat and umbrella.
_Pan._ (_aside_). What a bore he is—always in the way!
_Pao._ (_aside to Benini_). Signor Pandolfo appears to have a great
regard for you.
_Ben._ (_aside to Paolo_). Quite true; there was a time when I could get
him to do anything I wanted.
_Pao._ (_as before_). Do, like a good fellow, one thing for me,—say a
word or two in my favour.
_Ben._ (_ditto_). In your favour? All right! It is just what I was
thinking of doing.
_Pao._ (_ditto_). Thanks!
_Ben._ (_ditto_). Oh! you’ve nothing to thank me for.
_Pao._ (_ditto_). I shall be back soon. (_Exit._)
_Ben._ (_aside_). Now I’ll do his business. (_To Pandolfo._) I
understand why you gave permission to that young man to escort your wife
and daughter.
_Pan._ I never gave him permission. And what did you understand?
_Ben._ Galanti is an amiable fellow——
_Pan._ Nothing of the sort!
_Ben._ Witty.
_Pan._ Do you see any wit in _him_?
_Ben._ Good-looking——
_Pan._ A dandified fool!
_Ben._ Courteous——
_Pan._ Too much so. The fellow agrees with every one.
_Ben._ He would be a son-in-law quite after your own heart. I would,
but——
_Pan._ Son-in-law, be hanged! If you don’t look out you will make me use
language I shall regret!
_Ben._ Well, don’t get angry.... Every one believes that he is going to
marry your daughter.
_Pan._ Then he may whistle for her. My Elisa’s husband ought to be a
young man with brains; and this Galanti of yours is a fool.
_Ben._ Well, not quite that.
_Pan._ He is! I want a man of character, and this jackanapes is nothing
but a weather-cock!
_Vittorio Bersezio._
TRUTH.
[Paolo Severi is in love with his cousin Evelina, who, unknown to him,
is being courted by his old schoolfellow, Adolfo Briga. Briga
purposely encourages his rival, who is from the country and unused to
society, thinking that he will be sure to make himself ridiculous, and
so fail. In order the better to carry out this plan he pretends to
devote himself to Graziosa, the daughter of the President Manlio, who
is visiting at the house of Evelina’s parents. Paolo, in his
simplicity, does his best to further Adolfo’s suit by pleading his
cause with Signora Vereconda, Graziosa’s mother, a lady whose love of
admiration has survived her youth, and who has taken Briga’s
attentions as a homage to herself.]
_Scene—A drawing-room in the house of the Advocate Scipioni, with a
door opening on the garden. Adolfo and Vereconda seated, in
conversation. Enter Paolo from the garden just as Adolfo kisses
Vereconda’s hand._
_Paolo_ (_aside_). “If you want canes, you must go to the cane-brake; if
you want the daughter, you must make yourself agreeable to the
mother.”[28]
_Vereconda_ (_aside to Adolfo_). Do not agitate yourself.... He cannot
have seen it.
_Pao._ Am I intruding?
_Ver._ Do you think...?
_Pao._ I have just come in to fetch a volume of my aunt’s poems.... Here
it is. I am very sorry that my aunt should expose herself to ridicule by
publishing verses like these, in which even the syntax and spelling are
wrong! I have a good mind to tell her so myself....
_Adol._ (_aside to Paolo_). So you have left Evelina? Well done!
_Pao._ (_aside_). Well done, indeed! It was not _my_ choice!
_Adol._ (_aside_). But, indeed, it is a capital manœuvre of war! A woman
entreated denies, and neglected entreats! Do you remain here instead of
me.
_Pao._ (_aside_). No, indeed!
_Adol._ (_aside_). Yes, indeed! I’ll go and speak artfully for you in
the other quarter, and put things right for you in no time!
_Pao._ (_aside_). But——
_Adol._ (_aside_). I’ll beat the big drum for you, you shall see! Let me
go!
_Pao._ (_aside_). All right. Go!
_Adol._ (_aside to Vereconda_). I have removed all suspicion on his
part.... I am going away to make things quite safe. (_Aloud._) Will you
excuse me, Signora Vereconda?
_Ver._ Do as you——
_Pao._ And take in my stead these ... well, let us call them verses. Don
Vincenzo, rest his soul, would have called them “uncultivated, rugged
songs, which have brought a blush to the revered countenances of Apollo
and the Muses.”
_Ver._ (_to Adolfo, aside_). Who in the world was this Don Vincenzo?
_Adol._ (_aside to Vereconda_). Who knows?... Ah! I have it: the
schoolmaster at Borgo di Castello! (_Exit._)
_Ver._ (_aside_). How one always recognises the country lout at once!
_Pao._ (_aside_). What a first-rate friend Adolfo is! And now that I am
with his Graziosa’s mother, could I do him a service? I should be
ungrateful if I did not try; but I too am a real friend.
_Ver._ (_aside_). He looks as though he had just come from the
plough-tail.
_Pao._ Madam....
_Ver._ Sir?...
_Pao._ If you permit ... if I am not wearisome to you ... may I stay and
talk to you a little?
_Ver._ Pray sit down.
_Pao._ To supply the place of my friend is no easy job.
_Ver._ (_aside_). How vilely he expresses himself!
_Pao._ There are very few like him; he is a fellow who is liked by every
one ... particularly by girls’ mothers....
_Ver._ (_aside_). Could he have noticed anything?
_Pao._ He is very fortunate; but he deserves to be so....
_Ver._ (_aside_). He must have noticed. (_Aloud._) I don’t
understand....
_Pao._ Now, look here; Adolfo has no secrets from me.... How could he?
We have been friends from childhood....
_Ver._ What is all this to lead up to?
_Pao._ This—that the poor old fellow has opened his whole heart to me,
and has told me in particular that you are inclined to look on him with
favour.
_Ver._ Infamous! To go and say so!
_Pao._ And he hopes ... yes, I say hopes, that you will grant his
request.
_Ver._ (_rising_). What does he want of me?
_Pao._ Why—from a mother as affectionate as you—what but the hand of
your daughter?
_Ver._ What do you say?
_Pao._ Believe me, there is no young man more worthy to possess her. He
loves her—loves her devotedly; but the poor fellow wants some
encouragement—some protection.... Oh, do take him under your protecting
wings!
_Ver._ (_choking with suppressed vexation_). Ah!... under my wings?
_Pao._ I have already given him a hint as to his right course. “If you
want canes, you must go to the cane-brake....”
_Ver._ (_aside_). You and your cane-brakes!
_Pao._ A mother who has attained a certain age....
_Ver._ (_aside_). A certain age!!
_Pao._ Such a mother, I say, should have no other thought than that of
settling her daughter comfortably before she dies....
_Ver._ (_aside_). Before she dies!!!
_Pao._ Particularly a good mother like yourself. What do you say—eh?
Will you be on his side?
_Ver._ I will.... I will be ... whatever my conscience dictates!...
(_Aside._) Traitor!—In love with Graziosa.... Was that the reason of his
attentions to me?
_Pao._ And shall I be able to give my friend some hope?
_Ver._ Why, yes ... yes ... give him ... whatever you think....
(_Aside._) At a certain age!... Before she dies!... (_Aloud._) Excuse
me.... (_Aside._) Only let me get at you!... (_Aloud._) I shall hope to
see you later. (_Exit._)
_Pao._ Upon my word! if Adolfo is a real friend, I am another;—if he has
been beating the big drum for me, I have certainly been blowing his
trumpet with all my might.
_Achille Torelli._
_PASQUIN._
[Illustration]
One species of wit and humour in which Italians have always excelled is
the impromptu epigram—the stinging comment in verse on passing events.
The language abounds in rhymes, and easily lends itself to metre; and it
is rare to meet with an Italian, however uneducated, who cannot string
together a few lines of at least passable quality. Any family event—a
marriage, a baptism, or a death—is sure to call forth a shower of
sonnets from friends and acquaintances; and on special occasions these
contributions are published in volume form. Most of these, indeed, are
dull enough reading; but the satirical verses suggested by public events
are often amusing enough, though sometimes so local in their application
as to have little meaning or interest to outsiders. Many of those
translated in the following pages are in Latin, but the knowledge of
this language was common enough in Rome to make them almost as popular
as verses in the vulgar tongue; and it must be remembered that any
Italian with the smallest pretension to culture can turn out a few Latin
elegiacs indifferent well. At least this was the case under the _ancien
régime_, when such education as was to be had was almost exclusively
classical.
This tendency to satiric comment was curbed, but never quite repressed,
by the censorship of the _ancien régime_. In Papal Rome it found an
outlet in Pasquin, whence the word _Pasquinade_ has passed into most of
the languages of Europe. Concerning Pasquin, and the epigrams for which
he became responsible, we cannot do better than quote from Story’s _Roba
di Roma_.[29]
“The only type of true Roman humour which now remains since the demise
of _Cassandrino_ is _Pasquino_. He is the public satirist, who lances
his pointed jests against every absurdity and abuse. There he sits on
his pedestal behind the Palazzo Braschi—a mutilated torso which, in the
days of its pride, was a portion of a noble group, representing, it is
supposed, Menelaus dragging the dead body of Patroclus from the
fight.... Whatever may have been the subject of this once beautiful and
now ruined work it is scarcely less famous under its modern name.
Pasquino is now the mouthpiece of the most pungent Roman wit.
“The companion and rival of Pasquin in the early days was Marforio. This
was a colossal statue representing a river-god, and received its name
from the Forum of Mars, where it was unearthed in the sixteenth century.
Other friends, too, had Pasquin, who took part in his satiric
_conversazioni_, and carried on dialogues with him. Among these was
Madama Lucrezia, whose ruined figure still may be seen near the Church
of St. Marco, behind the Venetian Palace; the Facchino, or porter, who
empties his barrel still in the Corso, though his wit has run dry; the
Abbate Luigi of the Palazzo Valle; and the battered Babbuino, who still
presides over his fountain in the Via del Babbuino, and gives his name
to the street, but who has now lost his features and his voice.
Marforio, however, was the chief speaker next to Pasquin, and he still
at times joins with him in a satiric dialogue. Formerly there was a
constant strife of wit between the two; and a lampoon from Pasquin was
sure to call out a reply from Marforio. But of late years Marforio has
been imprisoned in the Court of the Campidoglio, and, like many other
free speakers, locked up and forbidden to speak; so that Pasquin has it
all his own way. In the time of the Revolution of 1848 he made friends
with Don Pirlone and uttered in print his satires. _Il Don Pirlone_ was
the title of the Roman Charivari of this period. It was issued daily,
except on _festa_ days, and was very liberal in its politics, and
extremely bitter against the _Papalini_, French, and Austrians. The
caricatures, though coarsely executed, were full of humour and spirit,
and give strong evidence that the satiric fire for which Rome has been
always celebrated, though smouldering, is always ready to burst into
flame. Take, for instance, as a specimen, the caricature which appeared
on the 15th of June 1849. The Pope is here represented in the act of
celebrating mass. Oudinot, the French general, acts as the attendant
priest, kneeling at the step of the altar, and holding up the pontifical
robes. The bell of the mass is the imperial crown. A group of military
officers surrounds the altar, with a row of bayonets behind them. The
altar candles are in the shape of bayonets.... On the sole of one of
Oudinot’s boots are the words, ‘_Accomodamento Lesseps_,’ and of the
other, ‘_Articolo V. della Costituzione_,’ thus showing that he tramples
not only on the convention made by Lesseps with the Roman triumvirate on
the 31st May, but also on the French constitution, the fifth article of
which says, ‘La République Française n’emploie jamais ses forces contre
la liberté d’aucun peuple.’[30] Beneath the picture is the motto, ‘He
has begun the service with mass, and completed it with bombs.’
“On the 2nd July 1849 the French entered Rome, and _Il Don Pirlone_ was
issued for the last time. The engraving in this number represents a
naked female figure lying lifeless on the ground, with a cap of liberty
on her head. On a dunghill near by a cock is crowing loudly, while a
French general is covering the body with earth. Beneath are these
significant words, ‘But, dear Mr. Undertaker, are you so perfectly sure
that she is dead?’
“That day Don Pirlone died, and all his works were confiscated. Some,
however, still remain, guarded jealously in secret hiding-places, and
talked about in whispers; but if you are curious, you may have the luck
to buy a copy for 30 or 40 Roman scudi.
“The first acquaintance we make with Pasquin is as an abandoned,
limbless fragment of an antique statue, which serves as a butt for boys
to throw stones at, and for other slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune. Near by him lives a tailor, named Pasquino, skilful in his
trade, and still more skilful in his epigrams. At his shop many of the
_literati_, prelates, courtiers, and wits of the town meet to order
their robes and dresses, report scandal, to anatomise reputations, and
kill their time. Pasquino’s humour was contagious, and so many sharp
epigrams were made in his shop that it grew to be famous. After
Pasquino’s death, in mending the street, it became necessary to remove
the old statue, embedded in the ground near by; and to get it out of the
way it was set up at the side of his shop. The people then in joke said
that Pasquino had come back, and so the statue acquired this nickname,
which it has ever since retained. This, at least, is the account given
by Castelvetro, published in 1553.... However this be, there is no doubt
that the custom soon grew up to stick to the statue any lampoon,
epigram, or satiric verses which the author desired to be anonymous, and
to pretend that it was a _pasquinata_. From this time Pasquino becomes a
name and a power. His tongue could never be ruled. He had his bitter
saying on everything. Vainly Government strove to suppress him. At one
time he narrowly escaped being thrown into the Tiber by Adrian VI., who
was deeply offended by some of his sarcasms; but he was saved from this
fate by the wisdom of the Spanish Legate, who gravely counselled the
Pope to do no such act, lest he should thus teach all the frogs in the
river to croak pasquinades. In reference to the various attempts made to
silence him, he says in an epigram addressed to Paul III.—
“‘Great were the sums once paid to poets for singing;
How much will you, O Paul, give me to be silent?’
Finally, his popularity became so great that all epigrams, good or bad,
were affixed to him. Against this he remonstrated, crying—
“‘Alas! the veriest copyist sticks upon me his verses;
Every one now on me his wretched trifles bestows.’
This remonstrance seems to have been attended with good results, for
shortly after he says—
“‘No man at Rome is better than I; I seek nothing from any.
I am never verbose; here I sit, and am silent.’
Of late years no collection has been made, so far as I know, of the
sayings of Pasquin; and it is only here and there that they can be found
recorded in books or in the ‘hidden tablets of the brain.’ But in 1544 a
volume of 637 pages was printed, with the title, _Pasquillorum Tomi
Duo_, in which, among a mass of epigrams and satires drawn from various
sources, a considerable number of real pasquinades were preserved. This
volume is now very rare and costly, most of the copies having been burnt
at Rome and elsewhere, on account of the many satires it contained
against the Romish Church; so rare, indeed, that the celebrated scholar
Daniel Heinsius supposed his copy to be unique, as he stated in the
inscription written by him on its fly-leaf—
“‘Rome to the fire gave my brothers—I, the single phœnix,
Live—by Heinsius bought for a hundred pieces of gold.’