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THE INTERNATIONAL HUMOUR SERIES.

Edited by W. H. DIRCKS.

THE HUMOUR OF ITALY.

STORY OF DANTE AND THE SMITH. [P. [290].

THE
HUMOUR OF ITALY

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

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?”

We find, from Minghetti’s Memoirs, that in 1864, at Bologna (then in 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.

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.

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.

Messer Bernabò, Lord of Milan, being outwitted by the clever reasoning of a miller, bestowed upon him a valuable benefice. Now this lord was in his time greatly feared beyond all other rulers, and though he was cruel, yet was there in his cruelty a great measure of justice. Among many cases which happened to him was this—that a rich abbot, for a certain act of negligence (in that he had not properly fed two hounds belonging to the said lord, and so had spoilt their tempers), was by him fined 4000 scudi. At this the abbot began to ask for mercy, and the said lord thereupon said to him: “If thou declarest unto me four things, I will remit everything; and the things are these—I will that thou shouldst tell me how far it is from here to heaven; how much water there is in the sea; what they are doing in hell; and what is the worth of my person.” The abbot hearing this began to sigh, and thought himself in worse plight than before; yet, for the sake of peace and to gain time, he prayed Bernabò that it would please him to grant him a term for the answering of such deep questions. And the lord granted him the whole of the following day, and, as one impatient to hear the end of the matter, made him give security that he would return. The abbot returned to his abbey exceeding sorrowful and full of thought, and puffing and blowing like a frightened horse. When he had got thither, he met with a miller who was one of his tenants, and who, seeing him thus afflicted, said: “My lord, what is the matter, that ye puff and blow on this wise?” Said the abbot: “I have good cause, for his lordship is going to be the ruin of me if I do not declare unto him four things, which neither Solomon nor Aristotle could do.” Said the miller: “What things are these?” The abbot told him. Then the miller thought for a while, and said to the abbot: “Sir, I will get ye out of this strait, an ye will.” The abbot replied: “Would to God it might be so!” Said the miller: “I think both God and the saints will be willing.” The abbot, who knew not what he would be at, said: “If thou doest it, take from me what thou wilt, for thou shalt ask me for nothing that I will not give thee, if it be possible.”... Then said the miller: “I must put on your tunic and hood, and I will shave my beard, and to-morrow morning, very early, I will go into his presence, saying that I am the abbot, and I will settle the four questions in such a way that I think he will be content.” The abbot could not wait a moment before he had put the miller in his place, and so it was done. Early in the morning the miller set out, and when he had reached the gate of Bernabò’s house, he knocked and said that such and such an abbot wished to answer certain questions which the lord had put to him. The lord, willing to hear what the abbot had to say, and wondering that he had returned so quickly, had him called. The miller, coming into his presence in a room which was not very well lighted, made his obeisance, holding his hand as much as possible before his face, and was asked by Bernabò whether he were able to answer the four questions. And he replied: “My lord, I am. Ye asked how far it is from here to heaven; from this spot it is just thirty-six millions, eight hundred and fifty-four thousand, seventy-two and a half miles, and twenty-two paces.” Said Bernabò: “Thou hast given it very accurately; how wilt thou prove this?” The miller replied: “Have the distance measured, and if it be not even as I say, ye may have me hanged by the neck. In the second place, ye asked how much water there is in the sea. This was very hard to find out, since it is a thing that is never still, and there is always more being added; but I have found out that there are in the sea 25,982,000,000 hogsheads, 7 barrels, 12 gallons, and 2 glasses.” Said the lord: “How knowest thou this?” The miller answered: “I reckoned it as well as I could,—if ye do not believe me, send and fetch barrels, and have it measured. And if it be not correct, ye may have me quartered. In the third place, your lordship asked what was being done in hell. In hell there is hanging, drawing, quartering, and cutting off of heads going on,—neither less nor more than what your lordship is doing here.” Bernabò asked: “What reason dost thou give for this?” He replied: “I have talked with a man who had been there, and it was from this man Dante the Florentine heard what he wrote concerning the things of hell; but this man is dead, and if ye do not believe me, send and ask him. Fourthly, ye would know what was the value of your lordship’s person, and I say that it is worth twenty-nine pence.” When Messer Bernabò heard this, he turned to him in a fury, saying, “May the plague seize thee! Dost think I am worth no more than an earthen pipkin?” The miller replied, and not without great fear: “My Lord, listen to reason; ye know that our Lord was sold for thirty pence,—I am surely right in supposing that ye are worth one penny less than he.” When Bernabò heard this, he imagined that this man could not be the abbot, and, looking fixedly at him, perceiving that he was a man of far more sense than the abbot, he said to him: “Thou art not the abbot.” The terror which the miller then had, every one may imagine for himself; he knelt down, and with clasped hands asked for mercy, telling Bernabò that he was the tenant of the abbey mill, and how and why he had appeared before him in this disguise, and that it was rather to please him than from any ill intention. But Bernabò, hearing this, said: “Well, then, since he has made thee abbot, and thou art worth more than he, by the faith of God, I will confirm thee in thine office; and it is my will that from henceforth thou be the abbot, and he the miller, and that thou have all the revenue of the monastery, and he of the mill.” And thus he caused it to be during all the rest of his life, that the miller should be an abbot, and the abbot a miller.

Franco Sacchetti.

HOW SER NASTAGIO WAS COLLECTED FOR IN CHURCH.

Faustino, of Bologna, was in love with the beautiful Eugenia, but was unable to meet her on account of the hostility of her parents, who kept a very strict watch over her, and debarred her from the very sight of him as much as they possibly could. Yet her mother, being of a religious turn of mind, was unwilling that she should relinquish her usual attendance on divine worship, and herself accompanied her daughter every morning to hear mass at a church near their own house, but at so very early an hour that not even the artisans of the city, much less the young gentry of the place, were stirring. And there she heard service performed by a priest expressly on her own account, though several other persons might happen to be present, who were in the habit of rising early.

Now among these was a certain corn merchant named Ser Nastagio de’ Rodiotti, a man who had driven many a hard bargain and thriven wonderfully in his trade, but of so devout a turn withal that he would not for the world have made an usurious contract, or even speculated to any extent, without having first attended mass. He lost not a single opportunity of showing himself at church among the earliest of the congregation, and was ready for business before a great portion of his fellow-citizens were stirring.

Now in a short time it also reached the ears of Faustino, through the good offices, it is supposed, of the young lady, that High Mass was to be heard every morning at a certain church, with every particular relating to the devotees who attended, and the nearest way thither. Rejoiced at this news, her lover now resolved to rise somewhat earlier than he had been accustomed to do, that he might avail himself of the same advantage the lady enjoyed, in beginning the day with religious duties. For this purpose he assumed a different dress, the better to deceive the eyes of her careful mother, being perfectly aware that she only made her appearance thus early with her daughter for the sake of concealing her from his sight. In this way the young lady had the merit of bringing Faustino to church, where they gazed at each other with the utmost devotion, except, indeed, when the unlucky tradesman just mentioned happened to place himself, as was frequently the case, exactly in their way, so as to interrupt the silent communion of souls. And this he did in so vexatious a manner that they could hardly observe each other for a moment without exposing themselves to his searching eye and keen observation. Greatly displeased at this kind of inquisition, the lover frequently wished the devout corn dealer in Purgatory, or that he would at least offer up his prayers in another church. Such an antipathy did he at length conceive to Ser Nastagio, that he resolved to employ his utmost efforts to prevail upon him to withdraw himself from that spot. He at last hit upon a plan which he thought sure to succeed, in a manner equally safe and amusing. He hastened without delay to the officiating priest, whom he addressed as follows:—“It has ever been esteemed, my good Messer Pastore, a most heavenly and laudable disposition to devote ourselves to the relief of our poorer brethren. And this you doubtless know far better than I can tell you.... But there are many who, however destitute, feel ashamed to come forward for the purpose of begging alms. Now I think that I have of late observed one of them in a person who frequents your church. He was formerly a Jew, but not long ago he became a Christian, and one whose exemplary life and conduct render him in all respects worthy of the name. There is not a more destitute being on the face of the earth; while such is his modesty that I assure you I have frequently had the utmost difficulty in persuading him to accept of alms. It would really be a meritorious act were you to touch some morning on his cruel misfortunes, relating his conversion to our faith, and the singular modesty with which he attempts to conceal his wants. This would probably procure for him a handsome contribution; and if you will only have the kindness to apprise me of the day, I will bring a number of my friends along with me, and we shall be sure to find this poor fellow seated in your church.”

Our kind-hearted priest cheerfully complied with the wily lover’s request. He proposed the next Sunday morning, when a large number of people would be present, regretting that he had not been sooner informed of the affair. Faustino next gave an exact description of the corn merchant, observing that the poor man always appeared neat and clean, so that he could not possibly mistake him. Then, taking leave of the good friar, he hastened to communicate this piece of mischief to some of his young companions. Punctually next Sunday they were at the church, even early enough to hear the first mass; and there Messer Nastagio was seen at his usual post, surrounded by a crowd of people. After going through the Evangelists and the Creed, and muttering a few Aves, the good priest paused and looked about him; then, wiping his forehead, and taking breath for a while, he again addressed the congregation as follows:—“Dearly beloved brethren, you must be aware that the most pleasing thing you can do in the eyes of the Lord is to show your charity towards poorer Christians.... As I know you are not wanting in charity, but rather abounding in good works, I am not afraid to inform you that there is a most deserving yet destitute object before you, who, though too modest to urge your compassion, is in every way worthy of it. Pray take pity upon him. Behold him!” he cried, pointing full at Ser Nastagio: “Lo! thou art the man. Yes!” he continued, while the corn merchant stared at him in the utmost astonishment; “yes, thou art the man! Thy modesty shall no longer conceal thee from the eyes of the people which are now fixed upon thee. For though thou wert once an Israelite, my friend, thou art now one of the lost sheep which are found, and if thou hast not much temporal, thou hast a hoard of eternal wealth.” He addressed himself during the whole of this time, both by words and signs, to Ser Nastagio, yet the poor merchant could by no means persuade himself against the evidence of his own reason that he was the person pointed out. Without stirring, therefore, he somewhat reluctantly put his hand into his pocket, preparing to bestow his alms in the same manner as the rest of the congregation. The first person to present his contribution was the author of the trick, who, approaching the spot where the merchant stood, offered his alms, and, in spite of Ser Nastagio, dropped them into his hat. And though the incensed tradesman exclaimed, “I have a longer purse than thou hast ears!” it availed him nothing. The good priest pursued his theme without noticing Ser Nastagio’s remark, except by saying, “Give no credit to his words, good people, but give him alms, give him alms; it is his modest merit which prevents him from accepting them. Yes, go thrust them into the good man’s pockets; fill his hat, his shoes, his clothes with them, and make him bear away with him the good fruits of your charity.” Then once more directing his attention to the confused and angry merchant, he exclaimed, “Do not look thus ashamed, but take them, take them; for, believe me, good friend, many greater and better men have been reduced to the same piteous plight. You should rather consider it as an honour than otherwise, inasmuch as your necessities have not been the consequence of your own misconduct, but solely arise from your embracing the light of truth.”

The priest had no sooner ended than there was a general rush of the whole congregation towards the place where the merchant stood, endeavouring who should be first to deposit their donations in his hands, while he in vain attempted to resist the tide of charitable contributions which now poured in on every side. He had likewise to struggle against his own avarice, for he would willingly have received the money, though he did all in his power to repulse their gifts. When the tumult had a little subsided, Ser Nastagio began to attack the priest in the most virulent terms, until the preacher was inclined to suspect that in some way he had been misinformed. He thus began to make his excuses, as well as he could, for the error into which he had fallen; but the lover’s purpose was accomplished, and the deed could not be recalled. For the story was quickly circulated through the whole city, to the infinite amusement of all its inhabitants, and Ser Nastagio was never known to enter that church again.

Girolamo Parabosco (16th century).

HOW A BARRISTER GOT HIS MONEY’S WORTH.

In our city there flourished a certain learned advocate, a member of the great Castello family, Messer Dionisio by name. Having occasion to enter into the legal arena with another advocate, whose name I cannot just now recollect, Messer Dionisio was retained as counsel to Signor Giovanni de’ Bentivogli. The case was tried before our worthy magistrate, Messer Nicoluzzo de’ Piccoluomini, of Siena; and as it often happens to these gentlemen of the robe, when deeply engaged in the interests of their clients, they became so very personal in the cause of their principals, that at length our friend’s adversary, unable to bear his bitter taunts, fairly challenged his honour and veracity, which so incensed Messer Dionisio that, in a fit of sudden passion, he clenched his fist and smote his learned antagonist very severely on the mouth. The presiding magistrate, greatly scandalised at our friend’s new method of enforcing his arguments, vigorously remonstrated with him, and threatened to enforce the full penalty of the law, assuring him that he dealt too mildly in not committing him on the spot. He would have executed his menace, had not the high qualities and connections of Messer Dionisio restrained him. He replied to the judge’s threats, with the most perfect composure, “Most noble prætor, according to the tenor of our civil law, I believe you will only be able to demand about ten pieces from me;” and putting his hand in his pocket, he drew forth ten broad gold ducats, saying, “Take only what the law allows you, and hand me the remainder back.” But the judge, seizing in a rage upon the whole, cried, “You must apply elsewhere for the remainder;” which again brought the angry counsellor upon his legs. Turning quickly round upon his adversary, now busily employed in repairing the ruins of his jaws, and uttering fierce exclamations for justice, our friend again addressed him: “If this be the case, I must have what I have paid for, over and above;” and he struck him a more violent blow than before upon his left cheek. He then addressed the judge: “My lord, you have made me pay for more than the amount of both the arguments I have applied in the very face of my learned brother; but keep the money—he is a pitiful advocate indeed who would scruple to take advantage of his opponent for the sake of ten ducats. I have had my revenge.” And turning his back upon the court, he left his brother advocate quite unable to make any reply, and grievously lamenting and appealing to the magistrate for justice. He was at last obliged to be patient, for though somewhat incensed the court could not refrain from indulging a degree of mirth at Dionisio’s singular arguments. The only sentence obtained that day in court was, “He who received the injury sustained all the loss.”

Sabadino degli Arienti (c. 1450–1500).

THE MERRY JESTS OF BUFFALMACCO THE PAINTER.

Buonamico di Cristofano, nicknamed Buffalmacco, was a pupil of Andrea Tafi, and has been celebrated as a jester by Boccaccio. Franco Sacchetti also tells how, when Buffalmacco was still a boy with Andrea, his master had the habit, when the nights were long, of getting up before day to work, and calling his boys. This was displeasing to Buonamico, who had to rise in the middle of his best sleep, and he considered how he might prevent Andrea from getting up before day to work, and this was what occurred to him. Having found thirty great beetles in an ill-kept cellar, he fastened on each of their backs a little candle, and at the hour when Andrea was used to rise, he put them one by one through a hole in the door into Andrea’s chamber, having first lighted the candles. His master awaking at the hour for calling Buffalmacco, and seeing the lights, was seized with terror and began to tremble like a fearful old man as he was, and to say his prayers and repeat the psalms; and at last, putting his head under the clothes, he thought no more that night of calling Buffalmacco, but lay trembling with fear till daybreak. The morning being come, he asked Buonamico if, like him, he had seen more than a thousand devils. Buonamico answered, “No,” for he had kept his eyes closed, and wondered he had not been called. “What!” said Tafi, “I had something else to think of than painting, and am resolved to go into another house.” The next night, although Buonamico only put three beetles into Tafi’s chamber, yet he, from the last night’s terror and the fear of those few devils, could get no sleep at all, and, as soon as it was day, left the house determined never to return, and it took a great deal of good counsel to make him change his mind. At last Buonamico brought the priest to him, to console him. And Tafi and Buonamico discussing the matter, Buonamico said: “I have always heard say that demons are the greatest enemies of God, and consequently they ought to be the chief adversaries of painters, because not only do we always make them hideous, but we also never cease making saints on all the walls, and so cause men in despite of the devils to become more and more devout. So these devils being enraged against us, as they have greater power by night than by day, they come playing us these tricks, and it will be worse if this custom of getting up early is not quite given up.” With such words Buffalmacco managed the matter, what the priest said helping him; so that Tafi left off getting up early, and the devils no longer went about the house at night with candles. But not many months after, Tafi, drawn by the desire of gain, and having forgotten his fears, began afresh to get up early and to call Buffalmacco; whereon the beetles began again to appear, until he was forced by his fears to give it up entirely, being earnestly counselled to do so by the priest. And the matter being noised abroad in the city for a time, neither Tafi nor any other painter ventured to get up at night to work.

While painting the church of the convent of Faenza, at Florence, Buffalmacco, who was very careless and negligent in his dress, as in other things, did not always wear his hood and mantle, as was the fashion at the time; and the nuns, watching him through the screen they had erected, began to complain that it did not please them to see him in his doublet. At last, as he always appeared in the same fashion, they began to think that he was only some boy employed in mixing colours; and they gave him to understand, through their abbess, that they should prefer to see his master, and not always him. To this Buonamico answered good-humouredly that when the master came he would let them know, understanding, nevertheless, how little confidence they had in him. Then he took a stool, and placed upon it another, and on the top he put a pitcher or water-jug, and fastened a hood on the handle, and covered up the rest of the jug with a cloak, fastening it well behind the tables; and having fixed a pencil in the spout of the jug, he went away. The nuns coming again to see the picture through a hole that they had made in the screen, saw the supposed master in his fine attire, and not doubting that he was working with all his might, doing very different work from what that boy did, for several days were quite content. At last, being desirous to see what fine things the master had done in the last fortnight (during which time Buonamico had not been there at all), one night, thinking he was gone, they went to see his picture, and were overcome with confusion when one more bold than the rest detected the solemn master, who during the fortnight had done no work at all. But, acknowledging that he had only treated them as they deserved, and that the work which he had done was worthy of praise, they sent their steward to call Buonamico back; and he with great laughter went back to his work, letting them see the difference between men and water-jugs, and that it does not always do to judge a man’s work by his clothes. So in a few days he finished a picture with which they were greatly pleased, except that the faces seemed to them to be too pale and wan. Buonamico having heard this, and knowing that the Abbess had some wine which was the best in Florence, told them that if they wished to remedy the defect, it could only be done by mixing the colours with good wine; and then if the cheeks were touched with the colour, they would become red and of a more lively aspect. The good sisters hearing this, and ready to believe everything, kept him always supplied with excellent wine while he worked; and he, while enjoying the wine himself, to please them, made his colours more fresh and bright.

Vasari (1512–1574).

A certain painter had a picture, wherein was an ox which looked better than the rest. Michael Angelo Buonarotti being asked why the painter had made it more life-like than the rest, replied, “Every painter succeeds best in a portrait of himself.”

Vasari.

Another painter had executed a historical picture, in which every figure was copied from some other artist, insomuch that no part of the picture was his own. It was shown to Michael Angelo Buonarotti, who, when he had seen it, was asked by a very intimate friend of his what he thought of it. He replied: “He has done well, but, at the Day of Judgment, when all bodies will resume their own limbs again, I do not know what will become of that historical picture, for there will be nothing left of it.”

Vasari.

CHORUS FROM “LA MANDRAGOLA.”

How happy is he, as all may see

Who has the good fortune a fool to be,

And what you tell him will always believe!

No ambition can grieve,

No fear can affright him

Which are wont to be seeds

Of pain and annoy.

This doctor of ours,

’Tis not hard to delight him—

If you tell him ‘twill gain him

His heart’s wish and joy,

He’ll believe in good faith that an ass can fly,—

Or that black is white, and the truth a lie,—

All things in the world he may well forget—

Save the one whereon his whole heart is set.

Niccolo Machiavelli (1469–1527).

FRA TIMOTEO’S MONOLOGUE.
FRA TIMOTEO (alone).

I have not been able to get a wink of sleep to-night, for wondering how Callimaco and the rest have been getting on. I have been trying to pass the time, while waiting, by attending to various matters. I said the morning prayers, read a chapter of the Lives of the Holy Fathers, went into church and lit a lamp which had gone out, and changed the veil of a statue of the Madonna which works miracles. How many times have I told the monks to keep that image clean? And then they wonder why there is a lack of devotion! I remember the time when there were five hundred images here, and now there are not twenty. This is all our own fault; we have not been able to keep up the reputation of the place. We used to go in procession after service every evening, and have the Lauds sung every Saturday. We always made vows here, so as to get fresh images, and we used to encourage the men and women who came to confession to make vows likewise. Nowadays none of these things are done, and we are astonished that there is so little enthusiasm! What an amazingly small quantity of brains these monks of mine have among them!

Niccolo Machiavelli.

THE MEDIÆVAL UNDERGRADUATE.

There was once at Padua a Sicilian scholar called Pontius, who seeing one day a countryman with a pair of fat fowls, pretending that he wanted to buy them, made a bargain with him and said, “Come home with me, and over and above the price I will give thee some breakfast.” So he led him to a place where there was a bell-tower, which is separate from the church, so that one can go all round it; and opposite one of the four faces of the Campanile was the end of a little street. Here Pontius, having first thought of what he wished to do, said to the countryman: “I have wagered these fowls with one of my comrades, who says that this tower is certainly forty feet in circumference; and I say no. So just at that moment when I met you I had been buying this string to measure it with; and before we go home, I want to ascertain which of us has won.” Thus saying, he took the string out of his sleeve, and gave one end of it to the countryman to hold, and saying, “Give here!” he took the fowls from him, and holding the other end of the string, began to go round the tower, as if to measure it, making the countryman stop on that side of the tower which was opposite the end of the little street. When he had reached this side he drove a nail into the wall and tied the string to it, and thus leaving it, went off quietly down the street with the fowls. The countryman remained for a great space of time, waiting till he should have finished measuring; but at last, when he had several times said, “What are you doing so long?” he went to see, and found that the one who held the string was not Pontius, but a nail driven into the wall, which was all that remained to him as payment for the fowls.

Baldassarre Castiglione (1478–1529).

The Bishop of Corvia, in order to find out the intentions of the Pope, one day said to him: “Holy father, it is commonly reported in all Rome, and even in the palace, that your holiness is about to make me governor.” Then the Pope replied, “Never mind what they say; they are nothing but low-tongued rascals.”

Baldassarre Castiglione.

A certain pleader, to whom his adversary said, in presence of the judge: “What art thou barking for?” replied, “Because I see a thief.”

Baldassarre Castiglione.

The Archbishop of Florence once said to Cardinal Alessandrino that a man has nothing but his goods, his body, and his soul; and that the first is ruined for him by the lawyers, the second by the doctors, and the third by the theologians. Then Giuliano the Magnificent quoted the remarks by Nicoletto—viz., that it was rare to find a lawyer who would go to law, a doctor who would take physic, or a theologian who was a good Christian.

Baldassarre Castiglione.

A miser, who had refused to sell his corn while it was dear, seeing that the price had gone down, hanged himself in despair to one of the beams in his chamber. One of his servants, having heard the noise, ran in, and finding his master hanging from the ceiling, forthwith cut the rope and so saved his life. When the miser had come to himself, he insisted that the servant should pay for the rope which he had cut.

Baldassarre Castiglione.

As Duke Frederic of Urbino was one day talking of what was to be done with a large quantity of earth, which had been dug up in order to lay the foundation of his palace, an abbot who was present said: “My lord, I have been thinking where it should be put, and I have a good idea: order a great ditch to be dug, and you may then dispose of the earth without further hindrance.” The duke replied, not without a smile: “What are we to do with the earth which will be dug from this new ditch?” The abbot answered: “Let it be made big enough to hold both.” And thus, although the duke tried to show him that the larger the ditch the more earth would be dug out of it, he could not understand that it could not be made large enough to contain both heaps, but only replied, “Make it so much the larger.”

Baldassarre Castiglione.

A ROMAN PRELATE OF 1519.

... His hungry congregation waits in vain,

Wishing he’d come the Gospel to explain,

Begin, or rather end, his dull tho’ noisy strain.

At last he comes, deep-crimson’d o’er his face,

A certain token of unlettered grace;

He mounts, the pulpit crackles with his weight,

His awful eyebrows the most distant threat;

Against his brethren he exclaims aloud

That they are too luxurious in their food,

In taverns more than churches take delight,

Feast on fat capons; quaff the livelong night;

While, could you rummage his own private cell,

No noble’s larder e’er was stuffed so well.

Let me have books those moments to beguile,

When the rich prelate, in his haughty style,

Roars to his porter, “Here, let who will come,

Be sure you tell them I am not at home.”

So monks, carousing at their favourite meals,

Silence the interrupting sound of bells.

“Sir,” should I say (for Sir’s the proper word

Even at a cobbler’s stall, or tailor’s board),

“Good sir,” though to a tattered Swiss, “I pray,

May I not see His Eminence to-day?”

“No sproka to my Maister bater goud,

You go your lodgèe, come as when you coud.”[^[4]]

“Sir, be so kind at least to let him know

That Lewis Ariosto is below.”

He answers that his Rev’rence would not see

St Paul himself, though on an embassy....

Lodovico Ariosto (1474–1533).

THE VALLEY OF LOST LUMBER.

[Astolfo journeys to the Moon, on the winged steed Hippogrif, to recover the wits which Orlando has lost for love of the Princess Angelica.]

... Now Astolfo was conducted by his guide into a narrow valley between two steep mountains. And in this place there was miraculously collected together everything which gets lost on earth, either through some failing of our own, or by the fault of time or fortune. I mean not only riches and power, but also those things which fortune alone can neither give nor take away. Many a reputation lies up there, which time, like a moth, has long been gnawing at here below, and also numberless vows and good resolutions made by sinners. There we should find the tears and sighs of lovers, the time lost in gaming, all the wasted leisure of ignorant men, and all vain intentions which have never been put into action. Of fruitless desires there are so many that they lumber up the greater part of that place. In short, whatever you have lost here below you will find again if you ascend thither.

Our Paladin, as he passed along, now and again asking questions of his guide, saw a mountain of blown bladders, which seemed to be full of noise inside. And he knew that these were the ancient crowns of the Assyrians, and of Lydia, and of the Persians and Greeks, which once were famous, while now their very names are almost forgotten. Close by he saw great masses of gold and silver piled up in heaps, which were those gifts that people made, in hopes of getting a reward, to kings and princes. He saw wreaths of flowers with traps hidden among them, and heard, in asking, that they were flatteries. Verses that men made in praise of their patrons are seen there, under the form of grasshoppers, who have hurt themselves with chirping.... He saw many broken bottles of different kinds, and found that they stand for the service men pay to courts, and the thanks they get for it. Then he came to a great pool of spilt broth, and asking what it was, his guide told him that it represented the alms people direct to be given after their deaths. Then he passed by a great heap of various flowers, which once were sweet-scented, but now have a foul odour; this was the gift (if we may be permitted to say so) that Constantine bestowed on the good Pope Sylvester.

He saw a great quantity of twigs covered with bird-lime, there, O fair ladies, are your beauty! He saw ... but it would be an endless task to count up the things which were shown him there. The only thing he did not find was folly: that remains here on earth, for no one ever parts with it.

At last he came to that which we are all so firmly persuaded we possess, that no one ever prayed to have it given him—I mean common sense. There was a huge heap of it, as big as all the other things put together. It was like a clear, soft liquid, which easily evaporates if it is not kept tightly corked, and was contained in bottles of various shapes and sizes, each one being labelled with the name of its owner. Astolfo noticed one which was much larger than the rest, and read on the label, “Orlando’s Wits.” He saw also a great part of his own; but what made him marvel more than anything was the fact that many people whom he had believed to have plenty of sense were now shown to have little or none, the bottles marked with their names being nearly full. Some lose it through love, others in striving after honours; yet others, in seeking for riches by land and sea, or by putting their trust in great lords and princes, or in pursuing after follies of magic and sorcery, or gems or pictures, or anything else which a man values above others. There was a great quantity of the wits of philosophers and astrologers stored there, and also of those of poets. Astolfo took up his own, having received permission to do so, and put the flask to his nose; and it appears that his wits returned to their place right enough, for Turpin confesses that from thenceforth Astolfo lived very wisely indeed for a long time. But afterwards, it is true, he made one mistake which once more deprived him of his brains. Then he took up the large flask which contained Orlando’s, and which was no light weight, and turned to depart....

Lodovico Ariosto.

THE POET TO HIS PATRON.

O, Master Anthony, I am in love

With that fine doublet you’ve not given me!

I love, and wish it well as heartily

As ’twere the lady I call “Flower” and “Dove.”

I look on’t front and back—a perfect fit!

The more I look, the more I long for it.

It pleases me, inside and out,

And up and down. Oh! heaven,

That you have only lent me it, not given!

Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!

When in the morn I see it on my back,

I always think that it must be my own;

That cunning stitchery of herring-bone,

How great a marvel! I am on the rack!

I shall do something desperate,—good lack!

And will not—cannot understand

I must restore it to your hand—

Oh! how I long for it, without a doubt!

Oh! Master Anthony, if you knew how

To set about it, you a faction-chief

Might be. Look at me in this doublet now,—

Am I not gallant?—half a Mars, in brief?

Make up your mind you want it not again,

And I will be your brave,

Your foot-page and your slave,

And walk, with sword on thigh, among your train!

O canzonet!

If thou dost fail this doublet for to get,

Thou well may’st say, I have

Been such a fool, I should be called a knave!

Francesco Berni (1490?–1536).

BENVENUTO CELLINI OFFENDS THE POPE.

When I made this speech, there was present that gentleman of Cardinal Santa Fiore’s with whom I had had words, and confirmed to the Pope all that had been told him! The Pope remained swelling with rage, and said nothing. Now I do not wish to fail in stating my reasons in a just and righteous manner. That gentleman of Santa Fiore’s came to me one day, and brought me a little ring all tarnished with quicksilver, saying, “Burnish this ring for me, and make haste about it.” I had a great many pieces of goldsmith’s work in hand, with most valuable jewels waiting to be set, and hearing myself, moreover, ordered about with so much assurance by a man whom I had never seen or spoken to before, answered that I had not a burnisher by me just then, and that he had better go to another. He, without any reason in the world, told me that I was an ass. To these words of his I replied that he did not speak the truth, and that I was a man, on every account worth more than he; but that, if he bothered me, I would certainly kick harder than any ass. He went straight to the cardinal, and made out that I had all but murdered him. Two days after this I was shooting behind the palace at a wild pigeon, which had its nest in a hole, very high up; and that same pigeon I had seen shot at by a goldsmith named Giovan Francesco della Tacca, a Milanese, who had never hit it. On the day when I was shooting, it had become shy, and scarcely showed its head; and because this Giovan Francesco and I were rival marksmen, certain gentlemen and friends of mine who were in my workshop pointed it out to me, and said, “That is Tacca’s pigeon which he has so often shot at. See, the poor bird has grown suspicious, and scarcely shows its head.” I looked up, and said, “It shows quite enough for me to hit it, if I only had time to take aim first.” Those gentlemen said that the man himself who invented the firelock could never hit it. I replied I was willing to wager a pitcher of the best Greek wine that I would do so; and, taking aim, and shooting from the arm, without any support for my piece, I did what I had promised, without thinking of the cardinal or anybody else; nay, I had the less reason to do so, as I believed the cardinal to be very much my patron. Thus may the world see what divers ways Fortune takes, when she wishes to be the ruin of a man. To return to the Pope: he remained, all swollen and sulky, brooding over what he had heard....

Benvenuto Cellini (1500–1570).

HE RESCUES A FOOL FROM DROWNING.

When we had passed the Mount Simplon aforesaid, we found a river near a place called Indevedro. This river was very wide and rather deep, and crossed by a little narrow bridge without a parapet. There was a hard frost that morning, and when I reached the bridge—for I was in front of the rest, and saw that it was very dangerous—I ordered my young men and the servants to dismount, and lead their horses by the bridle. Thus I passed the said bridge in safety, and went on talking with one of those two Frenchmen, who was a gentleman. The other was a notary, who had remained somewhat behind, and jeered at that gentleman and at me, saying that for fear of nothing at all we had preferred the discomfort of going on foot; to whom I turned, and seeing him on the middle of the bridge, prayed him to come softly, for that it was a very dangerous place. This man, who could not help showing his French nature, said to me in French that I was a man of little courage, and that there was no danger at all. While he was saying these words he pricked his horse with the spur, through which means it suddenly slipped over the edge of the bridge, and fell close beside a large stone, turning over with its legs in the air; and as God very often shows compassion to fools, this beast, along with the other beast, his horse, fell into a great and deep hole, wherein both he and his horse went under water. As soon as I saw this I began to run, and with great difficulty leaped upon the stone aforesaid, and, holding on by it and hanging over the brink, I seized the edge of a gown which that man was wearing, and by that gown I pulled him up, while he was still under water; and because he had drunk a great quantity of water, and within a little would have been drowned, I, seeing him out of danger, told him I was rejoiced at having saved his life. Whereat he answered me that I had done nothing—that the most important thing were his parchments, which were worth much money. It seemed that he spoke thus in anger, all soaked through as he was, and muttering confusedly. At this I turned to the guides we had with us, and promised to pay them if they would help this beast. One of the guides valorously, and with great difficulty, set himself to do what he could, and fished up all the parchments, so that he lost nothing; the other would not put himself to any trouble to help him....

Benvenuto Cellini.

OPENING STANZAS OF “THE RAPE OF THE BUCKET.”

Fain would I sing that direful wrath which swayed

Men’s bosoms for a Bucket, spoil renowned!

Stolen from Bologna, and in pomp displayed,

By hostile Modenese with conquest crowned.

Phœbus! the conflicts and adventures dread

Of horrid war assist me to resound.

Inspiring God! till I am grown acuter,

Lend me thy helping hand, and be my tutor.

And thou, the nephew of the Pope of Rome!

And of the generous Carlo, son the second;

Thou who hast wisdom in thy youthful bloom,

In tender years of high endowments reckoned;

From studies deep, in which thou’rt quite at home,

If thou canst turn, by recreation beckoned,

List to my song; see here the Grecian Helen

Transformed into a Bucket, war compelling!

Alessandro Tassoni (1565–1635).

THE CALL TO ARMS.

Then like the Spartans lived the Modenese

Unfortified, without a parapet;

So shallow were the fosses that with ease

Men might run in and out early or late;

The Great Bell’s toll now echoed on the breeze,

And up from bed jumped all the people straight;

Summoned to arm, some bolted quick downstairs,

Some to the windows rushed—and some to prayers.

Some snatched a shoe and slipper, some in haste

Had only one leg stockinged, others again

In petticoats turned inside out were dressed,

Lovers exchanged their shirts; some with disdain

Took frying-pans for shields, and forward pressed

With buckets on for helms, others were fain

To brandish hedge-bills, and in breast-plates bright

Ran swaggering to the Square, prepared for fight.

There had the Potta, ready at his post,

The City Standard valorously spread;

Himself on horseback armed, and he could boast

Bright scarlet breeches, shoes too, lively red:

The Modenese, abridging, to their cost,

Potestà, wrote but Potta in its stead;

And hence the Bolognese in joke had got a

Cognomen, and they called his Mayorship Potta!

Messer Lorenzo Scotti, sage and strong,

Was Potta then, and suits at law decided;

Now foot and horsemen, a promiscuous throng,

All hurry to the Square, and these divided

Are posted at the gateways; from among

The rest a chosen squadron is confided

To Rangon’s son Gherardo,—to his hand

The Standard too is given and chief command.

Alessandro Tassoni.

THE ASSEMBLY OF THE GODS.

O’er rolling stars, from heavenly stalls advancing,

The coaches soon were seen, and a long train

Of mules with litters, horses fleet and prancing,

Their trappings all embroidery, nothing plain;

And with fine liveries, in the sunbeams glancing,

More than a hundred servants, rather vain

Of handsome looks and of their stature tall,

Followed their masters to the Council Hall.

First came the Prince of Delos, Phœbus hight,

In a gay travelling carriage, fleetly drawn

By six smart Spanish chestnuts, shining bright,

Which with their tramping shook the aerial lawn;

Red was his cloak, three-cocked his hat, and light

Around his neck the golden fleece was thrown;

And twenty-four sweet damsels, nectar-sippers,

Were running near him in their pumps or slippers.

Pallas, with lovely but disdainful mien,

Came on a nag of Basignanian race;

Tight round her leg, and gathered up, was seen