Chapter V: Introduction (4)

I travel too, and not so meanly either,
In a way which is most natural and meet,—
I do not take account of wind or weather,
But go, as nature meant, on my own feet,
Step after step, in douce and measured wise
Taking, for pastime and for exercise.

I am not taken for a vagabond,
Nor do the folk call me a lackpenny;
I pass for one who roves the world around,
And goes afoot the better for to see.
As Crœsus, it is true, I am not prized,
But as a gentleman am recognised.

For my part, I do everything I may
To merit this respect, with all my might—
With step most leisurely I take my way.
To show I’m walking for my own delight,
And as a proof that I have coin to spend,
I always ask, “Where’s the best inn, my friend?”

Sometimes most like a botanist I go,
Keenly observing plants, with head bent down—
Pick flowers, or make pretence of doing so,
And pocket pebbles with a sapient frown.
Or sometimes, like a painter, I stand still
And gaze for half-an-hour on vale and hill.

When nearing some small village I retire
Into a ditch, or else behind a mound,
To sit and cool myself, if I perspire,
Awhile—and dust my hat, and look around
For a fresh spring in some convenient place,
To smarten up, and wash my hands and face.

· · · · ·

As I pass on, with slow and easy pace,
“A gentleman from town,” the people say,
“Most likely lodging in some neighbouring place,
And sauntering forth t’ enjoy this summer day;”
Ploughman and labourer lift their hats and stare,
And take me for the Worshipful the Mayor.

Entering the inn in unembarrassed wise,
I say, “I think I’ll stay awhile,” and then
To find my horse they cast inquiring eyes;
“They wanted me to take one,” I explain,
“But not to walk a bit were sin, I say,
In such fine weather as we have to-day.”

And that they may not think that I am tired,
I stamp about the kitchen till it shakes.
“How well I feel!” I shout like one inspired,—
“A little exercise such difference makes!”
They ask me where I stay—’tis not amiss
If I reply, “Within a walk of this!”

And, after all, Dame Nature legs has given
For to support the person, more or less,
And carry us to all the airts of heaven,—
Not to be dangled in mere idleness;
So any gentleman may use this limb,
Nor cause his ancestors to blush for him.

[But a walking-tour is not without its inconveniences. The poet dwells on the discomforts of heat, cold weather, and muddy roads.]

Then, if perchance a carriage passes by,
Me the postillion eyes with savage mind,
And backward cracks his whip, suspecting I,
To steal a ride, am getting up behind.
I look not like a knave, yet constantly
The travellers on their luggage keep an eye.

I ask mine host o’ the inn if there’s a bed;
From head to foot he looks me coldly o’er,
Then turns his back, with haughtiness ill-bred,
And deigns no answer. I seem to be once more
In London, where the man in livery
Asks first your name, then “Not at home,” says he.

[Respectable inns always have some excuse for refusing to entertain the wayfarer. Some one at last takes pity on him and points out a low pot-house, with a green branch for a sign, where every one is welcome. Here too, however, he is contemptuously received. The landlord looks at the dust on his boots, and hesitates about admitting him; the chambermaids address him, not as “Sir,” but as “You, there!” and when dinner is served he is not asked to sit down to table.]

And when I ask to go to bed, appears
The stable-boy with rushlight in his hand,
And takes me up some seven flights of stairs
To a den with neither chair nor washhand stand;
He sets the candle down upon the floor,
And, after going out, he locks the door.

[Yet these inconveniences are not the invariable rule; and, after all, they are outweighed by the advantages of travelling on foot. One is perfectly independent, and can do as one likes, which is not always the case with wealthy people.]

And thus on foot I take my cheerful way,—
Moreover, with economy ’tis fraught;
My shoes are paid for—I take leave to say,
I doubt my lord’s fine equipage is not.
Since then I pay my way respectably—
Henceforth, none but St. Francis’ nag[9] for me!
_Filippo Pananti_ (1776–1837).

_LOVE AND A QUIET LIFE._
FROM “L’AMOR PACIFICO.”

O blessed peace! O close and sacred tie!
Long life to Veneranda and her dove!
But I must needs inform you how and why
This faithful pair first told their tender love.
At a friend’s house they’d dined, and when upstairs
Found themselves side by side in two arm-chairs.

When half-an-hour had mutely passed away,
Taddeo plucked up heart and broke the ice.
“Pray, madam, ... did you like the cream to-day?”
“Delicious!” “I’m so glad you thought it nice.
The ham too?” “Exquisite!” “And then the birds?”
“Perfection!” “And the fish?” “Beyond all words!”

“’Tis true that we had hardly room to sit.”
“Nay, ’twas a pleasure, when one sat by _you_;
But if, dear ma’am, I jogged your arm a bit,
Trust me, ’twas what I could not choose but do.”
“Don’t mention it. _You_ suffered, I suspect?
I’m stout, you see!” “An excellent defect!”

“Indeed?” “Indeed! That face now, in my eyes,
Blooms like May day. Long may it last in blow!”
“I’m healthy!” “Healthy! Fresh as Paradise!”
“Come, come! I’m somewhat stout!” “And better so!
For my part, if I might, I’d very fain
Have leave to call upon you now and then.”

“Oh! you’d be bored!” “I bored! What words are these?
’Twould rather be my best and primest pleasure.”
“Fie! Now you’re flattering! Well! Come when you please!”
“I think, dear madam, in no common measure,
Our characters are fitted to unite,
What do _you_ say?”
“La!—Well—perhaps they might!”
_Giuseppe Giusti_ (1809–1850).

_INSTRUCTIONS TO A YOUNG ASPIRANT FOR OFFICE._

That you must cut all liberals whatever,
All men of genius, all the “dangerous” crew,
Not prate of books or papers, but endeavour
To prove that they are all High Dutch to you;
That you must bolt your heart, and hold your tongue,
You’ve known, yourself, I’m well aware, for long....

... Now, first and foremost, learn to bend your back!—
Be Veneration’s self personified.
Dress ill; your clothes should fit you like a sack,
And always take some big-wig for your guide.
The cowl does make the monk in such a case,
And the wall’s valued by its plaster face....

Get introduced, and every blessed night
Visit some lout they’ve made a minister.
There choose your time, and change your stops aright,
According as his tastes or whims prefer.
And if tomfoolery’s the thing for winning,
Play the tomfool, and set the folks a-grinning.

Keep him supplied with news, and ferret out
Fresh scandal, gossip, all that folks will tell you;
And, so to speak, what the whole town’s about,
Down from His Highness even to Stenterello....[10]

· · · · ·

Say there arise a scandal, a dispute,
A hurly-burly in your patron’s house,—
“_Know-nought knew much, who knew when to be mute_,”
Says the old saw. Be mute, then, as a mouse!
Great men will sometimes act like fools, ’tis certain,
In their own homes. Be ours to—drop the curtain!

Jump at all hints. Keep begging every way.
Take all they give you, so they let you serve;
But—beg! “_The toad refused to beg_,” they say,
“_And therefore got no tail_.” Besides, observe
That, if not propped and fostered by our need,
Great men’s authority’s a dream indeed.

Remember to ignore and overpass
Each rude rebuff, each peevish look and tone,
And, like Pope Sixtus, write yourself an ass
If you’re resolved to reach _your_ papal throne.
After the bitters, sweets will come at length,
And sturdy begging beat close-fisted strength.

With profit Gingillino did attend
To the sage preaching of his vulpine friend.
He went; he knuckled down; he bared his crown;
He crept, crawled, coaxed, and cringed to sword and gown;
And when they’d dried him, tried him, sifted him, drifted him,
From Dan to Beersheba, at last they lifted him—
When the whole process they’d gone through and through,
With rites baptismal and with chrismal too—
Their heaven of three-piled roguedom to ascend,
Took him within the fold—and that’s his end!
_Giuseppe Giusti._

_LETTER TO TOMMASO GROSSI._

PISA, _Nov. 15, 1845_.

Well done! Signor Grossi! Well done, indeed! Your lordship is over there enjoying yourself; and nobody even dreams of talking about a poor wretch like me, who is neither here nor there. But don’t you feel a singing in your ears from morning to night? You, I mean, you lazy, luxurious, thankless, forgetful wretch! Is it so much trouble to write on a piece of paper, “I am well—the family ditto, and we all remember you”? Is this what comes of your having a good time—eh? Now my gentleman is at Bellano, in his own house, away from everything that can possibly worry him, surrounded with every earthly blessing, and thinks he has the Pope in his pocket.... As for his friends, they are “out of sight, out of mind,” with him. Only let me come to Milan again, and you shall see. If ever you dare to try your old tricks again in my presence, I shall say to you, with a face a yard long—

Let Signor Grossi hook!
On him I will not look (_facit indignatio versum_).

But, joking apart, what infernal airs are these you are giving yourself in not answering? Are all the pens used in your house made of lead? I, who am one of the laziest men living under the vault of heaven, have written you people letters upon letters, and you are no more to be moved than so many blocks. Only M. has had pity on me; but he is so upset on account of a certain promise of ——’s, that, out of a page and a half of letter, there were only about three lines for me. But even this is something, and something is better than nothing. But against _you_ I have a grudge—one big enough to make me do something outrageous....

I ought not to say so—because not one of the whole lot of you deserves it—but the parting from you threw me into a deep melancholy, which still continues. My liver, or some other fiend who has his dwelling under the ribs, has again got out of order,—and no one knows how much trouble it will give me before getting right again. If I had to endure another winter like the last, Job might be said to have lived and died in the greatest comfort in comparison with me. I do not wish to have anything more to do with doctors—I have always found them just like the fog, which leaves the weather as it finds it. I trust in the climate of Pisa, and if there is anything that I wish for, it is a little bottle of “_Never-mind-it_,” which is a medicine good for many diseases. Though, I think, when one has it, one must prepare it for himself, and measure out his own doses; and I have never been a skilled apothecary as regards this particular drug. On the contrary, it has always been a failing of mine to thrust my head too deeply into the affairs of this ridiculous world,—and my own, which are the most ridiculous of all,—and once in, it is no easy matter to get it out again. How many times I have made up my mind to think only of myself, and let things go as they like! and every time I do so, this idiotic heart, which, through no fault of my own, I have to drag about with me, has made me look like a fool of the first magnitude. Certainly it is quite evident that I was intended by nature for burlesque; since every time I have taken a thing seriously, I have been sure, sooner or later, to act the harlequin before my own eyes. So that now, whenever I have to do with worthy people who are firm and solid, and (so to speak) all in one piece, I am always secretly in dread lest one day or other they should belie their natures and turn out the veriest quicksilver. Do you know that in the end it really cannot be such a very great misfortune to leave this puppetshow that they call life? Surely it cannot be that we shall have people playing Punch and Judy tricks in the other world! Either we shall all have become wise, or at least, if we are destined to carry with us a grain or so of folly and ridiculousness, I do believe that we shall be permitted to divide into sets according to our own particular fancy. And, look you, if, when I have arrived up there, I happen to see two or three men that I know of, I shall join that clique at once, and stay there _per omnia sæcula sæculorum_. With these certain ones I should hope that (the weakness of our mortal nature being once left behind) a thing once said would be looked upon as settled, and that we should have an end of—

“_Yes_, I answered you last night—
_No_, this morning, sir, I say!”

But I hope you understand that I want neither you nor Sandrino Manzoni near me, either in this world or the next; for I shall never forget the way you have treated me, letting me go without so much as a “Good-bye”—not even a “_Go and be hanged to you._” I have made a note of it, and shall remember it against you till Doomsday.

Why is it that rascals like you can always put honest men in the wrong? In the very act of closing this letter I receive yours of the 2nd! Well, well, that is not so bad, but I have yet to see Manzoni’s; and you, by promising it, have done me more harm than good.

“STENTERELLO.”
]

Let us hope that our dear Alessandro Manzoni (who, by-the-bye, is a——; never mind, I won’t write it!) will be able to come to Pisa with Donna Teresa and Vittorina. Apropos of Vittorina, is it true that she has not been well of late? Arconati told me she had a cold when she left: I should be very sorry to think she was suffering from anything worse. Remember me to every one, not forgetting our friends Torti and Rossari; I have been going to write to them over and over again. I am glad to hear you are all well at home; were it not that I am still angry with you for that silence of a month and more, I should be inclined to tell you that you deserve this and every other good fortune. Well, good-bye, you rascal, and since there are some wrongs for which it is useless to claim compensation, I may as well send you my love.

P.S.—As for work, I have a great number of irons in the fire, but I am terribly afraid my stock of wood will not last long enough to heat them. When a perfect anarchy of plans and projects comes to life in my brain, this is a sign that it is not a time for finishing anything at all at all. Meanwhile, I shall dawdle along, reading this and that, as it happens,—and when the hour for production strikes, I shall produce.

_Giuseppe Giusti._

_DON ABBONDIO AND THE BRAVOES._
FROM “I PROMESSI SPOSI.”

[Don Abbondio, a village priest, walking by himself in a lonely place,
sees two bravoes waiting for him in a narrow lane.]
]

... He quickened his pace, recited a verse in a louder tone, composed his countenance to all the calm and cheerfulness he could summon up for the moment, made every effort to prepare a smile, and when he found himself right in front of the two swashbucklers, he ejaculated, mentally, “Now we’re in for it!” and stopped short.

“Your Reverence!” said one of the two, looking him full in the face.

“Who wants me?” replied Don Abbondio, raising his eyes from his book, and holding it open in both hands.

“You intend,” pursued the other, with the threatening and angry look of a man who has caught his inferior in the commission of a crime—“you intend to perform the ceremony of marriage, to-morrow, between Renzo Tramaglino and Lucia Mondella.”

“That is ...” answered Don Abbondio, in a quavering voice—“that is ... gentlemen, you are men of the world, and you know how these matters take place. The poor priest has nothing whatever to say in the business; they arrange everything between themselves, and then ... then they come to us, as you would come to a bank to draw out your money, and we—well, we are the servants of the congregation.”

“Well, then,” said the bravo, in an undertone, but with an impressive air of command, “this marriage is not to take place, either to-morrow, or at any other time.”

“But, gentlemen,” expostulated Don Abbondio, in the meek and gentle voice of a man trying to persuade an impatient listener—“but, gentlemen, do be good enough to put yourselves in my place. If the thing depended on me, now ... you see perfectly well that it matters nothing to me, one way or the other.”

“Come!” interrupted the bravo; “if the business had to be settled by talk, you would have us all, in a moment. We know nothing more about it, and do not want to. A man warned ... you understand?”

“But, gentlemen, you are too just, too reasonable——”

“But,” interrupted the second bravo, who now spoke for the first time—“but either the marriage will not take place, or—or the man who performs it will not repent of doing so, because he will not have time, and——” he finished off his sentence with a good round oath.

“Hush!” returned the first speaker; “his Reverence knows the ways of the world; and we are gentlemen, and do not want to do him any harm, if he will only have a little common sense. Your Reverence, the most illustrious Signor Don Rodrigo, our master, sends you his most respectful salutations.”

This name was like a flash of light in the darkness and confusion of Don Abbondio’s mind, but only served to increase his terror. He instinctively made a low bow, and said, “If you could suggest to me....”

“Oh! Suggest to you who know Latin!” interrupted the bravo, with a laugh which was half ferocious and half foolish. “That is your business. And, above all, never let a word escape you about this hint which we have given you for your good; otherwise ... ahem!... it would be the same thing as if you were to perform that marriage. Come! What message do you wish us to give to the illustrious Don Rodrigo?”

“My respects.”

“Explain yourself, your Reverence!”

“... Disposed ... always disposed to obedience....” In uttering these words he did not quite know, himself, whether he was giving a promise, or merely bestowing a commonplace compliment. The bravoes took it—or appeared to do so—in the more serious sense.

“Very good. Good-night, your Reverence,” said one of them, and turned, with his comrade, to depart. Don Abbondio, who a few minutes before would have given one of the eyes out of his head to get rid of them, now would have liked to prolong the conversation. “Gentlemen,” he began, shutting his book with both hands; but, without listening to him, they took the road by which he had come, singing the while a ditty better not transcribed, and were soon out of sight. Poor Don Abbondio remained for a moment with his mouth wide open, as if spell-bound; then he turned up the lane leading to his house, walking slowly, and seeming scarcely able to drag one leg after the other....

_Alessandro Manzoni_ (1784–1873).

_THE INTERRUPTED WEDDING._

[Don Abbondio, by finding one excuse after another for deferring the
marriage, has driven Renzo nearly to despair. At last, having
discovered the reason for the priest’s hesitation, in Don Rodrigo’s
hostility, he eagerly adopts a suggestion of Lucia’s mother, Agnese,
to the effect that a perfectly legal, though irregular, marriage may
be performed by the parties severally pronouncing, before a priest,
and in the presence of witnesses, the words, “This is my wife,” and
“This is my husband.” Renzo easily secures two witnesses, in the
persons of his friend Tonio and the latter’s half-witted brother.
Tonio owes Don Abbondio twenty-five _lire_, for which the priest holds
his wife’s necklace in pledge, and Renzo secures his co-operation by
giving him the amount of the debt. The five start at dusk for Don
Abbondio’s house. Agnese engages the priest’s housekeeper in
conversation outside the front door, and the others slip upstairs
unnoticed—the bride and bridegroom waiting on the landing, while Tonio
knocks at the door of Don Abbondio’s sitting-room.]

“_Deo gratias!_” said Tonio, in a loud voice.

“Tonio, eh? Come in,” replied a voice from within.

Tonio opened the door just wide enough to admit himself and his brother, one at a time, and then closed it after him, while Renzo and Lucia remained silent and motionless in the dark.

Don Abbondio was sitting in an old arm-chair, wrapped in a dilapidated dressing-gown, with an ancient cap on his head, which made a frame all round his face. By the faint light of a small lamp the two thick white tufts of hair which projected from under the cap, his bushy white eyebrows, moustache, and pointed beard all seemed, on his brown and wrinkled face, like bushes covered with snow on a rocky hillside seen by moonlight.

“Ah! ah!” was his salutation, as he took off his spectacles and put them into the book he was reading.

“Your Reverence will say we are late in coming,” said Tonio, bowing, as did Gervaso, but more awkwardly.

“Certainly it is late—late in every way. Do you know that I am ill?”

“Oh! I am very sorry, sir!”

“You surely must have heard that I am ill, and don’t know when I can see any one.... But why have you brought that—that fellow with you?”

“Oh! just for company, like, sir!”

“Very good—now let us see.”

“There are twenty-five new _berlinghe_, sir—those with Saint Ambrose on horseback on them,” said Tonio, drawing a folded paper from his pocket.

“Let us see,” returned Abbondio, and taking the paper, he put on his spectacles, unfolded it, took out the silver pieces, turned them over and over, counted them, and found them correct.

“Now, your Reverence, will you kindly give me my Tecla’s necklace?”

“Quite right,” replied Don Abbondio; and going to a cupboard, he unlocked it, and having first looked round, as if to keep away any spectators, opened one side, stood in front of the open door, so that no one could see in, put in his head to look for the pledge, and his arm to take it out, and, having extracted it, locked the cupboard, unwrapped the paper, said interrogatively, “All right?” wrapped it up again, and handed it over to Tonio.

“Now,” said the latter, “would you please let me have a little black and white, sir?”

“This, too!” exclaimed Don Abbondio; “they are up to every trick! Eh! how suspicious the world has grown! Can’t you trust me?”

“How, your Reverence, not trust you? You do me wrong! But as my name is down on your book, on the debtor side, ... and you have already had the trouble of writing it once, so ... in case anything were to happen, you know...”

“All right, all right,” interrupted Don Abbondio, and, grumbling to himself, he opened the table drawer, took out pen, paper, and inkstand, and began to write, repeating the words out loud as he set them down. Meanwhile, Tonio, and, at a sign from him, Gervaso, placed themselves in front of the table, so as to prevent the writer from seeing the door, and, as if in mere idleness, began to move their feet about noisily on the floor, in order to serve as a signal to those outside, and, at the same time, to deaden the sound of their footsteps. Don Abbondio, intent on his work, noticed nothing. Renzo and Lucia hearing the signal, entered on tiptoe, holding their breath, and stood close behind the two brothers. Meanwhile, Don Abbondio, who had finished writing, read over the document attentively, without raising his eyes from the paper, folded it, and saying, “Will you be satisfied now?” took off his spectacles with one hand, and held out the sheet to Tonio with the other. Tonio, while stretching out his hand to take it, stepped back on one side, and Gervaso, at a sign from him, on the other, and between the two appeared Renzo and Lucia. Don Abbondio saw them, started, was dumfoundered, became furious, thought it over, and came to a resolution, all in the time that Renzo took in uttering these words: “Your Reverence, in the presence of these witnesses, this is my wife!” His lips had not yet ceased moving when Don Abbondio let fall the receipt, which he was holding in his left hand, raised the lamp, and seizing the table-cloth with his right hand, dragged it violently towards him, throwing book, papers, and inkstand to the ground, and, springing between the chair and table, approached Lucia. The poor girl, with her sweet voice all trembling, had only just been able to say “This is ...” when Don Abbondio rudely flung the table-cloth over her head, and immediately dropping the lamp which he held in his other hand, used the latter to wrap it tightly round her face, nearly suffocating her, while he roared at the top of his voice, like a wounded bull, “Perpetua! Perpetua! treason! help!” When the light was out the priest let go his hold of the girl, went groping about for the door leading into an inner room, and, having found it, entered and locked himself in, still shouting, “Perpetua! treason! help! get out of this house! get out of this house!” In the other room all was confusion; Renzo, trying to catch the priest, and waving his hands about as though he had been playing at blindman’s buff, had reached the door, and kept knocking, crying out, “Open! open! don’t make a noise!” Lucia called Renzo in a feeble voice, and said supplicatingly, “Let us go! do let us go!” Tonio was down on his hands and knees, feeling about the floor to find his receipt, while Gervaso jumped about and yelled like one possessed, trying to get out by the door leading to the stairs.

In the midst of this confusion we cannot refrain from a momentary reflection. Renzo, raising a noise by night in another man’s house, which he had surreptitiously entered, and keeping its owner besieged in an inner room, has every appearance of being an oppressor,—yet, after all, when you come to look at it, he was the oppressed. Don Abbondio, surprised, put to flight, frightened out of his wits while quietly attending to his own business, would seem to be the victim; and yet in reality, it was he who did the wrong. So goes the world, as it often happens; at least, so it used to go in the seventeenth century.

_A. Manzoni._

_OUR CHILDREN._

Nowadays, things are not what they were.

There are no children,—no boys; instead, we have a swarm of little politicians as yet unchristened—a crowd of Machiavellis seen through the wrong end of an opera-glass, who, if they do go to school every day, only do so for the sake of teaching their masters something—the latter being sorely in need of instruction.

What is it that has exterminated our boys from off the face of the earth?

The reading of political papers!

This is a warning to fathers and mothers.

Fathers of families, of course, are perfectly at liberty to buy a daily paper—or two, or five, or ten. For newspapers, even if taken to excess, are like tamarind jelly—if they do no good, they cannot do much harm. They are quite safe, if you know how to read them—the right way of the stuff, like English broadcloth.

But the mischief is this: fathers of families, when they have glanced over the paper, usually leave it on the table, or the sofa, or the mantelpiece—in short, in one of many places that are within sight and reach of small boys. This is great imprudence; because we must remember that our boys are victims to a gluttonous, eager, devouring passion for the reading of political papers. Perhaps this is an outcome of that inborn instinct which shows itself at a very early age in the love for fables and fairy tales.

Then begin the troubles in the family.

A small boy comes with the newspaper in his hand and asks, his mother—

“Do tell me, mamma, what is the difference between ‘Authentic News’ and ‘Various News’?”

“‘Authentic,’” replies the mother at random, “is what really happens, and ‘Various’ is what the journalists invent to fill up the paper.”

“Oh! what story-tellers!”

“Well, then, you should be very careful always to tell the truth; if you don’t, you will go to Purgatory for seventy years, and in this world every one will take you for a journalist!”

Amid the infinitely varied ranks of youth there are many who, through innate depravity, and a fatally precocious hankering after political life, carry their reckless temerity so far as to read all the Parliamentary reports, from the first line to the last!

Let us say it once for all. When a boy gives himself up without restraint, and without shame, to the reading of the Parliamentary debates, it is all up with him! Good-bye to candour; good-bye to innocence, and the simple language of the age of infancy.

One day Cecco receives a maternal reprimand, because, with his customary negligence, he has omitted to wash his hands.

“I repudiate the malignant insinuation,” replies the culprit, immediately hiding the two inconvenient “documents” in the pockets of his knickerbockers.

Another day Gigino refuses to go to school unless his mother will give him the money to buy a cardboard Punch.

“Yes, dear,” says his mother; “go away to school, and I will buy you the Punch when you come home.”

“No, no, no; I want it now! And if I don’t get it, I will make it a Cabinet question!”

The poor mother, at this speech, finds her understanding failing her, and remains open-mouthed. Then enters Raffaello, the elder brother, who says to the younger—

“Instead of thinking about Punches, you would do better to study your grammar. Remember how yesterday the master, after having three times called you a donkey, ‘passed on to the order of the day, pure and simple.’”

Gigino was about to reply with an impertinence, but, unwilling to fail in respect towards his elder brother, he contented himself with making faces at him.

Mamma (who has meanwhile recovered): “Is that the way you treat your brother? He is older than you, and you ought to respect him.”

Gigino (raising his voice): “I have all possible esteem and respect for the honourable member who has just preceded me”—(the Debates again!); “but, on the other hand, as far as I am concerned, he will always be a liar and a spy....”

Beppino is made of quicksilver. While carrying out one trick he is already thinking of a new one, so that neither in school nor at home is there any peace to be had for him.

At last his father, unable to stand it any longer, called him into the study for a parental lecture.

During the first division of the lecture Beppino was surreptitiously gnawing a dried plum. At the opening of the second division he removed the stone, and shot it at the nose of a plaster Dante on the writing-desk. At the third head Beppino lost all patience, and began to yell—

“Enough! enough! The closure!”

“Closure or no closure!” cried his infuriated parent; “if you interrupt me again with your impudence—rascal, street-boy, chatterbox——”

“Order! order!” cried Beppino, pulling at the bell-rope.

“I’ll order you——”

But, just as his father was about to rise, Beppino snatched the smoking-cap from his head, and, putting it on himself, remarked, in a nasal voice—

“Gentlemen, the President has put on his hat, and the discussion is adjourned.”

The violent ringing of the bell summons the mother, two aunts, the housemaid, and the lady’s little dog. These having heard the narrative of Beppino’s unparalleled insolence, are seized with such indignation that they begin to laugh like mad.

The little dog, being unable to laugh like the rest, barks, and evidences his share in the family joys and sorrows by beginning to gnaw his dear master’s embroidered slippers.

_Collodi._

_STRAY THOUGHTS OF AN IDLER._

“He who sleeps catches no fish,”—but he who keeps awake catches crabs every moment of his life.

All professions can yield a man enough to live on,—except professions of faith.

When attending the performance of some modern operas, it has struck me that the conductor was only beating time because he could not beat the composer.

If in the sight of the law all men are equal, Heaven save us from getting into its sight.

When you want to get rid of a dog, you take off his collar;—when the king wants to get rid of a minister, he gives him the collar—of the Order of the Annunziata.

The place where they ruin people’s voices, and throw aside all the canons of art, is called the _Conservatoire_; and a hospital full of sick people is called a “house of health” (_Casa di Salute_).

Among the many motives which induce me to stay away from the theatre is the utter absence of all motive in modern operas.

How many old phrases are required to make a new electoral programme!

All musical notes may express cheerful ideas; it is only the notes of creditors which arouse none but melancholy reflections.

I entered the shop of a pork-butcher at the moment when his son, aged eight, was returning from school. The poor boy was weeping bitterly.

“The old story!” exclaimed his parent; “I suppose you did not learn your lessons, and the master called you an ass, as you deserved!”

“Yes!” replied the child, sobbing, “he _did_ call me an ass,—and then——”

“Well,—and then—what else?”

“He said, ‘Well, after all, it is no wonder—_like father, like son_!’”

“Did he, indeed? the animal!” exclaimed the pork-butcher. “And to think that perhaps he has not yet eaten the whole of those two sausages I sent him at Christmas!”

_Antonio Ghislanzoni._

_MEN AND INSTRUMENTS._

We have been told over and over again that “the style is the man.”

I would substitute for this “The instrument is the man.”

And whereas the proverb runs, “Tell me who your friends are, and I will tell you who you are,” I would amend it thus, “Tell me what you blow into or scrape upon, and I will tell your fortune.”

After this, I must request professional gentlemen, employed in orchestras and otherwise, not to suspect any malicious intent in my remarks, which are principally aimed at amateurs—those who murder some instrument or other out of pure conviction,—all who began to twang the guitar when they were studying medicine, or to practise on the cornet after a year’s experience of matrimony.

THE CLARIONET.

This instrument consists of a severe cold in the head, contained in a tube of yellow wood.

The clarionet was not invented by the Conservatoire, but by Fate.

A chiropodist may be produced by study and hard work; but the clarionet player is born, not made.

The citizen predestined to the clarionet has an intelligence which is almost obtuse up to the age of eighteen—an epoch of incubation, when he begins to feel in his nose the first thrills of his fatal vocation.

Then his intellect—limited even then—ceases its development altogether; but his nasal organ, in revenge, assumes colossal dimensions.

At twenty he buys his first clarionet for fourteen francs; and three months later his landlord gives him notice. At twenty-five he is admitted into the band of the National Guard.

He dies of a broken heart on finding that not one of his three sons shows the slightest inclination for the instrument with which he has blown all his wits.

THE TROMBONE.

The man who plays on this instrument is always one who seeks oblivion in its society—oblivion of domestic troubles, or consolation for love betrayed.

The man who has held a metal tube in his mouth for six months finds himself proof against every disillusion.

At the age of fifty he finds that, of all human passions and feelings, nothing is left him but an insatiable thirst.

Later on, if he wants to obtain the position of porter in a gentleman’s house, or aspires to the hand of a woman with a delicate ear, he tries to lay aside his instrument, but the taste for loud notes and strong liquors only leaves him with life. Finally, after a harmonious career of seventy-eight years, he is apt to die of grief because the public-house keeper will not let him have a glass of wine on credit.

THE ACCORDEON.

This is the first instrument of youth and innocent hearts.

The individual in question begins playing it in the back room of his father’s shop—the latter, as a rule, is a chemist by profession—and continues it up to the age of fifteen. At this period, if he does not die, he deserts the accordeon for the

HARMONIFLUTE.

This instrument, on account of the nature of its monotonous sounds and its tremendous plaintiveness, acts on the nerves of those who hear, and predisposes to melancholy those who play it.

The harmoniflautist is usually tender and lymphatic of constitution, with blue eyes, and eats only white meats and farinaceous food.

If a man, he is called Oscar; those of the other sex are named Adelaide.

At home, he or she is in the habit of bringing out the instrument at dessert, and dinner being over, and the spirits of the family, therefore, more or less cheerfully disposed, will entertain the company with the _Miserere_ in _Il Trovatore_, or some similar melody.

The harmoniflautist weeps easily. After practising on the instrument for fifteen years or so, he or she dissolves altogether, and is converted into a brook.

THE ORGAN.

This complicated and majestic instrument is of a clerical character, and destined, by its great volume of sound, to drown the flat singing of clergy and congregation in church.

The organist is usually a person sent into the world with the vocation of making a great noise without undue expenditure of strength; one who wants to blow harder than others without wearing out his own bellows.

He becomes at forty the intimate friend of the parish priest, and the most influential person connected with the church. By dint of repeating the same refrains every day at matins and vespers, he acquires a knowledge of Latin, and gets all the anthems, hymns, and masses by heart. At fifty he marries a devout spinster recommended by the parish priest.

He makes a kind and good-tempered husband; his only defect in that capacity being his habit of dreaming out loud on the eve of every ecclesiastical solemnity. On Easter Eve, for instance, he nearly always awakens his wife by intoning, with the full force of his lungs, “_Resurrexit_.” The good woman, thus abruptly aroused, never fails to answer him with the orthodox “_Alleluia!_”

At the age of sixty he becomes deaf, and then begins to think his own playing perfection. At seventy he usually dies of a broken heart, because the new priest, who knows not Joseph, instead of asking him to dine at the principal table with the ecclesiastics and other church authorities, has relegated him to an inferior place, and the society of the sacristan and the grave-digger.

THE FLUTE.

The unhappy man who succumbs to the fascinations of this instrument is never one who has attained the full development of his intellectual faculties. He always has a pointed nose, marries a short-sighted woman, and dies run over by an omnibus.

The flute is the most fatal of all instruments. It requires a peculiar conformation and special culture of the thumb-nail, with a view to those holes which have to be only half closed.

The man who plays the flute frequently adds to his other infirmities a mania for keeping tame weasels, turtle-doves, or guinea-pigs.

THE VIOLONCELLO.

To play the ’cello you require to have long, thin fingers; but it is still more indispensable to have very long hair falling over a greasy coat-collar.

In case of fire, the ’cellist who sees his wife and his ’cello in danger will save the latter first.

His greatest satisfaction, as a general thing, is that of “making the strings weep.” Sometimes, indeed, he succeeds in making his wife and family do the same thing in consequence of a regimen of excessive frugality. Sometimes, too, it happens to him to make people laugh and yawn, but this, according to him, is the result of atmospheric influences.

He can express, through his loftily-attuned strings, all possible griefs and sorrows, except those of his audience and his creditors.

THE DRUM.

An immense apparatus of wood and sheepskin, full of air and of sinister presages. In melodrama the roll of the drum serves to announce the arrival of a fatal personage, an agent of Destiny; in most cases, an ill-used husband. Sometimes this funereal rumbling serves to describe silence—sometimes to indicate the depths of the _prima donna’s_ despair.

The drummer is a serious man, possessed with the sense of his high dramatic mission. He is able, however, to conceal his conscious pride, and sleep on his instrument when the rest of the orchestra is making all the noise it can. In such cases he commissions the nearest of his colleagues to awaken him at the proper moment.

On awaking, he seizes the two drum-sticks and begins to beat; but, should his neighbour forget to rouse him, he prolongs his slumbers till the fall of the curtain. Then he shakes himself, perceives that the opera is over, and rubs his eyes; and if it happens that the conductor reprimands him for his remissness at the _attack_, he shrugs his shoulders and replies, “Never mind, the tenor died all the same. A roll of the drum more or less, what does it signify?”

THE BIG DRUM.

Of this it is quite unnecessary to speak. It is the instrument of the age; and ministers, deputies, men of science, poets, hairdressers, and dentists have all learned to perform on it to perfection.... The multitude will always answer the summons of its “_boom! boom!_”—and he will always be in the right who thumps it hardest.

_A. Ghislanzoni._

_THE DELIGHTS OF JOURNALISM._

“My dear boy,” said Giuntini, almost seriously, “I lost all my illusions at eighteen. At that epoch I believed that I possessed a sweetheart; I was also guilty of the audacity of writing verses to her. I lived on blue sky, diluted with milk and honey. Afterwards I found out that my verses were based on a false supposition, and that the girl I loved had married a custom house officer. This contributed in great part to the catastrophe which took place in my sentiments. At the present moment I have been writing in the papers for seventeen years. I get 250 francs a month here, on the _Progressist_; eighty francs from a paper at Udine, whose politics I do not even know; another sixty from the _Courier of Fashion_; and beside that, I send leading articles, at five francs apiece, to the Radical _Phrygian Cap_, of Rimini, and others to the _Catholic Banner_, of Genoa, which pays me eight francs for each. Add to this a sermon written now and then for the parish priest of our village at home—a conceited old fanatic who wants to be thought eloquent. Then I have to compile the _Young Wife’s Almanac_ every year, and the _Sportsman’s and Angler’s Calendar_ for the publisher, Corretti; so that, taking one month with another, I can reckon on about 500 francs. I say nothing of contriving to advertise various tradesmen and contractors, in the course of my daily paragraphs, which brings me in nice little sums now and then. Very well; every month I manage not to spend more than 200 francs, the rest I put aside. I don’t go to the theatre; I am not to be seen at _cafés_; as for lending money to my friends, you have perceived——”

“I have, alas!”

“There you have the explanation of my easy life. My dear fellow, the world is for him who knows how to take it.”

“It may be,” said Lauri; “the fault is mine. I don’t deny it. Sometimes, do you know, I think of the little village at the foot of the Alps, all white with snow in winter.... What a fuss they used to make over me when I came home for the holidays!... How my father used to rest his great rough hand on my head, and say, “There’s plenty inside here!” ... Well, and then came Sixty-six. Venice! Venice for ever! Garibaldi! Italy! Liberty!... In those days, as you know, we believed in all that—and I went to the Tyrol after Garibaldi. There was no holding me after that. I thought I had the whole world at my feet. I never even thought of the University Entrance Examination. To think of it! A warrior who has smelt powder to go back to a schoolboy’s tasks!... I could not even dream of such a thing—and of returning to the village even less. I should have had to talk politics with the chemist and the police-sergeant, when I had in my own person contributed to the unity of Italy. I do not know myself what grand dreams were shaping themselves in this stupid brain of mine. I went to Florence, and passed some months in wearing out the pavement of Via Tornabuoni and Via Calzaioli, and my father, poor dear old man! used to send me postal orders.... But I was going to make a career at Florence! I was always in company with some of my old comrades of the Tyrol, all of them fervent patriots, who passed most of their time in speaking ill of their neighbours on the sofas of the _Bottegone_. I began to make the acquaintance of deputies and journalists, lounged about the editorial offices of the _Diritto_ and the _Riforma_, and talked glibly about the crisis, Reconstruction, and the fusion of parties. In short, I was well on the way to imbecility; and from thence to journalism is, as you know, but a step. And now, as I’ve made my bed, I’ve got to lie upon it, or throw myself out of the window.... There’s no father to send me postal orders now....”

Giuntini suddenly interrupted the flow of his reflections.

“I say, Manfredo, do you know it’s ten o’clock, and you have not written a line of the daily ‘summary’ yet?”

Lauri shook himself, re-lit his cigar, which had gone out, and once more began turning over the papers. Giuntini, too, had gone back to work; but he, like all journalists, could cut all Europe to pieces, though his thoughts were wandering in the sphere of the moon.

“What telegrams has the _Times_ to-day?” he asked while scribbling away.

“None; neither the _Times_, nor the _Daily News_, nor the _Temps_, nor the _Nord_; they are all empty as my pockets. I don’t in the least know how to make up this evening’s Foreign Intelligence. There is a little about Afghanistan in the _République_, but all stale matter hashed up for the third or fourth time. I shall have to end by translating the latest Assembly scandal from the _Figaro_.”

_Enrico Onufrio._

_WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK._

It is said among business men that it requires twelve Jews to cheat a Genoese; but twelve Genoese are not enough to cheat a Greek.... Only one person, that I ever heard of, enjoys the not very enviable distinction of having cheated—not merely one Greek, but two.

He was a Bari man.

He was returning to Italy, but had no boots—or rather, the things he had were no longer boots. He carefully counted up his money, found that he had not enough to buy a new pair, and so quieted his conscience. Then he went to a shoemaker’s in the Street of Hermes.[11]

“I want a pair of shoes by Monday morning, to fit me exactly, with round toes,” etc.; in short, he gave the fullest directions.

“Certainly, sir. You shall have them without fail. They shall be sent to your house at ten on Monday morning.”

The Bari man left his address and departed.

In the Street of Æolus he entered another shoemaker’s shop and ordered a precisely similar pair of shoes in the same terms.

“Have I made myself understood?”

“Perfectly. Let me have the address, and on Monday at ten——”

“I shall not be in at ten. Don’t send them before eleven.”

“At eleven you may count on having them, without fail.”

On Monday at ten the first victim appeared. The gentleman tried on the shoes; the right was a perfect fit, the left was fearfully tight over the instep; it wanted stretching a little.

“All right,” said the obliging tradesman; “I will take it away, and bring it back to you to-morrow.”

“Very well; and I will settle your account then.”

The shoemaker bowed himself out with the left shoe.

At eleven, punctual as a creditor, arrived the second predestined victim. The same scene was repeated; but this time it was the right shoe that did not fit.

“You will have to put it over the last again, my friend.”

“We’ll soon set that right, sir.” And this shoemaker, more knowing than the other, was about to take both shoes away with him.

“Leave the other,” said the Bari man. “It’s a fancy of mine ... if you take them both, some one may come in and find that they fit him, and you will sell them to him, and I shall have to wait another week.”

“But I assure you, sir——”

“No, no, my friend; I know how things go. I want this pair of shoes and no other, and I insist on keeping the one.” The shoemaker bowed his head with a sigh, and went away to stretch the right shoe.

An hour later the Bari man and his shoes were already on board the Piræus steamer; and on the following day the two victims met on his doorstep, each with a shoe in his hand, and looked into each other’s rapidly lengthening faces.

_Napoleone Corazzini._

_THE FAMOUS TENOR, SPALLETTI._

About a week after my arrival at Athens I was enjoying a _tête-à-tête_, at the Samos Restaurant, with a lamb cutlet of most unexampled obduracy, when there entered a stout individual, somewhere on the wrong side of fifty, dressed with great care, and sporting a gold chain of such length and massiveness that it might have served to fasten up a mastiff. His hands were covered with rings; and, in entering, he made noise enough for ten. Accosting a waiter who could speak Italian, he roared—

“WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.”
]

“_Giuraddio!_ What has become of my place?”

“This way,—this way, sir; there are four places at this table.”

It was the one where I was sitting.

The stout gentleman contorted his features with disgust, uttered language which would have been enough for any Arian, and came and sat beside me, remarking—

“_Giuraddio!_ I don’t want my place taken!”

Every one present was looking at him, and smiling compassionately.

Before he had finished unfolding his napkin he was already asking me—

“Are you Italian, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Been in Athens long?”

“A few days.”

“I have been here three months. Every one knows me.”

“I should think so, if you always make as much noise as that.”

“You see how they are looking at me?”

“I have noticed it.”

“I ... I suppose you know who I am?”

“I have not that honour.”

“I am the celebrated Spalletti.... You will know——”

“No. I confess my ignorance.”

“_Giuraddio!_ half the newspapers in the world have noticed me.”

“I read very few newspapers.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a journalist.”

“I am here. I have already given six representations of _Le Prophète_.”

“And you are——”

“The celebrated tenor, Spalletti.”

“Blessed be modesty!”

“Eh!—What?”

“Nothing—only a remark on my part. A fine opera, _Le Prophète_.”

“Yes—so they say!”

“How—they say? Have you never heard it?”

“I!—I have other things to do. I get through my scenes, and that’s enough.”

“But have you not even read the words?”

“I have read my part,—and even that is too much. However, I think I will read it over one evening when I am going to bed, because I want to know who on earth this _Prophet_ is.”

Yet it was this very part of the Prophet which he had just enacted for the sixth time!