Chapter X: Introduction (9)

Capponio was a great institution among us. Whenever we saw him we rushed up to him, dragging him by the skirts of his long, double-breasted, snuff-coloured coat. And then he would lift us up to let us see Lucca,[27] or show us how to turn somersaults. If, passing through the school-room, he saw one of us on his knees, with the fool’s cap on his head, or his eyes blindfolded, he would try to make fun of his wife’s austerities. She would sometimes inflict punishments even more humiliating than these—for instance, that most terrible one of all, of having to make crosses on the ground with one’s tongue.

“Come, come no sorrow—
If you’re not cured to-day, it will cure you to-morrow!”

Capponio used to say, in a nasal tone, to make the children cease crying and begin to laugh instead, which, in fact, they did; and Sora Romola, who claimed an infallible knowledge of “how to bring up young people,” grew uneasy and said that Capponio was getting us into very bad ways. But we were fonder of Capponio than ever, especially as he was always giving us something—a bunch of grapes, an orange, a pomegranate, or sticks of barley-sugar made by himself. I was particularly fond of these last. In fact, I once succeeded in perpetrating a crime which weighed heavily on my mind. One day I was not allowed to go home at twelve, but kept in to learn my lessons alone, in school. Tired of catching flies, I went down very softly into the shop while Capponio was at dinner. There was no one there but a big cat comfortably asleep on the counter, near the scales. I felt certain that the cat would not report my theft to any one, and very quickly, with my heart beating in a way that is not to be described, I filled my pockets with the delicious transparent morsels, and ate at least half a jar full, being determined, for once in my life, to have really as many as I wanted. But Capponio found it out; and, laying the blame on Camillo, the shop boy, ran after him and seized him by the ear, crying, “Ah! you greedy rascal! I’ve caught you!” When I saw the innocent accused I could hold out no longer, and, coming forward, I blurted out, “It was I!” ... I remembered standing there, very red, with my eyes on the ground, and expecting a sound box on the ear. But Capponio only said, “Will you promise me not to do it again?” “Yes, sir.” “Mind you don’t, then. This time I will forgive you, because you have told the truth; but if you ever do it again I shall tell Sora Romola, and then woe be to you!”

_Mario Pratesi._

_LOCAL JEALOUSIES._

Men, as well as women, speak ill of their neighbours; there is no denying that fact. But they can never do it as efficiently, and, in any case, they do not do it for the same reason. Men nearly always speak ill of others because they believe themselves greatly superior to those others; and if there is a race in the world, every individual of which believes that the phrase which calls man the lord of creation was made for his own personal use, that race is the Tuscan. Yesterday evening I was listening attentively to a dialogue between a Livornese and a Florentine seated at a table in the Giardino Meyeri. The conversation turned on the English nation.

“The English,” said the Livornese, “are a selfish, heartless nation, who, if the world were on fire, would think that Providence had done it on purpose that they might heat the boilers of their steam-engines without expense!” “That is true,” replied the other; “the French——” “Worse than ever!” interrupted the first; “a nation of barbers, of Robert Macaires, who took Nice and Savoy out of our pockets—yes, sir, out of our pockets, as a pickpocket does a handkerchief. The Spaniards—boastful, proud, vain, ignorant, bigoted, talkers. Come! speaking quite honestly, the Italians are the first people in the world, after all! It’s true that the Piedmontese are a little hard, the Genoese too keen after money, the Neapolitans superstitious, the Sicilians ferocious, and that the proverb says: ‘Beware of a red-haired Venetian, a black-haired Lombard, and any kind of a Romagnole!’ Every one must agree that Tuscany is the garden of Italy, as Italy is the garden of the world, and that the Tuscans, speaking without conceit, are the pearls of mankind!”

“The home of civilisation is in Tuscany,” he went on. “I have heard that said since my childhood, and always by Tuscans, who surely ought to know! Not that I would not admit that the Pistojans are all voice and pen, that the Aretines are excessively devout, not to say hypocrites, that the Siennese are vain, and the Pisans—why, Dante called them ‘the scorn of nations,’ and the Florentines—well! excuse me, a little given to loud talking and short of action ... but the Livornese—ah! the Livornese are really the flower of the Tuscans!... And you may say what you please, but the finest street in Livorno is Via Vittorio Emmanuele, where I live.... I don’t know how any one can stay at Livorno and not have a house in that street.... It is good living there—at least, that is to say, on the left-hand side, because the sun never shines on the right, the houses are damp, and any one who takes one on that side is certainly an idiot. But on the left one can live like a prince; and among all the houses on that side there is not one like mine. I do not say that the other tenants are very first-rate people—oh dear no!... On the fourth floor there is an idiot, whose wife—well, never mind! on the third, a nobleman, with plenty of pride, but no money; on the second, a family all show and pretension, who spend their money right and left in order to look more than they really are, and who will assuredly come to ruin. On the ground floor there is a wretch—a turncoat, a crawling insect who has made money—no more of him! On the first floor I live with my family. My home, I may say, is a real paradise.... My father is dead—he was a gentleman!—a little hot-tempered if you like, a little obstinate; but no human being is without faults!... There is my mother, who is old—well, one knows, inclined to be querulous and tiresome; and my sister, who would be the best girl in Livorno if it were not for a touch of ambition, and a slight tendency to flirting; and then ... there is myself. There! it is not for me to say—but you know me. I am quiet, peaceable, well educated; I am sincere; I know how to keep within my means; I am—well, in short, I am what I am!”

He might as well have said at once—“_I am the lord of creation!_”

_P. C. Ferrigni (“Yorick”)._

_SUNSHINE._

I don’t say that the sun and I are great friends. I have too much respect for my courteous readers (including those who get their reading for nothing, by borrowing this book instead of buying it) to permit myself the slightest and most harmless of falsehoods where they are concerned. I am not a friend of the sun’s, because I do not esteem him. That way he has of shining indiscriminately on all,—of working in partnership with everybody, from the photographer who forges bank-notes, to the laundress and the plasterer, seems to me to show a lamentable want of dignity in the Prime Minister of Nature. Besides, I remember that, many years ago, he was kept under arrest for twelve hours by a gendarme of antiquity, Captain Joshua, who must have had his reasons for taking so momentous a step.

Perhaps he was set at liberty again, because no grounds could be discovered for taking proceedings; but, at the same time, entirely respectable people do not, as a rule, get arrested for nothing!

However, the sun and I live so very far apart from one another, that I cannot say I see the necessity of breaking with him altogether. Every year, about the middle of spring, I take a run down to the Ardenza, stop on the sea-shore, pass respectfully in front of the villas and palaces of the neighbourhood, and return home with an easy conscience, and the feeling of having left my card at summer’s door. So that, later in the season, when I meet the July sun, a sun which is quite Livornese, a municipal sun (the Corporation are extremely proud of it), we greet each other like old acquaintances!...

The July sun is a great benefactor to the Livornese. If gratitude were still the fashion, he ought to be made syndic of the city, and his painted image ought to figure on the municipal shield, instead of the present device of the two-towered fortress in the midst of the sea.

_P. C. Ferrigni._

_WHEN IT RAINS._

Suppose for a moment—and note, that when a man says _suppose_, he is perfectly sure of his ground, and woe be to any who contradicts him—suppose, then, for one moment, that man is really a rational animal.

The bizarre originality of being rational, which constitutes the _last term_ of the definition, does not prejudice the wisely general character of the _first term_, which is this: Man is an animal.

Now, I ask, what use is reason to a man, if it does not make him take an umbrella when it rains? It is all very well for you to think yourself superior to all other created beasts,—to be proud of your learning, your science, your experience, your laws, your noble blood, or your ample income;—if you find yourself out in the rain without an umbrella, you will always be the most contemptible figure in creation.

Let us be just;—humanity is not lovely when seen through the falling drops of rain, by the cold, dull light of a sunless day, under a dull, leaden, low, foggy sky, resting like a cover on the circle of the horizon. All men wear faces of portentous length; one can see that they bear an undying grudge against meteorologic science, on account of that phenomenon of aqueous infiltration which is so deadly to new hats and old boots. They go their ways dripping along the rows of houses, under the deluges from the water-pipes, picking their way between the puddles, with countenances cloudier than the skies, muttering the devil’s litanies between their teeth with a muffled murmur like the gurgling of a boiling saucepan. At every corner, such accidents as making too close an acquaintance with the ribs of an umbrella coming the other way, getting splashed with liquid mud by a passing horse, or spoiling the freshness of a new pair of trousers by means of an overflowing gutter, provoke a glance which, if looks could kill, would be downright murder,—a contraction of the facial muscles which recalls the grin of the ancestral ape in a bad temper, and an explosion of _sotto voce_ ejaculations, expressing a pious desire to see one’s neighbours in general attached to the muzzle of a breech-loading mitrailleuse in full activity.

... Now, to orthodox minds there cannot be the slightest doubt on the subject; rain is by no means a fitting and necessary part of the order of things; it is rather of the nature of a judgment. The Scriptures make no mention of bad weather before the time of the Flood. Rain-water was in nowise needed for the development of germs or the ripening of the harvest. Adam had been condemned to water the earth with the sweat of his brow, and this irrigation would have been quite sufficient to raise maize and beans over the whole surface of the globe....

From the preceding considerations it seems to me that one can draw two principal conclusions:—

1. That rain is not a necessity of Nature, but rather what is commonly called a judgment of Providence.

2. That human beings, when it rains, are exceedingly ugly.

Take these two conclusions and put them aside; for we may draw from them later on the most curious and unexpected consequences....

_P. C. Ferrigni._

_THE PATENT ADAPTABLE SONNET._
FROM “IL SIGNOR LORENZO.”

... _Gianni._ I have three systems of making money; one is that of the poet. Suppose, for example, there is a wedding, a young man who has just taken his degree, a dancer who has been a great success, a celebrated preacher, a new member of the Chamber of Deputies,—I have a sonnet which will do for any of them; it only wants the last three lines varied to suit the occasion. I have six alternative versions of those three lines. It is a revolver-sonnet; you can fire six shots with it. Do you see? The two quartets consist of philosophical observations on the joys and sorrows of life; they will do for every one. In the first tercet I descend from the general to the particular. “O thou!” I say without further appellation. That _thou_ has neither sex nor age; it is equally suitable for man or woman, old or young, noble or bourgeois. (Begins to recite, gesticulating.)

And thou, into whose heart high Heaven all pure
Virtues did gather, and a noble need
Did grant of soothing woes that men endure.

You see that is adapted to all, and the point of the whole is the idea of _soothing the woes that men endure_. Now the last tercet is, so to speak, the loaded cartridge in the revolver. Suppose I am addressing a bride—

Enjoy, O fair and gentle Bride, the crown
Due to all generous souls elect indeed;
May Heaven to-day send thee this guerdon down.

Or else, for a graduate—

Enjoy, O gentle scholar, thou the crown
Due to all generous souls elect indeed;
May Science send to-day this guerdon down!

Or, “Enjoy, O gentle artist;” or, again, “Enjoy, O offspring of a royal race;” or, “O, industrious plebeian;” “O sacred order”—according to circumstances.

_Gertrude._ And supposing there were a death in the family?

_Gianni._ Ah! certainly! There I should say, “Enjoy, O gentle heir!”

_Gertrude._ It is an ingenious idea.

_Paolo Ferrari._

_LOVE BY PROXY._

_Petronio._... I tell you I’m tired of it! And it is you I complain of—you and your apathy, which poor Virginia thinks she can cure by means of the stimulus of jealousy! And I am to act the part of stimulus! But it is a part I don’t at all relish, because when you come to look into it, the stimulus, instead of acting on you, acts on me! In other words, I am falling in love—do you understand that? I am falling in love with your Virginia, my Carlo! I am becoming your rival, my good friend!—and a neglected rival, by all that’s contemptible! Because I am your friend I speak of nothing but you when I am with her;—she accuses, and I defend you—you idiot! She doubts you, and I keep on swearing that you adore her—blind fool!... And all this is very dangerous to my virtue. For, while it is quite true that I speak on your account, I feel my ears burning on my own. It is true that Virginia is touched by my words, because I, lying most vilely, keep telling her that they are yours. But I know well enough that they are my own words; therefore, is the look that flashes from those great eyes of hers, as she listens to them, mine or yours? I can’t tell, and the effort to find out causes such a confusion of emotions—mine, thine, his, ours, yours, everybody’s...—that my head spins round faster than Angiolina’s reel. There, you have it now!

_P. Ferrari._

_A WET NIGHT IN THE COUNTRY._

LUISA, _and_ LAURETTA, _her maid, packing up trunks_.

_Lauretta._ Here—this trunk is locked, and now we are all ready.

_Luisa._ Oh! I hear my husband’s voice.

_Giuliano_ (_behind the scenes_). Yes, yes—don’t worry yourselves; I will be punctual.

_A Voice_ (_ditto_). Yes—and your wife too; don’t forget!

_Other Voices._ Yes, of course, your wife must come with you.

_Giu._ Yes, yes. Then it is understood——Good-bye for the present. (_Enter Giuliano._) Good evening, dear. (_Lays aside his gun._) Here I am, back again. (_Looking round._) Oh! good—the trunks are all ready, and the smaller boxes have followed their laudable example!... Everything is in order!... Law and order for ever!

_Luisa._ And you’re as mad as ever! Are you tired?

_Giu._ According to your own rule—which holds good under any circumstances—I never get tired. And to prove it to you—there is to be dancing this evening.

_Luisa_ and _Lauretta_ (_astonished_). Dancing this evening!

_Giu._ Dancing.

_Luisa._ But you don’t think——?

_Giu._ I never think—another general rule. Yes, I repeat, there is to be dancing, and, what is better, you will dance too.

_Luisa._ I, indeed!

_Giu._ Oh, yes! you shall dance, dear;—you shall come with your husband to the party we have got up on the spur of the moment—you will be lovely—adorable! Oh! don’t say no—I beg you—I entreat you. As a friend, I entreat you ... (_Unbuttoning his coat._) As a husband, I command you.

_Luisa_ (_laughing as if in spite of herself_). You are a queer creature!

_Giu._ Ah! you laugh?

_Luisa._ I may laugh; but you must not think I am going to give way.

_Giu._ Then there is nothing for it but a story? the resource of old-fashioned comedies. Well, listen now, and you shall have your story.... This is how it happened. Coming back from shooting, as we drew near the village, we began to debate how we might spend the remaining hours of this evening, up to the time of our departure, most agreeably. We stopped in a meadow to form a club and discuss matters. As usually happens in clubs, much learned nonsense was talked and many absurd measures proposed.... At last some one suggested getting up an extempore dance. The motion was negatived by the mayor and his secretary, whose figures are obviously incompatible with any kind of gymnastic exercise—except perhaps that to be obtained on a see-saw. It was then that I carried my _coup d’état_; we were all seated, look you, so I took in the situation at a glance, and exclaimed, “The motion is put to the vote. Those against it will kindly rise; those in favour of it will remain seated.” Our two Falstaffs exchanged a look full of anguish, and seeing that they could not record a negative vote without the frightful exertion of rising from the ground, preferred to affirm by remaining as they were. The resolution was therefore passed by acclamation, and the dance is to begin immediately in the drawing-room of the Manfredi Palace, not far from this house.

_Luisa._ And what results from all this? That _we_ are going to this dance?—we, who have to start at daybreak! Do think of it, Giuliano—the thing is impossible!

_Giu._ How impossible?

_Luisa._ Don’t you see? all my dresses are already packed in this trunk; the tulle, the ribbons, and flowers in that box; the gold ornaments locked up in my jewel-case.... I should have to open everything, turn everything upside down; and the coachman may come any moment to fetch the things.... No, no—it’s absolutely impossible!

_Giu._ Hm!—well, if there’s no help for it—if it is to cause so much inconvenience.... Well—sometimes it is as well to be reasonable....

_Luisa._ Come now, that’s right.

_Giu._ Well—I’ll make this sacrifice.

_Luisa._ Yes, for my sake, well done!

_Giu._ Yes, for your sake, I’ll try to put up with it.... I’ll go alone.

_Lau._ (_aside, laughing_). Oh! I didn’t expect _that_.

_Luisa_ (_astonished_). What! you’re going?

_Giu._ Oh! certainly!

_Luisa._ But, my gracious! your clothes are all packed up!

_Giu._ They can be unpacked, I suppose.

_Luisa._ But the trunks are locked.

_Giu._ They can be opened.

_Luisa._ But do you, or don’t you, understand that the cabman may call for them any moment?

_Giu._ Send him to the devil! I’ll take that much on myself.

_Luisa._ Oh! I tell you what, this is mere childishness, and I am not going to be the victim of all your whims and fancies! Now that I’ve nearly killed myself getting things straight, packing and getting ready and all, ... and I’m to upset everything again. I tell you I just won’t do it! I don’t feel fit for it, and I tell you I’m not going to open a single trunk,—so there! (_Walks up and down._)

_Giu._ You’re not going to undo anything?

_Luisa._ I’m not.

_Giu._ Quite sure?

_Luisa._ Absolutely.

_Giu._ Then I will. (_Opens a trunk._)

_Lau._ (_aside_). It’s all up now!

_Luisa_ (_quickly_). Don’t—don’t! you’re turning everything upside down.

_Giu._ Either you or I.

_Luisa._ Do make an end of it!... There!—there’s no help for it—what can one do with a lunatic? Get out of the way, do! What is it you want?

_Giu._ Not much—shirt, socks, white waistcoat, black necktie, dress coat, gloves, crush-hat, handkerchief, breastpin, Eau-de-Cologne—nothing else!

_Luisa._ Mercy on us! Oh! poor me!

_Giu._ Ah! and my boots.

_Luisa._ Anything else? Lauretta, where are the boots? Do come and help me here!

_Lau._ They’re in the green trunk in the other room!

_Giu._ Francesco! (_Enter Francesco._) Go into the other room at once, and look if there is a pair of patent leather boots in the green trunk. (_Exit Francesco._) Ah! by Jove! I knew I had forgotten something!

_Luisa._ Oh! good gracious! what else?

_Giu._ Why, of course, my other pair of trousers.

_Luisa._ Why, they’re right at the bottom of the box.

_Giu._ Oh, indeed! You don’t expect me to go in these, do you? (_Enter Francesco without the boots._) Well—about those boots?

_Fran._ They are there.

_Giu._ Well, what have you done with them?

_Fran._ They’re in the green trunk.

_Giu._ Haven’t you brought them?

_Fran._ You told me to look if they were there, sir; you didn’t say I was to bring them.

_Giu._ I must say you’re wonderfully intelligent for your age. (_With ironical amiability._) Go back again, my dearest boy, open the trunk, take out that pair of varnished boots.... Do you know, by-the-bye, what varnished means? It means that they have never been blacked by you.... A new pair that has not been worn yet.... Take them in your hands, and bring them here to me.

_Fran._ Am I to bring in the trunk as well, sir?

_Giu._ Tell me now, what did your mother say when she saw you were such an idiot?

_Fran._ She said nothing, sir; she cried.

_Giu._ Very good! Well, you can leave the trunk in the other room. (_Walking up and down, while Luisa and Lauretta are unpacking, and talking as if to himself._) Oh! I’m not at all sorry to go out by myself for once in a way.... After two years of marriage....

_Lau._ (_aside to Luisa_). Mistress, if I were you, I wouldn’t let him go by himself.

_Luisa._ Oh! he’s only joking ... My dear girl, if I had not to turn so many things out....

_Giu._ Let me see ... to whom should I devote my attention more particularly?... Decidedly there is no one but the doctor’s wife....

_Luisa_ (_aside to Lauretta_). Where did you put my light blue gauze dress?

_Lau._ (_aside_). In the other trunk, on the top.

_Giu._ (_as before_). Yes, yes; that’s it ... the doctor’s wife.... After the dance I will see her home.

_Luisa_ (_aside to Lauretta_). Just open the other trunk and take out my blue dress. (_Aloud, to Giuliano._) Just listen, Giuliano, I have been thinking it over, and ... I think I’ll come too.

_Giu._ But just think, dear; you’ll have to turn everything upside down and undo all the boxes you have packed.

_Luisa._ Never mind.

_Giu._ Then, you see, you have your dresses in this trunk, your tulle and flowers and lace in that box, your jewellery——

_Luisa._ Do stop, you wretch! You want to have your revenge on me; but it won’t do. I tell you I don’t mind; I’ll turn out everything and come ... that is, _if you want me_!

_Giu._ Want you? How can you doubt it? But you’ll have to be quick.

_Luisa_ (_running to Lauretta_). Oh! I’ll be ready directly, never fear. Quick, Lauretta; just throw the things anywhere; never mind where, as long as you can get at my dress.

_Giu._ Let us be clear about things, dear wife. Directly is a relative term, and when it relates to a lady’s toilet it is difficult to find a fixed standard by which one can judge. Well then—(_watch in hand_)—how much time will you require?

_Luisa._ Oh! just think of it! A quarter of an hour—half-an-hour at most.... I’m sure I shall not take three-quarters ... or at any rate only a very little more.

_Giu._ Ah! ah! you’re just like Goldoni’s lawyer. Well, try to make an effort, at any rate!

_Luisa._ Oh! don’t be afraid; I won’t be a minute.

_Giu._ I tell you what I’ll do: while you’re dressing I’m going to throw myself on the bed to rest a little.... So when you are ready, just tell me.... I shall not be a minute dressing. (_Exit, but goes on speaking behind the scenes._) Mind, I want you to look your best. What dress are you going to put on?

_Luisa._ The blue gauze.

_Giu._ All right.

_Fran._ (_returning with the boots_). Where’s the master?

_Lau._ In the bedroom. (_Exit Francesco._)

_Fran._ (_behind the scenes_). Sir!

_Giu._ (_in a sleepy voice_). Let me alone.

_Fran._ The boots are here, sir.

_Giu._ Go away with you.

_Fran._ But you told me ... (_Comes out on the stage, followed by a pillow thrown by Giuliano. Mutters to himself_:) After all, the proverb is right, “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

_Luisa._ Really, in this house we are not likely to die of melancholy. Come, Lauretta, and help me to get my dress on.

(_Exeunt Luisa and Lauretta._)

_Fran._ As I’ve nothing to do, I might as well go to my room and sleep a little. By Jove! I think it’s raining. (_Goes to look out of window._) Yes, indeed, that’s good! I wonder how the mistress will manage to go to that dance.

_Luisa_ (_within_). Francesco!

_Fran._ Yes, ma’am.

_Luisa._ Is it raining?

_Fran._ I’m afraid so.... If you’ll allow me, ma’am, I’ll go away to my room; you can give a call whenever you want me.

_Luisa._ Yes, yes, you may go. (_Exit Francesco._)

(_Enter Cavallotto._)

_Cav._ What’s this? Everything was ready, and now ... Body o’ the morning! what does all this mean?

_Luisa_ (_within, Lauretta_). My good man, we are going to a dance.

_Cav._ And when will you start?

_Luisa._ We shall start later.

_Cav._ But that does not suit me at all, ma’am! Do you know that we have forty miles to go? And I don’t want to find myself on the road after dark.

_Giuliano_ (_within, awaking_). What’s the matter there?

_Luisa._ Oh! that will be all right. Giuliano, would you mind speaking to Cavallotto?

_Giu._ (_as before_). Ah! Cavallotto, is it you? What do you want? We’ll start later....

_Cav._ But, I repeat, by all the——

_Giu._ (_half asleep_). Don’t bother me now.... I’ll pay you extra.... We’ll make two days’ journey of it.... Anything you like, as long as you go away now.

_Cav._ Ah! if you’re willing to stop half-way, I have no more to say; on the contrary, I am glad of it, because one of my horses has a pain——

_Giu._ Ah! you scoundrel! (_Exit Cavallotto, shrugging his shoulders._) And if we wanted to leave at six, how would you get out of the difficulty?... Answer!... Ah! you are dumb! Let us see now ... how ... because we shall have to ... Yes, certainly! (_Falls asleep._)

(_Enter Luisa, in evening dress, arranging her ornaments._)

_Luisa._ My good Cavallotto——! Why! he’s gone. So much the better. Now I must call Giuliano, and find out what he means to do if it rains.

_Lau._ After all, it is only a few steps to the Manfredi Palace.

_Luisa._ That is true; but at any rate it is time to call him, Giuliano!

_Giu._ (_within_). What is it?

_Luisa._ It’s time to get up.

_Giu._ What a bother! I was sleeping so comfortably.

_Luisa._ Come, be quick!

_Giu._ Tell me, Luisa, have you really set your heart on going to this tiresome dance?

_Luisa._ Oh, indeed! if you’re not enough to provoke a saint!

_Giu._ Calm yourself, my dear; I’m coming. (_Enters in his dressing-gown. He sits down near the front of the stage._) See here; while I was in there on the bed, my dear girl, I was reflecting seriously——

_Luisa._ Do tell the truth, and say you were sleeping deliciously!

_Giu._ That may be, but even in sleep the mind continues its intellectual processes, and, as I said, I thought over your judicious observations....

_Luisa_ (_vexed_). Really, this is too much! First you nearly drive me out of my senses, till I made up my mind to come with you to the dance; then, when I have turned out all my boxes, and taken the trouble to dress, and am all but ready, you want ... _Will_ you be kind enough not to carry the joke too far?

_Giu._ Enough! let us perform this heroic action! Francesco!

_Fran._ (_within_). Sir?

_Giu._ Come here directly. (_Enter Francesco._) Take my things and come and help me to dress. (_Exit into his bedroom, followed by Francesco._)

_Luisa._ Oh! these men! these men! all tyrants and bullies—even the best of them! Come! where are my bracelets?

_Lau._ This time it went off all right, though!

_Luisa._ Oh! it’s not ended yet.... If you only knew ... I am terribly afraid.

_Lau._ What about?

_Luisa._ I am afraid I have given Giuliano the wrong pair of trousers ... those that did not fit, and made him so angry....

_Lau._ Those that he threw at the tailor’s head after the first time of trying them on?

_Luisa._ Yes, those....

_Giu._ (_from within_). Luisa!

_Luisa_ (_aside to Lauretta_). Ah! didn’t I say so? (_Aloud._) What is it?

_Giu._ Which trousers have you given me?

_Luisa._ I ... I don’t know....

_Giu._ They are those that ass of a tailor made.... I kept them out of charity, but I never meant to wear them ... never!

_Luisa._ Oh! they can’t be those.

(_Enter Giuliano from the bedroom._)

_Giu._ Can’t they? I tell you it is the very pair.

_Luisa._ But do be persuaded....

_Giu._ Persuaded, indeed! Why, of course they are the same; and if you don’t give me another pair I shall not come.

_Luisa._ And I tell you that I don’t feel the least bit inclined to pull all the things out of another trunk.... It’s nothing but excuses to make me stay at home. But anyway——

_Giu._ Oh, heavens! another sermon! No, no—do be quiet. I’ll resign myself, and try to endure.... Francesco, my boots! (_He puts them on at the back of the stage, turning his back on the audience._) Gracious, how tight they are!... curses on that shoemaker! How am I to hold out with my feet in these? (_Rises and walks about stiffly and clumsily._)

_Luisa._ Another excuse!

_Giu._ Excuse! I tell you it feels as though I had my feet in a vice. I can’t move.

_Luisa._ After all, you’re not going to play at tennis.

_Giu._ Well, and what then? If a gentleman does not feel disposed to take part in the noble game of tennis, is he to be laced up so that he cannot move?

_Luisa_ (_angrily_). In short—I understand! Do you wish to stay at home? Does it bore you to come to the dance? Do you want to go to bed? We will stay at home—we will not go to the dance—we _will_ go to bed!

_Giu._ Mind that I do not take you at your word.

_Luisa._ Much it matters to me if you do! Come, Lauretta, help me off with these things!

_Giu._ Francesco, get these boots off for me! (_Exit._)

(_Luisa sits down R., with signs of vexation, and Lauretta begins to
undo her head-dress._)

_Fran._ (_following Giuliano_). I am really beginning to get tired of this business.

_Luisa_ (_rises and walks to the door of Giuliano’s room, Lauretta following her and taking off her ornaments as she goes_). I tell you all the same, sir, that this is not the way to treat me; and if you play me this sort of trick again, I know very well what I shall do. (_Returns to the front of the stage, and sits down, still followed by Lauretta._)

(_Enter Giuliano, followed by Francesco._)

_Giu._ And what, if you please, do you want to do? This is very fine indeed! Is it my fault if my clothes and boots are too tight? Am I to be condemned to walk about like a wooden doll—like an elephant—for a whole night, to please you? Your pretensions are truly wonderful! (_Exit._)

_Marco_ (_behind the scenes_). Is Giuliano here? May I come in?

_Luisa._ Come in.

(_Enter Marco, with an umbrella, in a black dress-coat._)

_Marco._ Madam——

(_Enter Giuliano, in dressing-gown and slippers._)

_Giu._ Marco, my dear fellow, are you looking for me?

_Marco._ Precisely.

_Luisa._ With your permission.... (_Exit, with Lauretta._)

_Marco._ Well done! you are just dressing.

_Giu._ _Just_ so—we were just dressing. What’s the news?

_Mar._ The news is, that it is raining, and in this weather none of the ladies will be coming to our improvised party. We therefore thought of sending a carriage for them.

_Giu._ Well?

_Mar._ It’s not so well. A carriage is not so easily found in our village.

_Giu._ I understand. If it were a cart, now....

_Mar._ We found one, however; a fine, commodious coach, to hold six people——

_Giu._ An ark, in short—just the thing for this threatened universal deluge. Well, what then?

_Mar._ The worst is, we cannot get——

_Giu._ The horses?

_Mar._ Precisely. The owner sold them last week, to buy——

_Giu._ Hay?

_Mar._ No, to buy a yoke of oxen.

_Giu._ Well, why don’t you harness the oxen?

_Mar._ Just like you—you must have your joke. Listen, now—this is what we thought of doing. There are two cab-drivers in the place; we have made arrangements with them to fetch the ladies in their cabs.

_Giu._ Very good.

_Mar._ So I have come to give you notice that in a little while they will be coming round for your wife and you—so try to be ready.

_Giu._ But really....

_Mar._ Oh! there is no “really” that will hold. If you don’t come in the cab, we’ll come to fetch you with a stick.

_Giu._ No—not that. Bruises for bruises, I prefer those of the cab. I’ll come.

_Mar._ With your wife, mind!

_Giu._ With my wife.

_Mar._ Good-bye till then. (_Exit._)

_Giu._ Good-bye.

(_Enter Luisa, still in evening dress, followed by Lauretta._)

_Giu._ So, you understand that you absolutely must go!

_Luisa._ And be quick about it. (_Laughing._)

_Giu._ Francesco!

_Fran._ Here I am.

_Giu._ Quick, I want to dress! (_Exit._)

_Fran._ (_aside_). Now, I am most decidedly disgusted!

(_Exit._)

_Giu._ (_within_). Luisa, pity me! I am putting my feet back into the vice!

_Luisa._ For so sweet a cause one can suffer anything!

_Giu._ (_within_). Ah!... May you be bitten by a mad dog!

_Luisa._ What’s the matter?

_Giu._ That idiot of a Francesco has just tenderly trodden on my foot with one of his iron-heeled boots.

_Fran._ (_within_). I beg your pardon, sir; but would you please reflect that it was you who put your foot under my heel?

_Giu._ And hurt your heel, eh?

_Lau._ (_laughing_). I think, ma’am, the scenes that take place in this house, especially this evening ... I must say it is a pity people can’t see them in the theatre!

(_Enter Giuliano in his shirt sleeves, followed by Francesco._)

_Giu._ Here I am; where’s my necktie? (_Francesco hands it to him, and he puts it on. Luisa looks on, laughing._) You laugh, eh?—unhappy woman! You laugh because you cannot take in at a glance the seriousness of your husband’s position!... My waistcoat! (_Francesco hands it._) For one has to calculate all chances ... the chance of a declaration, for instance!

_Luisa._ What business have you making declarations, sir?

_Giu._ I have no business whatever to make any; but I might do so—go on my knees, and all—and then ... My dress-coat! (_Francesco hands it, as before._)... Give me a pin for my necktie. (_Luisa brings him one._) Do me the favour to put it in for me, will you? But mind you don’t make a hole in me—see?

_Luisa._ Now, let the cab come when it likes—we are all ready!

_Giu._ Yes; the victim is prepared for the sacrifice! Just imagine it! My feet are so numb and dead I might be a Chinese—a remnant of the Russian army—a survivor of the Beresina! And then to have to walk upstairs in these same boots, and finish up by dancing a mazurka with the mayor’s daughter!

(_Enter Marco._)

_Mar._ May I come in?

_Giu._ Oh! it’s you? Here we are, quite ready!

(_Luisa puts on her shawl and hood, helped by Lauretta. Giuliano takes
his hat and gloves._)

_Mar._ I came myself, because——

_Giu._ Thanks for the trouble, my dear fellow. Come along, Luisa. (_Gives her his arm._)

_Mar._ But—one moment!

_Luisa._ What is it?

_Mar._ I am truly grieved.... But I must....

_Giu._ But what is it all about?

_Mar._ One of the two cabmen we were counting on is away, ... and the other....

_Luisa._ That is our Cavallotto; he is here, surely?

_Mar._ But one of his horses is ill, and cannot be harnessed. The rain continues to come down in torrents; and as we saw there was no help for it, we determined to give up the idea of the dance, and have one instead when you come again.

_Luisa._ The dance, then....

_Giu._ There is none?

_Mar._ There is none. I came to make my apologies to you, madam; and now I must run off home to change my clothes, for I am as wet as a drowned chicken. Madam—Giuliano, old fellow, I wish you good-night and a pleasant journey. (_Exit._)

(_Giuliano and Luisa stand, arm in arm, looking at one another
comically._)

_Lauretta_ (_aside to Francesco_). Go and tell the cook to bring up supper.

_Francesco._ A good idea. (_Exit._)

_Giu._ (_looking round_). A magnificent room, isn’t it?

_Luisa_ (_who has laid aside her wraps, imitating him_). Splendidly illuminated.

_Giu._ Ladies in great numbers.

_Luisa._ Plenty of gentlemen.

_Giu._ (_looking at Luisa_). See, see, how gracious my wife is to the mayor!

_Luisa_ (_looking at Giuliano_). Look at my husband doing the polite to the doctor’s wife!

_Giu._ Madam, will you kindly favour me with this polka?

_Luisa._ With all the pleasure in the world, sir.

_Giu._ (_to Lauretta and Francesco, who are standing at the back of the stage laughing_). Orchestra!—polka!

(_Lauretta sings a polka, Francesco taking the bass. Giuliano and Luisa
take a few steps together._)

(_Enter the Cook, in white cap and apron._)

_Cook._ The supper is served.

_Giu._ Now, shall we go to supper?

(_Exeunt._)

(_Curtain._)

_Paolo Ferrari_

_A LOST EXPLORER._
FROM THE COMEDY “CORVI” (CARRION CROWS).

Bertrando, the editor of the _Demos_, and Serpilli, the publisher, have just received word of the death of their friend Arganti, who had gone on an exploring expedition into the Soudan.

_Bertrando._ I have just sent the confirmation of the sad news. Poor Arganti! This sudden loss has quite paralysed me. It is all very well to make a parade of one’s want of feeling and pretend to be a cynic; but when the thunderbolt falls at your very feet....

_Serpilli._ Just so; but, _I_ say, what mad notion was it that made him go and get himself killed out there? At fifty, too! Were there not enough hare-brained young fellows eager to discover new outlets, new resources for commerce, for industry, for African humanity, which, by-the-bye, loves us as well as people love the smoke in their eyes?... Wasn’t he quite comfortable here, in this charming house, with the best of wives? No, sir! He must needs be off poking his nose into other people’s affairs!

_Ber._ You forget how many years he had travelled—and the love of science——

_Ser._ One might get over it if the misfortune had been confined to the dead, but it also touches the living!

_Ber._ Serpilli!

_Ser._ My dear fellow, it’s all very well for you to talk; but I have undertaken a complete illustrated edition of all his travels.... Sixty thousand francs, do you understand? I am ruined!

_Ber._ Do you think this is the time——?

_Ser._ Yes, yes, certainly—I mourn for him—I am deeply grieved; but who will give me back my sixty thousand francs? It’s ruin—it’s bankruptcy!... Oh! who would have thought it? And it must happen to me, of all men in the world!

_Ber._ Come, have done with this! Who prevents your continuing the issue? Surely Arganti’s writings have not lost their value through his death?

_Ser._ What interest can attach to his expedition to Palestine, undertaken twenty years ago, now that people can make a holiday excursion of it and travel by rail? It needs something else to tickle the palate of the public, who, nowadays, are perfectly familiar with Afghanistan, Zululand, Basutoland,—not to mention journeys to the centre of the earth, to the bottom of the sea, and the sphere of the moon! My poor sixty thousand francs!... If he had lived it would not have been so bad. With a Mutual Admiration Society such as the fashionable papers know how to get up, something might have been done. But now that Arganti is dead, who is going to waste his time in praising him? You will have your time fully taken up in bringing out some new genius—one of those startling and powerful ones who open new horizons to the heart and mind, to science, and their country every quarter of an hour! And I shall be sacrificed!

_Ber._ You are both ungrateful and mistaken. You have made quite a nice little sum out of our poor friend’s works, which we advertised for you at reduced prices and reviewed in special articles!

_Ser._ Why, I have spent the whole on advertising the new edition; and now, just as I am about to reap the fruits of judicious puffing, everything is upset by death—the one thing I had not calculated on.

_Ber._ Serpilli! Serpilli!

_Ser._ It is enough to bring on an attack of the jaundice! If Arganti had at least confined himself to writing a couple of volumes!... No, sir! Twenty-seven!

_Ber._ Would you, out of sordid self-interest, wish the scientific and literary heritage of the nation to be diminished?

_Ser._ You are laughing at me. You are quite right; I have been an idiot.

_Ber._ I respect every one’s convictions.

* * * * *

_Serpilli, Bertrando, Geronte (an embalmer). Enter Francesco._

_Francesco._ The telegraph messenger has just brought these six telegrams.

_Ser._ Give them to me.

(_Francesco gives them, and exits._)

_Ser._ (_opening the telegrams and reading_). The Independent Liberal Democratic Association—the syndic—the Association of Watchmakers’ Apprentices—the tribunal—the prefect.... “Unspeakable grief”—“sorrow of the human race”—“words fail.”... (_Throws the telegrams on the table._) “In great misfortunes vibrates the heart of great nations.”...

_Per._ (_enters hurriedly_). And of all great artists.

_Ger._ The sculptor Peralti, a dear friend, one of our associates.

_Ser._ (_to Peralti_). Have you heard, too?

_Per._ I have read some twenty or thirty telegrams posted up at the street corners, and have at once hastened here to present to the widow this design for a monument to be erected to her husband.

_Ser._ Did you have it ready?

_Per._ An artist never lets himself be taken unawares.

_Ger._ You have the instinct of genius!

_Per._ (_unrolling a sheet of paper which he holds in his hand, and giving it to Geronte_). You see, a large pedestal with three steps—two sleeping lions, in Canova’s manner—a cubic block of granite, which has a philosophic signification. The statue is seated on a curule chair.... Just look at the subtlety, the diapason, the _tonality_, the depth of the _tout ensemble_!

_Ser._ But surely this is the drawing you made for Professor Giulini.

_Ger._ (_handing the paper to Serpilli_). I thought I had seen it exhibited as a design for a monument to General Quebrantador.

_Ser._ (_handing it to Peralti_). Not at all. I tell you——

_Ger._ And I maintain——

_Per._ Calm yourselves, gentlemen. The artist of any _élan_ dashes off his idea just as genius inspires him.... It will then serve its purpose when a purpose is made apparent. (_Rolls up the drawing._)

_Ger._ Bravo! I hold exactly the same theory with regard to my own science. I prepare the acids....

(_Enter Francesco._)

_Fran._ What is all this, Signor Serpilli? Just look, what a bundle of telegrams!

_Ser._ Excellent! Go and tell Signor Bertrando.

_Fran._ (_lays the telegrams on the table_). Oh! by-the-bye, I was forgetting.... What has become of my head?... There is a photographer outside who will insist on seeing the mistress.

_Ser._ Show him in. (_Exit Francesco._)

_Per._ Only give me 50,000 francs, and Arganti shall have the most characteristic monument of the age!

(_Enter Photographer, with his camera._)

_Ser._ What do you want, sir?

_Pho._ I saw all the telegrams posted up. Every one was in a state of consternation, asking who Arganti was.... Having made inquiries on the subject, I hastened hither with my camera, and would now request the favour of taking a photograph of the illustrious Arganti’s portrait.... Begging your pardon, what was his Christian name?

_Ser._ Ettore.

_Pho._ ... Poor Ettore’s portrait. I will guarantee a work of art that shall be a tremendous success! I am also going to take photographs of his bedroom, his study, his inkstand, the front of the house—everything!—and to advertise them in all the papers.

_Ser._ (_shaking him by the hand_). I thank you in the name of the family. To honour the noble dead is not only a work of merit—it is a duty: a duty which we are here to carry out.

_Ger._ I alone can do nothing.... Ah! Signor Serpilli!

_Ser._ Since common feelings of delicacy have assembled us in this spot, let us take steps for transferring to the public the conviction of the greatness of our loss. (_Rings the bell._)

_Pho._ Poor Ettore!

_Per._ Poor, dear fellow!

_Ger._ My poor friend!

_Ser._ Well.... (_After a pause, rubbing his hands._) We are all mortal.

_C. Lotti._

_THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION._

_Pandolfo._ It is not to be tolerated! They do it on purpose to drive me out of my senses!

_Paolo Galanti._ Who has made you angry, Signor Pandolfo?

_Pan._ Who? Does any one ask? My wife and daughter—— What! whom do I see? You, Benini!

_Ben._ So you recognised me at once? I thought you had forgotten me altogether.

_Pan._ No, sir, I had not forgotten you. Am I a man to forget old friends?... For we certainly are old friends.

(_They shake hands cordially._)

_Ben._ We are, indeed! Twenty years——

_Pan._ No, not twenty years; eighteen or nineteen.... We used to see a great deal of each other—do you remember?

_Ben._ Don’t I?

_Pan._ We often used to dispute; because you are of a most contradictory temper.

_Ben._ I?

_Pan._ Would you deny it?

_Ben._ Well, no—I was young and impetuous in those days, and had not much sense—or indeed none at all.

_Pan._ That is not the case—you were not altogether without sense.... It is true you had your little eccentricities—but, after all....

_Ben._ And you never paid the slightest attention to my words....

_Pan._ That is not true! I always attended to you—I always had the greatest consideration for you, I assure you; and it gives me more pleasure than I can express to find you here again.

(_They shake hands again._)

_Pao._ (_aside to Benini_). My word! I have never yet seen him receive any one so well!

_Pan._ You must come to see my wife.

_Ben._ I do not know whether Signora Angelica will be disposed to welcome me after all these years.

_Pan._ Of course she will! I’ll answer for that! Why—an intimate friend of mine! Yet she does everything she possibly can to contradict and oppose me, that woman!—She has not a bad disposition—I would not say that; but it is a certain perversity of humour. Just imagine that, at this very moment, when all the visitors present in the place are going to assemble in these rooms, she could find no better way of spending her time than in going off for a long walk on the beach. Never lets herself be seen—persists in withdrawing from society—mere madness, I call it!... We have a daughter, and if this sort of thing goes on, how shall we ever get her settled in life?

_Pao._ Oh! as to that, the young lady cannot fail to find——

_Pan._ What! are you, too, going to contradict me?

_Pao._ No, most certainly not! Only, since the ladies are going out, if you will permit me, I should like to accompany them for part of the way.

_Pan._ Hm!

_Pao._ I will just go and fetch my hat and umbrella.

_Pan._ (_aside_). What a bore he is—always in the way!

_Pao._ (_aside to Benini_). Signor Pandolfo appears to have a great regard for you.

_Ben._ (_aside to Paolo_). Quite true; there was a time when I could get him to do anything I wanted.

_Pao._ (_as before_). Do, like a good fellow, one thing for me,—say a word or two in my favour.

_Ben._ (_ditto_). In your favour? All right! It is just what I was thinking of doing.

_Pao._ (_ditto_). Thanks!

_Ben._ (_ditto_). Oh! you’ve nothing to thank me for.

_Pao._ (_ditto_). I shall be back soon. (_Exit._)

_Ben._ (_aside_). Now I’ll do his business. (_To Pandolfo._) I understand why you gave permission to that young man to escort your wife and daughter.

_Pan._ I never gave him permission. And what did you understand?

_Ben._ Galanti is an amiable fellow——

_Pan._ Nothing of the sort!

_Ben._ Witty.

_Pan._ Do you see any wit in _him_?

_Ben._ Good-looking——

_Pan._ A dandified fool!

_Ben._ Courteous——

_Pan._ Too much so. The fellow agrees with every one.

_Ben._ He would be a son-in-law quite after your own heart. I would, but——

_Pan._ Son-in-law, be hanged! If you don’t look out you will make me use language I shall regret!

_Ben._ Well, don’t get angry.... Every one believes that he is going to marry your daughter.

_Pan._ Then he may whistle for her. My Elisa’s husband ought to be a young man with brains; and this Galanti of yours is a fool.

_Ben._ Well, not quite that.

_Pan._ He is! I want a man of character, and this jackanapes is nothing but a weather-cock!

_Vittorio Bersezio._

TRUTH.

[Paolo Severi is in love with his cousin Evelina, who, unknown to him,
is being courted by his old schoolfellow, Adolfo Briga. Briga
purposely encourages his rival, who is from the country and unused to
society, thinking that he will be sure to make himself ridiculous, and
so fail. In order the better to carry out this plan he pretends to
devote himself to Graziosa, the daughter of the President Manlio, who
is visiting at the house of Evelina’s parents. Paolo, in his
simplicity, does his best to further Adolfo’s suit by pleading his
cause with Signora Vereconda, Graziosa’s mother, a lady whose love of
admiration has survived her youth, and who has taken Briga’s
attentions as a homage to herself.]

_Scene—A drawing-room in the house of the Advocate Scipioni, with a
door opening on the garden. Adolfo and Vereconda seated, in
conversation. Enter Paolo from the garden just as Adolfo kisses
Vereconda’s hand._

_Paolo_ (_aside_). “If you want canes, you must go to the cane-brake; if you want the daughter, you must make yourself agreeable to the mother.”[28]

_Vereconda_ (_aside to Adolfo_). Do not agitate yourself.... He cannot have seen it.

_Pao._ Am I intruding?

_Ver._ Do you think...?

_Pao._ I have just come in to fetch a volume of my aunt’s poems.... Here it is. I am very sorry that my aunt should expose herself to ridicule by publishing verses like these, in which even the syntax and spelling are wrong! I have a good mind to tell her so myself....

_Adol._ (_aside to Paolo_). So you have left Evelina? Well done!

_Pao._ (_aside_). Well done, indeed! It was not _my_ choice!

_Adol._ (_aside_). But, indeed, it is a capital manœuvre of war! A woman entreated denies, and neglected entreats! Do you remain here instead of me.

_Pao._ (_aside_). No, indeed!

_Adol._ (_aside_). Yes, indeed! I’ll go and speak artfully for you in the other quarter, and put things right for you in no time!

_Pao._ (_aside_). But——

_Adol._ (_aside_). I’ll beat the big drum for you, you shall see! Let me go!

_Pao._ (_aside_). All right. Go!

_Adol._ (_aside to Vereconda_). I have removed all suspicion on his part.... I am going away to make things quite safe. (_Aloud._) Will you excuse me, Signora Vereconda?

_Ver._ Do as you——