Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

  Parini’s poem is written in the form of instructions to the hero for the politest disposal of his time; and in a strain of polished irony allots the follies of his day to their proper hours. The poet’s apparent seriousness never fails him, but he does not suffer his irony to become a burden to the reader, relieving it constantly with pictures, episodes, and excursions, and now and then breaking into a strain of solemn poetry which is fine enough. The work will suggest to the English reader the light mockery of “The Rape of the Lock”, and in less degree some qualities of Gray’s “Trivia”; but in form and manner it is more like Phillips’s “Splendid Shilling” than either of these; and yet it is not at all like the last in being a mere burlesque of the epic style. These resemblances have been noted by Italian critics, who find them as unsatisfactory as myself; but they will serve to make the extracts I am to give a little more intelligible to the reader who does not recur to the whole poem. Parini was not one to break a butterfly upon a wheel; he felt the fatuity of heavily moralizing upon his material; the only way was to treat it with affected gravity, and to use his hero with the respect which best mocks absurdity. One of his arts is to contrast the deeds of his hero with those of his forefathers, of which he is so proud, — of course the contrast is to the disadvantage of the forefathers, — and in these allusions to the past glories of Italy it seems to me that the modern patriotic poetry which has done so much to make Italy begins for the first time to feel its wings.

  Parini was in all things a very stanch, brave, and original spirit, and if he was of any school, it was that of the Venetian, Gasparo Gozzi, who wrote pungent and amusing social satires in blank verse, and published at Venice an essay-paper, like the “Spectator”, the name of which he turned into l’Osservatore. It dealt, like the “Spectator” and all that race of journals, with questions of letters and manners, and was long honored, like the “Spectator”, as a model of prose. With an apparent prevalence of French taste, there was in fact much study by Italian authors of English literature at this time, which was encouraged by Dr. Johnson’s friend, Baretti, the author of the famous Frusta Letteraria (Literary Scourge), which drew blood from so many authorlings, now bloodless; it was wielded with more severity than wisdom, and fell pretty indiscriminately upon the bad and the good. It scourged among others Goldoni, the greatest master of the comic art then living, but it spared our Parini, the first part of whose poem Baretti salutes with many kindly phrases, though he cannot help advising him to turn the poem into rhyme. But when did a critic ever know less than a poet about a poet’s business?

  III

  The first part of Parini’s Day is Morning, that mature hour at which the hero awakes from the glories and fatigues of the past night. His valet appears, and throwing open the shutters asks whether he will have coffee or chocolate in bed, and when he has broken his fast and risen, the business of the day begins. The earliest comer is perhaps the dancing-master, whose elegant presence we must not deny ourselves:

  He, entering, stops

  Erect upon the threshold, elevating

  Both shoulders; then contracting like a tortoise

  His neck a little, at the same time drops

  Slightly his chin, and, with the extremest tip

  Of his plumed hat, lightly touches his lips.

  In their order come the singing-master and the master of the violin, and, with more impressiveness than the rest, the teacher of French, whose advent hushes all Italian sounds, and who is to instruct the hero to forget his plebeian native tongue. He is to send meanwhile to ask how the lady he serves has passed the night, and attending her response he may read Voltaire in a sumptuous Dutch or French binding, or he may amuse himself with a French romance; or it may happen that the artist whom he has engaged to paint the miniature of his lady (to be placed in the same jeweled case with his own) shall bring his work at this hour for criticism. Then the valets robe him from head to foot in readiness for the hair-dresser and the barber, whose work is completed with the powdering of his hair.

  At last the labor of the learned comb

  Is finished, and the elegant artist strews

  With lightly shaken hand a powdery mist

  To whiten ere their time thy youthful locks.

  Now take heart,

  And in the bosom of that whirling cloud

  Plunge fearlessly. O brave! O mighty! Thus

  Appeared thine ancestor through smoke and fire

  Of battle, when his country’s trembling gods

  His sword avenged, and shattered the fierce foe

  And put to flight. But he, his visage stained,

  With dust and smoke, and smirched with gore and sweat,

  His hair torn and tossed wild, came from the strife

  A terrible vision, even to compatriots

  His hand had rescued; milder thou by far,

  And fairer to behold, in white array

  Shalt issue presently to bless the eyes

  Of thy fond country, which the mighty arm

  Of thy forefather and thy heavenly smile

  Equally keep content and prosperous.

  When the hero is finally dressed for the visit to his lady, it is in this splendid figure:

  Let purple gaiters, clasp thine ankles fine

  In noble leather, that no dust or mire

  Blemish thy foot; down from thy shoulders flow

  Loosely a tunic fair, thy shapely arms

  Cased in its closely-fitting sleeves, whose borders

  Of crimson or of azure velvet let

  The heliotrope’s color tinge. Thy slender throat,

  Encircle with a soft and gauzy band.

  Thy watch already

  Bids thee make haste to go. O me, how fair

  The Arsenal of tiny charms that hang

  With a harmonious tinkling from its chain!

  What hangs not there of fairy carriages

  And fairy steeds so marvelously feigned

  In gold that every charger seems alive?

  This magnificent swell, of the times when swells had the world quite their own way, finds his lady already surrounded with visitors when he calls to revere her, as he would have said, and he can therefore make the more effective arrival. Entering her presence he puts on his very finest manner, which I am sure we might all study to our advantage.

  Let thy right hand be pressed against thy side

  Beneath thy waistcoat, and the other hand

  Upon thy snowy linen rest, and hide

  Next to thy heart; let the breast rise sublime,

  The shoulders broaden both, and bend toward her

  Thy pliant neck; then at the corners close

  Thy lips a little, pointed in the middle

  Somewhat; and from thy month thus set exhale

  A murmur inaudible. Meanwhile her right

  Let her have given, and now softly drop

  On the warm ivory a double kiss.

  Seat thyself then, and with one hand draw closer

  Thy chair to hers, while every tongue is stilled.

  Thou only, bending slightly over, with her

  Exchange in whisper secret nothings, which

  Ye both accompany with mutual smiles

  And covert glances that betray, or seem

  At least, your tender passion to betray.

  It must have been mighty pretty, as Master Pepys says, to look at the life from which this scene was painted, for many a dandy of either sex doubtless sat for it. The scene was sometimes heightened by the different humor in which the lady and the cavalier received each other, as for instance when they met with reproaches and offered the spectacle of a lover’s quarrel to the company. In either case, it is for the hero to lead the lady out to dinner.

  With a bound

  Rise to thy feet, signor, and give thy hand

  Unto thy lady, whom, tenderly drooping,

  Support thou with thy strength, and to the table

  Accompany, while the guests come after you.

  And last of all t
he husband follows....

  Or rather —

  If to the husband still

  The vestige of a generous soul remain,

  Let him frequent another board; beside

  Another lady sit, whose husband dines

  Yet somewhere else beside another lady,

  Whose spouse is likewise absent; and so add

  New links unto the chain immense, wherewith

  Love, alternating, binds the whole wide world.

  Behold thy lady seated at the board:

  Relinquish now her hand, and while the servant

  Places the chair that not too far she sit,

  And not so near that her soft bosom press

  Too close against the table, with a spring

  Stoop thou and gather round thy lady’s feet

  The wandering volume of her robe. Beside her

  Then sit thee down; for the true cavalier

  Is not permitted to forsake the side

  Of her he serves, except there should arise

  Some strange occasion warranting the use

  Of so great freedom.

  When one reads of these springs and little hops, which were once so elegant, it is almost with a sigh for a world which no longer springs or hops in the service of beauty, or even dreams of doing it. But a passage which will touch the sympathetic with a still keener sense of loss is one which hints how lovely a lady looked when carving, as she then sometimes did:

  Swiftly now the blade,

  That sharp and polished at thy right hand lies,

  Draw naked forth, and like the blade of Mars

  Flash it upon the eyes of all. The point

  Press ‘twixt thy finger-tips, and bowing low

  Offer the handle to her. Now is seen

  The soft and delicate playing of the muscles

  In the white hand upon its work intent.

  The graces that around the lady stoop

  Clothe themselves in new forms, and from her fingers

  Sportively flying, flutter to the tips

  Of her unconscious rosy knuckles, thence

  To dip into the hollows of the dimples

  That Love beside her knuckles has impressed.

  Throughout the dinner it is the part of the well-bred husband — if so ill-bred as to remain at all to sit impassive and quiescent while the cavalier watches over the wife with tender care, prepares her food, offers what agrees with her, and forbids what harms. He is virtually master of the house; he can order the servants about; if the dinner is not to his mind, it is even his high prerogative to scold the cook.

  The poet reports something of the talk at table; and here occurs one of the most admired passages of the poem, the light irony of which it is hard to reproduce in a version. One of the guests, in a strain of affected sensibility, has been denouncing man’s cruelty to animals:

  Thus he discourses; and a gentle tear

  Springs, while he speaks, into thy lady’s eyes.

  She recalls the day —

  Alas, the cruel day! — what time her lap-dog,

  Her beauteous lap-dog, darling of the Graces,

  Sporting in youthful gayety, impressed

  The light mark of her ivory tooth upon

  The rude foot of a menial; he, with bold

  And sacrilegious toe, flung her away.

  Over and over thrice she rolled, and thrice

  Rumpled her silken coat, and thrice inhaled

  With tender nostril the thick, choking dust,

  Then raised imploring cries, and “Help, help, help!”

  She seemed to call, while from the gilded vaults

  Compassionate Echo answered her again,

  And from their cloistral basements in dismay

  The servants rushed, and from the upper rooms

  The pallid maidens trembling flew; all came.

  Thy lady’s face was with reviving essence

  Sprinkled, and she awakened from her swoon.

  Anger and grief convulsed her still; she cast

  A lightning glance upon the guilty menial,

  And thrice with languid voice she called her pet,

  Who rushed to her embrace and seemed to invoke

  Vengeance with her shrill tenor. And revenge

  Thou hadst, fair poodle, darling of the Graces.

  The guilty menial trembled, and with eyes

  Downcast received his doom. Naught him availed

  His twenty years’ desert; naught him availed

  His zeal in secret services; for him

  In vain were prayer and promise; forth he went,

  Spoiled of the livery that till now had made him

  Enviable with the vulgar. And in vain

  He hoped another lord; the tender dames

  Were horror-struck at his atrocious crime,

  And loathed the author. The false wretch succumbed

  With all his squalid brood, and in the streets

  With his lean wife in tatters at his side

  Vainly lamented to the passer-by.

  It would be quite out of taste for the lover to sit as apathetic as the husband in the presence of his lady’s guests, and he is to mingle gracefully in the talk from time to time, turning it to such topics as may best serve to exploit his own accomplishments. As a man of the first fashion, he must be in the habit of seeming to have read Horace a little, and it will be a pretty effect to quote him now; one may also show one’s acquaintance with the new French philosophy, and approve its skepticism, while keeping clear of its pernicious doctrines, which insidiously teach —

  That every mortal is his fellow’s peer;

  That not less dear to Nature and to God

  Is he who drives thy carriage, or who guides

  The plow across thy field, than thine own self.

  But at last the lady makes a signal to the cavalier that it is time to rise from the table:

  Spring to thy feet

  The first of all, and drawing near thy lady

  Remove her chair and offer her thy hand,

  And lead her to the other rooms, nor suffer longer

  That the stale reek of viands shall offend

  Her delicate sense. Thee with the rest invites

  The grateful odor of the coffee, where

  It smokes upon a smaller table hid

  And graced with Indian webs. The redolent gums

  That meanwhile burn sweeten and purify

  The heavy atmosphere, and banish thence

  All lingering traces of the feast. — Ye sick

  And poor, whom misery or whom hope perchance

  Has guided in the noonday to these doors,

  Tumultuous, naked, and unsightly throng,

  With mutilated limbs and squalid faces,

  In litters and on crutches, from afar

  Comfort yourselves, and with expanded nostrils

  Drink in the nectar of the feast divine

  That favorable zephyrs waft to you;

  But do not dare besiege these noble precincts,

  Importunately offering her that reigns

  Within your loathsome spectacle of woe!

  — And now, sir, ’tis your office to prepare

  The tiny cup that then shall minister,

  Slow sipped, its liquor to thy lady’s lips;

  And now bethink thee whether she prefer

  The boiling beverage much or little tempered

  With sweet; or if perchance she like it best

  As doth the barbarous spouse, then, when she sits

  Upon brocades of Persia, with light fingers

  The bearded visage of her lord caressing.

  With the dinner the second part of the poem, entitled The Noon, concludes, and The Afternoon begins with the visit which the hero and his lady pay to one of her friends. He has already thought with which of the husband’s horses they shall drive out; he has suggested which dress his lady shall wear and which fan she shall carry; he has witnessed the agonizing scene of her parting with her lap-dog, — he
r children are at nurse and never intrude, — and they have arrived in the palace of the lady on whom they are to call:

  And now the ardent friends to greet each other

  Impatient fly, and pressing breast to breast

  They tenderly embrace, and with alternate kisses

  Their cheeks resound; then, clasping hands, they drop

  Plummet-like down upon the sofa, both

  Together. Seated thus, one flings a phrase,

  Subtle and pointed, at the other’s heart,

  Hinting of certain things that rumor tells,

  And in her turn the other with a sting

  Assails. The lovely face of one is flushed

  With beauteous anger, and the other bites

  Her pretty lips a little; evermore

  At every instant waxes violent

  The anxious agitation of the fans.

  So, in the age of Turpin, if two knights

  Illustrious and well cased in mail encountered

  Upon the way, each cavalier aspired

  To prove the valor of the other in arms,

  And, after greetings courteous and fair,

  They lowered their lances and their chargers dashed

  Ferociously together; then they flung

  The splintered fragments of their spears aside,

  And, fired with generous fury, drew their huge,

  Two-handed swords and rushed upon each other!

  But in the distance through a savage wood

  The clamor of a messenger is heard,

  Who comes full gallop to recall the one

  Unto King Charles, and th’ other to the camp

  Of the young Agramante. Dare thou, too,

  Dare thou, invincible youth, to expose the curls

  And the toupet, so exquisitely dressed

  This very morning, to the deadly shock

  Of the infuriate fans; to new emprises

  Thy fair invite, and thus the extreme effects

  Of their periculous enmity suspend.

  Is not this most charmingly done? It seems to me that the warlike interpretation of the scene is delightful; and those embattled fans — their perfumed breath comes down a hundred years in the verse!

  The cavalier and his lady now betake them to the promenade, where all the fair world of Milan is walking or driving, with a punctual regularity which still distinguishes Italians in their walks and drives. The place is full of their common acquaintance, and the carriages are at rest for the exchange of greetings and gossip, in which the hero must take his part. All this is described in the same note of ironical seriousness as the rest of the poem, and The Afternoon closes with a strain of stately and grave poetry which admirably heightens the desired effect: