Читать книгу Modern Italian Poets - William Dean Howells - Страница 14

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 the 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,—her 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:

Behold the servants

Ready for thy descent; and now skip down

And smooth the creases from thy coat, and order

The laces on thy breast; a little stoop,

And on thy snowy stockings bend a glance,

And then erect thyself and strut away

Either to pace the promenade alone,—

'T is thine, if 't please thee walk; or else to draw

Anigh the carriages of other dames.

Thou clamberest up, and thrustest in thy head

And arms and shoulders, half thyself within

The carriage door. There let thy laughter rise

So loud that from afar thy lady hear,

And rage to hear, and interrupt the wit

Of other heroes who had swiftly run

Amid the dusk to keep her company

While thou wast absent. O ye powers supreme,

Suspend the night, and let the noble deeds

Of my young hero shine upon the world

In the clear day! Nay, night must follow still

Her own inviolable laws, and droop

With silent shades over one half the globe;

And slowly moving on her dewy feet,

She blends the varied colors infinite,

And with the border of her mighty garments

Blots everything; the sister she of Death

Leaves but one aspect indistinct, one guise

To fields and trees, to flowers, to birds and beasts,

And to the great and to the lowly born,

Confounding with the painted cheek of beauty

The haggard face of want, and gold with tatters.

Nor me will the blind air permit to see

Which carriages depart, and which remain,

Secret amidst the shades; but from my hand

The pencil caught, my hero is involved

Within the tenebrous and humid veil.

The concluding section of the poem, by chance or by wise design of the author, remains a fragment. In this he follows his hero from the promenade to the evening party, with an account of which The Night is mainly occupied, so far as it goes. There are many lively pictures in it, with light sketches of expression and attitude; but on the whole it has not so many distinctly quotable passages as the other parts of the poem. The perfunctory devotion of the cavalier and the lady continues throughout, and the same ironical reverence depicts them alighting from their carriage, arriving in the presence of the hostess, sharing in the gossip of the guests, supping, and sitting down at those games of chance with which every fashionable house was provided and at which the lady loses or doubles her pin-money. In Milan long trains were then the mode, and any woman might wear them, but only patricians were allowed to have them carried by servants; the rich plebeian must drag her costly skirts in the dust; and the nobility of our hero's lady is honored by the flunkeys who lift her train as she enters the house. The hostess, seated on a sofa, receives her guests with a few murmured greetings, and then abandons herself to the arduous task of arranging the various partners at cards. When the cavalier serves his lady at supper, he takes his handkerchief from his pocket and spreads it on her lap; such usages and the differences of costume distinguished an evening party at Milan then from the like joy in our time and country.