Giannone
Take a cigar — draw up your chair,
There's at least a good half-hour to spare
Before the Capuchin clock strikes one,
And the bell, with a sharp spasmodic tinkle,
Rouses the Frati to shuffle to prayer,
And the altar candles begin to twinkle
In the cheerless chapel, bleak and bare —
By Jove! we are better off here than there,
And now, as that friend of yours has gone,
There's a word I must whisper to you, alone.
Friends grow dearer, and hearts draw nearer,
Calmed in the silent centre of night;
And words we may say, that the full mid-day,
If it should hear us, would jeer outright.
Day, with its din, for distrust and doubt!
Night for confidence, friendship, love!
The day's work done, and the world shut out,
The streets all silent, the stars above,
Pleasant it is to gather about
The fire of wood, and muse and dream,
And talk of the hopes and joys of youth,
And open our hearts and confess the truth,
Ceasing to make-believe and seem.
Fling another log on the fire,
Another log from the Sabine hill,
And a heap of those rusty crackling canes
That out on the sunny Campagna plains
Held on their trellis the grape-hung vine,
Whose blood was drained for this purple wine,
Our straw-enwoven fiasco to fill.
Look! the old tendrils, stiff as wire,
Cling to them still with their strong desire,
Outlasting death — as our friendship will.
How the flame bickers, and quivers, and flickers,
Darting its eager tongues about!
Then blazes abroad with genial flashes,
Till the sap comes singing and bubbling out.
Wild as a Maenad with myriad fancies,
Hither and thither it leaps and dances,
Fitful, whimsical, glad, and free,
Like a living thing with a heart and soul.
Oh, the wood-fire is the fire for me!
Away with your heartless mechanical coal,
Your vulgar drudge, so sullen and slow,
That ne'er with a flame of fancy flashes,
But burns with a grim and business glow,
And crumbles away to dirty ashes,
And smells of the furnace and factory.
Talk of the home and hearth! of late
Nothing we've had but house and grate —
Nothing in England to warm to the core,
Like the vast old chimneys and fires of yore,
When the great logs blazed with a genial roar.
Hark to that mossy log, whose heart
The contadino has cloven apart,
Singing its death-song! How it tells
What the cicadae chirped in the dells,
When it was young, and its leafy pride
Shadowed Pan with its branches wide;
And what old Auster, bluff and bold,
Screamed in its ear while it shivered with cold.
Thousands of idyls it has to sing,
Of love and summer, of youth and spring;
Of the Dryad that slipt with her rustling dress
Into its murmurous leafiness;
Of the rout of Bacchanals, ivy-crowned,
Shaking the air with the cymbal's sound,
While the yawning panther's velvet foot
Pressed the rank grasses over its root; —
Of the timorous Narad, pearled with dew,
That fled to the bubbling torrent near,
And, hid by the bushes, looked trembling through
At the smooth-limbed Bacchus, in love and fear;
Of the chance and change of the season's spell,
Of musical birds and odorous flowers,
Of the storm that swept like a chorded shell
The groaning forest — of whispering showers,
Of all that, rooted there, it beheld,
Since first in its veins the young sap swelled.
But what like this has your coal to tell?
Black old mummy; what has it known,
Since the earth was a bubbling lava-vat,
Sunk in its dreary silent tomb,
But the earthquake's rumbling sound of doom,
Till it leapt to light with a split and groan,
With a toad, perhaps, encased in its stone —
How can you warm your heart at that?
How the wood blazes! Fill my glass!
This Lacryma Christi goes to the heart,
And makes the olden memories start,
Like an April rain on last year's grass.
How the days go! how the hours pass!
Sometimes like a thousand years it seems,
And then like a little month of dreams,
Since the Odes of Horace you taught me to scan,
And helped me over Homeric crevasses,
I, stumbling along where you lightly ran,
By the shores of the Poluphloisboio Thalasses —
Then how I longed to be a man,
Though thrilling with all a boy's joy of the lasses,
With my crown just even with your shoulder,
Looking with reverence up to you —
Longing to know the things you knew,
You six feet high and six years older,
And leaping over with quiet ease
What brought me staggering on to my knees.
Then I remember you went to Rome,
And on the hem of your garment brought
Odours back to our quiet home,
That ravished with sweetness my boyish thought.
How your talk, like an o'erbrimmed cup,
Ran over with beauty, my heart drank up; —
Oranges, olives — tinkling guitars,
Skies all throbbing with palpitant stars,
Moonlighted terraces, gardens, and groves,
Bubbling of nightingales, cooing of doves —
Portia's, Laura's, and Juliet's loves, —
Everything lovely I seemed to see
When you were talking of Italy;
There you almost seemed to have met
Titian, Raffaelle, Tintoret,
And felt the grasp of Angelo's hand,
And known Da Vinci, so calm and grand,
And walked in that glorious company,
Whose starry names are above us seen
Like constellations in the sky;
And you in that marble world had been,
Where the Grecian and Roman gods still reign,
And lord it in Art's serene domain;
And behind the veil of talk you wove,
Their figures, half-hidden, seemed to move,
And, beckoning, smile — to pass away
At a single touch of my everyday.
Ah! the old dreams — old times — old joys —
Buried beyond the Present's noise,
How still they sleep beneath time's river!
All of their sorrows and pains forgot,
All of their beauty, without a blot,
Living to perfume the memory for ever.
Well! once you filled my heart with wine,
That made me drunk with a life divine;
And I pour into yours, as a recompense,
Small beer of advice and common sense.
You were a poet to me at home,
I'll be a preacher to you in Rome.
So, to come out of this dreamy land,
To the business matter of fact in hand;
You know that fellow that just went out —
But pray, do you know his business here? —
How he is living — what he's about,
Here in Rome this many a year?
Somebody introduced him? He seems
A sort of a pious good-natured fool, —
A convert, they told you, with dreams and schemes
For the Church's universal rule?
All very well; but what are his means?
Faith is lovely, but is not food; —
The heart has its pulse, but the stomach needs beans,
And texts don't do when the appetite's rude.
Man's but a poor weak creature at best,
Till the fiend in the belly is lulled to rest.
Throw him his dose, and the road is free
For meditation and sanctity.
Now look me, my old friend, straight in the eye —
Unless appearances grossly lie
(I'm as sorry to say it as you to hear,
But after midnight one must be sincere),
That fellow's only a Government Spy!
Of course you're surprised. — There's nothing on earth
So base in your eyes as a Government Spy;
He's half an Englishman, too, by birth,
So the thing is an impossibility.
Be calm, my friend, that's the way it looks
To us poor sinners; but we mistake:
The law is different in his looks; —
He acts for the Holy Church's sake;
And there's nothing so dirty you may not do,
With absolution and blessing too —
Not to speak of the money part —
If the Church's good you have at heart.
Holy fictions are never lies;
'Tis the pious purpose purifies.
And pray distinguish, if you please,
Those who, like martyrs, sacrifice
Instincts of commonest decencies,
Seeking to win an immortal prize
From merely common vulgar spies.
Spirito Santo's not the same
As Aqua Vitae, even in name.
Spirito Santo mumbles and prays
The while his friend to death he betrays;
Aqua Vitae is bought and sold,
And frankly admits that he works for gold.
For, " Bah! " he says, " a man must live,
And holes there are in every one's sieve.
Nobody's pure as he pretends,
And we all eat dirt for our selfish ends.
Pride is the ruin of angel and man;
All of us do as well as we can;
You at my dirty business scoff,
But silver spoons are found in the trough.
Cheaper than you I am, I'll admit,
Because I am poorer, not worse a whit.
A beggar's sole chance is to sleep in a ditch;
I'd be respectable too — were I rich;
But calling names don't break any bones,
And eggs are eggs, though you call them stones. "
Talk as vulgar as this your friend
Is ready as you to reprehend:
For, " Ah! " he says, " we cannot refuse
Our crosses and burdens, though hard to bear:
The world's always ready to sneer and abuse,
But we must answer their scoffs with a prayer:
Our duty is not for us to choose.
Fallible reason to man is given;
The Church alone has the keys to heaven;
She only knows what is purest and best,
And her servants humbly must do her behest.
She doeth a mighty good with a fool,
And, using me as a worthless tool,
If I mistake, and stumble, and fall,
She shall give absolution for all. "
Now I may be deceived, and I hope I am;
But a wolf may borrow the fleece of a lamb,
And I fear your friend is that kind of sham.
But listen, I'll spin a yarn for you,
And every thread of it's simply true;
And then you can come to your own decision,
If I'm right or wrong in my suspicion.
'Tis years, as you know, that I've lived in Rome,
Till now it's familiar to me as home;
And 'tis years ago I knew Giannone,
A capital fellow, with great black eyes,
And a pleasant smile of frank surprise,
And as gentle a pace as a lady's pony,
Ready to follow wherever you bid;
His oaths were, " Per Bacco! " and " Dio mio! "
And " Guardi! " he cried to whatever you said;
But though not overfreighted with esprit or brio ,
His heart was better by far than his head.
His education was rather scanty;
But what on earth could he have done
With an education, having one,
Unless he chose for the scarlet to run,
And study the Fathers and lives of the Santi?
Nevertheless, I know he had read,
Because he quoted them, Tasso and Dante;
And so often he recommended the prosy
Promessi Sposi, I must suppose he
Had also achieved that tale of Manzoni;
And besides Monte Christo and Uncle Tom,
And the history of Italy and Rome,
(For he thoroughly knew how Liberty's foot
Had been pinched, and maimed, and lamed in her boot),
He had studied with zeal the book of the Mass,
And Libretti of all the operas.
This little learning sufficed for Giannone,
And, sooth to say, as little money;
Most of the latter he spent upon dress,
And his life was neither more nor less
Than the difficult problem, day by day,
To drive the cursed time away.
So having nothing himself to do,
He would dawdle away your morning for you.
When you were silent to drive him away,
You missed your man — he would stay and stay,
With the same old phrases, the livelong day.
And smiling at nothing, and so content
He lounged at his ease on your sofa there,
Or peeped in your boxes without your consent,
Or paced through the room, or, pausing, stood
At the glass, and examined himself with care,
And arranged his cravat, or mustache, or hair.
And so pleased if you threw him a word or two,
That you had no heart to be downright rude,
And say, " My dear fellow, you really intrude; "
Or if at last you were ready to swear,
And cried, " I am busy; I've something to do! "
Dull as a stone to what you meant, he
Would quietly settle himself in his chair,
And smiling answer, with fatuous air,
" Faccia, senza complimenti. "
His room was an armoury of swords —
Some blades scribbled with Koran words,
Some long and thin, some short and stout,
Some crooked, some straight, some curved about.
He had ancient guns and pistols too,
One-barrelled, six-barrelled, old and new,
With every species of bore and stock,
And every imaginable lock;
Daggers, with hilts by Cellini made,
Or so at least Giannone said;
A savage bludgeon from Southern Seas,
A Turkish scimitar's gilded blade,
An Indian tomahawk and a creese; —
Everything murderous, terrible, wild,
Pleased this creature, so gentle and mild.
On his wall was a head of Rachel, of course,
Flanked by two dogs, a stag, and a horse
From Landseer's brush, and, poised on her neat toe,
The delicate sylph-like shape of Cerito.
On his hearth-rug lay a lion's skin,
And a couple of dogs made a terrible din,
Yelping and screaming at all that came in.
And here he lay, in his warlike den,
And made his breakfast on " cafe au lait, "
The very idlest of idle men,
Smoking and gaping the morning away,
And handling his pistols now and then;
Shabby enough in his dressing-gown,
With a soiled shirt on, and his slippers down,
And a scarlet fez with a tassel blue
Perched on his head, not over-new.
But as soon as the morning he'd worried by,
The grub would change to a butterfly —
Burst from his chrysalis, and appear
Like an English milord, with a million a-year;
And when his elaborate toilet was done,
He really fancied he looked like one.
Yet, despite his short bepocketed coat,
His mutton-chop whiskers, and well-shaved throat,
And English neck-tie, and laced-up boot,
He still was Italian from head to foot.
By slowly dressing, an hour he killed,
And then the serious duty fulfilled
Of showing himself all up and down
The Corso's length to the lazy town,
Bowing and lifting his glossy hat,
Or pausing to air his innocent chat
At the carriage of Lady this or that;
And to be English out and out,
He bought a dog-cart, and drove about,
Sitting high, with majestic pride,
A tiger behind, and a friend at his side,
And a boule-dogue staring between his knees,
As like an Englishman as two peas.
He thought so at least, if we did not;
So, up and down, at a solemn trot,
With his reins held tight, as if his steed
Were wild with spirit, blood, and breed
(Though, if the simple truth be told,
It was eighteen years since he was foaled),
He drove, white-gloved, his reverend beast,
And looked like an English Sir Smith at least.
At night he went to his opera-stall,
When there was neither a party nor ball;
And, knowing the opera all by rote,
He hummed with the tenor, soprano, or bass,
Keeping ahead by a bar or note,
And winning by half a length the race;
Or, turning around with an earnest face,
He studied the circle from ceiling to floor,
With a cheap lorgnette he had hired at the door;
Or, wandering about from box to box,
With his white cravat and his oily locks,
He played with some lady's fan and smiled,
And remarked that the weather was cold or mild;
Asked when she would receive his call —
Hoped it would be a gay Carnival;
Said Lady X. was a beautiful woman —
Heard she intended to give a ball;
Knew that young American there,
The pretty girl with a rose in her hair,
The daughter, they say, of Barnum the showman —
Would have a million dollars for d├┤t;
And half he sighed at his different lot.
And with chat like this, that offended no man,
Of people and parties and weather and wealth,
And asking of everybody's health,
He talked like any agreeable Roman.
Giannone had but an empty head —
But then the worst of him is said:
A better heart, or a readier hand,
To help in whatever was plotted and planned,
You never would see in our English land.
He sang at our parties — was ready to hop
In polka, mazurka, schottische, or galopp;
Or led the cotillon till all of the girls
Had danced in the morning, and danced out their curls,
And the tired musicians were ready to drop.
He bargained for carriages, horses, and grooms —
Hired music for balls, sent flowers to your rooms —
Arranged all the picnics, and fluttered about
At every tea-drinking party or rout —
Talked terrible French, and at times even spoke
In English, said " Yas, meese, " and thought it a joke.
A " guardia nobile " was Giannone,
By which he earned sufficient money
For his gloves, shirt-buttons, boots, and hat,
Though it was scarcely enough for that.
And splendid he was on a gala-day,
With his jingling sword and scarlet coat,
And his long jack-boots and helmet gay,
When along the streets he used to trot;
And great good-luck it was to meet
Giannone when you wanted a seat
To hear the chant of the Miserere,
Or to get on the balcony high and airy,
To see the Papal procession go
Over St Peter's pavement below,
Streaming along in its gorgeous show.
And then at Carnival such bouquets —
Such beautiful bon-bons, and princely ways —
Such elegant wavings of hat and hand —
Such smiles that no one could withstand —
Such compliments, as made ours seem
Like pale skim-milk to his rich cream.
Giannone's dream was always this,
To find some beautiful English " Miss, "
With a pretty face and plenty of money,
Who should fall in love and marry Giannone.
Poor fellow! he met with a different fate,
The manner of which I will now relate,
And he caught it just through imitation
Of some of the ways of our English nation.
Travel as much as we English will,
Down to the death we are English still —
The brandy and ale that we have at home,
And the sherry and port, we must have in Rome.
These thin Italian wines, we think,
Are a wishy-washy kind of drink.
Travel we must, if only to say
We are better in England every way;
And we honestly think, when we get abroad,
That England alone was made by God,
While the rest of the earth, though nobly planned,
Was finished by some apprentice's hand.
All that's not English in our eyes
Is something to sneer at, and jeer, and despise.
As for a foreigner, it's our rule
To consider him either a knave or fool;
And our sense of a kindness by one bestowed,
Weighs on our minds like an awkward load,
Till we've asked our new acquaintance to dine,
And paid off the favour with beef and wine,
And introduced him to all our set.
So it happened that Hycombe Wycombe Brown,
Of the Sussex Wycombes, a man about town,
The nephew, you know, of Sir Hycombe Guy,
Who was slain at the storming of Alisalih,
And left his name to the Gazette,
And put our Hycombe quite at his ease
With I know not how many lacs of rupees
(And he lacked them enough till then, if you please)
Well, owing Giannone a kind of debt
For buying some horses, or some such work,
He sent him a card of defiance one day
To meet him at point of the knife — and fork,
And settle the matter without delay.
Giannone accepted of course, and then,
As Wycombe's Italian was rather weak,
He asked a few of us resident men
Who knew the language, as seconds, to speak,
And among them, slim and sleek and sly,
Was your pious friend with his balking eye.
The dinner was good, and all were merry,
And plenty there was of champagne and sherry;
And the toasts were brisk and the wine was good,
And we all took quite as much as we should.
Then we went to cards; and depend upon it,
Though our seasoned brains the drink withstood,
There was a bee in Giannone's bonnet;
But to play we went — it was only whist,
But a little mill answers for little grist,
And Giannone was soon cleaned out of all
He had saved for bouquets at Carnival,
And of course he felt a little vext,
Though " Pazienza " was still his text.
But playing's dry work, and, I'm sorry to say,
Brandy was ordered to whet the play;
And Giannone kept drinking, in imitation
Of this happy custom of our nation,
Till at last his tongue had lost its rein,
And the fire had all gone into his brain.
So he began to talk quite wild,
And spoke all his thoughts out like a child;
And secrets he ought to have kept in his breast
Plumped out of his mouth like young birds from their nest;
And names he called, and his voice was high
As he talked of Italian liberty!
And cursed the priests as the root of all evil,
And sent the Cardinals all to the devil!
And, " Now, " he cried, " they have it their way,
But every dog must have his day;
And the time will come, and that before long,
When the weak will rise and drive over the strong,
And the Tricolor over the Vatican fly,
And vivas be heard for liberty!
No more King Stork, and no more Pope Log,
Fouling Italy's boot in their bog.
Better dig with the bayonet's point our graves,
And die to be freemen, than live to be slaves!
Ah, tight we will! There is nothing good
Which must not be first baptised in blood.
Let us alone, you tricking French,
Let us alone, you Austrian sneaks,
And we will purge the Augean stench
That in Bomba's and Pius's stable reeks.
We ask no help from Gascon or Guelph,
Italia will do it alone — by herself. "
When the wine is in, at times the wit
To a kindle of savage flame is lit;
And Giannone, who in his common mood
Thinks more of gloves and perfumes than blood,
Now looked and talked like a man inspired,
And his thoughts blazed up as if they were fired,
And his lamping eyes (as calm as a cow's
In his everyday) now seemed to rouse
And burn beneath his low black brows.
We looked at him in amazement then,
And said, " These Italians au fond are men,
Veneered with ignorance though they be,
And cowed and imbruted by slavery;
Let them be roused by war or love,
They are fiercer than any of us, by Jove! "
But all the while that Giannone let fly
These arrows of his, with a dead-cold eye
Your friend sat playing, and now and then
Gleamed up with a glance as sharp as a pen
That seemed to write down every word,
And then looked away as he had not heard;
And whenever he opened his lips, he said
Something about the game, — " You've played
A heart to my club: — we're one to six;
Yours are the honours and ours the tricks. "
We were all Englishmen there, you know,
And we English to suspect are slow;
But this fellow's air and sneaking look
Were something I somehow could not brook;
So I watched him well, and at last said I
To myself, " The rascal must be a spy. "
The thought like an arrow of fate struck home —
You know how these sudden conclusions come,
Beyond our reason, beyond our will,
And, lightening down with electric thrill,
Reveal in one clear and perfect flash
A world that before was doubt and gloom.
So " Zitto! Zitto! don't be so rash,
Giannone, " I cried; " Who knows what ear
May be listening at the door to hear? "
And then, with a laugh, and looking straight
At this friend of yours, with his face sedate,
I added, " Who knows but there may be
A spy even here in this company? "
If I doubted before the trade of your friend,
My doubts in a moment had their end;
For a glance came straight up into my eyes
From under his lids, half fear, half surprise,
As an adder on which you chance to tread
Starts up, and darts his tongue from his head,
And then slips swiftly into the shade.
So turning back with a look demure,
And a deprecating, pious air,
As much as to say, " We must not care,
If our purposes are but high and pure,
But quell our passions and our pride,
And bear the stigma of human shame,
Knowing the means are justified
By the noble end, " — he slowly said,
Speaking, of course, about the game,
" The trick is mine — 'twas the knave I played. "
Now the snakes that in Italy's bosom lie
Are the twins Suspicion and Jealousy:
And the eggs from which they creep and crawl
Are hatched in the secret confessional.
Wherever you go you may hear them hiss
'Neath the covert of studied hypocrisies.
Truth is dangerous, — eyes will spy,
And ears will hear, though nobody's nigh;
And the safest thing is to learn to lie.
So a daily distrust is engendered and bred,
That saps one's faith in the friend most dear,
And creeps to sleep in the marriage-bed,
Till the dearest and nearest you learn to fear.
The Government never forgets the rule
That it early learns in the Church's school:
Divide and conquer — that is the way.
Threaten the weak, the frank betray;
Cajole and promise — you needn't pay.
Save your children by plying your rods,
And give up to Caesar the things that are — God's.
And oh! my children, listen and hear —
Whatever the Church commands, revere;
And distrust men's words with a holy fear;
And wherever you go, and whatever you see,
Worship only the powers that be,
And talk no nonsense of liberty.
This is the creed that Giannone knew
Better by far than I or you;
So no sooner the dread word " Spy " I spoke,
Than his fine discourse like a pipe-stem broke;
But looking around with a startled stare,
And seeing we only were English there,
His fear dropped off like a snake's old skin,
And again with a laugh we heard him begin.
" Ah! " he cried, " there's a dirty trick
In the very word that makes me sick;
You English don't know as well as I
The slobber and slime of a Government Spy.
" Sir Birichino, permit me now
To introduce him — a friend of mine —
Smooth, pale, bloodless lips and brow —
A long black coat, whose rubbed seams shine —
Spots on his waistcoat of grease and wine —
A tri-cornered hat all rusty with use —
Long black coarse stockings and buckled shoes;
Ah! so polite with his bows and smiles,
And his sickening compliments and wiles,
And his little serpent venomous eyes,
And his swollen chops of beastly size.
Look at the hypocrite! There he stands,
With the unctuous palms of his dirty hands
Folded together breast-high, while he sneaks
Cringing behind them wherever he speaks;
He dares not look you straight in the eyes,
But, sidling and simpering, askance alway,
He oils you over with wheedling lies,
As the boa slimes ere he swallows his prey.
Any day you may see him, he haunts
Half the cafes and restaurants;
His eye on his paper fixed, — his ear
Gleaning the talk at the table near.
No pride in him , — he will lick your shoes,
Thanks you for kicking him — loves abuse —
Calls it the natural spirit of youth;
Anything's sweet to him but truth.
Drop a bad word in that fellow's way,
He picks it up as a vulture its prey;
Hating whatever is wholesome and good,
And living only on carrion food.
Let him say " rose," it will stink in his breath.
Many a fellow owes him his death
Just for a strong word, spoken may be
When the blood was hot and the tongue too free.
But at last he reckoned without his host,
And in throwing his dirty dice he lost;
And one morning they found him taking his rest
In the street, with a dagger stuck in his breast,
And served him right, say you and I,
It was only too easy a death for a Spy. "
At this your friend threw down his card,
Saying, " You've won to-night, 'tis true,
But to-morrow I'll have my revenge on you. "
And though these words to his friend he spoke,
He looked at Giannone so sharp and hard,
With such a sinister evil look,
That a dark suspicion in me awoke.
So the good Giannone's arm I took,
And crying, " I'm off — will you go with me? "
Took him away from the company;
And after a mile of midnight Rome,
Left him safe in his den at home.
This, you'll say, and I'll confess
Was merely suspicion — no more nor less;
Yet I could not get it out of my head
Long after I was warm in my bed,
That something might happen by-and-by
To prove this fellow was only a Spy.
Two days after I went to see
Whether Giannone would walk with me —
Two sharp bell-pulls at his door;
No answer — gone out; then one pull more,
And " Ho, Giannone, Giannone, 'tis I! "
Then slipped a slide back cautiously
From a little grated hole — " Chi e, "
From a woman's voice — " Che vuole lei? "
And a shuffle of slippers when it was known
Who " I " was, and that I was alone.
" And where is the Signor Padrone? " I cried.
" Ah! " with a sort of convulsive groan,
The poor old servant, sighing, replied,
" Doesn't your Signoria know —
Such times — such times — oime! oibo!
The sbirri came here yesterday,
And carried the caro padrone away;
And they've rifled his desk of letters and all,
And taken the pistols and swords from the wall,
And locked up the room with a great red seal
Put over the door; and they scared me so,
With threats if I dared in the chamber to go,
That I'm all of a tremble from head to heel;
And when the bell rang, I thought it must be
Some of the sbirri come back for me.
What it's about we none of us know,
But his mother and sisters are in such a fright,
They've been weeping and praying the livelong night
And oh, I fear, Signore dear,
There's some dreadful political business here;
Ahime! " and she wiped away a tear.
The servant's story was all too true;
I did, of course, all there was to do,
Begged, bribed, and petitioned, but all in vain.
From that night I never saw him again.
Worse, neither I nor his family knew,
Nor will you, unless your friend explain,
And Giannone himself is as ignorant too —
What was his crime — what done — what said,
That drew this punishment down on his head.
This one fact alone we know,
That since the speech of that famous night
Giannone has vanished out of sight,
And has gone to pass a year or so,
Longer perhaps, — how can one say? —
In a building where the Government pay
His lodging and board in the kindest way.
The lodging perhaps is rather bare,
And the boarding is not the best of fare,
And the company's queer that's gathered there —
Made up of fellows with speech more free
Than one hears in the best society;
And some of whose notions are rather opaque
Of the laws that govern property;
So that sometimes they make a mistake
In that little distinction 'twixt meum and tuum;
But then, as the Roman laws are in Latin,
Which, even in Rome, one is not pat in,
Farther, I mean, than an Ave or Matin,
It takes a scholar to read them at all;
And supposing one has read thoroughly through 'em,
There's a slippery space 'twixt see 'em and do 'em,
Where Grotius himself might trip and fall.
Well, — here in this cheerful company,
Where the cushions are not of silk and satin,
And on fare one cannot honestly praise,
Our poor Giannone passes his days.
It is not precisely the place to grow fat in,
And the library's wanting, as yet, I hear,
And I'm told that the view from the window is drear,
And the host will never allow a fire,
And, besides, has ways that are rather queer
Of locking the doors, which interfere
With the perfect freedom one might desire.
But beggars cannot be choosers, you see,
And to look a gift-horse in the mouth would be
Such a breach of manners — yet, as for me,
I cannot help wishing the end would come
Of this public hospitality,
And that poor Giannone was free to go home.
But when will that be? you ask me — Ah!
That is the question; Chi lo sa?
Whenever it pleases the powers that be, —
Next month — next year — next century!
Now, there are the facts for my suspicion
About your friend and his pretty profession;
They're as plain to me as two ones in addition,
And I put them all into your possession.
There's at least a good half-hour to spare
Before the Capuchin clock strikes one,
And the bell, with a sharp spasmodic tinkle,
Rouses the Frati to shuffle to prayer,
And the altar candles begin to twinkle
In the cheerless chapel, bleak and bare —
By Jove! we are better off here than there,
And now, as that friend of yours has gone,
There's a word I must whisper to you, alone.
Friends grow dearer, and hearts draw nearer,
Calmed in the silent centre of night;
And words we may say, that the full mid-day,
If it should hear us, would jeer outright.
Day, with its din, for distrust and doubt!
Night for confidence, friendship, love!
The day's work done, and the world shut out,
The streets all silent, the stars above,
Pleasant it is to gather about
The fire of wood, and muse and dream,
And talk of the hopes and joys of youth,
And open our hearts and confess the truth,
Ceasing to make-believe and seem.
Fling another log on the fire,
Another log from the Sabine hill,
And a heap of those rusty crackling canes
That out on the sunny Campagna plains
Held on their trellis the grape-hung vine,
Whose blood was drained for this purple wine,
Our straw-enwoven fiasco to fill.
Look! the old tendrils, stiff as wire,
Cling to them still with their strong desire,
Outlasting death — as our friendship will.
How the flame bickers, and quivers, and flickers,
Darting its eager tongues about!
Then blazes abroad with genial flashes,
Till the sap comes singing and bubbling out.
Wild as a Maenad with myriad fancies,
Hither and thither it leaps and dances,
Fitful, whimsical, glad, and free,
Like a living thing with a heart and soul.
Oh, the wood-fire is the fire for me!
Away with your heartless mechanical coal,
Your vulgar drudge, so sullen and slow,
That ne'er with a flame of fancy flashes,
But burns with a grim and business glow,
And crumbles away to dirty ashes,
And smells of the furnace and factory.
Talk of the home and hearth! of late
Nothing we've had but house and grate —
Nothing in England to warm to the core,
Like the vast old chimneys and fires of yore,
When the great logs blazed with a genial roar.
Hark to that mossy log, whose heart
The contadino has cloven apart,
Singing its death-song! How it tells
What the cicadae chirped in the dells,
When it was young, and its leafy pride
Shadowed Pan with its branches wide;
And what old Auster, bluff and bold,
Screamed in its ear while it shivered with cold.
Thousands of idyls it has to sing,
Of love and summer, of youth and spring;
Of the Dryad that slipt with her rustling dress
Into its murmurous leafiness;
Of the rout of Bacchanals, ivy-crowned,
Shaking the air with the cymbal's sound,
While the yawning panther's velvet foot
Pressed the rank grasses over its root; —
Of the timorous Narad, pearled with dew,
That fled to the bubbling torrent near,
And, hid by the bushes, looked trembling through
At the smooth-limbed Bacchus, in love and fear;
Of the chance and change of the season's spell,
Of musical birds and odorous flowers,
Of the storm that swept like a chorded shell
The groaning forest — of whispering showers,
Of all that, rooted there, it beheld,
Since first in its veins the young sap swelled.
But what like this has your coal to tell?
Black old mummy; what has it known,
Since the earth was a bubbling lava-vat,
Sunk in its dreary silent tomb,
But the earthquake's rumbling sound of doom,
Till it leapt to light with a split and groan,
With a toad, perhaps, encased in its stone —
How can you warm your heart at that?
How the wood blazes! Fill my glass!
This Lacryma Christi goes to the heart,
And makes the olden memories start,
Like an April rain on last year's grass.
How the days go! how the hours pass!
Sometimes like a thousand years it seems,
And then like a little month of dreams,
Since the Odes of Horace you taught me to scan,
And helped me over Homeric crevasses,
I, stumbling along where you lightly ran,
By the shores of the Poluphloisboio Thalasses —
Then how I longed to be a man,
Though thrilling with all a boy's joy of the lasses,
With my crown just even with your shoulder,
Looking with reverence up to you —
Longing to know the things you knew,
You six feet high and six years older,
And leaping over with quiet ease
What brought me staggering on to my knees.
Then I remember you went to Rome,
And on the hem of your garment brought
Odours back to our quiet home,
That ravished with sweetness my boyish thought.
How your talk, like an o'erbrimmed cup,
Ran over with beauty, my heart drank up; —
Oranges, olives — tinkling guitars,
Skies all throbbing with palpitant stars,
Moonlighted terraces, gardens, and groves,
Bubbling of nightingales, cooing of doves —
Portia's, Laura's, and Juliet's loves, —
Everything lovely I seemed to see
When you were talking of Italy;
There you almost seemed to have met
Titian, Raffaelle, Tintoret,
And felt the grasp of Angelo's hand,
And known Da Vinci, so calm and grand,
And walked in that glorious company,
Whose starry names are above us seen
Like constellations in the sky;
And you in that marble world had been,
Where the Grecian and Roman gods still reign,
And lord it in Art's serene domain;
And behind the veil of talk you wove,
Their figures, half-hidden, seemed to move,
And, beckoning, smile — to pass away
At a single touch of my everyday.
Ah! the old dreams — old times — old joys —
Buried beyond the Present's noise,
How still they sleep beneath time's river!
All of their sorrows and pains forgot,
All of their beauty, without a blot,
Living to perfume the memory for ever.
Well! once you filled my heart with wine,
That made me drunk with a life divine;
And I pour into yours, as a recompense,
Small beer of advice and common sense.
You were a poet to me at home,
I'll be a preacher to you in Rome.
So, to come out of this dreamy land,
To the business matter of fact in hand;
You know that fellow that just went out —
But pray, do you know his business here? —
How he is living — what he's about,
Here in Rome this many a year?
Somebody introduced him? He seems
A sort of a pious good-natured fool, —
A convert, they told you, with dreams and schemes
For the Church's universal rule?
All very well; but what are his means?
Faith is lovely, but is not food; —
The heart has its pulse, but the stomach needs beans,
And texts don't do when the appetite's rude.
Man's but a poor weak creature at best,
Till the fiend in the belly is lulled to rest.
Throw him his dose, and the road is free
For meditation and sanctity.
Now look me, my old friend, straight in the eye —
Unless appearances grossly lie
(I'm as sorry to say it as you to hear,
But after midnight one must be sincere),
That fellow's only a Government Spy!
Of course you're surprised. — There's nothing on earth
So base in your eyes as a Government Spy;
He's half an Englishman, too, by birth,
So the thing is an impossibility.
Be calm, my friend, that's the way it looks
To us poor sinners; but we mistake:
The law is different in his looks; —
He acts for the Holy Church's sake;
And there's nothing so dirty you may not do,
With absolution and blessing too —
Not to speak of the money part —
If the Church's good you have at heart.
Holy fictions are never lies;
'Tis the pious purpose purifies.
And pray distinguish, if you please,
Those who, like martyrs, sacrifice
Instincts of commonest decencies,
Seeking to win an immortal prize
From merely common vulgar spies.
Spirito Santo's not the same
As Aqua Vitae, even in name.
Spirito Santo mumbles and prays
The while his friend to death he betrays;
Aqua Vitae is bought and sold,
And frankly admits that he works for gold.
For, " Bah! " he says, " a man must live,
And holes there are in every one's sieve.
Nobody's pure as he pretends,
And we all eat dirt for our selfish ends.
Pride is the ruin of angel and man;
All of us do as well as we can;
You at my dirty business scoff,
But silver spoons are found in the trough.
Cheaper than you I am, I'll admit,
Because I am poorer, not worse a whit.
A beggar's sole chance is to sleep in a ditch;
I'd be respectable too — were I rich;
But calling names don't break any bones,
And eggs are eggs, though you call them stones. "
Talk as vulgar as this your friend
Is ready as you to reprehend:
For, " Ah! " he says, " we cannot refuse
Our crosses and burdens, though hard to bear:
The world's always ready to sneer and abuse,
But we must answer their scoffs with a prayer:
Our duty is not for us to choose.
Fallible reason to man is given;
The Church alone has the keys to heaven;
She only knows what is purest and best,
And her servants humbly must do her behest.
She doeth a mighty good with a fool,
And, using me as a worthless tool,
If I mistake, and stumble, and fall,
She shall give absolution for all. "
Now I may be deceived, and I hope I am;
But a wolf may borrow the fleece of a lamb,
And I fear your friend is that kind of sham.
But listen, I'll spin a yarn for you,
And every thread of it's simply true;
And then you can come to your own decision,
If I'm right or wrong in my suspicion.
'Tis years, as you know, that I've lived in Rome,
Till now it's familiar to me as home;
And 'tis years ago I knew Giannone,
A capital fellow, with great black eyes,
And a pleasant smile of frank surprise,
And as gentle a pace as a lady's pony,
Ready to follow wherever you bid;
His oaths were, " Per Bacco! " and " Dio mio! "
And " Guardi! " he cried to whatever you said;
But though not overfreighted with esprit or brio ,
His heart was better by far than his head.
His education was rather scanty;
But what on earth could he have done
With an education, having one,
Unless he chose for the scarlet to run,
And study the Fathers and lives of the Santi?
Nevertheless, I know he had read,
Because he quoted them, Tasso and Dante;
And so often he recommended the prosy
Promessi Sposi, I must suppose he
Had also achieved that tale of Manzoni;
And besides Monte Christo and Uncle Tom,
And the history of Italy and Rome,
(For he thoroughly knew how Liberty's foot
Had been pinched, and maimed, and lamed in her boot),
He had studied with zeal the book of the Mass,
And Libretti of all the operas.
This little learning sufficed for Giannone,
And, sooth to say, as little money;
Most of the latter he spent upon dress,
And his life was neither more nor less
Than the difficult problem, day by day,
To drive the cursed time away.
So having nothing himself to do,
He would dawdle away your morning for you.
When you were silent to drive him away,
You missed your man — he would stay and stay,
With the same old phrases, the livelong day.
And smiling at nothing, and so content
He lounged at his ease on your sofa there,
Or peeped in your boxes without your consent,
Or paced through the room, or, pausing, stood
At the glass, and examined himself with care,
And arranged his cravat, or mustache, or hair.
And so pleased if you threw him a word or two,
That you had no heart to be downright rude,
And say, " My dear fellow, you really intrude; "
Or if at last you were ready to swear,
And cried, " I am busy; I've something to do! "
Dull as a stone to what you meant, he
Would quietly settle himself in his chair,
And smiling answer, with fatuous air,
" Faccia, senza complimenti. "
His room was an armoury of swords —
Some blades scribbled with Koran words,
Some long and thin, some short and stout,
Some crooked, some straight, some curved about.
He had ancient guns and pistols too,
One-barrelled, six-barrelled, old and new,
With every species of bore and stock,
And every imaginable lock;
Daggers, with hilts by Cellini made,
Or so at least Giannone said;
A savage bludgeon from Southern Seas,
A Turkish scimitar's gilded blade,
An Indian tomahawk and a creese; —
Everything murderous, terrible, wild,
Pleased this creature, so gentle and mild.
On his wall was a head of Rachel, of course,
Flanked by two dogs, a stag, and a horse
From Landseer's brush, and, poised on her neat toe,
The delicate sylph-like shape of Cerito.
On his hearth-rug lay a lion's skin,
And a couple of dogs made a terrible din,
Yelping and screaming at all that came in.
And here he lay, in his warlike den,
And made his breakfast on " cafe au lait, "
The very idlest of idle men,
Smoking and gaping the morning away,
And handling his pistols now and then;
Shabby enough in his dressing-gown,
With a soiled shirt on, and his slippers down,
And a scarlet fez with a tassel blue
Perched on his head, not over-new.
But as soon as the morning he'd worried by,
The grub would change to a butterfly —
Burst from his chrysalis, and appear
Like an English milord, with a million a-year;
And when his elaborate toilet was done,
He really fancied he looked like one.
Yet, despite his short bepocketed coat,
His mutton-chop whiskers, and well-shaved throat,
And English neck-tie, and laced-up boot,
He still was Italian from head to foot.
By slowly dressing, an hour he killed,
And then the serious duty fulfilled
Of showing himself all up and down
The Corso's length to the lazy town,
Bowing and lifting his glossy hat,
Or pausing to air his innocent chat
At the carriage of Lady this or that;
And to be English out and out,
He bought a dog-cart, and drove about,
Sitting high, with majestic pride,
A tiger behind, and a friend at his side,
And a boule-dogue staring between his knees,
As like an Englishman as two peas.
He thought so at least, if we did not;
So, up and down, at a solemn trot,
With his reins held tight, as if his steed
Were wild with spirit, blood, and breed
(Though, if the simple truth be told,
It was eighteen years since he was foaled),
He drove, white-gloved, his reverend beast,
And looked like an English Sir Smith at least.
At night he went to his opera-stall,
When there was neither a party nor ball;
And, knowing the opera all by rote,
He hummed with the tenor, soprano, or bass,
Keeping ahead by a bar or note,
And winning by half a length the race;
Or, turning around with an earnest face,
He studied the circle from ceiling to floor,
With a cheap lorgnette he had hired at the door;
Or, wandering about from box to box,
With his white cravat and his oily locks,
He played with some lady's fan and smiled,
And remarked that the weather was cold or mild;
Asked when she would receive his call —
Hoped it would be a gay Carnival;
Said Lady X. was a beautiful woman —
Heard she intended to give a ball;
Knew that young American there,
The pretty girl with a rose in her hair,
The daughter, they say, of Barnum the showman —
Would have a million dollars for d├┤t;
And half he sighed at his different lot.
And with chat like this, that offended no man,
Of people and parties and weather and wealth,
And asking of everybody's health,
He talked like any agreeable Roman.
Giannone had but an empty head —
But then the worst of him is said:
A better heart, or a readier hand,
To help in whatever was plotted and planned,
You never would see in our English land.
He sang at our parties — was ready to hop
In polka, mazurka, schottische, or galopp;
Or led the cotillon till all of the girls
Had danced in the morning, and danced out their curls,
And the tired musicians were ready to drop.
He bargained for carriages, horses, and grooms —
Hired music for balls, sent flowers to your rooms —
Arranged all the picnics, and fluttered about
At every tea-drinking party or rout —
Talked terrible French, and at times even spoke
In English, said " Yas, meese, " and thought it a joke.
A " guardia nobile " was Giannone,
By which he earned sufficient money
For his gloves, shirt-buttons, boots, and hat,
Though it was scarcely enough for that.
And splendid he was on a gala-day,
With his jingling sword and scarlet coat,
And his long jack-boots and helmet gay,
When along the streets he used to trot;
And great good-luck it was to meet
Giannone when you wanted a seat
To hear the chant of the Miserere,
Or to get on the balcony high and airy,
To see the Papal procession go
Over St Peter's pavement below,
Streaming along in its gorgeous show.
And then at Carnival such bouquets —
Such beautiful bon-bons, and princely ways —
Such elegant wavings of hat and hand —
Such smiles that no one could withstand —
Such compliments, as made ours seem
Like pale skim-milk to his rich cream.
Giannone's dream was always this,
To find some beautiful English " Miss, "
With a pretty face and plenty of money,
Who should fall in love and marry Giannone.
Poor fellow! he met with a different fate,
The manner of which I will now relate,
And he caught it just through imitation
Of some of the ways of our English nation.
Travel as much as we English will,
Down to the death we are English still —
The brandy and ale that we have at home,
And the sherry and port, we must have in Rome.
These thin Italian wines, we think,
Are a wishy-washy kind of drink.
Travel we must, if only to say
We are better in England every way;
And we honestly think, when we get abroad,
That England alone was made by God,
While the rest of the earth, though nobly planned,
Was finished by some apprentice's hand.
All that's not English in our eyes
Is something to sneer at, and jeer, and despise.
As for a foreigner, it's our rule
To consider him either a knave or fool;
And our sense of a kindness by one bestowed,
Weighs on our minds like an awkward load,
Till we've asked our new acquaintance to dine,
And paid off the favour with beef and wine,
And introduced him to all our set.
So it happened that Hycombe Wycombe Brown,
Of the Sussex Wycombes, a man about town,
The nephew, you know, of Sir Hycombe Guy,
Who was slain at the storming of Alisalih,
And left his name to the Gazette,
And put our Hycombe quite at his ease
With I know not how many lacs of rupees
(And he lacked them enough till then, if you please)
Well, owing Giannone a kind of debt
For buying some horses, or some such work,
He sent him a card of defiance one day
To meet him at point of the knife — and fork,
And settle the matter without delay.
Giannone accepted of course, and then,
As Wycombe's Italian was rather weak,
He asked a few of us resident men
Who knew the language, as seconds, to speak,
And among them, slim and sleek and sly,
Was your pious friend with his balking eye.
The dinner was good, and all were merry,
And plenty there was of champagne and sherry;
And the toasts were brisk and the wine was good,
And we all took quite as much as we should.
Then we went to cards; and depend upon it,
Though our seasoned brains the drink withstood,
There was a bee in Giannone's bonnet;
But to play we went — it was only whist,
But a little mill answers for little grist,
And Giannone was soon cleaned out of all
He had saved for bouquets at Carnival,
And of course he felt a little vext,
Though " Pazienza " was still his text.
But playing's dry work, and, I'm sorry to say,
Brandy was ordered to whet the play;
And Giannone kept drinking, in imitation
Of this happy custom of our nation,
Till at last his tongue had lost its rein,
And the fire had all gone into his brain.
So he began to talk quite wild,
And spoke all his thoughts out like a child;
And secrets he ought to have kept in his breast
Plumped out of his mouth like young birds from their nest;
And names he called, and his voice was high
As he talked of Italian liberty!
And cursed the priests as the root of all evil,
And sent the Cardinals all to the devil!
And, " Now, " he cried, " they have it their way,
But every dog must have his day;
And the time will come, and that before long,
When the weak will rise and drive over the strong,
And the Tricolor over the Vatican fly,
And vivas be heard for liberty!
No more King Stork, and no more Pope Log,
Fouling Italy's boot in their bog.
Better dig with the bayonet's point our graves,
And die to be freemen, than live to be slaves!
Ah, tight we will! There is nothing good
Which must not be first baptised in blood.
Let us alone, you tricking French,
Let us alone, you Austrian sneaks,
And we will purge the Augean stench
That in Bomba's and Pius's stable reeks.
We ask no help from Gascon or Guelph,
Italia will do it alone — by herself. "
When the wine is in, at times the wit
To a kindle of savage flame is lit;
And Giannone, who in his common mood
Thinks more of gloves and perfumes than blood,
Now looked and talked like a man inspired,
And his thoughts blazed up as if they were fired,
And his lamping eyes (as calm as a cow's
In his everyday) now seemed to rouse
And burn beneath his low black brows.
We looked at him in amazement then,
And said, " These Italians au fond are men,
Veneered with ignorance though they be,
And cowed and imbruted by slavery;
Let them be roused by war or love,
They are fiercer than any of us, by Jove! "
But all the while that Giannone let fly
These arrows of his, with a dead-cold eye
Your friend sat playing, and now and then
Gleamed up with a glance as sharp as a pen
That seemed to write down every word,
And then looked away as he had not heard;
And whenever he opened his lips, he said
Something about the game, — " You've played
A heart to my club: — we're one to six;
Yours are the honours and ours the tricks. "
We were all Englishmen there, you know,
And we English to suspect are slow;
But this fellow's air and sneaking look
Were something I somehow could not brook;
So I watched him well, and at last said I
To myself, " The rascal must be a spy. "
The thought like an arrow of fate struck home —
You know how these sudden conclusions come,
Beyond our reason, beyond our will,
And, lightening down with electric thrill,
Reveal in one clear and perfect flash
A world that before was doubt and gloom.
So " Zitto! Zitto! don't be so rash,
Giannone, " I cried; " Who knows what ear
May be listening at the door to hear? "
And then, with a laugh, and looking straight
At this friend of yours, with his face sedate,
I added, " Who knows but there may be
A spy even here in this company? "
If I doubted before the trade of your friend,
My doubts in a moment had their end;
For a glance came straight up into my eyes
From under his lids, half fear, half surprise,
As an adder on which you chance to tread
Starts up, and darts his tongue from his head,
And then slips swiftly into the shade.
So turning back with a look demure,
And a deprecating, pious air,
As much as to say, " We must not care,
If our purposes are but high and pure,
But quell our passions and our pride,
And bear the stigma of human shame,
Knowing the means are justified
By the noble end, " — he slowly said,
Speaking, of course, about the game,
" The trick is mine — 'twas the knave I played. "
Now the snakes that in Italy's bosom lie
Are the twins Suspicion and Jealousy:
And the eggs from which they creep and crawl
Are hatched in the secret confessional.
Wherever you go you may hear them hiss
'Neath the covert of studied hypocrisies.
Truth is dangerous, — eyes will spy,
And ears will hear, though nobody's nigh;
And the safest thing is to learn to lie.
So a daily distrust is engendered and bred,
That saps one's faith in the friend most dear,
And creeps to sleep in the marriage-bed,
Till the dearest and nearest you learn to fear.
The Government never forgets the rule
That it early learns in the Church's school:
Divide and conquer — that is the way.
Threaten the weak, the frank betray;
Cajole and promise — you needn't pay.
Save your children by plying your rods,
And give up to Caesar the things that are — God's.
And oh! my children, listen and hear —
Whatever the Church commands, revere;
And distrust men's words with a holy fear;
And wherever you go, and whatever you see,
Worship only the powers that be,
And talk no nonsense of liberty.
This is the creed that Giannone knew
Better by far than I or you;
So no sooner the dread word " Spy " I spoke,
Than his fine discourse like a pipe-stem broke;
But looking around with a startled stare,
And seeing we only were English there,
His fear dropped off like a snake's old skin,
And again with a laugh we heard him begin.
" Ah! " he cried, " there's a dirty trick
In the very word that makes me sick;
You English don't know as well as I
The slobber and slime of a Government Spy.
" Sir Birichino, permit me now
To introduce him — a friend of mine —
Smooth, pale, bloodless lips and brow —
A long black coat, whose rubbed seams shine —
Spots on his waistcoat of grease and wine —
A tri-cornered hat all rusty with use —
Long black coarse stockings and buckled shoes;
Ah! so polite with his bows and smiles,
And his sickening compliments and wiles,
And his little serpent venomous eyes,
And his swollen chops of beastly size.
Look at the hypocrite! There he stands,
With the unctuous palms of his dirty hands
Folded together breast-high, while he sneaks
Cringing behind them wherever he speaks;
He dares not look you straight in the eyes,
But, sidling and simpering, askance alway,
He oils you over with wheedling lies,
As the boa slimes ere he swallows his prey.
Any day you may see him, he haunts
Half the cafes and restaurants;
His eye on his paper fixed, — his ear
Gleaning the talk at the table near.
No pride in him , — he will lick your shoes,
Thanks you for kicking him — loves abuse —
Calls it the natural spirit of youth;
Anything's sweet to him but truth.
Drop a bad word in that fellow's way,
He picks it up as a vulture its prey;
Hating whatever is wholesome and good,
And living only on carrion food.
Let him say " rose," it will stink in his breath.
Many a fellow owes him his death
Just for a strong word, spoken may be
When the blood was hot and the tongue too free.
But at last he reckoned without his host,
And in throwing his dirty dice he lost;
And one morning they found him taking his rest
In the street, with a dagger stuck in his breast,
And served him right, say you and I,
It was only too easy a death for a Spy. "
At this your friend threw down his card,
Saying, " You've won to-night, 'tis true,
But to-morrow I'll have my revenge on you. "
And though these words to his friend he spoke,
He looked at Giannone so sharp and hard,
With such a sinister evil look,
That a dark suspicion in me awoke.
So the good Giannone's arm I took,
And crying, " I'm off — will you go with me? "
Took him away from the company;
And after a mile of midnight Rome,
Left him safe in his den at home.
This, you'll say, and I'll confess
Was merely suspicion — no more nor less;
Yet I could not get it out of my head
Long after I was warm in my bed,
That something might happen by-and-by
To prove this fellow was only a Spy.
Two days after I went to see
Whether Giannone would walk with me —
Two sharp bell-pulls at his door;
No answer — gone out; then one pull more,
And " Ho, Giannone, Giannone, 'tis I! "
Then slipped a slide back cautiously
From a little grated hole — " Chi e, "
From a woman's voice — " Che vuole lei? "
And a shuffle of slippers when it was known
Who " I " was, and that I was alone.
" And where is the Signor Padrone? " I cried.
" Ah! " with a sort of convulsive groan,
The poor old servant, sighing, replied,
" Doesn't your Signoria know —
Such times — such times — oime! oibo!
The sbirri came here yesterday,
And carried the caro padrone away;
And they've rifled his desk of letters and all,
And taken the pistols and swords from the wall,
And locked up the room with a great red seal
Put over the door; and they scared me so,
With threats if I dared in the chamber to go,
That I'm all of a tremble from head to heel;
And when the bell rang, I thought it must be
Some of the sbirri come back for me.
What it's about we none of us know,
But his mother and sisters are in such a fright,
They've been weeping and praying the livelong night
And oh, I fear, Signore dear,
There's some dreadful political business here;
Ahime! " and she wiped away a tear.
The servant's story was all too true;
I did, of course, all there was to do,
Begged, bribed, and petitioned, but all in vain.
From that night I never saw him again.
Worse, neither I nor his family knew,
Nor will you, unless your friend explain,
And Giannone himself is as ignorant too —
What was his crime — what done — what said,
That drew this punishment down on his head.
This one fact alone we know,
That since the speech of that famous night
Giannone has vanished out of sight,
And has gone to pass a year or so,
Longer perhaps, — how can one say? —
In a building where the Government pay
His lodging and board in the kindest way.
The lodging perhaps is rather bare,
And the boarding is not the best of fare,
And the company's queer that's gathered there —
Made up of fellows with speech more free
Than one hears in the best society;
And some of whose notions are rather opaque
Of the laws that govern property;
So that sometimes they make a mistake
In that little distinction 'twixt meum and tuum;
But then, as the Roman laws are in Latin,
Which, even in Rome, one is not pat in,
Farther, I mean, than an Ave or Matin,
It takes a scholar to read them at all;
And supposing one has read thoroughly through 'em,
There's a slippery space 'twixt see 'em and do 'em,
Where Grotius himself might trip and fall.
Well, — here in this cheerful company,
Where the cushions are not of silk and satin,
And on fare one cannot honestly praise,
Our poor Giannone passes his days.
It is not precisely the place to grow fat in,
And the library's wanting, as yet, I hear,
And I'm told that the view from the window is drear,
And the host will never allow a fire,
And, besides, has ways that are rather queer
Of locking the doors, which interfere
With the perfect freedom one might desire.
But beggars cannot be choosers, you see,
And to look a gift-horse in the mouth would be
Such a breach of manners — yet, as for me,
I cannot help wishing the end would come
Of this public hospitality,
And that poor Giannone was free to go home.
But when will that be? you ask me — Ah!
That is the question; Chi lo sa?
Whenever it pleases the powers that be, —
Next month — next year — next century!
Now, there are the facts for my suspicion
About your friend and his pretty profession;
They're as plain to me as two ones in addition,
And I put them all into your possession.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.