Modern Italian Poets; Essays and Versions. William Dean Howells

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