Modern Italian Poets; Essays and Versions. William Dean Howells

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