Silvio
In the autumn of 1884, Butler spent some time at Promontogno and Soglio in the Val Bregaglia, sketching and making notes. Among the children of the Italian families in the albergo was Silvio, a boy of ten or twelve. He knew a little English and was very fond of poetry. He could repeat, “How doth the little buzzy bee.” The poem which pleased him best, however, was:
Hey diddle diddle,
The Cat and the Fiddle,
The Cow jumped over the Moon.
They had nothing, he said, in Italian literature so good as this. Silvio used to talk to Butler while he was sketching.
“And you shall read Longfellow much in England?”
“No,” I replied, “I don’t think we read him very much.”
“But how is that? He is a very pretty poet.”
“Oh yes, but I don’t greatly like poetry myself.”
“Why don’t you like poetry?”
“You see, poetry resembles metaphysics, one does not mind one’s own, but one does not like any one else’s.”
“Oh! And what you call metaphysic?”
This was too much. It was like the lady who attributed the decline of the Italian opera to the fact that singers would no longer “podge” their voices.
“And what, pray, is ‘podging’?” enquired my informant of the lady.
“Why, don’t you understand what ‘podging’ is? Well, I don’t know that I can exactly tell you, but I am sure Edith and Blanche podge beautifully.”
However, I said that metaphysics were la filosofia and this quieted him. He left poetry and turned to prose.
“Then you shall like much the works of Washington Irving?”
I was grieved to say that I did not; but I dislike Washington Irving so cordially that I determined to chance another “No.”
“Then you shall like better Fenimore Cooper?”
I was becoming reckless. I could not go on saying “No” after “No,” and yet to ask me to be ever so little enthusiastic about Fenimore Cooper was laying a burden upon me heavier than I could bear, so I said I did not like him.
“Oh, I see,” said the boy; “then it is Uncle Tom’s Cabin that you shall like?”
Here I gave in. More “Noes” I could not say, so, thinking I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a mutton chop, I said that I thought Uncle Tom’s Cabin one of the most wonderful and beautiful books that ever were written.
Having got at a writer whom I admired, he was satisfied, but not for long.
“And you think very much of the theories of Darwin in England, do you not?”
I groaned inwardly and said we did.
“And what are the theories of Darwin?”
Imagine what followed!
After which:
“Why do you not like poetry?—You shall have a very good university in London?” and so on.