ITALIAN WIT AND HUMOR
Of Italian wit and humor up to and through the Sixteenth Century there is little to be said. Translators who have given us in English the early literature of Italy have been so concerned with the serious poetry and prose that they neglected the lighter veins.
If, indeed, there were any worth while.
The outstanding name of the Fourteenth Century is that of Giovanni Boccaccio.
But though the Decameron, a collection of one hundred stories, is a mirror of the humorous taste of that time, the stories are for the most part, long, dull and prosy.
They relate the intrigues of lovers in a freely licentious way, but both humorous description and witty repartee are consciously lacking.
One of the most amusing of the decent tales is here given, also a sonnet of Boccaccio’s translated by Rossetti.
OF THREE GIRLS AND THEIR TALK
By a clear well, within a little field
Full of green grass and flowers of every hue,
Sat three young girls, relating (as I knew)
Their loves. And each had twined a bough to shield
Her lovely face; and the green leaves did yield
The golden hair their shadow,—while the two
Sweet colours mingled, both blown lightly through
With a soft wind for ever stirr’d and still’d.
After a little while one of them said
(I heard her)—“Think! if ere the next hour struck
Each of our lovers should come here to-day,
Think you that we should fly or feel afraid?”
To whom the others answer’d—“From such luck
A girl would be a fool to run away!”
THE STOLEN PIG
Calandrino had a little farm, not far from Florence, which came to him through his wife. There he used to have a pig fatted every year, and some time about December he and his wife went always to kill and salt it for the use of the family. Now it happened once—she being unwell at the time—that he went thither by himself to kill his pig; which Bruno and Buffalmacco hearing, and knowing she was not to be there, they went to spend a few days with a great friend of theirs, a priest in Calandrino’s neighborhood. Now the pig had been killed the very day they came thither, and Calandrino, seeing them along with the priest, called to them and said, “Welcome, kindly; I would gladly you should see what a good manager I am.” Then, taking them into the house, he showed them this pig. They saw that it was fat, and were told by him that it was to be salted for his family. “Salted, booby?” said Bruno. “Sell it, let us make merry with the money, and tell your wife that it was stolen.” “No,” said Calandrino, “she will never believe it; and, besides, she would turn me out of doors. Trouble me, then, no further about any such thing, for I will never do it.” They said a great deal more to him, but all to no purpose. At length he invited them to supper, but did it in such a manner that they refused.
After they had come away from him, said Bruno to Buffalmacco, “Suppose we steal this pig from him to-night.” “How is it possible?” “Oh, I know well enough how to do it, if he does not remove it in the meantime from the place where we just now saw it.” “Then let us do it, and afterward we and the parson will make merry over it.” The priest assured them that he should like it above all things. “We must use a little art,” quoth Bruno; “you know how covetous he is, and how freely he drinks when it is at another’s cost. Let us get him to the tavern, where the parson shall make a pretense of treating us all, out of compliment to him. He will soon get drunk, and then the thing will be easy enough, as there is nobody in the house but himself.”
This was done, and Calandrino, finding that the parson was to pay, took his glasses pretty freely, and, getting his dose, walked home betimes, left the door open, thinking that it was shut, and so went to bed. Buffalmacco and Bruno went from the tavern to sup with the priest, and as soon as supper was over they took proper tools with them to get into the house; but finding the door open, they carried off the pig to the priest’s and went to bed likewise.
In the morning, as soon as Calandrino had slept off his wine, he rose, came down-stairs, and finding the door open and his pig gone, began to inquire of everybody if they knew anything of the matter; and receiving no tidings of it, he made a terrible outcry, saying, “What shall I do now? Somebody has stolen my pig!” Bruno and Buffalmacco were no sooner out of bed than they went to his house to hear what he would say; and the moment he saw them he roared out, “Oh, my friends, my pig is stolen!” Upon this Bruno whispered to him and said, “Well, I am glad to see you wise in your life for once.” “Alas!” quoth he, “it is too true.” “Keep to the same story,” said Bruno, “and make noise enough for every one to believe you.”
Calandrino now began to bawl louder, “Indeed! I vow and swear to you that it is stolen.” “That’s right; be sure you let everybody hear you, that it may appear so.” “Do you think that I would forswear myself about it? May I be hanged this moment if it is not so!” “How is it possible!” quoth Bruno; “I saw it but last night; never imagine that I can believe it.” “It is so, however,” answered he, “and I am undone. I dare not now go home again, for my wife will never believe me, and I shall have no peace this twelve-month.” “It is a most unfortunate thing,” said Bruno, “if it be true; but you know I put it into your head to say so last night, and you should not make sport both of your wife and us at the same time.”
At this Calandrino began to roar out afresh, saying, “Good God! you make me mad to hear you talk. I tell you once for all it was stolen this very night!” “Nay, if it be so,” quoth Buffalmacco, “we must think of some way to get it back again.” “And what way must we take,” said he “to find it?” “Depend upon it,” replied the other, “that nobody came from the Indies to steal it; it must be somewhere in your neighborhood, and if you could get the people together I could make a charm, with some bread and cheese, that would soon discover the thief.” “True,” said Bruno, “but they would know in that case what you were about; and the person that has it would never come near you.” “How must we manage, then?” said Buffalmacco. “Oh!” replied Bruno, “you shall see me do it with some pills of ginger and a little wine, which I will ask them to come and drink. They will have no suspicion what our design is, and we can make a charm of these as well as of the bread and cheese.” “Very well,” quoth the other. “What do you say, Calandrino? Have you a mind we should try it?” “For Heaven’s sake do,” he said; “if I only knew who the thief is, I should be half comforted.” “Well, then,” quoth Bruno, “I am ready to go to Florence for the things, if you will only give me some money.” He happened to have a few florins in his pocket, which he gave him, and off went Bruno.
When he got to Florence, Bruno went to a friend’s house and bought a pound of ginger made into pills. He also got two pills made of aloes, which had a private mark that he should not mistake them, being candied over with sugar like the rest. Then, having bought a jar of good wine, he returned to Calandrino, and said, “To-morrow you must take care to invite every one that you have the least suspicion of; it is a holiday, and they will be glad to come. We will finish the charm to-night, and bring the things to your house in the morning, and then I will take care to do and say on your behalf what is necessary upon such an occasion.”
Calandrino did as he was told, and in the morning he had nearly all the people in the parish assembled under an elm-tree in the churchyard. His two friends produced the pills and wine, and, making the people stand round in a circle, Bruno said to them, “Gentlemen, it is fit that I should tell you the reason of your being summoned here in this manner, to the end, if anything should happen which you do not like, that I be not blamed for it. You must know, then, that Calandrino had a pig stolen last night, and, as some of the company here must have taken it, he, that he may find out the thief, would have every man take and eat one of these pills, and drink a glass of wine after it. Whoever the guilty person is, you will find he will not be able to get a bit of it down, but it will taste so bitter that he will be forced to spit it out. Therefore, to prevent such open shame, he had better, whoever he is, make a secret confession to the priest, and I will proceed no further.”
All present declared their readiness to eat; so, placing them all in order, he gave every man his pill and coming to Calandrino, he gave one of the aloe pills to him, which he straightway put into his mouth, and no sooner did he began to chew it than he was forced to spit it out. Every one was now attentive to see who spit his pill out, and while Bruno kept going round, apparently taking no notice of Calandrino, he heard somebody say behind him, “Hey-day! what is the meaning of its disagreeing so with Calandrino?” Bruno now turned suddenly about, and seeing that Calandrino had spit out his pill, he said, “Stay a little, honest friends, and be not too hasty in judging; it may be something else that has made him spit, and therefore he shall try another.” So he gave him the other aloe pill, and then went on to the rest that were unserved. But if the first was bitter to him, this he thought much more so. However, he endeavored to get it down as well as he could. But it was impossible; it made the tears run down his cheeks, and he was forced to spit it out at last, as he had done the other. In the meantime Buffalmacco was going about with the wine; but when he and all of them saw what Calandrino had done, they began to bawl out that he had robbed himself, and some of them abused him roundly.
After they were all gone, Buffalmacco said, “I always thought that you yourself were the thief, and that you were willing to make us believe the pig was stolen in order to keep your money in your pocket, lest we should expect a treat upon the occasion.” Calandrino, who had still the taste of the aloes in his mouth, fell a-swearing that he knew nothing of the matter. “Honor bright, now, comrade,” said Buffalmacco, “what did you get for it?” This made Calandrino quite furious.
To crown all, Bruno struck in: “I was just now told,” said he, “by one of the company, that you have a mistress in this neighborhood to whom you are very kind, and that he is confident you have given it to her. You know you once took us to the plains of Mugnone, to look for some black stones, when you left us in the lurch, and pretended you had found them; and now you think to make us believe that your pig is stolen, when you have either given it away or sold it. You have played so many tricks upon us, that we intend to be fooled no more by you. Therefore, as we have had a deal of trouble in the affair, you shall make us amends by giving us two couple of fowls, unless you mean that we should tell your wife.”
Calandrino, now perceiving that he would not be believed, and being unwilling to have them add to his troubles by bringing his wife upon his back, was forced to give them the fowls, which they joyfully carried off along with the pork.
—The Decameron.
Rather earlier than Boccaccio lived Rustico di Filippo, who gives us the following satirical bit.
THE MAKING OF MASTER MESSERIN
When God had finished Master Messerin,
He really thought it something to have done:
Bird, man, and beast had got a chance in one,
And each felt flattered, it was hoped, therein.
For he is like a goose i’ the windpipe thin,
And like a camelopard high i’ the loins,
To which for manhood, you’ll be told, he joins
Some kind of flesh hues and a callow chin.
As to his singing, he affects the crow,
As to his learning, beasts in general,
And sets all square by dressing like a man.
God made him, having nothing else to do,
And proved there is not anything at all
He cannot make, if that’s a thing He can.
Among other collections of tales was the Novellino, collected by Massuchio di Salerno, about the middle of the Fifteenth Century.
We quote
THE INHERITANCE OF A LIBRARY
Jeronimo, who had inherited the place of master and head of the house, found himself in possession of many thousand florins in ready money. Wherefore the youth, seeing that he himself had endured no labor and weariness in gathering together the same, forthwith made up his mind not to place his affection in possessions of this sort, and at once began to array himself in sumptuous garments, to taste the pleasures of the town in the company of certain chosen companions of his, to indulge in amorous adventures, and in a thousand other ways to dissipate his substance abroad without restraint of any kind. Not only did he banish from his mind all thought and design of continuing his studies, but he even went so far as to harbor against the books, which his father had held in such high esteem and reverence and had bequeathed to him, the most fierce and savage hatred. So violent, indeed, was his resentment against them that he set them down as the worst foes he had in the world.
On a certain day it happened that the young man, either by accident or for some reason of his own, betook himself into the library of his dead father, and there his eye fell upon a vast quantity of handsome and well-arranged books, such as are wont to be found in places of this sort. At the first sight of these he was somewhat stricken with fear, and with a certain apprehension that the spirit of his father might pursue him; but, having collected his courage somewhat, he turned with a look of hatred on his face toward the aforesaid books and began to address them in the following terms:
“Books, books, so long as my father was alive you waged against me war unceasing, forasmuch as he spent all his time and trouble either in purchasing you, or in putting you in fair bindings; so that, whenever it might happen that there came upon me the need of a few florins or of certain other articles, which all youths find necessary, he would always refuse to let me have them, saying that it was his will and pleasure to dispense his money only in the purchase of such books as might please him. And over and beyond this, he purposed in his mind that I, altogether against my will, should spend my life in close companionship with you, and over this matter there arose between us many times angry and contumelious words. Many times, also, you have put me in danger of being driven into perpetual exile from this my home. Therefore it cannot but be pleasing to God—since it is no fault of yours that I was not hunted forth from this place—that I should send you packing from this my house in such fashion that not a single one of you will ever behold my door again. And, in sooth, I wonder more especially that you have not before this disordered my wits, a feat you might well have accomplished with very little more trouble on your part, in your desire to do with me as you did with my father, according to my clear recollection. He, poor man, as if he had become bemused through conversing with you alone, was accustomed to demean himself in strange fashion, moving his hands and his head in such wise that over and over again I counted him to be one bereft of reason. Now, on account of all this, I bid you have a little patience, for the reason that I have made up my mind to sell you all forthwith, and thus in a single hour to avenge myself for all the outrages I have suffered on your account and, over and beyond this, to set myself free from the possible danger of going mad.”
After he had thus spoken, and had packed up divers volumes of the aforesaid books—one of his servants helping him in the work—he sent the parcel to the house of a certain lawyer, who was a friend of his, and then in a very few words came to an agreement with the lawyer as to the business, the issue of the affair being that, though he had simply expelled the books from his house, and had not sold them, he received, nevertheless, on account of the same, several hundred florins. With these, added to the money which still remained in his purse, he continued to pursue the course of pleasure he had begun.
Another ironical skit is by Francesco Berni, entitled
LIVING IN BED
Yet field-sports, dice, cards, balls, and such like courses,
Things which he might be thought to set store by,
Gave him but little pleasure. He liked horses,
But was content to let them please his eye—
Buying them, not squaring with his resources.
Therefore his summum bonum was to lie
Stretch’d at full length—yea, frankly be it said,
To do no single thing but lie in bed.
’Twas owing all to that infernal writing.
Body and brains had borne such grievous rounds
Of kicks, cuffs, floors, from copying and inditing,
That he could find no balsam for his wounds,
No harbor for his wreck half so inviting
As to lie still, far from all sights and sounds,
And so, in bed, do nothing on God’s earth
But try and give his senses a new birth.
“Bed—bed’s the thing, by Heaven!” thus would he swear.
“Bed is your only work, your only duty.
Bed is one’s gown, one’s slippers, one’s armchair,
Old coat; you’re not afraid to spoil its beauty.
Large you may have it, long, wide, brown, or fair,
Down-bed or mattress, just as it may suit ye.
Then take your clothes off, turn in, stretch, lie double;
Be but in bed, you’re quit of earthly trouble!”
Borne to the fairy palace then, but tired
Of seeing so much dancing, he withdrew
Into a distant room, and there desired
A bed might be set up, handsome and new,
With all the comforts that the case required:
Mattresses huge, and pillows not a few
Put here and there, in order that no ease
Might be found wanting to cheeks, or arms, or knees.
The bed was eight feet wide, lovely to see,
With white sheets, and fine curtains, and rich loops
Things vastly soothing to calamity;
The coverlet hung light in silken droops;
It might have held six people easily;
But he disliked to lie in bed by groups.
A large bed to himself, that was his notion,
With room enough to swim in—like the ocean.
In this retreat there joined him a good soul,
A Frenchman, one who had been long at court,
An admirable cook—though, on the whole,
His gains of his deserts had fallen short.
For him was made, cheek, as it were, by jowl,
A second bed of the same noble sort,
Yet not so close but that the folks were able
To set between the two a dinner-table.
Here was served up, on snow-white table-cloths,
Each daintiest procurable comestible
In the French taste (all others being Goths),
Dishes alike delightful and digestible.
Only our scribe chose sirups, soups, and broths,
The smallest trouble being a detestable
Bore, into which not ev’n his dinner led him.
Therefore the servants always came and fed him.
Nothing at these times but his head was seen;
The coverlet came close beneath his chin;
And then, from out the bottle or tureen,
They fill’d a silver pipe, which he let in
Between his lips, all easy, smooth, and clean,
And so he filled his philosophic skin.
And not a finger all the while he stirred,
Nor, lest his tongue should tire, scarce uttered word.
The name of that same cook was Master Pierre;
He told a tale well—something short and light.
Quoth scribe, “Those people who keep dancing there
Have little wit.” Quoth Pierre, “You’re very right.”
And then he told a tale, or hummed an air;
Then took a sip of something, or a bite;
And then he turned himself to sleep; and then
Awoke and ate. And then he slept again.
One more thing I may note that made the day
Pass well—one custom, not a little healing,
Which was, to look above him, as he lay.
And count the spots and blotches in the ceiling;
Noting what shapes they took to, and which way,
And where the plaster threatened to be peeling;
Whether the spot looked new, or old, or what—
Or whether ’twas, in fact, a spot or not.
—From Roland Enamored.
Francho Sacchetti, poet and novelist, wrote many stories and verses in lighter vein.
ON A WET DAY
As I walk’d thinking through a little grove,
Some girls that gather’d flowers came passing me,
Saying—“Look here! look there!” delightedly.
“O here it is!” “What’s that?” “A lily? love!”
“And there are violets!”
“Farther for roses! O the lovely pets!
The darling beauties! O the nasty thorn!
Look here, my hand’s all torn!”
“What’s that that jumps?” “O don’t! it’s a grasshopper!”
“Come, run! come, run!
Here’s blue-bells!” “O what fun!”
“Not that way! stop her!”
“Yes! this way!” “Pluck them then!”
“O, I’ve found mushrooms! O look here!” “O, I’m
Quite sure that farther on we’ll get wild thyme.”
“O, we shall stay too long; it’s going to rain;
There’s lightning; O! there’s thunder!”
“O sha’n’t we hear the vesper bell? I wonder.”
“Why, it’s not nones, you silly little thing!
And don’t you hear the nightingales that sing—
Fly away O die away?”
“O, I hear something; hush!”
“Why, where? what is it then?” “Ah! in that bush.”
So every girl here knocks it, shakes and shocks it:
Till with the stir they make
Out skurries a great snake.
“O Lord! O me! Alack! Ah me! alack!”
They scream, and then all run and scream again,
And then in heavy drops comes down the rain.
Each running at the other in a fright,
Each trying to get before the other, and crying.
And flying, and stumbling, tumbling, wrong or right;—
One sets her knee
There where her foot should be;
One has her hands and dress
All smother’d up with mud in a fine mess;
And one gets trampled on by two or three.
What’s gathered is let fall
About the wood, and not pick’d up at all.
The wreaths of flowers are scatter’d on the ground,
And still as, screaming, hustling, without rest,
They run this way and that and round and round,
She thinks herself in luck who runs the best.
I stood quite still to have a perfect view,
And never noticed till I got wet through.
—Translated by Rossetti.
This brings us to Benvenuto Cellini, who, though not classed among the humorists, gives us many flashes of wit and humor in his celebrated Biography.
A COMPULSORY MARRIAGE AT SWORD’S POINT
One of those busy personages who delight in spreading mischief came to inform me that Paolo Micceri had taken a house for his new lady and her mother, and that he made use of the most injurious and contemptuous expressions regarding me, to wit:
“Poor Benvenuto! he paid the piper while I danced; and now he goes about boasting of the exploit. He thinks I am afraid of him—I, who can wear a sword and dagger as well as he. But I would have him to know my weapons are as keen as his. I, too, am a Florentine, and come of the Micceri, a much better house than the Cellini any time of day.”
In short, the vile informer painted the things in such colors to my disadvantage that it fired my whole blood. I was in a fever of the most dangerous kind. And feeling it must kill me unless it found vent, I had recourse to my usual means on such occasions. I called to my workman, Chioccia, to accompany me, and told another to follow me with my horse. On reaching the wretch’s house, finding the door half open, I entered abruptly in. There he sat with his precious “lady-love,” his boasted sword and dagger beside him, in the very act of jesting with the elder woman upon my affairs. To slam the door, draw my sword and present the point to his throat, was the work of a moment, giving him no time to think of defending himself:
“Vile poltroon, recommend thy soul to God! Thou art a dead man!”
In the excess of his terror he cried out thrice, in a feeble voice, “Mama! mama! mama! Help, help, help!”
At this ludicrous appeal, so like a girl’s, and the ridiculous manner in which it was uttered, though I had a mind to kill, I lost half my rage and could not forbear laughing. Turning to Chioccia, however, I bade him make fast the door; for I was resolved to inflict the same punishment upon all three. Still with my sword-point at his throat, and pricking him a little now and then, I terrified him with the most desperate threats, and finding that he made no defense, was rather at a loss how to proceed. It was too poor a revenge—it was nothing—when suddenly it came into my head to make it effectual, and compel him to espouse the girl upon the spot.
“Up! Off with that ring on thy finger, villain!” I cried. “Marry her this instant, and then I shall have my full revenge.”
“Anything—anything you like, provided you will not kill me,” he eagerly answered.
Removing my sword a little:
“Now, then,” I said, “put on the ring.”
He did so, trembling all the time.
“This is not enough. Go and bring me two notaries to draw up the contract.” Then, addressing the girl and her mother in French:
“While the notaries and witnesses are coming, I will give you a word of advice. The first of you that I know to utter a word about my affairs, I will kill you—all three. So remember.”
I afterward said in Italian to Paolo:
“If you offer the slightest opposition to the least thing I choose to propose, I will cut you up into mince-meat with this good sword.”
“It is enough,” he interrupted in alarm, “that you will not kill me. I will do whatever you wish.”
So this singular contract was duly drawn out and signed. My rage and fever were gone. I paid the notaries, and went home.—The Biography.
CRITICISM OF A STATUE OF HERCULES
Bandinello was incensed to such a degree that he was ready to burst with fury, and turning to me said, “What faults have you to find with my statues?”
I answered, “I will soon tell them, if you have but the patience to hear me.”
He replied, “Tell them, then.”
The duke and all present listened with the utmost attention. I began by promising that I was sorry to be obliged to lay before him all the blemishes of his work, and that I was not so properly delivering my own sentiments as declaring what was said of it by the artistic school of Florence. However, as the fellow at one time said something disobliging, at another made some offensive gesture with his hands or his feet, he put me into such a passion that I behaved with a rudeness which I should otherwise have avoided.
“The artistic school of Florence,” said I, “declares what follows: If the hair of your Hercules were shaved off, there would not remain skull enough to hold his brains. With regard to his face, it is hard to distinguish whether it be the face of a man, or that of a creature something between a lion and an ox; it discovers no attention to what it is about; and it is so ill set upon the neck, with so little art and in so ungraceful a manner, that a more shocking piece of work was never seen. His great brawny shoulders resemble the two pommels of an ass’s packsaddle. His breasts and their muscles bear no similitude to those of a man, but seem to have been drawn from a sack of melons. As he leans directly against the wall, the small of the back has the appearance of a bag filled with long cucumbers. It is impossible to conceive in what manner the two legs are fastened to this distorted figure, for it is hard to distinguish upon which leg he stands, or upon which he exerts any effort of his strength; nor does he appear to stand upon both, as he is sometimes represented by those masters of the art of statuary who know something of their business. It is plain, too, that the statue inclines more than one-third of a cubit forward; and this is the greatest and the most insupportable blunder which pretenders to sculpture can be guilty of. As for the arms, they both hang down in the most awkward and ungraceful manner imaginable; and so little art is displayed in them that people would be almost tempted to think that you had never seen a naked man in your life. The right leg of Hercules and that of Cacus touch at the middle of their calves, and if they were to be separated, not one of them only, but both, would remain without a calf, in the place where they touch. Besides, one of the feet of the Hercules is quite buried, and the other looks as if it stood upon hot coals.”—The Biography.