 | CHAPTER II. Monaldi |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
When the friends parted, Maldura, whose course
in life had long been predetermined, set out for
Tuscany. His patrimony having placed him above
the necessity of laboring for his subsistence, he
had chosen the profession of letters: and he now
selected Florence as the place most eligible for the
display of his powers, and where, if not the most
easy, it would at least be the most honorable to
realize the future object of his ambition — the fame
of a Poet. But, unlike his friend, Maldura could
not find his chief reward in the pleasure of his
pursuit; he did not love his art for its own sake, as
the spontaneous growth of his proper nature, but
rather for its contingent fruit in the applause of
others.
That his reputation finally fell so far short of the
measure of his ambition, could not be imputed to
the want of early encouragement, much less to any
deficiency in himself of industry or confidence.
He had scarcely reached his twenty-third year,
Academy. This premature honor seemed an
earnest of the speedy fulfilling of his hopes; and it
gave a lightness to his heart that persuaded him it
was overflowing with benevolence. It is difficult
for any man to believe this without, in some degree,
acting up to his faith, and the partial testimony
of his actions producing the same conviction
in others. Maldura seldom received a compliment
on his talents without an accompanying tribute to
his virtues. But his reputation was still private;
for his conversation and friendly acts were necessarily
confined to his personal acquaintance. He
had not as yet become the talk of the public; had
heard no eager whispering as he walked the streets;
marked no pointing finger as he entered the theatre;
and at no conversazione, had the tingling
monosyllables, “that's he,” ever once met his ear.
But he consoled himself for this by anticipating
the sensation which his first work would not fail to
produce: this was a long and elaborate poem, in
which, it appeared to him, every established rule
that could apply to his subject had been strictly observed.
The poem was at length published. Alas, who
that knows the heart of an author — of an aspiring
one — will need be told what were the feelings of
passed on, and still no tidings of his book. To
think it had failed was wormwood to his soul.
“No, that was impossible.” Still the suspense,
the uncertainty of its fate were insupportable. At
last, to relieve his distress, he fastened the blame
on his unfortunate publisher; though how he was
in fault he knew not. Full of this thought, he
was just sallying forth to vent his spleen on him,
when his servant announced the count Piccini.
“Now,” thought Maldura, “I shall hear my
fate;” and he was not mistaken; for the Count
was a kind of talking gazette. The poem was
soon introduced, and Piccini rattled on with all he
had heard of it: he had lately been piqued by Maldura,
and cared not to spare him.
After a few hollow professions of regard, and a
careless remark about the pain it gave him to repeat
unpleasant things, Piccini proceeded to pour
them out one upon another with ruthless volubility.
Then, stopping as if to take breath, he continued,
“I see you are surprised at all this; but indeed, my
friend, I cannot help thinking it principally owing
to your not having suppressed your name; for
your high reputation, it seems, had raised such
extravagant expectations as none but a first rate
genius could satisfy.”
“By which,” observed Maldura, “I am to conclude
that my work has failed?”
“Why, no — ot exactly that; it has only not
been praised — that is, I mean in the way you
might have wished. But do not be depressed;
there's no knowing but the tide may yet turn in
your favor.”
“Then I suppose the book is hardly as yet
known?”
“I beg your pardon — quite the contrary.
When your friend the Marquis introduced it at his
last conversazione, every one present seemed quite
au fait on it, at least, they all talked as if they had
read it.”
Maldura bit his lips. “Pray who were the company?”
“Oh, all your friends, I assure you:
Guattani, Martello, Pessuti, the mathematician, Alfieri,
Benuci, the Venetian Castelli, and the old
Ferrarese Carnesecchi: these were the principal,
but there were twenty others who had each something
to say.”
Maldura could not but perceive the malice of
this enumeration; but he checked his rising choler.
“Well,” said he, “if I understand you, there was
but one opinion respecting my poem with all this
company?”
“Oh, by no means. Their opinions were as
various as their characters.”
“Well, Pessuti — what said he?”
“Why you know he's a mathematician, and
should not regard him. But yet, to do him justice,
he is a very nice critic, and not unskilled in
poetry.”
“Go on, sir, I can bear it.”
“Why then, it was Pessuti's opinion that the
poem had more learning than genius.”
“Proceed, sir.”
“Martello denied it both; but he, you know, is
a disappointed author. Guattani differed but little
from Pessuti as to its learning, but contended, that
you certainly showed great invention in your fable
— which was like nothing that ever did, or could
happen. But I fear I annoy you.”
“Go on, I beg, sir.”
“The next who spoke was old Carnesecchi, who
confessed that he had no doubt he should have
been delighted with the poem, could he have taken
hold of it; but it was so en regle, and like a hundred
others, that it put him in mind of what is
called a polished gentleman, who talks and bows,
and slips through a great crowd without leaving
any impression. Another person, whose name I
have forgotten, praised the versification, but objected
to the thoughts.”
“Because they were absurd?”
“Oh, no, for the opposite reason — because
they had all been long ago known to be good.
Castelli thought that a bad reason; for his part,
he said, he liked them all the better for that — it
was like shaking hands with an old acquaintance
in every line. Another observed, that at least no
critical court could lawfully condemn them, as
they could each plead an alibi. Not an alibi, said
a third — but a double; so they should be burnt
for sorcery. With all my heart, said a fourth —
but not the poor author, for he has certainly satisfied
us that he is no conjurer.
“Then Castelli — but, 'faith, I don't know how
to proceed.”
“You are over delicate, sir. Speak out, I pray
you.”
“Well, Benuci finished by the most extravagant
eulogy I ever heard.”
Maldura took breath.
“For he compared your hero to the Apollo Belvedere,
your heroine to the Venus de Medicis, and
your subordinate characters to the Diana, the Hercules,
the Antinuous, and twenty other celebrated
antiques; declared them all equally well wrought,
and beautiful — and like them too, equally cold,
hard, and motionless. In short, he maintained
that you were the boldest and most original poet
who consulted nobody's taste but his own, would
have dared like you, to draw his animal life from
a statue-gallery, and his vegetable from a hortus
siccus.”
Maldura's heart stiffened within him, but his
pride controlled him, and he masked his thoughts
with something like composure. Yet he dared
not trust himself to speak, but stood looking at
Piccini, as if waiting for him to go on. “I believe
that's all,” said the count, carelessly twirling his
hat, and rising to take leave.
Maldura roused himself, and, making an effort,
said, “No, sir, there is one person whom you have
only named — Alfieri; what did he say?”
“Nothing!” Piccini pronounced this word
with a graver tone than usual; it was his fiercest
bolt, and he knew that a show of feeling would
send it home. Then, after pausing a moment, he
hurried out of the room.
Maldura sunk back in his chair, and groaned in
the bitterness of his spirit. “As for the wretches
who make a trade of sarcasm, and whose petty
self-interest would fatten on the misfortunes of a
rival, I can despise them; but Alfieri — the manly,
just Alfieri — to see me thus mangled, torn piecemeal
before his eyes, and say nothing! Am I then
spark of genius in me to kindle up his own, and
consume my base assassins? No — he saw them
pounce upon, and embowel me, and yet said
nothing.”
Maldura closed his eyes to shut out the light of
day; but neither their lids, nor the darkness of
night could shut out from his mind the hateful
forms of his revilers. He saw them in their assemblies,
on the Corso, in the coffee-houses, knotted
together like fiends, and making infernal mirth
with the shreds and scraps of his verses, while the
vulgar rabble, quitting their games of domino, and
grinning around, showed themselves but too happy
to have chanced there at the sport. In fine, there
are no visions of mortified ambition which did not
rise up before him. But they did not subdue his
pride. Yet it was near a week before he could
collect sufficient courage to stir abroad; nor did
he then venture till he had well settled the course
he meant to pursue, namely, to treat all his acquaintance
still with civility; to appear as little
concerned about his failure as possible, well knowing
that in proportion to his dejection would be the
triumph of his enemies; but to accept no favor,
and especially to have no friend; — a resolution
which showed the true character of the man, who
incense to his pride.
This artificial carriage had the desired effect.
It silenced the flippant, and almost disarmed the
malignant; while those of kinder natures saw in it
only additional motives for respect; indeed there
were some even generous enough to think better
of his genius for the good temper with which he
seemed to bear his disappointment. In short, so
quietly did he pass it off, that after a few months
no one thought, or appeared to think, of Maldura
as an unsuccessful author.
But it was scored in his heart, never to be forgotten,
and he longed for vengeance. To effect
this, however, he must first possess literary power;
and that he knew could be gained only by success
in writing.
But was he in a fit temper for poetry? There
are some minds to which such a blow would have
been death. Not such was Maldura's. He had
not lost his self-confidence; and was willing to
ascribe his failure to anything but his own deficiency;
to the jealousy of his rivals, to their influence
over the many; to the general apathy to his
particular subject; nay, even to his originality, and
to the common fear of praising what is new: so
that instead of weakening, it tended rather to
hand, a satiric poem, and a tragedy; with the first
he could now go on con amore, having no lack of
wit, and being now surcharged with gall; and that
no one might suspect him as the author, he determined
to go to Rome, and send it thence, under a
feigned name, to Florence.
The poem was soon finished, and sent from
Rome accordingly. About a month after, he received
two letters, one bearing his assumed name
and the other his real one. He tore them open as
a hawk would a sparrow. Glancing at the signature
of that in his own name, he read “Piccini.”
He was about to dash it to the ground when his
eye caught the following words: “The whole
town rings with the praises of this unknown poet.
Every body talks of, and admires him; even Benuci
commends, without a dash of irony.” Maldura
grinned with triumph. “Wretch!” said he,
crushing the letter, “you know not that the man
whom you would wound with the praise of another
is himself that other. But the count Piccini shall
one day know the satirist better.” The other letter
was from his bookseller, informing him of the
rapid sale and complete success of his work, and
enclosing a complimentary sonnet from Castelli.
Though Maldura had fixed his eye upon a far
which he held almost in disdain in comparison
with that to which his genius was entitled, at any
rate as insufficient for his ambition, — he was yet
for the present content to enjoy his triumph, and
it pleased him to regard it as an earnest of the
success of his tragedy.
| CHAPTER II. Monaldi | |