MY FIRST VENTURE IN ROMANCE

From ‘My Recollections’

While striving to acquire a good artistic position in my new residence, I had still continued to work at my ‘Fieramosca,’ which was now almost completed.  Letters were at that time represented at Milan by Manzoni, Grossi, Torti, Pompeo Litta, etc.  The memories of the period of Monti, Parini, Foscolo, Porta, Pellico, Verri, Beccaria, were still fresh; and however much the living literary and scientific men might be inclined to lead a secluded life, intrenched in their own houses, with the shyness of people who disliked much intercourse with the world, yet by a little tact those who wished for their company could overcome their reserve.  As Manzoni’s son-in-law, I found myself naturally brought into contact with them.  I knew them all; but Grossi and I became particularly intimate, and our close and uninterrupted friendship lasted until the day of his but too premature death.  I longed to show my work to him, and especially to Manzoni, and ask their advice; but fear this time, not artistic but literary, had again caught hold of me.  Still, a resolve was necessary, and was taken at last.  I disclosed my secret, imploring forbearance and advice, but no indulgence.  I wanted the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  I preferred the blame of a couple of trusted friends to that of the public.  Both seemed to have expected something a great deal worse than what they heard, to judge by their startled but also approving countenances, when my novel was read to them.  Manzoni remarked with a smile, “We literary men have a strange profession indeed—­any one can take it up in a day.  Here is Massimo:  the whim of writing a novel seizes him, and upon my word he does not do badly, after all!”

This high approbation inspired me with leonine courage, and I set to work again in earnest, so that in 1833 the work was ready for publication.  On thinking it over now, it strikes me that I was guilty of great impertinence in thus bringing out and publishing with undaunted assurance my little novel among all those literary big-wigs; I who had never done or written anything before.  But it was successful; and this is an answer to every objection.

The day I carried my bundle of manuscript to San Pietro all’ Orto, and, as Berni expresses it,—­

     “—­ritrovato
     Un che di stampar opere lavora,
     Dissi, Stampami questa alla malora!”

     (—­having
     Discovered one, a publisher by trade,
     ‘Print me this book, bad luck to it!’ I said.)

I was in a still greater funk than on the two previous occasions.  But I had yet to experience the worst I ever felt in the whole course of my life, and that was on the day of publication; when I went out in the morning, and read my illustrious name placarded in large letters on the street walls!  I felt blinded by a thousand sparks.  Now indeed alea jacta erat, and my fleet was burnt to ashes.