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NEW DIRECTIONS IN BOOK HISTORY
Anonymity in Eighteenth-
Century Italian Publishing
The Absent Author
Lodovica Braida
New Directions in Book History
Series Editors
Shafquat Towheed
Faculty of Arts
Open University
Milton Keynes, UK
Jonathan Rose
Department of History
Drew University
Madison, NJ, USA
As a vital field of scholarship, book history has now reached a stage of
maturity where its early work can be reassessed and built upon. That is the
goal of New Directions in Book History. This series will publish mono-
graphs in English that employ advanced methods and open up new fron-
tiers in research, written by younger, mid-career, and senior scholars. Its
scope is global, extending to the Western and non-Western worlds and to
all historical periods from antiquity to the twenty-first century, including
studies of script, print, and post-print cultures. New Directions in Book
History, then, will be broadly inclusive but always in the vanguard. It will
experiment with inventive methodologies, explore unexplored archives,
debate overlooked issues, challenge prevailing theories, study neglected
subjects, and demonstrate the relevance of book history to other academic
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Editorial board:
Marcia Abreu, University of Campinas, Brazil
Cynthia Brokaw, Brown University, USA
Matt Cohen, University of Texas at Austin, USA
Archie Dick, University of Pretoria, South Africa
Martyn Lyons, University of New South Wales, Australia
Lodovica Braida
Anonymity in
Eighteenth-Century
Italian Publishing
The Absent Author
Lodovica Braida
University of Milan
Milan, Italy
ISSN 2634-6117 ISSN 2634-6125 (electronic)

New Directions in Book History
ISBN 978-3-031-03897-6 ISBN 978-3-031-03898-3 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-03898-3
© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature
Switzerland AG 2022
Translation from the Italian language edition: “L’autore assente. L’anonimato nell’editoria
italiana del Settecento” by Lodovica Braida, © Editori Laterza 2019. Published by Editori
Laterza. All Rights Reserved.
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of
translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on
microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval,
electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now
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The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
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The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information
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The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and
institutional affiliations.
Cover illustration: BTEU/RKMLGE / Alamy Stock Photo

Vincent Placcius, Theatrum Anonymorum et Pseudonymorum (Hamburg, Liebernickel, 1708).
This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
To the memory of my mother, Anna.
Contents
1 Introduction.
The Absent Author: Functions and Uses of
Anonymous Authorship 1
References 15
2 The
Ambiguities of the “Author Function” 19
1 Reflections on the Book Market 19
2 How to Write to “be read”: The Advice of Carlo Denina 28
3 Authorial Silence 37
4 Vittorio Alfieri: “The terrible ordeal of printing” 46
References 57
3 Anonymity
in Travel Books 65
1 Travel Writing and the Notion of the Author 65
2 Four Nameless Travellers 73
References 90
4 Giuseppe
Parini: Between Anonymity and Revealing the
Author’s Name 95
1 Il Giorno and Its Continuer: Parini a Second Cervantes? 95
2 Silent Coexistence and “Rapacious” Printers: The
One-Volume Edition of Il Mattino, Il Mezzogiorno
e La Sera108
3 Translations and the Re-instatement of the Author’s Name116
References134
vii
viii Contents
5 Carlo
Goldoni and the Construction of Authorship139
1 From Stage to Page139
2 Literary Property Versus Printing Privilege and Theatrical
“Use”149
3 From Playwright to Author158
References176
6 Novels:
Read Them and Forget Them181
1 “Learned Italians” Do Not Write Novels181
2 Delegitimisation and Anonymity188
3 Books of “Sentiment” and Representation of Female Writing195
4 Forgettable Books: Fire and Oblivion200
References206
Index211
About the Author
Lodovica Braida is Professor of History of the Book at the University of

Milan. Her work is devoted to the history of print culture and reading
practices in early modern Europe, and particularly in Italy, in a perspective
of socio-cultural history engaging bibliography, literary criticism, and
intellectual history. Among her publications are Stampa e cultura in
Europa tra XV e XVI secolo (Rome-Bari, 2000); Le raccolte epistolari del
Cinquecento tra inquietudini religiose e ‘buon volgare’ (Rome-Bari, 2009);
L’autore assente. L’anonimato nell’editoria italiana del Settecento (Rome-
Bari, 2019). She is the editor, with Brigitte Ouvry Vial, of Lire en Europe.
Textes, Formes, Lectures, XVIIIe–XXIe (Rennes, 2020).
ix
List of Figures
Fig. 5.1 C. Goldoni, Commedie, Venezia, Pasquali, 1761–1780, vol. I,

1761, frontispiece engraving by Antonio Baratti from a drawing
by Pietro Antonio Novelli (Casa Carlo Goldoni, Venezia) 164
Fig. 5.2 C. Goldoni, Commedie, Venezia, Pasquali, 1761–1780, vol. X,
1761 [but 1767], frontispiece engraving by Antonio Baratti
from a drawing by Pietro Antonio Novelli (Casa Carlo
Goldoni, Venezia) 165
Fig. 5.3 C. Goldoni, Commedie, Venezia, Pasquali, vol. XIII, 1761
[but 1775], frontispiece engraving by Antonio Baratti from a
drawing by Pietro Antonio Novelli (Casa Carlo Goldoni,
Venezia)166
Fig. 5.4 Portrait of C. Goldoni, in Le Commedie del Dottore Carlo
Goldoni, Venezia, Bettinelli, 1750, vol. I, anonymous engraver
(Casa Carlo Goldoni, Venezia) 171
Fig. 5.5 Portrait of C. Goldoni, in Le Commedie del Dottore Carlo
Goldoni, Firenze, Paperini, 1753, vol. III, engraving by Marco
Alvise Pitteri from a drawing by Giambattista Piazzetta (Casa
Carlo Goldoni, Venezia) 172
Fig. 5.6 Portrait of C. Goldoni, in Delle Commedie di Carlo Goldoni,
Venezia, Pasquali, 1761, vol. I, engraving by Marco Alvise
Pitteri from a drawing by Lorenzo Tiepolo (Casa Carlo
Goldoni, Venezia) 173
xi
CHAPTER 1
Introduction. The Absent Author: Functions

and Uses of Anonymous Authorship
The “author function,” to use Michel Foucault’s well-known expression,

acquires greater relevance during the eighteenth century, with the author’s
individuality and the affirmation of creative originality beginning to
emerge with increasing force (Foucault [1969] 1977). It is no coincidence
that European institutions which began to gather authorial archives con-
serve a significant body of literary collections from the eighteenth century
in particular, when, starting with Britain, copyright was introduced in
Europe. Since then, a close connection has been established between “the
author’s work and the writer’s life” (Chartier 2014, 85) and the discourse
on literary property—in other words, on the right of authors to continue
to own their intellectual creations even after the manuscript has been sold
to their publisher—has profoundly altered the history of culture. Many
authors felt, from then on, that their libraries, their archives and in
particular their manuscripts, constituted part of their work, inseparable
from the corpus of published texts. In other cases, they wanted their
unpublished materials to disappear with them, for fear of not being able to
control them. In this sense, as Roger Chartier has pointed out, “the con-
stitution of literary archives cannot be separated from the construction of
This Introduction has been revised and expanded for the current edition.
© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2022
L. Braida, Anonymity in Eighteenth-Century Italian Publishing,
New Directions in Book History,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-03898-3_1
2 L. BRAIDA
philosophical, aesthetic and juridical categories that defined a new regime

for the composition, publication and appropriation of texts” (Chartier
2014, 89).
This is also the case for certain Italian authors, both famous and less well
known. Literary studies in recent years have paid great attention to the anal-
ysis of autobiographies, correspondence and other forms of egodo-cuments,
and to how certain authors have constructed and defended their authorial
identity through the skilful use of such published and unpublished writings,
in some cases even maintaining control over their library catalogue.
Authors took to the idea of constructing an image of themselves
through authentic documents, or those presented as such: a catalogue of
books, from which an author could eliminate titles which he did not con-
sider useful to his identity as a writer, as Vittorio Alfieri did (Del Vento
2016, 105; 2019); the inclusion of a different portrait for each of the edi-
tions of his works under his control, and the use of autobiographical mate-
rials combining words and images of the most important moments in his
theatrical career, in Carlo Goldoni’s case. This need to assert authorial
identity is accompanied by the concern—something present since
Gutenberg’s first press was invented—that the printer might alter the text
during the printing process, a fear which grows when the author is a long
way from the printing house and is not sure whether the person to whom
he gave the manuscript is wholly trustworthy. Anxiety regarding what
Alfieri calls the “terrible ordeal of printing” is a sentiment shared by many
authors.1 When they are concerned that their manuscript will end up in
the wrong hands, some even think of destroying it. Abbot Giambattista
Casti, for example, before leaving Paris, asked the friend to whom he had
given a copy of his Animali parlanti (The Court and Parliament of Beasts)
to burn it: he had in the meantime revised the text and feared that the old
manuscript might end up in the workshop of some unscrupulous printer.2
On Alfieri, see Chap. 1, section 4.

1
Casti wrote to his friend Paolo Greppi, who was coming to Paris, to bring along the copy
2
of Animali parlanti that he had left with him: “The other copy of my ‘apologhi’ [Animali
parlanti] you have with you, when you come, you can bring with you, since it is presently
very much lacking; if you are embarrassed to bring it with you, then burn it if you like—who
knows if its brothers [the other texts] will not suffer the same fate” (“L’altra copia de’ miei
apologhi che è presso di voi, venendo potete portarla con voi, benché presentemente man-
cantissima; se poi v’imbarazzasse a portarla con voi, bruciatela pure poiché chi sa che i loro
fratelli non abbiano ad avere la medesima sorte”), [Paris], le 8 pluviôse an 7 [27 January
1799], quotation taken from Tatti (2018, 160). On Casti, see also Palazzolo (2001).
1 INTRODUCTION. THE ABSENT AUTHOR: FUNCTIONS AND USES… 3
However, the history of publishing shows that during the eighteenth

century, in the presence of a growing book market, not only did authors
feel the need to affirm their identity by all the means that printing allowed,
but also, at the same time, could make the decision to circulate their
works anonymously, handing over their manuscript to a trusted printer
and asking friends not to reveal their names. This was often an open
secret: in cultured circles, academies and literary salons, almost everyone
was aware of the identity behind such anonymity, especially if the author
was already known. However, this was not the case for ordinary readers,
who, being outside the world of literary life, bought or read a book with-
out an author’s name attached, and who, in many cases, held in their
hands, unbeknownst to them, works by famous hommes de lettres. This is
why the term “absent author” is employed here. Without any pretence to
exhaustiveness, the intention has been to focus, through the reconstruc-
tion of some significant examples, on the use of anonymity in Italian pub-
lishing, a centuries-old practice that has existed everywhere in Europe—one
that is certainly not only a prerogative of the eighteenth century or of
Italian book production, but one to which scholars have rarely attached
much importance. Robert Griffin’s observation in relation to English lit-
erary studies is equally valid for Italian studies: “Literary studies exhibit a
curious reluctance to acknowledge that most of the literature ever pub-
lished appeared either without the author’s name or under a fictive name”
(Griffin 2003, 1).
If the use of anonymity is so widespread, why has scholarship paid so
little attention to such an important issue in the history of written cul-
ture? Being immersed in a culture that holds intellectual property as a
supreme value, our thinking tends to be anachronistic, our way of under-
standing anonymity being conditioned “by the legal and cultural notions
behind intellectual property, copyright, and the value of a work being
increased by knowing the identity of its unique creator” (Rizzi, Griffiths
2016, 202).
Over the past 20 years, studies on early modern history and the transi-
tion from manuscript to print have applied strict methodological criticism
to a tradition of historical, philosophical and literary studies dominated by
an interdependent focus on the author and his works. In this author-
centred perspective, as Robert Griffin has observed, anonymity is “an issue
only if an author remained unknown, and then it is a puzzle to be solved”
(Griffin 2007, 465).
4 L. BRAIDA
Some of these studies suggest moving away from a culture that tends to
read a form of cultural inferiority into an anonymous text compared to a
text attributed to an author (something which applies not only to literary
history but also to the history of art and music): rather than seek the
author hiding behind a certain text, whether literary, philosophical or
artistic, it is instead necessary to cast light on “the cultural systems that
underpin it” (Rizzi, Griffiths 2016, 202–203). In order to break loose
from literary criticism and its author-centred perspective, it has become
necessary for some scholars, “to explore the materials, functions, contexts,
and nuances of anonymous authorship without necessarily finding the
author” (North 2011, 13). In this perspective, the analysis of anonymity
is emerging as a research area independent of attribution studies: “Scholars
of attribution—points out Marcy L. North—strive to replace anonymity
with a name, and scholars of anonymity seek to understand the absence of
a name” (North 2011, 13–14).
Studying anonymity and its relevance in early modern printing is not
easy, however. As Mark Vareschi has recently highlighted, the search is
complicated by the difficulty of tracing works that have been published
without the author’s name on the title page, as there is no cataloguing
system that includes such data. Even online catalogues suffer from the
same problems in terms of querying data. The only way to find books
showing no indication of their authors is to search for a specific title.
Thousands of eighteenth-century texts, however, turn out to be “doubly
disappeared”: “unread and largely ignored because of their anonymity and
inaccessible because of cataloguing methods and database design”
(Vareschi 2018, 4). In order to get some idea of anonymous publications
throughout the centuries, it is necessary to refer to what John Mullan has
defined as “the great, but neglected, monuments to nineteenth-century
scholarship” (Mullan 2007, 4): the dictionaries of the anonymous authors
and pseudonyms. Nevertheless, these only contain works originally pub-
lished without the author’s name, but which, starting from publication or
immediately thereafter, were then attributed to one or more authors.
Those that have never been attributed are not found in Melzi for Italian
works, in Barbier for French, or in Halkett-Laing for English.3 Much
3
We refer here to the main French, Italian and English dictionaries of the anonymous and
pseudonymous writers: Barbier (1806–1809); Quérard (1869–1871 (II ed.)); [Melzi]
(1848–1859); Passano (1887); Rocco (1888); Halkett, Laing (1882–1888). For some indi-
cations on the history of the Italian dictionaries of anonymous writers see Pasquali, Natali
(1929); on the Halkett, Laing see Orr (2013); on French bibliographers Barbier et Quérard
and their activity see Serrai (1999, 39–60 and 79–146).
anonymous production, therefore, escapes any possibility of analysis,

despite being a phenomenon that characterised a considerable portion of
books printed in the early modern period.
American bibliographers Archer Taylor and Fredric J. Mosher have
traced the developments of the dictionaries of anonymous and pseudony-
mous authors from their origins to nineteenth-century dictionaries,
emphasising that, from the seventeenth century onwards, such tools for
tracing intellectual responsibility have tried to distinguish between plagia-
rism, pseudonymity, and anonymity.4 These terms do not, in fact, desig-
nate the same concept, since the presence of a pseudonym or plagiarism
indicates a deliberate action: in the former case, concealing one’s real
name; in the latter, passing off the work of another as one’s own. Defining
anonymity is less simple: it “bears a far more complex and less clear rela-
tionship to authorial agency” (Vareschi 2018, 17). Evidence that these
were different ways of hiding the author’s legal name can also be found
in the famous Theatrum anonymorum et pseudonymorum by Vincent
Placcius (Hamburg, Liebernickel, 1708), in which anonymous texts and
pseudonymous texts occupy separate volumes. As Martin Mulsow has
pointed out, such monuments of erudition responded to the need to
attribute the names of authors to an increasingly large anonymous and
pseudonymous production: “in an age of simulation and dissimulation it
was a frequent practice to publish polemical, heterodox, or somewhat
explosive material anonymously or pseudonymously” (Mulsow
2016, 220).
The engraving which preceded the title page of the Theatrum anony-
morum et pseudonymorum (it is reproduced on the cover of this book) also
left no doubt that the purpose of Placcius’s work was to discover the iden-
tity of “masked” authors: in an austere library room, some authors show
their faces while two of them hold masks in their hands. Higher up, hung
along a cord, there is a series of costume masks, some bearded to represent
sages, some more similar to comedy masks. The same mask metaphor
appears in the title of a work that preceded Placcius’s Theatrum: Auteurs,
déguisez sous des noms étrangers by Adrien Baillet, published in Paris in
1690. Baillet considers various reasons why authors should choose to pub-
lish their works anonymously and identifies a dozen of them, including:
prudence due to fear of censorship; the embarrassment of having a
4
Taylor, Mosher (1951); see also Serrai (1993, 682–691).
6 L. BRAIDA
ridiculous name; the shame of publishing a work unworthy of the author’s

status; modesty; fear of personal criticism; or simple divertissement (“gay-
eté de cœur”).5 For religious figures of any order and office, omitting their
names is often an ethical choice: especially in the case of a literary work,
anonymity is a way to avoid being judged as guilty of pride, of exhibition-
ism in search of fame. In other cases, there was no choice but that of
authorial silence in order not to incur severe criticism from the religious
order to which they belong.
However, the choice of anonymity is an ethical one for many, not only
for religious figures, an interpretation that can also be inferred from the
Encyclopédie entry anonyme, attributed to Abbot Mallet. In Mallet’s opin-
ion, the term anonyme can be used in two ways: “this epithet is given to all
the works that appear without the author’s name or whose authors are
unknown”.6 While the latter meaning refers to a work whose author is
simply a mystery, the former implies that the author’s name is in fact known,
albeit absent from the title page: in other words, a form of intentional ano-
nymity. This intentionality is reinforced by a long quotation from Baillet’s
Jugement des savants (1685–1686), in which he says that many authors are
afraid of revealing themselves to the public and prefer to remain in the
shadows, being indifferent to success and sometimes ashamed of the fame
acquired through writing: many consider it “a baseness and a kind of dis-
honour (or rather foolish pride) to be known as an author”.7
Still, Mallet added something of his own, the intention being, it seemed,
to bring up to date, in the publishing context of his time, the reasons why
many authors chose anonymity: for some it was a way of reacting to the
attitude of those readers who considered all books bearing an author’s
name to be credible, showing “an unjustified contempt for works without
an author’s name”.8 For other authors, by contrast, it was a way of
5
[Baillet, Adrien], Auteurs déguisez sous des noms étrangers, empruntez, supposez, feint à
plaisir, chiffrez, renversez, retournez, ou changez d’une langue en une autre. Paris: Dezallier,
1690. On this work by Baillet, see Waquet (2013); see also Cochetti (1995).
6
[Mallet, Edmé-François] Anonyme, in Encyclopédie ou Dictionnaire raissonné des arts et
des métiers, vol. 1, Paris: Briasson, David, Le Breton, Durand, 1751, 488–489: “On donne
cette épithete à tous les ouvrages qui paraissent sans nom d’auteur, ou dont les auteurs sont
inconnus.” On the entry “anonyme” of the Encyclopédie, see Tunstall (2011, 676–682).
7
[Mallet, Edmé-François] Anonyme (see footnote n. 7), 488–489: “comme une bassesse
et comme une espèce de deshonneur (il fallout plûtot dire comme un sot orgueil) de passer
pour auteur.”
8
Ibid.:“un mépris mal fondé pour des ouvrages sans nom d’auteurs.”
exploiting the success of anonymous books to which readers were attracted

(and here he seemed to be alluding to the livres philosophiques in the broad-
est sense): “an anonymous book is always an interesting book, even though
it is actually inconsistent or dangerous.”9
In the mid-eighteenth century, Mallet still seemed to share Baillet’s
opinion to a great extent. Anonymity was always a laudable choice, a sign
of reserve and modesty, except in the case of authors who wrote danger-
ous anonymous works: “only in the latter case can anonymous authors be
condemned.”10
Mallet’s entry reveals that in the eighteenth century it was not possible
to associate anonymity only with clandestine production connected with
the trade in prohibited books: the scope of its use was much wider and
could refer to the practice of the self-effacing honnête homme. The term
“anonymous” was not, therefore, only a synonym for “unauthorised,” but
rather a much more articulated concept, with many more nuanced appli-
cations and modes of expression.
It should also be said that there are texts which, due to their own par-
ticular characteristics (popular texts, prayers, recipes of various kinds,
poems), do not always require an author: their authorship is conferred by
the very fact of becoming a book, having a market, coming into contact
with one or more readers.11 In other words, authorship is not always to be
referred to the creator of an original text, but it can be “an instance”
inherent in the text itself, as Alain Brunn suggests, overturning the terms
of the Foucauldian “author function.”12 In fact, there is not always an
opposition between declared identity and anonymity, but rather a playing
with positions, since even anonymous texts generate the projection of a
presence (Griffin 2003, 10). For example, in numerous travel accounts,
the anonymous authors speak of their “personal” experience—anonymity,
however, clashes with a type of text in which the writers declare they are
depicting something “original,” seen “with their own eyes,” something
never observed before by other travellers. The use of anonymity, however,
9
Ibid.: “un livre anonyme est toujours un ouvrage intéressant, quoique réellement il soit
faible ou dangereux.”
10
Ibid.: “ce n’est que dans ce dernier cas qu’on peut condamner les auteurs anonymes.”
11
Cf. Braida, Infelise (eds.) (2010).
12
“If there are texts without an author, there is no text without authorship, if only because
the text endlessly nourishes the author’s fictions, which are so many elements that reveal this
desire for authorship that characterises the practices of literature,” Brunn (2007).
8 L. BRAIDA
is almost never accidental and has an effect on how one’s actual “author-
ship” is communicated.
It would be of great interest to analyse the long-term use of anonymity,
starting with the establishment of the printing press in Europe, through-
out the whole period of the ancien régime, but studies and bibliographical
attention are still lacking and it is not possible to develop a comparative
perspective over a broad chronological span. Here, therefore, a more
limited spatial and temporal context has been chosen, the Italian eigh-
teenth century, given the numerous transformations that took place in the
century of the Enlightenment with regard to the expansion of book circu-
lation and the new possibilities affecting access to reading.13 These two
elements of slow but significant change make it possible to observe the
behaviour and strategies of authors in a publishing market where, com-
pared to the past, it was becoming easier, albeit prudently, to circumvent
ecclesiastical censorship.
Here we focus on certain authors of literary texts, both famous and less
well known, who, in different ways, have resorted to anonymity. Space is
also given to two successful genres, travel books and novels, often pub-
lished without any indication of intellectual responsibility or under false
imprints. The fact that readers approached many books without being able
to attribute a name to these texts is no trivial fact. This silence of the
author has its own historical, social and cultural relevance, in the same way
as the voice of those who, by contrast, did everything possible to docu-
ment and protect every aspect of their artistic creation, in some cases even
attempting to react against the dishonesty of printers who had published
their works without their consent. Carlo Goldoni, as will be seen later,
following a complaint from his publisher, takes matters to court; while
Alfieri distances himself from a pirated edition through a terse and straight-
forward announcement in a journal.
If the author’s “voice” leaves various traces, the choice of silence, and
the reasons for this, are more difficult to document. Anonymity, especially
when there are no doubts about the attribution of a work, is, as men-
tioned, a theme that literary history does not address. Many critical studies
also show a lack of bibliographic sensitivity: in most cases, in footnotes,
anonymous works where the author is known are indicated without
reporting the author’s name in square brackets, thus producing, involun-
tarily, a falsification of the edition’s data. The absence of the name from
13
On recent studies in these fields, cf. Braida, Tatti (eds.) (2016).
the title page is not considered relevant data in itself. What matters is the
association between the text and a name to which intellectual responsibility
is to be attributed, regardless of the materiality of the edition. In reality,
the title page and other paratextual spaces (prefaces, indexes, dedications)
contain information regarding how the author and printer perceived the
work and how the author constructed or denied his or her identity. The
impression, gained from the certainty of the bibliographic data that literary
history provides, is that the link between the author and the work had
been an established fact since the first edition. This is often not the case,
though: years might pass before the work carried the author’s name on the
title page, and in some cases it was necessary to wait until the author’s death.
Classical philology, which traces the entire manuscript tradition of a
work in order to establish a text as close as possible to the author’s wishes,
or which, in the absence of manuscript evidence, evaluates all the variants
in the different editions supervised by the author, often does not take into
account that in many cases the text completely escaped the writer’s con-
trol, arriving in readers’ hands through pirated editions, at much lower
prices than the first edition.
Also in terms of what analytical bibliography in the English-speaking
world has come to define as the “ideal copy text,” the printed text, stripped
of all “corruption” deriving from the oversights and carelessness of the
printers,14 appears idealised in an immobility that has nothing to do with
practices common in early modern printing, where, as Donald McKenzie
has pointed out, the only norm was, paradoxically, “the normality of non-
uniformity” (McKenzie 1969, 13).
The social history of the book therefore recounts a different story: the
story of a proliferation of editions controlled neither by the first printer
nor by the author, of a mobility of texts, transformed into different edi-
tions, sometimes merged with others, sometimes enriched by illustrations
and new paratexts, sometimes impoverished by the neglect of printers.
And, unlike the idealisation of texts assigned, in literary tradition, to an
author, the social history of the book also invites us to take into account
the denial of intellectual responsibility. In other words, the silence of
the author.
14
In Principles of Bibliographical Description (1949, 113) Fredson Bowers writes: “an ideal
copy is a book which is complete in all its leaves as it ultimately left the printer’s shop in per-
fect condition and in the complete state that he considered to represent the final and most
perfect state of the book.”
10 L. BRAIDA
The intention here is not to propose a history of anonymity, but only

to identify certain characteristics of a significant publishing phenomenon
on which no studies yet exist in Italy, despite the fact that anonymity and
the use of pseudonyms have always been frequent. There is, for example
the recent case of Elena Ferrante, author of the best seller L’amica geniale
(My Brilliant Friend), whose mysterious identity has been the subject of
numerous hypotheses from literary critics (one of which is particularly
plausible), always denied by those who have been named. After all, the
search for the possible name of the author is a functional part, in this case,
of the work’s success.
For the period we are dealing with here, it should be noted that ano-
nymity was not linked exclusively to a logic of control—it did not, in other
words, only concern the genres that ecclesiastical censorship had con-
demned as immoral or irreligious, such as the so-called livres philos-
ophiques.15 It also concerned genres with a wide circulation, not so much
out of fear of censorship (often these were perfectly legitimate books), but
above all because writing books with a low cultural profile could harm the
good name of the author: it was preferable, therefore, to take refuge in
anonymity.16 This was the case with almanacs, texts for the first stages of
literacy, books of ancient practical knowledge linked to trades, and in gen-
eral books that did not receive a great deal of care during the printing
process. This was also the case for some successful genres, such as novels
and travel literature. Whereas, in the case of novels, authorial silence is also
linked to the fear of ecclesiastical censorship, in the case of travel books it
is more difficult to understand the reasons. However, it is surprising that
the numerous critical studies have never paid attention to the fact that a
not inconsiderable part of this fashionable genre was published with no
indication of the author’s name.
It should also be remembered that even with regard to anonymous
books, each edition has a story of its own and it is not enough to study the
editio princeps. In some cases, new editions reveal important details of the
subtle game played by the author as, absent from the title page, he reveals
his name, or simply his initials, in the dedicatory text. This is a further sign
15
On the definition of livres philosophiques, see Darnton (1988, 1995a and 1995b).
16
Sabine Pabst (2018, 161–162) has observed that the refuge in anonymity was also used
by young German authors to protect themselves from possible criticism: an anonymous text
would have concentrated any negative reaction on itself, while the author, who remained
unknown, would have been able to modify and refine his text.
that a rigid approach, limited to the duality of presence-absence of intel-

lectual responsibility, is not suitable for the study of anonymity, because
there are numerous ways in which the author, translator or editor leaves
his or her traces. As some studies on French and English publishing show,
numerous possibilities emerge between the total absence of the name on
the title page and its clear indication: the use of pseudonyms, anagrams,
initials, the inclusion of the name in a poem preceding the actual text or in
a dedicatory letter. These are strategies, if they can be defined as such,
which do not have the same value as the name on the title page, but which
provide information regarding the author’s wish to at least partially reveal
his own identity.17
There are also cases involving great authors, celebrated figures in liter-
ary history, who for various reasons have chosen not to let their names
appear on certain works, at least not on the title page, but only allow them
to be known in the cultured circles of academies and literary salons. The
case of Giuseppe Parini seemed a suitable one to examine here, for a num-
ber of paradoxical reasons. All histories of Italian literature make reference
to Il Giorno (The Day), but rarely do they explain that the work is an
abstract, or rather platonic, concept, given that it was not finished while
Parini was still alive. Of the work, only Il Mattino (The Morning) and Il
Mezzogiorno (The Afternoon) were published in Milan, under the control
of the author, in 1763 and in 1765 respectively, re-edited in the same years
by the author himself—something that emerged from rigorous twentieth-
century philological work, starting with Dante Isella’s fundamental edi-
tion in 1969 up to the recent national edition.18
Immediately after the author’s editions, printers in different cities, and
Venice in particular, competed to appropriate the texts, so that separate
reprints of the two poems began to proliferate, though the author’s con-
sent was never sought and he was never given the opportunity to correct
the text. Moreover, in the absence of a law on literary property, the risk of
having one’s work counterfeited and published in other states was very
high. Authors knew they could do little about it. For Parini, however, the
situation was even more complex. Not only was he a victim of the “greed”
of printers, as he himself bitterly admitted, but he was also the target of a
literary fraud—something on which he never commented. His two poems
17
Parmentier, Introduction to Parmentier (ed.). (2013, 5–16); Vareschi (2018, 16–20).
18
Parini (1969) (Dante Isella’s critical edition); Parini (2013) (national edition). On new
philological research after Isella’s edition, see Biancardi (2011).
12 L. BRAIDA
were continued by the hand of another author, who took advantage of the
fact that readers were waiting impatiently for La Sera (The Evening), which
Parini himself had promised he would write in the “Dedication to Fashion”
that prefaced Il Mattino. This continuation was also made possible by
what can be defined as the ambiguity of the “author function”: while La
Sera was published anonymously, it is known that the writer, who imitated
the free-verse hendecasyllables of the “real” author with some skill, was a
Veronese lawyer, Giovanni Battista Mutinelli, who genuinely admired
Parini. His behaviour here was not very different from that of the self-
styled Avellaneda who, in 1614, had, without Cervantes’s knowledge,
published a continuation of Don Quixote.19
It is surprising that critics have remained almost completely silent20 on
a publishing case that also provides a great deal of information on the
extent to which this appropriation influenced the behaviour of Parini him-
self, who, during his lifetime, published no continuation of his two poems
and, in the parts of the poem that remained in manuscript form, no longer
used the title La Sera. Indeed, he silently allowed printers to go on making
money from his work with reissues of Il Mattino and Il Mezzogiorno, even
when Mutinelli’s La Sera was added to them and, with anonymity main-
tained for all three poems and a continuity of page numbering. In this way,
they were published as if they were a unified work produced by the same
pen. There were numerous editions of the work entitled Il Mattino, Il
Mezzogiorno e La Sera. Poemetti tre, but no critical-literary study has ever
taken them into consideration. Nevertheless, these editions circulated and
reached thousands of readers. Ironically, only after Parini’s death did this
combination of the three poems come to an end and La Sera fall into
oblivion. Analysis of the French, German, English and Spanish transla-
tions paradoxically reveals that the European market published the two
Parini poems and excluded La Sera, indicating the author’s name on the
title page or in a translator’s note. As recent studies have shown, each
translation is a world unto itself, in which the text is adapted to the culture
that appropriates it.21 Moreover, the four translations of Il Mattino and Il
19
On the continuation of Don Quixote by Avellaneda see Chartier (2014 Chap. 5,
Préliminaires, 158–165).
20
The only essays to have posed the problem that the publication of La Sera represented
for Parini’s continuation of the poem are those by Leporatti (1993) and by Fido (1998).
21
See Burke, Po-chia Hsia (eds.). (2007); Chartier (2020); Chartier (2021).
Mezzogiorno involve very different interpretations, starting with the choice

of titles.
The term “absent author” is employed here not only in reference to the
use of anonymity, but also to indicate that the path that brought Italian
authors to the recognition of copyright has been a long one.22 There are
no considerations amongst eighteenth-century Italian scholars on the
author as the owner of his work: while complaining about the wrongdo-
ings of printers and the constant pirating they had to endure, none of
them thought they could profit from a book market that was growing in
strength. Authors, with the exception of Carlo Denina, paid little atten-
tion to what happened when their work left the creative phase of writing
to become, in the print shop, a book, a product destined to enter the
homes of private readers. Only one great man of letters, Carlo Goldoni,
breaks the silence by challenging the rules of ancien régime publishing and
laying claim to control over the editions of his texts. Goldoni is, indeed,
the exception that confirms the rule.
The problem of the recognition of literary property is once again a very
topical issue—new technologies are forcing us to review many certainties
we had grown accustomed to, including copyright: a creation of
eighteenth-century Europe, thought to be firmly regulated and interna-
tionally accepted, today it is profoundly called into question. A stream of
pamphlets and texts of various kinds runs across the web, defending or
attacking the rights of the author. For many today, copyright is an unac-
ceptable monopoly that has for centuries held back, and continues to hold
back, cultural innovation and the dissemination of information.23
Sometimes, over the centuries, these reconstructions appear teleological
and anachronistic: the past, read through today’s needs, looks crushed by
a judgement that tends to see copyright as anything but a fundamental
part of an individual’s freedom of expression. It is often forgotten that, for
the whole of the ancien régime and, for Italy, until after unification (which
took place in 1861), the intellectual property of authors was not recog-
nised and anyone could publish their work, without asking for their con-
sent, altering it or breaking it up into anthologies. Something very similar
happens today, as the digital revolution allows the large web platforms,
Google, Facebook, YouTube and Instagram, functioning as information
aggregators, to take content from other sites, and, with the advantage of
22
On the difficulties that beset the introduction of copyright in Italy, see Palazzolo (2013).
23
Cf. Boldrin, Levine (2008).
14 L. BRAIDA
their dominant position in the market, weaken those who first produced
such content. The European Union initiated a discussion on precisely this
subject, online copyright, and then approved a resolution, on 12 September
2018, to place a limit on the excessive power of large web platforms. This
resolution introduces, among other things, the principle that online plat-
forms, if they create links from news, images and texts produced by others,
must pay a fee to the producers/publishers of these contents. Attention
today is therefore no longer focused on publishing “piracy” on paper, but
rather via the web.24 However, paradoxically, the risk of the “absent
author” is with us once again—this time, in the sense of him/her being
“irrelevant.” In other words, authorial voice and identity are too weak to
prevent omnivorous platforms from appropriating the contents produced,
using them in part, fragmenting them and exploiting their appeal as they
gain more likes.
Acknowledgements This book owes a great deal to the generosity of friends and
colleagues who have provided useful suggestions through their observations, criti-
cal readings and discussions: in particular Pedro Cátedra, Patrizia Delpiano,
Gigliola Fragnito, Mario Infelise, Mariolina Palazzolo, Tiziana Plebani, Giuseppe
Ricuperati and Corrado Viola.
Some seminars in recent years, and in particular those at the University of
Pennsylvania in April 2018 (one of which concerned Carlo Goldoni and the ways
in which he defines his identity as an author), were immensely inspiring in relation
to the discussion on the construction of authorship. There, I had the opportunity
to heed the stimulating comments of Roger Chartier, John Pollack, Peter
Stallybrass and Eva del Soldato: my deepest gratitude goes to all of them for creat-
ing an atmosphere of great serenity and sharing.
I would also like to express my gratitude to Jonathan Rose and Shafquat
Towheed for accepting my book in this series.
24
On the relationship between piracy and intellectual property doctrines, cf. Johns (2009).
The translation of this work, funded by Dipartimento di Studi Storici of

University of Milan, is due to Stuart Wilson: to him, too, I would like to offer my
thanks.25
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CHAPTER 2
The Ambiguities of the “Author Function”
1 Reflections on the Book Market

Of all the professions related to the world of books, there is one that cul-
tural historians have tended to neglect, mostly leaving it to the consider-
ations of literary scholars: the author. This absence is also due to the type
of sources available: throughout the ancien régime, there is hardly a con-
tract, agreement or correspondence documenting the relationship between
an author and his publisher with any continuity. Furthermore, the author’s
progress towards affirmation did not move at the same pace or in the same
way everywhere, and thus the presence or absence of sources is also linked
to the weight and importance that the “author function”1 assumed in dif-
ferent contexts.
Whereas in Britain and France the eighteenth century represents a
time when authors, after long and wearisome debates, achieved recogni-
tion of their literary property (in 1710 in England and 1793 in France),2
the situation in the states of the Italian peninsula was very different. Not
until the Napoleonic period did literary property rights arrive in Italy, and
1
Foucault ([1969] 1977).
2
Cf. Rose (1993); for a comparative perspective on copyright in Britain and France, see
Izzo (2010); on the French debate, as expressed through the works of Diderot and
Condorcet, cf. Chartier (2007b). See also Moscati (2012).
© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 19

Switzerland AG 2022
L. Braida, Anonymity in Eighteenth-Century Italian Publishing,
New Directions in Book History,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-03898-3_2
20 L. BRAIDA
even then this holds true only for the territories of the Cisalpine Republic.3
The contrast between spaces in which copyright was in force and those in
which the author enjoyed no recognition led to the creation of two
strongly demarcated realities, and the dialogue between these two reali-
ties would remain difficult for a long time, as was clearly shown by the
Austria-Piedmont Convention of 1840. The primary purpose of this
Convention, prepared for through years of diplomatic negotiations, was
to curb the spread of pirated reprints and plagiarism, denounced in their
various forms by both writers and several publishers, who established a
form of alliance precisely on these grounds.4 However, it is also well
known that the long-awaited Convention had little chance of solving
piracy issues in Italian-speaking areas as a result of two refusals: one was
the Canton of Ticino and the other, an even more serious case, was the
Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Moreover, it was the issue of publishing
piracy that, in relation to the problematic question of copyright, charac-
terised much of the Italian debate in nineteenth century before and after
the 1840 Convention. It ought to be said that it was also the first time
that Italian writers had tackled a relatively taboo matter: eighteenth-cen-
tury authors were somewhat silent on the subject of literary property. Or
rather, while many of them were ready to admit that the book market had
become stronger, this admission did not go as far as claiming an eco-
nomic return for the author. The only literary figure who actually came
into the open in terms of throwing down a challenge to his printer and
his impresario was Carlo Goldoni. He was not, however, successful in
doing so, and was sentenced in 1756 by the Court of the Riformatori
dello Studio of Padua to pay compensation to his Venetian printer,
Giuseppe Bettinelli, because in 1753 he had decided to publish his plays
in Florence with the Paperini printing house while the Venetian edition
was still being printed.5
The present analysis takes as its starting point a very specific question:
to what extent were Italian authors aware of a book market that, from the
3
Berengo (1980, chapter 6).
4
See Palazzolo (2013). The writings of journalists and editors were collected in Palazzolo
(ed.) 1989. The failure of the Bourbon kingdom to comply with the 1840 convention would
be debated by publishers and authors in the following years, including Giuseppe Pomba,
Giovan Pietro Vieusseux and Giacomo Stella. See also Borghi (2003); Albergoni (2006);
Moscati (2017).
5
On Goldoni, see Chap. 5.
2 THE AMBIGUITIES OF THE “AUTHOR FUNCTION” 21
mid-eighteenth century, seems, at least to judge by booksellers’ cata-

logues, to be increasingly lively and open to European influences? In an
article published in 1765, in the journal Il Caffè, Pietro Verri writes:
In this eighteenth century in which we live, the literati certainly have no

reason to complain […]. The public reads much more than it has ever read,
perhaps since the art of writing was invented.
Nowadays, given that reading is done universally, any author who knows
how to write, that is, who writes things that reward the effort of being read
or who writes with a sense of order, clarity and grace, any author, I say, who
knows how to write, may be assured of obtaining, sooner or later, the esteem
and consideration of the public.6
Such words reveal a certain optimism about the possibilities for a liter-
ary man to make a future for himself in the “republic of letters.” What is
striking in his article is that the greatest opportunities for an author are not
related either to book production or to the patronage system. The novelty
lies in linking the improvement in the condition of the author with the
increase in the number of readers: the book has lost something of its
sacredness, is no longer reserved for a few scholars, is accessible to wider
audiences, audiences to which women have also been added in recent years:
A book is no longer only reserved for those caves where in past centuries, in
the pale light of a lamp, sat some hirsute wise man, like a monster of the
human species. A book is a piece of furniture found in even the most ele-
gantly appointed rooms; a book can be found on the dressing tables of the
most amiable ladies; a book may even be read simply because the author has
had the talent to write it.7
6
Verri (1993, 285): “Nel secolo decimottavo in cui viviamo non hanno certamente ragione
i letterati davvero di lagnarsi […]. Il pubblico legge assai più di quello che non si sia mai letto
forse dacché s’è inventata l’arte dello scrivere […]. Ora, sì tosto che universalmente si legge,
ogni autore che sappia scrivere, cioè che scriva cose che paghino della fatica di leggere o che
le scriva con ordine, con chiarezza e con grazia, ogni autore, dico, che sappia scrivere è sicuro
di ottenere tosto o tardi la stima e la considerazione del pubblico.”
On Verri and the journal Il Caffè, cf. Venturi (1969); Capra (ed.) (1999); Capra
(2000, 2002).
7
Verri (1993, 285): “Un libro non è più riservato a quelle sole caverne dove al pallido
lume d’una lampada se ne stava un irsuto sapiente ne’ secoli scorsi, come un mostro della
specie umana. Un libro è un mobile che si trova nelle stanze più elegantemente adornate; un
libro trovasi sulle pettiniere delle più amabili dame; un libro perfine è letto per poco che
l’autore abbia avuto talento di scriverlo.”
22 L. BRAIDA
The growing presence of “notices to readers” in eighteenth-century

publishing clearly indicates that the public’s response was held in high
regard.8 And, when reference is made to the “public,” it is not a question,
as has been observed, “either of its sociological identification, or quantita-
tive dimensions or of the geographical spread of a totality that appears to
be growing, but rather of the symbolic meaning that the reference to the
public tends to assume in the activity of the most alert operators” (Pasta
2002–2003, 22). The Livorno publisher Giuseppe Aubert is well known
for his opinion regarding the power that the reading public had by then
assumed, a power that the Inquisition could not oppose: “It is not Rome,”
he wrote to Pietro Verri on 15 March 1766, “that decides on the merit of
a book through its prohibitions; it is the public who decides.”9
Also in the 1760s, the writer and journalist Gasparo Gozzi noticed an
increase in book production and the triumph of genres regardless of their
cultural value. He commented on several occasions in the pages of the
Osservatore Veneto with regard to the main trends in Venetian publishing, an
area in which he himself was very much at home and one that allowed him to
overcome specific economic difficulties, thanks to his collaboration with some
of the most prominent Venetian printers. However, in contrast to Verri’s opti-
mistic view, Gozzi did not believe that the expansion of publishing produc-
tion in any way brought with it improvements in the condition of the author.
Indeed, the logic of the market ended up crushing the author, who was forced
to write hastily. In Lettere diverse (Various Letters), of which the first book was
published in 1750 and the second in 1752 by Giambattista Pasquali, he stated
opinions that were sometimes ironic and moralistic, sometimes merciless and
unexpected, as if to amaze the reader with his frankness and immediacy.10 He
observed, in stern judgement, the world of books and newspapers, which he
knew so well, and readers’ behaviour: “I see so many books coming out every
day, where it is well known that they were composed in great haste, and yet
they are not only bought, but praised and adored as most refined.”11
8
On “notices to the reader,” see Trombetta (2015).
9
Quotation from Lay (1973, 76): “Non è Roma che colle sue proibizioni decida del
merito dei libri; è il pubblico che ne decide.”
10
Cf. Mutterle (1989, 235–243). On Gozzi’s role as printing superintendent of the
Republic of Venice, a position he held between 1762 and 1783, cf. Infelise (1989, 294–308);
Gozzi (2003).
11
Lettere diverse di Gasparo Gozzi, Venezia: Giovanni Battista Pasquali, 1750, 23–24:
“Veggo tanti libri ch’escono ogni giorno, ne’ quali si conosce benissimo che sono stati com-
posti con grandissima fretta, e tuttavia non solamente sono comperati, ma per isquisiti lodati
e tenuti cari.”
He implicitly noted what other authors and journalists were also expe-
riencing: a wider market was seeing increasingly diversified types of books
and products were now available for all budgets and for all sorts of readers.
Moreover, such a transformation of the book market also had conse-
quences on the way people read. Among Gozzi’s observations may be
found what is the most intense description of that way of reading—one
which emerged strongly during the eighteenth century—which scholars
have defined as “extensive”: meaning the approach to a broader corpus of
books and journals, read more quickly and less carefully, “with the
eyes only”:
One opens the first cover of the book, looks at the frontispiece, turns over
two or three pages, and then puts it back to sleep. Another glances two or
three times at the index, finds half a dozen passages that stir his curiosity,
hurries to the places indicated, and then touches it no more. There are those
who read with their eyes only, which by habit are fixed on the pages; but
with thought wholly alienated, finish reading, and cannot swear in all con-
science to have read it.12
This broadening of the market and the enhancement of the “author func-
tion” did not, however, go hand in hand. In many cases, especially when
a work was expected to be successful, the printer paid the author with a
certain number of copies of his book (Paoli 2004, 268–269). In most
cases, however, the author had to be content with finding a publisher who
would cover the printing costs, without claiming anything for himself. It
may seem an anachronism to say that, for a long time, authors suffered all
kinds of injustice, and plagiarism was tolerated and often passed over in
silence, given that, when abuse is considered, it is often thought of in
terms of infringement of copyright. In reality, in the absence of a law, the
rule was that there was no protection and, once the manuscript was handed
over to the printer, the author could expect nothing more. The only safe-
guards provided for new editions were the printing privileges issued by
12
Ibid., 26: “Uno apre il primo cartone del libro, guarda il frontispizio, dà una rivolta a
due o tre facce, e poi lo mette a dormire. Un altro dà due o tre occhiate agl’indici, trova
mezza dozzina di passi che gli muovono la curiosità, corre a’ numeri segnati, e poi non ne
tocca più. C’è chi legge con gli occhi solamente, i quali per usanza stanno sulle carte; ma
alienato col pensiero affatto affatto, termina di leggere, che non può giurare in coscienza
d’aver letto.” On the transformation of reading during the eighteenth century, see Wittmann
(1999); Chartier (2007a); Loretelli (2010).
24 L. BRAIDA
governments to printers for a fixed period of time, in order to prevent

others in the same state from publishing the same work, to the detriment
of those who had invested money in a certain edition. It was not very com-
mon for an author to request a book privilege, unless he had printed his
work at his own expense and was certain he would make a profit. In any
case, printing privileges were a short-term guarantee of a protected market
granted by government authorities and were valid only within the borders
of the state that had issued them and, beyond these borders, the books
could be re-published without hindrance, damaging both the publisher
who had backed the operation and the author, who was not able to check
whether his text had been faithfully reproduced. It was a common occur-
rence for the bookseller (or the printer) to declare that he had published a
new edition of a book just released in another city by another printer.13 In
some cases this was a matter of agreements between publishers, but often
it was the result of theft.
However, throughout the eighteenth century in Italy, this inconve-
nient situation for both writers and publishers did not give rise to any
concrete proposals to avoid the damage arising from publishing piracy. It
was necessary to wait, as has been said, until the 1830s, in order to see
some literati come out in the open and denounce an unsustainable situa-
tion—one that was exacerbated by a sort of humanistic prejudice that
hindered the acceptance of the economic nature of intellectual work. In
an article published in the Rivista Europea of 1838, Cesare Cantù
observed that in the Italian states it was difficult to achieve recognition of
copyright: “Here, the term ‘literary profession’ is pronounced with an air
of profound contempt” (“Da noi il mestiere di letterato suona parola di
profondissimo spregio”).14
In the eighteenth-century works which were expressly dedicated to
problems revolving around the production of texts, the subject of the
13
This is the case, for example, of the edition Dei pregi dell’eloquenza popolare (Of the vir-
tues of popular eloquence) by Ludovico Antonio Muratori, printed by Giuseppe De Bonis and
paid for by the Neapolitan bookseller and publisher Terres, in 1751, which, as stated in the
same bookseller’s Avviso, faithfully reproduces the “copy just published in Venice,” referring
to Giambattista Pasquali’s 1750 edition.
14
Cf. Borghi (2003) (in particular on Gioia and Cantù, pp. 39–46). In reality, despite the
way France was mythologised by some authors, including M. Gioia, things were not much
better there: despite the existence of a law on literary property, only 10% of authors managed
to make a living thanks to their writing. Charle (1990, 1996).
market is almost never addressed. There are at least three works by Italian
authors that deal with the social role of the author: Lettere inglesi (Letters
from England) by Saverio Bettinelli (Venice, Pasquali, 1766),15 La
Bibliopea o sia l’arte di compor libri (Bibliopea or the Art of Composing
Books) by Carlo Denina (Turin, Reycends, 1776) and Del principe e delle
lettere (The Prince and Letters) by Vittorio Alfieri (Kehl, 1795 [but 1789]).
Overall, these works appear to focus mainly on the process of creating
texts and on their literary characteristics. Scant attention is paid by any of
these authors—with the exception of Denina—to the transition from the
creative process to the printed book about to enter the homes of private
readers. Even when the author does consider the market, opinions are
expressed most sternly. Bettinelli—hiding behind the literary guise of a
cultured English traveller visiting Italy—is harsh on his literary figures,
defining them as “literary plebs” (“plebe letteraria,” Letter IV), “useless
[…] and annoying and inappropriate in social life” (“inutili […] e fastidi-
osi e importuni alla vita sociale,” Letter V) and “true insects of literature”
(“very insetti della letteratura”, Letter II), in tones reminiscent of Voltaire’s
“canaille écrivante.”16 His attention is reserved above all for those authors
who try to turn writing into a profession, accepting any compromise in
order to survive, thus lowering the quality of literary production. Venice,
Italy’s most important publishing centre, is presented as a workshop inces-
santly churning out slim books for every occasion and sonnet collections
of little value yet printed in luxury editions. Such a catastrophic tone
recalls that of Giuseppe Baretti’s Frusta letteraria (The Literary Whip), in
the issue of 15 January 1765, where he denounced the “enormous waste
of paper” caused by the publication of numerous pointless books, lacking
originality, their content already outdated, inspiring in their readers only
“boredom” and “weariness.”17
Vittorio Alfieri’s work is an extreme case. Not only is he dismissive of
the market, he even fears that it could affect writing itself: in his opinion,
a literary work has meaning only if unconstrained by any logic of eco-
nomic profit, since it is a value that belongs not to a single individual, but
15
The Dodeci lettere inglesi sopra varj argomenti, e sopra la letteratura italiana were pub-
lished anonymously in the second edition of Versi sciolti dell’abate Carlo Innocenzio Frugoni,
del conte Francesco Algherotti [sic] e del padre Xaverio [sic] Bettinelli, con le Lettere di Virgilio
dagli Elisii (Venezia: Giambattista Pasquali, 1766). All quotations from Lettere inglesi are
taken from Bettinelli (1969).
16
On Bettinelli see Crotti, Ricorda (eds) (1998); Braida (2011).
17
Baretti (1932, vol. 2, 271).
26 L. BRAIDA
to the whole of humanity. From this viewpoint, his observation, although

it originated from a completely different subject, is not far from the
abstraction of Condorcet, who in Fragments sur la liberté de la presse
(1776) rejects the analogy between literary property and real estate and
sees in literary property a privilege which is harmful to the public interest,
“a constraint imposed on freedom, a restriction of the rights of other
citizens.”18
For Alfieri, only the author who does not need a patron or who does
not need to make a living from the sale of his books, because he has abun-
dant economic means by birth, is properly free to tell “the truth with
energy”, thus successfully being “useful to others and glorious to
himself.”19 Indeed, paradoxically, he goes so far as to affirm: “And though
books may well be sold, they may still be produced and not sold, which
was mostly the case before printing.”20
“Producing books” without necessarily putting them up for sale (or
putting very few copies up for sale) was a possibility that many authors
who self-financed the printing of their works took into consideration for
various reasons: dissatisfaction with the typographical result (as shall be
seen, Alfieri himself chose this solution for the first edition of his trage-
dies), self-censorship or to control the copies being distributed. In many
epistolaries—an extraordinary source for closely observing the behaviour
of authors in relation to the circulation of their editions—“printing” and
“publishing” appear to be two actions that are often in conflict with each
other. Such was the case, for example, with the abbot Giammaria Ortes, a
Venetian economist and philosopher. When his translation of Alexander
Pope’s An Essay on Man was issued by Giuseppe Allegrini’s Florentine
printing house in 1776, the Venetian abbot was not at all happy with the
fact that the book was circulating in Florence’s bookstores and had been
talked about in journals. He wrote to his friend Giovanni Lodovico
Bianconi: “The journalists of Florence are still speaking of my Pope essay,
and, in short, these people are determined to make me out as a man of
letters who publishes books, which is not true at all; because I send my
18
“Une gêne imposée à la liberté, une restriction mise aux droits des autres citoyens”:
Condorcet quotation from R. Chartier (2007b, 139). On Fragments by Condorcet cf.
Hesse (1990).
19
Alfieri (1951a, 125): “dire con energia la verità,” and 121: “utile altrui e glorioso a se
stesso.”
20
Ibid., 159: “E benché si vendano anche i libri, si possono pur fare senza venderli; e prima
della stampa così accadeva per lo più.”
books not to all those who want them, but only to those that I want to
have them; and this is not publishing books.” 21
Ortes’ attitude reflected a sort of obsession with controlling the copies
of his works. He would have liked to have chosen his readers one by one,
as though they were interlocutors in a direct dialogue.22 When, therefore,
his books were intercepted by the market and requested by bibliophiles,
he was seized by an irrepressible anxiety that only subsided when he knew
they were in safe hands.23 However, in some cases the circle of readers
increased beyond the desired number, through lending or simply by word
of mouth between friends. Thus, the author himself intervened to block
the dissemination of his writings, including his Errori popolari (Popular
Errors) and subsequently the essay Dell’economia nazionale (The National
Economy). In a letter to his brother Mauro who, from Faenza, helped him
distribute his works to choice readers, he clearly explained the reasons why
he wrote, why he identified his target readers and why he chose to put a
stop to distribution:
Regarding my little book [referring to Errori popolari], I too recognise that

it will not be so easily understood by everyone, but it is important to know
that I have in fact not written it for everyone, but only for those few to
whom I had thought to communicate it. Had I wanted to give a book to the
public, I would have written it in another way. For this reason, I believe that
no journalist should mention it in gazettes or literary papers and I would be
21
Ortes to G. L. Bianconi, Venice, 23 November, 1776, in Ortes (2015, 138): “I giornal-
isti di Firenze han parlato ancora del mio Saggio di Pope, e insomma queste genti sono
intestate a farmi passare per un letterato che pubblica libri, cosa che non è vera; perché io
comunico i miei libri non a tutti quei che li vogliono, ma a quei soli che voglio io; e questo
non è pubblicar libri.”
22
Regarding how Ortes followed the printing of his works in the printing house and took
care of their distribution, cf. Carnelos (2015a, 2015b).
23
Ortes revealed his apprehension when he did not know where and whom his books had
reached, given that he was accustomed to monitoring them copy by copy. He wrote to the
abbot della Lena (Venice, 8 September, 1781, ibid., 218): “I understood with great pleasure
that the two copies of my last book, have, after some difficulties, been received, first because
in this way you are suitably served, and then because I was ignorant of their fate, or into
whose hands they had fallen, and as I usually know the destinies of all my the copies, I was
not a little worried” (“Ho inteso con molto piacere che le due copie dell’ultimo mio libro
dopo più ragioni le sian pervenute, prima perché ella ne fu così servita, e poi perché ignorava
il destino loro, o in quali mani fossero capitate, come so di tutte le copie da me destinate, cosa
che mi teneva in qualche pensiero”).
28 L. BRAIDA
sorry if this were done. A journalist should speak only of books given to the
public, and mine is not one of these.24
This reluctance to make himself known to a wider audience was accom-

panied by the custom of having his works released anonymously, both
because he feared trouble with the Venetian censors (and he certainly did
not like to be talked about) and because his chosen readers knew very well
which author concealed himself behind that anonymity.
2 How to Write to “be read”: The Advice

of Carlo Denina
The position of Carlo Denina is quite different: he seems to have realised

the importance, for authors, of finding ways to become known to an
increasingly wide readership. This is what emerges from his Bibliopea,
which, dealing with the rules that are needed “to form an author”, con-
tains much food for thought on the condition of the man of letters.25 Like
Pietro Verri, Denina had sensed that readership had increased and that
many of the new readers were part of a middle class that needed to be won
over through accessible language. Therefore, it was not necessary to look
for readers either amongst “the very unlearned” (“gli indottissimi”), or
amongst the “very learned, who are used to reading” (“dottissimi, che
sono assuefatti a leggere”).26
On closer inspection, the Bibliopea was much more than a manual
addressed to authors. In fact, it contained observations that were also use-
ful for printers and publishers. The transformation of the text into a book
was described as a complex process, the result of a collaboration between
men with different skills, with whom the author had to establish a
24
Ortes to don Mauro Ortes, Venice, 4 January 1772, ibid., 44: “In proposito del mio
libretto [si riferiva agli Errori popolari], anch’io conosco ch’esso non sarà così facilmente
inteso da tutti, ma convien sapere ch’io non lo ho nemmen scritto per tutti, ma per quei
pochi solamente ai quali avessi giudicato comunicarlo. Se avessi voluto dare un libro al pub-
blico lo avrei steso in altra maniera. Per questo non crederei che alcun novellista ne facesse
menzione in gazzette o novelle letterarie e mi dispiacerebbe che ciò fosse fatto. Un novellista
non dovrebbe parlare che di libri dati al pubblico, e il mio non è tale.”
25
On Denina cf. Ricuperati, Borgi (eds.) (2015).
26
Bibliopea o sia l’arte di compor libri di Carlo Denina professore d’eloquenza e di lingua
greca nella Regia Università di Torino, Turin: fratelli Reycends, 1776 [colophon: in Torino,
dalla Stamperia d’Ignazio Soffietti], 149.
relationship. This is a far cry from the exaltation of the author as a creative
genius which we find a few years earlier in the treatise by Bettinelli,
Dell’entusiasmo delle belle lettere (The Enthusiasm for Belles Lettres—1769).27
The focus is entirely on the art of “making a book” (bibliopea from the
Greek poiêin, to make, and biblíon, book) through a combination of writ-
ing skills and adherence to the social conventions of a publication (for
example, the inclusion of a dedicatory letter) and to the censorship regula-
tions. Denina, however, does not overlook the importance of the material-
ity of the edition, being aware that authors do not write books but texts
that become books only when they enter the printer’s shop.28 Here lies the
modernity of Denina’s work: the attention to the text (of any kind) and to
its becoming a book through taking on physical characteristics that, while
often extraneous to the intentions of the author, are linked to the deci-
sions of the printer.
The decision to write a manual stemmed from his observation of a spe-
cific absence: “I have been amazed more than once that, among so many
authors, who over the past three centuries have written not only about all
parts of literature, but about nearly all literary minutiae, no one has ever
written in general on the art of composing books.”29 And although some
aspects dealt with in Bibliopea had already been addressed by Giusto
Fontanini, Apostolo Zeno and Lodovico Antonio Muratori as well as in
some entries in the Encyclopédie (he quoted the terms livre, épître, préface,
citation, adnotation, dialogue), there was as yet no other text that addressed
the problem as a whole. He knew well that scholars might, due to its basic
nature, consider the work “presumptuous and vain,” but he also knew
that for many it could prove a useful tool. Unlike Ortes, Denina did not
address a few choice readers, but a rather broad audience, consisting of
both those who wanted to challenge themselves with writing,30 and those
27
On this work by Bettinelli, see Braida (2011).
28
On publishing mediation in the passage from text to book, see Stoddard (1987).
29
Bibliopea o sia l’arte di compor libri di Carlo Denina (see footnote n. 26), Introduzione,
VII–VIII: “Io mi son più volte maravigliato, che fra tanti autori, che da tre secoli in qua
hanno scritto, non solo di ogni parte della letteratura, ma quasi d’ogni minutezza letteraria,
niuno abbia preso a scrivere in generale sopra l’arte di compor libri.”
30
He was thinking mainly of those “who will have to instruct others either by way of
speeches and treatises, or by some sort of book” and of those who “for particular interests,
or for official reasons, have to arrange in writing their own or other people’s thoughts”
(“avranno da istruire altrui o per via o di discorsi e trattati, o per qualunque sorta di libri,”
and those who “per particolari interessi, o per ragioni d’uffizio hanno a disporre per iscritto
i propri o gli altrui pensamenti”), ibid., XV.
30 L. BRAIDA
who were simply eager to have tools to be able to judge the books they
had in their hands with some competence.31
The treatise (as the author defined it) is divided into three parts: the
first concerns the cultural formation of the author (“What is required to
train an author”); the object of the second is the book itself, as a product
whose morphological characteristics are described (dealing with the struc-
ture of the chapters, the organisation of contents and summaries, the space
for illustrations, the style of the dedications); the third part deals with
direct and indirect citations (so as not to be accused of plagiarism) and
takes a broader look at the more general context in which the author oper-
ates and in which the book is produced and distributed, with reference
made to censorship and the book market (“What happens after the com-
position of the book”).
The first part placed the author’s training in a sort of reading course
designed to form “good taste”—in other words, to stimulate his ability to
“sense the beauty and the good in everything.” It was the mastery of a
solid basic culture that guaranteed “the faculty of knowing what is well
imagined, well ordered, and well expressed, and this is called taste.”32 The
abbot emphasised the need for all authors, not just the literati, to study the
Latin and Greek classics. While in the first part the work included many
aspects put forward by Muratori in his Riflessioni sopra il buon gusto
(Reflections on Good Taste),33 greater originality was shown in the second
part—an originality that lay in the attention paid to what Gérard Genette
called the “thresholds” of the text (Genette 1997): the title of the book,
the dedication, the introduction and the tables of contents. In these para-
textual areas, Denina recognised the ability of author and publisher to
dialogue with the reader. In hindsight it might be said that Denina was
well aware of that “communication circuit” of which Robert Darnton has
31
Ibid., XI. He added (ibid., 20): “We address this treatise in truth to the benefit especially
of those who are destined for the literary pursuits of writing books, or treatises, whether to
dictate them in schools or to publish them in print” (“Noi indirizziamo nel vero questo trat-
tato a profitto segnatamente di coloro, che sono destinati alle occupazioni letterarie di scriver
libri, o trattati, sia per dettarli nelle scuole, sia per pubblicarli con le stampe”).
32
Ibid., 41: “la facoltà di conoscere ciò, che è ben immaginato, ben ordinato, e bene
espresso, e chiamasi gusto”).
33
Cf. Ricuperati (1989). From the linguistic point of view, too, the observations contained
in the Bibliopea were not particularly original. As C. Marazzini observed, “Denina’s ideas can
be traced back to a moderate Enlightenment that translates into strong hostility towards the
Crusca and Tuscan, and sympathy for the so-called ‘Italian’ solution to the language ques-
tion,” Marazzini (1985, 11). See also Marazzini (2015).
written (Darnton 1982), a circuit that goes from author to publisher,

printer, distributor, bookseller right up to the reader, without which no
publication process would make any sense. Denina, in fact, showed great
sensitivity to the theme of reading and how it was conditioned by the
materiality of the edition, a belief that he expressed in a section entitled
Delle opere voluminose e de’ libretti (Voluminous Works and Little Books).34
These observations, while apparently superficial, revealed concrete atten-
tion to the activity of reading. He seemed, for example, to want to advise
authors to limit the number of pages: “As it is not possible to read large
books all the way through, the hurried, tired and impatient reader is forced
to scan through contents pages and summaries.” 35
There is no hint of idealisation of the text by Denina here. Rather,
attention is paid to the fact that a text becomes a book only when it
encounters the reader, whose needs are different from those that govern
the author’s intentions. There is a gap between the strategy of the latter
and the “tactics” of the reader.36 Denina grasps this fully, moving from the
viewpoint of the author to that of the reader and, as mentioned, address-
ing a fundamental problem: having the time to read.
How might a book fit into the life of a busy person? Starting from this,
he invited authors to write while thinking about the ways and circum-
stances in which their texts might be enjoyed. He started from the consid-
eration that even those with enormous motivation to read could not
devote many hours to a single book. On the other hand, Denina observed,
once reading has been interrupted, it is difficult to resume. Short books
enjoyed a completely different fate: “A work that the reader hopes to see
the end of, and which can be read in a few days, is much more likely to be
read consecutively and in full.” 37
Reading could be conditioned not only by the size of the volumes, but
also by their divisions into sections. Splitting the text into many parts was
one possible way of not discouraging the reader. This was true not only for
34
Bibliopea o sia l’arte di compor libri di Carlo Denina (see footnote n. 26), 137–140.
35
Ibid., 137: “Non essendo possibile che si leggano di seguito i grossi libri, il lettore affret-
tato, stanco ed impaziente è costretto a scorrere gl’indici e i sommarj.”
36
On the distinction between editorial “strategy” and the “tactics” of readers who read
and interpret texts following their own paths and not necessarily following the advice of the
author or publisher, cf. De Certeau (1990, 57–63).
37
Bibliopea o sia l’arte di compor libri di Carlo Denina (see footnote n. 26), 138: “Un’opera
di cui il leggitore spera di vedere la fine, e che si legge in pochi giorni, è assai più raro che non
si legga di seguito e tutta intera.”
32 L. BRAIDA
an essay, but also for a poem: it was better to divide it into many shorter,
more manageable poems rather than having the reader choose to lay it
aside. In other words, the author was never to lose sight of the goal of
writing in order to be read. The section on translations also seemed to
point in this direction:
If there were some rules to be given, I would rather that a translator, who
wishes to be read, imitated the frankness and freedom of the French rather
than the timidity and heavy and uncomfortable exactness of most Italians. It
might be said that the former translate to be read, and the latter to help us
understand the original; and sometimes we need the original in order to
understand the translation.38
Whereas the first impact of the book on the reader was material (the
physical consistency of the edition), the next step lay in the title. It is no
coincidence that eight sections in the second part were concerned with the
choice of a title which, in order to be effective and immediately communi-
cate the contents of the book, was supposed to give a brief outline of the
contents and to convey in very few words the whole substance of the
work. Brevity, then, was the first rule to be observed. The different exam-
ples of titles and the description of the difficulties of finding a valid solu-
tion are indicative of how important it was for Denina that the title should
convey the subject to the reader in as close as possible a way to what the
latter would find in the book. However, brevity was not always achievable,
especially when a variety of topics was covered. One of the pitfalls to be
avoided was that “of cooling the curiosity of the reader by revealing too
expressly the things the author wants to say.”39 In other words, he hinted
that a little indeterminacy did not hurt, since it could function as a bait to
reel the reader in.
The attention to the various types of texts that authors could try their
hand at makes the Bibliopea an interesting observatory on Italian publish-
ing, which, according to Denina, lacked originality and the courage to
break new paths. It relied too often on the ideas of foreign publishers for
38
Ibid., 159 (“Se si avesse pure a dare qualche regola, io vorrei anzi che un traduttore, che
desidera d’esser letto, imitasse piuttosto la franchezza, e la libertà de’ Francesi, che la timidità,
e la esattezza pesante, e incomoda della più parte degl’Italiani. Direbbesi, che i primi tradu-
cono per farsi leggere, e gli altri per ajutarci a intendere l’originale; e talvolta ci fa d’uopo
l’originale per intendere la traduzione”). My italics.
39
Ibid., 180: the risk of “alienare, o raffreddare la curiosità de’ leggitori col determinare
troppo espressamente le cose che si vogliono dire.” My italics.
both journalistic initiatives40 and with regard to the publication of foreign

encyclopaedias: “Italy should feel great shame, that, apart from grammati-
cal dictionaries, in forty years all it has been able to do has been transla-
tions of French and English dictionaries.”41
Yet he was convinced that it was less difficult to become an author than
in the past. The book market seemed broader, and for this very reason
writing could become, if not a profession, at least an occasional occupa-
tion, to be approached in the best possible way, with knowledge of the
mechanisms that could lead to the printing and circulation of a work.
There was no form of moralism or control “of the conduct of the literati,”
to use the title of a work by Benvenuto Robbio di San Raffaele. A lay cen-
sor of the Savoyard State, he viewed the increase in the number of authors
with concern, finding in many of them the inability to refrain from dealing
with “dangerous” topics, such as those that nestled within the seductive
livres philosophiques.42
On the contrary, Denina’s words convey his wish to teach authors how
to make their writing more enjoyable, in order to induce readers “to con-
tinue reading […] with the expectation of something that they will enjoy
understanding and knowing.”43 This was the secret of the attraction that
novels exerted. Indeed, non-fiction authors had to learn from fictional
narrative. It is significant that, here too, Denina’s yardstick, and therefore
his goal, was once again the ability to enthral the reader, with the same
“suspension and agitation of the mind” (“sospensione e agitazione
d’animo”) cleverly provoked by the authors of novels.44
40
It is curious that Denina should be critical of literary periodicals precisely in the years in
which they were developing with greater vigour and vivacity, as Italian historiography on
journalism has shown, cf. Ricuperati (1976, 1982).
41
Bibliopea o sia l’arte di compor libri di Carlo Denina (see footnote n. 26), 169: “Gran
vergogna è per l’Italia, che fuori de’ vocabolari grammaticali, non siasi in quarant’anni saputo
far altro che traduzioni di dizionari francesi, e inglesi.” On Italian encyclopaedism cf.
Abbattista (ed.) (1996).
42
On Robbio di San Raffaele (close to the Amicizia cristiana association, founded in
Turin in the mid-1770s with the aim of promoting books in defense of the Catholic faith)
and on Della condotta de’ letterati (Torino: Fontana, 1780), cf. Braida (1995, 323–328);
Delpiano (2015, 133–141).
43
Bibliopea o sia l’arte di compor libri di Carlo Denina (see footnote n. 26), 241: “con-
tinuar la lettura […] con l’aspettazione di qualche cosa che gli gradisca d’intendere e di
sapere”).
44
Ibid., 241. A section was also dedicated to the novel (part 2, Chap. 4), Qualità essenziale
de’ romanzi, e de’ poemi narrativi (The essential quality of novels and narrative poems), ibid.,
244–248. Muratori also dwells on the power of novels to involve their readers, cf. Delpiano
(2018, 24).
34 L. BRAIDA
In the final part of the Bibliopea, Denina focused on an important ele-

ment of a printed book: the dedicatory letter. He knew very well that
dedications had to comply with a rhetorical structure that followed precise
rules and had to be organised in such a way as to include various passages:
from the declaration of the importance of the topic being discussed, to the
link between that topic and the dedicatee and finally the celebration of the
virtues and prestige of the dedicatee.45 Of course, not all authors followed
the same rhetorical pattern, and above all they did not always understand
and observe one fundamental rule: to make sure that between the work
and the person to whom it was dedicated there was some relationship
“without affectation and exaggeration.”46 Thus, in the dedication of the
Bibliopea to Angelo Carron di San Tommaso, Marquis of Aigueblanche,
First Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs of the Savoyard State, the link
was made clear by the connection between culture and “public happi-
ness,” the minister being aware of how much “the progress of literature
and the fine arts” can contribute “to the happiness of States, and to the
glory of kingdoms.”47
Denina seemed to admit that an author’s success was still closely tied to
his ability to remain on good terms with power. From the examples he
cited one could very well see the total subordination of authors, ever ready
to use all possible means to curry favour with powerful figures, to the
point of attributing “to a certain number of printed copies the name
and praise of one person, and to another quantity of copies the name and
dedication to another patron, and this out of lowly ambition, and other
vile interest.”48 In fact, studies on publishing have pointed out how wide-
spread such a practice was not only among authors, but also among print-
ers. One may think of Plantin who famously produced books in Leiden
which he then sent on to Antwerp, changing only the title page and
45
Numerous contributions have been published on dedications (in Italian publishing) in
recent years: cf. Terzoli (ed.) (2004); Ricuperati (2005), Paoli (2004) (in particular Chap. 3,
Le dediche). See also the journal Paratesto. Rivista Internazionale: the first issue, published in
2004, has essays on various types of paratext, including dedicatory letters.
46
Bibliopea o sia l’arte di compor libri di Carlo Denina (see footnote n. 26), 208: “senza
affettazione e stiracchiature.”
47
Ibid., IV: “i progressi delle lettere, e delle belle arti” can contribute “alla felicità degli
Stati, e alla gloria de’ regni.”
48
Ibid., 213: “ad un certo numero d’esemplari stampati il nome e l’elogio di una persona,
e ad un’altra quantità di copie il nome e la dedicazione ad altro mecenate, e questo per bassa
ambizione, e altro vile interesse.”
replacing the dedications in favour of some Protestant patron with praise

addressed to some Catholic authority or other.
The analysis of this necessary relationship with power led Denina, in the
third part of the Bibliopea, to address the most difficult time for an author.
Here, he goes to the heart of what “happens after the composition of the
book,” also revealing the elements of risk associated with publication. He
did not dwell on his own personal troubles with censorship in the Savoyard
State. However, his evident sympathy for the “poor” Torquato Tasso
revealed his bitterness at having had first-hand experience of a situation
common to Italian authors: submitting to the judgement of the censors
did not provide “a safe haven from the harassment and criticism” (“sicuro
dalle molestie, e dalle critiche”) of the censors themselves (he was refer-
ring to his experience with regard to his Delle Rivoluzioni d’Italia (Italian
Revolutions).49
His disquisition did not end here, but embarked upon a subject which,
at times, seemed to evoke echoes of the debate on Italian decadence that
had featured in many of Muratori’s writings and Saverio Bettinelli’s Lettere
inglesi.50 In this latter work, the Jesuit from Mantua, albeit very critical of
Italian literary production, identified a reason that seemed in some way to
absolve writers of any responsibility: the lack of a political and cultural
centre, such as Paris or London. Italy’s political fragmentation also trans-
lated into a cultural fragmentation that made it difficult for men of letters
to identify themselves with “a united and collected system of thinking”:
In France, literature is frivolous, but amusing; the very variety of so much

printed matter, which is born and dies in Paris on the same day, is amusing;
and, above all, criticism has an air of civilisation, or at least of wit, which
49
Following the publication of the third volume of Delle Revoluzioni d’Italia, which had
received the approval of ecclesiastical and secular censorship, Denina still had to suffer the
“persecutions” of a theologian (he recounts the episode in Prusse Littéraire) who accused
him of having added two pages after the approval of the censors, without the censors having
noticed it; but the protection of the King Victor Amadeus III spared him further difficulties.
It should be remembered that in 1777, one year after the publication of the Bibliopea,
Denina had to confront far more serious problems due to the publication in Florence of a
book that criticised the inefficiency of certain religious orders, Dell’impiego delle persone (Of
the employment of people). The volume was impounded and the author punished with suspen-
sion from teaching at the University of Vercelli. On the dramatic clash with censorship, cf.
Braida (1995, 128–140); on the reformist force of the treatise printed in Florence, see Ossola
(2015). Dell’impiego delle persone has been recently published by C. Ossola (Denina 2020).
50
On the debate regarding Italian decadence, cf. Verga (2009).
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Lord Lundie faisait de rapides progrès dans son art, quoique l'orgue
de Barbarie, différent de la Jurisprudence, soit plutôt affaire de
vocation que de métier, et il lui arrivait de rester parfois sur un point
mort. Giuseppe, je crois, chantait; mais je n'arrivais pas à
comprendre le sens des remarques de Sir Christopher. C'était de
l'espagnol sud-américain.
La femme dit quelque chose que nous ne saisîmes pas.
«Il se pourrait que vous l'ayez sous-louée, insista l'homme. Ou bien
votre mari qu'est ici.
—Mais ce n'est pas le cas. Envoyez immédiatement chercher la
Police.
—A votre place, je ne le ferais pas, maâme. Ce ne sont que des
cueilleurs de fruits pour les marchés. Ça ne regarde pas où ça
couche.
—Prétendez-vous dire qu'ils y ont couché? Moi qui l'ai fait nettoyer la
semaine passée! Faites-les sortir.
—Oh, si vous le dites, ça ne va pas être long. Alfred, va me chercher
le palonnier de réserve.
—Ah, non! Vous allez abîmer la peinture de la porte. Faites-les
sortir!
—Et qu'est-ce que, Dieu me pardonne! je suis donc en train de faire
pour vous, maâme?» repartit l'homme d'un ton déconcerté.
Mais la femme fit demi-tour vers son époux.
«Edward! Ils sont tous ivres, ici; et là, ils sont tous fous. Faites
quelque chose!» dit-elle.
Edward esquissa un demi-pas en avant, et soupira:
«Eh là!» dans la direction de la maison en rumeur.
La femme se mit à marcher de long en large, véritable image de la
Tragédie Domestique. Les déménageurs évoluèrent un peu sur leurs
talons, et...
«Je le tiens!»
Le cri retentit par toutes les fenêtres à la fois, suivi de l'aboiement de
limier que poussa Sir Christopher, d'un enragé prestissimo sur
l'orgue de Barbarie, et de cris à tue-tête pour appeler Jimmy. Mais
Jimmy, à côté de moi, roula ses prunelles congestionnées, à la façon
d'un hibou.
«Je n'ai jamais connu ces gens-là, dit-il. Je ne suis qu'un pauvre
petit orphelin.»
La porte d'entrée s'ouvrit, et tous trois s'avancèrent au-devant d'un

triomphe de courte durée. C'était la première fois que je voyais un
«Law Lord» vêtu comme pour jouer au tennis, avec, en bandoulière,
un cylindre d'orgue de Barbarie à béquille. A vrai dire, sous ce
plumage, c'est un oiseau timide. Lord Lundie tâcha de se
débarrasser de son équipement, un peu comme un chien savant mal
dressé essaie d'échapper en arrière à son affublement. Sir
Christopher, tout blanc de plâtre, soignait un pouce rouge de sang,
et le singe, presque en démence, piochait à même la tignasse de
Giuseppe.
Les hommes, de part et d'autre, restèrent vacillants. Mais la femme
se tenait sur son terrain.
«Imbéciles!» dit-elle.
Et une fois encore:
«Imbéciles!»
J'eusse fait le bonheur de plus d'un forçat de ma connaissance avec
une photographie de Lord Lundie prise en cet instant.
«Madame, commença-t-il, tout en conservant à miracle l'emphase
de sa voix, c'était un singe.»
Sir Christopher suça son pouce, et opina de la tête.
«Emportez-le, et vous avec! repartit-elle. Et vous avec!»
Moi, je serais parti, et avec joie, sur telle permission. Mais il faut que
ces hommes forts malgré tout soient toujours à se justifier. Lord
Lundie se tourna vers le mari, qui, pour la première fois, parla.
«J'ai pris cette maison à bail. J'emménage, dit-il.
—Nous aurions dû y être hier, interrompit la femme.
—Oui. Nous aurions dû y être hier. Y avez-vous couché, cette nuit?
demanda le mari d'un ton maussade.
—Non, je vous affirme que non, répondit Lord Lundie.
—Alors, allez-vous-en. Allez-vous-en pour de bon,» cria la femme.
Ils s'en allèrent... en file indienne, le long du sentier. Ils s'en allèrent
silencieusement, en rattachant l'orgue de Barbarie sur ses roues, et
renchaînant le singe à l'orgue de Barbarie.
«Que le diable m'emporte! dit Penfentenyou. Ils savent affronter la
musique, et ne pas se lâcher... dans la vie privée!
—Les Liens de la Frousse Commune», repartis-je.
Giuseppe courut à la grille, et réintégra le monde des possibilités.
Lord Lundie et Sir Christopher, esclaves de la tradition, se retirèrent
lentement.
Or, il arriva que la femme, qui marchait sur leurs talons, levant les
yeux, aperçut l'arbre dont ils avaient fait la toilette.
«Arrêtez!» cria-t-elle.
Et ils s'arrêtèrent.
«Qui est-ce qui a fait cela?»
La question resta sans réponse. L'Eternel Mauvais Garnement qui
réside en tout homme baissa la tête devant l'Eternelle Mère qui
réside en toute femme.
«Qui est-ce qui a mis là toutes ces horreurs?» répéta-t-elle.
Soudain, Penfentenyou, Premier de sa Colonie en tout, sauf de nom,
nous quitta, Jimmy et moi, et apparut à la grille. (S'il n'est pas
congédié d'office, c'est de cette façon-là qu'il apparaîtra au jour
d'Armageddon.)
«Bravo!» cria-t-il avec feu.
Après quoi, se découvrant devant la femme:
«Avez-vous des enfants, madame? demanda-t-il.
—Oui, deux. Ils devraient être ici aujourd'hui. Le déménageur avait
promis...
—Alors, il n'était que temps. Ce singe... s'est échappé. C'était un
animal fort dangereux. Il aurait pu faire tourner les sens à vos
enfants. Tout cela, la faute du joueur d'orgue! C'est fort heureux que
ces messieurs aient rattrapé l'animal comme ils ont fait. J'espère que
vous n'avez pas été par trop malmené, Sir Christopher?»
Tout prêt à étouffer que je fusse (je dus m'éloigner pour rire), je ne
pus qu'admirer l'adresse consommée avec laquelle le gredin joua ce
second et très gros atout. Un âne eût présenté Lord Lundie, et on ne
l'eût pas cru.
Cela fit la levée. Le couple sourit, et se répandit en respectueux
remerciements pour avoir été, par de semblables mains, délivré d'un
semblable péril.
«Pas le moins du monde, repartit Lord Lundie. N'importe qui...
n'importe quel père de famille... en eût fait tout autant... je vous en
prie, trêve d'excuses... votre méprise était toute naturelle.»
Un déménageur se mit, ici, à rire sous cape; sur quoi Lord Lundie
foudroya leurs lignes du regard.
«A propos, si ces personnages-là vous causaient quelque ennui... ils
me semblent ne s'être privés de rien... je vous en prie, avertissez-
moi. Heu... Bonjour!»
Ils tournèrent dans le chemin.
«Cieux! dit Jimmy, en s'essuyant du haut en bas. Pardieu, voilà un
gaillard!»
Et nous nous précipitâmes sur leurs traces, car ils couraient tant
bien que mal, et, tout en courant, s'esclaffaient de rire. Nous les
rejoignîmes à un demi-mille sur la route, dans un petit bois de
noyers où ils avaient tourné et où ils déambulaient. Sur quoi nous
déambulâmes tous de conserve pour ne nous arrêter que lorsque
nous fûmes arrivés aux extrêmes limites de l'épuisement.
«Vous... vous avez tout vu, alors?» demanda Lord Lundie, en
reboutonnant son col de dix-neuf pouces de tour.
—J'ai vu, de prime abord, qu'il s'agissait d'une question capitale,
répondit Penfentenyou, lequel se moucha.
—C'en était une. A propos, vous serait-il égal de me dire votre
nom?»
Epilogue.—La Grande Idée de Penfentenyou a vu enfin le jour, un

peu ébréchée aux bords, mais sous une forme on ne peut plus belle
et d'on ne peut plus belle portée. L'Alter Ego y a travaillé comme une
mule—une mule effarée, battue par derrière, caressée par devant, et
étayée de chaque côté par Lord Lundie, Lord Lundie à la bouche
comprimée et à la langue de fer rouge.
On a enlevé Sir Christopher Tomling à l'Argentine, où il ne faisait,
après tout, que préparer des routes commerciales pour des peuples
hostiles, et il fait aujourd'hui le plus bel ornement du Conseil de
Contrôle de Penfentenyou. Ceci fut un extra imprévu, de même que
le grandeur nature qu'a fait gratis Jimmy (et destiné au Salon de
cette année) de Penfentenyou, lequel est retourné dans sa sphère
d'action.
De temps à autre, de tout là-bas, parmi le glissement et le heurt de
ses changements de décor, ses effets de projecteurs et le roulement
savant de son tonnerre de fer blanc, je saisis sa voix qui s'élève en
forme d'encouragement et de conseil à ses compatriotes. Il est tout
ce qu'il y a de mieux éclairé sur les Liens du Sentiment, et—seul
parmi les Hommes d'Etat Coloniaux—se hasarde à parler des Liens
de la Frousse Commune.
C'est en cela que j'ai ma récompense.
LES PETITS RENARDS[38]
UNE DES HISTOIRES DE LA CHASSE DE GIHON
[38] Prenez-nous les renards et les petits renards qui gâtent les
vignes, depuis que nos vignes ont des grappes.—Cantique des
Cantiques, ch. II, vers. 15.
Un renard sortit de son terrier sur les rives du grand fleuve Gihon,
qui arrose l'Ethiopie. Il vit un blanc qui passait à cheval à travers les
tiges de durrha sèches, et, pour accomplir ses destinées, glapit
après lui.
Le cavalier retint les rênes au milieu des villageois qui se pressaient
autour de son étrier.
«Qu'est-ce que cela? dit-il.
—Cela, repartit le cheik du village, c'est un renard, ô Excellence
Notre Gouverneur!
—Ce n'est pas, alors, un chacal?
—Rien du chacal, mais Abu Hussein, le père de la ruse!
—En outre (le blanc parla à mi-voix), je suis Mudir de cette province.
—C'est vrai, s'écrièrent-ils. Ya, Saart el Mudir (O Excellence Notre
Gouverneur).»
Le grand fleuve Gihon, trop accoutumé à l'humeur des rois, continua
de couler entre ses rives espacées d'un mille vers la mer, tandis que
le Gouverneur louait Dieu en un cri strident et interrogateur encore
ignoré de ces parages.
Lorsqu'il eut abaissé son index droit de derrière son oreille droite, les
villageois lui parlèrent de leurs récoltes: orge, durrha, millet, oignons,
et le reste. Le Gouverneur se dressa debout sur ses étriers. Il
regarda au nord une bandelette de culture verte, large de quelques
centaines de mètres, qui se déroulait comme un tapis entre le fleuve
et la ligne fauve du désert. Elle s'étendait, en vérité, cette
bandelette, à soixante milles devant lui et tout autant derrière. A
chaque moitié de mille, une roue hydraulique soulevait en grinçant
l'eau bienfaisante jusqu'aux récoltes, au moyen d'un aqueduc en
argile. Le caniveau avait environ un pied de large; la levée de terre
sur laquelle il courait, au moins cinq pieds de haut, et large en
proportion, était la base de cette dernière. Abu Hussein, nommé à
tort le Père de la Ruse, buvait à même le fleuve au-dessous de son
terrier, et son ombre s'allongeait sous le soleil bas. Il ne pouvait
comprendre le cri strident qu'avait poussé le Gouverneur.
Le cheik du village parla des récoltes dont les maîtres de toutes
terres devraient tirer revenu; mais les yeux du Gouverneur étaient
fixés, entre les oreilles de son cheval, sur le caniveau le plus
rapproché.
«On dirait un fossé d'Irlande,» murmura-t-il.
Et il sourit, rêvant à certain talus dont il entrevoyait l'arête de rasoir
dans le lointain Kildare.
Encouragé par ce sourire, le cheik continua:
«Lorsque la récolte manque, on est obligé d'opérer un dégrèvement
d'impôts. C'est donc une bonne chose, ô Excellence Notre
Gouverneur, que vous veniez voir les récoltes qui ont manqué, et
constatiez que nous n'avons pas menti.
—Assurément.»
Le Gouverneur ajusta ses rênes. Le cheval partit au petit galop,
s'enleva sur le remblai du caniveau, fit au sommet un savant
changement de pied, et sautilla en bas dans un nuage de poussière
dorée.
Abu Hussein, de son terrier, regardait avec intérêt. Il n'avait jamais
encore rien vu de semblable.
«Assurément, répéta le Gouverneur. (Et il revint, accompagné du
cheik, par où il était allé.) Il vaut toujours mieux s'assurer par soi-
même.»
Un vieux steamer à roues à l'arrière, encore moucheté de balles,
une gabare amarrée au flanc, apparut au détour du fleuve. Il siffla
pour avertir le Gouverneur que son dîner l'attendait, et le cheval,
voyant son fourrage empilé sur la gabare, hennit en réponse.
«En outre, ajouta le cheik, au temps de l'Oppression, les Emirs et
leurs créatures dépossédèrent beaucoup de gens de leurs terres. Du
haut en bas du fleuve nos gens attendent qu'on les fasse rentrer en
possession de leurs champs légitimes.
—On a désigné des juges pour arranger le différend, repartit le
Gouverneur. Ils vont bientôt arriver en bateau à vapeur pour
entendre les témoins.
—A quoi bon? Sont-ce les juges qui ont tué les Emirs? Nous
préférerions être jugés par les hommes qui exécutèrent le jugement
de Dieu sur les Emirs. Nous nous en rapporterions plutôt à votre
décision, ô Excellence Notre Gouverneur!»
Le Gouverneur hocha la tête. Un an s'était écoulé depuis qu'il avait
vu les Emirs étendus côte à côte, immobiles, autour de la peau de
mouton rougie sur laquelle gisait El Mahdi, le Prophète de Dieu. Il ne
restait plus maintenant d'autre trace de leur domination que le vieux
steamer, jadis unité d'une flottille derviche, qui lui tenait lieu de
maison et de bureau. Ce steamer s'approcha tant bien que mal du
rivage, abaissa une planche, et le Gouverneur suivit son cheval à
bord.
Jusqu'à une heure avancée, on put y voir briller des lumières, que
réfléchissait maussadement le fleuve en tiraillant sur les amarres. Le
Gouverneur lut, non point pour la première fois, les rapports plus ou
moins administratifs de certain John Jorrocks, M.F.H.[39].
[39] Master of Fox Hounds. Maître d'équipage de chasse au
renard.
«Il nous faudra environ dix couples, dit-il soudain à son Inspecteur.
Je me les procurerai quand j'irai au pays. Vous serez whip[40],
Baker?»
[40] Valet de chiens, à la chasse au renard.
L'Inspecteur, qui n'avait point encore atteint ses vingt-cinq ans,
signifia son assentiment à la manière usuelle en pareille matière,
c'est-à-dire en levant la main, tandis qu'Abu Hussein glapissait à la
grande lune du désert.
«Ah, dit le Gouverneur, qui se montra en pyjama sur le pont, encore
trois mois, et nous te donnerons quelque chose pour ton rhume,
mon ami.»
En fait, il s'en écoula quatre avant qu'un steamer, accompagné d'une

pleine et mélodieuse gabare de chiens courants, mouillât à ce
débarcadère. L'Inspecteur sauta au milieu d'eux, et les pauvres
gueux, que rongeait le mal du pays, le reçurent comme un frère.
«Tout le monde, à bord du paquebot, leur a fourré n'importe quoi à
manger, mais c'est le nanan du nanan, expliqua le Gouverneur. C'est
Royal, que vous tenez... la perle du lot... et la chienne qui vous
tient... elle est un peu excitée... c'est May Queen. Merriman, de
Maudlin du Cottesmore[41], vous savez.
[41] C'est-à-dire May Queen, fille du chien Merriman, issu de la
chienne Maudlin, de l'équipage célèbre qui a nom Cottesmore.
—Je sais. Cette splendide chienne aux points de feu sur les yeux,
roucoula l'Inspecteur. Oh, Ben, je vais prendre intérêt à la vie,
maintenant. Ecoutez-moi cela! Oh, écoutez!»
Abu Hussein, au pied du haut talus, s'en alla à ses occupations
nocturnes. Un remous apporta sa piste à la gabare, et trois villages
entendirent le fracas de musique qui s'ensuivit. Pour une fois
encore, Abu Hussein ne sut mieux faire que de glapir en réponse.
«Eh bien, que dites-vous de ma Province? demanda le Gouverneur.
—Pas si mal, répondit l'Inspecteur, la tête de Royal entre les
genoux. Il va sans dire que tous les villages demandent un
dégrèvement d'impôts; mais, autant que je peux voir, tout le pays
pue le renard. La difficulté sera de les broquer dans le couvert. J'ai
oublié la liste des seuls villages ayant des titres à un dégrèvement
quelconque. Comment appelez-vous cette bête efflanquée, tachetée
de bleu, avec le fanon?
—Beagle-boy. Il ne me dit rien qui vaille. Croyez-vous que nous
puissions avoir deux jours par semaine?
—Facilement; et autant de lendemains que vous voudrez. Le cheik
de ce village-ci me raconte que son orge a manqué, et il réclame un
dégrèvement de cinquante pour cent.
—Nous commencerons par lui demain, et verrons ses récoltes en
passant. Rien comme l'inspection qu'on fait en personne,» déclara le
Gouverneur.
Ils commencèrent au lever du soleil. La meute s'élança de la gabare

dans toutes les directions, et, après de folles gambades, se mit à
fouiller comme autant de fox-terriers aux nombreux gîtes d'Abu
Hussein. Puis les drôles se saoulèrent à s'en gonfler de l'eau de
Gihon, tandis que le Gouverneur et l'Inspecteur les châtiaient du
fouet. Les scorpions s'y ajoutèrent[42], car May Queen, en ayant
flairé un, dut être transportée pleine de lamentations dans la gabare.
Mystery, un chiot, hélas! fit la rencontre d'un serpent, et le Beagle-
boy moucheté de bleu, nanan peu difficile, mangea de ce à côté de
quoi il eût dû passer. Seul, Royal, à la tête fauve Belvoir[43], et aux
yeux graves et interrogateurs, fit tout ce qu'il pouvait pour soutenir
l'honneur de l'Angleterre devant le village attentif.
[42] Bible. Rois, 1er livre, ch. XII, v. XI.
[43] Célèbre meute anglaise.
«On ne peut pas tout avoir, déclara le Gouverneur après le premier
déjeuner.
—Nous avons eu tout, cependant... tout, sauf les renards. Avez-vous
vu le nez de May Queen? repartit l'Inspecteur.
—Et Mystery est mort. Nous les laisserons accouplés, la prochaine
fois, jusqu'à ce que nous soyons bien au milieu des récoltes. Dites
donc, un joli vampire, ce Beagle-boy, et bavard par-dessus le
marché! Il mériterait une pierre au cou!
—Ils ont un tel chic par ici, pour vous enterrer les gens au petit
bonheur. Attendez à plus tard, plaida l'Inspecteur, sans savoir qu'il
verrait le jour où il se repentirait amèrement de ce mot.
—A propos, dit le Gouverneur, ce cheik ment, lorsqu'il dit que son
orge n'a pas réussi. Si cette orge est assez haute pour cacher un
chien courant à cette époque de l'année, c'est que tout va bien. Et il
réclame un dégrèvement de cinquante pour cent, disiez-vous?
—Vous n'êtes pas allé jusque passé ce carré de melons, où j'ai
essayé d'«arrêter» Wanderer. C'est tout brûlé à partir de là jusqu'au
désert. De plus, son autre roue hydraulique s'est brisée, répondit
l'Inspecteur.
—Très bien. Nous couperons la paille en deux, et lui allouerons
vingt-cinq pour cent. Où le rendez-vous, demain?
—Il y a des difficultés dans les villages en aval du fleuve à propos de
leurs titres de propriété. C'est aussi un bon terrain pour le cheval,
par là,» dit l'Inspecteur.
Le prochain rendez-vous eut donc lieu à une vingtaine de milles en
aval du fleuve, et on ne découpla qu'une fois bien dans les champs.
Abu Hussein était là en force—au nombre de quatre. Quatre
chasses délirantes de quatre minutes chacune—quatre chiens par
renard—terminées par... quatre terrés sur la berge même. Tout le
village regarda.
«Nous avions oublié les terriers. Les talus en sont criblés. Cela nous
jouera des tours, dit l'Inspecteur.
—Attendez un moment! (Le Gouverneur tira à lui un chien tout
éternuant.) Il me souvient que je suis Gouverneur de ces régions.
—Levez donc un bataillon noir pour nous boucher les trous. Nous en
aurons besoin, mon vieux.»
Le Gouverneur se redressa de toute sa hauteur:
«Prête l'oreille, ô peuple! cria-t-il. J'édicte une nouvelle loi.»
Les villageois se rapprochèrent. Il annonça:
«Désormais je donnerai un dollar à celui sur la terre duquel on
trouvera Abu Hussein. Et un autre dollar (il montra la pièce) à celui
sur la terre duquel ces chiens que voici le tueront. Mais pour celui
sur la terre duquel Abu Hussein disparaîtra dans un trou comme
celui-ci, je ne lui donnerai pas de dollar, mais la plus mémorable des
raclées. Est-ce compris?
—Notre Excellence (un homme s'avança), c'est sur ma terre qu'on a
trouvé Abu Hussein, ce matin. Est-ce vrai, mes frères?»
Personne ne contredit. Le Gouverneur, sans un mot, lui jeta quatre
dollars, un dollar par renard.
«C'est sur ma terre qu'ils sont tous rentrés dans leurs trous, cria un
autre. En conséquence, il faut qu'on me batte.
—Non pas. La terre est à moi, et c'est pour moi les coups.»
Ce second orateur poussa en avant ses épaules déjà mises à nu, et
les villageois applaudirent bruyamment.
«Tiens! Deux hommes qui réclament pour qu'on leur flanque une
rossée? La terre doit être l'objet de quelque filouterie,» dit le
Gouverneur.
Puis, dans le langage du pays:
«Quels sont tes droits à la correction?»
Tel se métamorphose un coude de rivière sous un rayon de soleil,
telle se changea la troupe éparpillée des villageois en une cour de la
plus ancienne justice. Les chiens grattèrent et gémirent au seuil
d'Abu Hussein, sans plus attirer l'attention parmi les jambes des
témoins, et Gihon, lui aussi accoutumé aux lois, fila le ronron de son
approbation.
«Vous ne voulez pas attendre que les juges remontent le fleuve pour
régler le différend? demanda enfin le Gouverneur.
—Non! cria d'une seule voix le village (à part l'homme qui le premier
avait demandé à être battu).
—Nous nous en tiendrons à la décision de Notre Excellence. Que
Notre Excellence mette à la porte les créatures des Emirs, qui nous
ont volé notre terre au temps de l'Oppression.
—Et tu dis?»
Le Gouverneur se tourna vers l'homme qui, le premier, avait
demandé à être battu.
«Je dis que, moi, j'attendrai que les Juges circonspects s'en
viennent dans le steamer. Alors, j'amènerai tout ce que j'ai de
témoins, répliqua-t-il.
—Il est riche. Il amènera de nombreux témoins, marmotta le cheik
du village.
—Inutile. Ta propre bouche te condamne! s'écria le Gouverneur.
Quel est l'homme qui, ayant des titres légitimes à sa terre, attendrait
une heure avant d'entrer dessus? Retire-toi!»
L'homme recula sous la risée du village.
Le second plaignant se courba vivement sous la menace du fouet de
chasse. Le village se réjouit.
«O Un Tel, fils d'Un Tel, dit le Gouverneur, soufflé par le cheik,
apprends, du jour où j'en donne l'ordre, à boucher tous les trous où
Abu Hussein peut se cacher—sur—ta—terre!»
Les légers coups de fouet cessèrent. L'homme se redressa,
triomphant. Le Gouvernement suprême avait, par cette accolade,
reconnu son titre aux yeux de tous.
Pendant que le village louait la perspicacité du Gouverneur, un
enfant nu, marqué de la petite vérole, fit une grande enjambée du
côté du terrier, et resta là, planté sur une jambe, avec toute
l'insouciance d'une jeune cigogne.
«Ah! fit-il, les mains derrière le dos. Il faudrait boucher ceci avec des
bottes de paille de dhurra—ou mieux encore, des bottes d'épines.
—Des épines, de préférence, déclara le Gouverneur. Le gros bout à
l'intérieur.»
L'enfant hocha gravement la tête, et s'accroupit sur le sable.
«Une sale journée pour toi, Abu Hussein! piaula-t-il par l'ouverture
du terrier. Toute une journée d'embêtements à tes retours scélérats
du matin.
—Qu'est-ce que c'est? demanda le Gouverneur. Cela raisonne?
—Farag l'Orphelin. Les siens ont été égorgés, au temps de
l'Oppression. L'homme à qui Votre Excellence a décerné la terre est
comme qui dirait son oncle maternel.
—Cela viendrait-il avec moi pour donner à manger aux gros
chiens?» reprit le Gouverneur.
Les autres petits curieux reculèrent.
«Sauvons-nous! crièrent-ils. Notre Excellence va donner Farag à
manger aux gros chiens.
—Je vais venir, déclara Farag. Et je ne m'en irai jamais.»
Il jeta son bras autour du cou de Royal, et la bête intelligente se mit
à lui lécher le visage. Après quoi Farag, adressant de la main un
vague adieu à son oncle, entraîna Royal vers la gabare, et le reste
de la meute suivit.
Gihon, qui avait assisté à nombre de sports, apprit à bien connaître

la gabare de chasse. Il la trouva opérant ses tournants par des
aubes grises de décembre, aux sons d'une musique aussi sauvage
et lamentable que le roulement presque oublié des tambours
derviches, lorsque, bien au-dessus du timbre de ténor de Royal, d'un
ton de voix plus strident que le fausset de ce menteur de Beagle-
boy, Farag chantait la guerre à mort contre Abu Hussein et son
engeance. Au lever du soleil, le fleuve épaulait soigneusement
l'embarcation à l'endroit voulu, pour écouter l'élan de la meute
franchissant pêle-mêle la passerelle, et le pas de l'arabe du
Gouverneur derrière eux. Ils passaient par-dessus le sommet de la
dune dans les récoltes veuves de rosée, où il n'était plus possible
pour Gihon, accroupi, étranglé, en son lit, de savoir ce qu'ils faisaient
jusqu'à l'instant où Abu Hussein, volant en bas du talus, venait
gratter à un terrier bouché, pour revoler dans l'orge. Ainsi que Farag
l'avait prédit, ce furent de mauvais jours pour Abu Hussein, tant qu'il
ne sut prendre les précautions nécessaires et s'échapper, sans plus.
Parfois, Gihon voyait tout le cortège de la chasse en silhouette sur le
bleu du matin lui tenir compagnie durant nombre de joyeux milles. A
chaque moitié de mille, chevaux et baudets sautaient les caniveaux
—hop, allons, changez de pied, et de l'avant!—comme les images
d'un zootrope, jusqu'au moment où ils se rapetissaient le long de la
ligne des roues hydrauliques. Alors, Gihon attendait le frémissement
de leur retour à travers les récoltes, et les prenait au repos sur son
sein à dix heures. Pendant que les chevaux mangeaient, et que
Farag dormait, la tête sur le flanc de Royal, le Gouverneur et son
Inspecteur peinaient pour le bien de la chasse et de la Province.
Au bout de quelque temps, il n'y eut plus besoin de battre personne
pour négligence des terriers. La destination du steamer fut
télégraphiée de roue hydraulique en roue hydraulique, et les
villageois bouchèrent et se mirent à l'œuvre en conséquence. Un
terrier se trouvait-il négligé, que le fait impliquait un différend quant à
la propriété de la terre. Sur quoi, la chasse s'arrêtait net pour le
régler de la façon suivante: le Gouverneur et l'Inspecteur l'un à côté
de l'autre, mais, le second, à une demi-longueur de cheval en
arrière; les deux adversaires, les épaules nues, bien en avant; les
villageois en demi-lune derrière eux; et Farag avec la meute, qui l'un
comme l'autre comprenaient fort bien toute la petite comédie,
formant parterre. Vingt minutes suffisaient à régler le cas le plus
compliqué; car, ainsi que le déclara le Gouverneur à un juge sur le
steamer:
«On arrive à la vérité sur le terrain de chasse des tas de fois plus
vite que devant vos tribunaux.
—Et lorsqu'il y a contradiction en matière de preuve? objecta le juge.
—Regardez les gens. Ils donneront de la voix à s'en égosiller, si
vous êtes sur une mauvaise piste. Vous n'avez jamais encore vu en
appeler d'un seul de mes jugements.»
Les cheiks à cheval—les gens de moindre importance sur
d'intelligents baudets—les enfants si méprisés de Farag—ne
tardèrent pas à comprendre que les villages qui réparaient les roues
hydrauliques et leurs canaux, occupaient une haute place dans la
faveur du Gouverneur. Il leur acheta leur orge pour ses chevaux.
«Les canaux, dit-il, sont nécessaires, pour que nous puissions tous
les sauter. Ils sont nécessaires, en outre, aux récoltes. Qu'il y ait
donc beaucoup de roues et de bons canaux... et beaucoup de bonne
orge.
—Sans argent, repartit un cheik sur le retour, il n'y a pas de roues
hydrauliques.
—J'avancerai l'argent, répliqua le Gouverneur.
—A quel intérêt, ô Notre Excellence?
—Prenez deux des petits de May Queen pour les élever dans votre
village, en ayant soin qu'ils ne mangent pas de charogne, ne perdent
pas leur poil, n'attrapent pas la fièvre en se couchant au soleil, mais
deviennent de beaux et bons chiens courants.
—Comme Ray-yal... pas comme Bigglebai?»
C'était déjà une insulte, le long du Fleuve, de comparer un homme à
cet anthropophage tacheté de bleu.
«Certainement, comme Ray-yal... et pas du tout comme Bigglebai.
Ce sera, cela, l'intérêt du prêt. Que les chiots prospèrent, qu'on
construise la roue hydraulique, c'est tout ce que je demande, déclara
le Gouverneur.
—La roue sera construite. Mais, ô Notre Excellence, si, grâce à la
faveur de Dieu, les chiots arrivent à devenir de bons flaireurs, non
pas des mangeurs de charogne, inaccoutumés à leurs noms, et
sans foi ni loi, qui leur rendra ainsi qu'à moi justice, lorsque viendra
le moment de juger les chiots?
—Chiens de meute, mon brave, les chiens de meute! C'est chiens
de meute, ô cheik, que nous les appelons en leur virilité.
—Les chiens de meute, lorsqu'ils seront jugés au Sha-ho. J'ai des
ennemis en aval du fleuve, des ennemis à qui Notre Excellence a
aussi confié des chiens de meute à élever.
—Des chiots, l'ami! Des chi-ots, nous les appelons, ô cheik, en leur
enfance!
—Des chi-ots. Mes ennemis peuvent juger mes chi-ots injustement
au Sha-ho. Cela demande considération.
—Je vois l'obstacle. Ecoute donc! Si la nouvelle roue hydraulique est
construite dans un mois, sans oppression, tu seras, ô cheik, nommé
l'un des juges destinés à juger les chi-ots au Sha-ho. Est-ce
entendu?
—Entendu. Nous construirons la roue. Moi et mon engeance
sommes responsables du remboursement du prêt. Où sont mes chi-
ots? S'ils mangent des poulets, peuvent-ils manger les plumes
avec?
—Jamais de la vie les plumes. D'ailleurs, Farag, qui est dans la
gabare, te dira leur manière de vivre.»
On ne saurait rien trouver de répréhensible dans les prêts
personnels et non autorisés du Gouverneur, ces prêts qui lui valurent
le surnom de Père des Roues Hydrauliques. Mais la première
exposition de chiots dans la capitale demanda énormément de tact,
ainsi que la présence d'un bataillon noir faisant ostensiblement
l'exercice dans la cour de la caserne, afin de prévenir les troubles
qu'eût pu entraîner la remise des prix.
Mais qui saurait consigner les gloires de la chasse de Gihon—ou
ses hontes? Qui se rappelle l'hallali sur la place du marché, lorsque
le Gouverneur pria les cheiks et guerriers assemblés de remarquer
comme quoi les chiens allaient instantanément dévorer le corps
d'Abu Hussein; mais comme quoi, lorsqu'il eut donné le signe de la
curée, suivant toutes les règles de l'art, la meute éreintée s'en
détourna avec dégoût, et Farag pleura parce que, dit-il, on avait
noirci la face du monde? Qui ne se rappelle cette course nocturne
prenant fin—Beagle-boy, cela va sans dire, en tête—parmi les
tombes; la prompte volée de coups de fouet, et le serment, prêté au-
dessus des ossements, de laisser de côté la curée? La randonnée
du désert, lorsque Abu Hussein, délaissant les cultures, fit six milles
de ligne droite, tout droit à son terrier, dans un khor désolé—où
d'étranges cavaliers en armes, montés sur des chameaux,
apparurent au sortir d'un ravin, et, au lieu de livrer bataille, s'offrirent
à ramener sur leurs bêtes les chiens fatigués? Ce que firent, et
s'évanouirent.
Mieux que tout, qui se rappelle la mort de Royal, lorsque certain
cheik pleura sur le corps du chien sans peur et sans reproche,
comme il l'eût pu faire sur celui d'un fils—et, ce jour-là, ils ne
chassèrent pas plus avant. La chronique mal faite en parla peu,
mais, à la fin de leur seconde saison (quatre-vingt-seize renards au
tableau), apparaît la sombre inscription: «Salement besoin d'infuser
du sang nouveau. Ils commencent à écouter Beagle-boy.»
L'Inspecteur s'occupa de la chose dès qu'échut son congé.

«Rappelez-vous, dit le Gouverneur, qu'il faut nous procurer la
meilleure race d'Angleterre... de vrais chiens de meute, du nanan...
sans marchander. Mais ne vous en rapportez pas à vous seul.
Présentez mes lettres d'introduction, et prenez ce qu'on vous
donnera.»
L'Inspecteur présenta ses lettres dans un milieu où l'on fait grand
cas des chevaux, plus encore des chiens de meute, et où l'on reçoit
assez bien les gens qui savent ce que c'est qu'une selle. On se le
passa de maison en maison, le fit monter suivant ses mérites, et le
nourrit, après cinq années de côtelettes de bouc et de Worcester
sauce, peut-être une idée trop plantureusement.
La demeure, ou château, où il opéra son grand coup n'importe
guère. Quatre M.F.H. étaient présents à table; et, dans une heure
d'épanchement, l'Inspecteur leur raconta des histoires de la Chasse
de Gihon. Il conclut:
«Ben a dit que je ne devais pas m'en rapporter à moi seul à propos
des chiens de meute; mais je pense, en tout cas, qu'il devrait y avoir
un tarif spécial pour les bâtisseurs d'Empires.»
Dès que ses hôtes purent parler, ils le rassurèrent sur ce point.
«Et maintenant, racontez-nous encore une fois toute l'histoire de
votre première exposition de chiots, dit l'un d'eux.
—Et celle du bouchage des terriers. Est-ce que tout cela était de
l'invention de Ben? interrogea un autre.
—Attendez un moment, dit du bout de la table un homme tout rasé—
pas un M.F.H. Est-ce dans les habitudes de votre Gouverneur de
battre vos villageois lorsqu'ils oublient de boucher les trous de
renards?»
Le ton et la phrase eussent été suffisants, même si, comme
l'Inspecteur le confessa plus tard, le gros homme à double menton
bleu n'eût pas tant ressemblé à Beagle-Boy. Il prit sur lui de le faire
marcher pour l'honneur de l'Ethiopie.
«Nous ne chassons que deux jours par semaine..... rarement trois.
Ne crois guère qu'on ait jamais exercé le châtiment plus de quatre
fois dans une semaine... à moins de jours d'extra.»
Le gros homme (personnage à lèvre pendante) jeta sa serviette, fit
le tour de la table, s'effondra sur la chaise voisine de l'Inspecteur, et
se pencha avidement en avant, de façon à souffler au visage de ce
dernier.
«Châtié avec quoi?
—Avec le kourbash... sur les pieds. Le kourbash est une lanière de
peau d'hippopotame bien tannée, taillée d'un côté en forme de quille,
comme le tranchant d'une défense de sanglier. Mais nous
employons le côté arrondi, lorsqu'il s'agit d'un premier délit.
—Et ce genre de chose n'a pas de conséquences fâcheuses? Pour
la victime, j'entends... pas pour vous?
—Bi-en rarement. Soyons juste. Je n'ai jamais vu mourir un homme
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Anonymity in Eighteenth Century Italian Publishing The Absent Author Lodovica Braida Full Chapter PDF

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Anonymity in Eighteenth Century Italian Publishing The Absent Author Lodovica Braida Full Chapter PDF

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Copyright:

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Anonymity in Eighteenth-Century

Italian Publishing: The Absent Author

The Art of the Actress (Elements in Eighteenth-Century

Slavery and Race: Philosophical Debates in the

Actors, Audiences, and Emotions in the Eighteenth

The Society of Prisoners: Anglo-French Wars and

India in the Persian World of Letters : ■h■n-i ■rz■

Publishing in a Medieval Monastery. The View from

Printing History and Cultural Change: Fashioning the

Gods, Heroes, and Ancestors: An Interreligious

ISSN 2634-6117 ISSN 2634-6125 (electronic)

Cover illustration: BTEU/RKMLGE / Alamy Stock Photo

Lodovica Braida is Professor of History of the Book at the University of

Fig. 5.1 C. Goldoni, Commedie, Venezia, Pasquali, 1761–1780, vol. I,

Introduction. The Absent Author: Functions

The “author function,” to use Michel Foucault’s well-known expression,

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

philosophical, aesthetic and juridical categories that defined a new regime

On Alfieri, see Chap. 1, section 4.

However, the history of publishing shows that during the eighteenth

anonymous production, therefore, escapes any possibility of analysis,

ridiculous name; the shame of publishing a work unworthy of the author’s

exploiting the success of anonymous books to which readers were attracted

The intention here is not to propose a history of anonymity, but only

that a rigid approach, limited to the duality of presence-absence of intel-

Mezzogiorno involve very different interpretations, starting with the choice

The translation of this work, funded by Dipartimento di Studi Storici of

Leporatti, Roberto. 1993. Parini e i “cattivi scolari”. In Le tradizioni del testo.

Rizzi, Andrea, and John Griffiths. 2016. The Renaissance of Anonymity.

The Ambiguities of the “Author Function”

1 Reflections on the Book Market

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 19

mid-eighteenth century, seems, at least to judge by booksellers’ cata-

In this eighteenth century in which we live, the literati certainly have no

The growing presence of “notices to readers” in eighteenth-century

governments to printers for a fixed period of time, in order to prevent

to the whole of humanity. From this viewpoint, his observation, although

Regarding my little book [referring to Errori popolari], I too recognise that

This reluctance to make himself known to a wider audience was accom-

2 How to Write to “be read”: The Advice

The position of Carlo Denina is quite different: he seems to have realised

written (Darnton 1982), a circuit that goes from author to publisher,

both journalistic initiatives40 and with regard to the publication of foreign

In the final part of the Bibliopea, Denina focused on an important ele-

replacing the dedications in favour of some Protestant patron with praise

In France, literature is frivolous, but amusing; the very variety of so much

La porte d'entrée s'ouvrit, et tous trois s'avancèrent au-devant d'un

Epilogue.—La Grande Idée de Penfentenyou a vu enfin le jour, un

En fait, il s'en écoula quatre avant qu'un steamer, accompagné d'une

Ils commencèrent au lever du soleil. La meute s'élança de la gabare

Gihon, qui avait assisté à nombre de sports, apprit à bien connaître

L'Inspecteur s'occupa de la chose dès qu'échut son congé.

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