GRAFTING AND BUDDING ARE TWO DIFFERENT OPERATIONS.
WHERE BUDS PUSH OUT FROM THE BARK
AND BURST THEIR DELICATE SHEATHS, YOU SHOULD MAKE A NARROW SLIT
IN THE ACTUAL KNOT: IT’S HERE THAT YOU ENCLOSE A BUD
FROM ANOTHER TREE AND TRAIN IT TO GROW IN THE SAPPY RIND.
“GRAFTING’S DIFFERENT.”We’re off, in parallel movement with another gray train. “IT’S DONE BY CUTTING A SMOOTH TRUNK.” “2,” ”2,” “2,” read the second-class coaches. “SPLITTING THE WOOD DEEPLY WITH WEDGES.” Animated cartoon bird graffiti line the tracks. “AND THEN INSERTING THE FERTILE SCION.” As we exit Bologna, past military barracks, industrial waste, suburban build-up. “BEFORE LONG.” We have entered upon a passage of fields half green, half recently ploughed. “THAT TREE ASCENDS TO HEAVEN IN A WEALTH OF HAPPY BRANCHES.” At San Pietro we pause. “SURPRISED AT ITS CHANGELING LEAVES.” Thence into even broader fields. “AND THE FRUITS THAT ARE NOT ITS OWN.” A deserted house amidst them.
Arrived in Ferrara, we negotiate its circumference by city bus along the Via Porta Catena, penetrating its old wall at Piazza Partigiani d’Italia. By a zigzag course we make our way toward the center of town, pausing at Piazza Ariostea’s handsome ellipse-within-a-square, where we turn down the Via Palestro toward the Corso Giovecca, descending at last in the Corso Martiri della Libertà before Palazzo Estense.
A young woman, black-hooded against the morning chill, red briefcase in hand, gets off her bike. We have reached the Biblioteca Ariosto. On its outside wall a double portrait of Mozart announces a performance of Don Giovanni. In the library’s antechamber we pause to peruse the contents of a glass case: I Greci, Storia d’Italia, Dizionario Ferraresi; in a second case: Mitologia e Religione, myth in much larger letters than religion. Proceeding into the Senato Accademico Biblioteca, we head toward the poet’s tomb. Within a room marked “Cataloghi,” on the edge of a beige-green armchair, sits a thin woman in black tights and a short brown velvet skirt. Her arm rests on the capital of a classical column, which also supports a computer keyboard. Behind her, lit by a fashionable lamp, rises a mural of God in the act of creating Adam.
Mounting marble steps, we traverse a large reading room full of periodicals and undergraduates. At its end we turn right to pass through a wide corridor in which gawky high-school students sit at tables studying, or pretending to. Finally we enter the rare book collection, a long, vaulted, elaborately decorated chamber, devoted exclusively, it seems, to editions of Ariosto’s works. Closer inspection reveals that it also houses editions of Aristotle, Plautus and Plutarch, among many others.
The chamber’s western end, behind two globes, culminates in a massive sixteenth-century monument to the poet himself. White Corinthian capitals surmount black marble pilasters supporting a rose-beige architrave. A sill above bears volutes, atop them in turn a portrait bust of belaureled Ludovico, supported by two angels, one peeking out between his wings, another steadying the stanchion on which the image rests. On the wall behind and to either side, a light airy composition of draperies has been disposed in green marble. More angels, trumpeting, convey funeral garlands along with the mask of tragedy.
At the room’s exit-entrance on a black electronic matrix an endless stream of news headlines scrolls by in red.
We emerge from Palazzo Paradiso behind an ill-mufflered truck loaded with sacks of cement. Turning into the Via Mazzini, we head toward the Duomo, past boutiques showing fashions in red, gray and black. “Nuovo,” says an unlit neon sign along the narrow piazza, all its letters reading correctly except for the “N,” which has been reversed. A red, white and black “DHL Worldwide Express” truck, having driven the length of the square, makes a U-turn and heads back. Six teenagers, in black, white and violet, magenta, red and black, sit on a ledge eating sandwiches and drinking Cokes. We continue on up the Piazza Trento Trieste, which flanks a cathedral that long ago lost its marble facing. Above a Greek colonnade topped with a wooden plinth rise ancient buildings; beneath, in the arches, shops project out into the square. Underneath a temporary awning cluster stalls selling CDs and books, cheap jewelry and stuffed dolls. “I Giocattolosi,” reads a sign over one. At the end of the vista sits a candy store, behind it a hamburger stand.
“Begun in 1135, the Cattedrale was almost completed by the end of the thirteenth century.” Pausing before its portal, author offers a beggar coins – to Qian-hui’s dismay. “Its very fine west front is composed of three arcaded bays separated by buttresses beneath a low pitched gable.” We enter its hallowed narthex to study six sarcophagi. “In high relief on the tympanum is The Last Judgement , executed by an unknown Romanesque sculptor.” A melodious Mass is in progress. “In the loggia beneath stands a statue of the Madonna and Child.” Entering the nave, we pause in awe of its well-proportioned beauty. “To the right of the side door is a statue of Alberto d’Este.” At the crossing the sun illuminates a golden five-foot-tall crucifix. “The north transept is adorned with terracotta busts of Christ and the Apostles.” Two black-clad elderly women, seated in separate pews, face the apse, as the priest in a side chapel conducts the ritual.
Solitary late afternoon Ferrara outing, past Apollo Theater, into the Via San Romano. “Amongst the gods Eros is the happiest.” Plastered on a travertine wall: a yellow “Birdland in Concerto” poster, on its front a gnarled cartoon figure, to which has been added, in a balloon, “BE4.” “The most beautiful.” At number 21, “Frutta Verdura.” “The youngest.” At 17A, a shop filled with brand new racing bikes. At 19, “Jean Louis David” / “Quick Service,” a beauty salon. “He is soft and delicate.” Within, a coiffeuse in a gold nose ring. “Supple and fluid.” At the cross street, a shop called “Mama e Bimbi.” Author traverses the Via Carlo Mayr. “He is neither the cause.” The weather so cool that he must put his hands, along with recorder, into his pockets. “Nor the victim of injustice.” Traffic (pedestrian, cyclic, vehicular) is nonetheless moving equably in the wintry ambiance. “He does no wrong to gods or human beings.” Two workmen gesticulate over an open trench. “He abhors violence.” At the Corso Porta Reno we turn to re-cross Via Carlo Mayr. “In addition to the virtue of justice.” Heading north, we come upon a pub called “Antas,” a new wooden railing about it. “He displays the greatest temperance.” We pass “Ristori,” a movie theater with preview stills of “Extreme Measures,” starring Hugh Grant and Gene Hackman. “Because he controls Pleasure and Passion.” Two long-haired girls glance at author, one in tight black aerobic pants, a white stripe running up the leg; the other, in yellow jeans, fires up a cigarette. “He is also full of courage.” Both sixteen, they have identical jackets. “He can even control Ares.” In its window “Parfumerie Douglas” displays “Natural Life Replay.” “For he is the fountain of wisdom.” Lancôme’s “Poème de Bath.” “All arts flow from him.” Estée Lauder’s “pleasures.” “Before his birth necessity was king among the gods.” The long window concludes. “But since his birth.” With Iffina’s “Success Night.” “To mortal and immortal alike all good things have come through love of beauty” –Agathon’s view of Eros in T.K. Seung’s summary (Plato Rediscovered)
An orange bus number 2 arrives to head on out for Via Pattachelsa. Author pauses to record “He Ping Fan Dian,” in red Chinese characters, “Ristorante Cinese,” circled in green, “la Pace,” in yellow on black; four silvery doves emblazon its window pane; at either side of its doors, two golden lions, to either side of them, pots of pink azaleas. In blond hair, beige jacket and green pants, he regards his own reflection in the restaurant’s door, his Panasonic “Fast Playback” held before him. “Nuova Ferrara” reads a plaque above a newsstand advertising the town’s paper. Next door white letters on a blue white-bordered ground read “blue ocean,” three geometrical squiggles indicating water. From within, behind a rank of pastel-colored tee-shirts, a salesperson peers out over her computer to observe author’s activity.
We turn left into the Via Corte Vecchia. “The Cardinal’s court was in the ducal Castello.” To look for signs of life. “But was quite separate and independent.” A pretty girl with her boyfriend, both dressed all in black. “In his service were included:” Stride by energetically. “Secretary, paymaster, major-domo.” Boyfriend tugs at end of scarf. “Chaplain, chancellor, cup-bearer.” Causing it to fall across his shoulder. “His old tutor, a superintendent of the household.” Outside a bar called “D’Arnaldo.” “Nine gentlemen-in-waiting.” Two maroon-vested wait-persons, gesturing amiably, attend to seated patrons. “Though his income was small.” Lingering over coffee. “All were considered necessary to his rank.” It is 4:40 pm. “Tasso himself had no fixed office and obtained no fixed salary.” On the side of a green-stuccoed building. “Though he received presents of 30 scudi at a time.” Behind an otherwise colorless parking lot. “This could barely have been sufficient to pay for his fine clothes.” A graffito in lipstick purple reads “Zapata Vive.” “For dress was much thought of in court.” Followed by a five-pointed star in pink, hand drawn and circled. “And Tasso was very particular about the black velvet.” Author, down alley, turns left into another shopping street. “Following the Spanish fashion.” Two dogs bark. “That he always wore.” As two middle-aged women cycle past, their knit hats in green and beige.
“He was allowed a servant.” Having perambulated the Via Garibaldi. Along with bread, wine and tallow candles.” We veer left into the Via Repubblica. “So there must have been very little left of the 30 scudi.” To arrive in a small piazza bordering Castello Estense.
“For him to live upon.” Home to Niccolò II, Petrarch’s patron; to Alfonso I, Ariosto’s; to Alfonso II, Tasso’s. “For an adolescent a rather unfortunate matter.”
Turning past the palace into Viale Cavour, we head up Via Armari in the direction of the Corso Ercole I d’Este. In its window a store displays adult magazines; a roulette wheel; canasta equipment; dice. As it issues into a darkly arcaded piazza the street grows quickly grimmer. Ahead looms an ecclesiastical brick facade of little distinction. We pause before a wine store; pasted to its glass front, an ad for conducted tours of vineyards. A motorcycle whines as it speeds by another window filled with “Escape,” eau de toilette by Calvin Klein. Ahead reads the neon sign for “Principe,” in baby blue, “Bar,” in bright red.
We cross the central boulevard and continue on into the part of town that Jakob Burckhart designated “the first modern city.” A modern store has arranged in its commodious window a complete modern kitchen: sink, stove, overhead oven, with built-in cabinets above, all in a stylish ocher. “Il Barbarossa” reads the Old English sign of a restaurant; a comical knight, in helmet and coat of mail, his stubby sword extended, sits astride a caparisoned steed. As we stroll onward, the curved street assumes an increasingly less colorful mien.
“Although the Este failed to obtain reconciliation with the papacy, in the submission that Rinaldo shows to Goffredo their poet appears to offer an idealized version of such.” At the corner of Via Cosmè Tura we peer up a diminishing perspective of eighteenth-, nineteenth-, twentieth-century buildings, autos issuing into the one-way thoroughfare. “Goffredo has been instructed by a divinely inspired dream (14.2-14) that he needs the Este knight as much as the latter needs him.” As we continue along the Via Armari a stylized neo-Renaissance building looms above us. “When the repentant Rinaldo comes to renew obedience to him, Goffredo rises from his throne to meet him halfway (17.97.7-8).” We enter the Piazzetta Combattenti, within which idles an unmarked Mercedes van, its yellow parking lights linking in unison. “He urges that bygones be bygones:
Agni triste
memoria omai si taccia
E pongansi in oblio l’andate cose.
E per emenda io vorrò sol che faccia,
Quai per uso fresti, opre famose.
Across the way lies the “Wall Street Institute of Languages,” in front of which are parked nearly identical sedans in gray, white, black and cream. “The scene is a much revised version of Achilles’ reconciliation with Agamemnon and his subsequent return to battle.” We continue on up in a direction opposed to the “Senso Unico” sign, turning the corner to head back toward Palazzo Estense. “There, in Book XIX of the Iliad, Achilles relinquishes his anger, and Agamemnon, to make amends, acknowledges his fault.” Passing the Palace of Justice, we come quickly into the tiny Piazza Torquato Tasso, fronted on one side by a gray government ministry. “But inscribed in Tasso’s traditional plot of commander and chief warrior is the identification of Rinaldo with the Este and Goffredo with papal power.” On the other, by “Elvis Bar,” the ”Elvis” in blue irregular letters, the “Bar,” along with his guitar, in chrome yellow. “It suggests a vision of the dukes of Ferrara.” From outside one views its interior, fitted out in a garish contemporary color-scheme. “Settling their quarrel with the papacy.” Behind the cash register the owner drags on a cigarette. “And resuming their vaunted role as defenders of the Church.” At the head of this little square stands a distinguished sixteenth-century church, the Chiesa del Gesù, by Alberto Schiatti or Giovanni Pisano, says its plaque.
“A sixteenth-century Italian poet aiming to rewrite the imperialist formula of Vergilian epic could find in the papacy the only peninsular power with genuinely international claims.”
In the dusk one emerges from a bookstore at the corner of the Via Borgo dei Leoni to confront one last time the massive Palazzo Estense. “In the last chapter of The Prince.” As a goateed man dressed in black. “Machiavelli had himself looked.” Waits beneath a red pedestrian light, the human figure illuminated within it. “Perhaps with mere utopian wishful thinking.” The signal shifts to a green pedestrian figure beneath. “To a ruler who could use the power of the Church.” Pedestrians, suddenly released. “To unite Italy and drive out her foreign conquerors.” Flow across the narrow crosswalk. (David Quint, Epic and Empire). A fog settles over the city, shrouding it but not dampening its spirit.
“Not only does the enterprise against Ferrara outdo the Iliad and the Aeneid in grandeur, but the papal army could re-conquer Constantinople from the Turks and deliver Jerusalem as well. The war has assumed the shape of a crusade against the infidel.” –Giuseppe Castiglione, Ferrara Regained (Ferrara recepta)
Ferrara station, 7:45 am, awaiting train for Venice. “FIND OUT FIRST IF YOUR VINES ARE BETTER LAID OUT UPON / HILLY OR LEVEL GROUND.” We are joined by university freshmen and sophomores, all having coffee in the railway café. “WHEN YOU’RE PLOTTING OUT RICH PLAINLAND, / SOW THICKLY.” Two nineteen-year-old girls, the first two inches of their hair streaked with gold, nervously drag on Marlboros. “A THICK-SET VINEYARD IS NO MORE BACKWARD IN BEARING.” A red-haired girl enters in plaid pants and garish chartreuse daypack. “ON GROUND THAT IS BROKEN BY TUMPS AND ON THE RECUMBENT HILLS.” Playfully she kicks a classmate. “GIVE YOUR ROWS MORE ELBOW-ROOM.” Two more girls, just arrived, light up their cigarettes together. “BUT SEE THAT THE ALLEYS / OF TREES ARE PLANTED THERE IN SQUARES WITH EQUAL PRECISION.” Facing author, a pensive Botticellian blonde exhales a stream of smoke, her magenta nail polish all but completely chipped off. On three fingers of her right hand she wears silver rings, another on her thumb as well. Arising to zip up her worn brown bomber jacket, she departs.
Two new arrivals, brunette and redhead, join two classmates already seated. Brunette takes out notebook and begins to write in blue ballpoint on graphed page. Two heavy-set girls appear, one in “Levi Strauss,” the other in “Adidas” cap, both black on silver. They have bundled up in heavy scarves and sweaters against the wintry weather, which at 7:00 am was 1 degree centigrade. Near the divider wall between café and electronic game bank, under luxuriant poinsettias, a poster advertises “Carnevalia Universitalia: Festa in Maschera.” From a wall the reproduction of a red-haired beauty by the Schifanoia master gazes out at author through almond eyes. “JUST AS IN WAR WHEN A LEGION DEPLOYS BY COMPANIES.” Two twenty-year-old guys. “FROM COLUMN OF ROUTE INTO LINE ACROSS AN OPEN PLAIN.”Posturing like Renaissance princes, take seats. “AND THE RANKS ARE DRESSED BY THE RIGHT.” With knowing looks they turn toward author and companion. “AND THE EARTH ALL UNDULATES WITH FLASHING BRONZE.” Before long a bearded nineteen-year-old joins them to commentate author’s activity. “AND THE BATTLE / WAITS WHILE THE WAR-GOD SAUNTERS UNCERTAIN BETWEEN THE ARMIES.” A heavily-breasted, talkative blonde arrives, bearing a large white cast on her left arm. Three classmates come forward to sign it, in red, in black, in green magic marker.
SEE THAT ALL IS SPACED OUT IN ALLEYS OF PERFECT SYMMETRY,
NOT MERELY SO THAT THEIR VISTAS MAY CHARM A FRIVOLOUS MIND,
BUT BECAUSE ONLY THUS CAN EARTH SUPPLY IMPARTIAL
VIGOR TO ALL, AND THE GROWING BOUGHS HAVE ROOM TO EXTEND.
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