e it from your own
poetry?"

"No doubt of it, it is much better, and I also secure the advantage that
my prose is not full of half verses which flow from the pen of the writer
without his being aware of it."

"Is that a fault?"

"A great one and not to be forgiven. Prose intermixed with occasional
verses is worse than prosaic poetry."

"Is it true that the verses which, like parasites, steal into a funeral
oration, must be sadly out of place?"

"Certainly. Take the example of Tacitus, who begins his history of Rome
by these words: 'Urbem Roman a principio reges habuere'. They form a very
poor Latin hexameter, which the great historian certainly never made on
purpose, and which he never remarked when he revised his work, for there
is no doubt that, if he had observed it, he would have altered that
sentence. Are not such verses considered a blemish in Italian prose?"

"Decidedly. But I must say that a great many poor writers have purposely
inserted such verses into their prose, believing that they would make it
more euphonious. Hence the tawdriness which is justly alleged against
much Italian literature. But I suppose you are the only writer who takes
so much pains."

"The only one? Certainly not. All the authors who can compose blank
verses very easily, as I can, employ them when they intend to make a fair
copy of their prose. Ask Crebillon, the Abby de Voisenon, La Harpe,
anyone you like, and they will all tell you the same thing. Voltaire was
the first to have recourse to that art in the small pieces in which his
prose is truly charming. For instance, the epistle to Madame du Chatelet,
which is magnificent. Read it, and if you find a single hemistich in it I
will confess myself in the wrong."

I felt some curiosity about the matter, and I asked Crebillon about it.
He told me that Fatu was right, but he added that he had never practised
that art himself.

Patu wished very much to take me to the opera in order to witness the
effect produced upon me by the performance, which must truly astonish an
Italian. 'Les Fetes Venitiennes' was the title of the opera which was in
vogue just then--a title full of interest for me. We went for our forty
sous to the pit, in which, although the audience was standing, the
company was excellent, for the opera was the favourite amusement of the
Parisians.

After a symphony, very fine in its way and executed by an excellent
orchestra, the curtain rises, and I see a beautiful sce