diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:31:04 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:31:04 -0700 |
| commit | 5156b2b0dd2b317f9a5172b7e28b575d8d873d66 (patch) | |
| tree | 655d417010530c573e924bbfe0854a674a14481f /old | |
Diffstat (limited to 'old')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/8171-h.htm.2021-01-26 | 11548 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/8mdip10.zip | bin | 0 -> 219260 bytes |
2 files changed, 11548 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/old/8171-h.htm.2021-01-26 b/old/8171-h.htm.2021-01-26 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fa61b6c --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8171-h.htm.2021-01-26 @@ -0,0 +1,11548 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Modern Italian Poets, by William Dean Howells + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Modern Italian Poets, by William Dean Howells + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Modern Italian Poets + +Author: William Dean Howells + + +Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8171] +This file was first posted on June 24, 2003 +Last Updated: February 25, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MODERN ITALIAN POETS *** + + + + +Produced by Eric Eldred, Marc D'Hooghe, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + MODERN ITALIAN POETS + </h1> + <h3> + ESSAYS AND VERSIONS + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By William Dean Howells + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> ARCADIAN SHEPHERDS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> GIUSEPPE PARINI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> VITTORIO ALFIERI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> VINCENZO MONTI AND UGO FOSCOLO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> Notes: </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> ALESSANDRO MANZONI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> SILVIO PELLICO, TOMASSO GROSSI, LUIGI CAREER, + AND GIOVANNI BERCHET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> GIAMBATTISTA NICCOLINI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> GIACOMO LEOPARDI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> GIUSEPPE GIUSTI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> FRANCESCO DALL' ONGARO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> GIOVANNI PRATI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> ALEARDO ALEARDI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_NOTE2"> Notes: </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> GUILIO CARCANO, ARNALDO FUSINATO AND LUIGI + MERCANTINI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_CONC"> CONCLUSION </a> + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + This book has grown out of studies begun twenty years ago in Italy, and + continued fitfully, as I found the mood and time for them, long after + their original circumstance had become a pleasant memory. If any one were + to say that it did not fully represent the Italian poetry of the period + which it covers chronologically, I should applaud his discernment; and + perhaps I should not contend that it did much more than indicate the + general character of that poetry. At the same time, I think that it does + not ignore any principal name among the Italian poets of the great + movement which resulted in the national freedom and unity, and it does + form a sketch, however slight and desultory, of the history of Italian + poetry during the hundred years ending in 1870. + </p> + <p> + Since that time, literature has found in Italy the scientific and + realistic development which has marked it in all other countries. The + romantic school came distinctly to a close there with the close of the + long period of patriotic aspiration and endeavor; but I do not know the + more recent work, except in some of the novels, and I have not attempted + to speak of the newer poetry represented by Carducci. The translations + here are my own; I have tried to make them faithful; I am sure they are + careful. + </p> + <p> + Possibly I should not offer my book to the public at all if I knew of + another work in English studying even with my incoherence the Italian + poetry of the time mentioned, or giving a due impression of its + extraordinary solidarity. It forms part of the great intellectual movement + of which the most unmistakable signs were the French revolution, and its + numerous brood of revolutions, of the first, second, and third + generations, throughout Europe; but this poetry is unique in the history + of literature for the unswerving singleness of its tendency. + </p> + <p> + The boundaries of epochs are very obscure, and of course the poetry of the + century closing in 1870 has much in common with earlier Italian poetry. + Parini did not begin it, nor Alfieri; it began them, and its spirit must + have been felt in the perfumed air of the soft Lorrainese despotism at + Florence when Filicaja breathed over his native land the sigh which makes + him immortal. Yet finally, every age is individual; it has a moment of its + own when its character has ceased to be general, and has not yet begun to + be general, and it is one of these moments which is eternized in the + poetry before us. It was, perhaps, more than any other poetry in the + world, an incident and an instrument of the political redemption of the + people among whom it arose. “In free and tranquil countries,” said the + novelist Guerrazzi in conversation with M. Monnier, the sprightly Swiss + critic, recently dead, who wrote so much and so well about modern Italian + literature, “men have the happiness and the right to be artists for art's + sake: with us, this would be weakness and apathy. When I write it is + because I have something <i>to do</i>; my books are not productions, but + deeds. Before all, here in Italy we must be men. When we have not the + sword, we must take the pen. We heap together materials for building + batteries and fortresses, and it is our misfortune if these structures are + not works of art. To write slowly, coldly, of our times and of our + country, with the set purpose of creating a <i>chef-d'oeuvre</i>, would be + almost an impiety. When I compose a book, I think only of freeing my soul, + of imparting my idea or my belief. As vehicle, I choose the form of + romance, since it is popular and best liked at this day; my picture is my + thoughts, my doubts, or my dreams. I begin a story to draw the crowd; when + I feel that I have caught its ear, I say what I have to say; when I think + the lesson is growing tiresome, I take up the anecdote again; and whenever + I can leave it, I go back to my moralizing. Detestable aesthetics, I grant + you; my works of siege will be destroyed after the war, I don't doubt; but + what does it matter?” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The political purpose of literature in Italy had become conscious long + before Guerrazzi's time; but it was the motive of poetry long before it + became conscious. When Alfieri, for example, began to write, in the last + quarter of the eighteenth century, there was no reason to suppose that the + future of Italy was ever to differ very much from its past. Italian + civilization had long worn a fixed character, and Italian literature had + reflected its traits; it was soft, unambitious, elegant, and trivial. At + that time Piedmont had a king whom she loved, but not that free + constitution which she has since shared with the whole peninsula. Lombardy + had lapsed from Spanish to Austrian despotism; the Republic of Venice + still retained a feeble hold upon her wide territories of the main-land, + and had little trouble in drugging any intellectual aspiration among her + subjects with the sensual pleasures of her capital. Tuscany was quiet + under the Lorrainese dukes who had succeeded the Medici; the little states + of Modena and Parma enjoyed each its little court and its little Bourbon + prince, apparently without a dream of liberty; the Holy Father ruled over + Bologna, Ferrara, Ancona, and all the great cities and towns of the + Romagna; and Naples was equally divided between the Bourbons and the + bandits. There seemed no reason, for anything that priests or princes of + that day could foresee, why this state of things should not continue + indefinitely; and it would be a long story to say just why it did not + continue. What every one knows is that the French revolution took place, + that armies of French democrats overran all these languid lordships and + drowsy despotisms, and awakened their subjects, more or less willingly or + unwillingly, to a sense of the rights of man, as Frenchmen understood + them, and to the approach of the nineteenth century. The whole of Italy + fell, directly or indirectly, under French sway; the Piedmontese and + Neapolitan kings were driven away, as were the smaller princes of the + other states; the Republic of Venice ceased to be, and the Pope became + very much less a prince, if not more a priest, than he had been for a + great many ages. In due time French democracy passed into French + imperialism, and then French imperialism passed altogether away; and so + after 1815 came the Holy Alliance with its consecrated contrivances for + fettering mankind. Lombardy, with all Venetia, was given to Austria; the + dukes of Parma, of Modena, and Tuscany were brought back and propped up on + their thrones again. The Bourbons returned to Naples, and the Pope's + temporal glory and power were restored to him. This condition of affairs + endured, with more or less disturbance from the plots of the Carbonari and + many other ineffectual aspirants and conspirators, until 1848, when, as we + know, the Austrians were driven out, as well as the Pope and the various + princes small and great, except the King of Sardinia, who not only gave a + constitution to his people, but singularly kept the oath he swore to + support it. The Pope and the other princes, even the Austrians, had given + constitutions and sworn oaths, but their memories were bad, and their + repute for veracity was so poor that they were not believed or trusted. + The Italians had then the idea of freedom and independence, but not of + unity, and their enemies easily broke, one at a time, the power of states + which, even if bound together, could hardly have resisted their attack. In + a little while the Austrians were once more in Milan and Venice, the dukes + and grand-dukes in their different places, the Pope in Rome, the Bourbons + in Naples, and all was as if nothing had been, or worse than nothing, + except in Sardinia, where the constitution was still maintained, and the + foundations of the present kingdom of Italy were laid. Carlo Alberto had + abdicated on that battle-field where an Austrian victory over the + Sardinians sealed the fate of the Italian states allied with him, and his + son, Victor Emmanuel, succeeded him. As to what took place ten years + later, when the Austrians were finally expelled from Lombardy, and the + transitory sovereigns of the duchies and of Naples flitted for good, and + the Pope's dominion was reduced to the meager size it kept till 1871, and + the Italian states were united under one constitutional king—I need + not speak. + </p> + <p> + In this way the governments of Italy had been four times wholly changed, + and each of these changes was attended by the most marked variations in + the intellectual life of the people; yet its general tendency always + continued the same. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + The longing for freedom is the instinct of self-preservation in + literature; and, consciously or unconsciously, the Italian poets of the + last hundred years constantly inspired the Italian people with ideas of + liberty and independence. Of course the popular movements affected + literature in turn; and I should by no means attempt to say which had been + the greater agency of progress. It is not to be supposed that a man like + Alfieri, with all his tragical eloquence against tyrants, arose singly out + of a perfectly servile society. His time was, no doubt, ready for him, + though it did not seem so; but, on the other hand, there is no doubt that + he gave not only an utterance but a mighty impulse to contemporary thought + and feeling. He was in literature what the revolution was in politics, and + if hardly any principle that either sought immediately to establish now + stands, it is none the less certain that the time had come to destroy what + they overthrew, and that what they overthrew was hopelessly vicious. + </p> + <p> + In Alfieri the great literary movement came from the north, and by far the + larger number of the writers of whom I shall have to speak were northern + Italians. Alfieri may represent for us the period of time covered by the + French democratic conquests. The principal poets under the Italian + governments of Napoleon during the first twelve years of this century were + Vincenzo Monti and Ugo Foscolo—the former a Ferrarese by birth and + the latter a Greco-Venetian. The literary as well as the political center + was then Milan, and it continued to be so for many years after the return + of the Austrians, when the so-called School of Resignation nourished + there. This epoch may be most intelligibly represented by the names of + Manzoni, Silvio Pellico, and Tommaso Grossi—all Lombards. About 1830 + a new literary life began to be felt in Florence under the indifferentism + or toleration of the grand-dukes. The chiefs of this school were Giacomo + Leopardi; Giambattista Niccolini, the author of certain famous tragedies + of political complexion; Guerrazzi, the writer of a great number of + revolutionary romances; and Giuseppe Giusti, a poet of very marked and + peculiar powers, and perhaps the greatest political satirist of the + century. The chief poets of a later time were Aleardo Aleardi, a Veronese; + Giovanni Prati, who was born in the Trentino, near the Tyrol; and + Francesco Dall Ongaro, a native of Trieste. I shall mention all these and + others particularly hereafter, and I have now only named them to show how + almost entirely the literary life of militant Italy sprang from the north. + There were one or two Neapolitan poets of less note, among whom was + Gabriele Rossetti, the father of the English Rossettis, now so well known + in art and literature. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + In dealing with this poetry, I naturally seek to give its universal and + aesthetic flavor wherever it is separable from its political quality; for + I should not hope to interest any one else in what I had myself often + found very tiresome. I suspect, indeed, that political satire and + invective are not relished best in free countries. No danger attends their + exercise; there is none of the charm of secrecy or the pleasure of + transgression in their production; there is no special poignancy to free + administrations in any one of ten thousand assaults upon them; the poets + leave this sort of thing mostly to the newspapers. Besides, we have not, + so to speak, the grounds that such a long-struggling people as the + Italians had for the enjoyment of patriotic poetry. As an average + American, I have found myself very greatly embarrassed when required, by + Count Alfieri, for example, to hate tyrants. Of course I do hate them in a + general sort of way; but having never seen one, how is it possible for me + to feel any personal fury toward them? When the later Italian poets ask me + to loathe spies and priests I am equally at a loss. I can hardly form the + idea of a spy, of an agent of the police, paid to haunt the steps of + honest men, to overhear their speech, and, if possible, entrap them into a + political offense. As to priests—well, yes, I suppose they are bad, + though I do not know this from experience; and I find them generally upon + acquaintance very amiable. But all this was different with the Italians: + they had known, seen, and felt tyrants, both foreign and domestic, of + every kind; spies and informers had helped to make their restricted lives + anxious and insecure; and priests had leagued themselves with the police + and the oppressors until the Church, which should have been kept a sacred + refuge from all the sorrows and wrongs of the world, became the most + dreadful of its prisons. It is no wonder that the literature of these + people should have been so filled with the patriotic passion of their + life; and I am not sure that literature is not as nobly employed in + exciting men to heroism and martyrdom for a great cause as in the + purveyance of mere intellectual delights. What it was in Italy when it + made this its chief business we may best learn from an inquiry that I have + at last found somewhat amusing. It will lead us over vast meadows of green + baize enameled with artificial flowers, among streams that do nothing but + purl. In this region the shadows are mostly brown, and the mountains are + invariably horrid; there are tumbling floods and sighing groves; there are + naturally nymphs and swains; and the chief business of life is to be in + love and not to be in love; to burn and to freeze without regard to the + mercury. Need I say that this region is Arcady? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ARCADIAN SHEPHERDS + </h2> + <p> + One day, near the close of the seventeenth century, a number of ladies and + gentlemen—mostly poets and poetesses according to their thinking + were assembled on a pleasant hill in the neighborhood of Rome. As they + lounged upon the grass, in attitudes as graceful and picturesque as they + could contrive, and listened to a sonnet or an ode with the sweet patience + of their race,—for they were all Italians,—it occurred to the + most conscious man among them that here was something uncommonly like the + Golden Age, unless that epoch had been flattered. There had been reading + and praising of odes and sonnets the whole blessed afternoon, and now he + cried out to the complaisant, canorous company, “Behold Arcadia revived in + us!” + </p> + <p> + This struck everybody at once by its truth. It struck, most of all, a + certain Giovan Maria Crescimbeni, honored in his day and despised in ours + as a poet and critic. He was of a cold, dull temperament; “a mind half + lead, half wood”, as one Italian writer calls him; but he was an + inveterate maker of verses, and he was wise in his own generation. He + straightway proposed to the tuneful <i>abbés, cavalieri serventi</i>, and + <i>précieuses</i>, who went singing and love-making up and down Italy in + those times, the foundation of a new academy, to be called the Academy of + the Arcadians. + </p> + <p> + Literary academies were then the fashion in Italy, and every part of the + peninsula abounded in them. They bore names fanciful or grotesque, such as + The Ardent, The Illuminated, The Unconquered, The Intrepid, or The + Dissonant, The Sterile, The Insipid, The Obtuse, The Astray, The Stunned, + and they were all devoted to one purpose, namely, the production and the + perpetuation of twaddle. It is prodigious to think of the incessant wash + of slip-slop which they poured out in verse; of the grave disputations + they held upon the most trivial questions; of the inane formalities of + their sessions. At the meetings of a famous academy in Milan, they placed + in the chair a child just able to talk; a question was proposed, and the + answer of the child, whatever it was, was held by one side to solve the + problem, and the debates, <i>pro</i> and <i>con</i>, followed upon this + point. Other academies in other cities had other follies; but whatever the + absurdity, it was encouraged alike by Church and State, and honored by all + the great world. The governments of Italy in that day, whether lay or + clerical, liked nothing so well as to have the intellectual life of the + nation squandered in the trivialities of the academies—in their + debates about nothing, their odes and madrigals and masks and sonnets; and + the greatest politeness you could show a stranger was to invite him to a + sitting of your academy; to be furnished with a letter to the academy in + the next city was the highest favor you could ask for yourself. + </p> + <p> + In literature, the humorous Bernesque school had passed; Tasso had long + been dead; and the Neapolitan Marini, called the Corrupter of Italian + poetry, ruled from his grave the taste of the time. This taste was so bad + as to require a very desperate remedy, and it was professedly to + counteract it that the Academy of the Arcadians had arisen. + </p> + <p> + The epoch was favorable, and, as Emiliani-Giudici (whom we shall follow + for the present) teaches, in his History of Italian Literature, the idea + of Crescimbeni spread electrically throughout Italy. The gayest of the + finest ladies and gentlemen the world ever saw, the <i>illustrissimi</i> + of that polite age, united with monks, priests, cardinals, and scientific + thinkers in establishing the Arcadia; and even popes and kings were proud + to enlist in the crusade for the true poetic faith. In all the chief + cities Arcadian colonies were formed, “dependent upon the Roman Arcadia, + as upon the supreme Arch-Flock”, and in three years the Academy numbered + thirteen hundred members, every one of whom had first been obliged to give + proof that he was a good poet. They prettily called themselves by the + names of shepherds and shepherdesses out of Theocritus, and, being a + republic, they refused to own any earthly prince or ruler, but declared + the Baby Jesus to be the Protector of Arcadia. Their code of laws was + written in elegant Latin by a grave and learned man, and inscribed upon + tablets of marble. + </p> + <p> + According to one of the articles, the Academicians must study to reproduce + the customs of the ancient Arcadians and the character of their poetry; + and straightway “Italy was filled on every hand with Thyrsides, + Menalcases, and Meliboeuses, who made their harmonious songs resound the + names of their Chlorises, their Phyllises, their Niceas; and there was + poured out a deluge of pastoral compositions”, some of them by “earnest + thinkers and philosophical writers, who were not ashamed to assist in + sustaining that miserable literary vanity which, in the history of human + thought, will remain a lamentable witness to the moral depression of the + Italian nation.” As a pattern of perfect poetizing, these artless nymphs + and swains chose Constanzo, a very fair poet of the sixteenth century. + They collected his verse, and printed it at the expense of the Academy; + and it was established without dissent that each Arcadian in turn, at the + hut of some conspicuous shepherd, in the presence of the keeper (such was + the jargon of those most amusing unrealities), should deliver a commentary + upon some sonnet of Constanzo. As for Crescimbeni, who declared that + Arcadia was instituted “strictly for the purpose of exterminating bad + taste and of guarding against its revival, pursuing it continually, + wherever it should pause or lurk, even to the most remote and unconsidered + villages and hamlets”—Crescimbeni could not do less than write four + dialogues, as he did, in which he evolved from four of Constanzo's sonnets + all that was necessary for Tuscan lyric poetry. + </p> + <p> + “Thus,” says Emiliani-Giudici, referring to the crusading intent of + Crescimbeni, “the Arcadians were a sect of poetical Sanfedista, who, + taking for example the zeal and performance of San Domingo de Gruzman, + proposed to renew in literature the scenes of the Holy Office among the + Albigenses. Happily, the fire of Arcadian verse did not really burn! The + institution was at first derided, then it triumphed and prevailed in such + fame and greatness that, shining forth like a new sun, it consumed the + splendor of the lesser lights of heaven, eclipsing the glitter of all + those academies—the Thunderstruck, the Extravagant, the Humid, the + Tipsy, the Imbeciles, and the like—which had hitherto formed the + glory of the Peninsula.” + </p> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Giuseppe Torelli, a charming modern Italian writer, in a volume called <i>Paessaggi + e Profili</i> (Landscapes and Profiles), makes a study of Carlo Innocenzo + Frugoni, one of the most famous of the famous Arcadian shepherds; and from + this we may learn something of the age and society in which such a folly + could not only be possible but illustrious. The patriotic Italian critics + and historians are apt to give at least a full share of blame to foreign + rulers for the corruption of their nation, and Signor Torelli finds the + Spanish domination over a vast part of Italy responsible for the + degradation of Italian mind and manners in the seventeenth century. He + declares that, because of the Spaniards, the Italian theater was then + silent, “or filled with the noise of insipid allegories”; there was little + or no education among the common people; the slender literature that + survived existed solely for the amusement and distinction of the great; + the army and the Church were the only avenues of escape from obscurity and + poverty; all classes were sunk in indolence. + </p> + <p> + The social customs were mostly copied from France, except that purely + Italian invention, the <i>cavaliere servente</i>, who was in great vogue. + But there were everywhere in the cities coteries of fine ladies, called <i>preziose</i>, + who were formed upon the French <i>précieuses</i> ridiculed by Molière, + and were, I suppose, something like what is called in Boston + demi-semi-literary ladies—ladies who cultivated alike the muses and + the modes. The preziose held weekly receptions at their houses, and + assembled poets and cavaliers from all quarters, who entertained the + ladies with their lampoons and gallantries, their madrigals and gossip, + their sonnets and their repartees. “Little by little the poets had the + better of the cavaliers: a felicitous rhyme was valued more than an + elaborately constructed compliment.” And this easy form of literature + became the highest fashion. People hastened to call themselves by the + sentimental pastoral names of the Arcadians, and almost forgot their + love-intrigues so much were they absorbed in the production and applause + of “toasts, epitaphs for dogs, verses on wagers, epigrams on fruits, on + Echo, on the Marchioness's canaries, on the Saints. These were read here + and repeated there, declaimed in the public resorts and on the + promenades”, and gravely studied and commented on. A strange and + surprising jargon arose, the utterance of the feeblest and emptiest + affectation. “In those days eyes were not eyes, but pupils; not pupils, + but orbs; not orbs, but the Devil knows what,” says Signor Torelli, losing + patience. It was the golden age of pretty words; and as to the sense of a + composition, good society troubled itself very little about that. Good + society expressed itself in a sort of poetical gibberish, “and whoever had + said, for example, Muses instead of Castalian Divinities, would have + passed for a lowbred person dropped from some mountain village. Men of + fine mind, rich gentlemen of leisure, brilliant and accomplished ladies, + had resolved that the time was come to lose their wits academically.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + In such a world Arcadia nourished; into such a world that illustrious + shepherd, Carlo Innocenze Frugoni, was born. He was the younger son of a + noble family of Genoa, and in youth was sent into a cloister as a genteel + means of existence rather than from regard to his own wishes or fitness. + He was, in fact, of a very gay and mundane temper, and escaped from his + monastery as soon as ever he could, and spent his long life thereafter at + the comfortable court of Parma, where he sang with great constancy the + fortunes of varying dynasties and celebrated in his verse all the polite + events of society. Of course, even a life so pleasant as this had its + little pains and mortifications; and it is history that when, in 1731, the + last duke of the Farnese family died, leaving a widow, “Frugoni predicted + and maintained in twenty-five sonnets that she would yet give an heir to + the duke; but in spite of the twenty-five sonnets the affair turned out + otherwise, and the extinction of the house of Farnese was written.” + </p> + <p> + Frugoni, however, was taken into favor by the Spanish Bourbon who + succeeded, and after he had got himself unfrocked with infinite difficulty + (and only upon the intercession of divers princes and prelates), he was as + happy as any man of real talent could be who devoted his gifts to the + merest intellectual trifling. Not long before his death he was addressed + by one that wished to write his life. He made answer that he had been a + versifier and nothing more, epigrammatically recounted the chief facts of + his career, and ended by saying, “of what I have written it is not worth + while to speak”; and posterity has upon the whole agreed with him, though, + of course, no edition of the Italian classics would be perfect without + him. We know this from the classics of our own tongue, which abound in + marvels of insipidity and emptiness. + </p> + <p> + But all this does not make him less interesting as a figure in that + amusing literarified society; and we may be glad to see him in Parma with + Signor Torelli's eyes, as he “issues smug, ornate, with his well-fitting, + polished shoe, his handsome leg in its neat stocking, his whole immaculate + person, and his demure visage, and, gently sauntering from Casa Caprara, + takes his way toward Casa Landi.” + </p> + <p> + I do not know Casa Landi; I have never seen it; and yet I think I can tell + you of it: a gloomy-fronted pile of Romanesque architecture, the lower + story remarkable for its weather-stained, vermiculated stone, and the + ornamental iron gratings at the windows. The <i>porte-cochère</i> stands + wide open and shows the leaf and blossom of a lovely garden inside, with a + tinkling fountain in the midst. The marble nymphs and naiads inhabiting + the shrubbery and the water are already somewhat time-worn, and have here + and there a touch of envious mildew; but as yet their noses are unbroken, + and they have all the legs and arms that the sculptor designed them with; + and the fountain, which after disasters must choke, plays prettily enough + over their nude loveliness; for it is now the first half of the eighteenth + century, and Casa Landi is the uninvaded sanctuary of Illustrissimi and + Illustrissime. The resplendent porter who admits our melodious Abbate + Carlo, and the gay lackey who runs before his smiling face to open the + door of the <i>sala</i> where the company is assembled, may have had + nothing to speak of for breakfast, but they are full of zeal for the + grandeur they serve, and would not know what the rights of man were if you + told them. They, too, have their idleness and their intrigues and their + life of pleasure; but, poor souls! they fade pitiably in the magnificence + of that noble assembly in the sala. What coats of silk and waistcoats of + satin, what trig rapiers and flowing wigs and laces and ruffles; and, ah + me! what hoops and brocades, what paint and patches! Behind the chair of + every lady stands her cavaliere servente, or bows before her with a cup of + chocolate, or, sweet abasement! stoops to adjust the foot-stool better to + her satin shoe. There is a buzz of satirical expectation, no doubt, till + the abbate arrives, “and then, after the first compliments and + obeisances,” says Signor Torelli, “he throws his hat upon the great + arm-chair, recounts the chronicle of the gay world,” and prepares for the + special entertainment of the occasion. + </p> + <p> + “'What is there new on Parnassus?' he is probably asked. + </p> + <p> + “'Nothing', he replies, 'save the bleating of a lambkin lost upon the + lonely heights of the sacred hill.' + </p> + <p> + “'I'll wager,' cries one of the ladies, 'that the shepherd who has lost + this lambkin is our Abbate Carlo!' + </p> + <p> + “'And what can escape the penetrating eye of Aglauro Cidonia?' retorts + Frugoni, softly, with a modest air. + </p> + <p> + “'Let us hear its bleating!' cries the lady of the house. + </p> + <p> + “'Let us hear it!' echo her husband and her cavaliere servente. + </p> + <p> + “'Let us hear it!' cry one, two, three, a half-dozen, visitors. + </p> + <p> + “Frugoni reads his new production; ten exclamations receive the first + strophe; the second awakens twenty <i>evvivas</i>; and when the reading is + ended the noise of the plaudits is so great that they cannot be counted. + His new production has cost Frugoni half an hour's work; it is possibly + the answer to some Mecaenas who has invited him to his country-seat, or + the funeral eulogy of some well-known cat. Is fame bought at so cheap a + rate? He is a fool who would buy it dearer; and with this reasoning, which + certainly is not without foundation, Frugoni remained Frugoni when he + might have been something very much better.... If a bird sang, or a cat + sneezed, or a dinner was given, or the talk turned upon anything no matter + how remote from poetry, it was still for Frugoni an invitation to some + impromptu effusion. If he pricked his finger in mending a pen, he called + from on high the god of Lemnos and all the ironworkers of Olympus, not + excepting Mars, whom it was not reasonable to disturb for so little, and + launched innumerable reproaches at them, since without their invention of + arms a penknife would never have been made. If the heavens cleared up + after a long rain, all the signs of the zodiac were laid under + contribution and charged to give an account of their performance. If + somebody died, he instantly poured forth rivers of tears in company with + the nymphs of Eridanus and the Heliades; he upraided Phaethon, Themis, the + Shades of Erebus, and the Parcae.... The Amaryllises, the Dryads, the + Fauns, the woolly lambs, the shepherds, the groves, the demigods, the + Castalian Virgins, the loose-haired nymphs, the leafy boughs, the + goat-footed gods, the Graces, the pastoral pipes, and all the other sylvan + rubbish were the prime materials of every poetic composition.” + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Signor Torelli is less severe than Emiliani-Giudici upon the founders of + the Arcadia, and thinks they may have had intentions quite different from + the academical follies that resulted; while Leigh Hunt, who has some + account of the Arcadia in his charming essay on the Sonnet, feels none of + the national shame of the Italian critics, and is able to write of it with + perfect gayety. He finds a reason for its amazing success in the childlike + traits of Italian character; and, reminding his readers that the Arcadia + was established in 1690, declares that what the Englishmen of William and + Mary's reign would have received with shouts of laughter, and the French + under Louis XIV, would have corrupted and made perilous to decency, “was + so mixed up with better things in these imaginative and, strange as it may + seem, most unaffected people, the Italians,—for such they are,—that, + far from disgusting a nation accustomed to romantic impulses and to the + singing of poetry in their streets and gondolas, their gravest and most + distinguished men and, in many instances, women, too, ran childlike into + the delusion. The best of their poets”, the sweet-tongued Filicaja among + others, “accepted farms in Arcadia forthwith; ... and so little transitory + did the fashion turn out to be, that not only was Crescimbeni its active + officer for eight-and-thirty years, but the society, to whatever state of + insignificance it may have been reduced, exists at the present moment”. + </p> + <p> + Leigh Hunt names among Englishmen who were made Shepherds of Arcadia, + Mathias, author of the “Pursuits of Literature”, and Joseph Cowper, “who + wrote the Memoirs of Tassoni and an historical memoir of Italian tragedy”, + Haly, and Mrs. Thrale, as well as those poor Delia Cruscans whom + bloody-minded Gifford champed between his tusked jaws in his now forgotten + satires. Pope Pius VII. gave the Arcadians a suite of apartments in the + Vatican; but I dare say the wicked tyranny now existing at Rome has + deprived the harmless swains of this shelter, if indeed they had not been + turned out before Victor Emmanuel came. + </p> + <p> + In the chapter on the Arcadia, with which Vernon Lee opens her admirable + Studies of the Eighteenth Century in Italy, she tells us of several visits + which she recently paid to the Bosco Parrasio, long the chief fold of the + Academy. She found it with difficulty on the road to the Villa Pamphili, + in a neighborhood wholly ignorant of Arcadia and of the relation of Bosco + Parrasio to it. “The house, once the summer resort of Arcadian sonneteers, + was now abandoned to a family of market-gardeners, who hung their hats and + jackets on the marble heads of improvvisatori and crowned poetesses, and + threw their beans, maize, and garden-tools into the corners of the + desolate reception-rooms, from whose mildewed walls looked down a host of + celebrities—brocaded doges, powdered princesses, and scarlet-robed + cardinals, simpering drearily in their desolation,” and “sad, haggard + poetesses in sea-green and sky-blue draperies, with lank, powdered locks + and meager arms, holding lyres; fat, ill-shaven priests in white bands and + mop-wigs; sonneteering ladies, sweet and vapid in dove-colored stomachers + and embroidered sleeves; jolly extemporary poets, flaunting in + many-colored waistcoats and gorgeous shawls.” + </p> + <p> + But whatever the material adversity of Arcadia, it still continues to + reward ascertained merit by grants of pasturage out of its ideal domains. + Indeed, it is but a few years since our own Longfellow, on a visit to + Rome, was waited upon by the secretary of the Arch-Flock, and presented, + after due ceremonies and the reading of a floral and herbaceous sonnet, + with a parchment bestowing upon him some very magnificent possessions in + that extraordinary dreamland. In telling me of this he tried to recall his + Arcadian name, but could only remember that it was “Olympico something.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GIUSEPPE PARINI + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + In 1748 began for Italy a peace of nearly fifty years, when the Wars of + the Succession, with which the contesting strangers had ravaged her soil, + absolutely ceased. In Lombardy the Austrian rulers who had succeeded the + Spaniards did and suffered to be done many things for the material + improvement of a province which they were content to hold, while leaving + the administration mainly to the Lombards; the Spanish Bourbon at Naples + also did as little harm and as much good to his realm as a Bourbon could; + Pier Leopoldo of Tuscany, Don Filippo I. of Parma, Francis III. of Modena, + and the Popes Benedict XIV., Clement XIV., and Pius VI. were all disposed + to be paternally beneficent to their peoples, who at least had repose + under them, and in this period gave such names to science as those of + Galvani and Volta, to humanity that of Beccaria, to letters those of + Alfieri, Filicaja, Goldoni, Parini, and many others. + </p> + <p> + But in spite of the literary and scientific activity of the period, + Italian society was never quite so fantastically immoral as in this long + peace, which was broken only by the invasions of the French republic. A + wide-spread sentimentality, curiously mixed of love and letters, enveloped + the peninsula. Commerce, politics, all the business of life, went on as + usual under the roseate veil which gives its hue to the social history of + the time; but the idea which remains in the mind is one of a tranquillity + in which every person of breeding devoted himself to the cult of some muse + or other, and established himself as the conventional admirer of his + neighbor's wife. The great Academy of Arcadia, founded to restore good + taste in poetry, prescribed conditions by which everybody, of whatever age + or sex, could become a poetaster, and good society expected every + gentleman and lady to be in love. The Arcadia still exists, but that + gallant society hardly survived the eighteenth century. Perhaps the + greatest wonder about it is that it could have lasted so long as it did. + Its end was certainly not delayed for want of satirists who perceived its + folly and pursued it with scorn. But this again only brings one doubt, + often felt, whether satire ever accomplished anything beyond a lively + portraiture of conditions it proposed to reform. + </p> + <p> + It is the opinion of some Italian critics that Italian demoralization + began with the reaction against Luther, when the Jesuits rose to supreme + power in the Church and gathered the whole education of the young into the + hands of the priests. Cesare Cantù, whose book on <i>Parini ed il suo + Secolo</i> may be read with pleasure and instruction by such as like to + know more fully the time of which I speak, was of this mind; he became + before his death a leader of the clerical party in Italy, and may be + supposed to be without unfriendly prejudice. He alleges that the priestly + education made the Italians <i>literati</i> rather than citizens; + Latinists, poets, instead of good magistrates, workers, fathers of + families; it cultivated the memory at the expense of the judgment, the + fancy at the cost of the reason, and made them selfish, polished, false; + it left a boy “apathetic, irresolute, thoughtless, pusillanimous; he + flattered his superiors and hated his fellows, in each of whom he dreaded + a spy.” He knew the beautiful and loved the grandiose; his pride of family + and ancestry was inordinately pampered. What other training he had was in + the graces and accomplishments; he was thoroughly instructed in so much of + warlike exercise as enabled him to handle a rapier perfectly and to + conduct or fight a duel with punctilio. + </p> + <p> + But he was no warrior; his career was peace. The old medieval Italians who + had combated like lions against the French and Germans and against each + other, when resting from the labors and the high conceptions which have + left us the chief sculptures and architecture of the Peninsula, were dead; + and their posterity had almost ceased to know war. Italy had indeed still + remained a battle-ground, but not for Italian quarrels nor for Italian + swords; the powers which, like Venice, could afford to have quarrels of + their own, mostly hired other people to fight them out. All the + independent states of the Peninsula had armies, but armies that did + nothing; in Lombardy, neither Frenchman, Spaniard, nor Austrian had been + able to recruit or draft soldiers; the flight of young men from the + conscription depopulated the province, until at last Francis II. declared + it exempt from military service; Piedmont, the Macedon, the Boeotia of + that Greece, alone remained warlike, and Piedmont was alone able, when the + hour came, to show Italy how to do for herself. + </p> + <p> + Yet, except in the maritime republics, the army, idle and unwarlike as it + was in most cases, continued to be one of the three careers open to the + younger sons of good family; the civil service and the Church were the + other two. In Genoa, nobles had engaged in commerce with equal honor and + profit; nearly every argosy that sailed to or from the port of Venice + belonged to some lordly speculator; but in Milan a noble who descended to + trade lost his nobility, by a law not abrogated till the time of Charles + IV. The nobles had therefore nothing to do. They could not go into + business; if they entered the army it was not to fight; the civil service + was of course actually performed by subordinates; there were not cures for + half the priests, and there grew up that odd, polite rabble of <i>abbati</i>, + like our good Frugoni, priests without cures, sometimes attached to noble + families as chaplains, sometimes devoting themselves to literature or + science, sometimes leading lives of mere leisure and fashion; they were + mostly of plebeian origin when they did anything at all besides pay court + to the ladies. + </p> + <p> + In Milan the nobles were exempt from many taxes paid by the plebeians; + they had separate courts of law, with judges of their own order, before + whom a plebeian plaintiff appeared with what hope of justice can be + imagined. Yet they were not oppressive; they were at worst only insolent + to their inferiors, and they commonly used them with the gentleness which + an Italian can hardly fail in. There were many ties of kindness between + the classes, the memory of favors and services between master and servant, + landlord and tenant, in relations which then lasted a life-time, and even + for generations. In Venice, where it was one of the high privileges of the + patrician to spit from his box at the theater upon the heads of the people + in the pit, the familiar bond of patron and client so endeared the old + republican nobles to the populace that the Venetian poor of this day, who + know them only by tradition, still lament them. But, on the whole, men + have found it at Venice, as elsewhere, better not to be spit upon, even by + an affectionate nobility. + </p> + <p> + The patricians were luxurious everywhere. In Rome they built splendid + palaces, in Milan they gave gorgeous dinners. Goldoni, in his charming + memoirs, tells us that the Milanese of his time never met anywhere without + talking of eating, and they did eat upon all possible occasions, public, + domestic, and religious; throughout Italy they have yet the nickname of <i>lupi + lombardi</i> (Lombard wolves) which their good appetites won them. The + nobles of that gay old Milan were very hospitable, easy of access to + persons of the proper number of descents, and full of invitations for the + stranger. A French writer found their cooking delicate and estimable as + that of his own nation; but he adds that many of these friendly, + well-dining aristocrats had not good <i>ton</i>. One can think of them at + our distance of time and place with a kindness which Italian critics, + especially those of the bitter period of struggle about the middle of this + century, do not affect. Emiliani-Giudici, for example, does not, when he + calls them and their order throughout Italy an aristocratic leprosy. He + assures us that at the time of that long peace “the moral degradation of + what the French call the great world was the inveterate habit of + centuries; the nobles wallowed in their filth untouched by remorse”; and + he speaks of them as “gilded swine, vain of the glories of their blazons, + which they dragged through the mire of their vices.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + This is when he is about to consider a poem in which the Lombard nobility + are satirized—if it was satire to paint them to the life. He says + that he would be at a loss what passages to quote from it, but fortunately + “an unanimous posterity has done Parini due honor”; and he supposes “now + there is no man, of whatever sect or opinion, but has read his immortal + poem, and has its finest scenes by heart.” It is this fact which + embarrasses me, however, for how am I to rehabilitate a certain obsolete + characteristic figure without quoting from Parini, and constantly wearying + people with what they know already so well? The gentle reader, familiar + with Parini's immortal poem—— + </p> + <p> + <i>The Gentle Reader.</i>—His immortal poem? What <i>is</i> his + immortal poem? I never heard even the name of it! + </p> + <p> + Is it possible? But you, fair reader, who have its finest scenes by heart—— + </p> + <p> + <i>The Fair Reader.</i>—Yes, certainly; of course. But one reads so + many things. I don't believe I half remember those striking passages of——what + is the poem? And who did you say the author was? + </p> + <p> + Oh, madam! And is this undying fame? Is this the immortality for which we + waste our time? Is this the remembrance for which the essayist sicklies + his visage over with the pale cast of thought? Why, at this rate, even + those whose books are favorably noticed by the newspapers will be + forgotten in a thousand years. But it is at least consoling to know that + you have merely forgotten Parini's poems, the subject of which you will at + once recollect when I remind you that it is called The Day, and celebrates + The Morning, The Noon, The Evening, and The Night of a gentleman of + fashion as Milan knew him for fifty years in the last century. + </p> + <p> + This gentleman, whatever his nominal business in the world might be, was + first and above all a cavaliere servente, and the cavaliere servente was + the invention, it is said, of Genoese husbands who had not the leisure to + attend their wives to the theater, the promenade, the card-table, the <i>conversazione</i>, + and so installed their nearest idle friends permanently in the office. The + arrangement was found so convenient that the cavaliere servente presently + spread throughout Italy; no lady of fashion was thought properly appointed + without one; and the office was now no longer reserved to bachelors; it + was not at all good form for husband and wife to love each other, and the + husband became the cavalier of some other lady, and the whole fine world + was thus united, by a usage of which it is very hard to know just how far + it was wicked and how far it was only foolish; perhaps it is safest to say + that at the best it was apt to be somewhat of the one and always a great + deal of the other. In the good society of that day, marriage meant a + settlement in life for the girl who had escaped her sister's fate of a + sometimes forced religious vocation. But it did not matter so much about + the husband if the marriage contract stipulated that she should have her + cavaliere servente, and, as sometimes happened, specified him by name. + With her husband there was a union of fortunes, with the expectation of + heirs; the companionship, the confidence, the faith, was with the + cavalier; there could be no domesticity, no family life with either. The + cavaliere servente went with his lady to church, where he dipped his + finger in the holy-water and offered it her to moisten her own finger at; + and he held her prayer-book for her when she rose from her knees and bowed + to the high altar. In fact, his place seems to have been as fully + acknowledged and honored, if not by the Church, then by all the other + competent authorities, as that of the husband. Like other things, his + relation to his lady was subject to complication and abuse; no doubt, + ladies of fickle minds changed their cavaliers rather often; and in those + days following the disorder of the French invasions, the relation suffered + deplorable exaggerations and perversions. But when Giuseppe Parini so + minutely and graphically depicted the day of a noble Lombard youth, the + cavaliere servente was in his most prosperous and illustrious state; and + some who have studied Italian social conditions in the past bid us not too + virtuously condemn him, since, preposterous as he was, his existence was + an amelioration of disorders at which we shall find it better not even to + look askance. + </p> + <p> + Parini's poem is written in the form of instructions to the hero for the + politest disposal of his time; and in a strain of polished irony allots + the follies of his day to their proper hours. The poet's apparent + seriousness never fails him, but he does not suffer his irony to become a + burden to the reader, relieving it constantly with pictures, episodes, and + excursions, and now and then breaking into a strain of solemn poetry which + is fine enough. The work will suggest to the English reader the light + mockery of “The Rape of the Lock”, and in less degree some qualities of + Gray's “Trivia”; but in form and manner it is more like Phillips's + “Splendid Shilling” than either of these; and yet it is not at all like + the last in being a mere burlesque of the epic style. These resemblances + have been noted by Italian critics, who find them as unsatisfactory as + myself; but they will serve to make the extracts I am to give a little + more intelligible to the reader who does not recur to the whole poem. + Parini was not one to break a butterfly upon a wheel; he felt the fatuity + of heavily moralizing upon his material; the only way was to treat it with + affected gravity, and to use his hero with the respect which best mocks + absurdity. One of his arts is to contrast the deeds of his hero with those + of his forefathers, of which he is so proud,—of course the contrast + is to the disadvantage of the forefathers,—and in these allusions to + the past glories of Italy it seems to me that the modern patriotic poetry + which has done so much to make Italy begins for the first time to feel its + wings. + </p> + <p> + Parini was in all things a very stanch, brave, and original spirit, and if + he was of any school, it was that of the Venetian, Gasparo Gozzi, who + wrote pungent and amusing social satires in blank verse, and published at + Venice an essay-paper, like the “Spectator”, the name of which he turned + into <i>l'Osservatore</i>. It dealt, like the “Spectator” and all that + race of journals, with questions of letters and manners, and was long + honored, like the “Spectator”, as a model of prose. With an apparent + prevalence of French taste, there was in fact much study by Italian + authors of English literature at this time, which was encouraged by Dr. + Johnson's friend, Baretti, the author of the famous <i>Frusta Letteraria</i> + (Literary Scourge), which drew blood from so many authorlings, now + bloodless; it was wielded with more severity than wisdom, and fell pretty + indiscriminately upon the bad and the good. It scourged among others + Goldoni, the greatest master of the comic art then living, but it spared + our Parini, the first part of whose poem Baretti salutes with many kindly + phrases, though he cannot help advising him to turn the poem into rhyme. + But when did a critic ever know less than a poet about a poet's business? + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + The first part of Parini's Day is Morning, that mature hour at which the + hero awakes from the glories and fatigues of the past night. His valet + appears, and throwing open the shutters asks whether he will have coffee + or chocolate in bed, and when he has broken his fast and risen, the + business of the day begins. The earliest comer is perhaps the + dancing-master, whose elegant presence we must not deny ourselves: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He, entering, stops + Erect upon the threshold, elevating + Both shoulders; then contracting like a tortoise + His neck a little, at the same time drops + Slightly his chin, and, with the extremest tip + Of his plumed hat, lightly touches his lips. +</pre> + <p> + In their order come the singing-master and the master of the violin, and, + with more impressiveness than the rest, the teacher of French, whose + advent hushes all Italian sounds, and who is to instruct the hero to + forget his plebeian native tongue. He is to send meanwhile to ask how the + lady he serves has passed the night, and attending her response he may + read Voltaire in a sumptuous Dutch or French binding, or he may amuse + himself with a French romance; or it may happen that the artist whom he + has engaged to paint the miniature of his lady (to be placed in the same + jeweled case with his own) shall bring his work at this hour for + criticism. Then the valets robe him from head to foot in readiness for the + hair-dresser and the barber, whose work is completed with the powdering of + his hair. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At last the labor of the learned comb + Is finished, and the elegant artist strews + With lightly shaken hand a powdery mist + To whiten ere their time thy youthful locks. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now take heart, + And in the bosom of that whirling cloud + Plunge fearlessly. O brave! O mighty! Thus + Appeared thine ancestor through smoke and fire + Of battle, when his country's trembling gods + His sword avenged, and shattered the fierce foe + And put to flight. But he, his visage stained, + With dust and smoke, and smirched with gore and sweat, + His hair torn and tossed wild, came from the strife + A terrible vision, even to compatriots + His hand had rescued; milder thou by far, + And fairer to behold, in white array + Shalt issue presently to bless the eyes + Of thy fond country, which the mighty arm + Of thy forefather and thy heavenly smile + Equally keep content and prosperous. +</pre> + <p> + When the hero is finally dressed for the visit to his lady, it is in this + splendid figure: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let purple gaiters, clasp thine ankles fine + In noble leather, that no dust or mire + Blemish thy foot; down from thy shoulders flow + Loosely a tunic fair, thy shapely arms + Cased in its closely-fitting sleeves, whose borders + Of crimson or of azure velvet let + The heliotrope's color tinge. Thy slender throat, + Encircle with a soft and gauzy band. + Thy watch already + Bids thee make haste to go. O me, how fair + The Arsenal of tiny charms that hang + With a harmonious tinkling from its chain! + What hangs not there of fairy carriages + And fairy steeds so marvelously feigned + In gold that every charger seems alive? +</pre> + <p> + This magnificent swell, of the times when swells had the world quite their + own way, finds his lady already surrounded with visitors when he calls to + revere her, as he would have said, and he can therefore make the more + effective arrival. Entering her presence he puts on his very finest + manner, which I am sure we might all study to our advantage. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let thy right hand be pressed against thy side + Beneath thy waistcoat, and the other hand + Upon thy snowy linen rest, and hide + Next to thy heart; let the breast rise sublime, + The shoulders broaden both, and bend toward her + Thy pliant neck; then at the corners close + Thy lips a little, pointed in the middle + Somewhat; and from thy month thus set exhale + A murmur inaudible. Meanwhile her right + Let her have given, and now softly drop + On the warm ivory a double kiss. + Seat thyself then, and with one hand draw closer + Thy chair to hers, while every tongue is stilled. + Thou only, bending slightly over, with her + Exchange in whisper secret nothings, which + Ye both accompany with mutual smiles + And covert glances that betray, or seem + At least, your tender passion to betray. +</pre> + <p> + It must have been mighty pretty, as Master Pepys says, to look at the life + from which this scene was painted, for many a dandy of either sex + doubtless sat for it. The scene was sometimes heightened by the different + humor in which the lady and the cavalier received each other, as for + instance when they met with reproaches and offered the spectacle of a + lover's quarrel to the company. In either case, it is for the hero to lead + the lady out to dinner. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With a bound + Rise to thy feet, signor, and give thy hand + Unto thy lady, whom, tenderly drooping, + Support thou with thy strength, and to the table + Accompany, while the guests come after you. + And last of all the husband follows.... +</pre> + <p> + Or rather— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If to the husband still + The vestige of a generous soul remain, + Let him frequent another board; beside + Another lady sit, whose husband dines + Yet somewhere else beside another lady, + Whose spouse is likewise absent; and so add + New links unto the chain immense, wherewith + Love, alternating, binds the whole wide world. + + Behold thy lady seated at the board: + Relinquish now her hand, and while the servant + Places the chair that not too far she sit, + And not so near that her soft bosom press + Too close against the table, with a spring + Stoop thou and gather round thy lady's feet + The wandering volume of her robe. Beside her + Then sit thee down; for the true cavalier + Is not permitted to forsake the side + Of her he serves, except there should arise + Some strange occasion warranting the use + Of so great freedom. +</pre> + <p> + When one reads of these springs and little hops, which were once so + elegant, it is almost with a sigh for a world which no longer springs or + hops in the service of beauty, or even dreams of doing it. But a passage + which will touch the sympathetic with a still keener sense of loss is one + which hints how lovely a lady looked when carving, as she then sometimes + did: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Swiftly now the blade, + That sharp and polished at thy right hand lies, + Draw naked forth, and like the blade of Mars + Flash it upon the eyes of all. The point + Press 'twixt thy finger-tips, and bowing low + Offer the handle to her. Now is seen + The soft and delicate playing of the muscles + In the white hand upon its work intent. + The graces that around the lady stoop + Clothe themselves in new forms, and from her fingers + Sportively flying, flutter to the tips + Of her unconscious rosy knuckles, thence + To dip into the hollows of the dimples + That Love beside her knuckles has impressed. +</pre> + <p> + Throughout the dinner it is the part of the well-bred husband—if so + ill-bred as to remain at all to sit impassive and quiescent while the + cavalier watches over the wife with tender care, prepares her food, offers + what agrees with her, and forbids what harms. He is virtually master of + the house; he can order the servants about; if the dinner is not to his + mind, it is even his high prerogative to scold the cook. + </p> + <p> + The poet reports something of the talk at table; and here occurs one of + the most admired passages of the poem, the light irony of which it is hard + to reproduce in a version. One of the guests, in a strain of affected + sensibility, has been denouncing man's cruelty to animals: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thus he discourses; and a gentle tear + Springs, while he speaks, into thy lady's eyes. + She recalls the day— + Alas, the cruel day!—what time her lap-dog, + Her beauteous lap-dog, darling of the Graces, + Sporting in youthful gayety, impressed + The light mark of her ivory tooth upon + The rude foot of a menial; he, with bold + And sacrilegious toe, flung her away. + Over and over thrice she rolled, and thrice + Rumpled her silken coat, and thrice inhaled + With tender nostril the thick, choking dust, + Then raised imploring cries, and “Help, help, help!” + She seemed to call, while from the gilded vaults + Compassionate Echo answered her again, + And from their cloistral basements in dismay + The servants rushed, and from the upper rooms + The pallid maidens trembling flew; all came. + Thy lady's face was with reviving essence + Sprinkled, and she awakened from her swoon. + Anger and grief convulsed her still; she cast + A lightning glance upon the guilty menial, + And thrice with languid voice she called her pet, + Who rushed to her embrace and seemed to invoke + Vengeance with her shrill tenor. And revenge + Thou hadst, fair poodle, darling of the Graces. + The guilty menial trembled, and with eyes + Downcast received his doom. Naught him availed + His twenty years' desert; naught him availed + His zeal in secret services; for him + In vain were prayer and promise; forth he went, + Spoiled of the livery that till now had made him + Enviable with the vulgar. And in vain + He hoped another lord; the tender dames + Were horror-struck at his atrocious crime, + And loathed the author. The false wretch succumbed + With all his squalid brood, and in the streets + With his lean wife in tatters at his side + Vainly lamented to the passer-by. +</pre> + <p> + It would be quite out of taste for the lover to sit as apathetic as the + husband in the presence of his lady's guests, and he is to mingle + gracefully in the talk from time to time, turning it to such topics as may + best serve to exploit his own accomplishments. As a man of the first + fashion, he must be in the habit of seeming to have read Horace a little, + and it will be a pretty effect to quote him now; one may also show one's + acquaintance with the new French philosophy, and approve its skepticism, + while keeping clear of its pernicious doctrines, which insidiously teach— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That every mortal is his fellow's peer; + That not less dear to Nature and to God + Is he who drives thy carriage, or who guides + The plow across thy field, than thine own self. +</pre> + <p> + But at last the lady makes a signal to the cavalier that it is time to + rise from the table: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Spring to thy feet + The first of all, and drawing near thy lady + Remove her chair and offer her thy hand, + And lead her to the other rooms, nor suffer longer + That the stale reek of viands shall offend + Her delicate sense. Thee with the rest invites + The grateful odor of the coffee, where + It smokes upon a smaller table hid + And graced with Indian webs. The redolent gums + That meanwhile burn sweeten and purify + The heavy atmosphere, and banish thence + All lingering traces of the feast.—Ye sick + And poor, whom misery or whom hope perchance + Has guided in the noonday to these doors, + Tumultuous, naked, and unsightly throng, + With mutilated limbs and squalid faces, + In litters and on crutches, from afar + Comfort yourselves, and with expanded nostrils + Drink in the nectar of the feast divine + That favorable zephyrs waft to you; + But do not dare besiege these noble precincts, + Importunately offering her that reigns + Within your loathsome spectacle of woe! + —And now, sir, 'tis your office to prepare + The tiny cup that then shall minister, + Slow sipped, its liquor to thy lady's lips; + And now bethink thee whether she prefer + The boiling beverage much or little tempered + With sweet; or if perchance she like it best + As doth the barbarous spouse, then, when she sits + Upon brocades of Persia, with light fingers + The bearded visage of her lord caressing. +</pre> + <p> + With the dinner the second part of the poem, entitled The Noon, concludes, + and The Afternoon begins with the visit which the hero and his lady pay to + one of her friends. He has already thought with which of the husband's + horses they shall drive out; he has suggested which dress his lady shall + wear and which fan she shall carry; he has witnessed the agonizing scene + of her parting with her lap-dog,—her children are at nurse and never + intrude,—and they have arrived in the palace of the lady on whom + they are to call: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And now the ardent friends to greet each other + Impatient fly, and pressing breast to breast + They tenderly embrace, and with alternate kisses + Their cheeks resound; then, clasping hands, they drop + Plummet-like down upon the sofa, both + Together. Seated thus, one flings a phrase, + Subtle and pointed, at the other's heart, + Hinting of certain things that rumor tells, + And in her turn the other with a sting + Assails. The lovely face of one is flushed + With beauteous anger, and the other bites + Her pretty lips a little; evermore + At every instant waxes violent + The anxious agitation of the fans. + So, in the age of Turpin, if two knights + Illustrious and well cased in mail encountered + Upon the way, each cavalier aspired + To prove the valor of the other in arms, + And, after greetings courteous and fair, + They lowered their lances and their chargers dashed + Ferociously together; then they flung + The splintered fragments of their spears aside, + And, fired with generous fury, drew their huge, + Two-handed swords and rushed upon each other! + But in the distance through a savage wood + The clamor of a messenger is heard, + Who comes full gallop to recall the one + Unto King Charles, and th' other to the camp + Of the young Agramante. Dare thou, too, + Dare thou, invincible youth, to expose the curls + And the toupet, so exquisitely dressed + This very morning, to the deadly shock + Of the infuriate fans; to new emprises + Thy fair invite, and thus the extreme effects + Of their periculous enmity suspend. +</pre> + <p> + Is not this most charmingly done? It seems to me that the warlike + interpretation of the scene is delightful; and those embattled fans—their + perfumed breath comes down a hundred years in the verse! + </p> + <p> + The cavalier and his lady now betake them to the promenade, where all the + fair world of Milan is walking or driving, with a punctual regularity + which still distinguishes Italians in their walks and drives. The place is + full of their common acquaintance, and the carriages are at rest for the + exchange of greetings and gossip, in which the hero must take his part. + All this is described in the same note of ironical seriousness as the rest + of the poem, and The Afternoon closes with a strain of stately and grave + poetry which admirably heightens the desired effect: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Behold the servants + Ready for thy descent; and now skip down + And smooth the creases from thy coat, and order + The laces on thy breast; a little stoop, + And on thy snowy stockings bend a glance, + And then erect thyself and strut away + Either to pace the promenade alone,— + 'T is thine, if 't please thee walk; or else to draw + Anigh the carriages of other dames. + Thou clamberest up, and thrustest in thy head + And arms and shoulders, half thyself within + The carriage door. There let thy laughter rise + So loud that from afar thy lady hear, + And rage to hear, and interrupt the wit + Of other heroes who had swiftly run + Amid the dusk to keep her company + While thou wast absent. O ye powers supreme, + Suspend the night, and let the noble deeds + Of my young hero shine upon the world + In the clear day! Nay, night must follow still + Her own inviolable laws, and droop + With silent shades over one half the globe; + And slowly moving on her dewy feet, + She blends the varied colors infinite, + And with the border of her mighty garments + Blots everything; the sister she of Death + Leaves but one aspect indistinct, one guise + To fields and trees, to flowers, to birds and beasts, + And to the great and to the lowly born, + Confounding with the painted cheek of beauty + The haggard face of want, and gold with tatters. + Nor me will the blind air permit to see + Which carriages depart, and which remain, + Secret amidst the shades; but from my hand + The pencil caught, my hero is involved + Within the tenebrous and humid veil. +</pre> + <p> + The concluding section of the poem, by chance or by wise design of the + author, remains a fragment. In this he follows his hero from the promenade + to the evening party, with an account of which The Night is mainly + occupied, so far as it goes. There are many lively pictures in it, with + light sketches of expression and attitude; but on the whole it has not so + many distinctly quotable passages as the other parts of the poem. The + perfunctory devotion of the cavalier and the lady continues throughout, + and the same ironical reverence depicts them alighting from their + carriage, arriving in the presence of the hostess, sharing in the gossip + of the guests, supping, and sitting down at those games of chance with + which every fashionable house was provided and at which the lady loses or + doubles her pin-money. In Milan long trains were then the mode, and any + woman might wear them, but only patricians were allowed to have them + carried by servants; the rich plebeian must drag her costly skirts in the + dust; and the nobility of our hero's lady is honored by the flunkeys who + lift her train as she enters the house. The hostess, seated on a sofa, + receives her guests with a few murmured greetings, and then abandons + herself to the arduous task of arranging the various partners at cards. + When the cavalier serves his lady at supper, he takes his handkerchief + from his pocket and spreads it on her lap; such usages and the differences + of costume distinguished an evening party at Milan then from the like joy + in our time and country. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + The poet who sings this gay world with such mocking seriousness was not + himself born to the manner of it. He was born plebeian in 1729 at Bosisio, + near Lake Pusiano, and his parents were poor. He himself adds that they + were honest, but the phrase has now lost its freshness. His father was a + dealer in raw silk, and was able to send him to school in Milan, where his + scholarship was not equal to his early literary promise. At least he took + no prizes; but this often happens with people whose laurels come + abundantly later. He was to enter the Church, and in due time he took + orders, but he did not desire a cure, and he became, like so many other + accomplished abbati, a teacher in noble families (the great and saintly + family Borromeo among others), in whose houses and in those he frequented + with them he saw the life he paints in his poem. His father was now dead, + and he had already supported himself and his mother by copying law-papers; + he had, also, at the age of twenty-three, published a small volume of + poems, and had been elected a shepherd of Arcadia; but in a country where + one's copyright was good for nothing across the border—scarcely a + fair stone's-throw away—of one's own little duchy or province, and + the printers everywhere stole a book as soon as it was worth stealing, it + is not likely that he made great gains by a volume of verses which, later + in life, he repudiated. Baretti had then returned from living in London, + where he had seen the prosperity of “the trade of an author” in days which + we do not now think so very prosperous, and he viewed with open disgust + the abject state of authorship in his own country. So there was nothing + for Parini to do but to become a <i>maestro in casa</i>. With the Borromei + he always remained friends, and in their company he went into society a + good deal. Emiliani-Giudici supposes that he came to despise the great + world with the same scorn that shows in his poem; but probably he regarded + it quite as much with the amused sense of the artist as with the + moralist's indignation; some of his contemporaries accused him of a + snobbish fondness for the great, but certainly he did not flatter them, + and in one passage of his poem he is at the pains to remind his noble + acquaintance that not the smallest drop of patrician blood is + microscopically discoverable in his veins. His days were rendered more + comfortable when he was appointed editor of the government newspaper,—the + only newspaper in Milan,—and yet easier when he was made professor + of eloquence in the Academy of Fine Arts. In this employment it was his + hard duty to write poems from time to time in praise of archdukes and + emperors; but by and by the French Revolution arrived in Milan, and Parini + was relieved of that labor. The revolution made an end of archdukes and + emperors, but the liberty it bestowed was peculiar, and consisted chiefly + in not allowing one to do anything that one liked. The altars were abased, + and trees of liberty were planted; for making a tumult about an outraged + saint a mob was severely handled by the military, and for “insulting” a + tree of liberty a poor fellow at Como was shot. Parini was chosen one of + the municipal government, which, apparently popular, could really do + nothing but register the decrees of the military commandant. He proved so + little useful in this government that he was expelled from it, and, giving + his salary to his native parish, he fell into something like his old + poverty. He who had laughed to scorn the insolence and folly of the nobles + could not enjoy the insolence and folly of the plebeians, and he was + unhappy in that wild ferment of ideas, hopes, principles, sentiments, + which Milan became in the time of the Cisalpine Republic. He led a retired + life, and at last, in 1799, having risen one day to studies which he had + never remitted, he died suddenly in his arm-chair. + </p> + <p> + Many stories are told of his sayings and doings in those troubled days + when he tried to serve the public. At the theater once some one cried out, + “Long live the republic, death to the aristocrats!” “No,” shouted Parini, + who abhorred the abominable bloodthirstiness of the liberators, “long live + the republic, death to nobody!” They were going to take away a crucifix + from a room where he appeared on public business. “Very well,” he + observed; “where Citizen Christ cannot stay, I have nothing to do,” and + went out. “Equality doesn't consist in dragging me down to your level,” he + said to one who had impudently given him the <i>thou</i>, “but in raising + you to mine, if possible. You will always be a pitiful creature, even + though you call yourself Citizen; and though you call me Citizen, you + can't help my being the Abbate Parini.” To another, who reproached him for + kindness to an Austrian prisoner, he answered, “I would do as much for a + Turk, a Jew, an Arab; I would do it even for you if you were in need.” In + his closing years many sought him for literary counsel; those for whom + there was hope he encouraged; those for whom there was none, he made it a + matter of conscience not to praise. A poor fellow came to repeat him two + sonnets, in order to be advised which to print; Parini heard the first, + and, without waiting further, besought him “Print the other!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VITTORIO ALFIERI + </h2> + <p> + Vittorio Alfieri, the Italian poet whom his countrymen would undoubtedly + name next after Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso, and who, in spite of + his limitations, was a man of signal and distinct dramatic power, not + surpassed if equaled since, is scarcely more than a name to most English + readers. He was born in the year 1749, at Asti, a little city of that + Piedmont where there has always been a greater regard for feudal + traditions than in any other part of Italy; and he belonged by birth to a + nobility which is still the proudest in Europe. “What a singular country + is ours!” said the Chevalier Nigra, one of the first diplomats of our + time, who for many years managed the delicate and difficult relations of + Italy with France during the second empire, but who was the son of an + apothecary. “In Paris they admit me everywhere; I am asked to court and + petted as few Frenchmen are; but here, in my own city of Turin, it would + not be possible for me to be received by the Marchioness Doria;” and if + this was true in the afternoon of the nineteenth century, one easily + fancies what society must have been at Turin in the forenoon of the + eighteenth. + </p> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + It was in the order of the things of that day and country that Alfieri + should leave home while a child and go to school at the Academy of Turin. + Here, as he tells in that most amusing autobiography of his, he spent + several years in acquiring a profound ignorance of whatever he was meant + to learn; and he came away a stranger not only to the humanities, but to + any one language, speaking a barbarous mixture of French and Piedmontese, + and reading little or nothing. Doubtless he does not spare color in this + statement, but almost anything you like could be true of the education of + a gentleman as a gentleman got it from the Italian priests of the last + century. “We translated,” he says, “the 'Lives of Cornelius Nepos'; but + none of us, perhaps not even the masters, knew who these men were whose + lives we translated, nor where was their country, nor in what times they + lived, nor under what governments, nor what any government was.” He + learned Latin enough to turn Virgil's “Georgics” into his sort of Italian; + but when he read Ariosto by stealth, he atoned for his transgression by + failing to understand him. Yet Alfieri tells us that he was one of the + first scholars of that admirable academy, and he really had some impulses + even then toward literature; for he liked reading Goldoni and Metastasio, + though he had never heard of the name of Tasso. This was whilst he was + still in the primary classes, under strict priestly control; when he + passed to a more advanced grade and found himself free to do what he liked + in the manner that pleased him best, in common with the young Russians, + Germans, and Englishmen then enjoying the advantages of the Academy of + Turin, he says that being grounded in no study, directed by no one, and + not understanding any language well, he did not know what study to take + up, or how to study. “The reading of many French romances,” he goes on, + “the constant association with foreigners, and the want of all occasion to + speak Italian, or to hear it spoken, drove from my head that small amount + of wretched Tuscan which I had contrived to put there in those two or + three years of burlesque study of the humanities and asinine rhetoric. In + place of it,” he says, “the French entered into my empty brain”; but he is + careful to disclaim any literary merit for the French he knew, and he + afterward came to hate it, with everything else that was French, very + bitterly. + </p> + <p> + It was before this, a little, that Alfieri contrived his first sonnet, + which, when he read it to the uncle with whom he lived, made that old + soldier laugh unmercifully, so that until his twenty-fifth year the poet + made no further attempts in verse. When he left school he spent three + years in travel, after the fashion of those grand-touring days when you + had to be a gentleman of birth and fortune in order to travel, and when + you journeyed by your own conveyance from capital to capital, with letters + to your sovereign's ambassadors everywhere, and spent your money + handsomely upon the dissipations of the countries through which you + passed. Alfieri is constantly at the trouble to have us know that he was a + very morose and ill-conditioned young animal, and the figure he makes as a + traveler is no more amiable than edifying. He had a ruling passion for + horses, and then several smaller passions quite as wasteful and idle. He + was driven from place to place by a demon of unrest, and was mainly + concerned, after reaching a city, in getting away from it as soon as he + could. He gives anecdotes enough in proof of this, and he forgets nothing + that can enhance the surprise of his future literary greatness. At the + Ambrosian Library in Milan they showed him a manuscript of Petrarch's, + which, “like a true barbarian,” as he says, he flung aside, declaring that + he knew nothing about it, having a rancor against this Petrarch, whom he + had once tried to read and had understood as little as Ariosto. At Rome + the Sardinian minister innocently affronted him by repeating some verses + of Marcellus, which the sulky young noble could not comprehend. In Ferrara + he did not remember that it was the city of that divine Ariosto whose poem + was the first that came into his hands, and which he had now read in part + with infinite pleasure. “But my poor intellect,” he says, “was then + sleeping a most sordid sleep, and every day, as far as regards letters, + rusted more and more. It is true, however, that with respect to knowledge + of the world and of men I constantly learned not a little, without taking + note of it, so many and diverse were the phases of life and manners that I + daily beheld.” At Florence he visited the galleries and churches with much + disgust and no feeling, for the beautiful, especially in painting, his + eyes being very dull to color. “If I liked anything better, it was + sculpture a little, and architecture yet a little more”; and it is + interesting to note how all his tragedies reflect these preferences, in + their lack of color and in their sculpturesque sharpness of outline. + </p> + <p> + From Italy he passed as restlessly into France, yet with something of a + more definite intention, for he meant to frequent the French theater. He + had seen a company of French players at Turin, and had acquainted himself + with the most famous French tragedies and comedies, but with no thought of + writing tragedies of his own. He felt no creative impulse, and he liked + the comedies best, though, as he says, he was by nature more inclined to + tears than to laughter. But he does not seem to have enjoyed the theater + much in Paris, a city for which he conceived at once the greatest dislike, + he says, “on account of the squalor and barbarity of the buildings, the + absurd and pitiful pomp of the few houses that affected to be palaces, the + filthiness and gothicism of the churches, the vandalic structure of the + theaters of that time, and the many and many and many disagreeable objects + that all day fell under my notice, and worst of all the unspeakably + misshapen and beplastered faces of those ugliest of women.” + </p> + <p> + He had at this time already conceived that hatred of kings which breathes, + or, I may better say, bellows, from his tragedies; and he was enraged even + beyond his habitual fury by his reception at court, where it was etiquette + for Louis XV. to stare at him from head to foot and give no sign of having + received any impression whatever. + </p> + <p> + In Holland he fell in love, for the first time, and as was requisite in + the polite society of that day, the object of his passion was another + man's wife. In England he fell in love the second time, and as fashionably + as before. The intrigue lasted for months; in the end it came to a duel + with the lady's husband and a great scandal in the newspapers; but in + spite of these displeasures, Alfieri liked everything in England. “The + streets, the taverns, the horses, the women, the universal prosperity, the + life and activity of that island, the cleanliness and convenience of the + houses, though extremely little,”—as they still strike every one + coming from Italy,—these and other charms of “that fortunate and + free country” made an impression upon him that never was effaced. He did + not at that time, he says, “study profoundly the constitution, mother of + so much prosperity,” but he “knew enough to observe and value its sublime + effects.” + </p> + <p> + Before his memorable sojourn in England, he spent half a year at Turin + reading Rousseau, among other philosophers, and Voltaire, whose prose + delighted and whose verse wearied him. “But the book of books for me,” he + says, “and the one which that winter caused me to pass hours of bliss and + rapture, was Plutarch, his Lives of the truly great; and some of these, as + Timoleon, Caesar, Brutus, Pelopidas, Cato, and others, I read and read + again, with such a transport of cries, tears, and fury, that if any one + had heard me in the next room he would surely have thought me mad. In + meditating certain grand traits of these supreme men, I often leaped to my + feet, agitated and out of my senses, and tears of grief and rage escaped + me to think that I was born in Piedmont, and in a time, and under a + government, where no high thing could be done or said; and it was almost + useless to think or feel it.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: Vittorio Alfieri.} + </p> + <p> + These characters had a life-long fascination for Alfieri, and his + admiration of such types deeply influenced his tragedies. So great was his + scorn of kings at the time he writes of, that he despised even those who + liked them, and poor little Metastasio, who lived by the bounty of Maria + Theresa, fell under Alfieri's bitterest contempt when in Vienna he saw his + brother-poet before the empress in the imperial gardens at Schonbrunn, + “performing the customary genuflexions with a servilely contented and + adulatory face.” This loathing of royalty was naturally intensified beyond + utterance in Prussia. “On entering the states of Frederick, I felt + redoubled and triplicated my hate for that infamous military trade, most + infamous and sole base of arbitrary power.” He told his minister that he + would be presented only in civil dress, because there were uniforms enough + at that court, and he declares that on beholding Frederick he felt “no + emotion of wonder, or of respect, but rather of indignation and rage.... + The king addressed me the three or four customary words; I fixed my eyes + respectfully upon his, and inwardly blessed Heaven that I had not been + born his slave; and I issued from that universal Prussian barracks ... + abhorring it as it deserved.” + </p> + <p> + In Paris Alfieri bought the principal Italian authors, which he afterwards + carried everywhere with him on his travels; but he says that he made very + little use of them, having neither the will nor the power to apply his + mind to anything. In fact, he knew very little Italian, most of the + authors in his collection were strange to him, and at the age of + twenty-two he had read nothing whatever of Dante, Petrarch, Tasso, + Boccaccio, or Machiavelli. + </p> + <p> + He made a journey into Spain, among other countries, where he admired the + Andalusian horses, and bored himself as usual with what interests educated + people; and he signalized his stay at Madrid by a murderous outburst of + one of the worst tempers in the world. One night his servant Elia, in + dressing his hair, had the misfortune to twitch one of his locks in such a + way as to give him a slight pain; on which Alfieri leaped to his feet, + seized a heavy candlestick, and without a word struck the valet such a + blow upon his temple that the blood gushed out over his face, and over the + person of a young Spanish gentleman who had been supping with Alfieri. + Elia sprang upon his master, who drew his sword, but the Spaniard after + great ado quieted them both; “and so ended this horrible encounter,” says + Alfieri, “for which I remained deeply afflicted and ashamed. I told Elia + that he would have done well to kill me; and he was the man to have done + it, being a palm taller than myself, who am very tall, and of a strength + and courage not inferior to his height. Two hours later, his wound being + dressed and everything put in order, I went to bed, leaving the door from + my room into Elia's open as usual, without listening to the Spaniard, who + warned me not thus to invite a provoked and outraged man to vengeance: I + called to Elia, who had already gone to bed, that he could, if he liked + and thought proper, kill me that night, for I deserved it. But he was no + less heroic than I, and would take no other revenge than to keep two + handkerchiefs, which had been drenched in his blood, and which from time + to time he showed me in the course of many years. This reciprocal mixture + of fierceness and generosity on both our parts will not be easily + understood by those who have had no experience of the customs and of the + temper of us Piedmontese;” though here, perhaps, Alfieri does his country + too much honor in making his ferocity a national trait. For the rest, he + says, he never struck a servant except as he would have done an equal—not + with a cane, but with his fist, or a chair, or anything else that came to + hand; and he seems to have thought this a democratic if not an amiable + habit. When at last he went back to Turin, he fell once more into his old + life of mere vacancy, varied before long by a most unworthy amour, of + which he tells us that he finally cured himself by causing his servant to + tie him in his chair, and so keep him a prisoner in his own house. A + violent distemper followed this treatment, which the light-moraled gossip + of the town said Alfieri had invented exclusively for his own use; many + days he lay in bed tormented by this anguish; but when he rose he was no + longer a slave to his passion. Shortly after, he wrote a tragedy, or a + tragic dialogue rather, in Italian blank verse, called Cleopatra, which + was played in a Turinese theater with a success of which he tells us he + was at once and always ashamed. + </p> + <p> + Yet apparently it encouraged him to persevere in literature, his + qualifications for tragical authorship being “a resolute spirit, very + obstinate and untamed, a heart running over with passions of every kind, + among which predominated a bizarre mixture of love and all its furies, and + a profound and most ferocious rage and abhorrence against all tyranny + whatsoever; ... a very dim and uncertain remembrance of various French + tragedies seen in the theaters many years before; ... an almost total + ignorance of all the rules of tragic art, and an unskillfulness almost + total in the divine and most necessary art of writing and managing my own + language.” With this stock in trade, he set about turning his Filippo and + his Polinice, which he wrote first in French prose, into Italian verse, + making at the same time a careful study of the Italian poets. It was at + this period that the poet Ossian was introduced to mankind by the + ingenious and self-sacrificing Mr. Macpherson, and Cesarotti's translation + of him came into Alfieri's hands. These blank verses were the first that + really pleased him; with a little modification he thought they would be an + excellent model for the verse of dialogue. + </p> + <p> + He had now refused himself the pleasure of reading French, and he had + nowhere to turn for tragic literature but to the classics, which he read + in literal versions while he renewed his faded Latin with the help of a + teacher. But he believed that his originality as a tragic author suffered + from his reading, and he determined to read no more tragedies till he had + made his own. For this reason he had already given up Shakespeare. “The + more that author accorded with my humor (though I very well perceived all + his defects), the more I was resolved to abstain,” he tells us. + </p> + <p> + This was during a literary sojourn in Tuscany, whither he had gone to + accustom himself “to speak, hear, think, and dream in Tuscan, and not + otherwise evermore.” Here he versified his first two tragedies, and + sketched others; and here, he says, “I deluged my brain with the verses of + Petrarch, of Dante, of Tasso, and of Ariosto, convinced that the day would + infallibly come in which all these forms, phrases, and words of others + would return from its cells, blended and identified with my own ideas and + emotions.” + </p> + <p> + He had now indeed entered with all the fury of his nature into the + business of making tragedies, which he did very much as if he had been + making love. He abandoned everything else for it—country, home, + money, friends; for having decided to live henceforth only in Tuscany, and + hating to ask that royal permission to remain abroad, without which, + annually renewed, the Piedmontese noble of that day could not reside out + of his own country, he gave up his estates at Asti to his sister, keeping + for himself a pension that came only to about half his former income. The + king of Piedmont was very well, as kings went in that day; and he did + nothing to hinder the poet's expatriation. The long period of study and + production which followed Alfieri spent chiefly at Florence, but partly + also at Rome and Naples. During this time he wrote and printed most of his + tragedies; and he formed that relation, common enough in the best society + of the eighteenth century, with the Countess of Albany, which continued as + long as he lived. The countess's husband was the Pretender Charles Edward, + the last of the English Stuarts, who, like all his house, abetted his own + evil destiny, and was then drinking himself to death. There were + difficulties in the way of her living with Alfieri which would not perhaps + have beset a less exalted lady, and which required an especial grace on + the part of the Pope. But this the Pope refused ever to bestow, even after + being much prayed; and when her husband was dead, she and Alfieri were + privately married, or were not married; the fact is still in dispute. + Their house became a center of fashionable and intellectual society in + Florence, and to be received in it was the best that could happen to any + one. The relation seems to have been a sufficiently happy one; neither was + painfully scrupulous in observing its ties, and after Alfieri's death the + countess gave to the painter Fabre “a heart which,” says Massimo d'Azeglio + in his Memoirs, “according to the usage of the time, and especially of + high society, felt the invincible necessity of keeping itself in continual + exercise.” A cynical little story of Alfieri reading one of his tragedies + in company, while Fabre stood behind him making eyes at the countess, and + from time to time kissing her ring on his finger, was told to D'Azeglio by + an aunt of his who witnessed the scene. + </p> + <p> + In 1787 the poet went to France to oversee the printing of a complete + edition of his works, and five years later he found himself in Paris when + the Revolution was at its height. The countess was with him, and, after + great trouble, he got passports for both, and hurried to the city barrier. + The National Guards stationed there would have let them pass, but a party + of drunken patriots coming up had their worst fears aroused by the sight + of two carriages with sober and decent people in them, and heavily laden + with baggage. While they parleyed whether they had better stone the + equipages, or set fire to them, Alfieri leaped out, and a scene ensued + which placed him in a very characteristic light, and which enables us to + see him as it were in person. When the patriots had read the passports, he + seized them, and, as he says, “full of disgust and rage, and not knowing + at the moment, or in my passion despising the immense peril that attended + us, I thrice shook my passport in my hand, and shouted at the top of my + voice, 'Look! Listen! Alfieri is my name; Italian and not French; tall, + lean, pale, red hair; I am he; look at me: I have my passport, and I have + had it legitimately from those who could give it; we wish to pass, and, by + Heaven, we <i>will</i> pass!'” + </p> + <p> + They passed, and two days later the authorities that had approved their + passports confiscated the horses, furniture, and books that Alfieri had + left behind him in Paris, and declared him and the countess—both + foreigners—to be refugee aristocrats! + </p> + <p> + He established himself again in Florence, where, in his forty-sixth year, + he took up the study of Greek, and made himself master of that literature, + though, till then, he had scarcely known the Greek alphabet. The chief + fruit of this study was a tragedy in the manner of Euripides, which he + wrote in secret, and which he read to a company so polite that they + thought it really was Euripides during the whole of the first two acts. + </p> + <p> + Alfieri's remaining years were spent in study and the revision of his + works, to the number of which he added six comedies in 1800. The presence + and domination of the detested French in Florence embittered his life + somewhat; but if they had not been there he could never have had the + pleasure of refusing to see the French commandant, who had a taste for + literary people if not for literature, and would fain have paid his + respects to the poet. He must also have found consolation in the thought + that if the French had become masters of Europe, many kings had been + dethroned, and every tyrant who wore a crown was in a very pitiable state + of terror or disaster. + </p> + <p> + Nothing in Alfieri's life was more like him than his death, of which the + Abbate di Caluso gives a full account in his conclusion of the poet's + biography. His malady was gout, and amidst its tortures he still labored + at the comedies he was then writing. He was impatient at being kept + in-doors, and when they added plasters on the feet to the irksomeness of + his confinement, he tore away the bandages that prevented him from walking + about his room. He would not go to bed, and they gave him opiates to ease + his anguish; under their influence his mind was molested by many memories + of things long past. “The studies and labors of thirty years,” says the + Abbate, “recurred to him, and what was yet more wonderful, he repeated in + order, from memory, a good number of Greek verses from the beginning of + Hesiod, which he had read but once. These he said over to the Signora + Contessa, who sat by his side, but it does not appear, for all this, that + there ever came to him the thought that death, which he had been for a + long time used to imagine near, was then imminent. It is certain at least + that he made no sign to the contessa though she did not leave him till + morning. About six o'clock he took oil and magnesia without the + physician's advice, and near eight he was observed to be in great danger, + and the Signora Contessa, being called, found him in agonies that took + away his breath. Nevertheless, he rose from his chair, and going to the + bed, leaned upon it, and presently the day was darkened to him, his eyes + closed and he expired. The duties and consolations of religion were not + forgotten, but the evil was not thought so near, nor haste necessary, and + so the confessor who was called did not come in time.” D'Azeglio relates + that the confessor arrived at the supreme moment, and saw the poet bow his + head: “He thought it was a salutation, but it was the death of Vittorio + Alfieri.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + I once fancied that a parallel between Alfieri and Byron might be drawn, + but their disparities are greater than their resemblances, on the whole. + Both, however, were born noble, both lived in voluntary exile, both + imagined themselves friends and admirers of liberty, both had violent + natures, and both indulged the curious hypocrisy of desiring to seem worse + than they were, and of trying to make out a shocking case for themselves + when they could. They were men who hardly outgrew their boyishness. + Alfieri, indeed, had to struggle against so many defects of training that + he could not have reached maturity in the longest life; and he was ruled + by passions and ideals; he hated with equal noisiness the tyrants of + Europe and the Frenchmen who dethroned them. + </p> + <p> + When he left the life of a dissolute young noble for that of tragic + authorship, he seized upon such histories and fables as would give the + freest course to a harsh, narrow, gloomy, vindictive, and declamatory + nature; and his dramas reproduce the terrible fatalistic traditions of the + Greeks, the stories of Oedipus, Myrrha, Alcestis, Clytemnestra, Orestes, + and such passages of Roman history as those relating to the Brutuses and + to Virginia. In modern history he has taken such characters and events as + those of Philip II., Mary Stuart, Don Garzia, and the Conspiracy of the + Pazzi. Two of his tragedies are from the Bible, the Abel and the Saul; + one, the Rosmunda, from Longobardic history. And these themes, varying so + vastly as to the times, races, and religions with which they originated, + are all treated in the same spirit—the spirit Alfieri believed + Greek. Their interest comes from the situation and the action; of + character, as we have it in the romantic drama, and supremely in + Shakespeare, there is scarcely anything; and the language is shorn of all + metaphor and picturesque expression. Of course their form is wholly unlike + that of the romantic drama; Alfieri holds fast by the famous unities as + the chief and saving grace of tragedy. All his actions take place within + twenty-four hours; there is no change of scene, and so far as he can + master that most obstinate unity, the unity of action, each piece is + furnished with a tangible beginning, middle, and ending. The wide + stretches of time which the old Spanish and English and all modern dramas + cover, and their frequent transitions from place to place, were impossible + and abhorrent to him. + </p> + <p> + Emiliani-Giudici, the Italian critic, writing about the middle of our + century, declares that when the fiery love of freedom shall have purged + Italy, the Alfierian drama will be the only representation worthy of a + great and free people. This critic holds that Alfieri's tragical ideal was + of such a simplicity that it would seem derived regularly from the Greek, + but for the fact that when he felt irresistibly moved to write tragedy, he + probably did not know even the names of the Greek dramatists, and could + not have known the structure of their dramas by indirect means, having + read then only some Metastasian plays of the French school; so that he + created that ideal of his by pure, instinctive force of genius. With him, + as with the Greeks, art arose spontaneously; he felt the form of Greek art + by inspiration. He believed from the very first that the dramatic poet + should assume to render the spectators unconscious of theatrical artifice, + and make them take part with the actors; and he banished from the scene + everything that could diminish their illusion; he would not mar the + intensity of the effect by changing the action from place to place, or by + compressing within the brief time of the representation the events of + months and years. To achieve the unity of action, he dispensed with all + those parts which did not seem to him the most principal, and he studied + how to show the subject of the drama in the clearest light. In all this he + went to the extreme, but he so wrought “that the print of his cothurnus + stamped upon the field of art should remain forever singular and + inimitable. Reading his tragedies in order, from the Cleopatra to the + Saul, you see how he never changed his tragic ideal, but discerned it more + and more distinctly until he fully realized it. Aeschylus and Alfieri are + two links that unite the chain in a circle. In Alfieri art once more + achieved the faultless purity of its proper character; Greek tragedy + reached the same height in the Italian's Saul that it touched in the + Greek's Prometheus, two dramas which are perhaps the most gigantic + creations of any literature.” Emiliani-Giudici thinks that the literary + ineducation of Alfieri was the principal exterior cause of this prodigious + development, that a more regular course of study would have restrained his + creative genius, and, while smoothing the way before it, would have + subjected it to methods and robbed it of originality of feeling and + conception. “Tragedy, born sublime, terrible, vigorous, heroic, the life + of liberty, ... was, as it were, redeemed by Vittorio Alfieri, reassumed + the masculine, athletic forms of its original existence, and recommenced + the exercise of its lost ministry.” + </p> + <p> + I do not begin to think this is all true. Alfieri himself owns his + acquaintance with the French theater before the time when he began to + write, and we must believe that he got at least some of his ideas of + Athens from Paris, though he liked the Frenchmen none the better for his + obligation to them. A less mechanical conception of the Greek idea than + his would have prevented its application to historical subjects. In + Alfieri's Brutus the First, a far greater stretch of imagination is + required from the spectator in order to preserve the unities of time and + place than the most capricious changes of scene would have asked. The + scene is always in the forum in Rome; the action occurs within twenty-four + hours. During this limited time, we see the body of Lucretia borne along + in the distance; Brutus harangues the people with the bloody dagger in his + hand. The emissaries of Tarquin arrive and organize a conspiracy against + the new republic; the sons of Brutus are found in the plot, and are + convicted and put to death. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + But such incongruities as these do not affect us in the tragedies based on + the heroic fables; here the poet takes, without offense, any liberty he + likes with time and place; the whole affair is in his hands, to do what he + will, so long as he respects the internal harmony of his own work. For + this reason, I think, we find Alfieri at his best in these tragedies, + among which I have liked the Orestes best, as giving the widest range of + feeling with the greatest vigor of action. The Agamemnon, which precedes + it, and which ought to be read first, closes with its most powerful scene. + Agamemnon has returned from Troy to Argos with his captive Cassandra, and + Aegisthus has persuaded Clytemnestra that her husband intends to raise + Cassandra to the throne. She kills him and reigns with Aegisthus, Electra + concealing Orestes on the night of the murder, and sending him secretly + away with Strophius, king of Phocis. + </p> + <p> + In the last scene, as Clytemnestra steals through the darkness to her + husband's chamber, she soliloquizes, with the dagger in her hand: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is the hour; and sunk in slumber now + Lies Agamemnon. Shall he nevermore + Open his eyes to the fair light? My hand, + Once pledge to him of stainless love and faith, + Is it to be the minister of his death? + Did I swear that? Ay, that; and I must keep + My oath. Quick, let me go! My foot, heart, hand— + All over I tremble. Oh, what did I promise? + Wretch! what do I attempt? How all my courage + Hath vanished from me since Aegisthus vanished! + I only see the immense atrocity + Of this, my horrible deed; I only see + The bloody specter of Atrides! Ah, + In vain do I accuse thee! No, thou lovest + Cassandra not. Me, only me, thou lovest, + Unworthy of thy love. Thou hast no blame, + Save that thou art my husband, in the world! + Of trustful sleep, to death's arms by my hand? + And where then shall I hide me? O perfidy! + Can I e'er hope for peace? O woful life— + Life of remorse, of madness, and of tears! + How shall Aegisthus, even Aegisthus, dare + To rest beside the parricidal wife + Upon her murder-stained marriage-bed, + Nor tremble for himself? Away, away,— + Hence, horrible instrument of all my guilt + And harm, thou execrable dagger, hence! + I'll lose at once my lover and my life, + But never by this hand betrayed shall fall + So great a hero! Live, honor of Greece + And Asia's terror! Live to glory, live + To thy dear children, and a better wife! + —But what are these hushed steps? Into these rooms + Who is it comes by night? Aegisthus?—Lost, + I am lost! + + <i>Aegisthus.</i> Hast thou not done the deed? + + <i>Cly.</i> Aegisthus—— + + <i>Aeg.</i> What, stand'st thou here, wasting thyself in + tears? + Woman, untimely are thy tears; 't is late, + 'T is vain, and it may cost us dear! + + <i>Cly.</i> Thou here? + But how—woe's me, what did I promise thee! + What wicked counsel— + + <i>Aeg.</i> Was it not thy counsel? + Love gave it thee and fear annuls it—well! + Since thou repentest, I am glad; and glad + To know thee guiltless shall I be in death. + I told thee that the enterprise was hard, + But thou, unduly trusting in the heart, + That hath not a man's courage in it, chose + Thyself thy feeble hands to strike the blow. + Now may Heaven grant that the intent of evil + Turn not to harm thee! Hither I by stealth + And favor of the darkness have returned + Unseen, I hope. For I perforce must come + Myself to tell thee that irrevocably + My life is dedicated to the vengeance + Of Agamemnon. +</pre> + <p> + He appeals to her pity for him, and her fear for herself; he reminds her + of Agamemnon's consent to the sacrifice of Iphigenia, and goads her on to + the crime from which she had recoiled. She goes into Agamemnon's chamber, + whence his dying outcries are heard:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O treachery! + Thou, wife? O headens, I die! O treachery! +</pre> + <p> + Clytemnestra comes out with the dagger in her hand: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The dagger drips with blood; my hands, my robe, + My face—they all are wet with blood. What vengeance + Shall yet be taken for this blood? Already + I see this very steel turned on my breast, + And by whose hand! +</pre> + <p> + The son whom she forebodes as the avenger of Agamemnon's death passes his + childhood and early youth at the court of Strophius in Phocis. The tragedy + named for him opens with Electra's soliloquy as she goes to weep at the + tomb of their father:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Night, gloomy, horrible, atrocious night, + Forever present to my thought! each year + For now two lusters I have seen thee come, + Clothed on with darkness and with dreams of blood, + And blood that should have expiated thine + Is not yet spilt! O memory, O sight! + Upon these stones I saw thee murdered lie, + Murdered, and by whose hand!... + I swear to thee, + If I in Argos, in thy palace live, + Slave of Aegisthus, with my wicked mother, + Nothing makes me endure a life like this + Saving the hope of vengeance. Far away + Orestes is; but living! I saved thee, brother; + I keep myself for thee, till the day rise + When thou shalt make to stream upon yon tomb + Not helpless tears like these, but our foe's blood. +</pre> + <p> + While Electra fiercely muses, Clytemnestra enters, with the appeal: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Cly.</i> Daughter! + + <i>El.</i> What voice! Oh Heaven, thou here? + + <i>Cly.</i> My daughter, + Ah, do not fly me! Thy pious task I fain + Would share with thee. Aegisthus in vain forbids, + He shall not know. Ah, come! go we together + Unto the tomb. + + <i>El.</i> Whose tomb? + + <i>Cly.</i> Thy—hapless—father's. + + <i>El.</i> Wherefore not say thy husband's tomb? 'T is well: + Thou darest not speak it. But how dost thou dare + Turn thitherward thy steps—thou that dost reek + Yet with his blood? + + <i>Cly.</i> Two lusters now are passed + Since that dread day, and two whole lusters now + I weep my crime. + + <i>El.</i> And what time were enough + For that? Ah, if thy tears should be eternal, + They yet were nothing. Look! Seest thou not still + The blood upon these horrid walls the blood + That thou didst splash them with? And at thy presence + Lo, how it reddens and grows quick again! + Fly, thou, whom I must never more call mother! + + * * * * + + <i>Cly.</i> Oh, woe is me! What can I answer? Pity— + But I merit none!—And yet if in my heart, + Daughter, thou couldst but read—ah, who could look + Into the secret of a heart like mine, + Contaminated with such infamy, + And not abhor me? I blame not thy wrath, + No, nor thy hate. On earth I feel already + The guilty pangs of hell. Scarce had the blow + Escaped my hand before a swift remorse, + Swift but too late, fell terrible upon me. + From that hour still the sanguinary ghost + By day and night, and ever horrible, + Hath moved before mine eyes. Whene'er I turn + I see its bleeding footsteps trace the path + That I must follow; at table, on the throne, + It sits beside me; on my bitter pillow + If e'er it chance I close mine eyes in sleep, + The specter—fatal vision!—instantly + Shows itself in my dreams, and tears the breast, + Already mangled, with a furious hand, + And thence draws both its palms full of dark blood, + To dash it in my face! On dreadful nights + Follow more dreadful days. In a long death + I live my life. Daughter,—whate'er I am, + Thou art my daughter still,—dost thou not weep + At tears like mine? +</pre> + <p> + Clytemnestra confesses that Aegisthus no longer loves her, but she loves + him, and she shrinks from Electra's fierce counsel that she shall kill + him. He enters to find her in tears, and a violent scene between him and + Electra follows, in which Clytemnestra interposes. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Cly.</i> O daughter, he is my husband. Think, Aegisthus, + She is my daughter. + <i>Aeg.</i> She is Atrides' daughter! + + <i>El.</i> He is Atrides' murderer! + + <i>Cly.</i> Electra! + Have pity, Aegisthus! Look—the tomb! Oh, look, + The horrible tomb!—and art thou not content? + + <i>Aeg.</i> Woman, be less unlike thyself. Atrides,— + Tell me by whose hand in yon tomb he lies? + + <i>Cly.</i> O mortal blame! What else is lacking now + To my unhappy, miserable life? + Who drove me to it now upbraids my crime! + + <i>El.</i> O marvelous joy! O only joy that's blessed + My heart in these ten years! I see you both + At last the prey of anger and remorse; + I hear at last what must the endearments be + Of love so blood-stained. +</pre> + <p> + The first act closes with a scene between Aegisthus and Clytemnestra, in + which he urges her to consent that he shall send to have Orestes murdered, + and reminds her of her former crimes when she revolts from this. The scene + is very well managed, with that sparing phrase which in Alfieri is quite + as apt to be touchingly simple as bare and poor. In the opening scene of + the second act, Orestes has returned in disguise to Argos with Pylades the + son of Strophius, to whom he speaks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We are come at last. Here Agamemnon fell, + Murdered, and here Aegisthus reigns. Here rose + In memory still, though I a child departed, + These natal walls, and the just Heaven in time + Leads me back hither. + + Twice five years have passed + This very day since that dread night of blood, + When, slain by treachery, my father made + The whole wide palace with his dolorous cries + Echo again. Oh, well do I remember! + Electra swiftly bore me through this hall + Thither where Strophius in his pitying arms + Received me—Strophius, less by far thy father + Than mine, thereafter—and fled onward with me + By yonder postern-gate, all tremulous; + And after me there ran upon the air + Long a wild clamor and a lamentation + That made me weep and shudder and lament, + I knew not why, and weeping Strophius ran, + Preventing with his hand my outcries shrill, + Clasping me close, and sprinkling all my face + With bitter tears; and to the lonely coast, + Where only now we landed, with his charge + He came apace; and eagerly unfurled + His sails before the wind. +</pre> + <p> + Pylades strives to restrain the passion for revenge in Orestes, which + imperils them both. The friend proposes that they shall feign themselves + messengers sent by Strophius with tidings of Orestes' death, and Orestes + has reluctantly consented, when Electra re-appears, and they recognize + each other. Pylades discloses their plan, and when her brother urges, “The + means is vile,” she answers, all woman,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Less vile than is Aegisthus. There is none + Better or surer, none, believe me. When + You are led to him, let it be mine to think + Of all—the place, the manner, time, and arms, + To kill him. Still I keep, Orestes, still + I keep the steel that in her husband's breast + She plunged whom nevermore we might call mother. + + <i>Orestes.</i> How fares it with that impious woman? + + <i>Electra.</i> Ah, + Thou canst not know how she drags out her life! + Save only Agamemnon's children, all + Must pity her—and even we must pity. + Full ever of suspicion and of terror, + And held in scorn even by Aegisthus' self, + Loving Aegisthus though she know his guilt; + Repentant, and yet ready to renew + Her crime, perchance, if the unworthy love + Which is her shame and her abhorrence, would; + Now wife, now mother, never wife nor mother, + Bitter remorse gnaws at her heart by day + Unceasingly, and horrible shapes by night + Scare slumber from her eyes.—So fares it with her. +</pre> + <p> + In the third scene of the following act Clytemnestra meets Orestes and + Pylades, who announce themselves as messengers from Phocis to the king; + she bids them deliver their tidings to her, and they finally do so, + Pylades struggling to prevent Orestes from revealing himself. There are + touchingly simple and natural passages in the lament that Clytemnestra + breaks into over her son's death, and there is fire, with its true natural + extinction in tears, when she upbraids Aegisthus, who now enters: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My only son beloved, I gave thee all. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All that I gave thou did'st account as nothing + While aught remained to take. Who ever saw + At once so cruel and so false a heart? + The guilty love that thou did'st feign so ill + And I believed so well, what hindrance to it, + What hindrance, tell me, was the child Orestes? + Yet scarce had Agamemnon died before + Thou did'st cry out for his son's blood; and searched + Through all the palace in thy fury. Then + The blade thou durst not wield against the father, + Then thou didst brandish! Ay, bold wast thou then + Against a helpless child!... + Unhappy son, what booted it to save thee + From thy sire's murderer, since thou hast found + Death ere thy time in strange lands far away? + Aegisthus, villainous usurper! Thou, + Thou hast slain my son! Aegisthus—Oh forgive! + I was a mother, and am so no more. +</pre> + <p> + Throughout this scene, and in the soliloquy preceding it, Alfieri paints + very forcibly the struggle in Clytemnestra between her love for her son + and her love for Aegisthus, to whom she clings even while he exults in the + tidings that wring her heart. It is all too baldly presented, doubtless, + but it is very effective and affecting. + </p> + <p> + Orestes and Pylades are now brought before Aegisthus, and he demands how + and where Orestes died, for after his first rejoicing he has come to doubt + the fact. Pylades responds in one of those speeches with which Alfieri + seems to carve the scene in bas-relief: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Every fifth year an ancient use renews + In Crete the games and offerings unto Jove. + The love of glory and innate ambition + Lure to that coast the youth; and by his side + Goes Pylades, inseparable from him. + In the light car upon the arena wide, + The hopes of triumph urge him to contest + The proud palm of the flying-footed steeds, + And, too intent on winning, there his life + He gives for victory. + + <i>Aeg.</i> But how? Say on. + + <i>Pyl.</i> Too fierce, impatient, and incautious, he + Now frights his horses on with threatening cries, + Now whirls his blood-stained whip, and lashes them, + Till past the goal the ill-tamed coursers fly + Faster and faster. Reckless of the rein, + Deaf to the voice that fain would soothe them now, + Their nostrils breathing fire, their loose manes tossed + Upon the wind, and in thick clouds involved + Of choking dust, round the vast circle's bound, + As lightning swift they whirl and whirl again. + Fright, horror, mad confusion, death, the car + Spreads in its crooked circles everywhere, + Until at last, the smoking axle dashed + With horrible shock against a marble pillar, + Orestes headlong falls— + + <i>Cly.</i> No more! Ah, peace! + His mother hears thee. + + <i>Pyl.</i> It is true. Forgive me. + I will not tell how, horribly dragged on, + His streaming life-blood soaked the arena's dust— + Pylades ran—in vain—within his arms + His friend expired. + + <i>Cly.</i> O wicked death! + + <i>Pyl.</i> In Crete + All men lamented him, so potent in him + Were beauty, grace, and daring. + + <i>Cly.</i> Nay, who would not + Lament him save this wretch alone? Dear son, + Must I then never, never see thee more? + O me! too well I see thee crossing now + The Stygian stream to clasp thy father's shade: + Both turn your frowning eyes askance on me, + Burning with dreadful wrath! Yea, it was I, + 'T was I that slew you both. Infamous mother + And guilty wife!—Now art content, Aegisthus? +</pre> + <p> + Aegisthus still doubts, and pursues the pretended messengers with such + insulting question that Orestes, goaded beyond endurance, betrays that + their character is assumed. They are seized and about to be led to prison + in chains, when Electra enters and in her anguish at the sight exclaims, + “Orestes led to die!” Then ensues a heroic scene, in which each of the + friends claims to be Orestes. At last Orestes shows the dagger Electra has + given him, and offers it to Clytemnestra, that she may stab Aegisthus with + the same weapon with which she killed Agamemnon: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whom then I would call mother. Take it; thou know'st how + To wield it; plunge it in Aegisthus' heart! + Leave me to die; I care not, if I see + My father avenged. I ask no other proof + Of thy maternal love from thee. Quick, now, + Strike! Oh, what is it that I see? Thou tremblest? + Thou growest pale? Thou weepest? From thy hand + The dagger falls? Thou lov'st Aegisthus, lov'st him + And art Orestes' mother? Madness! Go + And never let me look on thee again! +</pre> + <p> + Aegisthus dooms Electra to the same death with Orestes and Pylades, but on + the way to prison the guards liberate them all, and the Argives rise + against the usurper with the beginning of the fifth act, which I shall + give entire, because I think it very characteristic of Alfieri, and + necessary to a conception of his vehement, if somewhat arid, genius. I + translate as heretofore almost line for line, and word for word, keeping + the Italian order as nearly as I can. + </p> + <h3> + SCENE I. + </h3> + <p> + AEGISTHUS <i>and Soldiers.</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Aeg.</i> O treachery unforseen! O madness! Freed, + Orestes freed? Now we shall see.... + + <i>Enter</i> CLYTEMNESTRA. + + <i>Cly.</i> Ah! turn + Backward thy steps. + + <i>Aeg.</i> Ah, wretch, dost thou arm too + Against me? + + <i>Cly.</i> I would save thee. Hearken to me, + I am no longer— + + <i>Aeg.</i> Traitress— + + <i>Cly.</i> Stay! + + <i>Aeg.</i> Thou 'st promised + Haply to give me to that wretch alive? + + <i>Cly.</i> To keep thee, save thee from him, I have sworn, + Though I should perish for thee! Ah, remain + And hide thee here in safety. I will be + Thy stay against his fury— + + <i>Aeg.</i> Against his fury + My sword shall be my stay. Go, leave me! + I go— + + <i>Cly.</i> Whither? + + <i>Aeg.</i> To kill him! + + <i>Cly.</i> To thy death thou goest! + O me! What dost thou? Hark! Dost thou not hear + The yells and threats of the whole people? Hold! + I will not leave thee. + + <i>Aeg.</i> Nay, thou hop'st in vain + To save thy impious son from death. Hence! Peace! + Or I will else— + + <i>Cly.</i> Oh, yes, Aegisthus, kill me, + If thou believest me not. “Orestes!” Hark! + “Orestes!” How that terrible name on high + Rings everywhere! I am no longer mother + When thou 'rt in danger. Against my blood I grow + Cruel once more. + + <i>Aeg.</i> Thou knowest well the Argives + Do hate thy face, and at the sight of thee + The fury were redoubled in their hearts. + The tumult rises. Ah, thou wicked wretch, + Thou wast the cause! For thee did I delay + Vengeance that turns on me now. + + <i>Cly.</i> Kill me, then! + + <i>Aeg.</i> I'll find escape some other way. + + <i>Cly.</i> I follow— + + <i>Aeg.</i> Ill shield wert thou for me. Leave me—away, away! + At no price would I have thee by my side! {<i>Exit.</i> + + <i>Cly.</i> All hunt me from them! O most hapless state! + My son no longer owns me for his mother, + My husband for his wife: and wife and mother + I still must be! O misery! Afar + I'll follow him, nor lose the way he went. + + <i>Enter</i> ELECTRA. + + <i>El.</i> Mother, where goest thou! Turn thy steps again + Into the palace. Danger— + + <i>Cly.</i> Orestes—speak! + Where is he now? What does he do? + + <i>El.</i> Orestes, + Pylades, and myself, we are all safe. + Even Aegisthus' minions pitied us. + They cried, “This is Orestes!” and the people, + “Long live Orestes! Let Aegisthus die!” + + <i>Cly.</i> What do I hear? + + <i>El.</i> Calm thyself, mother; soon + Thou shalt behold thy son again, and soon + Th' infamous tyrant's corse— + + <i>Cly.</i> Ah, cruel, leave me! + I go— + + <i>El.</i> No, stay! The people rage, and cry + Out on thee for a parricidal wife. + Show thyself not as yet, or thou incurrest + Great peril. 'T was for this I came. In thee + A mother's agony appeared, to see + Thy children dragged to death, and thou hast now + Atoned for thy misdeed. My brother sends me + To comfort thee, to succor and to hide thee + From dreadful sights. To find Aegisthus out, + All armed meanwhile, he and his Pylades + Search everywhere. Where is the wicked wretch? + + <i>Cly.</i> Orestes is the wicked wretch! + + <i>El</i>. O Heaven! + + <i>Cly.</i> I go to save him or to perish with him. + + <i>El.</i> Nay, mother, thou shalt never go. Thou ravest— + + <i>Cly.</i> The penalty is mine. I go— + + <i>El.</i> O mother! + The monster that but now thy children doomed + To death, wouldst thou— + + <i>Cly.</i> Yes, I would save him—I! + Out of my path! My terrible destiny + I must obey. He is my husband. All + Too dear he cost me. I will not, can not lose him. + You I abhor, traitors, not children to me! + I go to him. Loose me, thou wicked girl! + At any risk I go, and may I only + Reach him in time! {<i>Exit.</i> + + <i>El</i>. Go to thy fate, then, go, + If thou wilt so, but be thy steps too late! + Why can not I, too, arm me with a dagger, + To pierce with stabs a thousand-fold the breast + Of infamous Aegisthus! O blind mother, oh, + How art thou fettered to his baseness! Yet, + And yet, I tremble—If the angry mob + Avenge their murdered king on her—O Heaven! + Let me go after her—But who comes here? + Pylades, and my brother not beside him? + + <i>Enter</i> PYLADES. + + Oh, tell me! Orestes—? + + <i>Pyl.</i> Compasses the palace + About with swords. And now our prey is safe. + Where lurks Aegisthus! Hast thou seen him? + + <i>El.</i> Nay, + I saw and strove in vain a moment since + To stay his maddened wife. She flung herself + Out of this door, crying that she would make + Herself a shield unto Aegisthus. He + Already had fled the palace. + + <i>Pyl.</i> Durst he then + Show himself in the sight of Argos? Why, + Then he is slain ere this! Happy the man + That struck him first. Nearer and louder yet + I hear their yells. + + <i>El.</i> “Orestes!” Ah, were't so! + + <i>Pyl.</i> Look at him in his fury where he comes! + + <i>Enter</i> ORESTES <i>and his followers</i>. + + <i>Or.</i> No man of you attempt to slay Aegisthus: + There is no wounding sword here save my own. + Aegisthus, ho! Where art thou, coward! Speak! + Aegisthus, where art thou? Come forth: it is + The voice of Death that calls thee! Thou comest not? + Ah, villain, dost thou hide thyself? In vain: + The midmost deep of Erebus should not hide thee! + Thou shalt soon see if I be Atrides' son. + <i>El.</i> He is not here; he— + + <i>Or.</i> Traitors! You perchance + Have slain him without me? + + <i>Pyl.</i> Before I came + He had fled the palace. + + <i>Or.</i> In the palace still + Somewhere he lurks; but I will drag him forth; + By his soft locks I'll drag him with my hand: + There is no prayer, nor god, nor force of hell + Shall snatch thee from me. I will make thee plow + The dust with thy vile body to the tomb + Of Agamemnon,—I will drag thee thither + And pour out there all thine adulterous blood. + + <i>El.</i> Orestes, dost thou not believe me?—me! + + <i>Or.</i> Who'rt thou? I want Aegisthus. + + <i>El.</i> He is fled. + + <i>Or.</i> He's fled, and you, ye wretches, linger here? + But I will find him. + + <i>Enter</i> CLYTEMNESTRA. + + <i>Cly.</i> Oh, have pity, son! + + <i>Or.</i> Pity? Whose son am I? Atrides' son + Am I. + + <i>Cly.</i> Aegisthus, loaded with chains— + + <i>Or.</i> He lives yet? + O joy! Let me go slay him! + + <i>Cly.</i> Nay, kill me! + I slew thy father—I alone. Aegisthus + Had no guilt in it. + + <i>Or.</i> Who, who grips my arm! + Who holds me back? O Madness! Ah Aegisthus! + I see him; they drag him hither—Off with thee! + + <i>Cly.</i> Orestes, dost thou not know thy mother? + + <i>Or.</i> Die, + Aegisthus! By Orestes' hand, die, villain! {<i>Exit.</i> + + <i>Cly.</i> Ah, thou'st escaped me! Thou shalt slay me + first! {<i>Exit</i>. + + <i>El.</i> Pylades, go! Run, run! Oh, stay her! fly; + Bring her back hither! {<i>Exit</i> PYLADES. + I shudder! She is still + His mother, and he must have pity on her. + Yet only now she saw her children stand + Upon the brink of an ignoble death; + And was her sorrow and her daring then + As great as they are now for him? At last + The day so long desired has come; at last, + Tyrant, thou diest; and once more I hear + The palace all resound with wails and cries, + As on that horrible and bloody night, + Which was my father's last, I heard it ring. + Already hath Orestes struck the blow, + The mighty blow; already is Aegisthus + Fallen—the tumult of the crowd proclaims it. + Behold Orestes conqueror, his sword + Dripping with blood! + + <i>Enter</i> ORESTES. + + O brother mine, come, + Avenger of the king of kings, our father, + Argos, and me, come to my heart! + + <i>Or.</i> Sister, + At last thou seest me Atrides' worthy son. + Look,'t is Aegisthus' blood! I hardly saw him + And ran to slay him where he stood, forgetting + To drag him to our father's sepulcher. + Full twice seven times I plunged and plunged my sword + Into his cowardly and quaking heart; + Yet have I slaked not my long thirst of vengeance! + + <i>El</i>. Then Clytemnestra did not come in time + To stay thine arm? + + <i>Or.</i> And who had been enough + For that? To stay my arm? I hurled myself + Upon him; not more swift the thunderbolt. + The coward wept, and those vile tears the more + Filled me with hate. A man that durst not die + Slew thee, my father! + + <i>El.</i> Now is our sire avenged! + Calm thyself now, and tell me, did thine eyes + Behold not Pylades? + + <i>Or.</i> I saw Aegisthus; + None other. Where is dear Pylades? And why + Did he not second me in this glorious deed? + + <i>El.</i> I had confided to his care our mad + And desperate mother. + + <i>Or.</i> I knew nothing of them. + + <i>Enter</i> PYLADES. + + <i>El.</i> See, Pylades returns—O heavens, what do I see? + Returns alone? + + <i>Or.</i> And sad? Oh wherefore sad, + Part of myself, art thou? Know'st not I've slain + Yon villain? Look, how with his life-blood yet + My sword is dripping! Ah, thou did'st not share + His death-blow with me! Feed then on this sight + Thine eyes, my Pylades! + + <i>Pyl.</i> O sight! Orestes, + Give me that sword. + + <i>Or.</i> And wherefore? + + <i>Pyl.</i> Give it me. + + <i>Or.</i> Take it. + + <i>Pyl.</i> Oh listen! We may not tarry longer + Within these borders; come— + + <i>Or.</i> But what— + + <i>El</i>. Oh speak! + Where's Clytemnestra? + <i>Or.</i> Leave her; she is perchance + Kindling the pyre unto her traitor husband. + + <i>Pyl.</i> Oh, thou hast far more than fulfilled thy vengeance. + Come, now, and ask no more. + + <i>Or.</i> What dost thou say? + + <i>El.</i> Our mother! I beseech thee yet again! + Pylades—Oh what chill is this that creeps + Through all my veins? + + <i>Pyl.</i> The heavens— + + <i>El.</i> Ah, she is dead! + + <i>Or.</i> Hath turned her dagger, maddened, on herself? + + <i>El.</i> Alas, Pylades! Why dost thou not answer? + + <i>Or.</i>. Speak! What hath been? + + <i>Pyl.</i> Slain— + + <i>Or.</i> And by whose hand? + + <i>Pyl.</i> Come! + + <i>El.</i> (<i>To</i> ORESTES.) Thou slewest her! + + <i>Or.</i> I parricide? + + <i>Pyl.</i> Unknowing + Thou plungèdst in her heart thy sword, as blind + With rage thou rannest on Aegisthus— + + <i>Or.</i> Oh, + What horror seizes me! I parricide? + My sword! Pylades, give it me; I'll have it— + + <i>Pyl.</i> It shall not be. + + <i>El.</i> Brother— + + <i>Or.</i> Who calls me brother? + Thou, haply, impious wretch, thou that didst save me + To life and matricide? Give me my sword! + My sword! O fury! Where am I? What is it + That I have done? Who stays me? Who follows me? + Ah, whither shall I fly, where hide myself?— + O father, dost thou look on me askance? + Thou wouldst have blood of me, and this is blood; + For thee alone—for thee alone I shed it! + + <i>El.</i> Orestes, Orestes—miserable brother! + He hears us not! ah, he is mad! Forever, + Pylades, we must go beside him. + + <i>Pyl.</i> Hard, + Inevitable law of ruthless Fate! +</pre> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + Alfieri himself wrote a critical comment on each of his tragedies, + discussing their qualities and the question of their failure or success + dispassionately enough. For example, he frankly says of his Maria Stuarda + that it is the worst tragedy he ever wrote, and the only one that he could + wish not to have written; of his Agamennone, that all the good in it came + from the author and all the bad from the subject; of his Fillippo II., + that it may make a very terrible impression indeed of mingled pity and + horror, or that it may disgust, through the cold atrocity of Philip, even + to the point of nausea. On the Orestes, we may very well consult him more + at length. He declares: “This tragic action has no other motive or + development, nor admits any other passion, than an implacable revenge; but + the passion of revenge (though very strong by nature), having become + greatly enfeebled among civilized peoples, is regarded as a vile passion, + and its effects are wont to be blamed and looked upon with loathing. + Nevertheless, when it is just, when the offense received is very + atrocious, when the persons and the circumstances are such that no human + law can indemnify the aggrieved and punish the aggressor, then revenge, + under the names of war, invasion, conspiracy, the duel, and the like, + ennobles itself, and so works upon our minds as not only to be endured but + to be admirable and sublime.” + </p> + <p> + In his Orestes he confesses that he sees much to praise and very little to + blame: “Orestes, to my thinking, is ardent in sublime degree, and this + daring character of his, together with the perils he confronts, may + greatly diminish in him the atrocity and coldness of a meditated + revenge.... Let those who do not believe in the force of a passion for + high and just revenge add to it, in the heart of Orestes, private + interest, the love of power, rage at beholding his natural heritage + occupied by a murderous usurper, and then they will have a sufficient + reason for all his fury. Let them consider, also, the ferocious ideas in + which he must have been nurtured by Strophius, king of Phocis, the + persecutions which he knows to have been everywhere moved against him by + the usurper,—his being, in fine, the son of Agamemnon, and greatly + priding himself thereon,—and all these things will certainly account + for the vindictive passion of Orestes.... Clytemnestra is very difficult + to treat in this tragedy, since she must be here, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now wife, now mother, never wife nor mother, +</pre> + <p> + “which is much easier to say in a verse than to manage in the space of + five acts. Yet I believe that Clytemnestra, through the terrible remorse + she feels, the vile treatment which she receives from Aegisthus, and the + awful perplexity in which she lives ... will be considered sufficiently + punished by the spectator. Aegisthus is never able to elevate his soul; + ... he will always be an unpleasing, vile, and difficult personage to + manage well; a character that brings small praise to the author when made + sufferable, and much blame if not made so.... I believe the fourth and + fifth acts would produce the highest effect on the stage if well + represented. In the fifth, there is a movement, a brevity, a rapidly + operating heat, that ought to touch, agitate, and singularly surprise the + spirit. So it seems to me, but perhaps it is not so.” + </p> + <p> + This analysis is not only very amusing for the candor with which Alfieri + praises himself, but it is also remarkable for the justice with which the + praise is given, and the strong, conscious hold which it shows him to have + had upon his creations. It leaves one very little to add, but I cannot + help saying that I think the management of Clytemnestra especially + admirable throughout. She loves Aegisthus with the fatal passion which no + scorn or cruelty on his part can quench; but while he is in power and + triumphant, her heart turns tenderly to her hapless children, whom she + abhors as soon as his calamity comes; then she has no thought but to save + him. She can join her children in hating the murder which she has herself + done on Agamemnon, but she cannot avenge it on Aegisthus, and thus expiate + her crime in their eyes. Aegisthus is never able to conceive of the + unselfishness of her love; he believes her ready to betray him when danger + threatens and to shield herself behind him from the anger of the Argives; + it is a deep knowledge of human nature that makes him interpose the memory + of her unatoned-for crime between her and any purpose of good. + </p> + <p> + Orestes always sees his revenge as something sacred, and that is a great + scene in which he offers his dagger to Clytemnestra and bids her kill + Aegisthus with it, believing for the instant that even she must exult to + share his vengeance. His feeling towards Aegisthus never changes; it is + not revolting to the spectator, since Orestes is so absolutely unconscious + of wrong in putting him to death. He shows his blood-stained sword to + Pylades with a real sorrow that his friend should not also have enjoyed + the rapture of killing the usurper. His story of his escape on the night + of Agamemnon's murder is as simple and grand in movement as that of + figures in an antique bas-relief. Here and elsewhere one feels how Alfieri + does not paint, but sculptures his scenes and persons, cuts their outlines + deep, and strongly carves their attitudes and expression. + </p> + <p> + Electra is the worthy sister of Orestes, and the family likeness between + them is sharply traced. She has all his faith in the sacredness of his + purpose, while she has, woman-like, a far keener and more specific hatred + of Aegisthus. The ferocity of her exultation when Clytemnestra and + Aegisthus upbraid each other is terrible, but the picture she draws for + Orestes of their mother's life is touched with an exquisite filial pity. + She seems to me studied with marvelous success. + </p> + <p> + The close of the tragedy is full of fire and life, yet never wanting in a + sort of lofty, austere grace, that lapses at last into a truly statuesque + despair. Orestes mad, with Electra and Pylades on either side: it is the + attitude and gesture of Greek sculpture, a group forever fixed in the + imperishable sorrow of stone. + </p> + <p> + In reading Alfieri, I am always struck with what I may call the narrowness + of his tragedies. They have height and depth, but not breadth. The range + of sentiment is as limited in any one of them as the range of phrase in + this Orestes, where the recurrence of the same epithets, horrible, bloody, + terrible, fatal, awful, is not apparently felt by the poet as monotonous. + Four or five persons, each representing a purpose or a passion, occupy the + scene, and obviously contribute by every word and deed to the advancement + of the tragic action; and this narrowness and rigidity of intent would be + intolerable, if the tragedies were not so brief: I do not think any of + them is much longer than a single act of one of Shakespeare's plays. They + are in all other ways equally unlike Shakespeare's plays. When you read + Macbeth or Hamlet, you find yourself in a world where the interests and + passions are complex and divided against themselves, as they are here and + now. The action progresses fitfully, as events do in life; it is promoted + by the things that seem to retard it; and it includes long stretches of + time and many places. When you read Orestes, you find yourself attendant + upon an imminent calamity, which nothing can avert or delay. In a solitude + like that of dreams, those hapless phantasms, dark types of remorse, of + cruel ambition, of inexorable revenge, move swiftly on the fatal end. They + do not grow or develop on the imagination; their character is stamped at + once, and they have but to act it out. There is no lingering upon + episodes, no digressions, no reliefs. They cannot stir from that spot + where they are doomed to expiate or consummate their crimes; one little + day is given them, and then all is over. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Lowell, in his essay on Dryden, speaks of “a style of poetry whose + great excellence was that it was in perfect sympathy with the genius of + the people among whom it came into being”, and this I conceive to be the + virtue of the Alferian poetry. The Italians love beauty of form, and we + Goths love picturesque effect; and Alfieri has little or none of the kind + of excellence which we enjoy. But while + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I look and own myself a happy Goth, +</pre> + <p> + I have moods, in the presence of his simplicity and severity, when I feel + that he and all the classicists may be right. When I see how much he + achieves with his sparing phrase, his sparsely populated scene, his narrow + plot and angular design, when I find him perfectly sufficient in + expression and entirely adequate in suggestion, the Classic alone appears + elegant and true—till I read Shakespeare again; or till I turn to + Nature, whom I do not find sparing or severe, but full of variety and + change and relief, and yet having a sort of elegance and truth of her own. + </p> + <p> + In the treatment of historical subjects Alfieri allowed himself every + freedom. He makes Lorenzo de' Medici, a brutal and very insolent tyrant, a + tyrant after the high Roman fashion, a tyrant almost after the fashion of + the late Edwin Forrest. Yet there are some good passages in the Congiura + dei Pazzi, of the peculiarly hard Alfierian sort: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An enemy insulted and not slain! + What breast in triple iron armed, but needs + Must tremble at him? +</pre> + <p> + is a saying of Giuliano de' Medici, who, when asked if he does not fear + one of the conspirators, puts the whole political wisdom of the sixteenth + century into his answer,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Being feared, I fear. +</pre> + <p> + The Filippo of Alfieri must always have an interest for English readers + because of its chance relation to Keats, who, sick to death of + consumption, bought a copy of Alfieri when on his way to Rome. As Mr. + Lowell relates in his sketch of the poet's life, the dying man opened the + book at the second page, and read the lines—perhaps the tenderest + that Alfieri ever wrote— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Misero me! sollievo a me non resta + Altro che il pianto, e il pianto è delitto! +</pre> + <p> + Keats read these words, and then laid down the book and opened it no more. + The closing scene of the fourth act of this tragedy can well be studied as + a striking example of Alfieri's power of condensation. + </p> + <p> + Some of the non-political tragedies of Alfieri are still played; Ristori + has played his Mirra, and Salvini his Saul; but I believe there is now no + Italian critic who praises him so entirely as Giudici did. Yet the poet + finds a warm defender against the French and German critics in De Sanctis, + {note: Saggi Critici. Di Francesco de Sanctis. Napoli: Antonio Morano. + 1859.} a very clever and brilliant Italian, who accounts for Alfieri in a + way that helps to make all Italian things more intelligible to us. He is + speaking of Alfieri's epoch and social circumstances: “Education had been + classic for ages. Our ideal was Rome and Greece, our heroes Brutus and + Cato, our books Livy, Tacitus, and Plutarch; and if this was true of all + Europe, how much more so of Italy, where this history might be called + domestic, a thing of our own, a part of our traditions, still alive to the + eye in our cities and monuments. From Dante to Machiavelli, from + Machiavelli to Metastasio, our classical tradition was never broken.... In + the social dissolution of the last century, all disappeared except this + ideal. In fact, in that first enthusiasm, when the minds of men + confidently sought final perfection, it passed from the schools into life, + ruled the imagination, inflamed the will. People lived and died + Romanly.... The situations that Alfieri has chosen in his tragedies have a + visible relation to the social state, to the fears and to the hopes of his + own time. It is always resistance to oppression, of man against man, of + people against tyrant.... In the classicism of Alfieri there is no + positive side. It is an ideal Rome and Greece, outside of time and space, + floating in the vague, ... which his contemporaries filled up with their + own life.” + </p> + <p> + Giuseppe Arnaud, in his admirable criticisms on the Patriotic Poets of + Italy, has treated of the literary side of Alfieri in terms that seem to + me, on the whole, very just: “He sacrificed the foreshortening, which has + so great a charm for the spectator, to the sculptured full figure that + always presents itself face to face with you, and in entire relief. The + grand passions, which are commonly sparing of words, are in his system + condemned to speak much, and to explain themselves too much.... To what + shall we attribute that respectful somnolence which nowadays reigns over + the audience during the recitation of Alfieri's tragedies, if they are not + sustained by some theatrical celebrity? You will certainly say, to the + mediocrity of the actors. But I hold that the tragic effect can be + produced even by mediocre actors, if this effect truly abounds in the plot + of the tragedy.... I know that these opinions of mine will not be shared + by the great majority of the Italian public, and so be it. The contrary + will always be favorable to one who greatly loved his country, always + desired to serve her, and succeeded in his own time and own manner. + Whoever should say that Alfieri's tragedies, in spite of many eminent + merits, were constructed on a theory opposed to grand scenic effects and + to one of the two bases of tragedy, namely, compassion, would certainly + not say what was far from the truth. And yet, with all this, Alfieri will + still remain that dry, harsh blast which swept away the noxious miasms + with which the Italian air was infected. He will still remain that poet + who aroused his country from its dishonorable slumber, and inspired its + heart with intolerance of servile conditions and with regard for its + dignity. Up to his time we had bleated, and he roared.” “In fact,” says + D'Azeglio, “one of the merits of that proud heart was to have found Italy + Metastasian and left it Alfierian; and his first and greatest merit was, + to my thinking, that he discovered Italy, so to speak, as Columbus + discovered America, and initiated the idea of Italy as a nation. I place + this merit far beyond that of his verses and his tragedies.” + </p> + <p> + Besides his tragedies, Alfieri wrote, as I have already stated, some + comedies in his last years; but I must own my ignorance of all six of + them; and he wrote various satires, odes, sonnets, epigrams, and other + poems. Most of these are of political interest; the Miso-Gallo is an + expression of his scorn and hatred of the French nation; the America + Liberata celebrates our separation from England; the Etruria Vendicata + praises the murder of the abominable Alessandro de' Medici by his kinsman, + Lorenzaccio. None of the satires, whether on kings, aristocrats, or + people, have lent themselves easily to my perusal; the epigrams are + signally unreadable, but some of the sonnets are very good. He seems to + find in their limitations the same sort of strength that he finds in his + restricted tragedies; and they are all in the truest sense sonnets. + </p> + <p> + Here is one, which loses, of course, by translation. In this and other of + my versions, I have rarely found the English too concise for the Italian, + and often not concise enough: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HE IMAGINES THE DEATH OF HIS LADY. + + The sad bell that within my bosom aye + Clamors and bids me still renew my tears, + Doth stun my senses and my soul bewray + With wandering fantasies and cheating fears; + The gentle form of her that is but ta'en + A little from my sight I seem to see + At life's bourne lying faint and pale with pain,— + My love that to these tears abandons me. + “O my own true one,” tenderly she cries, + “I grieve for thee, love, that thou winnest naught + Save hapless life with all thy many sighs.” + Life? Never! Though thy blessed steps have taught + My feet the path in all well-doing, stay!— + At this last pass 't is mine to lead the way. +</pre> + <p> + There is a still more characteristic sonnet of Alfieri's, with which I + shall close, as I began, in the very open air of his autobiography: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HIS PORTRAIT. + + Thou mirror of veracious speech sublime, + What I am like in soul and body, show: + Red hair,—in front grown somewhat thin with time; + Tall stature, with an earthward head bowed low; + A meager form, with two straight legs beneath; + An aspect good; white skin with eyes of blue; + A proper nose; fine lips and choicest teeth; + Face paler than a throned king's in hue; + Now hard and bitter, yielding now and mild; + Malignant never, passionate alway, + With mind and heart in endless strife embroiled; + Sad mostly, and then gayest of the gay. + Achilles now, Thersites in his turn: + Man, art thou great or vile? Die and thou 'lt learn! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VINCENZO MONTI AND UGO FOSCOLO + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + The period of Vincenzo Monti and Ugo Foscolo is that covered in political + history by the events of the French revolution, the French invasion of + Italy and the Napoleonic wars there against the Austrians, the + establishment of the Cisalpine Republic and of the kingdom of Italy, the + final overthrow of the French dominion, and the restoration of the + Austrians. During all these events, the city of Milan remained the + literary as well as the political center of Italy, and whatever were the + moral reforms wrought by the disasters of which it was also the center, + there is no doubt that intellectually a vast change had taken place since + the days when Parini's satire was true concerning the life of the Milanese + nobles. The transformation of national character by war is never, perhaps, + so immediate or entire as we are apt to expect. When our own war broke + out, those who believed that we were to be purged and ennobled in all our + purposes by calamity looked for a sort of total and instant conversion. + This, indeed, seemed to take place, but there was afterward the inevitable + reaction, and it appears that there are still some small blemishes upon + our political and social state. Yet, for all this, each of us is conscious + of some vast and inestimable difference in the nation. + </p> + <p> + It is instructive, if it is not ennobling, to be moved by great and noble + impulses, to feel one's self part of a people, and to recognize country + for once as the supreme interest; and these were the privileges the French + revolution gave the Italians. It shed their blood, and wasted their + treasure, and stole their statues and pictures, but it bade them believe + themselves men; it forced them to think of Italy as a nation, and the very + tyranny in which it ended was a realization of unity, and more to be + desired a thousand times than the shameless tranquillity in which it had + found them. It is imaginable that when the revolution advanced upon Milan + it did not seem the greatest and finest thing in life to serve a lady; + when the battles of Marengo and Lodi were fought, and Mantua was lost and + won, to court one's neighbor's wife must have appeared to some gentlemen + rather a waste of time; when the youth of the Italian legion in Napoleon's + campaign perished amidst the snows of Russia, their brothers and sisters, + and fathers and mothers, must have found intrigues and operas and fashions + but a poor sort of distraction. By these terrible means the old forces of + society were destroyed, not quickly, but irreparably. The cavaliere + servente was extinct early in this century; and men and women opened their + eyes upon an era of work, the most industrious age that the world has ever + seen. + </p> + <p> + The change took place slowly; much of the material was old and hopelessly + rotten; but in the new generation the growth towards better and greater + things was more rapid. + </p> + <p> + Yet it would not be well to conjure up too heroic an image of Italian + revolutionary society: we know what vices fester and passions rage in + war-time, and Italy was then almost constantly involved in war. + Intellectually, men are active, but the great poems are not written in + war-time, nor the highest effects of civilization produced. There is a + taint of insanity and of instability in everything, a mark of feverishness + and haste and transition. The revolution gave Italy a chance for new life, + but this was the most the revolution could do. It was a great gift, not a + perfect one; and as it remained for the Italians to improve the + opportunity, they did it partially, fitfully, as men do everything. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The poets who belong to this time are numerous enough, but those best + known are Vincenzo Monti and Ugo Foscolo. These men were long the most + conspicuous literati in the capital of Lombardy, but neither was Lombard. + Monti was educated in the folds of Arcadia at Rome; Foscolo was a native + of one of the Greek islands dependent on Venice, and passed his youth and + earlier manhood in the lagoons. The accident of residence at Milan brought + the two men together, and made friends of those who had naturally very + little in common. They can only be considered together as part of the + literary history of the time in which they both happened to be born, and + as one of its most striking contrasts. + </p> + <p> + In 1802, Napoleon bestowed a republican constitution on Lombardy and the + other provinces of Italy which had been united under the name of the + Cisalpine Republic, and Milan became the capital of the new state. Thither + at once turned all that was patriotic, hopeful, and ambitious in Italian + life; and though one must not judge this phase of Italian civilization + from Vincenzo Monti, it is an interesting comment on its effervescent, + unstable, fictitious, and partial nature that he was its most conspicuous + poet. Few men appear so base as Monti; but it is not certain that he was + of more fickle and truthless soul than many other contemplative and + cultivated men of the poetic temperament who are never confronted with + exigent events, and who therefore never betray the vast difference that + lies between the ideal heroism of the poet's vision and the actual heroism + of occasion. We all have excellent principles until we are tempted, and it + was Monti's misfortune to be born in an age which put his principles to + the test, with a prospect of more than the usual prosperity in reward for + servility and compliance, and more than the usual want, suffering, and + danger in punishment of candor and constancy. + </p> + <p> + He was born near Ferrara in 1754; and having early distinguished himself + in poetry, he was conducted to Rome by the Cardinal-Legate Borghesi. At + Rome he entered the Arcadian fold of course, and piped by rule there with + extraordinary acceptance, and might have died a Shepherd but for the + French Revolution, which broke out and gave him a chance to be a Man. The + secretary of the French Legation at Naples, appearing in Rome with the + tri-color of the Republic, was attacked by the foolish populace, and + killed; and Monti, the petted and caressed of priests, the elegant and + tuneful young poet in the train of Cardinal Borghesi, seized the event of + Ugo Bassville's death, and turned it to epic account. In the moment of + dissolution, Bassville, repenting his republicanism, receives pardon; but, + as a condition of his acceptance into final bliss, he is shown, through + several cantos of <i>terza rima</i>, the woes which the Revolution has + brought upon France and the world. The bad people of the poem are + naturally the French Revolutionists; the good people, those who hate them. + The most admired episode is that descriptive of poor Louis XVI.'s ascent + into heaven from the scaffold. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: VINCENZO MONTI.} + </p> + <p> + There is some reason to suppose that Monti was sincerer in this poem than + in any other of political bearing which he wrote; and the Dantesque plan + of the work gave it, with the occasional help of Dante's own phraseology + and many fine turns of expression picked up in the course of a + multifarious reading, a dignity from which the absurdity of the apotheosis + of priests and princes detracted nothing among its readers. At any rate, + it was received by Arcadia with rapturous acclaim, though its theme was <i>not</i> + the Golden Age; and on the <i>Bassvilliana</i> the little that is solid in + Monti's fame rests at this day. His lyric poetry is seldom quoted; his + tragedies are no longer played, not even his <i>Galeoto Manfredi</i>, in + which he has stolen almost enough from Shakespeare to vitalize one of the + characters. After a while the Romans wearied of their idol, and began to + attack him in politics and literature; and in 1797 Monti, after a sojourn + of twenty years in the Papal capital, fled from Rome to Milan. Here he was + assailed in one of the journals by a fanatical Neapolitan, who had also + written a <i>Bassvilliana</i>, but with celestial powers, heroes and + martyrs of French politics, and who now accused Monti of enmity to the + rights of man. Monti responded by a letter to this poet, in which he + declared that his <i>Bassvilliana</i> was no expression of his own + feelings, but that he had merely written it to escape the fury of + Bassville's murderers, who were incensed against him as Bassville's + friend! But for all this the <i>Bassvilliana</i> was publicly burnt before + the cathedral in Milan, and Monti was turned out of a government place he + had got, because “he had published books calculated to inspire hatred of + democracy, or predilection for the government of kings, of theocrats and + aristocrats.” The poet was equal to this exigency; and he now reprinted + his works, and made them praise the French and the revolutionists wherever + they had blamed them before; all the bad systems and characters were + depicted as monarchies and kings and popes, instead of anarchies and + demagogues. Bonaparte was exalted, and poor Louis XVI., sent to heaven + with so much ceremony in the <i>Bassvilliana</i>, was abased in a later + ode on Superstition. + </p> + <p> + Monti was amazed that all this did not suffice “to overcome that fatal + combination of circumstances which had caused him to be judged as the + courtier of despotism.” “How gladly,” he writes, “would I have accepted + the destiny which envy could not reach! But this scourge of honest men + clings to my flesh, and I cannot hope to escape it, except I turn + scoundrel to become fortunate!” When the Austrians returned to Milan, the + only honest man unhanged in Italy fled with other democrats to Paris, + whither the fatal combination of circumstances followed him, and caused + him to be looked on with coldness and suspicion by the republicans. After + Bonaparte was made First Consul, Monti invoked his might against the + Germans in Italy, and carried his own injured virtue back to Milan in the + train of the conqueror. When Bonaparte was crowned emperor, this democrat + and patriot was the first to hail and glorify him; and the emperor + rewarded the poet's devotion with a chair in the University of Pavia, and + a pension attached to the place of Historiographer. Monti accepted the + honors and emoluments due to long-suffering integrity and inalterable + virtue, and continued in the enjoyment of them till the Austrians came + back to Milan a second time, in 1815, when his chaste muse was stirred to + a new passion by the charms of German despotism, and celebrated as “the + wise, the just, the best of kings, Francis Augustus”, who, if one were to + believe Monti, “in war was a whirlwind and in peace a zephyr.” But the + heavy Austrian, who knew he was nothing of the kind, thrust out his surly + under lip at these blandishments, said that this muse's favors were + mercenary, and cut off Monti's pension. Stung by such ingratitude, the + victim of his own honesty retired forever from courts, and thenceforward + sang only the merits of rich persons in private station, who could afford + to pay for spontaneous and incorruptible adulation. He died in 1826, + having probably endured more pain and rungreater peril in his desire to + avoid danger and suffering than the bravest and truest man in a time when + courage and truth seldom went in company. It is not probable that he + thought himself despicable or other than unjustly wretched. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, after all, he was not so greatly to blame. As De Sanctis subtly + observes: “He was always a liberal. How not be liberal in those days when + even the reactionaries shouted for liberty—of course, <i>true</i> + liberty, as they called it? And in that name he glorified all + governments.... And it was not with hypocrisy.... He was a man who would + have liked to reconcile the old and the new ideas, all opinions, yet, + being forced to choose, he clung to the majority, with no desire to play + the martyr. So he became the secretary of the dominant feeling, the poet + of success. Kindly, tolerant, sincere, a good friend, a courtier more from + necessity and weakness than perversity or wickedness; if he could have + retired into his own heart, he might have come out a poet.” Monti, in + fact, was always an <i>improvvisatore</i>, and the subjects which events + cast in his way were like the themes which the improvvisatore receives + from his audience. He applied his poetic faculty to their celebration with + marvelous facility, and, doubtless, regarded the results as rhetorical + feats. His poetry was an art, not a principle; and perhaps he was really + surprised when people thought him in earnest, and held him personally to + account for what he wrote. “A man of sensation, rather than sentiment,” + says Arnaud, “Monti cared only for the objective side of life. He poured + out melodies, colors, and chaff in the service of all causes; he was the + poet-advocate, the Siren of the Italian Parnassus.” Of course such a man + instinctively hated the ideas of the Romantic school, and he contested + their progress in literature with great bitterness. He believed that + poetry meant feigning, not making; and he declared that “the hard truth + was the grave of the beautiful.” The latter years of his life were spent + in futile battle with the “audacious boreal school” and in noxious revival + of the foolish old disputes of the Italian grammarians; and + Emiliani-Giudici condemns him for having done more than any enemy of his + country to turn Italian thought from questions of patriotic interest to + questions of philology, from the unity of Italy to the unity of the + language, from the usurpations and tyranny of Austria to the assumptions + of Della Crusca. But Monti could scarcely help any cause which he + espoused; and it seems to me that he was as well employed in disputing the + claims of the Tuscan dialect to be considered the Italian language as he + would have been in any other way. The wonderful facility, no less than the + unreality, of the man appears in many things, but in none more remarkably + than his translation of Homer, which is the translation universally + accepted and approved in Italy. He knew little more than the Greek + alphabet, and produced his translation from the preceding versions in + Latin and Italian, submitting the work to the correction of eminent + scholars before he printed it. His poems fill many volumes; and all + display the ease, perspicuity, and obvious beauty of the improvvisatore. + From a fathomless memory, he drew felicities which had clung to it in his + vast reading, and gave them a new excellence by the art with which he + presented them as new. The commonplace Italians long continued to speak + awfully of Monti as a great poet, because the commonplace mind regards + everything established as great. He is a classic of those classics common + to all languages—dead corpses which retain their forms perfectly in + the coffin, but crumble to dust as soon as exposed to the air. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + From the <i>Bassvilliana</i> I have translated the passage descriptive of + Louis XVI.'s ascent to heaven; and I offer this, perhaps not quite justly, + in illustration of what I have been saying of Monti as a poet. There is + something of his curious verbal beauty in it, and his singular good luck + of phrase, with his fortunate reminiscences of other poets; the + collocation of the different parts is very comical, and the application of + it all to Louis XVI. is one of the most preposterous things in literature. + But one must remember that the poor king was merely a subject, a theme, + with the poet. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As when the sun uprears himself among + The lesser dazzling substances, and drives + His eager steeds along the fervid curve,— + + When in one only hue is painted all + The heavenly vault, and every other star + Is touched with pallor and doth veil its front, + + So with sidereal splendor all aflame + Amid a thousand glad souls following, + High into heaven arose that beauteous soul. + + Smiled, as he passed them, the majestical, + Tremulous daughters of the light, and shook + Their glowing and dewy tresses as they moved, + + He among all with longing and with love + Beaming, ascended until he was come + Before the triune uncreated life; + + There his flight ceases, there the heart, become + Aim of the threefold gaze divine, is stilled, + And all the urgence of desire is lost; + + There on his temples he receives the crown + Of living amaranth immortal, on + His cheek the kiss of everlasting peace. + + And then were heard consonances and notes + Of an ineffable sweetness, and the orbs + Began again to move their starry wheels. + + More swiftly yet the steeds that bore the day + Exulting flew, and with their mighty tread, + Did beat the circuit of their airy way. +</pre> + <p> + In this there are three really beautiful lines; namely, those which + describe the arrival of the spirit in the presence of God: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There his flight ceases, there the heart, become + Aim of the threefold gaze divine, is stilled, + And all the urgence of desire is lost; +</pre> + <p> + Or, as it stands in the Italian: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ivi queta il suo voi, ivi s'appunta + In tre sguardi beata, ivi il cor tace, + E tutta perde del desio la punta. +</pre> + <p> + It was the fortune of Monti, as I have said, to sing all round and upon + every side of every subject, and he was governed only by knowledge of + which side was for the moment uppermost. If a poem attacked the French + when their triumph seemed doubtful, the offending verses were erased as + soon as the French conquered, and the same poem unblushingly exalted them + in a new edition;—now religion and the Church were celebrated in + Monti's song, now the goddess of Reason and the reign of liberty; the Pope + was lauded in Rome, and the Inquisition was attacked in Milan; England was + praised whilst Monti was in the anti-French interest, and as soon as the + poet could turn his coat of many colors, the sun was urged to withdraw + from England the small amount of light and heat which it vouchsafed the + foggy island; and the Rev. Henry Boyd, who translated the <i>Bassvilliana</i> + into our tongue, must have been very much dismayed to find this eloquent + foe of revolutions assailing the hereditary enemy of France in his next + poem, and uttering the hope that she might be surrounded with waves of + blood and with darkness, and shaken with earthquakes. But all this was + nothing to Monti's treatment of the shade of poor King Louis XVI. We have + seen with how much ceremony the poet ushered that unhappy prince into + eternal bliss, and in Mr. Boyd's translation of the <i>Bassvilliana</i>, + we can read the portents with which Monti makes the heavens recognize the + crime of his execution in Paris. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Then from their houses, like a billowy tide, + Men rush enfrenzied, and, from every breast + Banished shrinks Pity, weeping, terrified. + Now the earth quivers, trampled and oppressed + By wheels, by feet of horses and of men; + The air in hollow moans speaks its unrest; + Like distant thunder's roar, scarce within ken, + Like the hoarse murmurs of the midnight surge, + Like the north wind rushing from its far-off den. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Through the dark crowds that round the scaffold flock + The monarch see with look and gait appear + That might to soft compassion melt a rock; + Melt rocks, from hardest flint draw pity's tear,— + But not from Gallic tigers; to what fate, + Monsters, have ye brought him who loved you dear? +</pre> + <p> + It seems scarcely possible that a personage so flatteringly attended from + the scaffold to the very presence of the Trinity, could afterward have + been used with disrespect by the same master of ceremonies; yet in his Ode + on Superstition, Monti has later occasion to refer to the French monarch + in these terms: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The tyrant has fallen. Ye peoples + Oppressèd, rise! Nature breathes freely. + Proud kings, bow before them and tremble; + Yonder crumbles the greatest of thrones! + (<i>Repeat</i>.) There was stricken the vile perjurer Capet, +</pre> + <p> + (He will only give Louis his family name!) + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who had worn out the patience of God! + In that pitiless blood dip thy fingers, + France, delivered from fetters unworthy! + 'T is blood sucked from the veins of thy children + Whom the despot has cruelly wronged! + O freemen to arms that are flying, + Bathe, bathe in that blood your bright weapons, + Triumph rests 'mid the terror of battle + Upon swords that have smitten a king! +</pre> + <p> + This, every one must allow, was a very unhandsome way of treating an + ex-martyr, but at the time Monti wrote he was in Milan, in the midst of + most revolutionary spirits, and he felt obliged to be rude to the memory + of the unhappy king. After all, probably it did not hurt the king so much + as the poet. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + The troubled life of Ugo Foscolo is a career altogether wholesomer than + Monti's to contemplate. There is much of violence, vanity, and adventure + in it, to remind of Byron; but Foscolo had neither the badness of Byron's + heart nor the greatness of his talent. He was, moreover, a better scholar + and a man of truer feeling. Coming to Venice from Zante, in 1793, he + witnessed the downfall of a system which Venetians do not yet know whether + to lament or execrate; and he was young and generous enough to believe + that Bonaparte really meant to build up a democratic republic on the ruins + of the fallen oligarchy. Foscolo had been one of the popular innovators + before the Republic perished, and he became the secretary of the + provisional government, and was greatly beloved by the people. It is + related that they were so used to his voice, and so fond of hearing it, + that one day, when they heard another reading in his place, they became + quite turbulent, till the president called out with that deliciously + caressing Venetian familiarity, <i>Popolo, ste cheto; Foscolo xe rochio</i>! + “People, be quiet; Foscolo is hoarse.” While in this office, he brought + out his first tragedy, which met with great success; and at the same time + Napoleon played the cruel farce with which he had beguiled the Venetians, + by selling them to Austria, at Campo-Formio. Foscolo then left Venice, and + went to Milan, where he established a patriotic journal, in which a + genuine love of country found expression, and in which he defended + unworthy Monti against the attacks of the red republicans. He also + defended the Latin language, when the legislature, which found time in a + season of great public peril and anxiety to regulate philology, fulminated + a decree against that classic tongue; and he soon afterward quitted Milan, + in despair of the Republic's future. He had many such fits of disgust, and + in one of them he wrote that the wickedness and shame of Italy were so + great, that they could never be effaced till the two seas covered her. + There was fighting in those days, for such as had stomach for it, in every + part of Italy; and Foscolo, being enrolled in the Italian Legion, was + present at the battle of Cento, and took part in the defense of Genoa, but + found time, amid all his warlike occupations, for literature. He had + written, in the flush of youthful faith and generosity, an ode to + Bonaparte Liberator; and he employed the leisure of the besieged in + republishing it at Genoa, affixing to the verses a reproach to Napoleon + for the treaty of Campo-Formio, and menacing him with a Tacitus. He + returned to Milan after the battle of Marengo, but his enemies procured + his removal to Boulogne, whither the Italian Legion had been ordered, and + where Foscolo cultivated his knowledge of English and his hatred of + Napoleon. After travel in Holland and marriage with an Englishwoman there, + he again came back to Milan, which he found full as ever of folly, + intrigue, baseness, and envy. Leaving the capital, says Arnaud, “he took + up his abode on the hills of Brescia, and for two weeks was seen wandering + over the heights, declaiming and gesticulating. The mountaineers thought + him mad. One morning he descended to the city with the manuscript of the + <i>Sepoleri</i>. It was in 1807. Not Jena, not Friedland, could dull the + sensation it imparted to the Italian republic of letters.” + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + It is doubtful whether this poem, which Giudici calls the sublimest + lyrical composition modern literature has produced, will stir the English + reader to enthusiastic admiration. The poem is of its age—declamatory, + ambitious, eloquent; but the ideas do not seem great or new, though that, + perhaps, is because they have been so often repeated since. De Sanctis + declares it the “earliest lyrical note of the new literature, the + affirmation of the rehabilitated conscience of the new manhood. A law of + the Republic—“the French Republic”— prescribed the equality of + men before death. The splender of monuments seemed a privilege of the + nobles and the rich, and the Republicans contested the privilege, the + distinction of classes, even in this form ... This revolutionary logic + driven to its ultimate corollaries clouded the poetry of life for him.... + He lacked the religious idea, but the sense of humanity in its progress + and its aims, bound together by the family, the state, liberty, glory—from + this Foscolo drew his harmonies, a new religion of the tomb.”.... + </p> + <p> + He touches in it on the funeral usages of different times and peoples, + with here and there an episodic allusion to the fate of heroes and poets, + and disquisitions on the aesthetic and spiritual significance of + posthumous honors. The most-admired passage of the poem is that in which + the poet turns to the monuments of Italy's noblest dead, in the church of + Santa Croce, at Florence: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The urnèd ashes of the mighty kindle + The great soul to great actions, Pindemonte, + And fair and holy to the pilgrim make + The earth that holds them. When I saw the tomb + Where rests the body of that great one,{1} who + Tempering the scepter of the potentate, + Strips off its laurels, and to the people shows + With what tears it doth reek, and with what blood; + When I beheld the place of him who raised + A new Olympus to the gods in Rome,{2}— + Of him{3} who saw the worlds wheel through the heights + Of heaven, illumined by the moveless sun, + And to the Anglian{4} oped the skyey ways + He swept with such a vast and tireless wing,— + O happy!{5} I cried, in thy life-giving air, + And in the fountains that the Apennine + Down from his summit pours for thee! The moon, + Glad in thy breath, laps in her clearest light + Thy hills with vintage laughing; and thy vales, + Filled with their clustering cots and olive-groves, + Send heavenward th' incense of a thousand flowers. + And thou wert first, Florence, to hear the song + With which the Ghibelline exile charmed his wrath,{6} + And thou his language and his ancestry + Gavest that sweet lip of Calliope,{7} + Who clothing on in whitest purity + Love in Greece nude and nude in Rome, again + Restored him unto the celestial Venus;— + But happiest I count thee that thou keep'st + Treasured beneath one temple-roof the glories + Of Italy,—now thy sole heritage, + Since the ill-guarded Alps and the inconstant + Omnipotence of human destinies + Have rent from thee thy substance and thy arms, + Thy altars, country,—save thy memories, all. + Ah! here, where yet a ray of glory lingers, + Let a light shine unto all generous souls, + And be Italia's hope! Unto these stones + Oft came Vittorio{8} for inspiration, + Wroth to his country's gods. Dumbly he roved + Where Arno is most lonely, anxiously + Brooding upon the heavens and the fields; + Then when no living aspect could console, + Here rested the Austere, upon his face + Death's pallor and the deathless light of hope. + Here with these great he dwells for evermore, + His dust yet quick with love of country. Yes, + A god speaks to us from this sacred peace, + That nursed for Persians upon Marathon, + Where Athens gave her heroes sepulture, + Greek ire and virtue. There the mariner + That sailed the sea under Euboea saw + Flashing amidst the wide obscurity + The steel of helmets and of clashing brands, + The smoke and lurid flame of funeral pyres, + And phantom warriors, clad in glittering mail, + Seeking the combat. Through the silences + And horror of the night, along the field, + The tumult of the phalanxes arose, + Mixing itself with sound of warlike tubes, + And clatter of the hoofs of steeds, that rushed + Trampling the helms of dying warriors,— + And sobs, and hymns, and the wild Parcae's songs!{9} +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Notes: + </h2> + <p> + {1} Question of Machiavelli. Whether “The Prince” was written in earnest, + with a wish to serve the Devil, or in irony, with a wish to serve the + people, is still in dispute. + </p> + <p> + {2} Michelangelo. + </p> + <p> + {3} Galileo. + </p> + <p> + {4} Newton. + </p> + <p> + {5} Florence. + </p> + <p> + {6} It is the opinion of many historians that the <i>Divina Commedia</i> + was commenced before the exile of Dante.—<i>Foscolo</i>. + </p> + <p> + {7} Petrarch was born in exile of Florentine parents.—<i>Ibid</i>. + </p> + <p> + {8} Alfieri. So Foscolo saw him in his last years. + </p> + <p> + {9} The poet, quoting Pausanias, says: “The sepulture of the Athenians who + fell in the battle took place on the plain of Marathon, and there every + night is heard the neighing of the steeds, and the phantoms of the + combatants appear.” + </p> + <p> + The poem ends with the prophecy that poetry, after time destroys the + sepulchers, shall preserve the memories of the great and the unhappy, and + invokes the shades of Greece and Troy to give an illusion of sublimity to + the close. The poet doubts if there be any comfort to the dead in + monumental stones, but declares that they keep memories alive, and + concludes that only those who leave no love behind should have little joy + of their funeral urns. He blames the promiscuous burial of the good and + bad, the great and base; he dwells on the beauty of the ancient cemeteries + and the pathetic charm of English churchyards. The poem of <i>I Sepolcri</i> + has peculiar beauties, yet it does not seem to me the grand work which the + Italians have esteemed it; though it has the pensive charm which attaches + to all elegiac verse. De Sanctis attaches a great political and moral + value to it. “The revolution, in the horror of its excesses, was passing. + More temperate ideas prevailed; the need of a moral and religious + restoration was felt. Foscolo's poem touched these chords ... which + vibrated in all hearts.” + </p> + <p> + The tragedies of Foscolo are little read, and his unfinished but faithful + translation of Homer did not have the success which met the facile + paraphrase of Monti. His other works were chiefly critical, and are valued + for their learning. The Italians claim that in his studies of Dante he was + the first to reveal him to Europe in his political character, “as the + inspired poet, who availed himself of art for the civil regeneration of + the people speaking the language which he dedicated to supreme song”; and + they count as among their best critical works, Foscolo's “exquisite essays + on Petrarch and Boccaccio”. His romance, “The Last Letters of Jacopo + Ortis”, is a novel full of patriotism, suffering, and suicide, which found + devoted readers among youth affected by “The Sorrows of Werther”, and + which was the first cry of Italian disillusion with the French. Yet it had + no political effect, De Sanctis says, because it was not in accord with + the popular hopefulness of the time. It was, of course, wildly romantic, + of the romantic sort that came before the school had got its name, and it + was supposed to celebrate one of Foscolo's first loves. He had a great + many loves, first and last, and is reproached with a dissolute life by the + German critic, Gervinius. + </p> + <p> + He was made Professor of Italian Eloquence at the University of Pavia in + 1809; but, refusing to flatter Napoleon in his inaugural address, his + professorship was abolished. When the Austrians returned to Milan, in + 1815, they offered him the charge of their official newspaper; but he + declined it, and left Milan for the last time. He wandered homeless + through Switzerland for a while, and at last went to London, where he + gained a livelihood by teaching the Italian language and lecturing on its + literature; and where, tormented by homesickness and the fear of + blindness, he died, in 1827. “Poverty would make even Homer abject in + London,” he said. + </p> + <p> + One of his biographers, however, tells us that he was hospitably welcomed + at Holland House in London, and “entertained by the most illustrious + islanders; but the indispensable etiquette of the country, grievous to all + strangers, was intolerable to Foscolo, and he soon withdrew from these + elegant circles, and gave himself up to his beloved books.” Like Alfieri, + on whom he largely modeled his literary ideal, and whom he fervently + admired, Foscolo has left us his portrait drawn by himself, which the + reader may be interested to see. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A furrowed brow, with cavernous eyes aglow; + Hair tawny; hollow cheeks; looks resolute; + Lips pouting, but to smiles and pleasance slow; + Head bowed, neck beautiful, and breast hirsute; + Limbs shapely; simple, yet elect, in dress; + Rapid my steps, my thoughts, my acts, my tones; + Grave, humane, stubborn, prodigal to excess; + To the world adverse, fortune me disowns. + Shame makes me vile, and anger makes me brave, + Reason in me is cautious, but my heart + Doth, rich in vices and in virtues, rave; + Sad for the most, and oft alone, apart; + Incredulous alike of hope and fear, + Death shall bring rest and honor to my bier. +</pre> + <p> + {Illustration: UGO FOSCOLO.} + </p> + <p> + Cantù thinks that Foscolo succeeded, by imitating unusual models, in + seeming original, and probably more with reference to the time in which he + wrote than to the qualities of his mind, classes him with the school of + Monti. Although his poetry is full of mythology and classic allusion, the + use of the well-worn machinery is less mechanical than in Monti; and + Foscolo, writing always with one high purpose, was essentially different + in inspiration from the poet who merchandised his genius and sold his song + to any party threatening hard or paying well. Foscolo was a brave man, and + faithfully loved freedom, and he must be ranked with those poets who, in + later times, have devoted themselves to the liberation of Italy. He is + classic in his forms, but he is revolutionary, and he hoped for some ideal + Athenian liberty for his country, rather than the English freedom she + enjoys. But we cannot venture to pronounce dead or idle the Greek + tradition, and we must confess that the romanticism which brought into + literary worship the trumpery picturesqueness of the Middle Ages was a + lapse from generous feeling. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALESSANDRO MANZONI + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + It was not till the turbulent days of the Napoleonic age were past, that + the theories and thoughts of Romance were introduced into Italy. When + these days came to an end, the whole political character of the peninsula + reverted, as nearly as possible, to that of the times preceding the + revolutions. The Bourbons were restored to Naples, the Pope to Rome, the + Dukes and Grand Dukes to their several states, the House of Savoy to + Piedmont, and the Austrians to Venice and Lombardy; and it was agreed + among all these despotic governments that there was to be no Italy save, + as Metternich suggested, in a geographical sense. They encouraged a + relapse, among their subjects, into the follies and vices of the past, and + they largely succeeded. But, after all, the age was against them; and + people who have once desired and done great things are slow to forget + them, though the censor may forbid them to be named, and the prison and + the scaffold may enforce his behest. + </p> + <p> + With the restoration of the Austrians, there came a tranquillity to Milan + which was not the apathy it seemed. It was now impossible for literary + patriotism to be openly militant, as it had been in Alfieri and Foscolo, + but it took on the retrospective phase of Romance, and devoted itself to + the celebration of the past glories of Italy. In this way it still + fulfilled its educative and regenerative mission. It dwelt on the + victories which Italians had won in other days over their oppressors, and + it tacitly reminded them that they were still oppressed by foreign + governments; it portrayed their own former corruption and crimes, and so + taught them the virtues which alone could cure the ills their vices had + brought upon them. Only secondarily political, and primarily moral, it + forbade the Italians to hope to be good citizens without being good men. + This was Romance in its highest office, as Manzoni, Grossi, and D'Azeglio + conceived it. Aesthetically, the new school struggled to overthrow the + classic traditions; to liberate tragedy from the bondage of the unities, + and let it concern itself with any tragical incident of life; to give + comedy the generous scope of English and Spanish comedy; to seek poetry in + the common experiences of men and to find beauty in any theme; to be + utterly free, untrammeled, and abundant; to be in literature what the + Gothic is in architecture. It perished because it came to look for Beauty + only, and all that was good in it became merged in Realism which looks for + Truth. + </p> + <p> + These were the purposes of Romance, and the masters in whom the Italian + Romanticists had studied them were the great German and English poets. The + tragedies of Shakespeare were translated and admired, and the dramas of + Schiller were reproduced in Italian verse; the poems of Byron and of Scott + were made known, and the ballads of such lyrical Germans as Bürger. But, + of course, so quick and curious a people as the Italians had been + sensitive to all preceding influences in the literary world, and before + what we call Romance came in from Germany, a breath of nature had already + swept over the languid elegance of Arcady from the northern lands of + storms and mists; and the effects of this are visible in the poetry of + Foscolo's period. + </p> + <p> + The enthusiasm with which Ossian was received in France remained, or + perhaps only began, after the hoax was exploded in England. In Italy, the + misty essence of the Caledonian bard was hailed as a substantial presence. + The king took his spear, and struck his deeply sounding shield, as it hung + on the willows over the neatly kept garden-walks, and the Shepherds and + Shepherdesses promenading there in perpetual <i>villeggiatura</i> were + alarmed and perplexed out of a composure which many noble voices had not + been able to move. Emiliani-Giudici declares that Melchiorre Cesarotti, a + professor in the University of Padua, dealt the first blow against the + power of Arcadia. This professor of Greek made the acquaintance of George + Sackville, who inflamed him with a desire to read Ossian's poems, then + just published in England; and Cesarotti studied the English language in + order to acquaint himself with a poet whom he believed greater than Homer. + He translated Macpherson into Italian verse, retaining, however, in + extraordinary degree, the genius of the language in which he found the + poetry. He is said (for I have not read his version) to have twisted the + Italian into our curt idioms, and indulged himself in excesses of compound + words, to express the manner of his original. He believed that the Italian + language had become “sterile, timid, and superstitious”, through the fault + of the grammarians; and in adopting the blank verse for his translation, + he ventured upon new forms, and achieved complete popularity, if not + complete success. “In fact,” says Giudici, “the poems of Ossian were no + sooner published than Italy was filled with uproar by the new methods of + poetry, clothed in all the magic of magnificent forms till then unknown. + The Arcadian flocks were thrown into tumult, and proclaimed a crusade + against Cesarotti as a subverter of ancient order and a mover of anarchy + in the peaceful republic—it was a tyranny, and they called it a + republic—of letters. Cesarotti was called corrupter, sacrilegious, + profane, and assailed with titles of obscene contumely; but the poems of + Ossian were read by all, and the name of the translator, till then little + known, became famous in and out of Italy.” In fine, Cesarotti founded a + school; but, blinded by his marvelous success, he attempted to translate + Homer into the same fearless Italian which had received his Ossian. He + failed, and was laughed at. Ossian, however, remained a power in Italian + letters, though Cesarotti fell; and his influence was felt for romance + before the time of the Romantic School. Monti imitated him as he found him + in Italian; yet, though Monti's verse abounds, like Ossian, in phantoms + and apparitions, they are not northern specters, but respectable shades, + classic, well-mannered, orderly, and have no kinship with anything but the + personifications, Vice, Virtue, Fear, Pleasure, and the rest of their + genteel allegorical company. Unconsciously, however, Monti had helped to + prepare the way for romantic realism by his choice of living themes. Louis + XVI, though decked in epic dignity, was something that touched and + interested the age; and Bonaparte, even in pagan apotheosis, was so + positive a subject that the improvvisatore acquired a sort of truth and + sincerity in celebrating him. Bonaparte might not be the Sun he was hailed + to be, but even in Monti's verse he was a soldier, ambitious, + unscrupulous, irresistible, recognizable in every guise. + </p> + <p> + In Germany, where the great revival of romantic letters took place,—where + the poets and scholars, studying their own Minnesingers and the ballads of + England and Scotland, reproduced the simplicity and directness of thought + characteristic of young literatures,—the life as well as the song of + the people had once been romantic. But in Italy there had never been such + a period. The people were municipal, mercantile; the poets burlesqued the + tales of chivalry, and the traders made money out of the Crusades. In + Italy, moreover, the patriotic instincts of the people, as well as their + habits and associations, were opposed to those which fostered romance in + Germany; and the poets and novelists, who sought to naturalize the new + element of literature, were naturally accused of political friendship with + the hated Germans. The obstacles in the way of the Romantic School at + Milan were very great, and it may be questioned if, after all, its + disciples succeeded in endearing to the Italians any form of romantic + literature except the historical novel, which came from England, and the + untrammeled drama, which was studied from English models. They produced + great results for good in Italian letters; but, as usual, these results + were indirect, and not just those at which the Romanticists aimed. + </p> + <p> + In Italy the Romantic School was not so sharply divided into a first and + second period as in Germany, where it was superseded for a time by the + classicism following the study of Winckelmann. Yet it kept, in its own + way, the general tendency of German literature. For the “Sorrows of + Werther”, the Italians had the “Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis”; for the + brood of poets who arose in the fatherland to defy the Revolution, + incarnate in Napoleon, with hymn and ballad, a retrospective national + feeling in Italy found the same channels of expression through the Lombard + group of lyrists and dramatists, while the historical romance flourished + as richly as in England, and for a much longer season. + </p> + <p> + De Sanctis studies the literary situation in the concluding pages of his + history; they are almost the most brilliant pages, and they embody a + conception of it so luminous that it would be idle to pretend to offer the + reader anything better than a résumé of his work. The revolution had + passed away under the horror of its excesses; more temperate ideas + prevailed; the need of a religious and moral restoration was felt. + “Foscolo died in 1827, and Pellico, Manzoni, Grossi, Berchet, had risen + above the horizon. The Romantic School, 'the audacious boreal school,' had + appeared. 1815 is a memorable date.... It marks the official manifestation + of a reaction, not only political, but philosophical and literary.... The + reaction was as rapid and violent as the revolution.... The white terror + succeeded to the red.” + </p> + <p> + Our critic says that there were at this time two enemies, materialism and + skepticism, and that there rose against them a spirituality carried to + idealism, to mysticism. “To the right of nature was opposed the divine + right, to popular sovereignty legitimacy, to individual rights the State, + to liberty authority or order. The middle ages returned in triumph.... + Christianity, hitherto the target of all offense, became the center of + every philosophical investigation, the banner of all social and religious + progress.... The criterions of art were changed. There was a pagan art and + a Christian art, whose highest expression was sought in the Gothic, in the + glooms, the mysteries, the vague, the indefinite, in a beyond which was + called the ideal, in an aspiration towards the infinite, incapable of + fruition and therefore melancholy.... To Voltaire and Rousseau succeeded + Chateaubriand, De Staël, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, Lamennais. And in 1815 + appeared the Sacred Hymns of the young Manzoni.” + </p> + <p> + The Romantic movement was as universal then as the Realistic movement is + now, and as irresistible. It was the literary expression of monarchy and + aristocracy, as Realism is the literary expression of republicanism and + democracy. What De Sanctis shows is that out of the political tempest + absolutism issued stronger than ever, that the clergy and the nobles, once + its rivals, became its creatures; the prevailing bureaucracy interested + the citizen class in the perpetuity of the state, but turned them into + office-seekers; the police became the main-spring of power; the + office-holder, the priest and the soldier became spies. “There resulted an + organized corruption called government, absolute in form, or under a mask + of constitutionalism. ... Such a reaction, in violent contradiction of + modern ideas, could not last.” There were outbreaks in Spain, Naples, + Piedmont, the Romagna; Greece and Belgium rose; legitimacy fell; + citizen-kings came in; and a long quiet followed, in which the sciences + and letters nourished. Even in Austria-ridden Italy, where + constitutionalism was impossible, the middle class was allowed a part in + the administration. “Little by little the new and the old learned to live + together: the divine right and the popular will were associated in laws + and writs. ... The movement was the same revolution as before, mastered by + experience and self-disciplined.... Chateaubriand, Lamartine, Victor Hugo, + Lamennais, Manzoni, Grossi, Pellico, were liberal no less than Voltaire + and Rousseau, Alfieri and Foscolo.... The religious sentiment, too deeply + offended, vindicated itself; yet it could not escape from the lines of the + revolution ... it was a reaction transmuted into a reconciliation.” + </p> + <p> + The literary movement was called Romantic as against the old Classicism; + medieval and Christian, it made the papacy the hero of its poetry; it + abandoned Greek and Roman antiquity for national antiquity, but the modern + spirit finally informed Romanticism as it had informed Classicism; Parini + and Manzoni were equally modern men. Religion is restored, but, “it is no + longer a creed, it is an artistic motive.... It is not enough that there + are saints, they must be beautiful; the Christian idea returns as art.... + Providence comes back to the world, the miracle re-appears in story, hope + and prayer revive, the heart softens, it opens itself to gentle + influences.... Manzoni reconstructs the ideal of the Christian Paradise + and reconciles it with the modern spirit. Mythology goes, the classic + remains; the eighteenth century is denied, its ideas prevail.” + </p> + <p> + The pantheistic idealism which resulted pleased the citizen-fancy; the + notion of “evolution succeeded to that of revolution”; one said + civilization, progress, culture, instead of liberty. “Louis Philippe + realized the citizen ideal.... The problem was solved, the skein + untangled. God might rest.... The supernatural was not believed, but it + was explained and respected. One did not accept Christ as divine, but a + human Christ was exalted to the stars; religion was spoken of with + earnestness, and the ministers of God with reverence.” + </p> + <p> + A new criticism arose, and bade literature draw from life, while a vivid + idealism accompanied anxiety for historical truth. In Italy, where the + liberals could not attack the governments, they attacked Aristotle, and a + tremendous war arose between the Romanticists and the Classicists. The + former grouped themselves at Milan chiefly, and battled through the + Conciliatore, a literary journal famous in Italian annals. They vaunted + the English and Germans; they could not endure mythology; they laughed the + three unities to scorn. At Paris Manzoni had imbibed the new principles, + and made friends with the new masters; for Goethe and Schiller he + abandoned Alfieri and Monti. “Yet if the Romantic School, by its name, its + ties, its studies, its impressions, was allied to German traditions and + French fashions, it was at bottom Italian in accent, aspiration, form, and + motive.... Every one felt our hopes palpitating under the medieval robe; + the least allusion, the remotest meanings, were caught by the public, + which was in the closest accord with the writers. The middle ages were no + longer treated with historical and positive intention; they became the + garments of our ideals, the transparent expression of our hopes.” + </p> + <p> + It is this fact which is especially palpable in Manzoni's work, and + Manzoni was the chief poet of the Romantic School in that land where it + found the most realistic development, and set itself seriously to + interpret the emotions and desires of the nation. When these were + fulfilled, even the form of Romanticism ceased to be. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + ALESSANDRO MANZONI was born at Milan in 1784, and inherited from his + father the title of Count, which he always refused to wear; from his + mother, who was the daughter of Beccaria, the famous and humane writer on + Crimes and Punishments, he may have received the nobility which his whole + life has shown. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: Alessandro Manzoni.} + </p> + <p> + In his youth he was a liberal thinker in matters of religion; the stricter + sort of Catholics used to class him with the Voltaireans, and there seems + to have been some ground for their distrust of his orthodoxy. But in 1808 + he married Mlle. Louisa Henriette Blondel, the daughter of a banker of + Geneva, who, having herself been converted from Protestantism to the + Catholic faith on coming to Milan, converted her husband in turn, and + thereafter there was no question concerning his religion. She was long + remembered in her second country “for her fresh blond head, and her blue + eyes, her lovely eyes”, and she made her husband very happy while she + lived. The young poet signalized his devotion to his young bride, and the + faith to which she restored him, in his Sacred Hymns, published in this + devout and joyous time. But Manzoni was never a Catholic of those + Catholics who believed in the temporal power of the Pope. He said to Madam + Colet, the author of “L'Italie des Italiens”, a silly and gossiping but + entertaining book, “I bow humbly to the Pope, and the Church has no more + respectful son; but why confound the interests of earth and those of + heaven? The Roman people are right in asking their freedom—there are + hours for nations, as for governments, in which they must occupy + themselves, not with what is convenient, but with what is just. Let us lay + hands boldly upon the temporal power, but let us not touch the doctrine of + the Church. The one is as distinct from the other as the immortal soul + from the frail and mortal body. To believe that the Church is attacked in + taking away its earthly possessions is a real heresy to every true + Christian.” + </p> + <p> + The Sacred Hymns were published in 1815, and in 1820 Manzoni gave the + world his first tragedy, <i>Il Conte di Carmagnola</i>, a romantic drama + written in the boldest defiance of the unities of time and place. He + dispensed with these hitherto indispensable conditions of dramatic + composition among the Italians eight years before Victor Hugo braved their + tyranny in his Cromwell; and in an introduction to his tragedy he gave his + reasons for this audacious innovation. Following the Carmagnola, in 1822, + came his second and last tragedy, <i>Adelchi</i>. In the mean time he had + written his magnificent ode on the Death of Napoleon, “Il Cinque Maggio”, + which was at once translated by Goethe, and recognized by the French + themselves as the last word on the subject. It placed him at the head of + the whole continental Romantic School. + </p> + <p> + In 1825 he published his romance, “I Promessi Sposi”, known to every one + knowing anything of Italian, and translated into all modern languages. + Besides these works, and some earlier poems, Manzoni wrote only a few + essays upon historical and literary subjects, and he always led a very + quiet and uneventful life. He was very fond of the country; early every + spring he left the city for his farm, whose labors he directed and shared. + His life was so quiet, indeed, and his fate so happy, in contrast with + that of Pellico and other literary contemporaries at Milan, that he was + accused of indifference in political matters by those who could not see + the subtler tendency of his whole life and works. Marc Monnier says, + “There are countries where it is a shame not to be persecuted,” and this + is the only disgrace which has ever fallen upon Manzoni. + </p> + <p> + When the Austrians took possession of Milan, after the retirement of the + French, they invited the patricians to inscribe themselves in a book of + nobility, under pain of losing their titles, and Manzoni preferred to lose + his. He constantly refused honors offered him by the Government, and he + sent back the ribbon of a knightly order with the answer that he had made + a vow never to wear any decoration. When Victor Emanuel in turn wished to + do him a like honor, he held himself bound by his excuse to the Austrians, + but accepted the honorary presidency of the Lombard Institute of Sciences, + Letters and Arts. In 1860 he was elected a Senator of the realm; he + appeared in order to take the oath and then he retired to a privacy never + afterwards broken. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + “Goethe's praise,” says a sneer turned proverb, “is a brevet of + mediocrity.” Manzoni must rest under this damaging applause, which was not + too freely bestowed upon other Italian poets of his time, or upon Italy at + all, for that matter. + </p> + <p> + Goethe could not laud Manzoni's tragedies too highly; he did not find one + word too much or too little in them; the style was free, noble, full and + rich. As to the religious lyrics, the manner of their treatment was fresh + and individual although the matter and the significance were not new; and + the poet was “a Christian without fanaticism, a Roman Catholic without + bigotry, a zealot without hardness.” + </p> + <p> + The tragedies had no success upon the stage. The Carmagnola was given in + Florence in 1828, but in spite of the favor of the court, and the open + rancor of the friends of the Classic School, it failed; at Turin, where + the Adelchi was tried, Pellico regretted that the attempt to play it had + been made, and deplored the “vile irreverence of the public.” + </p> + <p> + Both tragedies deal with patriotic themes, but they are both concerned + with occurrences of remote epochs. The time of the Carmagnola is the + fifteenth century; that of the Adelchi the eighth century; and however + strongly marked are the characters,—and they are very strongly + marked, and differ widely from most persons of Italian classic tragedy in + this respect,—one still feels that they are subordinate to the great + contests of elements and principles for which the tragedy furnishes a + scene. In the Carmagnola the pathos is chiefly in the feeling embodied by + the magnificent chorus lamenting the slaughter of Italians by Italians at + the battle of Maclodio; in the Adelchi we are conscious of no emotion so + strong as that we experience when we hear the wail of the Italian people, + to whom the overthrow of their Longobard oppressors by the Franks is but + the signal of a new enslavement. This chorus is almost as fine as the more + famous one in the Carmagnola; both are incomparably finer than anything + else in the tragedies and are much more dramatic than the dialogue. It is + in the emotion of a spectator belonging to our own time rather than in + that of an actor of those past times that the poet shows his dramatic + strength; and whenever he speaks abstractly for country and humanity he + moves us in a way that permits no doubt of his greatness. + </p> + <p> + After all, there is but one Shakespeare, and in the drama below him + Manzoni holds a high place. The faults of his tragedies are those of most + plays which are not acting plays, and their merits are much greater than + the great number of such plays can boast. I have not meant to imply that + you want sympathy with the persons of the drama, but only less sympathy + than with the ideas embodied in them. There are many affecting scenes, and + the whole of each tragedy is conceived in the highest and best ideal. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + In the Carmagnola, the action extends from the moment when the Venetian + Senate, at war with the Duke of Milan, places its armies under the command + of the count, who is a soldier of fortune and has formerly been in the + service of the Duke. The Senate sends two commissioners into his camp to + represent the state there, and to be spies upon his conduct. This was a + somewhat clumsy contrivance of the Republic to give a patriotic character + to its armies, which were often recruited from mercenaries and generaled + by them; and, of course, the hireling leaders must always have chafed + under the surveillance. After the battle of Maclodio, in which the + Venetian mercenaries defeated the Milanese, the victors, according to the + custom of their trade, began to free their comrades of the other side whom + they had taken prisoners. The commissioners protested against this waste + of results, but Carmagnola answered that it was the usage of his soldiers, + and he could not forbid it; he went further, and himself liberated some + remaining prisoners. His action was duly reported to the Senate, and as he + had formerly been in the service of the Duke of Milan, whose kinswoman he + had married, he was suspected of treason. He was invited to Venice, and + received with great honor, and conducted with every flattering ceremony to + the hall of the Grand Council. After a brief delay, sufficient to exclude + Carmagnola's followers, the Doge ordered him to be seized, and upon a + summary trial he was put to death. From this tragedy I give first a + translation of that famous chorus of which I have already spoken; I have + kept the measure and the movement of the original at some loss of + literality. The poem is introduced into the scene immediately succeeding + the battle of Maclodio, where the two bands of those Italian <i>condottieri</i> + had met to butcher each other in the interests severally of the Duke of + Milan and the Signory of Venice. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CHORUS. + + On the right hand a trumpet is sounding, + On the left hand a trumpet replying, + The field upon all sides resounding + With the trampling of foot and of horse. + Yonder flashes a flag; yonder flying + Through the still air a bannerol glances; + Here a squadron embattled advances, + There another that threatens its course. + + The space 'twixt the foes now beneath them + Is hid, and on swords the sword ringeth; + In the hearts of each other they sheathe them; + Blood runs, they redouble their blows. + Who are these? To our fair fields what bringeth + To make war upon us, this stranger? + Which is he that hath sworn to avenge her, + The land of his birth, on her foes? + + They are all of one land and one nation, + One speech; and the foreigner names them + All brothers, of one generation; + In each visage their kindred is seen; + This land is the mother that claims them, + This land that their life blood is steeping, + That God, from all other lands keeping, + Set the seas and the mountains between. + + Ah, which drew the first blade among them + To strike at the heart of his brother? + What wrong, or what insult hath stung them + To wipe out what stain, or to die? + They know not; to slay one another + They come in a cause none hath told them; + A chief that was purchased hath sold them; + They combat for him, nor ask why. + + Ah, woe for the mothers that bare them, + For the wives of these warriors maddened! + Why come not their loved ones to tear them + Away from the infamous field? + Their sires, whom long years have saddened, + And thoughts of the sepulcher chastened, + In warning why have they not hastened + To bid them to hold and to yield? + + As under the vine that embowers + His own happy threshold, the smiling + Clown watches the tempest that lowers + On the furrows his plow has not turned, + So each waits in safety, beguiling + The time with his count of those falling + Afar in the fight, and the appalling + Flames of towns and of villages burned. + + There, intent on the lips of their mothers, + Thou shalt hear little children with scorning + Learn to follow and flout at the brothers + Whose blood they shall go forth to shed; + Thou shalt see wives and maidens adorning + Their bosoms and hair with the splendor + Of gems but now torn from the tender, + Hapless daughters and wives of the dead. + + Oh, disaster, disaster, disaster! + With the slain the earth's hidden already; + With blood reeks the whole plain, and vaster + And fiercer the strife than before! + But along the ranks, rent and unsteady, + Many waver—they yield, they are flying! + With the last hope of victory dying + The love of life rises again. + + As out of the fan, when it tosses + The grain in its breath, the grain flashes, + So over the field of their losses + Fly the vanquished. But now in their course + Starts a squadron that suddenly dashes + Athwart their wild flight and that stays them, + While hard on the hindmost dismays them + The pursuit of the enemy's horse. + + At the feet of the foe they fall trembling, + And yield life and sword to his keeping; + In the shouts of the victors assembling, + The moans of the dying are drowned. + To the saddle a courier leaping, + Takes a missive, and through all resistance, + Spurs, lashes, devours the distance; + Every hamlet awakes at the sound. + + Ah, why from their rest and their labor + To the hoof-beaten road do they gather? + Why turns every one to his neighbor + The jubilant tidings to hear? + Thou know'st whence he comes, wretched father? + And thou long'st for his news, hapless mother? + In fight brother fell upon brother! + These terrible tidings <i>I</i> bring. + + All around I hear cries of rejoicing; + The temples are decked; the song swelleth + From the hearts of the fratricides, voicing + Praise and thanks that are hateful to God. + Meantime from the Alps where he dwelleth + The Stranger turns hither his vision, + And numbers with cruel derision + The brave that have bitten the sod. + + Leave your games, leave your songs and exulting; + Fill again your battalions and rally + Again to your banners! Insulting + The stranger descends, he is come! + Are ye feeble and few in your sally, + Ye victors? For this he descendeth! + 'Tis for this that his challenge he sendeth + From the fields where your brothers lie dumb! + + Thou that strait to thy children appearedst, + Thou that knew'st not in peace how to tend them, + Fatal land! now the stranger thou fearedst + Receive, with the judgment he brings! + A foe unprovoked to offend them + At thy board sitteth down, and derideth, + The spoil of thy foolish divideth, + Strips the sword from the hand of thy kings. + + Foolish he, too! What people was ever + For bloodshedding blest, or oppression? + To the vanquished alone comes harm never; + To tears turns the wrong-doer's joy! + Though he 'scape through the years' long progression, + Yet the vengeance eternal o'ertaketh + Him surely; it waiteth and waketh; + It seizes him at the last sigh! + + We are all made in one Likeness holy, + Ransomed all by one only redemption; + Near or far, rich or poor, high or lowly, + Wherever we breathe in life's air, + We are brothers, by one great preëmption + Bound all; and accursed be its wronger, + Who would ruin by right of the stronger, + Wring the hearts of the weak with despair. +</pre> + <p> + Here is the whole political history of Italy. In this poem the picture of + the confronted hosts, the vivid scenes of the combat, the lamentations + over the ferocity of the embattled brothers, and the indifference of those + that behold their kinsmen's carnage, the strokes by which the victory, the + rout, and the captivity are given, and then the apostrophe to Italy, and + finally the appeal to conscience—are all masterly effects. I do not + know just how to express my sense of near approach through that last + stanza to the heart of a very great and good man, but I am certain that I + have such a feeling. + </p> + <p> + The noble, sonorous music, the solemn movement of the poem are in great + part lost by its version into English; yet, I hope that enough are left to + suggest the original. I think it quite unsurpassed in its combination of + great artistic and moral qualities, which I am sure my version has not + wholly obscured, bad as it is. + </p> + <h3> + VI + </h3> + <p> + The scene following first upon this chorus also strikes me with the grand + spirit in which it is wrought; and in its revelations of the motives and + ideas of the old professional soldier-life, it reminds me of Schiller's + Wallenstein's Camp. Manzoni's canvas has not the breadth of that of the + other master, but he paints with as free and bold a hand, and his figures + have an equal heroism of attitude and motive. The generous soldierly pride + of Carmagnola, and the strange <i>esprit du corps</i> of the mercenaries, + who now stood side by side, and now front to front in battle; who sold + themselves to any buyer that wanted killing done, and whose noblest usage + was in violation of the letter of their bargains, are the qualities on + which the poet touches, in order to waken our pity for what has already + raised our horror. It is humanity in either case that inspires him—a + humanity characteristic of many Italians of this century, who have studied + so long in the school of suffering that they know how to abhor a system of + wrong, and yet excuse its agents. + </p> + <p> + The scene I am to give is in the tent of the great <i>condottiere</i>. + Carmagnola is speaking with one of the Commissioners of the Venetian + Republic, when the other suddenly enters: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Commissioner.</i> My lord, if instantly + You haste not to prevent it, treachery + Shameless and bold will be accomplished, making + Our victory vain, as't partly hath already. + + <i>Count.</i> How now? + + <i>Com.</i> The prisoners leave the camp in troops! + The leaders and the soldiers vie together + To set them free; and nothing can restrain them + Saving command of yours. + + <i>Count.</i> Command of mine? + + <i>Com.</i> You hesitate to give it? + + <i>Count.</i> 'T is a use, + This, of the war, you know. It is so sweet + To pardon when we conquer; and their hate + Is quickly turned to friendship in the hearts + That throb beneath the steel. Ah, do not seek + To take this noble privilege from those + Who risked their lives for your sake, and to-day + Are generous because valiant yesterday. + + <i>Com.</i> Let him be generous who fights for himself, + My lord! But these—and it rests upon their honor— + Have fought at our expense, and unto us + Belong the prisoners. + + <i>Count.</i> You may well think so, + Doubtless, but those who met them front to front, + Who felt their blows, and fought so hard to lay + Their bleeding hands upon them, they will not + So easily believe it. + + <i>Com.</i> And is this + A joust for pleasure then? And doth not Venice + Conquer to keep? And shall her victory + Be all in vain? + + <i>Count.</i> Already I have heard it, + And I must hear that word again? 'Tis bitter; + Importunate it comes upon me, like an insect + That, driven once away, returns to buzz + About my face.... The victory is in vain! + The field is heaped with corpses; scattered wide, + And broken, are the rest—a most flourishing + Army, with which, if it were still united, + And it were mine, mine truly, I'd engage + To overrun all Italy! Every design + Of the enemy baffled; even the hope of harm + Taken away from him; and from my hand + Hardly escaped, and glad of their escape, + Four captains against whom but yesterday + It were a boast to show resistance; vanished + Half of the dread of those great names; in us + Doubled the daring that the foe has lost; + The whole choice of the war now in our hands; + And ours the lands they've left—is't nothing? + Think you that they will go back to the Duke, + Those prisoners; and that they love him, or + Care more for <i>him</i> than <i>you</i>? that they have fought + In <i>his</i> behalf? Nay, they have combatted + Because a sovereign voice within the heart + Of men that follow any banner cries, + “Combat and conquer!” they have lost and so + Are set at liberty; they'll sell themselves— + O, such is now the soldier!—to the first + That seeks to buy them—Buy them; they are yours! + + <i>1st Com.</i> When we paid those that were to fight with + them, + We then believed ourselves to have purchased them. + + <i>2d Com.</i> My lord, Venice confides in you; in you + She sees a son; and all that to her good + And to her glory can redound, expects + Shall be done by you. + + <i>Count.</i> Everything I can. + + <i>2d Com.</i> And what can you not do upon this field? + + <i>Count.</i> The thing you ask. An ancient use, a use + Dear to the soldier, I can not violate. + + <i>2d Com.</i> You, whom no one resists, on whom so + promptly + Every will follows, so that none can say, + Whether for love or fear it yield itself; + You, in this camp, you are not able, you, + To make a law, and to enforce it? + + <i>Count.</i> I said + I could not; now I rather say, I <i>will</i> not! + No further words; with friends this hath been ever + My ancient custom; satisfy at once + And gladly all just prayers, and for all other + Refuse them openly and promptly. Soldier! + + <i>Com.</i> Nay—what is your purpose? + + <i>Count.</i> You will see anon. + {<i>To a soldier who enters</i> + How many prisoners still remain? + + <i>Soldier.</i> I think, + My lord, four hundred. + + <i>Count.</i> Call them hither—call + The bravest of them—those you meet the first; + Send them here quickly. {Exit soldier. + Surely, I might do it— + If I gave such a sign, there were not heard + A murmur in the camp. But these, my children, + My comrades amid peril, and in joy, + Those who confide in me, believe they follow + A leader ever ready to defend + The honor and advantage of the soldier; + <i>I</i> play them false, and make more slavish yet, + More vile and base their calling, than 'tis now? + Lords, I am trustful, as the soldier is, + But if you now insist on that from me + Which shall deprive me of my comrades' love, + If you desire to separate me from them, + And so reduce me that I have no stay + Saving yourselves—in spite of me I say it, + You force me, you, to doubt— + + <i>Com.</i> What do you say? + + {<i>The prisoners, among them young Pergola, enter.</i> + + <i>Count (To the prisoners).</i> O brave in vain! Unfortunate! + To you, + Fortune is cruelest, then? And you alone + Are to a sad captivity reserved? + + <i>A prisoner.</i> Such, mighty lord, was never our belief. + When we were called into your presence, we + Did seem to hear a messenger that gave + Our freedom to us. Already, all of those + That yielded them to captains less than you + Have been released, and only we— + + <i>Count.</i> Who was it, + That made you prisoners? + + <i>Prisoner.</i> We were the last + To give our arms up. All the rest were taken + Or put to flight, and for a few brief moments + The evil fortune of the battle weighed + On us alone. At last you made a sign + That we should draw nigh to your banner,—we + Alone not conquered, relics of the lost. + + <i>Count.</i> You are those? I am very glad, my friends, + To see you again, and I can testify + That you fought bravely; and if so much valor + Were not betrayed, and if a captain equal + Unto yourselves had led you, it had been + No pleasant thing to stand before you. + + <i>Prisoner.</i> And now + Shall it be our misfortune to have yielded + Only to you, my lord? And they that found + A conqueror less glorious, shall they find + More courtesy in him? In vain, we asked + Our freedom of your soldiers—no one durst + Dispose of us without your own assent, + But all did promise it. “O, if you can, + Show yourselves to the Count,” they said. “Be sure, + He'll not embitter fortune to the vanquished; + An ancient courtesy of war will never + Be ta'en away by him; he would have been + Rather the first to have invented it.” + + <i>Count.</i> (<i>To the Coms.</i>) You hear them, lords? Well, + then, what do you say? + What would you do, you? <i>(To the prisoners)</i> + Heaven forbid that any + Should think more highly than myself of me! + You are all free, my friends; farewell! Go, follow + Your fortune, and if e'er again it lead you + Under a banner that's adverse to mine, + Why, we shall see each other. <i>(The Count observes + young Pergola and stops him.)</i> + Ho, young man, + Thou art not of the vulgar! Dress, and face + More clearly still, proclaims it; yet with the others + Thou minglest and art silent? + + <i>Pergola.</i> Vanquished men + Have nought to say, O captain. + + <i>Count.</i> This ill-fortune + Thou bearest so, that thou dost show thyself + Worthy a better. What's thy name? + + <i>Pergola.</i> A name + Whose fame 't were hard to greaten, and that lays + On him who bears it a great obligation. + Pergola is my name. + + <i>Count.</i> What! thou 'rt the son + Of that brave man? + <i>Pergola.</i> I am he. + + <i>Count.</i> Come, embrace + Thy father's ancient friend! Such as thou art + That I was when I knew him first. Thou bringest + Happy days back to me! the happy days Of hope. + And take thou heart! Fortune did give + A happier beginning unto me; + But fortune's promises are for the brave. + And soon or late she keeps them. Greet for me + Thy father, boy, and say to him that I + Asked it not of thee, but that I was sure + This battle was not of his choosing. + + <i>Pergola.</i> Surely, + He chose it not; but his words were as wind. + + <i>Count.</i> Let it not grieve thee; 't is the leader's shame + Who is defeated; he begins well ever + Who like a brave man fights where he is placed. + Come with me, <i>(takes his hand)</i> + I would show thee to my comrades. + I'd give thee back thy sword. Adieu, my lords; + (<i>To the Coms.</i>) + I never will be merciful to your foes + Till I have conquered them. +</pre> + <p> + A notable thing in this tragedy of Carmagnola is that the interest of love + is entirely wanting to it, and herein it differs very widely from the play + of Schiller. The soldiers are simply soldiers; and this singleness of + motive is in harmony with the Italian conception of art. Yet the + Carmagnola of Manzoni is by no means like the heroes of the Alfierian + tragedy. He is a man, not merely an embodied passion or mood; his + character is rounded, and has all the checks and counterpoises, the + inconsistencies, in a word, without which nothing actually lives in + literature, or usefully lives in the world. In his generous and + magnificent illogicality, he comes the nearest being a woman of all the + characters in the tragedy. There is no other personage in it equaling him + in interest; but he also is subordinated to the author's purpose of + teaching his countrymen an enlightened patriotism. I am loath to blame + this didactic aim, which, I suppose, mars the aesthetic excellence ofthe + piece. + </p> + <p> + Carmagnola's liberation of the prisoners was not forgiven him by Venice, + who, indeed, never forgave anything; he was in due time entrapped in the + hall of the Grand Council, and condemned to die. The tragedy ends with a + scene in his prison, where he awaits his wife and daughter, who are coming + with one of his old comrades, Gonzaga, to bid him a last farewell. These + passages present the poet in his sweeter and tenderer moods, and they have + had a great charm for me. + </p> + <h3> + SCENE—THE PRISON. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Count</i> (<i>speaking of his wife and daughter</i>). By this time + they must know my fate. Ah! why + Might I not die far from them? Dread, indeed, + Would be the news that reached them, but, at least, + The darkest hour of agony would be past, + And now it stands before us. We must needs + Drink the draft drop by drop. O open fields, + O liberal sunshine, O uproar of arms, + O joy of peril, O trumpets, and the cries + Of combatants, O my true steed! 'midst you + 'T were fair to die; but now I go rebellious + To meet my destiny, driven to my doom + Like some vile criminal, uttering on the way + Impotent vows, and pitiful complaints. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But I shall see my dear ones once again + And, alas! hear their moans; the last adieu + Hear from their lips—shall find myself once more + Within their arms—then part from them forever. + They come! O God, bend down from heaven on them + One look of pity. + + {<i>Enter</i> ANTONIETTA, MATILDE, <i>and</i> GONZAGA. + <i>Antonietta.</i> My husband! + + <i>Matilde.</i> O my father! + + <i>Antonietta.</i> Ah, thus thou comest back! Is this the moment + So long desired? + + <i>Count.</i> O poor souls! Heaven knows + That only for your sake is it dreadful to me. + I who so long am used to look on death, + And to expect it, only for your sakes + Do I need courage. And you, you will not surely + Take it away from me? God, when he makes + Disaster fall on the innocent, he gives, too, + The heart to bear it. Ah! let <i>yours</i> be equal + To your affliction now! Let us enjoy + This last embrace—it likewise is Heaven's gift. + Daughter, thou weepest; and thou, wife! Oh, when + I chose thee mine, serenely did they days + Glide on in peace; but made I thee companion + Of a sad destiny. And it is this thought + Embitters death to me. Would that I could not + See how unhappy I have made thee! + + <i>Antonietta.</i> O husband + Of my glad days, thou mad'st them glad! My heart,— + Yes, thou may'st read it!—I die of sorrow! Yet + I could not wish that I had not been thine. + + <i>Count.</i> O love, I know how much I lose in thee: + Make me not feel it now too much. + + <i>Matilde.</i> The murderers! + + <i>Count.</i> No, no, my sweet Matilde; let not those + Fierce cries of hatred and of vengeance rise + From out thine innocent soul. Nay, do not mar + These moments; they are holy; the wrong's great, + But pardon it, and thou shalt see in midst of ills + A lofty joy remaining still. My death, + The cruelest enemy could do no more + Than hasten it. Oh surely men did never + Discover death, for they had made it fierce + And insupportable! It is from Heaven + That it doth come, and Heaven accompanies it, + Still with such comfort as men cannot give + Nor take away. O daughter and dear wife, + Hear my last words! All bitterly, I see, + They fall upon your hearts. But you one day will have + Some solace in remembering them together. + Dear wife, live thou; conquer thy sorrow, live; + Let not this poor girl utterly be orphaned. + Fly from this land, and quickly; to thy kindred + Take her with thee. She is their blood; to them + Thou once wast dear, and when thou didst become + Wife of their foe, only less dear; the cruel + Reasons of state have long time made adverse + The names of Carmagnola and Visconti; + But thou go'st back unhappy; the sad cause + Of hate is gone. Death's a great peacemaker! + And thou, my tender flower, that to my arms + Wast wont to come and make my spirit light, + Thou bow'st thy head? Aye, aye, the tempest roars + Above thee! Thou dost tremble, and thy breast + Is shaken with thy sobs. Upon my face + I feel thy burning tears fall down on me, + And cannot wipe them from thy tender eyes. + ... Thou seem'st to ask + Pity of me, Matilde. Ah! thy father + Can do naught for thee. But there is in heaven, + There is a Father thou know'st for the forsaken; + Trust him and live on tranquil if not glad. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gonzaga, I offer thee this hand, which often + Thou hast pressed upon the morn of battle, when + We knew not if we e'er should meet again: + Wilt press it now once more, and give to me + Thy faith that thou wilt be defense and guard + Of these poor women, till they are returned + Unto their kinsmen? + + <i>Gonzaga.</i> I do promise thee. + + <i>Count.</i> When thou go'st back to camp, + Salute my brothers for me; and say to them + That I die innocent; witness thou hast been + Of all my deeds and thoughts—thou knowest it. + Tell them that I did never stain my sword + With treason—I did never stain it—and + I am betrayed.—And when the trumpets blow, + And when the banners beat against the wind, + Give thou a thought to thine old comrade then! + And on some mighty day of battle, when + Upon the field of slaughter the priest lifts + His hands amid the doleful noises, offering up + The sacrifice to heaven for the dead, + Bethink thyself of me, for I too thought + To die in battle. + + <i>Antonietta.</i> O God, have pity on us! + + <i>Count.</i> O wife! Matilde! now the hour is near + We needs must part. Farewell! + + <i>Matilde.</i> No, father— + + <i>Count.</i> Yet + Once more, come to my heart! Once more, and now, + In mercy, go! + + <i>Antonietta.</i> Ah, no! they shall unclasp us + By force! + + {<i>A sound of armed men is heard without.</i> + + <i>Matilde.</i> What sound is that? + + <i>Antonietta.</i> Almighty God! + + {<i>The door opens in the middle; armed men + are seen. Their leader advances toward + the Count; the women swoon.</i> + + <i>Count.</i> Merciful God! Thou hast removed from them + This cruel moment, and I thank Thee! Friend, + Succor them, and from this unhappy place + Bear them! And when they see the light again, + Tell them that nothing more is left to fear. +</pre> + <h3> + VII + </h3> + <p> + In the Carmagnola having dealt with the internal wars which desolated + medieval Italy, Manzoni in the Adelchi takes a step further back in time, + and evolves his tragedy from the downfall of the Longobard kingdom and the + invasion of the Franks. These enter Italy at the bidding of the priests, + to sustain the Church against the disobedience and contumacy of the + Longobards. + </p> + <p> + Desiderio and his son Adelchi are kings of the Longobards, and the tragedy + opens with the return to their city Pavia of Ermenegarda, Adelchi's + sister, who was espoused to Carlo, king of the Franks, and has been + repudiated by him. The Longobards have seized certain territories + belonging to the Church, and as they refuse to restore them, the + ecclesiastics send a messenger, who crosses the Alps on foot, to the camp + of the Franks, and invites their king into Italy to help the cause of the + Church. The Franks descend into the valley of Susa, and soon after defeat + the Longobards. It is in this scene that the chorus of the Italian + peasants, who suffer, no matter which side conquers, is introduced. The + Longobards retire to Verona, and Ermenegarda, whose character is painted + with great tenderness and delicacy, and whom we may take for a type of + what little goodness and gentleness, sorely puzzled, there was in the + world at that time (which was really one of the worst of all the bad times + in the world), dies in a convent near Brescia, while the war rages all + round her retreat. A defection takes place among the Longobards; Desiderio + is captured; a last stand is made by Adelchi at Verona, where he is + mortally wounded, and is brought prisoner to his father in the tent of + Carlo. The tragedy ends with his death; and I give the whole of the last + scene: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + {<i>Enter</i> CARLO <i>and</i> DESIDERIO. + + <i>Desiderio.</i> Oh, how heavily + Hast thou descended upon my gray head, + Thou hand of God! How comes my son to me! + My son, my only glory, here I languish, + And tremble to behold thee! Shall I see + Thy deadly wounded body, I that should + Be wept by thee? I, miserable, alone, + Dragged thee to this; blind dotard I, that fain + Had made earth fair to thee, I digged thy grave. + If only thou amidst thy warriors' songs + Hadst fallen on some day of victory, + Or had I closed upon thy royal bed + Thine eyes amidst the sobs and reverent grief + Of thy true liegemen, ah; it still had been + Anguish ineffable! And now thou diest, + No king, deserted, in thy foeman's land, + With no lament, saving thy father's, uttered + Before the man that doth exult to hear it. + + <i>Carlo.</i> Old man, thy grief deceives thee. Sorrowful, + And not exultant do I see the fate + Of a brave man and king. Adelchi's foe + Was I, and he was mine, nor such that I + Might rest upon this new throne, if he lived + And were not in my hands. But now he is + In God's own hands, whither no enmity + Of man can follow him. + + <i>Des.</i> 'T is a fatal gift + Thy pity, if it never is bestowed + Save upon those fallen beyond all hope— + If thou dost never stay thine arm until + Thou canst find no place to inflict a wound! + + (<i>Adelchi is brought in, mortally wounded.</i>) + + <i>Des.</i> My son! + + <i>Adelchi.</i> And do I see thee once more, father? + Oh come, and touch my hand! + + <i>Des.</i> 'T is terrible + For me to see thee so! + + <i>Ad.</i> Many in battle + Did fall so by my sword. + + <i>Des.</i> Ah, then, this wound + Thou hast, it is incurable? + + <i>Ad.</i> Incurable. + + <i>Des.</i> Alas, atrocious war! + And cruel I that made it. 'T is I kill thee. + + <i>Ad.</i> Not thou nor he <i>(pointing to Carlo)</i>, but the + Lord God of all. + + <i>Des.</i> Oh, dear unto those eyes! how far away + From thee I suffered! and it was one thought + Among so many woes upheld me. 'T was the hope + To tell thee all one day in some safe hour + Of peace— + + <i>Ad.</i> That hour of peace has come to me. + Believe it, father, save that I leave thee + Crushed with thy sorrow here below. + + <i>Des.</i> O front + Serene and bold! O fearless hand! O eyes + That once struck terror! + + <i>Ad.</i> Cease thy lamentations, + Cease, father, in God's name! For was not this + The time to die? But thou that shalt live captive, + And hast lived all thy days a king, oh listen: + Life's a great secret that is not revealed + Save in the latest hour. Thou'st lost a kingdom; + Nay, do not weep! Trust me, when to this hour + Thou also shalt draw nigh, most jubilant + And fair shall pass before thy thought the years + In which thou wast not king—the years in which + No tears shall be recorded in the skies + Against thee, and thy name shall not ascend + Mixed with the curses of the unhappy. Oh, + Rejoice that thou art king no longer! that + All ways are closed against thee! There is none + For innocent action, and there but remains + To do wrong or to suffer wrong. A power + Fierce, pitiless, grasps the world, and calls itself + The right. The ruthless hands of our forefathers + Did sow injustice, and our fathers then + Did water it with blood; and now the earth + No other harvest bears. It is not meet + To uphold crime, thou'st proved it, and if 't were, + Must it not end thus? Nay, this happy man + Whose throne my dying renders more secure, + Whom all men smile on and applaud, and serve, + He is a man and he shall die. + + <i>Des.</i> But I + That lose my son, what shall console me? + + <i>Ad.</i> God! + Who comforts us for all things. And oh, thou + Proud foe of mine! <i>(Turning to Carlo.)</i> + + <i>Carlo.</i> Nay, by this name, Adelchi, + Call me no more; I was so, but toward death + Hatred is impious and villainous. Nor such, + Believe me, knows the heart of Carlo. + + <i>Ad.</i> Friendly + My speech shall be, then, very meek and free + Of every bitter memory to both. + For this I pray thee, and my dying hand + I lay in thine! I do not ask that thou + Should'st let go free so great a captive—no, + For I well see that my prayer were in vain + And vain the prayer of any mortal. Firm + Thy heart is—must be—nor so far extends + Thy pity. That which thou can'st not deny + Without being cruel, that I ask thee! Mild + As it can be, and free of insult, be + This old man's bondage, even such as thou + Would'st have implored for thy father, if the heavens + Had destined thee the sorrow of leaving him + In others' power. His venerable head + Keep thou from every outrage; for against + The fallen many are brave; and let him not + Endure the cruel sight of any of those + His vassals that betrayed him. + + <i>Carlo.</i> Take in death + This glad assurance, Adelchi! and be Heaven + My testimony, that thy prayer is as + The word of Carlo! + + <i>Ad.</i> And thy enemy, + In dying, prays for thee! + + <i>Enter</i> ARVINO. + + <i>Armno.</i> (<i>Impatiently</i>) O mighty king, thy warriors and chiefs + Ask entrance. + + <i>Ad.</i> (<i>Appealingly</i>.) Carlo! + + <i>Carlo.</i> Let not any dare + To draw anigh this tent; for here Adelchi + Is sovereign; and no one but Adelchi's father + And the meek minister of divine forgiveness + Have access here. + + <i>Des.</i> O my beloved son! + + <i>Ad.</i> O my father, + The light forsakes these eyes. + + <i>Des.</i> Adelchi,—No! + Thou shalt not leave me! + + <i>Ad.</i> O King of kings! betrayed + By one of Thine, by all the rest abandoned: + I come to seek Thy peace, and do Thou take + My weary soul! + + <i>Des.</i> He heareth thee, my son, + And thou art gone, and I in servitude + Remain to weep. +</pre> + <p> + I wish to give another passage from this tragedy: the speech which the + emissary of the Church makes to Carlo when he reaches his presence after + his arduous passage of the Alps. I suppose that all will note the beauty + and reality of the description in the story this messenger tells of his + adventures; and I feel, for my part, a profound effect of wildness and + loneliness in the verse, which has almost the solemn light and balsamy + perfume of those mountain solitudes: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From the camp, + Unseen, I issued, and retraced the steps + But lately taken. Thence upon the right + I turned toward Aquilone. Abandoning + The beaten paths, I found myself within + A dark and narrow valley; but it grew + Wider before my eyes as further on + I kept my way. Here, now and then, I saw + The wandering flocks, and huts of shepherds. 'T was + The furthermost abode of men. I entered + One of the huts, craved shelter, and upon + The woolly fleece I slept the night away. + Rising at dawn, of my good shepherd host + I asked my way to France. “Beyond those heights + Are other heights,” he said, “and others yet; + And France is far and far away; but path + There's none, and thousands are those mountains— + Steep, naked, dreadful, uninhabited + Unless by ghosts, and never mortal man + Passed over them.” “The ways of God are many, + Far more than those of mortals,” I replied, + “And God sends me.” “And God guide you!” he said. + Then, from among the loaves he kept in store, + He gathered up as many as a pilgrim + May carry, and in a coarse sack wrapping them, + He laid them on my shoulders. Recompense + I prayed from Heaven for him, and took my way. + Beaching the valley's top, a peak arose, + And, putting faith in God, I climbed it. Here + No trace of man appeared, only the forests + Of untouched pines, rivers unknown, and vales + Without a path. All hushed, and nothing else + But my own steps I heard, and now and then + The rushing of the torrents, and the sudden + Scream of the hawk, or else the eagle, launched + From his high nest, and hurtling through the dawn, + Passed close above my head; or then at noon, + Struck by the sun, the crackling of the cones + Of the wild pines. And so three days I walked, + And under the great trees, and in the clefts, + Three nights I rested. The sun was my guide; + I rose with him, and him upon his journey + I followed till he set. Uncertain still, + Of my own way I went; from vale to vale + Crossing forever; or, if it chanced at times + I saw the accessible slope of some great height + Rising before me, and attained its crest, + Yet loftier summits still, before, around, + Towered over me; and other heights with snow + From foot to summit whitening, that did seem + Like steep, sharp tents fixed in the soil; and others + Appeared like iron, and arose in guise + Of walls insuperable. The third day fell + What time I had a mighty mountain seen + That raised its top above the others; 't was + All one green slope, and all its top was crowned + With trees. And thither eagerly I turned + My weary steps. It was the eastern side, + Sire, of this very mountain on which lies + Thy camp that faces toward the setting sun. + While I yet lingered on its spurs the darkness + Did overtake me; and upon the dry + And slippery needles of the pine that covered + The ground, I made my bed, and pillowed me + Against their ancient trunks. A smiling hope + Awakened me at daybreak; and all full + Of a strange vigor, up the steep I climbed. + Scarce had I reached the summit when my ear + Was smitten with a murmur that from far + Appeared to come, deep, ceaseless; and I stood + And listened motionless. 'T was not the waters + Broken upon the rocks below; 'twas not the wind + That blew athwart the woods and whistling ran + From one tree to another, but verily + A sound of living men, an indistinct + Rumor of words, of arms, of trampling feet, + Swarming from far away; an agitation + Immense, of men! My heart leaped, and my steps + I hastened. On that peak, O king, that seems + To us like some sharp blade to pierce the heaven, + There lies an ample plain that's covered thick + With grass ne'er trod before. And this I crossed + The quickest way; and now at every instant + The murmur nearer grew, and I devoured + The space between; I reached the brink, I launched + My glance into the valley and I saw, + I saw the tents of Israel, the desired + Pavilion of Jacob; on the ground + I fell, thanked God, adored him, and descended. +</pre> + <h3> + VIII + </h3> + <p> + I could easily multiply beautiful and effective passages from the poetry + of Manzoni; but I will give only one more version, “The Fifth of May”, + that ode on the death of Napoleon, which, if not the most perfect lyric of + modern times as the Italians vaunt it to be, is certainly very grand. I + have followed the movement and kept the meter of the Italian, and have at + the same time reproduced it quite literally; yet I feel that any + translation of such a poem is only a little better than none. I think I + have caught the shadow of this splendid lyric; but there is yet no + photography that transfers the splendor itself, the life, the light, the + color; I can give you the meaning, but not the feeling, that pervades + every syllable as the blood warms every fiber of a man, not the words that + flashed upon the poet as he wrote, nor the yet more precious and inspired + words that came afterward to his patient waiting and pondering, and + touched the whole with fresh delight and grace. If you will take any + familiar passage from one of our poets in which every motion of the music + is endeared by long association and remembrance, and every tone is sweet + upon the tongue, and substitute a few strange words for the original, you + will have some notion of the wrong done by translation. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE FIFTH OF MAY. + + He passed; and as immovable + As, with the last sigh given, + Lay his own clay, oblivious, + From that great spirit riven, + So the world stricken and wondering + Stands at the tidings dread: + Mutely pondering the ultimate + Hour of that fateful being, + And in the vast futurity + No peer of his foreseeing + Among the countless myriads + Her blood-stained dust that tread. + + Him on his throne and glorious + Silent saw I, that never— + When with awful vicissitude + He sank, rose, fell forever— + Mixed my voice with the numberless + Voices that pealed on high; + Guiltless of servile flattery + And of the scorn of coward, + Come I when darkness suddenly + On so great light hath lowered, + And offer a song at his sepulcher + That haply shall not die. + + From the Alps unto the Pyramids, + From Rhine to Manzanares + Unfailingly the thunderstroke + His lightning purpose carries; + Bursts from Scylla to Tanais,— + From one to the other sea. + Was it true glory?—Posterity, + Thine be the hard decision; + Bow we before the mightiest, + Who willed in him the vision + Of his creative majesty + Most grandly traced should be. + + The eager and tempestuous + Joy of the great plan's hour, + The throe of the heart that controllessly + Burns with a dream of power, + And wins it, and seizes victory + It had seemed folly to hope— + All he hath known: the infinite + Rapture after the danger, + The flight, the throne of sovereignty, + The salt bread of the stranger; + Twice 'neath the feet of the worshipers, + Twice 'neath the altar's cope. + + He spoke his name; two centuries, + Armed and threatening either, + Turned unto him submissively, + As waiting fate together; + He made a silence, and arbiter + He sat between the two. + He vanished; his days in the idleness + Of his island-prison spending, + Mark of immense malignity, + And of a pity unending, + Of hatred inappeasable, + Of deathless love and true. + + As on the head of the mariner, + Its weight some billow heaping, + Falls even while the castaway, + With strained sight far sweeping, + Scanneth the empty distances + For some dim sail in vain; + So over his soul the memories + Billowed and gathered ever! + How oft to tell posterity + Himself he did endeavor, + And on the pages helplessly + Fell his weary hand again. + + How many times, when listlessly + In the long, dull day's declining— + Downcast those glances fulminant, + His arms on his breast entwining— + He stood assailed by the memories + Of days that were passed away; + He thought of the camps, the arduous + Assaults, the shock of forces, + The lightning-flash of the infantry, + The billowy rush of horses, + The thrill in his supremacy, + The eagerness to obey. + + Ah, haply in so great agony + His panting soul had ended + Despairing, but that potently + A hand, from heaven extended, + Into a clearer atmosphere + In mercy lifted him. + And led him on by blossoming + Pathways of hope ascending + To deathless fields, to happiness + All earthly dreams transcending, + Where in the glory celestial + Earth's fame is dumb and dim. + + Beautiful, deathless, beneficent + Faith! used to triumphs, even + This also write exultantly: + No loftier pride 'neath heaven + Unto the shame of Calvary + Stooped ever yet its crest. + Thou from his weary mortality + Disperse all bitter passions: + The God that humbleth and hearteneth, + That comforts and that chastens, + Upon the pillow else desolate + To his pale lips lay pressed! +</pre> + <h3> + IX + </h3> + <p> + Giuseppe Arnaud says that in his sacred poetry Manzoni gave the Catholic + dogmas the most moral explanation, in the most attractive poetical + language; and he suggests that Manzoni had a patriotic purpose in them, or + at least a sympathy with the effort of the Romantic writers to give + priests and princes assurance that patriotism was religious, and thus win + them to favor the Italian cause. It must be confessed that such a temporal + design as this would fatally affect the devotional quality of the hymns, + even if the poet's consciousness did not; but I am not able to see any + evidence of such sympathy in the poems themselves. I detect there a + perfectly sincere religious feeling, and nothing of devotional rapture. + The poet had, no doubt, a satisfaction in bringing out the beauty and + sublimity of his faith; and, as a literary artist, he had a right to be + proud of his work, for its spirit is one of which the tuneful piety of + Italy had long been void. In truth, since David, king of Israel, left + making psalms, religious songs have been poorer than any other sort of + songs; and it is high praise of Manzoni's “Inni Sacri” to say that they + are in irreproachable taste, and unite in unaffected poetic appreciation + of the grandeur of Christianity as much reason as may coexist with + obedience. + </p> + <p> + The poetry of Manzoni is so small in quantity, that we must refer chiefly + to excellence of quality the influence and the fame it has won him, though + I do not deny that his success may have been partly owing at first to the + errors of the school which preceded him. It could be easily shown, from + literary history, that every great poet has appeared at a moment fortunate + for his renown, just as we might prove, from natural science, that it is + felicitous for the sun to get up about day-break. Manzoni's art was very + great, and he never gave his thought defective expression, while the + expression was always secondary to the thought. For the self-respect, + then, of an honest man, which would not permit him to poetize insincerity + and shape the void, and for the great purpose he always cherished of + making literature an agent of civilization and Christianity, the Italians + are right to honor Manzoni. Arnaud thinks that the school he founded + lingered too long on the educative and religious ground he chose; and Marc + Monnier declares Manzoni to be the poet of resignation, thus + distinguishing him from the poets of revolution. The former critic is the + nearer right of the two, though neither is quite just, as it seems to me; + for I do not understand how any one can read the romance and the dramas of + Manzoni without finding him full of sympathy for all Italy has suffered, + and a patriot very far from resigned; and I think political conditions—or + the Austrians in Milan, to put it more concretely—scarcely left to + the choice of the Lombard school that attitude of aggression which others + assumed under a weaker, if not a milder, despotism at Florence. The utmost + allowed the Milanese poets was the expression of a retrospective + patriotism, which celebrated the glories of Italy's past, which deplored + her errors, and which denounced her crimes, and thus contributed to keep + the sense of nationality alive. Under such governments as endured in + Piedmont until 1848, in Lombardy until 1859, in Venetia until 1866, + literature must remain educative, or must cease to be. In the works, + therefore, of Manzoni and of nearly all his immediate followers, there is + nothing directly revolutionary except in Giovanni Berchet. The line + between them and the directly revolutionary poets is by no means to be + traced with exactness, however, in their literature, and in their lives + they were all alike patriotic. + </p> + <p> + Manzoni lived to see all his hopes fulfilled, and died two years after the + fall of the temporal power, in 1873. “Toward mid-day,” says a Milanese + journal at the time of his death, “he turned suddenly to the household + friends about him, and said: 'This man is failing—sinking—call + my confessor!' + </p> + <p> + “The confessor came, and he communed with him half an hour, speaking, as + usual, from a mind calm and clear. After the confessor left the room, + Manzoni called his friends and said to them: 'When I am dead, do what I + did every day: pray for Italy—pray for the king and his family—so + good to me!' His country was the last thought of this great man dying as + in his whole long life it had been his most vivid and constant affection.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SILVIO PELLICO, TOMASSO GROSSI, LUIGI CAREER, AND GIOVANNI BERCHET + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + As I have noted, nearly all the poets of the Romantic School were + Lombards, and they had nearly all lived at Milan under the censorship and + espionage of the Austrian government. What sort of life this must have + been, we, born and reared in a free country, can hardly imagine. We have + no experience by which we can judge it, and we never can do full justice + to the intellectual courage and devotion of a people who, amid + inconceivable obstacles and oppressions, expressed themselves in a new and + vigorous literature. It was not, I have explained, openly revolutionary; + but whatever tended to make men think and feel was a sort of indirect + rebellion against Austria. When a society of learned Milanese gentlemen + once presented an address to the Emperor, he replied, with brutal + insolence, that he wanted obedient subjects in Italy, nothing more; and it + is certain that the activity of the Romantic School was regarded with + jealousy and dislike by the government from the first. The authorities + awaited only a pretext for striking a deadly blow at the poets and + novelists, who ought to have been satisfied with being good subjects, but + who, instead, must needs even found a newspaper, and discuss in it + projects for giving the Italians a literary life, since they could not + have a political existence. The perils of contributing to the <i>Conciliatore</i> + were such as would attend house-breaking and horse-stealing in happier + countries and later times. The government forbade any of its employees to + write for it, under pain of losing their places; the police, through whose + hands every article intended for publication had to pass, not only struck + out all possibly offensive expressions, but informed one of the authors + that if his articles continued to come to them so full of objectionable + things, he should be banished, even though those things never reached the + public. At last the time came for suppressing this journal and punishing + its managers. The chief editor was a young Piedmontese poet, who + politically was one of the most harmless and inoffensive of men; his + literary creed obliged him to choose Italian subjects for his poems, and + he thus erred by mentioning Italy; yet Arnaud, in his “Poeti Patriottici”, + tells us he could find but two lines from which this poet could be + suspected of patriotism, and he altogether refuses to class him with the + poets who have promoted revolution. Nevertheless, it is probable that this + poet wished Freedom well. He was indefinitely hopeful for Italy; he was + young, generous, and credulous of goodness and justice. His youth, his + generosity, his truth, made him odious to Austria. One day he returned + from a visit to Turin, and was arrested. He could have escaped when danger + first threatened, but his faith in his own innocence ruined him. After a + tedious imprisonment, and repeated examinations in Milan, he was taken to + Venice, and lodged in the famous <i>piombi</i>, or cells in the roof of + the Ducal Palace. There, after long delays, he had his trial, and was + sentenced to twenty years in the prison of Spielberg. By a sort of + poetical license which the imperial clemency sometimes used, the nights + were counted as days, and the term was thus reduced to ten years. Many + other young and gifted Italians suffered at the same time; most of them + came to this country at the end of their long durance; this Piedmontese + poet returned to his own city of Turin, an old and broken-spirited man, + doubting of the political future, and half a Jesuit in religion. He was + devastated, and for once a cruel injustice seemed to have accomplished its + purpose. + </p> + <p> + Such is the grim outline of the story of Silvio Pellico. He was arrested + for no offense, save that he was an Italian and an intellectual man; for + no other offense he was condemned and suffered. His famous book, “My + Prisons”, is the touching and forgiving record of one of the greatest + crimes ever perpetrated. + </p> + <p> + Few have borne wrong with such Christlike meekness and charity as Pellico. + One cannot read his <i>Prigioni</i> without doing homage to his purity and + goodness, and cannot turn to his other works without the misgiving that + the sole poem he has left the world is the story of his most fatal and + unmerited suffering. I have not the hardihood to pretend that I have read + all his works. I must confess that I found it impossible to do so, though + I came to their perusal inured to drought by travel through Saharas of + Italian verse. I can boast only of having read the <i>Francesca da Rimini</i>, + among the tragedies, and two or three of the canticles,—or romantic + stories of the Middle Ages, in blank verse,—which now refuse to be + identified. I know, from a despairing reference to his volume, that his + remaining poems are chiefly of a religious cast. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + A much better poet of the Romantic School was Tommaso Grossi, who, like + Manzoni and Pellico, is now best known by a prose work—a novel which + enjoys a popularity as great as that of “Le Mie Prigioni”, and which has + been nearly as much read in Italy as “I Promessi Sposi”. The “Marco + Visconti” of Grossi is a romance of the thirteenth century; and though + not, as Cantù says, an historic “episode, but a succession of episodes, + which do not leave a general and unique impression,” it yet contrives to + bring you so pleasantly acquainted with the splendid, squalid, poetic, + miserable Italian life in Milan, and on its neighboring hills and lakes, + during the Middle Ages, that you cannot help reading it to the end. I + suppose that this is the highest praise which can be bestowed upon an + historical romance, and that it implies great charm of narrative and + beauty of style. I can add, that the feeling of Grossi's “Marco Visconti” + is genuine and exalted, and that its morality is blameless. It has + scarcely the right to be analyzed here, however, and should not have been + more than mentioned, but for the fact that it chances to be the setting of + the author's best thing in verse. I hope that, even in my crude English + version, the artless pathos and sweet natural grace of one of the + tenderest little songs in any tongue have not wholly perished. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: TOMMASO GROSSI.} + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE FAIR PRISONER TO THE SWALLOW. + + Pilgrim swallow! pilgrim swallow! + On my grated window's sill, + Singing, as the mornings follow, + Quaint and pensive ditties still, + What would'st tell me in thy lay? + Prithee, pilgrim swallow, say! + + All forgotten, com'st thou hither + Of thy tender spouse forlorn, + That we two may grieve together, + Little widow, sorrow worn? + Grieve then, weep then, in thy lay! + Pilgrim swallow, grieve alway! + + Yet a lighter woe thou weepest: + Thou at least art free of wing, + And while land and lake thou sweepest, + May'st make heaven with sorrow ring, + Calling his dear name alway, + Pilgrim swallow, in thy lay. + + Could I too! that am forbidden + By this low and narrow cell, + Whence the sun's fair light is hidden, + Whence thou scarce can'st hear me tell + Sorrows that I breathe alway, + While thou pip'st thy plaintive lay. + + Ah! September quickly coming, + Thou shalt take farewell of me, + And, to other summers roaming, + Other hills and waters see,— + Greeting them with songs more gay, + Pilgrim swallow, far away. + + Still, with every hopeless morrow, + While I ope mine eyes in tears, + Sweetly through my brooding sorrow + Thy dear song shall reach mine ears,— + Pitying me, though far away, + Pilgrim swallow, in thy lay. + + Thou, when thou and spring together + Here return, a cross shalt see,— + In the pleasant evening weather, + Wheel and pipe, here, over me! + Peace and peace! the coming May, + Sing me in thy roundelay! +</pre> + <p> + It is a great good fortune for a man to have written a thing so beautiful + as this, and not a singular fortune that he should have written nothing + else comparable to it. The like happens in all literatures; and no one + need be surprised to learn that I found the other poems of Grossi often + difficult, and sometimes almost impossible to read. + </p> + <p> + Grossi was born in 1791, at Bollano, by lovely Como, whose hills and + waters he remembers in all his works with constant affection. He studied + law at the University of Pavia, but went early to Milan, where he + cultivated literature rather than the austerer science to which he had + been bred, and soon became the fashion, writing tales in Milanese and + Italian verse, and making the women cry by his pathetic art of + story-telling. “Ildegonda”, published in 1820, was the most popular of all + these tales, and won Grossi an immense number of admirers, every one (says + his biographer Cantù) of the fair sex, who began to wear Ildegonda dresses + and Ildegonda bonnets. The poem was printed and reprinted; it is the + heart-breaking story of a poor little maiden in the middle ages, whom her + father and brother shut up in a convent because she is in love with the + right person and will not marry the wrong one—a common thing in all + ages. The cruel abbess and wicked nuns, by the order of Ildegonda's + family, try to force her to take the veil; but she, supported by her own + repugnance to the cloister, and, by the secret counsels of one of the + sisters, with whom force had succeeded, resists persuasion, reproach, + starvation, cold, imprisonment, and chains. Her lover attempts to rescue + her by means of a subterranean vault under the convent; but the plot is + discovered, and the unhappy pair are assailed by armed men at the very + moment of escape. Ildegonda is dragged back to her dungeon; and Rizzardo, + already under accusation of heresy, is quickly convicted and burnt at the + stake. They bring the poor girl word of this, and her sick brain turns. In + her delirium she sees her lover in torment for his heresy, and, flying + from the hideous apparition, she falls and strikes her head against a + stone. She wakes in the arms of the beloved sister who had always + befriended her. The cruel efforts against her cease now, and she writes to + her father imploring his pardon, which he gives, with a prayer for hers. + At last she dies peacefully. The story is pathetic; and it is told with + art, though its lapses of taste are woful, and its faults those of the + whole class of Italian poetry to which it belongs. The agony is tedious, + as Italian agony is apt to be, the passion is outrageously violent or + excessively tender, the description too often prosaic; the effects are + sometimes produced by very “rough magic”. The more than occasional + infelicity and awkwardness of diction which offend in Byron's poetic tales + are not felt so much in those of Grossi; but in “Ildegonda” there is + horror more material even than in “Parisina”. Here is a picture of + Rizzardo's apparition, for which my faint English has no stomach: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Chè dalla bocca fuori gli pendea + La coda smisurata d' un serpente, + E il flagellava per la faccia, mentre + Il capo e il tronco gli scendean nel ventre. + + Fischia la biscia nell' orribil lutta + Entro il ventre profondo del dannato, + Che dalla bocca lacerata erutta + Un torrente di sangue aggruppato; + E bava gialla, venenosa e brutta, + Dalle narici fuor manda col fiato, + La qual pel mento giù gli cola, e lassa + Insolcata la carne, ovunque passa. +</pre> + <p> + It seems to have been the fate of Grossi as a poet to achieve fashion, and + not fame; and his great poem in fifteen cantos, called “I Lombardi alla + Prima Crociata”, which made so great a noise in its day, was eclipsed in + reputation by his subsequent novel of “Marco Visconti”. Since the + “Gerusalemma” of Tasso, it is said that no poem has made so great a + sensation in Italy as “I Lombardi”, in which the theme treated by the + elder poet is celebrated according to the aesthetics of the Romantic + School. Such parts of the poem as I have read have not tempted me to + undertake the whole; but many people must have at least bought it, for it + gave the author thirty thousand francs in solid proof of popularity. + </p> + <p> + After the “Marco Visconti”, Grossi seems to have produced no work of + importance. He married late, but happily; and he now devoted himself + almost exclusively to the profession of the law, in Milan, where he died + in 1853, leaving the memory of a good man, and the fame of a poet + unspotted by reproach. As long as he lived, he was the beloved friend of + Manzoni. He dwelt many years under the influence of the stronger mind, but + not servile to it; adopting its literary principles, but giving them his + own expression. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Luigi Carrer of Venice was the first of that large number of minor poets + and dramatists to which the states of the old Republic have given birth + during the present century. His life began with our century, and he died + in 1850. During this time he witnessed great political events—the + retirement of the French after the fall of Napoleon; the failure of all + the schemes and hopes of the Carbonarito shake off the yoke of the + stranger; and that revolution in 1848 which drove out the Austrians, only + that, a year later, they should return in such force as to make the hope + of Venetian independence through the valor of Venetian arms a vain dream + forever. There is not wanting evidence of a tender love of country in the + poems of Carrer, and probably the effectiveness of the Austrian system of + repression, rather than his own indifference, is witnessed by the fact + that he has scarcely a line to betray a hope for the future, or a + consciousness of political anomaly in the present. + </p> + <p> + Carrer was poor, but the rich were glad to be his friends, without putting + him to shame; and as long as the once famous <i>conversazioni</i> were + held in the great Venetian houses, he was the star of whatever place + assembled genius and beauty. He had a professorship in a private school, + and while he was young he printed his verses in the journals. As he grew + older, he wrote graceful books of prose, and drew his slender support from + their sale and from the minute pay of some offices in the gift of his + native city. + </p> + <p> + Carrer's ballads are esteemed the best of his poems; and I may offer an + idea of the quality and manner of some of his ballads by the following + translation, but I cannot render his peculiar elegance, nor give the whole + range of his fancy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE DUCHESS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From the horrible profound + Of the voiceless sepulcher + Comes, or seems to come, a sound; + Is't his Grace, the Duke, astir? + In his trance he hath been laid + As one dead among the dead! + + The relentless stone he tries + With his utmost strength to move; + Fails, and in his fury cries, + Smiting his hands, that those above, + If any shall be passing there, + Hear his blasphemy, or his prayer. + + And at last he seems to hear + Light feet overhead go by; + “O, whoever passes near + Where I am, the Duke am I! + All my states and all I have + To him that takes me from this grave.” + + There is no one that replies; + Surely, some one seemed to come! + On his brow the cold sweat lies, + As he waits an instant dumb; + Then he cries with broken breath, + “Save me, take me back from death!” + + “Where thou liest, lie thou must, + Prayers and curses alike are vain: + Over thee dead Gismond's dust— + Whom thy pitiless hand hath slain— + On this stone so heavily + Rests, we cannot set thee free.” + + From the sepulcher's thick walls + Comes a low wail of dismay, + And, as when a body falls, + A dull sound;—and the next day + In a convent the Duke's wife + Hideth her remorseful life. +</pre> + <p> + Of course, Carrer wrote much poetry besides his ballads. There are idyls, + and romances in verse, and hymns; sonnets of feeling and of occasion; + odes, sometimes of considerable beauty; apologues, of such exceeding + fineness of point, that it often escapes one; satires and essays, or <i>sermoni</i>, + some of which I have read with no great relish. The same spirit dominates + nearly all—the spirit of pensive disappointment which life brings to + delicate and sensitive natures, and which they love to affect even more + than they feel. Among Carrer's many sonnets, I think I like best the + following, of which the sentiment seems to me simple and sweet, and the + expression very winning: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I am a pilgrim swallow, and I roam + Beyond strange seas, of other lands in quest, + Leaving the well-known lakes and hills of home, + And that dear roof where late I hung my nest; + All things beloved and love's eternal woes + I fly, an exile from my native shore: + I cross the cliffs and woods, but with me goes + The care I thought to abandon evermore. + Along the banks of streams unknown to me, + I pipe the elms and willows pensive lays, + And call on her whom I despair to see, + And pass in banishment and tears my days. + Breathe, air of spring, for which I pine and yearn, + That to his nest the swallow may return! +</pre> + <p> + The prose writings of Carrer are essays on Aesthetics and morals, and + sentimentalized history. His chief work is of the latter nature. “I Sette + Gemme di Venezia” are sketches of the lives of the seven Venetian women + who have done most to distinguish the name of their countrywomen by their + talents, or misfortunes, or sins. You feel, in looking through the book, + that its interest is in great part factitious. The stories are all + expanded, and filled up with facile but not very relevant discourse, which + a pleasant fancy easily supplies, and which is always best left to the + reader's own thought. The style is somewhat florid; but the author + contrives to retain in his fantastic strain much of the grace of + simplicity. It is the work of a cunning artist; but it has a certain + insipidity, and it wearies. Carrer did well in the limit which he assigned + himself, but his range was circumscribed. At the time of his death, he had + written sixteen cantos of an epic poem called “La Fata Vergine”, which a + Venetian critic has extravagantly praised, and which I have not seen. He + exercised upon the poetry of his day an influence favorable to lyric + naturalness, and his ballads were long popular. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + GIOVANNI BERCHET was a poet who alone ought to be enough to take from the + Lombard romanticists the unjust reproach of “resignation”. “Where our + poetry,” says De Sanctis, “throws off every disguise, romantic or classic, + is in the verse of Berchet.... If Giovanni Berchet had remained in Italy, + probably his genius would have remained enveloped in the allusions and + shadows of romanticism. But in his exile at London he uttered the sorrow + and the wrath of his betrayed and vanquished country. It was the accent of + the national indignation which, leaving the generalities of the sonnets + and the ballads, dramatized itself and portrayed our life in its most + touching phases.” + </p> + <p> + Berchet's family was of French origin, but he was the most Italian of + Italians, and nearly all his poems are of an ardent political tint and + temperature. Naturally, he spent a great part of his life in exile after + the Austrians were reestablished in Milan; he was some time in England, + and I believe he died in Switzerland. + </p> + <p> + I have most of his patriotic poems in a little book which is curiously + historical of a situation forever past. I picked it up, I do not remember + where or when, in Venice; and as it is a collection of pieces all meant to + embitter the spirit against Austria, it had doubtless not been brought + into the city with the connivance of the police. There is no telling where + it was printed, the mysterious date of publication being “Italy, 1861”, + and nothing more, with the English motto: “Adieu, my native land, adieu!” + </p> + <p> + The principal poem here is called “Le Fantasie”, and consists of a series + of lyrics in which an Italian exile contrasts the Lombards, who drove out + Frederick Barbarossa in the twelfth century, with the Lombards of 1829, + who crouched under the power defied of old. It is full of burning + reproaches, sarcasms, and appeals; and it probably had some influence in + renewing the political agitation which in Italy followed the French + revolution of 1830. Other poems of Berchet represent social aspects of the + Austrian rule, like one entitled “Remorse”, which paints the isolation and + wretchedness of an Italian woman married to an Austrian; and another, + “Giulia”, which gives a picture of the frantic misery of an Austrian + conscription in Italy. A very impressive poem is that called “The Hermit + of Mt. Cenis”. A traveler reaches the summit of the pass, and, looking + over upon the beauty and magnificence of the Italian plains, and seeing + only their loveliness and peace, his face is lighted up with an + involuntary smile, when suddenly the hermit who knows all the invisible + disaster and despair of the scene suddenly accosts him with, “Accursed be + he who approaches without tears this home of sorrow!” + </p> + <p> + At the time the Romantic School rose in Italian literature, say from 1815 + till 1820, society was brilliant, if not contented or happy. In Lombardy + and Venetia, immediately after the treaties of the Holy Alliance had + consigned these provinces to Austria, there flourished famous <i>conversazioni</i> + at many noble houses. In those of Milan many distinguished literary men of + other nations met. Byron and Hobhouse were frequenters of the same <i>salons</i> + as Pellico, Manzoni, and Grossi; the Schlegels represented the German + Romantic School, and Madame de Staël the sympathizing movement in France. + There was very much that was vicious still, and very much that was ignoble + in Italian society, but this was by sufferance and not as of old by + approval; and it appears that the tone of the highest life was + intellectual. It cannot be claimed that this tone was at all so general as + the badness of the last century. It was not so easily imitated as that, + and it could not penetrate so subtly into all ranks and conditions. Still + it was very observable, and mingled with it in many leading minds was the + strain of religious resignation, audible in Manzoni's poetry. That was a + time when the Italians might, if ever, have adapted themselves to foreign + rule; but the Austrians, sofar from having learned political wisdom during + the period of their expulsion from Italy, had actually retrograded; from + being passive authorities whom long sojourn was gradually Italianizing, + they had, in their absence, become active and relentless tyrants, and they + now seemed to study how most effectually to alienate themselves. They + found out their error later, but when too late to repair it, and from 1820 + until 1859 in Milan, and until 1866 in Venice, the hatred, which they had + themselves enkindled, burned fiercer and fiercer against them. It is not + extravagant to say that if their rule had continued a hundred years longer + the Italians would never have been reconciled to it. Society took the form + of habitual and implacable defiance to them. The life of the whole people + might be said to have resolved itself into a protest against their + presence. This hatred was the heritage of children from their parents, the + bond between friends, the basis of social faith; it was a thread even in + the tie between lovers; it was so intense and so pervasive that it cannot + be spoken. + </p> + <p> + Berchet was the vividest, if not the earliest, expression of it in + literature, and the following poem, which I have already mentioned, is, + therefore, not only intensely true to Italian feeling, but entirely + realistic in its truth to a common fact. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + REMORSE. + + Alone in the midst of the throng, + 'Mid the lights and the splendor alone, + Her eyes, dropped for shame of her wrong, + She lifts not to eyes she has known: + Around her the whirl and the stir + Of the light-footing dancers she hears; + None seeks her; no whisper for her + Of the gracious words filling her ears. + + The fair boy that runs to her knees, + With a shout for his mother, and kiss + For the tear-drop that welling he sees + To her eyes from her sorrow's abyss,— + Though he blooms like a rose, the fair boy, + No praise of his beauty is heard; + None with him stays to jest or to toy, + None to her gives a smile or a word. + + If, unknowing, one ask who may be + This woman, that, as in disgrace, + O'er the curls of the boy at her knee + Bows her beautiful, joyless face, + A hundred tongues answer in scorn, + A hundred lips teach him to know— + “Wife of one of our tyrants, forsworn + To her friends in her truth to their foe.” + + At the play, in the streets, in the lanes, + At the fane of the merciful God, + 'Midst a people in prison and chains, + Spy-haunted, at home and abroad— + Steals through all like the hiss of a snake + Hate, by terror itself unsuppressed: + “Cursed be the Italian could take + The Austrian foe to her breast!” + + Alone—but the absence she mourned + As widowhood mourneth, is past: + Her heart leaps for her husband returned + From his garrison far-off at last? + Ah, no! For this woman forlorn + Love is dead, she has felt him depart: + With far other thoughts she is torn, + Far other the grief at her heart. + + When the shame that has darkened her days + Fantasmal at night fills the gloom, + When her soul, lost in wildering ways, + Flies the past, and the terror to come— + When she leaps from her slumbers to hark, + As if for her little one's call, + It is then to the pitiless dark + That her woe-burdened soul utters all: + + “Woe is me! It was God's righteous hand + My brain with its madness that smote: + At the alien's flattering command + The land of my birth I forgot! + I, the girl who was loved and adored, + Feasted, honored in every place, + Now what am I? The apostate abhorred, + Who was false to her home and her race! + + “I turned from the common disaster; + My brothers oppressed I denied; + I smiled on their insolent master; + I came and sat down by his side. + Wretch! a mantle of shame thou hast wrought; + Thou hast wrought it—it clingeth to thee, + And for all that thou sufferest, naught + From its meshes thy spirit can free. + + “Oh, the scorn I have tasted! They know not, + Who pour it on me, how it burns; + How it galls the meek spirit, whose woe not + Their hating with hating returns! + Fool! I merit it: I have not holden + My feet from their paths! Mine the blame: + I have sought in their eyes to embolden + This visage devoted to shame! + + “Rejected and followed with scorn, + My child, like a child born of sin, + In the land where my darling was born, + He lives exiled! A refuge to win + From their hatred, he runs in dismay + To my arms. But the day may yet be + When my son shall the insult repay, + I have nurtured him in, unto me! + + “If it chances that ever the slave + Snaps the shackles that bind him, and leaps + Into life in the heart of the brave + The sense of the might that now sleeps— + To which people, which side shall I cleave? + Which fate shall I curse with my own? + To which banner pray Heaven to give + The triumph? Which desire o'erthrown? + + “Italian, and sister, and wife, + And mother, unfriended, alone, + Outcast, I wander through life, + Over shard and bramble and stone! + Wretch! a mantle of shame thou hast wrought; + Thou hast wrought it—it clingeth to thee, + And for all that thou sufferest, naught + From its meshes thy spirit shall free!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GIAMBATTISTA NICCOLINI + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + The school of Romantic poets and novelists was practically dispersed by + the Austrian police after the Carbonari disturbances in 1821-22, and the + literary spirit of the nation took refuge under the mild and careless + despotism of the grand dukes at Florence. + </p> + <p> + In 1821 Austria was mistress of pretty near all Italy. She held in her own + grasp the vast provinces of Lombardy and Venetia; she had garrisons in + Naples, Piedmont, and the Romagna; and Rome was ruled according to her + will. But there is always something fatally defective in the vigilance of + a policeman; and in the very place which perhaps Austria thought it quite + needless to guard, the restless and indomitable spirit of free thought + entered. It was in Tuscany, a fief of the Holy Roman Empire, reigned over + by a family set on the grand-ducal throne by Austria herself, and united + to her Hapsburgs by many ties of blood and affection—in Tuscany, + right under both noses of the double-headed eagle, as it were, that a new + literary and political life began for Italy. The Leopoldine code was + famously mild toward criminals, and the Lorrainese princes did not show + themselves crueler than they could help toward poets, essayists, + historians, philologists, and that class of malefactors. Indeed it was the + philosophy of their family to let matters alone; and the grand duke + restored after the fall of Napoleon was, as has been said, an absolute + monarch, but he was also an honest man. This <i>galantuomo</i> had even a + minister who successfully combated the Austrian influences, and so, though + there were, of course, spies and a censorship in Florence, there was also + indulgence; and if it was not altogether a pleasant place for literary men + to live, it was at least tolerable, and there they gathered from their + exile and their silence throughout Italy. Their point of union, and their + means of affecting the popular mind, was for twelve years the critical + journal entitled the <i>Antologia</i>, founded by that Vieusseux who also + opened those delightful and beneficent reading-rooms whither we all rush, + as soon as we reach Florence, to look at the newspapers and magazines of + our native land. The Antologia had at last the misfortune to offend the + Emperor of Russia, and to do that prince a pleasure the Tuscan government + suppressed it: such being the international amenities when sovereigns + really reigned in Europe. After the Antologia there came another review, + published at Leghorn, but it was not so successful, and in fact the + conditions of literature gradually grew more irksome in Tuscany, until the + violent liberation came in '48, and a little later the violent + reënslavement. + </p> + <p> + Giambattista Niccolini, like nearly all the poets of his time and country, + was of noble birth, his father being a <i>cavaliere</i>, and holding a + small government office at San Giuliano, near Pistoja. Here, in 1782, + Niccolini was born to very decided penury. His father had only that little + office, and his income died with him; the mother had nothing—possibly + because she was descended from a poet, the famous Filicaja. From his + mother, doubtless, Niccolini inherited his power, and perhaps his + patriotism. But little or nothing is known of his early life. It is + certain, merely, that after leaving school, he continued his studies in + the University of Pisa, and that he very soon showed himself a poet. His + first published effort was a sort of lamentation over an epidemic that + desolated Tuscany in 1804, and this was followed by five or six pretty + thoroughly forgotten tragedies in the classic or Alfierian manner. Of + these, only the <i>Medea</i> is still played, but they all made a stir in + their time; and for another he was crowned by the Accademia della Crusca, + which I suppose does not mean a great deal. The fact that Niccolini early + caught the attention and won the praises of Ugo Foscolo is more important. + There grew up, indeed, between the two poets such esteem that the elder at + this time dedicated one of his books to the younger, and their friendship + continued through life. + </p> + <p> + When Elisa Bonaparte was made queen of Etruria by Napoleon, Niccolini + became secretary of the Academy of Fine Arts, and professor of history and + mythology. It is said that in the latter capacity he instilled into his + hearers his own notions of liberty and civic virtue. He was, in truth, a + democrat, and he suffered with the other Jacobins, as they were called in + Italy, when the Napoleonic governments were overthrown. The benefits which + the French Revolution conferred upon the people of their conquered + provinces when not very doubtful were still such as they were not prepared + to receive; and after the withdrawal of the French support, all the + Italians through whom they had ruled fell a prey to the popular hate and + contumely. In those days when dynasties, restored to their thrones after + the lapse of a score of years, ignored the intervening period and treated + all its events as if they had no bearing upon the future, it was thought + the part of the true friends of order to resume the old fashions which + went out with the old <i>régime</i>. The queue, or pigtail, had always + been worn, when it was safe to wear it, by the supporters of religion and + good government (from this fashion came the famous political nickname <i>codino</i>, + pigtail-wearer, or conservative, which used to occur so often in Italian + talk and literature), and now whoever appeared on the street without this + emblem of loyalty and piety was in danger of public outrage. A great many + Jacobins bowed their heads to the popular will, and had pigtails sewed on + them—a device which the idle boys and other unemployed friends of + legitimacy busied themselves in detecting. They laid rude hands on this + ornament singing, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If the queue remains in your hand, + A true republican is he; + Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! + Give him a kick for liberty. +</pre> + <p> + It is related that the superficial and occasional character of Niccolini's + conversion was discovered by this test, and that he underwent the apposite + penalty. He rebelled against the treatment he received, and was arrested + and imprisoned for his contumacy. When Ferdinando III had returned and + established his government on the let-alone principle to which I have + alluded, the dramatist was made librarian of the Palatine Library at the + Pitti Palace, but he could not endure the necessary attendance at court, + where his politics were remembered against him by the courtiers, and he + gave up the place. The grand duke was sorry, and said so, adding that he + was perfectly contented. “Your Highness,” answered the poet, “in this case + it takes two to be contented.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The first political tragedy of Niccolini was the <i>Nebuchadnezzar</i>, + which was printed in London in 1819, and figured, under that Scriptural + disguise, the career of Napoleon. After that came his <i>Antonio Foscarini</i>, + in which the poet, who had heretofore been a classicist, tried to + reconcile that school with the romantic by violating the sacred unities in + a moderate manner. In his subsequent tragedies he seems not to have + regarded them at all, and to have been romantic as the most romantic + Lombard of them all could have asked. Of course, his defection gave + exquisite pain to the lovers of Italian good taste, as the classicists + called themselves, but these were finally silenced by the success of his + tragedy. The reader of it nowadays, we suspect, will think its success not + very expensively achieved, and it certainly has a main fault that makes it + strangely disagreeable. When the past was chiefly the affair of fable, the + storehouse of tradition, it was well enough for the poet to take + historical events and figures, and fashion them in any way that served his + purpose; but this will not do in our modern daylight, where a freedom with + the truth is an offense against common knowledge, and does not charm the + fancy, but painfully bewilders it at the best, and at the second best is + impudent and ludicrous. In his tragedy, Niccolini takes two very familiar + incidents of Venetian history: that of the Foscari, which Byron has used; + and that of Antonio Foscarini, who was unjustly hanged more than a hundred + years later for privity to a conspiracy against the state, whereas the + attributive crime of Jacopo Foscari was the assassination of a + fellow-patrician. The poet is then forced to make the Doge Foscari do duty + throughout as the father of Foscarini, the only doge of whose name served + out his term very peaceably, and died the author of an extremely dull + official history of Venetian literature. Foscarini, who, up to the time of + his hanging, was an honored servant of the state, and had been ambassador + to France, is obliged, on his part, to undergo all of Jacopo Foscari's + troubles; and I have not been able to see why the poet should have vexed + himself to make all this confusion, and why the story of the Foscari was + not sufficient for his purpose. In the tragedy there is much denunciation + of the oligarchic oppression of the Ten in Venice, and it may be regarded + as the first of Niccolini's dramatic appeals to the love of freedom and + the manhood of the Italians. + </p> + <p> + It is much easier to understand the success of Niccolini's subsequent + drama, <i>Lodovico il Moro</i>, which is in many respects a touching and + effective tragedy, and the historical truth is better observed in it; + though, as none of our race can ever love his country with that passionate + and personal devotion which the Italians feel, we shall never relish the + high patriotic flavor of the piece. The story is simply that of + Giovan-Galeazzo Sforza, Duke of Milan, whose uncle, Lodovico, on pretense + of relieving him of the cares of government, has usurped the sovereignty, + and keeps Galeazzo and his wife in virtual imprisonment, the young duke + wasting away with a slow but fatal malady. To further his ambitious + schemes in Lombardy, Lodovico has called in Charles VIII. of France, who + claims the crown of Naples against the Aragonese family, and pauses, on + his way to Naples, at Milan. Isabella, wife of Galeazzo, appeals to + Charles to liberate them, but reaches his presence in such an irregular + way that she is suspected of treason both to her husband and to Charles. + Yet the king is convinced of her innocence, and he places the sick duke + under the protection of a French garrison, and continues his march on + Naples. Lodovico has appeared to consent, but by seeming to favor the + popular leaders has procured the citizens to insist upon his remaining in + power; he has also secretly received the investiture from the Emperor of + Germany, to be published upon the death of Galeazzo. He now, therefore, + defies the French; Galeazzo, tormented by alternate hope and despair, dies + suddenly; and Lodovico, throwing off the mask of a popular ruler, puts the + republican leaders to death, and reigns the feudatory of the Emperor. The + interest of the play is almost entirely political, and patriotism is the + chief passion involved. The main personal attraction of the tragedy is in + the love of Galeazzo and his wife, and in the character of the latter the + dreamy languor of a hopeless invalid is delicately painted. + </p> + <p> + The <i>Giovanni da Procida</i> was a further advance in political + literature. In this tragedy, abandoning the indirectly liberal teachings + of the Foscarini, Niccolini set himself to the purpose of awakening a + Tuscan hatred of foreign rule. The subject is the expulsion of the French + from Sicily; and when the French ambassador complained to the Austrian + that such a play should be tolerated by the Tuscan government, the + Austrian answered, “The address is to the French, but the letter is for + the Germans.” The Giovanni da Procida was a further development of + Niccolini's political purposes in literature, and at the time of its first + representation it raised the Florentines to a frenzy of theater-going + patriotism. The tragedy ends with the terrible Sicilian Vespers, but its + main affair is with preceding events, largely imagined by the poet, and + the persons are in great part fictitious; yet they all bear a certain + relation to fact, and the historical persons are more or less historically + painted. Giovanni da Procida, a great Sicilian nobleman, believed dead by + the French, comes home to Palermo, after long exile, to stir up the + Sicilians to rebellion, and finds that his daughter is married to the son + of one of the French rulers, though neither this daughter Imelda nor her + husband Tancredi knew the origin of the latter at the time of their + marriage. Precida, in his all-absorbing hate of the oppressors, cannot + forgive them; yet he seizes Tancredi, and imprisons him in his castle, in + order to save his life from the impending massacre of the French; and in a + scene with Imelda, he tells her that, while she was a babe, the father of + Tancredi had abducted her mother and carried her to France. Years after, + she returned heart-broken to die in her husband's arms, a secret which she + tries to reveal perishing with her. While Imelda remains horror-struck by + this history, Procida receives an intercepted letter from Eriberto, + Tancredi's father, in which he tells the young man that he and Imelda are + children of the same mother. Procida in pity of his daughter, the victim + of this awful fatality, prepares to send her away to a convent in Pisa; + but a French law forbids any ship to sail at that time, and Imelda is + brought back and confronted in a public place with Tancredi, who has been + rescued by the French. + </p> + <p> + He claims her as his wife, but she, filled with the horror of what she + knows, declares that he is not her husband. It is the moment of the + Vespers, and Tancredi falls among the first slain by the Sicilians. He + implores Imelda for a last kiss, but wildly answering that they are + brother and sister, she swoons away, while Tancredi dies in this climax of + self-loathing and despair. The management of a plot so terrible is very + simple. The feelings of the characters in the hideous maze which involves + them are given only such expression as should come from those utterly + broken by their calamity. Imelda swoons when she hears the letter of + Eriberto declaring the fatal tie of blood that binds her to her husband, + and forever separates her from him. When she is restored, she finds her + father weeping over her, and says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah, thou dost look on me + And weep! At least this comfort I can feel + In the horror of my state: thou canst not hate + A woman so unhappy.... + ... Oh, from all + Be hid the atrocity! to some holy shelter + Let me be taken far from hence. I feel + Naught can be more than my calamity, + Saving God's pity. I have no father now, + Nor child, nor husband (heavens, what do I say? + He is my brother now! and well I know + I must not ask to see him more). I, living, lose + Everything death robs other women of. +</pre> + <p> + By far the greater feeling and passion are shown in the passages + describing the wrongs which the Sicilians have suffered from the French, + and expressing the aspiration and hate of Procida and his fellow-patriots. + Niccolini does not often use pathos, and he is on that account perhaps the + more effective in the use of it. However this may be, I find it very + touching when, after coming back from his long exile, Procida says to + Imelda, who is trembling for the secret of her marriage amidst her joy in + his return: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Daughter, art thou still + So sad? I have not heard yet from thy lips + A word of the old love.... + ... Ah, thou knowest not + What sweetness hath the natal spot, how many + The longings exile hath; how heavy't is + To arrive at doors of homes where no one waits thee! + Imelda, thou may'st abandon thine own land, + But not forget her; I, a pilgrim, saw + Many a city; but none among them had + A memory that spoke unto my heart; + And fairer still than any other seemed + The country whither still my spirit turned. +</pre> + <p> + In a vein as fierce and passionate as this is tender, Procida relates how, + returning to Sicily when he was believed dead by the French, he passed in + secret over the island and inflamed Italian hatred of the foreigners: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I sought the pathless woods, + And drew the cowards thence and made them blush, + And then made fury follow on their shame. + I hailed the peasant in his fertile fields, + Where, 'neath the burden of the cruel tribute, + He dropped from famine 'midst the harvest sheaves, + With his starved brood: “Open thou with thy scythe + The breasts of Frenchmen; let the earth no more + Be fertile to our tyrants.” I found my way + In palaces, in hovels; tranquil, I + Both great and lowly did make drunk with rage. + I knew the art to call forth cruel tears + In every eye, to wake in every heart + A love of slaughter, a ferocious need + Of blood. And in a thousand strong right hands + Glitter the arms I gave. +</pre> + <p> + In the last act occurs one of those lyrical passages in which Niccolini + excels, and two lines from this chorus are among the most famous in modern + Italian poetry: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Perchè tanto sorriso del cielo + Sulla terra del vile dolor? +</pre> + <p> + The scene is in a public place in Palermo, and the time is the moment + before the massacre of the French begins. A chorus of Sicilian poets + remind the people of their sorrows and degradation, and sing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The wind vexes the forest no longer, + In the sunshine the leaflets expand: + With barrenness cursed be the land + That is bathed with the sweat of the slave! + + On the fields now the harvests are waving, + On the fields that our blood has made red; + Harvests grown for our enemy's bread + From the bones of our children they wave! + + With a veil of black clouds would the tempest + Might the face of this Italy cover; + Why should Heaven smile so glorious over + The land of our infamous woe? + + All nature is suddenly wakened, + Here in slumbers unending man sleeps; + Dust trod evermore by the steps + Of ever-strange lords he lies low! +</pre> + <p> + {Illustration: Giambattista Niccolini.} + </p> + <p> + “With this tragedy,” says an Italian biographer of Niccolini, “the poet + potently touched all chords of the human heart, from the most impassioned + love to the most implacable hate.... The enthusiasm rose to the greatest + height, and for as many nights of the severe winter of 1830 as the tragedy + was given, the theater was always thronged by the overflowing audience; + the doors of the Cocomero were opened to the impatient people many hours + before the spectacle began. Spectators thought themselves fortunate to + secure a seat next the roof of the theater; even in the prompter's hole + {Note: On the Italian stage the prompter rises from a hole in the floor + behind the foot-lights, and is hidden from the audience merely by a canvas + shade.} places were sought to witness the admired work.... And whilst they + wept over the ill-starred love of Imelda, and all hearts palpitated in the + touching situation of the drama,—where the public and the personal + interests so wonderfully blended, and the vengeance of a people mingled + with that of a man outraged in the most sacred affections of the heart,—Procida + rose terrible as the billows of his sea, imprecating before all the wrongs + of their oppressed country, in whatever servitude inflicted, by whatever + aliens, among all those that had trampled, derided, and martyred her, and + raising the cry of resistance which stirred the heart of all Italy. At the + picture of the abject sufferings of their common country, the whole + audience rose and repeated with tears of rage: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why should heaven smile so glorious over + The land of our infamous woe?” + </pre> + <p> + By the year 1837 had begun the singular illusion of the Italians, that + their freedom and unity were to be accomplished through a liberal and + patriotic Pope. Niccolini, however, never was cheated by it, though he was + very much disgusted, and he retired, not only from the political + agitation, but almost from the world. He was seldom seen upon the street, + but to those who had access to him he did not fail to express all the + contempt and distrust he felt. “A liberal Pope! a liberal Pope!” he said, + with a scornful enjoyment of that contradiction in terms. He was + thoroughly Florentine and Tuscan in his anti-papal spirit, and he was + faithful in it to the tradition of Dante, Petrarch, Machiavelli, + Guicciardini, and Alfieri, who all doubted and combated the papal + influence as necessarily fatal to Italian hopes. In 1843 he published his + great and principal tragedy, <i>Arnaldo da Brescia</i>, which was a + response to the ideas of the papal school of patriots. In due time Pius + IX. justified Niccolini, and all others that distrusted him, by turning + his back upon the revolution, which belief in him, more than anything + else, had excited. + </p> + <p> + The tragedies which succeeded the Arnaldo were the <i>Filippo Strozzi</i>, + published in 1847; the <i>Beatrice</i> <i>Cenci</i>, a version from the + English of Shelley, and the <i>Mario e i Cimbri</i>. + </p> + <p> + A part of the Arnaldo da Brescia was performed in Florence in 1858, not + long before the war which has finally established Italian freedom. The + name of the Cocomero theater had been changed to the Teatro Niccolini, + and, in spite of the governmental anxiety and opposition, the occasion was + made a popular demonstration in favor of Niccolini's ideas as well as + himself. His biographer says: “The audience now maintained a religious + silence; now, moved by irresistible force, broke out into uproarious + applause as the eloquent protests of the friar and the insolent responses + of the Pope awakened their interest; for Italy then, like the unhappy + martyr, had risen to proclaim the decline of that monstrous power which, + in the name of a religion profaned by it, sanctifies its own illegitimate + and feudal origin, its abuses, its pride, its vices, its crimes. It was a + beautiful and affecting spectacle to see the illustrious poet receiving + the warm congratulations of his fellow-citizens, who enthusiastically + recognized in him the utterer of so many lofty truths and the prophet of + Italy. That night Niccolini was accompanied to his house by the applauding + multitude.” And if all this was a good deal like the honors the + Florentines were accustomed to pay to a very pretty <i>ballerina</i> or a + successful <i>prima donna</i>, there is no doubt that a poet is much + worthier the popular frenzy; and it is a pity that the forms of popular + frenzy have to be so cheapened by frequent use. The two remaining years of + Niccolini's life were spent in great retirement, and in a satisfaction + with the fortunes of Italy which was only marred by the fact that the + French still remained in Rome, and that the temporal power yet stood. He + died in 1861. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + The work of Niccolini in which he has poured out all the lifelong hatred + and distrust he had felt for the temporal power of the popes is the + Arnaldo da Brescia. This we shall best understand through a sketch of the + life of Arnaldo, who is really one of the most heroic figures of the past, + deserving to rank far above Savonarola, and with the leaders of the + Reformation, though he preceded these nearly four hundred years. He was + born in Brescia of Lombardy, about the year 1105, and was partly educated + in France, in the school of the famous Abelard. He early embraced the + ecclesiastical life, and, when he returned to his own country, entered a + convent, but not to waste his time in idleness and the corruptions of his + order. In fact, he began at once to preach against these, and against the + usurpation of temporal power by all the great and little dignitaries of + the Church. He thus identified himself with the democratic side in + politics, which was then locally arrayed against the bishop aspiring to + rule Brescia. Arnaldo denounced the political power of the Pope, as well + as that of the prelates; and the bishop, making this known to the pontiff + at Rome, had sufficient influence to procure a sentence against Arnaldo as + a schismatic, and an order enjoining silence upon him. He was also + banished from Italy; whereupon, retiring to France, he got himself into + further trouble by aiding Abelard in the defense of his teachings, which + had been attainted of heresy. Both Abelard and Arnaldo were at this time + bitterly persecuted by St. Bernard, and Arnaldo took refuge in + Switzerland, whence, after several years, he passed to Rome, and there + began to assume an active part in the popular movements against the papal + rule. He was an ardent republican, and was a useful and efficient + partisan, teaching openly that, whilst the Pope was to be respected in all + spiritual things, he was not to be recognized at all as a temporal prince. + When the English monk, Nicholas Breakspear, became Pope Adrian IV., he + excommunicated and banished Arnaldo; but Arnaldo, protected by the senate + and certain powerful nobles, remained at Rome in spite of the Pope's + decree, and disputed the lawfulness of the excommunication. Finally, the + whole city was laid under interdict until Arnaldo should be driven out. + Holy Week was drawing near; the people were eager to have their churches + thrown open and to witness the usual shows and splendors, and they + consented to the exile of their leader. The followers of a cardinal + arrested him, but he was rescued by his friends, certain counts of the + Campagna, who held him for a saint, and who now lodged him safely in one + of their castles. The Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, coming to Rome to + assume the imperial crown, was met by embassies from both parties in the + city. He warmly favored that of the Pope, and not only received that of + the people very coldly, but arrested one of the counts who had rescued + Arnaldo, and forced him to name the castle in which the monk lay + concealed. Arnaldo was then given into the hands of the cardinals, and + these delivered him to the prefect of Rome, who caused him to be hanged, + his body to be burned upon a spit, and his ashes to be scattered in the + Tiber, that the people might not venerate his relics as those of a saint. + “This happened,” says the priest Giovanni Battista Guadagnini, of Brescia, + whose Life, published in 1790, I have made use of—“this happened in + the year 1155 before the 18th of June, previous to the coronation of + Frederick, Arnaldo being, according to my thinking, fifty years of age. + His eloquence,” continues Guadagnini, “was celebrated by his enemies + themselves; the exemplarity of his life was superior to their malignity, + constraining them all to silence, although they were in such great number, + and it received a splendid eulogy from St. Bernard, the luminary of that + century, who, being strongly impressed against him, condemned him first as + a schismatic, and then for the affair of the Council of Sens (the defense + of Abelard), persecuted him as a heretic, and then had finally nothing to + say against him. His courage and his zeal for the discipline of the Church + have been sufficiently attested by the toils, the persecutions, and the + death which he underwent for that cause.” + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + The scene of the first act of Niccolini's tragedy is near the Capitoline + Hill, in Rome, where two rival leaders, Frangipani and Giordano Pierleone, + are disputing in the midst of their adherents. The former is a supporter + of the papal usurpations; the latter is a republican chief, who has been + excommunicated for his politics, and is also under sentence of banishment; + but who, like Arnaldo, remains in Rome in spite of Church and State. + Giordano withdraws to the Campidôglio with his adherents, and there + Arnaldo suddenly appears among them. When the people ask what cure there + is for their troubles, Arnaldo answers, in denunciation of the papacy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Liberty and God. + A voice from the orient, + A voice from the Occident, + A voice from thy deserts, + A voice of echoes from the open graves, + Accuses thee, thou shameless harlot! Drunk + Art thou with blood of saints, and thou hast lain + With all the kings of earth. Ah, you behold her! + She is clothed on with purple; gold and pearls + And gems are heaped upon her; and her vestments + Once white, the pleasure of her former spouse, + That now's in heaven, she has dragged in dust. + Lo, is she full of names and blasphemies, + And on her brow is written <i>Mystery!</i> + Ah, nevermore you hear her voice console + The afflicted; all she threatens, and creates + With her perennial curse in trembling souls + Ineffable pangs; the unhappy—as we here + Are all of us—fly in their common sorrows + To embrace each other; she, the cruel one, + Sunders them in the name of Jesus; fathers + She kindles against sons, and wives she parts + From husbands, and she makes a war between + Harmonious brothers; of the Evangel she + Is cruel interpreter, and teaches hate + Out of the book of love. The years are come + Whereof the rapt Evangelist of Patmos + Did prophesy; and, to deceive the people, + Satan has broken the chains he bore of old; + And she, the cruel, on the infinite waters + Of tears that are poured out for her, sits throned. + The enemy of man two goblets places + Unto her shameless lips; and one is blood, + And gold is in the other; greedy and fierce + She drinks so from them both, the world knows not + If she of blood or gold have greater thirst.... + Lord, those that fled before thy scourge of old + No longer stand to barter offerings + About thy temple's borders, but within + Man's self is sold, and thine own blood is trafficked, + Thou son of God! +</pre> + <p> + The people ask Arnaldo what he counsels them to do, and he advises them to + restore the senate and the tribunes, appealing to the glorious memories of + the place where they stand, the Capitoline Hill: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where the earth calls at every step, “Oh, pause, + Thou treadest on a hero!” + </pre> + <p> + They desire to make him a tribune, but he refuses, promising, however, + that he will not withhold his counsel. Whilst he speaks, some cardinals, + with nobles of the papal party, appear, and announce the election of the + new Pope, Adrian. “What is his name?” the people demand; and a cardinal + answers, “Breakspear, a Briton.” Giordano exclaims: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Impious race! you've chosen Rome for shepherd + A cruel barbarian, and even his name + Tortures our ears. + + <i>Arnaldo.</i> I never care to ask + Where popes are born; and from long suffering, + You, Romans, before heaven, should have learnt + That priests can have no country.... + I know this man; his father was a thrall, + And he is fit to be a slave. He made + Friends with the Norman that enslaves his country; + A wandering beggar to Avignon's cloisters + He came in boyhood and was known to do + All abject services; there those false monks + He with astute humility cajoled; + He learned their arts, and 'mid intrigues and hates + He rose at last out of his native filth + A tyrant of the vile. +</pre> + <p> + The cardinals, confounded by Arnaldo's presence and invectives, withdraw, + but leave one of their party to work on the fears of the Romans, and make + them return to their allegiance by pictures of the desolating war which + Barbarossa, now approaching Rome to support Adrian, has waged upon the + rebellious Lombards at Rosate and elsewhere. Arnaldo replies:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Romans, + I will tell all the things that he has hid; + I know not how to cheat you. Yes, Rosate + A ruin is, from which the smoke ascends. + The bishop, lord of Monferrato, guided + The German arms against Chieri and Asti, + Now turned to dust; that shepherd pitiless + Did thus avenge his own offenses on + His flying flocks; himself with torches armed + The German hand; houses and churches saw + Destroyed, and gave his blessing on the flames. + This is the pardon that you may expect + From mitered tyrants. A heap of ashes now + Crowneth the hill where once Tortona stood; + And drunken with her wine and with her blood, + Fallen there amidst their spoil upon the dead, + Slept the wild beasts of Germany: like ghosts + Dim wandering through the darkness of the night, + Those that were left by famine and the sword, + Hidden within the heart of thy dim caverns, + Desolate city! rose and turned their steps + Noiselessly toward compassionate Milan. + There they have borne their swords and hopes: I see + A thousand heroes born from the example + Tortona gave. O city, if I could, + O sacred city! upon the ruins fall + Reverently, and take them in my loving arms, + The relics of thy brave I'd gather up + In precious urns, and from the altars here + In days of battle offer to be kissed! + Oh, praise be to the Lord! Men die no more + For chains and errors; martyrs now at last + Hast thou, O holy Freedom; and fain were I + Ashes for thee!—But I see you grow pale, + Ye Romans! Down, go down; this holy height + Is not for cowards. In the valley there + Your tyrant waits you; go and fall before him + And cover his haughty foot with tears and kisses. + He'll tread you in the dust, and then absolve you. + + <i>The People.</i> The arms we have are strange and few, + Our walls Are fallen and ruinous. + + <i>Arnaldo.</i> Their hearts are walls + Unto the brave.... + And they shall rise again, + The walls that blood of freemen has baptized, + But among slaves their ruins are eternal. + + <i>People.</i> You outrage us, sir! + + <i>Arnaldo.</i> Wherefore do ye tremble + Before the trumpet sounds? O thou that wast + Once the world's lord and first in Italy, + Wilt thou be now the last? + + <i>People.</i> No more! Cease, or thou diest! +</pre> + <p> + Arnaldo, having roused the pride of the Romans, now tells them that two + thousand Swiss have followed him from his exile; and the act closes with + some lyrical passages leading to the fraternization of the people with + these. + </p> + <p> + The second act of this curious tragedy, where there may be said to be + scarcely any personal interest, but where we are aware of such an + impassioned treatment of public interests as perhaps never was before, + opens with a scene between the Pope Adrian and the Cardinal Guido. The + character of both is finely studied by the poet; and Guido, the type of + ecclesiastical submission, has not more faith in the sacredness and + righteousness of Adrian, than Adrian, the type of ecclesiastical ambition, + has in himself. The Pope tells Guido that he stands doubting between the + cities of Lombardy leagued against Frederick, and Frederick, who is coming + to Rome, not so much to befriend the papacy as to place himself in a + better attitude to crush the Lombards. The German dreams of the + restoration of Charlemagne's empire; he believes the Church corrupt; and + he and Arnaldo would be friends, if it were not for Arnaldo's vain hope of + reëstablishing the republican liberties of Rome. The Pope utters his + ardent desire to bring Arnaldo back to his allegiance; and when Guido + reminds him that Arnaldo has been condemned by a council of the Church, + and that it is scarcely in his power to restore him, Adrian turns upon + him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What sayest thou? + I can do all. Dare the audacious members + Rebel against the head? Within these hands + Lie not the keys that once were given to Peter? + The heavens repeat as 't were the word of God, + My word that here has power to loose and bind. + Arnaldo did not dare so much. The kingdom + Of earth alone he did deny me. Thou + Art more outside the Church than he. + + <i>Guido</i> (<i>kneeling at Adrian's feet</i>). O God, + I erred; forgive! I rise not from thy feet + Till thou absolve me. My zeal blinded me. + I'm clay before thee; shape me as thou wilt, + A vessel apt to glory or to shame. +</pre> + <p> + Guido then withdraws at the Pope's bidding, in order to send a messenger + to Arnaldo, and Adrian utters this fine soliloquy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + At every step by which I've hither climbed + I've found a sorrow; but upon the summit + All sorrows are; and thorns more thickly spring + Around my chair than ever round a throne. + What weary toil to keep up from the dust + This mantle that's weighed down the strongest limbs! + These splendid gems that blaze in my tiara, + They are a fire that burns the aching brow, + I lift with many tears, O Lord, to thee! + Yet I must fear not; He that did know how + To bear the cross, so heavy with the sins + Of all the world, will succor the weak servant + That represents his power here on earth. + Of mine own isle that make the light o' the sun + Obscure as one day was my lot, amidst + The furious tumults of this guilty Rome, + Here, under the superb effulgency + Of burning skies, I think of you and weep! +</pre> + <p> + The Pope's messenger finds Arnaldo in the castle of Giordano, where these + two are talking of the present fortunes and future chances of Rome. The + patrician forebodes evil from the approach of the emperor, but Arnaldo + encourages him, and, when the Pope's messenger appears, he is eager to go + to Adrian, believing that good to their cause will come of it. Giordano in + vain warns him against treachery, bidding him remember that Adrian will + hold any falsehood sacred that is used with a heretic. It is observable + throughout that Niccolini is always careful to make his rebellious priest + a good Catholic; and now Arnaldo rebukes Giordano for some doubts of the + spiritual authority of the Pope. When Giordano says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + These modern pharisees, upon the cross, + Where Christ hung dying once, have nailed mankind, +</pre> + <p> + Arnaldo answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He will know how to save that rose and conquered; +</pre> + <p> + And Giordano replies: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yes, Christ arose; but Freedom cannot break + The stone that shuts her ancient sepulcher, + For on it stands the altar. +</pre> + <p> + Adrian, when Arnaldo appears before him, bids him fall down and kiss his + feet, and speak to him as to God; he will hear Arnaldo only as a penitent. + Arnaldo answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The feet + Of his disciples did that meek One kiss + Whom here thou representest. But I hear + Now from thy lips the voice of fiercest pride. + Repent, O Peter, that deniest him, + And near the temple art, but far from God! + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The name of the king + Is never heard in Rome. And if thou are + The vicar of Christ on earth, well should'st thou know + That of thorns only was the crown he wore. + + <i>Adrian.</i> He gave to me the empire of the earth + When this great mantly I put on, and took + The Church's high seat I was chosen to; + The word of God did erst create the world, + And now mine guides it. Would'st thou that the soul + Should serve the body? Thou dost dream of freedom, + And makest war on him who sole on earth + Can shield man from his tyrants. O Arnaldo, + Be Wise; believe me, all thy words are vain, + Vain sound that perish or disperse themselves + Amidst the wilderness of Rome. I only + Can speak the words that the whole world repeats. + + <i>Arnaldo</i>. Thy words were never Freedom's; placed between + The people and their tyrants, still the Church + With the weak cruel, with the mighty vile, + Has been, and crushed in pitiless embraces + That emperors and pontiffs have exchanged. + Man has been ever. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Why seek'st thou empire here, and great on earth + Art mean in heaven? Ah! vainly in thy prayer + Thou criest, “Let the heart be lifted up!” + 'T is ever bowed to earth. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now, then, if thou wilt, + Put forth the power that thou dost vaunt; repress + The crimes of bishops, make the Church ashamed + To be a step-mother to the poor and lowly. + In all the Lombard cities every priest + Has grown a despot, in shrewd perfidy + Now siding with the Church, now with the Empire. + They have dainty food, magnificent apparel, + Lascivious joys, and on their altars cold + Gathers the dust, where lies the miter dropt, + Forgotten, from the haughty brow that wears + The helmet, and no longer bows itself + Before God's face in th' empty sanctuaries; + But upon the fields of slaughter, smoking still, + Bends o'er the fallen foe, and aims the blows + O' th' sacrilegious sword, with cruel triumph + Insulting o'er the prayers of dying men. + There the priest rides o'er breasts of fallen foes, + And stains with blood his courser's iron heel. + When comes a brief, false peace, and wearily + Amidst the havoc doth the priest sit down, + His pleasures are a crime, and after rapine + Luxury follows. Like a thief he climbs + Into the fold, and that desired by day + He dares amid the dark, and violence + Is the priest's marriage. Vainly did Rome hope + That they had thrown aside the burden vile + Of the desires that weigh down other men. + Theirs is the ungrateful lust of the wild beast, + That doth forget the mother nor knows the child. + ... On the altar of Christ, + Who is the prince of pardon and of peace, + Vows of revenge are registered, and torches + That are thrown into hearts of leaguered cities + Are lit from tapers burning before God. + Become thou king of sacrifice; ascend + The holy hill of God; on these perverse + Launch thou thy thunderbolts; and feared again + And great thou wilt be. Tell me, Adrian, + Must thou not bear a burden that were heavy + Even for angels? Wherefore wilt thou join + Death unto life, and make the word of God, + That says, “My kingdom is not of this world,” + A lie? Oh, follow Christ's example here + In Rome; it pleased both God and her + To abase the proud and to uplift the weak. + I'll kiss the foot that treads on kings! + + <i>Adrian.</i> Arnaldo, + I parley not, I rule; and I, become + On earth as God in heaven, am judge of all, + And none of me; I watch, and I dispense + Terrors and hopes, rewards and punishments, + To peoples and to kings; fountain and source + Of life am I, who make the Church of God + One and all-powerful. Many thrones and peoples + She has seen tost upon the madding waves + Of time, and broken on the immovable rock + Whereon she sits; and since one errless spirit + Rules in her evermore, she doth not rave + For changeful doctrine, but she keeps eternal + The grandeur of her will and purposes. + ... Arnaldo, + Thou movest me to pity. In vain thou seek'st + To warm thy heart over these ruins, groping + Among the sepulchers of Rome. Thou'lt find + No bones to which thou canst say, “Rise!” Ah, here + Remaineth not one hero's dust. Thou thinkest + That with old names old virtues shall return? + And thou desirest tribunes, senators, + Equestrian orders, Rome! A greater glory + Thy sovereign pontiff is who doth not guard + The rights uncertain of a crazy rabble; + But tribune of the world he sits in Rome, + And “I forbid,” to kings and peoples cries. + I tell thee a greater than the impious power + That thou in vain endeavorest to renew + Here built the dying fisherman of Judea. + Out of his blood he made a fatherland + For all the nations, and this place, that once + A city was, became a world; the borders + That did divide the nations, by Christ's law + Are ta'en away, and this the kingdom is + For which he asked his Father in his prayer. + The Church has sons in every race; I rule, + An unseen king, and Rome is everywhere! + + <i>Arnaldo</i>. Thou errest, Adrian. Rome's thunderbolts + Wake little terror now, and reason shakes + The bonds that thou fain would'st were everlasting. + ... Christ calls to her + As of old to the sick man, “Rise and walk.” + She 'll tread on you if you go not before. + The world has other truth besides the altar's. + It will not have a temple that hides heaven. + Thou wast a shepherd: be a father. The race + Of man is weary of being called a flock. +</pre> + <p> + Adrian's final reply is, that if Arnaldo will renounce his false doctrine + and leave Rome, the Pope will, through him, give the Lombard cities a + liberty that shall not offend the Church. Arnaldo refuses, and quits + Adrian's presence. It is quite needless to note the bold character of the + thought here, or the nobility of the poetry, which Niccolini puts as well + into the mouth of the Pope whom he hates as the monk whom he loves. + </p> + <p> + Following this scene is one of greater dramatic force, in which the + Cardinal Guido, sent to the Campidoglio by the Pope to disperse the + popular assembly, is stoned by the people and killed. He dies full of + faith in the Church and the righteousness of his cause, and his body, + taken up by the priests, is carried into the square before St. Peter's. A + throng, including many women, has followed; and now Niccolini introduces a + phase of the great Italian struggle which was perhaps the most perplexing + of all. The subjection of the women to the priests is what has always + greatly contributed to defeat Italian efforts for reform; it now helps to + unnerve the Roman multitude; and the poet finally makes it the weakness + through which Arnaldo is dealt his death. With a few strokes in the scene + that follows the death of Guido, he indicates the remorse and dismay of + the people when the Pope repels them from the church door and proclaims + the interdict; and then follow some splendid lyrical passages, in which + the Pope commands the pictures and images to be veiled and the relics to + be concealed, and curses the enemies of the Church. I shall but poorly + render this curse by a rhymeless translation, and yet I am tempted to give + it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>The Pope.</i> To-day let the perfidious + Learn at thy name to tremble, + Nor triumph o'er the ruinous + Place of thy vanished altars. + Oh, brief be their days and uncertain; + In the desert their wandering footsteps, + Every tremulous leaflet affright them! + + <i>The Cardinals.</i> Anathema, anathema, anathema! + + <i>Pope.</i> May their widows sit down 'mid the ashes + On the hearths of their desolate houses, + With their little ones wailing around them. + + <i>Cardinals.</i> Anathema, anathema, anathema! + + <i>Pope.</i> May he who was born to the fury + Of heaven, afar from his country + Be lost in his ultimate anguish. + + <i>Cardinals.</i> Anathema, anathema, anathema! + + <i>Pope.</i> May he fly to the house of the alien oppressor + That is filled with the spoil of his brothers, with women + Destroyed by the pitiless hands that defiled them; + There in accents unknown and derided, abase him + At portals ne'er opened in mercy, imploring + A morsel of bread. + + <i>Cardinals.</i> Be that morsel denied him! + + <i>Pope.</i> I hear the wicked cry: I from the Lord + Will fly away with swift and tireless feet; + His anger follows me upon the sea; + I'll seek the desert; who will give me wings? + In cloudy horror, who shall lead my steps? + The eye of God maketh the night as day. + O brothers, fulfill then + The terrible duty; + Throw down from the altars + The dim-burning tapers; + And be all joy, and be the love of God + In thankless hearts that know not Peter, quenched, + As is the little flame that falls and dies, + Here in these tapers trampled under foot. +</pre> + <p> + In the first scene of the third act, which is a desolate place in the + Campagna, near the sea, Arnaldo appears. He has been expelled from Rome by + the people, eager for the opening of their churches, and he soliloquizes + upon his fate in language that subtly hints all his passing moods, and + paints the struggle of his soul. It appears to me that it is a wise thing + to make him almost regret the cloister in the midst of his hatred of it, + and then shrink from that regret with horror; and there is also a fine + sense of night and loneliness in the scene: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Like this sand + Is life itself, and evermore each path + Is traced in suffering, and one footprint still + Obliterates another; and we are all + Vain shadows here that seem a little while, + And suffer, and pass. Let me not fight in vain, + O Son of God, with thine immortal word, + Yon tyrant of eternity and time, + Who doth usurp thy place on earth, whose feet + Are in the depths, whose head is in the clouds, + Who thunders all abroad, <i>The world is mine!</i> + Laws, virtues, liberty I have attempted + To give thee, Rome. Ah! only where death is + Abides thy glory. Here the laurel only + Flourishes on the ruins and the tombs. + I will repose upon this fallen column + My weary limbs. Ah, lower than this ye lie, + You Latin souls, and to your ancient height + Who shall uplift you? I am all weighed down + By the great trouble of the lofty hopes + Of Italy still deluded, and I find + Within my soul a drearer desert far + Than this, where the air already darkens round, + And the soft notes of distant convent bells + Announce the coming night.... I cannot hear them + Without a trembling wish that in my heart + Wakens a memory that becomes remorse.... + Ah, Reason, soon thou languishest in us, + Accustomed to such outrage all our lives. + Thou know'st the cloister; thou a youth didst enter + That sepulcher of the living where is war,— + Remember it and shudder! The damp wind + Stirs this gray hair. I'm near the sea. + Thy silence is no more; sweet on the ear + Cometh the far-off murmur of the floods + In the vast desert; now no more the darkness + Imprisons wholly; now less gloomily + Lowers the sky that lately threatened storm. + Less thick the air is, and the trembling light + O' the stars among the breaking clouds appears. + Praise to the Lord! The eternal harmony + Of all his work I feel. Though these vague beams + Reveal to me here only fens and tombs, + My soul is not so heavily weighed down + By burdens that oppressed it.... + I rise to grander purposes: man's tents + Are here below, his city is in heaven. + I doubt no more; the terror of the cloister + No longer assails me. +</pre> + <p> + Presently Giordano comes to join Arnaldo in this desolate place, and, in + the sad colloquy which follows, tells him of the events of Rome, and the + hopelessness of their cause, unless they have the aid and countenance of + the Emperor. He implores Arnaldo to accompany the embassy which he is + about to send to Frederick; but Arnaldo, with a melancholy disdain, + refuses. He asks where are the Swiss who accompanied him to Rome, and he + is answered by one of the Swiss captains, who at that moment appears. The + Emperor has ordered them to return home, under penalty of the ban of the + empire. He begs Arnaldo to return with them, but Arnaldo will not; and + Giordano sends him under a strong escort to the castle of Ostasio. Arnaldo + departs with much misgiving, for the wife of Ostasio is Adelasia, a + bigoted papist, who has hitherto resisted the teaching to which her + husband has been converted. + </p> + <p> + As the escort departs, the returning Swiss are seen. One of their leaders + expresses the fear that moves them, when he says that the Germans will + desolate their homes if they do not return to them. Moreover, the Italian + sun, which destroys even those born under it, drains their life, and man + and nature are leagued against them there. “What have you known here!” he + asks, and his soldiers reply in chorus: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The pride of old names, the caprices of fate, + In vast desert spaces the silence of death, + Or in mist-hidden lowlands, his wandering fires; + No sweet song of birds, no heart-cheering sound, + But eternal memorials of ancient despair, + And ruins and tombs that waken dismay + At the moan of the pines that are stirred by the wind. + Full of dark and mysterious peril the woods; + No life-giving fountains, but only bare sands, + Or some deep-bedded river that silently moves, + With a wave that is livid and stagnant, between + Its margins ungladdened by grass or by flowers, + And in sterile sands vanishes wholly away. + Out of huts that by turns have been shambles and tombs, + All pallid and naked, and burned by their fevers, + The peasant folk suddenly stare as you pass, + With visages ghastly, and eyes full of hate, + Aroused by the accent that's strange to their ears. + Oh, heavily hang the clouds here on the head! + Wan and sick is the earth, and the sun is a tyrant. +</pre> + <p> + Then one of the Swiss soldiers speaks alone: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The unconquerable love of our own land + Draws us away till we behold again + The eternal walls the Almighty builded there. + Upon the arid ways of faithless lands + I am tormented by a tender dream + Of that sweet rill which runs before my cot. + Oh, let me rest beside the smiling lake, + And hear the music of familiar words, + And on its lonely margin, wild and fair, + Lie down and think of my beloved ones. +</pre> + <p> + There is no page of this tragedy which does not present some terrible or + touching picture, which is not full of brave and robust thought, which has + not also great dramatic power. But I am obliged to curtail the proof of + this, and I feel that, after all, I shall not give a complete idea of the + tragedy's grandeur, its subtlety, its vast scope and meaning. + </p> + <p> + There is a striking dialogue between a Roman partisan of Arnaldo, who, + with his fancy oppressed by the heresy of his cause, is wavering in his + allegiance, and a Brescian, whom the outrages of the priests have forever + emancipated from faith in their power to bless or ban in the world to + come. Then ensues a vivid scene, in which a fanatical and insolent monk of + Arnaldo's order, leading a number of soldiers, arrests him by command of + Adrian. Ostasio's soldiers approaching to rescue him, the monk orders him + to be slain, but he is saved, and the act closes with the triumphal chorus + of his friends. Here is fine occasion for the play of different passions, + and the occasion is not lost. + </p> + <p> + With the fourth act is introduced the new interest of the German + oppression; and as we have had hitherto almost wholly a study of the + effect of the papal tyranny upon Italy, we are now confronted with the + shame and woe which the empire has wrought her. Exiles from the different + Lombard cities destroyed by Barbarossa meet on their way to seek redress + from the Pope, and they pour out their sorrows in pathetic and passionate + lyrics. To read these passages gives one a favorable notion of the + liberality or the stupidity of the government which permitted the + publication of the tragedy. The events alluded to were many centuries + past, the empire had long ceased to be; but the Italian hatred of the + Germans was one and indivisible for every moment of all times, and we may + be sure that to each of Niccolini's readers these mediaeval horrors were + but masks for cruelties exercised by the Austrians in his own day, and + that in those lyrical bursts of rage and grief there was full utterance + for his smothered sense of present wrong. There is a great charm in these + strophes; they add unspeakable pathos to a drama which is so largely + concerned with political interests; and they make us feel that it is a + beautiful and noble work of art, as well as grand appeal to the patriotism + of the Italians and the justice of mankind. + </p> + <p> + When we are brought into the presence of Barbarossa, we find him awaiting + the arrival of Adrian, who is to accompany him to Rome and crown him + emperor, in return for the aid that Barbarossa shall give in reducing the + rebellious citizens and delivering Arnaldo into the power of the papacy. + Heralds come to announce Adrian's approach, and riding forth a little way, + Frederick dismounts in order to go forward on foot and meet the Pope, who + advances, preceded by his clergy, and attended by a multitude of his + partisans. As Frederick perceives the Pope and quits his horse, he muses: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I leave thee, + O faithful comrade mine in many perils, + Thou generous steed! and now, upon the ground + That should have thundered under thine advance, + With humble foot I silent steps must trace. + But what do I behold? Toward us comes, + With tranquil pride, the servant of the lowly, + Upon a white horse docile to the rein + As he would kings were; all about the path + That Adrian moves on, warriors and people + Of either sex, all ages, in blind homage, + Mingle, press near and fall upon the ground, + Or one upon another; and man, whom God + Made to look up to heaven, becomes as dust + Under the feet of pride; and they believe + The gates of Paradise would be set wide + To any one whom his steed crushed to death. + With me thou never hast thine empire shared; + Thou alone hold'st the world! He will not turn + On me in sign of greeting that proud head, + Encircled by the tiara; and he sees, + Like God, all under him in murmured prayer + Or silence, blesses them, and passes on. + What wonder if he will not deign to touch + The earth I tread on with his haughty foot! + He gives it to be kissed of kings; I too + Must stoop to the vile act. +</pre> + <p> + Since the time of Henry II. it had been the custom of the emperors to lead + the Pope's horse by the bridle, and to hold his stirrup while he + descended. Adrian waits in vain for this homage from Frederick, and then + alights with the help of his ministers, and seats himself in his episcopal + chair, while Frederick draws near, saying aside: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I read there in his face his insolent pride + Veiled by humility. +</pre> + <p> + He bows before Adrian and kisses his foot, and then offers him the kiss of + peace, which Adrian refuses, and haughtily reminds him of the fate of + Henry. Frederick answers furiously that the thought of this fate has + always filled him with hatred of the papacy; and Adrian, perceiving that + he has pressed too far in this direction, turns and soothes the Emperor: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I am truth, + And thou art force, and if thou part'st from me, + Blind thou becomest, helpless I remain. + We are but one at last.... + Caesar and Peter, + They are the heights of God; man from the earth + Contemplates them with awe, and never questions + Which thrusts its peak the higher into heaven. + Therefore be wise, and learn from the example + Of impious Arnaldo. He's the foe + Of thrones who wars upon the altar. +</pre> + <p> + But he strives in vain to persuade Frederick to the despised act of + homage, and it is only at the intercession of the Emperor's kinsmen and + the German princes that he consents to it. When it is done in the presence + of all the army and the clerical retinue, Adrian mounts, and says to + Frederick, with scarcely hidden irony: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In truth thou art + An apt and ready squire, and thou hast held + My stirrup firmly. Take, then, O my son, + The kiss of peace, for thou hast well fulfilled + All of thy duties. +</pre> + <p> + But Frederick, crying aloud, and fixing the sense of the multitude upon + him, answers: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nay, not all, O Father!— + Princes and soldiers, hear! I have done homage + To Peter, not to him. +</pre> + <p> + The Church and the Empire being now reconciled, Frederick receives the + ambassadors of the Roman republic with scorn; he outrages all their + pretensions to restore Rome to her old freedom and renown; insults their + prayer that he will make her his capital, and heaps contempt upon the + weakness and vileness of the people they represent. Giordano replies for + them: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When will you dream, + You Germans, in your thousand stolid dreams,— + The fume of drunkenness,—a future greater + Than our Rome's memories? Never be her banner + Usurped by you! In prison and in darkness + Was born your eagle, that did but descend + Upon the helpless prey of Roman dead, + But never dared to try the ways of heaven, + With its weak vision wounded by the sun. + Ye prate of Germany. The whole world conspired, + And even more in vain, to work us harm, + Before that day when, the world being conquered, + Rome slew herself. + ... Of man's great brotherhood + Unworthy still, ye change not with the skies. + In Italy the German's fate was ever + To grow luxurious and continue cruel. +</pre> + <p> + The soldiers of Barbarossa press upon Giordano to kill him, and Frederick + saves the ambassadors with difficulty, and hurries them away. + </p> + <p> + In the first part of the fifth act, Niccolini deals again with the <i>rôle</i> + which woman has played in the tragedy of Italian history, the hopes she + has defeated, and the plans she has marred through those religious + instincts which should have blest her country, but which through their + perversion by priestcraft have been one of its greatest curses. Adrian is + in the Vatican, after his triumphant return to Rome, when Adelasia, the + wife of that Ostasio, Count of the Campagna, in whose castle Arnaldo is + concealed, and who shares his excommunication, is ushered into the Pope's + presence. She is half mad with terror at the penalties under which her + husband has fallen, in days when the excommunicated were shunned like + lepers, and to shelter them, or to eat and drink with them, even to salute + them, was to incur privation of the sacraments; when a bier was placed at + their door, and their houses were stoned; when King Robert of France, who + fell under the anathema, was abandoned by all his courtiers and servants, + and the beggars refused the meat that was left from his table—and + she comes into Adrian's presence accusing herself as the greatest of + sinners. The Pope asks: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hast thou betrayed + Thy husband, or from some yet greater crime + Cometh the terror that oppresses thee? + Hast slain him? + + <i>Adelasia.</i> Haply I ought to slay him. + + <i>Adrian.</i> What? + + <i>Adelasia.</i> I fain would hate him and I cannot. + + <i>Adrian.</i> What + Hath his fault been? + + <i>Ad.</i> Oh, the most horrible + Of all. + + <i>Adr.</i> And yet is he dear unto thee? + + <i>Ad.</i> I love him, yes, I love him, though he's changed + From that he was. Some gloomy cloud involves + That face one day so fair, and 'neath the feet, + Now grown deformed, the flowers wither away. + I know not if I sleep or if I wake, + If what I see be a vision or a dream. + But all is dreadful, and I cannot tell + The falsehood from the truth; for if I reason, + I fear to sin. I fly the happy bed + Where I became a mother, but return + In midnight's horror, where my husband lies + Wrapt in a sleep so deep it frightens me, + And question with my trembling hand his heart, + The fountain of his life, if it still beat. + Then a cold kiss I give him, then embrace him + With shuddering joy, and then I fly again,— + For I do fear his love,—and to the place + Where sleep my little ones I hurl myself, + And wake them with my moans, and drag them forth + Before an old miraculous shrine of her, + The Queen of Heaven, to whom I've consecrated, + With never-ceasing vigils, burning lamps. + There naked, stretched upon the hard earth, weep + My pretty babes, and each of them repeats + The name of Mary whom I call upon; + And I would swear that she looks down and weeps. + Then I cry out, “Have pity on my children! + Thou wast a mother, and the good obtain + Forgiveness for the guilty.” + </pre> + <p> + Adrian has little trouble to draw from the distracted woman the fact that + her husband is a heretic—that heretic, indeed, in whose castle + Arnaldo is concealed. On his promise that he will save her husband, she + tells him the name of the castle. He summons Frederick, who claims Ostasio + as his vassal, and declares that he shall die, and his children shall be + carried to Germany. Adrian, after coldly asking the Emperor to spare him, + feigns himself helpless, and Adelasia too late awakens to a knowledge of + his perfidy. She falls at his feet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I clasp thy knees once more, and I do hope + Thou hast not cheated me!... Ah, now I see + Thy wicked arts! Because thou knewest well + My husband was a vassal of the empire, + That pardon which it was not thine to give + Thou didst pretend to promise me. O priest, + Is this thy pity? Sorrow gives me back + My wandering reason, and I waken on + The brink of an abyss; and from this wretch + The mask that did so hide his face drops down + And shows it in its naked hideousness + Unto the light of truth. +</pre> + <p> + Frederick sends his soldiers to secure Arnaldo, but as to Ostasio and his + children he relents somewhat, being touched by the anguish of Adelasia. + Adrian rebukes his weakness, saying that he learned in the cloister to + subdue these compassionate impulses. In the next scene, which is on the + Capitoline Hill, the Roman Senate resolves to defend the city against the + Germans to the last, and then we have Arnaldo a prisoner in a cell of the + Castle of St. Angelo. The Prefect of Rome vainly entreats him to recant + his heresy, and then leaves him with the announcement that he is to die + before the following day. As to the soliloquy which follows, Niccolini + says: “I have feigned in Arnaldo in the solemn hour of death these doubts, + and I believe them exceedingly probable in a disciple of Abelard. This + struggle between reason and faith is found more or less in the intellect + of every one, and constitutes a sublime torment in the life of those who, + like the Brescian monk, have devoted themselves from an early age to the + study of philosophy and religion. None of the ideas which I attribute to + Arnaldo were unknown to him, and, according to Müller, he believed that + God was all, and that the whole creation was but one of his thoughts. His + other conceptions in regard to divinity are found in one of his + contemporaries.” The soliloquy is as follows: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Aforetime thou hast said, O King of heaven, + That in the world thou wilt not power or riches. + And can he be divided from the Church + Who keeps his faith in thine immortal word, + The light of souls? To remain in the truth + It only needs that I confess to thee + All sins of mine. O thou eternal priest, + Thou read'st my heart, and that which I can scarce + Express thou seest. A great mystery + Is man unto himself, conscience a deep + Which only thou canst sound. What storm is there + Of guilty thoughts! Oh, pardon my rebellion! + Evil springs up within the mind of man, + As in its native soil, since that day Adam + Abused thy great gift, and created guilt. + And if each thought of ours became a deed, + Who would be innocent? I did once defend + The cause of Abelard, and at the decree + Imposing silence on him I, too, ceased. + What fault in me? Bernard in vain inspired + The potentates of Europe to defend + The sepulcher of God. Mankind, his temple, + I sought to liberate, and upon the earth + Desired the triumph of the love divine, + And life, and liberty, and progress. This, + This was my doctrine, and God only knows + How reason struggles with the faith in me + For the supremacy of my spirit. Oh, + Forgive me, Lord. These in their war are like + The rivers twain of heaven, till they return + To their eternal origin, and the truth + Is seen in thee, and God denies not God. + I ought to pray. Thinking on thee, I pray. + Yet how thy substance by three persons shared, + Each equal with the other, one remains, + I cannot comprehend, nor give in thee + Bounds to the infinite and human names. + Father of the world, that which thou here revealest + Perchance is but a thought of thine; or this + Movable veil that covers here below + All thy creation is eternal illusion + That hides God from us. Where to rest itself + The mind hath not. It palpitates uncertain + In infinite darkness, and denies more wisely + Than it affirms. O God omnipotent! + I know not what thou art, or, if I know, + How can I utter thee? The tongue has not + Words for thee, and it falters with my thought + That wrongs thee by its effort. Soon I go + Out of the last doubt unto the first truth. + What did I say? The intellect is soothed + To faith in Christ, and therein it reposes + As in the bosom of a tender mother + Her son. Arnaldo, that which thou art seeking + With sterile torment, thy great teacher sought + Long time in vain, and at the cross's foot + His weary reason cast itself at last. + Follow his great example, and with tears + Wash out thy sins. +</pre> + <p> + We leave Arnaldo in his prison, and it is supposed that he is put to death + during the combat that follows between the Germans and Romans immediately + after the coronation of Frederick. As the forces stand opposed to each + other, two beautiful choruses are introduced—one of Romans and one + of Germans. And, just before the onset, Adelasia appears and confesses + that she has betrayed Arnaldo, and that he is now in the power of the + papacy. At the same time the clergy are heard chanting Frederick's + coronation hymn, and then the battle begins. The Romans are beaten by the + number and discipline of their enemies, and their leaders are driven out. + The Germans appear before Frederic and Adrian with two hundred prisoners, + and ask mercy for them. Adrian delivers them to his prefect, and it is + implied that they are put to death. Then turning to Frederick, Adrian + says: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Art thou content? for I have given to thee + More than the crown. My words have consecrated + Thy power. So let the Church and Empire be + Now at last reconciled. The mystery + That holds three persons in one substance, nor + Confounds them, may it make us here on earth + To reign forever, image of itself, + In unity which is like to that of God. +</pre> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + So ends the tragedy, and so was accomplished the union which rested so + heavily ever after upon the hearts and hopes, not only of Italians, but of + all Christian men. So was confirmed that temporal power of the popes, + whose destruction will be known in history as infinitely the greatest + event of our greatly eventful time, and will free from the doubt and dread + of many one of the most powerful agencies for good in the world; namely, + the Catholic Church. + </p> + <p> + I have tried to give an idea of the magnificence and scope of this mighty + tragedy of Niccolini's, and I do not know that I can now add anything + which will make this clearer. If we think of the grandeur of its plan, and + how it employs for its effect the evil and the perverted good of the time + in which the scene was laid, how it accords perfect sincerity to all the + great actors,—to the Pope as well as to Arnaldo, to the Emperor as + well as to the leaders of the people,—we must perceive that its + conception is that of a very great artist. It seems to me that the + execution is no less admirable. We cannot judge it by the narrow rule + which the tragedies of the stage must obey; we must look at it with the + generosity and the liberal imagination with which we can alone enjoy a + great fiction. Then the patience, the subtlety, the strength, with which + each character, individual and typical, is evolved; the picturesqueness + with which every event is presented; the lyrical sweetness and beauty with + which so many passages are enriched, will all be apparent to us, and we + shall feel the esthetic sublimity of the work as well as its moral force + and its political significance. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GIACOMO LEOPARDI + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + In the year 1798, at Recanati, a little mountain town of Tuscany, was + born, noble and miserable, the poet Giacomo Leopardi, who began even in + childhood to suffer the malice of that strange conspiracy of ills which + consumed him. His constitution was very fragile, and it early felt the + effect of the passionate ardor with which the sickly boy dedicated his + life to literature. From the first he seems to have had little or no + direction in his own studies, and hardly any instruction. He literally + lived among his books, rarely leaving his own room except to pass into his + father's library; his research and erudition were marvelous, and at the + age of sixteen he presented his father a Latin translation and comment on + Plotinus, of which Sainte-Beuve said that “one who had studied Plotinus + his whole life could find something useful in this work of a boy.” At that + age Leopardi already knew all Greek and Latin literature; he knew French, + Spanish, and English; he knew Hebrew, and disputed in that tongue with the + rabbis of Ancona. + </p> + <p> + The poet's father was Count Monaldo Leopardi, who had written little books + of a religious and political character; the religion very bigoted, the + politics very reactionary. His library was the largest anywhere in that + region, but he seems not to have learned wisdom in it; and, though + otherwise a blameless man, he used his son, who grew to manhood differing + from him in all his opinions, with a rigor that was scarcely less than + cruel. He was bitterly opposed to what was called progress, to religious + and civil liberty; he was devoted to what was called order, which meant + merely the existing order of things, the divinely appointed prince, the + infallible priest. He had a mediaeval taste, and he made his palace at + Recanati as much like a feudal castle as he could, with all sorts of + baronial bric-à-brac. An armed vassal at his gate was out of the question, + but at the door of his own chamber stood an effigy in rusty armor, bearing + a tarnished halberd. He abhorred the fashions of our century, and wore + those of an earlier epoch; his wife, who shared his prejudices and + opinions, fantastically appareled herself to look like the portrait of + some gentlewoman of as remote a date. Halls hung in damask, vast mirrors + in carven frames, and stately furniture of antique form attested + throughout the palace “the splendor of a race which, if its fortunes had + somewhat declined, still knew how to maintain its ancient state.” + </p> + <p> + In this home passed the youth and early manhood of a poet who no sooner + began to think for himself than he began to think things most discordant + with his father's principles and ideas. He believed in neither the + religion nor the politics of his race; he cherished with the desire of + literary achievement that vague faith in humanity, in freedom, in the + future, against which the Count Monaldo had so sternly set his face; he + chafed under the restraints of his father's authority, and longed for some + escape into the world. The Italians sometimes write of Leopardi's + unhappiness with passionate condemnation of his father; but neither was + Count Monaldo's part an enviable one, and it was certainly not at this + period that he had all the wrong in his differences with his son. + Nevertheless, it is pathetic to read how the heartsick, frail, ambitious + boy, when he found some article in a newspaper that greatly pleased him, + would write to the author and ask his friendship. When these journalists, + who were possibly not always the wisest publicists of their time, so far + responded to the young scholar's advances as to give him their personal + acquaintance as well as their friendship, the old count received them with + a courteous tolerance, which had no kindness in it for their progressive + ideas. He lived in dread of his son's becoming involved in some of the + many plots then hatching against order and religion, and he repressed with + all his strength Leopardi's revolutionary tendencies, which must always + have been mere matters of sentiment, and not deserving of great rigor. + </p> + <p> + He seems not so much to have loved Italy as to have hated Recanati. It is + a small village high up in the Apennines, between Loreto and Macerata, and + is chiefly accessible in ox-carts. Small towns everywhere are dull, and + perhaps are not more deadly so in Italy than they are elsewhere, but there + they have a peculiarly obscure, narrow life indoors. Outdoors there is a + little lounging about the <i>caffè</i>, a little stir on holidays among + the lower classes and the neighboring peasants, a great deal of gossip at + all times, and hardly anything more. The local nobleman, perhaps, + cultivates literature as Leopardi's father did; there is always some + abbate mousing about in the local archives and writing pamphlets on + disputed points of the local history; and there is the parish priest, to + help form the polite society of the place. As if this social barrenness + were not enough, Recanati was physically hurtful to Leopardi: the climate + was very fickle; the harsh, damp air was cruel to his nerves. He says it + seems to him a den where no good or beautiful thing ever comes; he bewails + the common ignorance; in Recanati there is no love for letters, for the + humanizing arts; nobody frequents his father's great library, nobody buys + books, nobody reads the newspapers. Yet this forlorn and detestable little + town has one good thing. It has a preëminently good Italian accent, better + even, he thinks, than the Roman,—which would be a greater + consolation to an Italian than we can well understand. Nevertheless it was + not society, and it did not make his fellow-townsmen endurable to him. He + recoiled from them more and more, and the solitude in which he lived among + his books filled him with a black melancholy, which he describes as a + poison, corroding the life of body and soul alike. To a friend who tries + to reconcile him to Recanati, he writes: “It is very well to tell me that + Plutarch and Alfieri loved Chaeronea and Asti; they loved them, but they + left them; and so shall I love my native place when I am away from it. Now + I say I hate it because I am in it. To recall the spot where one's + childhood days were passed is dear and sweet; it is a fine saying, 'Here + you were born, and here Providence wills you to stay.' All very fine! Say + to the sick man striving to be well that he is flying in the face of + Providence; tell the poor man struggling to advance himself that he is + defying heaven; bid the Turk beware of baptism, for God has made him a + Turk!” So Leopardi wrote when he was in comparative health and able to + continue his studies. But there were long periods when his ailments denied + him his sole consolation of work. Then he rose late, and walked listlessly + about without opening his lips or looking at a book the whole day. As soon + as he might, he returned to his studies; when he must, he abandoned them + again. At such a time he once wrote to a friend who understood and loved + him: “I have not energy enough to conceive a single desire, not even for + death; not because I fear death, but because I cannot see any difference + between that and my present life. For the first time <i>ennui</i> not + merely oppresses and wearies me, but it also agonizes and lacerates me, + like a cruel pain. I am overwhelmed with a sense of the vanity of all + things and the condition of men. My passions are dead, my very despair + seems nonentity. As to my studies, which you urge me to continue, for the + last eight months I have not known what study means; the nerves of my eyes + and of my whole head are so weakened and disordered that I cannot read or + listen to reading, nor can I fix my mind upon any subject.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: GIACOMO LEOPARDI} + </p> + <p> + At Recanati Leopardi suffered not merely solitude, but the contact of + people whom he despised, and whose vulgarity was all the greater + oppression when it showed itself in a sort of stupid compassionate + tenderness for him. He had already suffered one of those disappointments + which are the rule rather than the exception, and his first love had ended + as first love always does when it ends fortunately—in + disappointment. He scarcely knew the object of his passion, a young girl + of humble lot, whom he used to hear singing at her loom in the house + opposite his father's palace. Count Monaldo promptly interfered, and not + long afterward the young girl died. But the sensitive boy, and his + biographers after him, made the most of this sorrow; and doubtless it + helped to render life under his father's roof yet heavier and harder to + bear. Such as it was, it seems to have been the only love that Leopardi + ever really felt, and the young girl's memory passed into the melancholy + of his life and poetry. + </p> + <p> + But he did not summon courage to abandon Recanati before his twenty-fourth + year, and then he did not go with his father's entire good-will. The count + wished him to become a priest, but Leopardi shrank from the idea with + horror, and there remained between him and his father not only the + difference of their religious and political opinions, but an unkindness + which must be remembered against the judgment, if not the heart, of the + latter. He gave his son so meager an allowance that it scarcely kept him + above want, and obliged him to labors and subjected him to cares which his + frail health was not able bear. + </p> + <p> + From Recanati Leopardi first went to Rome; but he carried Recanati + everywhere with him, and he was as solitary and as wretched in the capital + of the world as in the little village of the Apennines. He despised the + Romans, as they deserved, upon very short acquaintance, and he declared + that his dullest fellow-villager had a greater share of good sense than + the best of them. Their frivolity was incredible; the men moved him to + rage and pity; the women, high and low, to loathing. In one of his letters + to his brother Carlo, he says of Rome, as he found it: “I have spoken to + you only about the women, because I am at a loss what to say to you about + literature. Horrors upon horrors! The most sacred names profaned, the most + absurd follies praised to the skies, the greatest spirits of the century + trampled under foot as inferior to the smallest literary man in Rome. + Philosophy despised; genius, imagination, feeling, names—I do not + say things, but even names—unknown and alien to these professional + poets and poetesses! Antiquarianism placed at the summit of human + learning, and considered invariably and universally as the only true study + of man!” This was Rome in 1822. “I do not exaggerate,” he writes, “because + it is impossible, and I do not even say enough.” One of the things that + moved him to the greatest disgust in the childish and insipid society of a + city where he had fondly hoped to find a response to his high thoughts was + the sensation caused throughout Rome by the dress and theatrical + effectiveness with which a certain prelate said mass. All Rome talked of + it, cardinals and noble ladies complimented the performer as if he were a + ballet-dancer, and the flattered prelate used to rehearse his part, and + expatiate upon his methods of study for it, to private audiences of + admirers. In fact, society had then touched almost the lowest depth of + degradation where society had always been corrupt and dissolute, and the + reader of Massimo d'Azeglio's memoirs may learn particulars (given with + shame and regret, indeed, and yet with perfect Italian frankness) which it + is not necessary to repeat here. + </p> + <p> + There were, however, many foreigners living at Rome in whose company + Leopardi took great pleasure. They were chiefly Germans, and first among + them was Niebuhr, who says of his first meeting with the poet: “Conceive + of my astonishment when I saw standing before me in the poor little + chamber a mere youth, pale and shy, frail in person, and obviously in ill + health, who was by far the first, in fact the only, Greek philologist in + Italy, the author of critical comments and observations which would have + won honor for the first philologist in Germany, and yet only twenty-two + years old! He had become thus profoundly learned without school, without + instructor, without help, without encouragement, in his father's house. I + understand, too, that he is one of the first of the rising poets of Italy. + What a nobly gifted people!” + </p> + <p> + Niebuhr offered to procure him a professorship of Greek philosophy in + Berlin, but Leopardi would not consent to leave his own country; and then + Niebuhr unsuccessfully used his influence to get him some employment from + the papal government,—compliments and good wishes it gave him, but + no employment and no pay. + </p> + <p> + From Rome Leopardi went to Milan, where he earned something—very + little—as editor of a comment upon Petrarch. A little later he went + to Bologna, where a generous and sympathetic nobleman made him tutor in + his family; but Leopardi returned not long after to Recanati, where he + probably found no greater content than he left there. Presently we find + him at Pisa, and then at Florence, eking out the allowance from his father + by such literary work as he could find to do. In the latter place it is + somewhat dimly established that he again fell in love, though he despised + the Florentine women almost as much as the Romans, for their extreme + ignorance, folly, and pride. This love also was unhappy. There is no + reason to believe that Leopardi, who inspired tender and ardent + friendships in men, ever moved any woman to love. The Florentine ladies + are darkly accused by one of his biographers of having laughed at the poor + young pessimist, and it is very possible; but that need not make us think + the worse of him, or of them either, for that matter. He is supposed to + have figured the lady of his latest love under the name of Aspasia, in one + of his poems, as he did his first love under that of Sylvia, in the poem + so called. Doubtless the experience further embittered a life already + sufficiently miserable. He left Florence, but after a brief sojourn at + Rome he returned thither, where his friend Antonio Ranieri watched with a + heavy heart the gradual decay of his forces, and persuaded him finally to + seek the milder air of Naples. Ranieri's father was, like Leopardi's, of + reactionary opinions, and the Neapolitan, dreading the effect of their + discord, did not take his friend to his own house, but hired a villa at + Capodimonte, where he lived four years in fraternal intimacy with + Leopardi, and where the poet died in 1837. + </p> + <p> + Ranieri has in some sort made himself the champion of Leopardi's fame. He + has edited his poems, and has written a touching and beautiful sketch of + his life. Their friendship, which was of the greatest tenderness, began + when Leopardi sorely needed it; and Ranieri devoted himself to the hapless + poet like a lover, as if to console him for the many years in which he had + known neither reverence nor love. He indulged all the eccentricities of + his guest, who for a sick man had certain strange habits, often not rising + till evening, dining at midnight, and going to bed at dawn. Ranieri's + sister Paolina kept house for the friends, and shared all her brother's + compassion for Leopardi, whose family appears to have willingly left him + to the care of these friends. How far the old unkindness between him and + his father continued, it is hard to say. His last letter was written to + his mother in May, 1837, some two weeks before his death; he thanks her + for a present of ten dollars,—one may imagine from the gift and the + gratitude that he was still held in a strict and parsimonious tutelage,—and + begs her prayers and his father's, for after he has seen them again, he + shall not have long to live. + </p> + <p> + He did not see them again, but he continued to smile at the anxieties of + his friends, who had too great reason to think that the end was much + nearer than Leopardi himself supposed. On the night of the 14th of June, + while they were waiting for the carriage which was to take them into the + country, where they intended to pass the time together and sup at + daybreak, Leopardi felt so great a difficulty of breathing—he called + it asthma, but it was dropsy of the heart—that he begged them to + send for a doctor. The doctor on seeing the sick man took Ranieri apart, + and bade him fetch a priest without delay, and while they waited the + coming of the friar, Leopardi spoke now and then with them, but sank + rapidly. Finally, says Ranieri, “Leopardi opened his eyes, now larger even + than their wont, and looked at me more fixedly than before. 'I can't see + you,' he said, with a kind of sigh. And he ceased to breathe, and his + pulse and heart beat no more; and at the same moment the Friar Felice of + the barefoot order of St. Augustine entered the chamber, while I, quite + beside myself, called with a loud voice on him who had been my friend, my + brother, my father, and who answered me nothing, and yet seemed to gaze + upon me.... His death was inconceivable to me; the others were dismayed + and mute; there arose between the good friar and myself the most cruel and + painful dispute, ... I madly contending that my friend was still alive, + and beseeching him with tears to accompany with the offices of religion + the passing of that great soul. But he, touching again and again the pulse + and the heart, continually answered that the spirit had taken flight. At + last, a spontaneous and solemn silence fell upon all in the room; the + friar knelt beside the dead, and we all followed his example. Then after + long and profound meditation he prayed, and we prayed with him.” + </p> + <p> + In another place Ranieri says: “The malady of Leopardi was indefinable, + for having its spring in the most secret sources of life, it was like life + itself, inexplicable. The bones softened and dissolved away, refusing + their frail support to the flesh that covered them. The flesh itself grew + thinner and more lifeless every day, for the organs of nutrition denied + their office of assimilation. The lungs, cramped into a space too narrow, + and not sound themselves, expanded with difficulty. With difficulty the + heart freed itself from the lymph with which a slow absorption burdened + it. The blood, which ill renewed itself in the hard and painful + respiration, returned cold, pale, and sluggish to the enfeebled veins. And + in fine, the whole mysterious circle of life, moving with such great + effort, seemed from moment to moment about to pause forever. Perhaps the + great cerebral sponge, beginning and end of that mysterious circle, had + prepotently sucked up all the vital forces, and itself consumed in a brief + time all that was meant to suffice the whole system for a long period. + However it may be, the life of Leopardi was not a course, as in most men, + but truly a precipitation toward death.” + </p> + <p> + Some years before he died, Leopardi had a presentiment of his death, and + his end was perhaps hastened by the nervous shock of the terror produced + by the cholera, which was then raging in Naples. At that time the body of + a Neapolitan minister of state who had died of cholera was cast into the + common burial-pit at Naples—such was the fear of contagion, and so + rapidly were the dead hurried to the grave. A heavy bribe secured the + remains of Leopardi from this fate, and his dust now reposes in a little + church on the road to Pozzuoli. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + “In the years of boyhood,” says the Neapolitan critic, Francesco de + Sanctis, “Leopardi saw his youth vanish forever; he lived obscure, and + achieved posthumous envy and renown; he was rich and noble, and he + suffered from want and despite; no woman's love ever smiled upon him, the + solitary lover of his own mind, to which he gave the names of Sylvia, + Aspasia, and Nerina. Therefore, with a precocious and bitter penetration, + he held what we call happiness for illusions and deceits of fancy; the + objects of our desire he called idols, our labors idleness, and everything + vanity. Thus he saw nothing here below equal to his own intellect, or that + was worthy the throb of his heart; and inertia, rust, as it were, even + more than pain consumed his life, alone in what he called this formidable + desert of the world. In such solitude life becomes a dialogue of man with + his own soul, and the internal colloquies render more bitter and intense + the affections which have returned to the heart for want of nourishment in + the world. Mournful colloquies and yet pleasing, where man is the suicidal + vulture perpetually preying upon himself, and caressing the wound that + drags him to the grave.... The first cause of his sorrow is Recanati: the + intellect, capable of the universe, feels itself oppressed in an obscure + village, cruel to the body and deadly to the spirit.... He leaves + Recanati; he arrives in Rome; we believe him content at last, and he too + believes it. Brief illusion! Rome, Bologna, Milan, Florence, Naples, are + all different places, where he forever meets the same man, himself. Read + the first letter that he writes from Rome: 'In the great things I see I do + not feel the least pleasure, for I know that they are marvelous, but I do + not feel it, and I assure you that their multitude and grandeur wearied me + after the first day.'... To Leopardi it is rarely given to interest + himself in any spectacle of nature, and he never does it without a sudden + and agonized return to himself.... Malign and heartless men have pretended + that Leopardi was a misanthrope, a fierce hater and enemy of the human + race!... Love, inexhaustible and almost ideal, was the supreme craving of + that angelic heart, and never left it during life. 'Love me, for God's + sake,' he beseeches his brother Carlo; 'I have need of love, love, love, + fire, enthusiasm, life.' And in truth it may be said that pain and love + form the twofold poetry of his life.” + </p> + <p> + Leopardi lived in Italy during the long contest between the Classic and + Romantic schools, and it may be said that in him many of the leading ideas + of both parties were reconciled. His literary form was as severe and + sculpturesque as that of Alfieri himself, whilst the most subjective and + introspective of the Romantic poets did not so much color the world with + his own mental and spiritual hue as Leopardi. It is not plain whether he + ever declared himself for one theory or the other. He was a contributor to + the literary journal which the partisans of the Romantic School founded at + Florence; but he was a man so weighed upon by his own sense of the + futility and vanity of all things that he could have had little spirit for + mere literary contentions. His admirers try hard to make out that he was + positively and actively patriotic; and it is certain that in his earlier + youth he disagreed with his father's conservative opinions, and despised + the existing state of things; but later in life he satirized the + aspirations and purposes of progress, though without sympathizing with + those of reaction. + </p> + <p> + The poem which his chief claim to classification with the poets militant + of his time rests upon is that addressed “To Italy”. Those who have read + even only a little of Leopardi have read it; and I must ask their patience + with a version which drops the irregular rhyme of the piece for the sake + of keeping its peculiar rhythm and measure. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My native land, I see the walls and arches, + The columns and the statues, and the lonely + Towers of our ancestors, + But not their glory, not + The laurel and the steel that of old time + Our great forefathers bore. Disarmèd now, + Naked thou showest thy forehead and thy breast! + O me, how many wounds, + What bruises and what blood! How do I see thee, + Thou loveliest Lady! Unto Heaven I cry, + And to the world: “Say, say, + Who brought her unto this?” To this and worse, + For both her arms are loaded down with chains, + So that, unveiled and with disheveled hair, + She crouches all forgotten and forlorn, + Hiding her beautiful face + Between her knees, and weeps. + Weep, weep, for well thou may'st, my Italy! + Born, as thou wert, to conquest, + Alike in evil and in prosperous sort! + If thy sweet eyes were each a living stream, + Thou could'st not weep enough + For all thy sorrow and for all thy shame. + For thou wast queen, and now thou art a slave. + Who speaks of thee or writes, + That thinking on thy glory in the past + But says, “She was great once, but is no more.” + Wherefore, oh, wherefore? Where is the ancient strength, + The valor and the arms, and constancy? + Who rent the sword from thee? + Who hath betrayed thee? What art, or what toil, + Or what o'erwhelming force, + Hath stripped thy robe and golden wreath from thee? + How did'st thou fall, and when, + From such a height unto a depth so low? + Doth no one fight for thee, no one defend thee, + None of thy own? Arms, arms! For I alone + Will fight and fall for thee. + Grant me, O Heaven, my blood + Shall be as fire unto Italian hearts! + Where are thy sons? I hear the sound of arms, + Of wheels, of voices, and of drums; + In foreign fields afar + Thy children fight and fall. + Wait, Italy, wait! I see, or seem to see, + A tumult as of infantry and horse, + And smoke and dust, and the swift flash of swords + Like lightning among clouds. + Wilt thou not hope? Wilt thou not lift and turn + Thy trembling eyes upon the doubtful close? + For what, in yonder fields, + Combats Italian youth? O gods, ye gods, + For other lands Italian swords are drawn! + Oh, misery for him who dies in war, + Not for his native shores and his beloved, + His wife and children dear, + But by the foes of others + For others' cause, and cannot dying say, + “Dear land of mine, + The life thou gavest me I give thee back.” + </pre> + <p> + This suffers, of course, in translation, but I confess that in the + original it wears something of the same perfunctory air. His patriotism + was the fever-flame of the sick man's blood; his real country was the land + beyond the grave, and there is a far truer note in this address to Death. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And thou, that ever from my life's beginning + I have invoked and honored, Beautiful Death! who only + Of all our earthly sorrows knowest pity: + If ever celebrated + Thou wast by me; if ever I attempted + To recompense the insult + That vulgar terror offers + Thy lofty state, delay no more, but listen + To prayers so rarely uttered: + Shut to the light forever, + Sovereign of time, these eyes of weary anguish! +</pre> + <p> + I suppose that Italian criticism of the present day would not give + Leopardi nearly so high a place among the poets as his friend Ranieri + claims for him and his contemporaries accorded. He seems to have been the + poet of a national mood; he was the final expression of that long, + hopeless apathy in which Italy lay bound for thirty years after the fall + of Napoleon and his governments, and the reëstablishment of all the little + despots, native and foreign, throughout the peninsula. In this time there + was unrest enough, and revolt enough of a desultory and unorganized sort, + but every struggle, apparently every aspiration, for a free political and + religious life ended in a more solid confirmation of the leaden misrule + which weighed down the hearts of the people. To such an apathy the pensive + monotone of this sick poet's song might well seem the only truth; and one + who beheld the universe with the invalid's loath eyes, and reasoned from + his own irremediable ills to a malign mystery presiding over all human + affairs, and ordering a sad destiny from which there could be no defense + but death, might have the authority of a prophet among those who could + find no promise of better things in their earthly lot. + </p> + <p> + Leopardi's malady was such that when he did not positively suffer he had + still the memory of pain, and he was oppressed with a dreary ennui, from + which he could not escape. Death, oblivion, annihilation, are the thoughts + upon which he broods, and which fill his verse. The passing color of other + men's minds is the prevailing cast of his, and he, probably with far more + sincerity than any other poet, nursed his despair in such utterances as + this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO HIMSELF. + + Now thou shalt rest forever, + O weary heart! The last deceit is ended, + For I believed myself immortal. Cherished + Hopes, and beloved delusions, + And longings to be deluded,—all are perished! + Rest thee forever! Oh, greatly, + Heart, hast thou palpitated. There is nothing + Worthy to move thee more, nor is earth worthy + Thy sighs. For life is only + Bitterness and vexation; earth is only + A heap of dust. So rest thee! + Despair for the last time. To our race Fortune + Never gave any gift but death. Disdain, then, + Thyself and Nature and the Power + Occultly reigning to the common ruin: + Scorn, heart, the infinite emptiness of all things! +</pre> + <p> + Nature was so cruel a stepmother to this man that he could see nothing but + harm even in her apparent beneficence, and his verse repeats again and + again his dark mistrust of the very loveliness which so keenly delights + his sense. One of his early poems, called “The Quiet after the Storm”, + strikes the key in which nearly all his songs are pitched. The observation + of nature is very sweet and honest, and I cannot see that the philosophy + in its perversion of the relations of physical and spiritual facts is less + mature than that of his later work: it is a philosophy of which the first + conception cannot well differ from the final expression. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... See yon blue sky that breaks + The clouds above the mountain in the west! + The fields disclose themselves, + And in the valley bright the river runs. + All hearts are glad; on every side + Arise the happy sounds + Of toil begun anew. + The workman, singing, to the threshold comes, + With work in hand, to judge the sky, + Still humid, and the damsel next, + On his report, comes forth to brim her pail + With the fresh-fallen rain. + The noisy fruiterers + From lane to lane resume + Their customary cry. + The sun looks out again, and smiles upon + The houses and the hills. Windows and doors + Are opened wide; and on the far-off road + You hear the tinkling bells and rattling wheels + Of travelers that set out upon their journey. + + Every heart is glad; + So grateful and so sweet + When is our life as now? + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Pleasure, child of Pain, + Vain joy which is the fruit + Of bygone suffering overshadowèd + And wrung with cruel fears + Of death, whom life abhors; + Wherein, in long suspense, + Silent and cold and pale, + Man sat, and shook and shuddered to behold + Lightnings and clouds and winds, + Furious in his offense! + Beneficent Nature, these, + These are thy bounteous gifts: + These, these are the delights + Thou offerest unto mortals! To escape + From pain is bliss to us; + Anguish thou scatterest broadcast, and our woes + Spring up spontaneous, and that little joy + Born sometimes, for a miracle and show, + Of terror is our mightiest gain. O man, + Dear to the gods, count thyself fortunate + If now and then relief + Thou hast from pain, and blest + When death shall come to heal thee of all pain! +</pre> + <p> + “The bodily deformities which humiliated Leopardi, and the cruel + infirmities that agonized him his whole life long, wrought in his heart an + invincible disgust, which made him invoke death as the sole relief. His + songs, while they express discontent, the discord of the world, the + conviction of the nullity of human things, are exquisite in style; they + breathe a perpetual melancholy, which is often sublime, and they relax and + pain your soul like the music of a single chord, while their strange + sweetness wins you to them again and again.” This is the language of an + Italian critic who wrote after Leopardi's death, when already it had begun + to be doubted whether he was the greatest Italian poet since Dante. A + still later critic finds Leopardi's style, “without relief, without lyric + flight, without the great art of contrasts, without poetic leaven,” hard + to read. “Despoil those verses of their masterly polish,” he says, “reduce + those thoughts to prose, and you will see how little they are akin to + poetry.” + </p> + <p> + I have a feeling that my versions apply some such test to Leopardi's work, + and that the reader sees it in them at much of the disadvantage which this + critic desires for it. Yet, after doing my worst, I am not wholly able to + agree with him. It seems to me that there is the indestructible charm in + it which, wherever we find it, we must call poetry. It is true that “its + strange sweetness wins you again and again,” and that this “lonely pipe of + death” thrills and solemnly delights as no other stop has done. Let us + hear it again, as the poet sounds it, figuring himself a Syrian shepherd, + guarding his flock by night, and weaving his song under the Eastern moon: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O flock that liest at rest, O blessèd thou + That knowest not thy fate, however hard, + How utterly I envy thee! + Not merely that thou goest almost free + Of all this weary pain,— + That every misery and every toil + And every fear thou straightway dost forget,— + But most because thou knowest not ennui + When on the grass thou liest in the shade. + I see thee tranquil and content, + And great part of thy years + Untroubled by ennui thou passest thus. + I likewise in the shadow, on the grass. + Lie, and a dull disgust beclouds + My soul, and I am goaded with a spur, + So that, reposing, I am farthest still + From finding peace or place. + And yet I want for naught, + And have not had till now a cause for tears. + What is thy bliss, how much, + I cannot tell; but thou art fortunate. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Or, it may be, my thought + Errs, running thus to others' destiny; + May be, to everything, + Wherever born, in cradle or in fold, + That day is terrible when it was born. +</pre> + <p> + It is the same note, the same voice; the theme does not change, but + perhaps it is deepened in this ode: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ON THE LIKENESS OP A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN CARVEN + UPON HER TOMB. + + Such wast thou: now under earth + A skeleton and dust. O'er dust and bones + Immovably and vainly set, and mute, + Looking upon the flight of centuries, + Sole keeper of memory + And of regret is this fair counterfeit + Of loveliness now vanished. That sweet look, + Which made men tremble when it fell on them, + As now it falls on me; that lip, which once, + Like some full vase of sweets, + Ran over with delight; that fair neck, clasped + By longing, and that soft and amorous hand, + Which often did impart + An icy thrill unto the hand it touched; + That breast, which visibly + Blanched with its beauty him who looked on it— + All these things were, and now + Dust art thou, filth, a fell + And hideous sight hidden beneath a stone. + Thus fate hath wrought its will + Upon the semblance that to us did seem + Heaven's vividest image! Eternal mystery + Of mortal being! To-day the ineffable + Fountain of thoughts and feelings vast and high, + Beauty reigns sovereign, and seems + Like splendor thrown afar + From some immortal essence on these sands, + To give our mortal state + A sign and hope secure of destinies + Higher than human, and of fortunate realms, + And golden worlds unknown. + To-morrow, at a touch, + Loathsome to see, abominable, abject, + Becomes the thing that was + All but angelical before; + And from men's memories + All that its loveliness + Inspired forever faults and fades away. + + Ineffable desires + And visions high and pure + Rise in the happy soul, + Lulled by the sound of cunning harmonies + Whereon the spirit floats, + As at his pleasure floats + Some fearless swimmer over the deep sea; + But if a discord strike + The wounded sense, to naught + All that fair paradise in an instant falls. + + Mortality! if thou + Be wholly frail and vile, + Be only dust and shadow, how canst thou + So deeply feel? And if thou be + In part divine, how can thy will and thought + By things so poor and base + So easily be awakenèd and quenched? +</pre> + <p> + Let us touch for the last time this pensive chord, and listen to its + response of hopeless love. This poem, in which he turns to address the + spirit of the poor child whom he loved boyishly at Recanati, is pathetic + with the fact that possibly she alone ever reciprocated the tenderness + with which his heart was filled. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO SYLVIA. + + Sylvia, dost thou remember + In this that season of thy mortal being + When from thine eyes shone beauty, + In thy shy glances fugitive and smiling, + And joyously and pensively the borders + Of childhood thou did'st traverse? + + All day the quiet chambers + And the ways near resounded + To thy perpetual singing, + When thou, intent upon some girlish labor, + Sat'st utterly contented, + With the fair future brightening in thy vision. + It was the fragrant month of May, and ever + Thus thou thy days beguiledst. + + I, leaving my fair studies, + Leaving my manuscripts and toil-stained volumes, + Wherein I spent the better + Part of myself and of my young existence, + Leaned sometimes idly from my father's windows, + And listened to the music of thy singing, + And to thy hand, that fleetly + Ran o'er the threads of webs that thou wast weaving. + I looked to the calm heavens, + Unto the golden lanes and orchards, + And unto the far sea and to the mountains; + No mortal tongue may utter + What in my heart I felt then. + + O Sylvia mine, what visions, + What hopes, what hearts, we had in that far season! + How fair and good before us + Seemed human life and fortune! + When I remember hope so great, beloved, + An utter desolation + And bitterness o'erwhelm me, + And I return to mourn my evil fortune. + O Nature, faithless Nature, + Wherefore dost thou not give us + That which thou promisest? Wherefore deceivest, + With so great guile, thy children? + + Thou, ere the freshness of thy spring was withered. + Stricken by thy fell malady, and vanquished, + Did'st perish, O my darling! and the blossom + Of thy years sawest; + Thy heart was never melted + At the sweet praise, now of thy raven tresses, + Now of thy glances amorous and bashful; + Never with thee the holiday-free maidens + Reasoned of love and loving. + + Ah! briefly perished, likewise, + My own sweet hope; and destiny denied me + Youth, even in my childhood! + Alas, alas, belovèd, + Companion of my childhood! + Alas, my mournèd hope! how art thou vanished + Out of my place forever! + This is that world? the pleasures, + The love, the labors, the events, we talked of, + These, when we prattled long ago together? + Is this the fortune of our race, O Heaven? + At the truth's joyless dawning, + Thou fellest, sad one, with thy pale hand pointing + Unto cold death, and an unknown and naked + Sepulcher in the distance. +</pre> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + These pieces fairly indicate the range of Leopardi, and I confess that + they and the rest that I have read leave me somewhat puzzled in the + presence of his reputation. This, to be sure, is largely based upon his + prose writings—his dialogues, full of irony and sarcasm—and + his unquestionable scholarship. But the poetry is the heart of his fame, + and is it enough to justify it? I suppose that such poetry owes very much + of its peculiar influence to that awful love we all have of hovering about + the idea of death—of playing with the great catastrophe of our + several tragedies and farces, and of marveling what it can be. There are + moods which the languid despair of Leopardi's poetry can always evoke, and + in which it seems that the most life can do is to leave us, and let us lie + down and cease. But I fancy we all agree that these are not very wise or + healthful moods, and that their indulgence does not fit us particularly + well for the duties of life, though I never heard that they interfered + with its pleasures; on the contrary, they add a sort of zest to enjoyment. + Of course the whole transaction is illogical, but if a poet will end every + pensive strain with an appeal or apostrophe to death—not the real + death, that comes with a sharp, quick agony, or “after long lying in bed”, + after many days or many years of squalid misery and slowly dying hopes and + medicines that cease even to relieve at last; not this death, that comes + in all the horror of undertaking, but a picturesque and impressive + abstraction, whose business it is to relieve us in the most effective way + of all our troubles, and at the same time to avenge us somehow upon the + indefinitely ungrateful and unworthy world we abandon—if a poet will + do this, we are very apt to like him. There is little doubt that Leopardi + was sincere, and there is little reason why he should not have been so, + for life could give him nothing but pain. + </p> + <p> + De Sanctis, whom I have quoted already, and who speaks, I believe, with + rather more authority than any other modern Italian critic, and certainly + with great clearness and acuteness, does not commit himself to specific + praise of Leopardi's work. But he seems to regard him as an important + expression, if not force or influence, and he has some words about him, at + the close of his “History of Italian Literature”, which have interested + me, not only for the estimate of Leopardi which they embody, but for the + singularly distinct statement which they make of the modern literary + attitude. I should not, myself, have felt that Leopardi represented this, + but I am willing that the reader should feel it, if he can. De Sanctis has + been speaking of the Romantic period in Italy, when he says: + </p> + <p> + “Giacomo Leopardi marks the close of this period. Metaphysics at war with + theology had ended in this attempt at reconciliation. The multiplicity of + systems had discredited science itself. Metaphysics was regarded as a + revival of theology. The Idea seemed a substitute for providence. Those + philosophies of history, of religion, of humanity, had the air of poetical + inventions.... That reconciliation between the old and new, tolerated as a + temporary political necessity, seemed at bottom a profanation of science, + a moral weakness.... Faith in revelation had been wanting; faith in + philosophy itself was now wanting. Mystery re-appeared. The philosopher + knew as much as the peasant. Of this mystery, Giacomo Leopardi was the + echo in the solitude of his thought and his pain. His skepticism announced + the dissolution of this theologico-metaphysical world, and inaugurated the + reign of the arid True, of the Real. His songs are the most profound and + occult voices of that laborious transition called the nineteenth century. + That which has importance is not the brilliant exterior of that century of + progress, and it is not without irony that he speaks of the progressive + destinies of mankind. That which has importance is the exploration of + one's own breast, the inner world, virtue, liberty, love, all the ideals + of religion, of science, and of poetry—shadows and illusions in the + presence of reason, yet which warm the heart, and will not die. Mystery + destroys the intellectual world; it leaves the moral world intact. This + tenacious life of the inner world, despite the fall of all theological and + metaphysical worlds, is the originality of Leopardi, and gives his + skepticism a religious stamp. ... Every one feels in it a new creation. + The instrument of this renovation is criticism.... The sense of the real + continues to develop itself; the positive sciences come to the top, and + cast out all the ideal and systematic constructions. New dogmas lose + credit. Criticism remains intact. The patient labor of analysis begins + again.... Socialism re-appears in the political order, positivism in the + intellectual order. The word is no longer liberty, but justice. ... + Literature also undergoes transformation. It rejects classes, + distinctions, privileges. The ugly stands beside the beautiful; or rather, + there is no longer ugly or beautiful, neither ideal nor real, neither + infinite nor finite.... There is but one thing only, the Living.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GIUSEPPE GIUSTI + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + Giuseppe Giusti, who is the greatest Italian satirist of this century, and + is in some respects the greatest Italian poet, was born in 1809 at + Mossummano in Tuscany, of parentage noble and otherwise distinguished; one + of his paternal ancestors had assisted the liberal Grand Duke Pietro + Leopoldo to compile his famous code, and his mother's father had been a + republican in 1799. There was also an hereditary taste for literature in + the family; and Giusti says, in one of his charming letters, that almost + as soon as he had learned to speak, his father taught him the ballad of + Count Ugolino, and he adds, “I have always had a passion for song, a + passion for verses, and more than a passion for Dante.” His education + passed later into the hands of a priest, who had spent much time as a + teacher in Vienna, and was impetuous, choleric, and thoroughly German in + principle. “I was given him to be taught,” says Giusti, “but he undertook + to tame me”; and he remembered reading with him a Plutarch for youth, and + the “Lives of the Saints”, but chiefly was, as he says, so “caned, + contraried, and martyred” by him, that, when the priest wept at their + final parting, the boy could by no means account for the burst of + tenderness. Giusti was then going to Florence to be placed in a school + where he had the immeasurable good fortune to fall into the hands of one + whose gentleness and wisdom he remembered through life. “Drea Francioni,” + he says, “had not time to finish his work, but he was the first and the + only one to put into my heart the need and love of study. Oh, better far + than stuffing the head with Latin, with histories and with fables! Endear + study, even if you teach nothing; this is the great task!” And he + afterward dedicated his book on Tuscan proverbs, which he thought one of + his best performances, to this beloved teacher. + </p> + <p> + He had learned to love study, yet from this school, and from others to + which he was afterward sent, he came away with little Latin and no Greek; + but, what is more important, he began life about this time as a poet—by + stealing a sonnet. His theft was suspected, but could not be proved. “And + so,” he says of his teacher and himself, “we remained, he in his doubt and + I in my lie. Who would have thought from this ugly beginning that I should + really have gone on to make sonnets of my own?... The Muses once known, + the vice grew upon me, and from my twelfth to my fifteenth year I rasped, + and rasped, and rasped, until finally I came out with a sonnet to Italy, + represented in the usual fashion, by the usual matron weeping as usual + over her highly estimable misfortunes. In school, under certain priests + who were more Chinese than Italian, and without knowing whether Italy were + round or square, long or short, how that sonnet to Italy should get into + my head I don't know. I only know that it was found beautiful, and I was + advised to hide it,”—that being the proper thing to do with + patriotic poetry in those days. + </p> + <p> + After leaving school, Giusti passed three idle years with his family, and + then went to study the humanities at Pisa, where he found the <i>café</i> + better adapted to their pursuit than the University, since he could there + unite with it the pursuit of the exact science of billiards. He represents + himself in his letters and verses to have led just the life at Pisa which + was most agreeable to former governments of Italy,—a life of sensual + gayety, abounding in the small excitements which turn the thought from the + real interests of the time, and weaken at once the moral and intellectual + fiber. But how far a man can be credited to his own disgrace is one of the + unsettled questions: the repentant and the unrepentant are so apt to + over-accuse themselves. It is very wisely conjectured by some of Giusti's + biographers that he did not waste himself so much as he says in the + dissipations of student life at Pisa. At any rate, it is certain that he + began there to make those sarcastic poems upon political events which are + so much less agreeable to a paternal despotism than almost any sort of + love-songs. He is said to have begun by writing in the manner of Béranger, + and several critics have labored to prove the similarity of their genius, + with scarcely more effect, it seems to us, than those who would make him + out the Heinrich Heine of Italy, as they call him. He was a political + satirist, whose success was due to his genius, but who can never be + thoroughly appreciated by a foreigner, or even an Italian not intimately + acquainted with the affairs of his times; and his reputation must + inevitably diminish with the waning interest of men in the obsolete + politics of those vanished kingdoms and duchies. How mean and little were + all their concerns is scarcely credible; but Giusti tells an adventure of + his, at the period, which throws light upon some of the springs of action + in Tuscany. He had been arrested for a supposed share in applause supposed + revolutionary at the theater; he boldly denied that he had been at the + play. “If you were not at the theater, how came your name on the list of + the accused?” demanded the logical commissary. “Perhaps,” answered Giusti, + “the spies have me so much in mind that they see me where I am not.... + Here,” he continues, “the commissary fell into a rage, but I remained + firm, and cited the Count Mastiani in proof, with whom the man often + dined,”—Mastiani being governor in Pisa and the head of society. “At + the name of Mastiani there seemed to pass before the commissary a long + array of stewed and roast, eaten and to be eaten, so that he instantly + turned and said to me, 'Go, and at any rate take this summons for a + paternal admonition.'” Ever since the French Revolution of 1830, and the + sympathetic movements in Italy, Giusti had written political satires which + passed from hand to hand in manuscript copies, the possession of which was + rendered all the more eager and relishing by the pleasure of concealing + them from spies; so that for a defective copy a person by no means rich + would give as much as ten scudi. When a Swiss printed edition appeared in + 1844, half the delight in them was gone; the violation of the law being + naturally so dear to the human heart that, when combined with patriotism, + it is almost a rapture. + </p> + <p> + But, in the midst of his political satirizing, Giusti felt the sting of + one who is himself a greater satirist than any, when he will, though he is + commonly known for a sentimentalist. The poet fell in love very seriously + and, it proved, very unhappily, as he has recorded in three or four poems + of great sweetness and grace, but no very characteristic merit. This + passion is improbably believed to have had a disastrous effect upon + Giusti's health, and ultimately to have shortened his life; but then the + Italians always like to have their poets <i>agonizzanti</i>, at least. + Like a true humorist, Giusti has himself taken both sides of the question; + professing himself properly heart-broken in the poems referred to, and in + a letter written late in life, after he had encountered his faded love at + his own home in Pescia, making a jest of any reconciliation or renewal of + the old passion between them. + </p> + <p> + “Apropos of the heart,” says Giusti in this letter, “you ask me about a + certain person who once had mine, whole and sound, roots and all. I saw + her this morning in passing, out of the corner of my eye, and I know that + she is well and enjoying herself. As to our coming together again, the + case, if it were once remote, is now impossible; for you can well imagine + that, all things considered, I could never be such a donkey as to tempt + her to a comparison of me with myself. I am certain that, after having + tolerated me for a day or two for simple appearance' sake, she would find + some good excuse for planting me a yard outside the door. In many, + obstinacy increases with the ails and wrinkles; but in me, thank Heaven, + there comes a meekness, a resignation, not to be expressed. Perhaps it has + not happened otherwise with her. In that case we could accommodate + ourselves, and talk as long as the evening lasted of magnesia, of quinine, + and of nervines; lament, not the rising and sinking of the heart, but of + the barometer; talk, not of the theater and all the rest, but whether it + is better to crawl out into the sun like lizards, or stay at home behind + battened windows. 'Good-evening, my dear, how have you been to-day?' 'Eh! + you know, my love, the usual rheumatism; but for the rest I don't + complain.' 'Did you sleep well last night?' 'Not so bad; and you?' 'O, + little or none at all; and I got up feeling as if all my bones were + broken.' 'My idol, take a little laudanum. Think that when you are not + well I suffer with you. And your appetite, how is it?' 'O, don't speak of + it! I can't get anything down.' 'My soul, if you don't eat you'll not be + able to keep up.' 'But, my heart, what would you do if the mouthfuls stuck + in your throat?' 'Take a little quassia; ... but, dost thou remember, once—?' + 'Yes, I remember; but once was once,' ... and so forth, and so forth. Then + some evening, if a priest came in, we could take a hand at whist with a + dummy, and so live on to the age of crutches in a passion whose phases are + confided to the apothecary rather than to the confessor.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: GIUSEPPE GIUSTI.} + </p> + <p> + Giusti's first political poems had been inspired by the revolutionary + events of 1830 in France; and he continued part of that literary force + which, quite as much as the policy of Cavour, has educated Italians for + freedom and independence. When the French revolution of 1848 took place, + and the responsive outbreaks followed all over Europe, Tuscany drove out + her Grand Duke, as France drove out her king, and, still emulous of that + wise exemplar, put the novelist Guerrazzi at the head of her affairs, as + the next best thing to such a poet as Lamartine, which she had not. The + affair ended in the most natural way; the Florentines under the supposed + popular government became very tired of themselves, and called back their + Grand Duke, who came again with Austrian bayonets to support him in the + affections of his subjects, where he remained secure until the persuasive + bayonets disappeared before Garibaldi ten years later. + </p> + <p> + Throughout these occurrences the voice of Giusti was heard whenever that + of good sense and a temperate zeal for liberty could be made audible. He + was an aristocrat by birth and at heart, and he looked upon the democratic + shows of the time with distrust, if not dislike, though he never lost + faith in the capacity of the Italians for an independent national + government. His broken health would not let him join the Tuscan volunteers + who marched to encounter the Austrians in Lombardy; and though he was once + elected member of the representative body from Pescia, he did not shine in + it, and refused to be chosen a second time. His letters of this period + afford the liveliest and truest record of feeling in Tuscany during that + memorable time of alternating hopes and fears, generous impulses, and mean + derelictions, and they strike me as among the best letters in any + language. + </p> + <p> + Giusti supported the Grand Duke's return philosophically, with a sarcastic + serenity of spirit, and something also of the indifference of mortal + sickness. His health was rapidly breaking, and in March, 1850, he died + very suddenly of a hemorrhage of the lungs. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + In noticing Giusti's poetry I have a difficulty already hinted, for if I + presented some of the pieces which gave him his greatest fame among his + contemporaries, I should be doing, as far as my present purpose is + concerned, a very unprofitable thing. The greatest part of his poetry was + inspired by the political events or passions of the time at which it was + written, and, except some five or six pieces, it is all of a political + cast. These events are now many of them grown unimportant and obscure, and + the passions are, for the most part, quite extinct; so that it would be + useless to give certain of his most popular pieces as historical, while + others do not represent him at his best as a poet. Some degree of social + satire is involved; but the poems are principally light, brilliant + mockeries of transient aspects of politics, or outcries against forgotten + wrongs, or appeals for long-since-accomplished or defeated purposes. We + know how dreary this sort of poetry generally is in our own language, + after the occasion is once past, and how nothing but the enforced privacy + of a desolate island could induce us to read, however ardent our + sympathies may have been, the lyrics about slavery or the war, except in + very rare cases. The truth is, the Muse, for a lady who has seen so much + of life and the ways of the world, is an excessively jealous + personification, and is apt to punish with oblivion a mixed devotion at + her shrine. The poet who desires to improve and exalt his time must make + up his mind to a double martyrdom,—first, to be execrated by vast + numbers of respectable people, and then to be forgotten by all. It is a + great pity, but it cannot be helped. It is chiefly your + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Rogue of canzonets and serenades +</pre> + <p> + who survives. Anacreon lives; but the poets who appealed to their Ionian + fellow-citizens as men and brethren, and lectured them upon their + servility and their habits of wine-bibbing and of basking away the dearest + rights of humanity in the sun, who ever heard of them? I do not mean to + say that Giusti ever lectured his generation; he was too good an artist + for that; but at least one Italian critic forebodes that the figure he + made in the patriotic imagination must diminish rapidly with the + establishment of the very conditions he labored to bring about. The wit of + much that he said must grow dim with the fading remembrance of what + provoked it; the sting lie pointless and painless in the dust of those who + writhed under it,—so much of the poet's virtue perishing in their + death. We can only judge of all this vaguely and for a great part from the + outside, for we cannot pretend to taste the finest flavor of the poetry + which, is sealed to a foreigner in the local phrases and racy Florentine + words which Giusti used; but I think posterity in Italy will stand in much + the same attitude toward him that we do now. Not much of the social life + of his time is preserved in his poetry, and he will not be resorted to as + that satirist of the period to whom historians are fond of alluding in + support of conjectures relative to society in the past. Now and then he + touches upon some prevailing intellectual or literary affectation, as in + the poem describing the dandified, desperate young poet of fashion, who, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Immersed in suppers and balls, + A martyr in yellow gloves, +</pre> + <p> + sings of Italy, of the people, of progress, with the rhetoricalities of + the modern Arcadians; and he has a poem called “The Ball”, which must + fairly, as it certainly does wittily, represent one of those anomalous + entertainments which rich foreigners give in Italy, and to which all sorts + of irregular aliens resort, something of the local aristocracy appearing + also in a ghostly and bewildered way. Yet even in this poem there is a + political lesson. + </p> + <p> + I suppose, in fine, that I shall most interest my readers in Giusti, if I + translate here the pieces that have most interested me. Of all, I like + best the poem which he calls “St. Ambrose”, and I think the reader will + agree with me about it. It seems not only very perfect as a bit of art, + with its subtly intended and apparently capricious mingling of satirical + and pathetic sentiment, but valuable for its vivid expression of Italian + feeling toward the Austrians. These the Italians hated as part of a stupid + and brutal oppression; they despised them somewhat as a torpid-witted + folk, but individually liked them for their amiability and good nature, + and in their better moments they pitied them as the victims of a common + tyranny. I will not be so adventurous as to say how far the beautiful + military music of the Austrians tended to lighten the burden of a German + garrison in an Italian city; but certainly whoever has heard that music + must have felt, for one base and shameful moment, that the noise of so + much of a free press as opposed his own opinions might be advantageously + exchanged for it. The poem of “St. Ambrose”, written in 1846, when the + Germans seemed so firmly fixed in Milan, is impersonally addressed to some + Italian, holding office under the Austrian government, and, therefore, in + the German interest. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ST. AMBROSE. + + Your Excellency is not pleased with me + Because of certain jests I made of late, + And, for my putting rogues in pillory, + Accuse me of being anti-German. Wait, + And hear a thing that happened recently: + When wandering here and there one day as fate + Led me, by some odd accident I ran + On the old church St. Ambrose, at Milan. + + My comrade of the moment was, by chance, + The young son of one Sandro{1}—one of those + Troublesome heads—an author of romance— + <i>Promessi Sposi</i>—your Excellency knows + The book, perhaps?—has given it a glance? + Ah, no? I see! God give your brain repose; + With graver interests occupied, your head + To all such stuff as literature is dead. + + I enter, and the church is full of troops: + Of northern soldiers, of Croatians, say, + And of Bohemians, standing there in groups + As stiff as dry poles stuck in vineyards,—nay, + As stiff as if impaled, and no one stoops + Out of the plumb of soldierly array; + All stand, with whiskers and mustache of tow, + Before their God like spindles in a row. + + I started back: I cannot well deny + That being rained down, as it were, and thrust + Into that herd of human cattle, I + Could not suppress a feeling of disgust + Unknown, I fancy, to your Excellency, + By reason of your office. Pardon! I must + Say the church stank of heated grease, and that + The very altar-candles seemed of fat. + + But when the priest had risen to devote + The mystic wafer, from the band that stood + About the altar came a sudden note + Of sweetness over my disdainful mood; + A voice that, speaking from the brazen throat + Of warlike trumpets, came like the subdued + Moan of a people bound in sore distress, + And thinking on lost hopes and happiness. + + 'T was Verdi's tender chorus rose aloof,— + That song the Lombards there, dying of thirst, + Send up to God, “Lord, from the native roof.” + O'er countless thrilling hearts the song has burst, + And here I, whom its magic put to proof, + Beginning to be no longer I, immersed + Myself amidst those tallowy fellow-men + As if they had been of my land and kin. + + What would your Excellency? The piece was fine, + And ours, and played, too, as it should be played; + It drives old grudges out when such divine + Music as that mounts up into your head! + But when the piece was done, back to my line + I crept again, and there I should have staid, + But that just then, to give me another turn, + From those mole-mouths a hymn began to yearn: + + A German anthem, that to heaven went + On unseen wings, up from the holy fane; + It was a prayer, and seemed like a lament, + Of such a pensive, grave, pathetic strain + That in my soul it never shall be spent; + And how such heavenly harmony in the brain + Of those thick-skulled barbarians should dwell + I must confess it passes me to tell. + + In that sad hymn, I felt the bitter sweet + Of the songs heard in childhood, which the soul + Learns from beloved voices, to repeat + To its own anguish in the days of dole; + A thought of the dear mother, a regret, + A longing for repose and love,—the whole + Anguish of distant exile seemed to run + Over my heart and leave it all undone: + + When the strain ceased, it left me pondering + Tenderer thoughts and stronger and more clear; + These men, I mused, the self-same despot king, + Who rules in Slavic and Italian fear, + Tears from their homes and arms that round them cling. + And drives them slaves thence, to keep us slaves here; + From their familiar fields afar they pass + Like herds to winter in some strange morass. + + To a hard life, to a hard discipline, + Derided, solitary, dumb, they go; + Blind instruments of many-eyed Rapine + And purposes they share not, and scarce know; + And this fell hate that makes a gulf between + The Lombard and the German, aids the foe + Who tramples both divided, and whose bane + Is in the love and brotherhood of men. + + Poor souls! far off from all that they hold dear, + And in a land that hates them! Who shall say + That at the bottom of their hearts they bear + Love for our tyrant? I should like to lay + They've our hate for him in their pockets! Here, + But that I turned in haste and broke away, + I should have kissed a corporal, stiff and tall, + And like a scarecrow stuck against the wall. +</pre> + <p> + Note {1}: Alessandro Manzoni. + </p> + <p> + I could not well praise this poem enough, without praising it too much. It + depicts a whole order of things, and it brings vividly before us the scene + described; while its deep feeling is so lightly and effortlessly + expressed, that one does not know which to like best, the exquisite manner + or the excellent sense. To prove that Giusti was really a fine poet, I + need give nothing more, for this alone would imply poetic power; not + perhaps of the high epic sort, but of the kind that gives far more comfort + to the heart of mankind, amusing and consoling it. “Giusti composed + satires, but no poems,” says a French critic; but I think most will not, + after reading this piece, agree with him. There are satires and satires, + and some are fierce enough and brutal enough; but when a satire can + breathe so much tenderness, such generous humanity, such pity for the + means, at the same time with such hatred of the source of wrong, and all + with an air of such smiling pathos, I say, if it is not poetry, it is + something better, and by all means let us have it instead of poetry. It is + humor, in its best sense; and, after religion, there is nothing in the + world can make men so conscious, thoughtful, and modest. + </p> + <p> + A certain pensiveness very perceptible in “St. Ambrose” is the prevailing + sentiment of another poem of Giusti's, which I like very much, because it + is more intelligible than his political satires, and because it places the + reader in immediate sympathy with a man who had not only the subtlety to + depict the faults of the time, but the sad wisdom to know that he was no + better himself merely for seeing them. The poem was written in 1844, and + addressed to Gino Capponi, the life-long friend in whose house Giusti + died, and the descendant of the great Gino Capponi who threatened the + threatening Frenchmen when Charles VIII occupied Florence: “If you sound + your trumpets,” as a call to arms against the Florentines, “we will ring + our bells,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Giusti speaks of the part which he bears as a spectator and critic of + passing events, and then apostrophizes himself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who art thou that a scourge so keen dost bear + And pitilessly dost the truth proclaim, + And that so loath of praise for good and fair, + So eager art with bitter songs of blame? + Hast thou achieved, in thine ideal's pursuit, + The secret and the ministry of art? + Did'st thou seek first to kill and to uproot + All pride and folly out of thine own heart + Ere turning to teach other men their part? + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O wretched scorn! from which alone I sing, + Thou weariest and saddenest my soul! + O butterfly that joyest on thy wing, + Pausing from bloom to bloom, without a goal— + And thou, that singing of love for evermore, + Fond nightingale! from wood to wood dost go, + My life is as a never-ending war + Of doubts, when likened to the peace ye know, + And wears what seems a smile and is + a throe! +</pre> + <p> + There is another famous poem of Giusti's in quite a different mood. It is + called “Instructions to an Emissary”, sent down into Italy to excite a + revolution, and give Austria a pretext for interference, and the supposed + speaker is an Austrian minister. It is done with excellent sarcasm, and it + is useful as light upon a state of things which, whether it existed wholly + in fact or partly in the suspicion of the Italians, is equally interesting + and curious. The poem was written in 1847, when the Italians were + everywhere aspiring to a national independence and self-government, and + their rulers were conceding privileges while secretly leaguing with + Austria to continue the old order of an Italy divided among many small + tyrants. The reader will readily believe that my English is not as good as + the Italian. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + INSTRUCTIONS TO AN EMISSARY. + + You will go into Italy; you have here + Your passport and your letters of exchange; + You travel as a count, it would appear, + Going for pleasure and a little change; + Once there, you play the rodomont, the queer + Crack-brain good fellow, idle gamester, strange + Spendthrift and madcap. Give yourself full swing; + People are taken with that kind of thing. + + When you behold—and it will happen so— + The birds flock down about the net, be wary; + Talk from a warm and open heart, and show + Yourself with everybody bold and merry. + The North's a dungeon, say, a waste of snow, + The very house and home of January, + Compared with that fair garden of the earth, + Beautiful, free, and full of life and mirth. + + And throwing in your discourse this word <i>free</i>, + Just to fill up, and as by accident, + Look round among your listeners, and see + If it has had at all the effect you meant; + Beat a retreat if it fails, carelessly + Talking of this and that; but in the event + Some one is taken with it, never fear, + Push boldly forward, for the road is clear. + + Be bold and shrewd; and do not be too quick, + As some are, and plunge headlong on your prey + When, if the snare shall happen not to stick, + Your uproar frightens all the rest away; + To take your hare by carriage is the trick; + Make a wide circle, do not mind delay; + Experiment and work in silence; scheme + With that wise prudence that shall folly seem. +</pre> + <p> + The minister bids the emissary, “Turn me into a jest; say I'm sleepy and + begin to dote; invent what lies you will, I give you <i>carte-bianche</i>.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of governments down yonder say this, too, + At the cafés and theaters; indeed + For this, I've made a little sign for you + Upon your passport that the wise will read + For an express command to let you do + Whatever you think best, and take no heed. +</pre> + <p> + Then the emissary is instructed to make himself center of the party of + extremes, and in different companies to pity the country, to laugh at + moderate progress as a sham, and to say that the concessions of the local + governments are merely <i>ruses</i> to pacify and delude the people,—as + in great part they were, though Giusti and his party did not believe so. + The instructions to the emissary conclude with the charge to + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Scatter republican ideas, and say + That all the rich and all the well-to-do + Use common people hardly better, nay, + Worse, than their dogs; and add some hard words, too: + Declare that <i>bread</i>'s the question of the day, + And that the communists alone are true; + And that the foes of the agrarian cause + Waste more than half of all by wicked laws. +</pre> + <p> + Then, he tells him, when the storm begins to blow, and the pockets of the + people feel its effect, and the mob grows hungry, to contrive that there + shall be some sort of outbreak, with a bit of pillage,— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So that the kings down there, pushed to the wall, + For congresses and bayonets shall call. + + If you should have occasion to spend, spend, + The money won't be wasted; there must be + Policemen in retirement, spies without end, + Shameless and penniless; buy, you are free. + If destiny should be so much your friend + That you could shake a throne or two for me, + Pour me out treasures. I shall be content; + My gains will be at least seven cent, per cent. + + Or, in the event the inconstant goddess frown, + Let me know instantly when you are caught; + A thunderbolt shall burst upon your crown, + And you become a martyr on the spot. + As minister I turn all upside down, + Our government disowns you as it ought. + And so the cake is turned upon the fire, + And we can use you next as we desire. + + In order not to awaken any fear + In the post-office, 't is my plan that you + Shall always correspond with liberals here; + Don't doubt but I shall hear of all you do. + ...'s a Republican known far and near; + I haven't another spy that's <i>half</i> as true! + You understand, and I need say no more; + Lucky for you if you get me up a war! +</pre> + <p> + We get the flavor of this, at least the literary flavor, the satire, and + the irony, but it inevitably falls somewhat cold upon us, because it had + its origin in a condition of things which, though historical, are so + opposed to all our own experience that they are hard to be imagined. Yet + we can fancy the effect such a poem must have had, at the time when it was + written, upon a people who felt in the midst of their aspirations some + disturbing element from without, and believed this to be espionage and + Austrian interference. If the poem had also to be passed about secretly + from one hand to another, its enjoyment must have been still keener; but + strip it of all these costly and melancholy advantages, and it is still a + piece of subtle and polished satire. + </p> + <p> + Most of Giusti's poems, however, are written in moods and manners very + different from this; there is sparkle and dash in the movement, as well as + the thought, which I cannot reproduce, and in giving another poem I can + only hope to show something of his varying manner. Some foreigner, + Lamartine, I think, called Italy the Land of the Dead,—whereupon + Giusti responded with a poem of that title, addressed to his friend Gino + Capponi: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE LAND OF THE DEAD. + + 'Mongst us phantoms of Italians,— + Mummies even from our birth,— + The very babies' nurses + Help to put them under earth. + + 'T is a waste of holy water + When we're taken to the font: + They that make us pay for burial + Swindle us to that amount. + + In appearance we're constructed + Much like Adam's other sons,— + Seem of flesh and blood, but really + We are nothing but dry bones. + + O deluded apparitions, + What do <i>you</i> do among men? + Be resigned to fate, and vanish + Back into the past again! + + Ah! of a perished people + What boots now the brilliant story? + Why should skeletons be bothering + About liberty and glory? + + Why deck this funeral service + With such pomp of torch and flower? + Let us, without more palaver, + Growl this requiem, of ours. +</pre> + <p> + And so the poet recounts the Italian names distinguished in modern + literature, and describes the intellectual activity that prevails in this + Land of the Dead. Then he turns to the innumerable visitors of Italy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O you people hailed down on us + From the living, overhead, + With what face can you confront us, + Seeking health among us dead? + + Soon or late this pestilential + Clime shall work you harm—beware! + Even you shall likewise find it + Foul and poisonous grave-yard air. + + O ye grim, sepulchral friars + Ye inquisitorial ghouls, + Lay down, lay down forever, + The ignorant censor's tools. + + This wretched gift of thinking, + O ye donkeys, is your doom; + Do you care to expurgate us, + Positively, in the tomb? + + Why plant this bayonet forest + On our sepulchers? what dread + Causes you to place such jealous + Custody upon the dead? + + Well, the mighty book of Nature + Chapter first and last must have; + Yours is now the light of heaven, + Ours the darkness of the grave. + + But, then, if you ask it, + We lived greatly in our turn; + We were grand and glorious, Gino, + Ere our friends up there were born! + + O majestic mausoleums, + City walls outworn with time, + To our eyes are even your ruins + Apotheosis sublime! + + O barbarian unquiet + Raze each storied sepulcher! + With their memories and their beauty + All the lifeless ashes stir. + + O'er these monuments in vigil + Cloudless the sun flames and glows + In the wind for funeral torches,— + And the violet, and the rose, + + And the grape, the fig, the olive, + Are the emblems fit of grieving; + 'T is, in fact, a cemetery + To strike envy in the living. + + Well, in fine, O brother corpses, + Let them pipe on as they like; + Let us see on whom hereafter + Such a death as ours shall strike! + + 'Mongst the anthems of the function + Is not <i>Dies Irae</i>? Nay, + In all the days to come yet, + Shall there be no Judgment Day? +</pre> + <p> + In a vein of like irony, the greater part of Giusti's political poems are + written, and none of them is wanting in point and bitterness, even to a + foreigner who must necessarily lose something of their point and the <i>tang</i> + of their local expressions. It was the habi the satirist, who at least + loved the people's quaintness and originality—and perhaps this is as + much democracy as we ought to demand of a poet—it was Giusti's habit + to replenish his vocabulary from the fountains of the popular speech. By + this means he gave his satires a racy local flavor; and though he cannot + be said to have written dialect, since Tuscan is the Italian language, he + gained by these words and phrases the frankness and fineness of dialect. + </p> + <p> + But Giusti had so much gentleness, sweetness, and meekness in his heart, + that I do not like to leave the impression of him as a satirist last upon + the reader. Rather let me close these meager notices with the beautiful + little poem, said to be the last he wrote, as he passed his days in the + slow death of the consumptive. It is called + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A PRAYER. + + For the spirit confused + With misgiving and with sorrow, + Let me, my Saviour, borrow + The light of faith from thee. + O lift from it the burden + That bows it down before thee. + With sighs and with weeping + I commend myself to thee; + My faded life, thou knowest, + Little by little is wasted + Like wax before the fire, + Like snow-wreaths in the sun. + And for the soul that panteth + For its refuge in thy bosom, + Break, thou, the ties, my Saviour, + That hinder it from thee. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRANCESCO DALL' ONGARO + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + In the month of March, 1848, news came to Rome of the insurrection in + Vienna, and a multitude of the citizens assembled to bear the tidings to + the Austrian Ambassador, who resided in the ancient palace of the Venetian + Republic. The throng swept down the Corso, gathering numbers as it went, + and paused in the open space before the Palazzo di Venezia. At its + summons, the ambassador abandoned his quarters, and fled without waiting + to hear the details of the intelligence from Vienna. The people, incited + by a number of Venetian exiles, tore down the double-headed eagle from the + portal, and carried it for a more solemn and impressive destruction to the + Piazza del Popolo, while a young poet erased the inscription asserting the + Austrian claim to the palace, and wrote in its stead the words, “Palazzo + della Dieta Italiana.” + </p> + <p> + The sentiment of national unity expressed in this legend had been the + ruling motive of the young poet Francesco Dall' Ongaro's life, and had + already made his name famous through the patriotic songs that were sung + all over Italy. Garibaldi had chanted one of his Stornelli when embarking + from Montevideo in the spring of 1848 to take part in the Italian + revolutions, of which these little ballads had become the rallying-cries; + and if the voice of the people is in fact inspired, this poet could + certainly have claimed the poet's long-lost honors of prophecy, for it was + he who had shaped their utterance. He had ceased to assume any other + sacred authority, though educated a priest, and at the time when he + devoted the Palazzo di Venezia to the idea of united Italy, there was + probably no person in Rome less sacerdotal than he. + </p> + <p> + Francesco Dall' Ongaro was born in 1808, at an obscure hamlet in the + district of Oderzo in the Friuli, of parents who were small freeholders. + They removed with their son in his tenth year to Venice, and there he + began his education for the Church in the Seminary of the Madonna della + Salute. The tourist who desires to see the Titians and Tintorettos in the + sacristy of this superb church, or to wonder at the cold splendors of the + interior of the temple, is sometimes obliged to seek admittance through + the seminary; and it has doubtless happened to more than one of my readers + to behold many little sedate old men in their teens, lounging up and down + the cool, humid courts there, and trailing their black priestly robes over + the springing mold. The sun seldom strikes into that sad close, and when + the boys form into long files, two by two, and march out for recreation, + they have a torpid and melancholy aspect, upon which the daylight seems to + smile in vain. They march solemnly up the long Zattere, with a pale young + father at their head, and then march solemnly back again, sweet, genteel, + pathetic specters of childhood, and reënter their common tomb, doubtless + unenvied by the hungriest and raggedest street boy, who asks charity of + them as they pass, and hoarsely whispers “Raven!” when their leader is + beyond hearing. There is no reason to suppose that a boy, born poet among + the mountains, and full of the wild and free romance of his native scenes, + could love the life led at the Seminary of the Salute, even though it + included the study of literature and philosophy. From his childhood Dall' + Ongaro had given proofs of his poetic gift, and the reverend ravens of the + seminary were unconsciously hatching a bird as little like themselves as + might be. Nevertheless, Dall' Ongaro left their school to enter the + University of Padua as student of theology, and after graduating took + orders, and went to Este, where he lived some time as teacher of + belles-lettres. + </p> + <p> + At Este his life was without scope, and he was restless and unhappy, full + of ardent and patriotic impulses, and doubly restricted by his narrow + field and his priestly vocation. In no long time he had trouble with the + Bishop of Padua, and, abandoning Este, seems also to have abandoned the + Church forever. The chief fruit of his sojourn in that quaint and ancient + village was a poem entitled II Venerdì Santo, in which he celebrated some + incidents of the life of Lord Byron, somewhat as Byron would have done. + Dall' Ongaro's poems, however, confess the influence of the English poet + less than those of other modern Italians, whom Byron infected so much more + than his own nation. + </p> + <p> + From Este, Dall' Ongaro went to Trieste, where he taught literature and + philosophy, wrote for the theater, and established a journal in which, for + ten years, he labored to educate the people in his ideas of Italian unity + and progress. That these did not coincide with the ideas of most Italian + dreamers and politicians of the time may be inferred from the fact that he + began in 1846 a course of lectures on Dante, in which he combated the + clerical tendencies of Gioberti and Balbo, and criticised the first acts + of Pius IX. He had as profound doubt of Papal liberality as Niccolini, at + a time when other patriots were fondly cherishing the hope of a united + Italy under an Italian pontiff; and at Rome, two years later, he sought to + direct popular feeling from the man to the end, in one of the earliest of + his graceful Stornelli. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PIO NONO. + + Pio Nono is a name, and not the man + Who saws the air from yonder Bishop's seat; + Pio Nono is the offspring of our brain, + The idol of our hearts, a vision sweet; + Pio Nono is a banner, a refrain, + A name that sounds well sung upon the street. + + Who calls, “Long live Pio Nono!” means to call, + Long live our country, and good-will to all! + And country and good-will, these signify + That it is well for Italy to die; + But not to die for a vain dream or hope, + Not to die for a throne and for a Pope! +</pre> + <p> + During these years at Trieste, however, Dall' Ongaro seems to have been + also much occupied with pure literature, and to have given a great deal of + study to the sources of national poetry, as he discovered them in the + popular life and legends. He had been touched with the prevailing + romanticism; he had written hymns like Manzoni, and, like Carrer, he + sought to poetize the traditions and superstitions of his countrymen. He + found a richer and deeper vein than the Venetian poet among his native + hills and the neighboring mountains of Slavonia, but I cannot say that he + wrought it to much better effect. The two volumes which he published in + 1840 contain many ballads which are very graceful and musical, but which + lack the fresh spirit of songs springing from the popular heart, while + they also want the airy and delicate beauty of the modern German ballads. + Among the best of them are two which Dall' Ongaro built up from mere lines + and fragments of lines current among the people, as in later years he more + successfully restored us two plays of Menander from the plots and a dozen + verses of each. “One may imitate,” he says, “more or less fortunately, + Manzoni, Byron, or any other poet, but not the simple inspirations of the + people. And 'The Pilgrim who comes from Rome,' and the 'Rosettina,' if one + could have them complete as they once were, would probably make me blush + for my elaborate variations.” But study which was so well directed, and + yet so conscious of its limitations, could not but be of great value; and + Dall' Ongaro, no doubt, owed to it his gift of speaking so authentically + for the popular heart. That which he did later showed that he studied the + people's thought and expression <i>con amore</i>, and in no vain sentiment + of dilettanteism, or antiquarian research, or literary patronage. + </p> + <p> + It is not to be supposed that Dall' Ongaro's literary life had at this + period an altogether objective tendency. In the volumes mentioned, there + is abundant evidence that he was of the same humor as all men of poetic + feeling must be at a certain time of life. Here are pretty verses of + occasion, upon weddings and betrothals, such as people write in Italy; + here are stanzas from albums, such as people used to write everywhere; + here are didactic lines; here are bursts of mere sentiment and emotion. In + the volume of Fantasie, published at Florence in 1866, Dall' Ongaro + collected some of the ballads from his early works, but left out the more + subjective effusions. + </p> + <p> + I give one of these in which, under a fantastic name and in a fantastic + form, the poet expresses the tragic and pathetic interest of the life to + which he was himself vowed. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE SISTER OF THE MOON. + + Shine, moon, ah shine! and let thy pensive light + Be faithful unto me: + I have a sister in the lonely night + When I commune with thee. + + Alone and friendless in the world am I, + Sorrow's forgotten maid, + Like some poor dove abandoned to die + By her first love unwed. + + Like some poor floweret in a desert land + I pass my days alone; + In vain upon the air its leaves expand, + In vain its sweets are blown. + + No loving hand shall save it from the waste, + And wear the lonely thing; + My heart shall throb upon no loving breast + In my neglected spring. + + That trouble which consumes my weary soul + No cunning can relieve, + No wisdom understand the secret dole + Of the sad sighs I heave. + + My fond heart cherished once a hope, a vow, + The leaf of autumn gales! + In convent gloom, a dim lamp burning low, + My spirit lacks and fails. + + I shall have prayers and hymns like some dead saint + Painted upon a shrine, + But in love's blessed power to fall and faint, + It never shall be mine. + + Born to entwine my life with others, born + To love and to be wed, + Apart from all I lead my life forlorn, + Sorrow's forgotten maid. + + Shine, moon, ah shine! and let thy tender light + Be faithful unto me: + Speak to me of the life beyond the night + I shall enjoy with thee. +</pre> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + It will here satisfy the strongest love of contrasts to turn from Dall' + Ongaro the sentimental poet to Dall' Ongaro the politician, and find him + on his feet and making a speech at a public dinner given to Richard Cobden + at Trieste, in 1847. Cobden was then, as always, the advocate of free + trade, and Dall' Ongaro was then, as always, the advocate of free + government. He saw in the union of the Italians under a customs-bond the + hope of their political union, and in their emancipation from oppressive + imposts their final escape from yet more galling oppression. He expressed + something of this, and, though repeatedly interrupted by the police, he + succeeded in saying so much as to secure his expulsion from Trieste. + </p> + <p> + Italy was already in a ferment, and insurrections were preparing in + Venice, Milan, Florence, and Rome; and Dall' Ongaro, consulting with the + Venetian leaders Manin and Tommaseo, retired to Tuscany, and took part in + the movements which wrung a constitution from the Grand Duke, and preceded + the flight of that prince. In December he went to Rome, where he joined + himself with the Venetian refugees and with other Italian patriots, like + D'Azeglio and Durando, who were striving to direct the popular mind toward + Italian unity. The following March he was, as we have seen, one of the + exiles who led the people against the Palazzodi Venezia. In the mean time + the insurrection of the glorious Five Days had taken place at Milan, and + the Lombard cities, rising one after another, had driven out the Austrian + garrisons. Dall' Ongaro went from Rome to Milan, and thence, by advice of + the revolutionary leaders, to animate the defense against the Austrians in + Friuli; one of his brothers was killed at Palmanuova, and another severely + wounded. Treviso, whither he had retired, falling into the hands of the + Germans, he went to Venice, then a republic under the presidency of Manin; + and here he established a popular journal, which opposed the union of the + struggling republic with Piedmont under Carlo Alberto. Dall' Ongaro was + finally expelled and passed next to Ravenna, where he found Garibaldi, who + had been banished by the Roman government, and was in doubt as to how he + might employ his sword on behalf of his country. In those days the Pope's + moderately liberal minister, Rossi, was stabbed, and Count Pompeo + Campello, an old literary friend and acquaintance of Dall' Ongaro, was + appointed minister of war. With Garibaldi's consent the poet went to Rome, + and used his influence to such effect that Garibaldi was authorized to + raise a legion of volunteers, and was appointed general of those forces + which took so glorious a part in the cause of Italian Independence. Soon + after, when the Pope fled to Gaeta, and the Republic was proclaimed, Dall' + Ongaro and Garibaldi were chosen representatives of the people. Then + followed events of which it is still a pang keen to read: the troops of + the French Republic marched upon Rome, and, after a defense more splendid + and heroic than any victory, the city fell. The Pope returned, and all who + loved Italy and freedom turned in exile from Rome. The cities of the + Romagna, Tuscany, Lombardy, and Venetia had fallen again under the Pope, + the Grand Duke, and the Austrians, and Dall' Ongaro took refuge in + Switzerland. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: FRANCESCO DALL' ONGARA} + </p> + <p> + Without presuming to say whether Dall' Ongaro was mistaken in his + political ideas, we may safely admit that he was no wiser a politician + than Dante or Petrarch. He was an anti-Papist, as these were, and like + these he opposed an Italy of little principalities and little republics. + But his dream, unlike theirs, was of a great Italian democracy, and in + 1848-49 he opposed the union of the Italian patriots under Carlo Alberto, + because this would have tended to the monarchy. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + But it is not so much with Dall' Ongaro's political opinions that we have + to do as with his poetry of the revolutionary period of 1848, as we find + in it the little collection of lyrics which he calls “Stornelli.” These + commemorate nearly all the interesting aspects of that epoch; and in their + wit and enthusiasm and aspiration, we feel the spirit of a race at once + the most intellectual and the most emotional in the world, whose poets + write as passionately of politics as of love. Arnaud awards Dall' Ongaro + the highest praise, and declares him “the first to formulate in the common + language of Italy patriotic songs which, current on the tongues of the + people, should also remain the patrimony of the national literature.... In + his popular songs,” continues this critic, “Dall' Ongaro has given all + that constitutes true, good, and—not the least merit—novel + poetry. Meter and rhythm second the expression, imbue the thought with + harmony, and develop its symmetry.... How enviable is that perspicuity + which does not oblige you to re-read a single line to evolve therefrom the + latent idea!” And we shall have no less to admire the perfect art which, + never passing the intelligence of the people, is never ignoble in + sentiment or idea, but always as refined as it is natural. + </p> + <p> + I do not know how I could better approach our poet than by first offering + this lyric, written when, in 1847, the people of Leghorn rose in arms to + repel a threatened invasion of the Austrians. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE WOMAN OF LEGHORN. + + Adieu, Livorno! adieu, paternal walls! + Perchance I never shall behold you more! + On father's and mother's grave the shadow falls. + My love has gone under our flag to war; + And I will follow him where fortune calls; + I have had a rifle in my hands before. + + The ball intended for my lover's breast, + Before he knows it my heart shall arrest; + And over his dead comrade's visage he + Shall pitying stoop, and look whom it can be. + Then he shall see and know that it is I: + Poor boy! how bitterly my love will cry! +</pre> + <p> + The Italian editor of the “Stornelli” does not give the closing lines too + great praise when he declares that “they say more than all the lament of + Tancred over Clorinda.” In this little flight of song, we pass over more + tragedy than Messer Torquato could have dreamed in the conquest of many + Jerusalems; for, after all, there is nothing so tragic as fact. The poem + is full at once of the grand national impulse, and of purely personal and + tender devotion; and that fluttering, vehement purpose, thrilling and + faltering in alternate lines, and breaking into a sob at last, is in every + syllable the utterance of a woman's spirit and a woman's nature. + </p> + <p> + Quite as womanly, though entirely different, is this lament, which the + poet attributes to his sister for their brother, who fell at Palmanuova, + May 14, 1848. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE SISTER. + + (Palma, May 14, 1848.) + + And he, my brother, to the fort had gone, + And the grenade, it struck him in the breast; + He fought for liberty, and death he won, + For country here, and found in heaven rest. + + And now only to follow him I sigh; + A new desire has taken me to die,— + To follow him where is no enemy, + Where every one lives happy and is free. +</pre> + <p> + All hope and purpose are gone from this woman's heart, for whom Italy died + in her brother, and who has only these artless, half-bewildered words of + regret to speak, and speaks them as if to some tender and sympathetic + friend acquainted with all the history going before their abrupt + beginning. I think it most pathetic and natural, also, that even in her + grief and her aspiration for heaven, her words should have the tint of her + time, and she should count freedom among the joys of eternity. + </p> + <p> + Quite as womanly again, and quite as different once more, is the lyric + which the reader will better appreciate when I remind him how the + Austrians massacred the unarmed people in Milan, in January, 1848, and + how, later, during the Five Days, they murdered their Italian prisoners, + sparing neither sex nor age.{1} + </p> + <p> + Note {1}: “Many foreigners,” says Emilie Dandolo, in his restrained and + temperate history of “I Volontarii e Bersaglieri Lombardi”, “have cast a + doubt upon the incredible ferocity of the Austrians during the Five Days, + and especially before evacuating the city. But, alas! the witnesses are + too many to be doubted. A Croat was seen carrying a babe transfixed upon + his bayonet. All know of those women's hands and ears found in the + haversacks of the prisoners; of those twelve unhappy men burnt alive at + Porta Tosa; of those nineteen buried in a lime-pit at the Castello, whose + scorched bodies we found. I myself, ordered with a detachment, after the + departure of the enemy, to examine the Castello and neighborhood, was + horror-struck at the sight of a babe nailed to a post.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE LOMBARD WOMAN. + + (Milan, January, 1848.) + + Here, take these gaudy robes and put them by; + I will go dress me black as widowhood; + I have seen blood run, I have heard the cry + Of him that struck and him that vainly sued. + Henceforth no other ornament will I + But on my breast a ribbon red as blood. + + And when they ask what dyed the silk so red, + I'll say, The life-blood of my brothers dead. + And when they ask how it may cleanséd be, + I'll say, O, not in river nor in sea; + Dishonor passes not in wave nor flood; + My ribbon ye must wash in German blood. +</pre> + <p> + The repressed horror in the lines, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have seen blood run, I have heard the cry + Of him that struck and him that vainly sued, +</pre> + <p> + is the sentiment of a picture that presents the scene to the reader's eye + as this shuddering woman saw it; and the heart of woman's fierceness and + hate is in that fragment of drama with which the brief poem closes. It is + the history of an epoch. That epoch is now past, however; so long and so + irrevocably past, that Dall' Ongaro commented in a note upon the poem: + “The word 'German' is left as a key to the opinions of the time. Human + brotherhood has been greatly promoted since 1848. German is now no longer + synonymous with enemy. Italy has made peace with the peoples, and is + leagued with them all against their common oppressors.” + </p> + <p> + There is still another of these songs, in which the heart of womanhood + speaks, though this time with a voice of pride and happiness. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE DECORATION. + + My love looks well under his helmet's crest; + He went to war, and did not let them see + His back, and so his wound is in the breast: + For one he got, he struck and gave them three. + When he came back, I loved him, hurt so, best; + He married me and loves me tenderly. + + When he goes by, and people give him way, + I thank God for my fortune every day; + When he goes by he seems more grand and fair + Than any crossed and ribboned cavalier: + The cavalier grew up with his cross on, + And I know how my darling's cross was won! +</pre> + <p> + This poem, like that of La Livornese and La Donna Lombarda, is a vivid + picture: it is a liberated city, and the streets are filled with jubilant + people; the first victorious combats have taken place, and it is a wounded + hero who passes with his ribbon on his breast. As the fond crowd gives way + to him, his young wife looks on him from her window with an exultant love, + unshadowed by any possibility of harm: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mi menò a moglie e mi vuol tanto bene! +</pre> + <p> + This is country and freedom to her,—this is strength which despots + cannot break,—this is joy to which defeat and ruin can never come + nigh! It might be any one of the sarcastic and quickwitted people talking + politics in the streets of Rome in 1847, who sees the newly elected + Senator—the head of the Roman municipality, and the legitimate + mediator between Pope and people—as he passes, and speaks to him in + these lines the dominant feeling of the moment: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE CARDINALS. + + O Senator of Rome! if true and well + You are reckoned honest, in the Vatican, + Let it be yours His Holiness to tell, + There are many Cardinals, and not one man. + + They are made like lobsters, and, when they are dead, + Like lobsters change their colors and turn red; + And while they are living, with their backward gait + Displace and tangle good Saint Peter's net. +</pre> + <p> + An impulse of the time is strong again in the following Stornello,—a + cry of reproach that seems to follow some recreant from a beleaguered camp + of true comrades, and to utter the feeling of men who marched to battle + through defection, and were strong chiefly in their just cause. It bears + the date of that fatal hour when the king of Naples, after a brief show of + liberality, recalled his troops from Bologna, where they had been acting + against Austria with the confederated forces of the other Italian states, + and when every man lost to Italy was as an ebbing drop of her life's + blood. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE DESERTER. + + (Bologna, May, 1818.) + + Never did grain grow out of frozen earth; + From the dead branch never did blossom start: + If thou lovest not the land that gave thee birth, + Within thy breast thou bear'st a frozen heart; + If thou lovest not this land of ancient worth, + To love aught else, say, traitor, how thou art! + + To thine own land thou could'st not faithful be,— + Woe to the woman that puts faith in thee! + To him that trusteth in the recreant, woe! + Never from frozen earth did harvest grow: + To her that trusteth a deserter, shame! + Out of the dead branch never blossom came. +</pre> + <p> + And this song, so fine in its picturesque and its dramatic qualities, is + not less true to the hope of the Venetians when they rose in 1848, and + intrusted their destinies to Daniele Manin. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE RING OF THE LAST DOGE. + + I saw the widowed Lady of the Sea + Crownéd with corals and sea-weed and shells, + Who her long anguish and adversity + Had seemed to drown in plays and festivals. + + I said: “Where is thine ancient fealty fled?— + Where is the ring with which Manin did wed + His bride?” With tearful visage she: + “An eagle with two beaks tore it from me. + Suddenly I arose, and how it came + I know not, but I heard my bridegroom's name.” + Poor widow! 't is not he. Yet he may bring— + Who knows?—back to the bride her long-lost ring. +</pre> + <p> + The Venetians of that day dreamed that San Marco might live again, and the + fineness and significance of the poem could not have been lost on the + humblest in Venice, where all were quick to beauty and vividly remembered + that the last Doge who wedded the sea was named, like the new President, + Manin. + </p> + <p> + I think the Stornelli of the revolutionary period of 1848 have a peculiar + value, because they embody, in forms of artistic perfection, the + evanescent as well as the enduring qualities of popular feeling. They give + us what had otherwise been lost, in the passing humor of the time. They do + not celebrate the battles or the great political occurrences. If they deal + with events at all, is it with events that express some belief or longing,—rather + with what people hoped or dreamed than with what they did. They sing the + Friulan volunteers, who bore the laurel instead of the olive during Holy + Week, in token that the patriotic war had become a religion; they remind + us that the first fruits of Italian longing for unity were the cannons + sent to the Romans by the Genoese; they tell us that the tricolor was + placed in the hand of the statue of Marcus Aurelius at the Capitol, to + signify that Rome was no more, and that Italy was to be. But the Stornelli + touch with most effect those yet more intimate ties between national and + individual life that vibrate in the hearts of the Livornese and the + Lombard woman, of the lover who sees his bride in the patriotic colors, of + the maiden who will be a sister of charity that she may follow her lover + through all perils, of the mother who names her new-born babe Costanza in + the very hour of the Venetian republic's fall. And I like the Stornelli + all the better because they preserve the generous ardor of the time, even + in its fondness and excess. + </p> + <p> + After the fall of Rome, the poet did not long remain unmolested even in + his Swiss retreat. In 1852 the Federal Council yielded to the instances of + the Austrian government, and expelled Dall' Ongaro from the Republic. He + retired with his sister and nephew to Brussels, where he resumed the + lectures upon Dante, interrupted by his exile from Trieste in 1847, and + thus supported his family. Three years later he gained permission to enter + France, and up to the spring-time of 1859 he remained in Paris, busying + himself with literature, and watching events with all an exile's + eagerness. The war with Austria broke out, and the poet seized the + long-coveted opportunity to return to Italy, whither he went as the + correspondent of a French newspaper. On the conclusion of peace at + Villafranca, this journal changed its tone, and being no longer in + sympathy with Dall' Ongaro's opinions, he left it. Baron Ricasoli, to + induce him to make Tuscany his home, instituted a chair of comparative + dramatic literature in connection with the University of Pisa, and offered + it to Dall' Ongaro, whose wide general learning and special dramatic + studies peculiarly qualified him to hold it. He therefore took up his + abode at Florence, dedicating his main industry to a comparative course of + ancient and modern dramatic literature, and writing his wonderful + restorations of Menander's “Phasma” and “Treasure”. He was well known to + the local American and English Society, and was mourned by many friends + when he died there, some ten years ago. + </p> + <p> + As with Dall' Ongaro literature had always been but an instrument for the + redemption of Italy, even after his appointment to a university + professorship he did not forget this prime object. In nearly all that he + afterwards wrote, he kept the great aim of his life in view, and few of + the events or hopes of that dreary period of suspense and abortive effort + between the conclusion of peace at Villafranca and the acquisition of + Venice went unsung by him. Indeed, some of his most characteristic + “Stornelli” belong to this epoch. After Savoy and Nice had been betrayed + to France, and while the Italians waited in angry suspicion for the next + demand of their hated ally, which might be the surrender of the island of + Sardinia or the sacrifice of the Genoese province, but which no one could + guess in the impervious Napoleonic silence, our poet wrote: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE IMPERIAL EGG. + + (Milan, 1862.) + + Who knows what hidden devil it may be + Under yon mute, grim bird that looks our way?— + Yon silent bird of evil omen,—he + That, wanting peace, breathes discord and dismay. + Quick, quick, and change his egg, my Italy, + Before there hatch from it some bird of prey,— + + Before some beak of rapine be set free, + That, after the mountains, shall infest the sea; + Before some ravenous eaglet shall be sent + After our isles to gorge the continent. + I'd rather a goose even from yon egg should come,— + If only of the breed that once saved Rome! +</pre> + <p> + The flight of the Grand Duke from Florence in 1859, and his conciliatory + address to his late subjects after Villafranca, in which by fair promises + he hoped to win them back to their allegiance; the union of Tuscany with + the kingdom of Italy; the removal of the Austrian flags from Milan; + Garibaldi's crusade in Sicily; the movement upon Rome in 1862; Aspromonte,—all + these events, with the shifting phases of public feeling throughout that + time, the alternate hopes and fears of the Italian nation, are celebrated + in the later Stornelli of Dall' Ongaro. Venice has long since fallen to + Italy; and Rome has become the capital of the nation. But the unification + was not accomplished till Garibaldi, who had done so much for Italy, had + been wounded by her king's troops in his impatient attempt to expel the + French at Aspromonte. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO MY SONGS. + + Fly, O my songs, to Varignano, fly! + Like some lost flock of swallows homeward flying, + And hail me Rome's Dictator, who there doth lie + Broken with wounds, but conquered not, nor dying; + Bid him think on the April that is nigh, + Month of the flowers and ventures fear-defying. + + Or if it is not nigh, it soon shall come, + As shall the swallow to his last year's home, + As on its naked stem the rose shall burn, + As to the empty sky the stars return, + As hope comes back to hearts crushed by regret;— + Nay, say not this to his heart ne'er crushed yet! +</pre> + <p> + Let us conclude these notices with one of the Stornelli which is + non-political, but which I think we won't find the less agreeable for that + reason. I like it because it says a pretty thing or two very daintily, and + is interfused with a certain arch and playful spirit which is not so + common but we ought to be glad to recognize it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you are good as you are fair, indeed, + Keep to yourself those sweet eyes, I implore! + A little flame burns under either lid + That might in old age kindle youth once more: + I am like a hermit in his cavern hid, + But can I look on you and not adore? + + Fair, if you do not mean my misery + Those lovely eyes lift upward to the sky; + I shall believe you some saint shrined above, + And may adore you if I may not love; + I shall believe you some bright soul in bliss, + And may look on you and not look amiss. +</pre> + <p> + I have already noted the more obvious merits of the Stornelli, and I need + not greatly insist upon them. Their defects are equally plain; one sees + that their simplicity all but ceases to be a virtue at times, and that at + times their feeling is too much intellectualized. Yet for all this we must + recognize their excellence, and the skill as well as the truth of the + poet. It is very notable with what directness he expresses his thought, + and with what discretion he leaves it when expressed. The form is always + most graceful, and the success with which dramatic, picturesque, and + didactic qualities are blent, for a sole effect, in the brief compass of + the poems, is not too highly praised in the epithet of novelty. Nothing is + lost for the sake of attitude; the actor is absent from the most dramatic + touches, the painter is not visible in lines which are each a picture, the + teacher does not appear for the purpose of enforcing the moral. It is not + the grandest poetry, but is true feeling, admirable art. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GIOVANNI PRATI + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + The Italian poet who most resembles in theme and treatment the German + romanticists of the second period was nearest them geographically in his + origin. Giovanni Prati was born at Dasindo, a mountain village of the + Trentino, and his boyhood was passed amidst the wild scenes of that + picturesque region, whose dark valleys and snowy, cloud-capped heights, + foaming torrents and rolling mists, lend their gloom and splendor to so + much of his verse. His family was poor, but it was noble, and he received, + through whatever sacrifice of those who remained at home, the education of + a gentleman, as the Italians understand it. He went to school in Trent, + and won some early laurels by his Latin poems, which the good priests who + kept the <i>collegio</i> gathered and piously preserved in an album for + the admiration and emulation of future scholars; when in due time he + matriculated at the University of Padua as student of law, he again shone + as a poet, and there he wrote his “Edmenegarda”, a poem that gave him + instant popularity throughout Italy. When he quitted the university he + visited different parts of the country, “having the need” of frequent + change of scenes and impressions; but everywhere he poured out songs, + ballads, and romances, and was already a voluminous poet in 1840, when, in + his thirtieth year, he began to abandon his Teutonic phantoms and hectic + maidens, and to make Italy in various disguises the heroine of his song. + Whether Austria penetrated these disguises or not, he was a little later + ordered to leave Milan. He took refuge in Piedmont, whose brave king, in + spite of diplomatic remonstrances from his neighbors, made Prati his <i>poeta + cesareo</i>, or poet laureate. This was in 1843; and five years later he + took an active part in inciting with his verse the patriotic revolts which + broke out all over Italy. But he was supposed by virtue of his office to + be monarchical in his sympathies, and when he ventured to Florence, the + novelist Guerrezzi, who was at the head of the revolutionary government + there, sent the poet back across the border in charge of a carbineer. In + 1851 he had the misfortune to write a poem in censure of Orsini's attempt + upon the life of Napoleon III., and to take money for it from the + gratified emperor. He seems to have remained up to his death in the + enjoyment of his office at Turin. His latest poem, if one may venture to + speak of any as the last among poems poured out with such bewildering + rapidity, was “Satan and the Graces”, which De Sanctis made himself very + merry over. + </p> + <p> + The Edmenegarda, which first won him repute, was perhaps not more + youthful, but it was a subject that appealed peculiarly to the heart of + youth, and was sufficiently mawkish. All the characters of the Edmenegarda + were living at the time of its publication, and were instantly recognized; + yet there seems to have been no complaint against the poet on their part, + nor any reproach on the part of criticism. Indeed, at least one of the + characters was nattered by the celebrity given him. “So great,” says + Prati's biographer, in the <i>Gallerìa Nazionale</i>, “was the enthusiasm + awakened everywhere, and in every heart, by the Edmenegarda, that the + young man portrayed in it, under the name of Leoni, imagining himself to + have become, through Prati's merit, an eminently poetical subject, + presented himself to the poet in the Caffè Pedrocchi at Padua, and + returned him his warmest thanks. Prati also made the acquaintance, at the + Caffè Nazionale in Turin, of his Edmenegarda, but after the wrinkles had + seamed the visage of his ideal, and canceled perhaps from her soul the + memory of anguish suffered.” If we are to believe this writer, the story + of a wife's betrayal, abandonment by her lover, and repudiation by her + husband, produced effects upon the Italian public as various as profound. + “In this pathetic story of an unhappy love was found so much truth of + passion, so much naturalness of sentiment, and so much power, that every + sad heart was filled with love for the young poet, so compassionate toward + innocent misfortune, so sympathetic in form, in thought, in sentiment. + Prom that moment Prati became the poet of suffering youth; in every corner + of Italy the tender verses of the Edmenegarda were read with love, and + sometimes frenzied passion; the political prisoners of Rome, of Naples, + and Palermo found them a grateful solace amid the privations and heavy + tedium of incarceration; many sundered lovers were reconjoined + indissolubly in the kiss of peace; more than one desperate girl was + restrained from the folly of suicide; and even the students in the + ecclesiastical seminaries at Milan revolted, as it were, against their + rector, and petitioned the Archbishop of Gaisruk that they might be + permitted to read the fantastic romance.” + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: GIOVANNI PRATI.} + </p> + <p> + What he was at first, Prati seems always to have remained in character and + in ideals. “Would you know the poet in ordinary of the king of Sardinia?” + says Marc-Monnier. “Go up the great street of the Po, under the arcades to + the left, around the Caffè Florio, which is the center of Turin. If you + meet a great youngster of forty years, with brown hair, wandering eyes, + long visage, lengthened by the imperial, prominent nose, diminished by the + mustache,—good head, in fine, and proclaiming the artist at first + glance, say to yourself that this is he, give him your hand, and he will + give you his. He is the openest of Italians, and the best fellow in the + world. It is here that he lives, under the arcades. Do not look for his + dwelling; he does not dwell, he promenades. Life for him is not a combat + nor a journey; it is a saunter (<i>flânerie</i>), cigar in mouth, eyes to + the wind; a comrade whom he meets, and passes a pleasant word with; a + group of men who talk politics, and leave you to read the newspapers; <i>puis + cà et là, par hasard, une bonne fortune</i>; a woman or an artist who + understands you, and who listens while you talk of art or repeat your + verses. Prati lives so the whole year round. From time to time he + disappears for a week or two. Where is he? Nobody knows. You grow uneasy; + you ask his address: he has none. Some say he is ill; others, he is dead; + but some fine morning, cheerful as ever, he re-appears under the arcades. + He has come from the bottom of a wood or the top of a mountain, and he has + made two thousand verses.... He is hardly forty-one years old, and he has + already written a million lines. I have read seven volumes of his, and I + have not read all.” + </p> + <p> + I have not myself had the patience here boasted by M. Marc-Monnier; but + three or four volumes of Prati's have sufficed to teach me the spirit and + purpose of his poetry. Born in 1815, and breathing his first inspirations + from that sense of romance blowing into Italy with every northern gale,—a + son of the Italian Tyrol, the region where the fire meets the snow,—he + has some excuse, if not a perfect reason, for being half-German in his + feeling. It is natural that Prati should love the ballad form above all, + and should pour into its easy verse the wild legends heard during a + boyhood passed among mountains and mountaineers. As I read his poetic + tales, with a little heart-break, more or less fictitious, in each, I seem + to have found again the sweet German songs that fluttered away out of my + memory long ago. There is a tender light on the pages; a mistier passion + than that of the south breathes through the dejected lines; and in the + ballads we see all our old acquaintance once more,—the dying girls, + the galloping horsemen, the moonbeams, the familiar, inconsequent + phantoms,—scarcely changed in the least, and only betraying now and + then that they have been at times in the bad company of Lara, and Medora, + and other dissipated and vulgar people. The following poem will give some + proof of all this, and will not unfairly witness of the quality of Prati + in most of the poetry he has written: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE MIDNIGHT RIDE. + + I. + + Ruello, Ruello, devour the way! + On your breath bear us with you, O winds, as ye swell! + My darling, she lies near her death to-day,— + Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! + + That my spurs have torn open thy flanks, alas! + With thy long, sad neighing, thou need'st not tell; + We have many a league yet of desert to pass,— + Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! + + Hear'st that mocking laugh overhead in space? + Hear'st the shriek of the storm, as it drives, swift and fell? + A scent as of graves is blown into my face,— + Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! + + Ah, God! and if that be the sound I hear + Of the mourner's song and the passing-bell! + O heaven! What see I? The cross and the bier?— + Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! + + Thou falt'rest, Ruello? Oh, courage, my steed! + Wilt fail me, O traitor I trusted so well? + The tempest roars over us,—halt not, nor heed!— + Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! + + Gallop, Ruello, oh, faster yet! + Good God, that flash! O God! I am chill,— + Something hangs on my eyelids heavy as death,— + Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II. + + Smitten with the lightning stroke, + From his seat the cavalier + Fell, and forth the charger broke, + Rider-free and mad with fear,— + Through the tempest and the night, + Like a winged thing in flight. + + In the wind his mane blown back, + With a frantic plunge and neigh,— + In the shadow a shadow black, + Ever wilder he flies away,— + Through the tempest and the night, + Like a winged thing in flight. + + From his throbbing flanks arise + Smokes of fever and of sweat,— + Over him the pebble flies + From his swift feet swifter yet,— + Through the tempest and the night, + Like a winged thing in flight. + + From the cliff unto the wood, + Twenty leagues he passed in all; + Soaked with bloody foam and blood, + Blind he struck against the wall: + Death is in the seat; no more + Stirs the steed that flew before. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III. + + And the while, upon the colorless, + Death-white visage of the dying + Maiden, still and faint and fair, + Rosy lights arise and wane; + And her weakness lifting tremulous + From the couch where she was lying + Her long, beautiful, loose hair + Strives she to adorn in vain. + + “Mother, what it is has startled me + From my sleep I cannot tell thee: + Only, rise and deck me well + In my fairest robes again. + For, last night, in the thick silences,— + I know not how it befell me,— + But the gallop of Ruel, + More than once I heard it plain. + + “Look, O mother, through yon shadowy + Trees, beyond their gloomy cover: + Canst thou not an atom see + Toward us from the distance start? + Seest thou not the dust rise cloudily, + And above the highway hover? + Come at last! 'T is he! 't is he! + Mother, something breaks my heart.” + + Ah, poor child! she raises wearily + Her dim eyes, and, turning slowly, + Seeks the sun, and leaves this strife + With a loved name in her breath. + Ah, poor child! in vain she waited him. + In the grave they made her lowly + Bridal bed. And thou, O life! + Hast no hopes that know not death? +</pre> + <p> + Among Prati's patriotic poems, I have read one which seems to me rather + vivid, and which because it reflects yet another phase of that great + Italian resurrection, as well as represents Prati in one of his best + moods, I will give here: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE SPY. + + With ears intent, with eyes abased, + Like a shadow still my steps thou hast chased; + If I whisper aught to my friend, I feel + Thee follow quickly upon my heel. + Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! + Thou art a spy! + + When thou eatest the bread that thou dost win + With the filthy wages of thy sin, + The hideous face of treason anear + Dost thou not see? dost thou not fear? + Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! + Thou art a spy! + + The thief may sometimes my pity claim; + Sometimes the harlot for her shame; + Even the murderer in his chains + A hidden fear from me constrains; + But thou only fill'st me with loathing; fly! + Thou art a spy! + + Fly, poor villain; draw thy hat down, + Close be thy mantle about thee thrown; + And if ever my words weigh on thy heart, + Betake thyself to some church apart; + There, “Lord, have mercy!” weep and cry: + “I am a spy!” + + Forgiveness for thy great sin alone + Thou may'st hope to find before his throne. + Dismayed by thy snares that all abhor, + Brothers on earth thou hast no more; + Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! + Thou art a spy! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALEARDO ALEARDI + </h2> + <h3> + I. + </h3> + <p> + In the first quarter of the century was born a poet, in the village of San + Giorgio, near Verona, of parents who endowed their son with the + magnificent name of Aleardo Aleardi. His father was one of those small + proprietors numerous in the Veneto, and, though not indigent, was by no + means a rich man. He lived on his farm, and loved it, and tried to improve + the condition of his tenants. Aleardo's childhood was spent in the + country,—a happy fortune for a boy anywhere, the happiest fortune if + that country be Italy, and its scenes the grand and beautiful scenes of + the valley of the Adige. Here he learned to love nature with the passion + that declares itself everywhere in his verse; and hence he was in due time + taken and placed at school in the Collegio {note: Not a college in the + American sense, but a private school of a high grade.} of Sant' Anastasia, + in Verona, according to the Italian system, now fallen into disuse, of + fitting a boy for the world by giving him the training of a cloister. It + is not greatly to Aleardi's discredit that he seemed to learn nothing + there, and that he drove his reverend preceptors to the desperate course + of advising his removal. They told his father he would make a good farmer, + but a scholar, never. They nicknamed him the <i>mole</i>, for his + dullness; but, in the mean time, he was making underground progress of his + own, and he came to the surface one day, a mole no longer, to everybody's + amazement, but a thing of such flight and song as they had never seen + before,—in fine, a poet. He was rather a scapegrace, after he ceased + to be a mole, at school; but when he went to the University at Padua, he + became conspicuous among the idle, dissolute students of that day for + temperate life and severe study. There he studied law, and learned + patriotism; political poetry and interviews with the police were the + consequence, but no serious trouble. + </p> + <p> + One of the offensive poems, which he says he and his friends had the + audacity to call an ode, was this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sing we our country. 'T is a desolate + And frozen cemetery; + Over its portals undulates + A banner black and yellow; + And within it throng the myriad + Phantoms of slaves and kings: + + A man on a worn-out, tottering + Throne watches o'er the tombs: + The pallid lord of consciences, + The despot of ideas. + Tricoronate he vaunts himself + And without crown is he. +</pre> + <p> + In this poem the yellow and black flag is, of course, the Austrian, and + the enthroned man is the pope, of whose temporal power our poet was always + the enemy. “The Austrian police,” says Aleardi's biographer, “like an + affectionate mother, anxious about everything, came into possession of + these verses; and the author was admonished, in the way of maternal + counsel, not to touch such topics, if he would not lose the favor of the + police, and be looked on as a prodigal son.” He had already been + admonished for carrying a cane on the top of which was an old Italian + pound, or lira, with the inscription, Kingdom of Italy,—for it was + an offense to have such words about one in any way, so trivial and petty + was the cruel government that once reigned over the Italians. + </p> + <p> + In due time he took that garland of paper laurel and gilt pasteboard with + which the graduates of Padua are sublimely crowned, and returned to + Verona, where he entered the office of an advocate to learn the practical + workings of the law. These disgusted him, naturally enough; and it was + doubtless far less to the hurt of his feelings than of his fortune that + the government always refused him the post of advocate. + </p> + <p> + In this time he wrote his first long poem, Arnaldo, which was published at + Milan in 1842, and which won him immediate applause. It was followed by + the tragedy of Bragadino; and in the year 1845 he wrote Le Prime Storie, + which he suffered to lie unpublished for twelve years. It appeared in + Verona in 1857, a year after the publication of his Monte Circellio, + written in 1846. + </p> + <p> + {Illustration: ALEARDO ALEARDI.} + </p> + <p> + The revolution of 1848 took place; the Austrians retired from the dominion + of Venice, and a provisional republican government, under the presidency + of Daniele Manin, was established, and Aleardi was sent as one of its + plenipotentiaries to Paris, where he learnt how many fine speeches the + friends of a struggling nation can make when they do not mean to help it. + The young Venetian republic fell. Aleardi left Paris, and, after assisting + at the ceremony of being bombarded in Bologna, retired to Genoa. He later + returned to Verona, and there passed several years of tranquil study. In + 1852, for the part he had taken in the revolution, he was arrested and + imprisoned in the fortress at Mantua, thus fulfilling the destiny of an + Italian poet of those times. + </p> + <p> + All the circumstances and facts of this arrest and imprisonment are so + characteristic of the Austrian method of governing Italy, that I do not + think it out of place to give them with some fullness. In the year named, + the Austrians were still avenging themselves upon the patriots who had + driven them out of Venetia in 1848, and their courts were sitting in + Mantua for the trial of political prisoners, many of whom were exiled, + sentenced to long imprisonment, or put to death. Aleardi was first + confined in the military prison at Verona, but was soon removed to Mantua, + whither several of his friends had already been sent. All the other + prisons being full, he was thrust into a place which till now had seemed + too horrible for use. It was a narrow room, dark, and reeking with the + dampness of the great dead lagoon which surrounds Mantua. A broken window, + guarded by several gratings, let in a little light from above; the day in + that cell lasted six hours, the night eighteen. A mattress on the floor, + and a can of water for drinking, were the furniture. In the morning they + brought him two pieces of hard, black bread; at ten o'clock a thick soup + of rice and potatoes; and nothing else throughout the day. In this dungeon + he remained sixty days, without books, without pen or paper, without any + means of relieving the terrible gloom and solitude. At the end of this + time, he was summoned to the hall above to see his sister, whom he + tenderly loved. The light blinded him so that for a while he could not + perceive her, but he talked to her calmly and even cheerfully, that she + might not know what he had suffered. Then he was remanded to his cell, + where, as her retreating footsteps ceased upon his ear, he cast himself + upon the ground in a passion of despair. Three months passed, and he had + never seen the face of judge or accuser, though once the prison inspector, + with threats and promises, tried to entrap him into a confession. One + night his sleep was broken by a continued hammering; in the morning half a + score of his friends were hanged upon the gallows which had been built + outside his cell. + </p> + <p> + By this time his punishment had been so far mitigated that he had been + allowed a German grammar and dictionary, and for the first time studied + that language, on the literature of which he afterward lectured in + Florence. He had, like most of the young Venetians of his day, hated the + language, together with those who spoke it, until then. + </p> + <p> + At last, one morning at dawn, a few days after the execution of his + friends, Aleardi and others were thrust into carriages and driven to the + castle. There the roll of the prisoners was called; to several names none + answered, for those who had borne them were dead. Were the survivors now + to be shot, or sentenced to some prison in Bohemia or Hungary? They grimly + jested among themselves as to their fate. They were marched out into the + piazza, under the heavy rain, and there these men who had not only not + been tried for any crime, but had not even been accused of any, received + the grace of the imperial pardon. + </p> + <p> + Aleardi returned to Verona and to his books, publishing another poem in + 1856, called Le Città Italiane Marinare e Commercianti. His next + publication was, in 1857, Rafaello e la Fornarina; then followed Un' Ora + della mia Giovinezza, Le Tre Fiume, and Le Tre Fanciulle, in 1858. + </p> + <p> + The war of 1859 broke out between Austria and France and Italy. Aleardi + spent the brief period of the campaign in a military prison at Verona, + where his sympathies were given an ounce of prevention. He had committed + no offense, but at midnight the police appeared, examined his papers, + found nothing, and bade him rise and go to prison. After the peace of + Villafranca he was liberated, and left the Austrian states, retiring first + to Brescia, and then to Florence. His publications since 1859 have been a + Canto Politico and I Sette Soldati. He was condemned for his voluntary + exile, by the Austrian courts, and I remember reading in the newspapers + the official invitation given him to come back to Verona and be punished. + But, oddly enough, he declined to do so. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + The first considerable work of Aleardi was Le Prime Storie (Primal + Histories), in which he traces the course of the human race through the + Scriptural story of its creation, its fall, and its destruction by the + deluge, through the Greek and Latin days, through the darkness and glory + of the feudal times, down to our own,—following it from Eden to + Babylon and Tyre, from Tyre and Babylon to Athens and Rome, from Florence + and Genoa to the shores of the New World, full of shadowy tradition and + the promise of a peaceful and happy future. + </p> + <p> + He takes this fruitful theme, because he feels it to be alive with eternal + interest, and rejects the well-worn classic fables, because + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Under the bushes of the odorous mint + The Dryads are buried, and the placid Dian + Guides now no longer through the nights below + Th' invulnerable hinds and pearly car, + To bless the Carian shepherd's dreams. No more + The valley echoes to the stolen kisses, + Or to the twanging bow, or to the bay + Of the immortal hounds, or to the Fauns' + Plebeian laughter. From the golden rim + Of shells, dewy with pearl, in ocean's depths + The snowy loveliness of Galatea + Has fallen; and with her, their endless sleep + In coral sepulchers the Nereids + Forgotten sleep in peace. +</pre> + <p> + The poet cannot turn to his theme, however, without a sad and scornful + apostrophe to his own land, where he figures himself sitting by the way, + and craving of the frivolous, heartless, luxurious Italian throngs that + pass the charity of love for Italy. They pass him by unheeded, and he + cries: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hast thou seen + In the deep circle of the valley of Siddim, + Under the shining skies of Palestine, + The sinister glitter of the Lake of Asphalt? + Those coasts, strewn thick with ashes of damnation, + Forever foe to every living thing, + Where rings the cry of the lost wandering bird + That, on the shore of the perfidious sea, + Athirsting dies,—that watery sepulcher + Of the five cities of iniquity, + Where even the tempest, when its clouds hang low, + Passes in silence, and the lightning dies,— + If thou hast seen them, bitterly hath been + Thy heart wrung with the misery and despair + Of that dread vision! + + Yet there is on earth + A woe more desperate and miserable,— + A spectacle wherein the wrath of God + Avenges him more terribly. It is + A vain, weak people of faint-heart old men, + That, for three hundred years of dull repose, + Has lain perpetual dreamer, folded in + The ragged purple of its ancestors, + Stretching its limbs wide in its country's sun, + To warm them; drinking the soft airs of autumn + Forgetful, on the fields where its forefathers + Like lions fought! From overflowing hands, + Strew we with hellebore and poppies thick + The way. +</pre> + <p> + But the throngs have passed by, and the poet takes up his theme. Abel sits + before an altar upon the borders of Eden, and looks with an exile's + longing toward the Paradise of his father, where, high above all the other + trees, he beholds, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lording it proudly in the garden's midst, + The guilty apple with its fatal beauty. +</pre> + <p> + He weeps; and Cain, furiously returning from the unaccepted labor of the + fields, lifts his hand against his brother. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was at sunset; + The air was severed with a mother's shriek, + And stretched beside the o'erturned altar's foot + Lay the first corse. + + Ah! that primal stain + Of blood that made earth hideous, did forebode + To all the nations of mankind to come + + The cruel household stripes, and the relentless + Battles of civil wars, the poisoned cup, + The gleam of axes lifted up to strike + The prone necks on the block. + + The fratricide + Beheld that blood amazed, and from on high + He heard the awful voice of cursing leap, + And in the middle of his forehead felt + God's lightning strike.... + + ....And there from out the heart + All stained with guiltiness emerged the coward + Religion that is born of loveless fears. + + And, moved and shaken like a conscious thing, + The tree of sin dilated horribly + Its frondage over all the land and sea, + And with its poisonous shadow followed far + The flight of Cain.... + .... And he who first + By th' arduous solitudes and by the heights + And labyrinths of the virgin earth conducted + This ever-wandering, lost Humanity + Was the Accursed. +</pre> + <p> + Cain passes away, and his children fill the world, and the joy of + guiltless labor brightens the poet's somber verse. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The murmur of the works of man arose + Up from the plains; the caves reverberated + The blows of restless hammers that revealed, + Deep in the bowels of the fruitful hills, + The iron and the faithless gold, with rays + Of evil charm. And all the cliffs repeated + The beetle's fall, and the unceasing leap + Of waters on the paddles of the wheel + Volubly busy; and with heavy strokes + Upon the borders of the inviolate woods + The ax was heard descending on the trees, + Upon the odorous bark of mighty pines. + Over the imminent upland's utmost brink + The blonde wild-goat stretched forth his neck to meet + The unknown sound, and, caught with sudden fear, + Down the steep bounded, and the arrow cut + Midway the flight of his aerial foot. +</pre> + <p> + So all the wild earth was tamed to the hand of man, and the wisdom of the + stars began to reveal itself to the shepherds, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who, in the leisure of the argent nights, + Leading their flocks upon a sea of meadows, +</pre> + <p> + turned their eyes upon the heavenly bodies, and questioned them in their + courses. But a taint of guilt was in all the blood of Cain, which the + deluge alone could purge. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And beautiful beyond all utterance + Were the earth's first-born daughters. Phantasms these + That now enamor us decrepit, by + The light of that prime beauty! And the glance + Those ardent sinners darted had beguiled + God's angels even, so that the Lord's command + Was weaker than the bidding of their eyes. + And there were seen, descending from on high, + His messengers, and in the tepid eyes + Gathering their flight about the secret founts + Where came the virgins wandering sole to stretch + The nude pomp of their perfect loveliness. + Caught by some sudden flash of light afar, + The shepherd looked, and deemed that he beheld + A fallen star, and knew not that he saw + A fallen angel, whose distended wings, + All tremulous with voluptuous delight, + Strove vainly to lift him to the skies again. + The earth with her malign embraces blest + The heavenly-born, and they straightway forgot + The joys of God's eternal paradise + For the brief rapture of a guilty love. + And from these nuptials, violent and strange, + A strange and violent race of giants rose; + A chain of sin had linked the earth to heaven; + And God repented him of his own work. +</pre> + <p> + The destroying rains descended, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And the ocean rose, + And on the cities and the villages + The terror fell apace. There was a strife + Of suppliants at the altars; blasphemy + Launched at the impotent idols and the kings; + There were embraces desperate and dear, + And news of suddenest forgivenesses, + And a relinquishment of all sweet things; + And, guided onward by the pallid prophets, + The people climbed, with lamentable cries, + In pilgrimage up the mountains. + + But in vain; + For swifter than they climbed the ocean rose, + And hid the palms, and buried the sepulchers + Far underneath the buried pyramids; + And the victorious billow swelled and beat + At eagles' Alpine nests, extinguishing + All lingering breath of life; and dreadfuller + Than the yell rising from the battle-field + Seemed the hush of every human sound. + + On the high solitude of the waters naught + Was seen but here and there unfrequently + A frail raft, heaped with languid men that fought + Weakly with one another for the grass + Hanging about a cliff not yet submerged, + And here and there a drowned man's head, and here + And there a file of birds, that beat the air + With weary wings. +</pre> + <p> + After the deluge, the race of Noah repeoples the empty world, and the + history of mankind begins anew in the Orient. Rome is built, and the + Christian era dawns, and Rome falls under the feet of the barbarians. Then + the enthusiasm of Christendom sweeps toward the East, in the repeated + Crusades; and then, “after long years of twilight”, Dante, the sun of + Italian civilization, rises; and at last comes the dream of another world, + unknown to the eyes of elder times. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But between that and our shore roared diffuse + Abysmal seas and fabulous hurricanes + Which, thought on, blanched the faces of the bold; + For the dread secret of the heavens was then + The Western world. Yet on the Italian coasts + A boy grew into manhood, in whose soul + The instinct of the unknown continent burned. + He saw in his prophetic mind depicted + The opposite visage of the earth, and, turning + With joyful defiance to the ocean, sailed + Forth with two secret pilots, God and Genius. + Last of the prophets, he returned in chains + And glory. +</pre> + <p> + In the New World are the traces, as in the Old, of a restless humanity, + wandering from coast to coast, growing, building cities, and utterly + vanishing. There are graves and ruins everywhere; and the poet's thought + returns from these scenes of unstoried desolation, to follow again the + course of man in the Old World annals. But here, also, he is lost in the + confusion of man's advance and retirement, and he muses: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How many were the peoples? Where the trace + Of their lost steps? Where the funereal fields + In which they sleep? Go, ask the clouds of heaven + How many bolts are hidden in their breasts, + And when they shall be launched; and ask the path + That they shall keep in the unfurrowed air. + The peoples passed. Obscure as destiny, + Forever stirred by secret hope, forever + Waiting upon the promised mysteries, + Unknowing God, that urged them, turning still + To some kind star,—they swept o'er the sea-weed + In unknown waters, fearless swam the course + Of nameless rivers, wrote with flying feet + The mountain pass on pathless snows; impatient + Of rest, for aye, from Babylon to Memphis, + From the Acropolis to Rome, they hurried. + + And with them passed their guardian household gods, + And faithful wisdom of their ancestors, + And the seed sown in mother fields, and gathered, + A fruitful harvest in their happier years. + And, 'companying the order of their steps + Upon the way, they sung the choruses + And sacred burdens of their country's songs, + And, sitting down by hospitable gates, + They told the histories of their far-off cities. + And sometimes in the lonely darknesses + Upon the ambiguous way they found a light,— + The deathless lamp of some great truth, that Heaven + Sent in compassionate answer to their prayers. + + But not to all was given it to endure + That ceaseless pilgrimage, and not on all + Did the heavens smile perennity of life + Revirginate with never-ceasing change; + And when it had completed the great work + Which God had destined for its race to do, + Sometimes a weary people laid them down + To rest them, like a weary man, and left + Their nude bones in a vale of expiation, + And passed away as utterly forever + As mist that snows itself into the sea. +</pre> + <p> + The poet views this growth of nations from youth to decrepitude, and, + coming back at last to himself and to his own laud and time, breaks forth + into a lament of grave and touching beauty: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Muse of an aged people, in the eve + Of fading civilization, I was born + Of kindred that have greatly expiated + And greatly wept. For me the ambrosial fingers + Of Graces never wove the laurel crown, + But the Fates shadowed, from my youngest days, + My brow with passion-flowers, and I have lived + Unknown to my dear land. Oh, fortunate + My sisters that in the heroic dawn + Of races sung! To them did destiny give + The virgin fire and chaste ingenuousness + Of their land's speech; and, reverenced, their hands + Ran over potent strings. To me, the hopes + Turbid with hate; to me, the senile rage; + To me, the painted fancies clothed by art + Degenerate; to me, the desperate wish, + Not in my soul to nurse ungenerous dreams, + But to contend, and with the sword of song + To fight my battles too. +</pre> + <p> + Such is the spirit, such is the manner, of the Prime Storie of Aleardi. + The merits of the poem are so obvious, that it seems scarcely profitable + to comment upon its picturesqueness, upon the clearness and ease of its + style, upon the art which quickens its frequent descriptions of nature + with a human interest. The defects of the poem are quite as plain, and I + have again to acknowledge the critical acuteness of Arnaud, who says of + Aleardi: “Instead of synthetizing his conceptions, and giving relief to + the principal lines, the poet lingers caressingly upon the particulars, + preferring the descriptive to the dramatic element. Prom this results + poetry of beautiful arabesques and exquisite fragments, of harmonious + verse and brilliant diction.” + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, the same critic confesses that the poetry of Aleardi “is not + academically common”, and pleases by the originality of its very + mannerism. + </p> + <h3> + III. + </h3> + <p> + Like Primal Histories, the Hour of my Youth is a contemplative poem, to + which frequency of episode gives life and movement; but its scope is less + grand, and the poet, recalling his early days, remembers chiefly the + events of defeated revolution which give such heroic sadness and splendor + to the history of the first third of this century. The work is + characterized by the same opulence of diction, and the same luxury of + epithet and imagery, as the Primal Histories, but it somehow fails to win + our interest in equal degree: perhaps because the patriot now begins to + overshadow the poet, and appeal is often made rather to the sympathies + than the imagination. It is certain that art ceases to be less, and + country more, in the poetry of Aleardi from this time. It could scarcely + be otherwise; and had it been otherwise, the poet would have become + despicable, not great, in the eyes of his countrymen. + </p> + <p> + The Hour of my Youth opens with a picture, where, for once at least, all + the brilliant effects are synthetized; the poet has ordered here the whole + Northern world, and you can dream of nothing grand or beautiful in those + lonely regions which you do not behold in it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ere yet upon the unhappy Arctic lands, + In dying autumn, Erebus descends + With the night's thousand hours, along the verge + Of the horizon, like a fugitive, + Through the long days wanders the weary sun; + And when at last under the wave is quenched + The last gleam of its golden countenance, + Interminable twilight land and sea + Discolors, and the north-wind covers deep + All things in snow, as in their sepulchers + The dead are buried. In the distances + The shock of warring Cyclades of ice + Makes music as of wild and strange lament; + And up in heaven now tardily are lit + The solitary polar star and seven + Lamps of the Bear. And now the warlike race + Of swans gather their hosts upon the breast + Of some far gulf, and, bidding their farewell + To the white cliffs, and slender junipers, + And sea-weed bridal-beds, intone the song + Of parting, and a sad metallic clang + Send through the mists. Upon their southward way + They greet the beryl-tinted icebergs; greet + Flamy volcanoes, and the seething founts + Of Geysers, and the melancholy yellow + Of the Icelandic fields; and, wearying, + Their lily wings amid the boreal lights, + Journey away unto the joyous shores + Of morning. +</pre> + <p> + In a strain of equal nobility, but of more personal and subjective effect, + the thought is completed: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So likewise, my own soul, from these obscure + Days without glory, wings its flight afar + Backward, and journeys to the years of youth + And morning. Oh, give me back once more, + Oh, give me, Lord, one hour of youth again! + For in that time I was serene and bold, + And uncontaminate, and enraptured with + The universe. I did not know the pangs + Of the proud mind, nor the sweet miseries + Of love; and I had never gathered yet, + After those fires so sweet in burning, bitter + Handfuls of ashes, that, with tardy tears + Sprinkled, at last have nourished into bloom + The solitary flower of penitence. + The baseness of the many was unknown, + And civic woes had not yet sown with salt + Life's narrow field. Ah! then the infinite + Voices that Nature sends her worshipers + From land, from sea, and from the cloudy depths + Of heaven smote the echoing soul of youth + To music. And at the first morning sigh + Of the poor wood-lark,—at the measured bell + Of homeward flocks, and at the opaline wings + Of dragon-flies in their aërial dances + Above the gorgeous carpets of the marsh,— + At the wind's moan, and at the sudden gleam + Of lamps lighting in some far town by night,— + And at the dash of rain that April shoots + Through the air odorous with the smitten dust,— + My spirits rose, and glad and swift my thought + Over the sea of being sped all-sails. +</pre> + <p> + There is a description of a battle, in the Hour of my Youth, which. I + cannot help quoting before I leave the poem. The battle took place between + the Austrians and the French on the 14th of January, 1797, in the Chiusa, + a narrow valley near Verona, and the fiercest part of the fight was for + the possession of the hill of Rivoli. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Clouds of smoke + Floated along the heights; and, with her wild, + Incessant echo, Chiusa still repeated + The harmony of the muskets. Rival hosts + Contended for the poverty of a hill + That scarce could give their number sepulcher; + But from that hill-crest waved the glorious locks + Of Victory. And round its bloody spurs, + Taken and lost with fierce vicissitude, + Serried and splendid, swept and tempested + Long-haired dragoons, together with the might + Of the Homeric foot, delirious + With fury; and the horses with their teeth + Tore one another, or, tossing wild their manes, + Fled with their helpless riders up the crags, + By strait and imminent paths of rock, till down, + Like angels thunder-smitten, to the depths + Of that abyss the riders fell. With slain + Was heaped the dreadful amphitheater; + The rocks dropped blood; and if with gasping breath + Some wounded swimmer beat away the waves + Weakly between him and the other shore, + The merciless riflemen from the cliffs above, + With their inexorable aim, beneath + The waters sunk him. +</pre> + <p> + The Monte Circellio is part of a poem in four cantos, dispersed, it is + said, to avoid the researches of the police, in which the poet recounts in + picturesque verse the glories and events of the Italian land and history + through which he passes. A slender but potent cord of common feeling + unites the episodes, and the lament for the present fate of Italy rises + into hope for her future. More than half of the poem is given to a + description of the geological growth of the earth, in which the + imagination of the poet has unbridled range, and in which there is a + success unknown to most other attempts to poetize the facts of science. + The epochs of darkness and inundation, of the monstrous races of bats and + lizards, of the mammoths and the gigantic vegetation, pass, and, after + thousands of years, the earth is tempered and purified to the use of man + by fire; and that + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Paradise of land and sea, forever + Stirred by great hopes and by volcanic fires, + Called Italy, +</pre> + <p> + takes shape: its burning mountains rise, its valleys sink, its plains + extend, its streams run. But first of all, the hills of Rome lifted + themselves from the waters, that day when the spirit of God dwelling upon + their face + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Saw a fierce group of seven enkindled hills, + In number like the mystic candles lighted + Within his future temple. Then he bent + Upon that mystic pleiades of flame + His luminous regard, and spoke to it: + “Thou art to be my Rome.” The harmony + Of that note to the nebulous heights supreme, + And to the bounds of the created world, + Rolled like the voice of myriad organ-stops, + And sank, and ceased. The heavenly orbs resumed + Their daily dance and their unending journey; + A mighty rush of plumes disturbed the rest + Of the vast silence; here and there like stars + About the sky, flashed the immortal eyes + Of choral angels following after him. +</pre> + <p> + The opening lines of Monte Circellio are scarcely less beautiful than the + first part of Un' Ora della mia Giovinezza, but I must content myself with + only one other extract from the poem, leaving the rest to the reader of + the original. The fact that every summer the Roman hospitals are filled + with the unhappy peasants who descend from the hills of the Abruzzi to + snatch its harvests from the feverish Campagna will help us to understand + all the meaning of the following passage, though nothing could add to its + pathos, unless, perhaps, the story given by Aleardi in a note at the foot + of his page: “How do you live here?” asked a traveler of one of the + peasants who reap the Campagna. The Abruzzese answered, “Signor, we die.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What time, + In hours of summer, sad with so much light, + The sun beats ceaselessly upon the fields, + The harvesters, as famine urges them, + Draw hither in thousands, and they wear + The look of those that dolorously go + In exile, and already their brown eyes + Are heavy with the poison of the air. + Here never note of amorous bird consoles + Their drooping hearts; here never the gay songs + Of their Abruzzi sound to gladden these + Pathetic hands. But taciturn they toil, + Reaping the harvest for their unknown lords; + And when the weary tabor is performed, + Taciturn they retire; and not till then + Their bagpipes crown the joys of the return, + Swelling the heart with their familiar strain. + Alas! not all return, for there is one + That dying in the furrow sits, and seeks + With his last look some faithful kinsman out, + To give his life's wage, that he carry it + Unto his trembling mother, with the last + Words of her son that comes no more. And dying, + Deserted and alone, far off he hears + His comrades going, with their pipes in time + Joyfully measuring their homeward steps. + And when in after years an orphan comes + To reap the harvest here, and feels his blade + Go quivering through the swaths of falling grain, + He weeps and thinks: haply these heavy stalks + Ripened on his unburied father's bones. +</pre> + <p> + In the poem called The Marine and Commercial Cities of Italy (Le Città + Italiane Marinare e Commercianti), Aleardi recounts the glorious rise, the + jealousies, the fratricidal wars, and the ignoble fall of Venice, + Florence, Pisa, and Genoa, in strains of grandeur and pathos; he has pride + in the wealth and freedom of those old queens of traffic, and scorn and + lamentation for the blind selfishness that kept them Venetian, Florentine, + Pisan, and Genoese, and never suffered them to be Italian. I take from + this poem the prophetic vision of the greatness of Venice, which, + according to the patriotic tradition of Sabellico, Saint Mark beheld five + hundred years before the foundation of the city, when one day, journeying + toward Aquileja, his ship lost her course among the islands of the + lagoons. The saint looked out over those melancholy swamps, and saw the + phantom of a Byzantine cathedral rest upon the reeds, while a + multitudinous voice broke the silence with the Venetian battle-cry, “Viva + San Marco!” The lines that follow illustrate the pride and splendor of + Venetian story, and are notable, I think, for a certain lofty grace of + movement and opulence of diction. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There thou shalt lie, O Saint!{1} but compassed round + Thickly by shining groves + Of pillars; on thy regal portico, + Lifting their glittering and impatient hooves, + Corinth's fierce steeds shall bound;{2} + And at thy name, the hymn of future wars, + From their funereal caves + The bandits of the waves + Shall fly in exile;{3} brought from bloody fields + Hard won and lost in far-off Palestine, + The glimmer of a thousand Arab moons + Shall fill thy broad lagoons; + And on the false Byzantine's towers shall climb + A blind old man sublime,{4} + Whom victory shall behold + Amidst his enemies with thy sacred flag, + All battle-rent, unrolled. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_NOTE2" id="link2H_NOTE2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Notes: + </h2> + <h3> + {1} The bones of St. Mark repose in his church at Venice. + </h3> + <p> + {2} The famous bronze horses of St. Mark's still shine with the gold that + once covered them. + </p> + <p> + {3} Venice early swept the Adriatic of the pirates who infested it. + </p> + <p> + {4} The Doge Enrico Dandolo, who, though blind and bowed with eighty years + of war, was the first to plant the banner of Saint Mark on the walls of + Constantinople when that city was taken by the Venetians and Crusaders. + </p> + <p> + The late poems of Aleardi are nearly all in this lyrical form, in which + the thought drops and rises with ceaseless change of music, and which wins + the reader of many empty Italian canzoni by the mere delight of its + movement. It is well adapted to the subjects for which Aleardi has used + it; it has a stateliness and strength of its own, and its alternate lapse + and ascent give animation to the ever-blending story and aspiration, + appeal or reflection. In this measure are written The Three Rivers, The + Three Maidens, and The Seven Soldiers. The latter is a poem of some + length, in which the poet, figuring himself upon a battle-field on the + morrow after a combat between Italians and Austrians, “wanders among the + wounded in search of expiated sins and of unknown heroism. He pauses,” + continues his eloquent biographer in the <i>Galleria Nazionale</i>, “to + meditate on the death of the Hungarian, Polish, Bohemian, Croatian, + Austrian, and Tyrolese soldiers, who personify the nationalities oppressed + by the tyranny of the house of Hapsburg. A minister of God, praying beside + the corpses of two friends, Pole and Hungarian, hails the dawn of the + Magyar resurrection. Then rises the grand figure of Sandor Petofi, 'the + patriotic poet of Hungary,' whose life was a hymn, and whose miraculous + re-appearance will, according to popular superstition, take place when + Hungary is freed from her chains. The poem closes with a prophecy + concerning the destinies of Austria and Italy.” Like all the poems of + Aleardi, it abounds in striking lines; but the interest, instead of + gathering strongly about one central idea, diffuses itself over + half-forgotten particulars of revolutionary history, and the sympathy of + the reader is fatigued and confused with the variety of the demand upon + it. + </p> + <p> + For this reason, The Three Rivers and The Three Maidens are more artistic + poems: in the former, the poet seeks vainly a promise of Italian greatness + and unity on the banks of Tiber and of Arno, but finds it by the Po, where + the war of 1859 is beginning; in the latter, three maidens recount to the + poet stories of the oppression which has imprisoned the father of one, + despoiled another's house through the tax-gatherer, and sent the brother + of the third to languish, the soldier-slave of his tyrants, in a land + where “the wife washes the garments of her husband, yet stained with + Italian blood”. + </p> + <p> + A very little book holds all the poems which Aleardi has written, and I + have named them nearly all. He has in greater degree than any other + Italian poet of this age, or perhaps of any age, those qualities which + English taste of this time demands—quickness of feeling and + brilliancy of expression. He lacks simplicity of idea, and his style is an + opal which takes all lights and hues, rather than the crystal which lets + the daylight colorlessly through. He is distinguished no less by the + themes he selects than by the expression he gives them. In his poetry + there is passion, but his subjects are usually those to which love is + accessory rather than essential; and he cares better to sing of universal + and national destinies as they concern individuals, than the raptures and + anguishes of youthful individuals as they concern mankind. The poet may be + wrong in this, but he achieves an undeniable novelty in it, and I confess + that I read him willingly on account of it. + </p> + <p> + In taking leave of him, I feel that I ought to let him have the last word, + which is one of self-criticism, and, I think, singularly just. He refers + to the fact of his early life, that his father forbade him to be a + painter, and says: “Not being allowed to use the pencil, I have used the + pen. And precisely on this account my pen resembles too much a pencil; + precisely on this account I am too much of a naturalist, and am too fond + of losing myself in minute details. I am as one, who, in walking, goes + leisurely along, and stops every moment to observe the dash of light that + breaks through the trees of the woods, the insect that alights on his + hand, the leaf that falls on his head, a cloud, a wave, a streak of smoke; + in fine, the thousand accidents that make creation so rich, so various, so + poetical, and beyond which we evermore catch glimpses of that grand, + mysterious something, eternal, immense, benignant, and never inhuman or + cruel, as some would have us believe, which is called God.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GUILIO CARCANO, ARNALDO FUSINATO AND LUIGI MERCANTINI + </h2> + <p> + No one could be more opposed, in spirit and method, to Aleardo Aleardi + than Giulio Carcano; but both of these poets betray love and study of + English masters. In the former there is something to remind us of Milton, + of Ossian, who is still believed a poet in Latin countries, and of Byron; + and in the latter, Arnaud notes very obvious resemblances to Gray, Crabbe, + and Wordsworth in the simplicity or the proud humility of the theme, and + the courage of its treatment. The critic declares the poet's aesthetic + creed to be God, the family, and country; and in a beautiful essay on + Domestic Poetry, written amidst the universal political discouragement of + 1839, Carcano himself declares that in the cultivation of a popular and + homelike feeling in literature the hope of Italy no less than of Italian + poetry lies. He was ready to respond to the impulses of the nation's + heart, which he had felt in his communion with its purest and best life, + when, in later years, its expectation gave place to action, and many of + his political poems are bold and noble. But his finest poems are those + which celebrate the affections of the household, and poetize the pathetic + beauty of toil and poverty in city and country. He sings with a tenderness + peculiarly winning of the love of mothers and children, and I shall give + the best notion of the poet's best in the following beautiful lullaby, + premising merely that the title of the poem is the Italian infantile for + sleep: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sleep, sleep, sleep! my little girl: + Mother is near thee. Sleep, unfurl + Thy veil o'er the cradle where baby lies! + Dream, baby, of angels in the skies! + On the sorrowful earth, in hopeless quest, + Passes the exile without rest; + Where'er he goes, in sun or snow, + Trouble and pain beside him go. + + But when I look upon thy sleep, + And hear thy breathing soft and deep, + My soul turns with a faith serene + To days of sorrow that have been, + And I feel that of love and happiness + Heaven has given my life excess; + The Lord in his mercy gave me thee, + And thou in truth art part of me! + + Thou knowest not, as I bend above thee, + How much I love thee, how much I love thee; + Thou art the very life of my heart, + Thou art my joy, thou art my smart! + Thy day begins uncertain, child: + Thou art a blossom in the wild; + But over thee, with his wings abroad, + Blossom, watches the angel of God. + + Ah! wherefore with so sad a face + Must thy father look on thy happiness? + In thy little bed he kissed thee now, + And dropped a tear upon thy brow. + Lord, to this mute and pensive soul + Temper the sharpness of his dole: + Give him peace whose love my life hath kept: + He too has hoped, though he has wept. + + And over thee, my own delight, + Watch that sweet Mother, day and night, + To whom the exiles consecrate + Altar and heart in every fate. + By her name I have called my little girl; + But on life's sea, in the tempest's whirl, + Thy helpless mother, my darling, may + Only tremble and only pray! + + Sleep, sleep, sleep! my baby dear; + Dream of the light of some sweet star. + Sleep, sleep! and I will keep + Thoughtful vigils above thy sleep. + Oh, in the days that are to come, + With unknown trial and unknown doom, + Thy little heart can ne'er love me + As thy mother loves and shall love thee! +</pre> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Arnaldo Fusinato of Padua has written for the most part comic poetry, his + principal piece of this sort being one in which he celebrates and + satirizes the student-life at the University of Padua. He had afterward to + make a formal reparation to the students, which he did in a poem singing + their many virtues. The original poem of The Student is a rather lively + series of pictures, from which we learn that it was once the habit of + studious youth at Padua, when freshmen, or <i>matricolini</i>, to be + terrible dandies, to swear aloud upon the public ways, to pass whole + nights at billiards, to be noisy at the theater, to stand treat for the + Seniors, joyfully to lend these money, and to acquire knowledge of the + world at any cost. Later, they advanced to the dignity of breaking + street-lamps and of being arrested by the Austrian garrison, for in Padua + the students were under a kind of martial law. Sometimes they were + expelled; they lost money at play, and wrote deceitful letters to their + parents for more; they shunned labor, and failed to take degrees. But we + cannot be interested in traits so foreign to what I understand is our own + student-life. Generally, the comic as well as the sentimental poetry of + Fusinato deals with incidents of popular life; and, of course, it has hits + at the fleeting fashions and passing sensations: for example, Il + Bloomerismo is satirized. + </p> + <p> + The poem which I translate, however, is in a different strain from any of + these. It will be remembered that when the Austrians returned to take + Venice in 1849, after they had been driven out for eighteen months, the + city stood a bombardment of many weeks, contesting every inch of the + approach with the invaders. But the Venetians were very few in number, and + poorly equipped; a famine prevailed among them; the cholera broke out, and + raged furiously; the bombs began to drop into the square of St. Mark, and + then the Venetians yielded, and ran up the white flag on the dearly + contested lagoon bridge, by which the railway traveler enters the city. + The poet is imagined in one of the little towns on the nearest main-land. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The twilight is deepening, still is the wave; + I sit by the window, mute as by a grave; + Silent, companionless, secret I pine; + Through tears where thou liest I look, Venice mine. + + On the clouds brokenly strewn through the west + Dies the last ray of the sun sunk to rest; + And a sad sibilance under the moon + Sighs from the broken heart of the lagoon. + + Out of the city a boat draweth near: + “You of the gondola! tell us what cheer!” + “Bread lacks, the cholera deadlier grows; + From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows.” + + No, no, nevermore on so great woe, + Bright sun of Italy, nevermore glow! + But o'er Venetian hopes shattered so soon, + Moan in thy sorrow forever, lagoon! + + Venice, to thee comes at last the last hour; + Martyr illustrious, in thy foe's power; + Bread lacks, the cholera deadlier grows; + From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows. + + Not all the battle-flames over thee streaming; + Not all the numberless bolts o'er thee screaming; + Not for these terrors thy free days are dead: + Long live Venice! She's dying for bread! + + On thy immortal page, sculpture, O Story, + Others'iniquity, Venice's glory; + And three times infamous ever be he + Who triumphed by famine, O Venice, o'er thee. + + Long live Venice! Undaunted she fell; + Bravely she fought for her banner and well; + But bread lacks; the cholera deadlier grows; + From the lagoon bridge the white banner blows. + + And now be shivered upon the stone here + Till thou be free again, O lyre I bear. + Unto thee, Venice, shall be my last song, + To thee the last kiss and the last tear belong. + + Exiled and lonely, from hence I depart, + But Venice forever shall live in my heart; + In my heart's sacred place Venice shall be + As is the face of my first love to me. + + But the wind rises, and over the pale + Face of its waters the deep sends a wail; + Breaking, the chords shriek, and the voice dies. + On the lagoon bridge the white banner flies! +</pre> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + Among the later Italian poets is Luigi Mercantini, of Palermo, who has + written almost entirely upon political themes—events of the + different revolutions and attempts at revolution in which Italian history + so abounds. I have not read him so thoroughly as to warrant me in speaking + very confidently about him, but from the examination which I have given + his poetry, I think that he treats his subjects with as little inflation + as possible, and he now and then touches a point of naturalness—the + high-water mark of balladry, to which modern poets, with their affected + unaffectedness and elaborate simplicity, attain only with the greatest + pains and labor. Such a triumph of Mercantini's is this poem which I am + about to give. It celebrates the daring and self-sacrifice of three + hundred brave young patriots, led by Carlo Pisacane, who landed on the + coast of Naples in 1857, for the purpose of exciting a revolution against + the Bourbons, and were all killed. In a note the poet reproduces the + pledge signed by these young heroes, which is so fine as not to be marred + even by their dramatic, almost theatrical, consciousness. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We who are here written down, having all sworn, + despising the calumnies of the vulgar, strong in the + justice of our cause and the boldness of our spirits, do + solemnly declare ourselves the initiators of the Italian + revolution. If the country does not respond to our appeal, + we, without reproaching it, will know how to die + like brave men, following the noble phalanx of Italian + martyrs. Let any other nation of the world find men + who, like us, shall immolate themselves to liberty, and + then only may it compare itself to Italy, though she still + be a slave. +</pre> + <p> + Mercantini puts his poem in the mouth of a peasant girl, and calls it + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE GLEANER OF SAPRI. + + They were three hundred; they were young and strong, + And they are dead! + That morning I was going out to glean; + A ship in the middle of the sea was seen + A barque it was of those that go by steam, + And from its top a tricolor flag did stream. + It anchored off the isle of Ponza; then + It stopped awhile, and then it turned again + Toward this place, and here they came ashore. + They came with arms, but not on us made war. + They were three hundred; they were young and strong, + And they are dead! + + They came in arms, but not on us made war; + But down they stooped until they kissed the shore, + And one by one I looked them in the face,— + A tear and smile in each one I could trace. + They were all thieves and robbers, their foes said. + They never took from us a loaf of bread. + I heard them utter nothing but this cry: + “We have come to die, for our dear land to die.” + They were three hundred; they were young and strong, + And they are dead! + + With his blue eyes and with his golden hair + There was a youth that marched before them there, + And I made bold and took him by the hand, + And “Whither goest thou, captain of this band?” + He looked at me and said: “Oh, sister mine, + I'm going to die for this dear land of thine.” + I felt my bosom tremble through and through; + I could not say, “May the Lord help you!” + They were three hundred; they were young and strong, + And they are dead! + + I did forget to glean afield that day, + But after them I wandered on their way. + And twice I saw them fall on the gendarmes, + And both times saw them take away their arms, + But when they came to the Certosa's wall + There rose a sound of horns and drums, and all + Amidst the smoke and shot and darting flame + More than a thousand foemen fell on them. + They were three hundred; they were young and strong, + And they are dead! + + They were three hundred and they would not fly; + They seemed three thousand and they chose to die. + They chose to die with each his sword in hand. + Before them ran their blood upon the land; + I prayed for them while I could see them fight, + But all at once I swooned and lost the sight; + I saw no more with them that captain fair, + With his blue eyes and with his golden hair. + They were three hundred; they were young and strong, + And they are dead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_CONC" id="link2H_CONC"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONCLUSION + </h2> + <p> + Little remains to be said in general of poetry whose character and + tendency are so single. It is, in a measure, rarely, if ever, known to + other literatures, a patriotic expression and aspiration. Under whatever + mask or disguise, it hides the same longing for freedom, the same impulse + toward unity, toward nationality, toward Italy. It is both voice and + force. + </p> + <p> + It helped incalculably in the accomplishment of what all Italians desired, + and, like other things which fulfill their function, it died with the need + that created it. No one now writes political poetry in Italy; no one + writes poetry at all with so much power as to make himself felt in men's + vital hopes and fears. Carducci seems an agnostic flowering of the old + romantic stalk; and for the rest, the Italians write realistic novels, as + the French do, the Russians, the Spaniards—as every people do who + have any literary life in them. In Italy, as elsewhere, realism is the + ultimation of romanticism. + </p> + <p> + Whether poetry will rise again is a question there as it is everywhere + else, and there is a good deal of idle prophesying about it. In the mean + time it is certain that it shares the universal decay. + </p> + <p> + Compendio della Storia della Letteratura Italiana. Di Paolo + Emiliano-Giudici. Firenze: Poligrafia Italiana, 1851. + </p> + <p> + Della Letteratura Italiana. Esempj e Giudizi, esposti da Cesare Cantù. A + Complemento della sua Storia degli Italiani. Torino: Presso l'Unione + Tipografico-Editrice, 1860. + </p> + <p> + Storia della Letteratura Italiana. Di Francesco de Sanctis. Napoli: + Antonio Morano, Editore, 1879. Saggi Critici. Di Francesco de Sanctis. + Napoli: Antonio Morano, Librajo-Editore, 1869. + </p> + <p> + I Contemporanei Italiani. Galleria Nazionale del Secolo XIX. Torino: + Dall'Unione Tipografico-Editrice, 1862. + </p> + <p> + L'Italie est-elle la Terre des Morts? Par Marc-Monnier. Paris: Hachette + & Cie., 1860. + </p> + <p> + I Poeti Patriottici. Studii di Giuseppe Arnaud. Milano: 1862. + </p> + <p> + The Tuscan Poet Giuseppe Giusti and his Times. By Susan Horner. London: + Macmillan & Co., 1864. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Modern Italian Poets, by William Dean Howells + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MODERN ITALIAN POETS *** + +***** This file should be named 8171-h.htm or 8171-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/1/7/8171/ + +Produced by Eric Eldred, Marc D'Hooghe, David Widger and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at + www.gutenberg.org/license. + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 +North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email +contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the +Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + + +</pre> + + </body> +</html> diff --git a/old/8mdip10.zip b/old/8mdip10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b082cb --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8mdip10.zip |