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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8171-0.txt b/8171-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4095170 --- /dev/null +++ b/8171-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11125 @@ +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, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +MODERN ITALIAN POETS + +ESSAYS AND VERSIONS + + +By William Dean Howells + + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +INTRODUCTION + +ARCADIAN SHEPHERDS + +GIUSEPPE PARINI + +VITTORIO ALFIERI + +VINCENZO MONTI + +UGO FOSCOLO + +ALESSANDRO MANZONI + +SILVIO PELLICO + +TOMMASO GROSSI + +LUIGI CARRER + +GIOVANNI BERCHET + +GIAMBATTISTA NICCOLINI + +GIACOMO LEOPARDI + +GIUSEPPE GIUSTI + +FRANCESCO DALL' ONGARO + +GIOVANNI PRATI + +ALEARDO ALEARDI + +GIULIO CARCANO + +ARNALDO FUSINATO + +LUIGI MERCANTINI + +CONCLUSION + + +PORTRAITS. + +VITTORIO ALFIERI + +VINCENZO MONTI + +UGO FOSCOLO + +ALESSANDRO MANZONI + +TOMMASO GROSSI + +GIAMBATTISTA NICCOLINI + +GIACOMO LEOPARDI + +GIUSEPPE GIUSTI + +FRANCESCO DALL' ONGARO + +GIOVANNI PRATI + +ALEARDO ALEARDI + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _to do_; 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 _chef-d'oeuvre_, 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?” + + +II + +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. + +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. + + +III + +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. + +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. + + +IV + +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? + + + + +ARCADIAN SHEPHERDS + + +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!” + +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 _abbés, cavalieri serventi_, and +_précieuses_, 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. + +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, _pro_ and +_con_, 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. + +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. + +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 +_illustrissimi_ 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. + +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. + +“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.” + + +I + +Giuseppe Torelli, a charming modern Italian writer, in a volume called +_Paessaggi e Profili_ (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. + +The social customs were mostly copied from France, except that purely +Italian invention, the _cavaliere servente_, who was in great vogue. +But there were everywhere in the cities coteries of fine ladies, +called _preziose_, who were formed upon the French _précieuses_ +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.” + + +II + +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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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 _porte-cochère_ +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 _sala_ 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. + +“'What is there new on Parnassus?' he is probably asked. + +“'Nothing', he replies, 'save the bleating of a lambkin lost upon the +lonely heights of the sacred hill.' + +“'I'll wager,' cries one of the ladies, 'that the shepherd who has +lost this lambkin is our Abbate Carlo!' + +“'And what can escape the penetrating eye of Aglauro Cidonia?' retorts +Frugoni, softly, with a modest air. + +“'Let us hear its bleating!' cries the lady of the house. + +“'Let us hear it!' echo her husband and her cavaliere servente. + +“'Let us hear it!' cry one, two, three, a half-dozen, visitors. + +“Frugoni reads his new production; ten exclamations receive the first +strophe; the second awakens twenty _evvivas_; 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.” + + +III + +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”. + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + + + + +GIUSEPPE PARINI + + +I + +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. + +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. + +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 +_Parini ed il suo Secolo_ 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 _literati_ +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. + +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. + +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 _abbati_, 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. + +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. + +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 _lupi lombardi_ (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 _ton_. 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.” + + +II + +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---- + +_The Gentle Reader._--His immortal poem? What _is_ his immortal poem? +I never heard even the name of it! + +Is it possible? But you, fair reader, who have its finest scenes by +heart---- + +_The Fair Reader._--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? + +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. + +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 _conversazione_, 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. + +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. + +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 _l'Osservatore_. 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 _Frusta Letteraria_ (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? + + +III + +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: + + 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. + +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. + + 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. + + * * * * * + + 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. + +When the hero is finally dressed for the visit to his lady, it is in +this splendid figure: + + 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? + +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. + + 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. + +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. + + 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.... + +Or rather-- + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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. + +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: + + 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. + +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-- + + 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. + +But at last the lady makes a signal to the cavalier that it is time to +rise from the table: + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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! + +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: + + 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. + +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. + + +IV + +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 _maestro in +casa_. 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. + +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 _thou_, “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!” + + + + +VITTORIO ALFIERI + + +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. + + +I + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +{Illustration: Vittorio Alfieri.} + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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 _will_ pass!'” + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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.” + + +II + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + + +III + +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. + +In the last scene, as Clytemnestra steals through the darkness to her +husband's chamber, she soliloquizes, with the dagger in her hand: + + 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! + + _Aegisthus._ Hast thou not done the deed? + + _Cly._ Aegisthus---- + + _Aeg._ 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! + + _Cly._ Thou here? + But how--woe's me, what did I promise thee! + What wicked counsel-- + + _Aeg._ 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. + +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:-- + + O treachery! + Thou, wife? O headens, I die! O treachery! + +Clytemnestra comes out with the dagger in her hand: + + 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! + +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:-- + + 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. + +While Electra fiercely muses, Clytemnestra enters, with the appeal: + + _Cly._ Daughter! + + _El._ What voice! Oh Heaven, thou here? + + _Cly._ 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. + + _El._ Whose tomb? + + _Cly._ Thy--hapless--father's. + + _El._ 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? + + _Cly._ Two lusters now are passed + Since that dread day, and two whole lusters now + I weep my crime. + + _El._ 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! + + * * * * + + _Cly._ 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? + +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. + + _Cly._ O daughter, he is my husband. Think, Aegisthus, + She is my daughter. + _Aeg._ She is Atrides' daughter! + + _El._ He is Atrides' murderer! + + _Cly._ Electra! + Have pity, Aegisthus! Look--the tomb! Oh, look, + The horrible tomb!--and art thou not content? + + _Aeg._ Woman, be less unlike thyself. Atrides,-- + Tell me by whose hand in yon tomb he lies? + + _Cly._ O mortal blame! What else is lacking now + To my unhappy, miserable life? + Who drove me to it now upbraids my crime! + + _El._ 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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,-- + + 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. + + _Orestes._ How fares it with that impious woman? + + _Electra._ 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. + +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: + + My only son beloved, I gave thee all. + + * * * * * + + 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. + +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. + +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: + + 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. + + _Aeg._ But how? Say on. + + _Pyl._ 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-- + + _Cly._ No more! Ah, peace! + His mother hears thee. + + _Pyl._ 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. + + _Cly._ O wicked death! + + _Pyl._ In Crete + All men lamented him, so potent in him + Were beauty, grace, and daring. + + _Cly._ 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? + +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: + + 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! + +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. + + +SCENE I. + +AEGISTHUS _and Soldiers._ + + _Aeg._ O treachery unforseen! O madness! Freed, + Orestes freed? Now we shall see.... + + _Enter_ CLYTEMNESTRA. + + _Cly._ Ah! turn + Backward thy steps. + + _Aeg._ Ah, wretch, dost thou arm too + Against me? + + _Cly._ I would save thee. Hearken to me, + I am no longer-- + + _Aeg._ Traitress-- + + _Cly._ Stay! + + _Aeg._ Thou 'st promised + Haply to give me to that wretch alive? + + _Cly._ 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-- + + _Aeg._ Against his fury + My sword shall be my stay. Go, leave me! + I go-- + + _Cly._ Whither? + + _Aeg._ To kill him! + + _Cly._ 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. + + _Aeg._ Nay, thou hop'st in vain + To save thy impious son from death. Hence! Peace! + Or I will else-- + + _Cly._ 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. + + _Aeg._ 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. + + _Cly._ Kill me, then! + + _Aeg._ I'll find escape some other way. + + _Cly._ I follow-- + + _Aeg._ Ill shield wert thou for me. Leave me--away, away! + At no price would I have thee by my side! {_Exit._ + + _Cly._ 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. + + _Enter_ ELECTRA. + + _El._ Mother, where goest thou! Turn thy steps again + Into the palace. Danger-- + + _Cly._ Orestes--speak! + Where is he now? What does he do? + + _El._ 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!” + + _Cly._ What do I hear? + + _El._ Calm thyself, mother; soon + Thou shalt behold thy son again, and soon + Th' infamous tyrant's corse-- + + _Cly._ Ah, cruel, leave me! + I go-- + + _El._ 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? + + _Cly._ Orestes is the wicked wretch! + + _El_. O Heaven! + + _Cly._ I go to save him or to perish with him. + + _El._ Nay, mother, thou shalt never go. Thou ravest-- + + _Cly._ The penalty is mine. I go-- + + _El._ O mother! + The monster that but now thy children doomed + To death, wouldst thou-- + + _Cly._ 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! {_Exit._ + + _El_. 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? + + _Enter_ PYLADES. + + Oh, tell me! Orestes--? + + _Pyl._ Compasses the palace + About with swords. And now our prey is safe. + Where lurks Aegisthus! Hast thou seen him? + + _El._ 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. + + _Pyl._ 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. + + _El._ “Orestes!” Ah, were't so! + + _Pyl._ Look at him in his fury where he comes! + + _Enter_ ORESTES _and his followers_. + + _Or._ 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. + _El._ He is not here; he-- + + _Or._ Traitors! You perchance + Have slain him without me? + + _Pyl._ Before I came + He had fled the palace. + + _Or._ 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. + + _El._ Orestes, dost thou not believe me?--me! + + _Or._ Who'rt thou? I want Aegisthus. + + _El._ He is fled. + + _Or._ He's fled, and you, ye wretches, linger here? + But I will find him. + + _Enter_ CLYTEMNESTRA. + + _Cly._ Oh, have pity, son! + + _Or._ Pity? Whose son am I? Atrides' son + Am I. + + _Cly._ Aegisthus, loaded with chains-- + + _Or._ He lives yet? + O joy! Let me go slay him! + + _Cly._ Nay, kill me! + I slew thy father--I alone. Aegisthus + Had no guilt in it. + + _Or._ Who, who grips my arm! + Who holds me back? O Madness! Ah Aegisthus! + I see him; they drag him hither--Off with thee! + + _Cly._ Orestes, dost thou not know thy mother? + + _Or._ Die, + Aegisthus! By Orestes' hand, die, villain! {_Exit._ + + _Cly._ Ah, thou'st escaped me! Thou shalt slay me + first! {_Exit_. + + _El._ Pylades, go! Run, run! Oh, stay her! fly; + Bring her back hither! {_Exit_ 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! + + _Enter_ ORESTES. + + O brother mine, come, + Avenger of the king of kings, our father, + Argos, and me, come to my heart! + + _Or._ 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! + + _El_. Then Clytemnestra did not come in time + To stay thine arm? + + _Or._ 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! + + _El._ Now is our sire avenged! + Calm thyself now, and tell me, did thine eyes + Behold not Pylades? + + _Or._ I saw Aegisthus; + None other. Where is dear Pylades? And why + Did he not second me in this glorious deed? + + _El._ I had confided to his care our mad + And desperate mother. + + _Or._ I knew nothing of them. + + _Enter_ PYLADES. + + _El._ See, Pylades returns--O heavens, what do I see? + Returns alone? + + _Or._ 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! + + _Pyl._ O sight! Orestes, + Give me that sword. + + _Or._ And wherefore? + + _Pyl._ Give it me. + + _Or._ Take it. + + _Pyl._ Oh listen! We may not tarry longer + Within these borders; come-- + + _Or._ But what-- + + _El_. Oh speak! + Where's Clytemnestra? + _Or._ Leave her; she is perchance + Kindling the pyre unto her traitor husband. + + _Pyl._ Oh, thou hast far more than fulfilled thy vengeance. + Come, now, and ask no more. + + _Or._ What dost thou say? + + _El._ Our mother! I beseech thee yet again! + Pylades--Oh what chill is this that creeps + Through all my veins? + + _Pyl._ The heavens-- + + _El._ Ah, she is dead! + + _Or._ Hath turned her dagger, maddened, on herself? + + _El._ Alas, Pylades! Why dost thou not answer? + + _Or._. Speak! What hath been? + + _Pyl._ Slain-- + + _Or._ And by whose hand? + + _Pyl._ Come! + + _El._ (_To_ ORESTES.) Thou slewest her! + + _Or._ I parricide? + + _Pyl._ Unknowing + Thou plungèdst in her heart thy sword, as blind + With rage thou rannest on Aegisthus-- + + _Or._ Oh, + What horror seizes me! I parricide? + My sword! Pylades, give it me; I'll have it-- + + _Pyl._ It shall not be. + + _El._ Brother-- + + _Or._ 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! + + _El._ Orestes, Orestes--miserable brother! + He hears us not! ah, he is mad! Forever, + Pylades, we must go beside him. + + _Pyl._ Hard, + Inevitable law of ruthless Fate! + + +IV + +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.” + +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, + + “Now wife, now mother, never wife nor mother, + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 + + I look and own myself a happy Goth, + +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. + +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: + + An enemy insulted and not slain! + What breast in triple iron armed, but needs + Must tremble at him? + +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,-- + + Being feared, I fear. + +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-- + + Misero me! sollievo a me non resta + Altro che il pianto, e il pianto è delitto! + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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: + + 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. + +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: + + 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! + + + + +VINCENZO MONTI AND UGO FOSCOLO + + +I + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + +II + +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. + +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. + +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 _terza rima_, 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. + +{Illustration: VINCENZO MONTI.} + +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 _not_ the Golden Age; and on +the _Bassvilliana_ 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 _Galeoto Manfredi_, 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 _Bassvilliana_, 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 _Bassvilliana_ 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 _Bassvilliana_ 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 +_Bassvilliana_, was abased in a later ode on Superstition. + +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. + +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, +_true_ 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 _improvvisatore_, 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. + + +III + +From the _Bassvilliana_ 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. + + 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. + +In this there are three really beautiful lines; namely, those which +describe the arrival of the spirit in the presence of God: + + There his flight ceases, there the heart, become + Aim of the threefold gaze divine, is stilled, + And all the urgence of desire is lost; + +Or, as it stands in the Italian: + + Ivi queta il suo voi, ivi s'appunta + In tre sguardi beata, ivi il cor tace, + E tutta perde del desio la punta. + +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 _Bassvilliana_ 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 +_Bassvilliana_, we can read the portents with which Monti makes the +heavens recognize the crime of his execution in Paris. + + 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. + + * * * * * + + 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? + +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: + + The tyrant has fallen. Ye peoples + Oppressèd, rise! Nature breathes freely. + Proud kings, bow before them and tremble; + Yonder crumbles the greatest of thrones! + (_Repeat_.) There was stricken the vile perjurer Capet, + +(He will only give Louis his family name!) + + 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! + +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. + + +IV + +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, _Popolo, ste cheto; Foscolo xe +rochio_! “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 +_Sepoleri_. It was in 1807. Not Jena, not Friedland, could dull the +sensation it imparted to the Italian republic of letters.” + + +V + +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.”.... + +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: + + 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} + + +Notes: + +{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. + +{2} Michelangelo. + +{3} Galileo. + +{4} Newton. + +{5} Florence. + +{6} It is the opinion of many historians that the _Divina +Commedia_ was commenced before the exile of Dante.--_Foscolo_. + +{7} Petrarch was born in exile of Florentine parents.--_Ibid_. + +{8} Alfieri. So Foscolo saw him in his last years. + +{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.” + + +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 Sepolcri_ +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + + 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. + +{Illustration: UGO FOSCOLO.} + +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. + + + + +ALESSANDRO MANZONI + + +I + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_villeggiatura_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + + +III + +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. + +{Illustration: Alessandro Manzoni.} + +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.” + +The Sacred Hymns were published in 1815, and in 1820 Manzoni gave the +world his first tragedy, _Il Conte di Carmagnola_, 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, _Adelchi_. +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. + +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. + +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. + + +IV + +“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. + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + + +V + +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 _condottieri_ had met to butcher each other +in the interests severally of the Duke of Milan and the Signory of +Venice. + + 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_ 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. + +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. + +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. + + +VI + +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 _esprit du +corps_ 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. + +The scene I am to give is in the tent of the great _condottiere_. +Carmagnola is speaking with one of the Commissioners of the Venetian +Republic, when the other suddenly enters: + + _Commissioner._ 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. + + _Count._ How now? + + _Com._ 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. + + _Count._ Command of mine? + + _Com._ You hesitate to give it? + + _Count._ '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. + + _Com._ 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. + + _Count._ 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. + + _Com._ And is this + A joust for pleasure then? And doth not Venice + Conquer to keep? And shall her victory + Be all in vain? + + _Count._ 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 _him_ than _you_? that they have fought + In _his_ 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! + + _1st Com._ When we paid those that were to fight with + them, + We then believed ourselves to have purchased them. + + _2d Com._ 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. + + _Count._ Everything I can. + + _2d Com._ And what can you not do upon this field? + + _Count._ The thing you ask. An ancient use, a use + Dear to the soldier, I can not violate. + + _2d Com._ 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? + + _Count._ I said + I could not; now I rather say, I _will_ 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! + + _Com._ Nay--what is your purpose? + + _Count._ You will see anon. + {_To a soldier who enters_ + How many prisoners still remain? + + _Soldier._ I think, + My lord, four hundred. + + _Count._ 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_ 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-- + + _Com._ What do you say? + + {_The prisoners, among them young Pergola, enter._ + + _Count (To the prisoners)._ O brave in vain! Unfortunate! + To you, + Fortune is cruelest, then? And you alone + Are to a sad captivity reserved? + + _A prisoner._ 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-- + + _Count._ Who was it, + That made you prisoners? + + _Prisoner._ 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. + + _Count._ 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. + + _Prisoner._ 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.” + + _Count._ (_To the Coms._) You hear them, lords? Well, + then, what do you say? + What would you do, you? _(To the prisoners)_ + 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. _(The Count observes + young Pergola and stops him.)_ + 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? + + _Pergola._ Vanquished men + Have nought to say, O captain. + + _Count._ This ill-fortune + Thou bearest so, that thou dost show thyself + Worthy a better. What's thy name? + + _Pergola._ A name + Whose fame 't were hard to greaten, and that lays + On him who bears it a great obligation. + Pergola is my name. + + _Count._ What! thou 'rt the son + Of that brave man? + _Pergola._ I am he. + + _Count._ 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. + + _Pergola._ Surely, + He chose it not; but his words were as wind. + + _Count._ 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, _(takes his hand)_ + I would show thee to my comrades. + I'd give thee back thy sword. Adieu, my lords; + (_To the Coms._) + I never will be merciful to your foes + Till I have conquered them. + +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. + +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. + +SCENE--THE PRISON. + + _Count_ (_speaking of his wife and daughter_). 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. + + * * * * * + + 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. + + {_Enter_ ANTONIETTA, MATILDE, _and_ GONZAGA. + _Antonietta._ My husband! + + _Matilde._ O my father! + + _Antonietta._ Ah, thus thou comest back! Is this the moment + So long desired? + + _Count._ 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 _yours_ 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! + + _Antonietta._ 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. + + _Count._ O love, I know how much I lose in thee: + Make me not feel it now too much. + + _Matilde._ The murderers! + + _Count._ 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. + + * * * * * + + 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? + + _Gonzaga._ I do promise thee. + + _Count._ 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. + + _Antonietta._ O God, have pity on us! + + _Count._ O wife! Matilde! now the hour is near + We needs must part. Farewell! + + _Matilde._ No, father-- + + _Count._ Yet + Once more, come to my heart! Once more, and now, + In mercy, go! + + _Antonietta._ Ah, no! they shall unclasp us + By force! + + {_A sound of armed men is heard without._ + + _Matilde._ What sound is that? + + _Antonietta._ Almighty God! + + {_The door opens in the middle; armed men + are seen. Their leader advances toward + the Count; the women swoon._ + + _Count._ 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. + + +VII + +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. + +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: + + + {_Enter_ CARLO _and_ DESIDERIO. + + _Desiderio._ 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. + + _Carlo._ 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. + + _Des._ '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! + + (_Adelchi is brought in, mortally wounded._) + + _Des._ My son! + + _Adelchi._ And do I see thee once more, father? + Oh come, and touch my hand! + + _Des._ 'T is terrible + For me to see thee so! + + _Ad._ Many in battle + Did fall so by my sword. + + _Des._ Ah, then, this wound + Thou hast, it is incurable? + + _Ad._ Incurable. + + _Des._ Alas, atrocious war! + And cruel I that made it. 'T is I kill thee. + + _Ad._ Not thou nor he _(pointing to Carlo)_, but the + Lord God of all. + + _Des._ 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-- + + _Ad._ That hour of peace has come to me. + Believe it, father, save that I leave thee + Crushed with thy sorrow here below. + + _Des._ O front + Serene and bold! O fearless hand! O eyes + That once struck terror! + + _Ad._ 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. + + _Des._ But I + That lose my son, what shall console me? + + _Ad._ God! + Who comforts us for all things. And oh, thou + Proud foe of mine! _(Turning to Carlo.)_ + + _Carlo._ 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. + + _Ad._ 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. + + _Carlo._ Take in death + This glad assurance, Adelchi! and be Heaven + My testimony, that thy prayer is as + The word of Carlo! + + _Ad._ And thy enemy, + In dying, prays for thee! + + _Enter_ ARVINO. + + _Armno._ (_Impatiently_) O mighty king, thy warriors and chiefs + Ask entrance. + + _Ad._ (_Appealingly_.) Carlo! + + _Carlo._ 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. + + _Des._ O my beloved son! + + _Ad._ O my father, + The light forsakes these eyes. + + _Des._ Adelchi,--No! + Thou shalt not leave me! + + _Ad._ 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! + + _Des._ He heareth thee, my son, + And thou art gone, and I in servitude + Remain to weep. + + +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: + + + 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. + + +VIII + +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. + + 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! + + +IX + +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. + +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. + +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!' + +“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.” + + + + +SILVIO PELLICO, TOMASSO GROSSI, LUIGI CAREER, AND GIOVANNI BERCHET + + +I + +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 _Conciliatore_ 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 _piombi_, 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. + +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. + +Few have borne wrong with such Christlike meekness and charity as +Pellico. One cannot read his _Prigioni_ 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 _Francesca da Rimini_, 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. + + +II + +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. + +{Illustration: TOMMASO GROSSI.} + + + 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! + +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. + +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: + + + 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. + +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. + +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. + + +III + +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. + +Carrer was poor, but the rich were glad to be his friends, without +putting him to shame; and as long as the once famous _conversazioni_ +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. + +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: + + + THE DUCHESS. + + + 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. + +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 _sermoni_, 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: + + 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! + +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. + + +IV + +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.” + +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. + +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!” + +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!” + +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 _conversazioni_ at many noble houses. In those of Milan many +distinguished literary men of other nations met. Byron and Hobhouse +were frequenters of the same _salons_ 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. + +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. + + + 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!” + + + + +GIAMBATTISTA NICCOLINI + + +I + +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. + +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 _galantuomo_ 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 _Antologia_, +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. + +Giambattista Niccolini, like nearly all the poets of his time and +country, was of noble birth, his father being a _cavaliere_, 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 _Medea_ 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. + +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 +_régime_. 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 _codino_, +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, + + If the queue remains in your hand, + A true republican is he; + Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! + Give him a kick for liberty. + +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.” + + +II + +The first political tragedy of Niccolini was the _Nebuchadnezzar_, +which was printed in London in 1819, and figured, under that +Scriptural disguise, the career of Napoleon. After that came his +_Antonio Foscarini_, 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. + +It is much easier to understand the success of Niccolini's subsequent +drama, _Lodovico il Moro_, 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. + +The _Giovanni da Procida_ 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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: + + Perchè tanto sorriso del cielo + Sulla terra del vile dolor? + +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: + + 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! + + +{Illustration: Giambattista Niccolini.} + +“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: + + “Why should heaven smile so glorious over + The land of our infamous woe?” + +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, _Arnaldo da Brescia_, 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. + +The tragedies which succeeded the Arnaldo were the _Filippo Strozzi_, +published in 1847; the _Beatrice_ _Cenci_, a version from the English +of Shelley, and the _Mario e i Cimbri_. + +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 _ballerina_ +or a successful _prima donna_, 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. + + +III + +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.” + + +IV + +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: + + 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 _Mystery!_ + 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! + +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: + + Where the earth calls at every step, “Oh, pause, + Thou treadest on a hero!” + +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: + + Impious race! you've chosen Rome for shepherd + A cruel barbarian, and even his name + Tortures our ears. + + _Arnaldo._ 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. + +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:-- + + 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. + + _The People._ The arms we have are strange and few, + Our walls Are fallen and ruinous. + + _Arnaldo._ 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. + + _People._ You outrage us, sir! + + _Arnaldo._ 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? + + _People._ No more! Cease, or thou diest! + +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. + +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: + + 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. + + _Guido_ (_kneeling at Adrian's feet_). 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. + +Guido then withdraws at the Pope's bidding, in order to send a +messenger to Arnaldo, and Adrian utters this fine soliloquy: + + 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! + +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: + + These modern pharisees, upon the cross, + Where Christ hung dying once, have nailed mankind, + +Arnaldo answers: + + He will know how to save that rose and conquered; + +And Giordano replies: + + Yes, Christ arose; but Freedom cannot break + The stone that shuts her ancient sepulcher, + For on it stands the altar. + +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: + + 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! + + * * * * * + + 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. + + _Adrian._ 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. + + _Arnaldo_. 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. + + * * * * * + + 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. + + * * * * * + + 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! + + _Adrian._ 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! + + _Arnaldo_. 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. + +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. + +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: + + _The Pope._ 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! + + _The Cardinals._ Anathema, anathema, anathema! + + _Pope._ May their widows sit down 'mid the ashes + On the hearths of their desolate houses, + With their little ones wailing around them. + + _Cardinals._ Anathema, anathema, anathema! + + _Pope._ May he who was born to the fury + Of heaven, afar from his country + Be lost in his ultimate anguish. + + _Cardinals._ Anathema, anathema, anathema! + + _Pope._ 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. + + _Cardinals._ Be that morsel denied him! + + _Pope._ 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. + + +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: + + 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, _The world is mine!_ + 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. + +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. + +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: + + 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. + +Then one of the Swiss soldiers speaks alone: + + 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + 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. + +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: + + I read there in his face his insolent pride + Veiled by humility. + +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: + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + +But Frederick, crying aloud, and fixing the sense of the multitude +upon him, answers: + + Nay, not all, O Father!-- + Princes and soldiers, hear! I have done homage + To Peter, not to him. + +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: + + 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. + +The soldiers of Barbarossa press upon Giordano to kill him, and +Frederick saves the ambassadors with difficulty, and hurries them +away. + +In the first part of the fifth act, Niccolini deals again with the +_rôle_ 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: + + Hast thou betrayed + Thy husband, or from some yet greater crime + Cometh the terror that oppresses thee? + Hast slain him? + + _Adelasia._ Haply I ought to slay him. + + _Adrian._ What? + + _Adelasia._ I fain would hate him and I cannot. + + _Adrian._ What + Hath his fault been? + + _Ad._ Oh, the most horrible + Of all. + + _Adr._ And yet is he dear unto thee? + + _Ad._ 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.” + +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: + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + + +V + +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. + +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. + + + + +GIACOMO LEOPARDI + + +I + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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 _caffè_, +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 _ennui_ 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.” + +{Illustration: GIACOMO LEOPARDI} + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + + +II + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + + 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.” + +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. + + 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! + +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. + +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: + + 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! + +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. + + ... 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? + + * * * * * + + 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! + +“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.” + +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: + + 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. + + * * * * * + + 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. + +It is the same note, the same voice; the theme does not change, but +perhaps it is deepened in this ode: + + 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? + +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. + + 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. + + +III + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + + + + +GIUSEPPE GIUSTI + +I + + +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. + +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. + +After leaving school, Giusti passed three idle years with his family, +and then went to study the humanities at Pisa, where he found the +_café_ 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. + +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 _agonizzanti_, 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. + +“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.” + +{Illustration: GIUSEPPE GIUSTI.} + +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. + +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. + +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. + + +II + +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 + + Rogue of canzonets and serenades + +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, + + Immersed in suppers and balls, + A martyr in yellow gloves, + +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. + +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. + + 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-- + _Promessi Sposi_--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. + +Note {1}: Alessandro Manzoni. + + +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. + +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. + +Giusti speaks of the part which he bears as a spectator and critic of +passing events, and then apostrophizes himself: + + 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? + + * * * * * + + 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! + +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. + + + 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 _free_, + 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. + +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 +_carte-bianche_.” + + 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. + +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 _ruses_ 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 + + 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 _bread_'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. + +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,-- + + 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 _half_ as true! + You understand, and I need say no more; + Lucky for you if you get me up a war! + +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. + +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: + + 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 _you_ 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. + +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: + + 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 _Dies Irae_? Nay, + In all the days to come yet, + Shall there be no Judgment Day? + +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 _tang_ 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. + +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 + + 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. + + + + +FRANCESCO DALL' ONGARO + + +I + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + 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! + +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 _con amore_, and in no vain sentiment of dilettanteism, or +antiquarian research, or literary patronage. + +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. + +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. + + 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. + + +II + +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. + +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. + +{Illustration: FRANCESCO DALL' ONGARA} + +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. + + +III + +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. + +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. + + 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! + +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. + +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. + + 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. + +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. + +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} + +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.” + + 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. + +The repressed horror in the lines, + + I have seen blood run, I have heard the cry + Of him that struck and him that vainly sued, + +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.” + +There is still another of these songs, in which the heart of womanhood +speaks, though this time with a voice of pride and happiness. + + 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! + +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: + + Mi menò a moglie e mi vuol tanto bene! + +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: + + 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. + +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. + + 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. + +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. + + 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + 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! + +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. + + 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! + +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. + + 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. + +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. + + + + +GIOVANNI PRATI + + +I + +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 _collegio_ +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 _poeta cesareo_, 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. + +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 +_Gallerìa Nazionale_, “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.” + +{Illustration: GIOVANNI PRATI.} + +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 (_flânerie_), 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; _puis cà et là, par +hasard, une bonne fortune_; 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.” + +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: + + 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! + + + 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. + + + 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? + +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: + + 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! + + + + +ALEARDO ALEARDI + +I. + +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 _mole_, 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. + +One of the offensive poems, which he says he and his friends had the +audacity to call an ode, was this: + + 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +{Illustration: ALEARDO ALEARDI.} + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + +II + +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. + +He takes this fruitful theme, because he feels it to be alive with +eternal interest, and rejects the well-worn classic fables, because + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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, + + Lording it proudly in the garden's midst, + The guilty apple with its fatal beauty. + +He weeps; and Cain, furiously returning from the unaccepted labor of +the fields, lifts his hand against his brother. + + 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. + +Cain passes away, and his children fill the world, and the joy of +guiltless labor brightens the poet's somber verse. + + 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. + +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, + + Who, in the leisure of the argent nights, + Leading their flocks upon a sea of meadows, + +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. + + 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. + +The destroying rains descended, + + 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. + +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. + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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: + + 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. + +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.” + +Nevertheless, the same critic confesses that the poetry of Aleardi “is +not academically common”, and pleases by the originality of its very +mannerism. + + +III. + +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. + +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. + + 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. + +In a strain of equal nobility, but of more personal and subjective +effect, the thought is completed: + + 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. + +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. + + 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. + +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 + + Paradise of land and sea, forever + Stirred by great hopes and by volcanic fires, + Called Italy, + +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 + + 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. + +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.” + + 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. + +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. + + 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. + +Notes: + +{1} The bones of St. Mark repose in his church at Venice. + +{2} The famous bronze horses of St. Mark's still shine with the gold +that once covered them. + +{3} Venice early swept the Adriatic of the pirates who infested it. + +{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. + + +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 _Galleria Nazionale_, “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. + +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”. + +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. + +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.” + + + + +GUILIO CARCANO, ARNALDO FUSINATO AND LUIGI MERCANTINI + + +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: + + 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! + + +II + +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 +_matricolini_, 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. + +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. + + 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! + + +III + +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. + + 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. + +Mercantini puts his poem in the mouth of a peasant girl, and calls it + + 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. + + + + + +CONCLUSION + + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + +Compendio della Storia della Letteratura Italiana. Di Paolo +Emiliano-Giudici. Firenze: Poligrafia Italiana, 1851. + +Della Letteratura Italiana. Esempj e Giudizi, esposti da Cesare Cantù. +A Complemento della sua Storia degli Italiani. Torino: Presso l'Unione +Tipografico-Editrice, 1860. + +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. + +I Contemporanei Italiani. Galleria Nazionale del Secolo XIX. Torino: +Dall'Unione Tipografico-Editrice, 1862. + +L'Italie est-elle la Terre des Morts? Par Marc-Monnier. Paris: +Hachette & Cie., 1860. + +I Poeti Patriottici. Studii di Giuseppe Arnaud. Milano: 1862. + +The Tuscan Poet Giuseppe Giusti and his Times. By Susan Horner. +London: Macmillan & Co., 1864. + + + + + + + +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 8171-0.txt or 8171-0.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, 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. 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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. 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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. 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