CHORUS.On the right hand a trumpet is sounding,On the left hand a trumpet replying,The field upon all sides resoundingWith the trampling of foot and of horse.Yonder flashes a flag; yonder flyingThrough the still air a bannerol glances;Here a squadron embattled advances,There another that threatens its course.The space 'twixt the foes now beneath themIs 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 bringethTo 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 themAll 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 themTo strike at the heart of his brother?What wrong, or what insult hath stung themTo wipe out what stain, or to die?They know not; to slay one anotherThey 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 themAway from the infamous field?Their sires, whom long years have saddened,And thoughts of the sepulcher chastened,In warning why have they not hastenedTo bid them to hold and to yield?As under the vine that embowersHis own happy threshold, the smilingClown watches the tempest that lowersOn the furrows his plow has not turned,So each waits in safety, beguilingThe time with his count of those fallingAfar in the fight, and the appallingFlames of towns and of villages burned.There, intent on the lips of their mothers,Thou shalt hear little children with scorningLearn to follow and flout at the brothersWhose blood they shall go forth to shed;Thou shalt see wives and maidens adorningTheir bosoms and hair with the splendorOf 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 vasterAnd 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 dyingThe love of life rises again.As out of the fan, when it tossesThe grain in its breath, the grain flashes,So over the field of their lossesFly the vanquished. But now in their courseStarts a squadron that suddenly dashesAthwart their wild flight and that stays them,While hard on the hindmost dismays themThe 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 laborTo the hoof-beaten road do they gather?Why turns every one to his neighborThe 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 tidingsIbring.All around I hear cries of rejoicing;The temples are decked; the song swellethFrom the hearts of the fratricides, voicingPraise and thanks that are hateful to God.Meantime from the Alps where he dwellethThe Stranger turns hither his vision,And numbers with cruel derisionThe brave that have bitten the sod.Leave your games, leave your songs and exulting;Fill again your battalions and rallyAgain to your banners! InsultingThe 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 sendethFrom 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 fearedstReceive, with the judgment he brings!A foe unprovoked to offend themAt 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 everFor 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'ertakethHim 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 preëmptionBound 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.
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 strangeesprit du corpsof 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 greatcondottiere. Carmagnola is speaking with one of the Commissioners of the Venetian Republic, when the other suddenly enters:
Commissioner.My lord, if instantlyYou haste not to prevent it, treacheryShameless and bold will be accomplished, makingOur victory vain, as't partly hath already.Count.How now?Com.The prisoners leave the camp in troops!The leaders and the soldiers vie togetherTo set them free; and nothing can restrain themSaving 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 sweetTo pardon when we conquer; and their hateIs quickly turned to friendship in the heartsThat throb beneath the steel. Ah, do not seekTo take this noble privilege from thoseWho risked their lives for your sake, and to-dayAre 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 usBelong 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 layTheir bleeding hands upon them, they will notSo easily believe it.Com.And is thisA joust for pleasure then? And doth not VeniceConquer to keep? And shall her victoryBe 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 insectThat, driven once away, returns to buzzAbout my face.... The victory is in vain!The field is heaped with corpses; scattered wide,And broken, are the rest—a most flourishingArmy, with which, if it were still united,And it were mine, mine truly, I'd engageTo overrun all Italy! Every designOf the enemy baffled; even the hope of harmTaken away from him; and from my handHardly escaped, and glad of their escape,Four captains against whom but yesterdayIt were a boast to show resistance; vanishedHalf of the dread of those great names; in usDoubled 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, orCare more forhimthanyou? that they have foughtInhisbehalf? Nay, they have combattedBecause a sovereign voice within the heartOf men that follow any banner cries,“Combat and conquer!” they have lost and soAre set at liberty; they'll sell themselves—O, such is now the soldier!—to the firstThat seeks to buy them—Buy them; they are yours!1st Com.When we paid those that were to fight withthem,We then believed ourselves to have purchased them.2d Com.My lord, Venice confides in you; in youShe sees a son; and all that to her goodAnd to her glory can redound, expectsShall 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 useDear to the soldier, I can not violate.2d Com.You, whom no one resists, on whom sopromptlyEvery 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 saidI could not; now I rather say, Iwillnot!No further words; with friends this hath been everMy ancient custom; satisfy at onceAnd gladly all just prayers, and for all otherRefuse them openly and promptly. Soldier!Com.Nay—what is your purpose?Count.You will see anon.{To a soldier who entersHow many prisoners still remain?Soldier.I think,My lord, four hundred.Count.Call them hither—callThe 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 heardA murmur in the camp. But these, my children,My comrades amid peril, and in joy,Those who confide in me, believe they followA leader ever ready to defendThe honor and advantage of the soldier;Iplay 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 meWhich shall deprive me of my comrades' love,If you desire to separate me from them,And so reduce me that I have no staySaving 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 aloneAre to a sad captivity reserved?A prisoner.Such, mighty lord, was never our belief.When we were called into your presence, weDid seem to hear a messenger that gaveOur freedom to us. Already, all of thoseThat yielded them to captains less than youHave been released, and only we—Count.Who was it,That made you prisoners?Prisoner.We were the lastTo give our arms up. All the rest were takenOr put to flight, and for a few brief momentsThe evil fortune of the battle weighedOn us alone. At last you made a signThat we should draw nigh to your banner,—weAlone not conquered, relics of the lost.Count.You are those? I am very glad, my friends,To see you again, and I can testifyThat you fought bravely; and if so much valorWere not betrayed, and if a captain equalUnto yourselves had led you, it had beenNo pleasant thing to stand before you.Prisoner.And nowShall it be our misfortune to have yieldedOnly to you, my lord? And they that foundA conqueror less glorious, shall they findMore courtesy in him? In vain, we askedOur freedom of your soldiers—no one durstDispose 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 neverBe ta'en away by him; he would have beenRather 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 anyShould think more highly than myself of me!You are all free, my friends; farewell! Go, followYour fortune, and if e'er again it lead youUnder a banner that's adverse to mine,Why, we shall see each other.(The Count observesyoung Pergola and stops him.)Ho, young man,Thou art not of the vulgar! Dress, and faceMore clearly still, proclaims it; yet with the othersThou minglest and art silent?Pergola.Vanquished menHave nought to say, O captain.Count.This ill-fortuneThou bearest so, that thou dost show thyselfWorthy a better. What's thy name?Pergola.A nameWhose fame 't were hard to greaten, and that laysOn him who bears it a great obligation.Pergola is my name.Count.What! thou 'rt the sonOf that brave man?Pergola.I am he.Count.Come, embraceThy father's ancient friend! Such as thou artThat I was when I knew him first. Thou bringestHappy days back to me! the happy days Of hope.And take thou heart! Fortune did giveA happier beginning unto me;But fortune's promises are for the brave.And soon or late she keeps them. Greet for meThy father, boy, and say to him that IAsked it not of thee, but that I was sureThis 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 shameWho is defeated; he begins well everWho 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 foesTill 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.
Count(speaking of his wife and daughter). By this timethey must know my fate. Ah! whyMight 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 needsDrink the draft drop by drop. O open fields,O liberal sunshine, O uproar of arms,O joy of peril, O trumpets, and the criesOf combatants, O my true steed! 'midst you'T were fair to die; but now I go rebelliousTo meet my destiny, driven to my doomLike some vile criminal, uttering on the wayImpotent vows, and pitiful complaints.
But I shall see my dear ones once againAnd, alas! hear their moans; the last adieuHear from their lips—shall find myself once moreWithin their arms—then part from them forever.They come! O God, bend down from heaven on themOne look of pity.{EnterANTONIETTA, MATILDE,andGONZAGA.Antonietta.My husband!Matilde.O my father!Antonietta.Ah, thus thou comest back! Is this the momentSo long desired?Count.O poor souls! Heaven knowsThat 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 sakesDo I need courage. And you, you will not surelyTake it away from me? God, when he makesDisaster fall on the innocent, he gives, too,The heart to bear it. Ah! letyoursbe equalTo your affliction now! Let us enjoyThis last embrace—it likewise is Heaven's gift.Daughter, thou weepest; and thou, wife! Oh, whenI chose thee mine, serenely did they daysGlide on in peace; but made I thee companionOf a sad destiny. And it is this thoughtEmbitters death to me. Would that I could notSee how unhappy I have made thee!Antonietta.O husbandOf my glad days, thou mad'st them glad! My heart,—Yes, thou may'st read it!—I die of sorrow! YetI 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 thoseFierce cries of hatred and of vengeance riseFrom out thine innocent soul. Nay, do not marThese moments; they are holy; the wrong's great,But pardon it, and thou shalt see in midst of illsA lofty joy remaining still. My death,The cruelest enemy could do no moreThan hasten it. Oh surely men did neverDiscover death, for they had made it fierceAnd insupportable! It is from HeavenThat it doth come, and Heaven accompanies it,Still with such comfort as men cannot giveNor 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 haveSome 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 kindredTake her with thee. She is their blood; to themThou once wast dear, and when thou didst becomeWife of their foe, only less dear; the cruelReasons of state have long time made adverseThe names of Carmagnola and Visconti;But thou go'st back unhappy; the sad causeOf hate is gone. Death's a great peacemaker!And thou, my tender flower, that to my armsWast wont to come and make my spirit light,Thou bow'st thy head? Aye, aye, the tempest roarsAbove thee! Thou dost tremble, and thy breastIs shaken with thy sobs. Upon my faceI feel thy burning tears fall down on me,And cannot wipe them from thy tender eyes.... Thou seem'st to askPity of me, Matilde. Ah! thy fatherCan 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 oftenThou hast pressed upon the morn of battle, whenWe knew not if we e'er should meet again:Wilt press it now once more, and give to meThy faith that thou wilt be defense and guardOf these poor women, till they are returnedUnto their kinsmen?Gonzaga.I do promise thee.Count.When thou go'st back to camp,Salute my brothers for me; and say to themThat I die innocent; witness thou hast beenOf all my deeds and thoughts—thou knowest it.Tell them that I did never stain my swordWith treason—I did never stain it—andI 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, whenUpon the field of slaughter the priest liftsHis hands amid the doleful noises, offering upThe sacrifice to heaven for the dead,Bethink thyself of me, for I too thoughtTo die in battle.Antonietta.O God, have pity on us!Count.O wife! Matilde! now the hour is nearWe needs must part. Farewell!Matilde.No, father—Count.YetOnce more, come to my heart! Once more, and now,In mercy, go!Antonietta.Ah, no! they shall unclasp usBy force!{A sound of armed men is heard without.Matilde.What sound is that?Antonietta.Almighty God!{The door opens in the middle; armed menare seen. Their leader advances towardthe Count; the women swoon.Count.Merciful God! Thou hast removed from themThis cruel moment, and I thank Thee! Friend,Succor them, and from this unhappy placeBear them! And when they see the light again,Tell them that nothing more is left to fear.
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:
{EnterCARLOandDESIDERIO.Desiderio.Oh, how heavilyHast 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 seeThy deadly wounded body, I that shouldBe wept by thee? I, miserable, alone,Dragged thee to this; blind dotard I, that fainHad made earth fair to thee, I digged thy grave.If only thou amidst thy warriors' songsHadst fallen on some day of victory,Or had I closed upon thy royal bedThine eyes amidst the sobs and reverent griefOf thy true liegemen, ah; it still had beenAnguish ineffable! And now thou diest,No king, deserted, in thy foeman's land,With no lament, saving thy father's, utteredBefore the man that doth exult to hear it.Carlo.Old man, thy grief deceives thee. Sorrowful,And not exultant do I see the fateOf a brave man and king. Adelchi's foeWas I, and he was mine, nor such that IMight rest upon this new throne, if he livedAnd were not in my hands. But now he isIn God's own hands, whither no enmityOf man can follow him.Des.'T is a fatal giftThy pity, if it never is bestowedSave upon those fallen beyond all hope—If thou dost never stay thine arm untilThou 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 terribleFor me to see thee so!Ad.Many in battleDid fall so by my sword.Des.Ah, then, this woundThou 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 theLord God of all.Des.Oh, dear unto those eyes! how far awayFrom thee I suffered! and it was one thoughtAmong so many woes upheld me. 'T was the hopeTo tell thee all one day in some safe hourOf peace—Ad.That hour of peace has come to me.Believe it, father, save that I leave theeCrushed with thy sorrow here below.Des.O frontSerene and bold! O fearless hand! O eyesThat once struck terror!Ad.Cease thy lamentations,Cease, father, in God's name! For was not thisThe 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 revealedSave in the latest hour. Thou'st lost a kingdom;Nay, do not weep! Trust me, when to this hourThou also shalt draw nigh, most jubilantAnd fair shall pass before thy thought the yearsIn which thou wast not king—the years in whichNo tears shall be recorded in the skiesAgainst thee, and thy name shall not ascendMixed with the curses of the unhappy. Oh,Rejoice that thou art king no longer! thatAll ways are closed against thee! There is noneFor innocent action, and there but remainsTo do wrong or to suffer wrong. A powerFierce, pitiless, grasps the world, and calls itselfThe right. The ruthless hands of our forefathersDid sow injustice, and our fathers thenDid water it with blood; and now the earthNo other harvest bears. It is not meetTo uphold crime, thou'st proved it, and if 't were,Must it not end thus? Nay, this happy manWhose 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 IThat lose my son, what shall console me?Ad.God!Who comforts us for all things. And oh, thouProud foe of mine!(Turning to Carlo.)Carlo.Nay, by this name, Adelchi,Call me no more; I was so, but toward deathHatred is impious and villainous. Nor such,Believe me, knows the heart of Carlo.Ad.FriendlyMy speech shall be, then, very meek and freeOf every bitter memory to both.For this I pray thee, and my dying handI lay in thine! I do not ask that thouShould'st let go free so great a captive—no,For I well see that my prayer were in vainAnd vain the prayer of any mortal. FirmThy heart is—must be—nor so far extendsThy pity. That which thou can'st not denyWithout being cruel, that I ask thee! MildAs it can be, and free of insult, beThis old man's bondage, even such as thouWould'st have implored for thy father, if the heavensHad destined thee the sorrow of leaving himIn others' power. His venerable headKeep thou from every outrage; for againstThe fallen many are brave; and let him notEndure the cruel sight of any of thoseHis vassals that betrayed him.Carlo.Take in deathThis glad assurance, Adelchi! and be HeavenMy testimony, that thy prayer is asThe word of Carlo!Ad.And thy enemy,In dying, prays for thee!EnterARVINO.Armno.(Impatiently) O mighty king, thy warriors and chiefsAsk entrance.Ad.(Appealingly.) Carlo!Carlo.Let not any dareTo draw anigh this tent; for here AdelchiIs sovereign; and no one but Adelchi's fatherAnd the meek minister of divine forgivenessHave 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! betrayedBy one of Thine, by all the rest abandoned:I come to seek Thy peace, and do Thou takeMy weary soul!Des.He heareth thee, my son,And thou art gone, and I in servitudeRemain 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 stepsBut lately taken. Thence upon the rightI turned toward Aquilone. AbandoningThe beaten paths, I found myself withinA dark and narrow valley; but it grewWider before my eyes as further onI kept my way. Here, now and then, I sawThe wandering flocks, and huts of shepherds. 'T wasThe furthermost abode of men. I enteredOne of the huts, craved shelter, and uponThe woolly fleece I slept the night away.Rising at dawn, of my good shepherd hostI asked my way to France. “Beyond those heightsAre other heights,” he said, “and others yet;And France is far and far away; but pathThere's none, and thousands are those mountains—Steep, naked, dreadful, uninhabitedUnless by ghosts, and never mortal manPassed 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 pilgrimMay carry, and in a coarse sack wrapping them,He laid them on my shoulders. RecompenseI 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. HereNo trace of man appeared, only the forestsOf untouched pines, rivers unknown, and valesWithout a path. All hushed, and nothing elseBut my own steps I heard, and now and thenThe rushing of the torrents, and the suddenScream of the hawk, or else the eagle, launchedFrom 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 conesOf 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 journeyI followed till he set. Uncertain still,Of my own way I went; from vale to valeCrossing forever; or, if it chanced at timesI saw the accessible slope of some great heightRising before me, and attained its crest,Yet loftier summits still, before, around,Towered over me; and other heights with snowFrom foot to summit whitening, that did seemLike steep, sharp tents fixed in the soil; and othersAppeared like iron, and arose in guiseOf walls insuperable. The third day fellWhat time I had a mighty mountain seenThat raised its top above the others; 't wasAll one green slope, and all its top was crownedWith trees. And thither eagerly I turnedMy weary steps. It was the eastern side,Sire, of this very mountain on which liesThy camp that faces toward the setting sun.While I yet lingered on its spurs the darknessDid overtake me; and upon the dryAnd slippery needles of the pine that coveredThe ground, I made my bed, and pillowed meAgainst their ancient trunks. A smiling hopeAwakened me at daybreak; and all fullOf a strange vigor, up the steep I climbed.Scarce had I reached the summit when my earWas smitten with a murmur that from farAppeared to come, deep, ceaseless; and I stoodAnd listened motionless. 'T was not the watersBroken upon the rocks below; 'twas not the windThat blew athwart the woods and whistling ranFrom one tree to another, but verilyA sound of living men, an indistinctRumor of words, of arms, of trampling feet,Swarming from far away; an agitationImmense, of men! My heart leaped, and my stepsI hastened. On that peak, O king, that seemsTo us like some sharp blade to pierce the heaven,There lies an ample plain that's covered thickWith grass ne'er trod before. And this I crossedThe quickest way; and now at every instantThe murmur nearer grew, and I devouredThe space between; I reached the brink, I launchedMy glance into the valley and I saw,I saw the tents of Israel, the desiredPavilion of Jacob; on the groundI fell, thanked God, adored him, and descended.
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 immovableAs, with the last sigh given,Lay his own clay, oblivious,From that great spirit riven,So the world stricken and wonderingStands at the tidings dread:Mutely pondering the ultimateHour of that fateful being,And in the vast futurityNo peer of his foreseeingAmong the countless myriadsHer blood-stained dust that tread.Him on his throne and gloriousSilent saw I, that never—When with awful vicissitudeHe sank, rose, fell forever—Mixed my voice with the numberlessVoices that pealed on high;Guiltless of servile flatteryAnd of the scorn of coward,Come I when darkness suddenlyOn so great light hath lowered,And offer a song at his sepulcherThat haply shall not die.From the Alps unto the Pyramids,From Rhine to ManzanaresUnfailingly the thunderstrokeHis 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 visionOf his creative majestyMost grandly traced should be.The eager and tempestuousJoy of the great plan's hour,The throe of the heart that controllesslyBurns with a dream of power,And wins it, and seizes victoryIt had seemed folly to hope—All he hath known: the infiniteRapture 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 arbiterHe sat between the two.He vanished; his days in the idlenessOf 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 distancesFor some dim sail in vain;So over his soul the memoriesBillowed and gathered ever!How oft to tell posterityHimself he did endeavor,And on the pages helplesslyFell his weary hand again.How many times, when listlesslyIn the long, dull day's declining—Downcast those glances fulminant,His arms on his breast entwining—He stood assailed by the memoriesOf days that were passed away;He thought of the camps, the arduousAssaults, 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 agonyHis panting soul had endedDespairing, but that potentlyA hand, from heaven extended,Into a clearer atmosphereIn mercy lifted him.And led him on by blossomingPathways of hope ascendingTo deathless fields, to happinessAll earthly dreams transcending,Where in the glory celestialEarth's fame is dumb and dim.Beautiful, deathless, beneficentFaith! used to triumphs, evenThis also write exultantly:No loftier pride 'neath heavenUnto the shame of CalvaryStooped ever yet its crest.Thou from his weary mortalityDisperse all bitter passions:The God that humbleth and hearteneth,That comforts and that chastens,Upon the pillow else desolateTo his pale lips lay pressed!
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.”