"Rip your brother's vices open, strip your own foul passions bare;Down with Reticence, down with Reverence—forward—naked—let them stare."
But there was an Emperor once (we know the story) who went forth among his people naked. It was said that he wore fairy clothes, and that only the unwise could fail to see them. At last a little child raised its voice from the crowd!“Why, he has nothing on,”it said. And so these writers of ours go out from day to day, girded on, they would have us believe, with the garments of art; and fashion has lacked the courage to cry out with the little child:“They have nothing on.”No robe of art, no texture of skill, they whirl before us in a bacchanalian dance naked and unashamed. But the time will come, it must, when the voices of the multitude will take up the cry of the child, and the revellers will hurry to their houses in dismay. Without dignity, without self-restraint, without the morality of art, literature has never survived; they are the few who rose superior to the baser levels of their time, who stand unimpugned among the immortals now. And that mortal who would put on immortality must first assume that habit of reticence, that garb of humility by which true greatness is best known. To endure restraint—thatis to be strong.
A Lady Reading
By Walter Sickert
Reproduced by Messrs. Carl Hentschel & Co.
Illustration: A Lady Reading
By Hubert Crackanthorpe
The pink shade of a single lamp supplied an air of subdued mystery; the fire burned red and still; in place of door and windows hung curtains, obscure, formless; the furniture, dainty, but sparse, stood detached and incoördinate like the furniture of a stage-scene; the atmosphere was heavy with heat, and a scent of stale tobacco; some cut flowers, half withered, tissue-paper still wrapping their stalks, lay on a gilt, cane-bottomed chair.
“Will you give me a sheet of paper, please?”
He had crossed the room, to seat himself before the principal table. He wore a fur-lined overcoat, and he was tall, and broad, and bald; a sleek face, made grave by gold-rimmed spectacles.
The other man was in evening dress; his back leaning against the mantelpiece, his hands in his pockets: he was moodily scraping the hearthrug with his toe. Clean-shaved; stolid and coarsely regular features; black, shiny hair, flattened on to his head; under-sized eyes, moist and glistening; the tint of his face uniform, the tint of discoloured ivory; he looked a man who ate well and lived hard.
“Certainly, sir, certainly,”and he started to hurry about the room.
“Daisy,”he exclaimed roughly, a moment later,“where the deuce do you keep the note-paper?”
“I don't know if there is any, but the girl always has some.”She spoke in a slow tone—insolent and fatigued.
A couple of bed-pillows were supporting her head, and a scarlet plush cloak, trimmed with white down, was covering her feet, as she lay curled on the sofa. The fire-light glinted on the metallic gold of her hair, which clashed with the black of her eyebrows; and the full, blue eyes, wide-set, contradicted the hard line of her vivid-red lips. She drummed her fingers on the sofa-edge, nervously.
“Never mind,”said the bald man shortly, producing a notebook from his breast-pocket, and tearing a leaf from it.
He wrote, and the other two stayed silent; the man returned to the hearthrug, lifting his coat-tails under his arms; the girl went on drumming the sofa-edge.
“There,”sliding back his chair, and looking from the one to the other, evidently uncertain which of the two he should address.“Here is the prescription. Get it made up to-night, a table-spoonful at a time, in a wine-glassful of water at lunch-time, at dinner-time and before going to bed. Go on with the port wine twice a day, and (to the girl, deliberately and distinctly) youmustkeep quite quiet; avoid all sort of excitement—that is extremely important. Of course you must on no account go out at night. Go to bed early, take regular meals, and keep always warm.”
“I say,”broke in the girl,“tell us, it isn't bad—dangerous, I mean?”
“Dangerous!—no, not if you do what I tell you.”
He glanced at his watch, and rose, buttoning his coat.
“Good-evening,”he said gravely.
At first she paid no heed; she was vacantly staring before her:then, suddenly conscious that he was waiting, she looked up at him.
“Good-night, doctor.”
She held out her hand, and he took it.
“I'll get all right, won't I?”she asked, still looking up at him.
“All right—of course you will—of course. But remember you must do what I tell you.”
The other man handed him his hat and umbrella, opened the door for him, and it closed behind them.
The girl remained quiet, sharply blinking her eyes, her whole expression eager, intense.
A murmer of voices, a muffled tread of footsteps descending the stairs—the gentle shutting of a door—stillness.
She raised herself on her elbow, listening; the cloak slipped noiselessly to the floor. Quickly her arm shot out to the bell-rope: she pulled it violently; waited, expectant; and pulled again.
A slatternly figure appeared—a woman of middle-age—her arms, bared to the elbows, smeared with dirt; a grimy apron over her knees.
“What's up?—I was smashin' coal,”she explained.
“Come here,”hoarsely whispered the girl—“here—no—nearer—quite close. Where's he gone?”
“Gone? 'oo?”
“That man that was here.”
“I s'ppose 'ee's in the downstairs room. I ain't 'eard the front door slam.”
“And Dick, where's he?”
“They're both in there together, I s'ppose.”
“I want you to go down—quietly—without making a noise—listen at the door—come up, and tell me what they're saying.”
“What? down there?”jerking her thumb over her shoulder.
“Yes, of course—at once,”answered the girl, impatiently.
“And if they catches me—a nice fool I looks. No, I'm jest blowed if I do!”she concluded.“Whatever's up?”
“You must,”the girl broke out excitedly.“I tell you, you must.”
“Must—must—an' if I do, what am I goin' to git out of it?”She paused, reflecting; then added:“Look 'ere—I tell yer what—I'll do it for half a quid, there?”
“Yes—yes—all right—only make haste.”
“An' 'ow d' I know as I'll git it?”she objected doggedly.“It's a jolly risk, yer know.”
The girl sprang up, flushed and feverish.
“Quick—or he'll be gone. I don't know where it is—but you shall have it—I promise—quick—please go—quick.”
The other hesitated, her lips pressed together; turned, and went out.
And the girl, catching at her breath, clutched a chair.
A flame flickered up in the fire, buzzing spasmodically. A creak outside. She had come up. But the curtains did not move. Why didn't she come in? She was going past. The girl hastened across the room, the intensity of the impulse lending her strength.
“Come—come in,”she gasped.“Quick—I'm slipping.”
She struck at the wall; but with the flat of her hand, for there was no grip. The woman bursting in, caught her, and led her back to the sofa.
“There, there, dearie,”tucking the cloak round her feet.“Lift up the piller, my 'ands are that mucky. Will yer 'ave anythin'?”
She shook her head.“It's gone,”she muttered.“Now—tell me.”
“Tell yer?—tell yer what! Why—why—there ain't jest nothin' to tell yer.”
“What were they saying? Quick.”
“I didn't 'ear nothin'. They was talking about some ballet-woman.”
The girl began to cry, feebly, helplessly, like a child in pain.
“You might tell me, Liz. You might tell me. I've been a good sort to you.”
“That yer 'ave. I knows yer 'ave, dearie. There, there, don't yer take on like that. Yer'll only make yerself bad again.”
“Tell me—tell me,”she wailed.“I've been a good sort to you, Liz.”
“Well, they wasn't talkin' of no ballet-woman—that's straight,”the woman blurted out savagely.
“What did he say?—tell me.”Her voice was weaker now.
“I can't tell yer—don't yer ask me—for God's sake, don't yer ask me.”
With a low crooning the girl cried again.
“Oh! for God's sake, don't yer take on like that—it's awful—I can't stand it. There, dearie, stop that cryin' an' I'll tell yer—I will indeed. It was jest this way—I slips my shoes off, an' I goes down as careful—jest as careful as a cat—an' when I gets to the door I crouches myself down, listenin' as 'ard as ever I could. The first things as I 'ears was Mr. Dick speakin' thick-like—like as if 'ee'd bin drinkin'—an t'other chap 'ee says somethin' about lungs, using some long word—I missed that—there was a van or somethin' rackettin' on the road. Then 'ee says 'gallopin', gallopin',' jest like as 'ee was talkin' of a 'orse. An' Mr. Dick, 'ee says, 'ain't there no chance—no'ow?' and 'ee give asort of a grunt. I was awful sorry for 'im, that I was, 'ee must 'ave been crool bad, 'ee's mostly so quiet-like, ain't 'ee? An', in a minute, ee sort o' groans out somethin', an' t'other chap 'es answer 'im quite cool-like, that 'ee don't properly know; but, anyways, it 'ud be over afore the end of February. There I've done it. Oh! dearie, it's awful, awful, that's jest what it is. An' I 'ad no intention to tell yer—not a blessed word—that I didn't—may God strike me blind if I did! Some'ow it all come out, seein' yer chokin' that 'ard an' feelin' at the wall there. Yer 'ad no right to ask me to do it—'ow was I to know 'ee was a doctor?”
She put the two corners of her apron to her eyes, gurgling loudly.
“Look 'ere, don't yer b'lieve a word of it—I don't—I tell yer they're a 'umbuggin' lot, them doctors, all together. I know it. Yer take my word for that—yer'll git all right again. Yer'll be as well as I am, afore yer've done—Oh, Lord!—it's jest awful—I feel that upset—I'd like to cut my tongue out, for 'avin' told yer—but I jest couldn't 'elp myself.”She was retreating towards the door, wiping her eyes, and snorting out loud sobs—“An', don't you offer me that half quid—I couldn't take it of yer—that I couldn't.”
She shivered, sat up, and dragged the cloak tight round her shoulders. In her desire to get warm she forgot what had happened. She extended the palms of her hands towards the grate: the grate was delicious. A smoking lump of coal clattered on to the fender: she lifted the tongs, but the sickening remembrance arrested her. The things in the room were receding, dancing round: the fire was growing taller and taller. The woollen scarf chafed her skin: she wrenched it off. Then hope, keen andbitter, shot up, hurting her.“How could he know? Of course he couldn't know. She'd been a lot better this last fortnight—the other doctor said so—she didn't believe it—she didn't care——Anyway, it would be over before the end of February!”
Suddenly the crooning wail started again: next, spasms of weeping, harsh and gasping.
By-and-by she understood that she was crying noisily, and that she was alone in the room; like a light in a wind, the sobbing fit ceased.
“Let me live—let me live—I'll be straight—I'll go to church—I'll do anything! Take it away—it hurts—I can't bear it!”
Once more the sound of her own voice in the empty room calmed her. But the tension of emotion slackened, only to tighten again: immediately she was jeering at herself. What was she wasting her breath for? What had Jesus ever done for her? She'd had her fling, and it was no thanks to Him.
“'Dy-sy—Dy-sy——'”
From the street below, boisterous and loud, the refrain came up. And, as the footsteps tramped away, the words reached her once more, indistinct in the distance:
“'I'm jest cryzy, all for the love o' you.'”
She felt frightened. It was like a thing in a play. It was as if some one was there, in the room—hiding—watching her.
Then a coughing fit started, racking her. In the middle, she struggled to cry for help; she thought she was going to suffocate.
Afterwards she sank back, limp, tired, and sleepy.
The end of February—she was going to die—it was important, exciting—what would it be like? Everybody else died. Midge had died in the summer—but that was worry and going the pace. And they said that Annie Evans was going off too. Damn it! she wasn't going to be chicken-hearted. She'd face it. She'dhad a jolly time. She'd be game till the end. Hell-fire—that was all stuff and nonsense—she knew that. It would be just nothing—like a sleep. Not even painful: she'd be just shut down in a coffin, and she wouldn't know that they were doing it. Ah! but they might do it before she was quite dead! It had happened sometimes. And she wouldn't be able to get out. The lid would be nailed, and there would be earth on the top. And if she called, no one would hear.
Ugh! what a fit of the blues she was getting! It was beastly, being alone. Why the devil didn't Dick come back?
That noise, what was that?
Bah! only some one in the street. What a fool she was!
She winced again as the fierce feeling of revolt swept through her, the wild longing to fight. It was damned rough—four months! A year, six months even, was a long time. The pain grew acute, different from anything she had felt before.
“Good Lord! what am I maundering on about? Four months—I'll go out with a fizzle like a firework. Why the devil doesn't Dick come?—or Liz—or somebody? What do they leave me alone like this for?”
She dragged at the bell-rope.
He came in, white and blear-eyed.
“Whatever have you been doing all this time?”she began angrily.
“I've been chatting with the doctor.”He was pretending to read a newspaper: there was something funny about his voice.
“It's ripping. He says you'll soon be fit again, as long as you don't get colds, or that sort of thing. Yes, he says you'll soon be fit again”—a quick, crackling noise—he had gripped the newspaper in his fist.
She looked at him, surprised, in spite of herself. She would never have thought he'd have done it like that. He was a good sort, after all. But—she didn't know why—she broke out furiously:
“You infernal liar!—I know. I shall be done for by the end of February—ha! ha!”
Seizing a vase of flowers, she flung it into the grate. The crash and the shrivelling of the leaves in the flames brought her an instant's relief. Then she said quietly:
“There—I've made an idiot of myself; but”(weakly)“I didn't know—I didn't know—I thought it was different.”
He hesitated, embarrassed by his own emotion. Presently he went up to her and put his hands round her cheeks.
“No,”she said,“that's no good, I don't want that. Get me something to drink. I feel bad.”
He hurried to the cupboard and fumbled with the cork of a champagne bottle. It flew out with a bang. She started violently.
“You clumsy fool!”she exclaimed.
She drank off the wine at a gulp.
“Daisy,”he began.
She was staring stonily at the empty glass.
“Daisy,”he repeated.
She tapped her toe against the fender-rail.
At this sign, he went on:
“How did you know?”
“I sent Liz to listen,”she answered mechanically.
He looked about him, helpless.
“I think I'll smoke,”he said feebly.
She made no answer.
“Here, put the glass down,”she said.
He obeyed.
He lit a cigarette over the lamp, sat down opposite her, puffing dense clouds of smoke.
And, for a long while, neither spoke.
“Is that doctor a good man?”
“I don't know. People say so,”he answered.
By John Davidson
Athwart the sky a lowly sighFrom west to east the sweet wind carried;The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;His light in all the city tarried:The clouds on viewless columns bloomedLike smouldering lilies unconsumed."Oh, sweetheart, see, how shadowy,Of some occult magician's rearing,Or swung in space of Heaven's grace,Dissolving, dimly reappearing,Afloat upon ethereal tidesSt.Paul above the city rides!"A rumour broke through the thin smokeEnwreathing Abbey, Tower, and Palace,The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares,The million-peopled lanes and alleys,An ever-muttering prisoned storm,The heart of London beating warm.
Athwart the sky a lowly sighFrom west to east the sweet wind carried;The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;His light in all the city tarried:The clouds on viewless columns bloomedLike smouldering lilies unconsumed.
"Oh, sweetheart, see, how shadowy,Of some occult magician's rearing,Or swung in space of Heaven's grace,Dissolving, dimly reappearing,Afloat upon ethereal tidesSt.Paul above the city rides!"
A rumour broke through the thin smokeEnwreathing Abbey, Tower, and Palace,The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares,The million-peopled lanes and alleys,An ever-muttering prisoned storm,The heart of London beating warm.
Foxes peeped from out their dens,Day grew pale and olden;Blackbirds, willow-warblers, wrens,Staunched their voices golden.High, oh high, from the opal sky,Shouting against the dark,"Why, why, why must the day go by?"Fell a passionate lark.But the cuckoos beat their brazen gongs,Sounding, sounding so;And the nightingales poured in starry songsA galaxy below.Slowly tolling the vesper bellUshered the stately night.Down-a-down in a hawthorn dellA boy and a girl and love's delight.
Foxes peeped from out their dens,Day grew pale and olden;Blackbirds, willow-warblers, wrens,Staunched their voices golden.
High, oh high, from the opal sky,Shouting against the dark,"Why, why, why must the day go by?"Fell a passionate lark.
But the cuckoos beat their brazen gongs,Sounding, sounding so;And the nightingales poured in starry songsA galaxy below.
Slowly tolling the vesper bellUshered the stately night.Down-a-down in a hawthorn dellA boy and a girl and love's delight.
By Richard Garnett
Now that my wings are spread to my desire,The more vast height withdraws the dwindling land,Wider to wind these pinions I expand,And earth disdain, and higher mount and higherNor of the fate of Icarus inquire,Or cautious droop, or sway to either hand;Dead I shall fall, full well I understand;But who lives gloriously as I expire?Yet hear I my own heart that pleading cries,Stay, madman! Whither art thou bound? Descend!Ruin is ready Rashness to chastise.But I, Fear not, though this indeed the end;Cleave we the clouds, and praise our destinies,If noble fall on noble flight attend.
The above sonnet, one of the finest in Italian literature, is already known to many English readers in another translation by the late Mr. J. Addington Symonds, which originally appeared in theCornhill Magazine, and is prefixed to his translation of the sonnets of Michael Angelo and Campanella (London, 1878), under the title of“The Philosopher's Flight.”In his preface Mr. Symonds says:“The sonnet prefixed as a proemto the whole book is generally attributed to Giordano Bruno, in whose Dialogue in the‘Eroici Furori’it occurs. There seems, however, good reason to suppose that it was really written by Tansillo, who recites it in that dialogue. Whoever may have been its author, it expresses in noble and impassioned verse the sense of danger, the audacity, and the exultation of those pioneers of modern thought, for whom philosophy was a voyage of discovery into untravelled regions.”Mr. Symonds's knowledge of Italian literature was so extensive that he must have had ground for stating that the sonnet is generally attributed to Giordano Bruno; as it certainly is by De Sanctis, though it is printed as Tansillo's in all editions of his works, imperfect as these were before the appearance of Signor Fiorentino's in 1882. It is, nevertheless, remarkable that he should add:“There seems good reason to supposethat it was really written by Tansillo,”as if there could be a shadow of doubt on the matter.“Eroici Furori”is professedly a series of dialogues between Luigi Tansillo the Neapolitan poet, who had died about twenty years before their composition, and Cicero, but is in reality little more than a monologue, for Tansillo does nearly all the talking, and Cicero receives his instructions with singular docility. The reason of Tansillo's selection for so great an honour was undoubtedly that, although born at Venosa, he belonged by descent to Nola, Bruno's own city. In making such free use of Tansillo's poetry as he has done throughout these dialogues, Bruno was far from the least idea of pillaging his distinguished countryman. In introducing the four sonnets he has borrowed (for there are three besides that already quoted) he is always careful to make Tansillo speak of them as his own compositions, which he never does when Bruno's own verses are put into his mouth. If a particle of doubt could remain, it would be dispelled by the fact that this sonnet, withother poems by Tansillo, including the three other sonnets introduced into Bruno's dialogue, is published under his name in the“Rime di diversi illustri Signori Napoletani,”edited by Lodovico Dolce at Venice, in 1555, when Bruno was about seven years old!
Mr. Symonds's interpretation of the sonnet also is erroneous—in so far, at least, as that the meaning assigned by him never entered into the head of the author. It is certainly fully susceptible of such an exposition. But Tansillo, no philosopher, but a cavalier, the active part of whose life was mainly spent in naval expeditions against the Turks, no more thought with Mr. Symonds of“the pioneers of modern philosophy,”than he thought with Bruno of“arising and freeing himself from the body and sensual cognition.”On the contrary, the sonnet is a love-sonnet, and depicts with extraordinary grandeur the elation of spirit, combined with a sense of peril, consequent upon thepoet having conceived a passion for a lady greatly his superior in rank. The proof of this is to be found in the fact that the sonnet is one of a series, unequivocally celebrating an earthly passion; and especially in the sonnet immediately preceding it in Dolce's collection, manifestly written at the same time and referring to the same circumstance, in which the poet ascribes his Icarian flight, not to the influence of Philosophy, but of Love:
Love fits me forth with wings, which so dilate,Sped skyward at the call of daring thought,I high and higher soar, with purpose fraughtSoon to lay smiting hand on Heaven's gate.Yet altitude so vast might well abateMy confidence, if Love not succour brought,Pledging my fame not jeopardised in aught,And promising renown as ruin great.If he whom like audacity inspired,Falling gave name immortal to the flood,As sunny flame his waxen pinion fired;Then of thee too it shall be understood,No meaner prize than Heaven thy soul required,And firmer than thy life thy courage stood.
The meaning of the two sonnets is fully recognised by Muratori, who prints them together in his treatise,“Della perfetta poesia,”and adds:“volea dire costui che s'era imbarcato in un'amor troppo alto, e s'andava facendo coraggio.”
This is surely one of the most remarkable instances possible to adduce of the infinite significance of true poetry, and its capacity for inspiring ideas and suggesting interpretations of which the poet never dreamed, but which are nevertheless fairly deducible from his expressions.
It is now a matter of considerable interest to ascertain the identity of this lady of rank, who could inspire a passion at once so exalted and so perilous. The point has been investigated by Tansillo's editor, Signor F. Fiorentino, who has done so much to rescue his unpublished compositions from oblivion, and his view must be pronounced perfectly satisfactory. She was Maria d'Aragona, Marchioness del Vasto, whose husband, the Marquis del Vasto, a celebrated general of Spanish descent, famous as Charles the Fifth's right hand in his successful expedition against Tunis, and at one time governor of the Milanese, was as remarkable for his jealousy as the lady, grand-daughter of a King of Naples, was for her pride and haughtiness. Fiorentino proves his case by showing how well all personal allusions in Tansillo's poems, so far as they can be traced, agree with the circumstances of the Marchioness, and in particular that the latter is represented as at one time residing on the island of Ischia, where del Vastowas accustomed to deposit his wife for security, when absent on his campaigns. He is apparently not aware that the object of Tansillo's affection had already been identified with a member of the house of Aragon by Faria e Sousa, the Portuguese editor of Camoëns, who, in his commentary on Camoëns's sixty-ninth sonnet, gives an interminable catalogue of ladies celebrated by enamoured poets, and says,“Tansillo sang Donna Isabel de Aragon.”This lady, however, the niece of the Marchioness del Vasto, was a little girl in Tansillo's time, and is only mentioned by him as inconsolable for the death of a favourite dwarf.
The sentiment, therefore, of the two sonnets of Tansillo which we have quoted, is sufficiently justified by the exalted station of the lady who had inspired his passion, and the risk he ran from the power and jealousy of her husband. It seems certain, however, that the Marquis had on his part no ground for apprehension. Maria d'Aragona does not seem to have had much heart to bestow upon anyone, and would, in any case, have disdained to bestow what heart she had upon a poor gentleman and retainer of Don Garcia de Toledo, son of the Viceroy of Naples. She would think that she honoured him beyond his deserts by accepting his poetical homage. Tansillo, on his part, says in one of his sonnets that his devotion is purely platonic; it might have been more ardent, he hints, but he is dazzled by the splendour of the light he contemplates, and intimidated by the richness of the band by which he is led. So it may have been at first, but as time wore on the poet naturally craved some proof that his lady was not entirely indifferent to him, and did not tolerate him merely for the sake of his verses. This, in the nature of things, could not be given; and the poet's raptures pass into doubt and suspicion, thence into despairing resignation; thence into resentment and open hostility, terminating in a cold reconciliation, leaving him free to marrya much humbler but probably a more affectionate person, to whom he addresses no impassioned sonnets, but whom he instructs in a very elegant poem (“La Balia”) how to bring up her infant children. These varying affections are depicted with extreme liveliness in a series of sonnets, of which we propose to offer some translated specimens. The order will not be that of the editions of Tansillo, where the pieces are distributed at random, but the probable order of composition, as indicated by the nature of the feeling expressed. It is, of course, impossible to give more than a few examples, though most deserve to be reproduced. Tansillo had the advantage over most Italian poets of his time of being in love with a real woman; hence, though possibly inferior in style and diction to such artists in rhyme as Bembo or Molza, he greatly surpasses them in all the qualities that discriminate poetry from the accomplishment of verse.
The first sonnet which we shall give is still all fire and rapture:—
I
Lady, the heart that entered through your eyesReturneth not. Well may he make delay,For if the very windows that displayYour spirit, sparkle in such wondrous wise,Of her enthroned within this ParadiseWhat shall be deemed? If heart for ever stay,Small wonder, dazzled by more radiant dayThan gazers from without can recognise.Glory of sun and moon and silver starIn firmament above, are these not signOf things within more excellent by far?Rejoice then in thy kingdom, heart of mine,While Love and Fortune favourable are,Nor thou yet exiled for default of thine.
Although, however, Tansillo's heart might well remain with its lady, Tansillo's person was necessitated to join the frequent maritime expeditions of the great nobleman to whom he was attached, Don Garcia de Toledo, against the Turks. The constant free-booting of the Turkish and Barbary rovers kept the Mediterranean in a state of commotion comparable to that of the Spanish Main in the succeeding age, and these expeditions, whose picturesque history remains to be written, were no doubt very interesting; though from a philosophical point of view it is impossible not to sympathise with the humane and generous poet when he inquires:—
Che il Turco nasca turco, e 'l Moro moro,È giusta causa questa, ond'altri ed ioDobbiam incrudelir nel sangue loro?
With such feelings it may well be believed that in his enforced absence he was thinking at least as much of love as of war, and that the following sonnet is as truthful as it is an animated picture of his feelings:—
II
No length of banishment did e'er removeMy heart from you, nor if by Fortune spedI roam the azure waters, or the Red,E'er with the body shall the spirit rove:If by each drop of every wave we clove,Or by Sun's light or Moon's encompassèd,Another Venus were engenderèd,And each were pregnant with another Love:And thus new shapes of Love where'er we wentStarted to life at every stroke of oar,And each were cradled in an amorous thought;Not more than now this spirit should adore;That none the less doth constantly lamentIt cannot worship as it would and ought.
Before long, however, the pangs of separation overcome this elation of spirit, while he is not yet afraid of being forgotten:—
III
Like lightning shining forth from east to west,Hurled are the happy hours from morn to night,And leave the spirit steeped in undelightIn like proportion as themselves were blest.Slow move sad hours, by thousand curbs opprest,Wherewith the churlish Fates delay their flight;Those, impulses of Mercury incite,These lag at the Saturnian star's behest.While thou wert near, ere separation's griefSmote me, like steeds contending in the race,My days and nights with equal speed did run:Now broken either wheel, not swift the paceOf summer's night though summer's moon be brief;Or wintry days for brevity of sun.
IV
Now that the Sun hath borne with him the day,And haled dark Night from prison subterrene,Come forth, fair Moon, and, robed in light serene,With thy own loveliness the world array.Heaven's spheres, slow wheeled on their majestic way,Invoke as they revolve thy orb unseen,And all the pageant of the starry scene,Wronged by thy absence, chides at thy delay.Shades even as splendours, earth and heaven bothSmile at the apparition of thy face,And my own gloom no longer seems so loth;Yet, while my eye regards thee, thought doth traceAnother's image; if in vows be troth,I am not yet estranged from Love's embrace.
Continual separation, however, and the absence of any marked token that he is borne in memory, necessarily prey more and more on the sensitive spirit of the poet. During the first part, her husband's tenure of office as Governor of the Milanese, the Marchioness, as already mentioned, took up her residence in the island of Ischia, where she received her adorer's eloquent aspirations for her welfare—heartfelt, but so worded as to convey a reproach:
V
That this fair isle with all delight abound,Clad be it ever in sky's smile serene,No thundering billow boom from deeps marine,And calm with Neptune and his folk be found.Fast may all winds by Æolus be bound,Save faintest breath of lispings Zephyrene;And be the odorous earth with glowing greenOf gladsome herbs, bright flowers, quaint foliage crowned.All ire, all tempest, all misfortune beHeaped on my head, lest aught thy pleasure stain,Nor this disturbed by any thought of me,So scourged with ills' innumerable train,New grief new tear begetteth not, as seaChafes not the more for deluge of the rain.
The“quaint foliage”is in the original“Arab leaves,”arabe frondi, an interesting proof of the cultivation of exotic plants at the period.
The lady rejoins her husband at Milan, and Tansillo, landing on the Campanian coast, lately devastated by earthquakes and eruptions, finds everywhere the image of his own bosom, and rejoices at the opportunity which yawning rifts and chasms of earth afford for an appeal to the infernal powers:—
VI
Wild precipice and earthquake-riven wall;Bare jagged lava naked to the sky;Whence densely struggles up and slow floats byHeaven's murky shroud of smoke funereal;Horror whereby the silent groves enthral;Black weedy pit and rifted cavity;Bleak loneliness whose drear sterilityDoth prowling creatures of the wild appal:Like one distraught who doth his woe deplore,Bereft of sense by thousand miseries,As passion prompts, companioned or alone;Your desert so I rove; if as beforeHeaven deaf continue, through these crevices,My cry shall pierce to the Avernian throne.
The poet's melancholy deepens, and he enters upon the stage of dismal and hopeless resignation to the inevitable:
VII
As one who on uneasy couch bewailsBesetting sickness and Time's tardy course,Proving if drug, or gem, or charm have forceTo conquer the dire evil that assails:But when at last no remedy prevails,And bankrupt Art stands empty of resource,Beholds Death in the face, and scorns recourseTo skill whose impotence in nought avails.So I, who long have borne in trust unspentThat distance, indignation, reason, strifeWith Fate would heal my malady, repent,Frustrate all hopes wherewith my soul was rife,And yield unto my destiny, contentTo languish for the little left of life.
A lower depth still has to be reached ere the period of salutary and defiant reaction:—
VIII
So mightily abound the hosts of Pain,Whom sentries of my bosom Love hath made,No space is left to enter or evade,And inwardly expire sighs born in vain,If any pleasure mingle with the train,Instant he dies, or else, in bondage stayed,Pines languishing, or flies that drear domain.Pale semblances of terror keep the keys,Of frowning portals they for none displaceSave messengers of novel miseries:All thoughts they scare that wear a gladsome face;And, were they anything but Miseries,Themselves would hasten from the gloomy place.
Slighted love easily passes from rejection into rebellion, and we shall see that such was the case with Tansillo. The following sonnet denotes an intermediate stage, when resignation is almost renunciation, but has not yet become revolt:—
IX