It is the fashion to call the
Italians fallen and degraded; and none are more acrimonious in their censures
than the Anglo-Italians—a race which, while forgetting their patriotic duties
in
the delights of that paradisaics climate—while availing themselves of the
benevolence and courtesy of the inhabitants—and while eating the fruits of that
fertile land—without care or annoyance, repay the advantages they enjoy by
abusing the natives. There is a gentleness, a facility, a kindliness in the
Italians which spreads an atmosphere of repose around them. Their visitors feel
and enjoy this; but, far from being grateful, they blind themselves to the
virtues which benefit themselves, and fix their eyes on the faults which are
injurious only to the Italians. They even go further, and often rail the louder,
while they imitate more grossly the vices they denounce.
Most of the defects of the Italians are those that always arise in a society
debarred from active duties. An Italian has no career, and can find occupation
only in intrigue and vice. The utter hopelessness that pervades their political
atmosphere, the stagnation of every territorial or commercial enterprise, the
discouragement cast over every improvement,—all these are checks to laudable
ambition; and yet such is not entirely checked. How many Italian hearts beat
high for their country. When any opening has presented itself, how many victims
have rushed into the breach. Perhaps in the history of no people in the world
has there appeared so tenacious a love of country and of liberty, nor so great
a
readiness shown to make every sacrifice to acquire independence, nor so
confirmed and active an hatred for tyranny.
After various struggles, and the destruction of their best citizens by the
despot, still the Italians pant for freedom, and hope to attain it. The
well-educated among them feel that their chief duty is, to counteract the
pernicious effects of slavery and superstition in debasing the national
character. To do this, several of the most eminent have turned authors, and
risked property and safety for the holy task of disseminating principles and
sentiments which, in their effect, will keep alive a sense of their rights in
the minds of their countrymen, and render them worthy of the liberty they hope
one day to see them enjoy.
They are fortunate in one circumstance—the soil they would cultivate is rich and
fertile. The thing that chiefly strikes any one conversant with the Italians,
is
their quick and clear understandings. In unfrequented parts of England, the
people are stupid, and even savage. In France, they are still worse. They may
practise the domestic virtues, but their minds are shrunk and shrivelled, or
covered by so impenetrable an husk, that there are no means of having
communication with them. The facilities of intercourse—for ever multiplying in
this country—and the better education that subsists, has partly done away with
this state of things; but in Italy, the peasant of its remotest regions is a
conversable being. He has intelligence, imagination, and the power of
expression. He has fewer prejudices in favour of old habits, a greater reverence
for knowledge in others: it is easy, therefore, to teach him. While the same
divine bounty that has gifted him with a capacity to understand, has been also
extended to his instructors; and the educated men of Italy are singularly able,
laborious, e e 4[Page 416]and enlightened. Italians are found to excel in every province of
literature. The names of their poets rank among the highest: their novelists,
either tragic or comic, are unsurpassed: their historians yield only to those
of
the ancient world. In science, in morals, in every species of inventive or
disquisitive literature, we find Italians among the foremost in desert. No
wonder their rulers fear such a people, and put in action all their efforts
either to crush or turn aside from any, to them injurious, purpose, the labours
of their men of genius and learning. Thus Ugo Foscolo was banished; thus Monti was corrupted; the eloquent
and admirable productions of the lover of liberty were proscribed; and not only
were the writings of the slave impregnated with a base spirit, but his very
subjects were dictated to him. To turn aside the thoughts of the men of letters
from an elevated and useful aim, Monti was commanded to raise that pitiful war of words which sprung
from his "Proposta."2 The Austrian government well understood the Italian spirit, when it
excited the Royal Institute of Milan to busy itself in the reform of the
national dictionary, and imposed on Monti the task of overthrowing the authority of the "Della
Crusca,"3 and of asserting the propriety of adopting, as the classic language of
Italy, a language not wholly Tuscan, but intermingled with modes of speech
peculiar to other provinces. Monti
and his son-in-law, Perticari,
began what they called a crusade against the "Della Crusca." Perticari, young and virtuous,
and led by Monti, was probably
innocent of any sinister motive. Monti himself entered into the views of the Austrians: he knew his
countrymen, and the unfortunate prejudices in Italy, which makes one portion
the
rival and enemy of another. The effect of his attack was electric. As if it had
been the cause of independence, each literary man arose to defend the system
of
his country. The Tuscans thought their territory invaded, their dearest
privileges undermined: the war continued for years. At present, many of the
chief combatants are no more, while the few survivors may wonder at their folly
at being thus entrapped to forget the nobler uses of their talents in so puerile
a question; they may feel that had one among them written a book, in which
genius and power had been clothed in elegant and forcible language, drawn either
from the purest Tuscan source, or mingled with modes of speech deemed less
classical, yet not less true to feeling, it had been a far better answer than
volumes of verbal dispute.
The Austrians, though they corrupted one of the greatest geniuses of Italy (Monti), and sent another (Foscolo) to die in a foreign land, and
were successful in causing all the talents of the country to be absorbed by a
war of words, yet enjoyed only a temporary success. Deeper interests were
awakened among the Italians during the outbreaks and struggles which marked the
years 1820-21. Since then, their writers have been thoroughly awakened to the
importance of their task in enlightening their countrymen, and in teaching them
either lessons of Christian virtue, or animating them to a love of liberty.
A very excellent article has appeared in the eleventh number of "The
London and Westminster Review," written, we believe, by a peculiarly
clever and well-informed Italian resident in this country, named Mazzini,4 which throws great light on the moving springs of Italian literature. The
author has, with great judgment, divided the writers of his country into two
classes, both bent on ameliorating the character of their fellow countrymen,
but
by different means: the one aims at fostering the, so to speak, inoffensive
virtues; the other, burning with a hatred of the oppressor, and with a thirst
for the deliverance of their native land, endeavors to strengthen and elevate—to
teach the Italians to become patriots and citizens—to inspire, [Page 417]not
resignation, but hope—not merely piety and benevolence, but ardour for the
dissemination of the blessings of civilisation and freedom—not simply fortitude,
but active courage, without which higher virtues, they are aware that Italy can
never be delivered and renovated.
Amidst the whole field of literature which Mazzini glances over, we select
only one portion—its novels and romances.
When a new sort of literature was, as it were, discovered, and men of the first
talent in France and England occupied themselves by the composition of romances
and novels—all sorts of fictitious adventure in prose, whether belonging to past
ages or modern manners—it was to be supposed that the Italians would shine also
in the same career. At first, however, they did not originate any work of the
sort worthy of themselves, and it grew into a common opinion that the spirit
of
Italy was so crushed and deadened, that their writers had fallen into a low
scale. Ugo Foscolo was a mere
imitator in his "Jacopo Ortis." But Foscolo was strictly a didactic
writer. His refined and discerning mind, his eloquent and enthusiastic spirit,
which dictated his labours on Petrarch and Dante, and his
poem of the "Sepolcri"—the most finished elegy of modern Italy,
was not inventive of facts. "Jacopo Ortis" was a vehicle for
opinions and emotions—not an epic, whose incidents and conduct were to interest
and delight.
Manzoni redeemed the
reputation of his country. The "Promessi Sposi," translated into
every European language, is proof that the Italians are still themselves. It
yields to no romance of any country in graphic descriptions—in eloquence—in
touching incident and forcible reflection. It is, however, so entirely Italian
in all its parts, that it can only be truly relished in its native guise. It
has
seized and individualised, as it were, various species of human beings,
specimens of which can be found only in that soil; and thus, to a certain
degree, its reputation must be local. Any one conversant with the Italian
character perceives at once the truth and vividness of the picture; to others
it
is a fancy piece, and cannot come home in the same way to their experience and
sympathies; besides that, the translation is vapid and lifeless, and incapable
of communicating the spirit of the original. The excellence of this work
consists, in the first place, in its admirable discrimination and representation
of character. Its personages are not shadows and vague generalities, but men
and
women stamped with individuality. They all live and move before us—we feel as
if
we should recognise if we saw them—and those who have been in Italy have seen
such, and perceive not portraits, but vivid resemblances. We have seen and
recognise Don Abbondio, and his servant Perpetua; their modes of thinking and
phraseology are all familiar to us, though graced in the work with the ideality
which marks the perfection of art. The spirit and reality of such portions as
may pass for episodes, the stories of Gertrude and Cristofero, are unsurpassed
in any work, in any language, for interest, truth, and beauty. The conversion
of
the Innominato—the riots at Milan—the progress, prevalence, and cessation of
the
plague, are passages of high-wrought eloquence that carry the reader along with
them. They show not only the deepest knowledge of the human heart, but a vivid
graphic talent, surpassing that of every modern tale-writer. The defect of the
work is its whole. Admirable in parts, it wants the artifice of plot, which
should make the interest rise continually. From the moment that Lucia is
liberated by the Innominato, the story, such as it is, comes to a stop. Much
of
this arises from the character of her betrothed. She herself, gentle, resigned,
and affectionate, interests us more than that sort of person in a book usually
does; but Renzo is not her fitting lover. It is [Page 418]true that he is
nature itself, the absolute portrait of an Italian rustic. We ought to be
content that Lucia, a Milanese peasant, should have for a husband a person in
the same situation of life; but the sweetness and blameless simplicity of the
heroine removes her from the vulgarities of her situation, while Renzo is
immersed in them; the discrepancy jars on our taste, and injures the tale as
a
work of art.
The author of the "Promessi Sposi" has not aimed at inspiring
ardour for liberty and hatred of the tyrant: his lessons are rather those of
piety and resignation. In any other work we might blame this; but the truth is
so much better than declamation, and the picture he gives of the evils of
misrule and ignorance is so forcible, that it stands in lieu of didactic
tirades. The effect of the book being to impress the reader with a deep sense
of
the mischiefs that ensue from a people being kept in a state of bigotry and
ignorance, and from a foreign, inert, and short-sighted government, every
un-prejudiced person must reap a well-founded hatred of tyrants and superstition
from such worth a thousand diatribes.
This want of a generous and enlarged aim is more to be deplored for the author
than the work. Manzoni is a
man of first-rate genius. Besides the "Promessi Sposi," he has
written two tragedies5 — poems rather than dramas, composed according to the French notion of the
Athenian theatre, but interspersed with choruses. As dramas, these plays are
defective—as poems, they are highly beautiful. There is, in particular, a chorus
in the "Camaledole" on the horrors of war and the blessings of
peace, which may rank among the most beautiful lyrics in the Italian language.
But the want of moral energy that blinds a Milanese to the real evils that
afflict his country, superstition and despotism, has fallen heavily on the poet.
Manzoni has become a bigot
and a slave. His life is spent in churches. His thoughts and actions are under
the government of a priest, in obedience to whose dictates he has destroyed a
beautiful romance on the subject of Napoleon. Thus that system of thought which teaches, "Humble thyself,
pray, be resigned to thy misfortunes; heaven is thy country, the things of this
world are unworthy of thy attention, knowledge is vanity, and justice here below
a dream6 ," has fallen with club-like weight on the head of this illustrious man,
crushing his genius, rendering him ungrateful to his Creator for the surpassing
gifts of mind lavished on him, causing him to "hide his light under a bushel;"
so that, at the great account, when asked to what use he put the vast bounty
of
God, in giving him powers of soul superior to the multitude, he can only answer,
"I disdained your gift, and regarded the telling of my beads as the chief end
and aim of an intelligent being’s life." Miserable, indeed, are the effects of
catholicism, which causes the believer to surrender his conscience into the
hands of another; which deprives man of his best privilege, that of judging by
his innate sense of right and wrong; and utterly brutalises him, as he regulates
his sense of duty by a fictitious code of morality, invented for the sole
purpose of enslaving him, instead of resting it on the plain precepts of
enlightened religion; which, while it teaches us to "love our neighbour as
ourself," will also teach that the best proof a man of genius can give of his
obedience to this command, is to enlighten the ignorant, and animate to virtue
the demoralised—a task that can in no way be so well fulfilled as by the
multiplication of works that will convince the head of the excellence of right,
and warm the heart with courage to exercise it.
Next to Manzoni, as a novelist,
we may rank his son-in-law, Azeglio, author of "Hector Fieramosca." This work has
enjoyed great reputation in [Page 419]Italy, and, though far below the
Promessi Sposi in genius, possesses considerable merit.
"The Duel of Barletta" (La Sfida di Barletta)7 is naturally a favourite topic with the Italians. Being so often
stigmatised as cowards, they turn with pride to this glorious achievement. Its
origin is briefly as follows:—Naples had been reigned over by a branch of the
house of Aragon for the space of sixty-five years, when Charles VIII., King of France, was
stimulated by the treachery and ambition of a prince of Milan to bring forward
the claim of the house of Anjou. He (and then first those disastrous wars began,
when the French met the Spaniard on the fields of Italy) entered the Peninsula,
and overran and possessed himself of Naples: but, on his return to his native
kingdom, he lost his conquest as speedily as he had gained it. On his death,
which soon after followed, his successor, Louis XII., prosecuted the same claim to the Neapolitan crown. Frederic, king of Naples, turned for
assistance to his relative, Ferdinand of Spain, who, making the fairest promises, acted with the
utmost treachery. He and Louis agreed
to dispossess the reigning sovereign, and to divide the kingdom between them.
Louis was to possess the Abruzzi
and the Terra di Lavoro; Ferdinand, Calabria and Puglia. The Pope ratified this compact. For a
time, however, it was kept secret. Louis invaded Naples, but Ferdinand promised his kinsman succour, and sent, apparently for that
purpose, him whom the Spaniards name the "great captain," — Gonzalvo de Cordova. The
catastrophe was soon brought about: the French overran the northern portion of
the kingdom of Naples; Capua was besieged, and taken by treason; and Frederic, while he hoped to find
assistance in the Spaniards, was informed of the treachery of Ferdinand. Dispossessed of his
kingdom, he first retired to Ischia, and afterwards took refuge in France. The
French and Spaniards, after some resistance on the part of the eldest son of
Frederic, possessed themselves
of the land: peace, however, was not the result. The division they had agreed
upon was not made so carefully but that room was left to dispute the boundaries.
At first, the rival pretensions were amicably arranged in a meeting of Louis d'Armagnac, Duc de Némours,
the French viceroy, with Gonzalvo de
Cordova: but this was of short duration, and war speedily broke out.
The Spanish party was weak and unprovided, and Gonzalvo, to gain time, fortified
himself at Barletta, there to await the arrival of succour from Spain, and to
wear out the French by a war of outposts. The Neapolitans themselves were
divided; the Aragonese party adhering to Spain; the partisans of the house of
Anjou, to France: the former, however, considered themselves as the real
patriotic party, and treated their antagonists as traitors.
The Duc de Némours blockaded
Barletta: both generals avoided attacks and general engagements, while the
numerous chivalry on both sides satisfied their martial tastes and thirst for
honour by various challenges and duels. Gonzalvo reaped every advantage from this species of warfare, and in
the delay that ensued. The Duc de
Némours endeavoured to draw his antagonist into battle, and failed;
but, while despising an enemy who refused to fight, he marched with the utmost
carelessness. The Spaniards fell on his troops, and made a great many
prisoners.
Among these was Charles Hennuyer de la Motte, a French officer of distinguished
bravery. He and his friends in misfortune were invited to partake of a feast
given by Mendoza, his conqueror.
During the conversation that took place on this occasion, Mendoza attributed his victory to
the admirable monœuvring of the Italian cavalry, commanded by Prospero Colonna. The French
despised the Italians; and La Motte exclaimed that, vanquished as they were on
all occasions, they could not presume to compare [Page 420]with the French in
any species of warfare, and were only worthy to hold the stirrup to the knights
of France. The good humour of the festival was not interrupted by this insult,
but, on the morrow, Prospero
Colonna called on La Motte to retract his words: he refused. The
honour of both nations appeared to be engaged; and the generals on either side
permitted the question to be decided by an appeal to arms. Thirteen Italians
and
thirteen Frenchman, completely armed, agreed to meet in the lists to fight till
they fell, or were made prisoners. The lists were selected midway between
Barletta and the quarters of the Duc de
Némours. They were surrounded only by a furrow made by a ploughshare;
but it was settled that, whoever among the combatants could be driven beyond
this boundary, must surrender as vanquished. The Italians were victorious. The
French having in their presumption neglected to bring with them the hundred
apiece, agreed on as ransom, were led prisoners to Barletta.
Such is the history of the celebrated challenge which Azeglio has made the ornament of
his tale. This work has already been translated—badly enough; but the mere
English reader has probably gathered the gist of the story from the translation,
as well as from any skeleton account that we can give. The first thing that
strikes the Italian reader, on commencing the perusal, is the purity and elegant
simplicity of the style. This merit is lost in the translation. It is more
difficult, perhaps, to translate well from the Italian than any other language;
for the peculiarity of its prose is a wordiness unendurable in any other; and
it
requires a thorough knowledge of the genius of the language, as well as
considerable practice in authorship, at once to preserve the peculiar style of
the author, and to produce a readable book.
The beauty of Azeglio's writing is
very great: it is forcible, without exaggeration; elegant, without effort; and
in this is very well adapted to the characteristic of his work, which derives
its merit from its story, rather than from masterly delineation of character.
It
is not that the plot is perfect, especially according to our ideas; but it is
congruous in its parts, and deeply interesting as a whole. The ill-fated pair
of
lovers are presented to us in situations full of pathos: the delicacy of
sentiment and heroism which they display redeems their position from its usual
difficulties. A wife, disliking her husband, and loving another man, is a
subject, the topics of which are so obvious, that it is rather a favourite with
modern novel-writers; yet it is always infinitely displeasing. Azeglio has managed it far better
than any other: the passionate, yet regulated, love of the gentle Ginevra, which
she broods over in her island convent; the deep, religious devotion of
Fieramosca to her and to virtue; the dark terrors that surround them, as well
as
the chivalric glory that adorns and gilds both themselves and all that surrounds
them, sheds grace over every page; and, though these characters are rather
shadowed forth than strongly marked, and others are but sketched, yet the few
lines we perceive are masterly, and so much in keeping, that though the whole
picture is, so to speak, presented in a subdued light, there is no obscurity,
nor confusion, nor distortion. The only fault we find is in the personage Cæsar Borgia. He acts at once too
subordinate and too influential a part. Kept for the most part in the
background, he yet is the most important actor on the scene:—nor does his
conduct seem natural: he, the most restless and fiery of men, is described as
being content to remain secreted for many days in a secret chamber of his
enemy's fortress, for no sufficing reason, and then, unexpectedly, the most
disgusting and heinous crime is thrown in his path, which he commits, and then
disappears. We may be hypercritical: it would be unnatural to place a romance
in
that age, and [Page 421]people it with such personages, and not introduce
crime in the foreground. But a romance-writer must never rest the justification
of his plot on bare truth, without adding the dress of art. In real life, our
acts and impulses are often most motiveless, in our own eyes, when once past;
but in fiction we ought always to feel the enchainment of events as inevitable.
Azeglio wished to paint his
heroine the greatest virtue triumphing over the greatest misfortune: for this
he
makes her die deceived as to her lover, and believing him inconstant. We feel
the heroism of her character, but recoil from the trial to which it is put, and
we would fain that Donna Elvira, herself undeceived, had undeceived Ginevra,
and
that her last moment had been gladdened by the consciousness of Fieramosca's
truth, which, if she had already forgiven her rival, would not have detracted
from the height of her virtue. We scarcely know any passage in any author
impregnated with a more pathetic spirit than the conclusion of the novel. The
night that Fieramosca passes preceding the great duel; his endeavours to believe
that all is well with Ginevra; and the unquiet emotions inspired by the scarce
audible psalmody over the dead, and by the beams of the light which, in truth,
was placed beside the corpse of her he loved, whom he thought living; are
touched with a truth and delicacy that go to the heart. The lighter parts of
the
work are also admirable: the bull-fight—the feast—the characters of Fanfulla,
Paredes, &c., are entertaining and sprightly; and the description of the
great duel itself is brilliant and spirited. There is both pathos and humour
in
different portions of the tale, but there is no wit. The Italians are not a
witty people, nor does their language lend itself to wit: the peculiarity before
mentioned, its wordiness, is against a quality whose characteristic is brevity
and terseness. Manzoni is
highly humorous in Don Abbondio, but he is never witty; and the
same with Azeglio; the same with
every other Italian prose writer; the same will be found in their conversation.
In this, as in almost every other quality of mind, they are in contrast with
the
French.
The challenge of the Barletta is so dear to the Italians, that it has been
selected to adorn the pages of another novel of great merit. "The first
Viceroy of Naples" (Il Primo Vicere di Napoli)
deserves honourable mention in this account of Italian romances. It is the work
of Capocci, a Neapolitan, a
celebrated astronomer, and a man of profound learning. Deeming that the
acknowledgement of so light a production might injure his reputation as a man
of
science, he has put the name of Belmonte, which was that of his mother, in the
titlepage; and, with that pride in honouring those they love, which belongs to
the Italians, he has dedicated it to his wife, a lady of great merit and
talents.
The warriors of Barletta are the heroes of this tale. Fieramosca and Brancaleone
are introduced as principal personages; and one of the first incidents is the
meeting of the latter with his friend's sister, and their mutual and sudden
attachment. But the spirit of the romance is in absolute contrast with Azeglio's. "Hector
Fieramosca" is a tale of living, struggling humanity: it describes
individuals suffering misfortune and deep sorrow, occasioned by such events as
grow out of the situation of their country, and the characters of their
contemporaries. It is almost too real for fiction in its disappointments,
long-enduring griefs, and tragic catastrophe; while "The First Viceroy of
Naples" is, as far as plot is concerned, the commonplace loves of a
boy and girl, whose attachment, after a series of adventures and disasters, ends
in a happy marriage. One of the chief merits of this book is its simplicity,
both of style and sentiment. Wearied by the tendency to bombast now prevailing
in literature, the reader is charmed by the [Page 422]ease of the language,
and becomes interested unawares in the tissue of incidents, artlessly but
agreeably combined. The tale begins with the siege of Capua, mentioned in the
sketch given above of the progress of these wars; and here an episode is
introduced, which is a good specimen of the manner and power of the author,
though, from its length, it must be somewhat abridged.
Antonello Caracciolo, the head of one of the noblest families of Naples, was a
youth of great promise; he was courteous and gentle; and this in spite of the
evil lessons of a natural brother, Raymond, who stimulated him to acts of folly
and vice: his only faults were such as belonged to his few years. He became
enamoured of a peasant girl, the daughter of one of his Calabrian vassals. This
girl had a brother, Rocco, a man of giant force and vehement passions, a
ruffian—who was only not a bandit, because he still loved his parents and his
sister. Raymond perceived his brother's attachment to Constance, and conceived
a
plan of villany to get her into his power. A man had been assassinated near her
dwelling; her brother was at a distance. Raymond accused her father of the
murder, and threw him into prison; and then instigated her mother to go,
accompanied by Constance, and throw herself at Antonello's feet. The conclusion
may be guessed: the daughter was led away, the mother roughly dismissed, but
with the intimation that her request was granted. The father was liberated, and
returned; but, when he found that the ransom paid was his daughter's honour,
he
broke out into the fiercest imprecations; and his son suddenly at this moment
returning, he threatened to curse him unless he washed out the stain on the
family by some act of dire revenge. Rocco, foiled in his attempt to see Raymond,
is driven by insult to assassinate several of Antonello's followers, and flies
to the mountains. That same night terrible signs of his fury were visible in
the
vast possessions of the prince, and dreadful fires marked the fatal rise of the
most famous bandit of an age in which so many flourished.
The father appealed for vengeance for his wrongs to his sovereign. Antonello had
taken refuge in Naples with his peasant mistress, to whom he had become
passionately attached. An order was issued that the family of Caracciolo should
deliver him up to justice; and when this command was disobeyed, a party of
masons were sent to raze the houses of the family, with an order to level one
after the other to the ground, till Antonello should be found. On this the
unfortunate youth was delivered up, and condemned to death. The tale
continues:—
Then a marriage was mentioned, which at first gave rise to rejoicing; but,
when the family began no longer to fear for the life of their relative, they
declared that death was to be preferred to such a disgrace. Nor was there a
noble to whom it did not appear excessive injustice to proceed as severely
as if the two parties had been of equal rank. It seemed strange to them to
give the same attention to the complaints of an injured vassal, as if he
were a count or a baron. But every father and every brother, born out of the
privileged class, exulted in his heart, as the chimera, which had a hundred
times risen in his mind, of impartial justice in such cases, appeared on the
point of being realised.
One morning the inhabitants of the market-place saw a black scaffold elevated
in the middle of the square; and immediately a vast crowd assembled, more
than usually eager to witness so important an execution. The spacious
circuit was soon filled, and soon the press grew so great, that the people,
jammed together, appeared to lose all elasticity, and to be fused into one
mass. There were people on the belfreys, at the windows in the balconies:
they covered the tops of the houses, the sides of the fountains, the [Page 423]cornices of the shops and palaces. The unfortunate Antonello,
taken from his dungeon, was led in a cart through one of those narrow alleys
of the old city of Naples, in which there were none but the cart and the
guard that escorted it. When this party turned into the market-place, the
vast crowd, with one voice, uttered a loud involuntary shout. The hapless
youth, dismayed by the spectacle, almost lost his senses. The terrible truth
presented to his sight was hidden by a delirium not less terrible. A mist is
before his eyes—a ringing in his ears—a cold moisture pervades his body—his
heart palpitates to bursting—trembling and tottering, every thing turns
round—all seems giving way, and falling into an abyss. The vehement
curiosity of the multitude at first sight of Caracciolo immediately changed
to pity. Each uncovered his head at the sign of salvation that headed the
sad procession, and all remained still and silent. It was a solemn
spectacle, when each of so many thousands of men was so preoccupied, that
you might have fancied yourself in a desert. At the sudden change the
delirium of Antonello also changed: it appeared to him as if the pavement of
the immense square had been taken up, and that, instead of stones, it was
laid down with human heads, and that he and the executioner were alone in
the empty space, while the latter stretched out his hand to seize his hair.
O horror! his head is about to fall among the rest! He wished to shriek—to
stop—to fly! but an irresistible force—the power of fate—prevents his
moving, and carries him on towards the scaffold. The cart proceeded amidst
the press, which, deaf to the signs of the attendants, opened with
difficulty to the curvets and leaps of the horses of the armed men, and then
closing behind, as the waves of the sea after a vessel, while it seemed to
the unfortunate man that at these moments the earth was opening to swallow
him. Those who were near saw clearly the internal struggles caused by these
visions in the contortion of his limbs and convulsion of his features, but
the violence of the agony prevented its long continuance, and he fell
fainting in the arms of the priest. When they arrived at the foot of the
scaffold, he came to himself, and sighed, and exclaimed, in a voice of woe,
"My God! where am I? am I alive? where is Constance? where my mother?" Then,
opening his eyes, he looked fixedly round, till, shuddering and turning
away, he cried, "No, no!—he is still there—No—I am not yet dead!" Now the
comforting voice of the holy minister came to his aid, and the unexpected
sight of his Constance, who had arrived by another way, entirely restored
his courage. Forgetting the chains that held him back, he was about to
advance and embrace her. Hope returned, and he thought, "It cannot be
true—the duchess does not hate me—how have I injured her? she has always
been kind to me—I cannot forget it: at the last festival at Poggio Reale the
duchess and the king were peculiarly courteous: it is a mere show, no more.
What wild beast, what tiger, would be so cruel? and to one of my rank—and at
my age! No, it is impossible—it is folly to imagine otherwise! Constance is
all my regret; the hapless Constance, made by me the fable of her native
place, and now of the whole kingdom. Unhappy girl—I suffer, and deserve it;
but you, innocent creature, you, indeed, will become the wife of Antonello
Caracciolo yet; so that it will seem that I am forced to marry her, while,
in truth, there is nothing in the world I desire more—nothing—not even
life!" And these same thoughts passed through the minds of the
spectators.
They ascend the scaffold. The feebleness of the youth need not excite
surprise—who ascends between two white-clad monks, and seems bowed by age.
See you not how each step adds years to his age? That ill-omened throng of
priests and monks freeze the blood, and the extreme youth of [Page 424]the condemned man inspires deep pity. But the sight of the girl, who was
the innocent cause of the punishment, excited a more tender emotion, and
softened the hardest heart. The peril of Antonello, whom she already
regarded as a beloved husband, was an insupportable torment to her. Now,
pale and ghastly, she had fallen if she had not been supported—now, changing
colour and blushing, she trembled and shuddered, and was convulsed as by the
most acute pain. Sometimes she raised her eyes to heaven, sometimes she
turned them fearfully round to find a spot where she could look without
meeting the gaze of others—sometimes she covered her face with her hands, as
she appeared to invoke death or the termination of her agony.
An altar and a block were both placed on the scaffold. When the two young
beings drew near to celebrate the enforced nuptials, they rushed into each
other's arms, and held each other in a long embrace. They were forcibly
separated, that the rite might be fulfilled; Constance was dowered by the
prince according to his rank: she received the bridal ring, and the priest
blessed them. The crowd who witnessed this moving ceremony could not
restrain from tears—the very agents wept; and who would not? But all did not
finish here. The same priest who had pronounced the sacred words which gave
rise to a new source of life, the very same chaunted forth the comforting
psalms that were used to precede the death of the condemned, and to announce
the violent separation of a being, guilty though he were, yet our
fellow-creature, from the rest of the world. What a tremendous moment! New
sprung hope had pitilessly deceived the unfortunate Antonello. Hope had
given him strength to feel the spasms of agony till the last moment, as is
made manifest by the accent in which he repeats the prayers. And yet he
doubts; he does not abandon hope; but, alas! the executioner seizes him, and
forces him to kneel beside the block.
Already the axe is raised, when a murmur, none knows whence originating, and
then a clamour, is heard among the crowd, crying, Pardon! pardon! And can it
be? A horseman endeavours to make his way towards the scaffold. Room is
eagerly made. Does he not bring a pardon? Profound silence returns. None can
take their eyes from him, yet all desire to gaze on Antonello, and they are
eager to see both at once. The officer being arrived opposite, made a sign
to those on the scaffold; and in a moment, the severed head of Caracciolo
was seen shaking, hanging by the hair, as it was held up by the
blood-stained hand of the executioner. The eyes were seen to roll, and words
and blood to flow from the lips. At the same moment, a piercing shriek was
heard, as it were the concentrated expression of general horror; and the
woman who gave forth that shriek fell on the ground.
A gloomy murmur arose from the sea of heads. It moved and opened in a hundred
parts, and the whole crowd, horrified and frightened, separated at once. The
ill-fated Constance never rose more. Whether it were surprise, or shame, at
finding herself the object of so many eyes at an ignominious
spectacle—whether compassion for her lover, or whether poison had been given
her, as was reported, by his relations—she died.
The marble effigy of these unhappy lovers, placed above the arch of the
steeple of St. Eligio, in the midst of the market-place, reminds the
passer-by of their miserable fate.
The account given in this work of the duel itself is peculiarly striking. The
unaffected simplicity of the style rises into dignity when supported by the
importance of the subject. It is, in some respects, superior to Azeglio's, especially in the
interest it excites. The duel in "Hector Fieramosca" is placed at
the end of the work. The reader has been deeply affected by the [Page 425]wrongs and death of Ginevra: the duel serves neither to avenge her, nor to
advance any portion of the story; and loses its natural interest from its taking
place when that of the story to which it is appended has drawn to the close.
In
Belmonte's romance it takes
place early in the tale, and the personages are full of ardour, hope, and
enjoyment. We extract a portion, as a further specimen of the merits of this
work; a good translation of which we should be glad to see among our English
romances.
The Italian combatants had heard mass, and sworn to die rather than survive a
defeat, and to defend each other till death. They then set forward to the
appointed place. Half way they met their four judges, who told them that
they had conferred with the judges of the adverse party, and fixed the
conditions of the fight; but that the French had not yet arrived. However,
Hector Fieramosca, believing the hour agreed upon to be not far off, thought
it right not to delay: and, advancing slowly for the space of another mile,
arrived at the field. It was a lonely spot, half way between Quarata and
Andria, where even now may be seen the fragments of the monument which was
erected there in memory of that glorious day, excellently adapted by nature
for the purpose; for the soil around is wavy with various irregularities;
but here it becomes completely even and plain, and, for a sufficient space,
spreads itself into the form of an amphitheatre, unencumbered by any
hinderance of tree or rock, while an olive wood flourishes around, forming,
as it were, a thick garland. The little plain, being rather low, was
covered, through the effects of rain, by a fine shingle, and offered a
perfect arena for the manœuvres of the horsemen. On this occasion, the lists
selected in the midst of this plain were surrounded by a furrow that
enclosed about the eighth part of a mile, and was marked at intervals by
large stones. Due egress was given between these to the combatants, who,
defeated in the combat, were forced to surrender as vanquished. A seat was
prepared for the judges at one extremity of the field, on a jutting ridge of
earth, and a magnificent scarlet canopy was raised under the olives. Before
and around, but lower down, stood the trumpeters and heralds, who attended
on the joust.
When the Italians arrived, they were struck by the singular aspect of the
field. There was no crowd pressing to and fro without the lists—no waving of
scarfs and handkerchiefs—no impatient nor welcoming cries at the appearance
of the combatants—all was lonely and quiet. But this gave a more solemn
aspect to the scene, as this solitude did not arise from any want of
spectators, but from urgent necessity, and, so to speak, a holy reverence:
for afar off, in the neighbourhood of Andria and Corato, were to be seen
many companies of horsemen, who had no other object than to wait on the
necessities of the combat; and, scattered abroad through the country on the
limits of the field, innumerable groups of spectators were to be seen
clustered upon straw-ricks and trees, who, in a moment, could have walled in
the circuit of the lists, had they been allowed to approach.
The Italians dismounted, and, kneeling down, implored the protection of the
God of Armies; and then, while waiting for the arrival of the enemy, Hector
addressed his party thus:—"Brothers and companions, I should be devoid of
understanding, did I think, by my words, to inspire with courage warriors
chosen by our illustrious leader as the flower of his troop. No, my friends,
we know each other well. But, since the enemy have not yet made their
appearance, I have thought it right in this interval to open my mind, which
augurs undoubted victory. In times past, many have fought for the sake of
private enmity—others to acquire wealth or power—others for the love of
ladies. But you combat for honour and glory, the vol. ii.f f[Page 426]most precious and noblest reward that fortune can offer to the
brave. And you must also reflect, that you fight to-day, not only for your
own glory, but for that of the whole Italian nation. May this inspire you,
and gift you with immortal renown, making you famous examples of patriotic
valour, and the enduring theme of noble recollection to posterity. Yes, my
friends, this combat will be regarded with infinite anxiety by the army, by
Italy, by the whole world; and the names of the valiant men who shall remain
conquerers on the field will go down to the remotest posterity. I will not
allude to the enemy's arrogance and injurious contempt. May Heaven avert
that any of us survive to see the seal put to our shame. What more famous
pass of arms than this can our descendants ever witness? In every other it
is a mere game and display: this will be a fierce battle. In others, the
nature of the arms, and the rules by which they are to be used, is
established—in this we choose for ourselves as in war itself. In a
tournament the point of the lance is blunt—the swords have no edge—it is
dishonourable to wound a horse—it is a felony to strike with the point. Here
we wield lances, clubs, swords, and daggers; and happy is he who can plunge
the blade into the heart of his adversary. Yes, happy is he who can reach
the heart of him who desires to dishonour his bride, his sister, and his
mother; for such is he who dares to vituperate our country, and cover it
with infamy. Wherefore, war and death to the French! with every weapon, war
and death!" At this moment he perceived some on the opposite side appear: he
became silent, and, ordering his helmet to be laced, they mounted their
horses, placed their lances in the rests, and began to canter lightly, and
to caricole about the field, that they might become familiar with it.
The French now presented themselves. First came a gentleman carrying the
helmet and lance of Monseigneur de la Motte; twelve other gentlemen
followed, two by two, who in like manner carried the lances and helmets of
their friends. Then, at fitting intervals, the six couples of combatants
followed, armed and mounted as the Italians were; then came La Motte alone;
behind him came his spotted charger, and, lastly, the twelve chargers, led
by twelve gentlemen, two by two.
La Motte, seeing that the Italian cavaliers were prepared, alighted from his
hack, and caused his comrades to dismount also. Custom demanded that the
leader, on such an occasion, should make a short harangue; but the eager La
Motte, excited by the sight of the enemy, and naturally adverse to all
formality, burst forth at once. "There they are, my friends, only
thirteen—thirteen exactly, as we are! Shall we allow ourselves to be
vanquished at equal arms—we, who have always seen a double and a triple
number fly before us? By my faith! this is the first time we have met so
exactly; and the best is that they are all alike, and there is not one
Spaniard among them. Poor wretches! not another word about them; there they
are—you behold them so light and airy—in a little while not one will be seen
on the field. Come, let us teach them how arrogant they are to compete with
the cavaliers of the King of France. But, I implore you, spare that youth on
the bay, with a blue and white scarf: it belongs to me to attack that millantatore8 Fieramosca; but afterwards I have a particular engagement with that
boy—reserve him for me—he challenged me, morbleu!9 —so have a care of him."
They then knelt, and addressed a prayer to Heaven, armed themselves, and,
being in the saddle, began also with infinite delight to scour the field;
and then the standards were placed at each extremity of the field, in
expectation of the moment when the judges should give the signal for
battle.
The combat itself is described with great vivacity, and in particular the [Page 427]encounter of La Motte and Brancaleone. Brancaleone is the hero of
the tale, but he is a mere youth; and the author, while he wished to attribute
to him the honour of vanquishing the French leader, felt that it was too much
to
make him fall by his hand. But he extricates himself from this difficulty
admirably. They had already met and fought, and been separated in the mêlée,
and
now they met again. "The dauntless La Motte had begun to lose faith in his
unvanquishable prowess; since in this species of skirmish his giant stature and
immense strength were of less avail than the agility of the youth, whom with
presumptuous confidence he had despised. He writhed, and foamed, and became
confused through rage; his desire to conquer became a balk; and the more blindly
he rushed on to wound his adversary, the more he exposed himself to his blows.
So much blood flowed from his body, and he was wounded in so many places, that
he no longer feared injury, since, could he strike to earth his daring
adversary, he had been content to be killed by a thousand wounds. At length,
among the innumerable blows dealt by La Motte, one reached its aim, and poor
Brancaleone also poured out a river of blood; and, on recovering from the
stroke, he staggered so that his enemy thought it all over with him. Then his
boldness returned; believing that his victory was secure, he turned his eyes
to
the other combatants, to gather the triumph of the entire conflict. And, though
his companions strewed the field, yet, as he saw some among them still on
horseback, fighting valiantly, he believed that, could he lend his aid, they
would conquer. He therefore changed his mode of attack, and became cautious,
and
as avaricious of his blood as before he had been lavish. On the other side,
Brancaleone, who believed that the blood he spilt must inevitably occasion his
death, gave, as a light that expires, the last flame, and threw himself on La
Motte with inexpressible fury; while he, warding off the blows, continued to
back, and waited to take advantage of some good opportunity, afforded by the
other’s fury, to end the great struggle by a blow with his club. But, at this
crisis, he heard the cry around—'La Motte, prisoner! Prisoner, La Motte!' Both
paused: La Motte looked around—he perceived that he had passed the furrow, and
was without the lists! A heavy groan burst from him, and he fell with extended
arms, as if struck by a thunderbolt."
The story of this work turns on the loves of Brancaleone and Giacinta, the sister
of Fieramosca; the brother being at first friendly, and then adverse, to their
marriage. The prince of Caracciolo, drawn on by the instigations of his bastard
brother, Raymond, seeks her hand; and Hector is desirous of this alliance. The
prince is assassinated under circumstances that cause poor Brancaleone to be
more than suspected. He is thrown into prison, and condemned; he escapes, and
flies to the mountains, Giacinta being the companion of his flight. The most
pleasing passages of the work are those that describe the wanderings of the
lovers, and their residence at the rude but hospitable village of Picinisco.
The
interest is never high-drawn, but the purity of the style, and the artless
simplicity of the narrative, spread a grace over the pages, very unlike the
inflated and exaggerated sentiment now the fashion in French romances. The
village life at Picinisco is a picture full of innocence and repose. It is
disturbed by the inroads of some notorious banditti, the leader of whom is Rocco
del Pizzo, brother of the unfortunate Constance, who, under the name of
Gambalunga, spreads terror around; and who declared, in scoff of the guard of
hunters among Picinisco, that, when they least expected it, he would appear
alone among them, and carry off the prettiest girl in the village. His success
in this enterprise is amusingly told:—
On the days of festival the devout inhabitants descended to the old church of
Santa Maria, placed at the foot of the moun-f f 2[Page 428]tain, on the top of which, at the distance of a long
musket-shot, stands Picinisco. It was the last Sunday of the month, and the
children of Ser Ilario had betaken themselves betimes to the church, that
they might be among the first to occupy the sides of the confessional of the
Canon Crolla, who was the confessor in vogue among these good girls. When
they reached the sacristy, they saw, leaning against the great stone eagle
which may still be seen near the great gate of the church, a strong youth,
who, from his blue cloak, his black nose, and the marks of heat in his face,
seemed to be a courier from San Donato. When he saw them approach, he met
them with the usual salutation, Gesu e Maria,
and, holding out a letter, said, "Thank God! that at last I found some one
who can read this paper. My master bade me be speedy; and I have been
waiting half an hour here, and cannot find a soul who can read. I know it is
for a certain Giannantonio, but I cannot remember his surname."
Celestina took the letter in her hand, saying to herself, as she tried to
decipher the writing, "How stupid the people of San Donato are! they make a
long journey, and do not know to whom they are going. This fellow does not
look silly; and yet he fancies some one can read among these villages! Were
it not for the signora, I had never learnt so much."
Her sisters proceeded to the confessional; and she read "Gian—antonio—Ar—,"
"Arcaro—Arcaro. Now I recollect," said the messenger. "Well," said the girl,
"Giannantonio Arcaro, my friend, does not live at Picinisco, but at Aia del
Lupo." "And where is Aia del Lupo?" "Look—there are houses—behind the hill."
— "Cospetto!10 I thought myself arrived, and I am two miles off. How shall I get back
to San Donato before dinner? What shall I do? my master bade me hurry. My
good girl, be charitable, show me the shortest way." "That before you, take
that road—when you get to the fountain, turn to the left, and take the
path—but it would be easier to show you the way than to make you understand
it;" and, doing what she said, followed by the youth, she reached the
fountain, and pointed out the lane of a cross-way which he was to take. But
at this moment his eyes lighted up with a fierce expression, which made her
eager to return; so she said, "Now I have shown you the way, good bye,
friend." "No, my dear, I do not understand; be so good as to go with me as
far as the lane." "Really—and what do you take me for, good man! I have lost
time coming so far: go, in God's name! for I must hasten to church." "You
are right, my pretty angel, but you must sometimes do a good turn by a
neighbour. I am in a greater hurry, perhaps, than you, my dear—Come—come as
far as that. With so pretty a face, you must not be hard-hearted. I only ask
you to go so far." "No, no, good man; I have staid too long; good bye."
"Well, then, I must begin already to relieve you from the trouble of
walking;" and, so saying, he took her up in his arms, and, in spite of her
cries and endeavours to get loose, ran off as if he were carrying a child.
This was Gambalunga, the bold Gambalunga, in person. His comrades, who were
waiting for him, hidden on the hill of Santa Croce, no sooner saw him than
they leapt forth with joyful acclamations.
The pursuit of the villagers, with Brancaleone at their head, brings on the
catastrophe of the story, which, after many perils to the lovers, and romantic
incidents, ends happily. The whole presents a pleasing and lively picture of
the
Italians—their vehement passions, which lead them right on to their object,
accompanied, at the same time, by a sense of natural justice and open-hearted
frankness, and adorned by unaffected and gentle manners. This, too, mixed up
with so much of wickedness in the bad characters as give darker shades of
interest to the tale. We think a translation of this romance would be popular
in
England.
[To be continued.]