Modern Italian Poets; Essays and Versions Part 12

But I shall see my dear ones once again And, alas! hear their moans; the last adieu Hear from their lips--shall find myself once more Within their arms--then part from them forever.

They come! O G.o.d, bend down from heaven on them One look of pity.

{_Enter_ ANTONIETTA, MATILDE, _and_ GONZAGA.

_Antonietta._ My husband!

_Matilde._ O my father!

_Antonietta._ Ah, thus thou comest back! Is this the moment So long desired?

_Count._ O poor souls! Heaven knows That only for your sake is it dreadful to me.

I who so long am used to look on death, And to expect it, only for your sakes Do I need courage. And you, you will not surely Take it away from me? G.o.d, when he makes Disaster fall on the innocent, he gives, too, The heart to bear it. Ah! let _yours_ be equal To your affliction now! Let us enjoy This last embrace--it likewise is Heaven's gift.

Daughter, thou weepest; and thou, wife! Oh, when I chose thee mine, serenely did they days Glide on in peace; but made I thee companion Of a sad destiny. And it is this thought Embitters death to me. Would that I could not See how unhappy I have made thee!

_Antonietta._ O husband Of my glad days, thou mad'st them glad! My heart,-- Yes, thou may'st read it!--I die of sorrow! Yet I could not wish that I had not been thine.

_Count._ O love, I know how much I lose in thee: Make me not feel it now too much.

_Matilde._ The murderers!

_Count._ No, no, my sweet Matilde; let not those Fierce cries of hatred and of vengeance rise From out thine innocent soul. Nay, do not mar These moments; they are holy; the wrong's great, But pardon it, and thou shalt see in midst of ills A lofty joy remaining still. My death, The cruelest enemy could do no more Than hasten it. Oh surely men did never Discover death, for they had made it fierce And insupportable! It is from Heaven That it doth come, and Heaven accompanies it, Still with such comfort as men cannot give Nor take away. O daughter and dear wife, Hear my last words! All bitterly, I see, They fall upon your hearts. But you one day will have Some solace in remembering them together.

Dear wife, live thou; conquer thy sorrow, live; Let not this poor girl utterly be orphaned.

Fly from this land, and quickly; to thy kindred Take her with thee. She is their blood; to them Thou once wast dear, and when thou didst become Wife of their foe, only less dear; the cruel Reasons of state have long time made adverse The names of Carmagnola and Visconti; But thou go'st back unhappy; the sad cause Of hate is gone. Death's a great peacemaker!

And thou, my tender flower, that to my arms Wast wont to come and make my spirit light, Thou bow'st thy head? Aye, aye, the tempest roars Above thee! Thou dost tremble, and thy breast Is shaken with thy sobs. Upon my face I feel thy burning tears fall down on me, And cannot wipe them from thy tender eyes.

... Thou seem'st to ask Pity of me, Matilde. Ah! thy father Can do naught for thee. But there is in heaven, There is a Father thou know'st for the forsaken; Trust him and live on tranquil if not glad.

Gonzaga, I offer thee this hand, which often Thou hast pressed upon the morn of battle, when We knew not if we e'er should meet again: Wilt press it now once more, and give to me Thy faith that thou wilt be defense and guard Of these poor women, till they are returned Unto their kinsmen?

_Gonzaga._ I do promise thee.

_Count._ When thou go'st back to camp, Salute my brothers for me; and say to them That I die innocent; witness thou hast been Of all my deeds and thoughts--thou knowest it.

Tell them that I did never stain my sword With treason--I did never stain it--and I am betrayed.--And when the trumpets blow, And when the banners beat against the wind, Give thou a thought to thine old comrade then!

And on some mighty day of battle, when Upon the field of slaughter the priest lifts His hands amid the doleful noises, offering up The sacrifice to heaven for the dead, Bethink thyself of me, for I too thought To die in battle.

_Antonietta._ O G.o.d, have pity on us!

_Count._ O wife! Matilde! now the hour is near We needs must part. Farewell!

_Matilde._ No, father--

_Count._ Yet Once more, come to my heart! Once more, and now, In mercy, go!

_Antonietta._ Ah, no! they shall unclasp us By force!

{_A sound of armed men is heard without._

_Matilde._ What sound is that?

_Antonietta._ Almighty G.o.d!

{_The door opens in the middle; armed men are seen. Their leader advances toward the Count; the women swoon._

_Count._ Merciful G.o.d! Thou hast removed from them This cruel moment, and I thank Thee! Friend, Succor them, and from this unhappy place Bear them! And when they see the light again, Tell them that nothing more is left to fear.

VII

In the Carmagnola having dealt with the internal wars which desolated medieval Italy, Manzoni in the Adelchi takes a step further back in time, and evolves his tragedy from the downfall of the Longobard kingdom and the invasion of the Franks. These enter Italy at the bidding of the priests, to sustain the Church against the disobedience and contumacy of the Longobards.

Desiderio and his son Adelchi are kings of the Longobards, and the tragedy opens with the return to their city Pavia of Ermenegarda, Adelchi's sister, who was espoused to Carlo, king of the Franks, and has been repudiated by him. The Longobards have seized certain territories belonging to the Church, and as they refuse to restore them, the ecclesiastics send a messenger, who crosses the Alps on foot, to the camp of the Franks, and invites their king into Italy to help the cause of the Church. The Franks descend into the valley of Susa, and soon after defeat the Longobards. It is in this scene that the chorus of the Italian peasants, who suffer, no matter which side conquers, is introduced. The Longobards retire to Verona, and Ermenegarda, whose character is painted with great tenderness and delicacy, and whom we may take for a type of what little goodness and gentleness, sorely puzzled, there was in the world at that time (which was really one of the worst of all the bad times in the world), dies in a convent near Brescia, while the war rages all round her retreat.

A defection takes place among the Longobards; Desiderio is captured; a last stand is made by Adelchi at Verona, where he is mortally wounded, and is brought prisoner to his father in the tent of Carlo. The tragedy ends with his death; and I give the whole of the last scene:

{_Enter_ CARLO _and_ DESIDERIO.

_Desiderio._ Oh, how heavily Hast thou descended upon my gray head, Thou hand of G.o.d! How comes my son to me!

My son, my only glory, here I languish, And tremble to behold thee! Shall I see Thy deadly wounded body, I that should Be wept by thee? I, miserable, alone, Dragged thee to this; blind dotard I, that fain Had made earth fair to thee, I digged thy grave.

If only thou amidst thy warriors' songs Hadst fallen on some day of victory, Or had I closed upon thy royal bed Thine eyes amidst the sobs and reverent grief Of thy true liegemen, ah; it still had been Anguish ineffable! And now thou diest, No king, deserted, in thy foeman's land, With no lament, saving thy father's, uttered Before the man that doth exult to hear it.

_Carlo._ Old man, thy grief deceives thee. Sorrowful, And not exultant do I see the fate Of a brave man and king. Adelchi's foe Was I, and he was mine, nor such that I Might rest upon this new throne, if he lived And were not in my hands. But now he is In G.o.d's own hands, whither no enmity Of man can follow him.

_Des._ 'T is a fatal gift Thy pity, if it never is bestowed Save upon those fallen beyond all hope-- If thou dost never stay thine arm until Thou canst find no place to inflict a wound!

(_Adelchi is brought in, mortally wounded._)

_Des._ My son!

_Adelchi._ And do I see thee once more, father?

Oh come, and touch my hand!

_Des._ 'T is terrible For me to see thee so!

_Ad._ Many in battle Did fall so by my sword.

_Des._ Ah, then, this wound Thou hast, it is incurable?

_Ad._ Incurable.

_Des._ Alas, atrocious war!

And cruel I that made it. 'T is I kill thee.

_Ad._ Not thou nor he _(pointing to Carlo)_, but the Lord G.o.d of all.

_Des._ Oh, dear unto those eyes! how far away From thee I suffered! and it was one thought Among so many woes upheld me. 'T was the hope To tell thee all one day in some safe hour Of peace--