Modern Italian Poets; Essays and Versions Part 16

Perche tanto sorriso del cielo Sulla terra del vile dolor?

The scene is in a public place in Palermo, and the time is the moment before the ma.s.sacre of the French begins. A chorus of Sicilian poets remind the people of their sorrows and degradation, and sing:

The wind vexes the forest no longer, In the suns.h.i.+ne the leaflets expand: With barrenness cursed be the land That is bathed with the sweat of the slave!

On the fields now the harvests are waving, On the fields that our blood has made red; Harvests grown for our enemy's bread From the bones of our children they wave!

With a veil of black clouds would the tempest Might the face of this Italy cover; Why should Heaven smile so glorious over The land of our infamous woe?

All nature is suddenly wakened, Here in slumbers unending man sleeps; Dust trod evermore by the steps Of ever-strange lords he lies low!

{Ill.u.s.tration: Giambattista Niccolini.}

"With this tragedy," says an Italian biographer of Niccolini, "the poet potently touched all chords of the human heart, from the most impa.s.sioned love to the most implacable hate.... The enthusiasm rose to the greatest height, and for as many nights of the severe winter of 1830 as the tragedy was given, the theater was always thronged by the overflowing audience; the doors of the Cocomero were opened to the impatient people many hours before the spectacle began. Spectators thought themselves fortunate to secure a seat next the roof of the theater; even in the prompter's hole {Note: On the Italian stage the prompter rises from a hole in the floor behind the foot-lights, and is hidden from the audience merely by a canvas shade.} places were sought to witness the admired work.... And whilst they wept over the ill-starred love of Imelda, and all hearts palpitated in the touching situation of the drama,--where the public and the personal interests so wonderfully blended, and the vengeance of a people mingled with that of a man outraged in the most sacred affections of the heart,--Procida rose terrible as the billows of his sea, imprecating before all the wrongs of their oppressed country, in whatever servitude inflicted, by whatever aliens, among all those that had trampled, derided, and martyred her, and raising the cry of resistance which stirred the heart of all Italy. At the picture of the abject sufferings of their common country, the whole audience rose and repeated with tears of rage:

"Why should heaven smile so glorious over The land of our infamous woe?"

By the year 1837 had begun the singular illusion of the Italians, that their freedom and unity were to be accomplished through a liberal and patriotic Pope. Niccolini, however, never was cheated by it, though he was very much disgusted, and he retired, not only from the political agitation, but almost from the world. He was seldom seen upon the street, but to those who had access to him he did not fail to express all the contempt and distrust he felt. "A liberal Pope! a liberal Pope!" he said, with a scornful enjoyment of that contradiction in terms. He was thoroughly Florentine and Tuscan in his anti-papal spirit, and he was faithful in it to the tradition of Dante, Petrarch, Machiavelli, Guicciardini, and Alfieri, who all doubted and combated the papal influence as necessarily fatal to Italian hopes. In 1843 he published his great and princ.i.p.al tragedy, _Arnaldo da Brescia_, which was a response to the ideas of the papal school of patriots. In due time Pius IX. justified Niccolini, and all others that distrusted him, by turning his back upon the revolution, which belief in him, more than anything else, had excited.

The tragedies which succeeded the Arnaldo were the _Filippo Strozzi_, published in 1847; the _Beatrice_ _Cenci_, a version from the English of Sh.e.l.ley, and the _Mario e i Cimbri_.

A part of the Arnaldo da Brescia was performed in Florence in 1858, not long before the war which has finally established Italian freedom.

The name of the Cocomero theater had been changed to the Teatro Niccolini, and, in spite of the governmental anxiety and opposition, the occasion was made a popular demonstration in favor of Niccolini's ideas as well as himself. His biographer says: "The audience now maintained a religious silence; now, moved by irresistible force, broke out into uproarious applause as the eloquent protests of the friar and the insolent responses of the Pope awakened their interest; for Italy then, like the unhappy martyr, had risen to proclaim the decline of that monstrous power which, in the name of a religion profaned by it, sanctifies its own illegitimate and feudal origin, its abuses, its pride, its vices, its crimes. It was a beautiful and affecting spectacle to see the ill.u.s.trious poet receiving the warm congratulations of his fellow-citizens, who enthusiastically recognized in him the utterer of so many lofty truths and the prophet of Italy. That night Niccolini was accompanied to his house by the applauding mult.i.tude." And if all this was a good deal like the honors the Florentines were accustomed to pay to a very pretty _ballerina_ or a successful _prima donna_, there is no doubt that a poet is much worthier the popular frenzy; and it is a pity that the forms of popular frenzy have to be so cheapened by frequent use. The two remaining years of Niccolini's life were spent in great retirement, and in a satisfaction with the fortunes of Italy which was only marred by the fact that the French still remained in Rome, and that the temporal power yet stood. He died in 1861.

III

The work of Niccolini in which he has poured out all the lifelong hatred and distrust he had felt for the temporal power of the popes is the Arnaldo da Brescia. This we shall best understand through a sketch of the life of Arnaldo, who is really one of the most heroic figures of the past, deserving to rank far above Savonarola, and with the leaders of the Reformation, though he preceded these nearly four hundred years. He was born in Brescia of Lombardy, about the year 1105, and was partly educated in France, in the school of the famous Abelard. He early embraced the ecclesiastical life, and, when he returned to his own country, entered a convent, but not to waste his time in idleness and the corruptions of his order. In fact, he began at once to preach against these, and against the usurpation of temporal power by all the great and little dignitaries of the Church.

He thus identified himself with the democratic side in politics, which was then locally arrayed against the bishop aspiring to rule Brescia.

Arnaldo denounced the political power of the Pope, as well as that of the prelates; and the bishop, making this known to the pontiff at Rome, had sufficient influence to procure a sentence against Arnaldo as a schismatic, and an order enjoining silence upon him. He was also banished from Italy; whereupon, retiring to France, he got himself into further trouble by aiding Abelard in the defense of his teachings, which had been attainted of heresy. Both Abelard and Arnaldo were at this time bitterly persecuted by St. Bernard, and Arnaldo took refuge in Switzerland, whence, after several years, he pa.s.sed to Rome, and there began to a.s.sume an active part in the popular movements against the papal rule. He was an ardent republican, and was a useful and efficient partisan, teaching openly that, whilst the Pope was to be respected in all spiritual things, he was not to be recognized at all as a temporal prince. When the English monk, Nicholas Breakspear, became Pope Adrian IV., he excommunicated and banished Arnaldo; but Arnaldo, protected by the senate and certain powerful n.o.bles, remained at Rome in spite of the Pope's decree, and disputed the lawfulness of the excommunication. Finally, the whole city was laid under interdict until Arnaldo should be driven out. Holy Week was drawing near; the people were eager to have their churches thrown open and to witness the usual shows and splendors, and they consented to the exile of their leader. The followers of a cardinal arrested him, but he was rescued by his friends, certain counts of the Campagna, who held him for a saint, and who now lodged him safely in one of their castles. The Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, coming to Rome to a.s.sume the imperial crown, was met by emba.s.sies from both parties in the city. He warmly favored that of the Pope, and not only received that of the people very coldly, but arrested one of the counts who had rescued Arnaldo, and forced him to name the castle in which the monk lay concealed. Arnaldo was then given into the hands of the cardinals, and these delivered him to the prefect of Rome, who caused him to be hanged, his body to be burned upon a spit, and his ashes to be scattered in the Tiber, that the people might not venerate his relics as those of a saint. "This happened," says the priest Giovanni Battista Guadagnini, of Brescia, whose Life, published in 1790, I have made use of--"this happened in the year 1155 before the 18th of June, previous to the coronation of Frederick, Arnaldo being, according to my thinking, fifty years of age. His eloquence," continues Guadagnini, "was celebrated by his enemies themselves; the exemplarity of his life was superior to their malignity, constraining them all to silence, although they were in such great number, and it received a splendid eulogy from St. Bernard, the luminary of that century, who, being strongly impressed against him, condemned him first as a schismatic, and then for the affair of the Council of Sens (the defense of Abelard), persecuted him as a heretic, and then had finally nothing to say against him. His courage and his zeal for the discipline of the Church have been sufficiently attested by the toils, the persecutions, and the death which he underwent for that cause."

IV

The scene of the first act of Niccolini's tragedy is near the Capitoline Hill, in Rome, where two rival leaders, Frangipani and Giordano Pierleone, are disputing in the midst of their adherents.

The former is a supporter of the papal usurpations; the latter is a republican chief, who has been excommunicated for his politics, and is also under sentence of banishment; but who, like Arnaldo, remains in Rome in spite of Church and State. Giordano withdraws to the Campidoglio with his adherents, and there Arnaldo suddenly appears among them. When the people ask what cure there is for their troubles, Arnaldo answers, in denunciation of the papacy:

Liberty and G.o.d.

A voice from the orient, A voice from the Occident, A voice from thy deserts, A voice of echoes from the open graves, Accuses thee, thou shameless harlot! Drunk Art thou with blood of saints, and thou hast lain With all the kings of earth. Ah, you behold her!

She is clothed on with purple; gold and pearls And gems are heaped upon her; and her vestments Once white, the pleasure of her former spouse, That now's in heaven, she has dragged in dust.

Lo, is she full of names and blasphemies, And on her brow is written _Mystery!_ Ah, nevermore you hear her voice console The afflicted; all she threatens, and creates With her perennial curse in trembling souls Ineffable pangs; the unhappy--as we here Are all of us--fly in their common sorrows To embrace each other; she, the cruel one, Sunders them in the name of Jesus; fathers She kindles against sons, and wives she parts From husbands, and she makes a war between Harmonious brothers; of the Evangel she Is cruel interpreter, and teaches hate Out of the book of love. The years are come Whereof the rapt Evangelist of Patmos Did prophesy; and, to deceive the people, Satan has broken the chains he bore of old; And she, the cruel, on the infinite waters Of tears that are poured out for her, sits throned.

The enemy of man two goblets places Unto her shameless lips; and one is blood, And gold is in the other; greedy and fierce She drinks so from them both, the world knows not If she of blood or gold have greater thirst....

Lord, those that fled before thy scourge of old No longer stand to barter offerings About thy temple's borders, but within Man's self is sold, and thine own blood is trafficked, Thou son of G.o.d!

The people ask Arnaldo what he counsels them to do, and he advises them to restore the senate and the tribunes, appealing to the glorious memories of the place where they stand, the Capitoline Hill:

Where the earth calls at every step, "Oh, pause, Thou treadest on a hero!"

They desire to make him a tribune, but he refuses, promising, however, that he will not withhold his counsel. Whilst he speaks, some cardinals, with n.o.bles of the papal party, appear, and announce the election of the new Pope, Adrian. "What is his name?" the people demand; and a cardinal answers, "Breakspear, a Briton." Giordano exclaims:

Impious race! you've chosen Rome for shepherd A cruel barbarian, and even his name Tortures our ears.

_Arnaldo._ I never care to ask Where popes are born; and from long suffering, You, Romans, before heaven, should have learnt That priests can have no country....

I know this man; his father was a thrall, And he is fit to be a slave. He made Friends with the Norman that enslaves his country; A wandering beggar to Avignon's cloisters He came in boyhood and was known to do All abject services; there those false monks He with astute humility cajoled; He learned their arts, and 'mid intrigues and hates He rose at last out of his native filth A tyrant of the vile.

The cardinals, confounded by Arnaldo's presence and invectives, withdraw, but leave one of their party to work on the fears of the Romans, and make them return to their allegiance by pictures of the desolating war which Barbarossa, now approaching Rome to support Adrian, has waged upon the rebellious Lombards at Rosate and elsewhere. Arnaldo replies:--

Romans, I will tell all the things that he has hid; I know not how to cheat you. Yes, Rosate A ruin is, from which the smoke ascends.

The bishop, lord of Monferrato, guided The German arms against Chieri and Asti, Now turned to dust; that shepherd pitiless Did thus avenge his own offenses on His flying flocks; himself with torches armed The German hand; houses and churches saw Destroyed, and gave his blessing on the flames.

This is the pardon that you may expect From mitered tyrants. A heap of ashes now Crowneth the hill where once Tortona stood; And drunken with her wine and with her blood, Fallen there amidst their spoil upon the dead, Slept the wild beasts of Germany: like ghosts Dim wandering through the darkness of the night, Those that were left by famine and the sword, Hidden within the heart of thy dim caverns, Desolate city! rose and turned their steps Noiselessly toward compa.s.sionate Milan.

There they have borne their swords and hopes: I see A thousand heroes born from the example Tortona gave. O city, if I could, O sacred city! upon the ruins fall Reverently, and take them in my loving arms, The relics of thy brave I'd gather up In precious urns, and from the altars here In days of battle offer to be kissed!

Oh, praise be to the Lord! Men die no more For chains and errors; martyrs now at last Hast thou, O holy Freedom; and fain were I Ashes for thee!--But I see you grow pale, Ye Romans! Down, go down; this holy height Is not for cowards. In the valley there Your tyrant waits you; go and fall before him And cover his haughty foot with tears and kisses.

He'll tread you in the dust, and then absolve you.

_The People._ The arms we have are strange and few, Our walls Are fallen and ruinous.

_Arnaldo._ Their hearts are walls Unto the brave....

And they shall rise again, The walls that blood of freemen has baptized, But among slaves their ruins are eternal.

_People._ You outrage us, sir!

_Arnaldo._ Wherefore do ye tremble Before the trumpet sounds? O thou that wast Once the world's lord and first in Italy, Wilt thou be now the last?

_People._ No more! Cease, or thou diest!

Arnaldo, having roused the pride of the Romans, now tells them that two thousand Swiss have followed him from his exile; and the act closes with some lyrical pa.s.sages leading to the fraternization of the people with these.

The second act of this curious tragedy, where there may be said to be scarcely any personal interest, but where we are aware of such an impa.s.sioned treatment of public interests as perhaps never was before, opens with a scene between the Pope Adrian and the Cardinal Guido. The character of both is finely studied by the poet; and Guido, the type of ecclesiastical submission, has not more faith in the sacredness and righteousness of Adrian, than Adrian, the type of ecclesiastical ambition, has in himself. The Pope tells Guido that he stands doubting between the cities of Lombardy leagued against Frederick, and Frederick, who is coming to Rome, not so much to befriend the papacy as to place himself in a better att.i.tude to crush the Lombards. The German dreams of the restoration of Charlemagne's empire; he believes the Church corrupt; and he and Arnaldo would be friends, if it were not for Arnaldo's vain hope of reestablis.h.i.+ng the republican liberties of Rome. The Pope utters his ardent desire to bring Arnaldo back to his allegiance; and when Guido reminds him that Arnaldo has been condemned by a council of the Church, and that it is scarcely in his power to restore him, Adrian turns upon him:

What sayest thou?

I can do all. Dare the audacious members Rebel against the head? Within these hands Lie not the keys that once were given to Peter?

The heavens repeat as 't were the word of G.o.d, My word that here has power to loose and bind.

Arnaldo did not dare so much. The kingdom Of earth alone he did deny me. Thou Art more outside the Church than he.

_Guido_ (_kneeling at Adrian's feet_). O G.o.d, I erred; forgive! I rise not from thy feet Till thou absolve me. My zeal blinded me.

I'm clay before thee; shape me as thou wilt, A vessel apt to glory or to shame.

Guido then withdraws at the Pope's bidding, in order to send a messenger to Arnaldo, and Adrian utters this fine soliloquy:

At every step by which I've hither climbed I've found a sorrow; but upon the summit All sorrows are; and thorns more thickly spring Around my chair than ever round a throne.

What weary toil to keep up from the dust This mantle that's weighed down the strongest limbs!

These splendid gems that blaze in my tiara, They are a fire that burns the aching brow, I lift with many tears, O Lord, to thee!

Yet I must fear not; He that did know how To bear the cross, so heavy with the sins Of all the world, will succor the weak servant That represents his power here on earth.

Of mine own isle that make the light o' the sun Obscure as one day was my lot, amidst The furious tumults of this guilty Rome, Here, under the superb effulgency Of burning skies, I think of you and weep!

The Pope's messenger finds Arnaldo in the castle of Giordano, where these two are talking of the present fortunes and future chances of Rome. The patrician forebodes evil from the approach of the emperor, but Arnaldo encourages him, and, when the Pope's messenger appears, he is eager to go to Adrian, believing that good to their cause will come of it. Giordano in vain warns him against treachery, bidding him remember that Adrian will hold any falsehood sacred that is used with a heretic. It is observable throughout that Niccolini is always careful to make his rebellious priest a good Catholic; and now Arnaldo rebukes Giordano for some doubts of the spiritual authority of the Pope. When Giordano says: