Thou hand of God! How comes my son to me!
My son, my only glory, here I languish,
And tremble to behold thee! Shall I 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 God’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 God 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 —
Ad. That hour of peace has come to me.
Believe it, father, save that I leave thee
Crushed with thy sorrow here below.
Des. O front
Serene and bold! O fearless hand! O eyes
That once struck terror!
Ad. Cease thy lamentations,
Cease, father, in God’s name! For was not this
The time to die? But thou that shalt live captive,
And hast lived all thy days a king, oh listen:
Life’s a great secret that is not revealed
Save in the latest hour. Thou’st lost a kingdom;
Nay, do not weep! Trust me, when to this hour
Thou also shalt draw nigh, most jubilant
And fair shall pass before thy thought the years
In which thou wast not king — the years in which
No tears shall be recorded in the skies
Against thee, and thy name shall not ascend
Mixed with the curses of the unhappy. Oh,
Rejoice that thou art king no longer! that
All ways are closed against thee! There is none
For innocent action, and there but remains
To do wrong or to suffer wrong. A power
Fierce, pitiless, grasps the world, and calls itself
The right. The ruthless hands of our forefathers
Did sow injustice, and our fathers then
Did water it with blood; and now the earth
No other harvest bears. It is not meet
To uphold crime, thou’st proved it, and if ‘t were,
Must it not end thus? Nay, this happy man
Whose throne my dying renders more secure,
Whom all men smile on and applaud, and serve,
He is a man and he shall die.
Des. But I
That lose my son, what shall console me?
Ad. God!
Who comforts us for all things. And oh, thou
Proud foe of mine! (Turning to Carlo.)
Carlo. Nay, by this name, Adelchi,
Call me no more; I was so, but toward death
Hatred is impious and villainous. Nor such,
Believe me, knows the heart of Carlo.
Ad. Friendly
My speech shall be, then, very meek and free
Of every bitter memory to both.
For this I pray thee, and my dying hand
I lay in thine! I do not ask that thou
Should’st let go free so great a captive — no,
For I well see that my prayer were in vain
And vain the prayer of any mortal. Firm
Thy heart is — must be — nor so far extends
Thy pity. That which thou can’st not deny
Without being cruel, that I ask thee! Mild
As it can be, and free of insult, be
This old man’s bondage, even such as thou
Would’st have implored for thy father, if the heavens
Had destined thee the sorrow of leaving him
In others’ power. His venerable head
Keep thou from every outrage; for against
The fallen many are brave; and let him not
Endure the cruel sight of any of those
His vassals that betrayed him.
Carlo. Take in death
This glad assurance, Adelchi! and be Heaven
My testimony, that thy prayer is as
The word of Carlo!
Ad. And thy enemy,
In dying, prays for thee!
Enter ARVINO.
Armno. (Impatiently) O mighty king, thy warriors and chiefs
Ask entrance.
Ad. (Appealingly.) Carlo!
Carlo. Let not any dare
To draw anigh this tent; for here Adelchi
Is sovereign; and no one but Adelchi’s father
And the meek minister of divine forgiveness
Have access here.
Des. O my beloved son!
Ad. O my father,
The light forsakes these eyes.
Des. Adelchi, — No!
Thou shalt not leave me!
Ad. O King of kings! betrayed
By one of Thine, by all the rest abandoned:
I come to seek Thy peace, and do Thou take
My weary soul!
Des. He heareth thee, my son,
And thou art gone, and I in servitude
Remain to weep.
I wish to give another passage from this tragedy: the speech which the emissary of the Church makes to Carlo when he reaches his presence after his arduous passage of the Alps. I suppose that all will note the beauty and reality of the description in the story this messenger tells of his adventures; and I feel, for my part, a profound effect of wildness and loneliness in the verse, which has almost the solemn light and balsamy perfume of those mountain solitudes:
From the camp,
Unseen, I issued, and retraced the steps
But lately taken. Thence upon the right
I turned toward Aquilone. Abandoning
The beaten paths, I found myself within
A dark and narrow valley; but it grew
Wider before my eyes as further on
I kept my way. Here, now and then, I saw
The wandering flocks, and huts of shepherds. ‘T was
The furthermost abode of men. I entered
One of the huts, craved shelter, and upon
The woolly fleece I slept the night away.
Rising at dawn, of my good shepherd host
I asked my way to
France. “Beyond those heights
Are other heights,” he said, “and others yet;
And France is far and far away; but path
There’s none, and thousands are those mountains —
Steep, naked, dreadful, uninhabited
Unless by ghosts, and never mortal man
Passed over them.” “The ways of God are many,
Far more than those of mortals,” I replied,
“And God sends me.” “And God guide you!” he said.
Then, from among the loaves he kept in store,
He gathered up as many as a pilgrim
May carry, and in a coarse sack wrapping them,
He laid them on my shoulders. Recompense
I prayed from Heaven for him, and took my way.
Beaching the valley’s top, a peak arose,
And, putting faith in God, I climbed it. Here
No trace of man appeared, only the forests
Of untouched pines, rivers unknown, and vales
Without a path. All hushed, and nothing else
But my own steps I heard, and now and then
The rushing of the torrents, and the sudden
Scream of the hawk, or else the eagle, launched
From his high nest, and hurtling through the dawn,
Passed close above my head; or then at noon,
Struck by the sun, the crackling of the cones
Of the wild pines. And so three days I walked,
And under the great trees, and in the clefts,
Three nights I rested. The sun was my guide;
I rose with him, and him upon his journey
I followed till he set. Uncertain still,
Of my own way I went; from vale to vale
Crossing forever; or, if it chanced at times
I saw the accessible slope of some great height
Rising before me, and attained its crest,
Yet loftier summits still, before, around,
Towered over me; and other heights with snow
From foot to summit whitening, that did seem
Like steep, sharp tents fixed in the soil; and others
Appeared like iron, and arose in guise
Of walls insuperable. The third day fell
What time I had a mighty mountain seen
That raised its top above the others; ‘t was
All one green slope, and all its top was crowned
With trees. And thither eagerly I turned
My weary steps. It was the eastern side,
Sire, of this very mountain on which lies
Thy camp that faces toward the setting sun.
While I yet lingered on its spurs the darkness
Did overtake me; and upon the dry
And slippery needles of the pine that covered
The ground, I made my bed, and pillowed me
Against their ancient trunks. A smiling hope
Awakened me at daybreak; and all full
Of a strange vigor, up the steep I climbed.
Scarce had I reached the summit when my ear
Was smitten with a murmur that from far
Appeared to come, deep, ceaseless; and I stood
And listened motionless. ‘T was not the waters
Broken upon the rocks below; ’twas not the wind
That blew athwart the woods and whistling ran
From one tree to another, but verily
A sound of living men, an indistinct
Rumor of words, of arms, of trampling feet,
Swarming from far away; an agitation
Immense, of men! My heart leaped, and my steps
I hastened. On that peak, O king, that seems
To us like some sharp blade to pierce the heaven,
There lies an ample plain that’s covered thick
With grass ne’er trod before. And this I crossed
The quickest way; and now at every instant
The murmur nearer grew, and I devoured
The space between; I reached the brink, I launched
My glance into the valley and I saw,
I saw the tents of Israel, the desired
Pavilion of Jacob; on the ground
I fell, thanked God, adored him, and descended.
VIII
I could easily multiply beautiful and effective passages from the poetry of Manzoni; but I will give only one more version, “The Fifth of May”, that ode on the death of Napoleon, which, if not the most perfect lyric of modern times as the Italians vaunt it to be, is certainly very grand. I have followed the movement and kept the meter of the Italian, and have at the same time reproduced it quite literally; yet I feel that any translation of such a poem is only a little better than none. I think I have caught the shadow of this splendid lyric; but there is yet no photography that transfers the splendor itself, the life, the light, the color; I can give you the meaning, but not the feeling, that pervades every syllable as the blood warms every fiber of a man, not the words that flashed upon the poet as he wrote, nor the yet more precious and inspired words that came afterward to his patient waiting and pondering, and touched the whole with fresh delight and grace. If you will take any familiar passage from one of our poets in which every motion of the music is endeared by long association and remembrance, and every tone is sweet upon the tongue, and substitute a few strange words for the original, you will have some notion of the wrong done by translation.
THE FIFTH OF MAY.
He passed; and as immovable
As, with the last sigh given,
Lay his own clay, oblivious,
From that great spirit riven,
So the world stricken and wondering
Stands at the tidings dread:
Mutely pondering the ultimate
Hour of that fateful being,
And in the vast futurity
No peer of his foreseeing
Among the countless myriads
Her blood-stained dust that tread.
Him on his throne and glorious
Silent saw I, that never —
When with awful vicissitude
He sank, rose, fell forever —
Mixed my voice with the numberless
Voices that pealed on high;
Guiltless of servile flattery
And of the scorn of coward,
Come I when darkness suddenly
On so great light hath lowered,
And offer a song at his sepulcher
That haply shall not die.
From the Alps unto the Pyramids,
From Rhine to Manzanares
Unfailingly the thunderstroke
His lightning purpose carries;
Bursts from Scylla to Tanais, —
From one to the other sea.
Was it true glory? — Posterity,
Thine be the hard decision;
Bow we before the mightiest,
Who willed in him the vision
Of his creative majesty
Most grandly traced should be.
The eager and tempestuous
Joy of the great plan’s hour,
The throe of the heart that controllessly
Burns with a dream of power,
And wins it, and seizes victory
It had seemed folly to hope —
All he hath known: the infinite
Rapture after the danger,
The flight, the throne of sovereignty,
The salt bread of the stranger;
Twice ‘neath the feet of the worshipers,
Twice ‘neath the altar’s cope.
He spoke his name; two centuries,
Armed and threatening either,
Turned unto him submissively,
As waiting fate together;
He made a silence, and arbiter
He sat between the two.
He vanished; his days in the idleness
Of his island-prison spending,
Mark of immense malignity,
And of a pity unending
,
Of hatred inappeasable,
Of deathless love and true.
As on the head of the mariner,
Its weight some billow heaping,
Falls even while the castaway,
With strained sight far sweeping,
Scanneth the empty distances
For some dim sail in vain;
So over his soul the memories
Billowed and gathered ever!
How oft to tell posterity
Himself he did endeavor,
And on the pages helplessly
Fell his weary hand again.
How many times, when listlessly
In the long, dull day’s declining —
Downcast those glances fulminant,
His arms on his breast entwining —
He stood assailed by the memories
Of days that were passed away;
He thought of the camps, the arduous
Assaults, the shock of forces,
The lightning-flash of the infantry,
The billowy rush of horses,
The thrill in his supremacy,
The eagerness to obey.
Ah, haply in so great agony
His panting soul had ended
Despairing, but that potently
A hand, from heaven extended,
Into a clearer atmosphere
In mercy lifted him.
And led him on by blossoming
Pathways of hope ascending
To deathless fields, to happiness
All earthly dreams transcending,
Where in the glory celestial
Earth’s fame is dumb and dim.
Beautiful, deathless, beneficent
Faith! used to triumphs, even
This also write exultantly:
No loftier pride ‘neath heaven
Unto the shame of Calvary
Stooped ever yet its crest.
Thou from his weary mortality
Disperse all bitter passions:
The God that humbleth and hearteneth,
That comforts and that chastens,
Upon the pillow else desolate
To his pale lips lay pressed!
IX
Giuseppe Arnaud says that in his sacred poetry Manzoni gave the Catholic dogmas the most moral explanation, in the most attractive poetical language; and he suggests that Manzoni had a patriotic purpose in them, or at least a sympathy with the effort of the Romantic writers to give priests and princes assurance that patriotism was religious, and thus win them to favor the Italian cause. It must be confessed that such a temporal design as this would fatally affect the devotional quality of the hymns, even if the poet’s consciousness did not; but I am not able to see any evidence of such sympathy in the poems themselves. I detect there a perfectly sincere religious feeling, and nothing of devotional rapture. The poet had, no doubt, a satisfaction in bringing out the beauty and sublimity of his faith; and, as a literary artist, he had a right to be proud of his work, for its spirit is one of which the tuneful piety of Italy had long been void. In truth, since David, king of Israel, left making psalms, religious songs have been poorer than any other sort of songs; and it is high praise of Manzoni’s “Inni Sacri” to say that they are in irreproachable taste, and unite in unaffected poetic appreciation of the grandeur of Christianity as much reason as may coexist with obedience.
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 1389