Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

  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.