And it were mine, mine truly, I’d engage
To overrun all Italy! Every design
Of the enemy baffled; even the hope of harm
Taken away from him; and from my hand
Hardly escaped, and glad of their escape,
Four captains against whom but yesterday
It were a boast to show resistance; vanished
Half of the dread of those great names; in us
Doubled the daring that the foe has lost;
The whole choice of the war now in our hands;
And ours the lands they’ve left — is’t nothing?
Think you that they will go back to the Duke,
Those prisoners; and that they love him, or
Care more for him than you? that they have fought
In his behalf? Nay, they have combatted
Because a sovereign voice within the heart
Of men that follow any banner cries,
“Combat and conquer!” they have lost and so
Are set at liberty; they’ll sell themselves —
O, such is now the soldier! — to the first
That seeks to buy them — Buy them; they are yours!
1st Com. When we paid those that were to fight with
them,
We then believed ourselves to have purchased them.
2d Com. My lord, Venice confides in you; in you
She sees a son; and all that to her good
And to her glory can redound, expects
Shall be done by you.
Count. Everything I can.
2d Com. And what can you not do upon this field?
Count. The thing you ask. An ancient use, a use
Dear to the soldier, I can not violate.
2d Com. You, whom no one resists, on whom so
promptly
Every will follows, so that none can say,
Whether for love or fear it yield itself;
You, in this camp, you are not able, you,
To make a law, and to enforce it?
Count. I said
I could not; now I rather say, I will not!
No further words; with friends this hath been ever
My ancient custom; satisfy at once
And gladly all just prayers, and for all other
Refuse them openly and promptly. Soldier!
Com. Nay — what is your purpose?
Count. You will see anon.
{To a soldier who enters
How many prisoners still remain?
Soldier. I think,
My lord, four hundred.
Count. Call them hither — call
The bravest of them — those you meet the first;
Send them here quickly. {Exit soldier.
Surely, I might do it —
If I gave such a sign, there were not heard
A murmur in the camp. But these, my children,
My comrades amid peril, and in joy,
Those who confide in me, believe they follow
A leader ever ready to defend
The honor and advantage of the soldier;
I play them false, and make more slavish yet,
More vile and base their calling, than ’tis now?
Lords, I am trustful, as the soldier is,
But if you now insist on that from me
Which shall deprive me of my comrades’ love,
If you desire to separate me from them,
And so reduce me that I have no stay
Saving yourselves — in spite of me I say it,
You force me, you, to doubt —
Com. What do you say?
{The prisoners, among them young Pergola, enter.
Count (To the prisoners). O brave in vain! Unfortunate!
To you,
Fortune is cruelest, then? And you alone
Are to a sad captivity reserved?
A prisoner. Such, mighty lord, was never our belief.
When we were called into your presence, we
Did seem to hear a messenger that gave
Our freedom to us. Already, all of those
That yielded them to captains less than you
Have been released, and only we —
Count. Who was it,
That made you prisoners?
Prisoner. We were the last
To give our arms up. All the rest were taken
Or put to flight, and for a few brief moments
The evil fortune of the battle weighed
On us alone. At last you made a sign
That we should draw nigh to your banner, — we
Alone not conquered, relics of the lost.
Count. You are those? I am very glad, my friends,
To see you again, and I can testify
That you fought bravely; and if so much valor
Were not betrayed, and if a captain equal
Unto yourselves had led you, it had been
No pleasant thing to stand before you.
Prisoner. And now
Shall it be our misfortune to have yielded
Only to you, my lord? And they that found
A conqueror less glorious, shall they find
More courtesy in him? In vain, we asked
Our freedom of your soldiers — no one durst
Dispose of us without your own assent,
But all did promise it. “O, if you can,
Show yourselves to the Count,” they said. “Be sure,
He’ll not embitter fortune to the vanquished;
An ancient courtesy of war will never
Be ta’en away by him; he would have been
Rather the first to have invented it.”
Count. (To the Coms.) You hear them, lords? Well,
then, what do you say?
What would you do, you? (To the prisoners)
Heaven forbid that any
Should think more highly than myself of me!
You are all free, my friends; farewell! Go, follow
Your fortune, and if e’er again it lead you
Under a banner that’s adverse to mine,
Why, we shall see each other. (The Count observes
young Pergola and stops him.)
Ho, young man,
Thou art not of the vulgar! Dress, and face
More clearly still, proclaims it; yet with the others
Thou minglest and art silent?
Pergola. Vanquished men
Have nought to say, O captain.
Count. This ill-fortune
Thou bearest so, that thou dost show thyself
Worthy a better. What’s thy name?
Pergola. A name
Whose fame ‘t were hard to greaten, and that lays
On him who bears it a great obligation.
Pergola is my name.
Count. What! thou ‘rt the son
Of that brave man?
Pergola. I am he.
Count. Come, embrace
Thy father’s ancient friend! Such as thou art
That I was when I knew him first. Thou bringest
Happy days back to me! the happy days Of hope.
And take thou heart! Fortune did give
A happier beginning unto me;
But fortune’s promises are for the brave.
And soon or late she keeps them. Greet for me
Thy father, boy, and say to him that I
Asked it not of thee, but that I was sure
This battle was not of his choosing.
Pergola. Surely,
He chose it not; but his words were as wind.
Count. Let it not grieve thee; ‘t is the leader’s shame
Who is defeated; he begins well ever
Who like a brave man fights where he is placed.
Come with me, (takes his hand)
I would show thee to my comrades.
I’d give thee back thy sword. Adieu, my lords;
(To the Coms.)
I never will be merciful to your foes
> Till I have conquered them.
A notable thing in this tragedy of Carmagnola is that the interest of love is entirely wanting to it, and herein it differs very widely from the play of Schiller. The soldiers are simply soldiers; and this singleness of motive is in harmony with the Italian conception of art. Yet the Carmagnola of Manzoni is by no means like the heroes of the Alfierian tragedy. He is a man, not merely an embodied passion or mood; his character is rounded, and has all the checks and counterpoises, the inconsistencies, in a word, without which nothing actually lives in literature, or usefully lives in the world. In his generous and magnificent illogicality, he comes the nearest being a woman of all the characters in the tragedy. There is no other personage in it equaling him in interest; but he also is subordinated to the author’s purpose of teaching his countrymen an enlightened patriotism. I am loath to blame this didactic aim, which, I suppose, mars the aesthetic excellence ofthe piece.
Carmagnola’s liberation of the prisoners was not forgiven him by Venice, who, indeed, never forgave anything; he was in due time entrapped in the hall of the Grand Council, and condemned to die. The tragedy ends with a scene in his prison, where he awaits his wife and daughter, who are coming with one of his old comrades, Gonzaga, to bid him a last farewell. These passages present the poet in his sweeter and tenderer moods, and they have had a great charm for me.
SCENE — THE PRISON.
Count (speaking of his wife and daughter). By this time
they must know my fate. Ah! why
Might I not die far from them? Dread, indeed,
Would be the news that reached them, but, at least,
The darkest hour of agony would be past,
And now it stands before us. We must needs
Drink the draft drop by drop. O open fields,
O liberal sunshine, O uproar of arms,
O joy of peril, O trumpets, and the cries
Of combatants, O my true steed! ‘midst you
‘T were fair to die; but now I go rebellious
To meet my destiny, driven to my doom
Like some vile criminal, uttering on the way
Impotent vows, and pitiful complaints.
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 God, 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? God, 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 God, 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 God!
{The door opens in the middle; armed men
are seen. Their leader advances toward
the Count; the women
swoon.
Count. Merciful God! 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,
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 1388
