Illyrian Poems—Feudal Scenes
author: Mary Shelley
source date: January 1829

Mary Shelley Art. IV.—1. La Guzla, ou Choix de Poesies Illyriques recueillies dans la Dalmatie, la Bosnie, la Croatie et l'Herzegowine. Paris. 1827. 2. La Jaquerie; Feudal Scenes; followed by the family of Carvajal, a Drama. Paris. By the Author of Le Theatre de Clara Gazul. 1828. [This review article appeared in the Westminster Review , vol. 10, no. 19 (January 1829), pp. 71-81. The author of both books is Prosper Mérimée. Krystal J. Iseminger and Mary A. Waters prepared this text for The Criticism Archive.]

SEVERAL years ago, the "Comedies de Clara Gazul" appeared in Paris, and excited a great deal of attention. They were hardly less known and praised in England. It was soon understood that they were imitations of the Spanish drama, the production of a very young Frenchman, (M. Merimée) and that "Clara Gazul" was altogether a fictitious personage. They were, in every way, striking and interesting productions, possessing at once the faults and beauties of their models, full of spirit, originality, and fire. They were introduced by an account of their feigned authoress, which, as well as the dramas themselves, is remarkable for its utter freedom from affectation. There are to be found in them none of those defects, too generally attributed with justice to French imaginative works: there is no circumlocution, no parade, and their very hyperbole, as being common to the Spanish drama, is natural and in its place. The first of these comedies is founded on a circumstance that occurred during the last war; when a woman, brought up in infamy, was bribed to spy and betray, through their officers, a Spanish detachment to the French authorities in Finland. The gradual softening and repentance of the girl, when she discovers the worth, and learns to love the man she is about to lead to the scaffold, contrasted with the obduracy of her mother, is finely drawn; and the scene in which she confesses her guilt to her lover is touching from its simplicity and truth. Energy is the characteristic of these pieces, mingled with a display of knowledge in the lighter touches of humanity; such as the sweet gracefulness of Iñez, and the struggles between a Catholic woman's religion and her love in "Le Ciel et l'Enfer." This drama is one of the best in the book; it is founded on the stormy passion of jealousy, the most terrible and selfish of human emotions, and the most interesting, from its being the most universal. As Clara Gazul was a Liberal, inquisitors and priests are attacked in her productions, and there reigns through all of them the spirit of freedom from political and religious servitude.

The author's next work was in a very different style, resembling the first in one particular only, that it is an imitation. It is entitled the "Guzla," and imports to be a translation of a collection of Illyrian national poems. We have in the preface some account of the players on the Guzla (a single-stringed guitar) and their mode of reciting to music, much in the manner of the Italian improvisatori. [During her travels in Italy, Mary Shelley developed a strong interest in improvisational poets like Tommaso Sgricci.] We are introduced also to an imaginary person, Hyacinth Maglanovich, who is supposed to be the author of the greater number of the poems in the volume before us. They are warlike, pathetic, and amatory—and, above all, whatever is their theme, they are characterized by the utmost simplicity, while a vein of sweetness runs throughout, that lends to each a particular charm. By a strong effort of the imagination, the young Parisian writes as if the mountains of Illyria had been the home of his childhood; the rustic and barbarous manners are not softened, nor the wild energy of the people tamed; and, if we trace any vestige of civilization, it merely arises from the absence of all that would shock our tastes or prejudices. We are induced to give a few specimens from this extraordinary production, glad of an opportunity to introduce it to the lovers of poetry in this country.

We select, in the first place, a love poem, entitled, "The Beloved of Dannisich." To render it intelligible, we are informed in a note, that the Illyrian girl is in the habit of receiving gifts from her various suitors, and that after she has collected a sufficient number, her chosen lover requests permission to carry her off; and she consenting, always names the place and hour for flight.

THE BELOVED OF DANNISICH.

1.

Eusebius has given me a ring of chased gold; I have received from Vladimir a red toque adorned with coins; but I love thee, Dannisich, better than both.

2.

Eusebius has dark and curled hair: Vladimir has a complexion fair as that of a young woman from the mountains; but Dannisich, thou art to me more beautiful than either.

3.

Eusebius kissed me and I smiled: Vladimir kissed me, and his breath was sweet as violets; but when Dannisich kissed me, my heart thrilled with pleasure.

4.

Eusebius knows many old songs. Vladimir can play upon the guzla; I love songs and the guzla, but they must be the songs and guzla of Dannisich.

5.

Eusebius has commissioned his godfather to ask me in marriage. Vladimir will send to morrow the priest to my father; but come thou under my window, Dannisich, and I will fly with thee.'

Another of the poems is founded on the oaths of friendship which it is usual for the Illyrian warriors to take one with the other. Two men thus united are called Pobratimi, [Serbo-Croatian: blood brothers.] or half brothers; they often sacrifice their lives for each other, and any quarrel between them is as scandalous as if, among us, a son ill-treated his father.

THE FLAME OF PERRUSSICH.

1.

Why is the bey Janco Marnavich never seen in his own country? Why does he wander among the rugged mountains of Vergoraz, never sleeping two nights under the same roof? Do his enemies pursue him, and have they sworn that the price of blood shall never be received?

2.

No. The bey Janco is rich and powerful. No one dares call himself his enemy, for at his voice two hundred swords will leap from their scabbards. But he seeks solitary spots, and hides himself in the caverns which the Heydukes inhabit, for his heart is a prey to sorrow, since the death of his pobratim.

3.

Cyril Pervan died in the midst of feasting. Brandy flowed in torrents, and men became mad. A dispute arose between two renowned beys, and the bey Janco Marnavich shot at his enemy; but drinking caused his hand to tremble, and he killed his pobratim, Cyril Pervan.

4.

They swore to live and die together in the church of Perrussich; but two months after they had interchanged this vow, one of the pobratimi died by the hand of his brother. Since that day the bey Janco drinks neither spirits nor wine; he eats roots only, he wanders hither and thither, like an ox pursued by a gadfly.

5.

At length he returned to his own country, and he entered the church of Perrussich: there, during one whole day, he prayed lying on the pavement with outspread arms, shedding bitter tears. But when the night came, he returned home, he appeared calmer, and he supped, waited on by his wife and children.

6.

When he was in bed, he called his wife and said, "Can'st thou see the church of Perrussich from the mountain of Pristeg?" she looked from the window, and replied, "The Morpolatza is covered with mist, and I can see nothing beyond it." The bey Janco said, "Good; rest again beside me;" and he prayed in his bed for the soul of Cyril Pervan.

7.

And when he had prayed, he said to his wife, "Open the window and look again towards Perrussich." His wife immediately arose and said, "Beyond the Morpolatza, in the midst of the mist, I see a pale and flickering light." Then the bey smiled and said, "Good; lie down again;" and he took his rosary and continued to pray.

8.

When he had told his beads, he called his wife, saying, "Pascorra, once again open the window and look." She rose and said, "My lord, I see a brilliant light in the middle of the river, which is advancing rapidly hither." Then she heard a deep sigh, and something fell on the floor. The bey Janco was dead.

Another poem is founded on the superstition attached to an evil eye, which, whomsoever it looks on, it kills. There are various kinds of evil eyes, one consists in having two pupils in each eye.

MAXIMUS AND ZOE.

1.

O Maximus Duban! O Zoe, daughter of Jellavich! May the holy Mother of God reward your love! May you be happy in heaven!

2.

When the sun had set in the sea, and the vaivode [Vaivode—governor. [Shelley's note].] had gone to rest, a sweet guzla was heard beneath the windows of the fair Zoe, the eldest daughter of Jellavich.

3.

And quickly fair Zoe rose on tiptoe, she opens the window, and a tall youth is seated on the ground, who sighs and sings his love on the guzla.

4.

He prefers the darkest nights; when the moon is at its full, he hides himself in the shade, and the eye of Zoe only could discern him under his mantle of black lamb's skin.

5.

Who is this youth with so sweet a voice? Who can tell? He is come from a distance, but he speaks our language; no one knows him, Zoe alone is acquainted with his name.

6.

But neither Zoe, nor any other person has seen his face; for when morning dawns, he raises his gun on his shoulders, and he penetrates the woods in pursuit of game.

7.

He always brings back the horns of the little goat of the mountains, and he says to Zoe: "Carry these horns with thee, and may Mary preserve thee from the evil eye!"

8.

He binds his head in a shawl like an Arnaut, and the wandering traveller who meets him in the woods has never beheld his face beneath the many folds of the gold-enwoven muslin.

9.

But one night Zoe said: "Approach, that my hand may touch thee"—She felt his features with her white hand; and when she touched herself, she felt not a more lovely face.

10.

Then she said: "The young men of this village tire me; they all court me, but I love only thee: come to-morrow at noon, while they are all at mass.

11.

"I will mount behind thee on thy horse, and thou shalt carry me as thy wife to thy own country—I have long worn the opunke [Large shoes, the token of virginity—they are changed to slippers at the time of nuptials. [Shelley's note].]—I wish to wear embroidered slippers."

12.

The young player on the guzla sighed and said: "What dost thou ask? I cannot see thee in the day time, but descend to-night, and I will carry thee to the beautiful valley of Knin: and there we will marry."

13.

She replied:—"No, I wish thee to take me to-morrow, for I will carry with me my richest dresses; my father has the key which keeps them. I will steal it to-morrow, and then I will come with thee."

14.

Then once again he sighed and said:—"As thou desirest, so it shall be." Then he embraced her; but the cocks crew, and the sky reddened, and the stranger departed.

15.

When the hour of noon came, he was at the vaivode's door, mounted on a courser white as milk, and on the crupper there was a velvet cushion, that the soft Zoe might ride more gently.

16.

The stranger had his face covered with a thick veil—his mouth and his moustachios were hardly seen. His dress glittered with gold, and his girdle was embroidered with pearls.

17.

The fair Zoe leapt lightly on the crupper, the courser white as milk neighed, proud of his burthen, and he galloped off, leaving whirlwinds of dust behind him.

18.

"Zoe, tell me, have you brought with you the beauteous horn I gave thee"—"No," she replied, "what have I to do with such trifles? I have brought my gold embroidered garments, my neck-laces and my coins."

19.

"Tell me, Zoe, hast thou brought the fair relic I gave thee"—"No," she replied, "I hung it round the neck of my little brother, who is ill, to cure him of his sickness."

20.

The stranger sighed sorrowfully. "Now that we are far from my home," said the lovely Zoe, "rein in thy horse, remove that veil, and permit me to embrace thee, dear Maximus.

21.

But he replied:—"We shall be more at our ease to-night at my home; there are satin cushions there, and we shall repose to-night under damask curtains."

22.

"How," exclaimed fair Zoe, "is this thy love for me? Why turn your head from me? Why treat me with disdain? Am I not the fairest girl in our village?"—

23.

"Ah Zoe,"said he, "some one passing might see us, and thy brothers pursuing us, might take thee back to thy father." And speaking thus he spurred on his courser.

24.

"Stop, stop, O Maximus," cried she, "I see that thou lovest me not; if thou turns not thy face towards me, I will throw myself from the horse, should I die from my fall. "

25.

Then with one hand the stranger reined in his horse, and with the other he threw his veil on the ground, and then he turned to embrace Zoe. Holy Virgin, he had two pupils in each eye!

26.

Deathly, deathly was his look! Before his lips touched those of fair Zoe, the young girl leant her head on her shoulder, and she fell from the horse pale and lifeless.

27.

"Cursed be my father," cried Maximus Duban, "who gave me this fatal eye. It shall be the cause of no more ill!" And he tore out his eyes with his hanzar. [Hanzar—handschaur. (Teutonic.) [Shelley's note]. A handschar is a type of fighting knife.]

28.

He caused the fair Zoe to be interred with pomp, and for himself, he entered a cloister: but he survived not long, for soon they opened the grave of Zoe, and placed her Maximus beside her."

One of the most interesting parts of this book is an account of Vampyrism, and a detail of the death of a girl, the victim of a vampire. But the above specimens are sufficient to recommend it to the reader; and every lover of nature in its wildness and its freedom, will find pleasure in these emanations of a mind, imbued with grand and unsophisticated imagery, true as the echo in giving back the voice of the imaginative and simple mountaineer.

The last production of this author, recently published, is now before us. It is ushered in as no imitative attempt. "La Jaquerie" consists of a series of dramatic scenes, developing the history of an insurrection in France, almost contemporary with those in our own country which occurred under Richard II. The author observes in his short preface, that similar tumults broke out almost at the same time in France, Flanders, England, and the north of Germany. They all arose from the same cause:—the peasantry, long trampled on by the iron heel of feudal tyranny, endured such matchless privations and cruelties, that in spite of the prejudices that degraded them in their own eyes, beneath the rank of their fellow men; in spite of the arms and strongholds of their adversaries, they rose against them, and loosened, though they could not break, their feudal chains. The plan of the author of "La Jaquerie" is, to give a faithful picture of the manners of those times, bringing together under one point of view the many and successive scenes and personages that formed the then state of society. A history written with this view would develop a new and terrible page of human experience. To present this to us in the form of dialogue merely is a difficult undertaking; individual character is lost in the infinite variety of persons made to pass before us, and we have the ideal instead of the real being presented to us. We are introduced to the factious priest, murmuring because, in the choice of an abbot, the monks prefer the noble blood of another to his learning. We have the knights of France, whose very names awaken all the delusive associations of romance; the English captains of adventurers, whose trade was war; the burgess grasping and cowardly; the robber driven to outlawry by the cruelty of his superiors, and nourishing vengeance as a duty; the peasant first sinking beneath, and then rising to throw off oppression; and finally the lord of the castle, the feudal chief, the suzerain of the surrounding country, his daughter and her betrothed lover, and the baron's men at arms, who though, in the language of the day, a villain, joins the gifts of poetry to those of valour.

These scenes may be divided into three parts. The first consisting of a development of the causes that led to rebellion. The picture of arbitrary power, unsoftened by any tinge of humanity, is frightful and true; ingratitude, pride, and cruelty exercised over the poor and unarmed, produce at last hatred and desire of vengeance: the peasantry, incited to open rebellion by a priest, rise in arms: they take a band of English adventurers into their pay, they besiege the castle of their lord, march to Beauvais, which, admitted by the lower orders, they take and sack, defeat the regular forces sent against them, and spread terror and devastation around. The lord of Apremont defends himself long, and is willing to endure any extremity, rather than submit to his rebellious vassals. Among these is one, late a favourite in the castle, Pierre, the minstrel and the man at arms. He had saved the life of the lady Isabel, and her father bestowed him on her as her page. Her beauty awakens, her gracious kindness fosters, his love, and he dared hope. Called on by her in an hour of ennui, to recite a tale for her amusement, he feigns to read one in which a noble girl becomes the bride of a serf. She discovers the deceit and guesses the cause—she dismisses him from the castle with blighting disdain, while his temerity even degrades her in her own eyes. Pierre is seized on by the grand mover of the plot, the monk, who gives him hope of triumph, and a chance of winning his lady, if he should join the insurgents, and he is now the chief of those who besiege the castle. Poor Isabel, her father wounded, every hope lost, asks her betrothed to give her back her faith, and then offers herself a sacrifice to Pierre, if he will save her parent. The end is tragical—he is too generous to accept the victim, and endeavours to provide for the escape of her and her family; but the miseries of civil discord in all its most hideous results, envelope the fugitives in one mighty ruin. The peasantry are victorious, and now begins the third part of the drama, their downfall—schism among themselves, a wish to return to their native fields and humble homes, a confidence in the word of their enemies, an incapacity to submit to discipline, joined to the treachery of their English allies, bring on the catastrophe. Such is a slight sketch of the progress of these scenes. We feel the want of one prominent character to concentrate the interest, without which a dramatic composition is never perfect. But the author has not aimed at a regular tragedy, and he has succeeded in giving us in a series of interesting scenes, a forcible picture of the manners of our ancestors, and of the crimes and misfortunes resulting from the feudal system, from which our state of civilization preserves us.

To the "Jaquerie" is added a drama, entitled the "Family of Carvajal." This is a tremendous domestic tragedy, founded on the same story as the Cenci. [Percy Bysshe Shelley's The Cenci. A Tragedy in Five Acts , inspired by the legend of Beatrice Cenci, was published in 1819.] In this production the author is no longer a painter of manners only, but he becomes a depict of passion, an observer and a narrator of the secret motives that influence our nature, and the dread events that are the result of unlawful indulgence. It is a question whether certain combinations of circumstances, though it is allowed that they have existence, should be recalled to our memory and represented to our imaginations. But it is difficult for the author, whose impulse is a gift of his nature, whose talent is spontaneous, who can no more repress the yearning of his mind to trace the boundaries of the unknown intellectual world, than he can rule the pulsations of his heart; it is difficult for him to submit to rules imposed by those whose tamer thoughts never emerge from the narrow bounds of their personal experience; who repose in a windless atmosphere, and who fear to have their downy slumbers broken by the war of elements. Columbus, anticipating the discovery of the unknown shores that pale our western progress over the wild and distant waves of the Atlantic, felt the old world, extended in latitude and longitude so far and wide, a narrow prison—and thus the imaginative writer, who deems that beyond the usual track he may find a fresh and untried ground, courageously launches forth, leaving the dull every-day earth behind him. If his discoveries do not interest us, do not let us vituperate his adventurous spirit, and thus degrade ourselves to the level of all detractors from the fame attendant on intellectual enterprise. Let us remember that the poets of Greece, whose names are as a part of our religion, and the highly-gifted dramatists of our own country, have been prone to select as subjects for their tragedies, events grounded on the direst passions and the worst impulses.

The Family of Carvajal has given rise to these reflections: they may be received as applying to every similar production which seeks to interest by new and strange combinations, and which are vivid in their conception and strong in their delineation of what they only know through the innate force of the imagination. The author before us has shewn no lack of boldness in his treatment of the subject, while he has never overstepped those boundaries which must be observed for our tastes not to be shocked, instead of our interest excited. He has made the father and daughter equally impetuous and resolute, but one is the oppressor, the other the victim. The scene is laid in an unpopulated province of New Granada, and the father is represented as a despot over his wife, a cruel tyrant to his slaves, a man grown old in crime. His hapless daughter was brought up in a rustic semi-barbarous convent, and she returns home to find herself an associate of guilt, to which her proud heart refuses to yield, while love for another adds to her vehemence and misery. This meeting of two fierce natures in unnatural discord presents a new and terrible source for dramatic interest. Each scene transcends the one before in its appalling horror; and the last, in which the miserable girl poignards her father, completes the dark picture, spreading over the canvas the lurid hues of whirlwind and volcano. We turn trembling from the contemplation, while we confess the force of the genius that presents it to our eyes.