Modern Italian Romances pt 1. by Shelley, Mary, 1797-1851

Mary ShelleyMODERN ITALIAN ROMANCES.¹

It is the fashion to call the Italians fallen and degraded; and none are more acrimonious in their censures than the Anglo-Italians—a race which, while forgetting their patriotic duties in the delights of that paradisaics climate—while availing themselves of the benevolence and courtesy of the inhabitants—and while eating the fruits of that fertile land—without care or annoyance, repay the advantages they enjoy by abusing the natives. There is a gentleness, a facility, a kindliness in the Italians which spreads an atmosphere of repose around them. Their visitors feel and enjoy this; but, far from being grateful, they blind themselves to the virtues which benefit themselves, and fix their eyes on the faults which are injurious only to the Italians. They even go further, and often rail the louder, while they imitate more grossly the vices they denounce.

Most of the defects of the Italians are those that always arise in a society debarred from active duties. An Italian has no career, and can find occupation only in intrigue and vice. The utter hopelessness that pervades their political atmosphere, the stagnation of every territorial or commercial enterprise, the discouragement cast over every improvement,—all these are checks to laudable ambition; and yet such is not entirely checked. How many Italian hearts beat high for their country. When any opening has presented itself, how many victims have rushed into the breach. Perhaps in the history of no people in the world has there appeared so tenacious a love of country and of liberty, nor so great a readiness shown to make every sacrifice to acquire independence, nor so confirmed and active an hatred for tyranny.

After various struggles, and the destruction of their best citizens by the despot, still the Italians pant for freedom, and hope to attain it. The well-educated among them feel that their chief duty is, to counteract the pernicious effects of slavery and superstition in debasing the national character. To do this, several of the most eminent have turned authors, and risked property and safety for the holy task of disseminating principles and sentiments which, in their effect, will keep alive a sense of their rights in the minds of their countrymen, and render them worthy of the liberty they hope one day to see them enjoy.

They are fortunate in one circumstance—the soil they would cultivate is rich and fertile. The thing that chiefly strikes any one conversant with the Italians, is their quick and clear understandings. In unfrequented parts of England, the people are stupid, and even savage. In France, they are still worse. They may practise the domestic virtues, but their minds are shrunk and shrivelled, or covered by so impenetrable an husk, that there are no means of having communication with them. The facilities of intercourse—for ever multiplying in this country—and the better education that subsists, has partly done away with this state of things; but in Italy, the peasant of its remotest regions is a conversable being. He has intelligence, imagination, and the power of expression. He has fewer prejudices in favour of old habits, a greater reverence for knowledge in others: it is easy, therefore, to teach him. While the same divine bounty that has gifted him with a capacity to understand, has been also extended to his instructors; and the educated men of Italy are singularly able, laborious,
e e 4[Page 416]and enlightened. Italians are found to excel in every province of literature. The names of their poets rank among the highest: their novelists, either tragic or comic, are unsurpassed: their historians yield only to those of the ancient world. In science, in morals, in every species of inventive or disquisitive literature, we find Italians among the foremost in desert. No wonder their rulers fear such a people, and put in action all their efforts either to crush or turn aside from any, to them injurious, purpose, the labours of their men of genius and learning. Thus Ugo Foscolo was banished; thus Monti was corrupted; the eloquent and admirable productions of the lover of liberty were proscribed; and not only were the writings of the slave impregnated with a base spirit, but his very subjects were dictated to him. To turn aside the thoughts of the men of letters from an elevated and useful aim, Monti was commanded to raise that pitiful war of words which sprung from his "Proposta."² The Austrian government well understood the Italian spirit, when it excited the Royal Institute of Milan to busy itself in the reform of the national dictionary, and imposed on Monti the task of overthrowing the authority of the "Della Crusca,"³ and of asserting the propriety of adopting, as the classic language of Italy, a language not wholly Tuscan, but intermingled with modes of speech peculiar to other provinces. Monti and his son-in-law, Perticari, began what they called a crusade against the "Della Crusca." Perticari, young and virtuous, and led by Monti, was probably innocent of any sinister motive. Monti himself entered into the views of the Austrians: he knew his countrymen, and the unfortunate prejudices in Italy, which makes one portion the rival and enemy of another. The effect of his attack was electric. As if it had been the cause of independence, each literary man arose to defend the system of his country. The Tuscans thought their territory invaded, their dearest privileges undermined: the war continued for years. At present, many of the chief combatants are no more, while the few survivors may wonder at their folly at being thus entrapped to forget the nobler uses of their talents in so puerile a question; they may feel that had one among them written a book, in which genius and power had been clothed in elegant and forcible language, drawn either from the purest Tuscan source, or mingled with modes of speech deemed less classical, yet not less true to feeling, it had been a far better answer than volumes of verbal dispute.

The Austrians, though they corrupted one of the greatest geniuses of Italy (Monti), and sent another (Foscolo) to die in a foreign land, and were successful in causing all the talents of the country to be absorbed by a war of words, yet enjoyed only a temporary success. Deeper interests were awakened among the Italians during the outbreaks and struggles which marked the years 1820-21. Since then, their writers have been thoroughly awakened to the importance of their task in enlightening their countrymen, and in teaching them either lessons of Christian virtue, or animating them to a love of liberty.

A very excellent article has appeared in the eleventh number of "The London and Westminster Review," written, we believe, by a peculiarly clever and well-informed Italian resident in this country, named Mazzini,⁴ which throws great light on the moving springs of Italian literature. The author has, with great judgment, divided the writers of his country into two classes, both bent on ameliorating the character of their fellow countrymen, but by different means: the one aims at fostering the, so to speak, inoffensive virtues; the other, burning with a hatred of the oppressor, and with a thirst for the deliverance of their native land, endeavors to strengthen and elevate—to teach the Italians to become patriots and citizens—to inspire, [Page 417]not resignation, but hope—not merely piety and benevolence, but ardour for the dissemination of the blessings of civilisation and freedom—not simply fortitude, but active courage, without which higher virtues, they are aware that Italy can never be delivered and renovated.

Amidst the whole field of literature which Mazzini glances over, we select only one portion—its novels and romances.

When a new sort of literature was, as it were, discovered, and men of the first talent in France and England occupied themselves by the composition of romances and novels—all sorts of fictitious adventure in prose, whether belonging to past ages or modern manners—it was to be supposed that the Italians would shine also in the same career. At first, however, they did not originate any work of the sort worthy of themselves, and it grew into a common opinion that the spirit of Italy was so crushed and deadened, that their writers had fallen into a low scale. Ugo Foscolo was a mere imitator in his "Jacopo Ortis." But Foscolo was strictly a didactic writer. His refined and discerning mind, his eloquent and enthusiastic spirit, which dictated his labours on Petrarch and Dante, and his poem of the "Sepolcri"—the most finished elegy of modern Italy, was not inventive of facts. "Jacopo Ortis" was a vehicle for opinions and emotions—not an epic, whose incidents and conduct were to interest and delight.

Manzoni redeemed the reputation of his country. The "Promessi Sposi," translated into every European language, is proof that the Italians are still themselves. It yields to no romance of any country in graphic descriptions—in eloquence—in touching incident and forcible reflection. It is, however, so entirely Italian in all its parts, that it can only be truly relished in its native guise. It has seized and individualised, as it were, various species of human beings, specimens of which can be found only in that soil; and thus, to a certain degree, its reputation must be local. Any one conversant with the Italian character perceives at once the truth and vividness of the picture; to others it is a fancy piece, and cannot come home in the same way to their experience and sympathies; besides that, the translation is vapid and lifeless, and incapable of communicating the spirit of the original. The excellence of this work consists, in the first place, in its admirable discrimination and representation of character. Its personages are not shadows and vague generalities, but men and women stamped with individuality. They all live and move before us—we feel as if we should recognise if we saw them—and those who have been in Italy have seen such, and perceive not portraits, but vivid resemblances. We have seen and recognise Don Abbondio, and his servant Perpetua; their modes of thinking and phraseology are all familiar to us, though graced in the work with the ideality which marks the perfection of art. The spirit and reality of such portions as may pass for episodes, the stories of Gertrude and Cristofero, are unsurpassed in any work, in any language, for interest, truth, and beauty. The conversion of the Innominato—the riots at Milan—the progress, prevalence, and cessation of the plague, are passages of high-wrought eloquence that carry the reader along with them. They show not only the deepest knowledge of the human heart, but a vivid graphic talent, surpassing that of every modern tale-writer. The defect of the work is its whole. Admirable in parts, it wants the artifice of plot, which should make the interest rise continually. From the moment that Lucia is liberated by the Innominato, the story, such as it is, comes to a stop. Much of this arises from the character of her betrothed. She herself, gentle, resigned, and affectionate, interests us more than that sort of person in a book usually does; but Renzo is not her fitting lover. It is [Page 418]true that he is nature itself, the absolute portrait of an Italian rustic. We ought to be content that Lucia, a Milanese peasant, should have for a husband a person in the same situation of life; but the sweetness and blameless simplicity of the heroine removes her from the vulgarities of her situation, while Renzo is immersed in them; the discrepancy jars on our taste, and injures the tale as a work of art.

The author of the "Promessi Sposi" has not aimed at inspiring ardour for liberty and hatred of the tyrant: his lessons are rather those of piety and resignation. In any other work we might blame this; but the truth is so much better than declamation, and the picture he gives of the evils of misrule and ignorance is so forcible, that it stands in lieu of didactic tirades. The effect of the book being to impress the reader with a deep sense of the mischiefs that ensue from a people being kept in a state of bigotry and ignorance, and from a foreign, inert, and short-sighted government, every un-prejudiced person must reap a well-founded hatred of tyrants and superstition from such worth a thousand diatribes.

This want of a generous and enlarged aim is more to be deplored for the author than the work. Manzoni is a man of first-rate genius. Besides the "Promessi Sposi," he has written two tragedies⁵ — poems rather than dramas, composed according to the French notion of the Athenian theatre, but interspersed with choruses. As dramas, these plays are defective—as poems, they are highly beautiful. There is, in particular, a chorus in the "Camaledole" on the horrors of war and the blessings of peace, which may rank among the most beautiful lyrics in the Italian language. But the want of moral energy that blinds a Milanese to the real evils that afflict his country, superstition and despotism, has fallen heavily on the poet. Manzoni has become a bigot and a slave. His life is spent in churches. His thoughts and actions are under the government of a priest, in obedience to whose dictates he has destroyed a beautiful romance on the subject of Napoleon. Thus that system of thought which teaches, "Humble thyself, pray, be resigned to thy misfortunes; heaven is thy country, the things of this world are unworthy of thy attention, knowledge is vanity, and justice here below a dream⁶ ," has fallen with club-like weight on the head of this illustrious man, crushing his genius, rendering him ungrateful to his Creator for the surpassing gifts of mind lavished on him, causing him to "hide his light under a bushel;" so that, at the great account, when asked to what use he put the vast bounty of God, in giving him powers of soul superior to the multitude, he can only answer, "I disdained your gift, and regarded the telling of my beads as the chief end and aim of an intelligent being’s life." Miserable, indeed, are the effects of catholicism, which causes the believer to surrender his conscience into the hands of another; which deprives man of his best privilege, that of judging by his innate sense of right and wrong; and utterly brutalises him, as he regulates his sense of duty by a fictitious code of morality, invented for the sole purpose of enslaving him, instead of resting it on the plain precepts of enlightened religion; which, while it teaches us to "love our neighbour as ourself," will also teach that the best proof a man of genius can give of his obedience to this command, is to enlighten the ignorant, and animate to virtue the demoralised—a task that can in no way be so well fulfilled as by the multiplication of works that will convince the head of the excellence of right, and warm the heart with courage to exercise it.

Next to Manzoni, as a novelist, we may rank his son-in-law, Azeglio, author of "Hector Fieramosca." This work has enjoyed great reputation in [Page 419]Italy, and, though far below the Promessi Sposi in genius, possesses considerable merit.

"The Duel of Barletta" (La Sfida di Barletta)⁷ is naturally a favourite topic with the Italians. Being so often stigmatised as cowards, they turn with pride to this glorious achievement. Its origin is briefly as follows:—Naples had been reigned over by a branch of the house of Aragon for the space of sixty-five years, when Charles VIII., King of France, was stimulated by the treachery and ambition of a prince of Milan to bring forward the claim of the house of Anjou. He (and then first those disastrous wars began, when the French met the Spaniard on the fields of Italy) entered the Peninsula, and overran and possessed himself of Naples: but, on his return to his native kingdom, he lost his conquest as speedily as he had gained it. On his death, which soon after followed, his successor, Louis XII., prosecuted the same claim to the Neapolitan crown. Frederic, king of Naples, turned for assistance to his relative, Ferdinand of Spain, who, making the fairest promises, acted with the utmost treachery. He and Louis agreed to dispossess the reigning sovereign, and to divide the kingdom between them. Louis was to possess the Abruzzi and the Terra di Lavoro; Ferdinand, Calabria and Puglia. The Pope ratified this compact. For a time, however, it was kept secret. Louis invaded Naples, but Ferdinand promised his kinsman succour, and sent, apparently for that purpose, him whom the Spaniards name the "great captain," — Gonzalvo de Cordova. The catastrophe was soon brought about: the French overran the northern portion of the kingdom of Naples; Capua was besieged, and taken by treason; and Frederic, while he hoped to find assistance in the Spaniards, was informed of the treachery of Ferdinand. Dispossessed of his kingdom, he first retired to Ischia, and afterwards took refuge in France. The French and Spaniards, after some resistance on the part of the eldest son of Frederic, possessed themselves of the land: peace, however, was not the result. The division they had agreed upon was not made so carefully but that room was left to dispute the boundaries. At first, the rival pretensions were amicably arranged in a meeting of Louis d'Armagnac, Duc de Némours, the French viceroy, with Gonzalvo de Cordova: but this was of short duration, and war speedily broke out. The Spanish party was weak and unprovided, and Gonzalvo, to gain time, fortified himself at Barletta, there to await the arrival of succour from Spain, and to wear out the French by a war of outposts. The Neapolitans themselves were divided; the Aragonese party adhering to Spain; the partisans of the house of Anjou, to France: the former, however, considered themselves as the real patriotic party, and treated their antagonists as traitors.

The Duc de Némours blockaded Barletta: both generals avoided attacks and general engagements, while the numerous chivalry on both sides satisfied their martial tastes and thirst for honour by various challenges and duels. Gonzalvo reaped every advantage from this species of warfare, and in the delay that ensued. The Duc de Némours endeavoured to draw his antagonist into battle, and failed; but, while despising an enemy who refused to fight, he marched with the utmost carelessness. The Spaniards fell on his troops, and made a great many prisoners.

Among these was Charles Hennuyer de la Motte, a French officer of distinguished bravery. He and his friends in misfortune were invited to partake of a feast given by Mendoza, his conqueror. During the conversation that took place on this occasion, Mendoza attributed his victory to the admirable monœuvring of the Italian cavalry, commanded by Prospero Colonna. The French despised the Italians; and La Motte exclaimed that, vanquished as they were on all occasions, they could not presume to compare [Page 420]with the French in any species of warfare, and were only worthy to hold the stirrup to the knights of France. The good humour of the festival was not interrupted by this insult, but, on the morrow, Prospero Colonna called on La Motte to retract his words: he refused. The honour of both nations appeared to be engaged; and the generals on either side permitted the question to be decided by an appeal to arms. Thirteen Italians and thirteen Frenchman, completely armed, agreed to meet in the lists to fight till they fell, or were made prisoners. The lists were selected midway between Barletta and the quarters of the Duc de Némours. They were surrounded only by a furrow made by a ploughshare; but it was settled that, whoever among the combatants could be driven beyond this boundary, must surrender as vanquished. The Italians were victorious. The French having in their presumption neglected to bring with them the hundred apiece, agreed on as ransom, were led prisoners to Barletta.

Such is the history of the celebrated challenge which Azeglio has made the ornament of his tale. This work has already been translated—badly enough; but the mere English reader has probably gathered the gist of the story from the translation, as well as from any skeleton account that we can give. The first thing that strikes the Italian reader, on commencing the perusal, is the purity and elegant simplicity of the style. This merit is lost in the translation. It is more difficult, perhaps, to translate well from the Italian than any other language; for the peculiarity of its prose is a wordiness unendurable in any other; and it requires a thorough knowledge of the genius of the language, as well as considerable practice in authorship, at once to preserve the peculiar style of the author, and to produce a readable book.

The beauty of Azeglio's writing is very great: it is forcible, without exaggeration; elegant, without effort; and in this is very well adapted to the characteristic of his work, which derives its merit from its story, rather than from masterly delineation of character. It is not that the plot is perfect, especially according to our ideas; but it is congruous in its parts, and deeply interesting as a whole. The ill-fated pair of lovers are presented to us in situations full of pathos: the delicacy of sentiment and heroism which they display redeems their position from its usual difficulties. A wife, disliking her husband, and loving another man, is a subject, the topics of which are so obvious, that it is rather a favourite with modern novel-writers; yet it is always infinitely displeasing. Azeglio has managed it far better than any other: the passionate, yet regulated, love of the gentle Ginevra, which she broods over in her island convent; the deep, religious devotion of Fieramosca to her and to virtue; the dark terrors that surround them, as well as the chivalric glory that adorns and gilds both themselves and all that surrounds them, sheds grace over every page; and, though these characters are rather shadowed forth than strongly marked, and others are but sketched, yet the few lines we perceive are masterly, and so much in keeping, that though the whole picture is, so to speak, presented in a subdued light, there is no obscurity, nor confusion, nor distortion. The only fault we find is in the personage Cæsar Borgia. He acts at once too subordinate and too influential a part. Kept for the most part in the background, he yet is the most important actor on the scene:—nor does his conduct seem natural: he, the most restless and fiery of men, is described as being content to remain secreted for many days in a secret chamber of his enemy's fortress, for no sufficing reason, and then, unexpectedly, the most disgusting and heinous crime is thrown in his path, which he commits, and then disappears. We may be hypercritical: it would be unnatural to place a romance in that age, and [Page 421]people it with such personages, and not introduce crime in the foreground. But a romance-writer must never rest the justification of his plot on bare truth, without adding the dress of art. In real life, our acts and impulses are often most motiveless, in our own eyes, when once past; but in fiction we ought always to feel the enchainment of events as inevitable. Azeglio wished to paint his heroine the greatest virtue triumphing over the greatest misfortune: for this he makes her die deceived as to her lover, and believing him inconstant. We feel the heroism of her character, but recoil from the trial to which it is put, and we would fain that Donna Elvira, herself undeceived, had undeceived Ginevra, and that her last moment had been gladdened by the consciousness of Fieramosca's truth, which, if she had already forgiven her rival, would not have detracted from the height of her virtue. We scarcely know any passage in any author impregnated with a more pathetic spirit than the conclusion of the novel. The night that Fieramosca passes preceding the great duel; his endeavours to believe that all is well with Ginevra; and the unquiet emotions inspired by the scarce audible psalmody over the dead, and by the beams of the light which, in truth, was placed beside the corpse of her he loved, whom he thought living; are touched with a truth and delicacy that go to the heart. The lighter parts of the work are also admirable: the bull-fight—the feast—the characters of Fanfulla, Paredes, &c., are entertaining and sprightly; and the description of the great duel itself is brilliant and spirited. There is both pathos and humour in different portions of the tale, but there is no wit. The Italians are not a witty people, nor does their language lend itself to wit: the peculiarity before mentioned, its wordiness, is against a quality whose characteristic is brevity and terseness. Manzoni is highly humorous in Don Abbondio, but he is never witty; and the same with Azeglio; the same with every other Italian prose writer; the same will be found in their conversation. In this, as in almost every other quality of mind, they are in contrast with the French.

The challenge of the Barletta is so dear to the Italians, that it has been selected to adorn the pages of another novel of great merit. "The first Viceroy of Naples" (Il Primo Vicere di Napoli) deserves honourable mention in this account of Italian romances. It is the work of Capocci, a Neapolitan, a celebrated astronomer, and a man of profound learning. Deeming that the acknowledgement of so light a production might injure his reputation as a man of science, he has put the name of Belmonte, which was that of his mother, in the titlepage; and, with that pride in honouring those they love, which belongs to the Italians, he has dedicated it to his wife, a lady of great merit and talents.

The warriors of Barletta are the heroes of this tale. Fieramosca and Brancaleone are introduced as principal personages; and one of the first incidents is the meeting of the latter with his friend's sister, and their mutual and sudden attachment. But the spirit of the romance is in absolute contrast with Azeglio's. "Hector Fieramosca" is a tale of living, struggling humanity: it describes individuals suffering misfortune and deep sorrow, occasioned by such events as grow out of the situation of their country, and the characters of their contemporaries. It is almost too real for fiction in its disappointments, long-enduring griefs, and tragic catastrophe; while "The First Viceroy of Naples" is, as far as plot is concerned, the commonplace loves of a boy and girl, whose attachment, after a series of adventures and disasters, ends in a happy marriage. One of the chief merits of this book is its simplicity, both of style and sentiment. Wearied by the tendency to bombast now prevailing in literature, the reader is charmed by the [Page 422]ease of the language, and becomes interested unawares in the tissue of incidents, artlessly but agreeably combined. The tale begins with the siege of Capua, mentioned in the sketch given above of the progress of these wars; and here an episode is introduced, which is a good specimen of the manner and power of the author, though, from its length, it must be somewhat abridged.

Antonello Caracciolo, the head of one of the noblest families of Naples, was a youth of great promise; he was courteous and gentle; and this in spite of the evil lessons of a natural brother, Raymond, who stimulated him to acts of folly and vice: his only faults were such as belonged to his few years. He became enamoured of a peasant girl, the daughter of one of his Calabrian vassals. This girl had a brother, Rocco, a man of giant force and vehement passions, a ruffian—who was only not a bandit, because he still loved his parents and his sister. Raymond perceived his brother's attachment to Constance, and conceived a plan of villany to get her into his power. A man had been assassinated near her dwelling; her brother was at a distance. Raymond accused her father of the murder, and threw him into prison; and then instigated her mother to go, accompanied by Constance, and throw herself at Antonello's feet. The conclusion may be guessed: the daughter was led away, the mother roughly dismissed, but with the intimation that her request was granted. The father was liberated, and returned; but, when he found that the ransom paid was his daughter's honour, he broke out into the fiercest imprecations; and his son suddenly at this moment returning, he threatened to curse him unless he washed out the stain on the family by some act of dire revenge. Rocco, foiled in his attempt to see Raymond, is driven by insult to assassinate several of Antonello's followers, and flies to the mountains. That same night terrible signs of his fury were visible in the vast possessions of the prince, and dreadful fires marked the fatal rise of the most famous bandit of an age in which so many flourished.

The father appealed for vengeance for his wrongs to his sovereign. Antonello had taken refuge in Naples with his peasant mistress, to whom he had become passionately attached. An order was issued that the family of Caracciolo should deliver him up to justice; and when this command was disobeyed, a party of masons were sent to raze the houses of the family, with an order to level one after the other to the ground, till Antonello should be found. On this the unfortunate youth was delivered up, and condemned to death. The tale continues:—

Then a marriage was mentioned, which at first gave rise to rejoicing; but, when the family began no longer to fear for the life of their relative, they declared that death was to be preferred to such a disgrace. Nor was there a noble to whom it did not appear excessive injustice to proceed as severely as if the two parties had been of equal rank. It seemed strange to them to give the same attention to the complaints of an injured vassal, as if he were a count or a baron. But every father and every brother, born out of the privileged class, exulted in his heart, as the chimera, which had a hundred times risen in his mind, of impartial justice in such cases, appeared on the point of being realised.

One morning the inhabitants of the market-place saw a black scaffold elevated in the middle of the square; and immediately a vast crowd assembled, more than usually eager to witness so important an execution. The spacious circuit was soon filled, and soon the press grew so great, that the people, jammed together, appeared to lose all elasticity, and to be fused into one mass. There were people on the belfreys, at the windows in the balconies: they covered the tops of the houses, the sides of the fountains, the [Page 423]cornices of the shops and palaces. The unfortunate Antonello, taken from his dungeon, was led in a cart through one of those narrow alleys of the old city of Naples, in which there were none but the cart and the guard that escorted it. When this party turned into the market-place, the vast crowd, with one voice, uttered a loud involuntary shout. The hapless youth, dismayed by the spectacle, almost lost his senses. The terrible truth presented to his sight was hidden by a delirium not less terrible. A mist is before his eyes—a ringing in his ears—a cold moisture pervades his body—his heart palpitates to bursting—trembling and tottering, every thing turns round—all seems giving way, and falling into an abyss. The vehement curiosity of the multitude at first sight of Caracciolo immediately changed to pity. Each uncovered his head at the sign of salvation that headed the sad procession, and all remained still and silent. It was a solemn spectacle, when each of so many thousands of men was so preoccupied, that you might have fancied yourself in a desert. At the sudden change the delirium of Antonello also changed: it appeared to him as if the pavement of the immense square had been taken up, and that, instead of stones, it was laid down with human heads, and that he and the executioner were alone in the empty space, while the latter stretched out his hand to seize his hair. O horror! his head is about to fall among the rest! He wished to shriek—to stop—to fly! but an irresistible force—the power of fate—prevents his moving, and carries him on towards the scaffold. The cart proceeded amidst the press, which, deaf to the signs of the attendants, opened with difficulty to the curvets and leaps of the horses of the armed men, and then closing behind, as the waves of the sea after a vessel, while it seemed to the unfortunate man that at these moments the earth was opening to swallow him. Those who were near saw clearly the internal struggles caused by these visions in the contortion of his limbs and convulsion of his features, but the violence of the agony prevented its long continuance, and he fell fainting in the arms of the priest. When they arrived at the foot of the scaffold, he came to himself, and sighed, and exclaimed, in a voice of woe, "My God! where am I? am I alive? where is Constance? where my mother?" Then, opening his eyes, he looked fixedly round, till, shuddering and turning away, he cried, "No, no!—he is still there—No—I am not yet dead!" Now the comforting voice of the holy minister came to his aid, and the unexpected sight of his Constance, who had arrived by another way, entirely restored his courage. Forgetting the chains that held him back, he was about to advance and embrace her. Hope returned, and he thought, "It cannot be true—the duchess does not hate me—how have I injured her? she has always been kind to me—I cannot forget it: at the last festival at Poggio Reale the duchess and the king were peculiarly courteous: it is a mere show, no more. What wild beast, what tiger, would be so cruel? and to one of my rank—and at my age! No, it is impossible—it is folly to imagine otherwise! Constance is all my regret; the hapless Constance, made by me the fable of her native place, and now of the whole kingdom. Unhappy girl—I suffer, and deserve it; but you, innocent creature, you, indeed, will become the wife of Antonello Caracciolo yet; so that it will seem that I am forced to marry her, while, in truth, there is nothing in the world I desire more—nothing—not even life!" And these same thoughts passed through the minds of the spectators.

They ascend the scaffold. The feebleness of the youth need not excite surprise—who ascends between two white-clad monks, and seems bowed by age. See you not how each step adds years to his age? That ill-omened throng of priests and monks freeze the blood, and the extreme youth of [Page 424]the condemned man inspires deep pity. But the sight of the girl, who was the innocent cause of the punishment, excited a more tender emotion, and softened the hardest heart. The peril of Antonello, whom she already regarded as a beloved husband, was an insupportable torment to her. Now, pale and ghastly, she had fallen if she had not been supported—now, changing colour and blushing, she trembled and shuddered, and was convulsed as by the most acute pain. Sometimes she raised her eyes to heaven, sometimes she turned them fearfully round to find a spot where she could look without meeting the gaze of others—sometimes she covered her face with her hands, as she appeared to invoke death or the termination of her agony.

An altar and a block were both placed on the scaffold. When the two young beings drew near to celebrate the enforced nuptials, they rushed into each other's arms, and held each other in a long embrace. They were forcibly separated, that the rite might be fulfilled; Constance was dowered by the prince according to his rank: she received the bridal ring, and the priest blessed them. The crowd who witnessed this moving ceremony could not restrain from tears—the very agents wept; and who would not? But all did not finish here. The same priest who had pronounced the sacred words which gave rise to a new source of life, the very same chaunted forth the comforting psalms that were used to precede the death of the condemned, and to announce the violent separation of a being, guilty though he were, yet our fellow-creature, from the rest of the world. What a tremendous moment! New sprung hope had pitilessly deceived the unfortunate Antonello. Hope had given him strength to feel the spasms of agony till the last moment, as is made manifest by the accent in which he repeats the prayers. And yet he doubts; he does not abandon hope; but, alas! the executioner seizes him, and forces him to kneel beside the block.

Already the axe is raised, when a murmur, none knows whence originating, and then a clamour, is heard among the crowd, crying, Pardon! pardon! And can it be? A horseman endeavours to make his way towards the scaffold. Room is eagerly made. Does he not bring a pardon? Profound silence returns. None can take their eyes from him, yet all desire to gaze on Antonello, and they are eager to see both at once. The officer being arrived opposite, made a sign to those on the scaffold; and in a moment, the severed head of Caracciolo was seen shaking, hanging by the hair, as it was held up by the blood-stained hand of the executioner. The eyes were seen to roll, and words and blood to flow from the lips. At the same moment, a piercing shriek was heard, as it were the concentrated expression of general horror; and the woman who gave forth that shriek fell on the ground.

A gloomy murmur arose from the sea of heads. It moved and opened in a hundred parts, and the whole crowd, horrified and frightened, separated at once. The ill-fated Constance never rose more. Whether it were surprise, or shame, at finding herself the object of so many eyes at an ignominious spectacle—whether compassion for her lover, or whether poison had been given her, as was reported, by his relations—she died.

The marble effigy of these unhappy lovers, placed above the arch of the steeple of St. Eligio, in the midst of the market-place, reminds the passer-by of their miserable fate.

The account given in this work of the duel itself is peculiarly striking. The unaffected simplicity of the style rises into dignity when supported by the importance of the subject. It is, in some respects, superior to Azeglio's, especially in the interest it excites. The duel in "Hector Fieramosca" is placed at the end of the work. The reader has been deeply affected by the [Page 425]wrongs and death of Ginevra: the duel serves neither to avenge her, nor to advance any portion of the story; and loses its natural interest from its taking place when that of the story to which it is appended has drawn to the close. In Belmonte's romance it takes place early in the tale, and the personages are full of ardour, hope, and enjoyment. We extract a portion, as a further specimen of the merits of this work; a good translation of which we should be glad to see among our English romances.

The Italian combatants had heard mass, and sworn to die rather than survive a defeat, and to defend each other till death. They then set forward to the appointed place. Half way they met their four judges, who told them that they had conferred with the judges of the adverse party, and fixed the conditions of the fight; but that the French had not yet arrived. However, Hector Fieramosca, believing the hour agreed upon to be not far off, thought it right not to delay: and, advancing slowly for the space of another mile, arrived at the field. It was a lonely spot, half way between Quarata and Andria, where even now may be seen the fragments of the monument which was erected there in memory of that glorious day, excellently adapted by nature for the purpose; for the soil around is wavy with various irregularities; but here it becomes completely even and plain, and, for a sufficient space, spreads itself into the form of an amphitheatre, unencumbered by any hinderance of tree or rock, while an olive wood flourishes around, forming, as it were, a thick garland. The little plain, being rather low, was covered, through the effects of rain, by a fine shingle, and offered a perfect arena for the manœuvres of the horsemen. On this occasion, the lists selected in the midst of this plain were surrounded by a furrow that enclosed about the eighth part of a mile, and was marked at intervals by large stones. Due egress was given between these to the combatants, who, defeated in the combat, were forced to surrender as vanquished. A seat was prepared for the judges at one extremity of the field, on a jutting ridge of earth, and a magnificent scarlet canopy was raised under the olives. Before and around, but lower down, stood the trumpeters and heralds, who attended on the joust.

When the Italians arrived, they were struck by the singular aspect of the field. There was no crowd pressing to and fro without the lists—no waving of scarfs and handkerchiefs—no impatient nor welcoming cries at the appearance of the combatants—all was lonely and quiet. But this gave a more solemn aspect to the scene, as this solitude did not arise from any want of spectators, but from urgent necessity, and, so to speak, a holy reverence: for afar off, in the neighbourhood of Andria and Corato, were to be seen many companies of horsemen, who had no other object than to wait on the necessities of the combat; and, scattered abroad through the country on the limits of the field, innumerable groups of spectators were to be seen clustered upon straw-ricks and trees, who, in a moment, could have walled in the circuit of the lists, had they been allowed to approach.

The Italians dismounted, and, kneeling down, implored the protection of the God of Armies; and then, while waiting for the arrival of the enemy, Hector addressed his party thus:—"Brothers and companions, I should be devoid of understanding, did I think, by my words, to inspire with courage warriors chosen by our illustrious leader as the flower of his troop. No, my friends, we know each other well. But, since the enemy have not yet made their appearance, I have thought it right in this interval to open my mind, which augurs undoubted victory. In times past, many have fought for the sake of private enmity—others to acquire wealth or power—others for the love of ladies. But you combat for honour and glory, the
vol. ii.f f[Page 426]most precious and noblest reward that fortune can offer to the brave. And you must also reflect, that you fight to-day, not only for your own glory, but for that of the whole Italian nation. May this inspire you, and gift you with immortal renown, making you famous examples of patriotic valour, and the enduring theme of noble recollection to posterity. Yes, my friends, this combat will be regarded with infinite anxiety by the army, by Italy, by the whole world; and the names of the valiant men who shall remain conquerers on the field will go down to the remotest posterity. I will not allude to the enemy's arrogance and injurious contempt. May Heaven avert that any of us survive to see the seal put to our shame. What more famous pass of arms than this can our descendants ever witness? In every other it is a mere game and display: this will be a fierce battle. In others, the nature of the arms, and the rules by which they are to be used, is established—in this we choose for ourselves as in war itself. In a tournament the point of the lance is blunt—the swords have no edge—it is dishonourable to wound a horse—it is a felony to strike with the point. Here we wield lances, clubs, swords, and daggers; and happy is he who can plunge the blade into the heart of his adversary. Yes, happy is he who can reach the heart of him who desires to dishonour his bride, his sister, and his mother; for such is he who dares to vituperate our country, and cover it with infamy. Wherefore, war and death to the French! with every weapon, war and death!" At this moment he perceived some on the opposite side appear: he became silent, and, ordering his helmet to be laced, they mounted their horses, placed their lances in the rests, and began to canter lightly, and to caricole about the field, that they might become familiar with it.

The French now presented themselves. First came a gentleman carrying the helmet and lance of Monseigneur de la Motte; twelve other gentlemen followed, two by two, who in like manner carried the lances and helmets of their friends. Then, at fitting intervals, the six couples of combatants followed, armed and mounted as the Italians were; then came La Motte alone; behind him came his spotted charger, and, lastly, the twelve chargers, led by twelve gentlemen, two by two.

La Motte, seeing that the Italian cavaliers were prepared, alighted from his hack, and caused his comrades to dismount also. Custom demanded that the leader, on such an occasion, should make a short harangue; but the eager La Motte, excited by the sight of the enemy, and naturally adverse to all formality, burst forth at once. "There they are, my friends, only thirteen—thirteen exactly, as we are! Shall we allow ourselves to be vanquished at equal arms—we, who have always seen a double and a triple number fly before us? By my faith! this is the first time we have met so exactly; and the best is that they are all alike, and there is not one Spaniard among them. Poor wretches! not another word about them; there they are—you behold them so light and airy—in a little while not one will be seen on the field. Come, let us teach them how arrogant they are to compete with the cavaliers of the King of France. But, I implore you, spare that youth on the bay, with a blue and white scarf: it belongs to me to attack that millantatore⁸ Fieramosca; but afterwards I have a particular engagement with that boy—reserve him for me—he challenged me, morbleu!⁹ —so have a care of him."

They then knelt, and addressed a prayer to Heaven, armed themselves, and, being in the saddle, began also with infinite delight to scour the field; and then the standards were placed at each extremity of the field, in expectation of the moment when the judges should give the signal for battle.

The combat itself is described with great vivacity, and in particular the [Page 427]encounter of La Motte and Brancaleone. Brancaleone is the hero of the tale, but he is a mere youth; and the author, while he wished to attribute to him the honour of vanquishing the French leader, felt that it was too much to make him fall by his hand. But he extricates himself from this difficulty admirably. They had already met and fought, and been separated in the mêlée, and now they met again. "The dauntless La Motte had begun to lose faith in his unvanquishable prowess; since in this species of skirmish his giant stature and immense strength were of less avail than the agility of the youth, whom with presumptuous confidence he had despised. He writhed, and foamed, and became confused through rage; his desire to conquer became a balk; and the more blindly he rushed on to wound his adversary, the more he exposed himself to his blows. So much blood flowed from his body, and he was wounded in so many places, that he no longer feared injury, since, could he strike to earth his daring adversary, he had been content to be killed by a thousand wounds. At length, among the innumerable blows dealt by La Motte, one reached its aim, and poor Brancaleone also poured out a river of blood; and, on recovering from the stroke, he staggered so that his enemy thought it all over with him. Then his boldness returned; believing that his victory was secure, he turned his eyes to the other combatants, to gather the triumph of the entire conflict. And, though his companions strewed the field, yet, as he saw some among them still on horseback, fighting valiantly, he believed that, could he lend his aid, they would conquer. He therefore changed his mode of attack, and became cautious, and as avaricious of his blood as before he had been lavish. On the other side, Brancaleone, who believed that the blood he spilt must inevitably occasion his death, gave, as a light that expires, the last flame, and threw himself on La Motte with inexpressible fury; while he, warding off the blows, continued to back, and waited to take advantage of some good opportunity, afforded by the other’s fury, to end the great struggle by a blow with his club. But, at this crisis, he heard the cry around—'La Motte, prisoner! Prisoner, La Motte!' Both paused: La Motte looked around—he perceived that he had passed the furrow, and was without the lists! A heavy groan burst from him, and he fell with extended arms, as if struck by a thunderbolt."

The story of this work turns on the loves of Brancaleone and Giacinta, the sister of Fieramosca; the brother being at first friendly, and then adverse, to their marriage. The prince of Caracciolo, drawn on by the instigations of his bastard brother, Raymond, seeks her hand; and Hector is desirous of this alliance. The prince is assassinated under circumstances that cause poor Brancaleone to be more than suspected. He is thrown into prison, and condemned; he escapes, and flies to the mountains, Giacinta being the companion of his flight. The most pleasing passages of the work are those that describe the wanderings of the lovers, and their residence at the rude but hospitable village of Picinisco. The interest is never high-drawn, but the purity of the style, and the artless simplicity of the narrative, spread a grace over the pages, very unlike the inflated and exaggerated sentiment now the fashion in French romances. The village life at Picinisco is a picture full of innocence and repose. It is disturbed by the inroads of some notorious banditti, the leader of whom is Rocco del Pizzo, brother of the unfortunate Constance, who, under the name of Gambalunga, spreads terror around; and who declared, in scoff of the guard of hunters among Picinisco, that, when they least expected it, he would appear alone among them, and carry off the prettiest girl in the village. His success in this enterprise is amusingly told:—

On the days of festival the devout inhabitants descended to the old church of Santa Maria, placed at the foot of the moun-
f f 2[Page 428]tain, on the top of which, at the distance of a long musket-shot, stands Picinisco. It was the last Sunday of the month, and the children of Ser Ilario had betaken themselves betimes to the church, that they might be among the first to occupy the sides of the confessional of the Canon Crolla, who was the confessor in vogue among these good girls. When they reached the sacristy, they saw, leaning against the great stone eagle which may still be seen near the great gate of the church, a strong youth, who, from his blue cloak, his black nose, and the marks of heat in his face, seemed to be a courier from San Donato. When he saw them approach, he met them with the usual salutation, Gesu e Maria, and, holding out a letter, said, "Thank God! that at last I found some one who can read this paper. My master bade me be speedy; and I have been waiting half an hour here, and cannot find a soul who can read. I know it is for a certain Giannantonio, but I cannot remember his surname."

Celestina took the letter in her hand, saying to herself, as she tried to decipher the writing, "How stupid the people of San Donato are! they make a long journey, and do not know to whom they are going. This fellow does not look silly; and yet he fancies some one can read among these villages! Were it not for the signora, I had never learnt so much."

Her sisters proceeded to the confessional; and she read "Gian—antonio—Ar—," "Arcaro—Arcaro. Now I recollect," said the messenger. "Well," said the girl, "Giannantonio Arcaro, my friend, does not live at Picinisco, but at Aia del Lupo." "And where is Aia del Lupo?" "Look—there are houses—behind the hill." — "Cospetto!¹⁰ I thought myself arrived, and I am two miles off. How shall I get back to San Donato before dinner? What shall I do? my master bade me hurry. My good girl, be charitable, show me the shortest way." "That before you, take that road—when you get to the fountain, turn to the left, and take the path—but it would be easier to show you the way than to make you understand it;" and, doing what she said, followed by the youth, she reached the fountain, and pointed out the lane of a cross-way which he was to take. But at this moment his eyes lighted up with a fierce expression, which made her eager to return; so she said, "Now I have shown you the way, good bye, friend." "No, my dear, I do not understand; be so good as to go with me as far as the lane." "Really—and what do you take me for, good man! I have lost time coming so far: go, in God's name! for I must hasten to church." "You are right, my pretty angel, but you must sometimes do a good turn by a neighbour. I am in a greater hurry, perhaps, than you, my dear—Come—come as far as that. With so pretty a face, you must not be hard-hearted. I only ask you to go so far." "No, no, good man; I have staid too long; good bye." "Well, then, I must begin already to relieve you from the trouble of walking;" and, so saying, he took her up in his arms, and, in spite of her cries and endeavours to get loose, ran off as if he were carrying a child. This was Gambalunga, the bold Gambalunga, in person. His comrades, who were waiting for him, hidden on the hill of Santa Croce, no sooner saw him than they leapt forth with joyful acclamations.

The pursuit of the villagers, with Brancaleone at their head, brings on the catastrophe of the story, which, after many perils to the lovers, and romantic incidents, ends happily. The whole presents a pleasing and lively picture of the Italians—their vehement passions, which lead them right on to their object, accompanied, at the same time, by a sense of natural justice and open-hearted frankness, and adorned by unaffected and gentle manners. This, too, mixed up with so much of wickedness in the bad characters as give darker shades of interest to the tale. We think a translation of this romance would be popular in England.

[To be continued.]