POPULAR ITALIAN POETRY OF THE RENAISSANCE
The semi-popular poetry of the Italians in the fifteenth century formed an important branch of their national literature, and flourished independently of the courtly and scholastic studies which gave a special character to the golden age of the revival. While the latter tended to separate the people from the cultivated classes, the former established a new link of connection between them, different indeed from that which existed when smiths and carters repeated the Canzoni of Dante by heart in the fourteenth century, but still sufficiently real to exercise a weighty influence over the national development. Scholars like Angelo Poliziano, princes like Lorenzo de' Medici, men of letters like Feo Belcari and Benivieni, borrowed from the people forms of poetry, which they handled with refined taste, and appropriated to the uses of polite literature. The most important of these forms, native to the people but assimilated by the learned classes, were the Miracle Play or 'Sacra Rappresentazione;' the 'Ballata' or lyric to be sung while dancing; the 'Canto Carnascialesco' or Carnival Chorus; the 'Rispetto' or short love-ditty; the 'Lauda' or hymn; the 'Maggio' or May-song; and the 'Madrigale' or little part-song.
At Florence, where even under the despotism of the Medici a show of republican life still lingered, all classes joined in the amusements of carnival and spring time; and 306this poetry of the dance, the pageant, and the villa flourished side by side with the more serious efforts of the humanistic muse. It is not my purpose in this place to inquire into the origins of each lyrical type, to discuss the alterations they may have undergone at the hands of educated versifiers, or to define their several characteristics; but only to offer translations of such as seem to me best suited to represent the genius of the people and the age.
In the composition of the poetry in question, Angelo Poliziano was indubitably the most successful. This giant of learning, who filled the lecture-rooms of Florence with students of all nations, and whose critical and rhetorical labours marked an epoch in the history of scholarship, was by temperament a poet, and a poet of the people. Nothing was easier for him than to throw aside his professor's mantle, and to improvise 'Ballate' for the girls to sing as they danced their 'Carola' upon the Piazza di Santa Trinità in summer evenings. The peculiarity of this lyric is that it starts with a couplet, which also serves as refrain, supplying the rhyme to each successive stanza. The stanza itself is identical with our rime royal, if we count the couplet in the place of the seventh line. The form is in itself so graceful and is so beautifully treated by Poliziano that I cannot content myself with fewer than four of his Ballate.[44] The first is written on the world-old theme of 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.'
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May.
Violets and lilies grew on every side Mid the green grass, and young flowers wonderful, Golden and white and red and azure-eyed; 307 Toward which I stretched my hands, eager to pull Plenty to make my fair curls beautiful, To crown my rippling curls with garlands gay.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May.
But when my lap was full of flowers I spied Roses at last, roses of every hue; Therefore I ran to pluck their ruddy pride, Because their perfume was so sweet and true That all my soul went forth with pleasure new, With yearning and desire too soft to say.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May.
I gazed and gazed. Hard task it were to tell How lovely were the roses in that hour: One was but peeping from her verdant shell, And some were faded, some were scarce in flower: Then Love said: Go, pluck from the blooming bower Those that thou seest ripe upon the spray.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May.
For when the full rose quits her tender sheath, When she is sweetest and most fair to see, Then is the time to place her in thy wreath, Before her beauty and her freshness flee. Gather ye therefore roses with great glee, Sweet girls, or ere their perfume pass away.
I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May.
[44] I need hardly guard myself against being supposed to mean that the form of Ballata in question was the only one of its kind in Italy.
The next Ballata is less simple, but is composed with the same intention. It may here be parenthetically mentioned that the courtly poet, when he applied himself to this species of composition, invented a certain rusticity of incident, scarcely in keeping with the spirit of his art. It was in fact a conventional 308feature of this species of verse that the scene should be laid in the country, where the burgher, on a visit to his villa, is supposed to meet with a rustic beauty who captivates his eyes and heart. Guido Cavalcanti, in his celebrated Ballata, 'In un boschetto trovai pastorella,' struck the keynote of this music, which, it may be reasonably conjectured, was imported into Italy through Provençal literature from the pastorals of Northern France. The lady so quaintly imaged by a bird in the following Ballata of Poliziano is supposed to have been Monna Ippolita Leoncina of Prato, white-throated, golden-haired, and dressed in crimson silk.
I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
I do not think the world a field could show With herbs of perfume so surpassing rare; But when I passed beyond the green hedge-row, A thousand flowers around me flourished fair, White, pied and crimson, in the summer air; Among the which I heard a sweet bird's tone.
I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
Her song it was so tender and so clear That all the world listened with love; then I With stealthy feet a-tiptoe drawing near, Her golden head and golden wings could spy, Her plumes that flashed like rubies 'neath the sky, Her crystal beak and throat and bosom's zone.
I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
Fain would I snare her, smit with mighty love; But arrow-like she soared, and through the air Fled to her nest upon the boughs above; 309 Wherefore to follow her is all my care, For haply I might lure her by some snare Forth from the woodland wild where she is flown.
I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
Yea, I might spread some net or woven wile; But since of singing she doth take such pleasure, Without or other art or other guile I seek to win her with a tuneful measure; Therefore in singing spend I all my leisure, To make by singing this sweet bird my own.
I found myself one day all, all alone, For pastime in a field with blossoms strewn.
The same lady is more directly celebrated in the next Ballata, where Poliziano calls her by her name, Ippolita. I have taken the liberty of substituting Myrrha for this somewhat unmanageable word.
He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
From Myrrha's eyes there flieth, girt with fire, An angel of our lord, a laughing boy, Who lights in frozen hearts a flaming pyre, And with such sweetness doth the soul destroy, That while it dies, it murmurs forth its joy; Oh blessed am I to dwell in Paradise!
He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
From Myrrha's eyes a virtue still doth move, So swift and with so fierce and strong a flight, That it is like the lightning of high Jove, Riving of iron and adamant the might; Nathless the wound doth carry such delight That he who suffers dwells in Paradise.
He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
310 From Myrrha's eyes a lovely messenger Of joy so grave, so virtuous, doth flee, That all proud souls are bound to bend to her; So sweet her countenance, it turns the key Of hard hearts locked in cold security: Forth flies the prisoned soul to Paradise.
He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
In Myrrha's eyes beauty doth make her throne, And sweetly smile and sweetly speak her mind: Such grace in her fair eyes a man hath known As in the whole wide world he scarce may find: Yet if she slay him with a glance too kind, He lives again beneath her gazing eyes.
He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.
The fourth Ballata sets forth the fifteenth-century Italian code of love, the code of the Novelle, very different in its avowed laxity from the high ideal of the trecentisti poets.
I ask no pardon if I follow Love; Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof.
From those who feel the fire I feel, what use Is there in asking pardon? These are so Gentle, kind-hearted, tender, piteous, That they will have compassion, well I know. From such as never felt that honeyed woe, I seek no pardon: nought they know of Love.
I ask no pardon if I follow Love; Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof.
Honour, pure love, and perfect gentleness, Weighed in the scales of equity refined, Are but one thing: beauty is nought or less, 311 Placed in a dame of proud and scornful mind. Who can rebuke me then if I am kind So far as honesty comports and Love?
I ask no pardon if I follow Love; Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof.
Let him rebuke me whose hard heart of stone Ne'er felt of Love the summer in his vein! I pray to Love that who hath never known Love's power, may ne'er be blessed with Love's great gain; But he who serves our lord with might and main, May dwell for ever in the fire of Love!
I ask no pardon if I follow Love; Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof.
Let him rebuke me without cause who will; For if he be not gentle, I fear nought: My heart obedient to the same love still Hath little heed of light words envy-fraught: So long as life remains, it is my thought To keep the laws of this so gentle Love.
I ask no pardon if I follow Love; Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof.
This Ballata is put into a woman's mouth. Another, ascribed to Lorenzo de' Medici, expresses the sadness of a man who has lost the favour of his lady. It illustrates the well-known use of the word Signore for mistress in Florentine poetry.
312 How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free, When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?
Dances and songs and merry wakes I leave To lovers fair, more fortunate and gay; Since to my heart so many sorrows cleave That only doleful tears are mine for aye: Who hath heart's ease, may carol, dance, and play While I am fain to weep continually.
How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free, When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?
I too had heart's ease once, for so Love willed, When my lord loved me with love strong and great: But envious fortune my life's music stilled, And turned to sadness all my gleeful state. Ah me! Death surely were less desolate Than thus to live and love-neglected be!
How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free, When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?
One only comfort soothes my heart's despair, And mid this sorrow lends my soul some cheer; Unto my lord I ever yielded fair Service of faith untainted pure and clear; If then I die thus guiltless, on my bier It may be she will shed one tear for me.
How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free, When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?
The Florentine Rispetto was written for the most part in octave stanzas, detached or continuous. The octave stanza in Italian literature was an emphatically popular form; and it is still largely used in many parts of the peninsula for the lyrical expression of emotion.[45] Poliziano did no more than treat it with his own facility, sacrificing the unstudied raciness of his popular models to literary elegance.
[45] See my Sketches in Italy and Greece, p. 114.
Here are a few of these detached stanzas or Rispetti Spicciolati:—
Upon that day when first I saw thy face, I vowed with loyal love to worship thee. Move, and I move; stay, and I keep my place: Whate'er thou dost, will I do equally.
313 In joy of thine I find most perfect grace, And in thy sadness dwells my misery: Laugh, and I laugh; weep, and I too will weep. Thus Love commands, whose laws I loving keep.
Nay, be not over-proud of thy great grace, Lady! for brief time is thy thief and mine. White will he turn those golden curls, that lace Thy forehead and thy neck so marble-fine. Lo! while the flower still flourisheth apace, Pluck it: for beauty but awhile doth shine. Fair is the rose at dawn; but long ere night Her freshness fades, her pride hath vanished quite.
Fire, fire! Ho, water! for my heart's afire! Ho, neighbours! help me, or by God I die! See, with his standard, that great lord, Desire! He sets my heart aflame: in vain I cry. Too late, alas! The flames mount high and higher. Alack, good friends! I faint, I fail, I die. Ho! water, neighbours mine! no more delay I My heart's a cinder if you do but stay.
Lo, may I prove to Christ a renegade, And, dog-like, die in pagan Barbary; Nor may God's mercy on my soul be laid, If ere for aught I shall abandon thee: Before all-seeing God this prayer be made— When I desert thee, may death feed on me: Now if thy hard heart scorn these vows, be sure That without faith none may abide secure.
I ask not, Love, for any other pain To make thy cruel foe and mine repent, Only that thou shouldst yield her to the strain Of these my arms, alone, for chastisement; Then would I clasp her so with might and main, That she should learn to pity and relent, And, in revenge for scorn and proud despite, A thousand times I'd kiss her forehead white.
314 Not always do fierce tempests vex the sea, Nor always clinging clouds offend the sky; Cold snows before the sunbeams haste to flee, Disclosing flowers that 'neath their whiteness lie; The saints each one doth wait his day to see, And time makes all things change; so, therefore, I Ween that 'tis wise to wait my turn, and say, That who subdues himself, deserves to sway.
It will be observed that the tone of these poems is not passionate nor elevated. Love, as understood in Florence of the fifteenth century, was neither; nor was Poliziano the man to have revived Platonic mysteries or chivalrous enthusiasms. When the octave stanzas, written with this amorous intention, were strung together into a continuous poem, this form of verse took the title of Rispetto Gontinuato. In the collection of Poliziano's poems there are several examples of the long Rispetto, carelessly enough composed, as may be gathered from the recurrence of the same stanzas in several poems. All repeat the old arguments, the old enticements to a less than lawful love. The one which I have chosen for translation, styled Serenata ovvero Lettera in Istrambotti, might be selected as an epitome of Florentine convention in the matter of love-making.
O thou of fairest fairs the first and queen, Most courteous, kind, and honourable dame, Thine ear unto thy servant's singing lean, Who loves thee more than health, or wealth, or fame; For thou his shining planet still hast been, And day and night he calls on thy fair name: First wishing thee all good the world can give, Next praying in thy gentle thoughts to live.
He humbly prayeth that thou shouldst be kind To think upon his pure and perfect faith, And that such mercy in thy heart and mind Should reign, as so much beauty argueth: 315 A thousand, thousand hints, or he were blind, Of thy great courtesy he reckoneth: Wherefore thy loyal subject now doth sue Such guerdon only as shall prove them true.
He knows himself unmeet for love from thee, Unmeet for merely gazing on thine eyes; Seeing thy comely squires so plenteous be, That there is none but 'neath thy beauty sighs: Yet since thou seekest fame and bravery, Nor carest aught for gauds that others prize, And since he strives to honour thee alway, He still hath hope to gain thy heart one day.
Virtue that dwells untold, unknown, unseen, Still findeth none to love or value it; Wherefore his faith, that hath so perfect been, Not being known, can profit him no whit: He would find pity in thine eyes, I ween, If thou shouldst deign to make some proof of it; The rest may flatter, gape, and stand agaze; Him only faith above the crowd doth raise.
Suppose that he might meet thee once alone, Face unto face, without or jealousy, Or doubt or fear from false misgiving grown, And tell his tale of grievous pain to thee, Sure from thy breast he'd draw full many a moan. And make thy fair eyes weep right plenteously: Yea, if he had but skill his heart to show, He scarce could fail to win thee by its woe.
Now art thou in thy beauty's blooming hour; Thy youth is yet in pure perfection's prime: Make it thy pride to yield thy fragile flower, Or look to find it paled by envious time: For none to stay the flight of years hath power, And who culls roses caught by frosty rime? Give therefore to thy lover, give, for they Too late repent who act not while they may.
316 Time flies: and lo! thou let'st it idly fly: There is not in the world a thing more dear; And if thou wait to see sweet May pass by, Where find'st thou roses in the later year? He never can, who lets occasion die: Now that thou canst, stay not for doubt or fear; But by the forelock take the flying hour, Ere change begins, and clouds above thee lower.
Too long 'twixt yea and nay he hath been wrung; Whether he sleep or wake he little knows, Or free or in the bands of bondage strung: Nay, lady, strike, and let thy lover loose! What joy hast thou to keep a captive hung? Kill him at once, or cut the cruel noose: No more, I prithee, stay; but take thy part: Either relax the bow, or speed the dart.
Thou feedest him on words and windiness, On smiles, and signs, and bladders light as air; Saying, thou fain wouldst comfort his distress, But dar'st not, canst not: nay, dear lady fair, All things are possible beneath the stress Of will, that flames above the soul's despair! Dally no longer: up, set to thy hand; Or see his love unclothed and naked stand.
For he hath sworn, and by this oath will bide, E'en though his life be lost in the endeavour, To leave no way, nor art, nor wile untried, Until he pluck the fruit he sighs for ever: And, though he still would spare thy honest pride, The knot that binds him he must loose or sever; Thou too, O lady, shouldst make sharp thy knife, If thou art fain to end this amorous strife.
Lo! if thou lingerest still in dubious dread, Lest thou shouldst lose fair fame of honesty, Here hast thou need of wile and warihead, To test thy lover's strength in screening thee; 317 Indulge him, if thou find him well bestead, Knowing that smothered love flames outwardly: Therefore, seek means, search out some privy way; Keep not the steed too long at idle play.
Or if thou heedest what those friars teach, I cannot fail, lady, to call thee fool: Well may they blame our private sins and preach; But ill their acts match with their spoken rule; The same pitch clings to all men, one and each. There, I have spoken: set the world to school With this true proverb, too, be well acquainted The devil's ne'er so black as he is painted.
Nor did our good Lord give such grace to thee That thou shouldst keep it buried in thy breast, But to reward thy servant's constancy, Whose love and loyal faith thou hast repressed: Think it no sin to be some trifle free, Because thou livest at a lord's behest; For if he take enough to feed his fill, To cast the rest away were surely ill.
They find most favour in the sight of heaven Who to the poor and hungry are most kind; A hundred-fold shall thus to thee be given By God, who loves the free and generous mind; Thrice strike thy breast, with pure contrition riven, Crying: I sinned; my sin hath made me blind!— He wants not much: enough if he be able To pick up crumbs that fall beneath thy table.
Wherefore, O lady, break the ice at length; Make thou, too, trial of love's fruits and flowers: When in thine arms thou feel'st thy lover's strength, Thou wilt repent of all these wasted hours; Husbands, they know not love, its breadth and length, Seeing their hearts are not on fire like ours: Things longed for give most pleasure; this I tell thee: If still thou doubtest let the proof compel thee.
318 What I have spoken is pure gospel sooth; I have told all my mind, withholding nought: And well, I ween, thou canst unhusk the truth, And through the riddle read the hidden thought: Perchance if heaven still smile upon my youth, Some good effect for me may yet be wrought: Then fare thee well; too many words offend: She who is wise is quick to comprehend.
The levity of these love-declarations and the fluency of their vows show them to be 'false as dicers' oaths,' mere verses of the moment, made to please a facile mistress. One long poem, which cannot be styled a Rispetto, but is rather a Canzone of the legitimate type, stands out with distinctness from the rest of Poliziano's love-verses. It was written by him for Giuliano de' Medici, in praise of the fair Simonetta. The following version attempts to repeat its metrical effects in some measure:—
My task it is, since thus Love wills, who strains And forces all the world beneath his sway, In lowly verse to say The great delight that in my bosom reigns. For if perchance I took but little pains To tell some part of all the joy I find, I might be deem'd unkind By one who knew my heart's deep happiness. He feels but little bliss who hides his bliss; Small joy hath he whose joy is never sung; And he who curbs his tongue Through cowardice, knows but of love the name. Wherefore to succour and augment the fame Of that pure, virtuous, wise, and lovely may, Who like the star of day Shines mid the stars, or like the rising sun, Forth from my burning heart the words shall run. Far, far be envy, far be jealous fear, With discord dark and drear, And all the choir that is of love the foe.— The season had returned when soft winds blow, 319 The season friendly to young lovers coy, Which bids them clothe their joy In divers garbs and many a masked disguise. Then I to track the game 'neath April skies Went forth in raiment strange apparellèd, And by kind fate was led Unto the spot where stayed my soul's desire. The beauteous nymph who feeds my soul with fire, I found in gentle, pure, and prudent mood, In graceful attitude, Loving and courteous, holy, wise, benign. So sweet, so tender was her face divine, So gladsome, that in those celestial eyes Shone perfect paradise, Yea, all the good that we poor mortals crave. Around her was a band so nobly brave Of beauteous dames, that as I gazed at these Methought heaven's goddesses That day for once had deigned to visit earth. But she who gives my soul sorrow and mirth, Seemed Pallas in her gait, and in her face Venus; for every grace And beauty of the world in her combined. Merely to think, far more to tell my mind Of that most wondrous sight, confoundeth me, For mid the maidens she Who most resembled her was found most rare. Call ye another first among the fair; Not first, but sole before my lady set: Lily and violet And all the flowers below the rose must bow. Down from her royal head and lustrous brow The golden curls fell sportively unpent, While through the choir she went With feet well lessoned to the rhythmic sound. Her eyes, though scarcely raised above the ground, Sent me by stealth a ray divinely fair; But still her jealous hair Broke the bright beam, and veiled her from my gaze. She, born and nursed in heaven for angels' praise, 320 No sooner saw this wrong, than back she drew, With hand of purest hue, Her truant curls with kind and gentle mien. Then from her eyes a soul so fiery keen, So sweet a soul of love she cast on mine, That scarce can I divine How then I 'scaped from burning utterly. These are the first fair signs of love to be, That bound my heart with adamant, and these The matchless courtesies Which, dreamlike, still before mine eyes must hover. This is the honeyed food she gave her lover, To make him, so it pleased her, half-divine; Nectar is not so fine, Nor ambrosy, the fabled feast of Jove. Then, yielding proofs more clear and strong of love, As though to show the faith within her heart, She moved, with subtle art, Her feet accordant to the amorous air. But while I gaze and pray to God that ne'er Might cease that happy dance angelical, O harsh, unkind recall! Back to the banquet was she beckonèd. She, with her face at first with pallor spread, Then tinted with a blush of coral dye, 'The ball is best!' did cry, Gentle in tone and smiling as she spake. But from her eyes celestial forth did break Favour at parting; and I well could see Young love confusedly Enclosed within the furtive fervent gaze, Heating his arrows at their beauteous rays, For war with Pallas and with Dian cold. Fairer than mortal mould, She moved majestic with celestial gait; And with her hand her robe in royal state Raised, as she went with pride ineffable. Of me I cannot tell, Whether alive or dead I there was left. Nay, dead, methinks! since I of thee was reft, 321 Light of my life! and yet, perchance, alive— Such virtue to revive My lingering soul possessed thy beauteous face, But if that powerful charm of thy great grace Could then thy loyal lover so sustain, Why comes there not again More often or more soon the sweet delight? Twice hath the wandering moon with borrowed light Stored from her brother's rays her crescent horn, Nor yet hath fortune borne Me on the way to so much bliss again. Earth smiles anew; fair spring renews her reign: The grass and every shrub once more is green; The amorous birds begin, From winter loosed, to fill the field with song. See how in loving pairs the cattle throng; The bull, the ram, their amorous jousts enjoy: Thou maiden, I a boy, Shall we prove traitors to love's law for aye? Shall we these years that are so fair let fly? Wilt thou not put thy flower of youth to use? Or with thy beauty choose To make him blest who loves thee best of all? Haply I am some hind who guards the stall, Or of vile lineage, or with years outworn, Poor, or a cripple born, Or faint of spirit that you spurn me so? Nay, but my race is noble and doth grow With honour to our land, with pomp and power; My youth is yet in flower, And it may chance some maiden sighs for me. My lot it is to deal right royally With all the goods that fortune spreads around, For still they more abound, Shaken from her full lap, the more I waste. My strength is such as whoso tries shall taste; Circled with friends, with favours crowned am I: Yet though I rank so high Among the blest, as men may reckon bliss, Still without thee, my hope, my happiness, 322 It seems a sad, and bitter thing to live! Then stint me not, but give That joy which holds all joys enclosed in one. Let me pluck fruits at last, not flowers alone!
With much that is frigid, artificial, and tedious in this old-fashioned love-song, there is a curious monotony of sweetness which commends it to our ears; and he who reads it may remember the profile portrait of Simonetta from the hand of Piero della Francesca in the Pitti Palace at Florence.
It is worth comparing Poliziano's treatment of popular or semi-popular verse-forms with his imitations of Petrarch's manner. For this purpose I have chosen a Canzone, clearly written in competition with the celebrated 'Chiare, fresche e dolci acque,' of Laura's lover. While closely modelled upon Petrarch's form and similar in motive, this Canzone preserves Poliziano's special qualities of fluency and emptiness of content.
Hills, valleys, caves and fells, With flowers and leaves and herbage spread; Green meadows; shadowy groves where light is low; Lawns watered with the rills That cruel Love hath made me shed, Cast from these cloudy eyes so dark with woe; Thou stream that still dost know What fell pangs pierce my heart, So dost thou murmur back my moan; Lone bird that chauntest tone for tone, While in our descant drear Love sings his part: Nymphs, woodland wanderers, wind and air; List to the sound out-poured from my despair! Seven times and once more seven The roseate dawn her beauteous brow Enwreathed with orient jewels hath displayed; Cynthia once more in heaven Hath orbed her horns with silver now; While in sea waves her brother's light was laid; Since this high mountain glade 323 Felt the white footsteps fall Of that proud lady, who to spring Converts whatever woodland thing She may o'ershadow, touch, or heed at all. Here bloom the flowers, the grasses spring From her bright eyes, and drink what mine must bring. Yea, nourished with my tears Is every little leaf I see, And the stream rolls therewith a prouder wave. Ah me! through what long years Will she withhold her face from me, Which stills the stormy skies howe'er they rave? Speak! or in grove or cave If one hath seen her stray, Plucking amid those grasses green Wreaths for her royal brows serene, Flowers white and blue and red and golden gay! Nay, prithee, speak, if pity dwell Among these woods, within this leafy dell! O Love! 'twas here we saw, Beneath the new-fledged leaves that spring From this old beech, her fair form lowly laid:— The thought renews my awe! How sweetly did her tresses fling Waves of wreathed gold unto the winds that strayed Fire, frost within me played, While I beheld the bloom Of laughing flowers—O day of bliss!— Around those tresses meet and kiss, And roses in her lap of Love the home! Her grace, her port divinely fair, Describe it, Love! myself I do not dare. In mute intent surprise I gazed, as when a hind is seen To dote upon its image in a rill; Drinking those love-lit eyes, Those hands, that face, those words serene, That song which with delight the heaven did fill, That smile which thralls me still, Which melteth stones unkind, 324 Which in this woodland wilderness Tames every beast and stills the stress Of hurrying waters. Would that I could find Her footprints upon field or grove! I should not then be envious of Jove. Thou cool stream rippling by, Where oft it pleased her to dip Her naked foot, how blest art thou! Ye branching trees on high, That spread your gnarled roots on the lip Of yonder hanging rock to drink heaven's dew! She often leaned on you, She who is my life's bliss! Thou ancient beech with moss o'ergrown, How do I envy thee thy throne, Found worthy to receive such happiness! Ye winds, how blissful must ye be, Since ye have borne to heaven her harmony! The winds that music bore, And wafted it to God on high, That Paradise might have the joy thereof. Flowers here she plucked, and wore Wild roses from the thorn hard by: This air she lightened with her look of love: This running stream above, She bent her face!—Ah me! Where am I? What sweet makes me swoon? What calm is in the kiss of noon? Who brought me here? Who speaks? What melody? Whence came pure peace into my soul? What joy hath rapt me from my own control?
Poliziano's refrain is always: 'Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. It is spring-time now and youth. Winter and old age are coming!' A Maggio, or May-day song, describing the games, dances, and jousting matches of the Florentine lads upon the morning of the first of May, expresses this facile philosophy of life with a quaintness that recalls Herrick. It will be noticed that the Maggio is built, so far as rhymes go, on the same system as Poliziano's Ballata. It has considerable 325historical interest, for the opening couplet is said to be Guido Cavalcanti's, while the whole poem is claimed by Roscoe for Lorenzo de' Medici, and by Carducci with better reason for Poliziano.
Welcome in the May And the woodland garland gay!
Welcome in the jocund spring Which bids all men lovers be! Maidens, up with carolling, With your sweethearts stout and free, With roses and with blossoms ye Who deck yourselves this first of May!
Up, and forth into the pure Meadows, mid the trees and flowers! Every beauty is secure With so many bachelors: Beasts and birds amid the bowers Burn with love this first of May.
Maidens, who are young and fair, Be not harsh, I counsel you; For your youth cannot repair Her prime of spring, as meadows do: None be proud, but all be true To men who love, this first of May.
Dance and carol every one Of our band so bright and gay! See your sweethearts how they run Through the jousts for you to-day! She who saith her lover nay, Will deflower the sweets of May,
Lads in love take sword and shield To make pretty girls their prize: Yield ye, merry maidens, yield To your lovers' vows and sighs: Give his heart back ere it dies: Wage not war this first of May.
326 He who steals another's heart, Let him give his own heart too: Who's the robber? 'Tis the smart Little cherub Cupid, who Homage comes to pay with you, Damsels, to the first of May.
Love comes smiling; round his head Lilies white and roses meet: 'Tis for you his flight is sped. Fair one, haste our king to greet: Who will fling him blossoms sweet Soonest on this first of May?
Welcome, stranger! welcome, king! Love, what hast thou to command? That each girl with wreaths should ring Her lover's hair with loving hand, That girls small and great should band In Love's ranks this first of May.
The Canto Carnascialesco, for the final development if not for the invention of which all credit must be given to Lorenzo de' Medici, does not greatly differ from the Maggio in structure. It admitted, however, of great varieties, and was generally more complex in its interweaving of rhymes. Yet the essential principle of an exordium which should also serve for a refrain, was rarely, if ever, departed from. Two specimens of the Carnival Song will serve to bring into close contrast two very different aspects of Florentine history. The earlier was composed by Lorenzo de' Medici at the height of his power and in the summer of Italian independence. It was sung by masquers attired in classical costume, to represent Bacchus and his crew.
Fair is youth and void of sorrow; But it hourly flies away.— Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.
327 This is Bacchus and the bright Ariadne, lovers true! They, in flying time's despite, Each with each find pleasure new; These their Nymphs, and all their crew Keep perpetual holiday.— Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.
These blithe Satyrs, wanton-eyed, Of the Nymphs are paramours: Through the caves and forests wide They have snared them mid the flowers; Warmed with Bacchus, in his bowers, Now they dance and leap alway.— Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.
These fair Nymphs, they are not loth To entice their lovers' wiles. None but thankless folk and rough Can resist when Love beguiles. Now enlaced, with wreathèd smiles, All together dance and play.— Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.
See this load behind them plodding On the ass! Silenus he, Old and drunken, merry, nodding, Full of years and jollity; Though he goes so swayingly, Yet he laughs and quaffs alway.— Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.
Midas treads a wearier measure: All he touches turns to gold: If there be no taste of pleasure, What's the use of wealth untold? 328 What's the joy his fingers hold, When he's forced to thirst for aye?— Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.
Listen well to what we're saying; Of to-morrow have no care! Young and old together playing, Boys and girls, be blithe as air! Every sorry thought forswear! Keep perpetual holiday.—- Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Nought ye know about to-morrow.
Ladies and gay lovers young! Long live Bacchus, live Desire! Dance and play; let songs be sung; Let sweet love your bosoms fire; In the future come what may!—- Youths and maids, enjoy to-day! Nought ye know about to-morrow.
Fair is youth and void of sorrow; But it hourly flies away.
The next, composed by Antonio Alamanni, after Lorenzo's death and the ominous passage of Charles VIII., was sung by masquers habited as skeletons. The car they rode on, was a Car of Death designed by Piero di Cosimo, and their music was purposely gloomy. If in the jovial days of the Medici the streets of Florence had rung to the thoughtless refrain, 'Nought ye know about to-morrow,' they now re-echoed with a cry of 'Penitence;' for times had strangely altered, and the heedless past had brought forth a doleful present. The last stanza of Alamanni's chorus is a somewhat clumsy attempt to adapt the too real moral of his subject to the customary mood of the Carnival.
329
Sorrow, tears, and penitence Are our doom of pain for aye; This dead concourse riding by Hath no cry but penitence!
E'en as you are, once were we: You shall be as now we are: We are dead men, as you see: We shall see you dead men, where Nought avails to take great care, After sins, of penitence.
We too in the Carnival Sang our love-songs through the town; Thus from sin to sin we all Headlong, heedless, tumbled down:— Now we cry, the world around, Penitence! oh, Penitence!
Senseless, blind, and stubborn fools! Time steals all things as he rides: Honours, glories, states, and schools, Pass away, and nought abides; Till the tomb our carcase hides, And compels this penitence.
This sharp scythe you see us bear, Brings the world at length to woe: But from life to life we fare; And that life is joy or woe: All heaven's bliss on him doth flow Who on earth does penitence.
Living here, we all must die; Dying, every soul shall live: For the King of kings on high This fixed ordinance doth give: Lo, you all are fugitive! Penitence! Cry Penitence!
Torment great and grievous dole Hath the thankless heart mid you; But the man of piteous soul 330 Finds much honour in our crew: Love for loving is the due That prevents this penitence.
Sorrow, tears, and penitence Are our doom of pain for aye: This dead concourse riding by Hath no cry but Penitence!
One song for dancing, composed less upon the type of the Ballata than on that of the Carnival Song, may here be introduced, not only in illustration of the varied forms assumed by this style of poetry, but also because it is highly characteristic of Tuscan town-life. This poem in the vulgar style has been ascribed to Lorenzo de' Medici, but probably without due reason. It describes the manners and customs of female street gossips.
Since you beg with such a grace, How can I refuse a song, Wholesome, honest, void of wrong, On the follies of the place?
Courteously on you I call; Listen well to what I sing: For my roundelay to all May perchance instruction bring, And of life good lessoning.— When in company you meet, Or sit spinning, all the street Clamours like a market-place.
Thirty of you there may be; Twenty-nine are sure to buzz, And the single silent she Racks her brains about her coz:— Mrs. Buzz and Mrs. Huzz, Mind your work, my ditty saith; Do not gossip till your breath Fails and leaves you black of face!
331 Governments go out and in:— You the truth must needs discover. Is a girl about to win A brave husband in her lover?— Straight you set to talk him over: 'Is he wealthy?' 'Does his coat Fit?' 'And has he got a vote?' 'Who's his father?' 'What's his race?'
Out of window one head pokes; Twenty others do the same:— Chatter, clatter!—creaks and croaks All the year the same old game!— 'See my spinning!' cries one dame, 'Five long ells of cloth, I trow!' Cries another, 'Mine must go, Drat it, to the bleaching base!'
'Devil take the fowl!' says one: 'Mine are all bewitched, I guess; Cocks and hens with vermin run, Mangy, filthy, featherless.' Says another: 'I confess Every hair I drop, I keep— Plague upon it, in a heap Falling off to my disgrace!'
If you see a fellow walk Up or down the street and back, How you nod and wink and talk, Hurry-skurry, cluck and clack!— 'What, I wonder, does he lack Here about?'—'There's something wrong!' Till the poor man's made a song For the female populace.
It were well you gave no thought To such idle company; Shun these gossips, care for nought But the business that you ply. 332 You who chatter, you who cry, Heed my words; be wise, I pray: Fewer, shorter stories say: Bide at home, and mind your place.
Since you beg with such a grace, How can I refuse a song, Wholesome, honest, void of wrong, On the follies of the place?
The Madrigale, intended to be sung in parts, was another species of popular poetry cultivated by the greatest of Italian writers. Without seeking examples from such men as Petrarch, Michelangelo, or Tasso, who used it as a purely literary form, I will content myself with a few Madrigals by anonymous composers, more truly popular in style, and more immediately intended for music.[46] The similarity both of manner and matter, between these little poems and the Ballate, is obvious. There is the same affectation of rusticity in both.
[46] The originals will be found in Carducci's Studi Letterari, p. 273 et seq. I have preserved their rhyming structure.
Cogliendo per un prato.
Plucking white lilies in a field I saw Fair women, laden with young Love's delight: Some sang, some danced; but all were fresh and bright. Then by the margin of a fount they leaned, And of those flowers made garlands for their hair— Wreaths for their golden tresses quaint and rare. Forth from the field I passed, and gazed upon Their loveliness, and lost my heart to one.
Togliendo l' una all' altra.
One from the other borrowing leaves and flowers, I saw fair maidens 'neath the summer trees, Weaving bright garlands with low love-ditties. Mid that sweet sisterhood the loveliest 333 Turned her soft eyes to me, and whispered, 'Take!' Love-lost I stood, and not a word I spake. My heart she read, and her fair garland gave: Therefore I am her servant to the grave.
Appress' un fiume chiaro.
Hard by a crystal stream Girls and maids were dancing round A lilac with fair blossoms crowned. Mid these I spied out one So tender-sweet, so love-laden, She stole my heart with singing then: Love in her face so lovely-kind And eyes and hands my soul did bind.
Di riva in riva.
From lawn to lea Love led me down the valley, Seeking my hawk, where 'neath a pleasant hill I spied fair maidens bathing in a rill. Lina was there all loveliness excelling; The pleasure of her beauty made me sad, And yet at sight of her my soul was glad. Downward I cast mine eyes with modest seeming, And all a tremble from the fountain fled: For each was naked as her maidenhead. Thence singing fared I through a flowery plain, Where bye and bye I found my hawk again!
Nel chiaro fiume.
Down a fair streamlet crystal-clear and pleasant I went a fishing all alone one day, And spied three maidens bathing there at play. Of love they told each other honeyed stories, While with white hands they smote the stream, to wet Their sunbright hair in the pure rivulet. Gazing I crouched among thick flowering leafage, Till one who spied a rustling branch on high, Turned to her comrades with a sudden cry, And 'Go! Nay, prithee go!' she called to me: 'To stay were surely but scant courtesy.'
334
Quel sole che nutrica.
The sun which makes a lily bloom, Leans down at times on her to gaze— Fairer, he deems, than his fair rays: Then, having looked a little while, He turns and tells the saints in bliss How marvellous her beauty is. Thus up in heaven with flute and string Thy loveliness the angels sing.
Di novo è giunt'.
Lo: here hath come an errant knight On a barbed charger clothed in mail: His archers scatter iron hail. At brow and breast his mace he aims; Who therefore hath not arms of proof, Let him live locked by door and roof; Until Dame Summer on a day That grisly knight return to slay.
Poliziano's treatment of the octave stanza for Rispetti was comparatively popular. But in his poem of 'La Giostra,' written to commemorate the victory of Giuliano de' Medici in a tournament and to celebrate his mistress, he gave a new and richer form to the metre which Boccaccio had already used for epic verse. The slight and uninteresting framework of this poem, which opened a new sphere for Italian literature, and prepared the way for Ariosto's golden cantos, might be compared to one of those wire baskets which children steep in alum water, and incrust with crystals, sparkling, artificial, beautiful with colours not their own. The mind of Poliziano held, as it were, in solution all the images and thoughts of antiquity, all the riches of his native literature. In that vast reservoir of poems and mythologies and phrases, so patiently accumulated, so tenaciously preserved, so thoroughly assimilated, he plunged the trivial subject he had 335chosen, and triumphantly presented to the world the spolia opima of scholarship and taste. What mattered it that the theme was slight? The art was perfect, the result splendid. One canto of 125 stanzas describes the youth of Giuliano, who sought to pass his life among the woods, a hunter dead to love, but who was doomed to be ensnared by Cupid. The chase, the beauty of Simonetta, the palace of Venus, these are the three subjects of a book as long as the first Iliad. The second canto begins with dreams and prophecies of glory to be won by Giuliano in the tournament. But it stops abruptly. The tragic catastrophe of the Pazzi Conjuration cut short Poliziano's panegyric by the murder of his hero. Meanwhile the poet had achieved his purpose. His torso presented to Italy a model of style, a piece of written art adequate to the great painting of the Renaissance period, a double star of poetry which blent the splendours of the ancient and the modern world. To render into worthy English the harmonies of Poliziano is a difficult task. Yet this must be attempted if an English reader is to gain any notion of the scope and substance of the Italian poet's art. In the first part of the poem we are placed, as it were, at the mid point between the 'Hippolytus' of Euripides and Shakspere's 'Venus and Adonis.' The cold hunter Giuliano is to see Simonetta, and seeing, is to love her. This is how he first discovers the triumphant beauty:[47]
White is the maid, and white the robe around her, With buds and roses and thin grasses pied; Enwreathèd folds of golden tresses crowned her, Shadowing her forehead fair with modest pride:
336 The wild wood smiled; the thicket where he found her, To ease his anguish, bloomed on every side: Serene she sits, with gesture queenly mild, And with her brow tempers the tempests wild.
[47] Stanza XLIII. All references are made to Carducci's excellent edition, Le Stanze, l'Orfeo e le Rime di Messer Angelo Ambrogini Poliziano. Firenze: G. Barbéra. 1863.
After three stanzas of this sort, in which the poet's style is more apparent than the object he describes, occurs this charming picture:—
Reclined he found her on the swarded grass In jocund mood; and garlands she had made Of every flower that in the meadow was, Or on her robe of many hues displayed; But when she saw the youth before her pass, Raising her timid head awhile she stayed; Then with her white hand gathered up her dress, And stood, lap-full of flowers, in loveliness.
Then through the dewy field with footstep slow The lingering maid began to take her way, Leaving her lover in great fear and woe, For now he longs for nought but her alway: The wretch, who cannot bear that she should go, Strives with a whispered prayer her feet to stay; And thus at last, all trembling, all afire, In humble wise he breathes his soul's desire:
'Whoe'er thou art, maid among maidens queen, Goddess, or nymph—nay, goddess seems most clear— If goddess, sure my Dian I have seen; If mortal, let thy proper self appear! Beyond terrestrial beauty is thy mien; I have no merit that I should be here! What grace of heaven, what lucky star benign Yields me the sight of beauty so divine?'
A conversation ensues, after which Giuliano departs utterly lovesick, and Cupid takes wing exultingly for Cyprus, where his mother's palace stands. In the following picture of the house of Venus, who shall say how much of Ariosto's 337Alcina and Tasso's Armida is contained? Cupid arrives, and the family of Love is filled with joy at Giuliano's conquest. From the plan of the poem it is clear that its beauties are chiefly those of detail. They are, however, very great. How perfect, for example, is the richness combined with delicacy of the following description of a country life:—
I. STANZAS 17-21
How far more safe it is, how far more fair, To chase the flying deer along the lea; Through ancient woods to track their hidden lair, Far from the town, with long-drawn subtlety: To scan the vales, the hills, the limpid air, The grass and flowers, clear ice, and streams so free; To hear the birds wake from their winter trance, The wind-stirred leaves and murmuring waters dance.
How sweet it were to watch the young goats hung From toppling crags, cropping the tender shoot, While in thick pleachèd shade the shepherd sung His uncouth rural lay and woke his flute; To mark, mid dewy grass, red apples flung, And every bough thick set with ripening fruit, The butting rams, kine lowing o'er the lea, And cornfields waving like the windy sea.
Lo! how the rugged master of the herd Before his flock unbars the wattled cote; Then with his rod and many a rustic word He rules their going: or 'tis sweet to note The delver, when his toothèd rake hath stirred The stubborn clod, his hoe the glebe hath smote; Barefoot the country girl, with loosened zone, Spins, while she keeps her geese 'neath yonder stone.
After such happy wise, in ancient years, Dwelt the old nations in the age of gold; Nor had the fount been stirred of mothers' tears For sons in war's fell labour stark and cold; 338 Nor trusted they to ships the wild wind steers, Nor yet had oxen groaning ploughed the wold; Their houses were huge oaks, whose trunks had store Of honey, and whose boughs thick acorns bore.
Nor yet, in that glad time, the accursèd thirst Of cruel gold had fallen on this fair earth: Joyous in liberty they lived at first; Unploughed the fields sent forth their teeming birth; Till fortune, envious of such concord, burst The bond of law, and pity banned and worth; Within their breasts sprang luxury and that rage Which men call love in our degenerate age.
We need not be reminded that these stanzas are almost a cento from Virgil, Hesiod, and Ovid. The merits of the translator, adapter, and combiner, who knew so well how to cull their beauties and adorn them with a perfect dress of modern diction, are so eminent that we cannot deny him the title of a great poet. It is always in picture-painting more than in dramatic presentation that Poliziano excels. Here is a basrelief of Venus rising from the Ocean foam:—
STANZAS 99-107.
In Thetis' lap, upon the vexed Egean, The seed deific from Olympus sown, Beneath dim stars and cycling empyrean Drifts like white foam across the salt waves blown; Thence, born at last by movements hymenean, Rises a maid more fair than man hath known; Upon her shell the wanton breezes waft her; She nears the shore, while heaven looks down with laughter
Seeing the carved work you would cry that real Were shell and sea, and real the winds that blow; The lightning of the goddess' eyes you feel, The smiling heavens, the elemental glow: 339 White-vested Hours across the smooth sands steal, With loosened curls that to the breezes flow; Like, yet unlike, are all their beauteous faces, E'en as befits a choir of sister Graces.
Well might you swear that on those waves were riding The goddess with her right hand on her hair, And with the other the sweet apple hiding; And that beneath her feet, divinely fair, Fresh flowers sprang forth, the barren sands dividing; Then that, with glad smiles and enticements rare, The three nymphs round their queen, embosoming her, Threw the starred mantle soft as gossamer.
The one, with hands above her head upraised, Upon her dewy tresses fits a wreath, With ruddy gold and orient gems emblazed; The second hangs pure pearls her ears beneath; The third round shoulders white and breast hath placed Such wealth of gleaming carcanets as sheathe Their own fair bosoms, when the Graces sing Among the gods with dance and carolling.
Thence might you see them rising toward the spheres, Seated upon a cloud of silvery white; The trembling of the cloven air appears Wrought in the stone, and heaven serenely bright; The gods drink in with open eyes and ears Her beauty, and desire her bed's delight; Each seems to marvel with a mute amaze— Their brows and foreheads wrinkle as they gaze.
The next quotation shows Venus in the lap of Mars, and Visited by Cupid:—
STANZAS 122—124.
Stretched on a couch, outside the coverlid, Love found her, scarce unloosed from Mars' embrace; He, lying back within her bosom, fed His eager eyes on nought but her fair face;
340 Roses above them like a cloud were shed, To reinforce them in the amorous chace; While Venus, quick with longings unsuppressed, A thousand times his eyes and forehead kissed.
Above, around, young Loves on every side Played naked, darting birdlike to and fro; And one, whose plumes a thousand colours dyed, Fanned the shed roses as they lay arow; One filled his quiver with fresh flowers, and hied To pour them on the couch that lay below; Another, poised upon his pinions, through The falling shower soared shaking rosy dew:
For, as he quivered with his tremulous wing, The wandering roses in their drift were stayed;— Thus none was weary of glad gambolling; Till Cupid came, with dazzling plumes displayed, Breathless; and round his mother's neck did fling His languid arms, and with his winnowing made Her heart burn:—very glad and bright of face, But, with his flight, too tired to speak apace.
These pictures have in them the very glow of Italian painting. Sometimes we seem to see a quaint design of Piero di Cosimo, with bright tints and multitudinous small figures in a spacious landscape. Sometimes it is the languid grace of Botticelli, whose soul became possessed of classic inspiration as it were in dreams, and who has painted the birth of Venus almost exactly as Poliziano imagined it. Again, we seize the broader beauties of the Venetian masters, or the vehemence of Giulio Romano's pencil. To the last class belong the two next extracts:—
STANZAS 104—107.
In the last square the great artificer Had wrought himself crowned with Love's perfect palm; Black from his forge and rough, he runs to her, Leaving all labour for her bosom's calm: 341 Lips joined to lips with deep love-longing stir, Fire in his heart, and in his spirit balm; Far fiercer flames through breast and marrow fly Than those which heat his forge in Sicily.
Jove, on the other side, becomes a bull, Goodly and white, at Love's behest, and rears His neck beneath his rich freight beautiful: She turns toward the shore that disappears, With frightened gesture; and the wonderful Gold curls about her bosom and her ears Float in the wind; her veil waves, backward borne; This hand still clasps his back, and that his horn.
With naked feet close-tucked beneath her dress, She seems to fear the sea that dares not rise: So, imaged in a shape of drear distress, In vain unto her comrades sweet she cries; They left amid the meadow-flowers, no less For lost Europa wail with weeping eyes: Europa, sounds the shore, bring back our bliss But the bull swims and turns her feet to kiss.
Here Jove is made a swan, a golden shower, Or seems a serpent, or a shepherd-swain, To work his amorous will in secret hour; Here, like an eagle, soars he o'er the plain, Love-led, and bears his Ganymede, the flower Of beauty, mid celestial peers to reign; The boy with cypress hath his fair locks crowned, Naked, with ivy wreathed his waist around.
STANZAS 110—112.
Lo! here again fair Ariadne lies, And to the deaf winds of false Theseus plains. And of the air and slumber's treacheries; Trembling with fear even as a reed that strain. And quivers by the mere 'neath breezy skies: Her very speechless attitude complains— No beast there is so cruel as thou art, No beast less loyal to my broken heart.
342 Throned on a car, with ivy crowned and vine, Rides Bacchus, by two champing tigers driven: Around him on the sand deep-soaked with brine Satyrs and Bacchantes rush; the skies are riven With shouts and laughter; Fauns quaff bubbling wine From horns and cymbals; Nymphs, to madness driven, Trip, skip, and stumble; mixed in wild enlacements, Laughing they roll or meet for glad embracements.
Upon his ass Silenus, never sated, With thick, black veins, wherethrough the must is soaking, Nods his dull forehead with deep sleep belated; His eyes are wine-inflamed, and red, and smoking: Bold Mænads goad the ass so sorely weighted, With stinging thyrsi; he sways feebly poking The mane with bloated fingers; Fauns behind him, E'en as he falls, upon the crupper bind him.
We almost seem to be looking at the frescoes in some Trasteverine palace, or at the canvas of one of the sensual Genoese painters. The description of the garden of Venus has the charm of somewhat artificial elegance, the exotic grace of style, which attracts us in the earlier Renaissance work:—
The leafy tresses of that timeless garden Nor fragile brine nor fresh snow dares to whiten; Frore winter never comes the rills to harden, Nor winds the tender shrubs and herbs to frighten; Glad Spring is always here, a laughing warden; Nor do the seasons wane, but ever brighten; Here to the breeze young May, her curls unbinding, With thousand flowers her wreath is ever winding.
Indeed it may be said with truth that Poliziano's most eminent faculty as a descriptive poet corresponded exactly to the genius of the painters of his day. To produce pictures radiant with Renaissance colouring, and vigorous with Renaissance passion, was the function of his art, not to 343express profound thought or dramatic situations. This remark might be extended with justice to Ariosto, and Tasso, and Boiardo. The great narrative poets of the Renaissance in Italy were not dramatists; nor were their poems epics: their forte lay in the inexhaustible variety and beauty of their pictures.
Of Poliziano's plagiarism—if this be the right word to apply to the process of assimilation and selection, by means of which the poet-scholar of Florence taught the Italians how to use the riches of the ancient languages and their own literature—here are some specimens. In stanza 42 of the 'Giostra' he says of Simonetta:—
E 'n lei discerne un non so che divino.
Dante has the line:—
Vostri risplende un non so che divino.
In the 44th he speaks about the birds:—
E canta ogni augelletto in suo latino.
This comes from Cavalcanti's:—
E cantinne gli augelli. Ciascuno in suo latino.
Stanza 45 is taken bodily from Claudian, Dante, and Cavalcanti. It would seem as though Poliziano wished to show that the classic and medieval literature of Italy was all one, and that a poet of the Renaissance could carry on the continuous tradition in his own style. A, line in stanza 54 seems perfectly original:—
E già dall'alte ville il fumo esala.
It comes straight from Virgil:—
Et jam summa pocul villarum culmina fumant.
344
In the next stanza the line—
Tal che 'l ciel tutto rasserenò d'intorno,
is Petrarch's. So in the 56th, is the phrase 'il dolce andar celeste.' In stanza 57—
Par che 'l cor del petto se gli schianti,
belongs to Boccaccio. In stanza 60 the first line:—
La notte che le cose ci nasconde,
together with its rhyme, 'sotto le amate fronde,' is borrowed from the 23rd canto of the 'Paradiso.' In the second line, 'Stellato ammanto' is Claudian's 'stellantes sinus' applied to the heaven. When we reach the garden of Venus we find whole passages translated from Claudian's 'Marriage of Honorius,' and from the 'Metamorphoses' of Ovid.
Poliziano's second poem of importance, which indeed may historically be said to take precedence of 'La Giostra,' was the so-called tragedy of 'Orfeo.' The English version of this lyrical drama must be reserved for a separate study: yet it belongs to the subject of this, inasmuch as the 'Orfeo' is a classical legend treated in a form already familiar to the Italian people. Nearly all the popular kinds of poetry of which specimens have been translated in this chapter, will be found combined in its six short scenes.
345
ORFEO
The 'Orfeo' of Messer Angelo Poliziano ranks amongst the most important poems of the fifteenth century. It was composed at Mantua in the short space of two days, on the occasion of Cardinal Francesco Gonzaga's visit to his native town in 1472. But, though so hastily put together, the 'Orfeo' marks an epoch in the evolution of Italian poetry. It is the earliest example of a secular drama, containing within the compass of its brief scenes the germ of the opera, the tragedy, and the pastoral play. In form it does not greatly differ from the 'Sacre Rappresentazioni' of the fifteenth century, as those miracle plays were handled by popular poets of the earlier Renaissance. But while the traditional octave stanza is used for the main movement of the piece, Poliziano has introduced episodes of terza rima, madrigals, a carnival song, a ballata, and, above all, choral passages which have in them the future melodrama of the musical Italian stage. The lyrical treatment of the fable, its capacity for brilliant and varied scenic effects, its combination of singing with action, and the whole artistic keeping of the piece, which never passes into genuine tragedy, but stays within the limits of romantic pathos, distinguish the 'Orfeo' as a typical production of Italian genius. Thus, though little better than an improvisation, it combines the many forms of verse developed by the Tuscans at the close of the Middle Ages, and fixes the limits beyond which their dramatic poets, with a few 346exceptions, were not destined to advance. Nor was the choice of the fable without significance. Quitting the Bible stories and the Legends of Saints, which supplied the mediaeval playwright with material, Poliziano selects a classic story: and this story might pass for an allegory of Italy, whose intellectual development the scholar-poet ruled. Orpheus is the power of poetry and art, softening stubborn nature, civilising men, and prevailing over Hades for a season. He is the right hero of humanism, the genius of the Renaissance, the tutelary god of Italy, who thought she could resist the laws of fate by verse and elegant accomplishments. To press this kind of allegory is unwise; for at a certain moment it breaks in our hands. And yet in Eurydice the fancy might discover Freedom, the true spouse of poetry and art; Orfeo's last resolve too vividly depicts the vice of the Renaissance; and the Mænads are those barbarous armies destined to lay waste the plains of Italy, inebriate with wine and blood, obeying a new lord of life on whom the poet's harp exerts no charm. But a truce to this spinning of pedantic cobwebs. Let Mercury appear, and let the play begin.
THE FABLE OF ORPHEUS
MERCURY announces the show.
Ho, silence! Listen! There was once a hind, Son of Apollo, Aristaeus hight, Who loved with so untamed and fierce a mind Eurydice, the wife of Orpheus wight, That chasing her one day with will unkind He wrought her cruel death in love's despite; For, as she fled toward the mere hard by, A serpent stung her, and she had to die.
347 Now Orpheus, singing, brought her back from hell, But could not keep the law the fates ordain: Poor wretch, he backward turned and broke the spell; So that once more from him his love was ta'en. Therefore he would no more with women dwell, And in the end by women he was slain.
Enter A SHEPHERD, who says—
Nay, listen, friends! Fair auspices are given, Since Mercury to earth hath come from heaven.
Scene I
MOPSUS, an old shepherd.
Say, hast thou seen a calf of mine, all white Save for a spot of black upon her front, Two feet, one flank, and one knee ruddy-bright?
ARISTAEUS, a young shepherd.
Friend Mopsus, to the margin of this fount No herds have come to drink since break of day; Yet may'st thou hear them low on yonder mount. Go, Thyrsis, search the upland lawn, I pray! Thou Mopsus shalt with me the while abide; For I would have thee listen to my lay.
[Exit THYRSIS.
'Twas yester morn where trees yon cavern hide, I saw a nymph more fair than Dian, who Had a young lusty lover at her side: But when that more than woman met my view, The heart within my bosom leapt outright, And straight the madness of wild Love I knew. Since then, dear Mopsus, I have no delight; But weep and weep: of food and drink I tire, And without slumber pass the weary night.
MOPSUS.
348 Friend Aristaeus, if this amorous fire Thou dost not seek to quench as best may be, Thy peace of soul will vanish in desire. Thou know'st that love is no new thing to me: I've proved how love grown old brings bitter pain: Cure it at once, or hope no remedy; For if thou find thee in Love's cruel chain, Thy bees, thy blossoms will be out of mind, Thy fields, thy vines, thy flocks, thy cotes, thy grain
ARISTAEUS.
Mopsus, thou speakest to the deaf and blind: Waste not on me these wingèd words, I pray, Lest they be scattered to the inconstant wind, I love, and cannot wish to say love nay; Nor seek to cure so charming a disease: They praise Love best who most against him say. Yet if thou fain wouldst give my heart some ease, Forth from thy wallet take thy pipe, and we Will sing awhile beneath the leafy trees; For well my nymph is pleased with melody.
THE SONG.
Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.
The lovely nymph is deaf to my lament, Nor heeds the music of this rustic reed; Wherefore my flocks and herds are ill content, Nor bathe their hoof where grows the water weed, Nor touch the tender herbage on the mead; So sad, because their shepherd grieves, are they.
Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.
The herds are sorry for their master's moan; The nymph heeds not her lover though he die, 349 The lovely nymph, whose heart is made of stone— Nay steel, nay adamant! She still doth fly Far, far before me, when she sees me nigh, Even as a lamb flies fern the wolf away.
Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.
Nay, tell her, pipe of mine, how swift doth flee Beauty together with our years amain; Tell her how time destroys all rarity, Nor youth once lost can be renewed again; Tell her to use the gifts that yet remain: Roses and violets blossom not alway.
Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.
Carry, ye winds, these sweet words to her ears, Unto the ears of my loved nymph, and tell How many tears I shed, what bitter tears! Beg her to pity one who loves so well: Say that my life is frail and mutable, And melts like rime before the rising day.
Listen, ye wild woods, to my roundelay; Since the fair nymph will hear not, though I pray.
MOPSUS.
Less sweet, methinks the voice of waters falling From cliffs that echo back their murmurous song; Less sweet the summer sound of breezes calling Through pine-tree tops sonorous all day long; Than are thy rhymes, the soul of grief enthralling, Thy rhymes o'er field and forest borne along: If she but hear them, at thy feet she'll fawn.— Lo, Thyrsis, hurrying homeward from the lawn!
[Re-enters THYRSIS.
350
ARISTAEUS.
What of the calf? Say, hast thou seen her now?
THYRSIS, the cowherd.
I have, and I'd as lief her throat were cut! She almost ripped my bowels up, I vow, Running amuck with horns well set to butt: Nathless I've locked her in the stall below: She's blown with grass, I tell you, saucy slut!
ARISTAEUS.
Now, prithee, let me hear what made you stay So long upon the upland lawns away?
THYRSIS.
Walking, I spied a gentle maiden there, Who plucked wild flowers upon the mountain side: I scarcely think that Venus is more fair, Of sweeter grace, most modest in her pride: She speaks, she sings, with voice so soft and rare, That listening streams would backward roll their tide: Her face is snow and roses; gold her head; All, all alone she goes, white-raimented,
ARISTAEUS.
Stay, Mopsus! I must follow: for 'tis she Of whom I lately spoke. So, friend, farewell!
MOPSUS.
Hold, Aristaeus, lest for her or thee Thy boldness be the cause of mischief fell!
ARISTAEUS.
Nay, death this day must be my destiny, Unless I try my fate and break the spell. Stay therefore, Mopsus, by the fountain stay! I'll follow her, meanwhile, yon mountain way.
[Exit ARISTAEUS.
351
MOPSUS.
Thyrsis, what thinkest thou of thy loved lord? See'st thou that all his senses are distraught? Couldst thou not speak some seasonable word, Tell him what shame this idle love hath wrought?
THYRSIS.
Free speech and servitude but ill accord, Friend Mopsus, and the hind is folly-fraught Who rates his lord! He's wiser far than I. To tend these kine is all my mastery.
Scene II
ARISTAEUS, in pursuit of EURYDICE.
Flee not from me, maiden! Lo, I am thy friend! Dearer far than life I hold thee. List, thou beauty-laden, To these prayers attend: Flee not, let my arms enfold thee! Neither wolf nor bear will grasp thee: That I am thy friend I've told thee: Stay thy course then; let me clasp thee!— Since thou'rt deaf and wilt not heed me, Since thou'rt still before me flying, While I follow panting, dying, Lend me wings, Love, wings to speed me!
[Exit ARISTAEUS, pursuing EURYDICE.
Scene III
A DRYAD.
Sad news of lamentation and of pain, Dear sisters, hath my voice to bear to you: I scarcely dare to raise the dolorous strain. 352 Eurydice by yonder stream lies low; The flowers are fading round her stricken head, And the complaining waters weep their woe. The stranger soul from that fair house hath fled; And she, like privet pale, or white May-bloom Untimely plucked, lies on the meadow, dead. Hear then the cause of her disastrous doom! A snake stole forth and stung her suddenly. I am so burdened with this weight of gloom That, lo, I bid you all come weep with me!
CHORUS OF DRYADS.
Let the wide air with our complaint resound! For all heaven's light is spent. Let rivers break their bound, Swollen with tears outpoured from our lament!
Fell death hath ta'en their splendour from the skies: The stars are sunk in gloom. Stern death hath plucked the bloom Of nymphs:—Eurydice down-trodden lies. Weep, Love! The woodland cries. Weep, groves and founts; Ye craggy mounts; you leafy dell, Beneath whose boughs she fell, Bend every branch in time with this sad sound.
Let the wide air with our complaint resound!
Ah, fortune pitiless! Ah, cruel snake! Ah, luckless doom of woes! Like a cropped summer rose, Or lily cut, she withers on the brake. Her face, which once did make Our age so bright With beauty's light, is faint and pale; And the clear lamp doth fail, Which shed pure splendour all the world around
Let the wide air with our complaint resound!
353 Who e'er will sing so sweetly, now she's gone? Her gentle voice to hear, The wild winds dared not stir; And now they breathe but sorrow, moan for moan: So many joys are flown, Such jocund days Doth Death erase with her sweet eyes! Bid earth's lament arise, And make our dirge through heaven and sea rebound!
Let the wide air with our complaint resound!
A DRYAD.
'Tis surely Orpheus, who hath reached the hill, With harp in hand, glad-eyed and light of heart! He thinks that his dear love is living still. My news will stab him with a sudden smart: An unforeseen and unexpected blow Wounds worst and stings the bosom's tenderest part. Death hath disjoined the truest love, I know, That nature yet to this low world revealed, And quenched the flame in its most charming glow. Go, sisters, hasten ye to yonder field, Where on the sward lies slain Eurydice; Strew her with flowers and grasses! I must yield This man the measure of his misery.
[Exeunt DRYADS. Enter ORPHEUS, singing.
ORPHEUS.
Musa, triumphales titulos et gesta canamus Herculis, et forti monstra subacta manu; Ut timidae malri pressos ostenderit angues, Intrepidusque fero riserit ore puer.
A DRYAD.
Orpheus, I bring thee bitter news. Alas! Thy nymph who was so beautiful, is slain! flying from Aristaeus o'er the grass, What time she reached yon stream that threads the plain,
354 A snake which lurked mid flowers where she did pass, Pierced her fair foot with his envenomed bane: So fierce, so potent was the sting, that she Died in mid course. Ah, woe that this should be!
[ORPHEUS turns to go in silence.
MNESILLUS, the satyr.
Mark ye how sunk in woe The poor wretch forth doth pass, And may not answer, for his grief, one word? On some lone shore, unheard, Far, far away, he'll go, And pour his heart forth to the winds, alas! I'll follow and observe if he Moves with his moan the hills to sympathy.
[Follows ORPHEUS.
ORPHEUS.
Let us lament, O lyre disconsolate! Our wonted music is in tune no more. Lament we while the heavens revolve, and let The nightingale be conquered on Love's shore! O heaven, O earth, O sea, O cruel fate! How shall I bear a pang so passing sore? Eurydice, my love! O life of mine! On earth I will no more without thee pine! I will go down unto the doors of Hell, And see if mercy may be found below: Perchance we shall reverse fate's spoken spell With tearful songs and words of honeyed woe: Perchance will Death be pitiful; for well With singing have we turned the streams that flow; Moved stones, together hind and tiger drawn, And made trees dance upon the forest lawn.
[Passes from sight on his way to Hades.
MNESILLUS.
The staff of Fate is strong And will not lightly bend, Nor yet the stubborn gates of steely Hell. Nay, I can see full well 355 His life will not be long: Those downward feet no more will earthward wend. What marvel if they lose the light, Who make blind Love their guide by day and night!
Scene IV
ORPHEUS, at the gate of Hell.
Pity, nay pity for a lover's moan! Ye Powers of Hell, let pity reign in you! To your dark regions led me Love alone: Downward upon his wings of light I flew. Hush, Cerberus! Howl not by Pluto's throne! For when you hear my tale of misery, you, Nor you alone, but all who here abide In this blind world, will weep by Lethe's tide. There is no need, ye Furies, thus to rage; To dart those snakes that in your tresses twine: Knew ye the cause of this my pilgrimage, Ye would lie down and join your moans with mine. Let this poor wretch but pass, who war doth wage With heaven, the elements, the powers divine! I beg for pity or for death. No more! But open, ope Hell's adamantine door!
[ORPHEUS enters Hell.
PLUTO.
What man is he who with his golden lyre Hath moved the gates that never move, While the dead folk repeat his dirge of love? The rolling stone no more doth tire Swart Sisyphus on yonder hill; And Tantalus with water slakes his fire; The groans of mangled Tityos are still; Ixion's wheel forgets to fly; The Danaids their urns can fill: I hear no more the tortured spirits cry; But all find rest in that sweet harmony.
356
PROSERPINE.
Dear consort, since, compelled by love of thee, I left the light of heaven serene, And came to reign in hell, a sombre queen; The charm of tenderest sympathy Hath never yet had power to turn My stubborn heart, or draw forth tears from me. Now with desire for yon sweet voice I yearn; Nor is there aught so dear As that delight. Nay, be not stern To this one prayer! Relax thy brows severe, And rest awhile with me that song to hear!
[ORPHEUS stands before the throne.
ORPHEUS.
Ye rulers of the people lost in gloom, Who see no more the jocund light of day! Ye who inherit all things that the womb Of Nature and the elements display! Hear ye the grief that draws me to the tomb! Love, cruel Love, hath led me on this way: Not to chain Cerberus I hither come, But to bring back my mistress to her home. A serpent hidden among flowers and leaves Stole my fair mistress—nay, my heart—from me: Wherefore my wounded life for ever grieves, Nor can I stand against this agony. Still, if some fragrance lingers yet and cleaves Of your famed love unto your memory, If of that ancient rape you think at all, Give back Eurydice!—On you I call. All things ere long unto this bourne descend: All mortal lives to you return at last: Whate'er the moon hath circled, in the end Must fade and perish in your empire vast: Some sooner and some later hither wend; Yet all upon this pathway shall have passed: This of our footsteps is the final goal; And then we dwell for aye in your control. 357 Therefore the nymph I love is left for you When nature leads her deathward in due time: But now you've cropped the tendrils as they grew, The grapes unripe, while yet the sap did climb: Who reaps the young blades wet with April dew, Nor waits till summer hath o'erpassed her prime? Give back, give back my hope one little day!— Not for a gift, but for a loan I pray. I pray not to you by the waves forlorn Of marshy Styx or dismal Acheron, By Chaos where the mighty world was born, Or by the sounding flames of Phlegethon; But by the fruit which charmed thee on that morn When thou didst leave our world for this dread throne! O queen! if thou reject this pleading breath, I will no more return, but ask for death!
PROSERPINE.
Husband, I never guessed That in our realm oppressed Pity could find a home to dwell: But now I know that mercy teems in Hell. I see Death weep; her breast Is shaken by those tears that faultless fell. Let then thy laws severe for him be swayed By love, by song, by the just prayers he prayed!
PLUTO.
She's thine, but at this price: Bend not on her thine eyes, Till mid the souls that live she stay. See that thou turn not back upon the way! Check all fond thoughts that rise! Else will thy love be torn from thee away. I am well pleased that song so rare as thine The might of my dread sceptre should incline.
358
Scene V
ORPHEUS, sings.
Ite tritumphales circum mea tempora lauri. Vicimus Eurydicen: reddita vita mihi est, Haec mea praecipue victoria digna coronâ. Oredimus? an lateri juncta puella meo?
EURYDICE.
All me! Thy love too great Hath lost not thee alone! I am torn from thee by strong Fate. No more I am thine own. In vain I stretch these arms. Back, back to Hell I'm drawn, I'm drawn. My Orpheus, fare thee well!
[EURYDICE disappears.
ORPHEUS.
Who hath laid laws on Love? Will pity not be given For one short look so full thereof? Since I am robbed of heaven, Since all my joy so great is turned to pain, I will go back and plead with Death again!
[TISIPHONE blocks his way.
TISIPHONE.
Nay, seek not back to turn! Vain is thy weeping, all thy words are vain. Eurydice may not complain Of aught but thee—albeit her grief is great. Vain are thy verses 'gainst the voice of Fate! How vain thy song! For Death is stern! Try not the backward path: thy feet refrain! The laws of the abyss are fixed and firm remain.
359
Scene VI
ORPHEUS.
What sorrow-laden song shall e'er be found To match the burden of my matchless woe? How shall I make the fount of tears abound, To weep apace with grief's unmeasured flow? Salt tears I'll waste upon the barren ground, So long as life delays me here below; And since my fate hath wrought me wrong so sore, I swear I'll never love a woman more! Henceforth I'll pluck the buds of opening spring, The bloom of youth when life is loveliest, Ere years have spoiled the beauty which they bring: This love, I swear, is sweetest, softest, best! Of female charms let no one speak or sing; Since she is slain who ruled within my breast. He who would seek my converse, let him see That ne'er he talk of woman's love to me! How pitiful is he who changes mind For woman! for her love laments or grieves! Who suffers her in chains his will to bind, Or trusts her words lighter than withered leaves, Her loving looks more treacherous than the wind! A thousand times she veers; to nothing cleaves: Follows who flies; from him who follows, flees; And comes and goes like waves on stormy seas! High Jove confirms the truth of what I said, Who, caught and bound in love's delightful snare, Enjoys in heaven his own bright Ganymed: Phoebus on earth had Hyacinth the fair: Hercules, conqueror of the world, was led Captive to Hylas by this love so rare.— Advice for husbands! Seek divorce, and fly Far, far away from female company!
[Enter a MAENAD leading a train of BACCHANTES.
A MAENAD.
Ho! Sisters! Up! Alive! See him who doth our sex deride! 360 Hunt him to death, the slave! Thou snatch the thyrsus! Thou this oak-tree rive! Cast down this doeskin and that hide! We'll wreak our fury on the knave! Yea, he shall feel our wrath, the knave! He shall yield up his hide Riven as woodmen fir-trees rive! No power his life can save; Since women he hath dared deride! Ho! To him, sisters! Ho! Alive!
[ORPHEUS is chased off the scene and slain: the MAENADS then return.
A MAENAD.
Ho! Bacchus! Ho! I yield thee thanks for this! Through all the woodland we the wretch have borne: So that each root is slaked with blood of his: Yea, limb from limb his body have we torn Through the wild forest with a fearful bliss: His gore hath bathed the earth by ash and thorn!— Go then! thy blame on lawful wedlock fling! Ho! Bacchus! take the victim that we bring!
CHORUS OF MAENADS.
Bacchus! we all must follow thee! Bacchus! Bacchus! Ohé! Ohé!
With ivy coronals, bunch and berry, Crown we our heads to worship thee! Thou hast bidden us to make merry Day and night with jollity! Drink then! Bacchus is here! Drink free, And hand ye the drinking-cup to me! Bacchus! we all must follow thee! Bacchus! Bacchus! Ohé! Ohé!
See, I have emptied my horn already: Stretch hither your beaker to me, I pray: Are the hills and the lawns where we roam unsteady? Or is it my brain that reels away? 361 Let every one run to and fro through the hay, As ye see me run! Ho! after me! Bacchus! we all must follow thee! Bacchus! Bacchus! Ohé! Ohé!
Methinks I am dropping in swoon or slumber: Am I drunken or sober, yes or no? What are these weights my feet encumber? You too are tipsy, well I know! Let every one do as ye see me do, Let every one drink and quaff like me! Bacchus! we all must follow thee! Bacchus! Bacchus! Ohé! Ohé!
Cry Bacchus! Cry Bacchus! Be blithe and merry, Tossing wine down your throats away! Let sleep then come and our gladness bury: Drink you, and you, and you, while ye may! Dancing is over for me to-day. Let every one cry aloud Evohé! Bacchus! we all must follow thee! Bacchus! Bacchus! Ohé! Ohé!
Though an English translation can do little toward rendering the facile graces of Poliziano's style, that 'roseate fluency' for which it has been praised by his Italian admirers, the main qualities of the 'Orfeo' as a composition may be traced in this rough copy. Of dramatic power, of that mastery over the deeper springs of human nature which distinguished the first effort of the English muse in Marlowe's plays, there is but little. A certain adaptation of the language to the characters, as in the rudeness of Thyrsis when contrasted with the rustic elegance of Aristæus, a touch of simple feeling in Eurydice's lyrical outcry of farewell, a discrimination between the tender sympathy of Proserpine and Pluto's stern relenting, a spirited presentation of the Bacchanalian furore in the Mænads, an attempt to model the Satyr Mnesillus as apart from human nature and yet 362sympathetic to its anguish, these points constitute the chief dramatic features of the melodrama. Orpheus himself is a purely lyrical personage. Of character, he can scarcely be said to have anything marked; and his part rises to its height precisely in that passage where the lyrist has to be displayed. Before the gates of Hades and the throne of Proserpine he sings, and his singing is the right outpouring of a poet's soul; each octave resumes the theme of the last stanza with a swell of utterance, a crescendo of intonation that recalls the passionate and unpremeditated descant of a bird upon the boughs alone. To this true quality of music is added the persuasiveness of pleading. That the violin melody of his incomparable song is lost, must be reckoned a great misfortune. We have good reason to believe that the part of Orpheus was taken by Messer Baccio Ugolini, singing to the viol. Here too it may be mentioned that a tondo in monochrome, painted by Signorelli among the arabesques at Orvieto, shows Orpheus at the throne of Plato, habited as a poet with the laurel crown and playing on a violin of antique form. It would be interesting to know whether a rumour of the Mantuan pageant had reached the ears of the Cortonese painter.
If the whole of the 'Orfeo' had been conceived and executed with the same artistic feeling as the chief act, it would have been a really fine poem independently of its historical interest. But we have only to turn the page and read the lament uttered for the loss of Eurydice, in order to perceive Poliziano's incapacity for dealing with his hero in a situation of greater difficulty. The pathos which might have made us sympathise with Orpheus in his misery, the passion, approaching to madness, which might have justified his misogyny, are absent. It is difficult not to feel that in this climax of his anguish he was a poor creature, and that 363the Mænads served him right. Nothing illustrates the defect of real dramatic imagination better than this failure to dignify the catastrophe. Gifted with a fine lyrical inspiration, Poliziano seems to have already felt the Bacchic chorus which forms so brilliant a termination to his play, and to have forgotten his duty to the unfortunate Orpheus, whose sorrow for Eurydice is stultified and made unmeaning by the prosaic expression of a base resolve. It may indeed be said in general that the 'Orfeo' is a good poem only where the situation is not so much dramatic as lyrical, and that its finest passage—the scene in Hades—was fortunately for its author one in which the dramatic motive had to be lyrically expressed. In this respect, as in many others, the 'Orfeo' combines the faults and merits of the Italian attempts at melo-tragedy. To break a butterfly upon the wheel is, however, no fit function of criticism: and probably no one would have smiled more than the author of this improvisation, at the thought of its being gravely dissected just four hundred years after the occasion it was meant to serve had long been given over to oblivion.
NOTE
Poliziano's 'Orfeo' was dedicated to Messer Carlo Canale, the husband of that famous Vannozza who bore Lucrezia and Cesare Borgia to Alexander VI. As first published in 1494, and as republished from time to time up to the year 1776, it carried the title of 'La Favola di Orfeo,' and was not divided into acts. Frequent stage-directions sufficed, as in the case of Florentine 'Sacre Rappresentazioni,' for the indication of the scenes. In this earliest redaction of the 'Orfeo' the chorus of the Dryads, the part of Mnesillus, the lyrical speeches of Proserpine and Pluto, and the first lyric of the Mænads are either omitted or represented by passages in ottava rima. In the year 1776 the Padre Ireneo Affò 364printed at Venice a new version of 'Orfeo, Tragedia di Messer Angelo Poliziano,' collated by him from two MSS. This play is divided into five acts, severally entitled 'Pastoricus,' 'Nymphas Habet,' 'Heroïcus,' 'Necromanticus,' and 'Bacchanalis.' The stage-directions are given partly in Latin, partly in Italian; and instead of the 'Announcement of the Feast' by Mercury, a prologue consisting of two octave stanzas is appended. A Latin Sapphic ode in praise of the Cardinal Gonzaga, which was interpolated in the first version, is omitted, and certain changes are made in the last soliloquy of Orpheus. There is little doubt, I think, that the second version, first given to the press by the Padre Affò, was Poliziano's own recension of his earlier composition. I have therefore followed it in the main, except that I have not thought it necessary to observe the somewhat pedantic division into acts, and have preferred to use the original 'Announcement of the Feast,' which proves the integral connection between this ancient secular play and the Florentine Mystery or 'Sacra Rappresentazione.' The last soliloquy of Orpheus, again, has been freely translated by me from both versions for reasons which will be obvious to students of the original. I have yet to make a remark upon one detail of my translation. In line 390 (part of the first lyric of the Mænads) the Italian gives us:—
Spezzata come il fabbro il cribro spezza.
This means literally: 'Riven as a blacksmith rives a sieve or boulter.' Now sieves are made in Tuscany of a plate of iron, pierced with holes; and the image would therefore be familiar to an Italian. I have, however, preferred to translate thus:—
Riven as woodmen fir-trees rive,
instead of giving:—
Riven as blacksmiths boulters rive,
because I thought that the second and faithful version would be unintelligible as well as unpoetical for English readers.
365
EIGHT SONNETS OF PETRARCH
ON THE PAPAL COURT AT AVIGNON
Fountain of woe! Harbour of endless ire! Thou school of errors, haunt of heresies! Once Rome, now Babylon, the world's disease, That maddenest men with fears and fell desire! O forge of fraud! O prison dark and dire, Where dies the good, where evil breeds increase! Thou living Hell! Wonders will never cease If Christ rise not to purge thy sins with fire. Founded in chaste and humble poverty, Against thy founders thou dost raise thy horn, Thou shameless harlot! And whence flows this pride? Even from foul and loathed adultery, The wage of lewdness. Constantine, return! Not so: the felon world its fate must bide.
TO STEFANO COLONNA WRITTEN FROM VAUCLUSE
Glorius Colonna, thou on whose high head Rest all our hopes and the great Latin name, Whom from the narrow path of truth and fame The wrath of Jove turned not with stormful dread: Here are no palace-courts, no stage to tread; But pines and oaks the shadowy valleys fill Between the green fields and the neighbouring hill, Where musing oft I climb by fancy led. These lift from earth to heaven our soaring soul, While the sweet nightingale, that in thick bowers Through darkness pours her wail of tuneful woe, Doth bend our charmed breast to love's control; But thou alone hast marred this bliss of ours, Since from our side, dear lord, thou needs must go.
366
IN VITA DI MADONNA LAURA. XI ON LEAVING AVIGNON
Backward at every weary step and slow These limbs I turn which with great pain I bear; Then take I comfort from the fragrant air That breathes from thee, and sighing onward go. But when I think how joy is turned to woe, Remembering my short life and whence I fare, I stay my feet for anguish and despair, And cast my tearful eyes on earth below. At times amid the storm of misery This doubt assails me: how frail limbs and poor Can severed from their spirit hope to live. Then answers Love: Hast thou no memory How I to lovers this great guerdon give, Free from all human bondage to endure?
IN VITA DI MADONNA LAURA. XII THOUGHTS IN ABSENCE
The wrinkled sire with hair like winter snow Leaves the beloved spot where he hath passed his years, Leaves wife and children, dumb with bitter tears, To see their father's tottering steps and slow. Dragging his aged limbs with weary woe, In these last days of life he nothing fears, But with stout heart his fainting spirit cheers, And spent and wayworn forward still doth go; Then comes to Rome, following his heart's desire, To gaze upon the portraiture of Him Whom yet he hopes in heaven above to see: Thus I, alas! my seeking spirit tire, Lady, to find in other features dim The longed for, loved, true lineaments of thee.
367
IN VITA DI MADONNA LAURA. LII OH THAT I HAD WINGS LIKE A DOVE!
I am so tired beneath the ancient load Of my misdeeds and custom's tyranny, That much I fear to fail upon the road And yield my soul unto mine enemy. 'Tis true a friend from whom all splendour flowed, To save me came with matchless courtesy: Then flew far up from sight to heaven's abode, So that I strive in vain his face to see. Yet still his voice reverberates here below: Oh ye who labour, lo! the path is here; Come unto me if none your going stay! What grace, what love, what fate surpassing fear Shall give me wings like dove's wings soft as snow, That I may rest and raise me from the clay?
IN MORTE DI MADONNA LAURA. XXIV
The eyes whereof I sang my fervid song, The arms, the hands, the feet, the face benign, Which severed me from what was rightly mine, And made me sole and strange amid the throng, The crispèd curls of pure gold beautiful, And those angelic smiles which once did shine Imparadising earth with joy divine, Are now a little dust—dumb, deaf, and dull. And yet I live! wherefore I weep and wail, Left alone without the light I loved so long, Storm-tossed upon a bark that hath no sail. Then let me here give o'er my amorous song; The fountains of old inspiration fail, And nought but woe my dolorous chords prolong.
368
IN MORTE DI MADONNA LAURA. XXXIV
In thought I raised me to the place where she Whom still on earth I seek and find not, shines; There 'mid the souls whom the third sphere confines, More fair I found her and less proud to me. She took my hand and said: Here shalt thou be With me ensphered, unless desires mislead; Lo! I am she who made thy bosom bleed, Whose day ere eve was ended utterly: My bliss no mortal heart can understand; Thee only do I lack, and that which thou So loved, now left on earth, my beauteous veil. Ah! wherefore did she cease and loose my hand? For at the sound of that celestial tale I all but stayed in paradise till now.
IN MORTE DI MADONNA LAURA. LXXIV
The flower of angels and the spirits blest, Burghers of heaven, on that first day when she Who is my lady died, around her pressed Fulfilled with wonder and with piety. What light is this? What beauty manifest? Marvelling they cried: for such supremacy Of splendour in this age to our high rest Hath never soared from earth's obscurity. She, glad to have exchanged her spirit's place, Consorts with those whose virtues most exceed; At times the while she backward turns her face To see me follow—seems to wait and plead: Therefore toward heaven my will and soul I raise, Because I hear her praying me to speed.
VOLUME III
FOLGORE DA SAN GEMIGNANO
Students of Mr. Dante Gabriel Rossetti's translations from the early Italian poets (Dante and his Circle. Ellis & White, 1874) will not fail to have noticed the striking figure made among those jejune imitators of Provençal mannerism by two rhymesters, Cecco Angiolieri and Folgore da San Gemignano. Both belong to the school of Siena, and both detach themselves from the metaphysical fashion of their epoch by clearness of intention and directness of style. The sonnets of both are remarkable for what in the critical jargon of to-day might be termed realism. Cecco is even savage and brutal. He anticipates Villon from afar, and is happily described by Mr. Rossetti as the prodigal, or 'scamp' of the Dantesque circle. The case is different with Folgore. There is no poet who breathes a fresher air of gentleness. He writes in images, dealing but little with ideas. Every line presents a picture, and each picture has the charm of a miniature fancifully drawn and brightly coloured on a missal-margin. Cecco and Folgore alike have abandoned the 2 mediæval mysticism which sounds unreal on almost all Italian lips but Dante's. True Italians, they are content to live for life's sake, and to take the world as it presents itself to natural senses. But Cecco is perverse and impious. His love has nothing delicate; his hatred is a morbid passion. At his worst or best (for his best writing is his worst feeling) we find him all but rabid. If Caligula, for instance, had written poetry, he might have piqued himself upon the following sonnet; only we must do Cecco the justice of remembering that his rage is more than half ironical and humorous:—
An I were fire, I would burn up the world; An I were wind, with tempest I'd it break; An I were sea, I'd drown it in a lake; An I were God, to hell I'd have it hurled; An I were Pope, I'd see disaster whirled O'er Christendom, deep joy thereof to take; An I were Emperor, I'd quickly make All heads of all folk from their necks be twirled; An I were death, I'd to my father go; An I were life, forthwith from him I'd fly; And with my mother I'd deal even so; An I were Cecco, as I am but I, Young girls and pretty for myself I'd hold, But let my neighbours take the plain and old.
Of all this there is no trace in Folgore. The worst a moralist could say of him is that he sought out for himself a life of pure enjoyment. The famous Sonnets on the Months give particular directions for pastime in a round of pleasure suited to each season. The Sonnets on the Days are conceived in a like hedonistic spirit. But these series are specially addressed to members of the Glad Brigades and Spending Companies, which were common in the great mercantile cities of mediæval Italy. Their tone is doubtless due to the occasion of their composition, as compliments to Messer Nicholò di Nisi and Messer Guerra Cavicciuoli.
3 The mention of these names reminds me that a word need be said about the date of Folgore. Mr. Rossetti does not dispute the commonly assigned date of 1260, and takes for granted that the Messer Nicolò of the Sonnets on the Months was the Sienese gentleman referred to by Dante in a certain passage of the 'Inferno':[48]—
And to the Poet said I: 'Now was ever So vain a people as the Sienese? Not for a certainty the French by far.' Whereat the other leper, who had heard me, Replied unto my speech: 'Taking out Stricca, Who knew the art of moderate expenses, And Nicolò, who the luxurious use Of cloves discovered earliest of all Within that garden where such seed takes root. And taking out the band, among whom squandered Caccia d' Ascian his vineyards and vast woods, And where his wit the Abbagliato proffered.'
Now Folgore refers in his political sonnets to events of the years 1314 and 1315; and the correct reading of a line in his last sonnet on the Months gives the name of Nicholò di Nisi to the leader of Folgore's 'blithe and lordly Fellowship.' The first of these facts leads us to the conclusion that Folgore flourished in the first quarter of the fourteenth, instead of in the third quarter of the thirteenth century. The second prevents our identifying Nicholò di Nisi with the Niccolò de' Salimbeni, who is thought to have been the founder of the Fellowship of the Carnation. Furthermore, documents have recently been brought to light which mention at San Gemignano, in the years 1305 and 1306, a certain Folgore. There is no sufficient reason to identify this Folgore with the poet; but the name, to say the least, is so peculiar that its occurrence in the records of so small a town as San Gemignano gives some confirmation to the hypothesis of the 4 poet's later date. Taking these several considerations together, I think we must abandon the old view that Folgore was one of the earliest Tuscan poets, a view which is, moreover, contradicted by his style. Those critics, at any rate, who still believe him to have been a predecessor of Dante's, are forced to reject as spurious the political sonnets referring to Monte Catini and the plunder of Lucca by Uguccione della Faggiuola. Yet these sonnets rest on the same manuscript authority as the Months and Days, and are distinguished by the same qualities.[49]
[48] Inferno, xxix. 121.—Longfellow.
[49] The above points are fully discussed by Signor Giulio Navone, in his recent edition of Le Rime di Folgore da San Gemignano e di Cene da la Chitarra d' Arezzo. Bologna: Romagnoli, 1880. I may further mention that in the sonnet on the Pisans, translated on p. 18, which belongs to the political series, Folgore uses his own name.
Whatever may be the date of Folgore, whether we assign his period to the middle of the thirteenth or the beginning of the fourteenth century, there is no doubt but that he presents us with a very lively picture of Italian manners, drawn from the point of view of the high bourgeoisie. It is on this account that I have thought it worth while to translate five of his Sonnets on Knighthood, which form the fragment that remains to us from a series of seventeen. Few poems better illustrate the temper of Italian aristocracy when the civil wars of two centuries had forced the nobles to enroll themselves among the burghers, and when what little chivalry had taken root in Italy was fast decaying in a gorgeous over-bloom of luxury. The institutions of feudal knighthood had lost their sterner meaning for our poet. He uses them for the suggestion of delicate allegories fancifully painted. Their mysterious significance is turned to gaiety, their piety to amorous delight, their grimness to refined enjoyment. Still these changes are effected with perfect good taste and in perfect good faith. Something of the perfume of true 5 chivalry still lingered in a society which was fast becoming mercantile and diplomatic. And this perfume is exhaled by the petals of Folgore's song-blossom. He has no conception that to readers of Mort Arthur, or to Founders of the Garter, to Sir Miles Stapleton, Sir Richard Fitz-Simon, or Sir James Audley, his ideal knight would have seemed but little better than a scented civet-cat. Such knights as his were all that Italy possessed, and the poet-painter was justly proud of them, since they served for finished pictures of the beautiful in life.
The Italians were not a feudal race. During the successive reigns of Lombard, Frankish, and German masters, they had passively accepted, stubbornly resisted feudalism, remaining true to the conviction that they themselves were Roman. In Roman memories they sought the traditions which give consistency to national consciousness. And when the Italian communes triumphed finally over Empire, counts, bishops, and rural aristocracy; then Roman law was speedily substituted for the 'asinine code' of the barbarians, and Roman civility gave its tone to social customs in the place of Teutonic chivalry. Yet just as the Italians borrowed, modified, and misconceived Gothic architecture, so they took a feudal tincture from the nations of the North with whom they came in contact. Their noble families, those especially who followed the Imperial party, sought the honour of knighthood; and even the free cities arrogated to themselves the right of conferring this distinction by diploma on their burghers. The chivalry thus formed in Italy was a decorative institution. It might be compared to the ornamental frontispiece which masks the structural poverty of such Gothic buildings as the Cathedral of Orvieto.
On the descent of the German Emperor into Lombardy, the great vassals who acknowledged him, made knighthood, 6 among titles of more solid import, the price of their allegiance.[50] Thus the chronicle of the Cortusi for the year 1354 tells us that when Charles IV. 'was advancing through the March, and had crossed the Oglio, and was at the borders of Cremona, in his camp upon the snow, he, sitting upon his horse, did knight the doughty and noble man, Francesco da Carrara, who had constantly attended him with a great train, and smiting him upon the neck with his palm, said: "Be thou a good knight, and loyal to the Empire." Thereupon the noble German peers dismounted, and forthwith buckled on Francesco's spurs. To them the Lord Francesco gave chargers and horses of the best he had.' Immediately afterwards Francesco dubbed several of his own retainers knights. And this was the customary fashion of these Lombard lords. For we read how in the year 1328 Can Grande della Scala, after the capture of Padua, 'returned to Verona, and for the further celebration of his victory upon the last day of October held a court, and made thirty-eight knights with his own hand of the divers districts of Lombardy.' And in 1294 Azzo d'Este 'was knighted by Gerardo da Camino, who then was Lord of Treviso, upon the piazza of Ferrara, before the gate of the Bishop's palace. And on the same day at the same hour the said Lord Marquis Azzo made fifty-two knights with his own hand, namely, the Lord Francesco, his brother, and others of Ferrara, Modena, Bologna, Florence, Padua, and Lombardy; and on this occasion was a great court held in Ferrara.' Another chronicle, referring to the same event, says that the whole expenses of the ceremony, including the rich dresses of the new knights, were at the charge of the Marquis. It was customary, when a noble house had risen to great wealth and 7 had abundance of fighting men, to increase its prestige and spread abroad its glory by a wholesale creation of knights. Thus the Chronicle of Rimini records a high court held by Pandolfo Malatesta in the May of 1324, when he and his two sons, with two of his near relatives and certain strangers from Florence, Bologna, and Perugia, received this honour. At Siena, in like manner, in the year 1284, 'thirteen of the house of Salimbeni were knighted with great pomp.'
[50] The passages used in the text are chiefly drawn from Muratori's fifty-third Dissertation.
It was not on the battlefield that the Italians sought this honour. They regarded knighthood as a part of their signorial parade. Therefore Republics, in whom perhaps, according to strict feudal notions, there was no fount of honour, presumed to appoint procurators for the special purpose of making knights. Florence, Siena, and Arezzo, after this fashion gave the golden spurs to men who were enrolled in the arts of trade or commerce. The usage was severely criticised by Germans who visited Italy in the Imperial train. Otto Frisingensis, writing the deeds of Frederick Barbarossa, speaks with bitterness thereof: 'To the end that they may not lack means of subduing their neighbours, they think it no shame to gird as knights young men of low birth, or even handicraftsmen in despised mechanic arts, the which folk other nations banish like the plague from honourable and liberal pursuits.' Such knights, amid the chivalry of Europe, were not held in much esteem; nor is it easy to see what the cities, which had formally excluded nobles from their government, thought to gain by aping institutions which had their true value only in a feudal society. We must suppose that the Italians were not firmly set enough in their own type to resist an enthusiasm which inflamed all Christendom. At the same time they were too Italian to comprehend the spirit of the thing they borrowed. The knights thus made already contained within themselves the germ of those Condottieri 8who reduced the service of arms to a commercial speculation. But they lent splendour to the Commonwealth, as may be seen in the grave line of mounted warriors, steel-clad, with open visors, who guard the commune of Siena in Ambrogio Lorenzetti's fresco. Giovanni Villani, in a passage of his Chronicle which deals with the fair state of Florence just before the outbreak of the Black and White parties, says the city at that epoch numbered 'three hundred Cavalieri di Corredo, with many clubs of knights and squires, who morning and evening went to meat with many men of the court, and gave away on high festivals many robes of vair.' It is clear that these citizen knights were leaders of society, and did their duty to the commonwealth by adding to its joyous cheer. Upon the battlefields of the civil wars, moreover, they sustained at their expense the charges of the cavalry.
Siena was a city much given to parade and devoted to the Imperial cause, in which the institution of chivalry flourished. Not only did the burghers take knighthood from their procurators, but the more influential sought it by a special dispensation from the Emperor. Thus we hear how Nino Tolomei obtained a Cæsarean diploma of knighthood for his son Giovanni, and published it with great pomp to the people in his palace. This Giovanni, when he afterwards entered religion, took the name of Bernard, and founded the Order of Monte Oliveto.
Owing to the special conditions of Italian chivalry, it followed that the new knight, having won his spurs by no feat of arms upon the battlefield, was bounden to display peculiar magnificence in the ceremonies of his investiture. His honour was held to be less the reward of courage than of liberality. And this feeling is strongly expressed in a curious passage of Matteo Villani's Chronicle. 'When the Emperor Charles had received the crown in Rome, as we have said, he 9turned towards Siena, and on the 19th day of April arrived at that city; and before he entered the same, there met him people of the commonwealth with great festivity upon the hour of vespers; in the which reception eight burghers, given to display but miserly, to the end they might avoid the charges due to knighthood, did cause themselves then and there to be made knights by him. And no sooner had he passed the gates than many ran to meet him without order in their going or provision for the ceremony, and he, being aware of the vain and light impulse of that folk, enjoined upon the Patriarch to knight them in his name. The Patriarch could not withstay from knighting as many as offered themselves; and seeing the thing so cheap, very many took the honour, who before that hour had never thought of being knighted, nor had made provision of what is required from him who seeketh knighthood, but with light impulse did cause themselves to be borne upon the arms of those who were around the Patriarch; and when they were in the path before him, these raised such an one on high, and took his customary cap off, and after he had had the cheek-blow which is used in knighting, put a gold-fringed cap upon his head, and drew him from the press, and so he was a knight. And after this wise were made four-and-thirty on that evening, of the noble and lesser folk. And when the Emperor had been attended to his lodging, night fell, and all returned home; and the new knights without preparation or expense celebrated their reception into chivalry with their families forthwith. He who reflects with a mind not subject to base avarice upon the coming of a new-crowned Emperor into so famous a city, and bethinks him how so many noble and rich burghers were promoted to the honour of knighthood in their native land, men too by nature fond of pomp, without having made any solemn festival in common or in private to the fame of chivalry, 10may judge this people little worthy of the distinction they received.'
This passage is interesting partly as an instance of Florentine spite against Siena, partly as showing that in Italy great munificence was expected from the carpet-knights who had not won their spurs with toil, and partly as proving how the German Emperors, on their parade expeditions through Italy, debased the institutions they were bound to hold in respect. Enfeebled by the extirpation of the last great German house which really reigned in Italy, the Empire was now no better than a cause of corruption and demoralisation to Italian society. The conduct of a man like Charles disgusted even the most fervent Ghibellines; and we find Fazio degli Uberti flinging scorn upon his avarice and baseness in such lines as these:—
Sappi ch' i' son Italia che ti parlo, Di Lusimburgo ignominioso Carlo ... Veggendo te aver tese tue arti A tór danari e gir con essi a casa ... Tu dunque, Giove, perche 'l Santo uccello Da questo Carlo quarto Imperador non togli e dalle mani Degli altri, lurchi moderni Germani Che d' aquila un allocco n' hanno fatto?
From a passage in a Sienese chronicle we learn what ceremonies of bravery were usual in that city when the new knights understood their duty. It was the year 1326. Messer Francesco Bandinelli was about to be knighted on the morning of Christmas Day. The friends of his house sent peacocks and pheasants by the dozen, and huge pies of marchpane, and game in quantities. Wine, meat, and bread were distributed to the Franciscan and other convents, and a fair and noble court was opened to all comers. Messer Sozzo, father of the novice, went, attended by his guests, to 11hear high mass in the cathedral; and there upon the marble pulpit, which the Pisans carved, the ceremony was completed. Tommaso di Nello bore his sword and cap and spurs before him upon horseback. Messer Sozzo girded the sword upon the loins of Messer Francesco, his son aforesaid. Messer Pietro Ridolfi, of Rome, who was the first vicar that came to Siena, and the Duke of Calabria buckled on his right spur. The Captain of the People buckled on his left. The Count Simone da Battifolle then undid his sword and placed it in the hands of Messer Giovanni di Messer Bartolo de' Fibenzi da Rodi, who handed it to Messer Sozzo, the which sword had previously been girded by the father on his son. After this follows a list of the illustrious guests, and an inventory of the presents made to them by Messer Francesco. We find among these 'a robe of silken cloth and gold, skirt, and fur, and cap lined with vair, with a silken cord.' The description of the many costly dresses is minute; but I find no mention of armour. The singers received golden florins, and the players upon instruments 'good store of money.' A certain Salamone was presented with the clothes which the novice doffed before he took the ceremonial bath. The whole catalogue concludes with Messer Francesco's furniture and outfit. This, besides a large wardrobe of rich clothes and furs, contains armour and the trappings for charger and palfrey. The Corte Bandita, or open house held upon this occasion, lasted for eight days, and the charges on the Bandinelli estates must have been considerable.
Knights so made were called in Italy Cavalieri Addobbati, or di Corredo, probably because the expense of costly furniture was borne by them—addobbo having become a name for decorative trappings, and Corredo for equipment. The latter is still in use for a bride's trousseau. The former has the same Teutonic root as our verb 'to dub.' But the Italians 12recognised three other kinds of knights, the Cavalieri Bagati, Cavalieri di Scudo, and Cavalieri d'Arme. Of the four sorts Sacchetti writes in one of his novels:—'Knights of the Bath are made with the greatest ceremonies, and it behoves them to be bathed and washed of all impurity. Knights of Equipment are those who take the order with a mantle of dark green and the gilded garland. Knights of the Shield are such as are made knights by commonwealths or princes, or go to investiture armed, and with the casque upon their head. Knights of Arms are those who in the opening of a battle, or upon a foughten field, are dubbed knights.' These distinctions, however, though concordant with feudal chivalry, were not scrupulously maintained in Italy. Messer Francesco Bandinelli, for example, was certainly a Cavaliere di Corredo. Yet he took the bath, as we have seen. Of a truth, the Italians selected those picturesque elements of chivalry which lent themselves to pageant and parade. The sterner intention of the institution, and the symbolic meaning of its various ceremonies, were neglected by them.
In the foregoing passages, which serve as a lengthy preamble to Folgore's five sonnets, I have endeavoured to draw illustrations from the history of Siena, because Folgore represents Sienese society at the height of mediæval culture. In the first of the series he describes the preparation made by the aspirant after knighthood. The noble youth is so bent on doing honour to the order of chivalry, that he raises money by mortgage to furnish forth the banquets and the presents due upon the occasion of his institution. He has made provision also of equipment for himself and all his train. It will be noticed that Folgore dwells only on the fair and joyous aspect of the ceremony. The religious enthusiasm of knighthood has disappeared, and already, in the first decade of the fourteenth century, we find the spirit 13of Jehan de Saintrè prevalent in Italy. The word donzello, derived from the Latin domicellus, I have translated squire, because the donzel was a youth of gentle birth awaiting knighthood.
This morn a young squire shall be made a knight; hereof he fain would be right worthy found, And therefore pledgeth lands and castles round To furnish all that fits a man of might. Meat, bread and wine he gives to many a wight; Capons and pheasants on his board abound, Where serving men and pages march around; Choice chambers, torches, and wax candle light. Barbed steeds, a multitude, are in his thought, Mailed men at arms and noble company, Spears, pennants, housing cloths, bells richly wrought. Musicians following with great barony And jesters through the land his state have brought, With dames and damsels whereso rideth he.
The subject having thus been introduced, Folgore treats the ceremonies of investiture by an allegorical method, which is quite consistent with his own preference of images to ideas. Each of the four following sonnets presents a picture to the mind, admirably fitted for artistic handling. We may imagine them to ourselves wrought in arras for a sumptuous chamber. The first treats of the bath, in which, as we have seen already from Sacchetti's note, the aspirant after knighthood puts aside all vice, and consecrates himself anew. Prodezza, or Prowess, must behold him nude from head to foot, in order to assure herself that the neophyte bears no blemish; and this inspection is an allegory of internal wholeness.
Lo Prowess, who despoileth him straightway, And saith: 'Friend, now beseems it thee to strip; For I will see men naked, thigh and hip, And thou my will must know and eke obey; 14 And leave what was thy wont until this day, And for new toil, new sweat, thy strength equip; This do, and thou shalt join my fellowship, If of fair deeds thou tire not nor cry nay.' And when she sees his comely body bare, Forthwith within her arms she him doth take, And saith: 'These limbs thou yieldest to my prayer; I do accept thee, and this gift thee make, So that thy deeds may shine for ever fair; My lips shall never more thy praise forsake.'
After courage, the next virtue of the knightly character is gentleness or modesty, called by the Italians humility. It is this quality which makes a strong man pleasing to the world, and wins him favour. Folgore's sonnet enables us to understand the motto of the great Borromeo family—Humilitas, in Gothic letters underneath the coronet upon their princely palace fronts.
Humility to him doth gently go, And saith: 'I would in no wise weary thee; Yet must I cleanse and wash thee thoroughly, And I will make thee whiter than the snow. Hear what I tell thee in few words, for so Fain am I of thy heart to hold the key; Now must thou sail henceforward after me; And I will guide thee as myself do go. But one thing would I have thee straightway leave; Well knowest thou mine enemy is pride; Let her no more unto thy spirit cleave: So leal a friend with thee will I abide That favour from all folk thou shalt receive; This grace hath he who keepeth on my side.'
The novice has now bathed, approved himself to the searching eyes of Prowess, and been accepted by Humility. After the bath, it was customary for him to spend a night in vigil; and this among the Teutons should have taken place in church, alone before the altar. But the Italian poet, after his custom, 15gives a suave turn to the severe discipline. His donzel passes the night in bed, attended by Discretion, or the virtue of reflection. She provides fair entertainment for the hours of vigil, and leaves him at the morning with good counsel. It is not for nothing that he seeks knighthood, and it behoves him to be careful of his goings. The last three lines of the sonnet are the gravest of the series, showing that something of true chivalrous feeling survived even among the Cavalieri di Corredo of Tuscany.
Then did Discretion to the squire draw near, And drieth him with a fair cloth and clean, And straightway putteth him the sheets between, Silk, linen, counterpane, and minevere. Think now of this! Until the day was clear, With songs and music and delight the queen, And with new knights, fair fellows well-beseen, To make him perfect, gave him goodly cheer. Then saith she: 'Rise forthwith, for now 'tis due, Thou shouldst be born into the world again; Keep well the order thou dost take in view.' Unfathomable thoughts with him remain Of that great bond he may no more eschew, Nor can he say, 'I'll hide me from this chain.'
The vigil is over. The mind of the novice is prepared for his new duties. The morning of his reception into chivalry has arrived. It is therefore fitting that grave thoughts should be abandoned; and seeing that not only prowess, humility, and discretion are the virtues of a knight, but that he should also be blithe and debonair, Gladness comes to raise him from his bed and equip him for the ceremony of institution.
Comes Blithesomeness with mirth and merriment, All decked in flowers she seemeth a rose-tree; Of linen, silk, cloth, fur, now beareth she 16 the new knight a rich habiliment; Head-gear and cap and garland flower-besprent, So brave they were May-bloom he seemed to be; With such a rout, so many and such glee, That the floor shook. Then to her work she went; And stood him on his feet in hose and shoon; And purse and gilded girdle 'neath the fur That drapes his goodly limbs, she buckles on; Then bids the singers and sweet music stir, And showeth him to ladies for a boon And all who in that following went with her.
At this point the poem is abruptly broken. The manuscript from which these sonnets are taken states they are a fragment. Had the remaining twelve been preserved to us, we should probably have possessed a series of pictures in which the procession to church would have been portrayed, the investiture with the sword, the accolade, the buckling on of the spurs, and the concluding sports and banquets. It is very much to be regretted that so interesting, so beautiful, and so unique a monument of Italian chivalry survives thus mutilated. But students of art have to arm themselves continually with patience, repressing the sad thoughts engendered in them by the spectacle of time's unconscious injuries.
It is certain that Folgore would have written at least one sonnet on the quality of courtesy, which in that age, as we have learned from Matteo Villani, identified itself in the Italian mind with liberality. This identification marks a certain degradation of the chivalrous ideal, which is characteristic of Italian manners. One of Folgore's miscellaneous sonnets shows how sorely he felt the disappearance of this quality from the midst of a society bent daily more and more upon material aims. It reminds us of the lamentable outcries uttered by the later poets of the fourteenth century, Sacchetti, Boccaccio, Uberti, and others of less fame, over the decline of their age.
17 Courtesy! Courtesy! Courtesy! I call: But from no quarter comes there a reply. And whoso needs her, ill must us befall. Greed with his hook hath ta'en men one and all, And murdered every grace that dumb doth lie: Whence, if I grieve, I know the reason why; From you, great men, to God I make my call: For you my mother Courtesy have cast So low beneath your feet she there must bleed; Your gold remains, but you're not made to last: Of Eve and Adam we are all the seed: Able to give and spend, you hold wealth fast: Ill is the nature that rears such a breed!
Folgore was not only a poet of occasion and compliment, but a political writer, who fully entertained the bitter feeling of the Guelphs against their Ghibelline opponents.
Two of his sonnets addressed to the Guelphs have been translated by Mr. Rossetti. In order to complete the list I have made free versions of two others in which he criticised the weakness of his own friends. The first is addressed, in the insolent impiety of rage, to God:—
I praise thee not, O God, nor give thee glory, Nor yield thee any thanks, nor bow the knee, Nor pay thee service; for this irketh me More than the souls to stand in purgatory; Since thou hast made us Guelphs a jest and story Unto the Ghibellines for all to see: And if Uguccion claimed tax of thee, Thou'dst pay it without interrogatory. Ah, well I wot they know thee! and have stolen St. Martin from thee, Altopascio, St. Michael, and the treasure thou hast lost; And thou that rotten rabble so hast swollen That pride now counts for tribute; even so Thou'st made their heart stone-hard to thine own cost.
18About the meaning of some lines in this sonnet I am not clear. But the feeling and the general drift of it are manifest. The second is a satire on the feebleness and effeminacy of the Pisans.
Ye are more silky-sleek than ermines are, Ye Pisan counts, knights, damozels, and squires, Who think by combing out your hair like wires To drive the men of Florence from their car. Ye make the Ghibellines free near and far, Here, there, in cities, castles, huts, and byres, Seeing how gallant in your brave attires, How bold you look, true paladins of war. Stout-hearted are ye as a hare in chase, To meet the sails of Genoa on the sea; And men of Lucca never saw your face. Dogs with a bone for courtesy are ye: Could Folgore but gain a special grace, He'd have you banded 'gainst all men that be.
Among the sonnets not translated by Mr. Rossetti two by Folgore remain, which may be classified with the not least considerable contributions to Italian gnomic poetry in an age when literature easily assumed a didactic tone. The first has for its subject the importance of discernment and discrimination. It is written on the wisdom of what the ancient Greeks called Καιρός, or the right occasion in all human conduct.
Dear friend, not every herb puts forth a flower; Nor every flower that blossoms fruit doth bear; Nor hath each spoken word a virtue rare; Nor every stone in earth its healing power: This thing is good when mellow, that when sour; One seems to grieve, within doth rest from care; Not every torch is brave that flaunts in air; There is what dead doth seem, yet flame doth shower. Wherefore it ill behoveth a wise man His truss of every grass that grows to bind, Or pile his back with every stone he can, 19 Or counsel from each word to seek to find, Or take his walks abroad with Dick and Dan: Not without cause I'm moved to speak my mind.
The second condemns those men of light impulse who, as Dante put it, discoursing on the same theme, 'subject reason to inclination.'[51]
What time desire hath o'er the soul such sway That reason finds nor place nor puissance here, Men oft do laugh at what should claim a tear, And over grievous dole are seeming gay. He sure would travel far from sense astray Who should take frigid ice for fire; and near Unto this plight are those who make glad cheer For what should rather cause their soul dismay. But more at heart might he feel heavy pain Who made his reason subject to mere will, And followed wandering impulse without rein; Seeing no lordship is so rich as still One's upright self unswerving to sustain, To follow worth, to flee things vain and ill.
The sonnets translated by me in this essay, taken together with those already published by Mr. Rossetti, put the English reader in possession of all that passes for the work of Folgore da San Gemignano.
[51] The line in Dante runs:
'Che la ragion sommettono al talento.'
In Folgore's sonnet we read:
'Chi sommette rason a volontade.'
On the supposition that Folgore wrote in the second decade of the fourteenth century, it is not impossible that he may have had knowledge of this line from the fifth canto of the Inferno.
Since these words were written, England has lost the poet-painter, to complete whose work upon the sonnet-writer of 20mediæval Siena I attempted the translations in this essay. One who has trodden the same path as Rossetti, at however a noticeable interval, and has attempted to present in English verse the works of great Italian singers, doing inadequately for Michelangelo and Campanella what he did supremely well for Dante, may here perhaps be allowed to lay the tribute of reverent recognition at his tomb.
21
THOUGHTS IN ITALY ABOUT CHRISTMAS
What is the meaning of our English Christmas? What makes it seem so truly Northern, national, and homely, that we do not like to keep the feast upon a foreign shore? These questions grew upon me as I stood one Advent afternoon beneath the Dome of Florence. A priest was thundering from the pulpit against French scepticism, and exalting the miracle of the Incarnation. Through the whole dim church blazed altar candles. Crowds of men and women knelt or sat about the transepts, murmuring their prayers of preparation for the festival. At the door were pedlars selling little books, in which were printed the offices for Christmas-tide, with stories of S. Felix and S. Catherine, whose devotion to the infant Christ had wrought them weal, and promises of the remission of four purgatorial centuries to those who zealously observed the service of the Church at this most holy time. I knew that the people of Florence were preparing for Christmas in their own way. But it was not our way. It happened that outside the church the climate seemed as wintry as our own—snowstorms and ice, and wind and chilling fog, suggesting Northern cold. But as the palaces of Florence lacked our comfortable firesides, and the greetings of friends lacked our hearty handshakes and loud good wishes, so there seemed to be a want of the home feeling in those Christmas services and customs. Again I asked myself, 'What do we mean by Christmas?'
22The same thought pursued me as I drove to Rome: by Siena, still and brown, uplifted, mid her russet hills and wilderness of rolling plain; by Chiusi, with its sepulchral city of a dead and unknown people; through the chestnut forests of the Apennines; by Orvieto's rock, Viterbo's fountains, and the oak-grown solitudes of the Ciminian heights, from which one looks across the broad lake of Bolsena and the Roman plain. Brilliant sunlight, like that of a day in late September, shone upon the landscape, and I thought—Can this be Christmas? Are they bringing mistletoe and holly on the country carts into the towns in far-off England? Is it clear and frosty there, with the tramp of heels upon the flag, or snowing silently, or foggy with a round red sun and cries of warning at the corners of the streets?
I reached Rome on Christmas Eve, in time to hear midnight services in the Sistine Chapel and S. John Lateran, to breathe the dust of decayed shrines, to wonder at doting cardinals begrimed with snuff, and to resent the open-mouthed bad taste of my countrymen who made a mockery of these palsy-stricken ceremonies. Nine cardinals going to sleep, nine train-bearers talking scandal, twenty huge, handsome Switzers in the dress devised by Michelangelo, some ushers, a choir caged off by gilded railings, the insolence and eagerness of polyglot tourists, plenty of wax candles dripping on people's heads, and a continual nasal drone proceeding from the gilded cage, out of which were caught at intervals these words, and these only,—'Sæcula sæculorum, amen.' Such was the celebrated Sistine service. The chapel blazed with light, and very strange did Michelangelo's Last Judgment, his Sibyls, and his Prophets, appear upon the roof and wall above this motley and unmeaning crowd.
Next morning I put on my dress-clothes and white tie, and repaired, with groups of Englishmen similarly attired, and of Englishwomen in black crape—the regulation costume —to 23S. Peter's. It was a glorious and cloudless morning; sunbeams streamed in columns from the southern windows, falling on the vast space full of soldiers and a mingled mass of every kind of people. Up the nave stood double files of the Pontifical guard. Monks and nuns mixed with the Swiss cuirassiers and halberds. Contadini crowded round the sacred images, and especially round the toe of S. Peter. I saw many mothers lift their swaddled babies up to kiss it. Valets of cardinals, with the invariable red umbrellas, hung about side chapels and sacristies. Purple-mantled monsignori, like emperor butterflies, floated down the aisles from sunlight into shadow. Movement, colour, and the stir of expectation, made the church alive. We showed our dress-clothes to the guard, were admitted within their ranks, and solemnly walked up toward the dome. There under its broad canopy stood the altar, glittering with gold and candles. The choir was carpeted and hung with scarlet. Two magnificent thrones rose ready for the Pope: guards of honour, soldiers, attachés, and the élite of the residents and visitors in Rome, were scattered in groups picturesquely varied by ecclesiastics of all orders and degrees. At ten a stirring took place near the great west door. It opened, and we saw the procession of the Pope and his cardinals. Before him marched the singers and the blowers of the silver trumpets, making the most liquid melody. Then came his Cap of Maintenance, and three tiaras; then a company of mitred priests; next the cardinals in scarlet; and last, aloft beneath a canopy, upon the shoulders of men, and flanked by the mystic fans, advanced the Pope himself, swaying to and fro like a Lama, or an Aztec king. Still the trumpets blew most silverly, and still the people knelt; and as he came, we knelt and had his blessing. Then he took his state and received homage. After this the choir began to sing a mass of Palestrina's, and the 24deacons robed the Pope. Marvellous putting on and taking off of robes and tiaras and mitres ensued, during which there was much bowing and praying and burning of incense. At last, when he had reached the highest stage of sacrificial sanctity, he proceeded to the altar, waited on by cardinals and bishops. Having censed it carefully, he took a higher throne and divested himself of part of his robes. Then the mass went on in earnest, till the moment of consecration, when it paused, the Pope descended from his throne, passed down the choir, and reached the altar. Every one knelt; the shrill bell tinkled; the silver trumpets blew; the air became sick and heavy with incense, so that sun and candle light swooned in an atmosphere of odorous cloud-wreaths. The whole church trembled, hearing the strange subtle music vibrate in the dome, and seeing the Pope with his own hands lift Christ's body from the altar and present it to the people. An old parish priest, pilgrim from some valley of the Apennines, who knelt beside me, cried and quivered with excess of adoration. The great tombs around, the sculptured saints and angels, the dome, the volumes of light and incense and unfamiliar melody, the hierarchy ministrant, the white and central figure of the Pope, the multitude—made up an overpowering scene. What followed was comparatively tedious. My mind again went back to England, and I thought of Christmas services beginning in all village churches and all cathedrals throughout the land—their old familiar hymn, their anthem of Handel, their trite and sleepy sermons. How different the two feasts are—Christmas in Rome, Christmas in England—Italy and the North—the spirit of Latin and the spirit of Teutonic Christianity.
What, then, constitutes the essence of our Christmas as different from that of more Southern nations? In their origin they are the same. The stable of Bethlehem, the 25star-led kings, the shepherds, and the angels—all the beautiful story, in fact, which S. Luke alone of the Evangelists has preserved for us—are what the whole Christian world owes to the religious feeling of the Hebrews. The first and second chapters of S. Luke are most important in the history of Christian mythology and art. They are far from containing the whole of what we mean by Christmas; but the religious poetry which gathers round that season must be sought upon their pages. Angels, ever since the Exodus, played a first part in the visions of the Hebrew prophets and in the lives of their heroes. We know not what reminiscences of old Egyptian genii, what strange shadows of the winged beasts of Persia, flitted through their dreams. In the desert, or under the boundless sky of Babylon, these shapes became no less distinct than the precise outlines of Oriental scenery. They incarnated the vivid thoughts and intense longings of the prophets, who gradually came to give them human forms and titles. We hear of them by name, as servants and attendants upon God, as guardians of nations, and patrons of great men. To the Hebrew mind the whole unseen world was full of spirits, active, strong, and swift of flight, of various aspect, and with power of speech. It is hard to imagine what the first Jewish disciples and the early Greek and Roman converts thought of these great beings. To us, the hierarchies of Dionysius, the services of the Church, the poetry of Dante and Milton, and the forms of art, have made them quite familiar. Northern nations have appropriated the Angels, and invested them with attributes alien to their Oriental origin. They fly through our pine-forests, and the gloom of cloud or storm; they ride upon our clanging bells, and gather in swift squadrons among the arches of Gothic cathedrals; we see them making light in the cavernous depth of woods, where sun or moon beams rarely pierce, and ministering 26to the wounded or the weary; they bear aloft the censers of the mass; they sing in the anthems of choristers, and live in strains of poetry and music; our churches bear their names; we call our children by their titles; we love them as our guardians, and the whole unseen world is made a home to us by their imagined presence. All these things are the growth of time and the work of races whose myth-making imagination is more artistic than that of the Hebrews. Yet this rich legacy of romance is bound up in the second chapter of S. Luke; and it is to him we must give thanks when at Christmas-tide we read of the shepherds and the angels in English words more beautiful than his own Greek.
The angels in the stable of Bethlehem, the kings who came from the far East, and the adoring shepherds, are the gift of Hebrew legend and of the Greek physician Luke to Christmas. How these strange and splendid incidents affect modern fancy remains for us to examine; at present we must ask, What did the Romans give to Christmas? The customs of the Christian religion, like everything that belongs to the modern world, have nothing pure and simple in their nature. They are the growth of long ages, and of widely different systems, parts of which have been fused into one living whole. In this respect they resemble our language, our blood, our literature, and our modes of thought and feeling. We find Christianity in one sense wholly original; in another sense composed of old materials; in both senses universal and cosmopolitan. The Roman element in Christmas is a remarkable instance of this acquisitive power of Christianity. The celebration of the festival takes place at the same time as that of the Pagan Saturnalia; and from the old customs of that holiday, Christmas absorbed much that was consistent with the spirit of the new religion. During the Saturnalia the world enjoyed, in thought at least, a perfect freedom. Men who had gone to bed as 27slaves, rose their own masters. From the ergastula and dismal sunless cages they went forth to ramble in the streets and fields. Liberty of speech was given them, and they might satirise those vices of their lords to which, on other days, they had to minister. Rome on this day, by a strange negation of logic, which we might almost call a prompting of blind conscience, negatived the philosophic dictum that barbarians were by law of nature slaves, and acknowledged the higher principle of equality. The Saturnalia stood out from the whole year as a protest in favour of universal brotherhood, and the right that all men share alike to enjoy life after their own fashion, within the bounds that nature has assigned them. We do not know how far the Stoic school, which was so strong in Rome, and had so many points of contact with the Christians, may have connected its own theories of equality with this old custom of the Saturnalia. But it is possible that the fellowship of human beings, and the temporary abandonment of class prerogatives, became a part of Christmas through the habit of the Saturnalia. We are perhaps practising a Roman virtue to this day when at Christmas-time our hand is liberal, and we think it wrong that the poorest wretch should fail to feel the pleasure of the day.
Of course Christianity inspired the freedom of the Saturnalia with a higher meaning. The mystery of the Incarnation, or the deification of human nature, put an end to slavery through all the year, as well as on this single day. What had been a kind of aimless licence became the most ennobling principle by which men are exalted to a state of self-respect and mutual reverence. Still in the Saturnalia was found, ready-made, an easy symbol of unselfish enjoyment. It is, however, dangerous to push speculations of this kind to the very verge of possibility.
The early Roman Christians probably kept Christmas with 28no special ceremonies. Christ was as yet too close to them. He had not become the glorious creature of their fancy, but was partly an historic being, partly confused in their imagination with reminiscences of Pagan deities. As the Good Shepherd, and as Orpheus, we find him painted in the Catacombs; and those who thought of him as God, loved to dwell upon his risen greatness more than on the idyll of his birth. To them his entry upon earth seemed less a subject of rejoicing than his opening of the heavens; they suffered, and looked forward to a future happiness; they would not seem to make this world permanent by sharing its gladness with the Heathens. Theirs, in truth, was a religion of hope and patience, not of triumphant recollection or of present joyfulness.
The Northern converts of the early Church added more to the peculiar character of our Christmas. Who can tell what Pagan rites were half sanctified by their association with that season, or how much of our cheerfulness belonged to Heathen orgies and the banquets of grim warlike gods? Certainly nothing strikes one more in reading Scandinavian poetry, than the strange mixture of Pagan and Christian sentiments which it presents. For though the missionaries of the Church did all they could to wean away the minds of men from their old superstitions; yet, wiser than their modern followers, they saw that some things might remain untouched, and that even the great outlines of the Christian faith might be adapted to the habits of the people whom they studied to convert. Thus, on the one hand, they destroyed the old temples one by one, and called the idols by the name of devils, and strove to obliterate the songs which sang great deeds of bloody gods and heroes; while, on the other, they taught the Northern sea-kings that Jesus was a Prince surrounded by twelve dukes, who conquered all the world. 29Besides, they left the days of the week to their old patrons. It is certain that the imagination of the people preserved more of heathendom than even such missionaries could approve; mixing up the deeds of the Christian saints with old heroic legends; seeing Balder's beauty in Christ and the strength of Thor in Samson; attributing magic to S. John; swearing, as of old, bloody oaths in God's name, over the gilded boar's-head; burning the yule-log, and cutting sacred boughs to grace their new-built churches.
The songs of choirs and sound of holy bells, and superstitious reverence for the mass, began to tell upon the people; and soon the echo of their old religion only swelled upon the ear at intervals, attaching itself to times of more than usual sanctity. Christmas was one of these times, and the old faith threw around its celebration a fantastic light. Many customs of the genial Pagan life remained; they seemed harmless when the sense of joy was Christian. The Druid's mistletoe graced the church porches of England and of France, and no blood lingered on its berries. Christmas thus became a time of extraordinary mystery. The people loved it as connecting their old life with the new religion, perhaps unconsciously, though every one might feel that Christmas was no common Christian feast. On its eve strange wonders happened: the thorn that sprang at Glastonbury from the sacred crown which Joseph brought with him from Palestine, when Avalon was still an island, blossomed on that day. The Cornish miners seemed to hear the sound of singing men arise from submerged churches by the shore, and others said that bells, beneath the ground where villages had been, chimed yearly on that eve. No evil thing had power, as Marcellus in 'Hamlet' tells us, and the bird of dawning crowed the whole night through. One might multiply folklore about the sanctity of Christmas, but enough has been said 30to show that round it lingered long the legendary spirit of old Paganism. It is not to Jews, or Greeks, or Romans only that we owe our ancient Christmas fancies, but also to those half-heathen ancestors who lovingly looked back to Odin's days, and held the old while they embraced the new.
Let us imagine Christmas Day in a mediæval town of Northern England. The cathedral is only partly finished. Its nave and transepts are the work of Norman architects, but the choir has been destroyed in order to be rebuilt by more graceful designers and more skilful hands. The old city is full of craftsmen, assembled to complete the church. Some have come as a religious duty, to work off their tale of sins by bodily labour. Some are animated by a love of art—simple men, who might have rivalled with the Greeks in ages of more cultivation. Others, again, are well-known carvers, brought for hire from distant towns and countries beyond the sea. But to-day, and for some days past, the sound of hammer and chisel has been silent in the choir. Monks have bustled about the nave, dressing it up with holly-boughs and bushes of yew, and preparing a stage for the sacred play they are going to exhibit on the feast day. Christmas is not like Corpus Christi, and now the market-place stands inches deep in snow, so that the Miracles must be enacted beneath a roof instead of in the open air. And what place so appropriate as the cathedral, where poor people may have warmth and shelter while they see the show? Besides, the gloomy old church, with its windows darkened by the falling snow, lends itself to candlelight effects that will enhance the splendour of the scene. Everything is ready. The incense of morning mass yet lingers round the altar. The voice of the friar who told the people from the pulpit the story of Christ's birth, has hardly ceased to echo. Time has just been given for a mid-day dinner, and for the shepherds and 31 farm lads to troop in from the country-side. The monks are ready at the wooden stage to draw its curtain, and all the nave is full of eager faces. There you may see the smith and carpenter, the butcher's wife, the country priest, and the grey cowled friar. Scores of workmen, whose home the cathedral for the time is made, are also here, and you may know the artists by their thoughtful foreheads and keen eyes. That young monk carved Madonna and her Son above the southern porch. Beside him stands the master mason, whose strong arms have hewn gigantic images of prophets and apostles for the pinnacles outside the choir; and the little man with cunning eyes between the two is he who cuts such quaint hobgoblins for the gargoyles. He has a vein of satire in him, and his humour overflows into the stone. Many and many a grim beast and hideous head has he hidden among vine-leaves and trellis-work upon the porches. Those who know him well are loth to anger him, for fear their sons and sons' sons should laugh at them for ever caricatured in solid stone.
Hark! there sounds the bell. The curtain is drawn, and the candles blaze brightly round the wooden stage. What is this first scene? We have God in Heaven, dressed like a Pope with triple crown, and attended by his court of angels. They sing and toss up censers till he lifts his hand and speaks. In a long Latin speech he unfolds the order of creation and his will concerning man. At the end of it up leaps an ugly buffoon, in goatskin, with rams' horns upon his head. Some children begin to cry; but the older people laugh, for this is the Devil, the clown and comic character, who talks their common tongue, and has no reverence before the very throne of Heaven. He asks leave to plague men, and receives it; then, with many a curious caper, he goes down to Hell, beneath the stage. The angels sing and toss their censers as before, and the first scene closes to a sound of 32 organs. The next is more conventional, in spite of some grotesque incidents. It represents the Fall; the monks hurry over it quickly, as a tedious but necessary prelude to the birth of Christ. That is the true Christmas part of the ceremony, and it is understood that the best actors and most beautiful dresses are to be reserved for it. The builders of the choir in particular are interested in the coming scenes, since one of their number has been chosen, for his handsome face and tenor voice, to sing the angel's part. He is a young fellow of nineteen, but his beard is not yet grown, and long hair hangs down upon his shoulders. A chorister of the cathedral, his younger brother, will act the Virgin Mary. At last the curtain is drawn.
We see a cottage-room, dimly lighted by a lamp, and Mary spinning near her bedside. She sings a country air, and goes on working, till a rustling noise is heard, more light is thrown upon the stage, and a glorious creature, in white raiment, with broad golden wings, appears. He bears a lily, and cries,—'Ave Maria, Gratia Plena!' She does not answer, but stands confused, with down-dropped eyes and timid mien. Gabriel rises from the ground and comforts her, and sings aloud his message of glad tidings. Then Mary gathers courage, and, kneeling in her turn, thanks God; and when the angel and his radiance disappears, she sings the song of the Magnificat clearly and simply, in the darkened room. Very soft and silver sounds this hymn through the great church. The women kneel, and children are hushed as by a lullaby. But some of the hinds and 'prentice lads begin to think it rather dull. They are not sorry when the next scene opens with a sheepfold and a little camp-fire. Unmistakable bleatings issue from the fold, and five or six common fellows are sitting round the blazing wood. One might fancy they had stepped straight from the church floor to the stage, so natural 33 do they look. Besides, they call themselves by common names—Colin, and Tom Lie-a-bed, and nimble Dick. Many a round laugh wakes echoes in the church when these shepherds stand up, and hold debate about a stolen sheep. Tom Lie-a-bed has nothing to remark but that he is very sleepy, and does not want to go in search of it to-night; Colin cuts jokes, and throws out shrewd suspicions that Dick knows something of the matter; but Dick is sly, and keeps them off the scent, although a few of his asides reveal to the audience that he is the real thief. While they are thus talking, silence falls upon the shepherds. Soft music from the church organ breathes, and they appear to fall asleep.
The stage is now quite dark, and for a few moments the aisles echo only to the dying melody. When, behold, a ray of light is seen, and splendour grows around the stage from hidden candles, and in the glory Gabriel appears upon a higher platform made to look like clouds. The shepherds wake in confusion, striving to shelter their eyes from this unwonted brilliancy. But Gabriel waves his lily, spreads his great gold wings, and bids good cheer with clarion voice. The shepherds fall to worship, and suddenly round Gabriel there gathers a choir of angels, and a song of 'Gloria in Excelsis' to the sound of a deep organ is heard far off. From distant aisles it swells, and seems to come from heaven. Through a long resonant fugue the glory flies, and as it ceases with complex conclusion, the lights die out, the angels disappear, and Gabriel fades into the darkness. Still the shepherds kneel, rustically chanting a carol half in Latin, half in English, which begins 'In dulci Jubilo.' The people know it well, and when the chorus rises with 'Ubi sunt gaudia?' its wild melody is caught by voices up and down the nave. This scene makes deep impression upon many hearts; for the beauty of Gabriel is rare, and few who see him in his angel's dress 34 would know him for the lad who daily carves his lilies and broad water-flags about the pillars of the choir. To that simple audience he interprets Heaven, and little children will see him in their dreams. Dark winter nights and awful forests will be trodden by his feet, made musical by his melodious voice, and parted by the rustling of his wings. The youth himself may return to-morrow to the workman's blouse and chisel, but his memory lives in many minds and may form a part of Christmas for the fancy of men as yet unborn.
The next drawing of the curtain shows us the stable of Bethlehem crowned by its star. There kneels Mary, and Joseph leans upon his staff. The ox and ass are close at hand, and Jesus lies in jewelled robes on straw within the manger. To right and left bow the shepherds, worshipping in dumb show, while voices from behind chant a solemn hymn. In the midst of the melody is heard a flourish of trumpets, and heralds step upon the stage, followed by the three crowned kings. They have come from the far East, led by the star. The song ceases, while drums and fifes and trumpets play a stately march. The kings pass by, and do obeisance one by one. Each gives some costly gift; each doffs his crown and leaves it at the Saviour's feet. Then they retire to a distance and worship in silence like the shepherds. Again the angel's song is heard, and while it dies away the curtain closes, and the lights are put out.
The play is over, and evening has come. The people must go from the warm church into the frozen snow, and crunch their homeward way beneath the moon. But in their minds they carry a sense of light and music and unearthly loveliness. Not a scene of this day's pageant will be lost. It grows within them and creates the poetry of Christmas. Nor must we forget the sculptors who listen to the play. We spoke of them minutely, because these mysteries sank deep into their 35 souls and found a way into their carvings on the cathedral walls. The monk who made Madonna by the southern porch, will remember Gabriel, and place him bending low in lordly salutation by her side. The painted glass of the chapter-house will glow with fiery choirs of angels learned by heart that night. And who does not know the mocking devils and quaint satyrs that the humorous sculptor will carve among his fruits and flowers? Some of the misereres of the stalls still bear portraits of the shepherd thief, and of the ox and ass who blinked so blindly when the kings, by torchlight, brought their dazzling gifts. Truly these old miracle-plays, and the carved work of cunning hands that they inspired, are worth to us more than all the delicate creations of Italian pencils. Our homely Northern churches still retain, for the child who reads their bosses and their sculptured fronts, more Christmas poetry than we can find in Fra Angelico's devoutness or the liveliness of Giotto. Not that Southern artists have done nothing for our Christmas. Cimabue's gigantic angels at Assisi, and the radiant seraphs of Raphael or of Signorelli, were seen by Milton in his Italian journey. He gazed in Romish churches on graceful Nativities, into which Angelico and Credi threw their simple souls. How much they tinged his fancy we cannot say. But what we know of heavenly hierarchies we later men have learned from Milton; and what he saw he spoke, and what he spoke in sounding verse lives for us now and sways our reason, and controls our fancy, and makes fine art of high theology.
Thus have I attempted rudely to recall a scene of mediæval Christmas. To understand the domestic habits of that age is not so easy, though one can fancy how the barons in their halls held Christmas, with the boar's head and the jester and the great yule-log. On the daïs sat lord and lady, waited on by knight and squire and page; but down the long 36 hall feasted yeomen and hinds and men-at-arms. Little remains to us of those days, and we have outworn their jollity. It is really from the Elizabethan poets that our sense of old-fashioned festivity arises. They lived at the end of one age and the beginning of another. Though born to inaugurate the new era, they belonged by right of association and sympathy to the period that was fleeting fast away. This enabled them to represent the poetry of past and present. Old customs and old states of feeling, when they are about to perish, pass into the realm of art. For art is like a flower, which consummates the plant and ends its growth, while it translates its nature into loveliness. Thus Dante and Lorenzetti and Orcagna enshrined mediæval theology in works of imperishable beauty, and Shakspere and his fellows made immortal the life and manners that were decaying in their own time. Men do not reflect upon their mode of living till they are passing from one state to another, and the consciousness of art implies a beginning of new things. Let one who wishes to appreciate the ideal of an English Christmas read Shakspere's song, 'When icicles hang by the wall;' and if he knows some old grey grange, far from the high-road, among pastures, with a river flowing near, and cawing rooks in elm-trees by the garden-wall, let him place Dick and Joan and Marian there.
We have heard so much of pensioners, and barons of beef, and yule-logs, and bay, and rosemary, and holly boughs cut upon the hillside, and crab-apples bobbing in the wassail bowl, and masques and mummers, and dancers on the rushes, that we need not here describe a Christmas Eve in olden times. Indeed, this last half of the nineteenth century is weary of the worn-out theme. But one characteristic of the age of Elizabeth may be mentioned: that is its love of music. Fugued melodies, sung by voices without instruments, were 37 much in vogue. We call them madrigals, and their half-merry, half-melancholy music yet recalls the time when England had her gift of art, when she needed not to borrow of Marenzio and Palestrina, when her Wilbyes and her Morlands and her Dowlands won the praise of Shakspere and the court. We hear the echo of those songs; and in some towns at Christmas or the New Year old madrigals still sound in praise of Oriana and of Phyllis and the country life. What are called 'waits' are but a poor travesty of those well-sung Elizabethan carols. We turn in our beds half pitying, half angered by harsh voices that quaver senseless ditties in the fog, or by tuneless fiddles playing popular airs without propriety or interest.
It is a strange mixture of picturesquely blended elements which the Elizabethan age presents. We see it afar off like the meeting of a hundred streams that grow into a river. We are sailing on the flood long after it has shrunk into a single tide, and the banks are dull and tame, and the all-absorbing ocean is before us. Yet sometimes we hear a murmur of the distant fountains, and Christmas is a day on which for some the many waters of the age of great Elizabeth sound clearest.
The age which followed was not poetical. The Puritans restrained festivity and art, and hated music. Yet from this period stands out the hymn of Milton, written when he was a youth, but bearing promise of his later muse. At one time, as we read it, we seem to be looking on a picture by some old Italian artist. But no picture can give Milton's music or make the 'base of heaven's deep organ blow.' Here he touches new associations, and reveals the realm of poetry which it remains for later times to traverse. Milton felt the true sentiment of Northern Christmas when he opened his poem with the 'winter wild,' in defiance of historical probability 38 and what the French call local colouring. Nothing shows how wholly we people of the North have appropriated Christmas, and made it a creature of our own imagination, more than this dwelling on winds and snows and bitter frosts, so alien from the fragrant nights of Palestine. But Milton's hymn is like a symphony, embracing many thoughts and periods of varying melody. The music of the seraphim brings to his mind the age of gold, and that suggests the judgment and the redemption of the world. Satan's kingdom fails, the false gods go forth, Apollo leaves his rocky throne, and all the dim Phoenician and Egyptian deities, with those that classic fancy fabled, troop away like ghosts into the darkness. What a swell of stormy sound is in those lines! It recalls the very voice of Pan, which went abroad upon the waters when Christ died, and all the utterances of God on earth, feigned in Delphian shrines, or truly spoken on the sacred hills, were mute for ever.
After Milton came the age which, of all others, is the prosiest in our history. We cannot find much novelty of interest added to Christmas at this time. But there is one piece of poetry that somehow or another seems to belong to the reign of Anne and of the Georges—the poetry of bells. Great civic corporations reigned in those days; churchwardens tyrannised and were rich; and many a goodly chime of bells they hung in our old church-steeples. Let us go into the square room of the belfry, where the clock ticks all day, and the long ropes hang dangling down, with fur upon their hemp for ringers' hands above the socket set for ringers' feet. There we may read long lists of gilded names, recording mountainous bob-majors, rung a century ago, with special praise to him who pulled the tenor-bell, year after year, until he died, and left it to his son. The art of bell-ringing is profound, and requires a long apprenticeship. Even now, in some old cities, 39 the ringers form a guild and mystery. Suppose it to be Christmas Eve in the year 1772. It is now a quarter before twelve, and the sexton has unlocked the church-gates and set the belfry door ajar. Candles are lighted in the room above, and jugs of beer stand ready for the ringers. Up they bustle one by one, and listen to the tickings of the clock that tells the passing minutes. At last it gives a click; and now they throw off coat and waistcoat, strap their girdles tighter round the waist, and each holds his rope in readiness. Twelve o'clock strikes, and forth across the silent city go the clamorous chimes. The steeple rocks and reels, and far away the night is startled. Damp turbulent west winds, rushing from the distant sea, and swirling up the inland valleys, catch the sound, and toss it to and fro, and bear it by gusts and snatches to watchers far away, upon bleak moorlands and the brows of woody hills. Is there not something dim and strange in the thought of these eight men meeting, in the heart of a great city, in the narrow belfry-room, to stir a mighty sound that shall announce to listening ears miles, miles away, the birth of a new day, and tell to dancers, mourners, students, sleepers, and perhaps to dying men, that Christ is born?
Let this association suffice for the time. And of our own Christmas so much has been said and sung by better voices, that we may leave it to the feelings and the memories of those who read the fireside tales of Dickens, and are happy in their homes. The many elements which I have endeavoured to recall, mix all of them in the Christmas of the present, partly, no doubt, under the form of vague and obscure sentiment; partly as time-honoured reminiscences, partly as a portion of our own life. But there is one phase of poetry which we enjoy more fully than any previous age. That is music. Music is of all the arts the youngest, and of all can free herself 40 most readily from symbols. A fine piece of music moves before us like a living passion, which needs no form or colour, no interpreting associations, to convey its strong but indistinct significance. Each man there finds his soul revealed to him, and enabled to assume a cast of feeling in obedience to the changeful sound. In this manner all our Christmas thoughts and emotions have been gathered up for us by Handel in his drama of the 'Messiah.' To Englishmen it is almost as well known and necessary as the Bible. But only one who has heard its pastoral episode performed year after year from childhood in the hushed cathedral, where pendent lamps or sconces make the gloom of aisle and choir and airy column half intelligible, can invest this music with long associations of accumulated awe. To his mind it brings a scene at midnight of hills clear in the starlight of the East, with white flocks scattered on the down. The breath of winds that come and go, the bleating of the sheep, with now and then a tinkling bell, and now and then the voice of an awakened shepherd, is all that breaks the deep repose. Overhead shimmer the bright stars, and low to west lies the moon, not pale and sickly (he dreams) as in our North, but golden, full, and bathing distant towers and tall aë;rial palms with floods of light. Such is a child's vision, begotten by the music of the symphony; and when he wakes from trance at its low silver close, the dark cathedral seems glowing with a thousand angel faces, and all the air is tremulous with angel wings. Then follow the solitary treble voice and the swift chorus.
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