Part 10

For myself, I, as you know, do not believe in King nor in Pope: I believe in God and in ourselves. They may do what they choose, and try to compromise Charles Albert[100] in the face of Austria by every means: the rabbit will not be changed into a lion. I say rabbit, and might say fox. To celebrate Marengo, a battle won by an Italian but in the name and under the banner of the French nation, while we have the Austrians our masters two paces off, savours to me of bragging rather than of patriotism. I see these demonstrations with pleasure, because they furnish an occasion for impressing on the people, who know not, the name of Italy, and that of her oppressors; but, as an individual, I feel inclined to smile with a trifle of bitterness. In Piedmont the rabbit is now in the vein of reaction; and not only the suppression of the subscription,[101] but that of the Family-readings conceded to the Jesuits, and other recent acts, speak clearly enough. However, we shall see.

I keep the letter for another two days, for a final endeavour; afterwards, I shall return it to you. Meanwhile believe me always

Your much attached and affectionate GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.

J.

[The reference to Ricciardi’s book follows on more or less from what appears in two previous letters. The book may possibly have been a predictive _History of Italy from 1850 to 1900_, which was published in 1842. This letter, written in the great year of European revolutions, 1848, belongs, I suppose, to a very early date in that year; perhaps prior to the insurrection in Paris, which began on 23rd February. There had been some disturbances in Milan on 3rd January, and a rising in Messina from 6th January. On 22nd February martial law was proclaimed in Lombardy by the Austrians.]

19 CROPLEY STREET, NEW NORTH ROAD. ? _February 1848._

MY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,

I send you by Parcels Delivery Company ten copies of Ricciardi’s book, admiring our friend’s tenacity of memory, especially in this time of events. These are the only copies that I find in my possession. If I _had_ a larger number, the Italian friends who during the long interval have been frequenting my house must have appropriated them with no great ceremony, much as they appropriate my own books. None the less, if ever Ricciardi were to complain, I declare myself ready to pay the expense of the copies deficient. I ought to have been on the watch, but that is not my habit.

The affairs of Italy are going and will go on their right course--that is, to the expulsion of the Austrians from the Lombardo-Venetian territory. The Sicilian insurrection has done more for the Italian cause, in a few days of popular action, than two years of petitioning.

Believe me always Your much attached GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.

K.

19 CROPLEY STREET, NEW NORTH ROAD. ? _November 1848._

MY DEAR SIGNOR ROSSETTI,

Here is the Address which we sent to the Swiss Diet. I will add that a discussion on military capitulations was in consequence started in the Diet by the Ticino and the Bas-Valais; a discussion which, as befalls everything important in that Central (not Government but) mis-Government, was not settled, but held over (as they say) _ad referendum_.

Make any use of me that I can manage, and believe me always

Your much attached GIUSEPPE MAZZINI.

L.

TO “CORSO”

BROTHER,

I have received yours of the 8th. That I should write to you at much length on the subject of your letter is not possible. You, however, will certainly not suppose that I evade the discussion, nor that I do not set a right value on your convictions, or do not care about them. No indeed; and you are mistaken in fancying that your frankness of speech could ever offend me. If you but knew how the religion of truth is the religion for me! and how much any real conviction inspires me with respect, if not assent! But this is not a question to be disposed of in a few letters; nor have I time, beset as I am by a thousand distractions through my dream of Italian initiative, to enter on a discussion. And, if I ever have time, I shall compose, I confess to you, a whole volume--but I shall never publish it, unless a Republican revolution should have broken out. For the present, I understand this latest reaction in favour of Christianity, and I see it to be necessary, and acknowledge it as useful. A true knowledge of Christianity--its nature, its mission--will follow from this study. Just as, in my view, _reform_ must naturally precede the securing of independence, liberty, and equality, in political dogma, so do I believe that the political synthesis, or at any rate a glimpse of this synthesis, must, in the new epoch, precede in renovated Europe the manifestation of the religious synthesis of the epoch. Rights were of yore individual; and it was natural that first the _individual_ should be emancipated, that the _instrument_ should be formed to acquire an application of those rights in the political department. At the present time the reverse is the case. The question is that of the _social_ synthesis. The _instrument_ is no longer the _individual_, but the people. Therefore the people, which is to secure the religious formula, requires to be _constituted_: therefore a political revolution before the religious one.

Only, you know what I have always said: like advanced scouts, secret sentinels of human nature, _intelligences_ must begin to proclaim that they descry the _new lands_ and the new law. And therefore I should have supposed you to be among them; and I still believe that you will be among them later on. Meanwhile, as you think that my efforts (and be it observed that I am doing nothing) are to subserve the triumph of Christianity, so do I think that yours are to subserve the triumph of the new synthesis, the _social_ synthesis, philosophy merged into religion: because--I do not deny it--my “harmonized dualism” is precisely this harmonizing of philosophy with religion--two things which hitherto have been at odds, and which will end by coalescing. Yours is, without your perceiving it, an eclecticism and no more. Your _quid tertium_, neither _catholic_ nor _primitive_ (two distinctions as to which I should have much to say), is an Utopia, or rather a chimera. You don’t perceive that that which you call _primitive_ is at bottom nothing except Christianity in the soul, not any social form; that the second epoch--_i.e._ Catholicism--is rightly the application of Christianity to society; and that the Reformation--a cynical movement, whatever you may say about it--came, in fact, to say of Christianity: “You are not susceptible of any social application, of any national unity, because you are an individualistic formula and no more: stay you in your proper sphere.”

You and I, I perceive, regard the Reformation, and all things, from different points of view.

And now see what is the outcome of the idea, “Christianity is an _eternal_ religion, an unique religious synthesis.” And what of mankind prior to Christianity? Oh in what sense do you understand God, if you admit that He gave the unique eternal synthesis some thousands of years after the race had been created? And the unity of the mind of God? A progressive law at the beginning, and an eternal synthesis later on? But no more of this; you go too far. Believing as I do, with yourself, in continuous progression, there ought to be between us only a question of time, but never a denial of a new synthesis when the time comes. _Christianity asserts its perfection and eternity as a fundamental principle: therefore you cannot, without destroying it, say that it is not the whole of truth._ But once again, no more of this. Christianity had to profess itself perfect and eternal, and I even admit that. But when did Christianity ever affect to be a social religion? _That_ is the question. Christianity is the formula of the individual, and as such is eternal and perfect to my thinking--for that formula is what no one can nullify. It means liberty and equality; and who can ever henceforth exclude those two bases of progress from the progress of the future? Christianity therefore will endure. Only, behind that formula one seeks for another--the social. Where is the contradiction?

Tell me, my Corso, with your hand on your heart. To the arguments which I scatter in my letters, hurried, unconnected, and almost sportive, the true fruit of profound convictions, and which you (permit me to say) shirk a little in your replies, have you anything to oppose? Do not some of the things which I say, if you think them over seriously, cast some doubts on your mind?

As to what you cite to me, regarding miracles, and the resurrection of Christ, etc., I will not discuss to-day; but I confess to you, it seems to me strange that you should regard those as being irrevocably proved in history.

I say it seriously, some one will come to furbish up my ideas, without knowing that I advocated them. I am more than likely to die without doing this, because I am conscious of my mission, and I know the duration of it--and I know that it is not I who will wage the war. Truth means to run her course, and she will do it; but I shall not lay the foundation-stone of the edifice--I have no future. I have discerned, but it is not given to me to do more; therefore I still devote these my days to a work very inferior to that which my longings would have sought for--the actual production of the instrument. I am neither more nor less than a political revolutionist, and to this I resign myself. Would that I may at least be that, and wrench this Italy that I love out of the mire in which she lies, set her freed face to face with her destinies, and say to her, “Now make them yours.”

As you see, I am writing to Gioberti. Writing thus to all and sundry begins to weigh upon me. I have moments of _spleen_, of individualism which rebels; and at those moments I seem to myself to be playing the prostitute, and making Italian liberty play the like part. For if you but knew how many letters, and these to intellects so-called, and all useless! But these are moments of irritation, arising out of what I have myself been suffering these three years, and this is more than you suppose, and you know it not, and never will know it. Then I return to myself; and, where I can see any little advantage, any symptom of duty, I submit and write.

Hand also the enclosed lines to Tommaseo, who, like others, does not understand me, and does not understand the situation in which we are.

Have you seen Libri? You will tell me that I am pertinacious; this is true. But all those who desert me, without any fault of mine against them, and without my being even able to guess the reason, cause me real pain.

If you know Malmusi, or can get at any one who knows him, don’t forget to tell him that for the love of God he should reassure me concerning the arrival of certain letters of mine: his silence troubles me.

Of politics I say nothing, as I do not mean to speak about them until the first half of the month of October; then I shall have data from which to speak. Meanwhile I repeat to you what I told you.

Did you ever see Buonarroti? Do you know where Bianco is? Of him I know nothing of late, and I am anxious to write to him. Do they ever write to you from Turin? What Italians are you acquainted with? Bozzelli?

Wish well to your STROZZI.

Put an envelope on the letter to Gioberti. Write to me what reception he gives it. Pray excuse.[102]

NO. 5.--SIX POEMS BY GABRIELE ROSSETTI

[I give here six specimens of my father’s powers as a poet. Setting aside _San Paolo in Malta_, which is only an improvise, it may be said that in all these instances the verses rank among his choice things; though many others could be quoted not inferior. The dates which I give may be regarded as correct, unless as to the final sonnet, regarding which I am uncertain.

The lyric, _Aurora del 21 Luglio del 1820_, was, as I have before said, extremely celebrated in its time; and the _Addio alla Patria_ has always been an admired piece. The _San Paolo in Malta_ is referred to at p. 61, and testifies to Rossetti’s uncommon power as an Improvisatore; being as it is in _terza rima_, each rhyme is triplicated, and thus the improvising effort was all the more arduous.

I leave these poems to the perusal of such readers as are acquainted with Italian. To try to translate them would be little else than to scheme deliberately to spoil them.]

A.

AD AMORE

Alato bambino, Tiranno de’ cuori, Ch’io segua il cammino Che innanzi m’infiori? Unendomi teco Ch’io veggio sì cieco, Oh quanto sarei Più cieco di te! Pur troppo gemei, Fanciullo inumano! Ma i lacci funesti Che al piè mi cingesti Del Tempo la mano Mi sciolse dal piè.

A credulo cuore Tu scaltro dispensi Contento ed ardore Che inebbriano i sensi: Ma in mezzo al contento Prepari il tormento; L’ardor ti precede, Ti segue il languor. Nè l’alma si avvede Del passo imprudente Che quando a fuggire Le manca l’ardire, Che quando si sente Già vinta dal cuor.

Quel dì che sul mondo Vagisti bambino, Un cenno iracondo Del sordo Destino Di face ferale La destra immortale Di penne funeste Il dorso ti armò. Le penne son queste, O nume fallace, Che a Pari infedele Gonfiaron le vele, E questa è la face Che Troia bruciò.

Tu godi, o tiranno, Di sparger la terra Di gioia, d’affanno, Di pace, di guerra; Ma finta è la pace, La guerra è verace, L’affanno rimane, La gioia sen va. Insidie sì strane Ci ordisci, ci tendi, Che a render prigione L’augusta Ragione, Tuoi complici rendi Ingegno e Beltà.

Chi crede a’ tuoi detti Ne attenda la fine; Le rose prometti Per dargli le spine: Ben sento che giova Saperlo per prova; Ma troppo al mio cuore Tal prova costò. La via del dolore Io teco calcava; Ma in mezzo del corso Intesi il Rimorso Che _ferma_, gridava, Ma tardi gridò.

Quel giorno che il velo Mi cadde dal ciglio, Rimasi di gelo Scorgendo il periglio: Sul velo squarciato, Sul laccio spezzato, Il canto innalzai Di mia libertà. Ah libero omai Dal giogo abborrito, Sull’ara tua stessa Crollata, depressa, Innalzo pentito L’altar d’Amistà.

1813.

B.

VERSI D’AMORE

Dal tuo leggiadro viso Il mio destin dipende: D’ugual desio mi accende Il tuo desio. Dal labbro tuo soltanto Ha questo labbro il riso: Ha dal tuo ciglio il pianto Il ciglio mio.

1814.

C.

AURORA DEL 21 LUGLIO DEL 1820

Sei pur bella cogli astri sul crine Che scintillan quai vivi zaffiri, È pur dolce quel fiato che spiri, Porporina foriera del dì. Col sorriso del pago desio Tu ci annunzii dal balzo vicino Che d’Italia nell’almo giardino Il servaggio per sempre finì.

Il rampollo d’Enrico e di Carlo, Ei ch’ad ambo cotanto somiglia, Oggi estese la propria famiglia, E non servi ma figli bramò. Volontario distese la mano Sul volume de’ patti segnati; E il volume de’ patti giurati Della patria sull’ara posò.

Una selva di lance si scosse All’invito del bellico squillo, Ed all’ombra del sacro vessillo Un sol voto discorde non fù. E fratelli si strinser le mani, Dauno, Irpino, Lucano, Sannita; Non estinta ma solo sopita Era in essi l’antica virtù.

Ma qual suono di trombe festive! Chi s’avanza fra cento coorti? Ecco il forte che riede tra i forti,[103] Che la patria congiunse col re! Oh qual pompa! Le armate falangi Sembran fiumi che inondin le strade! Ma su tante migliaia di spade Una macchia di sangue non v’è.

Lieta scena! Chi plaude, chi piange, Chi diffonde vïole e giacinti, Vincitori confusi coi vinti Avvicendano il bacio d’amor! Dalla reggia passando al tugurio Non più finta la gioia festeggia; Dal tugurio tornando alla reggia Quella gioia si rende maggior.

Genitrici de’ forti campioni Convocati dal sacro stendardo, Che cercate col pavido sguardo? Non temete, chè tutti son quì. Non ritornan da terra nemica, Istrumenti di regio misfatto, Ma dal campo del vostro riscatto, Dove il ramo di pace fiorì.

O beata fra tante donzelle, O beata la ninfa che vede Fra que’ prodi l’amante che riede Tutto sparso di nobil sudor! Il segreto dell’alma pudica Le si affaccia sul volto rosato, Ed il premio finora negato La bellezza prepara al valor.

Cittadini, posiamo sicuri Sotto l’ombra de’ lauri mietuti, Ma coi pugni sui brandi temuti Stiamo in guardia del patrio terren. Nella pace prepara la guerra Chi da saggio previene lo stolto: Ci sorrida la pace sul volto, Ma ci frema la guerra nel sen.

Che guardate, gelosi stranieri? Non uscite dai vostri burroni, Chè la stirpe dei prischi leoni Più nel sonno languente non è. Adorate le vostre catene; Chi v’invidia cotanto tesoro? Ma lasciate tranquilli coloro Che disdegnan sentirsele al piè.

Se verrete, le vostre consorti, Imprecando ai vessilli funesti, Si preparin le funebri vesti, Chè speranza per esse non v’ha. Sazierete la fame de’ corvi, Mercenarie falangi di schiavi; In chi pugna pe’ dritti degli avi Divien cruda la stessa pietà.

Una spada di libera mano È saetta di Giove tonante, Ma nel pugno di servo tremante Come canna vacilla l’acciar. Fia trionfo la morte per noi, Fia ruggito l’estremo sospiro; Le migliaia di Persia fuggiro, I trecento di Sparta restâr!

E restaron coi brandi ne’ pugni Sopra mucchi di corpi svenati, E que’ pugni, quantunque gelati, Rassembravan disposti a ferir. Quello sdegno passava nel figlio Cui fù culla lo scudo del padre, Ed al figlio diceva la madre, “Quest’esempio tu devi seguir.”

O tutrice dei dritti dell’uomo, Che sorridi sul giogo spezzato, È pur giunto quel giorno beato Che un monarca t’innalza l’altar! Tu sul Tebro fumante di sangue Passeggiavi qual nembo fremente, Ma serena qual’alba ridente Sul Sebeto t’assidi a regnar.

Una larva col santo tuo nome Quì sen venne con alta promessa; Noi, credendo che fossi tu stessa, Adorammo la larva di te: Ma, nel mentre fra gl’inni usurpati Sfavillava di luce fallace, Ella sparve qual sogno fugace, Le catene lasciandoci al piè.

Alla fine tu stessa venisti Non ombrata da minimo velo, Ed un raggio disceso dal cielo Sulla fronte ti veggio brillar. Coronata di gigli perenni, Alla terra servendo d’esempio, Tu scegliesti la reggia per tempio, Ove il trono ti serve d’altar.

1820.

D.

ADDIO ALLA PATRIA

Nella notte più serena Era in ciel la luna piena: Neve il dorso e fiamma il crin Riflettea dal mar vicin Il Vesèvo che grandeggia Come reggia--di Vulcan: D’arme grave--anglica nave Trascorrea l’equoreo pian.

Quando il profugo cantore, La cui colpa è il patrio amore, Atteggiato di martir, Schiuse il labbro ad un sospir E qual flebile usignuolo, Il suo duolo--a disfogar, Dal naviglio--volse il ciglio La sua terra a salutar.

O Partenope, egli dice, O Partenope infelice, Di tua gloria il chiaro dì Quasi al nascere morì! Ah dal cor t’indrizzo i carmi Nel sottrarmi--a reo poter, E nel bando--miserando Sarai sempre il mio pensier!

Rè fellon che ci tradisti, Tu rapisci e non racquisti: Maledetto, o rè fellon, Sii dall’austro all’aquilon! Maledetto ogni malnato Che ha tramato--insiem con te! Maledetto--ogni soggetto Che ti lambe il sozzo piè!

Ti sien contro in ogni loco Cielo e terra, mare e foco, Nè dien tregua a un infedel Foco e mare, terra e ciel! Sì, ti faccian sempre guerra Cielo e terra--foco e mar! Ti stia scritto--il tuo delitto Sulla mensa e sull’altar!

Traditor, da quel momento Che infrangesti il giuramento, Cento stili, o traditor, Tendon’ avidi al tuo cor... Deh frenate il santo sdegno, Non n’è degno--un cor brutal, E saetta--di vendetta Tenga il luogo del pugnal!

Che pel fulmine di Dio De’ suoi falli ei paghi il fio, Ma di Bruto il sacro stil Onorar non dee quel vil! No, non abbia il vil la gloria Che la storia--dica un dì: Il nefando--Ferdinando Come Cesare perì!

Mesta Italia, io ti saluto: Qual momento hai tu perduto! Quel momento, o Dio, chi sà Se mai più ritornerà? Già sorgea ringiovanita L’impigrita--tua virtù... Come mai--tornar potrai Al languor di servitù?

Deh perchè non farla, o Sorte, O men bella, o almen più forte? L’astringesti ad invocar Lo straniero infido acciar, Onde o vinta o vincitrice L’infelice--ognor servì, E impugnando--estraneo brando Sè medesma ognor ferì.

Ah crudel, se a questa terra Far volevi eterna guerra, Perchè darle poi, crudel, Questo suolo e questo ciel? Quì le vergini di Giove Tutte e nove--apriro il vol, Quì sfavilla--la scintilla Che Prometeo tolse al sol.

Surse quì la face aurata Sull’Europa ottenebrata, E l’Europa a quel fulgor Si scotea dal suo torpor. Cento doti, Italia bella, Lieta stella--a te largì; Ahi t’invola--quella sola Che ti fea regina un dì!

Libertà, tu fuggi? Ed io... Io ti seguo; Italia, addio! Libertà, non mai da te, Mai non fia ch’io torca il piè! Oh se un dì farai ritorno, In quel giorno--anch’io verrò; Ma infelice--il cor mi dice Che mai più non tornerò!

Sì dicea; ma l’igneo monte Decrescea nell’orizzonte, E la luna in mezzo al ciel S’era ascosa in grigio vel. Par che stia con veste oscura La Natura--a dolorar, Par lamento--il flebil vento, Par singulto il rotto mar.

Addio, terra sventurata!... Ma la terra era celata. Ei nel duol che l’aggravò Chinò ’l capo e singhiozzò. Ahi l’amor della sua terra, Ahi qual guerra--in sen gli fà! Infelice!--il cor gli dice Che mai più non tornerà!

_24 Giugno 1821._

E.

SAN PAOLO IN MALTA--_Canto Improvvisato_