Part 2

Many gave homage to the new-built throne; And I, while scorning any cringing phrase, Struck on my lyre, and spread abroad its sound, Saluting that forthcoming period: And what I said thereof in varying style, If not free-toned, is not subservient. Soon do the accents of my lyre recall Men’s eyes and praises to the youthful gift, And I diffuse the firstlings of my fame About the kingdom’s mighty capital; But, by attracting blear-eyed rivals too, Envy first made me a target for her darts. And so much did this trouble my repose, And raised hobgoblins such a swarm at home, That, freed from them, my dolorous exile Has almost seemed to me beatitude. How often have I cried--“I am exiled now, And pardon all the rancour of my foes.”

Ah when I think it o’er I shudder still, Though past the sixtieth limit of my years. One Boccanera, livid in his rage, Tempted a bravo to cut short my life; Watchful I had to be for several months: Can then insensate envy reach to this? But who can tell all the contorted roads Which rancour led my rivals to pursue? Charges unjust, anonymous calumnies,-- But yet my innocence o’erthrew them all: Intrepid I outfaced such keen attacks, And became known and cherished by the young. In public halls, where it behoved me at times To speak the verses I had written down, The popular applause served to prelude My song, as soon as I appeared in sight.

That my first volume, as it issued forth, Earned me the friendship of distinguished men, And I was made, without soliciting, The Poet for San Carlo’s Theatre. I wrote some dramas there, and every one Of my attempts was followed by success: First Julius Sabinus’ mournful fate, Then Hannibal’s light loves in Capua, And finally the Birth of Hercules,[7] Were greeted with unanimous applause. How much I joyed that on that stately stage My mind was thus allowed to spatiate! “In this arena of glory,” I would say, “If I have genius, I can show it forth”; And dreamed of mingling in one dulcet draught Alfieri’s style with Metastasio’s. But my illusions waned; for various thwarts, And fetters both direct and indirect, And the composers and the Managers, And Prime Donne, plots, and etiquettes, And then protectors and aught stranger still, Frequently shuffled all my hand of cards. Incensed I cried: “I’ll leave the Theatre, For here I’m nothing but a slave of slaves.”

To Monsignor Capecelatro I sped, Our Minister at the time for Home-affairs, And meekly spoke, expounding first the facts, “The Madhouse is not where I want to go.” Could vanity from sovereign patronage Dazzle a free Parnassian intellect? I was content with a subordinate post[8] Then vacant in the King’s Museum; here Propitious did the Muses nurture me With vivid genius of the antique arts. Here I could pasture in the selfsame hour My craving mind, and shelter it from vice, For an immense choice library is joined To the Museum, in one building’s span: And thus a double discipline exalts My soul in beauty’s pathways and in truth’s. ’Mid living bronze and marble animate, Which constantly held converse with my thoughts, I something wrote in prose and much in verse, Evolving grace upon the fair and true.

Staying amid those admirable hoards, A treasure-house of arts and industries, I met with Kings and met with Emperors, Conspicuous artists, men of lettered fame.[9] And thus three lustres of my term of life Wore in that unperturbed abode along; And I beheld two Kings arrive and go, Made and unmade by force of destiny. But, though my work was converse with the dead, I scanned both courts, their virtues and their vice. Of the two kings, one bad, and one was good, And in this sentence all is summarized; And both their fates depended, and their thrones, Upon the man who dreamed omnipotence; But by the Spanish and the Northern storm The star of Bonaparte turned to pale. Odious to many, Joseph went his way,-- That silence followed him which speaks for much; Wasteful and lustful and vainglorious, He by his courtiers only was deplored. Better than Ferdinand he was for sure, But that was merit (merit!) none could miss. Later when Joachim of a sudden fled, I heard a general chorus of concern-- “If but his mind were equal to his heart, Who worthier than he to fill a throne?” Ferdinand matched with him produces that Which in a picture gives the shades and lights. O epoch memorable for wretchedness! Oh the caprice of barbarous destiny Which sent us back that faithless Ferdinand, Bereaving us of kindly Joachim! And soon the craven to the valiant gave, By the same destiny, a barbarous death.

O Bonaparte, _thou_ the object deemed Of worship? Ah he lies who calls thee great![10] For thee the world claims lofty intellect, For thee, with an enormous error fooled. Thou wast, in wresting from the nations hope, At once liberticide and suicide. That day when thou didst will thee Emperor, Thou in St Helena dugg’st out thy grave: That day thou gav’st back Austria all her strength, To Russia daring, potency to Kings. That edict which the applauding Senate brought To thee, ’twas that the edict of thy death. Well do I know how scheming sycophants Proclaimed the day auspicious and of joy; But that day sowed the mournfulness of years For thee and thine, for nations, for the world. And thou, of piercing sight, thou saw’st it not? By God, a mole would not have failed to see! For thee I weep not, who in long-drawn throes Didst reach convulsive to thy latest hour; But for the innocent nations weep I fain, Who, by thy hand betrayed, are moaning still. Ever have I been prone to pardoning thee Thy proper anguish, but not that of man. But for that crime by which thou didst indue Thee with vast shame and us with sorrows vast, How long ago would Europe have beheld, One after other, low her tyrants sunk! When I the effect contemplate of thy crime, I am tempted to exclaim--Be thou accurst! Receive the judgment of the centuries-- I seem to hear it sounding o’er thy grave-- “Thou couldst have been the tyrants’ death-dealer, And chosest for thyself a despot’s name. As the keen-cutting vengeful sword of God, Let wrong thou didst to others fall on thee!”

Now the Queen-city, Joachim being gone, Remained uncertain of her future fate; And, like death’s messenger, the cry arose-- “Ferdinand hastens back, and Caroline”: And on a thousand gloomy brows one read More horror than for earthquake or the plague. And of those two the most terrific things I heard a hundred hundred tongues narrate. Some travelled, some escaped, some hid themselves, And one was known to have gone mad with fear: But hope, I saw, had halfway been revived When it was published--“Caroline is dead.” Yes, more than halfway; for they all averred: “This Bourbon, in himself, is weak and null; And, if he did become so black a wretch, ’Twas that she-Fury who impelled him on: Now that she’s foundered in the realms of night, A human being he may be once more.” And so it proved. The first-imagined fears Were cleared away from the most troubled minds, And all perceived that on a better plan That richly-gifted Kingdom would be ruled, And would attain, under a milder curb, If not prosperity, at least repose. The Aonian chorus revelled in the peace, And chaunted amid others’ songs my own. Our Ferdinand the Fourth was just a fiend, But, dubbed the First, he wears an angel’s grace. And I beheld that festive ardour grow, The less expected, all the livelier. ’Tis true so much rejoicing was perturbed, In almost every confine of the realm, By feverish epidemic, Noja’s plague, And, worst of all, a longsome year of dearth: But still the King dictated remedies, And, if he could no more, he sympathized.

Then, when he sickened, weighted now with years, And the severe disease seemed past a cure, So great the sorrow everywhere appeared That all the civil orders shared in it; And, when fair daylight followed on the cloud, The joy was equal to the genuine grief. In style now classic or romantic now Native Academies acclaim the event; And I, in verse extemporized almost (And Fame still guerdons it with some applause), Saluted, in the name of Italy, The Bourbon Sovereign restored to health.[11] One Gallo (maybe Corvo?), of Sicily, Who thought himself a swan of Hippocrene-- Or Gallo or Corvo, acrid and malign-- Trying to do me an ill turn, did a good. And this affair I’m minded to narrate,-- A curious little story as it is. He spread on all sides a censorious croak That my address was outrage ’gainst the King: And yet that ode contains such flatteries That, when I now reflect on it, I blush; And _he_ discerned therein, and clamoured loud, An actual insult in the seeming praise.[12] Against my verses such a cackle-cry Was raised by him on one and other hand That in the end our arbitrary Police Prohibited their printing in the book; And many said that I should find myself Dismissed my employ, or sent to jail perchance. The selfsame calumnies against my song, From quarters more than one, arrived in court. The King called for a copy, and, reading it, He was affected, and was moved to tears. The Duke of Ascoli was on the spot, Who with minuteness told me of the facts. Indeed the King so highly prized my lines That he directed the Home-Minister To have me summoned, and to give me thanks In a dispatch sent by the government: And, paper in hand, he added--“Tell him too, I wept at it, and feel indebted to him.” Further to crush that shameless calumny Which he remarked some people still believed, He made the Minister Tommasi read The poem aloud, in Council at the full,-- And oh what plaudits did my lines secure! And at some parts the King shed tears anew. I, then at the Museum, saw arrive A Halberdier with grave and serious mien. Ah what uncertainties assailed my heart! Here comes the announcement that will strip me bare! I read, in doubt and wavering, the dispatch: “His Majesty requires you--come at once.” Anxious I sped, and pondered on the way What answer I could offer to the charge. I entered with that sinister forecast, And General Naselli, a Minister, Came forward and encountered me, all smiles. He said “Be seated”--pointing with his hand To a gilded sofa, face to face with him. He, turning with an affable regard Toward me, my eyebrows arching with surprise, Repeats, with manifest complacency, The kindly words used by the Sovereign: And on my countenance he could observe, Mingled with pleasure, some astonishment. I answered--after a simple preluding With which I need not here concern myself-- “This moment compensates for studious years,-- I’m thankful for the kindness of our King. But, Sir, is any power above his own? What he so much approves others reject.” He answered me with an offended air-- “Have you your senses? This I can’t excuse.” And I: “The whole collection is in print, And my one poem only turned adrift; My senses serve me well, your Excellency: The Censorship has over-ruled the King.” He smiled, and then, in a laconic tone, Dictated to his secretary thus: “The poems all must pass the censorship, Except the one by Gabriel Rossetti. From his the printing cannot be withheld, Because the King has passed it and approved.” I showed about all this no great conceit, But it was greeted warmly by the young, And that Sicilian Gallo, envious man, Remained a laughing-stock, and drooped his comb.[13] Then, when my lyric came to public light, It won in Naples universal praise. The fame of it went forth to Rome itself, Where I am proud of being amply known, For there I left a band of well-wishers When the Provisional Government dissolved In which I unobtrusively had held In the Fine Arts a post of eminence.[14] And the Sebezia Academy with pride Noted my victory, which involved its own, And which was viewed with so much bitterness By Gallo that he fled that very night. This Gallo against me, an exile now, Perhaps is crowing still--which I forgive.

In that Parthenopean Company I sang the Threnody for several dead, And for the saintly Bruno d’Amantea, The noble surgeon and philanthropist;[15] And good Valletta, on coming back from Rome, And fair Paloma, did I celebrate.[16] And in the presence of the royal court, Which had erected a majestic tomb, I sang the glory and deplored the death Of the renowned Giovanni Paisiello,[17] Who, the harmonic Siren’s progeny, Bore sway o’er Europe’s music on the stage. Torquato Tasso’s golden trumpet next Blew with my breath, to magnify himself,[18] He mine inspirer from the living stone Which near the sea the King had raised for him; And on that evening the Sebezia Brought from all Europe choicest guests to meet. There the good King of Denmark’s worthy heir Came to embrace me ’mid a crushing throng;[19] And with my daring images I struck French, Russians, Germans, Spaniards, Englishmen.

And now in Sapphic now in Theban mood, I sang beside the urn, with laurel wreathed, Wherein Luigi Quattromani sleeps,[20] A casket from the Bible’s treasure-stores: In him I greeted, and I bless him now, The kindly master in the social friend. Truly a poet--I seem to see him still-- Inspired himself, inspiring others too: When blind and old, he in his mind preserved Acutest sight and lively youthfulness.

I interrupt the verse-narrative for a moment, to point out that Rossetti here recounts--what was of leading importance in his Neapolitan career--how he came to be an improvising poet. Luigi Quattromani was a renowned improvisatore, and (so far as I infer) little or not at all an author of verse written and published. The date when Rossetti first knew him, and soon afterwards began improvising, is not here defined; I suppose it may have been towards 1810. When my father came to London in 1824 he resolved not to prolong the practice; thinking, and no doubt rightly, that, although he might excite some surprise and attention by improvising, it would on the whole lower his position as a serious professional man in the teaching and literary vocation. Yet he did occasionally give a specimen of his prowess as an extempore poet; the latest notice I find of such a performance was in his family-circle, in 1840. If I myself ever heard him improvise, I have forgotten it. The observations which he here makes on the dangers of the habit, both to health and to purity of poetic style, are worth noting. He first proceeds with a description of Quattromani’s doings.

Whenso I heard him touch on David’s harp, All fervid with extemporaneous power, Upon his face shone out the impassioned soul Which spread around spontaneous bursts of light. And that same flame I saw a-shine in him On mine own spirit did I feel descend. Yes, what I heard meseemed not possible; ’Twas ecstasy to me, enchantment, dream. But what appeared incredible almost Was coming to be realized in myself. On my way home I tried to do the like, And oh astonishment! I also sang Line after line: so strange the upshot seemed That I renewed the essay for several days. By daytime and by night assiduously Did I repeat that same experiment. Often with Quattromani I conferred, Who gave my verses not a little praise; And once the blind old man exclaimed to me-- “Alternate with me in an improvise.” And, after a few trials and demands, He took me up with so much ardent zest That ’mid the pomp of images produced He gave me many a “viva” from his heart. He closed by saying: “For poetic strifes Nature has given you athletic power.” “Persist,” he often said to me, “persist, And let no sloth impede you on your road. A poet you were born, and those who seek To change your course--believe this--envy you. What you at your commencement do with me Might seem the fruit of lengthy studying.” And often did our verses alternate In choice assemblies with co-equal praise, So much men’s judgments wavered in the scales That ’twixt us victory remained in doubt. But this impressed on me the stamp of worth-- What honour to contend with such a man! He, like a living mirror, faces me, And, seeing myself in him, I can but grieve. He old and blind, and I too blind and old: And he died poor, and I am dying poor. But which of us the more deplorable? He in his country, I exiled by fate!

Oft on this foreign shore I’ve asked myself, Did my addiction to extempore song Harm me, or profit? I remain in doubt. But this, without nice solving, I’ll affirm-- I was becoming palsied and in spasms. A Galen’s rigour ought to cry it down, And thus prevent so miserable an end. ’Twas so my Brother Dominick expired,[21] Who in such efforts was expert and apt. I never heard that brother of mine recite-- He left me a child, but I remember him; And well I know that he at Parma’s bar Was greeted as a re-born Cicero. Youthful he died, far from his family-- And wherefore died? Because he improvised. More than one symptom has convinced me clear That, through my leaving off that exercise, Exile, in that alone, has been my friend: And so, from much reflection I can say, That mental strain leads to paralysis. Nor only with regard to healthful life Makes it the nerves uncertain and unstrung, But as to writing with correctness too I fear at last it worsens toward neglect. Yes, that it harms the style I can but think: To work a-sudden is not working well. Thou who wouldst merit the Phœbean wreath, O youth, take caution ’gainst this same abuse; For these my verses, written slipshod-like, Perhaps derive from that ill-wont of mine; For now I hurry verse to follow verse, And reel them off as ’twere a kind of talk. Good composition craves a needful space, Not emulous capricious fantasy.

Though such a practice I cannot defend, Still I become renowned because of that. Full many a noted passage from my muse Was quoted, serious and facetious both; And oft-times at the tables of the great, Invited guest and poet, I had my place. What precious days I wasted on good cheer, Whence, save keen penitence, I’ve nothing now! Amid our Princes, Dukes, and Marquises,-- Cassero, Campochiaro, Berio-- Phœbus joined Bacchus with a joyous note, Doubly to drench the mind’s ebriety. Inflamed and reckless ’mid the toasts and praise, I saw my youthful Muse more daring grown; And, when I went from Naples to the Tiber, I found my fame there copiously diffused. Among the poets whom I cherished there, I give but Biondi’s and Ferretti’s names.[22]

As one of the Provisional Government King Joachim had summoned me to Rome:[23] Monte Citorio there, seven months and more, Saw me employed at morning and at eve; And I was present at the Pope’s return In year thirteen of this our century. And _there_ was likewise put in exercise My Muse, by urgencies a thousandfold; And I again aroused enthusiasm, For poetry in Rome is greatly loved.-- Of this no more, for I can hear a voice-- “To enlarge hereon were obvious self-conceit.”

Nor does Rome stint herself to mere applause, But gives me titles and diplomas too. The Arcadia, and Tiberine Academy, The Ardenti of Viterbo, and others more, Inscribed my own ’mid many goodly names. In Naples not of the Sebezia alone But the Pontanian Society, And even the Orezia from Palermo, I hold diplomas in this distant land; And, now that I am at my day’s extreme, One also I receive from Lyons in France. I _was_, not am. The past is all a school Where clear I see the nothingness of man. For me has vanished all: only the grave Awaits me, and thither willingly I go. Life is a lengthened dream, and, when it ends, All lettered glory is a dream as well; And vanity of vanities I mark, Yea even in that which crowns the highest of men Had I the golden trump and deathless name Of Homer, or of Virgil or Torquato, What would the guerdon of my verses be? Just a dissyllable I should not hear. Sad fate!

But I return to Ferdinand, Auspicious planet to his realm restored. He, by endowing the Sebezia, Seemed patron of our country’s intellect; So that I frequently heard men proclaim-- “Demon he went, and angel he returned.” But who can ever change the human soul? He in reverting saw us evermore As liegemen to himself or to Murat: The first he greeted with a cheerful mien, And for the second nursed a secret grudge. Brothers with brothers he did not unite, As should have been effected from the first All the best posts were given away to these, Though oftentimes unjust and ignorant; Those others were neglected and depressed, However honourable and well-informed. A victim I of such partiality, Of which the proofs could day by day be seen; What was my due he gave to some one else. When Naples to their palace had beheld From Sicily return the unrighteous court, In her most famous University The chair of Eloquence was left unfilled; And in the ardour of a youthful hope I too competed ’mid a lettered band.[24] We numbered thirty-six. Before me I saw Conspicuous talents, each more strong than I; And we were set to pass a triple test, Three different subjects taken out by lot: Two, writ in the Professors’ presence there, Who had to be the censors of the themes. The first was in the language of that Rome Who gave her laws and usage to the world; The second, in the tongue of Italy, Classic in style, and resonant and terse; Lastly, the third one had to be pronounced To the assembled public from the chair. For the two writings, Gatti, Oliva, and I, Issued with equal credit from the strife: But in the third and arduous exercise I gained the victory over all the rest. Amid the surging and applauding throng, The Faculty cried many times “Well done!”-- Who got the chair? A certain Bianchi did, Who had salient merits as a loyalist. And mice were cutting capers on the forms Deserted by our youth indignantly. I vamp up no fantastic notions here: All Naples can declare it to be true.