THE CAVALIERE SERVENTE.
Alfieri's greatest terror in life was to fall in love once more. All his
love affairs had been degrading to his good sense, his will and his
manhood; they had been odious, even at the moment, to his extraordinary
innate passion, or, one might almost say, monomania for independence;
he who even in his dullest and most inane years had hated the thought
of any sort of military or diplomatic position which should imply
subjection to a despotic government, whose only strong feeling about the
world in general had long been a fierce hatred and contempt both for
those who tyrannised and those who were tyrannised over, this Alfieri
had always, as he tells us, fled, though unsuccessfully, from the
presence of women whose social position (though the words sound like a
sarcasm) was sufficiently good to make any regular love intrigue
possible or probable. How much more must he not defend his liberty now
that he saw before him the direct road to glory, and felt within himself
the power to journey along it.
Thus it was, as he explains in his autobiography, that on his first
arrival in Florence, hearing everyone praising the character and talents
of the wife of Charles Edward Stuart, and seeing the beautiful young
woman at theatres and in the public promenade, he resolutely declined to
be introduced to her. The very charm of the impression which she had
thus accidentally made upon him, the vivid image of those very dark eyes
(I am translating his words, and must explain that her eyes, which
seemed blue to Bonstetten and dark to Alfieri's, were in reality of that
hazel colour which gives great prominence to the pupil, and therefore
leaves the idea of black eyes) contrasting with the brilliant fair skin
and pale blonde hair, of the graciousness and sweetness and perhaps even
a certain sad austerity in her whole appearance and manner,--all this
made Alfieri determine to avoid all personal acquaintance.
But after some months at Siena, where his thoughts had been entirely
absorbed in the literary projects which he discussed with his new
friend, the grave and good and serious-minded Gori, and one or two
Sienese professors, after that first feeling of attraction had died
away, and he felt himself covered, as it were, with an impenetrable
armour of poetic interests, Alfieri decided, on his return to Florence,
that he was quite sufficiently of a new man to expose himself without
any danger to such a lady as the Countess of Albany. He was, after all,
a different individual from that inane, dull, violent young man who in
the vacuity of life had raged and roared in the chains of unworthy love.
And she, she also, was quite a different woman from the Lady Ligonier
and from the Marchesa di Prié, the shameless, unfaithful wives, and
heartless, vain, worldly coquettes who had made such havoc of his heart.
She was a cold, virtuous, extremely intellectual woman, trying to
find consolation for her quietly and bravely supported miseries in
study, in abstract interests which should take away her thoughts from
the sickening reality of things; a woman who would be valuable as a
friend to a poet, and who would know how to value his friendship. And
he, continually seeking for people who could understand his literary
ambitions, with whom he could discuss all his poetical projects, and
from whom he might receive assistance in this new intellectual life,
was he not in need of such a friendship? Would he not appreciate its
usefulness and uniqueness sufficiently to see that it did not turn to a
mere useless and demoralising love affair? There may also have been
something very reassuring to Alfieri's apprehensions in the knowledge
that he would be dealing, not with an Italian woman, accustomed and
almost socially obliged to hold a man in the degrading bonds of
cicisbeism, but with a foreigner, the jealously-guarded wife of a sort
of legendary ogre, with whom, however much the old fury of love might
awaken in him, there could by no possibility be anything beyond the most
strictly watched friendship. So Alfieri went to the palace of the Count
of Albany; and, having once been, returned there.
The palace bought by Charles Edward about 1776 stands in the most remote
and peaceful quarter of Florence. A few quiet streets, unbroken by
shop-fronts and unfrequented by vehicles, lead up to that quarter;
streets of low white-washed convent walls overtopped by trees, of silent
palaces, of unpretending little houses of the seventeenth or eighteenth
century, from behind whose iron window-gratings and blistered green
shutters one expects even now, as one passes in the silence of the
summer afternoons, to hear the faint jangle of some harpsichord-strummed
minuet, the turns and sudden high notes of some long-forgotten song by
Cimarosa or Paisiello. It is a region of dead walls, over which bend
the acacias and elms, over which shoot up the cypresses and cedars
of innumerable convent and palace-gardens, on whose flower-beds and
fountains and quincunxes the first-floor windows look down. In the midst
of all this, at the corner of two very quiet streets, stands the palace,
now of the Duke of San Clemente, an ungainly, yellow structure of
various epochs, with a pretty late sixteenth-century belvedere tower on
one side; a lot of shuttered and heavily-grated seventeenth-century
windows, ornamented with stone stay-laces and tags, upon the dark
street; and to the back a desolate old garden, where the vines have
crawled over the stonework, and the grotesque seventeenth-century
statues, green and yellow with lichen, stand in niches among the
ill-trimmed hedges of ilex and laurel: the most old-world house and
garden in the old-world part of the town. The eighteenth century still
seems very near as we walk in those streets and look in, through the
railings, at the ilex and laurel quincunxes, the lichened statues of
that garden; and from the roof of the house still floats, creaking in
the wind, regardless of the triumph of the Hanoverians, unconscious of
the many banners which have been thrown, mere heaps of obsolete coloured
tatters, on the dust-heap, a rusty metal weather-vane, bearing the
initials of Carolus Rex, the last successor of the standard that was
raised in Glenfinnan.
In this house was now developing one of the most singular loves that
ever were. Shortly after his introduction to the Countess of Albany,
Alfieri, terrified lest he might be forfeiting his spiritual liberty
once more, took to flight and tried to forget the lady in a mad journey
to Rome. But he had not forgotten her; and on his passage through Siena,
returning to Florence, he had explained his feelings, his fears, to
his friend Francesco Gori. This Gori, a young Sienese of the middle
class, extremely cultured, of "antique uprightness," to use the
eighteenth-century phrase, seems to have taken to his heart, as one
might some wild younger brother, or some eccentric, moody child, the
strange, self-engrossed, passionate Piedmontese. A gentle, grave, and
quiet man, he had loved the magnanimity and independence so curiously
mingled with mere vanity and egotism in Alfieri's nature; he had never
tired of hearing his friend's plans for the future, had never smiled at
his almost comic certainty of supreme greatness, he had never lost
patience with the self-meritorious egotism which made all Alfieri's
actions seem the one interest of the world in Alfieri's own eyes. To
Francesco Gori, therefore, Alfieri went for advice: ought he, or ought
he not, to fly from this new love while it was still possible to do so?
The grave and virtuous Gori answered that he should not: this new love
had been sent to him as a cure for all baser loves; instead of crushing
it as an obstacle to his higher life and his glory, he should thankfully
cultivate it as an incentive and assistance in working out his
intellectual redemption.
Let us pause, and consider for a moment the meaning of Alfieri's
question, and the meaning of Gori's answer; let us try and realise the
ideas and feelings of two honourable men, seeking a higher life, in a
country so near our own as Italy, and so short a while ago as the year
1777. Here was Alfieri, passionately desirous to redeem his own
existence by intellectual efforts, and confident of a vague mission to
awaken his countrymen to his own nobler feelings: to the contempt of
sensual pleasures and worldly vanities, the hatred of political and
religious servitude, the love of truth and justice, the love of Italy.
Here was this Alfieri, at the very outset of his new career, solemnly
confiding to his kindest and wisest friend the scruples, the fears,
which restrained him from seeking the company of a woman whom he was
beginning to love, and who was beginning to love him, a young woman
married by mere worldly convention to a sickly, brutal, and brutish
drunkard, old enough to be her father. And what were these scruples?
Merely that a new love might distract Alfieri from his plans of study
and work, that a woman might cheat him of glory, and Italy of the tragic
drama which would school her to virtue. That there could be any other
scruples appears never to have crossed Alfieri's brain: that there could
be any reason to pause and ask himself whether he was doing wrong or ill
before exposing to temptation the woman whom he loved, and the honour
which he loved more than her; whether he had a right to return to the
palace of Charles Edward and, while receiving his hospitality, while
enjoying his confidence, to teach the wife of his host how to love
another man than her husband; whether he had a right to return to the
presence of that beautiful and intellectual lady, who had hitherto
suffered only from the brutishness of her husband, and add to these
sufferings the sufferings of hopeless love, the sufferings of a guilty
conscience?
But to the Italian of the eighteenth century, even to the man who most
thoroughly despised and loathed his country's and century's corruption,
no such scruple ever came. What consideration need any man or any woman
waste upon a husband? What possible disgrace could come to a woman
in having a lover? And did not the frantic jealousy of the besotted
old husband, his continual attendance, his perpetual spying, most
effectually remove any further consideration there might be for him?
I scarcely know whether it is a thing about which to be cheerful or sad,
proud or ashamed; but the more one studies the ideas and feelings of
even one's nearest neighbours, in place or in time, the more is one
impressed with the sense that, say what people choose, men and women do
not think and feel, even upon the most important subjects, in anything
like a uniform manner. Social misarrangements, which are crimes towards
the individual, are invariably partially righted, made endurable, by
individual rearrangements, which are crimes towards society. The woman
was not consulted by her parents before her marriage, she was not
restrained by her conscience afterwards; she was given for ambition to a
man whose tenure of her received legal and religious sanction; she gave
herself for love to a man whose possession of her was against society
and against religion; but society received her to its parties, and the
Church gave her its communion. And thus, in Italy, and in the eighteenth
century, where no one had found any fault at a girl of nineteen being
married by proxy to a man who turned out to be a disgusting and brutal
sot; no one also could find any fault at a young man of twenty-eight
seeking, and obtaining, the love of a married woman of twenty-five. The
immoral law had produced the immoral lawlessness. So, to the scruples
of Alfieri, Francesco Gori had answered: "Return to Florence."
We shall now see how, out of this vile piece of prose, the higher nature
of Alfieri and of the Countess of Albany, and (what a satire upon poetic
and platonic affection!) most of all, the monomaniac jealousy of Charles
Edward, contrived to make a sort of poetry.