SEPARATION.
Alfieri and the Countess were happy, happier, perhaps, than at any
other time of their lives; but this happiness had to be paid for. The
false position in which, however faultlessly, they were placed; the
illegitimate affection in which, however blamelessly, they were
indulging; these things, offensive to social institutions, although in
no manner wrong in themselves, had produced their fruit of humiliation,
nay, of degradation. Fate is more of a Conservative than we are apt to
think; it resents the efforts of any individual, be he as blameless
as possible, to resist for his own comfort and satisfaction the
uncomfortable and unsatisfactory arrangements of the world; it punishes
the man who seeks to elude an unjust law by condemning him to the same
moral police depôt, to the same moral prison-food, as the villain who
has eluded the holiest law that was ever framed; and Fate, therefore,
soiled the poetic passion of Alfieri and his lady by forcing it to the
base practices of any illicit love. The manner in which Fate executes
these summary lynchings of people's honour could not usually be more
ingenious; there seems to be a special arrangement by which offenders
are punished in their most sensitive part. The punishment of Alfieri
and of Mme. d'Albany for refusing to sacrifice their happiness to the
proprieties of a society which married girls of nineteen to drunkards
whom they had never seen, but which would not hear of divorce; this
punishment, falling directly only upon the man, but probably just as
heavy upon the woman who witnessed the humiliation of the person whom
she most loved and respected, consisted in turning Alfieri, the man who
was training Italy to be self-respecting, truthful, unflinching, into a
toady, a liar, and an intriguer.
The Countess of Albany, living in the palace of her brother-in-law,
Cardinal York, and under the special protection of the Pope, was
entirely dependent on the good pleasure of the priestly bureaucracy of
the Rome of Pius VI., that is to say, of about the most contemptible
and vilest set of fools and hypocrites and sinners that can well be
conceived; the Papacy, just before the Revolution, had become one of the
most corrupt of the many corrupt Governments of the day. Cardinal York
himself was a weak and silly, but honest and kind-hearted man; but
Cardinal York was entirely swayed by the prelates and priests and
priestlets and semi-priestly semi-lay nondescripts among whom he lived.
He was responsible for the honour of the Countess of Albany, that is to
say, of her husband and his brother; and the honour of the Countess of
Albany depended exactly upon the remarks which the most depraved and
hypocritical clergy in Europe, the people who did or abetted all the
dirty work of Pius VI. and his Sacred College, chose to make or not to
make about her conduct.
Such were the persons upon whom depended the liberty and happiness of
Alfieri's lady, the possibility of that high-flown Platonic intercourse
which constituted Louis d'Albany's whole happiness, and Alfieri's
strongest incentive to glory; a word from them could exile Alfieri and
lock the Countess up in a convent. The consequence of this state of
things is humiliating to relate, since it shows to what baseness the
most high-minded among us may be forced to degrade themselves. Already,
during those few days' sojourn in Rome, before his stay in Naples and
Mme. d'Albany's release from the Ursuline convent, Alfieri had spent his
time running about flattering and wheedling the powers in command (that
is to say, the corrupt ministers of the Papacy and their retinue of
minions and spies), in order to obtain leave to inhabit the same city as
his beloved and to see her from time to time; doing everything, and
stooping to everything, he tells us, in order to be tolerated by those
priests and priestlets whom he abhorred and despised from the bottom
of his heart. "After so many frenzies, and efforts to make myself a
free man," he writes, in his autobiography, "I found myself suddenly
transformed into a man paying calls, and making bows and fine speeches
in Rome, exactly like a candidate on promotion in prelatedom." At this
price of bitter humiliation, nay, of something more real than mere
humiliation, Alfieri bought the privilege of frequenting the palace of
Cardinal York. But it was a privilege for which you could not pay once
and for all; its price was a black-mail of humbugging, and wheedling,
and dirt-eating.
Alfieri hated and despised all sovereigns and all priests; and if
there were a sovereign and a priest whom he despised and hated more
than the rest, it was the then reigning Pius VI., a vain, avaricious,
weak-minded man, stickling not in the least at humiliating Catholicism
before anyone who asked him to do it, by no means clean-handed in his
efforts to enrich his family, without courage, or fidelity to his
promise; a man whose miserable end as the brutally-treated captive of
the French Republic has not been sufficient to raise to the dignity of a
martyr. Of this Pope Pius VI. did Alfieri crave an audience, and to him
did he offer the dedication of one of his plays; nay, the man who had
sacrificed his fortune in order to free himself from the comparatively
clean-handed despotism of Sardinia, who had stubbornly refused to be
presented to Frederick the Great and Catherine II., who had declined
making Metastasio's acquaintance on account of a too deferential bow
which he had seen the old poet make to Maria Theresa; the man who had in
his portfolios plays and sonnets and essays intended to teach the world
contempt for kings and priests, this man, this Alfieri, submitted to
having his cheek patted by Pope Braschi. This stain of baseness and
hypocrisy with which, as he says, he contaminated himself, ate like a
hidden and shameful sore into Alfieri's soul; yet, until the moment of
writing his autobiography, he had not the courage to display this
galling thing of the past even to his most intimate friends. To Louise
d'Albany, to the woman between whom and himself he boasted that there
was never the slightest reticence or deceit, he screwed up the force to
tell the tale of that interview only some time later. Alfieri, honest
enough to lay bare his own self-degradation, was not generous enough to
hide the fact that this self-degradation was incurred out of love for
her. That her hero should have stooped so low, so low that he scarcely
dared to tell even her, surely this must have been as galling to the
Countess of Albany as was the caress of Pius VI. to Alfieri himself;
this high poetic love of theirs, this exotic Dantesque passion, had been
dragged down, by the impartial legality of fate, to the humiliating
punishment which awaited all the basest love intrigues in this base Rome
of the base eighteenth century.
And, after some time, the stock of toleration bought at the price of
this baseness was exhausted. The clerical friends and advisers of
Cardinal York, who had hitherto assured the foolish prince of the Church
that he was acting for the honour of his brother and his brother's wife
in leaving a young woman of thirty-one to the sole care of a young poet
of thirty-four, each being well known to be over head and ears in love
with the other; these prudent ecclesiastics, little by little, began to
change their minds, and the success of Alfieri's plays, the general
interest in him and his lady which that success produced, suggested to
them that there really might be some impropriety in the familiarity
between the wife of Charles Edward and the author of _Antigone_. The
train was laid, and the match was soon applied. In April 1783 the
Pretender fell ill in Florence, so ill that his brother was summoned at
once to what seemed his death-bed. Charles Edward recovered. But during
that illness the offended husband, who, we must remember, had offered a
reward for Alfieri's murder, poured out to his brother, moved and
reconciled to him by the recent fear of his death, all his grievances
against the Tuscan Court, against his wife, and against her lover. A
letter of Sir Horace Mann makes it clear that Charles Edward persuaded
his brother that his ill-usage of his wife (which, however, Mann, with
his spies everywhere, had vouched for at the time) was a mere invention,
and part of an odious plot by which Alfieri had imposed upon the Grand
Duke, the Pope, the society of Florence and Rome, nay, upon Cardinal
York himself, in order to obtain their connivance in a shameful intrigue
development. The Cardinal returned to Rome in a state of indignation
proportionate to his previous saintly indifference to the doings of
Alfieri and Mme. d'Albany; he discovered that he had been shutting his
eyes to what all the world (by Alfieri's own confession) saw as a very
hazardous state of things; and, with the tendency to run into extremes
of a foolish and weak-minded creature, he immediately published from all
the housetops the dishonour whose existence had never occurred to him
before. To the Countess of Albany he intimated that he would not permit
her to receive Alfieri under his roof; and of the Pope (the Pope who had
so recently patted Alfieri's cheek) he immediately implored an order
that Alfieri should quit the Papal States within a fortnight. The order
was given; but Alfieri, in whose truthfulness I have complete faith,
says that, knowing that the order had been asked for, he forestalled the
ignominy of being banished by spontaneously bidding farewell to the
Countess of Albany and to Rome.
"This event," says Alfieri, "upset my brains for nearly two years; and
upset and retarded also my work in every way." In speaking of Alfieri's
youth I have already had occasion to remark that there was in this man's
character something abnormal; he was, as I have said, a moral invalid
from birth; his very energy and resolution had somewhat of the frenzy
and rigidity of a nervous disease, and though he would seem morally
stronger than other men when strictly following his self-prescribed
rule of excessive intellectual exercise, and when surrounded by a
soothing atmosphere of affection and encouragement, his old malady of
melancholy and rage (melancholy and rage whom he represents in one of his
sonnets as two horrible-faced women seated on either side of him), his
old incapacity for work, for interest in anything, his old feverish
restlessness of place, returned, as a fever returns with its heat and
cold and impotence and delirium, whenever he was shut out of this
atmosphere of happiness, whenever he was exposed to any sort of moral
hardship. On leaving Rome Alfieri went to Siena, where, years before,
when he had come light-hearted and bent only upon literary fame, to
learn Tuscan, he had been introduced into a little circle of men and
women whom he faithfully loved, and to that Francesco Gori who shared
with Tommaso di Caluso the rather trying honour of being his bosom
friend. This Gori, "an incomparable man," writes Alfieri, "good,
compassionate, and with all his austerity and ruggedness of virtue (_con
tanta altezza e ferocia di sensi_) most gentle," appears literally to
have nursed Alfieri in this period of moral sickness as one might nurse
a sick or badly-bruised child. "Without him," writes Alfieri, "I think
I should most likely have gone mad. But he, although he saw in me a
would-be hero so disgracefully broken in spirit and inferior to himself"
(this passage is characteristic, as showing that Alfieri considered
himself, when in a normal condition, far superior to his much-praised
Gori), "although he knew better than any the meaning of courage and
endurance, did not, therefore, cruelly and inopportunely, oppose
his severe and frozen reason to my frenzies, but, on the contrary,
diminished my pain by dividing it with me. O rare, O truly heavenly
gift, this of being able both to reason and to feel."
Weeping and raving, Alfieri was living once more upon letters received
and sent as during his previous separation from Mme. d'Albany; and of
all these love-letters, none appear to have come down to us. Carefully
preserved by Mme. d'Albany and by her heir Fabre, they fell into the
hands of a Mr. Gache of Montpellier, who assumed the grave responsibility
of destroying them and of thus suppressing for ever the most important
evidence in the law-suit which posterity will for ever be bringing
against Alfieri and Mme. d'Albany in favour of Charles Edward, or
against Charles Edward in favour of Alfieri and Mme. d'Albany. But some
weeks ago, among the pile of the Countess's letters to Sienese friends
preserved by Cavaliere Guiseppe Porri at Siena, I had the good fortune
to discover what are virtually five love-letters of hers, obviously
intended for Alfieri although addressed to his friend Francesco Gori.
I confess that an eerie feeling came over me as I unfolded these five
closely-written, unsigned and undated little squares of yellow paper,
things intended so exclusively for the mere moment of writing and
reading, all that long-dead momentary passion of a long-dead man and
woman quivering back into reality, filling, as an assembly of ghosts
might fill a house, and drive out its living occupants, this present
hour which so soon will itself have become, with all its passions and
worries, a part of the past, of the indifferent, the passionless. One is
frightened on suddenly being admitted to witness, unperceived, as by
the opening of a long-locked door, or by some spell said over a crystal
globe or a beryl-stone, such passion as this; one feels as if one would
almost rather not. These five letters, as I have said, are addressed to
a "Dear Signor Francesco, friend of my friend," and who, of course,
is Francesco Gori; and are written, which no other letters of Mme.
d'Albany's are, not in French, but in tolerably idiomatic though far
from correct Italian. Only one of them has any indication of place or
date, "Genzano, Mardi"; but this, and the references to Alfieri's
approaching journey northward and to Gori's intention of escorting him
as far as Genoa, is sufficient to show that they must have been written
in the summer of 1783, when Cardinal York, terrified at the liberty
which he had allowed to his sister-in-law, had conveyed her safely to
some villa in the Alban Hills. The woman who wrote these letters is a
strangely different being from the quiet jog-trot, rather cynically
philosophical Countess of Albany whom we know from all her other
innumerable manuscript letters, from the published answers of Sismondi,
of Foscolo and of Mme. de Souza to letters of hers which have disappeared.
The hysterical frenzy of Alfieri seems to have entered into this woman;
he has worked up this naturally placid but malleable soul, this woman in
bad health, deprived of all friends, jealously guarded by enemies, weak
and depressed, until she has become another himself, "weeping, raving,"
like himself, but unable to relieve, perhaps to enjoy, all this frantic
grief by running about like the mad Orlando, or talking and weeping by
the hour to a compassionate Gori.
"Dear Signor Francesco," she writes; "how grateful I am to you for your
compassion. You can't have a notion of our unhappiness. My misery is not
in the least less than that of our friend. There are moments when I
feel my heart torn to pieces thinking of all that he must suffer. I have
no consolation except your being with him, and that is something. Never
let him remain alone. He is worse, and I know that he greatly enjoys
your society, for you are the only person who does not bore him and whom
he always meets with pleasure. Oh! dear Signor Francesco, in what a sea
of miseries are we not! You also, because our miseries are certainly
also yours. I no longer live; and if it were not for my friend, for whom
I am keeping myself, I would not drag out this miserable life. What do I
do in this world? I am a useless creature in it; and why should I suffer
when it is of no use to anyone? But my friend--I cannot make up my mind
to leave him, and he must live for his own glory; and, as long as he
lives, even if I had to walk on my hands, I would suffer and live. Who
knows what will happen, it is so long since the man in Florence (Charles
Edward) is ill, and still he lives, and it seems to me that he is made
of iron in order that we may all die. You will say, in order to console
me, that he can't last; but I see things clearly. This illness has not
made him younger, but he may live another couple of years. He may at any
moment be suffocated by the humours which have risen to his chest. What
a cruel thing to expect one's happiness from the death of another! O
God! how it degrades one's soul! And yet I cannot refrain from wishing
it. What a thing, what a horrible thing is life; and for me it has been
a continual suffering, all except the two years that I spent with my
friend, and even then I lived in the midst of tears. And you also are
probably not happy; with a heart like yours it is not possible that
you should be. Whoever is born with any feeling can scarcely enjoy
happiness. I recommend our friend to your care, particularly his health.
Mine is not so bad; I take care of myself and stay much in bed to kill
the time and to rest my nerves, which are very weak. Good-bye, dear
Signor Francesco, preserve your friendship for me; I deserve it, since I
appreciate you."
Later on she writes again:--
"Dear Signor Francesco, friend of ours. I do all I can to take courage.
I study as much as I can. Music alone distracts my thoughts, or rather
deadens them, and I play the harp many hours a day, and I do so also
because I know that my friend wishes me to get to play it well. I work
at it as hard as I can. I live only for him; without him life would be
odious to me, and I could not endure it. I do nothing in this world; I
am useless in it; and where is the use of suffering for nothing? But
there is my friend, and I must remain on this earth. I do not doubt of
him; I know how much he loves me. But in moments of suffering I have
fears lest he should find someone who would give him less pain than
myself, with whom he might live cheerful and happy. I ought to wish it,
but I have not got the strength to do so. But I believe so fully in him
that I am satisfied as soon as he tells me that such a thing cannot
happen. I love him more than myself; it is a union of feeling which
we only can understand. I find in him all that I can desire; he is
everything for me; and yet I must suffer separation from him. Certainly
if I could come to a violent decision I should be the happiest woman
in the world; I should never think of the past; I should live in him
and for him; for I care for nothing in this world. Comfort, luxury,
position, all is vanity for me; peace by his side would suffice for me.
And yet I am condemned to languish far from him. What a horrible life!"
Again she writes to Gori:--
"Dear friend, I am so very, very grateful for the interest you take in
my unhappy situation, which is really terrible. Time serves only to
aggravate it, and certainly it will bring no alleviation to my misery
until I shall meet our friend. There is no peace, no tranquillity for
me. I would give whatever of life may remain to me in order to live for
one day with him, and I should be satisfied. My feelings for him are
unchangeable, and I am sure that his for me are the same. When shall I
see the end of my woes? Who knows whether I shall ever see it? That man
(Charles Edward) does not seem inclined to depart ... I suffer a little
from my nerves ... but those are the least of my sufferings. It is the
heart which suffers. I have moments of despair when I could throw myself
out of the window were it not for the thought that I must live for my
friend's sake; that my life is his. I feel a disgust for life which is
so reasoned out that I say to myself sometimes, 'Why do I live? What
good do I do?' and then I continue to suffer patiently, remembering
my friend. Forgive me for unbosoming myself with you, who alone can
understand me; you alone, except my friend, understand what I suffer.
Do you know, you ought to come and see me this winter, you would give
me such a pleasure. Good-bye, dear Signor Francesco; preserve your
friendship for me."
Thus she runs on, repeating and re-repeating the same ideas, the same
words, her love for Alfieri, her desperate situation, her hatred of
life, her uselessness, her desire to play the harp well for Alfieri's
sake, her hopes that Charles Edward may die; disconnected phrases, run
into each other without so much as a comma or a full stop (since I
have had to punctuate my translation, at least partially, to make it
intelligible); the excited, unconsecutive, unceasing, discursive,
reiterating gabble of hysteria, eager, vague, impotent, thoughts
suddenly vanishing and as suddenly coming to a dead stop; everything
rattled off as if between two sobs or two convulsions. Did Alfieri enjoy
receiving letters such as these? Doubtless: they were echoes of his own
ravings; fuel for his own passion and vanity. It did not strike him, for
all the Greek and Roman heroes and heroines whom he had made to speak
with stoical, unflinching curtness, that there could be anything to move
shame, and compassion sickened by shame, in the fact that this should be
the expression of that high and pure love imitated from Dante and
Petrarch. What could he do? Give up Louise d'Albany, forget her; and bid
her, who lived only in him, whom a few years must free, forget him at
the price of breaking her heart? Certainly not. But he, the man, the man
free to move about, to work, with friends and occupations, should surely
have tried to teach resignation and patience to this poor lonely, sick,
hysterical woman, pointing out to her that if only they would wait, and
wait courageously, the moment of liberation and happiness must come.
Surely more difficult and humiliating for this lover to bear than the
sight of his lady degraded by the foul words and deeds of the drunken
Pretender, ought to have been the reading of such letters as these; the
sight of this once calm and dignified woman, of this Beatrice or Laura,
in her disconnected hysterical ravings. And for myself, the thought of
all that the Countess of Albany endured at the hands of Charles Edward
awakens less pity, though pity mixed with indignation at the fate which
humiliated her so deeply, and with shame for that deep humiliation, than
that sudden cry with which she stops in the midst of the light-headed
gabble about her miseries, and seems to start back ashamed as at the
sight of her passion and tear-defiled face in a mirror: "What a cruel
thing to expect one's happiness from the death of another! O God! how it
degrades one's soul!"