ALFIERI.
Italy had produced splendid epics, noble lyrics and spirited satires,
but up to the middle of the Eighteenth Century she had not produced a
single tragedy which could be placed beside the tragic masterpieces of
other nations. At last, in 1749, at Asti in Piedmont, the poet was born
who was destined in a certain measure to supply the want.
VITTORIO ALFIERI was born of noble and wealthy parents. His father
died soon after his birth, and his mother married again and survived
until 1792. He has left us in his Autobiography a complete picture
of his life and times. His relatives looked down upon learning and
science, and he was taught to feel thankful that he had no need to
study. He learnt a little Latin and a good deal of French, and that was
practically all that he took away with him from college. He entered
the Piedmontese Army, but he found the routine of military duties
so irksome that he asked and obtained leave from the King to travel
in foreign countries. He was presented to Louis XV at Versailles and
to Frederick the Great at Potsdam. He visited Sweden and Russia,
Holland and England, Spain and Portugal. He liked the Dutch and the
English best, and found in their countries the beneficial effects of
that liberty which he loved and to which he consecrated the fruits of
his genius. The development of his intellectual powers was, however,
phenomenally slow. He had practically forgotten his own language and
had to acquire it all over again. He was gifted with a fiery and
impetuous nature and intense vigour of thought, but the fertility of
his imagination was not commensurate with his other powers, Thus he had
to wait until study and observation had furnished him with sufficient
materials to enable him to write. This is the true explanation of the
torpid condition of his intellect for so many years.
A lady of Turin to whom he was much attached, fell dangerously
ill, and whilst he was sitting with her during the tedious hours
of convalescence, his eye fell upon some tapestries in her room,
representing the history of Anthony and Cleopatra. It occurred to him
that a fine tragedy could be written on the subject of their loves,
and he endeavoured to make the attempt. He liked the occupation, and
his ambitious spirit was fired by the hope that he might at last prove
to the world that Italy could produce a great tragic poet as well as
Greece, France, and England. He persevered, and by dint of labour and
study he overcame the difficulties of his task, not the least of which
was his inability to express himself in his native language, so that
he was at first obliged to write down his ideas in French, then to
translate them into Italian prose, and finally to alter the prose until
it became verse. His heroic industry was crowned with a measure of
success, and if he did not become an Italian Shakespeare or Sophocles,
he enjoys, at least, the distinction of being the first Italian writer
of tragedies who deserves serious consideration from the literary
historian.
His ample wealth enabled him to indulge in pleasures and pursuits
which often diverted his attention from his poetical labours. He was
especially fond of riding and horses, and he made several pilgrimages
to England to replenish his stud. English literature does not seem to
have occupied much of his attention. In his Autobiography he mentions
the works of Pope, and he says that he looked into Shakespeare and
became fully aware of his faults. It would have been well if he had
been equally alive to his beauties, and if he could have caught a
reflection of their rainbow hues to irradiate his own statuesque
tragedies.
In later years he made the acquaintance of Louisa Stolberg, Countess
of Albany, wife of Charles Edward, the Young Pretender, and she took
refuge with him from the brutality of her drunken husband. They went
together to Paris, and there he published his tragedies in four
volumes, in 1789. They remained in Paris, convulsed as it was with the
frenzy of the Great Revolution, up to the very last moment compatible
with safety; and in 1792 they returned to Italy, just in time to escape
the massacres of September. They took up their abode in Florence, where
he amused himself with learning Greek and translating some of the
tragedies of Euripides. He died in 1803, and the Countess of Albany had
a magnificent monument by Canova erected to his memory in the Church of
Santa Croce.
Alfieri was a fertile writer, as was to be expected from the unwearied
industry which was one of his most salient characteristics. He
wrote numerous poems and satires, nearly thirty tragedies, several
comedies, translations from the Greek and Latin, political tracts,
and his Autobiography. His fame rests entirely on his Tragedies, his
Autobiography, and, I think, his Satires, some of which are very
racy and original, especially the piece descriptive of his travels
in foreign countries. His Autobiography gives us a vivid picture of
the Italy of the Eighteenth Century, of its torpor and frivolity. He
reveals himself with a complete absence of reserve, and his Life is
the only work in which he gives us vivid descriptions, all his other
productions being rather colourless from the lack of descriptions.
Want of colour is, indeed, the great defect of his poetry, as well as
of his prose. He had little eye for the beauties of Nature, and less
for the beauties of Art. He has nothing of the sweetness of Metastasio;
he has none of the exquisite details of Parini. Indeed, the details of
his works are singularly devoid of charm. To do them justice, we must
consider them as a whole, and not dwell on detached passages.
The best of his Tragedies, to my mind, is one of the earliest, the
_Filippo,_ on the subject of Philip the Second of Spain and Don Carlos.
One of the most striking passages in Alfieri is the laconic dialogue,
terrible in its fierce abruptness, between Philip and his confidant
Gomez, after they have overheard the interview between the lovers.
_Filippo--_ Udisti?
_Gomez--_ Udii.
_Filippo--_ Vedesti?
_Gomez--_ Io vidi.
_Filippo--_ Oh rabbia!
Dunque il sospetto?...
_Gomez--_ E' omai certezza.
_Filippo--_ E inulto
Filippo è ancor?
_Gomez--_ Pensa...
_Filippo--_ Pensai ... Mi segui.
Nothing could be more spirited and effective, and had Alfieri often
written like that, very few tragic poets would have surpassed him. But
unfortunately, he is seldom seen to such advantage, and his inability
to cast the charm of imagination over his works makes them dry and
stony. He is a strict adherent of the French school in so far as
scrupulous observation of the three unities of time, place, and action
is concerned. But unlike the French dramatists, freedom, and not love,
is the mainspring of his tragedies. He brings as few actors on the
stage as possible. Some of his tragedies have only four characters.
It would be impossible for even the most skilful dramatist to make so
few persons fill up five acts without monotony and repetition, and
unfortunately Alfieri is anything but a skilful dramatist. His powers
of construction are but slight, and in many of his plays it is curious
to observe that the first act and the last are by far the best, the
three intervening acts being filled up with conversations that do not
greatly advance the action. He had, however, some power of delineating
character and some power of expressing passion, and his blank verse
has often a stern and rugged ring, impressive in its noble severity.
Thus it happens that some of his creations have proved effective in
the hands of great actors. Ristori achieved a brilliant triumph in his
_Mirra._ Salvini often appeared in _Saul_ and _Timoleon._ His _Saul_
has been extolled above all his other works, but I think _Virginia,_
the _Congiura de' Pazzi,_ and _Filippo_ are quite as fine. The
_Antigone_ and the _Agamemnon_ are terribly dry and colourless compared
to the creations of Æschylus and Sophocles. The _Abele,_ on the subject
of Cain and Abel, endeavours to enchant the reader with lyrical beauty,
but the poet's want of imagination is more painfully apparent than ever.
The great qualities of the poet are vigour of thought and tenacity of
purpose, thus he is seen to the greatest advantage in those plays that
deal with the aspirations of freedom and the downfall of tyrants. But,
unfortunately, these subjects do not admit of much variety, and when we
have read four or five of Alfieri's tragedies, we have practically read
them all. In perusing his plays, we have the impression as if we were
standing in a temple, bare and stern, adorned with only a few statues.
But, assuredly, the rigid grandeur of Alfieri's genius is better and
more worthy of praise and honour, than the meretricious ornaments of
too many of his contemporaries. He sounds an heroic note, and arouses
his hearers to noble deed and to magnanimous desire. There is nothing
low, nothing vile, in his works. He bids us ascend, not grovel. Every
line in his Tragedies was written with the desire of inspiring freedom
and patriotism. He hated oppression and he loved justice, and for that
he deserves honour and glory, and for that his Tragedies will ever hold
their own in the annals of literature, even though their creator does
not give us characters as human and varied as those of Shakespeare, or
compositions as perfect and splendid as those of Sophocles.