SILVIO PELLICO.
A work hardly inferior in popularity to the _Promessi Sposi_ was _Le
Mie Prigioni,_ an account of all that he suffered in Austrian prisons,
by SILVIO PELLICO.
The author of this celebrated book was born at Saluzzo, in Piedmont, in
1788. He spent his youth in France, but shortly after he came of age,
he returned to Italy and settled in Milan. He supported himself for a
while as a tutor, and then as a journalist. He wrote several tragedies,
the best of which is _Francesca da Rimini,_ and a spirited translation
of Byron's _Manfred._
In conjunction with a few friends, he published a paper, _Il
Conciliatore._ Some articles excited the displeasure of the Austrian
Government, and the paper was forbidden to appear. The disturbances
in Piedmont in 1820 aroused the fears of the Authorities, and he was
arrested with some of his companions and taken to Venice, where he was
first of all confined in the "Piombi" in the Doge's Palace, and then in
the prison on the Island of San Michele. He and his confederates were
sentenced to death, but the capital sentence was commuted to fifteen
years imprisonment in a fortress for Pellico and twenty years for his
friend Maroncelli. Both victims were removed in 1822 to the Spielberg,
near Brunn, in Moravia, and confined in subterranean dungeons. They
were treated with the utmost rigour. Heavy manacles were fastened
to their limbs; coarse and scanty fare alone was provided for them.
Pellico's health was never strong, and it broke down utterly under such
rigorous treatment. He fell dangerously ill, and a certain relaxation
was made in order to save his life. But no sooner was he on the way to
recovery, than the former severities were revived and even aggravated.
He was no longer allowed to beguile his wretched captivity with reading
and writing, and all that he could do was to brood in his wretched
dungeon over his sorrows and to wonder whether he would live until the
day appointed for his release. His wounded spirit took refuge in the
consolations of a somewhat mystic piety. In later years the demand for
a United Italy brought the patriots into collision with the Papacy,
whose adherence to the claim of temporal power for the Pope was
inflexibly maintained, and the collision resulted in bitter hostility
to Christianity; but for at least the first forty years of the
Century nearly every patriot was a fervent Catholic, whose religious
enthusiasm was fostered by the romantic movement, with its attendant
love and veneration for the Middle Ages. Pellico was emphatically the
incarnation of this type of patriot. He looked upon all free thought
with horror, and any doubts as to the tenets of his Church never seem
to have entered his mind. His cruel captivity made him cling all the
closer to the promises of the Church to her faithful, and after his
liberation his frame of mind continued the same.
That liberation came sooner than was expected. Pellico and his friend
Maroncelli were released on the first of August, 1830.
Count Pralormo, Envoy of the Court of Turin to Vienna, interceded
frequently for the unhappy poet, and it was probably in a large measure
owing to him that Pellico was released so soon. The Revolution of July
broke out on the very day the Emperor Francis signed the order for the
release. It was considered a fortunate circumstance for the prisoners
that the order was signed before the Emperor had heard of this event,
or he might not have been so inclined to clemency.
The prisoners were conducted under escort to Vienna, but Silvio was
in so feeble a state of health that the exertion of travelling threw
him on a sick bed. He tells us that on his recovery he was taken drives
and excursions, and one day, when he and Maroncelli were walking in the
park at Schönbrunn, the approach of the Emperor was announced, and he
and his companion were ordered to go aside lest his Majesty should be
depressed by the sight of their pale and emaciated faces.
When Pellico was allowed to return to Italy, he took refuge at Turin
with his sister. He beguiled his time by writing _Le Mie Prigioni_ and
numerous tragedies and poems; but his health was quite ruined by the
hardships he had endured, and he languished in much suffering. He died
unmarried in 1854.
Why Silvio Pellico was treated with such rigour and cruelty by the
Austrian Government is inexplicable, for he was the very reverse of a
dangerous and turbulent spirit. Even his imprisonment did not rouse him
to frenzy, and _Le Mie Prigioni_ is less an outpouring of wrath than a
chronicle of all the tears he shed. Indeed, it would have been better
for his fame as an author if he had possessed something of the cruel
indignation that devoured the heart of Swift. His works are tender and
pensive, but they are sadly in want of fire. He gives us mild elegies
when we expect passionate invectives.
It was hard to suffer so much, but had he suffered less, he would not
now be remembered among the authors of his country. A pure and noble
spirit he would always have been, but his star would not have shone
with sufficient brilliancy to be distinguishable from the galaxy around
it.
"After writing twelve tragedies," he tells us, "eight of which alone
have been published, I ceased to write for the stage, as I felt that I
had not sufficient resources to enable me to depict a great variety of
characters. In my youth I had a wild hope that I might in time occupy
a place not distant from Alfieri, but with years I awoke from that
illusion in spite of the applause that was lavished upon me. Now I take
pleasure only in lyric and narrative poetry, in which I admit that I
do not rise to any great height; but those branches of poetry have a
strong attraction for me; I love to make of them the instruments to
express my sentiments, and especially my religious emotions. I often
feel the want of praying, as it were, in verse; and thus I produce
sometimes an ode, sometimes an elegy, in which I pour out my heart
to God, and that suffices to give me back my spiritual serenity. I
should like to see poets arise greater than myself, that they might
increase the number of sacred compositions, diffusing the love of God
and of virtue, and elevating their intellect and that of their fellow
creatures, with the holy union of noble thoughts and fervent religion.
We have a few such poets, but very limited in number, and too often
the divinest of arts is dedicated to frivolous, or what is worse, to
despicable subjects."
These words give a clear idea of the spirit in which he wrote, and
it cannot be denied that he comes up to his noble conception, even
though a certain want of fire prevents him from occupying a high
rank in Italian literature. His two best tragedies are _Francesca da
Rimini_ and _Thomas More._ In both he rises to considerable dignity,
and nothing better can be found out of Alfieri. His _Francesca_ was
produced by the celebrated actress Carlotta Marchionni with brilliant
success.
His lyric poems are a mirror of his tender and pensive soul, but the
fatal want of fire is more apparent than in his tragedies which are
sustained by the interest of the story.
Far and away the most important of his works is _Le Mie Prigioni,_
the record of his weary years of cruel captivity. The book was a
prodigious success, and was read wherever freedom was loved and
tyranny detested. No literary production of the age was more welcome
to Italian patriots, because it furnished them with so forcible a
justification for rising against their oppressors. Indeed, the marvel
is that a nation like the Italian bore the yoke of foreign invaders
so long. Italy was not like Poland, without natural frontiers to act
as a barrier against the aggression of powerful neighbours. Nor was
she, like Poland, distracted by internal faction and discord. Why,
therefore, did she submit so long? The only answer, in my opinion, is
that the system in the Middle Ages of hiring venal condottieri and
their followers to fight their battles demoralised the Italians until
they failed to realise their own inherent strength. When once the
nation resolved to be free, the task was not so stupendously difficult.
It was a fortunate circumstance for Italy that neither Spain nor
Austria ever attempted to effect settlements of their own subjects
on her soil, as England did in Ireland and as Russia is now doing in
Poland. Thus, when the hour of freedom struck, the Italians had only to
overcome hostile garrisons, they had not to uproot a settled population.
The style of Silvio Pellico is eminently clear and direct, and his work
is on that account a great favourite with foreigners beginning the
study of the language. He has considerable powers of description, and
he succeeds admirably in reproducing the colouring and the atmosphere
of the scenes he went through. He is occasionally too sentimental,
and the tears he sheds are out of all proportion to the fortitude he
displays. But a great wave of sentimentality was passing over Italy at
that time, and it was perhaps wanted to bring men back to nature after
the artificiality of the past.
His gaolers seem to have been as kind to him as they dared; but the
rules of the prison were terribly rigorous, and they were not relaxed
for Silvio and his confederates, blameless though their characters were
known to be. Maroncelli had to submit to the amputation of a leg owing
to the mortification resulting from the friction of his heavy fetters,
and Pellico himself was prostrated by illness from his excessive
hardships, so that for a while his life was in danger, and great
indeed would have been the loss to Literature had a fatal termination
prevented him from leaving to posterity the record of a cruel captivity
and of a lofty and unsullied patriotism.