Yet, with the attention directed so exclusively upon national
differences, equally it must be said that no individual has ever
written into literature a more minute examination of actuality than
that in “Tales of My Native Town.” Indeed, to find its counterpart it
would be necessary to turn to the relentlessly veracious paintings
of the early Dutchmen, or the anatomical canvasses of El Greco.
D’Annunzio’s descriptions of countenances are dermatological, the
smallest pores are carefully traced, the shape and hue and colour
of every feature. This is set down not only directly but by means of
remarkable similies: Binchi-Blanche has a surly, yellow-lined face like
a lemon without any juice; Africana’s husband’s mouth resembles the
cut in a rotten pumpkin; Ciarole’s face was that of a gilded wooden
effigy from which the gilding had partly worn off; while Biagio Quaglia
reflected the brilliancy and freshness of an almond tree in springtime.
The direct descriptions are often appalling, since, as has already been
indicated, nothing is considered unimportant; there are literally no
reservations, or rather, no, prejudices. The physical disintegration
that accompanies death is, as well, recorded to the last black clot
and bubble of red froth. D’Annunzio is not afraid of death in the
context of his pages, he is never reluctant to meet the great facts,
the terrible penalties, of existence; rather it is upon them that his
writing is founded; it has, in the main, in these tales, two sides, one
of violence, of murder and venom, and the other an idyllic presentation
of a setting, an environment, saturated with classic and natural
beauty.
The mind, now horrified by the dislocated beggars gathered about the
blind Mungia, is suddenly swept into the release of evening fragrantly
cool like myrtles; or Turlendana returns from his long voyages and,
with his amazing animals, makes his way home into Pescara: “The river
of his native place carried to him the peaceful air of the sea....
The silence was profound. The cobwebs shone tranquilly in the sun like
mirrors framed by the crystal of the sea.” He passes with the Cyclopean
camel, the monkey and the she-ass across the boat bridge and: “Far
behind the mountain of Gran Sasso the setting sun irradiated the spring
sky ... and from the damp earth, the water of the river, the seas, and
the ponds, the moisture had arisen. A rosy glow tinted the houses, the
sails, the masts, the plants, and the whole landscape, and the figures
of the people, acquiring a sort of transparency, grew obscure, the
lines of their contour wavering in the fading light.”
Nothing could surpass in peacefulness this vision, a scene like a
mirage of fabulous days wrapped in tender colour. Throughout the tale
of The Virgin Anna, too, there are, in spite of the vitriolic realism
of its spirit, the crystal ecstasies of white flocks of girls before
the Eucharist of their first communion. While it was Anna’s father
who came ashore from his voyages to the island of Rota with his shirt
all scented with southern fruit. The Virgin Anna has many points of
resemblance to that other entranced peasant in Une Vie Simple; but Anna
had a turtle in place of a parrot, and D’Annunzio is severer with his
subject than was Flaubert.
But such idylls are quickly swept away in the fiery death of the
Duke of Orfena, with the pistols ringing in high stately chambers,
and Mazzagrogna, the major-domo, a dripping corpse, hanging in the
railing of a balcony. There is no shrinking, no evasion, here; and
none is permitted the reader:—the flames that consume the Duke are not
romantic figments, their fierce energy scorches the imagination.