In the early eighties d’Annunzio had come to Rome. The little circle
of young Carduccians in the capital welcomed the poet’s brilliant
disciple, who was soon to outdistance them all in sheer splendour
of literary gift. More important, however, than any literary or
personal influence--for his hard encasing shell of egoism made him
extraordinarily immune to the intrusion either of alien genius or
of friendship or love--was the deep impression made upon the young
Abruzzan by the splendour, the art glories, and above all the historic
import of Rome. ‘The Abruzzi gave d’Annunzio the sense of _race_‘,
says an excellent critic, ‘Rome gave him the sense of _history_.’ The
magical effect of Rome had hitherto been rendered most vividly in the
poetry of other peoples, to whom it was a revelation, or a fulfilment
of long aspiration, of the ‘city of their soul,’ in Goethe’s _Roman
Elegies_, _Childe Harold_, or _Adonais_. How overwhelming to an
imaginative Italian the sight and living presence of Rome could be may
be judged from the magnificent _Ode_ of Carducci. The Englishman who is
thrilled as he stands in the Forum, or by the mossy bastions of our own
Roman wall, may faintly apprehend the temper of a citizen of the ‘Third
Italy’ who felt his capital, newly won from the Popes, to be once more
in living continuity with the city of Cæsar. Both the nobility and
the extravagance of Italian national feeling have their root in this
sense of continuity with antique Rome, and this is to be remembered in
estimating the perfervid _Italianità_ of d’Annunzio, the most striking
example both of the sublime idealism and of the childish extravagance
which it is able to inspire.
The work of the next years abounded in evidence of the spell which Rome
had laid upon his sensuous imagination. He poured forth novels and
poems, both charged with an oppressive opulence of epicurean and erotic
detail, but saved for art by the clear-cut beauty of the prose, and by
frequent strokes of bold and splendid imagination.
Andrea Sperelli in _Il Piacere_ (1889) and Tullio Hermil in
_L’Innocente_ (1892), are virtuosos in æsthetic as well as in erotic
luxury, and the two allied varieties of hedonism reflect and enforce
one another. Sperelli is artist and connoisseur, of unlimited resources
and opportunities, and neither he nor his mistress could think love
tolerable in chambers not hung with precious tapestry and adorned with
sculptured gold and silver vessels, the gift of queens or cardinals of
the splendour-loving Renascence. No doubt there is irony in the picture
too; the native stamina in d’Annunzio resists complete assimilation to
the corrupt aspects of the luxury he describes, and he feels keenly the
contrast between the riotous profusion of the ‘new rich’ of the new
Rome and the heroism and hardships of the men of the _Risorgimento_ who
had won it.
The poetry of this period is less repellent because its substance,
though not definitely larger or deeper, is sustained and penetrated
by the magic of a wonderfully winged and musical speech. His _Elegie
Romane_ (1892)--a rare case of his emulating another poet--are inferior
in intellectual force to Goethe’s, which yet have as lyrics an almost
pedestrian air in comparison with the exquisite dance of the Italian
rhythms. Here is one of d’Annunzio’s, in some approach to the original
elegiacs. He has listened to a service in St. Peter’s:
Thro’ the vaulted nave, that for ages has gathered so vast a
Human host, and of incense harboured so vast a cloud,
Wanders the chorus grave from lips invisible. Thunders
Break from the organ at times out of its hidden grove.
Down thro’ the tombs the roar reverberates deep in the darkness;
The enormous pillars seem to throb to the hymn.
High enthroned the pontifical priests watch, blessing the people.
At the iron gates angels and lions keep guard.
How majestic the chant! From its large, long undulations
Rises one clear voice with a melodious cry.
The voice mourns, alone; in his cold vault does he not hear it,
Palestrina? Alone the voice mourns, to the world
Uttering a sorrow divine. Does the buried singer not hear it?
Does not his soul leap up, bright on the heights of heaven?
Even as a dove makes wing aloft unto golden turrets?
The voice mourns, alone; mourns, in the silence, alone.
The sonnets of the _Isottèo_ and _Chimera_ (1885-8) show a
concentration rare in the later history of the Italian sonnet. And
any reader who thinks d’Annunzio incapable of writing of love without
offence may be invited to try the charming idyll of Isaotta Guttadàuro.
Scenery and circumstances, to be sure, are sumptuous and opulent as
usual. The simple life and homely persons traditional in idyll are
remote; but poetry did not absolutely fly from Tennyson’s touch when
he turned from his Miller’s and Gardener’s daughters to put Maud in a
Hall; and neither does she retire from d’Annunzio’s Isaotta, in her
noble mansion. The lover stands at sunrise in the ‘high hall garden’
under her window and summons her in a joyous morning song to come
forth. It is late autumn, the house is silent, but the peacocks perched
on the orange trees hail the morning in their raucous tones. The
situation is that of Herrick’s May morning song to Corinna; but though
Herrick loved jewels and fine dresses not a little, the contrast is
piquant between the country simplicity of his Devonshire maids and men,
and the aristocratic luxury of Isaotta. ‘Come, my Corinna, come! Wash,
dress, be brief in praying’--bids Herrick; but no such summary toilette
will serve the Italian. Isaotta will rise from her brocaded bed,
and her white limbs will gleam in a marble bath, as her maid pours
amber-scented water on them, while the woven figures of the story of
Omphale look on from the walls. At length Isaotta comes out on to her
vine-wreathed balcony and playfully greets _messèr cantore_ below. She
is secretly ready, we see, to surrender, but makes a show of standing
out for terms. They will wander through the autumnal vineyards, and if
they find a single cluster still hanging on the poles, ‘I will yield
to your desire, and you shall be my lord.’ So they set out in the
November morning. The vineyards, lately so loud with vintage merriment
and song, are now deserted and still. Not a cluster is to be seen. She
archly mocks him: ‘What, has subtle Love no power to give you eyes?’
They meet peasant women going to their work, and one of them asks him,
‘What seekest thou, fair sir?’ And he replies: ‘I seek a treasure.’ A
flight of birds rises suddenly across their path with joyous cries;
they take it as a sign, and gaze at each other, pale and silent. Then
unexpectedly he sees before him a vineyard flaming in full array of
purple and gold, and a flock of birds making a chorus in its midst. “‘O
lady Isaotta, here is life!’ I cried to her with rapt soul; and the
chorus of songsters cried over our heads. I drew her to the spot, and
she came as swift as I, for I held her firmly by the hand. Rosy was the
face she turned away from me, but fair as Blanchemain’s when she took
the kiss of Lancelot, her sovran lover, in the forest. ‘O Lady, I keep
my pact; for you I pluck the fatal untouched cluster.’ Then she gave me
the kiss divine”.