The Invention of Modern Italian Literature: Strategies of Creative Imagination 9781442684959

Table of contents :
Contents
Preface
1. On the Autobiography of Alfieri
2. Foscolo and the Mythology of the Self
3. The Theatrical Works of Manzoni
4. Leopardi and the Dissembling Style
5. Quotations of the Heart
6. The Novelist Verga
7. Notes on ‘La tessitrice’
8. The Well and the Cellars. On the Twentieth-Century Italian Novel
Notes

Citation preview

TH E IN VEN TIO N OF MO DERN ITALI AN LITERAT URE: ST RATEGIES O F CREATI VE I MA G IN AT IO N

Despite the importance of Italian authors in the development of modern world literature, there are very few comprehensive studies of literary works produced in Italy from the late eighteenth to the twentieth century. In The Invention of Modern Italian Literature Gino Tellini examines a number of major Italian writers from this period and considers their impact on the literary world. This collection of essays by one of Italy’s foremost scholars looks at the creative processes of these writers, as well as some of the dominant literary trends that have come to characterize modern Italian literature. Examining different genres such as autobiography, letters, poetry, and fiction, this study stresses the ways in which Italian writers achieved a hybrid of various styles of writing. Through close analysis of works by prominent authors including Alfieri, Foscolo, Manzoni, Leopardi, Verga, and Pascoli, Tellini traces various aesthetic approaches and recurrent themes such as the relationship between life, literature, and the self. While bringing the attention of Anglo-American readers to these canonical writers of the past two centuries, he explores aspects of their literary output that may seem minor or marginal but in fact shed light on their better known works. Brilliantly conceived and masterfully executed, the essays in The Invention of Modern Italian Literature provide fresh and insightful critical interpretation of seminal writings by Italian writers and offer important historical and cultural context. (Toronto Italian Studies) gino tellini is a professor in the Department of Italian at the University of Florence

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GINO TELLINI

The Invention of Modern Italian Literature Strategies of Creative Imagination

Translation by Dawn Winterhalter and Gemma Dawkes

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

www.utppublishing.com © University of Toronto Press Incorporated 2007 Toronto Buffalo London Printed in Canada ISBN 978-0-8020-9185-7 (cloth) ISBN 978-0-8020-9186-4 (paper)

Printed on acid-free paper Toronto Italian Studies

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Tellini, Gino, 1946– Strategies of creative imagination : essays on modern Italian literature / Gino Tellini ; translation by Dawn Winterhalter and Gemma Dawkes. (Toronto Italian Studies) Includes index. ISBN 978-0-8020-9185-7 (bound) ISBN 978-0-8020-9186-4 (pbk.) 1. – Italian literature – 19th century – History and criticism. 2. Italian literature – 20th century – History and criticism. I. Winterhalter, Dawn II. Dawkes, Gemma III. Title. IV. Series PQ4087.T45 2007

850.9c008

C2007-903636-8

This book has been published with the assistance of a grant from Istituto italiano di cultura, Toronto. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP).

Contents

Preface by Franco Fido

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1 On the Autobiography of Alfieri 3 2 Foscolo and the Mythology of the Self 3 The Theatrical Works of Manzoni 4 Leopardi and the Dissembling Style 5 Quotations of the Heart 6 The Novelist Verga

29

44 64

75

85

7 Notes on ‘La tessitrice’

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8 The Well and the Cellars. On the Twentieth-Century Italian Novel 130 Notes 147

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Preface

The book that you have before you is remarkable not only because of the quality of the essays it contains, but also because of its importance in the context of Italian studies in North America. In North American universities today the most popular periods of Italian literature are the Middle Ages, with Petrarch, Dante, and Boccaccio; the Renaissance, with Machiavelli in the foreground; and the modern period, including such authors as Pirandello, Svevo, Calvino, Pasolini, Primo Levi, and Eco. We can thank Gino Tellini for calling the attention of Anglo-American readers to the major authors of the previous two centuries – Alfieri, Foscolo, Manzoni, Leopardi, Verga, Pascoli – as well as for addressing questions relative to the most important literary genres and types of writing, such as autobiographies, autobiographical novels, theatrical works, private letters, lyric poetry, and fiction. Moreover, he has accomplished all this without indulging in the generalizations of a manual-like overview. Far from it, Tellini explores texts and aspects in the oeuvre of his writers that may seem ‘minor’ or marginal but which succeed in shining light on their best-known works. For example, he studies Alfieri’s Vita rather than his tragedies, Foscolo’s Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis rather than I Sepolcri, Manzoni’s historical dramas rather than I Promessi sposi. Besides the obvious enrichment of our knowledge, we can glean a lesson on method from Tellini. Recently there has been much talk of ‘genetic criticism’ (in France, for instance, with the new edition of Proust’s Recherche) and of ‘new historicism’ (in America). I would not say that Gino Tellini practises genetic criticism or neo-historicism as Monsieur Jourdain did prose, because he is well aware of the nature and validity of his tools. Certainly, however, without theoretical proclamations and emphatic statements of intention, he brilliantly reconstructs

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the prehistory of the texts he examines through documents, variants, and successive versions, and masterfully places them in the historical and cultural context in which each author happened to live and write. In the first essay, Alfieri’s Vita is considered, on the one hand, as the fruit of that great crisis of rationalism and classicism that climaxed between the American and French revolutions, intensifying the importance and the solitude of the individual – as we see from Rousseau’s Confessions, that archetype of modern autobiography. On the other hand, the Vita scritta da esso is the final result of a long autobiographical process that began with the youthful Giornali. In Alfieri’s mature, conclusive work it is the concept of ‘true’ that works as a trait-d’union between the historian who writes (the je) and the empirical subject who moves ahead in the book (the moi). While in dealing with autobiographies we usually distinguish between and keep apart the je and the moi, in the Vita the dichotomy appears rather to be between a lui looked upon from above with detachment – the Piedmontese gentleman captive of his mediocre environment and more generally of the ancien régime – and a je-moi who is the author and hero of the Vita. And this ‘tragic hero’ is free from all possible contradictions between material facts and the sublime perspective of an exemplary career. At the same time, the detachment that I mentioned enables Tellini to speak of the Vita as a ‘personal novel,’ a little like Goldoni’s Mémoires, which were also defined as a novel a few years ago, for different reasons, by Bartolo Anglani. While – to borrow a well-known formula of Greenblatt – Alfieri’s selffashioning in the Vita (and also in his Rime) was an unqualified success, very different is the case of Ugo Foscolo, who, a generation later and in an even more hostile historical situation, was pulled in two directions: self-definition and self-destruction. From the first to the last version of the Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis, the sentimental pathos of Foscolo’s alter ego and later his political disenchantment with the Napoleonic era and the Restoration are expressed in an exalted, emphatic discourse that contains all the topoi of the Romantic repertory. Later on, Foscolo made a somewhat unsuccessful attempt at taking the opposite side with the sedate irony of Sterne in a series of sketches attributed to ‘Didimo Chierico.’ Tellini comments on the ‘failure of our author to offset his heroic self seen in Jacopo with the anti-heroic novel’ which would prevail in the nineteenth century. Another diachronic reading is that of Manzoni’s tragedies, or, better, historical dramas, that take into account works and events of the same years. Between the portrait of the condottiero moved by honour and thirst

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for glory in the first acts of Il conte di Carmagnola and that of the abruptly resigned believer in its conclusion, Manzoni wrote the stern religious treatise Osservazioni sulla morale cattolica. Likewise, the first and second versions of Adelchi are punctuated by the fall of Manzoni’s illusions (about possible Italian independence) following the reactionary repression of 1821. But this time, in the second tragedy, the external clash between noble aspirations and brutal reality is internalized, and the destiny of the protagonists Ermengarda and Adelchi will be fulfilled only beyond that conflict, in the serenity of another life. Here on earth, all actions are doomed. This pessimism will be overcome as Manzoni moves from the stories of the great to those of the unknown, where it is possible to find love for life and the positive intervention of Providence. In this sense, Adelchi is a step along the long path leading to I Promessi sposi. In one of the shorter essays, Tellini offers an impeccable close reading of Pascoli’s ‘La tessitrice.’ In another, studying the exchange of letters between Monaldo and Giacomo Leopardi, the good conscience of Monaldo, fortified by his doubt-free conservative convictions, is contrasted with the embarrassed, ‘dissembling style’ of his son, torn by sincere affection for his father on one hand, and awareness on the other of his need for an escape from the family home (or, if you will, a symbolic parricide). Once again the reading of texts that may seem marginal sharpens our perception of the existential dilemma, found in Leopardi’s great Canti, between the native Recanati (with all that it implied: contempt, claustrophobia, tender memories of adolescence) and the longing for freedom promised by any possible ‘elsewhere.’ Tellini’s skill in thematic and historical synthesis shines out in three essays in particular: those on ‘Quotations of the Heart,’ Verga’s novels, and contemporary fiction. Through his analysis of the diverse meanings attributed to the image and word cuore (the heart), our critic sketches out the evolution – or, if you prefer, involution – of literary taste and culture in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries: heart as the fierce antagonist of reason (Alfieri, Foscolo), as the tireless custodian of human illusions (Leopardi), as the auxiliary of the mind (Manzoni), as a metaphor of late romantic sentimentality, as stale food (Carducci), as a tired muscle or sick organ (Gozzano and other poets of the early Novecento), and as an instrument gone out of tune (Montale). The essay on Verga is a true monograph in nuce that follows the Sicilian writer from his attempts at romantic patriotism in his earliest novels and through the ‘cycle of Love’ from Una Peccatrice to Eros, where the solidarity of the narrator with his characters (worldly refinement and

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emphatic style) is placed on a par with the solidarity of the author with his readers, on the basis of a common taste for melodrama. Later, in I Malavoglia, the frantic, vain attempts of the Toscano fishermen to improve their condition are told in the well-known impersonal language which is the trademark of Verga’s great works and are mirrored by the intentional disorder or ‘polyphonic mixture’ in which voices and chapters are assembled. These elements are bound together by an inescapable cyclical structure whereby both the pathetic paladins of the past, like the old ’Ntoni, and those who try to escape but in the end are unable to forsake the old values, like the young ’Ntoni, are equally defeated (vinti). After the ruin of the innocent, pre-bourgeois world of Malavoglia, Mastro-don Gesualdo, the last outstanding novel in the cycle of the vinti, marks the ephemeral victory of the self-made man, the neo-bourgeois, who renounces being for having, that is, for the possession of material goods (la roba). But in the ‘fifth act’ of his tragedy Gesualdo is equally defeated, this time by his own body. The reified metaphor of cancer that kills Gesualdo is followed in the last significant chapter by another metaphor: that of the turbid well which in twentieth-century fiction opens inside of characters. As the heroes of the novels bear less and less resemblance to the elegant, superhuman heroes of D’Annunzio, we meet the common man, the inept aware of his own ineptitude, an ‘I’ who is the focus of his own introspection but is no longer ‘the master in his own house.’ Destiny is reduced to instinct, folly is the normal condition of the middle-class, life in itself is a malady, and malady is the immanent metaphor of the chasm between reality (whatever it may be) and the individual disgusted with himself. What remains from the ‘dismantling of the classic nineteenth-century novel’ are ‘the splinters, the slivers, the wreckage, the shavings,’ or Montale’s cuttlefish bones. The task of the twentieth-century novelist is to put these fragments together in a narration: an operation already successful in Svevo’s La coscienza di Zeno and which in more recent times has become increasingly indebted to the language of cinema, the modern language par excellence. And yet such ‘compositional syntax,’ in which the signifier seems to overcome the signified, is still indebted to the great nineteenth- and early twentieth-century novelists like Pirandello, for instance, and his brand of humour. This fidelity to tradition could be effectively summed up by recognizing the paradoxical continuity from Manzoni’s guazzabuglio (muddle) of the human heart to Carlo Emilio Gadda’s sweeping pasticciaccio (big mess).

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This behaviour of contemporary Italian writers, modern without forgetting the past, is also a distinctive feature of Tellini’s own personality as a critic. On the one hand he uses the most refined hermeneutical tools – and the reader will appreciate the minute textual analyses on which his conclusions rest – and on the other, he never forsakes the legacy of his predecessors, from De Sanctis and Croce to Praz and Raimondi. In this sense, and in the present climate of facile ‘cultural studies,’ this book is an example of scholarly competence and intellectual rigour. Franco Fido Harvard University

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TH E IN VEN TIO N OF MO DERN ITALI AN LITERAT URE: ST RATEGIES O F CREATI VE I MA G IN AT IO N

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1 On the Autobiography of Alfieri

1. In the eighteenth century autobiographical writings began to thrive in European literature, giving the genre modern legitimacy. The Vite of contemporaries were divulged and the forgotten lives of the deceased were brought to light, as in the case of Cellini’s Vita, which was finally published in 1728 and stirred up the enthusiasm of Baretti (in 1764 in La Frusta letteraria) and Goethe (who began to translate it in February 1796 and published it in 1803). The need for a retrospective, self-testifying memorial began to be felt on a large scale, while the right term to designate it did not yet exist. As we know, ‘autobiography’ is a technical neologism that appeared at the dawn of the nineteenth century.1 Rem tene, verba sequentur. This territory is truly ‘oggetto di una storia eterna’ (the subject of eternal history),2 in the way that it came into the public eye in the eighteenth century, fusing together and developing the two golden genres of religious-ascetic confession and secular Renaissance memoirs. And within this territory, the res springs from an urgent need to create an audience for profoundly renewed individual historical experiences and to make room for them in the polyphonic encyclopedia of human knowledge (not always, or, rather, not yet as the account of a first-person narrator; the Vita di Giambattista Vico scritta da se medesimo, 1728, is in third person). In harmony with the progressive ideologies of the century, the individual acquires resolute self-awareness, having been freed from the bondage of totalizing theological systems, and seeks to discover ‘nella sua natura i suoi diritti e il suo avvenire’ (his rights and his future within his own nature).3 Using the rational tools at his disposal, he searches within himself to discover his place on the stage of the world. In the Age of

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Enlightenment, it is natural for whoever sets out to weave together an account of his own life (whatever his objective intention may be) to give full autonomous value and significance to the path that he is called to follow on earth. It is the varied phenomenology of these paths, with the different aims attributed to them, that brings out gaps and differences in the great panorama of eighteenth-century autobiographies. In 1721, the ‘Progetto’ was distributed by Giovanartico di Porcia, Count of Friuli, and in 1728 it was published in the Raccolta d’opuscoli scientifici e filologici by Angelo Calogerà,4 together with the Vita by Vico, authored in 1725 in direct response to the invitation given by the ‘Progetto.’ These models may be considered an essential go-between for the first half of the century. In this period, the predominant feature in autobiographical writing is the informative account of thought patterns, academic programs, mentors, professors, and teaching practices, with the goal of defining the organizational chart of a curriculum studiorum and a cursus honorum that qualify the person concerned as a cultured man. In accordance with the Arcadian rationalistic and Cartesian tradition, models in use at the time (from Muratori of the 1721 autobiography Lettera a Giovanni Artico di Porcia to Vico, and partially including the Vita by Giannone, drawn up between 1736 and 1737, but not published until 1905) gave no place to intimate and secret revelations of self. Instead, great importance is placed upon painting an intellectual self-portrait with documentary, bibliographical, and didactic purposes in mind. The subject is described on the basis of objective (and imitable) parameters, not by means of temperamental or individualizing attributes inspired by pathos, but rather in terms of social, collective, standardizing characteristics, imposed by the ratio of the thinker or historian.5 On the route of a specific and personal itinerary, naturally written within the parameters of a systematic and normative course, we can observe the protagonist’s trajectory curving in an outward horizontal direction as he comes upon situations, places, and people that outline for us civil and cultural institutions, public relations, as well as relationships and conflicts between intellectuals. A turning point occurred in the 1780s – between the American and French revolutions – when the autobiographer began to lean toward an inner and more personal viewpoint, and his course took on an element of introspective verticality. The author and prince of this transformation, of this new ‘quête du moi’ (search for myself ), was Rousseau in his Confessions, published posthumously in Paris between 1782 (the six volumes of

On the Autobiography of Alfieri

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the first part) and 1789 (the remaining six of the second part). In place of social usefulness and systematic documentary uniformity, exception and diversity come to the forefront, as seen in the declaration made without hesitation by this citizen of Geneva (immodestly, according to the rationalistic ethos)6 right from the incipit: ‘Je forme une entreprise qui n’eut jamais d’exemple et qui n’aura point d’imitateur. Je veux montrer à mes semblables un homme dans toute la vérité de la nature: cet homme, ce sera moi’ (I’m taking on a project with no past examples or future imitators. I want to unveil to my fellow man a man in the whole truth of nature: I am this man). As far as imitators go, the prediction is remarkably wrong; the ‘entreprise’ would shortly become archetype and prototype for the future. This change of direction was the natural result of a new sensitivity that took hold on a moral, cognitive, anthropological, and technicalexpressive level toward the middle of the century. Once the fortress of historical authenticity and rationalism had been breached, the Arcadian ethics of measure, communicative clarity, and social propriety gave way to an unsatisfied impetus for freedom, for subverting the traditional order. An extremely delicate balance had been broken, which had been kept intact up to then by the principle of authority and the classicist rules of wisdom, harmony, sobriety, and self-control. Contrary to the myth of planned ‘public happiness,’ the individual perceived an ambiguous feeling of discontent; he was not fulfilled in knowing he was a living, integral part of a collective body. He saw this organism as inadequate, unsatisfactory, and oppressive, and demanded his right to express the perplexity, worries, desires, dreams, nightmares, and visions of his own uninhibited subjectivity. A decline in the poetics of ‘good taste,’ kept in check by reason, brought about a collapse of the defensive barriers which had acted as a kind of antidote, exorcising and neutralizing the liberation of passions. The ‘magistero del sensismo’ (school of Sensism) (Locke, D’Alembert, Condillac) pays the tribute of ‘una piena dignità gnoseologica’ ( full gnostical dignity)7 to these passions, pointing the way toward an adventurous investigation in the clefts of the heart, in the ‘cupo, ove gli affetti han regno’ (darkness, where affections reign), as Parini wrote.8 From the ‘cuore’ (heart) spring originality and poetry, stirred to life by the ‘passioni’ (passions): ‘ella [la Poesia] non ha bisogno di strumenti; ella non deve i suoi princìpi ad alcuna cosa esterna, ella li trova tutti nell’animo ove rinchiusa fermenta; le passioni la svegliano, la fantasia la veste: chi studierà bene il suo spirito ed il suo cuore troverà le regole della Poesia scritte in se stesso’ (it [Poetry] needs no devices; it does not owe its principles to any exter-

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nal object, it finds them enclosed inside the soul where it ferments; passions awake it, fantasies clothe it: in careful study of his own spirit and heart, one finds the rules of Poetry written therein). These words were penned by Cesarotti in 1762 in the ‘Ragionamento sopra l’origine e i progressi dell’arte poetica’9 shortly before his translation of the Poesie di Ossian10 in blank verse (‘ben architettati’ [well-constructed]; ‘maestrevolisimi’ [masterful]; and ‘sublimi’ [sublime] hendecasyllable verses; ‘eccellente modello pel verso di dialogo’ [an excellent model for dialogues in verse], according to Alfieri in the Vita). The translation would meet with expectations rising from a changed historical context and provide an invaluable repository to those intending to delve into the ‘regno’ (kingdom) of the ‘affetti’ (affections), from Alfieri to Monti and from Foscolo to Leopardi. Autobiographies from the first half of the eighteenth century have a direct relation to philosophical and historical essays and are oriented toward expressing objectivity in their report rather than free expression on the part of the writer. Those from the second half of the century, on the contrary (from Goldoni to Alfieri, from Carlo Gozzi to Casanova to Da Ponte), are directed toward investigating in interiore homine and establish supporting links especially with forms of writing characterized by a more mobile, flexible, and multifaceted narrative structure – that is to say, with the novel (or with the comedy, especially in the case of Goldoni’s Mémoires, or with the short story, as in the case of the bitterly ironic Memorie inutili published ‘per umiltà’ [for humility’s sake] by ‘rustego’ Gozzi.11 As demonstrated by Alfieri, the taste for a testimonial document as proof of the account’s truthfulness would endure, although used only as a supplementary support, not indispensable to sketching out the profile of a personality, which is, of course, the author’s main aim. Having eclipsed the epicentre of pedagogical use and systematic norms, every individual work follows its own rules and belongs to its own category. Every Vita moves along an unplanned trajectory towards an unpredictable and unrepeatable destiny. Outside the protective care of native secular and religious authorities, loosed from the rigid accounts of public record-keeping, the self-made man is born. The course sketched out by Alfieri in his Vita is certainly extraordinary, enough to leave nineteen-year-old Leopardi ‘ansante’ (breathless) and sleepless the first time he read it (a circumstance that is equally extraordinary). The night between 26 and 27 November 1817, in Recanati, Giacomo closed Vittorio’s book and, captured by a mixture of enthusiastic fervour, competitive emulation, and discouraged prostration, was inspired to write the sonnet ‘Letta la vita dell’Alfieri scritta da esso’:

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In chiuder la tua storia, ansante il petto, Vedrò, dissi, il tuo marmo, Alfieri mio, Vedrò la parte aprica e il dolce tetto Onde dicesti a questa terra addio. Così dissi inaccorto. E forse ch’io Prima sarò steso in sul funereo letto, E de l’ossa, nel flebile ricetto Prima infinito adombrerammi obblio: Misero quadrilustre. E tu nemica La sorte avesti pur: ma ti rimbomba Fama che cresce e un dì fia detta antica. Di me non suonerà l’eterna tromba; Starommi ignoto e non avrò chi dica, A piangere i’ verrò su la tua tomba.12

The ‘dolce tetto’ (dear roof ) referred to is Palazzina Gianfigliazzi, on the Florentine riverside opposite the Santa Trinita bridge, home of the poet and his ‘unica donna’ (only woman) from December 1793. It is already mythical thanks to Foscolo, who called it ‘magion’ (mansion) in his 1801 sonnet ‘E tu ne’ carmi avrai perenne vita,’ vv. 7–8: ‘ove [a Ponte Santa Trinita] oggi al pellegrino / Del fero vate la magion s’addita’ (where [by Santa Trinita bridge] today the pilgrim / looks on the home of the dauntless poet). The ‘marmo’ (tomb), in Santa Croce, amidst Foscolo’s ‘urne de’ forti’ (tombs of the illustrious), brings to mind other famous tombs, sources of meditated inspiration for Vittorio, who ‘Irato a’ patrii Numi, errava / Muto ove Arno è più deserto’ (Enraged with its native gods, wandered / Silent, along Arno’s most desolate banks) (Dei Sepolcri, vv. 188–91). In view of the devotion testified to by Foscolo and Leopardi and which later grew throughout the generations of the Risorgimento epic, we would be inclined to situate the Vita of Alfieri on romantic, nineteenthcentury shores, focusing on the tumultuous character of the protagonist, with the distinguishing emotional connotations of his uncontainable passionate nature. However, the Vita is an eighteenth-century work. Its ‘proiezione sull’Ottocento’ (projection into the nineteenth century), a view supported in our day by critics who love ‘la categoria idealistica dei “precorrimenti”’ (the idealist category of ‘precursors’ ),13 distorts and warps the perspective because it takes the text out of its true historical context and

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‘normalizza un comportamento che viceversa voleva essere unico e inimitabile’ (normalizes a behaviour that on the contrary strives to be unique and inimitable).14 These are its true characteristics, making it stand out in the European landscape of its time. Not only does Alfieri’s autobiography move away from early eighteenth-century autobiographies, keeping a distance which is ‘abissale’ (abyssal ),15 but it also leaves the reader with a revolutionary and unique interpretation of the change in taste and culture that took place around the middle of the eighteenth century. 2. In examining the complicated machine that is Alfieri’s Vita, one runs the risk of giving particular credit to certain thematic aspects that are the most memorable: the numerous episodes of an ‘infanzia stizzosa e povera d’affetti’ (rough childhood, lacking in love);16 preposterous romantic affairs; the instinctive actions illustrating his proud and sullen nature; the countless snapshots seen with the acute vision of a traveller (like Metastasio’s ‘genuflessioncella’ [little genuflection] in the imperial gardens in Schoenbrunn; or the ‘folta e verdissima bellezza del grano’ [thick and green beauty of grain] in the battlefield in Zorendorff, with the bitter reflections that follow), to name just a few. This analysis is the most spontaneous and perhaps also the most satisfying; however, it does not take into account the calculated interrelation of sections and the overall plan. A good part of the book’s fascination and seductive power comes from how its ‘big picture’ holds together, supported by a marvellous characterization of the protagonist, under the direction of the first-person narrator, who advances as an actor through the scenes of his own life. One of the work’s first and most prominent readers, Alessandro Manzoni, pauses to dwell upon the relationship between Alfieri as both character and narrator – a connection which is of utmost importance in the management of the account as a whole. In fact, as soon as twenty-three-yearold Manzoni received the second volume of the princeps17 on 6 December 1808, he wrote from Paris to Claude Fauriel: ‘Enfin cette vie est la vie d’Alfieri écrite par Alfieri; est-il rien de plus intéressant et de plus bizarre que le héros et l’historien?’ (And so this is the life of Alfieri written by Alfieri; is there anything as interesting and peculiar as the hero and the historian?).18 Later De Sanctis writes: ‘nella vita che Alfieri ha scritto di sé, ci ha due Alfieri, l’attore ed il giudice’ (in the life that Alfieri has written about himself, there are two of Alfieri: the actor and the judge).19 The interest created depends on the link between ‘héros’ and ‘historien,’ between ‘attore’

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and ‘giudice.’ But the simple fact that the writer answers to the illustrious name of Vittorio Alfieri is not enough to transform the biography’s subject into a ‘hero.’ The mechanism that executes his promotion to the status of hero is completely in the hands of the biographer; it is the exclusive task of the ‘historian,’ of the ‘judge.’ Great pains were taken by our author in tuning the engine, as proved by the numerous, laborious documents that show constant dedication to his autobiographical vocation. Examples range from the ‘letteruzze’ (little letters) to the ‘memoriette’ (little memoirs),20 to the Esquisse, to the Giornali, to the lyrical diary Rime, to the self-portraits wedged into tragic texts and treatises, into the dialogue La Virtù sconosciuta, and his Pareri on tragedies. In view of these considerations, when forty-one-year-old Alfieri finally set out to write down his Vita in Paris in 1790, he was not altogether unprepared. The environment around him in the French capital seemed favourable to assessments, as the revolutionary earthquake was being announced: in 1787, Goldoni’s Mémoirs had been published (naming and remembering Alfieri with great respect), in 1789, the second part of Rousseau’s Confessions had come out, and Alfieri had his secretary read him Cellini’s Vita. In his Rendimento di conti, he notes: ‘Nell’aprile e maggio [Parigi, 1790], scritto la propria Vita, fino al presente’ (In April and May [Paris, 1790], wrote my own Life, up to present).21 Alfieri certainly did not meet this moment unprepared, but he still had to find the key which permitted him a clear vision of this shapeless, open book which is his curriculum vitae. A determining factor for him was the need to focus the confused, inchoate days of his life around a centre. He felt the need to establish a cardinal point around which he could orient an intricate network of events, like a geometric irradiation of the various threads of his account. The whole work must have that centre as a source of light, sense, and intimate necessity. It is noteworthy that the narrator, speaking about himself as a thirteen-year-old pupil of ‘non-studi’ (non-study)22 enrolled in geometry at the University of Turin, saw himself as having a ‘testa assolutamente anti-geometrica’ (absolutely anti-geometric mind).23 Just the same, in laying out the map of his life on paper, he indubitably showed himself to be a good surveyor. The fragmented and scattered effect, with ‘vari fattarelli’ (various occurrences)24 and ‘storiette’ (little stories),25 is only superficial; in reality the work shows solidity and a carefully planned structure. This means that the plot edges on as a slow, gradual, systematic drawing near to the revelation of destiny, which is later confirmed by concrete results and the proofs of firm inner persuasion. This centre, or cardinal point, is established definitively only in the last

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draft and consists in a ‘liberazione vera’ (true liberation),26 the birth certificate of the ‘autor tragico.’27 It is significant that this event occurs right at the heart of the book, as a seal on youth and a prelude to manhood, precisely in the fifteenth chapter of Epoca III, that is, in the thirtieth of sixty-one chapters in total. The narrator speaks of a ‘conversione’ (conversion)28 – a term with strong allusive emphasis for secular Alfieri, who uses it only once in the Vita to indicate his rebirth and dedication to poetry and to the ‘fiamma di gloria’ ( flame of glory).29 These sublime aims, along with his ‘febbre del cuore’ ( fever of the heart),30 are made sacred by an inviolable pact: ‘io feci con me stesso un solenne giuramento: Che non risparmierei oramai né fatica né noia nessuna per mettermi in grado di sapere la mia lingua quant’uomo d’Italia’ (I made a solemn oath to myself: that I would spare no effort or inconvenience in learning to use my own native language as a man of Italy).31 Because of the established use of the ‘maladettissima lingua francese’ (damned French language),32 ‘tutto il giorno’ (all day long) Alfieri is obliged to ‘spensare per poi ripensare’ (unthink in order to rethink).33 Surely the learning of a language, or, better, the ‘grammatichevole’ (grammatical)34 study of one’s own language, never before struck chords of such ennobling sacredness, ratified by a ‘solenne giuramento’ (solemn oath). But there is an explanation: ‘liberazione vera’ (true liberation), with the indomitable resoluteness, impulse, energy, and ‘temerità’ (rashness)35 that it calls for, is what confers upon the protagonist the unequivocal seal of hero, since – as stated in the treatise Del Principe e delle Lettere – ‘lo scrittore grande’ (the great writer) is ‘maggiore d’ogni altro grand’uomo’ ( foremost among all great men).36 He is therefore a hero, struggling first of all on a technical level, against thousands of obstacles that hinder his capacity for expression; he struggles to take hold of communicative devices, the tools of the trade. The battlefield is Italian literary history with its age-old problem of the Italian language, and the would-be conqueror must find the appropriate terms to give body and soul to new horizons of ideas and affections. While the hero victoriously dramatizes, the narrator places a linguistic and cultural clash at the centre of his narrative creation. This conflict was destined to resurface with time, in other settings, for other aims and with different combatants – even after the eclipse of the artist-poet’s halo – from Manzoni to Leopardi to Verga to Svevo. Thus, the heroic licence due to the protagonist is not the consequence of explicit self-honouring, which would be empty and useless in any case, but rather the result of a carefully planned compositional strategy with an infallible result. The ‘autor tragico’ is a character who overcomes ‘stor-

On the Autobiography of Alfieri

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ture’ (distortions),37 obstacles, resistance, detours, and finally reaches selfawareness, no longer ‘ignoto a se stesso’ (unknown to himself )38 – a kind of inevitable agnition. In going back over his childhood and ‘nove anni di vegetazione’ (nine years of vegetation), his adolescence and ‘otto anni d’ineducazione’ (eight years of ineducation), his youth and ‘dieci anni di viaggi, e dissolutezze’ (ten years of travel and dissoluteness), the writer outlines the ‘bizzarra mistura’ (strange blend)39 of a personality pulled in two directions, who devours in idleness ‘un singolarissimo bollore d’idee fantastiche’ (a wonderfully unique beehive of fantastical ideas),40 who squanders in ignorance a temperament described as ‘appassionatissimo’ (extremely passionate),41 haughty ‘fierezza’ (pride),42 and a brilliant ‘effervescenza d’idee creatrici’ (bubbling up of creative ideas).43 There is a dissonant imbalance in the arrogant ‘ragazzaccio di sedici anni’ (mischievous sixteen-yearold)44 that persists in the libertine, aimless wanderer. He suffers from an acute internal clash, from a rift that must be healed. It is therefore no surprise that he is afflicted with the torment of boredom, loss of direction, nausea caused by a void, crying for no reason,45 coveting the unknown.46 He is vexed by ‘insofferenza dello stare’ (restlessness in remaining still),47 agitation, frenzy, ‘furore dell’andare’ ( furor of going)48 with the nomad steps of a ‘zingaro’ (gypsy).49 He will trudge on until the void becomes a wealth of plans and his ‘bollore’ (lit. boiling over), rather than being quenched, finds the appropriate fuel to feed such an intense fire. The reader pursues the protagonist as he moves ahead, anxiously following him up to the long-awaited moment of inevitable agnition. And the reader is fully aware that from that moment on, sparks will fly. The phases of Alfieri’s journey are marked by countless premonitions – prophetic signs generated by fate, which is evidently not blind. Such is the ‘seme di amor di gloria’ (seed of love for glory)50 espied in himself as a child, proud to show off the ‘assetto spedalesco’ (hospital-like dressing) of a bandage on a wound acquired ‘facendo l’esercizio alla prussiana’ (practising Prussian drills);51 later, we see the ‘profondissima impressione’ (extremely profound impression)52 that music and theatre have on him; there is his unknowingly debunking gesture of throwing a Petrarch manuscript ‘là’ (over there) with indifference typical of Milan; we could cite his wedding that comes to nothing, the credit going exclusively to ‘buona sorte’ (good luck), leaving the twenty-year-old youth free from secular bonds for his predestined marriage with the Muses; even in reading, he makes few and casual choices that seem to be inspired by the acute foresight of a well-wishing numen who puts in his hands Plutarch, the ‘familiarissimo’ (very familiar) Montaigne,53 ‘le vite dei veri Grandi’ (lives

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of the truly great), which stir up in him the cries of an ‘impazzato’ (madman),54 and the book of ‘senno’ (knowledge).55 Here it becomes evident that, through the two auctores, a kind of ‘strana mistura’ (odd blend)56 is being fed, cultivated, and nurtured, similar to the ‘bizzarra mistura’ that causes an uprising in the heart of the protagonist. Its recipe has two ingredients: heroic fury and self-analytical inquiry, the two magnetic poles in his autobiography, managed by the main character and the narrator respectively. The latter seizes the matter and tightens the threads of the tale by listing the ‘intoppi’ (stumbling blocks) the character overcomes in order to reach his final destination. Particular emphasis is put on the second obstacle, ‘fierissimo’ (terribly fierce) and perilous, a truly ‘feroce borrasca’ ( furious tempest)57 and ‘straordinario […] accidente’ (extraordinary […] predicament), rightly ‘sminuzzato in tutti i suoi amminicoli’ (analysed in all its details),58 because in the overall view of his life, it marks the lowest point of his depression and is a prelude to disillusion and repentance. With the future in view, at least six times the narrator points out missed encounters and opportunities, ‘vivissimi affetti’ (vivid affections)59 set aside and left idle, all because the character who is still ‘ignoto a se stesso’ (unknown to himself ) could not pour them out in verses and, in so doing, translate them into an independent and lasting reality. The bitterness of dissipation becomes increasingly harsh, because it is not a life lived to the fullest, but rather a life that is made the object of poetry, entrusted to the immortality of artistic creation, freed from the fear of death and from the fleeting usury of time (a ‘sozzo laberinto’ [dingy labyrinth]60 of empty days unworthy of being remembered). We might expect that a retrospective gaze on the past would give rise to an investigative memory, wishing to discover the unexpected, curious to see the unveiling of shadowy areas on the winding road of a wasted season of life. On the contrary, we see evidence of a focused, selective, and decisive memory that omits insignificant details and singles out only circumstances rich in meaning. In other words, premonitions are chosen along with clues as to the character’s mission, as in the lives of saints. However, hagiography is tempered by self-irony and toned down by a familiarity of style appropriate to private entertainment –‘favellar di sé con se stesso’ (talking to oneself about oneself);61 it is disguised by the anti-epic and playful perspective of a portrait ‘against the light,’ which balances the ‘gigante’ (giant) and the ‘nano’ (dwarf ),62 Achilles and Thersites.63 ‘Il [Alfieri in Vita] fait des confessions qui ont dû lui coûter beaucoup, étant de choses tout à fait opposées à sa manière de penser et d’écrire, et ignorées de tout le monde’ (He [Alfieri in Vita] makes confessions that must

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have cost him dearly, since they deal with things completely opposite to his way of thinking and writing and that were hidden from everyone), comments Manzoni,64 attempting a polemical remark but hitting upon a pertinent observation that catches the double-faced chiaroscuro of the Vita’s protagonist. The author’s self-irony, colloquial style, playfulness, and comic verve build our hero’s pedestal, confirm his credibility, and significantly soften a profile which would otherwise be too indocile, restless, inconsistent, and energetic. The most important point is the ethical and cognitive perspective established by the ‘liberazione vera’ (true liberation), by the literary ‘conversione’ (conversion) that has given wings to a ‘tragic author.’ A passage from the treatise Del Principe e delle Lettere sheds further light on this subject: Io [...] credo, che lo scrittore grande sia maggiore d’ogni altro grand’uomo; perché oltre l’utile che egli arreca maggiore, come artefice di cosa che non ha fine, e che giova ai presenti ed ai lontani, si dee pur anche confessare che in lui ci è per lo più l’eroe di cui narra, e ci è di più il sublime narratore. [...] Ma, se un eccellente scrittore vuol dipingere un eroe, lo crea da sé; dunque lo ritrova egli in sé stesso. [...] E questa parola sé stesso, ch’io tanto ribatto, si dee [...] dall’artefice in tutta la sua immensità immedesimare colla parola vero [...]65

This passage clearly shows Alfieri’s procedure for formulating his Vita: the ‘artefice’ (author) outlines the character of a ‘scrittore grande’ (great writer), treating him as an ‘eroe’ (hero); he then ‘ritrova in sé stesso’ ( finds within himself ) this identity and finally matches ‘sé stesso’ (himself ) with the ‘vero’ (truth). The epicentre of the work, at the climax of the ‘conversione’ (conversion), coincides with the epicentre of the value system recognized and ratified by the narrator: the same truth that legitimizes and organizes the overall plan of the Vita is the truth that saves the character from death and gives daily matters the meaning and purpose which they otherwise lack. This is the truth of poetry. The vast horizon of the autobiographical account, the narrative rhythm it follows, the subtly introduced parameters for judgment, the criterion of plausibility that reigns over the whole structure, the animated circle of characters who pass through it – all must answer to the sublime truth of the free writer and his moral and civil tension, his uncompromising and perpetual competitiveness, his mood swings and bitter disdain for ‘lo sterco che si ha giornalmente sotto gli occhi’ (the dung that one is confronted with daily).66

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This truth that the main character intends to ‘conoscere, investigare, ed ascoltare’ (know, investigate and heed)67 gives the Vita its unmistakable compactness. The detailed chronological account preserves its documentary function but no longer follows the scattering, decentralizing episodes of the story. By virtue of this truth, the objective time of the calendar becomes identified with the imaginative and plausible time of the novel, because the narrator has finally found a deeply rooted centripetal point of cohesion and identity; he has found a truth that allows him to come to an understanding of himself and the world. This obviously does not mean that the Vita scritta da esso is a romanticized life; it is a historically truthful Vita, written in the register of the possible and the virtual, as a point of encounter between wishes and reality, between normal practice and the ideal. It is not a romanticized life, but a rigorously chronological autobiography relived as a novel in the first person. The itinerary defined in a precise historical moment and empirical space becomes an exploration of the landscape of the mind. According to concordances,68 the headword ‘vero’ (true) in its various declensions (from ‘veridico’ [truthful] to ‘verisimiglianza’ [plausibility] to ‘verisimile’ [plausible] to ‘verità’ [truth]) is well established in the text, with over 130 occurrences. The most prevalent words, however, are those having to do with the passing of time (such as ‘anno’ [year], which appears 424 times – the most frequently used noun of all – or ‘giorno’ [day] appearing 280 times, ‘tempo’ [time] 216 times, ‘mese’ [month], 105 times, and ‘ora’ [hour], 85 times). As one may imagine, the words/terms related to studies and literary activities are also essential (‘tragedia’ [tragedy] appears 141 times, and ‘verso’ [verse], 113). As for adjectives, first prize goes to the possessive ‘mio’ (my), appearing 1149 times; the verb form – besides auxiliary – used most frequently is the past historic ‘volli’ (I wanted), appearing 65 times.69 On a foundation laid with these raw materials, the truth of art is constructed, triumphing over the flight of time; and on this basis, the first-person narrator reconstructs his own story, administrating years, months, days, and hours according to his mission as an ‘autor tragico.’ 3. The status of the Vita is best understood by comparing it with the different registers used in Alfieri’s other autobiographical works. The reader will certainly recall the tone of polemical coldness with which the socalled Giornali are mentioned in the autobiography, the day after his

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‘conversione’ (conversion), when the protagonist must verify his own ‘facoltà intellettuali letterarie’ (intellectual literary faculties):70 ancora conservo una specie di diario che per alcuni mesi avea avuta la costanza di scrivere annoverandovi non solo le mie sciocchezze abituali di giorno in giorno, ma anche i pensieri, e le cagioni intime, che mi faceano operare o parlare: il tutto per vedere, se in così appannato specchio mirandomi, il migliorare d’alquanto mi venisse poi a riuscire. [...] Me ne stufai presto, e feci benissimo; perché ci perdeva il tempo e l’inchiostro, trovandomi essere tuttavia un giorno peggiore dell’altro.71

A diary is not an autobiography, and its therapeutic, self-instructive purpose, which even its writer regards with suspicion, is completely foreign to the narrator of the Vita. But why is the mirror defined as ‘appannato’ (dim), when we know that the pages of the Giornali are examples of sharp and pitiless self-analysis? How can it be, when we know that the pages of the Giornali are underpinned – especially the Italian part – by an eagerness for glory and the ‘amor delle lettere’ (love for literature),72 just like the Vita? How is it possible, when they too are inspired by a programmatic resolution to maintain sincerity and scrupulous adherence to the truth, faithfully recorded with chronological precision? The mirror is dim because the diary is nothing less than a pitiless radiography of the dissociation between Achilles and Thersites, between poetry and horses, between the ‘dolce chimera’ (sweet chimera)73 of ‘fama letteraria, oggetto costante d’ogni mio desiderio’ (literary fame, the unwavering object of my every desire)74 and the ‘mille ridicole porcherie’ (tons of ridiculous rubbish)75 of frivolity, ‘libidine’ (lechery),76 vanity, fatuousness, jealousy, greed, envy, and cowardice: ‘Per quanto mi sforzi a credere, e far credere ch’io sia diverso dal comune degli uomini, tremo d’essere simigliantissimo’ (As much as I may strive to believe and make others believe that I am different from the average man, I quiver at the thought that I am absolutely identical).77 This dissociation, which causes shame and embarrassment on the part of the writer speaking about himself, substantiates the reader’s impression of uninhibited, frank self-exposure. However, relative sincerity is not the matter in question, because one may be sincere in different ways. Compared with the present-tense viewpoint in the Giornali, the Vita is characterized by the perspective of distance. This means that the diary writer in 1774–5 and in 1777 has an idea of truth that is not shared by the narrator-autobiographer. It is not yet the truth of the tragic author and

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his poetry, a confident investigation of destiny. It is rather the truth of a sketchy inquiry focused on ‘sciocchezze abituali di giorno in giorno’ (habitual daily foolishness), and on ‘pensieri’ (thoughts) and ‘cagioni intime’ (intimate motives) about behaviour governed by chance. Between chance and destiny, the self-portrait of the Giornali has little in common with that of the Vita. The object of study is the same, changeable yet consistent with his own identity,78 but the scenario of his contradictory attributes and different faces has been profoundly altered. The narrator’s task is not to modify information provided by the diary writer but to construct that dissociation, to reconcile diametrically opposed elements by finding the meeting point between wishes and reality; he must unite Achilles with Thersites, the Muses with the horses,79 in a personality that is both heavily shaded and dramatically unitary. By retracing Alfieri’s steps, we can appreciate the difficulty involved in locating that meeting point between wishes and reality. The author’s composition techniques have been carefully hidden, and a protagonist with surprising dynamism strolls across centre stage. He is both monumental and human, heroic and vulnerable, emphatic and taciturn, strong-willed and fragile, burned by his passions and yet a clear examiner and decipherer of himself. In one of the most enchanting passages of the Giornali, he writes: ‘Non perdo mai occasione d’imparare a morire: il più gran timore ch’io abbia della morte, è di temerla: non passa giorno in cui non vi pensi’ (I never miss a chance to learn to die: the greatest fear I have about death is to fear it: not a day passes that I do not think about it).80 The autobiography is the fruit of this prevailing thought, and a novel about himself represents the drastic and decisive occasion ‘d’imparare a morire’ (to learn to die) and once and for all to put an end to the ‘gran timore’ (great fear) of death. Nothing or almost nothing in Alfieri’s memory must be lost. Every segment of the Vita plays a part in the overall plan, and even the memory of his diary, although kept at a safe distance, is necessary to achieve this goal and is tied onto the red thread of destiny. Even that self-analytical study was helpful in directing his ‘violento impulso naturale’ (violent natural urge) toward compositional genres congenial to him: impulso, i di cui getti sempre poi in ogni qualunque bell’arte, ancorché l’opera non riesca perfetta, si distinguono di gran lunga dai getti dell’impulso comandato, ancorché potessero pur procreare un’opera in tutte le sue parti perfetta.81

The point is this: the narrator wants to identify the distinguishing traits of the writer, of himself as a poet, induced by a ‘violento impulso

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naturale’ rather than an ‘impulso comandato’ (rehearsed stimulus), or ‘impulso artificiale’ (artificial impulse), to cite the exact terms used in the treatise Del Principe e delle Lettere.82 It is not the cold and abstract perfection of art that counts here, but a vivid expression of that ‘impulso naturale’ (natural urge) which alone gives birth to poetry. So, even the memory of his diary and ‘sciocchezze’ ( foolishness), in the light of a new truth, makes a positive contribution to defining the original profile of the ‘autor tragico.’ 4. The storytelling methods used in the Vita stand out especially in the case of a sensational episode anticipated by the debuting comical-satirical poet. Well before delving into the whole of the autobiography with its abundance of details, Alfieri gives special attention to this incident as one of the most remarkable pieces of his collection: the much-talkedabout London misadventure of May 1771 with Penelope Pitt Ligonier. This represents his ‘Secondo fierissimo intoppo amoroso’ (Second fierce amorous obstacle) (Vita, iii, x–xi) turned into verse (hendecasyllabic and seven-syllable lines) in the Novella prima83 (and its multiple journalistic, legal, judicial, and diplomatic appendixes) in December 1775, four years after the event. The poet practises the difficult exercise of satire and, with narrative flair, draws from personal rather than book experience to reflect on the classic theme of female unfaithfulness and on his unhappy ordeal as a scorned lover. The verses are still rather scholastic, woven together as they are by means of numerous and inevitable literary reminiscences84 already present in other poems of the time; however, the element of real-life experience lends, occasionally at least, the liveliness of an on-stage performance to the narrative account. The completely different versions of the same incident in the Novella prima and the Vita show the gulf that separates the free imaginative manipulation of the poet (in third person) from the existential truthfulness of the autobiographer. The poet’s aim in his playful and ironic admonition is to warn incautious and inexperienced lovers not to arrive early for their rendezvous so as not to be repaid for their impatience with unpleasant surprises. The situation is depicted with lenient indifference at the expense of the young Gentleman (‘di cui molto m’importa / Che non sappiate il nome’ [it matters greatly to me / That you never learn his name] [vv. 1–2]), who, arriving early, finds ‘sua casta Diva’ (his chaste goddess) (v. 54) in the arms of an ‘umil mozzo di stalla’ (lowly stableman) (v. 175). But the steepest price must be paid by the ‘geloso’ (jealous) (v. 200) and naive

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husband, who arrives at the end and quickly turns into an amusing caricature as he (a man of short stature) demands a duel with the ‘colossal’ (v. 208) and ‘nerboruto’ (muscular) (v. 121) Gentleman: Indi ragion gli chiede Del non usato affronto, E vuol che in man la spada Pronto si rechi, e giostri Anche con lui, poiché giostrar ben seppe Con la mogliere sua. (vv. 209–14)85

Between the two men (the third, the ‘mozzo’ [stableman] Domenichino, has dropped out of sight like a ‘ratto’ [rat] despite the Gentleman’s vain attempts to catch him), the woman dominates: ‘bella’ (beautiful) and ‘infida’ (treacherous). At the ‘vituperi’ (insults) of the indignant lover, her impassive reply ‘in matronal contegno’ (with matronly nonchalance) (v. 182) consists of a simple gesture: she points to her watch. La casta Diva [...] il prezioso oriuolo Dallo scomposto, ed agitato letto Staccando, a lui tacitamente addita, Ch’alle tre della notte era venuto, Non alle cinque come avea prefisso. (vv. 185–90)86

The duel demanded in vain by the husband (v. 197) comes to nothing at the words of the Gentleman: [...] ‘O buon marito A qual impresa oggi t’accingi, e come Basterai solo a tanto; a me col ferro Chiedi ragion, ma dell’istesso affronto Chiederai con la scuria poi ragione A Menichin, che al par di me t’offende? Credimi, non pugnar, chi sa quant’anni Ti converria trattar, per far vendetta Di tutti quei, che t’hanno ornato il capo.’ Non vi so dir, quindi che n’acadesse; Ma è da presumer certo che il marito Prese quel che si chiama il buon partito. (vv. 217–28)87

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And so the curtain falls on this mischievous epilogue, typical of a comedy, leaving the husband ‘ornato il capo’ (dishonoured) by his own disgrace. In the two famous chapters of the Vita we find the same episode in a completely different tone, register, rhythm, and dramatic representation. And yet internal cross-references come to light, as fleeting as they might be. The first is the ‘porticella’ (little door), where the Gentleman, ‘furtivamente ascoso’ ( furtively secretive), comes at night to ‘picchiare’ (knock). It is mentioned twice in the Novella prima, in vv. 102 and 153, and is echoed in the Vita four times, and all four at the strategic crisis points of the London tale.88 Then there is the ‘impietrire’ (petrification) of the Gentleman (v. 155), who ‘ebbe a morir, o ad impietrire’ ( felt he would die, or turn to stone) when he catches the ‘casta Diva’ (chaste goddess) with Domenichino. This corresponds to the first person narrator in the Vita, who becomes ‘qual pietra’ (as stone)89 when informed by the ‘bellissima signora’ (beautiful lady) of her relationship with the stableman. But these are almost imperceptible remainders. The narrator of the autobiography has no intention of using the story of Penelope – with imaginative variations – to bring out any sarcastic or moralistic lesson (Novella prima, vv. 130–1: ‘Or la morale, che ritrar dovete / Dalla favola mia, vi vuo’ dire’ [Now the moral that you must deduce / From my fable, I shall tell you]); nor does he wish it to be a cheerful and winking apologue on female voluptuousness with the playful, happy ending of a comedy. For him, that rough London affair was ‘fierissimo’ (exceedingly fierce) and an ‘intoppo amoroso’ (amorous obstacle) – an obstacle on the road to self-recognition. There is no need to use his imagination to build up the story (the sudden revelation of the affair before the very eyes of the horrified Gentleman who chases the servant around the house, the indifferent attitude of the woman, the face-to-face meeting with her husband, and his immediate challenge to a duel). Instead, the events are dramatized from the inner viewpoint of the ‘I’ who experiences them, so as to extol two essential features in the betrayed lover: ‘indicibil furore’ (unspeakable furor) in the passions of his ‘cuore’ (heart) and temerity. On the first count, the Gentleman with a ‘ritrosa e selvaggia’ (bashful and wild) nature, who has by now taken on the identity of Vittorio Alfieri, becomes ferocious at the idea of not being able to satisfy his desire; he ‘freme’ (trembles) and ‘impazzisce’ (goes mad) in a ‘continuo dilirio, inesprimibile’ (unceasing frenzy), ‘con grida ed urli orribili’ (with horrid shrieks and howls), like ‘un forsennato’ (a lunatic), prisoner of a ‘pazzo amore’ (mad love), somewhere between ‘smanie e furore’ (restlessness and

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rage).90 This excited lexical hyperbole shows the full range of emotional potential of a character who is waiting to direct it onto the right track of his ‘ultima febbre del cuore’ (ultimate fever of the heart), a ‘fiamma’ ( flame) that finally brings together the ‘passione dell’intelletto’ (passion of the intellect) with ‘quella del cuore’ (that of the heart), art and love, an ardor that ‘non si spegnerà […] se non colla vita’ (will never die out […] except with life itself).91 As for the second characteristic, temerity, the protagonist actually acquires his taste for risky behaviour thanks to the small dilemmas of the London adventure (the jealous husband, the impossibility of meetings at the woman’s home, the villa in the country) together with the immoderate and careless behaviour of the woman (‘la quale pareva non gustar punto né intendere i partiti di mezzo’ [who seemed not to like at all, nor to understand half-hearted affairs]).92 This indifference toward danger is an attribute peculiar to the ‘I’ in Alfieri’s autobiography, who treats stasis and motion, reflection and unexpected movement, thought and action as one and the same, just like an authentic poet-hero. The affection of his heart and his temerity govern the narrative syntax of the story, with emotional turmoil and fantastic dynamism interwoven throughout. The reader is present with the character and traces his steps through the frenetic rhythm of hours and days: Friday, 3 May 1771, as the protagonist rides ‘soletto, a cavallo’ (by himself, on horseback) to the villa outside London; Saturday morning, as he falls while horseback riding; Sunday afternoon, ‘soletto’ (alone) again, as he returns to meet his ‘sospirato oggetto’ (object of his yearning) in the ‘carrozzino col postiglione’ (coach with the postman) because of his dislocated shoulder and, upon finding the ‘porticella’ (little door) locked, is compelled to climb over the park fence. Monday is a day of rest, followed by the events of Tuesday evening at the Teatro Italiano: the husband’s outburst and the duel followed by an interminable night when the protagonist returns to the theatre and converses with Penelope. ‘A pezzi e bocconi’ (In bits and pieces), she throws a different light on the events, unknown as yet, which transpired on Monday and Tuesday morning: on Monday, her husband was informed of everything, first by the postman in the coach, then by a ‘spia’ (spy) set on guard for that very purpose; on Tuesday morning, he announced his double decision of a divorce and a duel, followed by her desperate attempt to inform Alfieri. Tuesday is a tiring day, and the night is long and turbulent. Although it begins with the appearance of a happy ending (divorce and new marriage), it is actually the prelude to a ‘disinganno orribile’ (horrible disenchantment), which begins to unfold on

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Wednesday (with the ‘foltissima nube su la bellissima fronte della mia donna’ [densely thick cloud crossing the beautiful forehead of my lady]) and finally explodes Friday evening with Penelope’s confession (spontaneous, at first glance, but in reality forced and inevitable). Neither the sentimental nor the picaresque novel are inopportune additions. On the contrary, they interact to produce the credentials of the future poet-hero and cooperate in extolling the ‘intoppo’ (obstacle) as the most important single event that leads to his disillusion and repentance. This role of the obstacle is made clear in the last edit, where negative notes serve as accompaniment to the whole incident and define it more explicitly as a phase of confusion and spiritual captivity. ‘Infausto morbo’ ( fatal disease) (his passion for Penelope), ‘rete’ (trap) (into which the poet falls), ‘mente mia inferma’ (my illness of mind), and ‘funesto pensiere’ (deadly thought) are all terms found in the opening of iii, x, and are a product of the final edit. Moreover, at the peak of the closing section, one change made for the last edit is quite eloquent: from ‘e a poco a poco finalmente esce l’intera confessione, che immobile e freddo mi rende qual pietra’ (and little by little, finally the whole confession comes out, rendering me motionless and cold as a stone)93 (previous edit) to ‘e a poco a poco alla per fine esce l’intera confessione sozzissima di quel brutto suo amore; di cui sentendo io le dolorose incredibili particolarità, gelido, immobile, insensato mi rimango qual pietra’ (and little by little, finally the whole filthy confession of her heinous love comes out; and upon hearing the unbelievable, painful details, I’m left frozen, motionless and senseless, like a stone) (final edit).94 ‘Sozzissima’ ( filthy) expresses a moral condemnation and corresponds to the ‘infausto morbo’ (deadly disease) and ‘mente mia inferma’ (my illness of mind) that give the reader an inkling right from the beginning of the episode. Accordingly, in iii, xii, where the London experience is summed up in two words, it is no surprise that the original metaphor ‘fiera tempesta’ ( fierce storm)95 has been promoted to ‘feroce borrasca’ ( furious tempest).96 The substance of the narrative structure does not change between the two edits, but the previous one is much poorer in particulars and authentic details, which, in reality, help to improve the epic-sentimental dramatization (with a self-ironic slant) of the situation. At first, the constructive dynamis is much more relaxed and easily leaves room for comic inserts (for example: ‘Il marito, ritornando poi il Lunedì sera, non ebbe gran fatica a palpare con le proprie mani le sue troppo avverate piaghe’ [The husband, returning Monday evening, had no great trouble in ascertaining for himself his all too real injury]97 later struck off) that distract from the exemplarity of the account.

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To sum up, the amorous intrigue with Penelope is defined in the final lines of iii, xi (of the previous edit) as ‘questo singolare fatto’ (this singular occurrence), then with more insistent determination, ‘questo straordinario e per me importante accidente’ (this extraordinary and, for me, important predicament). On one hand, the uniqueness of the incident is underlined (‘singolare’ [singular] becomes ‘straordinario’ [extraordinary]); on the other, its ‘importante’ (important) role in the chart of a destiny is made manifest. 5. The functional mechanism of the Vita is best seen by comparing it with other writings that act as rough tacking for the supreme narrative inventio that unfolds in the autobiography. This time, the other writings are not the work of a professional, but rather the travel accounts written by the ‘fidato’ (trusted) Francesco Elia. Archival research by Lanfranco Caretti98 has unearthed both the personal data of this enigmatic and enterprising servant of the Ferrere d’Asti as well as his empirical astuteness as letter-writer/informer. The case is unique: a narrative character steps out of his perimeter of strict literary competence and reveals himself not only as a historical figure but also as a realistic chronicler of the same events in which he participated as an actor. Elia’s records allow us to measure the imaginative gap in Alfieri’s autobiography. This is not a matter of checking for misrepresentation of objective data, because the events transcribed by the servant in the heat of the moment are the same ones his master records some time later; however, this comparison allows us to understand the symbolic dramatization of the same facts, the passage from history to the personal novel. One of the best examples is quite minimal and contained, and is perhaps the most eloquent for this reason. The following is one account of an episode that occurred in May 1770 during the journey across the icecovered Baltic from Stockholm to St Petersburg. In his letter to the Count of Cumiana, written from St Petersburg on 31 May 1770, Elia writes: abiamo trovatto il pasagio serratto da grandi pezi di giacio, che il vento del Norde à gettatto da quella parte, che non si vedeva che giacio a vista d’ochio [...] Infine [...] si credeva di sogiornare qualche tempo, quando con molto contento vedesimo venire la posta di Rusia, che gli barcaroli della mede-

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sima ànno detto che facendo un picolo giro e con spontoni per il detto giacio, si puoteva pasare, tanto più che vi era puoco vento; ed il mio padrone gli paghò ancora loro per indare avanti per farne il pasagio, dove più volte trovavamo dej pezi di giacio larghi come la piasa di San Carlo, che li barcaroli disendevano sopra per posare la barca che non ci dase drento; e puoj si trovasimo che non si vedeva più terra, e vi era più puoco giacio, ed arivando da l’altra parte ne tornasimo trovare molto, e ci cagionò di restarsi qualche volta, ma però fecimo il viagio felicemente [...]99

In the Vita, the same circumstance is related in another way: Era gelato gran parte di mare, e il tragitto [...] attesa l’immobilità totale dell’acque, riusciva per allora impossibile [...] Ed [...] il giorno dopo approdò a Grisselhamna un pescatore [...] e disseci [...] che si passerebbe, ma con qualche stento. Io subito volli tentare [...] Quelle tante galleggianti isolette [di ghiaccio] rendevano stranissimo l’aspetto di quell’orrido mare che parea piuttosto una terra scompaginata e disciolta, che non un volume di acque; ma il vento essendo, la Dio mercè, tenuissimo, le percosse di quei tavoloni nella mia barca riuscivano piuttosto carezze che urti; tuttavia la loro gran copia e mobilità spesso li facea da parti opposte incontrarsi davanti alla mia prora, e combaciandosi, tosto ne impedivano il solco; e subito altri ed altri vi concorreano, ed ammontandosi facean cenno di rimandarmi nel continente. Rimedio efficace ed unico, veniva allora ad essere l’ascia, castigatrice d’ogni insolente. Più d’una volta i marinai miei, ed anche io stesso scendemmo dalla barca sovra quei massi, e con delle scuri si andavano partendo, e staccando dalle pareti del legno, tanto che desser luogo ai remi e alla prora; poi risaltati noi dentro coll’impulso della risorta nave, si andavano cacciando dalla via quegli insistenti accompagnatori [...] Nella sua salvatica ruvidezza quello è un dei paesi d’Europa che mi siano andati più a genio, e destate più idee fantastiche, malinconiche, ed anche grandiose, per un certo vasto indefinibile silenzio che regna in quell’atmosfera, ove ti parrebbe quasi esser fuor del globo.100

Notwithstanding his love for brevitas, the master gives a more wordy description of this event, and his words are much different. Just the same, neither the amplificatio nor the different elocutio modify in any way the material substance of the account, but they do effect symptomatic alterations in its meaning on at least three levels. First is descriptive precision, not so much in terms of naturalistic details, but of epic connotation. Second, an ethical-civil metaphor is used to comment on the

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situation (‘Rimedio efficace ed unico, veniva allora ad essere l’ascia, castigatrice d’ogni insolente’ [The only effective means at that point was the axe, castigator of every insolent block]). Lastly, the use of analogical metaphors (the ‘orrido mare’ [horrid sea] which seems to be ‘una terra scompaginata’ [a chaotic wasteland] and the ‘indefinibile silenzio’ [indefinable silence] that creates the illusion of ‘esser fuor del globo’ [being outside of the world]) expresses the character’s sublime feelings at finding himself face to face with the wonder of Sweden’s ‘maestosa natura’ (majestic nature).101 Even as a writer, Elia is a talented and well-educated man, and his prose has biting, full-bodied, bitter communicative immediacy: ‘non si vedeva che giacio a vista d’ochio’ (There was only ice, as far as the eye could see); ‘trovavamo dej pezi di giacio larghi come la piasa di San Carlo’ (we found blocks of ice as big as San Carlo Square). The servant’s writing has truthful recording as its only aim; accordingly, the passage closes with the most important piece of information he must relay to Turin: the happy outcome of an eventful journey. The narrator of the Vita also wishes to inform the reader accurately, but at the same time he aims to create a character. Naturally, the two texts are independent, but without changing the bare facts, the additions to Elia’s simple plot all work together to shape the character of the protagonist. They show his determination in the midst of a dangerous situation (‘Io subito volli tentare’ [I immediately wanted to try]); his aristocratic pride, ready to punish ‘ogni insolente’ (every insolent block) that obstructs his way; his troubled sensitivity, which nurses ‘idee fantastiche, malinconiche, ed anche grandiose’ ( fantastic, melancholy and even grandiose ideas); and the bristling unpleasantness of his temperament, which allows him to find congeniality in the ‘salvatica ruvidezza’ (savage roughness) of the Swedish landscape. The icy waters become ‘un orrido mare che parea […] una terra scompaginata e disciolta’ (a horrid sea, which seemed a chaotic and melted wasteland), and the ‘vasto indefinibile silenzio che regna in quell’atmosfera’ (vast indefinable silence that reigns in that atmosphere) brings about a sudden abstraction in time and space, so that ‘ti parrebbe quasi esser fuor del globo.’ The term ‘globo’ (world) is a unicum in the Vita and bears witness to an elevated viewpoint that is distant and detached from things of the world. For the first-person narrator, the physical nature of the place becomes an impalpable ‘atmosfera’ (atmosphere), and geography, even though precisely determined, transforms itself into a lively theatre of inner apparitions. In the nineteenth chapter of Epoca iv, when the narrator of the Vita is about to conclude his ‘ciarle’ (chatter),102 he gives the following instruc-

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tions to a hypothetical posthumous publisher of the work: if he should wish to alter the text for publication, he may feel free to change ‘a suo piacimento quanto all’eleganza e lo stile’ (to his own liking whatever he wishes as far as elegance or style is concerned) but must take care not to touch the ‘fatti’ ( facts) – ‘non ne aggiunga nessuni, né in verun modo alteri i già descritti da me’ (please do not add anything or alter in any way the events I have described).103 The facts are important. They are what they are and must be respected. However, just as important is the director’s hand, which organizes and sets the facts in the proper light, transforming the record of days lived into the novel of a fearless, heroic self-awareness balanced on an oxymoron as a story of conflicts and antitheses. The trusted servant is important to the reader of the Vita not only as chronicler, but also as a character, and one with two faces: the narrative character of the autobiography and the real-life character that we read about in Alfieri’s letters. The two characters seem to have nothing in common. One is outlined as a positive hero, worthy of the narrator’s ‘ottima opinione’ (excellent opinion);104 the other is as brazen as a ‘briccone’ (rogue),105 the perpetrator of unforgivable misdeeds. Between reallife experience and the Vita scritta da esso, it seems that something is amiss. In iii, i, narrative Elia is a ‘uomo di sagacissimo ingegno’ (man of sagacious ingenuity) and ‘l’eroe protagonista della commedia di questi miei viaggi; di cui egli si trovò immediatamente essere il solo e vero nocchiero’ (the protagonist-hero of the comedy of my travels; who immediately found himself to be the only true steersman).106 Here is the brilliant visiting card that introduces the faithful, tireless, prudent servant, who is set alongside the young and inexperienced gentleman as a precious and providential support. In the first part of the Vita, he holds the position of high-ranking actor in memorable moments. Examples are the daring broken-arm episode in Radicofani;107 impulsive Vittorio’s attempted suicide in Holland, thwarted thanks to Elia;108 the love adventure in London with its night duel;109 the master’s ‘pazza bestialità’ (mad brutality)110 toward his servant in Spain; and the famous ‘tying up to a chair’ incident, with Elia as the ‘legatore’ (‘tier’).111 Then the trusted servant leaves the scene from the sixth chapter of Epoca iv, after his master has met the ‘Degno amore’ (worthy love) in the previous chapter, who ‘[lo] allaccia finalmente per sempre’ (snags him once and for all). When the time comes, the ‘semi-ajo’ (semi-tutor),112 reliable support and ‘vero nocchiero’ (true steersman) in all the hardships encountered during the long journeys across the plains of Europe by coach, respectfully yields his place to a worthier companion and inspirer for the future destiny of the

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tragic author. So Elia disappears from the horizon of the Vita, leaving only his honourable memory. If we now leave the autobiography and turn to documents from Alfieri’s private correspondence, we are confronted with quite a different picture. Even here we can detect proofs of trust and respect for the faithful servant, but they finish with his sudden, unexpected, brusque dismissal, as described in Alfieri’s letter from Pisa to his sister Giulia on 19 January 1785: Devo dunque dirvi, e con somma mia vergogna, che mi sono ingannato su quell’uomo per ben vent’anni; ed ora, dopo questi ultimi 4, in cui l’avea posto a servire in casa della Contessa d’Albania, mi è convenuto toccar con mano, ed esser convinto, ch’egli tolto che ladro, che non è, del resto ha tutti i più essenziali difetti, che uomo aver possa. Curioso, bugiardo, impertinente, raggiratore, turbolento, e calunniatore [...] Questa condotta, che lo costituisce pazzo non meno che indiscreto, ingrato, e briccone, m’ha risoluto [...] a non volerlo mai più fra i piedi; per umanità, e per metterlo sempre più nel suo torto, e per l’avermi servito lungamente e bene in viaggio, m’hanno indotto a lasciarli la pensione delle lire mille, ch’io gli accordai quando feci la donazione, e che se meritava allora, certamente non merita più adesso.113

This violent split-up has irremediably taken place, but for the narrator of the Vita, it is as if nothing had ever happened. The out-and-out ‘briccone’ (rogue), who his master the Count in 1785, ‘con somma […] vergogna’ (to my utter […] shame), declares has deceived him ‘per ben vent’anni’ ( for twenty long years), takes his own place in the autobiographical account with head held high, in the distinguished, privileged, and affectionate role of ‘mio Elia’ (my Elia), ‘non meno sagace che fido’ (as sagacious as he is reliable).114 It would be a mistake to conclude that biographical data were falsified or at least deemphasized in order to satisfy the demands of storybook fiction, because we would not be taking into consideration the delicate balance that exists between real-life fact and the novel of the ‘I.’ Even though it is certainly true that the classical and the eighteenth-century narrative tradition often includes the key character of the faithful servant as a support and counterpart to the protagonist-hero, the Vita scritta da esso is not a romantic life; it does not alter the facts, but it interprets, penetrates, and deciphers them. The real-life Elia, as he appears in his original writings, comes much nearer to the noble profile outlined in the

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autobiography than to the harsh negative counter-figure censured in private correspondence. These considerations show that a documentary report certifies and confirms the truth of the literary work rather than the biographical chronicle, recognizing a higher level of testimonial, cognitive, and introspective authenticity in the artistic prose of the Vita than in epistolary prose. As in the case of the Giornali, greater or lesser sincerity is not what is at stake; it is a matter of the different phenomenology of ‘vero’ (truth). The two portraits of Elia, the ‘fidato’ (trusty) and the ‘briccone’ (rogue), are both sincere because they are both etched in the mind of the one who painted them. The affection won through the familiarity of a twenty-year association is certainly true, as is the profound resentment that he provoked by not keeping the secret of the extremely private encounter in Colmar in August 1784. However, the truth that reigns in the autobiography, as the necessary thread of destiny, is not the same truth that in the private correspondence finds itself subjected to the contingency of chance and chaos. Elia paid dearly for his sin of indiscretion, but he was amply repaid, not so much by the annual pension he received, but by the part assigned to him in the Vita. Not as a fictitious but as a real-life character, he is extracted from the inchoate confusion of life’s experiences and handed over to the truth of the tragic author. Only on this condition could the director of the autobiography leave behind the distress and anguish of Count Vittorio Alfieri of Asti, whose very ability to forget played a part in allowing him to create that marvellous book Vita scritta da esso. In this case, forgetting means keeping silence and gaining mastery over himself as the product of a century he held in contempt, as a writer of diaries and letters, as a noble sub-alpine gentleman without a homeland, caught up in an unlivable existence mixed with boredom, torpor, gloom, and despondency. Catching sight of himself as an ‘autor luminoso’ (luminous author),115 he discovers he is a citizen of another ethical, aesthetic, civil, and intellectual reality, namely the conquest of his inner world. He is, according to his confession, a free man who observes himself and others from a viewpoint of majestic altitude, with sharp and strict judgment, from a cool and distant perspective, ‘quasi […] fuor del globo’ (almost […] outside of the world).116 It is this observer’s point of view that gives rise to the brisk rhythm, the blunt and sudden passages, as well as the book’s clean-cut style governed by rapid and anxious glances that search facts, things, people, emotions. With his elevated, judgmental perspective, his incisive style, his energetic experimentation through a language both icastic and evocative, prehensile and distorting, the protagonist of the

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Vita takes on his unmistakable features of ‘incandescente’ (incandescent)117 individuality, taciturn solitude, and ‘salvatica ruvidezza’ (savage roughness).118 People who were well acquainted with the author in person, such as the ‘ottimo Abate’ (excellent Abbot)119 of Caluso, gave assurance that Alfieri’s self-portrait came out ‘maravigliosamente rassomigliante e fedele’ (marvellously true-to-life).120 But it does not really matter very much; it is not the evanescent features of the original that hold the place of prominence, but the ‘parlante’ (speaking) reflection of himself that the Count, with ‘sublime semplicità’ (sublime simplicity),121 has left reflected in the mirror of his work.

2 Foscolo and the Mythology of the Self

In the history of the nineteenth-century Italian novel, the romantic analysis of one’s own self belongs mainly to Foscolo, to the Foscolo of Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis, and bears the distinguishing marks of heroic and self-celebrating egotism. ‘Regna in noi tutti quella divinità che si chiama Io’ (Enthroned in all of us is that divinity called I), declares the Ragguaglio d’un’adunanza dell’Accademia de’ Pitagorici in 1810. This inner study of the narrating I, absorbed in self-examination, emphatically reveals an exceptional individuality both stormy and tormented, which by reason of its enticing force of attraction is destined to take on emblematic and lasting meaning as a symbol during the course of the century. This self-character, pulled in two directions and prey to its own passions, brings its vital parabola to a close in the tragic act of suicide. Conformity to social conventions, together with the negativity of the historical setting, overwhelms the hero, who succumbs, yet without resigning himself to his own despair. The feverish times of Jacobin and post-Jacobin Europe, between Revolution and Restoration, do not allow an organic unfolding of the self; rather, they suffocate the subject and condemn his need for self-confession to the pathos of a voluntary death (Jacopo Ortis commits suicide by stabbing himself in the heart; Werther with a gunshot to the head). Jacopo is a self-destructive character who, conscious of his powerlessness to change the situations he is involved with, turns his actions against himself. Dell’Ortis non ho voglia di parlare. Non dirò che due parole. Questa è un’opera scritta da un Genio in un accesso di febbre maligna, d’una sublimità micidiale e d’un’eccellenza venefica. Veggo pur troppo ch’è l’opera del cuore di chi la scrisse; e ciò appunto mi duol di più, perché temo ch’ei abbia dentro un mal canceroso e incurabile1

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These words of Cesarotti are well spoken; however, that ‘accesso di febbre maligna’ (bout of malignant fever) represents a collective rather than an individual disease, rooted in the very reasons behind the historical events of the era. Only in a profoundly different historical context, at the unification of Italy, would a new and fresh first-person narrator like Carlo Altoviti, in Nievo’s Le confessioni d’un italiano, succeed in living and growing old, in approaching a natural death in perfect serenity, having learned from life, and sure that his existence ‘non fu spesa inutilmente, ch’essa non fu un male né per noi né per gli altri’ (was not spent in vain, that it did no harm to us, nor to others).2 But before this radiant Risorgimento epic of self, the revolutionary impulse and obsession for self-discovery seen in Jacopo Ortis would throw a troublesome shadow on the anxious, selfintrospective thoughts that never leave Giovanni, in Fede e bellezza by Tommaseo, except that the self-celebrating passion of Foscolo’s poetics would have to leave room for an occasionally unheroicizing and self-critical investigation, implicitly polemical towards Ortis’s proud outbursts. Despite its simple, coherent structure and autobiographical background, Ortis is a complex, multi-functional novel. It took Foscolo about twenty years to fully develop it through successive editions, from 1798 to 1817. It is a stratified and multi-style text that takes shape over time; a work in progress characterized by multiple variations, with the result that both its nature and meaning are altered by the various personal and civil experiences that its author goes through, both in the public and private domain. The novel’s development takes place in three essential stages: the Ortis of Bologna in the autumn of 1798 (Bologna, Marsigli; left unfinished by Foscolo at chapter xlv, the text was completed for printing by Angelo Sassoli of Bologna; later, in 1799, the book was reprinted in two volumes by the same publisher and entitled Vera storia di due amanti infelici ossia Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis); the Ortis of Milan in October of 1802 (Milano, Genio Tipografico; the first unabridged edition); the Ortis of Zurich in 1816 (Zurich, Füssli, but bearing the false indication London, 1814; the text includes an extensive and important Notizia bibliografica). The London edition in 1817 (London, Murray), entrusted with the last wishes of the author, actually introduces few, unimportant changes to the Zurich version of the text. The first Ortis (1798), published during the period of heated Jacobin hopes, on the eve of the counterrevolution in 1799, leaves the reader with Jacopo abandoning the Euganean Hills with a farewell letter

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addressed to Teresa. The nature of the text alternates between sentimental-fantastical and rural-idyllic, and the historical-political element of disillusion connected with Campoformio is undermined. Its genesis is bookish and literary. It descends directly from the influence of Werther (which Foscolo read in mediocre translations: the one by Gaetano Grassi published in Poschiavo, Switzerland in 1782 and more importantly the one by Michiel Salom, Venice, 1788). In Werther, the protagonist’s conflict is rooted in an inner discord with natural and social laws, in a dreamlike and absolute identification of life with love, and in the tragic awareness of his own destiny as an unhappy lover. The first Jacopo shares analogous characteristics of eighteenth-century sensitivity set in an Arcadian landscape. The nature of his despairing monologue is emotional and psychological. The suffering that plagues him is of a frankly individual and private character; his ‘divina passione di libertà’ (divine passion for freedom)3 has no concrete political reference. Jacopo appears as a hero of love, which, although mutual, is impossible. He is a character not so much in the grip of a passion that will send him to rack and ruin, but rather in longing for a mythical and celestial happiness that remains beyond his reach. The second Ortis (1802), which takes shape during the transition between the revolution and the empire, is no longer the expression of a personal emotional setback but comes to represent the defeat of a whole generation, a defeat experienced on sentimental, ideological, and philosophical fronts. The crises taking place are brought to light by Foscolo on a political level in his Orazione a Bonaparte pel Congresso di Lione (published in August 1802), subsequent to the Comizi di Lione, opened on 25 January 1802, which confirmed the subaltern status assigned to Italy under the government of Napoleon. Swept away by historical events that bring to an end the revolutionary period, a generous season of hope, the author casts their baleful shadows upon the novel. Jacopo, in contrast with Goethe’s young Werther, shows himself to be the disillusioned offspring of the ideals of 1789. The metamorphosis of the text has little to do with the revision of the already-published part, which keeps its sentimental-idyllic tone. The real change takes place with the addition of new parts containing fresh elements of political denunciation and speculative examination that bestow new meaning on the whole (first part included). Two memorable letters are exemplary in this respect: one from Milan on 4 December 1798 and one from Ventimiglia on 19/20 February 1799. In the first of these, Jacopo writes to the ‘vecchio venerando’ (venerable

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old man)4 Parini, indicating the civil and social reasons for his ‘spaventosa’ (terrible) solitude, as well as his ‘disperazione’ (despair). First of all, the Cisalpine republic is overrun with corruption. Another evil is that of political action reduced to an arbitrary instrument of power (‘In tutti i paesi ho veduto gli uomini sempre di tre sorta: i pochi che comandano, l’universalità che serve, e i molti che brigano’ [In every country, I’ve seen that men belong to three ranks: the few who give orders, the universality who serve them, and the many engaged in conspiring against them]).5 Furthermore, every virtue is despised, with the result that a man’s worth is determined by his property income (‘Tu mi esalti sempre il mio ingegno: sai tu quanto io vaglio? né più né meno di ciò che vale la mia entrata’ [You always praise my talent: do you know what I’m worth? No more nor less than my earnings]).6 Finally, there is the servile behaviour of court scholars who go along with the wishes of those in power ‘per non rimproverarli della loro ignoranza, e delle loro scelleraggini’ (so as not to reprove their ignorance and wickedness).7 Jacopo’s intense thirst for glory progressively reveals itself to be a ‘delusa ambizione’ (unfulfilled ambition)8 placed beyond his reach by the reality of a ‘comune bruttura’ (prevailing ugliness)9 that dominates the present day, as confirmed by the painfully heartfelt words of Parini. The protagonist’s conflict of impossible love is compounded by a dramatic political conflict: zealous yearning (typical of Alfieri) for a new civil ethos against the bitter awareness of its historical impracticability. However, it is the philosophical perspective of the letter from Ventimiglia that fills Jacopo’s cup of dregs to the brim. Here, after wandering about in the mountains of Liguria, in the midst of ‘aspri e lividi macigni’ (austere and leaden rock), and ‘argini di altissime rupi e di burroni cavernosi’ (banks of towering cliffs and ravines bored into by caves), surrounded by mountainous ‘bronchi’ (briers) and ‘fauci’ (jaws), he is dismayed to recognize the ‘minacciosa’ (threatening)10 and destructive omnipotence of nature. From reflections on natural reality, his thoughts then shift to social reality (in an analogical transition that will later be echoed by Leopardi in ‘La ginestra’) as well as to historical life (the ‘immenso spazio del tempo’ [immense space of time]) and to the life of the universe. With a pessimistic materialism derived from Hobbes, he recognizes a cyclical destiny of ruin, plunder, and violence in the life of individuals, groups, and nations: ‘Tutte le nazioni hanno le loro età. Oggi sono tiranne per maturare la propria schiavitù di domani: e quei che pagavano dianzi vilmente il tributo, lo imporranno un giorno col ferro e col fuoco. Il mondo è una foresta di belve’ (Every nation has its era. Today’s tyrants are only consummating their own slavery tomorrow: and those who now

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cowardly pay tribute, one day will demand it of others, not sparing iron or fire. The world is a forest of wild beasts).11 Even the so-called ‘virtù’ (virtues) lose their meaning, weight, and legitimacy: Frattanto noi chiamiamo pomposamente virtù tutte quelle azioni che giovano alla sicurezza di chi comanda, e alla paura di chi serve. I governi impongono giustizia; ma potrebbero eglino imporla se per regnare non l’avessero prima violata? Chi ha derubato per ambizione le intere provincie, manda solennemente alle forche chi per fame invola del pane. Onde quando la forza ha rotti tutti gli altrui diritti, per serbarli poscia a se stessa, inganna i mortali con le apparenze del giusto fin che un’altra forza non la distrugga. Eccoti il mondo, e gli uomini.12

The order of the universe is also governed by laws of destruction and reconstruction, which by definition imply suffering and misfortune for every creature. All men, even those belonging to the proud race of heroes, are no more than the ‘cieche ruote’ (blind wheels) of an ‘oriuolo’ (clock)13 activated by fate; unawares, they are the mechanism of an unalterable piece of machinery that generates suffering and pain: ‘pare che gli uomini sieno i fabbri delle proprie sciagure, ma le sciagure derivano dall’ordine universale, e il genere umano serve orgogliosamente e ciecamente ai destini’ (men seem to be the manufacturers of their own misery; instead it derives from a universal order, and the human race proudly and blindly serves destiny).14 And for Jacopo, held in the iron grip of his desolation, only one extreme comfort remains: ‘Poiché tutto è vestito di tristezza per me [...] null’altro posso ancora sperare che il sonno eterno della morte’ (Now that all, for me, is clothed with grief […] I have no hope other than the eternal slumber of death).15 The development of the third Ortis also springs from a significant historical event. The insurrection in Milan on 20 April 1814 and subsequent fall of the Regno d’Italia with the Austrians’ return to Milan represented a new and harsh disillusionment for Italian patriots, and Foscolo finds himself in the midst of a situation similar to the one endured after Campoformio. Like Jacopo, a voluntary exile from the Euganean Hills who wanders about Italy, his author has also chosen the road of exile, but beyond the confines of the Alps. The most considerable addition to this third ‘stage’ of the novel is the letter dated 17 March 1798, which brings back to the forefront themes and passages taken from the discourses Della servitù d’Italia composed in 1815. The letter quite naturally includes a forceful and explicit anti-Napoleonic closure

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(against the ‘Giovane Eroe’ [Young Hero] who has ‘il vigore e il fremito del leone’ [the strength and semblance of a lion] but an ‘animo basso e crudele’ [cruel and base soul] and ‘mente volpina’ [the ruse of a fox])16 as well as a disconsolate review of the numerous ‘piaghe d’Italia’ (open sores of Italy)17 that destroy the hopes of any hypothetical redemption for the nation. Jacopo’s youthful passion, typical of Alfieri, and its heroic emphasis have dampened, and he has become a disillusioned observer of himself and his ‘fantasmi’ (ghosts). He now perceives with lucid and ‘insolita pacatezza’ (remarkable calm)18 that overexcited, helpless exclamations of protest may be nothing more than unrealistic declaiming. ‘La volontà forte e la nullità di potere in chi sente una passione politica lo fanno sciaguratissimo dentro di sé: e se non tace, lo fanno parere ridicolo al mondo; si fa la figura di paladino da romanzo’ (A strong will and lack of power in one who is driven by political passion make him wretched inside: and if he does not hold his peace, they will expose him to ridicule in the eyes of the world; one plays the part of a paladin in a novel).19 The letter closes with the name of Teresa, who is now nothing more than ‘un sogno soave’ (a sweet dream) that is already beginning to fade. The certain and detached tone of the ending derives from this unwavering conviction: Né io vivo se non per lei sola: e quando anche questo mio nuovo sogno soave terminerà, io calerò volentieri il sipario. La gloria, il sapere, la gioventù, le ricchezze, la patria, tutti fantasmi che hanno fino ad or recitato nella mia commedia, non fanno più per me. Calerò il sipario; e lascierò che gli altri mortali s’affannino per accrescere i piaceri e menomare i dolori d’una vita che ad ogni minuto s’accorcia, e che pure que’ meschini se la vorrebbero persuadere immortale.20

The original, simple plot of Ortis, with its sentimental-idyllic pathos and its elegantly precious flavour that still belongs to the eighteenth century, has undergone a conversion. Step by step, and in clear connection with the biography of Foscolo, Ortis became the first modern Italian novel, a distressed reflection on the collapse of Jacobin utopia and Napoleonic myth as well as on the cultural crises that laid bare the powerlessness of revolutionary intellectuals. In his dual misadventure as lover and disappointed patriot, Jacopo manifests an absolute need for individual freedom. His is in constant conflict with authority, a conflict that defeats him in the end, be it in the public form of appointment to government (Napoleon) or in the private form of family government (Teresa’s father, who is actually young Ortis’s

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real rival, much more than her inactive fiancé Odoardo). Jacopo’s only weapons against these historical and social barriers are his disarmed but fearless and extremely sensitive magnanimity, the enflamed claims of a character who refuses to compromise with the world and can find no outlet for the energy of his own noble inner vitality except by choosing the ultimate sacrifice. Death appears as revenge against the tyranny of Teresa’s father as well as a kind of self-assertion. A boundless desire for life is transformed into anxiety for death. The novel’s delicate, expressive craftsmanship is gradually enriched, modified, and streaked with different tones and rhythms. On the original nucleus, with its style of idyllic elegy, Foscolo grafts original elements of boisterous Alfieri-style egotism, as well as a declamatory and eloquent vis, bitter and tense incisiveness typical of Tacitus (with sudden variatio from lyrical to moving to dramatic), and finally a calm and subdued inner reflection. The simple plot of the epistolary genre is resolutely used to paint a dynamic picture of the protagonist, to define his profile as a hero. In Ortis, the secret ‘libro’ (book) of the author’s ‘cuore’ (heart), written with drops of his own ‘sangue’ (blood), Foscolo has summed up the exemplary catalogue of dominant and obsessive themes that pervade his entire career as a writer: the clash between ‘cuore’ (heart) and ‘ragione’ (reason), the worship of calming beauty, the idea of death being softened by the mourning of survivors, veneration for the tombs of the illustrious, and the anguish of exile accompanied by civil indignation and the restless disorientation of being perpetually without a homeland. At the same time, the novel offers a collection of the most symptomatic romantic themes (which even his contemporaries noticed immediately), all of which are brought across with a bite that would rarely be equalled by our subsequent romantic literature. Ortis represents the supremacy of sentiment over reason and of ‘passione’ (passion) over conformity to social hypocrisy. It demonstrates poetry’s mythical power to exalt and turn the heroism of virtue, the enchantment of beauty, and the fascination of intuitive knowledge into incorruptible symbols, reaching beyond the misery and blood of human history. It puts forward interaction with nature as a mirror of the heart and a symbolic projection of the self. It embodies the charm of solitude, cultivated as a trustworthy companion of proud and scornful characters. Above all, Ortis makes a romantic claim for the rights of love, lived out as a supreme and noble ideal, as a faith ruling over the soul, exalting the value of the individual and redeeming him from the grey mediocrity of daily living. Alongside love is the homeland. It is also due in part to Fo-

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scolo’s novel that politics is no longer a profession reserved for a restricted number of experts and bureaucrats, but rather a mission, a fervor of the heart, a sovereign affection that completes the sense of one’s life, the fulfillment of a personality. This path reveals a link between the romantic revival and the struggle of the Risorgimento, which represents a decisive union for Italian literary culture up to unification. Even with its historical-existential plot that concludes in despair, Ortis brings across the passionate strength of political militancy to several generations of readers, from Mazzini to Guerrazzi and from Bini to Nievo. It becomes a prophetic book for the nineteenth century with its dual theme of ‘amore e patria,’ an object of worship and veneration, a compendium of youthful anxieties, as well as a model for emotional identification in the person of Jacopo, suffering champion of virtue, overpowered and yet untamed hero. In an overview of nineteenth-century prose, the lesson given by Ortis has indubitable importance, although it is delimited by the strict boundaries of its own autobiographical origins. The ties between Jacopo and his author, and consequently the exchange between literature and life, are distinguishing marks and constitutive characteristics of Ortis. It is a record of real-life facts, particularly because entire excerpts taken from Foscolo’s correspondence are woven into the novel, especially the correspondence (from 1801 to 1803) with Antonietta Fagnani Arese of Milan, whom he loved intensely in 1801. A double thread ties together the transcription of private experience and creative writing, assimilated into one by an analogous level of high and carefully planned literary expression. In both cases, the importance lies in the theatrical production of the heart, the dramatic script of a secret and intimate diary. This play of mirrors between art and reality, between literature and life, singles out the prose of Ortis for the fact that it is not void of lyricism, but rather egocentric and poetic, displaying refinement and dignity. Its emphasis is on confession and on the jumps and starts of the self, with the eloquence of inner pondering, rather than on a reflective analysis of the outer world, with the inter-subjective and multi-prospective reasoning of narrative prose. It is a kind of long and masterly monologue, without the animated feeling of a dialogue. The success of this expressive means can be measured somewhat less in the genre of the novel and more in poetry (right up to the notable case of Leopardi), or in the narrative filtered through the voice of a first-person narrator, through the centrality of the individual (from Guerrazzi to Tommaseo, from Verga in Storia di una capinera to D’Annunzio).

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It would be left up to Manzoni to test the early nineteenth-century literary culture (which persisted in ignoring the importance of Goldoni) with a different kind of prose – a prose deliberately lacking in lyricism, unassuming yet intense and marvellously adaptable, suited to the polyphonic perspective of the modern novel. He would be the one to invent a dialogic form, articulate and dynamic, within the narrative body, as the study of a character in action, an average person among his peers. There is an abyss rather than a flow of continuity between Ortis and I Promessi sposi; they are archetypes of two diametrically opposed narrative lines. Jacopo is a self-portrait of the author, but a partial one, and one of many. The same autobiographical projection, alongside the tumultuous and passionate register of Ortis, resulted in a disenchanted and ironic register in the Sesto tomo dell’Io (or Frammenti di un romanzo autobiografico). The alter ego embodied by Jacopo does not give full vent to the versatile complexity of Foscolo’s character, nor to his varying needs for winding, outward-bound narratives leading in different directions. The so-called Sesto tomo dell’Io, written between the first and second Ortis, probably between 1799 and 1801,21 presents passages of a planned but unfinished autobiographical novel, relative to a single year of the biography of the narrator-protagonist: ‘Comprende questo tomo il mio anno ventesimoterzo, dai 4 maggio del 1799 sino a’ 4 maggio del 1800’ (This tome recounts my twenty-third year, from 4 May 1799 to 4 May 1800).22 The title of this projected book eloquently and emphatically confirms a mythomaniac obsession: ‘Io’ (I). The sixth volume is actually the first in the works: ‘Mando innanzi il sesto, perché gli antecedenti volumi stanno ancora nel mio calamaio, e i futuri nel non-leggibile scartafaccio del fato [...] Né si sospetti ch’io stampi un tomo alla volta per tastare il giudizio del pubblico. Con pace della critica e del disprezzo proseguirò sempre a scrivere ed a stampare’ (I have put out the sixth, because the previous volumes lay in my inkpot as yet, and the subsequent ones in the illegible notebook of fate […] Nor should it be suspected that I mean to print one tome at a time in order to measure public reaction. Without regard for criticism or disdain, I shall continue to write and print).23 Compared with Ortis, different eighteenth-century models are at work here. They are not easily assimilated except from a partial perspective within the tragic score orchestrated upon the example of the Werther. Several echoes can be heard, coming from different sorts of narratives: the novel about habits and customs (e.g., Voyage du jeune Anacharsis en Grèce [1788] by Barthélemy); the erotic novel (e.g., Le temple de Gnide

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[1725] by Montesquieu); the satirical-ridiculous novel (e.g., Gulliver’s Travels [1726] by Swift or Tristram Shandy [1760–7] by Sterne). These texts bring to light a more varied and mobile eighteenth-century tradition, with an ironic and realistic tone, in contrast with the tone of Ortis, which is touching and sentimental. This tradition was alive especially in Venice, where the author of La mia istoria, ovvero Memorie del Signor Tommasino, Francesco Gritti, had translated Le temple de Gnide in ottave (strophe composed of eight hendecasyllables) in 1792, and where Swift’s satirical line had found a singular enthusiast in the person of Zaccaria Seriman, with the Viaggi di Enrico Wanton alle terre incognite australi, ed ai regni delle scimie, e de’ cinocefali (1749; unabridged edition, 1764). The Sterne of the Sentimental Journey, who can be perceived in the pathosladen emotion of the Ortis of 1798, is completely different from the selfironic Sterne appearing on occasion in the Sesto tomo dell’Io. Their humorous and ironic expression is not the only feature that makes these passages unique. They are also interspersed with excerpts from essays of literary sociology (‘Ma perché scrivi? [...] E perché stampi? [...] E perché compri?’ [But why do you write? […] And why do you print? […] And why do you buy?]) that imply a lively dialogue with the reader. And the first-person narrator, who answers to the name of Lorenzo, does not hold back from presenting himself in an anti-sublime and anti-heroic light typical of prose, with references to Don Quixote and their consequent anti-Plutarch allusion. Two female figures take on the role of protagonists: Psiche and Temira, the former possibly inspired by Antonietta Fagnani Arese and the latter by Isabella Teotochi. Psiche is the seventeen-year-old ‘deliziosa fanciulla’ (delightful child), with an ‘anima angelica’ (angelic soul) and ‘sacra bellezza’ (sacred beauty), who bravely and trustingly sets out on life with dreamy expectations of happiness, even though, against her will, she is the bride of a jealous ‘vecchio’ (old man) whom she must put up with. The narrator-lover, in the ‘ore furtive’ ( furtive hours) of their encounters, intends to wisely teach her about the ‘delizie del piacere’ (delights of pleasure), while at the same time warning her about the turmoil of passion and its dangers, and encouraging her to keep the appearance of public decency and the virtuous image of her domestic respectability as a wife: Ascolta. Le donne belle sono nate per amare, e per essere amate. E tu forse mi dici sorridendo: Lo So meglio di te. Bada; ancora non t’avvedi che mille basse passioni e il cieco delirio dell’amore turbano quasi sempre le delizie del piacere [...]

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Il mondo esige [dalla moglie] le immagini della virtù e dell’amore e tu le conservi [...] Ora làsciati pregare e persuadere anche tu, mia fanciulla. Il bello è sì raro! Tu saresti ingrata con la natura, se non ne distribuissi a que’ mortali, che piacendoti acquistano il diritto di possederlo [...] T’assista la fortuna, mia buona e cara fanciulla! tu lo meriti, perché hai il cuore ben fatto. Ma ... che il tuo cuore appunto non ti tradisca! Non piegarti ai primi sospiri di un amante: lo perderesti per sempre. Innanzi di svelare tutti i tuoi vezzi, fa come la madre d’Amore che prima di scendere fra gli abitanti di Tempe si lasciava adorare avvolta dentro una nuvola, facendosi conoscere all’aura de’ suoi capelli profumati d’ambrosia.24

For his pedagogical purpose, Lorenzo points out to Psiche a model for her to imitate: the behaviour of Temira, the ‘sacerdotessa di Venere’ (priestess of Venus), who was the first to initiate him into the secrets of eros, ‘amante per cinque giorni, ma amica per tutta la vita’ (lover for five days, but friend for life).25 The portrait of ‘celeste Temira’ (celestial Temira) depicts both burning eroticism and innocent naturalness. She appears to us, behind ‘le cortine del suo letto’ (the curtains of her bed), in a flash of Lorenzo’s memory, who remembers her ‘ignuda’ (naked), in the stasis of fulfillment that follows placation of sexual desire, as the woman slowly comes around, with ‘le guancie impallidite e rugiadose di sudore’ (her cheeks pale and dewy with perspiration), from her ‘voluttuosa agonia’ (voluptuous agony). In Temira, this delight in sexual pleasure (separate from love) is combined with a lucid understanding of human relations, smiling discretion and tolerance (‘Viveva e lasciava vivere’ [Lived and let live]), and knowledge of the fleetingness that guides the steps of the heart (‘Bada! ... non innamorarti!’ [Watch out! ... don’t fall in love!]). Her words summarize a generous, candid, and doleful school of sentiment: Se il cielo ti darà una sposa, dividi con essa tutta la tua felicità. E dividi con essa nelle disgrazie il pane e le lagrime. Amatevi. E se vi fosse concesso amatevi eternamente. Ma questo amore perfetto se lo hanno purtroppo riserbato i numi. Ancor non è poco se due amanti, spenta la passione, non s’odiano. Prevenite gli ultimi giorni di una passione languente che cede sempre il loco alle furie della gelosia e dell’onore. La tristezza, il sospetto e il tradimento passeggiano sempre d’intorno al letto di due sposi gelosi. Non vi rapite la sacra amicizia, unico balsamo all’amarezze della vita. L’amore perfetto è una chimera: il desiderio fa beati alcuni momenti: e l’amicizia

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The Invention of Modern Italian Literature conforta tutti i tempi, ed unisce tutte l’età. Va’ mio ragazzo; te’ un bacio, non mi giurare fedeltà ch’io né la credo né la voglio.26

The fragments of the Sesto tomo dell’Io were quickly abandoned by Foscolo in his urgent need to prepare the second Ortis. But from these few surviving excerpts we can imagine an alternative autobiography to the fortunes of Jacopo, so fixedly devoted to his idol Teresa and so quick to recognize her as the exclusive object of his desire. Lorenzo’s human helpfulness and prehensile, realistic understanding of himself and society is about to give way to Jacopo’s totalizing, Alfieri-style ‘tempeste’ (storms): rage for his homeland and idealized, absolute love for Teresa, both woven into the second Ortis. In the rivalry between the novel of disenchanted worldly wisdom, of distressing humour and irony, and the novel of tragic spiritualizing and heroic sacrifice, the latter was to prevail. In the laboratory of the Sesto tomo dell’Io, left inactive for the time being, would spring up the subsequent register of Sterne and Didimo in Foscolo’s writing. In 1805, in France, Foscolo began the first and literal translation of Sterne’s Sentimental Journey through France and Italy (1768). In 1812, during his sojourn in Florence, he developed a new and inventive version, which was later revised and corrected for printing in Pisa by Molini in 1813, together with its essential accompanying work Notizia intorno a Didimo Chierico, which was later republished in a fuller version in Zurich in 1816. For Foscolo, even the practice of translating is mainly an autobiographical excavation and a further projection of himself: ‘non sono fatto che per tradurre me stesso’ (I’m not made for translating anything but myself), he wrote to Sigismondo Trechi in June of 1813,27 announcing the Pisa edition of Viaggio sentimentale. This fertile, laborious, and prolonged contact with Sterne’s prose formed the character of Foscolo’s new alter ego; a different ‘double’ was sketched out and given the name of Didimo. The official Notizia of a new and changed ‘self’ was given publicly in 1813. Through glimpses and allusions, his life is recounted, his character described, his interests and inner convictions brought to light. Didimo is outlined not only as an individual, but above all as a writer, the author of three works (‘tre suoi manoscritti’ [his three manuscripts]) that are a tangible expression of his learning, the ‘voce’ (voice) of his personality, in the same way that the Ultime lettere were the voice of Jacopo. The latter, however, was involuntarily responsible for his work, published posthumously, while Didimo was a writer by profession and by choice. While portraying a character, the Notizia displays the credentials of a new author, the new and hidden mask of Foscolo.

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Didimo’s three manuscripts encompass the Ipercalisse, the five books of the Ricordi (Didymi clerici libri memoriales quinque) and the translation of Viaggio sentimentale. The Libri memoriales, composed by Didimo in Greek, allude to Foscolo’s planned Confessioni, which were never completed. The Ipercalisse, on the other hand, ‘cosa tutta bizzarra, apocaliptica, didimea’ (a very odd, Apocalyptic, Didimo-like work),28 which was sketched out by Foscolo in Milan in the summer of 1810, was later reviewed, finalized, and published in Zurich in 1816. Belonging to the genre of the vision and filtered through the first person of Didimo, its tone ‘sa di satirico’ (has a satirical flavour),29 as in reality it is a harsh document of accusation directed against the scholars of Milan and their adulatory veneration of Napoleon. As we know, Didimo is the anti-Ortis. He is not swept away by historical events, but with astute ‘prudenza mondana’ (worldly wisdom)30 he goes along with them. He is able to balance the contradictory thoughts and feelings typical of Jacopo; he keeps a check on his own despair as a sceptically disillusioned man who knows life well, ‘più disingannato che rinsavito’ (more disillusioned than wise).31 He keeps his bygone passions alive but does not let them leak out, and the little that can be perceived from the outside seems like the ‘calore di fiamma lontana’ (warmth of a faraway flame).32 As both a comic and disconsolate character, Didimo does not commit suicide, because he has learned the art of living among his peers with a leniency that is mixed with wisdom and critical detachment. He has learned to use irony as a weapon to defend himself from the foolishness and wickedness of a world that he knows he cannot change. Didimo’s genesis is a laborious one, and almost like his brother Jacopo, he is subject to changes and updates as time goes on, in accordance with the experiences of his writer. Most importantly, Didimo is not presented in the Notizia in the first person (like Jacopo and like Lorenzo, the protagonist of the Sesto tomo dell’Io) but in the third, so as to break the connection of identification between character and author and allow that distant perspective which can be reticent, ambiguous, and understated, the distinguishing characteristics of Foscolo’s self-portrait in Didimo. Besides the series of passages entitled Di Didimo Chierico e de’ suoi manoscritti (1811), the works ascribed to Didimo include the satirical invention Ragguaglio d’un’adunanza dell’Accademia de’ Pitagorici (perhaps not altogether unknown to Leopardi at the writing of his Proposta di premi fatta dall’Accademia dei Sillografi in February 1824), which appeared in the ‘Annali di Scienze e Lettere’ of Milan in May 1810 (contemporary to the outset of the Ipercalisse), presented as ‘Frammento d’un libro inedito’

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(Extract from an unpublished book):33 ‘un romanzo fratello dell’Ortis; ma con altre tinte – con la tavolozza di Swift, dell’amico mio Lorenzo Sterne, di Don Chisciotte, di Platone – in somma non so bene nemmen io con le tinte di chi’ (A ‘brother’ book to the Ortis; but with different shades – with the palette of Swift, of my friend Lawrence Sterne, Don Quixote, Plato – in short, not even I know with whose shades).34 The figure of Didimo later reappears in the unfinished Lettere scritte dall’Inghilterra (conceived in the autumn of 1816 and abandoned in March 1818). Here Foscolo returns to the well-known epistolary genre, this time in the form of a novel-essay. With ‘sentimenti istantanei, spassionati d’astio o d’amore’ (immediate sentiments, impartial to either resentment or love) (from the notice Al lettore, dated 25 December 1817), this work sets out to compare the traditions, institutions, and literary styles of England and Italy in a manner that combines the nostalgia of an expatriate with the comic irony of a curious observer. The texts written under the pseudonym of Didimo (or taken from his writing desk, as in the case of the Ipercalisse, the Sterne version, and the planned Confessioni, or other works easily assimilated to these, such as the Lettere scritte dall’Inghilterra) could almost be considered as an autobiographical work, nearly on the level of the late, bitter, and unfinished Lettera apologetica from 1825, where no literary persona stands for the author. In the absence of anything more substantial, they certainly represent multiple, iridescent reflections that bring us close to an alternative novel to Ortis. This other novel is more realistic and dispassionate, more closely integrated with life and less with literature; it is the novel that Foscolo longed for since the earliest passages of the Sesto tomo dell’Io and continued in vain to plan and attempt. Nevertheless, Ortis remains his only novel, while the other, the projection of a wiser and more lenient self, never reached an independent and finalized form. It remained suspended in the limbo of intentions, as an impossible novel. However, the excerpts that can be analysed are tangible proof of a search for a new storytelling model. They represent an essential endeavour to renew our narrative prose,35 on the road to an anti-heroic novel that is deliberately lacking in lyricism and that deals with a contemporary topic. Although momentarily welcomed by the contributors of the ‘Conciliatore’ (even with its clear traces of a humorous, unnovel-like genre typical of Leopardi’s Operette morali), acceptance of this new style would have been a slow and difficult struggle for Italian literary culture. Just the same, this turned out to be the most productive direction for development of the modern Italian novel.

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Foscolo’s contact with Sterne no doubt served to dismantle the narrative structure of Ortis as a whole and to smash every set compositional pattern that could construct the physiognomy of his new alter ego. Unfortunately, however, he was not able to discover a suitable narrative form for the protagonist of his anti-Ortis. The example of the Sentimental Journey was only a subversive stimulus against traditional rules rather than a virtual pathway towards a renewed and fresh syntax for the novel. It is easy to understand why this solution missed the mark. The novel is still an inferior genre for Foscolo and most of his contemporaries. For this reason, he can only hope to legitimize it by setting it on a lyric, heroic, and tragic note, thus ennobling the humility of its origins. But the novel as an anti-sublime countermelody – numbering among the ‘libri utili per chi non è dotto’ (useful books for the unlearned),36 expressing an autobiographism that is comic and down to earth, self-ironic and prosaic, encompassing both one’s own reasons and those of the world, absorbed in the ethical character of living and in social relations, neither emphatic nor spiritualized and yet brimming with real-life experience and ‘prudenza mondana’37 – proves to be a genre to which our author is indifferent, by reason of his nature and education. This being the case, Foscolo must be given full credit for the boldness of Ortis. With full literary dignity, he redeems a product banned from the fancy drawing rooms of our literary civilization. At the same time, this consideration helps to explain the failure of our author to offset his heroic self seen in Jacopo with the anti-heroic novel of Didimo.

3 The Theatrical Works of Manzoni1

1. The founder of the Italian modern novel was also the greatest tragedian of the nineteenth century; indeed he was the last great Italian author of tragedies written in verse. It is historically significant that the birth of the realist novel and the death (or definitive decline) of the verse tragedy coexisted in the same writer between the second and third decades of the century. These changing expressive forms not only reflect the profound ideological and sociological upheavals of the times but also demonstrate Manzoni’s determination as a writer. The transformation of the classic tragedy into romantic drama was the starting point of Manzoni’s dramaturgy, which paves the way for the antiheroic reality of humble living, the prosaic conversational tone of everyday life, and the mediocre yet solemn passages of daily existence that characterize I Promessi sposi. The renewal of theatrical syntax and language was both dynamic and courageous, but the crucial move towards literary ‘democratization’ came with the new genre of the novel. An understanding of this evolution gives insight into the originality of Il Conte di Carmagnola and Adelchi, especially with regard to the ample respite from the action, the choral breaks, and the critical involvement required of the spectator. It is also an invitation to reflect on the bold and unfulfilled experimentalism of this theatrical writing, which balanced a complex mixture of lyrical-introspective dizziness and narrative tension. The delicate device of the tragedy written in verse was subject to vigorous solicitations and pushed to the limits of its endurance, after which the scenery, actors, and audience changed.

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2. Having completed the short plaquette of the first four Inni sacri by the end of 1815, Manzoni turned his attention to the theatre as a medium of greater social diffusion. He was motivated by the need for a stricter correlation between the human and the divine, and by the search for a pragmatic dimension that would support the principles of strong religious ethic and biblical depth and revitalize his sacred poetry. He strove to better articulate and advance (not reject) the structure of lyrical synthesis, with a more dialectical blend, appropriate to the changing times, not through rapturous contemplation of the unworldly but through the study of human behaviour in the multifaceted phenomenology of its conflicts. Manzoni penetrated the theatre of human existence, focusing on the intertwining of circumstances, where the characters, virtues, deviations, and destinies of individuals and peoples are revealed. This interest in everyday life coincided with the birth of tragic poetics. The examination of historical events brought a condition of incurable conflict to the fore: justice surrendered to violence, freedom to oppression, rectitude to duplicity, and honesty to falsity. Contemporary events breathed bitter new life into the historian’s diagnoses. However, Manzoni would not surrender to the cruelty of this world, and his disillusioned perception of reality would not yield to the darkness of desperation. This explains the risk taken by the tragedian who takes it upon himself to cast his relentless gaze over the evil that conditions man’s behaviour. In this harsh reality, Manzoni attempted to find a trace of possible redemption. Nonetheless, there was at least a hint of hope, however feeble, that things could turn out differently: the faith of the believer does not render life more beautiful; on the contrary, it intensifies the sombre tones but does not allow them to invade the field without the corrective counterpoint of a strong chiaroscuro. The choice of a historical subject on which to base a tragedy would therefore have to focus on events that were examples of obvious corruption of the law. At the same time, however, they would have to offer a ray of hope in their internal development, without altering the truthfulness of the sources. This was a delicate choice for the author who was anxious to represent history accurately. It is true that in the early tragedies the question of combining that which was and that which should have been led Manzoni to separate the ‘historical’ characters from the ‘ideal’ characters. This distinction defined the exact range of the poet’s limits, and at the same time it revealed excessive caution: a moral revelation of real-

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ity and not its fantastical transcript. This distinction found in Carmagnola was challenged in Goethe’s enthusiastic review and was later abandoned in Adelchi. For Manzoni, the tragedy served an educational purpose because it induced a critical impulse of self-awareness in the spectator and was an invitation to reflect on the ‘passioni’ (passions) inflamed ‘nei casi piú gravi della vita’ (in the most serious cases of life). The history in question was still aristocratic history, that of ‘fatti grandi’ (important events), and it was the duty of the tragic poet (unlike the historian) to capture its hidden face. His task was to reconstruct the more subtle connections, which do not emerge in objective documentation, and to scrutinize the internal psychological mechanisms and secret motivations (the ‘sentimenti reconditi’ [hidden sentiments]) that preside over the behaviour of an individual and a people. Therefore, he had to ‘imaginare’ (imagine) and ‘inventare’ (create), albeit ‘nel modo il piú verisimile’ (in the most plausible way), with the sole aims of integrating our understanding of real events as well as conveying the emotion that derives from them. The right to invent gratuitously, to indulge in selfcongratulatory imagination, and to emotionally shock was driven out. Hence the ‘vero poetico’ (true poetical element), established in the realism of Manzoni’s work, was defined as an uncommon fusion of historical objectivity and free interpretative insight, like an instrument of critical analysis designed to unravel the intricate skein of the ‘cuore’ (heart) (‘piú si va addentro a scoprire il vero nel cuore dell’uomo piú si trova poesia vera’ [the more one digs deep in his search for truth in the heart of man, the more one discovers true poetry]). And so we find ourselves on the road that leads tentatively towards the ‘guazzabuglio’ (muddle) in chapter x of I Promessi sposi. 3. Carmagnola was begun in 1816, the same month that the Milanese Biblioteca Italiana (with which, in August 1815, Manzoni had refused to collaborate) presented Mme de Staël’s article ‘Sulla maniera e l’utilità delle traduzioni.’ It was the beginning of Lombard Romanticism, and it was precisely on theatre that the innovators pinned their expectations for a much-anticipated popular literature. As the Inni had eloquently demonstrated, Manzoni’s first tragedy was an avant-garde project, signalling his adherence to the theories of the new school and displaying an understanding and foresight inherited from his rapport with European Romanticism.

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Through his correspondence with Fauriel (who had addressed it previously in 1810 in his Réflexions, which discussed Baggesen’s version of Parthenäis), Manzoni had been introduced to the issue of modern theatre, debated at length in Germany by Lessing in Hamburg Dramaturgy (1767–9), by Schiller, by Goethe, and by Schlegel in Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature (published in Heidelberg in 1809, translated into French in 1814, and then into Italian by F. Gherardini in 1817). In addition, his enthusiastic readings of Shakespeare (in Letourner’s French translation; Manzoni had no knowledge of English, and very little of German or Spanish) were a vital motivation. Through these readings, the poet was prompted to reject the accusations of immorality levelled at the dramatic genre by venerated masters such as Nicole and Bossuet as well as Rousseau, who saw in theatre a stimulus for the incitement of passions, particularly romantic love, provoked by the complicity established between the audience and the characters (as per the fragmentary remarks in the incomplete essay Della moralità delle opere tragiche). The moral justification of this dramatic genre, or rather its effective educational function, involved Manzoni not only in the theatrical restitution of historical events interpreted according to the Christian ethic, but also in the creation of a necessary detachment of perspective between the audience and the play so as to replace emotional identification with meditated emotion, namely ‘riflessione sentita’ (heartfelt reflection). ‘Opinione ricantata e falsa: che il poeta per interessare deve movere le passioni. Se fosse cosí sarebbe da proscriversi la poesia. – Ma non è cosí. La rappresentazione delle passioni che non eccitano simpatia, ma riflessione sentita è piú poetica d’ogni altra’ (A popular but false opinion: that to hold the interest of the audience, a poet must appeal to their emotions. If this were true, poetry should be banned. – But this is not the case. A representation of passions that does not evoke empathy, but rather heartfelt reflection, is more poetic than any other) (Della moralità delle opere tragiche, Traccia, 6). On 25 March 1816, in a letter to Fauriel, Manzoni explained the outline of Carmagnola, defining its purpose and demonstrating great originality. Developed over an extensive chronological time-frame and in different places, the theme entailed a swift departure from the pseudoAristotelian unity of time and place (unity of action is observed), characteristic of dramatic convention (which in Germany was challenged by Lessing in Hamburg Dramaturgy, but which remained in force in France until Hugo’s preface to Cromwell in 1827). These rules had been part of the Italian tradition and were perfectly suited to the tragic writing of Alfieri, to theatre that promoted the sublimity of the hero and his passions.

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The structure of Alfieri’s plays in fact tended towards an exaggerated foregrounding of the protagonist and consequently the elision of prior events, background, and surrounding figures. In order to achieve the effect of solemnity, the event was precipitated abruptly (unity of time) and burned out, right before the eyes of the audience, in a symbolic space, identical to the real fixed space of the spectator (unity of space). These were necessary requirements for heroicized, aristocratic dramaturgy, intent on exalting the tragic self in contrast with the world, like the swan song of an entire era that draws closer to death. It called for the immediate emotional involvement of the spectator. Complicity was sought after, and the poet, for his part, directed his attention to a select audience, made up of a privileged few. In Manzoni’s work, the traditional precepts fell away because the idea and objective of the dramatic genre had changed. His interest lay in the dynamics of historical reality and the hero’s relationship with society. His objective in scrutinizing the hidden face of events, and the secret interiority of the characters who had lived through them, required recourse to a theatrical technique based on movement, on the progressive interweaving of situations and chronological levels. It required mobility of perspective in order to support the multiform rhythm of events, with the conviction that ‘il non astringersi ai limiti reali di tempo e di luogo lascia il campo ad una invenzione ben altrimenti varia e forte’ (not restricting oneself to the real limits of time and space allows for a much stronger and more varied piece of work), as stated in the preface to Carmagnola. Manzoni felt that respecting the classical code imposed a narrowness of artificial feeling that obliged him to exclude ‘molte bellezze’ (much beauty) only to meet with ‘molti inconvenienti’ (many drawbacks) – not therefore tragédie classique, in accordance with Racine’s model, but historical drama in the mould of Shakespeare. In their own ethical premises, Manzoni’s plays were aimed at an antielitist audience and did not require an emotional connection with the spectator but rather a conceptual evaluation. The audience observing from the stalls is not present ‘come parte dell’azione’ (as part of the action) but ‘è fuori dell’azione’ (is outside of the action). A detachment from judgment, and not complicity, was sought after. Another innovation of Manzoni’s work was the presence of the chorus, in accordance with the traditions of ancient tragedy and in keeping with Schlegel’s modern interpretation of the Greek chorus, as proposed in the Lectures on Dramatic Art and Literature (in Materiali estetici II [i], 4): ‘The Chorus must be regarded as a personification of moral convictions aroused by

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the action, as the organ of feeling of the poet, who speaks in the name of the whole community.’ The dramatic event is thus interrupted by a lyrical interlude which is not, however, intended as a forum for the poet’s subjectivity but as a pause that provides distance and perspective on the events represented – a central moment of religious and historical reflection, consistent with the heteronomous aesthetic of the author. The above-mentioned letter to Fauriel on 25 March also contains useful clues concerning expressive elaboration: ‘Quelle étude pour ne faire parler les hommes ni comme ils parlent ordinairement, ni comme ils pourraient parler’ (That study aimed at having men speak not as they normally do, nor as they could speak). The pursuit of verisimilitude also regards the language of tragedy, in order to render it credible and palatable, faithful at least to the tangible reality of the surroundings and the characters. In comparison with the tragedies of Alfieri and Foscolo, the hendecasyllable became in Manzoni less complex, less polished and well rounded, and was inclining towards a prosy diction that included everyday pleasantries. The ultimate effect was a badly blended mishmash of strident multilingualism with archaic loanwords (not always justifiable), obstinacies reminiscent of Alfieri, and cantabile melodrama. These elements lived side by side, and attested to the difficult reworking process to which the lyrical density of the first Inni was subjected. Stylistically speaking, the democratic thrust of the religious poetry was not forgotten in this evolution; rather, it was filtered through and transposed to a new genre of greater social accessibility. 4. The dramatic tension of Carmagnola resides in the violent antithesis which, with the backdrop of iniquitous times ravaged by internal conflicts, pits the magnanimous spirit of a hero against the injustices of those who have power and strength. The tragedy portrays the events of the life of Piedmontese Francesco Bussone (1380–1432), known as the Count of Carmagnola (after his town of birth), a gallant military man and architect of the soldiering fortune of Filippo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan. On account of the fame he has achieved, together with his proud character and status in the army, the Count is opposed by Duke Filippo, who ill repays his service and loyalty and unjustly removes him from his office as general. Having moved to serve in the Republic of Venice, at war with the Duke of Milan at that time, Carmagnola defeats the army of his former leader in the battle of Maclodio (1427). However, the kind-

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ness of the Count, who does not persecute the defeated and who frees his prisoners, according to mercenary custom, arouses the suspicions of the Venetian commissioners. The Count’s mercy is misunderstood and denounced as proof of treason. The Venetian senate, resolute in its desire to eliminate the obtrusive presence of the general, who has become too powerful, pronounces the accusation of treason and decides to lure him back into the city in order to capture him. Senator Marco unsuccessfully attempts an impassioned defence of his friend Carmagnola and is forced to sign a declaration stating that he will leave Venice without reporting the decisions made for him to his captain. Once in the city, the Count is arrested and beheaded. It is of little interest that modern historiography (albeit in the absence of convincing documentation) tends to view the Count as guilty. What matters is the conflict portrayed by Manzoni (convinced that the accused was innocent) between morality and politics, and between loyalty in action and tyranny (passed off as lawfulness) carried out in the name of the state. The work concentrates attention on the ascertainment of the irreparable divorce between ethical behaviour and the malicious exercise of power. In the meantime the writer bore witness to contemporary politics, the collapse of liberal hopes, and the new incumbent reactionary government (propitiated by papal diplomacy). The poetic-moral (a typical hendiadys of Manzoni) objective consists of reflecting on the fate of the hero, who is destined for sacrifice, his doubts and anxieties, the torment that accompanies defeat, and the disregard for rectitude. Thus, a further vision emerges: the sublimation of vilified loyalty and meditated compassion, an instrument of catharsis and moral education drawn from a harsh lesson from history. However, the objective was allusive and fleeting rather than clearly manifest. In vain we wait for the drama to be played out in the conscience of the protagonist, who is secure in his principles and invulnerable to the perverse mechanism that will crush him in the end. He does not possess a clear understanding of the mechanism; nor does he sense the tragedy within himself. In a sudden instant of self-analysis, in act i, scene 2, he looks at himself with the certainty that his virtues remain intact (see i 90– 3). The honour of the chosen path (without ‘Dubbio veruno’ [any doubt whatsoever]) is sufficient for his peace of mind and carries only a shadow of ‘timor’ ( fear) that will have to reveal itself much more perniciously if he is to heed this foreboding. He is guiltless but made to feel guilty, and he is astonished when, before his very eyes, quite incomprehensibly, the situation comes to a

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head. On the one hand is a hero without flaws and without suspicions, cheerfully sure of himself and his loyalty, a man who speaks frankly, and who is also therefore incautious; on the other hand are the ‘astuti’ (cunning) (iv 309), labyrinthine intrigues, dark and sinister suspicions, untrustworthy and ambiguous words, the silence of the Consiglio dei Dieci and the Collegio Segreto. The opposition is without interferences or collisions; it is without communication and is therefore static. The downfall of the Count, who finds himself beleaguered in unjust circumstances, does not destroy his stature as a positive character. When the Consiglio dei Dieci pronounces the accusation of treachery, the ‘prode’ (brave) (v 135) soldier repeats to himself, incredulous, ‘Io traditor!’, ‘Io, traditor!’ (Me, a traitor! Me, a traitor!) (v 64 and 66). In his personal language (also used by his wife Antonietta: ‘Ei traditor!’ [Him, a traitor!][v 194]) the juncture between the pronoun and the epithet sounds sacrilegious: an antecedent of the fortitude with which Carmagnola will meet his ‘infame’ (grim) death (v 140), like a Christian martyr who approaches the torture and sacrifice of the innocent. The irreconcilable courses of private virtue and public iniquity are resolved in an immobile structural score. In his criticisms of Goethe’s positive comments, Foscolo observed that in the ‘anima’ (soul) of the Count, a ‘contrasto di forti passioni’ (clash of forceful passions) is ‘mai chiaramente’ (never clearly) presented (from the essay Della nuova scuola drammatica italiana, 1826). In the end, in place of such a clash, we witness the soliloquizing self-examination of the hero as he ponders his ‘tristo destin’ (grievous destiny) (ibid. 266) as sacrificial victim, trusting in a justice that does not reside in this world. In Goethe’s view, the dramatic dynamic was, however, the prerogative of senator Marco, statesman, friend, and confidant of Carmagnola, who is thus divided in his loyalties. He is torn between his desire for honesty and the adversity of the times, between free will and the secret necessity for deviant behaviour, between loyalty to the innocent Count and loyalty to his own political role. He knows well the anguish of being forced to choose between betraying a friend and betraying his country. He chooses to sacrifice his friend. The famous monologue in act iv, scene 2 marks the time over which he undergoes a tormented self-examination (cf. iv 288–91). Nagging doubt finds its way onto Manzoni’s pages with a vague sense of foreboding. This is reflected in the profound suspension of judgment passed ‘con voce bassa e grave’ (in a deep and serious voice) by father Cristoforo in chapter 35 of I Promessi sposi: ‘Può esser gastigo, può esser misericordia’ (This may be a chastisement, or it may be a mercy). Marco finds himself prisoner in an ‘abominevol rete’ (abominable trap)

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(iv 335) from which he cannot free himself, clamped in the vice of inevitable condemnation to guilt: ‘Un nobile consiglio / per me non c’è; / qualunque io scelga, è colpa’ (Noble advice / for me, there is none / whichever I choose means guilt) (iv 336–7). However, in reality he does not exercise a choice but accepts that he will be harmed: ‘io nulla scelgo: e tutto / ch’io faccio è forza e volontà d’altrui’ (I choose nothing; and all / I do is forced by the will of others) (iv 341–2). He agrees to support the wishes of the Consiglio dei Dieci and endures this coercion as a way to atone for his guilt. Thus, in the end, through a sort of self-punishing expiation, he reaches a point at which he renounces the country that has induced his selfloathing (cf. iv 343–50). His presumed identity as a virtuous man proved false, he is left shattered by the knowledge of his own weakness and misdoing. Marco exits the stage, leaving Carmagnola to his fate. The historical and political outline of the play clearly demonstrates the impossibility of salvation for the just and the lack of importance attributed to virtue in this world. It is confirmed by the dramatic tones à la Alfieri, which intensify the ‘honest-person-abused’ syndrome in Marco. The laws of the raison d’état do not permit escape. Defeat, documented in the ‘canzoni civili’ (‘Aprile 1814’ and ‘Il proclama di Rimini’), manifests itself in the tragedy through the ominous role played by the immorality of political power. This confirmation of history as negativity was one of the elements that determined the writer’s so-called crisis of 1817, with the consequent interruption of Carmagnola and the draft of Morale cattolica. Manzoni’s fundamental experience of apologetic prose imprinted an ethical and religious structure on the tragedy (revised and completed in 1819), primarily revealed through Marco’s monologue, which dramatizes the conflict between politics and morality, and through the Christian epilogue of the play. Confronted with the schemes of political violence and its poisonous effects (like Marco’s anguished betrayal of friendship), an absorbed meditation upon the moral redemption of pain is performed in the last act – a revenge of sorts on worldly injustice in the name of a truth that confers moral justification upon the ‘tristo […] esiglio’ (sad […] exile) of good men (‘La Passione,’ 94). Thus, in act v, his end now imminent, Carmagnola bids his final farewell to his wife and children. The ambitious hero, having appeased the impulse of the warrior and repressed ‘il tristo grido / della vendetta e del rancor’ (the poignant bellow / of vengeance and bitterness) (v 275–6), develops a tacit acceptance of sacrifice. He pronounces words of forgiveness, by now absorbed in the ‘cielo’ (heaven) (v 284), and, like a good Christian, sure of his innocence,

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accepts his own martyrdom. He dies ‘reo’ (guilty) (v 238) with a belief in an ‘alta gioia’ (supreme joy) (v 280) that religious faith promises to the just (see v 280–7). Carmagnola, drawing together the hitherto separate strands of the Inni and the ‘canzoni civili,’ theatricalized the tragic divide between heaven and earth. For this reason the play closes with a terse encomium of death as salvation, consigned to two extraordinary hemistiches: ‘gli uomini non hanno / inventata la morte’ (man did not / invent death) (v 282–3). The play does not afford any other ‘conforto’ (comfort) (v 286); it represents the ruinous negation of life. A vision that extends beyond the things of this world, together with the aim of preventing the complicity of the spectator with the ‘passioni dei personaggi’ (passions of the characters) (Della moralità delle opere tragiche, Traccia, I), enlivens the sixteen stanzas of eight decasyllables that make up the chorus ‘S’ode a destra uno squillo di tromba,’ found at the end of act ii. There is no invitation ‘ad interpretare l’intenzione morale dello scrittore, a regolare e a correggere le false interpretazione dello spettatore, a dare insomma al vero morale quella forza diretta che non riceve che da chi lo sente per la meditazione spassionata e non per l’urto delle passioni e degli interessi’ (to interpret the moral intentions of the writer, to adjust or correct any false interpretation on the part of the spectator, or in short, to lend to the true moral of the story that direct force that it may only receive from those who are able to sense its moral after dispassionate reflection, rather than through a blow dealt them by their own passions and interests) (Materiali estetici, ii [i] 12). An eternal perspective elevates the tone lyrically with ethical and propositional energy, unravelled in the peremptory anapestic hammering of the decasyllable (the verse used in the ‘Passione’), in the plastic scansion that depicts the forces of good and evil, and in the pressing, parenthetic symmetry of the simplified, formal structures. Such was the poet’s solemn reflection on historical events that he wonders anxiously about the ‘sangue’ (blood) spilled in the name of hatred among principalities (‘Già la terra è coperta d’uccisi; / tutta è sangue la vasta pianura’ [The ground is already covered with the dead; / the broad plains are nothing but blood] [‘S’ode a destra uno squillo di tromba,’ v 58–9]) and at the same time condemns every war of conquest. Through the crude description of the battle of Maclodio, the fratricidal massacre is rendered appalling, with tones of unanimous mercy for the defeated and the victorious. During the earthly ‘superbo viaggio’ (proud journey) (v 117) often the guilty man is not struck down by ‘l’eterna vendetta’ (eternal vengeance) (v 118): ‘ma lo segna; ma veglia ed aspetta; / ma lo

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coglie all’estremo sospir’ (but he is branded; it watches and waits; / and takes him at his last breath) (v 119–20). The wrath of God is inescapable. The hour of death (according to the teachings of Bossuet) is the hour of truth. And fortunately, it was not man who invented death. The dissonances of the world are put to right in the equilibrium of the afterlife. The axiom of religious poetry resurfaces in the rhythm of a profane time, with an internal gradualness that transforms historical ode into hymn, so as to support the metamorphosis of Carmagnola, who is ultimately transformed from belligerent hero into champion of the faith. However, the spilled blood that is not washed away, ‘l’aspetto / […] terribile del dolore’ (the aspect / […] terrible part of suffering) (v 212–13) that is not forgotten, the wounds that remain to torment the journey (v 117) are the elements that reveal outraged innocence – the indelible attribute of a historical event brought to the stage as ‘passione’ (passion) and the martyrdom of blameless victims. 5. The composition of La morale cattolica served not only to organize the evangelical creed into a logical system, but also to identify the parameter of judgment, which establishes the ethical measure of all human behaviour in the principle of personal responsibility. Thus it directed the investigation towards the interiority of the character, in the secrecy of his conscience, where the choices of moral responsibility are settled. And so, we are on the road that leads to the second phase of Manzoni’s plays. Carmagnola dramatized the defeat of a military hero, in conflict with the political needs of the raison d’état, a conflict of parallel antithetic forces, a fictitious dynamic between the opposing sides of civil power and military force. The destiny of irreconcilable conflict was mapped out, and the leader was defeated by it, driven unavoidably to ruin, without any anguished recognition of his destiny. It is known that in the rewriting and completion of Carmagnola (following a break of two years after the first draft), the ideal revenge of the defeated hero, who was by now cast into the ‘alta gioia’ (supreme joy) of the afterlife (v 280), was written into the last act. It was a moral redemption, which, through the figure of Carmagnola, should have been extended over the entire play. However, it was an attempt that was not coherently developed either in terms of the unwinding of the drama or of the complex profile of the protagonist. The new contribution of La morale cattolica was superimposed onto a text

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that had been planned and drafted on a previous occasion. The lack of balance remains. Manzoni discusses his first tragedy in an important passage in the Lettre to Chauvet (paras 189–90). It could be taken as a reinterpretation of Carmagnola, but already translated through the perspective of Adelchi. The artistic and moral interest of the play should have lain in ‘éclater’ (bursting) within the character through the obstacles, the troubles, the sufferings, and the torment of the struggle, what in him is ‘individuel’ (individual). What happened was not a mere situational conflict but, rather, a conflict of behaviour and conscience. To such an end, it was necessary to concede more autonomy to the inner analysis of the character, to the disclosure of his hidden side. It was necessary to overcome the rigid juxtaposition of the ‘reale’ (reality) of historical and political events and the ‘ideale’ (ideality) of the betrayed hero’s final appeal to the heavens. It was necessary to reveal, in the life experience of the protagonist and in the recesses of his conscience, evidence of a superior ethical illumination, the sign of a more explicit dialectic between the public man and the private man: ‘voilà ce que je voudrais savoir peindre et expliquer’ (this is the picture I aspire to paint and to explain). In spite of the rigidity of his first tragedy (with its contradictory dichotomy), what is affirmed in this passage from the Lettre sounds like a foreshadowing of the more shifting and internalized physiognomy of Adelchi. 6. On 8 August 1820 Manzoni returned to Milan, following a stay (his second) of ten months in France. He threw himself into his work with astonishing alacrity, an enthusiasm that would prompt him to accomplish, over a period of three years, his best work. In November he began his second tragedy, Adelchi (which he had already mentioned to Fauriel on 17 October), which was completed and published in 1822. Meanwhile, in the significant year of 1821, he began Fermo e Lucia, wrote the political odes (‘Marzo 1821’ and ‘Cinque Maggio’), and, in 1822, completed the problematic draft of ‘Pentecoste.’ This was Manzoni’s most productive moment. The chronological intertwining of his various works has a significance that is worth examining. On 7 November 1820 he began Adelchi and completed the first act on 4 January 1821. From 15 to 17 March he devoted himself to ‘Marzo 1821.’ On 24 April, probably during work on the second act of Adelchi, he started Fermo e Lucia and continued work on the novel until May, putting

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on paper the two opening chapters and the first draft of the introduction. In June he returned to Adelchi; from 2 to 27 March he completed the third act (the exact dates of completion of the second act are not known) and from 3 to 17 July, he composed the fourth. From 18 to 20 July, he wrote ‘Cinque Maggio’ in a single effort. From 2 August through to 21 September he dedicated himself to the fifth and final act of the first draft of the tragedy (although he would have to rearrange it completely and compose the two choruses). On 3 November, while he corrected Adelchi, he declared that he was unsure whether to return to the novel or to take up writing a third play, Spartaco. From 13 December 1821 to 2 January 1822 he composed the second chorus of Adelchi (Ermengarda), after which, from 15 to 19 January, he wrote the first chorus. He then continued with the revisions of the entire tragedy, which he finished at the end of April. He resumed work on the novel (probably) in May and by 12 September he was half-way through the second volume. From 26 September to 2 October he finished ‘Pentecoste,’ after which he resolutely dedicated himself to working on the novel. From 28 November to 11 March 1823, he wrote the third volume. By 21 May he was midway through the fourth and final volume, which he finally completed on 17 September 1823. The intricate interweaving of the titles and dates reveals much; at this point Manzoni’s anxiety to create came into conflict with his need to clarify the right path. He had thoroughly experimented with one course, both in poetry and drama, and initially felt perplexed about abandoning a direction that had run so smoothly in order to follow the arduous course of the novel. He wavered between Adelchi and Fermo e Lucia: the beginning of the novel, then back to the tragedy and poetry (‘Cinque Maggio’), then an attempt at Spartaco, and back again to Adelchi, after which he returned to the novel. Once again he returned to religious poetry before finally dedicating himself without further delay to Fermo e Lucia. His uncertainty lay not in the goals he had set for himself but, rather, in the manner in which he could reach those goals. With a determination that was anything but reckless, rather than replicating what he had already done, he sought to find, if possible, an original point of cohesion that could solidly retain a multiform system of ethical solicitations. They seem to be different things, but in fact they are not. The choice of the narrative genre was not simply aimed at further cognitive experimentation. Rather, it was demanded by the very reasons that had guided Manzoni’s research since his conversion. Adelchi was an essential stage in this process: the tragedian’s most mature work coincided with the ultimate crisis of the tragic poet.

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7. The events depicted in Adelchi date back to the years 772–4, the period which saw the fall of the Lombard dynasty, during the reign of King Desiderius and his son Adelchi (who was heir to the throne), and the beginning of the domination of the Franks and their king Charlemagne, who was supported by the church. At the same time, the play also illustrates the illusions of redemption and the sad state of enslavement of the defeated Latin population. Different theories supported by Romagnosi and Berchet in 1818, in the Conciliatore, confirm that the work is a French historical interpretation. The former described the fusion of the Germanic and Latin nations, maintaining the intellectual primacy of the Latin population. The latter also discussed the fusion but saw in the northern conquerors a vital energy that regenerated the declining Latin civilization. The ethnic clash between the foreign oppressors and the oppressed, propounded by Manzoni, draws a parallel between the late Middle Ages (dominated by the barbarians) and the Italian situation at the time of the Restoration. In the first drafts (completed in August and September 1821), the political allusion appeared to be more explicit. The downfall of the Lombards was linked to their alleged defence of the national Latin identity. Adelchi traces the steps of the vanquished defender of an alliance between the Lombards and the Latin people to defend Italy from the Frankish invaders. It was an unequivocal appeal to the Italian federalist league of 1820, which was fighting against Austria. The play began to take shape as a tragedy about freedom, a revolutionary dream. The frustrated political hopes of the repressed uprisings of 1821 had probably dissuaded the poet from his yearning for the independent utopia first presented in Adelchi. In the revision of the text (Autumn 1821 to April 1822), the downfall of Desiderius was motivated in part by the betrayal of the Lombard dukes, and Adelchi was transformed from unheeded war hero into afflicted hero, exhausted by his internal conflict between ethics and politics. In contrast with the tough characters of the rival kings Desiderius and Charlemagne (faithful to their ranks of government leaders and stirred up by ambition and power) stands the figure of Adelchi: a virtuous man, like Carmagnola, called upon to perform magnanimous deeds. But if in the first tragedy the Count clashes with the iniquitous ferocity of the establishment, thwarted in his loyalty by external obstacles of an underhanded, immoral praxis, now the friction explodes in the conscience of

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the character – the obstacles are within him. Adelchi is torn by conflicting feelings that condition his actions. On one hand is the obligation to obey his father, who pushes him into an expansionist war against the church; on the other, his will and the faith of the believer show him that the ‘impresa’ (enterprise) sought after by Desiderius is ‘né giusta / né glorïosa’ (neither just / nor glorious) (iii 56–7). In Adelchi, warrior and Christian, the sense of regality, of honour and filial pietas, coexist alongside the thirst for glory, although he wants to satisfy this thirst by doing battle with an offending enemy, and not with an adversary who is in the right. However, he cannot escape his duty to his father, which compels him to fight and meet death for a cause of which he disapproves. He agrees to go and fight, but, understanding the sinfulness of the act, he does so with a heavy heart and the conviction that his soul will be lost in battle. He finds himself impotent and is forced to commit an involuntary wrong, torn between the impulse for ethical action and the historical-familial reality, which puts him on the side of the usurpers. The analysis penetrates the contradictory tangle of affective reactions in that grey zone where it becomes difficult to perform the necessary duty of passing judgment, of distinguishing between right and wrong. In a dialogue from act iii scene 1 with Anfrido his faithful henchman, Adelchi, as if he were talking to himself, analyses the internal conflict that torments him (see iii 84–90). The merciful son of a predatory king, Adelchi represents, like Carmagnola, the martyrdom of the unfortunate innocent. However, now the story is woven more subtly. The Lombard prince belongs to the caste of the oppressors (‘Oh! Mi parea, / pur mi parea che ad altro io fossi nato, / che ad esser capo di ladron’ [Oh! I thought / I actually thought that I was born to be something better / than a chief of thieves] [iii 74–6]) but nonetheless dies blameless, redeemed by the painful realization of his sin. The internalization of the drama experienced by the character is a guarantee of salvation in the other life. The exemplariness of the moral teaching is not extrinsic to the dramatic device; it is not a matter of two distinct, unrelated aspects of the protagonist (as represented by Carmagnola, who was first proud and belligerent and later a resigned apostle of the faith). Here we see instead a protagonist who is torn, who witnesses the painful internal dialectic of penitence and liberating atonement. In his final words of farewell to his defeated and imprisoned father, dying Adelchi proclaims his definitive refusal of the attributes that pertain to the worldly hero, and he takes leave of his earthly existence with an unwaver-

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ing condemnation of political power created out of injustice (see v 343– 59). The son of Desiderius aligns himself with the ‘tribolati’ (suffering), the innocents, who have no refuge in a world where ‘non resta / che far torto, o patirlo’ (nothing is left / but to do wrong, or to suffer it) (v 354–5). Only with the prospect of the eternal does the tragedy of human conflicts cease and can there be a loosening of the stranglehold of bitter historical pessimism, which was reinforced by Manzoni’s disenchantment with contemporary politics (following the glimmer of hope back in March 1821). The laws of power have rendered this ‘terra’ (earth) (v 358) uninhabitable for anyone who aspires ‘a gentile, / ad innocente opra’ (to a kindly, / untainted existence) (v 352–3). Manzoni’s Christian desperation (before the Colonna Infame) struck its sharpest note here. Ermengarda shares the fate of inevitable oppression with her brother, albeit in a more private state of affairs; she is another innocent sacrificed to the raison d’état. If the brother suffers the antagonism of their father, the sister is hurt by the hostility of Charlemagne, the husband whom she continues to love even though he has renounced her. The two victims are alone in their fight against the two opposing powers. In both cases, the laws of reason and morality become intertwined with the laws of the heart. In the combinative system of the characters, the marriage of Charlemagne to the daughter of Desiderius introduces an interference that exacerbates the conflict between the allied rivals. Furthermore, the Frankish king’s lack of respect for their bond adds to the political hostility the anxieties of the emotions. In contrast with Carmagnola, in which the conflict is clear (barring the case of senator Marco), Adelchi is a tragedy with ambivalent conflicts, of traumatic duplicity that binds resentment and affection (Adelchi-Desiderius, Ermengarda-Charlemagne). A spurned bride and queen, a religious woman, devastated by a broken marriage but nevertheless also a wife-lover still passionately in love, Ermengarda languishes in the soliloquy of remembrance, in the memory of happier days, in thoughts of love, which unexpectedly assault ‘l’anima / impaurita’ (her soul / frightened) (iv, chorus, 81–2). Here begins the slow torture of a deepening rift that she cannot temper, as she frantically flounders between the energy still inflamed by love and the injury she has sustained, her devotion that has been trampled on. Her obsession with widowhood burns within her, rendered unbearable by ‘terrestri ardori’ (earthly ardours) (v 14) which still beleaguer the ‘ansia / mente’ (anxious mind) (v 13–14), in her impossible desire to forget the ghosts of happier times that rise again vividly ‘nelle insonni tenebre’ (in the sleepless darkness) (v 25). This is the theme of the celebrated chorus of

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act iv, devoted to the death of Ermengarda and preceded by the delirium of agony, with visionary ravings of ‘Amor tremendo’ (terrible love) (iv 148) that has been refused, and of jealousy she feels towards Charlemagne’s new wife. The chorus is made up of ten double heptasyllabic stanzas (identical to the rhyme scheme of the almost contemporary ‘Cinque Maggio’ and similar to the third and final ‘Pentecoste,’ the three most elevated results of Manzoni’s religious and political poetry). Relived from the disillusioned perspective of the present, the episode sketches out an entire existence: the enthralling yet cruel memory of the hours of greatest abandon and emotional intimacy, by now irretrievable. The most striking sequence of the play (dedicated, not by chance, to his wife Enrichetta) belongs to a female character, as often happens in the work of Manzoni, who was secretly attracted to the feminine presence in the twofold role of wife and mother. Ermengarda, like her brother, meets death with serenity, with the conviction that salvation from her painful earthly existence resides ‘fuor della vita’ (outside of life) (v 17), the ultimate compensation activated by an invisible plan played out in the story and in the conscience of virtuous creatures. The love denied the betrayed wife-lover is brought into the concerted framework of a Christian tragedy as an essential component (with echoes of Racine and Alfieri’s Mirra). Following the inglorious collapse of the reign of the Lombard usurpers, she escapes blameless and free of remorse even though she belongs to that ‘rea progenie’ (guilty progeny) (v 97). With her faith in divine justification for misfortune, Ermengarda’s torment is her saving grace (see v 97–108). As for Adelchi, his final abdication from life coincides with a confidence in an ethical order that is active on this earth in the conscience of the individual (the lesson from La morale cattolica), and which leaves its mark on the irrational episodes of history. The pathos of the elegy reached in the chorus of act iv, with Ermengarda, corresponds per variato to the epic-civil tone of the other break in the drama in the chorus of act iii, ‘Dagli atrii muscosi, dai Fori cadenti,’ in eleven stanzas of twelve syllables (the verse of the French and Spanish epic tradition) that bring together a popular cantabile quality with the solemn reserve of classical, particularly Virgilian, reminiscences. The anonymous crowds who stir in the background of the action appear here in the limelight as protagonists. Rather than individuals or isolated heroes, they are Lombards and Franks, who pit themselves against each other for control of Italy, while, doubtful and distressed, the nameless

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Latin people, a ‘volgo disperso’ (scattered common people) (v 4), look on, impotent, as the fate of their land unfolds, hoping in vain that they will be granted freedom by the new rulers. The tragedy gives voice not only to the blameless victims (such as the children of Desiderius) but also to ‘lo spregio’ (the contempt) (v 11) suffered by an entire population of ‘delusi’ (disillusioned people) (v 56). Nevertheless, the patriotic contingency is transcended by bitter voices which meditate upon policies conceived by the will to dominate and, therefore, on the destiny of the oppressed. Even the Lombard ‘tiranni’ (tyrants) (v 32) can be portrayed with thoughtful compassion, when they are subjected to the violence of other ‘guerrieri’ (warriors) who victoriously overtake them, ‘quai cani disciolti’ (like lawless dogs) (v 26). Compared with the chorus for the battle of Maclodio in Carmagnola, the framework in Adelchi has changed, and the conflict is ethnic rather than fratricidal, between peoples rather than professional armies. However, there is a return of the same Christian piety with which the poet contemplates the defeated and the victorious, be it the ‘turba diffusa’ (sparse crowd) (v 17) of the ancient Lombard rulers or the arduous endeavour of the conquering Franks. Even more than opposing coalitions with their respective historical rationales (which were significant), human sacrifice imposed by fighting is what is most important. However, little attention is paid to the ‘volgo’ (commoners) of the Latin people, sacrificed to the ambitious actions of the powerful. The aspiration for the country’s unity is nothing but a disconsolate dream. While experimentation with new dramaturgic writing was fine-tuned in Carmagnola, Adelchi demonstrates a sturdier and more homogeneous structure, enlivened by versatility and skillfully orchestrated by expressive tones and registers. The language loses the discordant contamination of the first tragedy and moves towards a harmonically stratified multi-style technique (the conceited voice of the powerful alternates with the ambiguous hidden voice of the traitors, and from the warlike epic tone, the timbre crosses into the tones of amorous passion as words of historical disillusion are found alongside those of moral fortitude). The multiplicity of styles is joined by the careful modulation of the expressive levels, which bring out the nuances of the characters in order to articulate the inner anxieties of the protagonists, especially the vanquished. In contrast with Carmagnola, Adelchi deals not with a situational conflict but rather a behavioural one, through an analysis of characters and events as well as an examination of unknown historical facts. Thus Manzoni enhances both the value of Thierry’s historiography of the defeated

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and his reflections from La morale cattolica. In doing so, he penetrates the relationship between the principle of justice and the principle of praxis, between ethics and necessity. It is an arduous course, already embarked upon in the Inni, the ‘canzoni civili,’ then in Carmagnola and in the multiple attempts at the difficult text of ‘Pentecoste.’ If in the first tragedy the relationship still proceeds on parallel tracks (with unintentionally edifying results), in Adelchi a connection is achieved in the tragedy suffered by the oppressed, in an emblematic way, through its eponymous hero. His honesty interferes with political needs. As the son of Desiderius, the price he pays for obeying his father is the penalty of his torment, which will later be his redemption. The Christian renovatio does not put an end to the violence; it is judged and atoned for in the private tribunal of his conscience. Compared with the asymmetry that separates the Inni from the ‘canzoni civili’ of 1814–15, Adelchi represents the end of the line. However, the connection between history and morality, as clarified in the hero’s dying words, finds real compensation not in the praxis but in the reward of the afterlife. The earth is governed by the deviations of the powerful, and ‘altra messe’ (another harvest) is not to be gathered: ‘non resta / che far torto, o patirlo’ (v 353–4). The poet’s intrepid journey (from the first Inni of 1812) led him to condemn ‘la terra’ (the earth) as the domain of the ‘torto’ (wrong), whether instigated or suffered. The dramaturgic statute of historical, heroic theatre did not allow him to go beyond this point. However, Manzoni did not surrender, and he did not resign himself to this supremacy of the wrong. Nor did he yield to this agonizing negativity or to the arrogance of evil. His only compensation was to be found in the afterlife. He contemplated the plausible methods that would permit him to submerge himself more analytically into the fabric of human existence and its chaotic ‘guazzabuglio’ (muddle). The objective was to shed light on it, there and then, with the mark of a hopeful, not remissive, efficacy, to confront and thwart the wrong without diminishing it. This was the beginning of the narrative venture, and in the second tragedy the most decisive approximation to the territory of the novel had been reached. In order to transform Adelchi’s rejection of life and his desperate self-annihilation into a will for constructive action, it was necessary to anchor the scheme of history to the everyday rather than the heroic, to investigate the unknown misadventures of anonymous characters and not the deeds of the powerful. A further, precious contribution to this end came from the Discorso regarding Lombard history, which was published in 1822 together with Adelchi. At this point, a fine-tuning of this narrative essay

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style had been achieved. Contentious but reasoned, it would be the primary source for the drafting of his novel, reinforcing the narrative voice that commentates the ‘scartafaccio’ (notebook) of the seventeenth-century writer. In an anti-tragic and unheroic mode, the mechanism of mocking irony is put to the test, softening the indignatio but not neutralizing it – illuminating it with a smile that is both bitter and sympathetic.

4 Leopardi and the Dissembling Style

Scorri le vite degli uomini illustri, e se guarderai a quelli che sono tali, non per iscrivere, ma per fare, troverai a gran fatica pochissimi veramente grandi, ai quali non sia mancato il padre nella prima età [...] la potestà paterna appresso tutte le nazioni che hanno leggi, porta seco una specie di schiavitù de’ figliuoli; che, per essere domestica, è più stringente e più sensibile della civile. Giacomo Leopardi, Pensieri, II1

1. A reprint of the correspondence between Giacomo and Monaldo Leopardi2 calls its readers’ attention to an epistolary relationship that is both fascinating and cruel. Although innocent in appearance, it is in reality convoluted and disturbing and sheds light on the shady misadventure lived out by the poet of the Canti on a human and family level. Too often, critical historiography is only interested in the public side of official literary production, presuming this to be a scientific approach. So as not to be influenced by anecdotes and chronicles, researchers have conducted little investigation in the area of private and occasional testimony, except for mere documentary reasons. There is little inclination to delve into the minimal details of a hidden biographical background that only comes to the surface in correspondence, even though it often contains precious revelations. These disclosures are indirect and involuntary for the most part because, as we know, the prose of personal letters is often anything but a candid confession. On the contrary, it respects a strict formal statute with precise conventions that must be followed. Analysing it is therefore not at all a shortcut to exposing the personality of the correspondent. The path is difficult, and metaphorically transposed; it is

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parallel to the main road of official works and just as informative, even though planned differently. It is exposed to chance and to the circumstances of daily living; it is dictated by unforeseen coincidences and actions that initially seem marginal and insignificant. Along this path we discover writing not intended for posterity, writing that reflects the struggles of daily life. It does not develop over time – it is based on fragments, glimmers, slivers of existence. These glimpses allow us to draw near and lay open the world the author lives in, leaving us with a deeper and more human understanding of his life and work. In the twenty-seven years between 1810 and 1837, 210 letters were exchanged between Giacomo and Monaldo Leopardi. The phases of intense epistolary exchange naturally correspond to periods of the poet’s absence from Recanati, beginning with his sojourn in Rome from November 1822 to April 1823, which represents the first part of an uninterrupted and wearisome epic of flight from home. Above all, the fugitive feels the need for a long-distance dialogue to help him to return home. His father never writes; he only answers. Epistolary apprehension is the prerogative of the absent party, who has violated his family’s sedentary status by travelling the world. Between the two interlocutors, the franker and less disguised voice belongs to Monaldo. There are no contradictions or denials between what he writes to his son and what he writes or says to others on the same issues. On 4 January 1823, when Giacomo informs him of his plan to accept the proposal of the publisher De Romanis to translate all of Plato’s works, Monaldo immediately opposes the project in the presence of his family because it would keep his son in Rome for a long period. On 9 January, the poet’s brother Carlo immediately warns him with the naive tone of a partner in crime, thinking he is revealing some kind of shameless plot: Parlando poi dell’offerta De Romanis con Mamma, [Babbo] ha detto in presenza dei ragazzi che stavano con lui al camino, che egli te ne avrebbe sconsigliato, perché questa ti darebbe i mezzi di stare del tempo molto a Roma, dove potresti anche prendere una dozzina. Non so come abbia avuto l’imprudenza di lasciarsi uscire questo dalla bocca. Io non v’era: stava alla scuola. L’istessa sera, avendo sicuramente riflettuto che il suo discorso doveva essermi stato riferito, e che se tu sapessi da me il vero movente del suo consiglio, questo potrebbe non far grande effetto; uscì a raccontarmi tutto, e mi disse una folla di ragioni e di calcoli che riceverai in quest’ordinario, i quali provano secondo lui che non ti torna a conto. Ma tutto questo con un’aria di premeditazione tale, che non lasciava luogo a dubbio.3

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This peek inside the domestic walls, around the ‘camino’ ( fireplace), discloses a cocoon-like environment laced with silent tensions and whispers. Just the same, Carlo is hounded by unnecessary precautions and needless distress. In fact, the very next day, Monaldo puts forward to Giacomo his position on why the publishing proposal is economically unprofitable, giving a detailed rundown complete with figures. However, he also lays out his primary reason for opposition, preliminarily and unequivocally: ‘L’obbligarvi a lunga lontananza non gioverebbe al vostro bene e al vostro interesse, e non potrebbe approvarsi da me, che volentieri vi vedrò tornare in Roma frequentemente, ma che per parte mia vi riterrò sempre domiciliato nella casa vostra paterna, e nel Paese dove riposano le ceneri dei padri vostri e miei.’ (Being forced to remain far from home for a long period of time would be no good for you. It would not be in your interests and I could not approve such a decision. I’d gladly see you return to Rome frequently, but as far as I’m concerned, I’ll always consider you resident in your paternal house, and in the place where the ashes of our fathers rest, yours and mine.) The fact is that Count Monaldo feels no need to dissemble because he is at peace with himself, firmly held up by his principles of Religion, Morality, Family, and Homeland. His prose is free of any dissociation or stubbornness; it is rationally controlled and argumentative, polished with the vigour of inner conviction, geared toward persuasion and practical instruction. First of all, he has learned from experience. The past errors of his youth, his naive rashness when he was a ‘barbassuolo’ (pretentious little chap) and a rather dissolute administrator of his property, have caused him as a parent to adhere to a code of conduct governed by prudence and moderation, founded on order and obedience, hierarchical respect for authority, and censure of any infringement – a compendium of defensive rather than offensive techniques. The ‘rupe’ (rock) of Recanati is his ‘nicchia’ (niche), which keeps him captivated with ‘tenacissimi chiodi’ ( firm dowels), with tradition passed down from generation to generation. His geography does not extend past his birthplace, and he knows how to conduct himself astutely in that environment with the diligence of a ‘primo cittadino’ ( first lord) and a ‘galantuomo’ (gentleman), striving for his own ‘santa serenità’ (tranquillity) and for public welfare. He tends to regard the outside world with suspicious distrust, and writes in 1815: ‘meglio capo di lucertola in Recanati, che coda di serpe altrove’ (better the head of a lizard in Recanati, than a snake’s tail elsewhere). Outside, corruption and chaos reign. Evil instincts and servility, intrigue and perfidy are demons that can only be

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exorcised by his watching over the disciplined propriety and unruffled morals of his own home. This home is ruled over by his wife, implacable and resentful Countess Adelaide, a disconcerting maternal figure who only occasionally makes measly and pitiful appearances in the letters of the Leopardis. Monaldo is a sharp and educated man, a believer free from doubt. As an intelligently studious reader and moralist who considers truth to be well within his reach, he assiduously keeps up the practice of diary and prose writing in the rooms of a splendid library which is his legitimate pride and joy. For him, this is both a spiritual and political exercise, an ideal lifting of his soul and proof of his uncompromising adherence to the reactionary clericalism of sanfedismo. He is the first to recognize, without overestimating it, the modest talent of his ‘barbara penna’ (savage pen). However, he is even more convinced of the ancillary and decorative function that works of the pen hold in the practical management of civil life. As he confides to Pietro Brighenti on 9 April 1820, ‘Io stimo poco la Letteratura nuda e la vorrei sempre seguace di qualche scienza, stimando che un letterato, il quale non professi alcuna facoltà, sia una cornice magnifica senza quadro’ (I have little regard for naked Literature; I would always prefer it follow some sort of science, considering that a scholar who professes no particular expertise is like a magnificent frame without a painting). Left an orphan at the age of four, Monaldo mythicized the role of the paternal guide that he never had, which explains why he is so rigorously consistent in exercising his office as numen, as the guardian of good domestic rule. He is perfectly convinced that he acts in the interests of his children, who are never adults in his eyes but forever adolescents content to obey. He considers himself responsible for their well-being before the judgment of his own conscience, society, and God. The anxiety that occasionally interferes with his clockwork-like system comes from the sporadic awareness of his ineffectiveness in persuading his children, especially his ‘amatissimo’ (beloved) and ‘amorosissimo’ (loving) eldest, of the objective foundations of his own clear, natural, and reasonable rules for living. Passing them on to his descendants is not a choice for him – it is an obligation. This illusion spurs him on to authoritarianism and inquisitiveness, like a type of Manzoni’s ‘Principe padre’ – violent in his affection and ferocious without knowing it, liable to weep with joy at the accommodating compliance of his son. ‘Così fatto è questo guazzabuglio del cuore umano’ (This is what that muddle of the human heart is like), as Manzoni remarked.

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Giacomo is caught in an ongoing struggle with this tenderly pitiless pedagogy. His docile nature and sentimental affection combine with the resoluteness of his character and intelligence. His desire to please his father and to go along with family ethics clashes with a need to disobey that cannot be circumvented, that is, with the opposite moral duty to follow his own inclinations. These two inner forces, equivalent in intensity, tear open a wound that cannot be healed. And so this love/hate conflict wears on, generating doubts and remorse, perplexity and distressing uncertainty. Giacomo’s self-discovery and self-assertion require an insult to the ‘cenere dei padri’ (ashes of our fathers) – an infraction that is approved and upheld by reason, nevertheless without lessening his weight of guilt. In this case, to say that adulthood is reached in killing one’s father is a rather trite simplification that does not take into due consideration the very real trauma of parricide. The son’s feeling of bereavement, which brings on disgust with himself together with self-destructive instincts, is kept alive by a memory that stubbornly refuses to be forgotten. The figure of parricide casts a disturbing shadow in many of his works, intensifying the feeling of despair therein. To him, his father is more than just a biographical and historical reality made sharper and more vital by the physical distance that separates them; he is an inner, permanent presence and ‘un ente superiore’ (a superior being). This impression is confirmed by a passage from the Zibaldone, 4229–30, written on 9 December 1826 (shortly after one of many returns to Recanati): È naturale all’uomo, debole, misero, sottoposto a tanti pericoli, infortuni e timori, il supporre, il figurarsi, il fingere anco gratuitamente un senno, una sagacità e prudenza, un intendimento e discernimento, una perspicacia, una esperienza superiore alla propria [...] Tale sono stato io, anche in età ferma e matura, verso mio padre; che in ogni cattivo caso, o timore, sono stato solito per determinare, se non altro, il grado della mia afflizione o del timor mio proprio, di aspettar di vedere o di congetturare il suo, e l’opinione e il giudizio che egli portava della cosa; né più né meno come s’io fossi incapace di giudicarne; e vedendolo o veramente o nell’apparenza non turbato, mi sono ordinariamente riconfortato d’animo sopra modo, con una assolutamente cieca sommissione alla sua autorità, o fiducia nella sua provvidenza. E trovandomi lontano da lui, ho sperimentato frequentissime volte un sensibile, benché non riflettuto, desiderio di tal rifugio [...] E questa qualità dell’uomo è ancor essa una delle cagioni per cui tanto universalmente e così volentieri si è abbracciata e tenuta, come ancor si tiene,

Leopardi and the Dissembling Style 69 la opinione di un Dio provvidente, cioè di un ente superiore a noi di senno e intelletto, il qual disponga ogni nostro caso, e indirizzi ogni nostro affare, e nella cui provvidenza possiamo riposarci dell’esito delle cose nostre.4

Giacomo has never left; he has always fled from Recanati. And he has always brought with him a sense of not belonging, like an exile who continues to hear the call of his ‘natio borgo selvaggio’ (native wilderness) echoing inside him. This unbroken cord pursues him everywhere with the wretched doggedness of an obsession, announcing his promise to return and awaiting this inevitable homecoming. But each return to the ‘prigione’ (prison), after a short and taciturn period of daily life with his father, reinforces the compulsive urgency to flee toward an unreachable and undefined elsewhere, be it Rome, Bologna, Milan, Florence, Pisa, or Naples, according to the whim of the moment. These cities are not selected on the basis of merit, but as refuges or hiding places; they are havens without rest, temporary stations for this traveller incapable of happiness. They are the stages of an aimless course with an impossible arrival point: anywhere far from Recanati. On 3 July 1832, after ten years of wandering, when the cyclical pendulum of this static race towards the unknown is about to come to an end, Giacomo confides to Monaldo: ‘La vita in qualunque luogo mi è abominevole e tormentosa’ ( for me, life in any place is abominable and tormented). One page of the Pensieri (xxx) speaks of the dissatisfied traveller: Come suole il genere umano, biasimando le cose presenti, lodare le passate, così la più parte de’ viaggiatori, mentre viaggiano, sono amanti del loro soggiorno nativo, e lo preferiscono con una specie d’ira a quelli dove si trovano. Tornati al luogo nativo, colla stessa ira lo pospongono a tutti gli altri luoghi dove sono stati.5

He proposes both journeys in time and journeys in space as a quest for a blissful ‘elsewhere’ that does not exist. However, in the Pensieri, the autobiographical stress has been removed and censored, and the perspective is impersonal, universalizing, as a generalization made on the whole ‘genere umano’ (human race) in a sharp and impassive aphoristic style. Giacomo’s letters demonstrate the ambivalence of a contradiction inherent in the very threads of his expressive means. While garishly obsequious on the surface, they are at the same time interspersed with internal antitheses and warped expression. The dissembling style not found in the letters of Monaldo, convinced as he is of being on the honest and

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just side, becomes a dramatic compulsion for the distressed conscience of his son. The consistency of Giacomo’s intellectual choices remains unbroken, but the grievous price he must pay for these choices comes into play. The ceremonious formality of his prose is not the symptom of a break in affection – this split never occurred – but rather the result of a difficult balancing act between duty and rebellion, between faithfulness to the ‘cenere dei padri’ and faithfulness to himself. The apparent conventionality of his writing is the combined effect of a laborious process of mediation and mitigation. Reticence, allusions, and hidden ambiguities are all part of a stylistic dressing that attempts to cover the profound distinction that separates father and son. They are the expressive reflection of a conflict that intimidates Giacomo and which he tries to soothe with an onerous self-defence mechanism. His words, held in check and carefully measured, which at times leave Monaldo disconcerted, represent an attempt to hide real suffering rather than affected indifference or loving hypocrisy. ‘Mi pare che le lettere mie’ – his father states resentfully on 15 December 1827 – ‘siano di molestia a voi, e che voi diate ad esse un riscontro stirato stirato, come i versi latini delli ragazzi, quasi che il vostro cuore trovasse un qualche inciampo per accostarsi al mio, il quale vorrebbe esser veduto da voi una volta sola e per un solo lampo, e questo gli basterebbe’ (It seems to me that my letters bother you, and that you send me back well-rehearsed replies, like schoolboys’ Latin verses, almost as if your heart found some obstacle in drawing near to mine, which desires to be seen by you just once, and in a single flash, and that would suffice). It is this unfiltered light that Giacomo shuns, because a ‘solo lampo’ (single flash) would reveal a gaping laceration that frightens him. A quick comparison of the rehearsed style of the letters to his father with the more fluid and casual style of the letters to other correspondents is enough to instantly reveal two distinct voices. The difference in register at times creates an acute and shrill dissonance. Examples are abundant. It so happens, in May 1832, that Giacomo made an official announcement in several reviews to the effect that he was not the author of certain paternal Dialoghetti that had anonymously appeared in January of that year. On 28 May he announced his press release to Monaldo with friendly and carefully weighed circumspection: ‘Io non sono stato mai né irreligioso né rivoluzionario di fatto né di massime. Se i miei principii non sono precisamente quelli che si professano né Dialoghetti, e ch’io rispetto in Lei ed in chiunque li professa di buona fede, non sono stati però mai tali, ch’io dovessi né debba né voglia disapprovarli. Il mio

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onore esigeva ch’io dichiarassi di non aver punto mutato opinioni, e questo è ciò ch’io ho inteso di fare ed ho fatto (per quanto oggi è possibile) in alcuni Giornali’ (I have never been irreligious or revolutionary in behavior or in maxims. If my principles are not precisely those professed in the Dialoghetti, and the principles that I respect in you and whoever else professes them in good faith, they are not however principles that I should, or must, or want to disapprove of. My honor demanded that I declare not to have changed opinion at all, and this is what I have tried to do and have done [as far as is possible at this point] in several newspapers). But in the 13 May letter to his cousin Giuseppe Melchiorri, the denial comes in other terms, with sharp and irate impatience: ‘io non ne posso più, propriamente non ne posso più. Non voglio più comparire con questa macchia sul viso, d’aver fatto quell’infame, infamissimo, scelleratissimo libro. Qui tutti lo credono mio: perché Leopardi n’è l’autore, mio padre è sconosciutissimo, io sono conosciuto, dunque l’autore son io. Fino il governo mi è divenuto poco amico per causa di quei sozzi, fanatici dialogacci’ (I can’t stand it, I really can’t stand it any longer. I don’t want to be seen in public with this scar on my face, of having written that infamous, hideously infamous, wicked book. Here everyone believes it’s mine: Leopardi is their author, my father is absolutely unknown, I am known, therefore the author is me. Even the government has begun to hold me at arm’s length because of those dirty, fanatical dialogues). This duplicity invites reflection. However, it would be an error to consider it a simple opportunistic tactic. It is not double-dealing. Instead, it has its roots in that intricate relationship of love and hate, of anger and benevolence between Giacomo and his father, which combine to create ambiguous and dissonant harmony. This duplicity helps explain the meaning of the honest dissembling that characterizes the letters to Monaldo, which does not appear by chance, here and there, but goes on tirelessly year after year. It also helps us to understand the implications of the dissembling: unconfessed tenderness and indulgence that strike profound and doleful chords. This is the music we hear in Giacomo’s letters. Their diary-like plot rings with patient melancholy and pertinacious monotony, modulating around few and regular notes: conversations about home, family, and the library. Interspersed between them, we find his unchanging declarations of love, regrets about the postal service, which interferes with the regular punctuality of epistolary replies, news about the weather and seasonal changes, as well as his state of health (from time to time described with the exactitude of a medical report). But above all, the theme that

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pounds right to the epilogue of Giacomo’s sojourn in Naples is absence and parting, homesickness and separation, travel and return. ‘Desidero [...] che la lontananza vi pesi’ (I want […] the distance to lie heavy on your heart), writes Monaldo in his first letter on 25 November 1822. This illomened wish proves to be prophetic and day by day receives its confirmation, even in the last words of Giacomo on 27 March 1837: ‘subito che la mia salute lo permetterà, io farò ogni possibile per rivederla in qualunque stagione’ (as soon as my health permits, I’ll do my utmost to visit you in any season). 2. There is a letter that provides us with the key to discovering the secret of this antithetic prose, both ceremonial and ambiguous, impeccable and brusque, voiceless and sharp. It is one of Giacomo’s first letters and the longest of them; to be precise, it is his fourth of 136, and it shines a light of revelation on the entire series to follow. This famous letter is undated but can be traced back to the end of July 1819, written by the twenty-oneyear-old poet while preparing his luggage for a secret departure from Recanati (similar to a letter from Carlo Bini to his father, written in Camaiore on 28 July 1836). This letter never reached the addressee because the attempted flight was discovered and foiled. The key to understanding the whole correspondence between father and son would remain Giacomo’s secret, like a kind of solitaire match. These pages contain explicit accusations and denunciations of his father, against the ‘fermezza straordinaria del suo carattere’ (extraordinary firmness of his character), which has driven his firstborn to an unexpected ‘risoluzione’ (resolution), and against the arrogance of an educational system that demands from sons ‘il sacrificio, non di roba né di cure, ma delle nostre inclinazioni, della gioventù, e di tutta la nostra vita’ (the sacrifice, not of things nor of caregiving, but of our inclinations, our youth, and our whole life). The letter vibrates with sharp eloquence born of a long silence, clearly demonstrating the son’s perspective without ambiguities. It explains how he has patiently borne his duty to submit, how he has left the initiative to his adversary, how he has kept silent, suffered through, obeyed to the point of finding himself backed up against a wall, obliged to take a decisive ‘passo’ (step) to avoid ‘morir […] di disperazione’ (dying […] of despair). In no other letter to his father are Giacomo’s reasons expounded so energetically as they are in this one, which Monaldo would never read. The beginning of the text is symptomatic: ‘Mio Signor Padre. Sebbene

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dopo aver saputo quello ch’io avrò fatto, questo foglio le possa parere indegno di esser letto, a ogni modo spero nella sua benignità che non vorrà ricusare di sentir le prime e ultime voci di un figlio che l’ha sempre amata e l’ama, e si duole infinitamente di doverle dispiacere’ (My Lord Father. If after discovering what I will have done, this letter may seem unworthy of your reading; just the same, I hope that your goodness will not allow you to turn a deaf ear to the first and last utterances of a son who has always loved you and loves you yet, and suffers infinitely at having to displease you). His first ‘voci’ (utterances) free of reticence before his father are really also his last, because here and now, between the lines of this ‘foglio indegno’ (unworthy letter), the act of parricide has been committed. Giacomo will never be able to escape the siege of guilt or the remorse of his dejected conscience, which accuses him of being a ‘malfattore’ (wrongdoer). Much attention must also be given to the final paragraph: ‘L’ultimo favore ch’io le domando, è che se mai le si desterà la ricordanza di questo figlio che l’ha sempre venerata ed amata, non la rigetti come odiosa, né la maledica; e se la sorte non ha voluto ch’Ella si possa lodare di lui, non ricusi di concedergli quella compassione che non si nega neanche ai malfattori’ (The last favour I ask is that, if ever the memory of this son who has always revered and loved you comes to mind, you don’t reject this memory as odious or curse it; and if fate has resolved that you cannot be pleased with him, don’t refuse him that compassion that not even wrongdoers are denied). Compassion is seen as a tribute to a confessed criminal whose destiny has already been settled, and who harbours no illusions about it. In order to understand the censorship and self-conditioning mechanism that condemned his son’s letters to a forced stylistic cipher, we must consider all correspondence with Monaldo in the light of this anomalous letter, which distinguishes itself from all others by its absolutely singular tone. The answer lies herein: the poet is held back by the anguish of bereavement. His tense, unabashed eloquence of July 1819 would remain no more than a shadow of the past: ‘il mio carattere è di chiudere nel profondo di me stesso tutti gli affanni e le affezioni vere’ (my character is to close all my worries and true affections deep inside of myself ), he tells Monaldo on 2 June 1828. Two of his late letters, one written on 3 July 1832 and the other, the last, on 27 May 1837, are strongly linked to the ‘foglio indegno’ (unworthy letter) of 1819. They constitute the final compensation, like the payment of an old debt. It is no surprise that at the end of the parabola, after thirteen years, the sense of guilt suffered by the ‘malfattore’ manifests itself as a self-punishing penchant, or even more, as an anxious death

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wish. Giacomo’s letter of 3 July 1832 makes this crystal clear: ‘Se mai persona desiderò la morte così sinceramente e vivamente come la desidero io da gran tempo, certamente nessuna in ciò mi fu superiore. Chiamo Iddio in testimonio della verità di queste mie parole. Egli sa quante ardentissime preghiere io gli abbia fatte (sin a far tridui e novene) per ottener questa grazia; e come ad ogni leggera speranza di pericolo vicino o lontano, mi brilli il cuore dall’allegrezza’ (If anyone has ever desired death as sincerely as I have for quite some time now, at least no one has surpassed me in this longing. I call God as a witness to the truth of my words. Only He knows how many earnest prayers I have prayed [to the point of triduums and novenas] to obtain this grace; and how at any faint hope of danger far or near, my heart glows with happiness). Quite naturally, he calls the God of his father as a witness to his words, with disillusioned and bitter ‘allegrezza’ (happiness). For him, death represents both self-liberation and revenge against the ‘fermezza straordinaria’ (extraordinary firmness) of Monaldo. It is both freedom from his own guilt and a silent denunciation of the one who drove him to it. This letter brings to mind Monaldo’s unending prayers for the wellbeing of his ‘lost’ son. ‘Oh Dio’ (Oh God), his father writes on 30 November 1825, ‘quanto mi hanno crucciato le nuove non prosperissime della vostra salute [...] [Temo] sempre che vogliate risparmiare il mio cuore, e non mi scriviate quanto male vi sentite’ (what torment I’ve suffered over the less than prosperous news of your health […] I always [fear] that you want to spare my heart, and so avoid writing how badly you really feel). Now that heart is no longer spared, it is punished. Again, for the second time, the son’s last words to Monaldo on 27 May 1837 confirm his wish for ‘una buona e pronta morte’ (a good and prompt death). This time death would not miss the appointment, but would take him eighteen days later. The last act of the tragedy is underway, and we have come full circle. The unpaid debt of parricide back in July 1819, which has cast its evil shadow upon a passionately meek yet perverse exchange of letters between father and son, has been settled at long last.

5 Quotations of the Heart

In the late eighteenth century, quotations of the heart began to rise on the stock exchange of our literary civilization. Since then, the heart metaphor has given poets and narrators no quarter; it has become the dominant symbol of affection, sentiment, and passion; it is both moral guide and source of artistic inspiration, amounting to a private identity card. It is the secret corner devoted to inner changes and jealous memories, where desires reside together with the human will. And yet the heart has still other meanings besides these. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the reasons of the heart overcame those of Reason. In the age of Enlightenment and of ‘sound judgment,’ of decorum and self-control – when indeed a utilitarian aesthetic sanctioned absolutist government as the best of possible worlds – abbots and pedagogues censured emotional impulses. Now, on the contrary, an uninhibited subjectivity becomes free. Symptoms of this turning point are visible in the crisis of Arcadian classicism and the end of the Enlightenment, as the system of rational certainty began to falter and a new anxiety spread through Europe. Scholars left their salons and sacristies and took to the streets. Two years before the French Revolution, Don Giovanni, by the adventurer Da Ponte, brought a Metastasiostyle virtuosity to a perfect structure that set feeling beside rationality as the extreme emblem of a world balanced on the edge of vertigo, on the eve of events that would mark the close of an era. Libertine indecency, in its boundless hedonism, contributed to the crumble of eighteenthcentury ethics, while using the same tools of Enlightenment culture. The heart was often named in vain and held restricted citizenship rights in the empirical and terrestrial horizons of Don Giovanni, champion of dissoluteness and polished dissimulation. He is the hero who can ignore

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the jerks of his heart and ironically mock them, defining himself with an unscrupulous semantic contortion: ‘io son, per mia disgrazia, uom di buon cuore’ (To my own disgrace, I am a kind-hearted man) (I, 9). But the sincere heart was about to take its revenge. With the collapse of the old regime, even the accepted rules of civil ethics were to change. In the context of a different social order, the supremacy of the individual and his unpredictable creative resources came to the foreground. This explains the autobiographical bent of late eighteenth-century European literature as well as Alfieri’s libertarian tones. In the treatise Del principe e delle lettere (1778, printed in 1789), he indicates the ‘impulso naturale’ (natural urge) as the prime requisite for a man’s greatness: ‘È questo impulso, un bollore di cuore e di mente, per cui non si trova mai pace, né loco’ (It is this urge, a boiling over of the heart and mind, that knows no peace or resting place). The seething but undifferentiated strength of the natural urge is what counts in the logical, procedural prose of the treatise; thus the author combines ‘cuore’ (heart) and ‘mente’ (mind). But the poet of the Rime is able to distinguish them, and does so in his famous sonnet/self-portrait of 9 June 1786, ‘Sublime specchio di veraci detti’ (v. 11): ‘La mente e il cor meco in perpetua lite’ (My mind and heart in continuous inner strife). This concise hendecasyllable, pronounced slowly and solemnly with pauses for inner reflection, shows itself to be prophetic. The first-person character declares that he has lost control over himself. The concept is brought across using only nouns, without a verb, to seal the inevitability of destiny. Reason remains awake, but it is no longer a guide; it has become the antithesis of a struggle that cannot be resolved, a flimsy shelter against the rush of dark forces proceeding from the shadows. Hence the dramatic scenario in the Rime of an introverted first person visited by ghosts, shaken and tormented by the Furies (anger and gloom): ‘Due fere donne, anzi due furie atroci, / tor non mi posso (ahi misero!) dal fianco’ (Two proud dames, rather two atrocious furies / I cannot coax – alas, poor wretch! – to leave my side) (sonnet CLXIX). This heart, which does not console but leaves one breathless, provides a preface to the artistic biography of a poet who feels uprooted and ‘avverso al mondo’ (averse to the world) without a homeland or a family, continually fleeing ‘di gente in gente’ ( from one people to another), anxious for an elsewhere that does not exist on this earth. Alongside Alfieri’s sonnet, another sonnet/self-portrait by Foscolo, just as famous, can be examined as a cross-reference that broadens and exalts Alfieri’s antithesis: ‘Solcata ho fronte, occhi incavati intenti.’ Foscolo wrote and

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rewrote this text several times – digging deep to bring to light its roots is a laborious task. In the original version (1801–2), vv. 12–13 read: ‘Di vizi ricco e di virtù, do lode / alla ragion, ma corro ove al cor piace’ (Rich in both vices and virtues, I praise / reason, but run wherever my heart desires). Alfieri’s dichotomy of mind and heart is enriched by an implicit judgment pronounced by the contrasting ‘ma’ (but). In Alfieri’s writings, there is the consciousness of a fever; in young Foscolo there is the awareness of a deviation that constitutes guilt. From the nominal style of the model, we pass to the pursuit of three verbs that spell out the phases of an inevitable fall toward the rule of unexpected emotional occurrences. Alfieri’s hendecasyllable records the astounding discovery of inner turmoil; Foscolo’s two hendecasyllables relate the scenes of a tragedy, outlining the novel of Jacopo Ortis and the self-destructive career of its author in a rapid summary. The poet would go on to rewrite vv. 12–13 in the definitive draft of the sonnet (1821–4): ‘Cauta in me parla la ragion; ma il core, / ricco di vizi e di virtù, delira’ (Cautiously, reason speaks within; but my heart, / rich in both vices and virtues, rages). The tone has changed. During the long interval between the two versions (about twenty years) the disillusioned, melancholy season of the Grazie has elapsed. Nevertheless, the final version confirms and strengthens the original raging of the heart (not ‘cor’ in a humble position, but ‘core’ at the end of the verse). In the desolation of the poet’s exile in London the word ‘delira’ (rages) bitterly seals the trouble-filled sequence of disillusions and disenchantment, the price paid for contemptuously dashing around ‘ove al cor piace’ (wherever the heart desires). ‘Delira,’ at the closing of v. 13, represents the height of an anxiety present at the turn of the century and forecasts a descent to hell. It would seem to be an event leading up to other whirling vicissitudes. However, the verb ‘delira,’ heavy with ethical, ideological, and political themes, would go unheeded throughout the sober 1800s. Delirium was to be abandoned altogether, even before it came onto the scene. The Manzonian heart is a completely different case. Still in 1801, the year of Foscolo’s ‘Solcata ho fronte,’ seventeen-year-old Manzoni pours himself into the mould of the sonnet/self-portrait with ‘Capel bruno: alta fronte: occhio loquace.’ His heart makes its appearance in v. 8, as a simple stroke of embellishing psychology: ‘duro di modi, ma di cor gentile’ (tough in manner, but kind-hearted) – an innocent presence, without any trace of urgent contradictions. And this early example of indifference to the lyrical discord within oneself is significant. In fact, five years later, in the solemn poem ‘In morte di Carlo Imbonati,’ the two anti-

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thetical poles in Alfieri and Foscolo (‘mente’ [mind] and ‘cuore’ [heart]) are peacefully fused together and coexist as hendiadys in the famous pair ‘sentir’ ( feel ) and ‘meditar’ (meditate) (v. 207). Manzoni’s letter to Claude Fauriel on 9 February 1806 clarifies the meaning: ‘Io credo che la meditazione di ciò che è, e di ciò che dovrebb’essere, e l’acerbo sentimento che nasce da questo contrasto, io credo che questo meditare e questo sentire sieno le sorgenti delle migliori opere sì in verso che in prosa dei nostri tempi’ (I believe that meditating on what is, and on what should be, and the bitter sentiment that springs from this contrast, I believe that this meditating and this feeling are the sources of the best works, in both prose and verse, of our times). The conflict that, in the Alfieri–Foscolo line erupts within one’s inner self, now shifts onto the field of history and normal practice in Manzoni and is defined in strictly moral terms. The heart is no longer seen as the subject and driving force behind lyric expression but rather becomes an object for study, a matter which must undergo the sharp scrutiny ‘di ciò che è, e di ciò che dovrebb’essere’ (of what is and of what should be). Even from this point of view, the future author of I Promessi sposi shows himself to be lyrical sui generis, and his premise for stripping his writing of its lyrical gloss is implicit. It is significant that the prosy Manzoni of the novel brings the heart into the limelight as a narrative character and, moreover, treats it as a very suspicious subject. In the end of chapter VIII, at the departure of Renzo, Lucia, and Agnese, who have to leave the village after the notte degl’imbrogli, fra Cristoforo bids them goodbye in a faltering tone: ‘il cuor mi dice che ci rivedremo presto’ (my heart tells me that we will meet again soon). And the narrator dryly comments: ‘Certo, il cuore, chi gli dà retta, ha sempre qualche cosa da dire su quello che sarà. Ma che sa il cuore! Appena un poco di quello che è già accaduto’ (Of course, for those who listen to it, the heart has always something to say about what the future holds in store. But what does the heart know! Merely a bit of what has already happened). In fact, the happy presentiment of the good Capuchin friar proves to be false: they will not see each other again soon, but only after countless misadventures and struggles, after a war and a plague; they will see each other for a short time, and not all of them. Even the great father Cristoforo, moved at the moment of the adieu, does not escape the critical eye of Manzoni. And the romantic mythology of the heart, diviner of the unknowable future, is cruelly punished. For Manzoni, not heeding the heart does not mean wrapping it in a protective veil of reticence. Quite the contrary. It is on this very ground that the writer strains to see what lies in the distance, to the point of

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alarming himself and his reader, as is the case of Gertrude’s father, in one of the most bitter parts of the book (the reader may recall the dolls dressed as nuns given to Gertrude as a child). In chapter X, when her father the prince finally learns that Gertrude has decided to take religious vows, his emotion is sincere for the most part: ‘Il principe era stato fino allora in una sospensione molto penosa: a quella notizia, respirò, e dimenticando la sua gravità consueta, andò quasi di corsa da Gertrude, la ricolmò di lodi, di carezze e di promesse, con un giubilo cordiale, con una tenerezza in gran parte sincera: così fatto è questo guazzabuglio del cuore umano’ (Until then, the prince had been in a terrible state of unrest: on receiving the news, he began to breathe freely and, forgetting his usual solemnity, hurried over to Gertrude, showering her with praise, caresses, and promises, full of cordial joy and tenderness which was for the most part sincere: this is what that muddle of the human heart is like). One can commit a crime without realizing it; one can corrupt a daughter forever while being sure of doing her only good. The Manzonian heart-‘guazzabuglio’ (muddle) may well touch on the most disturbing subject of the nineteenth century. Portrayed as a hazy muddle of impulses not arising from the conscience, the heart is nothing better than a confused tangle whose motives slip through our fingers, along with their (often fatal) consequences. However, Manzoni is not carried away by the aesthetic charm of the mystery; he wants to investigate and clarify, to sort out the issue. The same negative term ‘guazzabuglio’ reappears in the episode of Renzo’s vineyard (chap. XXXIII: ‘Era un guazzabuglio di steli’ [It was a muddle of stalks]); in the midst of the process of rationalizing chaos, this paradigmatic page indicates one of the most significant keys to an understanding of the whole novel. The human heart is like Renzo’s vineyard: a tumultuous domain where disorder reigns, generated by the dormancy of reason (‘era tutta roba venuta in sua assenza’ [they were all things that had grown in his absence]). However, the narrator is ready to throw light on the situation in his stubborn determination to understand. Leopardi’s position on the matter, in turn, is quite distant from both the emotional approach of Alfieri-Foscolo and the investigative approach of Manzoni. In his writing, the meaning of the heart is sensistic instead of romantic. Rather than effusion or passion, the heart is cognition, and in the face of social norms and natural laws, it is able to deliver a person from the common condition of human unhappiness through the consolation of sweet phantoms and noble illusions. Such are honour, love, generosity, friendship and virtue, the most precious gifts according to Leopardi, the only ones that make life worth living.

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This heart, covered by such a tight network of ethical and intellectual veins, demonstrates why the author of the Canti is not a poet of love, but rather a great poet of amorous disillusionment. The resolute reflections of his thoughts constantly intertwine with the inclinations of his heart. In the most heated love poem of the Canti, entitled ‘Il pensiero dominante,’ the word ‘amore’ (love) is never mentioned and the word ‘core’ (heart) only appears twice. Both times it holds a subdued position in the phrase and never refers directly to the poet. Love is represented as a ‘pensiero dominante’ (dominant thought) that overruns and masters the ‘profonda mente’ (profound mind). Not only a poet of love as disillusionment rather than enjoyment, Leopardi is also the poet of dreamt illusions and the anguish that accompanies their eclipse. These are the illusions that the heart causes to shine with its miraculous intuitive energy and that the poet, through obsessive self-analysis, exposes as volatile and fleeting. The heart’s battle is lost before it ever started. Nevertheless, even though condemned to defeat, the indomitable heart insists on pursuing the impossible. The despairing dialogue-soliloquy ‘A se stesso’ springs from these considerations (‘Or poserai per sempre, stanco mio cor’ [Now you will rest forever, my tired heart]). The poet takes up a conversation with his own heart, requiring that it once and for all put an end to yearning for still other chimeras. These verses are scornfully peremptory, slowly striking their chords, and are enough to leave in ashes the endless rhetoric of the heart, synonymous with the most shameless examples of nineteenthcentury melodrama. However, these verses are an epitaph in appearance only. In reality, they express the goals of resentful but useless pedagogy. The heart comes into play as an alter ego that one must instruct about the all-too-real negativity of existence in order to usher it into a quiet state of rest. In fact, the text is packed with imperatives (four in 16 vv.), and their accumulation actually lets us catch a glimpse of the dynamic lack of discipline on the part of the interlocutor. This ‘cor’ (heart), although tired, remains the undefeated instigator of ‘cari inganni’ (sweet delusions) (v. 4). The wisdom of experience and knowledge of the truth lack the persuasive ability to silence the inextinguishable source of dawning intuitive cognition. The whole collection of the Canti vibrates without rest on the dissonant chord of this friction between the rule and its infringement, between truth and mistaken purity, between certainty of emptiness and the heroic resistance that refuses to resign itself to seeing only a desert in the play of life. This clash brings us finally to intrepid contemplation of the negative, to the ‘sentimento vivo’

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(vivid sentiment), to emotional enthusiasm in the face of the ‘nullità delle cose’ (nothingness of all things) (Zibaldone, 259, 4 October 1820). Few follow the example of Alfieri, Foscolo, Manzoni, and Leopardi in nineteenth-century literature, which gives full vent to the effusive heart, full of its pangs and emotional blackmail. Foscoli’s ‘delira’ is commercialized and used for collective pleasure. Melodrama inflated the heart muscle, always pumping, athletic and competitive, shaken by its sublime beating and furtive tears. The journalist Leone Fortis, a diligent theatre columnist in charge of productions at La Scala in Milan from 1854, called his readers’ attention (in the Illustrazione italiana) to a typical mechanical gesture on the part of opera singers on stage: their habit of ‘portarsi così di frequente la destra al cuore come se fossero colpiti da una trafittura’ (so frequently bringing their right hand to their heart as if they had been stabbed). This piercing of the heart was popular even offstage for nineteenth-century poets, and we find the heart conjugated in every form. The rhyme ‘core’/‘fiore’ (heart/flower) is recurrent in the Romanze by Berchet; ‘core’ and ‘amore’ (love) are gladly coupled by Luigi Carrer among others; and in 1841, Francesco Dall’Ongaro had a successful hit in the ballad ‘Poveri fiori, poveri cuori!’ (Poor flowers, poor hearts!). ‘Dal cor si favelli!’ (Speak from the heart!) exhorts Giovanni Prato in the Canti lirici (1843), and Aleardo Aleardi is at peace with himself in stating, in his preface to the Canti of 1864: ‘Ho scritto più col cuore che con la mente’ (I have written more from my heart than with my mind). Sentimental and civil lyric poetry unite to laud a heart that is the chosen defender of the typical pair of the Risorgimento: ‘famiglia e patria’ ( family and homeland). Family, homeland, and work: these are the crucial values of that ethic of sacrifice belonging to the social poetry of Pietro Paolo Parzanese in his 1846 composition Gli operai, characterized by the rhyme ‘cor’/ ‘lavor’ (heart / work): ‘Dio ci ha dato braccia e cor / per la pace e pel lavor’ (God has given arms and a heart / to make peace and to do work). The way was being forged for the great industry of the heartbeat at the disposal of civil authorities, just as the new united and industrial Italy institutionalized its educational models with a clear paternalistic stamp. De Amicis’s Cuore (1886) is exemplary in this respect. The same author, in 1874, speaking candidly about himself, had observed in his own writing ‘un manzonismo annacquato […] e un tirar sempre al cuore a tradimento, quando si dovrebbe tirare alla testa’ (a watered-down Manzoni-ism […] and a bad habit of drawing from my heart when I ought to use my head). This quotation helps us to understand how much calculated emotional chemistry actually presided over the profitable operation of

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publishing his book bearing the title Cuore. Different and lonelier was the path of Verga, interested in the analytical scrutiny of what Enrico Lanti, the protagonist of Eva (1873), defines as the ‘mostruoso mistero che chiamasi cuore’ (the monstrous mystery called the heart). In 1886, the same year that De Amicis piled on the effusion of the heart and made a brilliant speculation (while Paolo Mantegazza publishes Testa in 1887), Carducci wrote his satirical short poem ‘Intermezzo’ with a caustic sharpness typical of Maremma, in which he openly derides the heart of exaggerated sentimentalism and indignantly addresses it as a ‘cibreo,’ that is, a hotchpotch presented at the table with a lavish dose of the sauce of affection: ‘Oggi noi siamo a dieta, e sempre avanti / ci dan questo cibreo: // questo cibreo del cuore, in verso e in prosa, / co’l solito guazzetto / di quella sua secrezïon muccosa / che si chiama l’affetto’ (Nowadays we are on a diet, and forevermore / they give us this hotchpotch: // this hotchpotch of the heart, in both verse and prose, / along with the usual stew / made of that slimy secretion / called affection) (vv. 47–52). This naive doctrine of goodness and prostitution of sentiment, typical of Risorgimento romanticism, nauseates Carducci. In the same composition, in fact, the heart is portrayed as an old trollop with no clients standing on the doorstep, her hair blowing in the wind: ‘Cuore, a che uccelli ne’ miei versi, come / quella sgualdrina vecchia / là su l’uscio che al vento dà le chiome / grige e al rumor l’orecchia? // Per questa sera il lume in van risplende / da la finestra bassa: / Vecchia, rientra, e tira pur le tende, / ché nessun merlo passa’ (Heart, why are you lying in wait in my verses, like / that old trollop / standing on the threshold, the wind blowing through her hair /turned gray, listening to every sound? // This evening, in vain her light shines out / from the lower window: Old lady, go on back in, and draw the curtains too, / because no fool is coming by tonight) (vv. 1–8). In reality the old trollop continued to find clients, and fools continued and would still continue to pass by thereafter. Without a doubt, however, uncouth Carducci’s ‘Intermezzo’ represented a breakthrough for the twentieth-century approach to the heart. On 13 May 1878, in a letter to Lidia, the poet-professor writes: ‘Il mio cuore, oh il cuore!, da un pezzo è come un alveare di mosconi’ (My heart, oh my heart!, for quite some time now it’s been like a hive of black flies). The nineteenth century closed with the heart and its sublime beating served in stew, and with the ungraceful image of the ‘alveare di mosconi,’ a clear sign that the new century would inherit a lifeless muscle and a dried-up metaphor. And, in fact, in an irreverent 1907 collection entitled Gli aborti (salvaging a term dear to Arrigo Boito, found in

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the verses ‘A Giovanni Camerana’ from 1865), easy-going Govoni, antisentimental by nature, brazenly proclaims: ‘Il mio cuore me lo son mangiato io’ (As for my heart, I’ve eaten it myself ). Thus, the nineteenth century can consider itself rounded off – around the table, with a liberating meal. The old heart having been devoured back in 1907, we come across a new heart, one that has lost its rank as metaphor of an immaterial world and is recognized for the first time as a physical, anatomical organ. This is the heart of Gozzano, in the poem ‘Alle soglie’: ‘Mio cuore, monello giocondo che ride pur anco nel pianto, / mio cuore, bambino che è tanto felice d’esistere al mondo’ (My heart, cheerful rascal that laughs even through tears, / my heart, child that is so happy just to exist in the world) (vv. 1– 2). This would seem to be a rebirth full of hope, but instead it is only a brief play with irony. ‘Alle soglie’ indicates the threshold of the afterlife, the decisive step towards death. The writer’s dialogue with his heart, ‘monello giocondo’ (cheerful rascal) and ‘bambino’ (child), is really the soliloquy of a man condemned to die of consumption, who, with a smile frozen on his lips, puts into verse the doctors’ diagnosis that cannot be appealed: ‘[Mio cuore] pur chiuso nella tua nicchia, ti pare sentire di fuori / sovente qualcuno che picchia, che picchia… Sono i dottori. // Mi picchiano in vario lor metro spiando non so quali segni, / m’auscultano con gli ordegni il petto davanti e di dietro. // E senton chi sa quali tarli i vecchi saputi’ ([My heart] nestled as you are in your hollow, you seem to hear outside / someone that keeps knocking, knocking … it’s the doctors. // They are knocking in ever-changing meter, spying out I don’t know which signs, / auscultating my chest with their devices, in front and behind. // And who knows what termites they hear, those old know-it-alls) (vv. 3–7). Following an auscultation that picks up the feeble starts coming from the apex of his lung, a radioscopy leaves no doubts about the fatal course of the disease. Thus, even X-rays are given a prominent place in the new catalogue of poetic objects. At the turn of the century, Gozzano’s verses throw their livid light on the years to come, like a sinister prognosis. And in the following decades, Italian literature would struggle with traumatic existential and historical issues along with its European counterparts, causing the word ‘heart’ to freeze inside the breast. This is the case of Campana, the poet of the heart that has ceased to love: ‘La luce del crepuscolo si attenua: / inquieti spiriti sia dolce la tenebra / al cuore che non ama più!’ (The light of dusk grows weaker: / restless spirits, let darkness be sweet / to the heart that loves no more!) (‘Il canto della tenebra,’ vv. 1–3). This is also the case

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with Sbarbaro, the poet of the paralyzed heart: ‘Non ci stupiremmo, / non è vero, mia anima, se il cuore / si fermasse, sospeso se ci fosse / il fiato’ (We wouldn’t be surprised, / isn’t it true, my soul, if my heart / stopped, if I held / my breath) (‘Taci, anima stanca di godere,’ vv. 10–13); ‘Talor, mentre cammino solo al sole / e guardo coi miei occhi chiari il mondo […] / un improvviso gelo al cor mi coglie’ (Sometimes, while I walk alone in the sun / and look at the world through clear eyes […] / a sudden chill grips my heart) (‘Talor, mentre cammino solo al sole,’ vv. 1–5). Such is the plight of Ungaretti, the poet of the heart-cemetery: ‘Ma nel cuore / nessuna croce manca // È il mio cuore / il paese più straziato’ (But in my heart / no cross is missing // It is my heart / the most barren land of all) (‘San Martino del Carso,’ vv. 9–12). His condition is shared by Montale, the poet of the heart-instrument gone out of tune, that rhymes with ‘muore’ (dies): ‘il vento che nasce e muore / nell’ora che lenta s’annera / suonasse te pure stasera / scordato strumento, / cuore’ (the wind that rises up and dies down / in an hour that slowly grows darker / let it strum its melody on you too this evening / you out-of-tune instrument, / heart) (‘Corno inglese,’ vv. 14–18); ‘Non so come stremata tu resisti / in questo lago / d’indifferenza ch’è il tuo cuore’ (Exhausted, I know not how you hold out / in this lake / of indifference that is your heart) (‘Dora Markus,’ vv. 22–4). And so on: from the ‘Rime del cuore morto’ by Corazzini to Saba of the ‘Cuor morituro,’ from ‘Il capo sulla neve’ by Alfonso Gatto (‘L’Europa gelata nel suo cuore / mai più si scalderà’ [The heart of Europe is frozen / never again to feel warmth]) to Cassola of Un cuore arido. Frost, death, atony, chilled indifference, and arid lack of feeling show a radical negative reversal of trend; the new heart is both anti-heroic and anti-sublime compared with its athletic nineteenth-century counterpart. Only with great difficulty and reticent humility would the heart make its voice heard once again through poetry like Saba’s bare and rarified ‘Parole,’ Luzi’s ‘Cuore di vetro,’ and Solmi’s poems in the vein of Leopardi. But the tone of this poetry is tense, fragile, almost to the point of breaking and dissolving, somewhere between solitude and silence. In opposition to the modesty of true poetry, the ‘cuore’ can be easily used for parodic purposes (and become, in the 1990s, the title of a satirical magazine) or for its sentimental implications. It has even entered, with great success, the jargon of advertising, and helped to sell ice cream and dietetic oils, in a modern relaunch of that far-off ‘cibreo’ (hotchpotch) glazed with ‘affetto’ (affection) derided in due course by Carducci – indignantly, but in vain.

6 The Novelist Verga1

1. There is still a somewhat ascetic, monkish image of Verga in circulation. He is seen as a solitary artist seated among the various stills of a formal laboratory, a writer endowed with splendid and priestly steadfastness, setting his sagacious talent to work to produce that formidable stylistic mixture that would bring to life the pages of I Malavoglia and Mastro-don Gesualdo. This portrait may be fascinating, but it bears no resemblance to the original. It arises from a vertiginously formalized reading of only select pieces by Verga – his so-called masterpieces. This microscopic vision cancels out the high and low points and chiaroscuro effects, cuts off connections between major texts and the rest of the picture, and dries up that fertile humus of underground organic combinations that sustains the most precious flowers of a garden. Verga, as a writer, was actually secular and earthy, impure and worldly, not greenhouse-grown, and not inclined towards a crystallized attention to technicalities. Immoderate, impatient, and also imprudent, he was a risk-loving writer in continuous movement, more like Balzac than Flaubert. He became distressed by the exhausting task of earning a living from his writing. He was oppressed by the scarcity of freelancing engagements and by publishers’ deadlines, by the ups and downs of loans and promissory notes, and by the anxiety, fatal for his dignity as a Sicilian gentleman, over advances for promised manuscripts that he could not complete in time. External conditions were not without effect. His letters lack the allure of a human adventure or of intellectual or existential explorations, but they do bear witness to the complex map of impediments and detours

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that characterized the writer’s private day-to-day living and shaped his whole career. His path was not straight, but winding and crooked, with sudden veers in this or that direction. His steps were obstinate rather than cautious, and the products left along his way were anything but equal in literary merit. Little by little, he came to understand the weight of words, the torment of finding the mot juste, the discipline and management of style, the price of a well-written page. This lesson was learned over time, gradually, at his own expense, by trial and error. Of the massive collections of his manuscripts, the unpublished ones are few and far between, because almost everything was brought to the light. On the other hand, his bibliography contains numerous corrected editions, rewritings and rehashings, with new sparks coming from already-published material, as a kind of tenacious self-searching to explore the development of a theme. However, he was not spurred on by the demon of perfection, which he did not believe in. For him, reworking past material did not mean throwing away the first draft. In an empirical approach, he assigned to each operative phase the value of a relative truth, which had a right to survive. He saw each step along the path as an indispensable piece of history and life. During his years of innocence, he thought out, developed, and submitted downright unpublishable novels for printing, not flattering himself that he was writing classics, but simply for practice and to put himself to the test. He did so at a pace that knew no impediments. Speaking with Ferdinando Martini in November 1880, at age forty, he defined Una peccatrice of 1866 as a ‘peccato di gioventù’ (sin of youth). This was not the only sin, however, and not even the first one. It was the third of those he managed to publish, after I Carbonari della montagna (1861–2) and Sulle lagune (1863). In his later years, he would gladly have avoided speaking about these books, but he would never have felt it his duty to reject them. In this respect, he shows himself to be more stubborn than Balzac, another first-class sinner, who decided to make public amends for his past in the preface to the 1842 Comédie humaine. Verga is not an ascetic or sacrificial writer; he must make mistakes to make progress. His path leads him through errors, but leads him on; errors are a necessary part of gaining experience. However, he does not ask for the forgiveness of his sins. What counts is this: for the most part, Verga knew how to learn from his mistakes. With this in mind, the task for a reader who might attempt a global overview of Verga’s production should not be, in my opinion, to sing further the praises of the masterpieces (which, in any case, do not need it).

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Rather, it should consist in tying together the scattered threads of his intricate tangle in order to understand the essential ingredients that work together to create the amazing feat of his disorganized system. Disorganized, yes, but not incoherent; lacking in order, but not in internal logic. 2. The key distinguishing characteristic of Verga’s youthful novels, from 1861 to 1875, lies in the mimicking of melodramatic emphasis. This may seem odd for a writer who would later give his best in precisely the opposite, a dry and direct idiom. This is a transition from the evanescent abstraction of decorative words to the earthiness of a dense and toneddown style, a passage from unbridled loquacity to silence. Between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five, Verga published seven novels. The first two, I Carbonari della montagna and Sulle lagune, show the survival of the two themes of the Risorgimento – political passion united with the heartbeat, or in other words, ‘amore’ (love) and ‘patria’ (homeland), typical of the Ortis. With Una peccatrice, the patriotic ambitions that characterized his debut were entirely and forever left behind. Having broken the union between ‘amore’ and ‘patria,’ he devoted himself to the former. This project would be carried out over five novels, a five-book series of the ‘heart.’ The historical fresco of Risorgimento ideals (already dated in the reality of post-unitary Italy) is no longer in the spotlight. Instead, the field of vision narrows, allowing a close-up examination of the emotional conflicts that take place in the ‘heart.’ The heart is established as the ‘filo motore’ (towline) of these conflicts in the opening chapter of Una peccatrice and is confirmed in the book’s epilogue: ‘Misteri del cuore!’ (Mysteries of the heart!). We no longer have the multicoloured backdrop of an archeological stage design, and our characters are no longer in costume. They are dressed in everyday apparel (usually from the boutique, of course) and are revealed to the reader in a ‘racconto intimo’ (confidential narrative), aiming at demonstrating the crookedness of their psychopathological conditions, which a surgeon’s scalpel could never bring to light. The patterns of reference have been adequately renewed: from the popular serials by Dumas père, Sue, and their ilk from gloomy tales of gothic ancestry mingled with romance, to the worldly bourgeois realism of La dame aux camélias. Storia di una capinera is also an intimate narrative: ‘una di quelle intime storie, che passano inosservate tutti i giorni, storia di un cuore tenero, timido’ (one of those

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intimate stories, that go unobserved every day, the story of a tender, timid heart). Eva, too, is rooted in the analysis of that ‘mostruoso mistero che chiamasi cuore’ (monstrous mystery called the heart), as Enrico Lanti calls it. The same is true of Tigre reale and Eros. In these novels, the passionate and omnipresent heart is in full form. It is not a ‘strumento scordato’ (out-of-tune instrument) as in modern literature, but it is certainly a treacherous instrument that never leads to a happy ending and claims victim after victim. The heart is ‘monstrous’ because it leads into sin. Its dreams and illusions have traumatic effects, ruinous epilogues. This is true for Pietro Brusio and Narcisa Valderi, the ‘peccatrice’ (sinner); it is true for Maria, the heartbroken ‘capinera’ (blackcap), and for Enrico Lanti and Eva, the airy ballerina of the Pergola; this is the case for Giorgio La Ferlita and Nata, the ‘selvaggia’ (wild) countess ‘boema, cosacca e parigina’ (Bohemian, Cossack and Parisian), a feminine type in vogue thanks to La dame aux perles by Dumas fils; it is once again confirmed by Marquis Alberto Alberti in the novel emblematically entitled Eros, and by the women who loved him. Composition techniques change every time. I Carbonari della montagna has the setting of a historical novel, an (alas!) ambitious structure, where all is resolved by an omniscient narrator. The theme of Sulle lagune pleads a similar case for political independence in the form of a contemporary account, or rather, a fait divers taken from the columns of the Florentine semi-monthly publication La Nuova Europa. In Una peccatrice, the veracity of the account is confirmed by the expedient of a witness-narrator, authorized spokesman for the author, the external referent for a real ‘storia’ (story), veiled for ‘convenienze particolari’ (propriety’s sake) in ‘la forma del romanzo’ (novel form). In the Capinera, credibility is guaranteed by its traditional epistolary structure; we are introduced without mediation into the mind of Maria and there discern her thoughts. The witness-narrator returns in Eva, but only as a decorative frame; the sequence of events is directly referred in first person. The witness-narrator once again holds all the strings in Tigre reale, while in Eros, the high perspective of the omniscient narrator is responsible for both narrative action as well as polemical speeches woven in here and there. Case by case, the libretto changes measure and form so as to prevent the mechanism of fiction from becoming cold. But the music has remained essentially the same. It is the music of sentimentally romantic melodrama, bursting with excited expression, piling one exclamation upon another with pathetic emphasis and theatrical, declamatory exuberance, not to mention all kinds of formal immodesty: coups de théâtre,

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flights and vicissitudes, yearned-for ideals, emotional upheavals, agnitions, duels, pitiless destinies, deaths in the prime of youth. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the reduction of a narrative work to opera prevailed, but in the second half of the century, there was a reversal in the relationship (as in the case of Cento anni by Rovani). Such was the case for these works of Verga, as well as for Fogazzaro and D’Annunzio. Explicit references to Don Giovanni, Lucia di Lammermoor, La Traviata, to the final terzetto of Ernani, to Un ballo in maschera, as well as Don Carlos are merely trivial facts. Nor is our main point that the geography of the novels includes visits to theatres such as La Scala, the Carcano, the Fenice, the Regio of Turin, the Pergola, the Pagliano, the Apollo, the San Carlo, the Comunale of Catania. What counts is the typology of formal modulation, the melodic design of lexis and syntax that brims with libretto-type phrasing and songbird sonorities. The structure of the verbal framework is significant, aiming at magniloquent epithets and the tension of high notes, a polarization of conflicts, and extreme emotional reactions. Hyperbole is the dominant strategy. It sets a frenetically high key, which develops anticipation, suspense, and theatrical gestures and acts as a soundtrack for the dramatization of sentiment. Language is desemanticized in order to second the automatism of pre-established roles, which the characters accept with synchronic characterization. Representative or introspective expressions are not what counts, but rather stage expressions. The individuality of characters does not matter; what matters is their function. Antithesis becomes allied with hyperbole. The sudden juxtaposition, or clash, of opposites is a key technique used in a writing style that has no place for nuance and ambiguity. Preference goes instead to communicative immediacy, giving visual and figurative transitivity to the forces at play and the dynamics of effects, or rather affections, set in the limelight. The list is long: ‘Lagrime ardenti’ (ardent tears) and ‘roventi’ (red-hot tears), ‘lagrime di voluttà’ (voluptuous tears) and ‘occhi umidi di lagrime infuocate’ (eyes damp with passionate tears), ‘urli disperati del cuore’ (desperate cries of the heart) and ‘baci divoranti’ (devouring kisses), ‘terribile voluttà di passione’ (terrible sensual passion) and ‘sguardi scintillanti’ (sparkling eyes), ‘membra convulse’ ( feverish movements) and ‘spasimi acuti’ (acute pangs), ‘ombre profumate’ ( fragrant shadows) and ‘veroni’ (balconies), ‘trasparente vapore della luna’ (crystalline haze of the moon) and ‘delirio dei sogni’ ( frenzied dreams), ‘effluvi giovanili’ (youthful scents) and ‘domestiche felicità’ (homebred bliss), ‘omeri nudi di abbagliante bianchezza’ (dazzlingly white naked shoul-

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ders) and ‘omeri sparsi di biondi capelli’ (shoulders covered with blonde hair), ‘la desolata madre’ (the distressed mother) and ‘il desolato genitore’ (the distressed parent), ‘voci tronche’ (voices cut off ), ‘gridi’ (wails), ‘invocazioni’ (invocations), ‘sospiri’ (sighs), ‘moti convulsive’ ( frenzied motions). And so on. The comment made by the reviewer of Eros (in Il Convegno of November 1874) was not far from the truth when he pointed out that Verga had a tendency for excess. When transposed into the different mode of a novel, the echoes of an operatic structure turn into phonetic suggestion, forced illusions, and heavy emotional investment. The five-book series of the ‘heart,’ from Una peccatrice to Eros, like Verga’s first two rash experiments written in Catania, have a narrative form that is melodic in nature, taking its origins from the operatic spectacle, the artistic institution that the culture and vogue of the time found to be most congenial. This implies that his theatrical, songlike prose was in perfect harmony with the expectations of the society it was written for. Even more, it assumed emotional involvement, active solidarity, and subscription to a preset formal statute that was the epicentre and symbol of collective interest. We can find confirmation of this in the moral of the story, the simplified system of ethical values that these novels set forth. In agreement with the most transparent requisites of melodrama, it can be summarized as a celebration of virtue, especially the affectionate serenity that characterizes the bosom of one’s family. For this precise reason, the restless heart, in perpetual motion throughout the whole series, is an insidious organ that leads to sin. Outside of legality, love is sacrilege, and guilt inevitably goes along with it. These are all catechistic novels, as they were intended to be, typical of the healthy nineteenth-century bourgeoisie. Their message is clear. The ‘folle passione’ (crazed passion) of love that dazes Pietro Brusio in Una peccatrice is a contagious, lethal virus. There is no escape for its victims. On this list is Piero, who tracks the ‘farfalla’ (butterfly) of his desire without a moment’s peace, and Narcisa, the ‘sirena’ (mermaid ) sinner with a ‘collo di cigno’ (swan’s neck), who leaves her husband for him and pays with her life for being an unfaithful wife. Within this theatrical genre, which gives emotions no peace, falls the humble ‘capinera’ (blackcap) by the name of Maria (an eloquent name), who personifies the martyrdom of goodness, the violation of virtue at its most sublime. She is the chaste heroine, Bellini’s ‘innocente tortorella’ (guileless turtledove), whose simple aspiration is to become a housewife – a goal that remains an unreachable mirage. ‘Se ci potessimo strappare il cuore’ (If we could tear out our heart), she exclaims, ‘saremmo più vicini a

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Dio!’ (we would be closer to God!). Enrico Lanti, a direct relation of Pietro Brusio, burns with the ‘folle passione’ (crazed passion) for Eva, the soubrette of the Pergola. This unseemly and unrestrained flame finally constrains its exhausted prey to wait for death in his last refuge, the four walls of his home, where according to him, ‘felicità vera’ (true happiness) resides. The pure Erminia (who evokes pastoral idylls), ‘pura siccome un angelo’ (pure as an angel), watches over these same walls, which Giorgio La Ferlita leaves behind to chase after Nata, the ‘tigre’ (tiger) woman with ‘gli occhi da fantasma’ (ghost eyes). But the consciousness of his ‘gran fallo’ (great fault) leads him, repentant and in search of expiation and rest, back to the ‘nido’ (nest) of Erminia, like a boat to a port ‘di pace, di amore e di felicità’ (of peace, love, and happiness) after the whirling tempest of his heart. The erotic quest of Marquis Alberto Alberti, arrogant follower of the god of love who gives the book its name, is an insult to the family altar and allows no way of escape. Incapable of ‘affetti domestici’ (love for one’s family) and incompetent with regard to ‘affetti intimi’ (intimate love), unsatisfied Alberto runs from Adele to Velleda, from Velleda to Emilia, from Emilia back to Adele, only to expiate his wandering heart at the end with a self-inflicted gunshot that does away with the ‘peccatore’ (sinner) and, to everyone’s great satisfaction, reestablishes the balance. The audience did not skimp on applause, and the success that smiled on the love series was the last that Verga was to enjoy before he turned over a new leaf that would lead him away from popularity and toward greatness. Even along the old course there were signs pointing to the new, particularly evident in certain schemes or suggestions of critical distancing from the unnaturalness of programmed poetics, seen especially in the Capinera and Eva. 3. In Maria’s story, the approach is a technical one and is based on the epistolary structure of the work. The single voice in the novel belongs to the protagonist, who sings the long solo of her extended monologue. There is no external interference from other independent figures; all is filtered through Maria’s eyes. She tells the story of her life as she lives it and takes the writer’s place as author of her own self. High-strung words encumber the field, but even these bear the girl’s signature. The theatrical emphasis is reduced by means of a simplified structure that limits its excesses; on the contrary, that emphasis is reused, productively, as a peculiar

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aspect of the guileless innocence of the persecuted young woman. The 1869 sojourn in Florence was not in vain. The girl’s voice, as the only voice, takes us a step away from melodramatic excess because it assigns a specific function to the stark automation of this theatrical prose, giving it a relative look. Accordingly, a reader who has the patience to follow Verga from the beginning, from I Carbonari della montagna on, would certainly agree that the first page worthy of respect can be found only in the fourth effort, in the Storia di una capinera. This page bears the date Monday, 7 April. The letter is sensually dark and feverish as Maria takes the position of a spectator watching the scene of her own death, the metaphorical violation of her virginity – a kind of theatre within the theatre. Like an automaton, the girl stares as her life is stripped away; she sees herself on the stage under the audience’s gaze, subject to the will of others, and she imagines that she is extraneous from herself. Here the author does not identify with his protagonist, and even she has difficulty in recognizing her own self. In Eva, the approach is ideological rather than technical. It is more advanced compared with the Capinera, but still premeditated and somewhat declamatory, although inoperative. This procedure comes across clearly in the preface, written after the novel, but is not integrated in its supporting structure. It has to do with a new and essential element of accusation directed at the production systems in operation in modern society, including the bourgeoisie, banking, and industry. Up to this point, these systems have been deferentially approved, for better or for worse, and would still continue to be for several years. This veneration is located at the vital centre of the rituals and splendour of that society, precisely in the operatic liturgy that represented its temple of spiritual practice and ideal gratification. The taciturn southerner’s residence in the northern city of Milan, in contact with the Scapigliati, was having its first effects. Time would further refine and sharpen them. The last element in the narrative series of pre-realist Verga is not Tigre reale (printed in the summer of 1875, but completed in its first draft at the outset of 1874); it is Eros (printed in December 1874 but finished in August of the same year). Hence, this period draws to a close with the book in which, for the first time, the narrator resolutely shows his disdain for the protagonist-hero. There is no shortage of derogatory epithets to describe him: ‘corrotto’ (corrupt), ‘sarcastico’ (sarcastic), ‘diffidente’ (distrustful), ‘dissimulatore’ (dissembler), ‘sciagurato’ (wretch). Alberto Alberti is without doubt a negative hero, punished with a liberating suicide. But the fact that he is a hero without rivals, that he alone occupies

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the scene, is significant in itself. It would seem that the melodramatic mechanism of ideal compensation, while being tested for the final exploit of offended virtue, has gotten stuck. The negative horizon offers no alternatives; there are no exceptions, no islands of bliss. For Verga, this represents a point of no return. Alberto’s suicide could not be counted as a moralistic solution. In fact, the writer knows that the humanity he must face every day is devoid of ‘affetti domestici’ (love for family) and ‘affetti intimi’ (intimate love); it is populated by scores of Albertos: ‘corrupt,’ ‘distrustful,’ and ‘sarcastic’ ‘dissemblers.’ This is exactly what Verga declares in the preface to Eva. Moreover, this humanity is not made up of suicides. It is composed of vigorous men greedy for life, corpulent and boisterous. After Eros, Verga was fully aware that a gunshot could never suffice to free society of these men. He abandoned the idea of setting his conscience at peace by reestablishing order from an external position. Now that the author has abolished the pacifying belief that an upset ethical balance could ever again be restored, the new problem consists in allowing these base characters to gesture and move around on the page, showing themselves for what they really are. These men would no longer be suicidal but, rather, ‘vinti’ (defeated), which is a much different perspective. From hereon in, they would have the power to give full vent to all of their energies but would be condemned to spend them in a battle with no victory, for the author was firmly convinced that the negative horizon had no way out and granted no peace. The moralistic epilogue to Eros had to be transformed into the tragic representation of a degraded universe, an inferno with no redemption in view, perpetually washed over by the slow torment of a ‘marea’ (tide) that always and inevitably returns upon its path. A conviction that would later be enunciated by Gadda fits in well here: ‘Quando scriverò la Poetica, dovrà, ognuno che si proponga intenderla, rifarsi dal leggere l’Etica’ (When I write Poetics, those who want to understand it will have to put aside their understanding of Ethics). Melodrama was really over for Verga, and the music had to change. A fresh observation point was necessary but not enough; there also had to be a new reason for watching. This implied lexical and syntactical change, different rhythms and rests in his writing. The end of melodrama was synonymous with the end of his solidarity with public expectations, the end of cooperating with the self-celebrating ideals cherished by the bourgeois audience of the new Italy. There is a warning light that flashes on to indicate this new road. From this point forward, when those unequivocal bits of libretto-type phrasing resurface in prose in the new Verga – in Vagabondaggio, Mastro-

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don Gesualdo, and Don Candeloro – they will always be used to signal a parody, set in situations of pathetic irony. They will become the alphabet of an artificial language that produces yearnings and delivers disillusions, spoken by characters who have confused life with the stage. Controversy over melodramatic unreality will march on alongside controversy over literature that has used the divorce between things and words, experience and fiction, to build its own castles in the clouds, its own will-o’-thewisps. The topos of the ‘intoxication littéraire’ (literary poisoning) that Bourget would speak about in 1883, with regard to Madame Bovary and the Éducation sentimentale, was of classical origin, and during the course of the nineteenth century Jane Austen, Manzoni, Stendhal, and Flaubert had all demonstrated an interest in it. In each case, this interest had to be defined on the level of a specific biographical and environmental situation. This constant hunger for reality, in both style and sentiment, had completely captivated the new Verga, and instead of becoming poor in fantasy, he became greedy for it. The concept of art as the ideal journey into a dream – the kind of daydream accepted by home-loving, repressed, and sober Italy under Umberto I – was guilty of perpetuating, through illusion and without innocence, the connection between the everyday and the sublime. In Verga’s prose without heroes, that kind of art seemed to him the disastrous projection of wishful thinking, the naive ennoblement of reality, a sickly sweet and dangerously hypnotic fruit that promised strength and freedom but dealt fraud, that reduced its supporters to the base role of clay jars in the violent trade of worldly goods. This can be seen in the ‘occhi ardenti e vaghi’(ardent, vague stares), the ‘occhi febbrili’ ( feverish eyes) of the protagonist in Il marito di Elena. The short story ‘Paggio Fernando’ demonstrates that respect for friendship did not exempt the writer from making fun of the ‘parole ridicole’ (ridiculous words) in his dear Giacosa’s ‘Una partita a scacchi.’ It could not do so, seeing as Verga would not even count himself exempt. We know that he was not one to publicly renounce his youthful sins, which he considered necessary stages that allowed him to develop into what he was. However, he did not shirk the duty of paying his dues, thus proceeding to a kind of implicit renunciation of his youthful novels, as in the short story ‘Il maestro dei ragazzi.’ The titles contained in the vile library that were responsible for poisoning the imaginative fervor of Carolina, the temperamental sister of the ‘maestro’ (schoolmaster), ‘gran lettrice di romanzi e di versi’ (great reader of novels and verses), are not named. But among the books on those shelves, responsible for ‘fantasie ardenti’

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(passionate fantasies), ‘estri poetici’ (poetic inspiration), and ‘notti insonni’ (sleepless nights), Verga’s first novels could easily have been found. In the bitter period of Mastro-don Gesualdo, his denunciation of literature that illegally peddles idyll as if it were ordinary bread took on the sharpest tones of sarcasm. The note that Ninì Rubiera sends to the thespian Aglae is not ‘un pezzo infelice’ (an unfortunate choice of words) as it seemed to Russo. It is rather the grotesque mimicking of a writing style exposed as calculated enticement, as a sterile promise of finesse, as a ‘vaniloquio’ (bit of nonsense) that ‘ingenera la non-vita’ (generates lifelessness), as Gadda would say. That note, written with the ‘coarse and affected’ penmanship of the presumptuous braggart Ciolla, may seem appropriate to a cynical opportunist like little baron Rubiera and succeed in seducing the insipid mind of lady Fifì. It could hide a guilty conscience or be used as bait for rash and lustful desires. One character who does not fall into that trap of words is Gesualdo, who refuses to give in to the ballet of ‘chiacchiere’ (idle chatter) and declines the proposal of Ciolla’s ‘bella letterina’ (affable letter), recommended to him by the sacristan don Luca. The man of possessions will be overcome by the weight of his possessions, but he is immune to the poison of the fine literature that the ‘testolina’ (little mind) of his daughter will fall victim to, as sensitive as she is to ‘castelli incantati’ (enchanted castles). The man who purchases in shops, who wants to see things with his own eyes, perceives that a ploy of false words is concealing the trafficking of rotten goods. Gesualdo is a terribly short-sighted giant, but this is not his only characteristic, and it is not the one that counts here anyway. The important thing is that he recognizes himself for what he is; he feels no need to think of himself as being different or to put on a different face. He is simply not into ‘giocar colla fantasia’ (toying with the imagination) (as Manzoni wrote to Marco Coen). For the author of Gesualdo as well, ‘la cognizione degli uomini e delle cose che si acquista nel commercio’ (the insight into people and things that one acquires through doing business) is much more than a ‘piccolo sussidio’ (insignificant tool) in freeing oneself from the ‘fole’ and ‘bel delirio’ of the ‘immaginazione’ (daydreams and sweet frenzy of the imagination). In many aspects Verga was far from Manzoni, but one thing he had learned well was the message made clear right from the introduction of I Promessi sposi: a refusal of superficial exoticism characterized by a loose usage of language not subject to reason, a refusal of literature as hedonism or as a drug, and an indignant protest against the trick of simulation that spreads a veil of idyll in the midst of tragic surroundings.

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4. In order to grasp the full meaning of the change that takes place in Verga, we must revisit 1875, the year of Marquis Alberti’s suicide, then go back to 1873, the year of the preface to Eva, because there is a strong link between these two events. In addressing the economic system of postunitary Italy, that preface was also responsible for laying emphasis on another issue, which was complementary to the first one and equally important: the new role of the artist. In the ‘atmosfera di Banche e di Imprese industriali’ (atmosphere of banks and industrial enterprises) – the air that Marquis Alberti breathed – dominated by the ‘febbre dei piaceri’ (fever of gratification) and by the fervour of having rather than the awareness of being, the traditional role of the intellectual was nullified. This category of artist, confident of his civil mission as leader and educator, was no longer recognized as advocate of ideas, ideals, and virtues. The sacredness of the poet-prophet, honoured in the epic of the Risorgimento, had faded into nothing. Rather than the priest of the sublime, the artist was called to be an auctioneer of good sentiments, in a society founded on capital, recreational playthings, prepackaged goods spread for gratification and mercantile purposes. The union between the everyday and the sublime had been broken. The only thing left to do was to take notice. In Eva, Enrico Lanti, an artist who initially had faith in his obsolete mission, upon finding himself mocked by concrete facts, comes to the point of cursing the ‘arte bugiarda’ (deceptive art) that has inebriated him with ‘follie’ (foolishness), and designates the witness-narrator (who persists in that belief) as an author of ‘fiabe’ (fables), of decorative arabesques. In Eros, Marquis Alberti considers the work of the poet to be the solitary ‘vizio’ (vice) of lazy narcissists. At the next step, Verga discovers the ‘uomo di lusso’ (man of luxury), the intellectual aware of his own uselessness. And for Verga, this was another point of no return. Baudelaire’s ‘lost halo’ had finally been introduced into the history of the Italian novel. This was no trivial fact for Verga, who, between 1875 and 1878, had to absorb the painful realization of failure. It could not have been easy to admit to having been the promoter of a dreamy world which existed exclusively on the stages of theatres. Accepting the truth of the accusation that Enrico Lanti directed at him was a hard blow; it meant seeing himself as an inventor of ‘fables,’ a musician, a professional entertainer, when he had believed with ‘tanta buona fede’ (such good faith) (the protagonist of Eva says this of himself) that he was serving the sacrosanct

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cause of ‘nobili affetti’ (noble love). From an unbiased look-out point like Milan, as an emigré from the fantastical South where the Risorgimento culture lived on, Verga could only reflect on the disorientation of his own sensitivity and culture compared with the so-called positive spirit of the new era. In fact, as the protagonist of Eva said, it was all a ‘quistione d’ottica’ (matter of perspective). Reality was still the same; only the perception of reality had changed. The narrator of Eva had used every means to hinder Enrico Lanti’s disillusion. In Tigre reale, Verga had made Giorgio La Ferlita repent and mend his ways; he had punished the immorality of Marquis Alberti in Eros. Now, the same narrator had come to accept Enrico Lanti’s ‘logica’ (logic) without ‘ipocrisie’ (hypocrisy) and was ready to let himself die, like his character, only to appear in a new capacity and with another language. He strode off the scene, cancelled the first-person voice from the written page, and renounced an idealistic, subjective view of reality, all because he refused any injunction in the name of the ‘nobiltà dello spirito’ (nobility of spirit). He actually cherished a profound reverence for this concept but now knew that it was no more than a dream, a game with rules he could no longer accept. Thus, from the ground ploughed in the preface of Eva, up sprouted the suicide of Alberto Alberti, as the last act (or one of the last) of a not-yet-resigned moralist. But even more important was the suicide of the deluded patron of anachronistic idols, the suicide of the bourgeois narrator. With this death, the technique of impersonality was born, a choice of method without counterparts in European narrative. This represented the radical act of an author who was no longer content to serve the society described in Eva: people attracted by ‘godimento materiale’ (material gratification), made diligent, ambitious, stubborn, and violent by the desire to ‘arricchire’ (become rich), ‘assetata di donne e di vino’ (lusting after women and wine). He resigns his role of pretending all is well in the face of this contaminated and corrupt social body; he renounces the mission of justifying its sores, greed, and struggles for conquest. Instead, he chooses the opposite path. Rather than railing against the ‘arte bugiarda’ (deceptive art) like Enrico Lanti, he experiments with a different kind of art, free from this adjective. This is the ‘vero’ (truth) that he reaches for; his intentions have nothing to do with sketch-writing, chronicling, or photography; instead, they are geared toward giving the ‘illusione completa della realtà’ (complete illusion of reality), as he writes to Capuana from Milan on 25 February 1881. His disappearance from the scene of the story, or, better, his vigilant dialectic of presence-absence, implies

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that the technique of putting on accommodating rose-coloured glasses has been abolished. Impersonality is only a way to obtain the desired angle on the situation, to produce the shadows necessary for the sores of society to take on dark and livid prominence, and to pitilessly unleash the chaos brought about by its greed and thirst for conquest. The fervidly uncontrolled eloquence of the unyielding moralist has given way to the unspoken moral judgment of an observer who portrays this battlefield without victors in ‘disperata rassegnazione’ (despairing resignation). This is exactly the feeling that dominates ‘Rosso Malpelo’ of August 1878, the first and already accomplished work of the ‘versita’ Verga, and it provides a central theme for the complex sequences of Vita dei campi (1880), which, in turn, serves as an introduction to Malavoglia (1881). Eighteen seventy-seven is the year of an unforgettable event: the publication of Zola’s Assommoir, reviewed by Capuana in Corriere della Sera on 10 March of that year. The same year saw the circulation of Inchiesta in Sicilia by Franchetti and Sonnino, under its original title La Sicilia nel 1876. In his April 1878 letter to Salvatore Paola, Verga announces the Marea series, which comes up later as the Vinti series in the preface to his 1881 novel. In this same preface, we find mention of the theoretical and methodical indications foreshadowed in ‘Fantasticheria’ (1878) and in the letter that dedicates the 1880 story ‘L’amante di Gramigna’ to Salvatore Farina. Like the religious conversion of Manzoni, the secular conversion of Verga is veiled with modest reserve. The secret fountainhead of his reasons is never made public; only the reasons themselves make themselves heard through the autonomous lines of the texts. The short story ‘Nedda’ in 1874 was neither a prefiguration nor an event leading up to Verga’s turning point. The change was in perspective and method and, consequently, in knowledge and style, and no variance in these patterns could be identified in ‘Nedda.’ The celebration of the humble piece of land belonging to Catania, cherished in the jealous archives of Verga’s memory, still answered to the description of a healthy system of retribution. Between Eva on one side, and Tigre reale and Eros on the other, ‘Nedda,’ with its spectacular emotional nature, was distinct because of its particular setting and customs, but its substance and composition devices were the same. The ‘domestici affetti’ (love for family) nurtured by the bourgeois narrator were once again set forth and pointed to as uncorrupted heritage of the poor varannisa, daughter of the South and martyr of virtue like her sister Maria, the ‘innocente tortorella’ (guileless turtledove) of the Capinera. But the fact was that with ‘Nedda,’ those archives in Verga’s memory had been opened. They

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brought to light a world that was practically unknown to official Italy, which proclaimed itself united; this world was as far away as could be from present Milan and could only be reached through a long journey backwards in time and space. His recollection painted that world with vivid poignancy, but the distance, the ‘filosofia del lontano’ (philosophy of distance), as his fellow Sicilian Pirandello would recall, made it possible to correct regret with reflection, to create a rift in the enchantment of nostalgia by means of a cold and pitiless stare. The power of nostalgia continues to be felt throughout ‘Nedda,’ as in the Sicilian passages of Eva – for example, in the close-up of Aci Sant’Antonio, where Enrico Lanti meets with death in the serenity of his family. On the new path, the writer would first of all have to learn the difficult art of cruelly dissecting the restless ghosts of his memory, which had no intention of leaving him. 5. Verga opened his eyes in Milan, in the ‘città più città d’Italia’ (‘citiest’ city in Italy). Here his longing conjured up the outline of the Vinti, a crowded gallery of victims left lying on the battlefield by ‘irrequietudini pel benessere’ (anxiousness for material comforts), by a non-stop pursuit of the ‘meglio’ (better), only to find that it is a mirage that flees at the last instant. This taxing restlessness is like a disease that reaches all social classes, like a collective yearning, a strategy of attack, a ferocious evaluation of man, a kind of infernal rulebook for learning to hurt one another and live unhappily. We are far from the anti-modernist contention of Carducci, who invoked the ‘presente’ (present) and active goddess Fever against the ‘uomini novelli’ (new-fashioned men) and ‘lor picciole cose’ (their small matters), beseeching her to restrain and charm away building speculation in the capital. But Verga is deaf to mythological fantasy, and his outlook comes from a positivistic and Darwinian culture rather than from the classics. In his anti-sublime prose, appropriate to an Italy in the grips of ‘uomini novelli,’ he has no gods to call on for salvation. Instead, he suffers the discordance of a brave contradiction. He does not spurn the path that leads to the ‘conquista del progresso’ (conquest of progress); he defines that path as ‘provvidenziale’ (providential) in 1878, then ‘fatale’( fatal) in 1881. According to the paradigms of positivistic evolution, he considers it to be ‘grandioso nel suo risultato, visto nell’insieme, da lontano’ (grandiose in its result, seen from a far-off, broad perspective). He sees it as accompanied by ‘una luce gloriosa’ (a glorious light), the ‘luce della verità’ (light of truth). Therefore, he knows where that ‘corrente’

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(current) of modern productive forces is leading and that it is at work collectively ‘a beneficio di tutti’ (for the common good), yet he persists in questioning severely as to how it urges society toward the destination point: ‘quando si conosce dove vada questa immensa corrente dell’attività umana, non si domanda al certo come ci va’ (when one knows where this great current of human activity is headed, one certainly doesn’t pose questions about the manner in which it flows). The crucial preface to I Malavoglia, which illustrates the method of such a diagnosis and such an unresolved contradiction between economy and moral, does not surface without warning but has been brooding for a long time. It presupposes the preface to Eva, written eight years before; it presupposes the agreement between the author and his character Enrico Lanti; it presupposes the suicide of Alberto Alberti, and consequently the death and transfiguration of the narrative voice. It implies the annulment of the I pronoun, which, according to Gadda, is ‘il più lurido di tutti i pronomi’ (the foulest of all pronouns). The new Verga indeed opened his eyes in Milan, but he chose the ‘basse sfere’ (lower spheres) of the South as a starting point for his inquiry into the negative with its vast collection of samples. His investigation then would attempt its difficult and unfinished climb up the mainland to the higher spheres. His method required an analytical magnification of the object of study, which could only be achieved through the familiarity of regular contact. At the same time, it called for a distant perspective, an estranged relationship. For this reason, when reevaluated from faraway Milan, the ghosts of his Sicilian memory fit the requirements perfectly. They offered the most suitable setting, light, situation, and actors. Digging deeply within the narrow limits of a hard and quarrelsome region, unknown to the new Italy, yet not untouched by the fever of the new era, Verga prepares to dismantle not the idea but the myth of progress, proudly extolled by the forward-looking men who dominated his generation. He was ready to give only a ‘mandato provvisorio’ (provisional term), a ‘limitata procura’ (power of attorney with restrictions) (to quote Gadda again) to the luminous word ‘progress.’ He first wanted to evaluate ‘il senso e il peso, o il non-senso e il non-peso’ (its meaning and importance, or the lack thereof). His motto was ‘non ubriacarsi di suoni: non credere che la noce sia sempre sana’ (don’t be carried away by the way a word rings: don’t be ready to believe that every nut is good inside). He showed the downside of this exaltation, the other side of the euphoria of comfort; he demonstrated the negative consequences of the triumph of technology and industrial machines, of the legitimization of power, and finally scraped off

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its seductive lustre. He refuted the false promises of pacific interclass harmony. He insulted all-out optimism, the dazzling choreography of the Ballo Excelsior and the Milan National Exhibition in 1881, the year of I Malavoglia. Even his new style of impure and partial words was an insult. Heteronomous and intensely connotative in their plainness, ‘paroli’ (words) that ‘quagghianu’ (curdle) on the page and ‘diventanu cosi’ (turn into things) (as Capuana observed) offended the linguistic habits of readers used to the old repertory of ideal and idealizing words, sung and polished like playthings, but wrinkled (as Svevo said) from extensive use. This new music with a hair-raising and dissonant formal score was an outrage for the persuasive harmony of melic opera. Insulting social conventions is not the best route to success, and Verga noticed this fact as soon as I Malavoglia came out. ‘I Malavoglia hanno fatto fiasco, fiasco pieno e complete’ (I Malavoglia was a fiasco, a total and complete flop), he observed in a letter to Capuana written from Milan on 11 April 1881. An irreparable rift had opened up between the author and his audience. 6. After the exceptional groundwork laid in Vita dei campi, Verga’s famous novel of 1881, written contemporaneously to ‘Nedda’ (for this reason it serves as an important witness to the ordeal of the writer’s conversion), yielded the perfect proportions for a disturbing narrative syntax. It was no longer the product of an interfering director with a tendency to restore order by compensating for any imbalances or contradictions, who uses the leash of his own ethical certainties to keep control over disintegrating forces that do not escape his observation. On the contrary, this novel was the product of a director who hid himself in order to give free rein to the process of chaos and fragmentation. Right from the opening chapter, it was in conflict with the established rules for the novel genre, as well as with the reader’s expectations. Like an opera without an overture, no geographical coordinates or character details are given to reassure the reader and make his cruise comfortable. Chapter after chapter, one is thrust into the middle of a confusing jumble of contrasting voices and conflicting, biased information that is subsequently confirmed or refuted. The reader witnesses the exchange of signals and clues, winking and allusive dialogues. Wandering dialogues and soliloquies are interwoven with coded words expressed in an almost unknown language, with utterances both spoken and thought, as if all characters simultaneously voiced their own thoughts and conversed with one another in a tight

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space. Naturally, the reader is at a loss to know what is going on. (Even unprejudiced reviewers such as Cameroni, Capuana, and Torraca noticed this fact.) In the district of Aci Trezza everyone knows everything about everybody and almost everyone is engrossed in working out subterfuges, moves, and countermoves to deceive their neighbours. The reader is the only one who is completely in the dark and experiences considerable difficulty in making head or tail of anything. Later on, he begins to realize that the whole mechanism is activated by two-bit matters, suspicions, rivalries, and unconfessed affections, but more than anything, by secret aims and mediocre ambitions. This strictly small-minded trench tactic finally leads to the dissolution of an honest ‘famigliuola’ (little family) that had ‘vissuta sino allora relativamente felice’ (lived out, up to then, a relatively happy existence). A widespread use of free indirect speech alters the logic of the sequences, disrupts the orderly interchange between dialogues and narrative sections, and upsets the structure of the composition, like a river breaking its banks. There is an immediate crowding of antithetical arguments that become increasingly jumbled as swarms of different figures, to whom we have barely been introduced, all make their contributions. We gradually become familiar with the various characters through complex clashes of opinions about them, both their own and those of others. One must be equipped with a mental address book to line up the scattered identity cards, dismembered parts lying around, signals, mannerisms, and grimaces that distinguish each actor, in order to organize this small but swarming portion of humanity. Free indirect speech is the incredible stylistic means by which the author imparts artistic texture to a chaotic and bewildering reality where inner thoughts left unspoken reveal themselves just the same, arrogantly rebelling against the rules of balance imposed by traditional laws, defending their right to anomaly and eccentricity, and enforcing their will to exist. Hence, we have the polyvalence of a multi-perspective concept of reality, the relativity of viewpoint that assigns this neighbourhood microcosm to the rule of chaos. Let us examine the famous inner monologue of Mena, which takes place along the walkway at the house by the medlar tree, at the end of the second chapter. The visual components of the setting (‘stelle’ [stars]; ‘fariglioni’ [rock stacks]; ‘mare’ [sea]; ‘stradicciuola’ [little street]; ‘sassi’ [stones]) are described in descending order, from high to low, pausing finally to focus in on the girl. The audio component of the ‘rumore di qualche carro’ (noise of a cart) squeaking in the night is added (preceded

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by the ‘russava’ [snoring] of the sea). The shift from natural objects to a human subject passing by ‘nel buio’ (in the dark) expands the concept of space and introduces the theme of the vastness of the ‘world,’ ‘il quale è tanto grande che se uno potesse camminare e camminare sempre giorno e notte, non arriverebbe mai’ (which is so vast that even if one could walk on forever, day and night, he would never arrive at the end). From here there is another transition: from expanse to solitude and from the gigantic world to strangers and foreign people who walk around ‘pel mondo’ (over the world) and who know ‘nulla di compar Alfio, né della Provvidenza che era in mare, né della festa dei Morti’ (nothing of dear Alfio, nor of Providence at sea, nor of the Day of the Dead). From the sky we have dropped down to the most contingent particulare ; our trail is twisted and studded with associative connections. The ‘stelle’ (stars) that ‘ammiccavano più forte’ (winked most brightly) (already identified, according to Mena’s credence, as the ‘anime del Purgatorio che se ne vanno in Paradiso’ [souls passing from purgatory to paradise]) become a sinister omen (as padron ’Ntoni explains soon after). Together with the ‘croce’ (cross) – an image of martyrdom evoked by Orion – they are heralds of the imminent death of Bastianazzo. The ‘mare che russava in fondo alla stradicciuola’ (sea that snored at the end of the little street), and that Maruzza and her daughter hear ‘sbuffare’ (crashing) in edgy agitation (‘come uno che si volti e rivolti pel letto’ [like a man tossing and turning in his bed]), recalls the dangerous threats to Provvidenza. In the girl’s mind, the noise of the cart, as well as the ‘camminare’ (walking) without ceasing, ‘notte e giorno’ (night and day), are reflections of Alfio’s occupation and his announced journey to the city ‘per un carico di sale’ ( for a load of salt). They also bring to mind the happy possibility of meeting the carter at the ‘festa dei Morti’ (Day of the Dead) in Catania, which Mena’s grandfather has promised her she can attend ‘se il negozio dei lupini va bene’ (if the lupines are selling well). The driving forces of the whole monologue are Alfio and Provvidenza. From them radiates a flux of complex refraction, which invent the stars, the sea, the carts that go by in the night, the magnitude of the world, the deafness of the people, who take no heed of the jealous apprehensions of a taciturn girl. Nature’s voices and objects are only projections of Mena’s inner spirituality. They are sudden, disorderly, visionary projections that transform the empirical, objective physicality of the elements into a prismatic mosaic made up of allusive materials. Precise topography melts into fantastical geography, which expands with the echoes that reach Aci Trezza from an unknown, ravenous ‘mondo grande’ (great world) that remains outside the district’s boundaries. In a style that is per-

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ceptive, prehensile, and sensorial rather than conceptual or pensive, Verga delves into everyday details with the meticulousness of a scrupulous investigator to bring out the asymmetries, the confused muddle of shocking elements that emerge from daily life. In classical nineteenth-century novel structure, an omniscient narrator is the leading authority, the ‘provvidenza’ (providence), be it sacred or profane, whose role is to rationalize the private and public destinies that meet along the complex threads of the story. In I Malavoglia, the technique of impersonality causes the omniscient narrator to disappear, together with narrative providence. The effect produced is similar to a disjointed multiplication of centrifuge forces in an organism that has lost its centre. Provvidenza has become the name of a boat destined to shipwreck, an instrument of disaster and misfortune. Naturally, this does not imply a polemical reference to Manzoni. It is simply a matter of taking note of the definitive conclusion of an organically unitary epos, which was held together by the competitiveness of a fervid, constructive ideology. Even the language of this crowd of new speakers without providence must change; it can no longer be in keeping with classical regulations and teachings. It must be heretical and outlawed in a literary sense; it must be far away from any institutional ‘risciacquatura in Arno.’ The fact that such disorder produces no motion is symptomatic; rather than moving to and fro with a dynamic dialectic, it is anchored in immobility and inaction. This is the key to the internal dramatic dichotomy of the work. It is a continuous pulsation of nervous stimuli in an inert body. Tensions and dissonance, fluctuation of emotions, and the convulsive flow of antagonism are stagnant in character; they produce no spectacular effects. They are bound to the passivity of a loop, condemned to obsessive repetition. Gestures, attitudes, epithets, expressions, and rhythmic cadences return in identical form throughout the novel, at each reappearance of a character, to put him in his place once and for all, or of an analogous situation, to underline through a stereotypical formula the static nature of the mechanisms. Examples of this repetition are padron ’Ntoni and his stubborn obsession with proverbs, don Franco’s struggle with the ‘barbona’ (tramp) and the ‘acqua sporca’ (dirty water) that she sells ‘a peso d’oro’ (at the price of gold), and don Silvestro with his chicken-like laughter determined to ‘fare cascare la Barbara coi suoi piedi’ (make Barbara trip over her own two feet). Other examples include Alfio and his ‘carro dell’asino’ (donkey cart), Zuppidda and her ‘conocchia in mano’ (distaff in hand), don Michele with his ‘pistola sullo stomaco e i calzoni dentro gli stivali’ (pistol in his belt and pants

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tucked into his boots), Provvidenza ‘ammarrata sotto il lavatoio’ (sunken down under the washhouse), Maruzza like the ‘Madonna Addolorata’ (Our Lady of Sorrows), and Nunziata like ‘una chioccia coi suoi pulcini’ (a broody hen with her chicks). Concentric semantic fields are created with extraordinary compactness of style, and they press in on one another through a complex network of equivalence and assonance, reflections of synonymy, analogical mediations, and contextual expansion – like the multiple repetitions of a faraway echo. Time seems to have come to a standstill in a ‘melanconia soffocante’ (stifling gloom) (as Luigi Gualdo observed), through the difficult technique of slackening the pace. There is no escape from this prison. The tensions that trouble the surface of the picture eventually come to nothing. They create the illusion of variety in the midst of repetition but do not affect the course of events; they remain details of a chronicle without becoming part of the story. This movement is uselessly frantic, frozen as it is in obsessive rituals that are pertinent only in documenting how an archaic community becomes entrenched in its customs. Stopping at this documentary level would mean stopping at the empty shell of a naturalistic report or an ethnographical assessment; this is indeed a necessary condition, but it is insufficient as an end. The immobility that neutralizes this frantic motion makes anthropologically plausible a sign of style, that is, of thought and judgment. Not even the primitive world of Aci Trezza has been spared from the paradox of the ‘meglio’ (better), and its restlessness is due to ‘irrequietudini’ (anxiousness) and ‘avidità’ (greed). It has accepted the corollary of violence, that is, the code of egotism in personal relations. It bears the ‘stimate del suo peccato’ (stigmata of its sin) precisely in the futile anxiety of its ‘bramosìa’ (yearning). We are not facing, as in Vita dei campi, the enduring tragedy of the humble in their struggle against poverty, but rather we are confronted with the tragic historical degradation that sweeps away even the humble, drawing them into the ‘fiumana del progresso’ (torrent of progress). The Toscano family is immune to this development for the most part, and this is precisely why they become the ideal target for all those who contribute to their undoing. The exasperated and paralyzing immobility that fixes the chaos unleashed by the intrusiveness of the dialogues and of free indirect discourse is not local colour, and neither is the grey inertia of the protagonists’ forced residence in Per le vie, the immobile wandering in Vagabondaggio, or Gesualdo Motta’s race toward death. The eclipse of narrative ‘provvidenza,’ together with the clear awareness that an ethically justified order has become impracticable, has

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triggered this frenetic motion, this ‘movimento incessante’ (incessant rhythm). However, its struggle is for a lethal objective; it is therefore a battle without victors. 7. I Malavoglia is an amazingly complex novel, and it is very difficult to decipher because it is not a novel-compendium of padron ’Ntoni and his loyal humanity, domestic religion, and moral strength. Verga left behind the poetics of edification and the experience of a hopeful idealist back in 1875 without any intention of going on to decry a lost Eden. The ethical system of padron ’Ntoni, with its baggage of industrious nobility of intentions, is part of a losing minority trampled by the cruel and cynical norms that rule with few exceptions over the collectivity of the village. This system is thrashed by the deafening chatter of gossipy hostility, but, even more, it is unsatisfactory in and of itself, moth-eaten and pernicious. It is no coincidence that the story evolves from the discontent that drives padron ’Ntoni, who is a fisherman, not a trader, to attempt an erroneous speculation. But this failure is insufficient proof for the old patriarch, who would be willing to ask for another loan of thirty liras from zio Crocifisso, the very same usurer who has caused his financial ruin, if he were not dissuaded by Longa. When an extraordinary shoal of anchovies finally comes by, as a true blessing from heaven, it is padron ’Ntoni, fully sure of himself (‘So io come vanno le cose’ [I know the way things go]), who misses it. His code of behaviour is also responsible for the unhappiness of those who have internally assimilated it. One of these is Mena, who has to renounce the mutual love between herself and Alfio, who owns almost nothing, in order to become engaged, in vain, to Brasi, who is well off but a ‘baccalà’ (dummy), ‘allocco’ ( fool), and ‘minchione’ (idiot). He is a good catch, as they say, but in the end, he will end up with Mangiacarrube, who is the antithesis of Mena, ‘una di quelle che stanno alla finestra con la faccia tosta’ (one of those cheeky girls who sit looking out the window). The same happens to Lia, who leaves home and gets pitifully lost because she is terrified, ‘signoreggiata’ (lorded over) as Verga explains to Torraca, by the stiff, unflexible code of austerity passed on to her by her grandfather. Padron ’Ntoni is never able to give a rational and sensible answer to the questions of his young grandson. He can only meet the anxieties of young ’Ntoni with his sacred and sententious auctoritas, with the preconceived, treacherous passivity of his claimed wisdom fossilized in proverbs.

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Like ancient experience preserved in proverbial maxims, padron ’Ntoni’s system is also outside of history. However, just like Jeli the shepherd, history catches up with and overcomes him. His mythical moral patrimony has been discredited and no longer has the right to circulate in the social consortium of the new era. It comes across as disoriented, vulnerable, and scorned; it is exposed to manipulations for personal interest, unscrupulous aggressiveness, as well as plain ridicule. What was once a source of strength has become a weakness. Just like the ‘vizi’ (vices) of the past that have been transformed into ‘virtù’ (virtues) (as we read in the preface to the novel), the ‘virtù’ have been transformed into ‘vizi.’ On the horizon of the novel, padron ’Ntoni’s system seems like a heavy weight, an awkward and cumbersome heritage. This heaviness gives rise to the mournful music that accompanies his steps and those of whoever remains true to him. Grievous and harsh, this music is also wonderfully ambiguous and dissonant. It rings out free of any sentimental leniency that would call up and pacify the ghosts of the past, but is characterized, on the other hand, by the ‘disperata rassegnazione’ (despairing resignation) of those who are locked in the present, and intend to examine it. And so the old patriarch appears in the end, seen through the eyes of the village, as a sort of poor imbecile, ‘un uccellaccio di camposanto’ (an old bird from the graveyard) who rattles off ‘proverbi senza capo e senza coda’ (senseless proverbs), immobile with his back against the wall under the belltower, waiting for death. There is no room for sympathy. That world not only is lost, but has perished without glory, insulted by history. It is represented by a dying man who is not even counted worthy of a dignified agony. There is no salvation for old ’Ntoni, dismayed and stunned by the new precepts for living (‘Ricchi!, diceva, ricchi! e che faremo quando saremo ricchi?’ [Rich!, he would say, rich! and what will we do when we are rich?]). Neither is there any hope for his grandson, lawless but with a ‘cuore più grande del mare’ (heart bigger than the sea), who has refused the ethical paradigm of family tradition, not accepting it as natural. The boy’s uneasiness grows slowly over marvellously written pages, like a progressive illness, as he suffers to the point of tears, devoured by anguish. Legitimate puzzlement over his own ill luck gradually turns into a gratuitous and unrealistic revolt characterized by lethargy, foolish degradation, loneliness, and profound awareness of his own impossible integration as a self-exile. The fact is that the disarmed and irascible naivety of ’Ntoni is not what it takes to reach the shores of ‘benessere’ (comfort), unfortunate as this is for a loving ‘Malavoglia,’ who can ‘piangere come un bambino’

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(cry like a child) when filial emotions are evoked. The requirements for success are thick skin, unscrupulous shrewdness, voracious obstinacy at work, and an atrocious feeling for profit. These attributes belong to Mazzarò of the Novelle rusticane and to Gesualdo. With this in mind, we see that the marginal episode of Alessi and Nunziata’s wedding cannot be seen as a happy ending. Although it appears to be a blissful oasis in the midst of a violent whirlwind, in reality, it is an oasis haunted by painful memories. There are no prospects of assured redemption or revenge; the ending only sketches out an orbit of cyclical immobility. We return to the starting point of the novel, to the ‘relativamente felice’ (relatively happy) condition of a ‘famigliuola’ (little family) ready to be threatened, just waiting for the inexorable series of shipwrecks to begin; they are inevitable for anyone called ‘Malavoglia’ (reluctance), as they are ‘tutti buona e brava gente di mare’ (all good and honest people of the sea). This taste for misadventure does not originate in a merciless heaven but forms over the concrete field of civil life, from the very same laws that govern the steps of progress. And so the novel that takes its name from the ‘Malavoglia’ and that has probed with heartfelt sharpness their incurable, existential pain to understand the genesis of a vocation for unhappiness, closes in upon itself, like a circle, with the sad cadence of its suffocating melancholy. 8. After the preparatory phases of Novelle rusticane, Per le vie, and Vagabondaggio, with Mastro-don Gesualdo, the second phase in the series of the Vinti, the mythical world of padron ’Ntoni is only a distant memory. His funeral, celebrated by the ‘Malavoglia’ clan, is not the only painful burial of the past. Analogous interments have also taken place: Jeli the shepherd and ‘Pentolaccia,’ sentenced to prison in Vita dei campi; Rosso Malpelo, a suicide; Gramigna’s disgraced companion, a victim of her own voluntary imprisonment; Turiddu, left dead on the ground by the treacherous Alfio; and all those other characters who have refused to subscribe to economic guidelines for social relations. This set of guidelines (rather than its exceptions) now provides the focus point for Mastro-don Gesualdo. Here, the structure and narrative syntax have changed with respect to I Malavoglia because the aim of the novel is different. The focus is no longer on the disturbance produced within a system parsimonious with work but generous in the values of affection. Instead, the focal point is

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the heroically individual yet tragic odyssey of an apparent winner, a bold and shrewd representative of the ‘fiumana del progresso’ (torrent of progress). As a man ‘ghiotto della roba’ (greedy for material possessions), he is the undisputed chief of those who desire to increase wealth and is consequently exposed to the inhumanity that this passion entails. He is one who could walk right out from Aci Trezza, that breeding ground for rumours that showed itself to be the tough and scornful antagonist of the meek ‘Malavoglia.’ Attention has shifted from the reluctant figures who look back and are destined for sacrifice, to an organic interpreter of his times, a master who keeps pace with progress. The story of padron ’Ntoni and his family is distributed into chapters that are lumped together and heaped one on top of the other. It is inchoate material, in stagnant fermentation within a closed space, marked by a destiny bound for calamity, by an impeded ticking of narrative time with no possibility of jumps or real change. Its geometric representation is a series of concentric circles. Gesualdo, on the other hand, follows a straight line. In the first novel, a presentiment of defeat is inherent in the very existence of the ‘Malavoglia.’ In the second, the protagonist’s undoing is revealed at the end of a parabola, a fantastic career. In the former, the predominant tense is the imperfect indicative, a ‘temps cruel’ (harsh tense) (as Proust knew well), that ‘nous présente la vie comme quelque chose d’éphémère à la fois et de passif ‘ (presents life as something short-lived at times, and passive). In Mastro-don Gesualdo, the past historic tense prevails, which leaves ‘la consolation de l’activité’ (the consolation of activity). Here the chapters are organized into sections, because there is a dynamic of action at work, a course of events that come together in the brilliant rise of Gesualdo. The modulation of hours, months, and years leaves indelible marks, as wrinkles increase and deepen. The passage of time plays a crucial part; it takes on the role of protagonist as it develops within the character rather than apart from him. Only in rare moments of rest does time loosen its grip to elapse in wide, restful spirals. As a rule, time is accelerated, quick, productive, capitalized upon; it bears fruit and interest, it multiplies possessions. In the end, time is burned up in the rush to waste as little of it as possible. This is evident in the energetic administration that characterizes Gesualdo’s workdays, which are crammed with business, packed with transactions: first, with the masons who are building the bridge over Fiumegrande, then in the town to ingratiate himself with the priest Lupi for the road contract and the duty tax on public property, then with the agent Pir-

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tuso, then at the post office and the Camemi building site, then on the Canziria estate. Outlined with astonished admiration, this titanic day belongs to a world conqueror. But these frenetic days fly by, one after another, and become years. His daughter is a child, then, silently and alone, she turns into a woman, while her mother grows old, weeping in silence. In contrast with I Malavoglia, the notion of time here does not represent the fruitless toil of a ‘vaga bramosìa dell’ignoto’ (vague yearning for the unknown), a kind of divorce from reality. Instead, it portrays an omnivorous use of reality and life, a waste of life, announced by each day that flies by. Death is, in fact, a recurring character in these pages, often showing up just to remind us of its presence. However, Gesualdo seems not to notice, thinking he has exorcised it with his continuous activity, toying with an illusion of eternity. Deaths are not accidental or external like the deaths of Bastianazzo and Luca; deaths here come from the inside, as the inevitable result of disease. This accounts for the departure of don Diego, mastro Nunzio, Bianca, and many other victims of cholera. For the most part, these deaths are not accompanied by mourning, because material possessions succeed in breaking even blood ties. Right from the beginning, the narrative structure is disposed in such a way as to create a feeling of waiting. Day after day, we wait for the hero of possessions until his time is up, like a credit that expires, and he realizes that no one can shield him from death. The compositional clockwork is not neutral; in contrast with that of his colleague Mazzarò, Gesualdo’s death is untimely and premature. Although it takes him by surprise, it is heartless enough to announce its arrival three chapters earlier, in order to make its victim wait. The ‘cani arrabbiati’ (rabid dogs) that bite him inside are a symptom of stomach cancer, which is not in a hurry. It changes the predominant feeling of time in the novel, interrupting its mad race in order to give Gesualdo the opportunity to measure the void of affection that his greed for material goods has created all around him, and to listen as his empire of land, crops, and cattle slowly crumbles with a funereal echo that resounds inside him. The ‘tanti bocconi amari’ (many bitter pills) and ‘tanti dispiaceri’ (many regrets) that his estate has cost him have turned into bile and ‘veleno’ (poison) that have infected his blood. In his body, he can feel the consequences of this living matter. Gesualdo is called back to a being through the price paid in his own body for having. The stomach cancer that reduces him to a ‘scheletro’ (skeleton), that causes him to ‘urlare come un dannato’ (shriek like a man in hell), that makes

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him wheeze and moan before doing away with him, turns out to be a ‘malattia scomunicata’ (excommunicated disease). It is not like the consumption of Enrico Lanti, a sign of salvation and spirituality, nor that of padron ’Ntoni, slow and without remedy. Gesualdo’s cancer reverses this metaphorical emblem. It is, rather, life choked off; it brings on burning and spasms and causes him to vomit ‘roba’ (stuff) that is more ‘nera dell’inchiostro, amara, maledetta da Dio’ (blacker than ink, bitter, cursed by God); it represents demonic damnation. Gesualdo really has given his soul to the devil, like the prognosis given by the poor old man whom he comes across in the scorching heat of the South: ‘O dove andate vossignoria a quest’ora? ... Avete tanti denari, e vi date l’anima al diavolo!’ (Where are you going at this hour, Sir? … You have so much money, and you are giving your soul to the devil!). The slackening of the narrative pace in the last chapters produces further lacerations beyond Gesualdo’s physical ones. Their stagnant tempo leaves gaping passages for nighttime visitors – torturing scruples of conscience – that have up to then remained unknown to the man ‘ghiotto della roba’ (greedy for material possessions). Under this sinister light, every detail of the story – that is, the entire life of Gesualdo – fades and loses importance, like an unsuccessful effort. 9. In Mastro-don Gesualdo, as well as in the short stories of Per le vie and Vagabondaggio, the narrative is no longer filtered through an anonymous collectivity of village voices that connotes the malicious and perverted hubbub of Aci Trezza. In I Malavoglia, the polyphonic mixture adapts to events that happen in the lives of characters who are integrated in a universe solely governed by usefulness. The technique of the viewpoint internal to the situation that must be recounted, yet from a perspective in opposition to that of the Toscano family, is useful in reducing the risk of emotional involvement on the part of the author. In Gesualdo, things are different. Within a horizon of corruption and nearly generalized integration, this risk diminishes drastically, and the investigative eye of an external observer, who looks on and describes what he sees, can make an appearance. Muffled tones of intense melancholy are introduced only in fleeting situations where the protagonist momentarily gives himself over to the humanity of affections, only to draw back immediately. Just the same, these are no more than evanescent occurrences that allow gleams of unreality to penetrate, almost like Montale’s fragrance of lem-

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ons, drifting through a door left ajar. Consequently, the observer tends to be caustic and corrosive; his skillfulness in using distorting words, which tamper with the usual shape of people and things, casts gloomy shadows and shows up anomalous features, now grotesque, now caricatured, all recorded on the page with dry, crisp, and sharp lines of black ink. The observer’s cutting style is at the expense of the Trao brothers, among others. Their noblemen’s pride has turned into dazed obstinacy and raving ostentation that conceals mouldiness and poverty. As traumatized champions of a family honour that will not stoop to bargaining, the two brothers’ ruin strikes a tragic chord. Just the same, the farcical and hypnotic consistency of the role they continue to play is comic, as though they were puppets in an abandoned theatre. The words used to describe them prompt a snicker without gaiety. Still more implacable is the eye that strips away the glamour of Ninì’s amorous ‘pazzia’ (madness) for Aglae, the ‘schiava dell’arte’ (slave of art) who throws ‘il collo a destra e a sinistra al pari di una testuggine’ (her neck to the right and to the left like a tortoise). The heroic, provincial adventure that sets on fire the baron’s heart and draws a ‘sorriso affascinante’ ( fascinating smile) from the woman’s ‘occhi neri’ (dark eyes) dives deep into the lowest spheres of fecal materiality that ooze filth and foul odours: ‘puzzo di moccolaia’ (odour of smoke), ‘odore di stalla’ (stench of stables), and ‘piatti sudici sulla tavola’ (dirty dishes on the table). The same eye turns a nasty glare on Ninì’s mother, baroness Rubiera, the peasant turned nouveau riche, an aggressive, greedy, and insolent wheeler-dealer who ultimately becomes the victim of a paralysis that leaves her immobile and mute, ‘simile a un bue colpito dal macellaio, con tutto il sangue al viso e la lingua ciondoloni’ (like a bull whacked by the butcher, with its face full of blood and its tongue dangling out), ‘le labbra pavonazze, spumanti di bava’ (purple lips foaming with drool). As we know from I Malavoglia, this viscous liquid is a demonic sign – ‘una lingua d’inferno, di quelle che lasciano la bava’ (a tongue from hell, dripping with drool). Her paralysis compels her to look on, powerless to act, as her son squanders their possessions. Only her eyes remain vigilant, and her blurry stare locks on the keys that hang on the wall. ‘Appese allo stipite dell’uscio’ (hung on the jamb of the doorway), the keys stand out with the intensity of a hallucination, as a symbol of the wary, suspicious supervision that baroness Rubiera can no longer exercise over her domain. In the world of possessions, keys are an object laden with magical powers; they are the equivalent of life itself, able to turn an individual into a

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ruler. Gesualdo feels his life and strength seep away when he sees donna Lavinia Zacco holding his keys or his sister Speranza rummaging around beside him, ‘colle chiavi alla cintola’ (keys hanging from her belt). The external observer projects signs of damnation even onto the landscape; they are implicit in this universe of profit, where keys, like a fetish, are believed to possess the secret of existence. The landscape is demonized with streaks of expressionism, possessed by that ‘malattia scomunicata’ (excommunicated disease) that kills Gesualdo and baroness Rubiera. The harmless ‘paese’ (village) that provides a setting for the novel, the ‘piccola città di provincial’ (little provincial town) that Verga could view with the devoted affection of a son, takes on nightmarish, spectral qualities, giving off a burial air that hangs over the void. If it is true, as Baudelaire believed, that the devil inhabits arid regions, here the devil is at home: ‘Nel burrone, fra i due monti, sembrava d’entrare in una fornace; e il paese in cima al colle, arrampicato sui precipizi, disseminato fra rupi enormi, minato da caverne che lo lasciavano come sospeso in aria, nerastro, rugginoso, sembrava abbandonato, senza un’ombra, con tutte le finestre spalancate nell’afa, simili a tanti buchi neri, le croci dei campanili vacillanti nel cielo caliginoso’ (In the gorge, between the two mountains, one had the impression of entering a furnace; and the town set on the hill, mounted on precipices, scattered among enormous cliffs, bored into by caves that left it almost hanging in the air, blackish, rusty; the town seemed abandoned, without a shadow, with all its windows wide open in the stifling heat, like so many black holes, with the crosses on the bell towers swaying in the hazy sky). Ravines, precipices, caves, and black holes are sensitive emblems of a void, a fall, perdition, in a heavy atmosphere evoked by dense, weighty objects. The aerial, unsullied, delightful nature in the first part of ‘Jeli il pastore’ is transformed by man’s will into a desert, an annihilated place burnt to ashes, the realm of the dead (don Diego, mastro Nunzio, Bianca, baroness Rubiera, Gesualdo), without a trace of humanity. With visionary violence, the epic of possession has generated a malignant, lifeless landscape. The novel of having has been unmasked as the negation of being, as the silent presence of death. At this extreme limit, the hero who has become alienated in the capitalization of his possessions shows his most vulnerable side, his fragility, as a creature that has been tortured and defeated. 10. The Toscano family in I Malavoglia is overcome by the ‘vaga bramosìa dell’ignoto’ (vague yearning for the unknown), by the earliest manifesta-

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tions of bourgeois individualism within a community that is still archaic. Mastro-don Gesualdo shifts the historical setting from the first fifteen years after the unification of Italy to the Risorgimento years, between 1820 and 1848, in order to follow the decline of the provincial nobility brought about by the enterprising rural bourgeoisie. This involves a chronological step backwards with respect to I Malavoglia, but a strong link of proximity is established through the dynamics of social relations. On the contrary, the Duke of Leyra, who squanders the wealth of the labourerturned-entrepreneur-and-landowner, is simply a young descendant of the landowning aristocracy, which is to say, a historically degraded class compared with bourgeois Gesualdo, overtaken by him in the pursuit of riches. The novel has already sanctioned the demise of this class. The path that led from ‘umile pescatore’ (humble fisherman) to ‘nuovo arricchito’ (nouveau riche) has arrived at a stalemate. Here the continuity between I Malavoglia and Gesualdo has been interrupted. This is why, in contrast with the experience of padron ’Ntoni and in harmony with what happens to Mazzarò, the hero of possession is not defeated by social forces that act within the domain of history. In fact, he personifies the victorious class with no plausible rivals in the realm of social conflict. This explains why he is overthrown by destiny, by a disease that takes him by surprise, leading him to a wretched death and bringing to light his thus far mortified and dormant sensitivity of son, lover, husband, father. The forces that cause Gesualdo to succumb are not historical; they are invisible enemies that transcend history. The epilogue of the drama, the ‘fifth act’ of the tragedy, arrives unexpectedly, like a curse. In this regard, there is no sense of duration and progression of history, no internal movement to propel us into the third ‘phase’ in the series of the Vinti. The writer’s intention was to connect Gesualdo to the Duchessa di Leyra and the Onorevole Scipioni and L’uomo di lusso by means of blood relations rather than social conflict. The eternal sphere that transcends history, that brings about the tragic end of the nouveau riche, also seals the end of the Vinti. I Malavoglia closes with the inescapable eclipse of a pre-bourgeois civilization. The past has been liquidated. Gesualdo, even though set in a chronologically earlier period, has liquidated the present. The death of the nouveau riche, ‘un tipo borghese’ (a bourgeois sort of character), involves more than a removal of the protagonist from the scenarios of a novel. It implies the demonizing of a way of life; it exhausts and renders obsolete a cognitive process built ‘sul moto ascendente nelle classi sociali’ (on the upward momentum of social classes), as related by the pro-

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grammatic preface of 1881. It speaks of ‘vinti che levano le braccia disperate, e piegano il capo sotto il piede brutale dei sopravvegnenti, i vincitori d’oggi, affrettati anch’essi, avidi anch’essi d’arrivare, e che saranno sorpassati domani’ (the defeated who raise their arms in despair and bow their head under the brutal feet of new arrivals, the winners of today, who are also in a hurry, also anxious to arrive, and who will be overtaken tomorrow). The second work of the series has already brought us to the last link of the chain; ‘domani’ (tomorrow) has already arrived, because Gesualdo is one of the ‘sopravvegnenti’ (new arrivals), and he does not bow his head under the foot of any new winner. His experience is over and it does not give rise to any other. For Verga, the duchess, the honourable, the artist would remain characters without an author (although not for Fogazzaro or D’Annunzio). When we ask why, we enter into the vast terrain of supposition. No doubt there was considerable ideological difficulty – representational cruelty would no longer be applied to characters protected by distance, but it would have had to be executed within an environment nearer to the narrator, bringing him to cut into his own live flesh (and this would require no less than the sharp scalpel of Svevo). There were also difficulties of a technical and stylistic nature: a different observation point and a different language for different characters. However, it is also important to consider the peremptory, absolute approach that seals Gesualdo’s rise and fall. Possible future books, planned but not written, attract curiosity and excite the imagination. L’Onorevole Scipioni and L’uomo di lusso are mere faceless names. Only a few keenly biting pages testify to La Duchessa di Leyra, showing how touchy and tense Verga’s writing style had become in attempting to represent the half-smiles of worldly sitting rooms. For the author, this represented a return to his origins, to his privileged themes of times past. But he returned quite a different person, and with different intentions. Long gone was his former solidarity as well as his pitying compliance seen in certain Drammi intimi or in I ricordi del capitano d’Arce. Although La Duchessa di Leyra was destined to remain in the limbo of intentions, it was preceded by another magnificent book – Don Candeloro, written in a style that draws closer to Pirandello than any other work by Verga. In view of how much ‘ci può essere d’artificiale’ (artificiality can exist) (from the preface to I Malavoglia) in the duchess’s circles, the observer has now turned his gaze to frenzied masks. He has become aware of the illusory nature of representation in the theatre of life, of the missing link that connects illusion to truth: ‘La verità … la verità … Non

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si può sapere la verità!’ (The truth … the truth … we can never know the truth!), exclaims the doctor Erasmo Brocca. This, too, is a sign that the path to follow after Gesualdo had to change. But the author of the Vinti would not be the one to make further progress on it; along this path he would meet with his own crisis as well as that of his nineteenth-century culture. The torch would be passed on to another Sicilian, belonging to the next generation, who would give expressive form to that very crisis and, in so doing, reach altogether unexpected and unforeseen results.

7 Notes on ‘La tessitrice’

Mi son seduto su la panchetta come una volta ... quanti anni fa? Ella, come una volta, s’è stretta su la panchetta. 5

10

E non il suono d’una parola; solo un sorriso tutto pietà. La bianca mano lascia la spola. Piango, e le dico: Come ho potuto, dolce mio bene, partir da te? Piange, e mi dice d'un cenno muto: Come hai potuto? Con un sospiro quindi la cassa tira del muto pettine a sé. Muta la spola passa e ripassa.

15

20

Piango, e le chiedo: Perché non suona dunque l’arguto pettine più? Ella mi fissa timida e buona: Perché non suona? E piange, e piange – Mio dolce amore, non t’hanno detto? non lo sai tu? Io non son viva che nel tuo cuore.

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The Invention of Modern Italian Literature Morta! Sì, morta! Se tesso, tesso per te soltanto; come, non so; in questa tela, sotto il cipresso, accanto alfine ti dormirò.1

The paradoxes of ‘La tessitrice’ have been thoroughly discussed,2 but the most striking one is that a lyric poem so fragile in appearance3 and yet so surprisingly complex and evocative in reality could be expressed with such frugal use of expressive devices (vocabulary and imagery). Similarly, we know that the distinguishing characteristic of great chefs is their ability to create the most excellent dishes from nothing more than ordinary ingredients. ‘Mi piange ancora nel cuore il pianto della tua “Tessitrice.” È poesia stupenda’ (The tears of your ‘Weaver’ continue to fall in my heart. It is marvellous poetry). With these words a friend of the author, Severino Ferrari, expresses his admiration to Giovanni in the card that his wife Ida sent to Maria Pascoli on 22 January 1901.4 In its printed form, the composition certainly does not provide multiple variants for an interpreter to grab hold of; instead, it seems as if it sprang fully mature from the moment of conception, guarding its secret allure, and challenging the reader with a completeness that is both immediate and decisive. However, the drafts5 shed a surprising amount of light on the genesis of the text. The metric structure of the poem tends to isolate the last strophe, the seventh, the only one made up of four double quinari (five-syllable verses with accents falling on the first/second and fourth syllables) with an alternate rhyme scheme (ABAB). This last strophe also stands alone from a thematic perspective since it serves as an epilogue or, more properly, as a final key to understanding.6 The main body divides into six strophes, or, better, three groups of strophes, each composed of three double quinari and a single quinario in the first part, as well as three double quinari in the second (ABAa.CBC). It can also be considered as three phases (with the second verse linking together the two parts of every group), or as three sections, three sequences of an account that punctuates the text with narrative rhythm. First sequence (vv. 1–7). The first-person speaker sits down on the bench, as he used to, while his female interlocutor, who is already seated, moves over to make room for him, as she used to. In the original Italian version, the verb tenses are not in the simple present, but in the present perfect – ‘Mi son seduto’ (lit. I have sat down), ‘Ella […] s’è stretta’ (lit. She […] has moved to make room) – showing that their meeting, the moment of sitting down and moving over, has already passed. The com-

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position now turns to the present, to the recording of the scene as it takes place. It follows that the supporting nucleus of the text is the exchange between the two characters, the intent communication between two lovers reunited after a separation of an indefinite number of years. It is not a memory or a reflection on the past, but rather a live recording of what is transpiring. The simple present tense makes its entry in the second strophe and begins to recount not a verbal dialogue but one in which the characters’ thoughts are eloquently expressed through their fidgety movements and through the suggestive language of looks and gestures. This exceptional moment (vv. 5–7), after a long and mysterious separation, justifies the vagueness of the images, the background, and the surroundings, which makes the setting rarefied and enchanted. Words are superfluous as she bestows on him a smile full of pietas, full of love. In her sudden surprise, she ceases her work, and her porcelain white hand leaves the spool; she is the one who has never left her place (not a bench, but that bench, ‘la panchetta’ [the bench] similar to ‘la panca’ [the bench] from ‘La messa,’ v. 13, also in ‘Il ritorno a San Mauro’) and who now patiently and faithfully welcomes the other who left, at his return. Second sequence (vv. 8–14). The static and contemplative feeling of mutual recognition is followed by communication. The initiative must be taken by the absent one who has returned, so through his tears, he begins to speak – according to a Dantesque model7 – and with these tears expresses disbelief and confusion about his own absence (vv. 8–9). The lyric tenderness of his words resembles an ‘arietta d’opera’ (a little opera aria)8 and enhances the idyll. The answer comes through the same language of tears (vv. 10–11). This choice of the same instrument of expression bears witness to the shared intimacy of the lovers, as in bitter disbelief she repeats the same question he has asked himself. The initial moment of consternation passes, and she silently turns to the work that has been momentarily set aside. Her movements are imperceptible, absorbed as she is with her own thoughts, quietly waiting in a state of emotional suspension. She brings the comb box toward her and the spool silently falls into the fixed motion of its usual cadence (vv. 12–14). Sounds continue to exist, but their perception is reduced to nothing for the characters who are enraptured in the emotions provoked by their unexpected meeting. In this absence of sound, or rather annulment of any outside voice, the enchantment of love and intimacy has unexpectedly come back to life. The silence evoked by v. 14 (‘Muta la spola passa

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e ripassa’ [Silent the shuttle flies to and fro]) is in fact alive with the thoughts and feelings that pervade the two lovers and is animated by their looks of longing. The second sequence closes with an ineffable note of tenderness, kept jealously quiet: suffering, memories, regrets, and hopes erupt in noiseless mutual confession. ‘Sono i silenzi’ – Montale would later say – ‘in cui si vede / in ogni ombra umana che si allontana / qualche disturbata Divinità’ (These are the silences in which one sees / in every human shadow retreating / some troubled Divinity). But the enchantment is brief and fleeting. The all-pervading silence suddenly turns from an emotional distraction of the heart to an unnatural lifelessness. Third sequence (vv. 15–21). Once again the male character speaks through his tears, this time to question the enigmatic, incorporeal existence of the surrounding objects in his anxiety to convert mere feelings into concrete facts. This Virgilian calque (‘arguto’ [treble])9 grinds and leaves its mark in the context of their evanescent colloquial familiarity (vv. 15–18). Her eyes lock on his, and with a look of affectionate indulgence she again repeats his question, as in the second sequence (v. 11), as if to confirm the consonance and reciprocity of their feelings: ‘Perché non suona?’ (Why does it not sing?). This time, however, his question has a different weight and requires an answer. In fact, for the first time in vv. 19–21 the active role in their communication passes to the woman, and the following revelation comes from another plane, from her perspective. The truth is revealed through this melodic phrasing, with the simple rhyme ‘amore : cuore’ (love : heart), and the whole situation, which has been interpreted up to this point as the moving idyll of two lovers, shows itself for what it really is: a hallucination, the impossible meeting with a deceased woman. At this point, a second examination of the text reveals to the reader that this initial interpretation – focused on understanding the meeting as an authentic exchange between two living people – is neither wrong nor improper, but simply univocal and partial. The composition, in fact, does present an encounter with a deceased person, with a ghost – in the end, this becomes clear – but this encounter is not presented as a dream, as a mere figment of the imagination, or as a vision (in contrast with ‘Le rane,’ vv. 1–2: ‘Ho visto inondata di rosso / la terra dal fior di trifoglio’ [I saw covered in crimson / the ground matted with red clover]), but rather as a lived experience. The actor perceives the practical details of the weaving to be real, and they are described with precise terminology (‘panchetta’ [bench], vv. 1, 4; ‘spola’ [shuttle], vv. 7, 14; ‘cassa’ [lit. case], v. 12; ‘pettine’ [comb], vv. 13, 16) in an experience that is actually unreal. It becomes obvious that the text is ambiguously balanced between parallel faces,

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between reality and unreality, between the description provided by the ‘I’ within the scene, and the awareness of the ‘I’ that stages it. Many aspects of the scene have a dual meaning. In v. 1 ‘Mi son seduto su la panchetta’ (lit. I sat down on the bench), a precise moment in the past is introduced, like a diary entry, but time is also mental and atemporal because of the question ‘quanti anni fa?’ (lit. how many years ago?), which eliminates any objective measurement. The female speaker is referred to only with the pronoun ‘Ella’ (She) (vv. 3, 17), a form which alludes to his beloved but is also a respectful form denoting a distant and intangible figure, who not without reason remains faceless and nameless. She ‘s’è stretta / su la panchetta’ (moves to make room / in front of the loom) (vv. 3–4): this motion indicates her affection and discretion, but also gives a sense of distance, of not belonging, of unfamiliarity. The silence, or rather the muteness, that dominates the scene (v. 10: ‘cenno muto’ [Silent, she answers]; v. 13: ‘muto pettine’ [silent comb]; v. 14: ‘Muta la spola’ [silent the shuttle]) betrays not only her dumbfounded astonishment at the unexpected encounter, but also an unreal kind of suspension, the dreamlike movements of a film with no soundtrack. The smile ‘tutto pietà’ (gentle and kind) (v. 6) is a sign of love, of pietas, but also of compassion toward her companion, who does not know. Her hand is ‘bianca’ (white) (v. 7), or rather snow-white, as an epithet of unsullied beauty and innocence, but at the same time it is pale, waxen, and inanimate. Her questions, in the quinari of v. 11 (‘Come hai potuto?’ [How could you have gone?]) and of v. 18 (‘Perché non suona?’ [Why does it not sing?]), echo the questions asked by him in the second partial verse of vv. 8 and 15. This repetition is a sign of their mutual understanding, of empathy, but it also represents an inert echo,10 nothing more than an artificial duplication produced by a void rather than a presence. Brigitte leaps to mind, the child whose essence is derived from her hollow form of immateriality in a late (1931) xylograph by Edvard Munch. Even the ‘sospiro’ (sigh) in v.12 is polyvalent; it is both a sigh of relief at the unexpected meeting and a sigh of pity that comes from her personal awareness of her own death. The phrasing of an operatic arietta enhances the idyll while at the same time alluding to the fleeting nature of her existence. The specific nature of the expressive score comes from an elementary device having to do with the characters’ different points of view: the firstperson figure is altogether ignorant of the knowledge possessed by his female interlocutor and by the first-person director. It is this ignorance that allows unreality to take on connotations that are real, domestic, and tangible though illusory, and even a certain independence. In the quinari of vv. 11 and 18, her answers call back his words, but in vv. 19–25 they no

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longer do so. Here, it is she who acquaints him with a truth he does not know and marvels at his unawareness: ‘non lo sai tu?’ (do you not know?) (v. 20). As noted by Pietrobono: ‘Sembra un dialogo, ma in realtà è un monologo’ (It seems to be a dialogue, but in reality it is a monologue), and later by Trombatore: ‘il dialogo è tutto e solo apparente’ (it is a dialogue in appearance only), because it is in reality a ‘colloquio interiore’ (inner conversation).11 However, Momigliano disagrees: ‘No. È un dialogo’ (No. It is a dialogue).12 One interpretation does not necessarily exclude the other, and both are true in part; it is a dialogue for the first-person speaker, while for the first-person director it is a monologue or inner exchange. The differing information, the differing – as Gombrich would say – criteria of truth13 inherent in the double perspective of character and narrator alter the rational objectivity of the scene and develop its evocative potential. The device is indeed elementary, but its result is surprising: between the reality of the external world – this side of the living – and that of the imaginary world – the other side of the dead – a third dimension is created where the living and the dead can meet and communicate, where they speak the same language with no mediation whatsoever. The separating screen between the two horizons is abolished, Ungaretti’s ‘muro d’ombra’ (wall of shadows)14 is razed. If we consider the successive phases of elaboration – documented by two rough drafts written near the date of the first publication in 189715 – we can watch the composition’s gradual genetic process in slow motion. It becomes apparent how complicated it really was to orchestrate an ambivalent register of interaction between the two planes represented by the two sides of the grave. In the first rough outline, the more fragmented and temporary of the two (although complete in the narrative sense), a strongly realistic element can be seen through direct conversation with the second-person singular (‘tu ti sei stretta’ [you moved over] in contrast with ‘ella si è stretta’ [lit. she moved over]) as well as through a series of verbal forms seeming to belong to sketch-writing, such as: ‘M’hai conosciuto’ (You recognized me), ‘E mi guardava’ (And she looked at me) (in competition with ‘E mi rideva’ [And she looked at me, laughing]), ‘Ed io t’ho detto’ (And I said to you), ‘Ella riprese’ (She replied), ‘e batté [...] il pettine’ (and hit […] the comb), ‘Ed ella allora pianse’ (And then she wept). The central theme of a vision (which is later discarded) also holds a place in this realistic framework and is disclosed in v. 2: ‘T’ho riveduto’ (I saw you again), then further pressed in v. 5a with ‘veduto’ (saw). Choosing the right key to open the conversation proves to be particularly laborious (‘Ed io t’ho detto’, ‘Ella riprese’ [And I said to you, She

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replied]) and the evocation of silence or muteness is still uncertain. In the second draft, shortly before the definitive editing, the wavering between second and third person persists (‘tu ti sei stretta’ [you moved over] competing with ‘Ella […] s’è stretta’ [She […] moved over]), as do the prosaic forms of the verba dicendi (‘Ed io ti / le dico,’ ‘E tu mi dici / Ella mi dice,’ ‘E io le chiedo’ [And I say to you / to her, And you say to me / She says to me, And I ask her]), and the uncertainty as to the silent effect (quite the opposite of ‘muto’ [silent], the ‘pettine’ [comb] in v. 13 is ‘risonante’ [resounding]). It is significant, however, that v. 21 remains intact from the first outline, with its decisive ring: ‘Io non son viva che nel tuo cuore’ (I have no life now but in your keeping). The final product in view is clear, but the raw materials must be used in the right quantities and the engine must still be tuned. The context is one of friction between the two horizons – this side and the other side – waiting to be ambiguously interwoven and fused. In order to have a better idea of the originality of the final version, it may be useful to consult a cross-reference, ‘Alassio, marzo’ (1958), a beautiful poem by Sergio Solmi dedicated to the memory of his deceased mother: dopo tanti anni, ancora l’occhio s’ostina a ingannarsi, a sorprendere in altre la nota figura, onde il cuore al duolo antico trasalga. [...] [...] Un sì lieve, un sì trascurabile errore di spazio e di tempo, e saresti ancora qui.16

The third dimension created by Pascoli sharpens the intensity of the ‘impossible leap’ represented by their encounter and makes it possible. The conditional form used by Solmi (‘e saresti ancora qui’ [and you would be here still]) preserves the hypothetical nature of unreality, while Pascoli succeeds in turning it into a present indicative: ‘un sì trascurabile errore di spazio / e di tempo, e sei ancora qui’ (lit. such a negligible error in space / and time, and you are still here). Indeed the great feat of Pascoli consists in manipulating time and space in such a way that the dead are not represented as deceased, nor (as Leopardi would say) as having lived,17 but as alive. Leopardi’s Silvia is also called back to life in the immediate and tangible nature of her daily existence. However, the process is quite different

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because it is based on a vivid memory,18 while in Pascoli’s text there are no such traces. Even Nerina (who comes to mind at the phrases ‘dolce mio bene’ [lit. my sweet one] in v. 9 and ‘sospiro’ [sigh] in v. 12: cf. ‘Le ricordanze,’ v. 140 ‘dolcezza mia’ [my sweetness] and v. 170 ‘sospiro’) is suddenly evoked by the same places in a distant past thanks to a dynamic and dialectical memory19 or ‘rimembranza acerba’ (bitter recollection) (‘Le ricordanze,’ v. 173), also absent from Pascoli’s text. Besides Silvia and Nerina, the most relevant precedent in Leopardi – for the purpose of measuring the gap bridged by Pascoli – is the youthful idyll ‘Il sogno.’ After a long and painful separation, the character referred to as ‘I’ unexpectedly finds his beloved beside him, her eyes locked on him. His reaction is one of amazement and worry as he overwhelms her with anxious questions: [...] Quanto, deh quanto di te mi dolse e duol: né mi credea che risaper tu lo dovessi; e questo facea più sconsolato il dolor mio. Ma sei tu per lasciarmi un’altra volta? Io n’ho gran tema. Or dimmi, e che t’avvenne? Sei tu quella di pria? E che ti strugge internamente?20

Her answer is terse: [...] Obblivione ingombra i tuoi pensieri, e gli avviluppa il sonno; disse colei. Son morta, e mi vedesti l’ultima volta, or son più lune. Immensa doglia m’oppresse a queste voci il petto.21

Encounter, dialogue, revelation, disenchantment – as the title announces – all take place in a dream, in the drowsy wavering between consciousness and unconsciousness at dawn, the most opportune moment for apparitions. At waking, the scene disappears, but her image persists, and in the feeble light of day he believes he can still see her: dal sonno mi disciolsi. Ella negli occhi pur mi restava, e nell’incerto raggio del Sol vederla io mi credeva ancora.22

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‘Ella’ (She) is far away, nameless and faceless, like the tessitrice. The situation is similar in certain aspects, except for the fact that in Leopardi’s idyll the female figure is the one to leave rather than the ‘I,’ the actor. Here, she is dead, and in a dream she appears to him alive. In the traditional dreamlike mediation, the two horizons – this side and the other side – remain in place, separate and distinct, with no blending effect. If there is any interference, it lasts only as long as the unconsciousness of sleep. In Pascoli, the roles are reversed: it is the ‘I,’ the actor who leaves and returns to his beloved in their meeting place of long ago. A close examination shows that the difference is substantial. In the account of a wide-awake experience (as opposed to the dream), there is the intervention of another reality, a hallucinatory dimension that belongs neither to the realm of the living nor to that of the dead. Leopardi’s speaker finally awakes and recognizes his belonging to the realm of the living (‘Immensa / doglia m’oppresse a queste voci il petto’ [Vast / sorrow oppressed my heart at that voice], vv. 24–45). Pascoli’s speaker does not wake to re-enter the world of the living; he is destined forever to exist in a doleful ghost land. A missing link between the idyll ‘Il sogno’ and ‘La tessitrice’ may be found in the early works of Pascoli, that is, in the figure of Iole in the hendecasyllable quatrains entitled ‘Nel bosco’ (Poesie varie).23 In a moonlit, cemetery-like scene (complete with the ‘cipressetto’ [cypress] of Carducci in vv. 3 and 27), the ‘I’ figure recalls the ‘dolce villaggio’ (dear village) (v. 5) where he cried ‘per più d’un abbandono’ ( for much more than an abandonment) (v. 6), and, while ‘Tra il verde cupo biancheggiar gli avelli’ (Amid the somber green, the white gleam of tombstones) catches the eye (v. 9), a faint shadow veiled in white appears, silhouetted by the moonlight. It literally has all the prerequisites – including the iconographical ones – of a ghost (vv. 12–14): [...] una velata ombra m’invita. Fruscia la veste candida, e la mano sottil m’accenna [...]24

Introduced by the appropriate musical and chromatic setting (whispers, arcane murmurs, and the melancholy ringing of bells), a defunct character from the tomb appears on the scene (vv. 17–20): Dunque il tuo freddo tumulo hai lasciato,

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ombra dagli occhi pieni di memoria? Sei dunque evasa al pallido passato tu che rileggi la mia tetra istoria?25

Initially ‘sconosciuta’ (unknown) (v. 21), the shadow soon reveals itself to be Iole, the much-loved girl (vv. 25–6): Sei tu che passi, o Iole mia, nel bosco, nel sacro bosco de’ ricordi miei?26

It would be so fine to dream together with her the dreams of long ago (vv. 31–2): sognare, o Iole, le passate cose, i dolci sogni d’un tempo sognare!27

The night passes. At the light of dawn, the moon disappears, as do the unfulfilled ‘poveri sogni’ (poor dreams), and with them, Iole (vv. 37–8): Il sol trionfa e i mesti sogni sgombra; i miei poveri sogni e la mia Iole.28

It can be seen that ‘Nel bosco’ abstains from recurring to dreamlike mediation, in contrast with Leopardi’s ‘Il sogno’ but in harmony with ‘La tessitrice.’ Iole appears by night (and together with her, the poet wishes he could return to the dreams of times past), but she does not appear in a dream. She is a ghostlike creature who takes shape in the consciousness of a night vigil, and the ‘I’ character sees her alive, motioning, passing by and then fleeing away ‘pallida’ (pale) (v. 39) at the breaking of day, when flowers bloom. At length the author seems to feel the need to reiterate both to himself and to the reader that Iole has passed away (vv. 41, 43–4): Sbocciano umidi i fiori... a me che importa? [...] In altro lido, lungi, non vede i fiori ella! ella è morta!29

It is self-evident that excluding the mediation of a dream is not sufficient to produce the enigmatic third dimension of the weaver. The road is long. ‘Nel bosco’ displays the special setting of a fantastic nocturne where the appearance of a ghost that disappears at dawn, like a dream

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with eyes open, is almost a natural corollary. ‘La tessitrice’ presents a muted encounter-dialogue that appears both surreal and everyday. It takes place at centre stage with no scenery or backdrop, bare and deserted, animated only by the ‘linguaggio di gesti’ (language of gestures)30 typical of symbolic iconography. The exclamation referring to Iole (‘ella è morta!’ [she is dead!], v. 44) is a final confirmation; the words of the tessitrice (‘Io non son viva che nel tuo cuore’ [I have no life now but in your keeping], v. 21) are a revelation. Iole is a fleeting apparition, the tessitrice is a permanent presence, and her anonymity is compensated for by her work, by that action of weaving which is a sign of love, patient waiting, and enduring faithfulness.31 Nonetheless, the route indicated by ‘Nel bosco’ is the right one; this is confirmed in other texts developed around the figure of Iole (or Jole). In fact, in all of them attention is given to arranging the text in such a way that the declaration of her death is not immediately clear or explicit. Her figure thus dons an aura of ambiguity, between life and death. The ‘Rimembranze,’32 published in June/July 1877 in I nuovi Goliardi, is – as we know – one segment of the three parts that constitute ‘Nel bosco.’ It includes only four of the twelve quatrains: the two opening ones from the first part and the two final ones from the second. With this cut, the setting of a nocturnal fantasy is not completely abandoned, but its effect is lightened. The girl is no longer an authentic ghost but a fleeting apparition; consequently, her death is not announced but implied. In the double quinari quatrains ‘Dove se’, Jole, ch’io più non vedo?’ (Where are you, Jole, for I see you no more?),33 vv. 3–4, news of her death is explicitly denied (‘A una novella che andò non credo: / Che tu sei morta? … Troppo sarebbe’ [A tale that ran thus I do not believe: / That you are dead? … It would be too much to bear]), to be finally declared only in the penultimate strophe, in v. 19 (‘Muojo! Sei morta!’ [I shall die! You are dead!]). However, the components assigned to the myth of Iole testify to more than just the casting of the girl’s ambiguous physiognomy. The sonnet ‘Va via: non ti conosco’ (from the handwritten manuscript ‘Detriti’)34 is also relevant. Here the author tries to rid himself of the image of a female figure who has the same eyes, the same hair, and the same voice of the girl ‘già tanto amata’ (much-loved long ago) (v. 2). The image resembles her, but is not her. She is deceased (v. 4: ‘Ella nel sonno eterno è addormentata’ [She has fallen into an eternal slumber]). This memory brings on feelings of regret because she died in his absence, without giving him an opportunity to see or meet her ever again: ‘io fei / Per tornar, né tornai, né l’ho incontrata // Mai più, né ci pensai senza uno schianto / Al cuore, senza

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un desiderio fosco / Di morir come lei […]’ (I started / To turn back, but I did not return, nor did I meet her // Ever again, nor could I think of her without a breaking pain / In my heart, without a doleful wish / To die as she has […])(vv. 7–11). This is an attempt to satisfy the speaker’s ‘desiderio’ (wish) through a composition technique that makes possible the impossible meeting, in a place elsewhere, where the different identities of the two speakers can be brought together; we are certainly on the road that leads to the tessitrice. The ‘Detriti’ manuscript also contains a partial draft entitled simply ‘Elegia,’ first of the two ‘Elegie’ published by Maria Pascoli in Poesie varie: ‘Vorrei morire, esser morto vorrei.’35 The same ‘wish’ for death already expressed in the sonnet ‘Va via: non ti conosco’ reappears here. Death is understood not as the end of painful memories, as Leopardi understood it, but rather as recapturing, reclaiming, bringing back the past (‘Elegie I,’ vv. 13–16, in Poesie varie: ‘Sotto le stelle non son margherite / che fan tutto lo spiazzo albeggiar: / sono fanciulle di bianco vestite / e le sento parlare e cantar …’ [Under the stars, they are not daisies / that lighten the clearing as at dawn: / they are young girls robed in white / and I perceive their speech and their song …]). The ‘fanciulle di bianco vestite’ (young girls robed in white) recall the ‘ombra’ (shadow) (v. 12) veiled in white, and the ‘albeggiar’ (dawning) recalls the ‘biancheggiar’ (gleaming) of the ‘avelli’ (tombstones) in ‘Nel bosco’ (v. 9). The return, the fulfillment of the wish, the yearned-for encounter can finally take place in a shadowy, deathly elsewhere edged with mourning. This is, in fact, a description of the other reality where the meeting with the tessitrice takes place. Its concrete nature is merely an illusion; it is a spectral and immaterial realm, without flesh and entirely void of physical attributes. The two interlocutors together inhabit it, assimilated in the same hallucinatory condition. She, the deceased (‘evasa’ [escaped] – like Iole in ‘Nel bosco’ – ‘al pallido passato’ [from the dim past], v. 19), lives on in the obsessive memories of the one who loved her; he, the living one, is torn away from life by the exclusivity of the memory that holds him prisoner. His preoccupation with a ‘dim past’ is a nagging thought that paralyzes and alienates him from the world where others live. In this realm, the living and the dead can meet and communicate but cannot give each other joy or comfort; nor can they find peace for their restlessness. Quite appropriately, the scene is bathed with tears, and the idyll vanishes like a mirage. Love itself (evoked by the tessitrice shyly and in extremis in v. 19: ‘Mio dolce amore’ [O my love], picking up from v. 9, ‘dolce mio bene’ [my long-desired]) is truly a mirage beyond reach, only possible in the emblematic shadow of a cypress (vv. 24–5: ‘sotto il

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cipresso, / accanto alfine ti dormirò’ [I sleep by you near the cypress tree]). However, no lacerating drama is present in the scene. The poem closes with the words of the female character, with the revelation of her death, which is initially subdued and later exclaimed (vv. 21–2: ‘Io non son viva che nel tuo cuore. // Morta! Sì, morta!’ [I have no life now but in your keeping. // Dead, I am dead, yes!]), and with the recognition of the exclusive subjectivity on the part of another which allows her, mysteriously, to continue to exist (vv. 22–3: ‘Se tesso, tesso / per te soltanto; come, non so’ [Weaving, I weave / in your heart only. So it must be]). Finally there is the promise of a time of reciprocal peace when he, too, will be dead (vv. 24– 5: ‘in questa tela, sotto il cipresso, / accanto alfine ti dormirò’ [Till wrapped in this sheet at last, my love / I sleep by you near the cypress tree]). Nothing is said of the chord these words strike in the actor. There is naturally no trace of the ‘Immensa / doglia’ (Vast / sorrow) of Leopardi (‘Il sogno,’ vv. 24–5), because there is no possibility of awaking from this realm. The contrast between dream and reality is entirely excluded, and the main character, segregated from life, is destined to live here forever together with the creatures of his past. There is no violent emotional tearing, no clashes or tragedy. The ‘pathos d’una straziante dolcezza’ (pathos of wrenching tenderness)36 and the music described as ‘attenuata, coagulata’ (muffled, curdled)37 produce overtones of calm anguish that result in an extraordinary effect. This effect has the power to cancel out all conventional measurements of time and space without recourse to the usual devices, such as rational mediation through a dream or recollection of the past. What is this special effect? It can be defined as the technique of putting across a surreal experience in the confidential tone of an account from everyday life; it is gracing a hallucination with the spoken word and dressing it in simple everyday apparel.

8 The Well and the Cellars. On the Twentieth-Century Italian Novel

Let us start out by quoting a well-known passage from D’Annunzio, taken from his letter to Francesco Paolo Michetti, the introduction to Trionfo della morte, in 1894: Avevamo più volte insieme ragionato d’un ideal libro di prosa moderno che [...], libero dai vincoli della favola, portasse alfine in sé creata con tutti i mezzi dell’arte letteraria la particolar vita – sensuale sentimentale intellettuale – di un essere umano collocato nel centro della vita universa.1

An ‘essere umano collocato nel centro della vita universa’ (human being placed at the centre of universal life) is clearly explained through this gleaming verbal construction: ‘Io.’ D’Annunzio writes to Michetti, ‘ho circonfuso di luce, di musica e di profumo le tristezze e le inquietudini [del mio personaggio] [...] ho disteso un tappeto variopinto sotto i suoi passi obliqui’ (I have wrapped the sadness and worries [of my character] in light, music, and fragrance […] I have laid down a colourful carpet for his crooked path).2 Steps that are ‘obliqui’ (crooked) rather than straightforward and a story that is ‘libero dai vincoli della favola’ ( free from the bonds of the fable) are signs of something new; however, the ‘ideal libro di prosa moderna’ (ideal book of modern prose) extolled by D’Annunzio clearly defines what the twentieth-century novel in reality does not aim to be. In fact, the protagonists that we meet in the new brand of narrative belong to another category. Alfonso Nitti, Emilio Brentani, Mattia Pascal, Leopoldo Gradi, Pietro Rosi, Zeno Cosini, Vitangelo Moscarda, and so on: they too take ‘crooked’ steps, and for them, the ‘bonds of the fable’ (which Tozzi calls ‘svolazzi’ [bragging] and ‘pavoneggiamenti’ [showiness] of the plot)3 do

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not count either. However, theirs is a destiny that turns its back on the race of the ‘essere umano’ placed at the centre of universal life. The ‘vita universa’ no longer has a centre, and the new character wonders about his own disorientation, in an anonymous corner of the earth, not ‘circonfuso di luce, di musica e di profumo’ (wrapped in light, music, and fragrance). There is no ‘colourful carpet’ for his crooked steps to tread upon. The soundtrack that provides accompaniment for his crooked path is muted by an opaque and odourless language, in black and white, unspectacular, suited rather to recording the wounds that the psychopathology of daily living inflicts on the face of ordinary people. Destiny is internalized in a self that is both ephemeral and impressionable. Tozzi writes in an aphorism from the Barche capovolte: ‘Il destino non è fuori di noi; il destino è nascosto in noi. È la parte inferiore di ogni anima’ (Destiny does not lie outside of us; it is hidden within us. It is the inferior part of every soul).4 The ‘parte inferiore’ (inferior part) and ‘noi’ (us) mean the average person, the ‘common’ person spoken of by Jahier, what Gadda defined as ‘un groppo, o gomitolo o groviglio o garbuglio, di indecifrate (da lui medesimo) nevrosi’ (a tangle, or ball or knot or muddle of neurosis, undecipherable to one’s own self).5 At the end of the century, the decisive step towards modernity was not initiated by the ‘Cavalieri dello spirito’ (Knights of the Spirit) or by the proponents of panic vitalism. It was not the prerogative of mysticism, nor of the doctrine of the superior human being, nor even of D’Annunzio’s ‘amor sensuale della parola’ (sensual love for words). The privilege was for whoever could search with ‘trite parole’ (trite words) (as Saba would say) in the shadows of the common consciousness, without holding the ‘formula che mondi possa aprirti’ ( formula that can open whole worlds to you).6 This happened mainly (but not only) in the case of Svevo and Pirandello, along with the younger Tozzi and Pea, authors who took it upon themselves to write in an anti-eloquent style without pursuing public approval, and who were, in fact, paid back in their own coin. ‘Il pubblico è di sua natura corruttore’ (The public is a corrupter by its very nature), declared the unknown Svevo in 1883 at age twenty-two.7 This phrase proved to be prophetic for the early twentieth-century novel. The prose style refuses any form of aesthetic care or worldly commercialism in order to be a heuristic tool, a discovery, a revelation. The new flowed from the pen of isolated and unheeded observers, in a historical environment initially smitten with the Dannunzian verbum, then devoted to the lyric intuitions of Crocian idealism, then increasingly channeled into the tunnel of fascism. It took more than thirty years

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after Svevo’s first book for his importance to finally be recognized, and that, with difficulty. In 1914, ten years after Il fu Mattia Pascal, Pirandello was still considered by Renato Serra to be nothing more than an odd sketch-writer. Tozzi died in 1920, at age thirty-seven, in the midst of public indifference, with the imminent march on Rome proclaiming the splendour of the strong Man and his parades. As for Pea, the skillful ‘scalpellatore di parole e di uomini’ (chiseler of words and of men), loved and translated by Pound,8 indifference was even longer-lived. As Montale wrote in the verses ‘All’amico Pea’ in 1978, it seems as if ‘tutti lo abbiano dimenticato / e che la notizia in qualche modo sia giunta fino a lui, / senza turbarlo’ (He has been forgotten by all / and that in some way this news has reached him / without disturbing him in the least).9 They are unheeded and peripheral writers. Their voices can be heard from marginal areas: Trieste, Sicily, the archaic, anti-purist Tuscany with its ancient clay of Siena, and the rough hinterland of Versilia. These represented decentralized places of bilingualism where people found it easier to free themselves from codified institutions of expression. Large cities, on the other hand, were a platform for either manicured official forms or a kind of avant-garde that was anti-narrative in substance. Such were Byzantine Rome, still attached to D’Annunzio, futurist Milan, and futurist Florence with its historic literary review La Voce. The new character is the antihero of everyday life: a bank teller, insurance company employee, provincial librarian, assistant clerk with the national railroad, or small business owner. He is the alter ego of a writer who does not feel like a champion, or an artifex, or an interpreter of the ‘vita universa’ (universal life), but rather a modest tenant of life, absorbed in grasping (if he can) the meaning of being alive, of his presence in the world. Many things are different with respect to the classic nineteenth-century novel. Most importantly, the epicentre of the objective has shifted: no panoramic shots or catalogues of the all that exists, but a close-up of the ‘I’ (the ‘pronome collo-ritto’ [stiff-necked pronoun], ‘più lurido di tutti i pronomi!’ [foulest of all pronouns!], according to Gadda).10 The nineteenth-century first-person protagonist-narrator (Nievo, for example) guaranteed an objective witnessing. Now, the first person is a confused and reticent witness who questions even the objective nature of reality. The aim is to inspect the ‘imo del proprio essere’ (depths of one’s own being),11 in the ‘nudità arida’ (arid nakedness)12 of life, to take stock of ‘qualsiasi misterioso atto nostro; come potrebbe esser quello, per esempio, di un uomo che a un certo punto della sua strada si sofferma per rac-

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cogliere un sasso che vede e poi prosegue la sua passeggiata’ (any mysterious act of ours; like, for example, that of a man who momentarily interrupts his walk to pick up a stone he sees and then continues on his way).13 The horizon narrows, and whatever is lost horizontally is gained vertically. A novel about self amounts to a novel about personal conscience and consciousness. However, this conscience is powerless to act; ‘può assomigliarsi ad un occhio enorme’ (it may resemble a huge eye), says Tozzi, and ‘non oltrepassa la funzione del vedere’ (proceeds no further than its function of seeing).14 Just the fact of uncovering some secret about oneself is quite a feat. Here the vertical perspective favours the metaphor of the well, making it emblematic. As Tozzi writes in Barche capovolte: ‘L’anima ha dentro di sé un gran pozzo; e non tutte le funi sono bastanti a trarne su l’acqua’ (There is a great well within the soul; and not all the ropes are sufficient to draw water).15 And again: Io non so quel che porto dentro di me. Di quassù non posso scorgere i riflessi che avvengono dentro il profondissimo pozzo dell’anima. Non so se abbia dentro di me una buca di scorpioni o un nido di usignoli. E la mano ignota del destino ora mi avvicina ai bisbigli ed un’altra volta alle code paurose. Soltanto l’acqua di tale pozzo ne potrebbe parlare.16

Tozzi’s well brings to mind a diary note of Svevo: ‘Si deve tentar di portare a galla dall’imo del proprio essere, ogni giorno un suono, un accento [...]’ (Every day one must try to bring to the surface a sound, even an accent […] from the depths of one’s own being).17 The image of the well recurs in Pirandello as well, for example in ‘L’avemaria di Bobbio’ (1912): ‘Bobbio [...] diceva che ciò che chiamiamo coscienza è paragonabile alla poca acqua che si vede nel collo d’un pozzo senza fondo’ (Bobbio […] said that what we call conscience is like the portion of water visible on the surface of a bottomless well).18 Here a few thoughts resurface from the essay ‘L’umorismo’ (1908) inspired by psychologist Alfred Binet. The well makes another comeback in Moscardino by Pea; it is a frightening well, ‘senza fondo’ (bottomless), like that of Pirandello, where the eye cannot penetrate. The water cannot be seen: ‘Guardò nel pozzo tremando, ma non vide che buio; nemmeno l’acqua vide, che gli spiriti l’avevan coperta con un mantello di piombo color delle nuvole che passavano adesso nel cielo [...] E non vide che una lastra di piombo, e non udì che l’eco della sua voce vagare e perdersi nell’abisso’ (Trembling, he looked down into the well, but he could only see darkness; not even the water could he see – the spirits

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had covered it with a leaden coat the colour of the clouds passing by in the sky […] And all he could see was a slab of lead, and all he could hear was the echo of his voice wandering and then losing itself in the abyss).19 Even in Moscardino ‘Quando tiravan su l’acqua, la carrucola cigolava’ (When they drew water, the pulley squeaked),20 almost contemporary with ‘cigola’ (squeaks) in the poem by Montale, who, like Pea, rejects the consoling properties of the ‘ricordo’ (recollection),21 the sweet infatuation of memory. This new narrative form springs from eyes which are fastened on the rim of the well. This explains why it is vertically overbalanced and open to many possible solutions, as in La coscienza di Zeno and as we can see in the case of Tozzi himself, who contemplated four different endings during the writing of Con gli occhi chiusi. Immediately after Pietro discovers that Ghisola is expecting, the work closes with the memorable line: ‘Quando si riebbe dalla vertigine violenta che l’aveva abbattuto ai piedi di Ghisola, egli non l’amava più’ (When he came to once again, after the violent dizzy spell that had thrown him at Ghisola’s feet, he loved her no more). A previous handwritten conclusion, eight pages long, shared the same theme as this one chosen at the printing, but with more details and a longer story line. A subsequent editing actually saw the opposite conclusion: ‘Pietro la perdonò. E, morto Domenico, la potette sposare’ (Pietro forgave her. And, with Domenico dead, he could marry her). This happy ending was later annulled, with no addition to replace it, and the novel ended with the words ‘vide il suo ventre’ (saw her belly). Tozzi felt there was nothing left to say after the meeting between Pietro and Ghisola in the house in via della Pergola; it was a kind of harsh revelation that left all possibilities open.22 The modern novelist is not interested in the polymorphous mimesis of reality, which cannot be limited to a single possible conclusion. He is on a hunt for clues as to the meaning of existence, a search that often does not lead to answers. For this reason, the detail tends to prevail upon the syntax of the whole, because the destiny of a consciousness, its destructured perception of things, reveals itself in the unpredictable details. ‘Le bon Dieu est dans le détail’ (Our good God is in the details): Flaubert’s phrase has come a long way and has taken root in a novel destined not to calm the reader, to answer his questions satisfactorily, to advance definite parameters for judgment, or to present him with a winning plot. Instead, its aim is to enhance his ‘comprensione della vita’ (understanding of life)23 through use of a special tool: doubt. The narrator who explores the well is the offspring of the new European culture of the late nineteenth century, which not only casts a shadow of doubt on the principle of naturalistic objectivity but chal-

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lenges its very way of thinking and viewing life. However, we must draw a clear line between anti-positivism and post-positivism. The novel of the superior human with its corollaries of active vitalism springs from a criticism of science in the name of an anti-positivistic worship of the ineffable and irrational. The new twentieth-century novel, on the other hand, emerges from the reestablishment of knowledge in a post-positivistic context stemming from that extraordinary renewal of the traditional parameters of knowledge which, at the turn of the century, set aside the very idea of a systematic, totalling method of reasoning. The metaphor of the well implies that the unity of a person must dissolve. ‘A chi dire “io”?’ (Who can say ‘I’?) is the question Vitangelo Moscarda puts to himself.24 Even a person’s ability to control himself is questioned. An ‘abisso’ (abyss) (Pea’s word) opens wide, but the aim of the new novelist is not to evoke it through a magical suggestion of mystery. He wants to experience it fully with the help of scientific psychology, using a more flexible and adaptable method of reasoning than the positivistic one. His view is analytical and pragmatic rather than deterministic, yet still aware of its own limits. The new ‘I’ character suffers from the same shock as his author, and their relationship is consequently close, dialogic, inquisitive to the point of uncovering the most vulnerable part of the character and stripping away his ‘mask’ in order to observe him walking ‘col teschio scoperchiato’ (skull uncovered).25 This is a very close relationship, often handled with distrust, with representative nastiness. According to Tozzi, ‘Bisogna che [i personaggi] li tenga sempre lontani da me, in continua diffidenza; anzi ostilità’ (I must always keep [my characters] far from me, in continual distrust; or rather, hostility).26 This ‘distrust’ can take on a punitive form of animalistic regression. Take, for example, Ghisola’s grandfather Giacco in Con gli occhi chiusi: ‘Giacco [...] ascoltava con le braccia penzoloni e i pollici ripiegati tra le dita, le cui vene sollevavano la pelle, come lombrici lunghi e fermi sotto la moticcia’ (Giacco […] listened with his arms dangling and thumbs tucked in his fist. The veins in his fingers bulged under his skin, like long, dormant earthworms under the mud); or Braciola, undertaker of Siena: ‘Domenico chiacchierava con Braciola, il becchino del colore della sua terra, grasso come fosse stato pieno di vermi’ (Domenico jabbered with Braciola, the undertaker with skin the colour of the ground, fat as though he were full of worms).27 The phenomenon is not restricted to the beasts of Tozzi: the entire overview of early twentiethcentury narrative can be read from the perspective of a ‘bestiary,’ anything but noble. Gadda observed that ‘[era] attribuito, al vate, volo

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d’aquila sopra le miserie degli uomini: più raramente di falco. Cigno era di diritto, per nascita. Talvolta era salutato leone’ (the poet was believed to fly like an eagle over the misery of men: much more rarely, like a falcon. He was a swan by right, by birth. Sometimes he was greeted as a lion).28 This heraldic zoomorphism is rather passé. Montale wrote in 1961: ‘Ma ora / tu sai tutto di me, / della mia prigionia e del mio dopo; / ora sai che non può nascere l’aquila / dal topo’ (But now / you know all about me, / about my imprisonment and what follows; / now you know that an eagle cannot be born / from a mouse).29 Poets are no longer eagles, but rather a base, third-rate menagerie that leaves a feeling of repulsion and becomes a metaphor of the relentless phenomenology of the fall and consequent ruin. This represents a hallucinated look at reality, an obsessive documentation on the pathology of living beings. Pirandello shows this when he reduces his characters to mere animals,30 as do Tozzi, Pea, Loria and Gadda. This is further confirmed by the cockroaches, moles, spiders, owls, monkeys, and ‘labrene’ (nags) of Landolfi. The mysterious, ineffable fog hanging over the well is dissipated thanks to Freud. ‘Grande uomo quel nostro Freud ma più per i romanzieri che per gli ammalati’ (Great man, our Freud, though more for novelists than for the ill), commented Svevo in a letter dated 10 December 1927.31 After Copernicus and Darwin, Freud represents the third ‘mortification’ inflicted on the ‘megalomania’ of the self, as Freud declares in ‘Lezione 18’ of Introduzione alla psicoanalisi: La terza e più scottante, mortificazione, la megalomania dell’uomo è destinata a subirla da parte dell’odierna indagine psicologica, la quale tende a dimostrare all’Io che non solo egli non è padrone in casa propria, ma deve fare assegnamento su scarse notizie riguardo a quello che avviene inconsciamente nella sua vita psichica.32

‘L’anima ha dentro di sé un gran pozzo; e non tutte le funi sono bastanti a trarne su l’acqua’ (There is a great well within the soul; and not all the ropes are sufficient to draw water), writes Tozzi. This really means ‘turbare la pace di questo mondo’ (disturbing the peace of this world)33 and seeing human character with new eyes. The new narrators, who are most sensitive to what their character is like, place at centre stage an ‘io’ who is not ‘master in his own domain.’ While in the nineteenth-century novel (especially where dissoluteness and crude realism came into play) the main character was in conflict with the reality of bourgeois conformity, now the conflict takes place within his own self, with the resurfacing of

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the repressed at the threshold of conscience. We no longer have a simple statement about the suffering of life, but we have its very representation inherent in the text itself, in the tricks and illusions of the words. Savinio observed that in ‘Casa, la Vita’ (the House, Life), Freud ‘si occupò dei servizi (cucina, lavanderia, acquai, dispense, gabinetti, caldaia e apparecchi di riscaldamento, aspirapolvere, ecc.), cioè a dire delle parti che l’ospite, soprattutto se di riguardo, non vede; e ignorò la parte di rappresentanza, salotti, sala da pranzo, ingresso padronale, ecc.’ (dealt with the facilities – kitchen, laundry room, basins, pantry, toilets, boiler and heating systems, vacuum cleaner, etc. – that is to say, dealt with the parts that a guest, especially an important one, never sees; and he ignored the ostentatious parts, sitting rooms, dining rooms, main entrance, etc.).34 This recognition may seem rather restrictive, in line with numerous idealistic controversies about the ‘dirty’ materialism of psychoanalytic inquiry, but in reality it is not. The most authentic twentieth-century narrative is not ‘di rappresentanza’ (ostentatious) but a weekday account, dedicated ‘ai servizi’ (to the facilities), to the cellars, to the sinks. The aim is not to exalt the underground tunnels but to come to grips with them and (if possible) to deal with them. Savinio continues: ‘Ottimo operaio, Freud. Lo stagnaro della vita. Laborioso e paziente [...] lo scienziato atteso, lo scienziato necessario di un’epoca che ha scoperto che l’uomo non è creazione di Dio ma creazione di se stesso’ (Excellent labourer, Freud. The plumber of life. Hardworking and patient […] the awaited scientist, the scientist necessary to an era that has discovered that man, rather than the creation of God, is the creation of his own self ).35 We are once again reminded of Tozzi’s aphorism: ‘Il destino non è fuori di noi; il destino è nascosto in noi. È la parte inferiore di ogni anima’ (Destiny does not lie outside of us; it is hidden within us. It is the inferior part of every soul). The mystery vanishes and chance is discarded by the processes of psychological life. The frightful inescapability of the classic sense of destiny has taken on the earthly qualities of instinct and impulse. However, it is no less terrifying than before, even though it can be rationally catalogued in a scenario of affectivity that takes root, like an iceberg, in the new topography of the human mind. It is not surprising that the characters in the new narrative form are not in good health. It seems as if being healthy is too commonplace for them. But the symptoms of disease have changed. Whereas before, disease was hereditary (especially in the naturalist novel), it has now become increasingly unforeseeable and fortuitous. A simple ‘feritina’ (cut) and a fly are enough for death, lying in ambush, to attack and for the doctor to recognize that he is powerless, nothing more than a wretched bookkeeper of

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death, as in Pirandello’s short story ‘La mosca.’36 A crisis of uncertainty throws off medical organization charts and exposes their impotence. At the same time, however, pathology’s invasion plays an increasingly important role. No longer an exception or anomaly, it tends to become the norm, an integral attribute of life that cannot be eliminated. Madness, for example, used to come on the scene in a dissolute context as a constant presence that tormented the nobility. Now it has become increasingly bourgeois. Rather than a traumatic, disturbing event, it can become an everyday fact seen as a normal part of life or not even noticed at all. As in the short story ‘Colleghi’ by Tozzi: ‘Era pazzo senza dubbio, ma nessuno se n’avvedeva. Perché continuava lo stesso a fare l’impiegato alla Direzione Compartimentale delle Ferrovie, e gli amici lo trovavano lo stesso a mangiare; gli parlavano ed egli rispondeva come sempre’ (He was insane without a doubt, but no one took notice. Because he continued to work just the same as an employee in the District Administration of the Railways, and his friends had lunch with him as always; they talked and he answered as he had always done).37 The irrationality of living comes to include even madness without any great surprise. It is possible even to be on friendly terms with it, almost as if it were a companion who relays a sweet feeling of extraneousness from everyday scuffles, as in Tozzi’s short story ‘Il poeta’: ‘Ennio Toti era pazzo: lo sapeva. Se non il primo ad accorgersene, era stato il primo a dirlo. Proprio da sé! Una sensazione a pena avvertibile, dolce, nascosta’ (Ennio Toti was insane: he knew it. If he was not the first one to notice it, at least he was the first to say so. About himself! A sensation that was hardly noticeable, sweet and hidden).38 But the most evil and fatal disease is cancer. Readers of Verga remember that Gesualdo is called back to the category of ‘being’ through the price paid in his own body to the category of ‘owning.’ The stomach cancer that reduces him to a ‘scheletro’ (skeleton) turns out to be a ‘malattia scomunicata’ (excommunicated disease): it is life choked off; it brings on burning and spasms and causes him to vomit ‘roba’ (stuff ) that is ‘[più] nera dell’inchiostro, amara, maledetta da Dio’ (blacker than ink, bitter, cursed by God);39 it takes on demonic semblance. Gesualdo really has given his soul to the devil, like the prognosis given by the poor old man he came across in the scorching heat of the noontime: ‘O dove andate vossignoria a quest’ora? ... Avete tanti denari, e vi date l’anima al diavolo!’ (Where are you going at this hour, Sir? … You have so much money, and you are giving your soul to the devil!).40 Yet even cancer can become normal; it can lose its most ferocious characteristics and turn into nothing more than a disenchanted exit from life, as in the short story ‘La morte addosso’ by Pirandello: ‘Guardi qua, sotto questo baffo ... qua, vede che bel tubero

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violaceo? Sa come si chiama questo? Ah, un nome dolcissimo ... più dolce d’una caramella: Epitelioma, si chiama. Pronunzii, pronunzii ... sentirà che dolcezza: epiteli-o-ma ... La morte, capisce? è passata. M’ha ficcato questo fiore in bocca e m’ha detto: “Tientelo, caro: ripasserò fra otto o dieci mesi!”’ (Look here, under my moustache … here, see that nice purplish tuber? Do you know what it’s called? Ah, it has such a sweet name … sweeter than honey: Epithelioma, it’s called. Pronounce it, pronounce it … you’ll see how sweet it is: epitheli-o-ma … Death, you see? It’s been by. It stuck this flower in my mouth and said: ‘Take this, my dear: I’ll be back in eight or ten months!’ ).41 The phenomenology of disease has lost its importance. Whatever the clinical cause may be, the important factor is the proximity of death with its always sudden arrival and its inevitability that scientific progress cannot defeat. The modern character is left alone with himself and his nighttime apparitions, as ‘l’uomo dal fiore in bocca’ (The man with the flower in his mouth) knows well, in his state of calm despair. ‘La morte addosso’ (Death on his back) exposes the absurd rituals of normal daily life, but also (as in Leopardi) lauds the flavour and rare ‘gusto’ (taste) of life that will be lost forever (depriving its victim of the ‘delizia’ [exquisiteness] of ‘buone albicocche’ [good apricots]).42 Disease as a concept separate from life and health has ceased to exist. It is life itself that is ill, as Svevo knows, and ‘Non c’è cura che valga’ (There is no cure that’s worth anything).43 It is also well known to the characters of Pirandello, Tozzi, and Pea, the ‘buffi’ (comics) of Palazzeschi, the puppet-creatures of Bontempelli, Gadda’s neurotic first-person narrator, the ‘libere donne’ ( free women) of Tobino, the lunatics of Moravia, the psychopaths of Volponi, Berto, Calvino, and Malerba. Death brought on by disease, or by one’s own will: these are two very different situations, but they share a common genesis. The broken statute of peaceful harmony between self and the outside world, represented by the metaphor of disease, can further degenerate into the drastic measure of taking one’s own life – a choice that, for better or for worse, definitively closes all of the various subplots. Around the turn of the twentieth century, with Durkheim’s Suicide, sociology began studying the phenomenon of suicide on a statistical basis and tried to rationalize it by looking for its origins in insufficient integration into familial, religious, and political spheres. This scientific approach curtails the private dimension of the motivations; it maps them out. The novelist’s task is to confirm the unpredictability of the real causes. And little by little the inadequate social integration takes on distinctive meaning. It can be a form of self-inflicted punishment: awareness of personal

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ineptness as a social climber for Alfonso Nitti in Svevo’s Una vita; inner paralysis for the insensitive and mediocre Adolfo Romani in Oriani’s Vortice; visionary unleashing of self-punishing violence in Tozzi’s Tre croci. It can be an act of desperate protest against loneliness, as in the case of sweet and deeply sad Amalia in Svevo’s Senilità and Mariano Groa, the ‘uomo solo’ (lonely man) of Pirandello.44 The fact is that people no longer die for their country or for glory as they used to, and if they die for love, it is preferably illicit love. Their reason for death is personal nausea or disgust with themselves, not to defend the importance of some tread-upon ethic. And these deaths are not pretty. The tragic act of supreme rebellion against the injustice of destiny is miserably degraded. Take, for example, the unpleasant, bureaucratic manner in which Alfonso’s end is described in Una vita. Or the malevolence and sadism in the comments on Pulino’s end in Pirandello’s short story ‘L’imbecille,’ in the midst of the racket of hotheaded customers in a town coffee shop: ‘ – Pulino? Ma come? S’era ucciso Pulino? – Lulù Pulino, sì: due ore fa. Lo avevano trovato in casa, che pendeva dall’ansola del lume, in cucina. – Impiccato? – Impiccato, sì. Che spettacolo! Nero, con gli occhi e la lingua fuori, le dita raggricchiate’ (– Pulino? What? Pulino killed himself? – Lulù Pulino, yep: two hours ago. They found him in his house, hanging from the light fixture, in the kitchen. – Hanged himself? – Hanged himself, yep. What a sight! All black, with his eyes and tongue sticking out and his fists clenched).45 Take, for instance, how in Tozzi’s short story ‘La cognata,’ a laconic epigraph once and for all settles the fortunes of the poor carpenter from Siena who killed his sister-in-law to take revenge for an evil accusation that ruined his life: ‘Non gli fecero il processo, perché morì prima in prigione. E i suoi compagni di cella dicevano che s’era avvelenato mangiando i ragni’ (He never had a trial, because he died in prison first. And his cellmates said that he had poisoned himself by eating spiders).46 Letting go of life no longer means sacrificing a precious treasure. It is rather an irrelevant piece of news, a ‘niente’ (nothing). Doctor Mangoni shows this to be true in Pirandello’s short story ‘Niente’ when he declares he could happily do without running out at night to the aid of a young suicide who tries to suffocate himself: ‘Ma sì, scusi! Un ferimento in rissa, una tegola sul capo, una disgrazia qualsiasi ... prestare ajuto, chiamare il medico, lo capisco. Ma un pover uomo, scusi, che zitto zitto si accuccia per morire?’ (Well, of course! A wounding in a brawl, a roofing tile on the head, an accident of any kind … lending a helping hand, calling a doctor, I can understand. But a poor wretch, who silently curls up to die?).47 Modernity has cancelled out the tragic implications of suicide. One quietly tiptoes

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off stage. Sometimes the exit is unsuccessful, as in the case of Dino (in Moravia’s La noia), who drives his car into a plane tree, but not even death wants him. Dino tells about his attempted suicide and finishes with: ‘Ormai, sia pure senza speranza, non mi resta che vivere’ (Now, though it be without hope, I have no choice but to live).48 The more our twentieth-century novel digs into the muddy water of the well, the better its quality. Furthermore, it stands to reason that the intense gusto of life (the ‘delizia’ of the ‘buone albicocche’ in ‘L’uomo dal fiore in bocca’) stands out as a result of the awareness of this muddy water. Zeno’s celestial, cunning irony has in its background Alfonso’s suicide and Emilio’s senility. The stages are skipped or shortened on occasion, but the result is always the same. This is true for tightrope-walking Palazzeschi and his unassuming little man of smoke, who radiate sparks of liberating intelligence that, laughing, light up the world. The same can be said of Campanile’s dazed humour touching on surreal absurdity, of the friendly, airy humour of Meneghello, of the sensual naturalness of Comisso, of the intense amor vitae of Parise, of the ‘disperata vitalità’ (desperate vitality) of Pasolini, of the metaphysical fables of Lisi, of the allusive fickleness of Calvino. The independence of the significant detail even has a theoretical justification in the poetics of the fragment from the literary review La Voce. Detail means the capture of the moment; it means ‘molteplicità simultanea della vita interiore’ (simultaneous multiplicity of inner life), as Boine explains;49 it implies Bergson’s subversion of the cognitive process. Boine writes again in 1912: ‘Vogliamo l’aforisma vivo non il rabberciamento di facciata secondo le regole solite; l’improvviso bagliore non un annegamanto diluito secondo i bisogni correnti del raziocinare comune’ (We want a live aphorism, not a patch job according to the usual standards; we want a sudden glare, not a watered-down drowning according to the current demands of collective reasoning).50 The culture around La Voce certifies the dismantling of the classic nineteenth-century novel. The order of totality has been shattered, and what remains are the splinters, the slivers, the wreckage, the shavings, and, poetically, the cuttlefish bones. Fragment as wreckage: not a segment in the context of a whole, but a segment in its absolute sense. However, it is necessary to step out of the lyric incandescence of the fragment in order to write a novel. That egocentric centrality must be subject to duration, to the many-voiced perspective of novel construction – not to go back to the novel of certainties, but to invent a new novel that gives voice to the consciousness of disintegration. It is a problem of geometry and syntax: how to combine aphorism and story,

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the ‘momento creativo’ (creative momentum)51 of the instant with the continuum, how to convert the ‘I’ from self-confessor and diarist to narrative character. This is the great victory of La coscienza di Zeno and, in a way, of Tozzi himself. But this matter is of prime importance. It concerns a significant amount of modern narrative and touches on certain essential aspects: the connection between biography and reality, between design and colour, between expressiveness and communication, between fullness and incompleteness. There is the incompleteness of Gadda and Pasolini, the useless toil of Loria to finish Le memorie inutili. There is the clashing tension between story and novel in the authors from the thirties, from Vittorini to Landolfi to Pavese. But even Pirandello comes into play, especially with his blending of novel and diary in Si gira … (1915), which later becomes Quaderni di Serafino Gubbio operatore (1925). This text by Pirandello, which deals with the world of cinema and reflects on the specificity of film terminology, is the one to make a decisive mark on the relationship between fragment and compositional syntax. It is an invitation to consider the importance of film editing technique as part of the structure of the twentieth-century novel. In 1942, the young Giaime Pintor maintained that cinema urges us ‘a vedere e a comporre secondo nuove misure’ (to see and compose according to new patterns), to alter ‘la storia e la geografia nei nostri cervelli’ (the history and geography in our minds).52 From Palazzeschi to Bilenchi, Savinio, and Bontempelli, from Vittorini to Moravia, from Fenoglio to Pasolini to Calvino to Sanguineti to Tabucchi, narrative syntax proceeds at the pace of its contemporary developments in film editing. As early as 1916, the manifesto La cinematografia futurista pointed out that the most suitable means for the poetics of simultaneity is the cinema because of its ‘poli-espressiva’ (poly-expressive) capacity. The futurists themselves forcefully emphasize the virtual resources of language for images: analogical and metaphorical power; the ‘compenetrazione di tempi e di luoghi diversi’ (simultaneous weaving together of different times and places) (‘Daremo nello stesso istante-quadro 2 o 3 visioni differenti l’una accanto all’altra’ [We will place 2 or 3 different visions beside one another in the same frame]);53 the figurative rendering of the ‘stati d’animo’ (moods); the animation and humanization of objects. But it was thanks to the experience of German expressionism and Russian cinema of the twenties that the technique of film editing as compositional syntax became popular, with noteworthy effects even in the novelist’s laboratory. Especially important is the idea of editing (later developed by Eisenstein in Essays in Film Theory, 1942), which involves stylistic requirements, both figurative

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and rhythmic, representing a ‘dialectical clash’ of expressive material, the semantics of sequences, bringing across a new sense through the combination of images and image-fragments that emerge from a void, from the inscrutable shadows. One might say that the point is to draw new sense, new feelings and ideas, from the dizziness of a void. Worth quoting is the testimony of Parise, who built Il ragazzo morto e le comete (1951) exclusively on narrative micro-sequences and traced the origins of his work to knowledge acquired not through reading but through his role as a spectator: ‘La sola cultura che ha ispirato questo libro è cinematografica’ (The only culture that has inspired this book is that of cinema).54 Even Sciascia (who, as a young man, dreamed of becoming a director) reminisced together with his friend Gesualdo Bufalino in 1988: ‘per lui, per me, per altri della nostra generazione e della nostra vocazione, il cinema era allora tutto. Tutto’ ( for me, for him, for others of our generation and vocation, cinema was everything back then. Everything).55 From cinematic editing, the modern novel has taken not only the effects of formal essentiality, live sequences, rapid changes of scene, visual perception alternating between indoor and outdoor scenes, but also, as demonstrated by Pasolini, an ‘originaria qualità onirica’ (native dreamlike quality); it is ‘visionaria’ (visionary).56 The dizziness of the void brings us back to the metaphor of the well. Bufalino, an author of style and ideas, the most unfashionable author in the eighties, wrote in 1986: ‘Lo scrittore non è più l’onnipresente dio flobertiano che dirige i destini dei suoi personaggi dall’alto di una nuvola; né l’indifferente dio joyciano che si lima le unghie e li abbandona a se stessi; ma è una lince bendata che brancola nel buio’ (The writer is no longer the omnipresent god of Flaubert who manages the destinies of his characters from high up in the clouds; nor is he the indifferent god of Joyce who pares his fingernails and abandons them to their own devices; rather, he is a blindfolded lynx groping in the dark),57 an ‘Argo dai cento occhi, onnisciente e onniveggente, che ha perduto la vista e la scienza’ (monster with a hundred eyes, omniscient and all-seeing, who has lost both sight and knowledge).58 In this navigation without a compass, one of the most distinguishing characteristics of the Italian novel of the twentieth century is the feeling of time and of the past. The ‘lince bendata che brancola nel buio’ (blindfolded lynx groping in the dark) has achieved more solid results than those of the tabula rasa behind it, all the more thanks to its success in uniting the ferments of the new, and the suggestions of modern international culture, with the roots of Italy’s best nineteenth-century narrative tradition. While the avant-garde burned libraries at the beginning of the twenti-

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eth century, Pirandello in his essay on L’umorismo brought back to light the lineage of humorous Sterne-type prose deriving from Foscolo’s Didimo Chierico, the Leopardi of the Operette morali, Carlo Bini in Manoscritto di un prigioniero, Nievo, the eccentric Guerrazzi, Cantoni; he reinterprets I Promessi sposi and the great don Abbondio with particular skill. He studies Verga impartially, as do Tozzi and even Svevo, who was one of the few reviewers of Mastro-don Gesualdo in 1889 and who many years later, in 1927, in his Profilo autobiografico regrets (and ‘amaramente’ [bitterly]59 repents of) not having loved Manzoni in his youth due to the influence of Carducci. Right in the midst of the futurist whirlwind, historical memory (opposed to the tyranny of the present) remains present in Palazzeschi, who salvages from the Tuscany of King Umberto I that dash of airiness (characteristic of fable and fantasy) that breathes life into Collodi’s puppet, converting his earthly immediacy into surreal wonder. In the difficult twenty years between the two World Wars, the revolutionary thinker Gadda devoted himself to listening to the past in Solaria in 1927, with his ‘Apologia manzoniana’ that sees in Manzoni’s novel ‘tragiche e livide forme’ (bruised, tragic models), ‘atroci silenzi’ (dreadful silences), ‘una grottesca realtà’ (a grotesque reality), where ‘sarcasmo e il dolore risuonano nelle forme di una stupenda semplicità’ (both sarcasm and pain ring out in splendid simplicity).60 For Gadda, this is a sign that the ‘tragica sinfonia’ (tragic symphony) of the Manzonian ‘guazzabuglio’ (muddle) can be connected to the sensitivity of a modern observer absorbed in examining the ‘pasticciaccio’ (mess) of a stiff and twisted world. From ‘guazzabuglio’ to ‘pasticciaccio.’ During the same years, in Bontempelli’s literary magazine 900, the ‘miracolo’ (miracle) of Pinocchio was reported. Defined as a ‘libro rivoluzionario’ (revolutionary book) and ‘opera di magia’ (magic work),61 it was put forward at the same time as Nievo’s Confessioni was described as the ‘primo romanzo dell’Italia moderna’ ( first novel of modern Italy).62 Evidently, a contrast with tradition helps to measure the gap between different hypotheses for the new novel, and the nineteenth-century models act from time to time as critical active reagents. In 1938, Savinio attested to Leopardi’s work being ‘lunare’ (evocative), ironic, ambiguous, adventurous in the Operette morali. Leopardi is an almost astonishing character manufactured in the workshop of that desperate ‘neoclassical’ writer who is the author of the Infanzia di Nivasio Dolcemare. ‘Leopardi, noi lo possiamo trattare con la confidenza di un contemporaneo’ (Leopardi, we can treat him with the familiarity of a contemporary author), writes Savinio.63 This is the familiarity that Tozzi and Pirandello have with Verga, Gadda, and Manzoni, and the

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editorial staff of 900 with Pinocchio and Nievo. In the latter part of the 1900s, this familiarity was shared by Calvino of the Cosmicomiche in his new look at the Operette morali, and by Sciascia in his rediscovery of the Colonna infame. With this same familiarity, Manganelli rewrote Pinocchio and (in Laboriose inezie, 1986) explored the territory of linguistic anxiety in the late nineteenth century. In 1941, the anthology Americana by Vittorini spread the myth of the new world as a land of freedom, as a legendary reserve of energy as well as a lecture on style. Emilio Cecchi put an end to this chapter in 1945 in very strict terms: ‘ristudiarsi Verga ben bene, invece delle traduzioni di Hemingway, Caldwell e Steinbeck, presumibilmente ai nostri narratori avrebbe fatto anche più profitto’ (going back to a thorough study of Verga, rather than the translations of Hemingway, Caldwell and Steinbeck, would presumably have been of greater profit to our narrators).64 This opinion is open to discussion, but it is important to remember how Cesare Pavese, one of the protagonists of that period, assessed the situation in 1947, when the air had cleared both in Italy and in America: se per un momento c’era parso che valesse la pena di rinnegare noi stessi e il nostro passato per affidarci corpo e anima a quel libero mondo [americano], ciò era stato per l’assurda e tragicomica situazione di morte civile in cui la storia ci aveva per il momento cacciati.65

Denying ‘noi stessi e il nostro passato’ (ourselves and our past) involves an absurd ‘situazione di morte civile’ (situation of civil death). These words were pronounced in 1947 but have not faded with time; on the contrary, the euphoria of postmodern planetary modernization makes them more timely than ever. We can only hope that the ‘lince bendata che brancola nel buio,’ wherever it may wander, will keep its historical identity alive.

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Notes

1: On the Autobiography of Alfieri 1 Gianfranco Folena, ‘L’autobiografia: il vissuto e il narrato’ (1986), in Scrittori e scritture. Le occasioni della critica (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1997), 290: ‘la nascita del nuovo tecnicismo autobiografia si colloca agli inizi dell’Ottocento in Inghilterra e si espande rapidamente in Europa, in Germania, in Italia, in Francia (l’anglogrecismo autobiography sembra documentato per la prima volta nel 1805 in Robert Southey).’ (The new term ‘autobiography’ has its origins in England at the beginning of the 1800s. It rapidly spread over Europe to Germany, Italy and France. [The Anglo-Greek word ‘autobiography’ seems to have been documented for the first time by Robert Southey in 1805]). One of the first appearances of the term in Italian can be found in the Dizionario tecnico-etimologico-filologico compilato dall’ab. Marco Aurelio Marchi (Milan: Pirola, 1828), where ‘autobiografia’ (autobiography) is defined as ‘descrizione della propria vita’ (description of one’s own life). Decades later, the Tommaseo-Bellini dictionary still shows some caution as well as impatience with the established autobiographical vogue: ‘Vita che uno scrive di sé. Non com., ma dell’uso letterario, introdotto da tal genere di lavori moltiplicati oggidì. Non suonerebbe però bene Autobiografo e Autobiografico: peggio il primo’ (Life that one writes about oneself. Not common, but literary, brought into use by these kinds of works which abound today. Derivatives Autobiographer and Autobiographical, however, do not have a pleasant ring to them: the former is worse). With reference to Carlo Lodoli, Angelo Calogerà makes the following observation in the ‘Prefazione’ to volume 1 of his review Raccolta d’opuscoli scientifici e filologici in 1728: ‘ha molto pensato sopra l’istituto lodevole di scrivere di se medesimo e particolarmente de’ propri studi, da lui, con voce al genio della greca lingua formata, detto periautografia’ (He has dedicated much thought to the praiseworthy practice of

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2 3

4

5

6

7 8

9

10

11

Notes to pages 3–6

writing about oneself and particularly about one’s studies, which he calls [term coined from Greek] ‘periautografia’). See Cesare De Michelis, ‘L’autobiografia intellettuale e il ‘Progetto’ di Giovanartico di Porcia,’ in Letterati e lettori nel Settecento veneziano (Florence: Olschki, 1979), 87. Marziano Guglielminetti, Memoria e scrittura. L’autobiografia da Dante a Cellini (Turin: Einaudi, 1977), 3. Francesco De Sanctis, Storia della letteratura italiana, edited by Niccolò Gallo, with introduction by Natalino Sapegno, 2 vols (Turin: Einaudi, 1958; 3rd ed. 1966) 2: 836. Giovanni Di Porcìa, ‘Progetto ai letterati d’Italia per scrivere le loro Vite,’ in Raccolta d’opuscoli scientifici e filologici, 51 vols, edited by Angelo Calogerà (Venice: Cristoforo Zane, 1728), 1: 129–43. Andrea Battistini, Lo specchio di Dedalo. Autobiografia e biografia (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1990), 81: ‘Impietrito dalla Gorgone di uno schema topico mirante a estrarre da ogni caso specifico la forma interna della condizione umana, l’individuo si converte in tipo per consentire ai lettori il processo della mimesi’ (Petrified by the Gorgon of a topical plan which aims to extract the inner form of the human condition from every specific case, the individual becomes a type in order to make the process of mimesis possible for the reader). And this is not all, if it is true that the ‘spietato elenco dei misfatti ostentati da Jean-Jacques’ (the pitiless list of misdeeds boasted about by Jean-Jacques) seemed to Chateaubriand ‘un mostruoso strip-tease morale’ (a horrendous moral striptease). Franco Fido, ‘I “topoi” del soggetto: alle origini dell’autobiografia moderna,’ in Le muse perdute e ritrovate. Il divenire dei generi letterari fra Sette e Ottocento (Florence: Vallecchi, 1989), 174. Battistini, Lo specchio di Dedalo, 86. In the sonnet ‘Tanta già di coturni, altero ingegno,’ composed by Parini in 1783, after receiving Alfieri’s gift of the first volume of the Tragedie, the Siena edition by Vincenzo Pazzini Carli. Giuseppe Parini, Opere, edited by Gianna Maria Zuradelli, 2 vols (Turin: Utet, 1965), 2: 134–5. Melchiorre Cesarotti, ‘Ragionamento sopra l’origine e i progressi dell’arte poetica,’ in Opere scelte, edited by Giuseppe Ortolani, 2 vols (Florence: Le Monnier, 1945–6), 1: 245. The translation of the Poesie di Ossian came out in Padua, Comino, in 1763, 2 vols, and was later expanded by the same publisher in 1772, 4 vols. This was the edition studied by Alfieri. See Vittorio Alfieri, Estratti d’Ossian e da Stazio per la tragica, edited by Piero Camporesi (Asti: Casa d’Alfieri, 1969). Carlo Gozzi, Memorie inutili, edited by Giuseppe Prezzolini, 2 vols (Bari: Laterza, 1910), 1: 19: ‘S’io pubblicassi le Memorie della mia vita colla presunzione di darvi un’idea grandiosa di me, e non le pubblicassi per umiltà, averei

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debito di sentire de’ pungenti rimorsi’ (If I published the Memoirs of my life presuming to give you a grandiose idea of myself, rather than for humility’s sake, I would be obliged to nurture biting feelings of remorse). 12 Giacomo Leopardi, Tutte le opere, edited by Walter Binni, in cooperation with Enrico Ghidetti, 2 vols (Florence: Sansoni, 1969), 1: 319–20. Translation: Upon closing your story, breathless, I shall see your tomb, my Alfieri, said I, I shall see its bright side and the dear roof Where you bid this earth adieu. Improvident was my utterance. And perhaps I shall first be laid out in my funereal bed, And my bones lie in their fragile burial case And my soul be overshadowed by infinite oblivion: Twenty poor years lived. And you, deadly enemy, You were destined to triumph – and yet rings out the sound Of ever-heightening fame that will one day be said historic. For me, the eternal trumpet will not sound; Unknown shall I remain, without a soul to say: On your tomb I shall come to weep. The text of the sonnet is accompanied by this author’s note (320): ‘Primo sonetto composto tutto la notte avanti il 27 Novembre 1817, stando in letto, prima di addormentarmi, avendo poche ore avanti finito di leggere la vita dell’Alfieri, e pochi minuti prima, stando pure in letto, biasimata la sua facilità di rimare, e detto fra me che dalla mia penna non uscirebbe mai sonetto; venutomi poi veramente prima il desiderio e proponimento di visitare il sepolcro e la casa dell’Alfieri, e dopo il pensiero che probabilmente non potrei. Scritto ai 29 di Novembre’ (First sonnet entirely composed on the night before 27 November 1817, in bed, before falling asleep. A few hours before, I had finished reading Alfieri’s Vita, and lying in bed I had criticized his facility of rhyme, and said to myself that a sonnet would never flow out of my pen; then the desire and intention to visit Alfieri’s grave and house came to me, followed by the thought that I would probably not be able to do so. Written on 29 November). Leopardi’s admiration, as the note indicates, is directed to Alfieri as a man and as author of the Vita, rather than as a poet. 13 Andrea Battistini, ‘Vita scritta da esso,’ in the collective volume Letture alfieriane, edited by Gino Tellini (Florence: Edizioni Polistampa, 2003), 13.

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14 Ibid. 15 Giampaolo Dossena, ‘Prefazione’ to his edition of Vittorio Alfieri, Vita (Turin: Einaudi, 1967; 3rd ed. 1981), xxv. 16 Niccolò Tommaseo, Memorie poetiche (1838 and 1858), edited by Marco Pecoraro (Bari: Laterza, 1964), 35. 17 On the dates of printing (December 1807) and publication (after March and before October 1808) of the pseudo-London princeps of the Vita (Florence: Guglielmo Piatti), please refer to the study ‘La tradizione della Vita scritta da esso’ by Clemente Mazzotta (in Vita di Vittorio Alfieri, facsimile edition of the Laurenziano Alfieri 24 1–2 manuscript, edited by Franca Arduini, Clemente Mazzotta, Gino Tellini, 3 vols [Florence: Polistampa, 2003]), which provides a sharp and clear reconstruction of the intricate textual tangle of Alfieri’s autobiography. 18 Alessandro Manzoni to Claude Fauriel, Paris, 6 December 1808, in Alessandro Manzoni, Lettere, edited by Cesare Arieti, 3 vols (Milan: Mondadori, 1970), 1: 80. Manzoni’s admiration for Alfieri as a man is shown in the letter to Giovan Battista Pagani, Paris, 18 April 1806: ‘Tu mi parli di Alfieri (la cui vita è una prova del suo pazzo orgoglioso furore per l’indipendenza, secondo il tuo modo di pensare; e secondo il mio un modello di pura incontaminata vera virtù di un uomo che sente la sua dignità, e che non fa un passo di cui debba arrossire)’ (1: 24). [You talk of Alfieri (whose Life is proof of his mad, proud furor for independence, according to your reasoning; and for me, it is a model of pure, uncontaminated, true virtue by a man who feels his own dignity, and who does not take a single step that causes him shame).] His esteem for the writer is somewhat restrained, from his youth on, by a profound, unyielding difference in temperament and training, as well as religious faith, political-literary ideology, and choice of expressive forms. Manzoni’s 6 December 1808 letter to Fauriel also shows a good number of polemical shadows, without taking anything away from the meaning of the cited passage. On his anti-Alfieri stance taken in later years, please see Tommaseo in the Colloqui col Manzoni (see Colloqui col Manzoni di N. Tommaseo, G. Borri, R. Bonchi, seguiti da ‘Memorie manzoniane’ di Cristoforo Fabris), edited by Giovanni Titta Rosa (Milan: Ceschina, 1954), 110–11. It must be remembered that the author of I Promessi sposi refused to take part in the celebration of Alfieri held in Asti (see Alessandro Manzoni al Presidente del Comitato per il Monumento a Vittorio Alfieri, Milan, 8 February 1856, in Lettere, 3: 86–7). 19 Francesco De Sanctis, ‘Janin e Alfieri’ (1855), in Saggi critici, edited by Luigi Russo, 3 vols (Bari: Laterza, 1965): 1: 177. 20 Vittorio Alfieri, Vita scritta da esso (hereafter Vita), edited by Luigi Fassò, 2 vols (Asti: Casa d’Alfieri, 1951), 1: 64. Volume 1 contains the critical edition

Notes to pages 9–11

21

22 23

24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34

35 36

37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44

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of the Vita transcribed from the final draft (preserved in the Laurenziano Alfieri 24 manuscript); volume 2 (5–225) is the first publication (and in the critical edition) of the Vita transcribed from the previous draft (relative to the Parte Prima, preserved in the Laurenziano Alfieri 13). Vittorio Alfieri, Rendimento di conti da darsi al Tribunal d’Apollo, in Vita, 2: 264. The Rendimento di conti is dated ‘Anno 1790, in Parigi’ (Year 1790, in Paris), but subsequent additions continue until 1802. Vita, vol. 1, epoca ii, chap. iv, p. 36. Ibid., ii, iv, p. 39. See also ibid., iii, vii, pp. 93–4: ‘studiai anche con molto calore il sistema planetario, ed i moti e leggi dei corpi celesti, fin dove si può arrivare a capirle senza il soccorso della per me inapprendibile Geometria’ (I also passionately studied the planetary system, as well as the motion and laws of the heavenly bodies, as far as one can understand them without the help of Geometry, which, for me, is simply not learnable). Ibid., i, iv, p. 16. Ibid., i, v, p. 21. Ibid., iii, xv, p. 145. Ibid., iv, i, p. 177. Ibid., iii, i, p. 68. Ibid., iv, i, p. 178. Ibid., iv, vi, p. 209. Ibid., iv, i, p. 178. Ibid., iv, i, p. 182. Ibid., iv, i, p. 179. Ibid., iv, i, p. 178. On this ‘alfierismo,’ see Mario Fubini, ‘Introduzione’ to Vittorio Alfieri, Opere, introduction and selection by Mario Fubini, text and commentary edited by Arnaldo Di Benedetto (Milan-Naples, Ricciardi, 1977), xxvii. Vita, vol. 1, iv, 1, p. 177. Del Principe e delle Lettere, in Vittorio Alfieri, Scritti politici e morali, edited by Pietro Cazzani, 2 vols (Asti: Casa d’Alfieri, 1951–66) (vol. iii, edited by Clemente Mazzotta, 1984), p. 158. Vita, vol. 1, ii, ix, p. 58. Ibid., ii, v, p. 42 and also iii, ii, p. 72. Ibid., iv, i, p. 177. Ibid., ii, v, p. 42. Ibid., iii, vii, p. 93. Ibid., iii, iv, p. 78. Ibid., iii, vi, p. 89. Ibid., ii, ix, p. 58.

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45 See ibid., iii, iii, pp. 76–7: ‘il rimanente del giorno lunghissimo, me lo passava o dormicchiando, o ruminando non saprei che, o il più spesso anche piangendo; né so di che; senza mai trovar pace’ (I spent the rest of the long day either snoozing, or pondering I don’t know what, or most often even crying; I don’t know what about either; without ever finding any peace). 46 Ibid., iii, ii, p. 72: ‘Io viveva frattanto in tutto e per tutto ignoto a me stesso; non mi credendo vera capacità per nessuna cosa al mondo; non avendo nessunissimo impulso deciso, altro che alla continua malinconia; non ritrovando mai pace né requie, e non sapendo pur mai quello che io mi desiderassi’ (Meanwhile, I lived completely unknown to myself; not believing I had any real capacity for anything in the world; absolutely lacking in any decisive urge, besides my continual tendency towards melancholy; without ever finding peace or rest, or even knowing what I wanted). 47 Ibid., iii, iii, p. 76. 48 Ibid., iii, vi, p. 87. See also iii, ii, p. 71: ‘Tutto il giorno io correva in quei divertentissimi calessetti a veder le cose più lontane; e non per vederle, che di nulla avea curiosità e di nessuna intendeva, ma per fare la strada, che dell’andare non mi saziava mai, ma immediatamente mi addolorava lo stare’ (The whole day I ran back and forth in those fantastic gigs to see the most distant sights, not that I was curious to see them or knew anything about them, but just for the ride – I never got tired of going, but staying in one place immediately brought me discomfort); iii, ix, p. 101: ‘sempre incalzato dalla smania dell’andare’ (always with the restlessness of ‘going’ chasing at my heels); iii, x, p. 110: ‘Non ritrovava mai pace se non se andando sempre, e senza saper dove’ (I never found peace except in continually going, and without knowing where); iii, xii, p. 127: ‘per me l’andare era sempre il massimo dei piaceri; e lo stare, il massimo degli sforzi; così volendo la mia irrequieta indole’ (Going, for me, was always the ultimate pleasure; and staying, the ultimate effort; a result of my restless nature). 49 Ibid., iii, xii, p. 127. 50 Ibid., i, v, p. 23. 51 Ibid., i, v, p. 22. 52 Ibid., ii, v, p. 42; see also iii, ii, p. 70. 53 See ibid., iii, viii, p. 96. In 1768, Alfieri bought Montaigne’s Essais from The Hague in ten small volumes, with footnotes by Pierre Coste (London: Jean Nourse & Vaillant, 1754). 54 Vita, vol. 1, iii, vii, p. 93. 55 Ibid., iii, xii, p. 126. 56 Ibid., iii, viii, p. 100. 57 Ibid., iii, xii, p. 123. 58 Ibid., iii, xi, p. 123.

Notes to pages 12–15

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59 Ibid., ii, v, p. 42. See also ii, x, p. 59; iii, iv, p. 81; iii, viii, p. 101; iii, ix, p. 105; iii, xii, p. 127. 60 Ibid., iii, xiv, p. 140. 61 Ibid., iv, xix, p. 283. 62 Ibid., iv, vi, p. 213. See also the sonnet ‘Io mi vo vergognando infra me stesso’ (1795), vv. 7–8: ‘Quindi io sempre al gigante il nano a lato / Figuro in me, quando alti sensi intesso’ (So always a dwarf beside the giant / I imagine in myself, when weaving together high notions). In Rime, edited by F. Maggini (Asti: Casa d’Alfieri, 1954), 228. 63 As in the sonnet ‘Sublime specchio di veraci detti’ (1786), v. 13: ‘Or stimandomi Achille, ed or Tersite’ (Rime, 142) (Now judging myself Achilles, and now Thersites), which is an image drawn from Rousseau, Les Confessions, vol. 3: ‘j’avais toujours été trop haut ou trop bas; Achille ou Thersite; tantôt héros et tantôt vaurien’ (I had always been either too high or too low; Achilles or Thersites; hero and good-for-nothing by turn). 64 Alessandro Manzoni to Claude Fauriel, Paris, 6 December 1808, in Manzoni, Lettere, 1: 80. 65 Del Principe e delle Lettere, I, Libro ii, 5 and 6, pp. 158 and 166. Translation: I [...] believe that the great writer is foremost among all great men; because, besides lending greater service, as the author of something that knows no end, and that is useful to the present generation as well as to far-off ones, we must also confess that inside him, in most cases, lives the hero that he narrates, and even more, the sublime narrator [...] But, if an excellent writer wants to paint the picture of a hero, he creates him by himself; therefore he finds him within himself [...] And this word ‘himself,’ that I continue to reassert, with all its implications, the author must unite it with the word ‘true’ [...] 66 Vita, vol. 1, iv, xxix, p. 342. 67 Ibid., iv, i, p. 177. 68 Vita di Vittorio Alfieri da Asti scritta da esso. Testo e concordanze, edited by Stefania De Stefanis Ciccone and Pär Larson (Viareggio: Baroni, 1997). 69 Stefania De Stefanis Ciccone, ‘Introduzione,’ ibid., 31. 70 Vita, vol. 1, iv, ii, p. 191. 71 Ibid. Translation: I still have a kind of diary that I consistently kept for a few months, recording not only my habitual daily foolishness, but also the thoughts and intimate motives that led me to act or speak: all this to see, by observing myself in this dim mirror, if I had managed to improve somewhat [...] I soon grew tired [of this occupation], and it was a good thing; because I was just wasting time and ink, finding that I only grew worse day by day. 72 Giornali, in Vita, 2: 424. 73 Ibid., 417.

154 74 75 76 77 78

79

80 81

82 83

84

85

Notes to pages 15–18

Ibid., 415. Ibid., 417. Ibid., 418. Ibid., 422. Ibid., 424: ‘eppure la è così: essendo diverso da me ogni giorno, ogni ora, ogni minuto, son pur sempre immutabilmente lo stesso’ (And yet it is so: in being different from myself every day, every hour and every minute, I am still always immutably the same). ‘Mi son prefisso di non parlar mai qui di libri, né di lettere in nessun modo, e a chi mi dice Muse, io rispondo cavalli’ (I have decided to never speak of books here, nor of literature in any way, and whoever says ‘Muses,’ I will answer ‘horses’). Vittorio Alfieri to Mario Bianchi, Pisa, 25 November 1784, in Vittorio Alfieri, Epistolario, edited by Lanfranco Caretti, 3 vols (Asti: Casa d’Alfieri, 1963–89), 1: 200. Giornali, 421. Vita, vol. 1, iv, ii, p. 192. Translation: the urge that pulsates in every single form of art, even if it doesn’t come out perfect, is altogether distinguishable from the thrust of a rehearsed stimulus, even if it were able to produce an utterly flawless work. Del Principe e delle Lettere, Libro iii, 7, 228. See Vittore Branca, ‘Momenti autobiografici e momenti satirici’ (1951) in Alfieri e la ricerca dello stile con cinque nuovi studi (Bologna: Zanichelli, 1981), 130–40 (text of Novella prima on pp. 250–5; recasting ‘in ottave’ on p. 256, prepared in Pisa on 7 February 1785, limited to the first three ‘ottave’); Marco Sterpos, ‘Il primo Alfieri comico: saggi ed esperimenti dell’anno 1775’ (1987), in Il primo Alfieri e oltre (Modena: Mucchi, 1994), 91–170 (text of Novella prima on pp. 229–37, citations taken from here; recasting in ‘ottave’ on pp. 238–9). Besides references to Ariosto (Orlando Furioso, xxviii, 20–1) and to other authors indicated by Vittore Branca, ‘Momenti autobiografici e momenti satirici,’ 136–7, there is also a reference to Tasso at the moment of Belinda’s death, (Gerusalemme Liberata, xii, 64, 1–2: ‘Ma ecco omai l’ora fatale è giunta’ [Behold, the fatal hour has come]), especially when the unnamed Gentleman of the Novella prima goes out, ‘baldanzoso’ (audacious), (v. 89) to meet his ‘mala sorte’ (ill luck) (v. 105): ‘Ma il tempo omai a lui fatal s’appressa, / In cui sì grande il vanto / Ei non trarrà dal fortunato incontro’ (But his fatal moment has drawn near, / When such great merit / He shall not gain from his fortunate meeting) (vv. 97–9); the ‘s’appressa’ (draws near) comes from 39, 5 (in the same work by Tasso) and the ‘vanto’ (merit) from 42, 2, as well as 59, 2. One of the epic-tragic peaks of the Liberata is here casually taken up in comic version. He then demanded a reason / For this unconventional insult / And insisted that in

Notes to pages 18–23

155

hand his sword / he take straightaway, and joust / With him as well, since he knew so well how to joust / With his wife. 86 Translation: The chaste goddess [...] her precious timepiece From the dishevelled and convulsed bed She took, and silently indicated to him, That at three in the morning he had come, Rather than at five, as prearranged 87 Translation: [...] ‘Oh good husband, What a venture you are taking up today, and how will you alone suffice for it; from me, with a sword you demand a reason, but for the same insult with a riding whip will you demand a reason of Domenico, who wrongs you just as I do? Believe me, don’t begin stabbing, who knows how many years it would require to take vengeance on all those who have dishonoured you.’ What came of it at last, I cannot say But one must certainly presume that the husband Decided to take it as would a good sportsman. 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98

Vita, vol. 1, iii, x, pp. 109, 111, 112, 115. Ibid., iii, x, p. 120. Ibid., iii, x, pp. 108–11. Ibid., iv, v, p. 209. Ibid., iii, x, p. 109. Ibid., vol. 2, iii, xi, p. 102. Ibid., vol. 1, iii, xi, p. 120. Ibid., vol. 2, iii, xii, p. 104. Ibid., vol. 1, iii, xii, p. 123. Ibid., vol. 2, iii, x, p. 98. Lanfranco Caretti, ‘Il “fidato” Elia’ (1960), in Il ‘fidato’ Elia e altre note alfieriane (Padua: Liviana, 1961), 9–48. The essay is reprinted in Caretti Antichi e moderni. Studi di letteratura italiana, second series (Rome: Salerno Editrice, 1996), 113–49. 99 Ibid., 32–3. Translation: We found the passage blocked by large chunks of ice, that the north wind had pushed there. Only ice, as far as the eye could see [...]

156

100

101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109

Notes to pages 23–5 Finally [...] we concluded that we would have to remain there for the time being, when, to our delight, the Russian postal service arrived, and its boatmen informed us that it was possible to pass by taking a small detour and using spikes for the ice, especially since there wasn’t much wind. My master paid them to go ahead of us and open the passage. Several times we found blocks of ice as big as San Carlo square, and the boatmen got down onto them in order to guide the boat, so as to prevent it from running headlong into them; and then we arrived at a point in which we could no longer see land, and where there was less ice. On arriving at the other side, we found a lot of ice again, and were forced to halt several times, but managed to complete our journey happily [...]. Vita, vol. 1, iii, ix, pp. 101–3. Translation: A large part of the sea was frozen, and in view of the total immobility of the waters, the passage was impracticable for the moment [...] And [...] the next day a fisherman docked at Grisselhamn [...] and told us [...] that passing was difficult, but possible. I immediately wanted to try [...] The many floating islands [of ice] gave a terribly strange look to that horrid sea, which seemed a chaotic and melted wasteland, rather than a volume of water; but the wind being faint (thank God), the impact with those sheets of ice seemed more like caresses than blows; however, due to their great number and mobility, they often drifted from each side to meet in front of my prow, and fitting together, impeded the channel. They were immediately joined by other blocks, accumulating and threatening to send me back to the continent. The only effective means at that point was the axe, castigator of every insolent block. More than once, my sailors and I myself were obliged to get off the boat onto those masses. With axes, we went along pushing them off the sides of the ship in order to make room for the oars and the prow; then leaping back on board at the first surge of the revived ship, we continued along, freeing our way from those insistent companions [...] In its savage roughness, that was one of the countries of Europe that I found most to my liking. Fantastic, melancholy, and even grandiose ideas are born of the vast indefinable silence that reigns in that atmosphere, where it would almost seem you are outside of the world. Ibid., iii, viii, p. 100. Ibid., iv, xix, p. 282. Ibid., iv, xix, p. 283. Ibid., iv, vi, p. 215. Vittorio Alfieri to his sister Giulia, Pisa, 19 January 1785, in Vittorio Alfieri, Epistolario, 1: 215. Vita, vol. 1, iii, i, p. 63. See ibid., iii, ii, p. 69. See ibid., iii, vi, pp. 90–1. See ibid., iii, xi, pp. 118–19.

Notes to pages 25–9 110 111 112 113

114

115 116 117 118 119 120 121

157

Ibid., iii, xii, p. 128. Ibid., iii, xv, p. 149. Ibid., iii, x, p. 111. Vittorio Alfieri to his sister Giulia, Pisa, 19 January 1785, in Vittorio Alfieri, Epistolario, 1: 215–16. Translation: And so I must inform you, to my utter shame, that I have been mistaken on that man’s account for twenty long years; and now, after these last four years that he has served in the house of the Countess of Albania, I have seen for myself, and I am convinced that, apart from being a thief, which he is not, he has all the basic defects that a man can have. Curious, a liar, impertinent, a manipulator, turbulent, and a slanderer [...] This behaviour, which demonstrates that he is as mad as he is indiscreet, ungrateful, and roguish, has induced me [...] to want him out from under my feet; for humanity’s sake, and to ensure that all the wrong is on his part, and for having served me for many years and well during my travels, I have been persuaded to leave him a pension of one thousand liras, which I allotted to him when I gave him [into the Countess’s service], and which, if he deserved then, he certainly doesn’t any more. Vita, vol. 1, iii, vi, p. 91. The usual epithet used in referring to Elia in the Vita is ‘fidato’ (trusted ) (used four times, and once ‘fidatissimo’ [most trusted]), as well as ‘fido’ (trusted) (once): for a cross-reference with Virgil’s ‘fidus Achates’ (Alfieri begins to work on his version of the Aeneid in 1790), see Angelo Fabrizi, ‘Lanfranco Caretti e le lettere di Alfieri,’ in Studi italiani 12, no. 2 (2000): 117–23. Vita, vol. 1, iv, i, p. 177. Ibid., iii, ix, p. 103. Gesualdo Bufalino, ‘Vittorio Alfieri,’ in Dizionario dei personaggi di romanzo, dal Don Chisciotte all’Innominabile (Milan: Mondadori, 1989), 95. Vita, vol. 1, iii, ix, p. 102. Ibid., iv, vii, p. 220. Ibid., ‘Lettera del Signor Abate di Caluso, qui aggiunta a dar compimento all’opera col racconto della morte dell’autore,’ 353. Ibid.

2: Foscolo and the Mythology of the Self 1 Translation: I don’t want to speak about the Ortis. I’ll just say these few words. It is a work written by a genius in the thralls of a malignant fever, a deadly sublimity and a venomous excellence. Unfortunately, I perceive that this work proceeds straight from the heart of its author; and this bothers me all the more, because I fear that he is being eaten away inside by a cancerous, incurable affliction.

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Notes to pages 30–7

2 Ippolito Nievo, Le confessioni d’un Italiano, edited and with an introduction by Sergio Romagnoli, preface by Stanislao Nievo (Venice: Marsilio, 1990), 913. 3 Ugo Foscolo, in Opere, National Edition, vol. 4: Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis (1798), edited by Giovanni Gambarin (Florence: Le Monnier, 1955; 2nd ed., 1970), 5, letter of 3 September 1797. 4 Foscolo, Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis (1802), 239, letter from Milan, 4 December 1798. 5 Ibid., 236. 6 Ibid. 7 Ibid. 8 Ibid., 238. 9 Ibid., 241. 10 Ibid., letter from Ventimiglia, 259, 19–20 February 1799. 11 Ibid., 261. 12 Ibid., 261–2. Translation: We pompously consider virtuous all actions which reinforce the security of ruling authorities and the fear of those who serve them. Governments enforce justice; but could they now enforce it if, in their rise to power, they had not first violated it? The very figure who has robbed whole provinces for ambition’s sake solemnly sends to the gallows the petty thief who steals bread to satisfy his hunger. Once brutal force has trampled all the rights of others, in order to preserve them for its own welfare, it deceives mortals with an appearance of justice, until it is overthrown by another force. Such is the world, and such are men. 13 Ibid., 262. 14 Ibid., 260. 15 Ibid., 263. 16 Ibid., Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis (1817), 333–4, letter of 17 March 1798. 17 Ibid., 334. 18 Ibid., 339. 19 Ibid., 338. 20 Ibid., 339. Translation: Nor do I live, but for her alone: and when even this new sweet dream comes to a close, I shall gladly draw the curtain. Glory, knowledge, youth, riches, homeland – all ghosts that have played a role in my comedy up to now – entice me no more. I shall draw the curtain; and let others toil to multiply the pleasures and disarm the pains of a life that grows shorter with every passing moment, despite those petty mortals who would persuade themselves it is immortal. 21 Cf. Vincenzo Di Benedetto, ‘Introduzione’ to Ugo Foscolo, Il sesto tomo dell’Io, critical edition and commentary edited by Vincenzo Di Benedetto (Turin: Einaudi, 1991), xv. 22 Ugo Foscolo, Sesto tomo dell’Io, in Opere, National Edition, vol. 5: Prose varie d’arte, edited by Mario Fubini (Florence: Le Monnier, 1951), 4.

Notes to pages 37–41

159

23 Ibid. 24 Ibid., 15, 19, 21, respectively. Translation: Listen. Beautiful women were born to love and to be loved. And perhaps you smile and say: I know this better than you. Be careful, for you don’t yet realize that thousands of base passions, together with the blind frenzy of love, nearly always disturb the delight of pleasure [...] The world expects [of a wife] the image of virtue and love, and you must preserve it [...] Now I beg of you, my child, let me persuade you. Beauty is so rare! You would be ungrateful toward nature if you did not distribute it to those mortals who, by pleasing you, acquire the right to it [...] May fortune be with you, my good, dear child! You deserve it for your heart is good. But ... may your heart not betray you! Do not give in to the first sighs of a lover: you would lose him forever. Before unveiling all your charms, learn from the mother of Love, who, before descending to the inhabitants of Tempe, allowed them to worship her, wrapped in a cloud, while making herself known to them by the aura of her hair, fragrant with ambrosia. 25 Ibid., 15. 26 Ibid., 17. Translation: If heaven gives you a bride, share with her all of your joys. And in troubled times, share your bread and your tears. Love one another. And if it be granted you, love one another eternally. But how unfortunate it is that the gods have jealously kept this perfect love for themselves. And if two lovers, their passion extinguished, do not hate each other, this alone is a great feat. Take measures against languishing passion in latter days, which always gives place to the furies of jealousy and honour. Sadness, suspicion, and betrayal always prance around the bed of two jealous spouses. Guard sacred friendship, the only balm for the bitterness of life. Perfect love is a chimera: desire blesses for a few moments: and friendship comforts at all times, and unites throughout the ages. Go now, my boy; here’s a kiss, don’t swear faithfulness to me – I neither believe it, nor do I want it. 27 Ugo Foscolo to Sigismondo Trechi, Bellosguardo, 10 June 1813, in Opere, National Edition, vol. 17: Epistolario, tome iv (1812–13), edited by Plinio Carli (Florence: Le Monniez, 1954), 275. 28 Ugo Foscolo to the Countess d’Albany, Hottingen, 21 December 1815, in Opere, National Edition, vol. 19: Epistolario, vi (1 April 1815–7 September 1816), edited by Giovanni Gambarin and Francesco Tropeano (Florence: Le Monnier, 1966), 163. 29 Ugo Foscolo, Notizia intorno a Didimo Chierico, in Opere, National Edition, vol. 5: Prose varie d’arte, 173. 30 Ibid., 184. 31 Ibid., 185. 32 Ibid., 184.

160

Notes to pages 42–64

33 Do., Ragguaglio d’un’adunanza dell’Accademia de’ Pitagorici, in Opere, National Edition, vol. 7: Lezioni, articoli di critica e di polemica (1809–1811), edited by Emilio Santini (Florence: Le Monnier, 1933), 231. 34 Ugo Foscolo to Giambattista Giovio, Milan, 25 May 1810, in Opere, National Edition, vol. 16: Epistolario, iii (1809–11), edited by Plinio Carli (Florence: Le Monnier, 1953), 385. Two days before, he had informed Isabella Teotochi using almost the same words: ‘Sto pubblicando un romanzo sul modo di Swift, di Sterne, di Don Chisciotte, de’ Dialoghi di Platone – in somma non so bene nemmen io sul modo di chi. Ma tratta de’ pazzi e impostori di letteratura come Swift trattò de’ filosofi, Sterne de’ viaggiatori, Cervantes de’ cavalieri erranti e Platone de’ suoi sofisti. Fra dieci giorni ne avrete una sessantina di pagine che stampo per saggio, e per avvertimento’ (Ugo Foscolo to Isabella Teotochi, Milan, 23 May 1810, 388). (I am publishing a novel in the style of Swift, Sterne, Don Quixote, the Dialogues of Plato – in short, not even I know in whose style. But it deals with literature’s madmen and imposters in the same way Swift dealt with philosophers, Sterne with travellers, Cervantes with wandering knights, and Plato with his Sophists. In ten days you’ll have about sixty pages that I’m publishing as an essay and a warning.) 35 For this aspect, cf. Vincenzo Di Benedetto, ‘Introduzione,’ xxxiiff. 36 Ugo Foscolo, Notizia intorno a Didimo Chierico, 173. 37 Ibid., 184. 3: The Theatrical Works of Manzoni 1 This essay was published as the Introduction to Alessandro Manzoni, Le Tragedie, edited by Gino Tellini (Rome: Salerno Editrice, 1996). In addition to the two tragedies, the volume comprises other texts by Manzoni on related topics, including Materiali estetici, Della moralità delle opere tragiche, and the letter to Chauvet, as well as a selection of various critical texts entitled Materiali estetici. Unless otherwise noted, all references (by chapter and paragraph) are to this volume. 4: Leopardi and the Dissembling Style 1 Translation: Run through the lives of famous men, and if you look at those who are such, not merely by ascription, but by their actions, you will, despite all your efforts, find very few of the truly great who were not fatherless in their youth [...] a father’s power, in all those nations which have laws, involves a sort of slavery for his sons. This slavery, because it is domestic, is more pressing and more perceptible than civil slavery. Giacomo Leopardi, Thoughts II, from Thoughts and the Broom, translated by J.G. Nichols (London: Hesperus Press, 2002), 6.

Notes to pages 64–85

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2 Il Monarca delle Indie, edited by Graziella Pulce, introduction by Giorgio Manganelli (Milan: Adelphi, 1988). 3 Translation: Then, while talking over the De Romanis offer with Mom, [Dad] said in front of the boys at the fireplace that he would advise you against accepting it, because it would keep you a long time in Rome, where you might even stay on as a boarder. I don’t know how he could have been so indiscreet as to let this escape from his mouth. I wasn’t there: I was at school. The same evening, evidently having imagined that his speech must have been passed on to me, and that if you knew the real motives behind his advice, it would have a lesser impact; he came and told me everything, pulling out stacks of reasons and calculations that you will receive in this letter, which, according to him, prove that it’s not worth it for you. But everything was said in such rehearsed tones that it left me without a doubt in my mind. 4 Translation: It is natural for man – weak, poor, exposed to many dangers, accidents and fears – to presume, to imagine, to feign (even gratuitously) [the existence of] a measure of judgment, sagacity and prudence, knowledge and discernment, a perspicacity, an experience superior to his own [...] Such was I, even at an established and mature age, towards my father; and in every negative situation or fear, in order to determine at least the appropriate degree of my own affliction and fear, I used to wait to see or conjecture his [level of trepidation], as well as his opinion and judgment of the matter, just as if I were incapable of judging it myself. And in seeing him untroubled either in truth or in appearance, I used to cheer up excessively, with an absolutely blind submission to his authority, or trust in his providence. And upon finding myself far away from him, I have sensed, albeit with no reflection whatsoever, the desire for this refuge [...] And this characteristic of man is one of the reasons that humankind universally and enthusiastically embraces and upholds, even today, the opinion of a provider God, that is, of a being superior to us in judgment and intellect, who decides our every case, and directs our every affair, and in whose providence we can rest in the outcome of our undertakings. 5 Translation: As humankind is in the habit of upbraiding present things, and praising those which are past, so most travellers, while they are travelling, love their native place and somewhat angrily prefer it to wherever they find themselves. Having returned to their native place, with the same anger they value it less than all the other places where they have been. Giacomo Leopardi, Thoughts XXX, from Thoughts and the Broom, translated by J.G. Nichols (London: Hesperus Press, 2002), 25. 6: The Novelist Verga 1 This essay was originally published as the Introduction to Giovanni Verga, Opere, edited by Gino Tellini (Milan: Mursia, 1988). All references are to this volume.

162

Notes to pages 118–19

7: Notes on ‘La tessitrice’ 1

Translation: I come to the bench in front of the loom, Just as I used to in years out of mind. She, as she used to, moves to make room In front of the loom. 5 And never a sound, no word at all. Only her smile comes, gentle and kind. Her white hand lets the shuttle fall. With tears I ask: How could I have gone? How could I have left you, my long-desired? 10 Silent she answers with tears alone: How could you have gone? And draws towards her, sadly and slow, The silent comb; and never a word. Silent the shuttle flies to and fro. 15 With tears I ask: Why does it not sing, The treble comb, as it did long ago? Gentle she echoes me, wondering: Why does it not sing? And: O my love – says, weeping, weeping – 20 Have they not told you? Do you not know? I have no life now but in your keeping. Dead, I am dead, yes; weaving, I weave In your heart only. So it must be Till wrapped in this sheet at last, my love, 25 I sleep by you near the cypress tree.

2

Giovanni Pascoli, ‘The Weaver,’ translated by Edith Joy Scovell, in Poems from Italy, edited by William Jay Smith and Dana Gioia (St Paul, MN: New Rivers Press, 1985), 303. Cf. Giovanni Pascoli, Poesie e prose scelte, edited by Cesare Garboli, 2 vols (Milan: Mondadori, 2002), 1: 1261–2.

Notes to pages 118–22 3

4 5

6

7

8 9 10 11 12 13

14

163

‘La disarmante semplicità di questa poesia è in realtà uno dei più giganteschi tranelli che il Pascoli abbia mai teso al lettore: dietro l’apparenza esile e fragile del dettato si cela una costruzione polisemica di eccezionale robustezza e complessità.’ (The disarming simplicity of this poem is, in reality, one of the greatest snares that Pascoli has ever set for his readers: behind the slight and fragile appearance of the words lies an exceptionally strong and complex polysemantic formation.) Giovanni Pascoli, Opere, edited by Maurizio Perugi, 2 vols (MilanNaples: Ricciardi, 1980), 1: 680. Cited in Pascoli, Poesie e prose scelte, 1: 1257. The reference is to two rough drafts in verse published in Giovanni Pascoli, Canti di Castelvecchio, edited by Nadia Ebani, 2 vols (Florence: La Nuova Italia, 2001), 2: 1063–4 and 1066–7. The last strophe was especially criticized by Attilio Momigliano, ‘Giovanni Pascoli (A proposito di un commento),’ in Impressioni di un lettore contemporaneo (Milan: Mondadori, 1928), 21: ‘l’incanto del capolavoro si rompe con una strofe romantica, cioè prosastica’ (The spell of this masterpiece is broken with a romantic phrase, that is to say, a prosaic one). This opinion is not shared by Gaetano Trombatore, ‘Il ritorno a San Mauro,’ in Studi per il centenario della nascita di Giovanni Pascoli pubblicati nel cinquantenario della morte, 3 vols (Bologna: Commissione per i Testi di Lingua, 1962), 3: 151. But Luigi Baldacci also speaks of a ‘conclusione anche troppo esplicita’ (too-explicit conclusion), ‘Poesie del Pascoli’ (1974), in Ottocento come noi. Saggi e pretesti italiani (Milan: Rizzoli, 2003), 233. For a concise review of opinions, see Willi Hirdt, ‘La tessitrice,’ in Atti del Convegno internazionale di studi pascoliani. Barga 1983, 2 vols (Barga: Gasperetti, 1987–8), 1: 145–63. See Inf., V, 126: ‘dirò come colui che piange e dice’ (I shall say like he who says weeping); Inf., XXXIII, 9: ‘parlare e lagrimar vedrai insieme’ (speaking and weeping you shall see united). Giovanni Pascoli, Canti di Castelvecchio, edited by Giuseppe Nava (Milan: Rizzoli, 1983), 376. Cf. Georg., I, 294: ‘arguto [...] pectine’; Aen., VII, 14: ‘arguto [...] percurrens pectine telas.’ For the echo phenomenon, see Pascoli, Opere, 1: 688. Trombatore, Il ritorno a San Mauro, 150. Momigliano, ‘Giovanni Pascoli,’ 20. Cf. Ernst H. Gombrich, ‘Criteri di verità: l’immagine ferma e l’occhio in movimento,’ in L’immagine e l’occhio. Altri studi sulla psicologia della rappresentazione pittorica (Turin: Einaudi, 1985), 289–328 (English ed. 1982, translation by Andrea Cane). Giuseppe Ungaretti, ‘La madre,’ vv. 1–4, in Sentimento del tempo (Florence: Vallecchi, 1933): ‘E il cuore quando d’un ultimo battito / avrà fatto cadere il

164

15

16

17

18 19 20

21

22

23

24 25

Notes to pages 122–6

muro d’ombra, / per condurmi, Madre, sino al Signore, / come una volta mi darai la mano’ (And when my heart, with one last beat / levels the wall of shadows, / to lead me, Mother, to the Lord, / just like in times past you will take my hand). Giovanni Pascoli, Canti di Castelvecchio, edited by Nadia Ebani, 2: 1056. The first printing of ‘La tessitrice’ appeared in Il ritorno a San Mauro (containing: ‘Le rane,’ ‘La tessitrice,’ ‘La messa,’ ‘Casa mia’) in the booklet Nelle nozze TosiBriolini (Florence: Franceschini, April 1897) and in Il Marzocco, 18 April 1897 (‘Le rane,’ ‘La tessitrice,’ and ‘La messa’ were presented under the common title Il ritorno a San Mauro, cross-reference to the Tosi-Briolini booklet). Sergio Solmi, ‘Alassio, marzo,’ vv. 5–8, 11–13, in Dal balcone (1968), later in Poesie complete (Milan: Adelphi, 1974), 87 (in the Note, p. 120: ‘In memoriam matris meae’). Translation: After so many years, still / the heart persists in deceiving itself, in catching / that familiar figures in others, so that the heart / gives a start at the old pain [...] / [...] such a slight, / such a negligible error in space / and time, and you would be here still. See Zibaldone 4277–9 (Recanati, 9 April 1827), in Giacomo Leopardi, Zibaldone di pensieri, edited by Giuseppe Pacella, 3 vols (Milan: Garzanti, 1991), 2: 2394–7. See Gino Tellini, Leopardi (Rome: Salerno Editrice, 2001), 181–6. Ibid., 188. Giacomo Leopardi, ‘Il sogno,’ vv. 14–21, in I Canti e le Operette morali, edited by Gino Tellini (Rome: Salerno Editrice, 1994), 108. Translation: [...] Ah, how I grieved for you, and grieve: / I thought you would never know: and / it made my grief for you more desolate. / But will you leave me again? / I greatly fear it. Now say what happened? / Are you as before? And what torments you / within? Giacomo Leopardi, ‘The dream,’ vv. 14–21, translated by A.S. Kline, at www.tonykline.free-online.co.uk/Leopardi.htm (2003). Ibid., vv. 21–5, p. 108. Translation: [...] Forgetfulness stifles / your thoughts, sleep enshrouds them. /she said I am dead, a few moons ago / you saw me for the last time. Vast / sorrow oppressed my heart at that voice (ibid., vv. 21–5.) Ibid., vv. 98–100, p. 112. Translation: and roused myself / from sleep, trembling, my eyes / filled with disconsolate tears. She still / stood before my gaze: and in the uncertain / rays of the sun, I believed I saw her yet (ibid., vv. 98–100). Giovanni Pascoli, Poesie varie, edited by Maria Pascoli (Bologna: Zanichelli, 1912, 19142), 23–5; see also Guido Capovilla, La formazione letteraria del Pascoli a Bologna. I. Documenti e testi (Bologna: Clueb, 1988), 136–8; Giovanni Pascoli, Poesie e prose scelte, 1: 279–81. [...] a veiled shadow beckons. Her candid gown rustles, / Her slender hand motions Have you then left your cold grave, / O shadow, your eyes laden with memories? / Have you then escaped from the dim other side / O reader of my bleak story?

Notes to pages 126–31

165

26 Is it you who passes by in the woods, O my Iole, / in the sacred woods of my remembrances? 27 oh, to dream, my Iole, of things past / the dear dreams of times past to dream! 28 The triumph of the sun disperses my somber dreams; / my poor dreams and my Iole. 29 Dewy flowers open their petals...but to me, what does it matter? / [...] In another place, / far-off, she sees them not! she is dead! 30 Mario Praz, ‘Simbolismo’ (1973), in Perseo e la Medusa. Dal Romanticismo all’Avanguardia (Milan: Mondadori, 1979), 240. 31 For a cross-reference to Penelope and, in the French literature of the times, to ‘La Fileuse’ (1891) by Paul Valéry, see Hirdt, ‘La tessitrice,’ 151–4. 32 Capovilla, La formazione letteraria del Pascoli a Bologna, 116; Pascoli, Poesie e prose scelte, 1: 278. 33 Capovilla, La formazione letteraria del Pascoli a Bologna, 140; Pascoli, Poesie e prose scelte, 1: 295–6. 34 Pascoli, Poesie e prose scelte, 1: 387. See formerly Giovanni Pascoli, Myricae, critical edition edited by Giuseppe Nava, 2 vols (Florence: Sansoni, 1974), 1: clxxxv–clxxxvii. 35 Pascoli, Poesie varie, 16–17; Capovilla, La formazione letteraria del Pascoli a Bologna, 169–70. 36 Mario Pazzaglia, Pascoli (Rome: Salerno Editrice, 2002), 203. 37 Giorgio Pasquali, ‘Poesia latina di Pascoli’ (1937), in Pagine stravaganti, 2 vols (Florence: Sansoni, 1968), 2: 181. 8: The Well and the Cellars. On the Twentieth-Century Italian Novel 1 Gabriele D’Annunzio, ‘A Francesco Paolo Michetti’ (‘Dal Convento di S.M. Maggiore, nel calen d’aprile del 1894’ – From the convent S.M. Maggiore in April 1, 1894), in Prose di romanzi, edited by Annamaria Andreoli, introduction by Ezio Raimondi, 2 vols (Milan: Mondadori, 1988), 1: 639. Translation: Numerous times we had talked about the ideal modern book of prose that [...] free from the bonds of the fable and using all means at the disposal of literary art, enclosed the particular life – sensual, sentimental, and intellectual – of a human being placed at the centre of universal life. 2 Ibid., 643. 3 Federigo Tozzi, ‘Come leggo io’ (1919), in Realtà di ieri e di oggi, edited by Giuseppe Fanciulli (Milan: Alpes, 1928), 5. 4 Tozzi, Barche capovolte, in Cose e persone. Inediti e altre prose, edited by Glauco Tozzi (Florence: Vallecchi, 1981), 83. 5 Carlo Emilio Gadda, ‘Come lavoro’ (1949), in I viaggi la morte (1958) (Milan: Garzanti, 1977), 21.

166

Notes to pages 131–5

6 Eugenio Montale, ‘Non chiederci la parola,’ in Ossi di seppia, in Tutte le poesie, edited by Giorgio Zampa (Milan: Mondadori, 1984), 29. 7 Italo Svevo, ‘Il pubblico,’ in L’Indipendente, Trieste, 2 October 1883, reprinted in Racconti. Saggi. Pagine sparse, edited by Bruno Maier (Milan: Dall’Oglio, 1968), 569. 8 Enrico Pea, Moscardino, translated by Ezra Pound (Milan: All’Insegna del Pesce d’Oro, 1956). 9 Eugenio Montale, ‘All’amico Pea,’ in Altri versi, in L’opera in versi, edited by Rosanna Bettarini and Gianfranco Contini (Turin: Einaudi, 1980), 675. 10 Carlo Emilio Gadda, ‘Emilio e Narcisso’ (1949), in I viaggi la morte, 219; Gadda, La cognizione del dolore (1963, 1970), with an introductory essay by Gianfranco Contini, 6th ed. (Turin: Einaudi, 1977), 123. 11 Italo Svevo, ‘Pagine di diario e sparse’ (2 October 1899), in Racconti. Saggi. Pagine sparse, 816. 12 Luigi Pirandello, ‘L’umorismo’ (1908), in L’umorismo e altri saggi, edited by Enrico Ghidetti (Florence: Giunti, 1994), 140. 13 Federigo Tozzi, ‘Come leggo io’ (1919), in Realtà di ieri e di oggi, 5–6. 14 Tozzi, Barche capovolte, in Cose e persone, 83. 15 Ibid. 16 Tozzi, Barche capovolte, in Realtà, 84–5. Translation: I do not know what I carry inside of me. From up here I cannot make out the reflections taking place in the depths of the well of my soul. I do not know if I have a nest of scorpions or nightingales. And the unknown hand of destiny draws me now to the whispering and later to the frightful tails. The well water alone could testify. 17 Svevo, ‘Pagine di diario e sparse’ (2 October 1899), in Racconti. Saggi. Pagine sparse, 816. 18 Luigi Pirandello, ‘L’avemaria di Bobbio’ (1912), in Novelle per un anno, edited by Pietro Gibellini, 3 vols (Florence: Giunti, 1994), 1: 424. 19 Enrico Pea, ‘Moscardino’ (1922), in Moscardino, Il servitore del diavolo, Il Volto Santo, edited by Marcello Ciccuto, introduction by Silvio Guarnieri (Turin: Einaudi, 1979), 9–10. 20 Ibid., 9. 21 Eugenio Montale, ‘Cigola la carrucola del pozzo,’ in Ossi di seppia, 47. 22 For this aspect of the novel, please refer to my study ‘Per un ritratto di Tozzi’ (1980), in Gino Tellini, Letteratura e storia. Da Manzoni a Pasolini (Rome: Bulzoni, 1988), 233–4. 23 Eugenio Montale, ‘Italo Svevo nel centenario della nascita’ (1963), in Italo Svevo and Eugenio Montale, Carteggio, con gli scritti di Montale su Svevo, edited by Giorgio Zampa (Milan: Mondadori, 1976), 134. 24 Luigi Pirandello, ‘Uno, nessuno e centomila,’ in Tutti i romanzi, edited by

Notes to pages 135–9

25 26 27 28 29 30

31

32

33 34

35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42

167

Giovanni Macchia, in collaboration with Mario Costanzo, 2 vols (Milan: Mondadori, 1973), 2: 862. Italo Svevo, Scritti su Joyce, in Racconti. Saggi. Pagine sparse, 719. Cf. also Svevo, Scritti su Joyce, edited by Giancarlo Mazzacurati (Parma: Pratiche, 1986), 66. Federigo Tozzi, ‘Come leggo io,’ 4. Tozzi, Con gli occhi chiusi, in I romanzi, edited by Glauco Tozzi (Florence: Vallecchi, 1961), 84 and 36. Gadda, ‘Come lavoro,’ 14. Eugenio Montale, ‘Botta e risposta I,’ part 2: ‘Uscito appena dall’adolescenza’, in Satura, in Tutte le poesie, 286. Beginning with the name: ‘Il nome, sia: brutto fino alla crudeltà. Moscarda. La mosca, e il dispetto del suo aspro fastidio ronzante.’ (His name, for example: ugly to the point of cruelty. Moscarda. The fly, and annoyance with its rough, irritating buzz.) Pirandello, ‘Uno, nessuno e centomila,’ 786. Italo Svevo to Valerio Jahier, Trieste, 10 December 1927, in Italo Svevo, Epistolario, edited by Bruno Maier, preface by Letizia Svevo Fonda Savio (Milan: Dall’Oglio, 1966), 857. Sigmund Freud, ‘Lezione 18,’ in Introduzione alla psicoanalisi (Turin: Boringhieri, 1969), 258. Translation: The third and most fastidious mortification; the megalomania of man is destined to suffer in the hands of today’s psychological research, which tends to prove to the self not only that he is not master in his own domain, but also that he must rely on scarce information about what goes on unconsciously in his psychic life. Ibid., 259. Alberto Savinio, ‘Contro il fanatismo,’ in La Lettura, 24 August 1946, later in Opere. Scritti dispersi tra guerra e dopoguerra (1943–1952), edited by Leonardo Sciascia and Franco De Maria (Milan: Bompiani, 1989), 345. Ibid., 345–6. Luigi Pirandello, ‘La mosca’ (1904), in Novelle per un anno, 1: 699–707. Federigo Tozzi, ‘Colleghi,’ in Le novelle, edited by Glauco Tozzi, 2 vols (Florence: Vallecchi, 1963), 2: 523. Tozzi, ‘Il poeta,’ in Le novelle, 595. Giovanni Verga, Mastro-don Gesualdo, in Opere, edited by Gino Tellini (Milan: Mursia, 1988), 1166. Ibid., I, iv, 970. Luigi Pirandello, ‘La morte addosso’ (1918), in Novelle per un anno, 2: 936. Ibid. ‘Ma ci sono, di questi giorni, certe buone albicocche ... Come le mangia lei? con tutta la buccia, è vero? Si spaccano a metà: si premono con due dita, per lungo, come due labbra succhiose ... Ah, che delizia!’ Translation: In this period, there are such good apricots ... How do you eat them? With the skin,

168

43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53

54 55 56 57 58 59

60 61 62 63 64

Notes to pages 139–45

right? They split in two: you just press them with two fingers, lengthwise, like a pair of juicy lips ... Ah, what a treat! Italo Svevo to Valerio Jahier, Trieste, 10 December 1927, in Svevo, Epistolario, 860. Luigi Pirandello, ‘L’uomo solo’ (1911), in Novelle per un anno, 1: 537–44. Pirandello, ‘L’imbecille’ (1912), in Novelle per un anno, 1: 431. Federigo Tozzi, ‘La cognata’ (1919), in Le novelle, 2: 750. Luigi Pirandello, ‘Niente’ (1922), in Novelle per un anno, 1: 846. Alberto Moravia, La noia (1960) (Milan: Bompiani, 1964), 344. Giovanni Boine, ‘Un ignoto’ (1912), in Il peccato e le altre opere, edited by Giancarlo Vigorelli (Parma: Guanda, 1971), 474. Ibid., 478. Arturo Onofri, ‘Tendenze,’ in La Voce, 15 June 1915, 723–30. Giaime Pintor, ‘Americana’ (1942), in Il sangue d’Europa (1939–43), edited by Valentino Gerratana (Turin: Einaudi, 1950, 19662), 156. Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Bruno Corra, Emilio Settimelli, Arnaldo Ginna, Giacomo Balla, and Remo Chiti, ‘La cinematografia futurista,’ in L’Italia Futurista, 15 November 1916, reprinted in Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Teoria e invenzione futurista, edited by Luciano De Maria (Milan: Mondadori, 1983), 143. Goffredo Parise, Il ragazzo morto e le comete (Milan: Mondadori, 1985), inside flap of cover. Leonardo Sciascia, ‘C’era una volta il cinema’ (1988), in Fatti diversi di storia letteraria e civile, 2 vols (Rome: L’Unità-Sellerio, 1993), 2: 32. Pier Paolo Pasolini, ‘Il “cinema di poesia”’ (1965), in Empirismo eretico (Milan: Garzanti, 1972), 183. Gesualdo Bufalino, ‘La marchesa uscì alle cinque ...’ (1986), in Saldi d’autunno (Milan: Bompiani, 1990), 254. Ibid., 252. Italo Svevo, Profilo autobiografico, in Italo Svevo scrittore. Italo Svevo nella sua nobile vita (Milan: Morreale, 1929); reprint edited by Paolo Briganti (Parma: Zara, 1985), 5. Carlo Emilio Gadda, ‘Apologia manzoniana’ (1927), in Il tempo e le opere. Saggi, note e divagazioni, edited by Dante Isella (Milan: Adelphi, 1982), 30. Gian Gaspare Napolitano, ‘Pinocchio,’ 900, 3, no. 3 (1 September 1928): 107–14. Napolitano, ‘Maturità del romanzo,’ 900, 4, no. 5 (21 May 1929): 194–203. Alberto Savinio, ‘Drammaticità di Leopardi,’ in Giacomo Leopardi, edited by Jolanda De Blasi (Florence: Sansoni, 1938), 109–32. Emilio Cecchi, ‘Lettera all’editore’ di Gianna Manzini’ (1945), in Letteratura

Notes to page 145

169

italiana del Novecento, edited by Pietro Citati, 2 vols (Milan: Mondadori, 1972), 2: 921. 65 Cesare Pavese, ‘Ieri e oggi’ (1947), in La letteratura americana e altri saggi (1951), with a preface by Italo Calvino (Milan: Il Saggiatore, 1971), 189. Translation: if the denial of ourselves and our past seemed worth it for a moment, in order to fully embrace that free [American] world, it was only a consequence of the absurd and tragicomic situation of civil death that history had momentarily dragged us into.