V
But even the finest dramatic work of d’Annunzio makes clear that his genius is fundamentally lyrical. The greatest moments of La Figlia di Iorio and Francesca are uttered in a vein which thrills and sings; while, on the other hand, these moments are often reached by summary short cuts, not by the logical evolution of great drama. And it is fortunate that while he continued to be allured by drama—giving in particular a very individual rendering of the tragedy of Phædra (1909)—d’Annunzio’s most serious and ambitious poetry took the form of a festival of sustained song, the Laudi (1903 onwards). We have already quoted from the picture of his childhood drawn retrospectively, in the opening book, by the poet of forty. But these passages, though not at all merely episodic, hardly disclose the deeper sources of inspiration in this series of lyric cycles. ‘Praises,’ he calls them, ‘Praises of the Sky, of the Sea, of the Earth, of its Heroes.’ The glory of earth, and sea, and sky had drawn more majestic praise from the poet of the 123rd Psalm, though in his naïve Hebrew way he ‘praised’ only their Maker, not these ‘wonderful works’ themselves. D’Annunzio’s ‘praise’ expresses simply the ravishment of acute sensibilities in the presence of the loveliness and sublimity of Nature and the heroism of man, an emotion Greek rather than Hebraic. Our poet is perhaps the least Hebraic of all modern poets of genius; and if his barbaric violence alienates him almost as completely from the Hellenic temper, he is yet akin to it by his inexhaustible joy in beauty. And in these years of the Laudi Hellas had become more than ever the determining focus about which his artistic dreams revolved, the magnet to whose lure even the barbarian in him succumbs. The first book, called Maia, after the mother of Hermes, describes the poet’s spiritual journey to the shrine of that god of energy and enterprise, whose Praxitelean image, the most magnificent expression of radiant virility ever fashioned by the chisel, had not long before been unearthed at Olympia. It is a journey of discovery, and d’Annunzio invokes for it the symbolism of the last voyage of the Dantesque Ulysses to seek the experience that lay ‘beyond the sunset.’ D’Annunzio turns his prow east, not west, but he, too, is daring peril in the quest of the unknown. A splendid Proem in terza rima, ‘To the Pleiads and the Fates,’ takes us to a rocky promontory by the Atlantic shore, where, on a flaming pyre, the helm of the wrecked ship of Ulysses is being consumed—the fiery consummation which crowns most of d’Annunzio’s heroic careers. The modern venturer, too, must disdain safety, not like Galileo turning back into the secure haven, but fronting the pathless sea of fate with no anchor but his own valour. The sequel does not, it is true, accord completely with this Ulyssean vision. Symbolic imagery is interwoven, in this ‘spiritual journey,’ to the ruin of poetic coherence, with scenes from an actual voyage to Greece, leaves from a tourist’s notebook, incidents of steamer-life, games and talk on board, sketches of fellow-passengers, the squalor and vice of Patras. Presently the ship reaches Elis, and then, as we enter the ruins of Olympia, the great past, human and divine, rises up before us. Pericles, Alcibiades, Themistocles obliterate the tourist memories, and the poet holds high colloquy with Zeus, and offers up a prayer, nine hundred lines long, to Hermes—a lurid picture of the future of humanity, as d’Annunzio imagined it, wrought by the genius of Energy and Enterprise, Invention and Will; a future dominated by men of rocky jaw, who chew care like a laurel leaf, precipitate themselves on life, and impregnate it relentlessly with their purposes,—a significant image, for the d’Annunzian Hermes is fused with Eros (v. 2904). Eros was, indeed, indispensable, it might well be thought, to a quite satisfying d’Annunzian divinity. Yet in the fine colloquy with Zeus, which precedes, he touches a deeper note, rare with him, of desperate and baffled struggle with his own ‘vast sensuality.’ He begs Zeus for a sign. ‘I am at war with many monsters, but the direst are those, ah me! which rise within me from the depths of my lusts.’ ‘Thou wilt conquer them,’ replies Zeus, ‘only if thou canst transform them into divine children.’
The monsters, nevertheless, continued to haunt his later art. But happier moods were interposed, when he found relief from their urgency in poetic communing with the passionless calm of Nature and of the dead things that cannot die.
Such moods in the second and third books of the Laudi, Elettra and Alcione, both mainly written before the Maia. The Alcione, in particular, is the record of a true ‘halcyon’ season—of hours or moments—in the poet’s stormy course. It opens, indeed, with a savage denunciation—in perfectly handled terza rima—of the demons, within and without, that he has striven with. But now for a while he calls a truce:
Washed clean from human foulness in cool springs,
I need but, for my festival, the ring
Of the ultimate horizons of the earth.
The breezes and the radiant air shall weave
My new robe, and this body, purged from sin,
Shall dance, light-hearted and alert, within!
Air and light and water do indeed play a large and significant part in this benign experience, and in the poetry which renders it. Water, we know, had peculiar allurements for his imagination; but now the obsession of fleets and arsenals is overcome, and he looks out over the wide levels of the Arno mouth, where fishing boats with their hanging nets are seen, transfigured in the effulgence of the west, like cups or lilies of flame upon the water; or ‘on a June evening after rain,’ when ‘the gracious sky, tenderly gazing at her image in the earth she has refreshed, laughs out from a thousand mirrors.’ The solidity of the material world seems to remain only in its most delicate and attenuated forms—the crescent moon ‘slender as the eyebrow of a girl,’ the lean boughs and tapering leaves of the olive, the seashore sand, not ‘ribbed’ as Wordsworth put it, but delicately traced like the palate or the finger-tip. The poet is visibly striving through these frail and delicate things to escape his obsession into a realm of spirit he divines, but cannot reach:
A slender wreath suffices, with few leaves,
Lest it with weight or any shadow burden
The gracious thoughts of dawn!
This is the language of no sensualist, but of a mystic. And d’Annunzio in these poems again and again approaches the poetic mysticism of Wordsworth, and of Shelley and Dante. As he watches the dewy loveliness of evening, the earth seems to dissolve in the ‘infinite smile,’ which for Shelley ‘kindled the universe’;[25] and for the Italian it is the smile of Beatrice. In the child, who hardly exists for him before, the poet of pitiless virility now sees not only ‘the father of the man,’ but the soul implicitly aware of the Truth we only guess at:
The immense plenitude of life
Is tremulous in the light murmur
Of thy virginal breathing,
And Man with his fervours and griefs.
* * * * *
Thou art ignorant of all, and discernest
All the Truths that the Shadow hides.
If thou questionest Earth, Heaven answers,
If thou speak’st with the waters, the flowers hear.[26]
There are hints, perhaps reminiscences, of Wordsworth here; but d’Annunzio’s more obvious affinity is doubtless with Shelley, whose Roman grave he saluted in an ode of lofty eulogy and sculptured grace.
The lyric eloquence of Alcione undoubtedly recalls the rush of Shelley’s music and the æthereal liquidity of his style. Yet they touch across a gulf of profound disparity. D’Annunzio, for all his preoccupation with air and light and water, never, either as man or as artist, escapes the earth. The hard stuff of his egoism is never really transmuted in the flame of love; nor does the clear and delicate precision of his style ever really dissolve in radiant suffusion. D’Annunzio’s nature-world, like Shelley’s, is peopled with imagined shapes, in which the myths of old Greece are created anew. But here too their divergence asserts itself. Shelley’s Prometheus is not really earth-born, and his Asia is the hardly embodied symbol of the ideal passion of his own soul. While d’Annunzio’s Triton and Dryad are recognizably akin to the sea or woodland life they spring from, hued like the salt deep, and full of the sap of earth. D’Annunzio is the greater artist, Shelley the finer and the rarer soul.
But these gracious idylls were, as has been hinted, an episode. Nature could not replace man; beyond ‘earth’ and ‘sea’ and ‘sky,’ the ‘heroes,’ and especially the heroes and heroic memories of Italy, called for his ‘praise.’ Here, he felt, was the home of his spirit. The gracious valley of Arno might be
A cradle of flowers and dreams and peace;
But the cradle of my soul
Is the crashing chariot’s furrow
In the stone of the Appian Way.
The Elettra, the second book of the Laudi, is mainly devoted to the memories of these vanished glories. The resonant herald of the Third Italy wanders, for instance, among the ‘Cities of Silence’—decayed, half grass-grown capitals of vanished dukes and extinct republics—Ferrara, Pisa, Pistoja; oldest and grandest of all, Ravenna, the ‘deep ship’s hull, heavy with the iron weight of empire, driven by shipwreck on the utmost bounds of the world.’[27] Of the sequence of lyrics on the great enterprise of Garibaldi’s ‘Thousand,’ La Notte di Caprera, it is enough to say that it is worthy of being put beside Carducci’s Ode. After a quarter of a century Garibaldi’s glory was no whit dimmed. On the contrary, Italians who knew how many gross blots defiled the Italy he had helped to win, saw Garibaldi as a figure of ideal splendour and purity on the further side of a foul morass. The bitter disillusion of such minds is powerfully painted in the moving piece: ‘To One of the Thousand.’ An old Garibaldian sailor brings his broken anchor-cable to the ship cordwainer to be mended. He looks on, sombre, dejected, silent, but thinking what he does not say; and his thoughts are like this:
The anchor-sheet is broken: let it be.
No hope of mending. Give it up, go home!
Turn into scourges, cordsman, and halter-nooses
Thy bitter twine.
Vilely supine lies the Third Italy,
A harlot-people put to basest uses,
And in her holy oak-grove’s shadow, Rome
Pastures her swine.[28]
But Rome, the eternal City, could only obscure her destiny, not efface it; disillusion founded on her moments of self-oblivion was itself the vainest of illusions. That is the faith of the new Italian Renascence, and d’Annunzio, the fiercest chastiser of her oblivious fatuities, attains his loftiest note of ‘praise’ in the Ode which prophetically arrays Rome in glory as the future centre of the embodied Power of Man.
It is based on the legend, told by Ovid,[29] of the ship of the Great Mother, stranded in the Tiber mud, and drawn to shore by the Vestal Virgin Claudia Quinta. The opening stanzas tell the story—the dearth in the city, the Sibylline oracle’s counsel to bring the image of the Mater Magna, the arrival of her ship in the river, the stranding in the mud, the vain efforts of the entire city to extricate it, until a Vestal Virgin, without an effort, draws it to bank. Then the poet interprets the symbolic legend:
So, O Rome, our Rome, in its time
* * * * *
Shall come from far-off seas,
Shall come from the deep, the Power
Wherein alone thou hast hope.
So, O Rome, our Rome, in its hour,
A heroic Maid of thy race
Shall draw Her within thy walls.
Not a vessel immovably stuck
In the slimy bed, not an image
Once worshipped in foreign fanes,
Shall her pure hand draw to the shore;
But the Power of Man, but the holy
Spirit born in the heart
Of the Peoples in peace and in war,
But the glory of Earth in the glow
Divine of the human Will
That manifests her, and transfigures,
By works and deeds beyond number,
Of light, and darkness, of love
And hatred, of life and death;
But the beauty of human fate,
The fate of Man who seeks
His divinity in his Creature.
Since in thee, as in an imperishable
Imprint shall the Power of Man
Take form and image ordained
In the market-place and the Senate
To curb the dishonour of Men.
* * * * *
O Rome, O Rome, in thee only,
In the circle of thy seven hills,
The myriad human discords
Shall find their vast and sublime
Unity. Thou the new Bread
Shalt give, and speak the new Word.
All that men have thought,
Dreamed and endured, achieved
And enjoyed, in the Earth’s vast bound,
So many thoughts, and dreams,
So many labours and pangs,
And raptures, and every right won
And every secret laid bare,
And every book set open
In the boundless circuit of Earth....
Shall become the vesture of thee,
Thee only, O Rome, O Rome!
Thou, goddess, Thou only shalt break
The new Bread, and speak the new Word!
On this note, the climax of his boundless national faith, we will leave d’Annunzio. We are apt to think that the tide of humanity has ebbed decisively away from the city of the seven hills, and that wherever its sundered streams may be destined finally to flow together in unison, the Roman Forum, where the roads of all the world once met, will not be that spot. Yet a city which can generate magnificent, even if illusory, dreams is assured of a real potency in human affairs not to be challenged in its kind by far greater and wealthier cities which the Londoner, or the New Yorker, or even the Parisian, would never think of addressing in these lyrical terms.
Few men so splendidly endowed as d’Annunzio have given the world so much occasion for resentment and for ridicule. His greatest gifts lend themselves with fatal ease to abuse; his ‘vast sensuality’ and his iron nerve sometimes co-operate and enforce one another in abortions of erotics and ferocity. But the same gifts, in other phases, become the creative and controlling elements of his sumptuous style. His boundless wealth of sensuous images provides the gorgeous texture of its ever changing woof. But its luxury is controlled by tenacious purpose; the sentences, however richly arrayed, move with complete lucidity of aim to their goal; the surface is pictorial, but the structure is marble. Thus this Faun of genius, as he seems under one aspect, compounded with the Quixotic adventurer, as he seems under another, meet in one of the supreme literary artists of the Latin race; a creator of beauty which, however Latin in origin and cast, has the quality that strikes home across the boundaries of race, and has already gone far to make its author not merely the protagonist of the Latin renascence, but a European classic.