The Flame

by Gabriele D'Annunzio

"That is true, most true!" thought Stelio; "the fortunes of Italy are inseparable from the fate of the Beauty of which she is the Mother." This sovereign truth now appeared to him the rising sun of that divine, ideal land through which wandered the great Dante. "Italy! Italy!" Throughout his being, like a call to arms, seemed to thrill that name, that name which intoxicates the world. From its ruins, bathed in so much heroic blood, should not the new art, robust in root and branch, arise and flourish? Should it not become a determining and constructive force in the third Rome, reawakening all the latent power possessed by the hereditary substance of the nation, indicating to her statesmen the primitive truths that are the necessary bases of new institutions? Faithful to the oldest instincts of his race, Richard Wagner had foreseen, and had fostered by his own efforts, the aspiration of the German States to the heroic grandeur of the Empire. He had evoked the noble figure of Henry the Fowler, standing erect beneath the ancient oak: "Let warriors arise from every German land!" And at Sadowa and at Sedan these warriors had won. With the same impulse, the same tenacity, people and artist had achieved their glorious aim. The same degree of victory had crowned the work of the sword and the work of melody. Like the hero, the poet had accomplished an act of deliverance. Like the will of the Iron Chancelor, like the blood of his soldiers, the Master's musical numbers had contributed toward the exalting and perpetuating of the soul of his race.

"He has been here only a few days, at the Palazzo Vendramin-Calergi," said Prince Hoditz.

And suddenly the image of the barbaric creator seemed to Stelio to approach him; the lines of his face became visible, the blue eyes gleamed under the wide brow, the lips closed tight above the powerful chin, armed with sensuousness, pride, and disdain. The slight body, bent with the weight of age and glory, straightened itself, appeared almost as gigantic as his work, took on the aspect of a god. The blood coursed like a swift mountain torrent, its breath sighed like a forest breeze. Suddenly the youth of Siegfried filled the figure and permeated it, radiant as the dawn shining through a cloud. "To follow the impulse of my heart, to obey my instinct, to listen to the voice of Nature within myself—that is my supreme law!" The heroic, resounding words, springing from the depths, expressed the young and healthy will that had triumphed over all obstacles and all evil, always in accord with the law of the Universe. And the flames, called forth from the rock by the wand of Wotan, arose in the magic circle: "On the flaming sea a way has opened! To plunge into that fire, oh, ineffable joy! To find my bride within that flaming circle!" All the phantoms of the myth seemed to blaze anew and then vanish.

Then the winged helmet of Brunehilde gleamed in the sunlight: "Glory to the sun! Glory to the light! Glory to the radiant day! My sleep was long. Who has awakened me?" The phantoms fled in tumult, and dispersed. Then arose from the dark shadows the maiden of the song, Donatella Arvale, as she had appeared to him amid the purple and gold of the immense hall in a commanding attitude and holding a fiery flower in her hand: "Dost thou not see me, then? Do not my burning gaze and ardent blood make thee tremble. Dost thou not feel this wild ardor?" Though she was absent, she seemed to resume her power over his dream. Infinite music seemed to rise from the silent, empty place in the supper-room. Her Hermes-like face seemed to retain an inviolable secret: "Do not touch me; do not trouble my repose, and I will reflect forever thy luminous image. Love only thyself and renounce all thought of me!" And again, as on the feverish water, a passionate impatience tortured the Animator, and again he fancied the absent one like a beautiful bow to be drawn by a strong hand that would know how to use it as an instrument to achieve some great conquest: "Awake, virgin, awake! Live and laugh! Be mine!"

Stelio's spirit was drawn violently into the orbit of the magic world created by the German god; its visions and harmonies overwhelmed him; the figures of the Northern myth towered above those of his own art and passion, obscuring them. His own desire and his own hope spoke the language of the barbarian: "I must love thee, blindly, and laughing: and, laughing, we must unite and lose ourselves, each in the other. O radiant Love! O smiling Death!" The joyousness of the warrior-virgin on the flame-circled summit reached the loftiest height; her cry of love and liberty mounted to the heart of the sun. Ah, what heights and what depths had he not touched, that formidable Master of human souls! What effort could ever equal his? What eagle could ever hope to soar higher? His gigantic work was there, finished, amidst men. Throughout the world swelled the last mighty chorus of the Grail, the canticle of thanksgiving: "Glory to the Miracle! Redemption to the Redeemer!"

"He is tired," said Prince Hoditz, "very tired and feeble. That is the reason why we did not see him at the Doge's Palace. His heart is affected." ...

Once more the giant became a man: the slight body, bent with age and glory, consumed by passion, slowly dying. And Stelio heard again in his heart Perdita's words, which had called up the image of another stricken artist—the father of Donatella Arvale. "The name of the bow is BIOS ("life"), and its work is death!"

The young man saw his pathway blazed before him by victory—the long art, the short life. "Forward, still forward! Higher, ever higher!" Every hour, every second, he must strive, struggle, fortify himself against destruction, diminution, oppression, contagion. Every hour, every second, his eye must be fixed on his aim, concentrating and directing all his energies, without truce, without relaxation. He felt that victory was as necessary to his soul as air to his lungs. At the contact with the German barbarian, a furious thirst for conflict awoke in his Latin blood. "To you now belongs the will to do!" Wagner had declared, on the day of the opening of the new theater: "In the work of art of the future, the source of invention will never run dry." Art was infinite, like the beauty of the world. There are no limits to courage or to power. Man must seek and find, further and still further. "Forward, still forward!"

Then a single wave, vast and shapeless, embodying all the aspirations and all the agitations of that delirium, whirling itself into a maelstrom, seemed to take on the qualities of plastic matter, obeying the same inexhaustible energy that forms all animals and all things under the sun. An extraordinary image, beautiful and pure, was born of this travail, lived and glowed with unbearable intensity. The poet saw it, absorbed it with a pure gaze, felt that it took root in the very depths of his being. "Ah, to express it, to manifest it to the world, to fix it in perfection for all eternity!" Sublime moment that never would return! All visions vanished. Around him flowed the current of daily life; fleeting words sounded; expectation palpitated, desire still lived.

He looked at the woman. The stars sparkled; the trees waved, and the dark garden spread out behind Perdita, and her eyes still said: "Let me serve! Let me serve!"