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withstanding the sentimentality some of his work. He stands for what is finest in the Italian nature; and the love and reverence in which he is held afford the best proof of his high significance in contemporary literature. "Valsolda" (in whose beautiful valley he has passed the better part of his life) has become a signal-word in Italy, for it is now identified with some of the loveliest verse and much of the noblest prose of the day, is, indeed, associated with a noble personal ideal, the ideal of a simple, strong, much-suffering, yet ever brave and serene life. “Our Walter Scott," Giacosa has called Antonio Fogazzaro.

But he, too, like Arturo Grafthough not as a fascinated victim, rather as one greatly dreading yet sustained by faith-has looked at times overfearfully in the face of that new tragic muse of the modern world, “Madre Dolorosa.” In his remarkable study on “Sadness in Art,” • Fogazzaro writes:

in his poems and novels, notably iņ "Il Mistero del Poeta,” and in the excellent monograph on his life-work by Sebastiano Rumor, and, above all, in his always intimate and profoundly sincere “addresses”—as, for example, when he spoke in Rome in 1893 on “The Origin of Man and the Religious Sentiment,” or, recently, at the Collegio Romano, on “I Misteri dello Spirito Umano"-a deep and native melancholy pervades even the most ardent words of faith and hope, and underlies all but the sunniest and most debonair of his poems. Nevertheless, his influence is wholly for good—the foremost moral influence now moulding Young Italy. Seldom is the biographer more literally truthful than Sebastiano Ru

in writing, “In tutta Italia il nome di Antonio Fogazzaro, poeta e romanziere, è riverito ed amato."

Though all the poetry of Fogazzaro is worth familiarity (particularly for those who feel the underlying charm of his prose romances), the foreign reader may be content with the “Selected Poems,” published in Milan in 1898; the more so as it is not in the longer poetical compositions, such as the versified novel “Miranda,” but in the shorter poems that he is to be found at his best. One of these, a poem representative of the author's mastery over the cadence of simple Italian prosody, may fitly be quoted here:—


Senza tenerezza, senza fiamma la potenza sua fascinatrice è nella grandiosità del suo dolore stesso, è l'idea pura, fatta marmo, dell' universale dolore, del dolore che oscura presto o tradi ogni vita umana.


'The words have the color of Fogazzaro's mind, and show, as a tinted map, the color of a vast region in the Italian thought of to-day. In the same essay he speaks of “la innocenza magnifica della natura”; but he and those of his spiritual fellowship trust little to this “magnificent innocence," and for the most part look habitually into life, not only as in a glass darkly, but as into a dark pool, heavy with the shadow of ancient sorrow and obscure menace. True, Fogazzaro is not pessimist; he has not the steel-bound gloom of Graf, whose impeccable verse is forged rather than moulded. But

(Le Campane di Oria) Ad occidente il ciel si discolora, Vien l'ora-de le tenebre, Da gli spiriti mali, Signor, guarda i mortali!



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6 "Il Dolore nell' Arte." (Milan, 1901.) B"A. Fogazzaro. La Sua Vita, le Sue Opere, i

Suoi Critici." 1896.)

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(Tutte le Campane) Il lume nasce e muore; Che riman dei tramonti e delle aurore? Tutto, Signore, Tranne l' Eterno, al mondo

E vano.

(Echi delle Valli) Pace."

(Echi delle Valv) E vano.

(Tutte le Campane) Oriamo, oriamo in pianto, Da l' alto e dal profondo, Pei morti e pei viventi, Per tanta colpa occulta e dolor tanto Pietà, Signore! Tutto il dolore Che non ti prega, Tutto l'errore Che ti diniega, Tutto l'amore Che a te non piega, Perdona, O Santo.

(Echi delle Vall) O Santo.

There is perhaps no stranger apparition in contemporary Italian literature than Arturo Graf. Called the Hérédia of Italy, because of the classic ideal and impeccable form of his verse, he is the son of an Italian mother by a German father. He

was born at Athens, nurtured in Greece-that Greece whose art he has mastered, but whose temperament he has not inherited, having been endowed instead with the world-sadness of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche-and transplanted while still young to Roumania, whence in early manbood he came to Milan. In the insensity of his irremediable pessimism he can be compared with no French poet save the anonymous author of the “Chants de Maldoror," with no English poet save James Thomson of “The City of Dreadful Night”; and nothing in the

(Tutte le Campane) Oriam per i dormienti Del cimitero Che dicon rei, che dicono innocenti,

* Evening. (The Bells of Oria)-In the west the beavens redden; the hour of darkness comes. From all evil spirits, Lord, guard Thy children. Let us pray! (The Bells of Osteno)-We also, by the waters Uift up our deep voices from these lonely shores. From all evil spirits, Lord, guard Thy children. Let us pray! (The Bells of Furla) -Us, too, remote and high among the shadowy bills, hear us, Lord! From all evil spirits guard Thy children. Let us pray! (Echoes from the Valleys)-Let us pray! (All the Bells)-The Ught is horn, and dies; what remains of snasets or da was? All, Lord, all of this world, all save the eternal, 18 valn. (Echoes from the Valleys)-Is vain! (All the Bells)—Let pray, let us pray, from mountain-height and sbadowy vale, for the living and for the dead,

for all secret wrong and sorrow, have pity, Lord! All sorrow that doth not

come to Thee in prayer, all error that denieth Thee, all love that doth not seek Thee, have pity upon it, O Holy One! (Echoes from the Valleys)-0 Holy One! (All the Bells)-Let us pray for tho86 sleeping the long sleep of the grave; for those who are accounted sinners, and for those ac counted without sla! For Thou alone, Mysterious Spirit, Thou only knowest all. (Echoes from the Valleys)-Thou only knowest all. (All the Bells)-Let us implore for the deep suffer ing of the world, which lives and feels, loves and grieves, the bidden jadgment of the Almighty. Let there be peace opon the bill-side, by the waters! On the bells themselves, peace! (Echo from the Valleys)-Peace!


fantastically sombre verse of Nietz- E una dolce a me in cuor tristezza sche suggests the same profound

subita depths of gloom. But Graf's terrible Tempra d'amor gl' incendii sadness, bis almost elemental melan

Nor has he ever any such cry to the choly, has never the suggestion of

lesser destinies asanything ignoble, as in “Maldoror" or Baudelaire; it is never the mere rhet

O desiata verde solitudine oric of spiritual collapse and despair,

Lungi al rumor degli uomini!

Qui due con noi divini amici vengono as sometimes in James Thomson; nor

Vino ed amore, O Lidia." is it the outcome of intellectual fever, or of the tortured nerves, or of a pow- If once or twice we think we hear the erful mind habitually apt to lose its cry of passion, it is only that of disequilibrium, as with the author of illusion or brooding incertitude. “Thus spake Zarathustra." He gathers up all the hopelessness of Italy, of the

O woman, the darkness in thine eyes.

is the darkness of night; world, of the human soul; moulds it

Thy soul, too, is obscure and mysteriin tears and longing, and the unutter

ous as the sea, as this obscure sea. able sadness of sorrow without hope;

Which engulfs in its flowing side the and reveals it to us in lovely image plunging prow. after image, in chiselled verse of per- I see thy dark hair; in thy pale, beaufect form, in a beauty rendered almost

tiful face unnaturally poignant. In a far deeper

I see the wandering fires of thine eyes;

I see thy laughter-parted rosy than the somewhat blatant

lips; “Lucifer” of Mario Rapisardi, than

But into thy soul, into that darkness, the magnificently rhetorical “Hymn to no, I do not see. Satan" of Carducci, Graf's “Buried

And yet this is the poet who, in his Titan" in the very remarkable poem

beautiful reminiscences (“Dal Libro. “La Città dei Titani,” in the volume called "Le Danaidi”) may be said to

dei Ricordi"), writes thus of his dear.

home at the foot of the slope where. symbolize the bewildered attitude of

the Parthenon rears its sacred outline: the modern mind. So absolutely does he differ from the Latin temperament

(“la dolce casa . . . sulla cui cima

altero il Partenon drizza la that he remains cold even before the inspiration of woman. Neither the

mole”):— beautiful actuality nor the seductive Avea presso un giardin, triste e severo, visionary type moves this modern St Benchè di rose pieno e di viole, Anthony. In all his writings we re

E un gran cipresso, avviluppato e nero,. member no verse in the slightest de

Aduggiava di fredda ombra le ajuole. gree recalling these eminently Carduc- V' era, pien d'acqua, e di figure cian lines (from “Ruit Hora,” perhaps adorno, the loveliest poem in the first “Odi

Un sarcofago antico, alla cui sponda, Barbare"):

Veniano a ber le rondini del cielo.

Alto silenzio tenea l' aria intorno, Fra le tue nere chiome, o bianca Lidia, E nella pace estatica e profonda Langue una rosa pallida;

Non si vedea crollar foglia, nè stelo. 18.



8 In thy dark bair, O white Lidia, a pale rose languishes; in my heart suddenly a sweet sadness softens the flame of love.

oo longed-for green solitude, far from the rumor of men; hither have come with us our two divine - friends, Wine and Love, O Lidia.

10 Near by was a garden, sad and austere; for

all that it was full of roses and violets; perhaps because of the great cypress, a pyramid of green darkness, which cast its chill shadow athwart the garden-ways.

There, too, with carven figures and full of water, stood an antique sarcophagus, where the.. swallows loved to dip and drink..

Truly, as has been said of him, Ar- which surprise one almost as though turo Graf may see as a Hellene, and one were to come upon an ode of Anwrite in Italian, his maternal tongue, acreon in the text of Ecclesiastes! but it is the sad northern soul, Nevertheless, “Ruit Hora” might be “l'anima tedesca,” which speaks in his the apt title of the book, and its motto poetry. In “Idea Fissa," one of the the couplet to which so much music most notable poems in his first book, and thought and longing are attuned“Dopo il Tramonto" ("After Sun. down"), he reveals, consciously or un

Mio vecchio core, mio povero core,

Perchè se' tu così triste e inquieto; consciously, the overwhelming prepossession of a single idea which all

or that undernote that is never losthis life has bewitched his imagination and entranced bis mind.

His muse,

Passato è il tempo ge' teneri ingannf, in a word, is Death, whether he call Passato è l'ora propizia all' amore. her "Morte Regina,” or “Morte Guer

The book closes with a short poem, riera,” or “Regina, del Mondo," or veil

"Explicit,” which might well stand as: his sombre passion under an antique epilogue to all its sad beauty—a sadname, as in that strange and terrible

ness not wholly in vain, for it is the second book, "Medusa":

sadness of a fine and noble spirit, and. O mia lugubre Musa

as such is accepted in Italy, and so is. Implacabile Erinni,

become in a sense representative: Tu dal mio labbro fai proromper gl inni

EXPLICIT. Venenati, O Medusa! 11

Non uno de' ben vani, in ch' io già conThere is, however, more variety,


Mi tenne fede mai: along with still more evident beauty

Ciò mi riempie il core, che a soffrir and mastery, in Graf's third book, “Le

mal s' avvezza, Danaidi,” published in 1897. A few

D' una grande amarezza. months ago appeared his “Morgana,” in which, though there is no poem to Non una delle colpe, ch' io commisi in compare with Città dei Titani” of the mia vita, "Danaidi” volume, nor any sequence

E rimasta impunita: to parallel the Athenian “Libro dei

Ciò mi riempie il core (povera, nuda

stanza!) Ricordi” in “Dopo il Tramonto," a

D'una grande speranza." more serene spirit, somewhat of a wise hedonism, is revealed. We even There is an even greater difference encounter lines such as

between the pessimism of Ada Negri,

whose "Fatalità” has had in Italy a nell' aria chiara

wider acceptance than almost any Cantano i mandolini

other recent book of verse, and that I mandolini arguti Dalle voci tremanti,

of Arturo Graf, than between Graf's Onde perdon lor vanti

and Leopardi's. Leopardi was the exArpe, flauti, liuti.

ponent of the malady of his age: Cantano, gioja, amore!

Graf is the poet of the soul's secret dread and despair: Ada Negri is of the power of absorbing love to ennoble cirmany whose strength lies in wild pro- cumstance, as in that passionate and test, fierce denunciation, in scorn and vivid poem, "Popolana" ("A Girl of reproach, and the voice of social mis- the People”), and, on the other, her ery. Her poetry has the swift move- grandiose vision of the congregated ment and lyrical vehemence of the sorrows and sufferings of the world, early revolutionary poems of Swin- as in the burning lines of the unforburne, or of Victor Hugo' "Les Châti- gettable “I Vinti” (“The Vanquished") ments”; but it has also the faults of -"Behold them, in hundreds, in thouthese, and that in an exaggerated de- sands, in millions, in countless hordes; gree. An instance from the same poem from their serried ranks rises a rumor (“Sfida”—“Defiance” or “Challenge”) as of distant thunder. ... Alas, alas, will suffice. We sympathize when she we are the vanquished!” cries,


A deep stillness brooded in the air around: the peace

was husbt ecstasy, wherein no stem moved, no leat quivered.

11 o sombre and dread Muse, implacable Erinays, thou makest these lips sing poisoned hymns, O Medosa! 13 Not one good thing, now lost, in which once


put all my trust, has ever remained with me; and this has alled my heart, even now 8o 111accustomed to suffer, with a great bitterness.

Not one of all the faults I have committed in my life but has had to pay its penalty: and this has filled my heart (poor, bare habitation) with a great hope.

To turn from this tempestuous emo

tion and troubled art to the serene air E sei tu dunque, tu, mondo bugiardo, Che vuoi celarmi il sol de gl' ideali; 18

of Carducci—though he, too, is the

poet of revolt-or to the languorous but we only smile at the rhetoric of- beauty of D'Annunzio's verse, or to

the exquisite art and natural charm of O grasso mondo d'oche e di serpenti,

Pascoli, is to exchange the noise and Mondo vigiacco, che tu sia dannato;

sordidness of a manufacturing town Fiasso lo sguardo ne gli astri fulgenti

for the intellectual peace of a library, Io niovo incontro al fato.''

or the charmed stillness of a cloister, Many of us have been Ada Negris in or the gla ess of a spring day in the our day. As we grow older we not open. Books such as Giovanni Pasonly do not call our fellows geese and coli's “Myricae” and the maturer and serpents, but even settle down to tol- finer "Poemetti” bring into Italian litera te them with kindly complacency. erature to-day something of what Ada Negri herself, revolutionist, so- Wordsworth, Keats, and Tennyson, in cialist, intransigeante, is now the Sig. a fresh vivid naturalism, brought into nora Garlanda, the wife of a wealthy English poetry. So now we come to Milanese bourgeois.

the two most eminent names in Italy Nevertheless, there is in her work a to-day-to the old king and the insurpower to influence. Its secret may be gent prince, Giosuè Carducci and Gadiscerned in the poem in "Fatalità” briele D'Annunzio. called "Senza Nome” (“Nameless”), It is now nearly thirty years since wherein she speaks of herself as “an the “Hymn to Satan"—that modern enigma of hate and love, of violence "classic" of spiritual and intellectual and gentleness,” and says that revolt-electrified Italy. To-day it will throughout her life “an evil spirit has be read without the same answering followed me step by step, and an angel thrill, perhaps even with lessened adwith hands clasped in prayer.” It is miration, Rhetoric has not the stayingthe combination in her of class-hatred power of the grave ecstasy that is perand feminine unselfishness which has fected art; and this, perhaps the most won her so many friends; and the famous lyrical poem of the last halfsecret of her influence is, on the one century, is largely superb rhetoric. side, the frank recognition of the Nevertheless, the fragrance and the

13 It is thou, then, thou lying world, that would'st conceal from me the sun of the ideal.

14 O fat world, swarming with geese and ser

pents, wretched world, may damnation be your lot! With my gaze fxt on the shining stars, I move onward to my destiny.

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