Part 2 / Act 1 — Scene V.
Reading edition
Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, and Carmagnola.
Ant. My husband! Mat. O my father! Ant. Is it thus That thou returnest? and is this the hour Desired so long! Car. O ye afflicted ones! Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone. Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death, And calmly wait his time. For you alone My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then, Deprive me of its aid? When the Most High On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows The courage to sustain them. Oh! let yours Equal your sorrows! Let us yet find joy In this embrace: ’tis still a gift of heaven. Thou weep’st, my child! and thou, beloved wife! Ah! when I made thee mine, thy days flow’d on In peace and gladness; I united thee To my disastrous fate, and now the thought Embitters death! Oh! that I had not seen The woes I cause thee! Ant. Husband of my youth! Of my bright days, thou who didst make them bright, Read thou my heart! the pangs of death are there, And yet e’en now—I would not but be thine. Car. Full well I know how much I lose in thee; Oh! make me not too deeply feel it now. Mat. The homicides! Car. No, sweet Matilda, no! Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb These moments—they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess, That, e’en midst all the fulness of our woe, High, holy joy remains. Death! death!—our foes, Our most relentless foes, can only speed Th’ inevitable hour. Oh! man hath not Invented death for man; it would be then Madd’ning and insupportable: from heaven ’Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs With such blest comfort as no mortal power Can give or take away. My wife! my child! Hear my last words—they wring your bosoms now With agony, but yet, some future day, ’Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife! Sustain thy grief, and live! this ill-starr’d girl Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence, Conduct her to thy kindred: she is theirs, Of their own blood—and they so loved thee once! Then, to their foe united, thou becamest Less dear; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds Of Carmagnola’s and Visconti’s names. But to their bosoms thou wilt now return A mourner; and the object of their hate Will be no more.—Oh! there is joy in death!— And thou, my flower! that, midst the din of arms, Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest’s rage Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe. I feel thy burning tears upon my breast— I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know’st That the forsaken have a Father still On high. Confide in Him, and live to days Of peace, if not of joy; for such to thee He surely destines. Wherefore hath He pour’d The torrent of affliction on thy youth, If to thy future years be not reserved All His benign compassion! Live! and soothe Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms Of no ignoble consort lead thee still!— Gonzaga! take the hand which thou hast press’d Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve. Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith To guide and guard these mourners, till they join Their friends and kindred? Gon. Rest assured, I will. Car. I am content. And if, when this is done, Thou to the field returnest, there for me Salute my brethren; tell them that I died Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds, Hast read my inmost thoughts—and know’st it well. Tell them I never with a traitor’s shame Stain’d my bright sword. Oh, never!—I myself Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart, And banners proudly waving in the air,— Think of thine ancient comrade! And the day Following the combat, when upon the field, Amidst the deep and solemn harmony Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites, With lifted hands, is offering for the slain His sacrifice to heaven; forget me not! For I, too, hoped upon the battle-plain E’en so to die. Ant. Have mercy on us, heaven! Car. My wife! Matilda! Now the hour is nigh, And we must part.—Farewell! Mat. No, father! no! Car. Come to this breast yet, yet once more, and then For pity’s sake depart! Ant. No! force alone Shall tear us hence. (A sound of arms is heard.) Mat. Hark! what dread sound! Ant. Great God! (The door is half opened, and armed men enter, the chief of whom advances to the Count. His wife and daughter fall senseless.) Car. O God! I thank thee. O most merciful! Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs Of this dread moment’s conflict! Thou, my friend, Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe, And tell them, when their eyes again unclose To meet the day—that naught is left to fear.
Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last act, the attention which this tragedy has excited in Italy must be principally attributed to the boldness of the author in so completely emancipating himself from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity with which the tragic poets of that country have, in general, restricted themselves to those rules has been sufficiently remarkable to obtain, at least, temporary distinction for the courage of the writer who should attempt to violate them. Although this piece comprises a period of several years, and that, too, in days so troubled and so “full of fate”—days in which the deepest passions and most powerful energies of the human mind were called into action by the strife of conflicting interests—there is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of incident, as if “to be born and die” made all the history of aspiring natures contending for supremacy. The character of the hero is portrayed in words, not in actions; it does not unfold itself in any struggle of opposite feelings and passions, and the interest excited for him only commences at the moment when it ought to have reached its climax. The merits of the piece may be summed up in the occasional energy of the language and dignity of the thoughts; and the truth with which the spirit of the age is characterised, as well in the development of that suspicious policy distinguishing the system of the Venetian government, as in the pictures of the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of war—
“Jealous of honour, sudden and quick in quarrel.”
CAIUS GRACCHUS.
A TRAGEDY,
BY MONTI.
This tragedy, though inferior in power and interest to the Aristodemo of the same author, is nevertheless distinguished by beauties of a high order, and such as, in our opinion, fully establish its claims to more general attention than it has hitherto received. Although the loftiness and severity of Roman manners, in the days of the Republic, have been sufficiently preserved to give an impressive character to the piece, yet those workings of passion and tenderness—without which dignity soon becomes monotonous, and heroism unnatural—have not been (as in the tragedies of Alfieri upon similar subjects) too rigidly suppressed.
The powerful character of the high-hearted Cornelia, with all the calm collected majesty which our ideas are wont to associate with the name of a Roman matron, and the depth and sublimity of maternal affection more particularly belonging to the mother of the Gracchi, are beautifully contrasted with the softer and more womanish feelings, the intense anxieties, the sensitive and passionate attachment, embodied in the person of Sicinia, the wife of Gracchus. The appeals made by Gracchus to the people are full of majestic eloquence; and the whole piece seems to be animated by that restless and untameable spirit of freedom, whose immortalised struggles for ascendency give so vivid a colouring, so exalted an interest, to the annals of the ancient republics.
The tragedy opens with the soliloquy of Caius Gracchus, who is returned in secret to Rome, after having been employed in rebuilding Carthage, which Scipio had utterly demolished.
Caius, in Rome behold thyself! The night Hath spread her favouring shadows o’er thy path: And thou, be strong, my country! for thy son Gracchus is with thee! All is hush’d around, And in deep slumber; from the cares of day The worn plebeians rest. Oh! good and true, And only Romans! your repose is sweet, For toil hath given it zest; ’tis calm and pure, For no remorse hath troubled it. Meanwhile, My brother’s murderers, the patricians, hold Inebriate vigils o’er their festal boards, Or in dark midnight councils sentence me To death, and Rome to chains. They little deem Of the unlook’d-for and tremendous foe So near at hand!—It is enough. I tread In safety my paternal threshold.—Yes! This is my own! O mother! O my wife! My child!—I come to dry your tears. I come Strengthen’d by three dread furies:—One is wrath, Fired by my country’s wrongs; and one deep love, For those, my bosom’s inmates; and the third— Vengeance, fierce vengeance, for a brother’s blood!
His soliloquy is interrupted by the entrance of Fulvius, his friend, with whose profligate character and unprincipled designs he is represented as unacquainted. From the opening speech made by Fulvius (before he is aware of the presence of Caius) to the slave by whom he is attended, it appears that he is just returned from the perpetration of some crime, the nature of which is not disclosed until the second act.
The suspicions of Caius are, however, awakened, by the obscure allusions to some act of signal but secret vengeance, which Fulvius throws out in the course of the ensuing discussion.
Ful. This is no time for grief and feeble tears, But for high deeds. Caius. And we will make it such. But prove we first our strength. Declare, what friends (If yet misfortune hath her friends) remain True to our cause? Ful. Few, few, but valiant hearts! Oh! what a change is here! There was a time When, over all supreme, thy word gave law To nations and their rulers; in thy presence The senate trembled, and the citizens Flock’d round thee in deep reverence. Then a word, A look from Caius—a salute, a smile, Fill’d them with pride. Each sought to be the friend, The client, ay, the very slave, of him, The people’s idol; and beholding them Thus prostrate in thy path, thou, thou thyself, Didst blush to see their vileness! But thy fortune Is waning now, her glorious phantoms melt Into dim vapour; and the earthly god, So worshipp’d once, from his forsaken shrines Down to the dust is hurl’d. Caius. And what of this? There is no power in fortune to deprive Gracchus of Gracchus. Mine is such a heart As meets the storm exultingly—a heart Whose stem delight it is to strive with fate, And conquer. Trust me, fate is terrible But because man is vile. A coward first Made her a deity. But say, what thoughts Are foster’d by the people? Have they lost The sense of their misfortunes? Is the name Of Gracchus in their hearts—reveal the truth— Already number’d with forgotten things? Ful. A breeze, a passing breeze, now here, now there, Borne on light pinion—such the people’s love! Yet have they claims on pardon, for their faults Are of their miseries; and their feebleness Is to their woes proportion’d. Haply still The secret sigh of their full hearts is thine. But their lips breathe it not. Their grief is mute; And the deep paleness of their timid mien, And eyes in fix’d despondence bent on earth, And sometimes a faint murmur of thy name, Alone accuse them. They are hush’d—for now Not one, nor two, their tyrants; but a host Whose numbers are the numbers of the rich, And the patrician Romans. Yes! and well May proud oppression dauntlessly go forth, For Rome is widow’d! Distant wars engage The noblest of her youth, by Fabius led, And but the weak remain. Hence every heart Sickens with voiceless terror; and the people, Subdued and trembling, turn to thee in thought, But yet are silent. Caius. I will make them heard. Rome is a slumbering lion, and my voice Shall wake the mighty. Thou shalt see I came Prepared for all; and as I track’d the deep For Rome, my dangers to my spirit grew Familiar in its musings. With a voice Of wrath the loud winds fiercely swell’d; the waves Mutter’d around; heaven flash’d in lightning forth, And the pale steersman trembled: I the while Stood on the tossing and bewilder’d bark, Retired and shrouded in my mantle’s folds, With thoughtful eyes cast down, and all absorb’d In a far deeper storm! Around my heart, Gathering in secret then, my spirit’s powers Held council with themselves; and on my thoughts My country rose,—and I foresaw the snares, The treacheries of Opimius, and the senate, And my false friends, awaiting my return. Fulvius! I wept; but they were tears of rage! For I was wrought to frenzy by the thought Of my wrong’d country, and of him, that brother Whose shade through ten long years hath sternly cried “Vengeance!”—nor found it yet. Ful. It is fulfill’d. Caius. And how? Ful. Thou shalt be told. Caius. Explain thy words. Ful. Then know—(incautious that I am!) Caius. Why thus Falters thy voice? Why speak’st thou not? Ful. Forgive! E’en friendship sometimes hath its secrets. Caius. No! True friendship never!
Caius afterwards inquires what part his brother-in-law, Scipio Emilianus, is likely to adopt in their enterprises.
His high renown— The glorious deeds, whereby was earn’d his name Of second Africanus; and the blind, Deep reverence paid him by the people’s hearts, Who, knowing him their foe, respect him still— All this disturbs me: hardly will be won Our day of victory, if by him withstood. Ful. Yet won it shall be. If but this thou fear’st, Then be at peace. Caius. I understand thee not Ful. Thou wilt ere long. But here we vainly waste Our time and words. Soon, will the morning break, Nor know thy friends as yet of thy return; I fly to cheer them with the tidings. Caius. Stay! Ful. And wherefore? Caius. To reveal thy meaning. Ful. Peace! I hear the sound of steps.
This conversation is interrupted by the entrance of Cornelia, with the wife and child of Caius. They are about to seek an asylum in the house of Emilianus, by whom Cornelia has been warned of the imminent danger which menaces the family of her son from the fury of the patricians, who intend, on the following day, to abrogate the laws enacted by the Gracchi in favour of the plebeians. The joy and emotion of Gracchus, on thus meeting with his family, may appear somewhat inconsistent with his having remained so long engaged in political discussion, on the threshold of their abode, without ever having made an inquiry after their welfare; but it would be somewhat unreasonable to try the conduct of a Roman (particularly in a tragedy) by the laws of nature. Before, however, we are disposed to condemn the principles which seem to be laid down for the delineation of Roman character in dramatic poetry, let us recollect that the general habits of the people whose institutions gave birth to the fearful grandeur displayed in the actions of the elder Brutus, and whose towering spirit was fostered to enthusiasm by the contemplation of it, must have been deeply tinctured by the austerity of even their virtues. Shakspeare alone, without compromising the dignity of his Romans, has disencumbered them of the formal scholastic drapery which seems to be their official garb, and has stamped their features with the general attributes of human nature, without effacing the impress which distinguished “the men of iron,” from the nations who “stood still before them.”
The first act concludes with the parting of Caius and Fulvius in wrath and suspicion—Cornelia having accused the latter of an attempt to seduce her daughter, the wife of Scipio, and of concealing the most atrocious designs under the mask of zeal for the cause of liberty.
Of liberty What speak’st thou, and to whom? Thou hast no shame— No virtue—and thy boast is, to be free! Oh! zeal for liberty! eternal mask Assumed by every crime!
In the second act, the death of Emilianus is announced to Opimius the consul, in the presence of Gracchus, and the intelligence is accompanied by a rumour of his having perished by assassination. The mysterious expressions of Fulvius, and the accusation of Cornelia, immediately recur to the mind of Caius. The following scene, in which his vehement emotion, and high sense of honour, are well contrasted with the cold-blooded sophistry of Fulvius, is powerfully wrought up.
Caius. Back on my thoughts the words of Fulvius rush, Like darts of fire. All hell is in my heart! (Fulvius enters.) Thou comest in time. Speak, thou perfidious friend! Scipio lies murder’d on his bed of death!— Who slew him? Ful. Ask’st thou me? Caius. Thee! thee, who late Didst in such words discourse of him as now Assure me thou ’rt his murderer. Traitor, speak! Ful. If thus his fate doth weigh upon thy heart, Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest! More grateful praise and warmer thanks might well Reward the generous courage which hath freed Rome from a tyrant, Gracchus from a foe. Caius. Then he was slain by thee? Ful. Ungrateful friend! Why dost thou tempt me? Danger menaces Thy honour. Freedom’s wavering light is dim; Rome wears the fetters of a guilty senate; One Scipio drove thy brother to a death Of infamy, another seeks thy fall; And when one noble, one determined stroke To thee and thine assures the victory, wreaks The people’s vengeance, gives thee life and fame And pacifies thy brother’s angry shade, Is it a cause for wailing? Am I call’d For this a murderer? Go!—I say once more, Thou art no longer Gracchus, or thou ravest! Caius. I know thee now, barbarian! Would’st thou serve My cause with crimes? Ful. And those of that proud man Whom I have slain, and thou dost mourn, are they To be forgotten? Hath oblivion then Shrouded the stern destroyer’s ruthless work, The famine of Numantia? Such a deed As on our name the world’s deep curses drew! Or the four hundred Lusian youths betray’d, And with their bleeding, mutilated limbs Back to their parents sent? Is this forgot? Go, ask of Carthage!—bid her wasted shores Of him, this reveller in blood, recount The terrible achievements! At the cries, The groans, th’ unutterable pangs of those, The more than hundred thousand wretches, doom’d (Of every age and sex) to fire, and sword, And fetters, I could marvel that the earth In horror doth not open! They were foes, They were barbarians, but unarm’d, subdued, Weeping, imploring mercy! And the law Of Roman virtue is, to spare the weak, To tame the lofty! But in other lands, Why should I seek for records of his crimes, If there the suffering people ask in vain A little earth to lay their bones in peace? If the decree which yielded to their claims So brief a heritage, and the which to seal Thy brother’s blood was shed—if this remain Still fruitless, still delusive, who was he That mock’d its power?—Who to all Rome declared Thy brother’s death was just, was needful?—Who But Scipio? And remember thou the words Which burst in thunder from thy lips e’en then, Heard by the people! Caius, in my heart They have been deeply treasured. He must die, (Thus did’st thou speak) this tyrant! We have need That he should perish! I have done the deed; And call’st thou me his murderer? If the blow Was guilt, then thou art guilty. From thy lips The sentence came—the crime is thine alone. I, thy devoted friend, did but obey Thy mandate. Caius. Thou my friend! I am not one To call a villain friend. Let thunders, fraught With fate and death, awake to scatter those Who, bringing liberty through paths of blood, Bring chains!—degrading Freedom’s lofty self Below e’en Slavery’s level! Say thou not, Wretch! that the sentence and the guilt were mine! I wish’d him slain!—’tis so—but by the axe Of high and public justice—that whose stroke On thy vile head will fall. Thou hast disgraced Unutterably my name: I bid thee tremble! Ful. Caius, let insult cease, I counsel thee: Let insult cease! Be the deed just or guilty, Enjoy its fruits in silence. Force me not To utter more. Caius. And what hast thou to say? Ful. That which I now suppress. Caius. How! are there yet, Perchance, more crimes to be reveal’d? Ful. I know not. Caius. Thou know’st not?—Horror chills my curdling veins; I dare not ask thee further. Ful. Thou dost well. Caius. What saidst thou? Ful. Nothing. Caius. On my heart the words Press heavily. Oh! what a fearful light Bursts o’er my soul!—Hast thou accomplices? Ful. Insensate! ask me not. Caius. I must be told. Ful. Away!—thou wilt repent. Caius. No more of this, for I will know. Ful. Thou wilt? Ask then thy sister. Caius. (alone.) Ask my sister! What! Is she a murderess? Hath my sister slain Her lord? Oh! crime of darkest dye! Oh! name Till now unstain’d, name of the Gracchi, thus Consign’d to infamy!—to infamy? The very hair doth rise upon my head, Thrill’d by the thought! Where shall I find a place To hide my shame, to lave the branded stains From this dishonour’d brow? What should I do? There is a voice whose deep tremendous tones Murmur within my heart, and sternly cry, “Away!—and pause not—slay thy guilty sister!” Voice of lost honour, of a noble line Disgraced, I will obey thee!—terribly Thou call’st for blood, and thou shalt be appeased.