- Performer Name:
- Sgricci
- Performance Venue:
- Performance Date:
- Author:
- Date Written:
- Language:
- English
- Publication Title:
- Foreign Quarterly Review
- Article Title:
- Review of La morte di Carlo I, et l’Ettore, Tragedie Improvvisate dal Signor Tommaso Sgricci, e raccolte dagli Stenografi
- Page Numbers:
- 239-242
- Additional Info:
- 8 (1831)
- Publisher:
- Place of Publication:
- Date Published:
- 1831
Text:
Art. XIII. — La Morte di Carlo I, e l’Ettore, Tragedie Tmprovvisate dal Signor Tommaso Sgricci, e raccolte dagli Stenografi. (The Death of Charles I, and Hector, extemporary Tragedies of Signor To. Sgricci, taken down by short-hand writers.) Florence. 1825.
We ought to apologize to our readers, for not having earlier noticed this little volume, which we have not happened to meet with till just now, and which is, we think, of considerable value to the literary world. To those wlio have never heard an improvvisatore, it affords the means, in
some measure, of appreciating the very peculiar gift so frequently met with, in a greater or less degree, both in Italy and Portugal; inasmuch as they have here more than an average sample of such extemporaneous poetry, in two tragedies taken down from the lips of the improvvisatore, by short-hand writers. It is indeed impossible that they should hence form any idea of the rapturously enthusiastic admiration almost always excited by such effusions of instantaneous inspiration, since much of this must be ascribed to the poet’s powers of declaiming, to the circumstances of his exhibition, and to the influence of that singular sympathy, which, independently of extraordinary talent, enables an individual to sway the emotions of a multitude, much in the same way that a very hearty laugher compels us to laugh with him though we know not at what, and that our jaws irresistibly distend at the sight of, a yawn. But the publication before us derives in our opinion additional value from this incapacity to awaken such an enthusiastic disposition, by thus enabling those who have formed part of such
enraptured audiences to appreciate the degree to which sympathy, and circumstances extraneous to the poetry, biassed their judgment of its merits.A more favourable specimen of improvisated strains, (if we may thus Anglicize the Italian, for which we have no English verb,) could not, we believe, be found. Not only does a tragedy require genius of a far higher order than a sonnet or a few stanzas, but Signor Sgricci is allowed to be the first of modern improvvisatores; and even in reading his productions we ourselves are fully conscious of his immeasurable superiority to all those we have heard, and who, we must say, constantly disappointed us, notwithstanding the deafening plaudits they elicited from our fellow auditors. In our opinion those improvvisatores merely dressed the common-places of poetry in the musical sweetness of Italian words, according to the laws of metre and rhyme. This is doubtless much to do extempore; but it is to be remembered, that the
structure of the Italian language, its almost invariable vowel terminations and the regular conjugation of its verbs, afford a wonderful facility in rhyming, further increased by the absence of the strict laws which fetter English genius. In illustration of this we may observe, that in
Italian not only are identical syllables, such as invent, and prevent allowed as fair rhymes, but a word may rhyme to itself, provided there be any sort of difference in its use or acceptation. Thus, according to the laws of Italian poetry, ‘‘love,” the noun, might rhyme to ‘‘love” the verb; and if the adjective ‘‘lovely’’ were more germane to the matter, instead [240] of distorting his idea to make the refractory noun or verb answer his purpose, like a luckless English versifier, the free and happy Italian songster would just write the first syllable “love” at the end of the line where he wanted it, and transfer the “ly” to the beginning of the next, as is done in prose to make the most of space and paper.We have no desire by these observations to depreciate the well-merited fame of Signor Sgricci, but make them simply from the love of truth, .and a wish to explain that a gift almost common in some countries does not actually raise its possessors to rank with the Dantes and the Miltons. Sgricci’s talent is, as we have said, of a higher order, and certainly very extraordinary. That any human being should, within a few minutes of a subject being proposed to him, arrange the conduct of his fable, conceive his characters, and proceed to pour forth, for nearly two hours, a stream of dramatic poetry expressing sentiments adapted to the several personages introduced, is really wouderful, and that Tommasso Sgricci has done this is indisputable. His Morte di Carlo I. was improvisated at Paris, before an audience, comprising the first critics and philosophers of that capital, whoso great object was to satisfy themselves that the improvvisatore could derive no help from memory in his astounding performance. The execution of Charles I., as the subject of a tragedy was thought to answer the desired end; but in doing so it involved the poet in unnecessary and unusual difficulties; since he could hardly be supposed familiar enough with English history to treat such a subject as it ought to be treated. Accordingly Carlo I. is not a historical play; it is merely a tragedy upon the murder of an excellent king by an atrocious conspirator, to which personages the names of Charles and
Cromwell are given. Charles, who for so many years and in so many battles fought stoutly for what he deemed his rights, is here the beau ideal of sentimental royalty, willing to lose crown and life, rather than cause the shedding of one drop of his rebellious people’s blood. Cromwell is simply Moliere’s Tartuffe in tragedy. Charles is not a prisoner negociating with and tried by his captors: as an independent though menaced king, be is betrayed by Cromwell into signing a paper which, some how or other, causes him to be tried by the parliament for something or other. Cromwell’s treachery being discovered, Charles makes his
last exit, escorted by Scotch troops, to break through the rebel forces and escape to France, when he is caught and beheaded before we hear of the issue of the trial.We have not room for such an analysis as might enable our readers to judge of Sgricci’s dramatic merits; (though what we have said, in pointing out his deviations from history, may give them some notion of the style of his plot, and its conduct;) but as a specimen of his poetical powers we shall translate part of one of the scenes that seems to have most deeply impressed his French auditors. It is between Henrietta, who is brought back from France, and her confidant Isabella.
“Isabella. My queen, behold the day of triumph ripens,
Behold the moment of our victory!
The faithful bands of Douglas fill the city; [241]
Impetuously rushing on the palace,
Soon from death’s satellites they’ll snatch the king.
Henrietta. My gentle friend, the throbbings of my heart
Speak other language. Into thy true breast,
Oh let me pour the terror that subdues me!
I dare not tell my husband. ’Twere too cruel
To add imaginary pains to his,
So many and so real. Iron souls
Have they, who joy t’enhance th’afflicted’s sorrows;
Yet of this hidden torture I, perforce,
Must ease my heart.
Isabella. Speak on, my queen. No bliss
Has earth for me like tempering thy tears,
By mingling them with mine.
Henrietta. Hither returning,
Weary and panting with the tedious way,
And quite subdued by tenderness and pity,
Which, as I met my consort, woke within me,
Almost resistlessly mine eyelids closed.
Yet doubtfully, and scarcely closed they were,
Ere shaken were the curtains of my bed —
Shaken and opened — then me seemed — me seemed
Or ’twas so — that before me present stood
A royal dame, of countenance majestic
As melancholy. Brow, and eyes, and hair
That hung dishevelled, shone resplendently
In mystic light. Hast thou observed the moon
With a circumfluous white crown in Heaven?
Such she appeared. She looked on me, and smiled
A smile of anguish — So, ’twixt clouds and rain
Glimmers a pallid sunbeam. Then my hand
She took, to her unmoving gelid breast
Pressing it, and my heart throbbed at the touch
With deadly palpitation. Thus she spoke:
‘Lady, perchance in early youth thine eye
Has tearfully on my sad image dwelt,
Placed in the palace of thine ancestors.
Once Scotland’s queen was J, and of the fair
Was fairest deemed by an admiring world.
The thought, the sigh, of every royal heart,
Of each exalted soul, I was — I saw
Flashing upon my brow three kingdoms’ crowns,
And gloried in’t, and my presumptuous folly
In youthfulness bewildered me. From God
I turned away, wand’ring deliriously
In worldly paths. Thus long from precipice
To precipice I strayed — lost my heart’s peace,
Mine own esteem — and all— all, save that virtue
Which, buried in the inmost heart, awaits
Fit place and season o’er the conquered senses
Her empire to recover. In my heart
She spoke, misfortune her interpreter —
Me this abhorrent land received. A dungeon
For twenty winters was my palace. Then, —
She said, and pausing grasped with both her hands [242]
Her beauteous head, from off her beauteous neck
Lifted, and placed it in my hands-—
Isabella. Oh horror!
Henrietta. Soul-stricken by the terrors of the vision
I started from my pillow, and mine eyes
Bent on my husband’s picture. To the neck
It was illumined by the sun’s glad beam:
The head was wrapt in shadow, and appeared
As from the shoulders it were separated.”We must observe, that in translating this scene, we have omitted a great many lines that lengthened the speeches without supplying additional images or sentiments, or giving increased intensity to those already produced. We are not sure that the Ettore is not the better piece of the two; but it has not the same certainty of extemporaneousness; and indeed in its best passages we recognised so much plundered property of our friends Homer and Virgil, as would expose any other poet than an improvvisatore to the reproach of plagiarism.
Notes:
- Collected by:
- AE