Manzoni: The Rythm and the Meaning of the Adelchi

In a post on "Cassandra's Legacy" I interpreted the reaction of Italians to the coronavirus epidemics in terms of the description that Alessandro Manzoni wrote of the bubonic plague that hit Milano in 1629-1631. The same dismay, the same folly, the same hatred, the same desperate attempt to find a culprit for something that goes beyond human understanding.

In that post, I praised Manzoni as a genius who had understood the basics of the field we call "memetics" nearly two centuries before Richard Dawkins proposed it for the first time, in 1976. But Manzoni was more than that, he was a fine poet, a deep thinker, a man who could explore the human soul and give us stories that are at the same time epic and human.

Everyone knows Manzoni for the novel "The Betrothed," but let me report here an excerpt from his tragedy, "Adelchi," the story of an unfortunate Longobard prince who fought for his honor and who only was defeated by betrayal. A powerful story that includes true jewels in the form of the poems told by the chorus.

Here is the chorus of the 3rd act. It tells of how the derelict Italians watch their masters, the Lombards, beaten by the Frankish warriors and running away in terror. The Italians hope in their salvation, but they will only have new masters. The translation is by Hampsicore, reasonably good, but it can't maintain the rhythm of the Italian version. If you can, do read the poem in Italian (below), it is truly a masterpiece of poetry. And even if you can't understand Italian, you may enjoy the pure sound of the Italian words,

Adelchi - Chorus of the Third Act

Alessandro Manzoni


From the mossy halls, from the crumbling fora,
From woods, from strident scorching smithies,
From furrows wet with servile sweat,
A dispersed crowd suddenly awakes,
Stretches out his ear, rises his head,
Hit by a new, increasing noise.

Through doubtful gazes, through fearful faces,
Like a sunbeam through thick clouds,
The proud virtue of the fathers faintly shines;
In the gazes, in the faces, confused and unsure,
The scorn suffered mingles and contrasts
With the poor pride of a time that’s gone.

It1 gathers wishful, it scatters trembling
Through twisted paths, with errant pace,
Between fear and desire it advances and stops;
And peeps and gazes, disheartened and confused,
The scattered drove of the cruel lords,
That flees from the swords, that has no rest.

It sees them, panting like restless beasts,
With their tawny manes ruffled for fear,
Seeking the familiar refuge of their den;
And yonder, laid down the usual threat,
The haughty women, with pale faces,
Staring pensive at their pensive sons.

And on the fugitives, with greedy swords,
Like unleashed dogs, running, rummaging,
Warriors coming from left, from right:
It sees them and, enraptured by an unknown joy,
With the agile hope it prefigures the event
And dreams of the end of the hard servitude.

Listen! Those strong men who hold the field,
Who to your tyrants preclude any escape,
Have come from afar through rough paths:
They interrupted the delight of festive lunches,
They got up quickly from their bland rests,
Abruptly called by a martial bugle.

They left, in the rooms of their native roof,
The afflicted women, repeating their farewell,
Prayers and advices, truncated by tears.
Their heads are loaded with dented crests,
They put saddles on their brown destriers,
They flew on the bridge that gloomily resounded.

In hosts they passed from land to land,
Singing merry war songs,
But thinking of the sweet castles in their hearts;
Through stony valleys, through steep cliffs,
They watched with weapons on icy nights,
Recalling the faithful love talks.

They endured obscure dangers in unpleasant places,
Laboured runs on slopes without human tracks,
Severe commands, hunger;
They saw the spears lowered on their chests,
Next to their shields, close to their helmets,
They heard the arrows fly hissing.

And the hoped prize, promised to those strong men,
Would be – oh, deluded! – to overturn the destiny,
To put an end to the pain of a stranger crowd?
Go back to your superb ruins,
To the peaceable works of your scorching workshops,
To the furrows wet with servile sweat.

The strong enemy mingles with the defeated one,
The new lord remains with the old one;
Both peoples weigh on your neck.
They divide serves, divide herds,
They rest together on the bloody fields
Of a dispersed crowd which has no name.

Coro dell’atto terzo dell’Adelchi

Alessandro Manzoni


Dagli atrii muscosi, dai fori cadenti,
dai boschi, dall’arse fucine stridenti,
dai solchi bagnati di servo sudor,
un volgo disperso repente si desta;
intende l’orecchio, solleva la testa
percosso da novo crescente romor.

Dai guardi dubbiosi, dai pavidi volti,
qual raggio di sole da nuvoli folti,
traluce de’ padri la fiera virtù;
ne’ guardi, ne’ volti, confuso ed incerto
si mesce e discorda lo spregio sofferto
col misero orgoglio d’un tempo che fu.

S’aduna voglioso, si sperde tremante;
per torti sentieri, con passo vagante,
fra tema e desire, s’avanza e ristà;
e adocchia e rimira scorata e confusa
dei crudi signori la turba diffusa,
che fugge dai brandi, che sosta non ha.

Ansanti li vede, quai trepide fere,
irsuti per tema le fulve criniere,
le note latebre del covo cercar;
e quivi, deposta l’usata minaccia,
le donne superbe, con pallida faccia,
i figli pensosi pensose guatar.

E sopra i fuggenti, con avido brando,
quai cani disciolti, correndo, frugando,
da ritta da manca, guerrieri venir:
li vede, e rapito d’ignoto contento,
con l’agile speme precorre l’evento,
e sogna la fine del duro servir.

Udite! Quei forti che tengono il campo,
che ai vostri tiranni precludon lo scampo,
son giunti da lunge, per aspri sentier:
sospeser le gioje dei prandî festosi,
assursero in fretta dai blandi riposi,
chiamati repente da squillo guerrier.

Lasciâr nelle sale del tetto natío
le donne accorate, tornanti all’addio,
a preghi e consigli che il pianto troncò.
Han carca la fronte dei pesti cimieri,
han poste le selle sui bruni corsieri,
volaron sul ponte che cupo sonò.

A torme, di terra passarono in terra,
cantando giulive canzoni di guerra,
ma i dolci castelli pensando nel cor;
per valli petrose, per balzi dirotti,
vegliaron nell’arme le gelide notti,
membrando i fidati colloquî d’amor.

Gli oscuri perigli di stanze incresciose,
per greppi senz’orma le corse affannose,
il rigido impero, le fami durar;
si vider le lance calate sui petti,
a canto agli scudi, rasente gli elmetti,
udiron le frecce fischiando volar.

E il premio sperato, promesso a quei forti
sarebbe, o delusi, rivolger le sorti,
d’un volgo straniero por fine al dolor?
Tornate alle vostre superbe ruine,
all’opere imbelli dell’arse officine,
ai solchi bagnati di servo sudor.

Il forte si mesce col vinto nemico;
col novo signore rimane l’antico;
l’un popolo e l’altro sul collo vi sta.
Dividono i servi, dividon gli armenti;
si posano insieme sui campi cruenti
d’un volgo disperso che nome non ha.