Part 17

“Glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” he began, as I came up to where the two were arguing together. “I’ve heard of your passing through the other day. So you don’t talk Italian? Well, then, see here: this man of yours, this God-dam son of Satan, has been showing me a couple of bugs and telling me a couple of hundred lies about them. Better move on right away; lucky you struck _me!_ As for this son of a ——, you bet I’ll sulphur him, bugs and all, to hell!”

I paid the crestfallen muleteer then and there; took down my bags, greatly lightened, and departed with them. Glancing round near the little bridge, I saw that the pair were still engaged in heated discussion, my man clinging despairingly, as it seemed, to the beetle-hypothesis; he looked at me with reproachful eyes, as though I had deserted him in his hour of need.

But what could I do, not knowing Italian?

Moreover, I remembered the “lady-mule.”

Fifteen minutes later a light carriage took me to Castrovillari, whence, after a bath and dinner that compensated for past hardships, I sped down to the station and managed, by a miracle, to catch the night-train to Cosenza.

XXI MILTON IN CALABRIA

you may spend pleasant days in this city of Cosenza, doing nothing whatever. But I go there a for set purpose, and bristling with energy. I go there to hunt for a book by a certain Salandra, which was printed on the spot, and which I have not yet been able to find, although I once discovered it in an old catalogue, priced at 80 _grani._ Gladly would I give 8000 for it!

The author was a contemporary of that Flying Monk of whom I spoke in Chapter X, and he belonged to the same religious order. If, in what I then said about the flying monk, there appears to be some trace of light fooling in regard to this order and its methods, let amends be made by what I have to tell about old Salandra, the discovery of whose book is one of primary importance for the history of English letters. Thus I thought at the time; and thus I still think, with all due deference to certain grave and discerning gentlemen, the editors of various English monthlies to whom I submitted a paper on this subject—a paper which they promptly returned with thanks. No; that is not quite correct. One of them has kept it; and as six years have passed over our heads, I presume he has now acquired a title by “adverse possession.” Much good may it do him!

Had the discovery been mine, I should have endeavoured to hide my light under the proverbial bushel. But it is not mine, and therefore I make bold to say that Mr. Bliss Perry, of the “Atlantic Monthly,” knew better than his English colleagues when he published the article from which I take what follows.

“Charles Dunster (‘Considerations on Milton’s Early Reading,’ etc., 1810) traces the _prima stamina_ of ‘Paradise Lost’ to Sylvester’s ‘Du Bartas.’ Masenius, Cedmon, Vondel, and other older writers have also been named in this connection, while the majority of Milton’s English commentators—and among foreigners Voltaire and Tiraboschi—are inclined to regard the ‘Adamus Exul’ of Grotius or Andreini’s sacred drama of ‘Adamo’ as the prototype. This latter can be consulted in the third volume of Cowper’s ‘Milton’ (1810).

The matter is still unsettled, and in view of the number of recent scholars who have interested themselves in it, one is really surprised that no notice has yet been taken of an Italian article which goes far towards deciding this question and proving that the chief source of ‘Paradise Lost’ is the ‘Adamo Caduto,’ a sacred tragedy by Serafino della Salandra. The merit of this discovery belongs to Francesco Zicari, whose paper, ‘Sulla scoverta dell’ originale italiano da cui Milton trasse il suo poema del paradiso perduto,’ is printed on pages 245 to 276 in the 1845 volume of the Naples ‘Album scientifico-artistico-letterario’ now lying before me. It is in the form of a letter addressed to his friend Francesco Ruffa, a native of Tropea in Calabria.[1]

[1] Zicari contemplated another paper on this subject, but I am unaware whether this was ever published. The Neapolitan Minieri-Riccio, who wrote his ‘Memorie Storiche’ in 1844, speaks of this article as having been already printed in 1832, but does not say where. This is corroborated by N. Falcone (‘Biblioteca storica-topo-grafica della Calabria,’ 2nd ed., Naples, 1846, pp. 152-154), who gives the same date, and adds that Zicari was the author of a work on the district of Fuscaldo. He was born at Paola in Calabria, of which he wrote a (manuscript) history, and died in 1846. In this Milton article, he speaks of his name being ‘unknown in the republic of letters.’. He is mentioned by Nicola Leoni (‘Della Magna Grecia,’ vol. ii, p. 153).

Salandra, it is true, is named among the writers of sacred tragedies in Todd’s ‘Milton’ (1809, vol. ii, p. 244), and also by Hayley, but neither of them had the curiosity, or the opportunity, to examine his ‘Adamo Caduto’; Hayley expressly says that he has not seen it. More recent works, such as that of Moers (‘De fontibus Paradisi Amissi Miltoniani,’ Bonn, 1860), do not mention Salandra at all. Byse (‘Milton on the Continent,’ 1903) merely hints at some possible motives for the Allegro and the Penseroso.

As to dates, there can be no doubt to whom the priority belongs. The ‘Adamo’ of Salandra was printed at Cosenza in 1647. Richardson thinks that Milton entered upon his ‘Paradise Lost’ in 1654, and that it was shown, as done, in 1665; D. Masson agrees with this, adding that ‘it was not published till two years afterwards.’ The date 1665 is fixed, I presume, by the Quaker Elwood’s account of his visit to Milton in the autumn of that year, when the poet gave him the manuscript to read; the two years’ delay in publication may possibly have been due to the confusion occasioned by the great plague and fire of London.

The castigation bestowed upon Lauder by Bishop Douglas, followed, as it was, by a terrific ‘back-hander’ from the brawny arm of Samuel Johnson, induces me to say that Salandra’s ‘Adamo Caduto,’ though extremely rare—so rare that neither the British Museum nor the Paris Bibliothèque Nationale possesses a copy—is _not_ an imaginary book; I have had it in my hands, and examined it at the Naples Biblioteca Nazionale; it is a small octavo of 251 pages (not including twenty unnumbered ones, and another one at the end for correction of misprints); badly printed and bearing all the marks of genuineness, with the author’s name and the year and place of publication clearly set forth on the title-page. I have carefully compared Zicari’s references to it, and quotations from it, with the original. They are correct, save for a few insignificant verbal discrepancies which, so far as I can judge, betray no indication of an attempt on his part to mislead the reader, such as using the word _tromba_ (trumpet) instead of Salandra’s term _sambuca_ (sackbut). And if further proof of authenticity be required, I may note that the ‘Adamo Caduto’ of Salandra is already cited in old bibliographies like Toppi’s ‘Biblioteca Napoletana’ (1678), or that of Joannes a S. Antonio (‘Biblioteca universa Franciscana, etc.,’ Madrid, 1732-1733, vol. iii, p. 88). It appears to have been the only literary production of its author, who was a Franciscan monk and is described as ‘Preacher, Lector and Definitor of the Reformed Province of Basilicata.’

We may take it, then, that Salandra was a real person, who published a mystery called ‘Adamo Caduto’ in 1647; and I will now, without further preamble, extract from Zicari’s article as much as may be sufficient to show ground for his contention that Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’ is a transfusion, in general and in particular, of this same mystery.

Salandra’s central theme is the Universe shattered by the disobedience of the First Man, the origin of our unhappiness and sins. The same with Milton.

Salandra’s chief personages are God and His angels; the first man and woman; the serpent; Satan and his angels. The same with Milton.

Salandra, at the opening of his poem (the prologue), sets forth his argument, and dwells upon the Creative Omnipotence and his works. The same with Milton.

Salandra then describes the council of the rebel angels, their fall from heaven into a desert and sulphurous region, their discourses. Man is enviously spoken of, and his fall by means of stratagem decided upon; it is resolved to reunite in council in Pandemonium or the Abyss, where measures may be adopted to the end that man may become the enemy of God and the prey of hell. The same with Milton.

Salandra personifies Sin and Death, the latter being the child of the former. The same with Milton.

Salandra describes Omnipotence foreseeing the effects of the temptation and fall of man, and preparing his redemption. The same with Milton.

Salandra depicts the site of Paradise and the happy life there. The same with Milton.

Salandra sets forth the miraculous creation of the universe and of man, and the virtues of the forbidden fruit. The same with Milton.

Salandra reports the conversation between Eve and the Serpent; the eating of the forbidden fruit and the despair of our first parents. The same with Milton.

Salandra describes the joy of Death at the discomfiture of Eve; the rejoicings in hell; the grief of Adam; the flight of our first parents, their shame and repentance. The same with Milton.

Salandra anticipates the intercession of the Redeemer, and the overthrow of Sin and Death; he dwells upon the wonders of the Creation, the murder of Abel by his brother Cain, and other human ills; the vices of the Antediluvians, due to the fall of Adam; the infernal gift of war. The same with Milton.

Salandra describes the passion of Jesus Christ, and the comforts which Adam and Eve receive from the angel who announces the coming of the Messiah; lastly, their departure from the earthly paradise. The same with Milton.

So much for the general scheme of both poems. And now for a few particular points of resemblance, verbal and otherwise.

The character of Milton’s Satan, with the various facets of pride, envy, vindictiveness, despair, and impenitence which go to form that harmonious whole, are already clearly mapped out in the Lucifero of Salandra. For this statement, which I find correct, Zicari gives chapter and verse, but it would take far too long to set forth the matter in this place. The speeches of Lucifero, to be sure, read rather like a caricature—it must not be forgotten that Salandra was writing for lower-class theatrical spectators, and not for refined readers—but the elements which Milton has utilized are already there.

Here is a coincidence:

Here we may reign secure . . . Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.

MILTON (i, 258).

. . . Qui propria voglia, Son capo, son qui duce, son lor Prence.

SALANDRA (p. 49).

And another:

. . . Whom shall we find Sufficient? ... This enterprise None shall partake with me.—MILTON (ii, 403, 465).

A chi basterà l’ anima di voi? . . . certo che quest’ affare A la mia man s’ aspetta.—SALANDRA (p. 64).

Milton’s Terror is partially taken from the Megera of the Italian poet. The ‘grisly Terror’ threatens Satan (ii, 699), and the office of Megera, in Salandra’s drama, is exactly the same—that is, to threaten and chastise the rebellious spirit, which she does very effectually (pages 123-131). The identical monsters—Cerberus, Hydras, and Chimæras—are found in their respective abodes, but Salandra does not content himself with these three; his list includes such a mixed assemblage of creatures as owls, basilisks, dragons, tigers, bears, crocodiles, sphynxes, harpies, and panthers. Terror moves with dread rapidity:

. . . and from his seat The monster moving onward came as fast With horrid strides.—MILTON (ii, 675).

and so does Megera:

In atterir, in spaventar son . . . Rapido sì ch’ ogni ripar è vano.—SALANDRA (p. 59).

Both Milton and Salandra use the names of the gods of antiquity for their demons, but the narrative epic of the English poet naturally permitted of far greater prolixity and variety in this respect. A most curious parallelism exists between Milton’s Belial and that of Salandra. Both are described as luxurious, timorous, slothful, and scoffing, and there is not the slightest doubt that Milton has taken over these mixed attributes from the Italian.[2]

[2] This is one of the occasions in which Zicari appears, at first sight, to have stretched a point in order to improve his case, because, in the reference he gives, it is Behemoth, and not Belial, who speaks of himself as cowardly _(imbelle)._ But in another place Lucifer applies this designation to Belial as well,

The words of Milton’s Beelzebub (ii, 368):

Seduce them to our party, that their god May prove their foe . . .

are copied from those of the Italian Lucifero (p. 52):

. . . Facciam Acciò, che l’ huom divenga A Dio nemico . . .

Regarding the creation of the world, Salandra asks (p. 11):

Qual lingua può di Dio, Benchè da Dio formato Lodar di Dio le meraviglie estreme?

which is thus echoed by Milton (vii, 112):

... to recount almighty works What words or tongue of Seraph can suffice?

There is a considerable resemblance between the two poets in their descriptions of Paradise and of its joys. In both poems, too, Adam warns his spouse of her frailty, and in the episode of Eve’s meeting with the serpent there are no less than four verbal coincidences. Thus Salandra writes (p. 68):

Ravviso gli animal, ch’ a schiera a schiera Già fanno humil e _reverente_ inclino . . . Ravveggio il bel serpente _avvolto_ in giri; O sei bello Con tanta varietà che certo sembri Altro stellato ciel, _smaltata_ terra. O che sento, _tu parli?_

and Milton transcribes it as follows (ix, 517-554):

. . . She minded not, as used To such disport before her through the field From every beast, more _duteous_ at her call . . . Curled many a wanton _wreath_ in sight of Eve. His turret crest and sleek _enamelled_ neck . . . What may this mean? Language of man _pronounced_ By tongue of brute?

Altogether, Zicari has observed that Rolli, although unacquainted with the ‘Adamo Caduto,’ has sometimes inadvertently hit upon the same words in his Italian translation of Milton which Salandra had used before him.

Eve’s altered complexion after the eating of the forbidden fruit is noted by both poets:

Torbata ne la faccia? Non sei quella Qual ti lasciai contenta . . .—SALANDRA (p. 89).

Thus Eve with countenance blithe her story told; But in her cheek distemper flushing glowed. —MILTON (ix, 886).

only with this difference, that the Italian Eve adds a half-lie by way of explaining the change:

. . . Forse cangiata (del che non mi avveggio) Sono nel volto per la tua partenza.—(p. 89).

In both poems Sin and Death reappear on the scene after the transgression.

The flight of Innocence from earth; the distempered lust which dominates over Adam and Eve after the Fall; the league of Sin and Death to rule henceforward over the world; the pathetic lament of Adam regarding his misfortune and the evils in store for his progeny; his noble sentiment, that none can withdraw himself from the all-seeing eye of God—all these are images which Milton has copied from Salandra.

Adam’s state of mind, after the fall, is compared by Salandra to a boat tossed by impetuous winds (p. 228):

Qual agitato legno d’Austro, e Noto, Instabile incostante, non hai pace, Tu vivi pur . . .

which is thus paraphrased in Milton (ix, 1122):

. . . High winds worse within Began to rise . . . and shook sore Their inward state of mind, calm region once And full of peace, now tossed and turbulent.

Here is a still more palpable adaptation:

... So God ordains: God is thy law, thou mine.—MILTON (iv, 636)

. . . . Un voler sia d’ entrambi, E quel’ uno di noi, di Dio sia tutto.—SALANDRA (p. 42).

After the Fall, according to Salandra, _vacillò la terra_ (i), _geme_ (2), _e pianse_ (3), _rumoreggiano i tuoni_ (4), _accompagnati da grandini_ (5), _e dense nevi_ (6), (pp. 138, 142, 218). Milton translates this as follows: Earth trembled from her entrails (1), and nature gave a second groan (2); sky loured and, muttering thunders (4), some sad drops wept (3), the winds, armed with ice and snow (6) and hail (5). (‘Paradise Lost,’ ix, 1000, x. 697).

Here is another translation:

. . . inclino il cielo Giù ne la terra, e questa al Ciel innalza.—SALANDRA (p. 242).

And Earth be changed to Heaven, and Heaven to Earth.—MILTON (vii, 160).

It is not to my purpose to do Zicari’s work over again, as this would entail a complete translation of his long article (it contains nearly ten thousand words), to which, if the thing is to be done properly, must be appended Salandra’s ‘Adamo,’ in order that his quotations from it can be tested. I will therefore refer to the originals those who wish to go into the subject more fully, warning them, _en passant,_ that they may find the task of verification more troublesome than it seems, owing to a stupid mistake on Zicari’s part. For in his references to Milton, he claims (p. 252) to use an 1818 Venice translation of the ‘Paradise Lost’ by Rolli. Now Rolli’s ‘Paradiso Perduto’ is a well-known work which was issued in many editions in London, Paris, and Italy throughout the eighteenth century. But I cannot trace this particular one of Venice, and application to many of the chief libraries of Italy has convinced me that it does not exist, and that 1818 must be a misprint for some other year. The error would be of no significance if Zicari had referred to Rolli’s ‘Paradiso’ by the usual system of cantos and lines, but he refers to it by pages, and the pagination differs in every one of the editions of Rolli which have passed through my hands. Despite every effort, I have not been able to hit upon the precise one which Zicari had in mind, and if future students are equally unfortunate, I wish them joy of their labours.[3]

[3] Let me take this opportunity of expressing my best thanks to Baron E. Tortora Brayda, of the Naples Biblioteca Nazionale, who has taken an infinity of trouble in this matter.

These few extracts, however, will suffice to show that, without Salandra’s ‘Adamo,’ the ‘Paradise Lost,’ as we know it, would not be in existence; and that Zicari’s discovery is therefore one of primary importance for English letters, although it would be easy to point out divergencies between the two works—divergencies often due to the varying tastes and feelings of a republican Englishman and an Italian Catholic, and to the different conditions imposed by an epic and a dramatic poem. Thus, in regard to this last point, Zicari has already noted (p. 270) that Salandra’s scenic acts were necessarily reproduced in the form _of visions_ by Milton, who could not avail himself of the mechanism of the drama for this purpose. Milton was a man of the world, traveller, scholar, and politician; but it will not do for us to insist too vehemently upon the probable mental inferiority of the Calabrian monk, in view of the high opinion which Milton seems to have had of his talents. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. The ‘Adamo Caduto,’ of course, is only one of a series of similar works concerning which a large literature has now grown up, and it might not be difficult to prove that Salandra was indebted to some previous writer for those words and phrases which he passed on to the English poet.

But where did Milton become acquainted with this tragedy? It was at Naples, according to Cowper (‘Milton,’ vol. iii, p. 206), that the English poet may first have entertained the idea of ‘the loss of paradise as a subject peculiarly fit for poetry.’ He may well have discussed sacred tragedies, like those of Andreini, with the Marquis Manso. But Milton had returned to England long before Salandra’s poem was printed; nor can Manso have sent him a copy of it, for he died in 1645—two years before its publication—and Zicari is thus mistaken in assuming (p. 245) that Milton became acquainted with it in the house of the Neapolitan nobleman. Unless, therefore, we take for granted that Manso was intimate with the author Salandra—he knew most of his literary countrymen—and sent or gave to Milton a copy of the manuscript of ‘Adamo’ before it was printed, or that Milton was personally familiar with Salandra, we may conclude that the poem was forwarded to him from Italy by some other friend, perhaps by some member of the _Accademia, degli Oziosi_ which Manso had founded.

A chance therefore seems to have decided Milton; Salandra’s tragedy fell into his hands, and was welded into the epic form which he had designed for Arthur the Great, even as, in later years, a chance question on the part of Elwood led to his writing ‘Paradise Regained.’[4] For this poem there were not so many models handy as for the other, but Milton has written too little to enable us to decide how far its inferiority to the earlier epic is due to this fact, and how far to the inherent inertia of its subject-matter. Little movement can be contrived in a mere dialogue such as ‘Paradise Regained’; it lacks the grandiose _mise-en-scène_ and the shifting splendours of the greater epic; the stupendous figure of the rebellious archangel, the true hero of ‘Paradise Lost,’ is here dwarfed into a puny, malignant sophist; nor is the final issue in the later poem _even for a moment_ in doubt—a serious defect from an artistic point of view. Jortin holds its peculiar excellence to be ‘artful sophistry, false reasoning, set off in the most specious manner, and refuted by the Son of God with strong unaffected eloquence’; merits for which Milton needed no original of any kind, as his own lofty religious sentiments, his argumentative talents and long experience of political pamphleteering, stood him in good stead. Most of us must have wondered how it came about that Milton could not endure to hear ‘Paradise Lost’ preferred to ‘Paradise Regained,’ in view of the very apparent inferiority of the latter. If we had known what Milton knew, namely, to how large an extent ‘Paradise Lost’ was not the child of his own imagination, and therefore not so precious in his eyes as ‘Paradise Regained,’ we might have understood his prejudice.

[4] _Thou hast said much of Paradise Lost, but what hast thou to say of Paradise Found?_ He made no answer, but sat some time in a muse. . . .