As I hold this work in my hands today, I cannot help but doubt the rationality of such suspicions (though the scholars’ philological caution is certainly praiseworthy). At the same time I hope to be allowed to venture a critical approach to this work, which follows Finnegans Wake-and follows it not only in the chronological sense. The sensible reader may realize, in studying this volume, that it represents a rather advanced point in Joycean development: only after having attempted the colossal experiment with language in his preceding work could Mr. Joyce succeed, once he had «rinsed his garments in the waters of the Liffey,» in writing this book, I promessi sposi (The Betrothed).
The title of this work is eloquent, and the reviewer needs add little comment to it, as it is rich in profoundly revelatory allusions.
If Finnegans Wake was the «work in progress» of which all J oyceans were given news in the course of its evolution, I promessi sposi is the «promised work, n like the Promised Land desired by the Jewish people (the people of Leopold Bloom, we must remember). But this promise is fulfilled, inasmuch as a marriage takes place, the union of the youthful aspirations of Stephen Dedalus and the radiance and the scholastic proportio. the union of the dazzling linguistic gifts of the vicocyclometer of maturity and lyric style and drama and epic, of the language of tradition and the languages of the future, as linguistic experimentation is wedded to the narrative construction of the works of youth.
Thus we feel that in the light of this final work the nature and function of its predecessor are clarified, and the Wake, the mourning vigil of Tim Finnegan, is seen for what it really is: the nuptial vigil of Renzo and Lucia.
I promessi sposi begins where Finnegan ends, and it begins by picking up the theme of the liquid element on which Finnegan concludes: Riverrun. The novel begins with the description of a body of water and with a parodistic subtlety of which only an Irishman could be capable; it begins by exactly imitating the earlier work. How, in fact, does I promessi sposi begin? Allow me to quote: «That branch of the lake of Como, which extends southwards, between two uninterrupted chains of mountainsJ and is all inlets and bays, as those same mountains project or recede, suddenly narrows, assuming the flow and form of a river, between a promontory on one side and a broad shore opposite . . . «
The opening of Finnegan was similar. Its first sentence, if we eliminate all the linguistic ambiguities that encumber it, goes like this: «That course of the river that, having passed the church of Adam and Eve, from the turn of the beach to the curve of the bay, leads us along a more comfortable route of return again to Howth Castle and environs . . . «
But in I promessi sposi the language has been further refined; the allusions are more subtle, less visible, the symbolism more powerful and pure.
Abandoning the midnight in which the dream of H. C. Earwicker concluded (and in which the nocturnal monologue of Molly Bloom concluded also), the lake of Como turns toward the noon of the south, but in the form of a «branch,» this immediately recalling, thanks to the anthropological intervention of Frazer, the «bough» and the rites of fertility and rebirth.
In her rebirth in a new day’s light, Anna Liffey has become a lake (expanding into the image of the maternal womb), and Anna Livia, now a mature woman, image of Demeter, all bosom and belly, can then contract again and resume her course and form as a river, beginning another story. «Resume her course,» because with the new story a new course begins, among the many fluxes and refluxes that are woven into the human story of which Finnegan is meant to be a condensation.
The work’s narrative scheme is disturbingly simple; in a sense, it acts as the antistrophe of the plot of Ulysses. In that book, the apparent description of a single day in the life of Leopold Bloom was transformed as it proceeded into a discussion of a whole city and of the universe. Here the apparently complex tale of a series of historical events involving an entire region and an empire (the Spanish) concerns in reality the events of a single day in the life of the protagonist, Renzo Tr amaglino.
One morning at dawn, as he is preparing to celebrate his marriage to his promised bride, Lucia Mondella, Renzo learns from the village pastor, Don Abbondio, that the local feudal lord, Don Rodrigo, is opposed to the marriage. After a quarrel with the pastor, Renzo and Lucia flee from the village with the aid of a Capuchin monk, Fra Cristoforo. While Lucia seeks refuge in a convent in Monza, Renzo goes to Milan. There, that afternoon, the youth is involved in an uprising and therefore must escape to Bergamo, as Lucia, through the complicity of a nun, Gertrude, is abducted by another feudal lord known as the Unnamed. The Cardinal of Milan intervenes, however, to liberate her. At sunset a plague breaks out in Milan, which kills Don Rodrigo, Don Abbondio, and Padre Cristoforo. Renzo that evening hastily returns from Bergamo and finds Lucia safe and sound, wherefore he and she can be joined in marriage during the night. This is the story, condensed, as we have seen, into the twenty-four hours of one day; but Joyce conceals the initial scheme (secretly confided by him to Stuart Gilbert), confusing and mixing the events in such a way that the reader has the impression of an unnatural and complex temporal development.
Yet the development is actually quite simple and linear, and to perceive it in all its purity it must be subjected to a reading shorn of pseudointellectual complications, where one merely underscores, in each episode, the basic symbol, the corresponding profession, and the reference to the animal world.
PART ONE. From dawn to early afternoon,
6 A.M. to 2 P.M. Renzo Tramaglino is about to marry Lucia Mondella, when Don Abbondio informs him that Don Rodrigo desires Lucia and is opposed to the wedding. Renzo asks advice of a pettifogging lawyer, but realizing that all attempts are in vain, he and Lucia flee with the help of Padre Cristoforo. Lucia takes refuge in a convent in Monza, Renzo goes to Milan. Symbol of this Part: the pastor. Profession: weaving. Animal: the capon, emblem of impotence and castration.
PART Two. Afternoon, 2 to 5 P.M. Renzo in Milan becomes involved in an uprising and must escape to Bergamo. Lucia is abducted by the Unnamed, through the complicity of Gertrude. The Cardinal of Milan liberates Lucia and places her in the custody of a scholar, Don Ferrante, and his wife, Donna Prassede. Symbol: the nun. Profession: library science. Animal: the mule, emblem of obstinacy (of the villains).
PART THREE. Sunset and evening, 5 P.M. to midnight. The plague breaks out in Milan, and Don Rodrigo, Don Abbondio, and Padre Cristoforo die. Renzo returns to Milan from Bergamo and finds Lucia safe and sound. Finally reunited, they marry. Symbol: the gravedigger. Profession: hospital management. Animal: does not exist, because evil is de feated. In the place of the animal there is purifying rain, which recalls the initial theme of water, as well as the washerwomen in Finnegan (Anna Livia Plurabelle episode).
I would be misleading the reader if I said that the author presents this linear scheme in all its aspects and makes it easily recognizable in the body of the story. Actually, this simple tale in itself is insignificant, and in the course of the novel it is masked and hidden, so the reader has the impression that the events cover a much greater period of time; but I cannot express adequately my admiration for this clever fictional structure, which creates substantial indecision and ambiguity in space-time, convincing us that the events take place in the Lombard plain, whereas, in fact, if I am not trivially distorting the author’s intentions, everything happens in Dublin.
In the continuous and amiable dialogue-and every now and then it becomes poetry, from Donne to the Elizabethans to Spenser-that unfolds between tradition and the individual talent, the first rule for a selective and fertile imagination, I believe, is to produce a good work. To write something valid and enduring is still the best homage that can be rendered
to poetry, and if I use the word «profitable,» it is because I can find no better term to express the advantage humanity derives from the existence of a good work of poetry.
We achieve poetry when the imagination knows it has arrived at that condition of significant emotion whereby it is capable of creation. In my previous essays I may have professed a somewhat different and more superficial view of the problem,_ but I have reviewed it with great attention and feel I cannot say anything less specific. This brief digression has perhaps caused us to stray from the subject of Mr. Joyce’s book; but I believe it was necessary in order to clarify a point that has left the critic legitimately puzzled on more than one occasion (the ideal critic is a
