Dante at Verona (fair copy manuscript with corrections, Fitzwilliam Museum) Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1 Digital images courtesy of Syndics of the Fitzwilliam Museum. © Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge Dante at Verona Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1848, 1869 fair copy 23 leaves, with versos initially left blank for additions and corrections; leaf 11 is an insert, a copy made by Charles Fairfax Murray. DGR DGR Fitzwilliam Museum As the library bookplate on the inside cover of the bound manuscript indicates, the manuscript was Charles Fairfax Murray's gift to the library in 1905. green leather lined notebook paper, approx. 22 x 18cm unwatermarked Commentary
Introduction

This is the manuscript copy that DGR made in October 1869 from the earlier manuscript that had been buried with his wife's body. Although much of this manuscript is fair copy, the character of various revisions shows that DGR was composing even as he was also engaged in copying out. This manuscript was printer's copy for the Exhumation Proofs, out of which evolved theSecond Trial Book.

Textual History: Composition

Textual History: Revision

Production History

Reception History

Iconographic

Printing History

Pictorial

Historical

Literary

Translation

Autobiographical

Bibliographic

<hi rend="i">Dante at Verona</hi> ---- “Yea, thou shalt learn how salt his food who fares Upon another's bread,—how steep his path Who treadeth up and down another's stairs.” ( <xref doc="a.dante002.2.rad" link="dead"> <hi rend="u">Div. Com. Parad.</hi> </xref> XVII) “Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice.” <xref doc="a.dante002.3.rad" link="dead"> <hi rend="u">Div. Com. Purg.</hi> </xref> XXX) ---- Of Florence and of Beatrice Servant & singer from of old, O'er Dante's love heart in youth had toll'd The knell that gave his Lady peace; And now in manhood flew the dart Wherewith his City stabbed pierced his heart. Yet if his Lady's home above Was Heaven, on earth she filled his soul; And if his City held control To cast his the body forth to rove, The soul could soar from ? earth's vain throng, And Heaven and Hell ? fulfil the song. blank page Follow his feet's appointed way;— But little light we find that clears The darkness of the exiled years. Follow his spirit's journey:—Nay, What fires are blent, what winds are blown On paths that he must tread he's trod his feet may tread alone? Yet of the twofold life he led In chainless thought and fettered will Some glimpses reach us,—somewhat still Of the steep stairs and bitter bread,— Of the soul's quest whose stern avow For years had made him haggard now. Alas! the Sacred Song whereto Both heaven and earth had set their hand Not only at Fame's gate did stand Knocking to claim the passage through, But toiled to ope that heavier door Which Florence shut for evermore. blank page Shall not his birth's baptismal Town One last high presage yet fulfil, And at that font if in Florence still His forehead take the laurel-crown? O God! and or shall dead souls deny The undying soul its prophecy? Aye, 'tis their hour. Not yet forgot The bitter words he spoke that day When for some great charge far away His colleagues Her rulers his acceptance sought. “And if I go, who stays?”—so rose His scorn:—“and if I stay, who goes?” “Lo! thou art gone now, and we stay:” (The curled lips mutter): “and no star Is from thy mortal path so far As streets where childhood knew the way. And To Heaven and Hell thy feet may win, But thine own house they come not in.” blank page Therefore, the loftier rose the song To touch the secret ways things of God, The deeper pierced the hate that trod On base men's track who wrought the wrong; Till the soul's effluence came to be Its own exceeding agony. Even such was Dante's mood, when now, Mocked for long years with Fortune's sport, He dwelt at yet another court, There where Verona's knee did bow And her voice hailed with proud acclaim Can Grande della Scala's name. As that lord's honoured lordly kingly guest awhile His life we follow; through the days Which walked in exile's barren ways,— The nights which still beneath one smile Heard through all spheres one song increase,— ‘Even I, even I am Beatrice.’ blank page Dante at Verona“Yea, thou shalt learn how salt his food who faresUpon another's bread,—how steep his pathWho treadeth up and down another's stairs.”Div. Com. Parad. XVII“Behold, even I, even I am Beatrice.”Div. Com. Purg. xxx For some reason DGR wrote the title of the poem and the two epigraphs at the top of this page. Both are cancelled here and his cancelling note, "No break here" added. At Can La Scala's court, no doubt, Due reverence did his steps attend; The ushers on his path would bend At ingoing as at going out; The penmen waited on his call At council-board, the grooms in hall. And pages hushed their laughter down, Shuffling the badge-caps from their hair And squires would still the merry stir, When he passed up the dais-chamber With set brows lordlier than a frown; And tire-maids hidden among these Drew close their loosened bodices. blank page Belike Perhaps the priests, fed these to ban Or bless at on bidding, if at whiles They found him in their Chapel wandering in their aisles, Grudged their soul's [?] ghostly greeting to the man By whom, ? and heart were filled though not of ghostly guild, With Heaven and Hell though of no guild men's hearts were fill'd. And the court-poets (he, forsooth, A whole world's poet strayed to court!) [???] him of paltry sport Gave to his scorn their hate's retort Had for his scorn their hate's retort. He'd meet them flushed with facile easy youth, Hot on their errands. Like noon-flies They vexed him in the ears and eyes. But at this court, [?] peace still must wrench Her chaplet from the teeth of war: By day they held high watch from far afar, At night they cried across the trench; And still, in Dante's path, the fierce Gaunt soldiers wrangled o'er their spears. blank page But vain seemed all the strength to him, As golden convoys sunk at sea Which raised would Whose wealth might root out penury: Because it was not, limb with limb, Knit like his heart-strings round the wall Of Florence, that all pride her foes might fall. Yet in the tiltyard, when the dust Cleared from the sundered press of knights Ere yet again it swoops and smites, He almost deemed his longing must Find force to wield that multitude And turn hurl that strength the way he would. How should he move them,—fame & gain On all hands calling them at strife? He still might find but his one life To give, by Florence counted vain; One voice she heard once and cast out One heart the false hearts made her doubt; One sword, at ? rout One voice she heard once and cast out. blank page Oh! if his Florence could but come, A lily-sceptred damsel fair, As her own Giotto painted her On many shields and gates at home,— A lady crowned, at a soft pace Riding the lists round to the dais: Till where Can Grande rules the lists, As young as Truth, as calm as Force, She stops now, while her blazoned horse draws her rein now, while her horse Bows at the turn of the white wrists; And when each knight within his stall Gives ear, she speaks and tells them all: All the foul tale,—truth sworn untrue And falsehood's triumph. All the tale? Great God! and should must she not prevail To fire them ere they heard it through,— Pass, Dante, pass! thy life day wears short, And hand achieve ere heart could rest An exile at Can Grande's Court! That high adventure of her quest? Received stanzas 24, 26, 27 added here as insert. How would his Florence lead them forth, Her bridle ringing as she went; And turn at the last within her tent, 'Neath golden lilies worship-worth, How queenly would she bend the while And thank the victors with her smile! Peace, Dante, peace! The task is long, The time wears short to compass it. Within thine heart such hopes may flit And find a voice in deathless song: But lo! as children of man's earth, Those hopes are dead before their birth. Fame tells us that Verona's court Was a fair place. The feet might still Wander for ever at their will In many ways of sweet resort; And still in many a heart around The Poet's name due honour found. Watch we his steps. He comes upon The women at their palm-playing. The conduits round the gardens sing And meet in scoops of milk-white stone, Where by thy bodies rest fatigued wearied damsels rest & hold Their hands in the wet spurt of gold. One of whom, knowing well that he, By some found stern, was mild with them, Would run and pluck his garment's hem, Saying, “Messer Dante, pardon me,”— Praying to hear from him that they might hear the song Which first of all he made, when young. “Donne che avete”* ... thereunto Thus would he murmur, having first Drawn near the fountain, while she nurs'd His hand against her side: a few Sweet words, and scarcely those, half said: Then turned, and changed, and bowed his head.

*“Donne che avete intelletto d'amore:”—the first canzone ofthe <foreign lang="italian">“Vita Nuova.”</foreign>

blank page For then the voice said in his heart, “Even I, even I am Beatrice”; And his whole life would yearn to cease: Till having reached his room, apart Beyond vast lengths of palace-floor, He drew the arras round his door. At such times, Dante, thou hast set Thy forehead to the painted pane Full oft, I know; and if the rain Smote it outside, her fingers met Thy brow; and if the sun fell there, Her breath was on thy face and hair. Then, weeping, I think certainly Thou hast beheld, past sight of eyne,— Within another room of thine Where now thy body may not be But where in thought thou still remain'st,— A window often wept against: blank page This text is copied in the hand of Charles Fairfax Murray. The window thou, a youth, hast sought, Flushed in the limpid eventime, Ending with daylight the day's rhyme Of her; where oftenwhiles her thought Held thee—the lamp untrimmed to write— In joy through the blue lapse of night. At Can La Scala's court, no doubt Guests seldom wept. It was brave sport, No doubt, at Can La Scala's court, Within the palace and without; Where music, set to madrigals, Loitered all day through groves and halls. Because Can Grande of his life Had not had six and twenty years As yet. And when the chroniclers Tell you of that Vicenza strife And of strifes elsewhere,—you must not Conceive for church-sooth he had got blank page Just nothing in his wits but war: Though certes 'twas the young man's joy (Aye, and he knew it from a boy) (Grown with his growth from a mere boy,) To mark his “Viva Cane!” scare The foe's shut front, till it would reel All blind with shaken points of steel. But there were places—held too sweet For eyes that had not the due veil Of lashes and clear lids—as well In favour as his saddle-seat: Breath of low speech he scorned not there Nor light cool fingers in his hair. Yet if the child his father's plan by thoughtful well-found work judged plan whom the sire's plan Made free of a deep treasure-chest Scoffed it with ill-conditioned jest,— We may hold fast be sure too that the man Was not mere thews, nor all content With lust lewdness swathed clean in sentiment. The page carries, as text additions, received stanzas 41, 44 and 45 written in by DGR. Through leaves and trellis-work the sun Left the wine cool within its the glass,— They feasting where no sun could pass: And when the women, all as one, Rose up with brightened cheeks to go, It was a comely thing, we know. And Can la Scala marked askance These And [?] some foreign knight if some envoy from afar Sailed ? sea a distant to Verona's sovereign port For aid or peace, and all the court Fawned on their its lord, “the god Mars of fighting war, Sole arbiter of life and death,”— Be sure that Dante [?] saved his breath. And Can La Scala marked askance These things, accepting them for shame And scorn, till Dante's guestship came To be a peevish sufferance: His host sought ways to make his days Hateful; and such have many ways. So we you may read and marvel not That such a man as Dante—one Who, while Can Grande's deeds were done, Had drawn his robe round him and thought— Now at the same guest-table far'd Where keen Uguccio wiped his beard.* But Dante recked not of the wine; And if Whether the women stayed or went, His visage held one stern intent: And when the music had its sign To breathe upon them for more ease, Sometimes he turned and bade it cease. There was a jester, a foul lout Whom the court prized for obscene arts; Priapus of the filthy parts Of speech; still fingering them about And in men's faces wagging them; But the court counted him a gem.

* Uguccione della Faggiuola, Dante's former protector, was now his fellow-guest at Verona.

 A cancelled draft of received stanza 46, as well as a corrected copy, are copied into this page as later additions. There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Averroës of the filthy parts Of speech; Demosthenes to shout Through any pebbles o'er all seas The gloss of such Averroës. There was a Jester, a foul lout Whom the court loved for graceless arts; Sworn scholiast of the bestial parts Of speech; a ribald mouth to shout In Folly's horny tympanum All things of which [?] tongues are dumb Such things as that strike make the wise man dumb. And Dante loathed the beast. Much loved, him Dante loathed. And so, One day when Dante felt perplex'd If any day that could come next Were worth the waiting for or no, And his words, always scarce Till now his scanty speech quite ceas'd,— Can Grande summoned in this beast. The jests, be sure, came rank in filth Rank words, with such, are wit's best wealth Lords mouthed approval; ladies kept Cackling Twittering with clustered heads, except Some few that took their trains by stealth And went. Can Grande shook his hair And smote his thighs and laughed i' the air. Then, facing on his guest, he cried,— “Say, Messer Dante, how it is I get out of a clown like this More than your wisdom can provide?” And Dante: “'Tis man's ancient whim That still his like seems good to him.” Received stanza 54 is copied by DGR on this page as a later addition. And when his spirit wove the spell (From under toward even to overnoon In [true?] converse with itself alone,) As high as Heaven, as low as Hell,— He would be summoned and must go: For had not Gian stabbed Giacomo? But wherefore should we turn the grout In a drained cup, or be at strife From the worn garment of a life To rip the twisted ravel out? Good needs expounding; but of ill Each hath enough to guess his fill. They named him Justicer-at-Law: Each month to bear the tale in mind Of hues a wench might wear unfin'd And of the load an ox might draw; To cavil in the weight of bread And to see purse-thieves gibbeted. Therefore the bread he had to eat Seemed brackish, less like corn than tares; And the rush-strown accustomed stairs Each day were steeper to his feet; And when the night-vigil was done, His face brows would ache to feel the sun. DGR has copied received stanza 58 on this page as a later addition. “That it was not a thing he did he was one the Heavens forbid To traffic in God's justice sold By market-weight of human [?] earthly gold, And Or to bow down over the lid Of steaming censers, and so be Made clean of manhood's obloquy. Nathless,—a churchman of his kin Nevertheless, when through his kin Sending him There came the tidings how at last In Florence a decree was pass'd Whereby all banished folk might win Free pardon, so a fine were paid And act of public penance made,— This Dante writ in answer thus, Words such as these: “That clearly they In Florence must not have to say,— The man abode aloof from us Nigh fifteen years, yet lastly skulk'd Hither to candleshrift and mulct. “That since no gate led, by God's will, To Florence, but the one whereat The priests and money-changers sat, He still would still wander; for that still, He saw Even through the spirit's body's prison-bars, His life soul possessed the sun and stars.” blank page Such were his words. as these It is indeed For ever well that poets our singers should Utter good words and know them good Not through song merely; having with close heed Lest, having spent for the work's sake Six days, the man be left to make. Months o'er Verona, and till the feast Was come to for Florence the Free Town: And in the Church at the shrine of Baptist John The exiles, many with priest and girt with many a priest Communing and reading as they went, And carrying candles as they went, Were offered to the blessed held to mercy of the saint. Up the church aisle On the high seats in sober state,— Gold neck-chains range [?] o'er range below Gold screen-work where the lilies grow,— The Heads of the Republic sate, Marking the humbled face go by Each one of his house-enemy. blank page And as each proscript rose and stood From kneeling in the ushered ashen dust On the shrine-steps, some magnate thrust A beard into the velvet hood Of his front colleague's gown, to see The cinders stuck in the bare knee. Tosinghi passed, Manelli passed, Rinucci passed, each in his place; But not an Alighieri's face Went by that day from first to last In the Republic's triumph; nor A foot came home to Dante's door. (Respublica—a public thing: A shameful shameless prostitute, Whose lust with one lord may not suit, So takes by turns its revelling A night with each, till he at morn Is beaten forth bare and forlorn, Is stripped and beaten forth forlorn, Received stanzas 69-70 are added later to the text on this page, and marked for insertion. Each footnote is indicated by a single asterisk, but for clarity is tied to its associated passage in the text with a drawn line. What of his work for Florence? Well It was, he knew, and well must be. Yet evermore her hate's decree Dwelt in his thought intolerable:— His body to be burned,*—his soul To beat its wings at hope's vain goal. What of his work for Beatrice? Now well-nigh was the third song writ,— The stars a third time sealing it With sudden singing music of pure peace: For echoing thrice the threefold song, The unnumbered stars the tone prolong.—*

* Such was inexorably the last sentence passed by Florenceagainst Dante, as a recalcitrant exile.

 And leaves her, cursing her. If she, Indeed, have not some spice-draught, hid In scent under a silver lid, To drench his open throat with—he Once hard asleep; and lay thrust him not At dawn beneath the stairs boards to rot.) Years filled out their twelve moons, & ceased One in another; We may say and alway There were the whole twelve hours each day And each night as the weeks years increased; All through the months each month the same And rising moon and setting sun And [how much?] Dante knew[heard?] of them. Beheld that Dante's work was done. Only some hours, some days that passed Each hour, as then the Vision pass'd, He [?] heard the tone[?] utter harmony Of the nine trembling spheres, till she Bowed her eyes towards him in the last, So that all ended with her eyes, Hell, Purgatory, Paradise.

* “E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle.” Inferno . “Puro e disposto a salire alle stelle.” Purgatorio . “L'amor che muove il sole e l'altre stelle.” Paradiso .

 blank page The period at the end of received line 433 is a colon in the published versions. “It is my trust, as the years fall, To write more worthily of her Who now, being made God's minister, Looks on His visage and knows all.” Such was the hope that he dared send Forth solemnly, to make an end. Of the “New Life,” his youth's dear book. Adding thereunto: “In such hop trust I labour, and believe I must Accomplish this which my soul took In charge, if God, my Lord and hers, Leave my life with me a few years.” The trust which he had borne in youth Was all at length accomplished. He At length had written worthily— Yea even of her; no rhymes uncouth 'Twixt tongue and tongue; but by God's aid The first words Italy had said. Stanzas 75 and 77 are copied by DGR on this page as later additions to the text. Ah! haply now the heavenly guide Was not the last form seen by him: But there that Beatrice stood slim And bowed in passing at his side, For whom in youth his heart made moan Then when the city sat alone. In that high vision. But indeed It may be that his mind could fall Back soonest to the first of all,— The child his boyhood bore in heed Nine years. The [?] yet smiled At length the voice brought peace,— “Even I, even I am Beatrice.” Two stanzas are cancelled from the text on this page. He must have had her with him now Always almost. We may not doubt That in his going in and out Often the eyes would scarce allow The mind to deem she was not there Beside him; or that in his chair He seated very often knew Her presence, if he did not see Her body's image visibly; Nay, had her eyes to look into Even at times, and watched her smile And bow, but without speech the while. Clearly herself; the same whom he Met, not past girlhood, in the street, Low-bosomed and with hidden feet; And then as woman perfectly, In years that followed, more than once,— And now at last among the suns DGR makes a revised copy of received stanza 79 on this paging and cancels the original version on the facing recto. For a tale tells that on his track, As through Verona's streets he went, This saying certain women sent:— “Lo, he that strolls to Hell and back At will! Behold him, how Hell's reek Has crisped his beard and singed his cheek.” All this, being there, we had not seen. Seen only was the shadow wrought On the [stern?] strong features bound in thought; The vagueness gaining gait and mien; The white streaks thickening, that were few gathering clear to view In the burnt beard the women knew. For a tale hath that in the street Once at Verona, while he led This life there, certain women said, Pointing from door or window-seat: “Lo! he that strolls to Hell and back At whim. It grimes burns his beard hell-black.” “Whereat” (Boccaccio's words) “he smil'd For pride in fame.” It might be so: Nevertheless we cannot know If then his thought were not beguil'd To mirth, for that he scarce could tell If he indeed were back from Hell. blank page So the day came, after a space, When Dante felt assured that there The sunshine must lie sicklier Even than in any other place, Let alone Save only Florence. The same day When that day Silent, Had come, he rose and went his way. He went and turned not. From his shoes It may be that he shook the dust, As every righteous dealer must Not less than once ere life can close; And unaccomplished destiny Looked black Struck cold his forehead, it may be. No book keeps record how the Prince Sunned himself out of Dante's reach, And Nor how the Jester stank in speech; While lords, long courtiers, used to sulk smile and wince, Poets and harlots, all the throng, Let flow loose their slaver and their song. DGR copies this text's final stanza on this page. It is a stanza he would ultimately reject. Now do Thou let thy servant, Lord,— Who now hath suffered all the heart And the mind soul can on earth,— depart In peace according to thy word? His eyes (are not the lids still wet?) Beheld not thy salvation yet. No book keeps record if the seat Which Dante had at his host's board Were sat in next by clerk or lord,— If leman lolled with dainty feet At ease, or hostage brooded there, Or priest lacked silence for his prayer. Eat and wash hands, Can Grande;—scarce We know their deeds now: hands which fed Our Dante with that bitter bread; And thou the watch-dog of those stairs Which, of all the paths his feet knew well Whereon the weary footsteps fell, Were steeper found than Heaven or Hell. That knew the paths of Heaven or Hell.