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THE EARLY ITALIAN POETS.
The rights of translation and reproduction, as regards
all editorial parts
WHATEVER IS MINE IN THIS BOOK
I need not dilate here on the characteristics of
the first
epoch of Italian Poetry; since the extent
of my translated selections is
sufficient to afford a
complete view of it. Its great beauties may
often
remain unapproached in the versions here attempted;
but, at the
same time, its imperfections are not all
to be charged to the translator.
Among these I may
refer to its limited range of subject and
continual
obscurity, as well as to its monotony in the use of
rhymes or
frequent substitution of assonances. But
to compensate for much that is
incomplete and in-
experienced, these poems possess, in their
degree,
beauties of a kind which can never again exist in art;
and
offer, besides, a treasure of grace and variety in
the formation of their
metres. Nothing but a strong
impression, first of their poetic value, and
next of
the biographical interest of some of them (chiefly
of those in
my second division), would have inclined
me to bestow the time and trouble
which have re-
sulted in this collection.
Much has been said, and in many respects justly,
against the value of
metrical translation. But I think
it would be admitted that the tributary
art might
find a not illegitimate use in the case of poems which
come down to us in such a form as do these early
Italian ones.
Struggling originally with corrupt
dialect and imperfect expression, and
hardly kept
alive through centuries of neglect, they have reached
that
last and worst state in which the
has almost been dealt them by clumsy transcription
and pedantic
superstructure. At this stage the task
of talking much more about them in
any language
is hardly to be entered upon; and a translation
(in-
volving, as it does, the necessity of settling many
points without
discussion,) remains perhaps the most
direct form of commentary.
The life-blood of rhymed translation is this,—that
a good
poem shall not be turned into a bad one.
The only true motive for putting
poetry into a fresh
language must be to endow a fresh nation, as far
as
possible, with one more possession of beauty. Poetry
not being an
exact science, literality of rendering is
altogether secondary to this chief
aim. I say literality,
—not fidelity, which is
by no means the same thing.
When literality can be combined with what is
thus
the primary condition of success, the translator is
fortunate, and
must strive his utmost to unite them;
when such object can only be attained
by paraphrase,
that is his only path.
Any merit possessed by these translations is de-
rived from an effort
to follow this principle; and, in
some degree, from the fact that such
painstaking in
arrangement and descriptive heading as is
often
indispensable to old and especially to “occasional”
poetry, has here been bestowed on these poets for the
first time.
That there are many defects in these translations,
or that the above
merit is their defect, or that they have
no merits but only defects, are
discoveries so sure to be
made if necessary (or perhaps here and there in
any
case), that I may safely leave them in other hands.
The collection
has probably a wider scope than some
readers might look for, and includes
now and then
(though I believe in rare instances) matter which
may not
meet with universal approval; and whose
introduction, needed as it is by the
literary aim of
my work, is I know inconsistent with the principles
of
pretty bookmaking. My wish has been to give
a full and truthful view of
early Italian poetry;
not to make it appear to consist only of
certain
elements to the exclusion of others equally belonging
to it.
Of the difficulties I have had to encounter,—the
causes of
imperfections for which I have no other
excuse,—it is the
reader's best privilege to remain
ignorant; but I may perhaps be pardoned
for briefly
referring to such among these as concern the exi-
gencies of
translation. The task of the translator
(and with all humility be it spoken)
is one of some
self-denial. Often would he avail himself of any
special
grace of his own idiom and epoch, if only his
will belonged to him: often
would some cadence
serve him but for his author's structure—some
struc-
ture but for his author's cadence: often the beautiful
turn of a stanza must be weakened to adopt some
rhyme which will tally,
and he sees the poet revelling
in abundance of language where himself is
scantily
supplied. Now he would slight the matter for the
music, and now
the music for the matter; but no,
he must deal to each alike. Sometimes too
a flaw
in the work galls him, and he would fain remove it,
doing for the
poet that which his age denied him;
but no,—it is not in the
bond. His path is like that
of Aladdin through the enchanted vaults: many
are
the precious fruits and flowers which he must pass
by unheeded in
search for the lamp alone; happy
if at last, when brought to light, it does
not prove
that his old lamp has been exchanged for a new
one,—
glittering indeed to the eye, but scarcely of the
same
virtue nor with the same genius at its summons.
In relinquishing this work (which, small as it is,
is the only
contribution I expect to make to our
English knowledge of old Italy), I
feel, as it were,
divided from my youth. The first associations I
have
are connected with my father's devoted studies,
which, from his own point of
view, have done so
much towards the general investigation of
Dante's
writings. Thus, in those early days, all around me
partook of
the influence of the great Florentine; till,
from viewing it as a natural
element, I also, growing
older, was drawn within the circle. I trust
that
from this the reader may place more confidence in a
work not
carelessly undertaken, though produced in
the spare-time of other pursuits
more closely followed.
He should perhaps be told that it has occupied the
leisure moments of
not a few years; thus affording,
often at long intervals, every opportunity
for consi-
deration and revision; and that on the score of care,
at
least, he has no need to mistrust it.
Nevertheless, I know there is no great stir to
be made by launching
afresh, on high-seas busy
with new traffic, the ships which have been
long
outstripped and the ensigns which are grown strange.
The feeling of
self-doubt inseparable from such an
attempt has been admirably expressed by
a great
living poet, in words which may be applied exactly
to my humbler
position, though relating in his case
to a work all his own.
It may be well to conclude this short preface with
a list of the works
which have chiefly contributed to
the materials of the present volume.
* This work contains, in its first and second volumes, by
far the best
edited collection I know of early Italian poetry.
Unfortunately it is
only a supplement to the previous ones,
giving poems till then
unpublished. A reprint of the whole
mass by the same editor, with such
revision and further
additions as he could give it, would be very desirable.
Ciullo is a popular form of the name Vin-
cenzo, and Alcamo
an Arab fortress some miles
from Palermo. The Dialogue which is
the only
known production of this poet holds here the
place
generally accorded to it as the earliest Italian
poem
(exclusive of one or two dubious inscriptions)
which
has been preserved to our day. Arguments
have
sometimes been brought to prove that it must be
as-
signed to a later date than the poem by
Folcachiero,
which follows it in this volume; thus ascribing
the
first honours of Italian poetry to Tuscany, and not
to
Sicily, as is commonly supposed. Trucchi, how-
ever, (in the
preface to his valuable collection,)
states his belief that the
two poems are about con-
temporaneous, fixing the date of that
by Ciullo
between 1172 and 1178,—chiefly from the
fact that
the fame of Saladin, to whom this poet alludes,
was
most in men's mouths during that interval. At
first
sight, any casual reader of the original would
sup-
pose that this poem must be unquestionably the
earliest
of all, as its language is far the most un-
formed and
difficult; but much of this might, of course,
be dependent on the inferior dialect of Sicily,
mixed
however in this instance (as far as I can judge)
with
mere nondescript patois.
The above date has been assigned with probabi-
lity to
Folcachiero's Canzone, on account of its first
line where the
whole world is said to be “living
without
war;” an assertion which seems to refer
its
production to the period of the celebrated peace
concluded at
Venice between Frederick Barbarossa
and Pope Alexander III.
His baptismal name was Giovanni, and his father
was
Bernardone Moriconi, whose mercantile pur-
suits he shared till
the age of twenty-five; after
which his life underwent the
extraordinary change
which resulted in his canonization, by
Gregory IX.,
three years after his death, and in the formation
of
the Religious Order called Franciscans.
The life of Frederick II., and his excommunica-
tion and
deposition from the Empire by Innocent
IV., to whom, however, he
did not succumb, are
matters of history which need no
repetition. In-
tellectually, he was in all ways a highly-gifted
and
accomplished prince; and lovingly cultivated the
Italian
language, in preference to the many others
with which he was familiar. The poem of his which
I give
has great passionate beauty; yet I believe
that an allegorical
interpretation may here probably
be admissible; and that the
lady of the poem may
be the Empire, or perhaps the Church
herself, held
in bondage by the Pope.
The unfortunate Enzo was a natural son of Fre-
derick II.,
and was born at Palermo. By his own
warlike enterprise, at an
early age (it is said at
fifteen!) he subjugated the Island of
Sardinia, and
was made King of it by his father. Afterwards
he
joined Frederick in his war against the Church,
and
displayed the highest promise as a leader; but
at the age of
twenty-five was taken prisoner by the
Bolognese, whom no threats
or promises from the
Emperor could induce to set him at liberty.
He
died in prison at Bologna, after a confinement of
nearly
twenty-three years. A hard fate indeed for
one who, while moving
among men, excited their
hopes and homage, still on record, by
his great mili-
tary genius and brilliant gifts of mind and person.
This poet, certainly the greatest of his time, be-
longed
to a noble and even princely Bolognese family.
Nothing seems
known of his life, except that he was
married to a lady named
Beatrice, and that in 1274,
having adhered to the imperial
cause, he was sent
into exile, but whither cannot be learned. He
died
two years afterwards. The highest praise has
been
bestowed by Dante on Guinicelli, in the
,
I have placed this poet, belonging to a Neapoli-
tan
family, under the date usually assigned to him;
but Trucchi
states his belief that he flourished much
earlier, and was a
contemporary of Folcachiero;
partly on account of two lines in
one of his poems
which say,—
If so, the mistake would be easily accounted for, as
there
seem to have been various members of the
family named Rinaldo,
at different dates.
This Sicilian poet is generally called “the
No-
tary of Lentino.” The low estimate expressed of
him,
as well as of Bonaggiunta and Guittone, by
Dante
(
“Io mi son un che quando Amor mi spira, noto, e in quel modo Ch'ei detta dentro, vo significando.”
Of this poet there seems nothing to be learnt;
but he
deserves special notice as possessing rather
more poetic
individuality than usual, and also as
furnishing the only
instance, among Dante's prede-
cessors, of a poem (and a very
beautiful one) writ-
ten on a lady's death.
Guittone was not a monk, but derived the prefix
to his
name from the fact of his belonging to the
religious and
military order of Cavalieri Gau-
denti
reputation than almost any writer of his day;
but
certainly his poems, of which many have been
preserved,
cannot be said to possess merit of a pro-
minent kind; and Dante
shows by various allusions
that he considered them much over-rated. The sonnet
I have
given is somewhat remarkable, from Petrarch's
having
transplanted its last line into his
Onesto was a doctor of laws, and an early friend
of Cino
da Pistoia. He was living as late as 1301,
though his career as
a poet may be fixed somewhat
further back.
This Sicilian poet has few equals among his
con-
temporaries, and is ranked high by Dante in
his
treatise
. He visited England
Prinzivalle commenced by writing Italian poetry,
but
afterwards composed verses entirely in Provençal,
for
the love of Beatrice, Countess of Provence. He
wrote also, in
Provençal prose, a treatise “
The writings of this Tuscan poet (called also
Rustico
Barbuto) show signs of more vigour and
versatility than was
common in his day, and he pro-
bably began writing in Italian
verse even before
many of those already mentioned. In his old
age,
he, though a Ghibelline, received the dedication of
the
from the Guelf Brunetto Latini, who
The noble Florentine family of Albizzi produced
writers of
poetry in more than one generation. The
vivid and admirable
sonnet which I have translated
is the only one I have met with
by Niccolò. I must
confess my inability to trace the
circumstances which
gave rise to it.
With the exception of Brunetto Latini, (whose
poems are
neither very poetical nor well adapted for
extract,) Francesco
da Barberino shows by far the
most sustained productiveness
among the poets who
preceded Dante, or were contemporaries of
his youth.
Though born only one year in advance of Dante,
Barberino
seems to have undertaken, if not com-
pleted, his two long
poetic treatises, some years be-
fore the commencement of the
.
This poet was born at Barberino di Valdelsa, of a
noble
family, his father being Neri di Rinuccio da
Barberino. Up to
the year of his father's death,
1296, he pursued the study of
law chiefly in Bologna
and Padua; but afterwards removed to
Florence for
the same purpose, and became one of the
many
distinguished disciples of Brunetto Latini, who
pro-
bably had more influence than any other one man
in
forming the youth of his time to the great things
they
accomplished. After this he travelled in France
and elsewhere;
and on his return to Italy in 1313,
was the first who, by
special favour of Pope Clement
V., received the grade of Doctor
of Laws in Florence.
Both as lawyer and as citizen, he held
great trusts
and discharged them honourably. He was
twice
married, the name of his second wife being Barna
di
Tano, and had several children. At the age of
eighty-four he
died in the great Plague of Florence.
Of the two works which
Barberino has left, one
bears the title of
Documenti d'Amore
, literally “Do-
Barberino never appears to have taken a very
active part
in politics, but he inclined to the Imperial
and Ghibelline
party. This contributes with other
things to render it rather
singular that we find no
poetic correspondence or apparent
communication of
any kind between him and his many great
countrymen,
contemporaries of his long life, and with whom
he
had more than one bond of sympathy. His career
stretched
from Dante, Guido Cavalcanti, and Cino
da Pistoia, to Petrarca
and Boccaccio; yet only in
one respectful but not enthusiastic
notice of him by
the last-named writer (
), do we
The dates of this poet's birth and death are
not
ascertainable, but I have set against his name two
dates
which result from his writings as belonging to
his lifetime. He
was a member of that great house
of the Uberti, which was driven
from Florence on
the expulsion of the Ghibellines in 1267, and
which
was ever afterwards specially excluded by name
from
the various amnesties offered from time to time to
the
exiled Florentines. His grandfather was Farinata
degli Uberti,
whose stern nature, unyielding even
amid penal fires, has been
recorded by Dante in the
tenth canto of the
. Farinata's son Lapo,
There is much beauty in several of Fazio's lyrical
poems,
of which, however, no great number have
been preserved. The
finest of all is the Canzone
which I have translated; whose
excellence is such
as to have procured it the high honour of
being at-
tributed to Dante, so that it is to be found in
most
editions of the
and as far as poetic
An exile by inheritance, Fazio seems to have
acquired
restless tastes; and in the latter years of
his life (which was
prolonged to old age), he tra-
velled over a great part of Europe, and composed
his long
poem entitled
Il Dittamondo
,—“The Song
This excellent writer is the only member of my
gathering
who was born after the death of Dante,
which event (in 1321)
preceded Franco's birth by
some fourteen years. I have
introduced a few
specimens of his poetry, partly because their
attrac-
tion was irresistible, but also because he is the
earliest
Italian poet with whom playfulness is the chief
characteristic; for even with Boccaccio, in his
poetry,
this is hardly the case. However, Franco
Sacchetti
wrote poems also on political subjects; and had
he
belonged more strictly to the period of which I
treat,
there is no one who would better have
deserved
abundant selection. Besides his poetry, he is
the
author of a well-known series of three hundred
stories;
and Trucchi gives a list of prose works by
him which are still
in MS., and whose subjects are
genealogical, historical,
natural-historical, and even
theological. He was a prolific
writer, and one who
well merits complete and careful
publication. The
pieces which I have translated, like many
others of
his, are written for music.
Franco Sacchetti was a Florentine noble by birth,
and was
the son of Benci di Uguccione Sacchetti.
Between this family and
the Alighieri there had
been a vendetta of
long standing (spoken of here in
the
Appendix to Part II
.), but which was probably
set at rest before Franco's
time, by the deaths of at
least one Alighieri and two Sacchetti.
After some
years passed in study, Franco devoted himself
to
commerce, like many nobles of the republic, and for
that
purpose spent some time in Sclavonia, whose
uncongenial
influences he has recorded in an amusing
poem. As his literary
fame increased, he was
called to many important offices, was one
of the
Priori
the
government of Faenza, in the absence of its
lord, Astorre
Manfredi. He was three times mar-
ried; to Felice degli Strozzi,
to Ghita Gherardini,
and to Nannina di Santi Bruni.
* This speech occurs in a long poem on Divine Love,
half
ecstatic, half scholastic, and hardly appreciable now.
The
passage stands well by itself, and is the only one
spoken by
our Lord.
* Madonna mia.
* The lady was probably called Diamante, Margherita, or
some
similar name.
* See what is said in allusion to his government of
Florence by
Dante, (
. C.
* The battle of Monte Catini was fought and won by the
Ghibelline
leader Uguccione della Faggiola against the
Florentines; August
29, 1315.
* This fellowship or club (Brigata), so
highly approved
and encouraged by our Folgore, is
the same to which, and to
some of its members by
name, scornful allusion is made by
Dante (
, C.
“A dozen extravagant
youths of Siena had put together by equal contributions
216,000 florins to spend in pleasuring; they were reduced in
about a twelvemonth to the extremes of poverty. It was
their practice to give mutual entertainments twice a month;
at each of which, three tables having been sumptuously
covered, they would feast at one, wash their hands on
another, and throw the last out of window.”
There exists a second curious series of sonnets for
the
months, addressed also to this club, by Cene
della Chitarra
d'Arezzo. Here, however, all sorts of
disasters and discom-
forts, in the same pursuits of which Folgore
treats, are
imagined for the prodigals; each sonnet,
too, being composed
with the same terminations in
its rhymes as the correspond-
ing one among his.
They would seem to have been written
after the ruin
of the club, as a satirical prophecy of the year
to
succeed the golden one. But this second series,
though
sometimes laughable, not having the poetical
merit of the
first, I have not included it.
My translations of Folgore's sonnets were made from
the
versions given in the forlorn Florentine
collection of 1816,
where editorial incompetence
walks naked and not ashamed,
indulging indeed in
gambols as of Punch, and words which
no voice but
his could utter. Not till my book was in
the
printer's hands, did I meet with Manuale del PrimoSecolo
* That is, according to early Tuscan nomenclature; Carlo,
the son of Messer Guerra Cavicciuoli.
* Alluding to the Syrian tribe of Assassins, whose
chief
was the Old Man of the Mountain.
* I have not been able to trace the Fazio to whom this
sonnet refers.
* The character here drawn certainly suggests Count
Ugolino
de'Gherardeschi, though it would seem that Rustico
died nearly
twenty years before the tragedy of the Tower of
Famine.
* Extracted from his long treatise, in unrhymed verse and
in
prose, “
* This and the three following pieces are extracted from
his
“
* I am quite sorry (after the foregoing love-song,
the
original of which is not perhaps surpassed by any
poem of its
class in existence) to endanger the English
reader's respect
for Fazio by these extracts from the
Dittamondo
, or “Song
I felt half disposed to include these, but was afraid
of over-
loading with such matter a selection made
chiefly for the sake
of poetic beauty. I should mention
that the
Dittamondo
, like
* The word is
Gagata
, which I find described in Alberti's
* Mediæval Britons would seem really to have
been
credited with this slight peculiarity. At the siege
of
Damietta, Cœur-de-Lion's bastard brother is said
to have
pointed out the prudence of deferring the assault, and
to
have received for rejoinder from the French crusaders,
“See
now these faint-hearted English with the
tails!” To which
the Englishman replied,
“You will need stout hearts to keep
near our tails
when the assault is made.”
† This is the Barnacle-tree, often described in old books
of
travels and natural history, and which Sir Thomas
Browne
classes gravely among his “Vulgar Errors.”
* The words are “
I
have substituted Land's End and Stonehenge, being unable
to
identify them. What follows relates to the Romances of
the
Round Table. The only allusion here which I cannot
trace to
the
is one where “Rech” and
“Nida”
* The speaker here is the poet's guide Solinus (a
histori-
cal and geographical writer of the third
century,) who bears
the same relation to him which
Virgil bears to Dante in the
.
* This may either refer to some special incident or merely mean generally that he would not suffer lying even in a jester.
In the second division of this volume are
included
all the poems I could find which seemed to have
value as
being personal to the circle of Dante's friends,
and as illustrating
their intercourse with each other.
Those who know the Italian
collections from which I
have drawn these pieces (many of them most
obscure)
will perceive how much which is in fact elucidation
is here
attempted to be embodied in themselves, as
to their rendering,
arrangement, and heading: since
the Italian editors have never yet paid
any of them,
except of course those by Dante, any such
attention;
but have printed and reprinted them in a jumbled
and
disheartening form, by which they can serve little
purpose except as
testi di lingua
—dead stock by
The
(or Autobiography of Dante's
Questi”*fù talnella sua
vita nuova.
It may be noted here, however, how necessary
a knowledge of the
* Purgatorio, C. xxx.
Boccaccio, in his
sat solitary,”
“I've seen the troops out of Caprona go On terms, affrighted thus, when on the spot They found themselves with foemen compass'd so.”
A word should be said here of the title of Dante's
autobiography.
The adjective
Nuovo
,
* I must hazard here (to relieve the first page of my
translation
from a long note) a suggestion as to the meaning
of the most
puzzling passage in the whole
,—that
La gloriosa donna della” On this passage all the commentators
mia mente, la quale fù chiamata da molti Beatrice, i quali non
sapeano che si chiamare.
The glorious lady of my mind who” This presents the obvious difficulty that the lady's
was called Beatrice by many who knew not how she was
called.
this passage with the close of thesonnet at page 275 of the
I felt a spirit of Love begin to stir,”
Love in his proper form” (by
” ThisAmore e il cor gentil son una cosa .
Among the poets of Dante's circle, the first in
order, the first in
power, and the one whom Dante
has styled his “first
friend
,” is Guido Cavalcanti,
born
about 1250, and thus Dante's senior by some
fifteen years. It is
therefore probable that there is
some inaccuracy about the statement,
often repeated,
that he was Dante's fellow-pupil under
Brunetto
Latini; though it seems certain that they both
studied,
probably Guido before Dante, with the same
teacher. The Cavalcanti
family was among the most
ancient in Florence; and its importance may
be
judged by the fact that in 1280, on the occasion of
one of the
various missions sent from Rome with the
view of pacifying the
Florentine factions, the name
of “Guido the son of
Messer Cavalcante de' Caval-
” appears as
one of the sureties offered by the
canti
city, for the quarter of San Piero
Scheraggio. His
father must have been notoriously a sceptic in
matters
of religion, since we find him placed by Dante in the
sixth
circle of Hell, in one of the fiery tombs of the
popular belief, as is plain from an anecdote
in
Boccaccio which I shall give; and some corroboration
of such
reports, at any rate as applied to Guido's
youth, seems capable of being
gathered from an
extremely obscure poem
which I have translated on
that account (at page 373) as clearly as I
found
possible. It must be admitted, however, that there
is to the
full as much devotional as sceptical tendency
implied here and there in
his writings; while the
presence of either is very rare. We may also
set
against such a charge the fact that Dino Compagni
refers, as
will be seen, to his having undertaken a
religious pilgrimage. But
indeed he seems to have
been in all things of that fitful and vehement
nature
which would impress others always strongly, but often
in
opposite ways. Self-reliant pride gave its colour to
all his moods;
making his exploits as a soldier
frequently abortive through the
headstrong ardour of
partisanship, and causing the perversity of a
logician
to prevail in much of his amorous poetry. The
writings of
his contemporaries, as well as his own,
tend to show him rash in war,
fickle in love, and
presumptuous in belief; but also, by the same
con-
current testimony, he was distinguished by great
personal
beauty, high accomplishments of all kinds,
and daring nobility of soul.
Not unworthy, for all
the weakness of his strength, to have been the
object
of Dante's early emulation, the first friend of his
youth,
and his precursor and fellow-labourer in the
creation of Italian Poetry.
In the year 1267, when Guido cannot have been
much more than
seventeen years of age, a last attempt
was made in Florence to reconcile
the Guelfs and
Ghibellines. With this view several alliances were
formed between
the leading families of the two fac-
tions; and among others, the Guelf
Cavalcante de'
Cavalcanti wedded his son Guido to a daughter of
the
Ghibelline Farinata degli Uberti. The peace
was of short duration; the
utter expulsion of the
Ghibellines (through French intervention
solicited
by the Guelfs) following almost immediately. In
the
subdivision, which afterwards took place, of the
victorious Guelfs into
so-called “Blacks”
and
“Whites,” Guido embraced the White party,
which
tended strongly to Ghibellinism, and whose chief was
Vieri de'
Cerchi, while Corso Donati headed the
opposite faction. Whether his wife
was still living
at the time when the events of the Vita Nuova
oc-
curred, is probably not ascertainable; but about that
time Dante
tells us that Guido was enamoured of a
lady named Giovanna or Joan, and whose Christian
name is absolutely
all that we know of her. How-
ever, on the occasion of his pilgrimage to
Thoulouse,
recorded by Dino Compagni, he seems to have con-
ceived a
fresh passion for a lady of that city named
Mandetta, who first
attracted him by a striking re-
semblance to his Florentine mistress.
Thoulouse
had become a place of pilgrimage from its laying
claim to
the possession of the body, or part of the
body, of Saint James the
Apostle; though the same
supposed distinction had already made the
shrine of
Compostella in Gallicia one of the most famous
throughout
all Christendom. That this devout jour-
ney of Guido's had other results
besides a new love,
will be seen by the passage from Compagni's
Chro-
nicle. He says:—
“A young and noble knight named Guido, son of Messer
”
disdainful, solitary, and devoted to study,—was a
foe to
Messer Corso (Donati) and had many times cast about
to
do him hurt. Messer Corso feared him exceedingly,
as
knowing him to be of a great spirit, and sought to
assassi-
nate him on a pilgrimage which Guido made to the
shrine
of St. James; but he might not compass it.
Wherefore,
having returned to Florence and being made aware of
this,
Guido incited many youths against Messer Corso, and
these
promised to stand by him. Who being one day on
horseback
with certain of the house of the Cerchi, and having a
javelin
in his hand, spurred his horse against Messer Corso,
think-
ing to be followed by the Cerchi that so their
companies
might engage each other; and he running in on his
horse
cast the javelin, which missed its aim. And with
Messer
Corso were Simon his son, a strong and daring youth,
and
Cecchino de' Bardi, who with many others pursued
Guido
with drawn swords; but not overtaking him they
threw
stones after him, and also others were thrown at him
from
the windows, whereby he was wounded in the hand. And
by
this matter hate was increased. And Messer Corso
spoke great
scorn of Messer Vieri, calling him the Ass of
the Gate; because,
albeit a very handsome man, he was
but of blunt wit and no great
speaker. And therefore
Messer Corso would say often,
‘To-day the Ass of the
Gate has brayed,’
and so greatly disparage him;
Guido he
called
Cavicchia
.*
* A nickname chiefly chosen, no doubt, for its resemblance
to Cavalcanti. The word
cavicchia, cavicchio,
or
He had,” (
tied his ass to a strong wooden pin
The praise which Compagni, his contemporary,
awards to Guido at the
commencement of the fore-
going extract, receives additional value when
viewed
in connection with the sonnet
addressed to him by
the same writer (see page 355), where we find
that
he could tell him of his faults.
Such scenes as the one related above had become
common things in
Florence, which kept on its course
from bad to worse till Pope Boniface
VIII resolved
on sending a legate to propose certain amendments
in
its scheme of government by
Priori
or represen-
“It happened (says
”
Florence
Corso Donati with his followers, and also those of the
house
of the Cerchi and their followers, going armed to the
funeral
of a lady of the Frescobaldi family, this party defying
that
by their looks would have assailed one another;
whereby
all those who were at the funeral having risen up
tumul-
tuously and fled each to his house, the whole city
got
under arms, both factions assembling in great numbers,
at
their respective houses. Messer Gentile de' Cerchi,
Guido
Cavalcanti, Baldinuccio and Corso Adimari,
Baschiero
della Tosa and Naldo Gherardini, with their comrades
and
adherents on horse and on foot, hastened to St.
Peter's
Gate to the house of the Donati. Not finding
them
there they went on to San Pier Maggiore, where
Messer
Corso was with his friends and followers; by whom
they
were encountered and put to flight, with many wounds
and
with much shame to the party of the Cerchi and to their
adherents.
By this time we may conjecture as probable that
Dante, in the arduous position which he then filled
as chief of the
nine
Priori
on whom the government
But this party” (writes Villani) “
remained a less” His death apparently took
time in exile, being recalled on account of the un-
healthiness of the place, which made that Guido
Cavalcanti returned with a sickness, whereof he
died. And of him was a great loss; seeing that hewas a man, as in philosophy, so in many things
deeply versed; but therewithal too fastidious and
prone to take offence.
When the discords of Florence ceased, for Guido,
in death, Dante
also had seen their native city for
the last time. Before Guido's return
he had under-
taken that embassy to Rome which bore him the
bitter
fruit of unjust and perpetual exile: and it will
be remembered that a
chief accusation against him
was that of favour shown to the White party
on the
banishment of the factions.
Besides the various affectionate allusions to Guido
in the
, Dante has unmistakeably re-
“Lo, Cimabue thought alone to tread The lists of painting; now doth Giotto gain The praise, and darkness on his glory shed. Thus hath one Guido from another ta'en The praise of speech, and haply one hath pass'd Through birth, who from their nest will chase the twain.”—
“All roundabout he look'd, as though he had Desire to see if one was with me else. But after his surmise was all extinct, He weeping said: ‘If through this dungeon blind Thou goest by loftiness of intellect,— Where is my son, and wherefore not with thee?’ And I to him: ‘Of myself come I not: He who there waiteth leads me thoro' here, Whom haply in disdain your Guido had.’* * * * * Raised upright of a sudden, cried he: ‘How Did'st say He had?Is he not living still?Doth not the sweet light strike upon his eyes?’ When he perceived a certain hesitance Which I was making ere I should reply, He fell supine, and forth appear'd no more.”
* Virgil, Dante's guide through Hell. Any prejudice
which Guido
entertained against Virgil depended, no doubt,
only on his
strong desire to see the Latin language give place,
in poetry
and literature, to a perfected Italian idiom.
“Then I, as in compunction for my fault, Said: ‘Now then shall ye tell that fallen one His son is still united with the quick. And, if I erst was dumb to the response, I did it, make him know, because I thought Yet on the error you have solved for me.’”
† These passages are extracted from a literal blank
verse
translation of the
fidelity, for the use of English readers who read for the
sake
of poetry. Dr. Carlyle's prose translation takes other
ground,
that of word-for-word literality, for which it
presupposes prose
to be indispensable. I will venture to assert
that my brother's
work yields nothing to his, however, in minute
precision of
this kind; and if so, it can hardly be doubtful
that its being
in blank verse is a great gain, even as adding
the last refine-
ment to exactness by showing the division of
the lines; but
of course also on the higher poetic ground. I do
not forget
that a version already exists, by Mr. Pollock,
professing a like
aim with my brother's; and must again express
a hope that
publicity will shortly afford to all an opportunity
of judging
the claims of the new attempt. I may here also
acknowledge
my obligations to my brother for valuable
suggestions and
assistance in the course of my present work.
lived in heaven with the” And now, dis-
angels and on earth with his soul.
Among the
the
lating to Guido. Sacchetti tells us how,
one day
that he was intent on a game at chess, Guido (who
is
described as “one who perhaps had not his equal
”) was disturbed by a child playing
in
Florence
about,
and threatened punishment if the noise con-
tinued. The child, however,
managed slily to nail
Guido's coat to the chair on which he sat, and
so
had the laugh against him when he rose soon after-
wards to
fulfil his threat. This may serve as an
amusing instance of Guido's
hasty temper, but
is rather a disappointment after its magniloquent
heading, which sets forth how “Guido
Cavalcanti,
.”
being a man of great valour and a philosopher,
is
defeated by the cunning of a child
The ninth Tale of the sixth Day of the
“You must know that in past times there were in
our
”
city certain goodly and praiseworthy customs no one
of
which is now left, thanks to avarice which has so
increased
with riches that it has driven them all away. Among
the
which was one whereby the gentlemen of the
outskirts
were wont to assemble together in divers places
through-
out Florence, and to limit their fellowships to a
certain
number, having heed to compose them of such as
could
fitly discharge the expense. Of whom to-day one, and
to-
morrow another, and so all in turn, laid tables each
on
his own day for all the fellowship. And in such
wise
often they did honour to strangers of worship and also
to
citizens. They all dressed alike at least once in the
year,
and the most notable among them rode together
through
the city; also at seasons they held passages of arms,
and
specially on the principal feast-days, or whenever
any
news of victory or other glad tidings had reached the
city.
And among these fellowships was one headed by
Messer
Betto Brunelleschi, into the which Messer Betto and
his
companions had often intrigued to draw Guido di
Messer
Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti; and this not without
cause,
seeing that not only he was one of the best logicians
that
the world held, and a surpassing natural philosopher, (for
the
which things the fellowship cared little,) but also he
ex-
ceeded in beauty and courtesy, and was of great gifts as
a
speaker; and everything that it pleased him to do,
and
that best became a gentleman, he did better than
any
other; and was exceeding rich and knew well to
solicit
with honourable words whomsoever he deemed
worthy.
But Messer Betto had never been able to succeed in
enlist-
ing him; and he and his companions believed that
this
was through Guido's much pondering which divided
him
from other men. Also because he held somewhat of
the
opinion of the Epicureans, it was said among the vulgar
sort, that his speculations were only to cast about
whether
he might find that there was no God. Now on a
certain
day Guido having left Or San Michele, and held along
the
Corso degli Adimari as far as San Giovanni (which
often-
times was his walk); and coming to the great
marble
tombs which now are in the Church of Santa
Reparata,
but were then with many others in San Giovanni;
he
being between the porphyry columns which are there
among
those tombs, and the gate of San Giovanni which
was
locked;—it so chanced that Messer Betto and
his
fellowship came riding up by the Piazza di Santa
Repa-
rata, and seeing Guido among the sepulchres, said,
‘Let
us go and engage him.’ Whereupon,
spurring their
horses in the fashion of a pleasant assault, they
were on
him almost before he was aware, and began to say to
him,
‘Thou, Guido, wilt none of our fellowship; but
lo now!
when thou shalt have found that there is no God,
what
wilt thou have done?’ To whom Guido, seeing
himself
hemmed in among then, readily replied,
‘Gentlemen, ye
are at home here, and may say what ye
please to me.’
Wherewith, setting his hand on one of
those high tombs,
being very light of his person, he took a leap
and was
over on the other side; and so having freed
himself
from them, went his way. And they all remained
bewil-
dered, looking on one another; and began to say that
he
was but a shallow-witted fellow, and that the answer
he
had made was as though one should say nothing;
seeing
that where they were, they had not more to do than
other
citizens, and Guido not less than they. To whom
Messer
Betto turned and said thus: ‘Ye yourselves are
shallow-
witted if ye have not understood him. He has civilly
and
in few words said to us the most uncivil thing in
the
world; for if ye look well to it, these tombs are the
homes
of the dead, seeing that in them the dead are set to
dwell;
and here he says that we are at home; giving us to
know
that we and all other simple unlettered men, in
comparison
of him and the learned, are even as dead men;
wherefore,
being here, we are at home.’ Thereupon
each of them
understood what Guido had meant, and was
ashamed;
nor ever again did they set themselves to engage
him.
Also from that day forth they held Messer Betto to be
a
subtle and understanding knight.
In the above story mention is made of Guido
Cavalcanti's wealth,
and there seems no doubt that
at that time the family was very rich and powerful.
On this account
I am disposed to question whether
the Canzone at page 370 (where the author speaks
of
his poverty) can really be Guido's work, though I
have included
it as being interesting if rightly attri-
buted to him; and it is
possible that, when exiled,
he may have suffered for the time in purse
as well as
person. About three years after his death, on the
10th
June, 1304, the Black party plotted together
and set fire to the quarter
of Florence chiefly held
by their adversaries. In this conflagration
the
houses and possessions of the Cavalcanti were almost
entirely
destroyed; the flames in that neighbourhood
(as Dino Compagni records)
gaining rapidly in con-
sequence of the great number of waxen images
in
the Virgin's shrine at Or San Michele; one of which,
no doubt,
was the very image resembling his lady to
which Guido refers in a sonnet (see page 333.)
ling from Florence the Cavalcanti family,*
greatly
impoverished by this monstrous fire in which nearly
two
thousand houses were consumed.
Guido appears, by various evidence, to have written, * With them were expelled the still more powerful Ghe- * This translation occurs in the Appendix to an Essay on
besides his
poems, a treatise on Philosophy and another
on Oratory, but his poems
only have survived to our
day. As a poet, he has more individual life of
his
own than belongs to any of his predecessors; by far
rardini,
also great sufferers by the conflagration; who, on
being driven
from their own country, became the founders of
the ancient
Geraldine family in Ireland. The Cavalcanti re-
appear now and
then in later European history; and espe-
cially we hear of a
second Guido Cavalcanti, who also culti-
vated poetry, and
travelled to collect books for the Ambrosian
Library; and who,
in 1563, visited England as Ambassador
to the court of Elizabeth
from Charles IX. of France.
the best of his pieces being those which relate to him-
self, his
loves and hates. The best known, however,
and perhaps the one for whose
sake the rest have
been preserved, is the metaphysical canzone on
the
Nature of Love, beginning, “Donna mi priega
and intended, it is said, as an answer to a
sonnet by
Guido Orlandi, written as though coming from a lady,
and
beginning, “Onde si muove e donde nasce
Amore?
known to
exist no fewer than eight commentaries,
some of them very elaborate and
written by prominent
learned men of the middle ages and renaissance;
the earliest being that by Egidio Colonna, a beatified
churchman
who died in 1316; while most of the too
numerous Academic writers on
Italian literature
speak of this performance with great admiration
as
Guido's crowning work. A love-song which acts as
such a
fly-catcher for priests and pedants looks very
suspicious; and
accordingly, on examination, it proves
to be a poem beside the purpose
of poetry, filled with
metaphysical jargon, and perhaps the very worst
of
Guido's productions. Its having been written by a
man whose life
and works include so much that is
impulsive and real, is easily
accounted for by scholastic
pride in those early days of learning.
translated it, as being of little
true interest; but was
pleased lately, nevertheless, to meet with a
remarkably
complete translation of it by the Rev. Charles T.
Brooks
of Cambridge, United States.*
cold conceits which prevail in this poem may be found
the
Mr. Charles
E. Norton, of Cambridge, U.S.,—a work of
high
delicacy and appreciation which originally appeared by por-
tions in the
Atlantic Monthly
, but has since been augmented
Towards the close of his life, Dante, in his Latin
treatise
, again speaks of him-
those who have most sweetly and subtly written.” This friend we afterwards find to be
poems in modern Italian are Cino da Pistoia and a
friend of his
Amicus ejus
the first of his friends.”*
* It is also noticeable that in this treatise Dante speaks
of
Guido Guinicelli on one occasion as
Guido Maximus
, thus
seeming to contradict the preference of Cavalcanti which
is
usually supposed to be implied in the passage I have
quoted
from the
Cino's Canzone addressed to Dante on the
death
of Beatrice, as well as his answer to
the first sonnet
of the Vita Nuova, indicate that the two poets
must
have become acquainted in youth, though there is no
earlier
mention of Cino in Dante's writings than
those which occur in his
Tongue. To their younger days also we may pro-
bably ascribe the two sonnets [sonnet
1,sonnet 2] translated at
pages
319-20 of this volume. It might perhaps be infer-
red with
some plausibility that their acquaintance
was revived after an
interruption by the sonnet and
answer at pages 321-22, and that they
afterwards
corresponded as friends till the period of Dante's
death
when Cino wrote his elegy. Of the two son-
nets in which Cino expresses
disapprobation of what
he thinks the partial judgments of Dante's
,
frater caris-
sime
Guittoncino de' Sinibuldi (for such was Cino's full
name) was born
in Pistoia, of a distinguished
family, in the year 1270. He devoted
himself early
to the study of law, and in 1307 was Assessor of
Civil
Causes in his native city. In this year, and
in Pistoia, the endless
contest of the “Black”
and
“White” factions first sprang into
activity; the
“Blacks” and Guelfs of Florence and
Lucca driving
out the “Whites” and Ghibellines,
who had ruled
in the city since 1300. With their accession to
power
came many iniquitous laws in favour of their
own party; so that Cino, as
a lawyer of Ghibelline
opinions, soon found it necessary or advisable
to
leave Pistoia, for it seems uncertain whether his
removal was
voluntary or by proscription. He di-
rected his course towards Lombardy,
on whose con-
fines the chief of the “White” party in
Pistoia,
Filippo Vergiolesi, still held the fortress of
Pitecchio.
Hither Vergiolesi had retreated with his family
and
adherents when resistance in the city became no
longer possible;
and it may be supposed that Cino
came to join him not on account of
political sympathy
alone; as Selvaggia Vergiolesi, his daughter, is
the
lady celebrated throughout the poet's compositions.
Three years
later, the Vergiolesi and their followers,
finding Pitecchio untenable,
fortified themselves on
the Monte della Sambuca, a lofty peak of the
Apen-
nines; which again they were finally obliged to
abandon,
yielding it to the Guelfs of Pistoia at the
price of eleven thousand lire. Meanwhile the bleak
air of the Sambuca had proved
fatal to the lady
Selvaggia, who remained buried there, or, as
Cino
expresses it in one of his poems,
Over her cheerless tomb Cino bent and mourned,
as he has told us,
when, after a prolonged absence
spent partly in France, he returned
through Tuscany
on his way to Rome. He had not been with
Sel-
vaggia's family at the time of her death; and it is
probable
that, on his return to the Sambuca, the
fortress was already
surrendered, and her grave
almost the only record left there of the Vergiolesi.
Cino's journey to Rome was on account of his
having received a
high office under Louis of Savoy,
who preceded the Emperor Henry VII.
when he
went thither to be crowned in 1310. In another
three years
the last blow was dealt to the hopes of
the exiled and persecuted
Ghibellines, by the death
of the Emperor, attributed sometimes to poison.
This death Cino has lamented in a Canzone. It pro-
bably determined
him to abandon a cause which
seemed dead, and return, when possible, to
his na-
tive city. This he succeeded in doing before 1319,
as in
that year we find him deputed together with
six other citizens, by the
Government of Pistoia, to
take possession of a stronghold recently
yielded to
them. He had now been for some time married to
Margherita
degli Ughi, of a very noble Pistoiese
family, who bore him a son named
Mino, and four
daughters, Diamante, Beatrice, Giovanna, and
Lom-
barduccia. Indeed, this marriage must have taken
place before
the death of Selvaggia in 1310, as in
1325-26, his son Mino was one of
those by whose
aid from within, the Ghibelline Castruccio
Antelmi-
nelli obtained possession of Pistoia, which he held
in
spite of revolts till his death some two or three
years afterwards, when
it again reverted to the
Guelfs.
After returning to Pistoia, Cino's whole life was
devoted to the
attainment of legal and literary fame.
In these pursuits he reaped the
highest honours,
and taught at the universities of Siena, Perugia,
and
Florence; having for his disciples men who after-
wards became
celebrated, among whom rumour has
placed Petrarch, though on examination
this seems
very doubtful. A sonnet by Petrarch exists, how-
ever,
commencing “Piangete donne e con voi pianga
Amore
bestowing the highest praise on him. He and his
Selvaggia are
also coupled with Dante and Beatrice
in the same poet's
, (cap. 4.)
Though established again in Pistoia, Cino re-
sided there but little till
about the time of his death,
which occurred in 1336-7. His monument, where
he is represented as
a professor among his disciples,
still exists in the Cathedral of
Pistoia, and is a
mediæval work of great interest. Messer
Cino de'
Sinibuldi was a prosperous man, of whom we have
ample
records, from the details of his examinations
as a student, to the
inventory of his effects after
death, and the curious items of his
funeral expenses.
Of his claims as a poet it may be said that he
filled
creditably the interval which elapsed between the
death of
Dante and the full blaze of Petrarch's suc-
cess. Most of his poems in
honour of Selvaggia are
full of an elaborate and mechanical tone of
complaint
which hardly reads like the expression of a real
love;
nevertheless there are some, and especially the son-
net on
her tomb (at page 390), which display feeling
and power. The finest, as
well as the most interest-
ing, of all his pieces, is the very beautiful
canzone in
which he attempts to console Dante for the death
of
Beatrice. Though I have found much fewer among
Cino's poems than
among Guido's which seemed to
call for translation, the collection of
the former is a
larger one. Cino produced legal writings also,
of
which the chief one that has survived is a Com-
mentary on the
Statutes of Pistoia, said to have
great merit, and whose production in
the short space
of two years was accounted an extraordinary achieve-
ment.
Having now spoken of the chief poets of this
division, it remains
to notice the others of whom less
is known.
Dante da Maiano (Dante being, as with Ali-
ghieri,
the short of Durante, and Maiano in the
neighbourhood of Fiesole) had
attained some repu-
tation as a poet before the career of his great name-
sake began;
his lady Nina going by the then un-
equivocal title of “La
Nina di Dante.” This also
appears to have been the case from
the contemptuous
answer sent by him to Dante Alighieri's
dream-
sonnet in the
(see page 396). All the
Most literary circles have their prodigal, or what
in modern
phrase might be called their “scamp;”
and among
our Danteans, this place is indisputably
filled by Cecco
Angiolieri, of Siena. Nearly all
his sonnets (and no other pieces
by him have been
preserved) relate either to an unnatural hatred of
his
father, or to an infatuated love for the daughter of
a
shoemaker, a certain married Becchina. It would
appear that Cecco
was probably enamoured of her
before her marriage as well as afterwards,
and we
may surmise that his rancour against his father may
have been
partly dependent, in the first instance, on
the disagreements arising
from such a connection.
However, from an amusing and lifelike story in the
Many both of Cecco's love-sonnets and hate-son-
nets are very
repulsive from their display of powers
perverted often to base uses;
while it is impossible
not to feel some pity for the indications they
contain
of self-sought poverty, unhappiness, and natural bent
to
ruin. Altogether they have too much curious
individuality to allow of
their being omitted here.
Their humour is sometimes strong, if not well
chosen;
their passion always forcible from its evident reality:
nor
indeed is the sonnet which stands fourth among
my translations devoid of
a certain delicacy. This
quality is also to be discerned in other pieces
which I
have not included as having less personal interest; but
it
must be confessed that for the most part the sen-
timents expressed in
Cecco's poetry are either impious
or licentious.
in print are here given;*
with an extraordinary one in which he proposes a
sort of
murderous crusade against all those who hate
their fathers. This I have
placed last (exclusive of
the sonnet to Dante in exile) in order to give
the
writer the benefit of the possibility that it was written
last,
and really expressed a still rather blood-thirsty
contrition; belonging
at best, I fear, to the content of
self-indulgence when he came to enjoy
his father's
inheritance. But most likely it is to be received
as
the expression of impudence alone, unless perhaps of
hypocrisy.
Cecco Angiolieri seems to have had poetical inter-
course with
Dante early as well as later in life;
but even from the little that
remains, we may gather
that Dante soon put an end to any intimacy
which
may have existed between them. That Cecco already
poetized at
the time to which the
relates
* It may be mentioned (as proving how much of the
poetry
of this period still remains in MS.) that Ubaldini,
in his
Glossary to Barberino, published in 1640, cites as
grammati-
cal examples no fewer than twenty-two short
fragments from
Cecco Angiolieri, one of which alone is to be
found among the
sonnets which I have seen, and which I
believe are the only
ones in print. Ubaldini quotes them
from the Strozzi MSS.
how bitter is another's bread and how.”
steep the stairs of his house
Why Cecco in this sonnet should describe himself
as having become
a Roman, is more puzzling.
Boccaccio certainly speaks of his luckless
journey to
join a papal legate, but does not tell us whether
fresh
clothes and the wisdom of experience served him in
the end to
become so far identified with the Church
of Rome. However,
from the sonnet on his father's
death he appears (though the allusion is
desperately
obscure) to have been then living at an abbey; and
also,
from the one mentioned above, we may infer
that he himself, as well as
Dante, was forced to sit
at the tables of others: coincidences which
almost
seem to afford a glimpse of the phenomenal fact that
the
bosom of the church was indeed for a time the
refuge of this shorn lamb.
If so, we may further
conjecture that the wonderful crusade-sonnet
was
an
amende honorable
then imposed on him, accom-
It must be remarked, however, that if Guido Ca- * Of this sonnet I have seen two printed versions, in
both
valcanti's sonnet at page 362, should happen really
to
have been addressed to Cecco, (a possibility there
of which the text is so corrupt as to make them very
contra-
dictory in important points; but I believe that by
comparing
the two I have given its meaning correctly. (See page 411.)
suggested in a foot-note,) he must have become a
rich man before
the period of Dante's exile, as the
death of Guido immediately preceded
that event. At
the same time, there is of course nothing likelier
than
that he may have found himself poor again before
long, and may
then (who knows?) have fled to Rome
for good, whether with sacred or
profane views.
Though nothing indicates the time of Cecco An-
giolieri's death, I
will venture to surmise that he
outlived the writing and revision of
Dante's
,
the,” and his
singer of Rectitude
disdainful soul”
Leaving to his fate (whatever that may have been)
the Scamp of
Dante's Circle, I must risk the charge
of a confirmed taste for slang by
describing Guido
Orlandi as its Bore. No other word could present
him
so fully. Very few pieces of his exist besides
the five I have given.
against his political adversaries;
of his brother poets; and
, C.
† Page 423.
§ Page 357.
Per,”*
troppa sottiglianza il fil si rompe
Next follow three poets of whom I have given one
specimen apiece.
By Bernardo da Bologna
(page 353) no other is known to exist, nor
can any-
thing be learnt of his career. Gianni Alfani
was
a noble and distinguished Florentine, a much graver
man, it
would seem, than one could judge from this
sonnet of his (page 352), which belongs rather to
the
school of Sir Pandarus of Troy.
* This sonnet, as printed, has a gap in the middle; let
us † Dino Compagni, the chronicler of Florence,
is
represented here by
Cavalcanti,†
the same writer's historical work furnishes so
much
of the little known about Guido. Dino, though one
hope (in so immaculate a censor) from unfitness for publication.Ist. d. Volg.
Poes.)
a MS., where it is
headed, “To Guido Guinicelli;” but
he
surmises, and I have no doubt correctly, that Cavalcanti
is
really the person addressed in it.
of the noblest citizens of Florence, was devoted to
the popular
cause, and held successively various high
offices in the state. The date
of his birth is not
fixed, but he must have been at least thirty in
1289,
as he was one of the
Priori
in that year, a post which
I have placed * See Lapo Gianni in this second
division
on account of the sonnet by Dante
(page 340) in
which he seems undoubtedly to be the Lapo re-
ferred
to. It has been supposed by some that Lapo
degli Uberti (father of
Fazio, and brother-in-law of
Guido Cavalcanti) is meant; but this is
hardly
possible. Dante and Guido seem to have been in
familiar
intercourse with the Lapo of the sonnet at
the time when it and others
were written; whereas
no Uberti can have been in Florence after the
year
1267, when the Ghibellines were expelled; the
Uberti family (as
I have mentioned elsewhere) being
the one of all others which was most
jealously kept
afar and excluded from every amnesty. The
only
information which I can find respecting Lapo Gianni
is the
statement that he was a notary by profession.
I have also seen it
somewhere asserted (though whereDocuments inédits pour servir
à l'histoire littéraire de
l'Italie, &c.
par
A.F. Ozanam
Paris,
is printed entire.
I cannot recollect, and am sure no authority was
given) that he was
a cousin of Dante. We may
equally infer him to have been the Lapo
mentioned
by Dante in his
being one of
the few who up to that time had written
verses in pure Italian.
Dino Frescobaldi's claim to the place given him
here
will not be disputed when it is remembered that
by his pious care the
seven first cantos of Dante's
Alighieri in Florence had been given up to
pillage;
by which restoration Dante was enabled to resume
his work.
This sounds strange when we reflect that
a world without Dante would
almost be a poorer
planet.
might not have been spared to how many
generations
of the bonders and bottlers of Dante, the dealers
in
foreign wind and words!*
great fact of Dino's life, which perhaps hardly occu-
pied a
day of it, there is no news to be gleaned of
him.
Giotto falls by right into Dante's circle, as
one
great man comes naturally to know another. But
he is said
actually to have lived in great intimacy
with Dante, who was about
twelve years older than
himself; Giotto having been born in or near the
year
1276, at Vespignano, fourteen miles from Florence.
He died in
1336, fifteen years after Dante. On the
authority of Benvenuto da Imola,
(an early commen-
tator on the
* Of course the allusion is only to the floods of empty
eloquence
and philological acumen which have been lavished
upon Dante: no
historical labours connected with him can
ever be deemed useless.
Giotto's Canzone on the doctrine of
voluntary
poverty,—the only poem we have of
his,—is a pro-
test against a perversion of gospel teaching
which
had gained ground in his day to the extent of be-
coming a
popular frenzy. People went literally mad
upon it; and to the reaction
against this madness
may also be assigned (at any rate partly)
Caval-
canti's poem on Poverty, which, as
we have seen,
is otherwise not easily explained, if authentic.
Parad. C. xxv.)
member his noble fresco at Assisi, of Saint Francis
wedded to
Poverty.*
if the poem had been
written as a sort of safety-valve
for the painter's true feelings,
during the composition
of the picture. At any rate, it affords another
proof
of the strong common sense and turn for humour
which all
accounts attribute to Giotto.
I have next introduced, as not inappropriate to
the series of
poems connected with Dante, Simone
dall' Antella's fine sonnet
relating to the last
enterprises of Henry of Luxembourg, and to
his
then approaching end,—that death-blow to
the
Ghibelline hopes which Dante so deeply shared.
This one sonnet
is all we know of its author, besides
his name.
Giovanni Quirino is another name which stands
forlorn
of any personal history. Fraticelli (in his
well-known and valuable
edition of
Works
of that name,
belonging to a Venetian family. But
the tone of the sonnet which I give (and which is the
only one
attributed to this author) seems foreign at
least to the confessions of
bishops. It might seem
credibly thus ascribed, however, from the fact
that
Dante's sonnet probably dates from Ravenna, and
that his
correspondent writes from some distance;
while the poet might well have
formed a friendship
with a Venetian bishop at the court of Verona.
* See Dante's reverential treatment of this subject, (
Dante's
answer†
† In the case of the above two sonnets, and of all
others
interchanged between two poets, I have thought it best to
place them together among the poems of one or the
other
correspondent, wherever they seemed to have most
biographi-
cal value; and the same with several epistolary
sonnets which
have no answer.
“Slaked in his heart the fervour of desire,”
“Of Love which sways the sun and all the stars.”*
I am sorry to see that this necessary introduction
to my second
division is longer than I could have
wished. Among the severely-edited
books which
had to be consulted in forming this collection, I
have
often suffered keenly from the buttonholders of
learned Italy
who will not let one go on one's way; and
have contracted a horror of
those editions where the
text, hampered with numerals for reference,
struggles
through a few lines at the top of the page, only to
stick
fast at the bottom in a slough of verbal analysis.
It would seem
unpardonable to make a book which
should be even as these; and I have
thus found my-
self led on to what I fear forms, by its length,
an
awkward
intermezzo
to the volume, in the hope of
* The last line of the
Paradise
(
In that part of the book of my memory
before
the which is little that can be read, there is
a
rubric, saying,
Incipit Vita Nova
.*
* “Here beginneth the new life.” † In reference to the meaning of the name,
“She who
of light returned to the selfsame point almost,
as
concerns its own revolution, when first the glorious
Lady
of my mind was made manifest to mine eyes;
even she who was
called Beatrice by many who
knew not
wherefore.†
confers blessing.” We learn
from Boccaccio that this first
meeting took place at a May
Feast, given in the year 1274
by Folco Portinari, father of
Beatrice, who ranked among the
principal citizens of
Florence: to which feast Dante accom-
panied his father,
Alighiero Alighieri.
this life for so long as that, within her time, the
starry
heaven had moved towards the Eastern
quarter one of the twelve parts
of a degree: so that
she appeared to me at the beginning of her
ninth
year almost, and I saw her almost at the end of my
ninth
year. Her dress, on that day, was of a most
noble colour, a subdued
and goodly crimson, girdled
and adorned in such sort as best suited
with her
very tender age. At that moment, I say most
truly that
the spirit of life, which hath its dwelling
in the secretest chamber
of the heart, began to
tremble so violently that the least pulses of
my
body shook therewith; and in trembling it said these
words:
Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens domina-
bitur mihi.*
which dwelleth in the
lofty chamber whither all the
senses carry their perceptions, was
filled with won-
der, and speaking more especially unto the spirits
of
the eyes, said these words: Apparuit jam beatitudo
vestra.†
dwelleth there
where our nourishment is adminis-
tered, began to weep, and in
weeping said these
words: Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero
deinceps.‡
I say that, from that time forward, Love quite * “Here is a deity stronger than I; who, coming,
shall † “Your beatitude hath now been made
manifest unto ‡ “Alas! how often shall I be disturbed
from this time
rule over me.”
you.”
forth!”
governed my soul; which was immediately espoused
to him, and
with so safe and undisputed a lordship,
(by virtue of strong
imagination) that I had nothing
left for it but to do all his
bidding continually.
He oftentimes commanded me to seek if I might
see
this youngest of the Angels: wherefore I in my
boyhood often
went in search of her, and found her
so noble and praiseworthy that
certainly of her
might have been said
Homer, “She seemed not to be the
daughter of a
mortal man, but of God.”*
that was with me always, was an exultation of
Love
to subdue me, it was yet of so perfect a quality that
it
never allowed me to be overruled by Love with-
out the faithful
counsel of reason, whensoever such
counsel was useful to be heard.
But seeing that
were I to dwell overmuch on the passions and
doings
of such early youth, my words might be counted
something
fabulous, I will therefore put them aside;
and passing many things
that may be conceived by
the pattern of these, I will come to such
as are
writ in my memory with a better distinctness.
After the lapse of so many days that nine years
exactly were
completed since the above-written ap-
pearance of this most gracious
being, on the last of
those days it happened that the same
wonderful
lady appeared to me dressed all in pure white,
,
* “I am thy master.”
Then, musing on what I had seen, I proposed to
relate the same
to many poets who were famous in
that day: and for that I had myself
in some sort the
art of discoursing with rhyme, I resolved on
making
a sonnet, in the which, having saluted all such as
are
subject unto Love, and entreated them to expound
my vision, I should
write unto them those things
which I had seen in my sleep. And the
sonnet I
made was this:—
* “Behold thy heart.”
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the
first part I give greeting, and ask an answer; in the
second, I signify what thing has to be answered to.
The second part commences here: “Of those long
hours.”
To this sonnet I received many answers, convey-
ing many
different opinions; of the which, one was
sent by
friends; and
it began thus, “Unto my thinking thou
beheld'st all
worth.”*
learned that
I was he who had sent those rhymes to
him, that our friendship
commenced. But the true
meaning of that vision was not then
perceived by any
one, though it be now evident to the least skilful.
* The friend of whom Dante here speaks was Guido Ca-
valcanti.
For his answer, and those of Cino da Pistoia and
Dante da
Maiano, see their poems further on.
From that night forth, the natural functions of my
body began
to be vexed and impeded, for I was given
up wholly to thinking of
this most gracious creature:
whereby in short space I became so weak
and so re-
duced that it was irksome to many of my friends
to
look upon me; while others, being moved by spite,
went about
to discover what it was my wish should
be concealed. Wherefore
I,(perceiving the drift of
their unkindly questions,) by Love's
will, who di-
rected me according to the counsels of reason,
told
them how it was Love himself who had thus dealt
with me:
and I said so, because the thing was so
plainly to be discerned in
my countenance that there
was no longer any means of concealing it.
But
when they went on to ask, “And by whose help
hath
Love done this?” I looked in their faces
smiling,
and spake no word in return.
creature was sitting where words were to be heard
of
the Queen of Glory;* and I was in a place whence
mine
eyes could behold their beatitude: and betwixt
her and me, in a
direct line, there sat another lady
of a pleasant favour; who
looked round at me many
times, marvelling at my continued gaze
which seemed
to have her for its
object.
she thus looked: so that
departing thence, I heard
it whispered after me, “Look
you to what a pass
such a lady hath brought him;” and in
saying this
they named her who had been midway between the* i.e. in a church.
Now it so chanced with her by whose means I had
thus long time
concealed my desire, that it behoved
her to leave the city I speak
of, and to journey afar:
excellent a defence, had more trouble
than even I
could before have supposed. And thinking that if
I
spoke not somewhat mournfully of her departure, my
former
counterfeiting would be the more quickly
perceived,
sonnet*
thereof;
it hath
certain words in it whereof my lady was the
immediate cause, as will
be plain to him that under-
stands. And the sonnet was this:—
* It will be observed that this poem is not what we now
call
a sonnet. Its structure, however, is analogous to that
of
the sonnet, being two sextetts followed by two
quattrains,
instead of two quattrains followed by two
triplets. Dante
applies the term sonnet to both these forms
of composition,
and to no other.
This poem has two principal parts; for, in the
first, I mean to call the Faithful of Love in those
words of Jeremias the Prophet, “
transitis per viam, attendite et
videte si est dolor
sicut dolor meusand to pray them to stay and
hear me. In the second I tell where Love had placed
me, with a meaning other than that which the last
part of the poem shows, and I say what I have lost.
The second part begins here: “Love, (never, certes).”
A certain while after the departure of that lady,
it pleased
the Master of the Angels to call into His
glory a damsel, young and
of a gentle presence,
who had been very lovely in the city I speak
of: and
I saw her body lying without its soul among many
ladies,
who held a pitiful weeping. Whereupon,
remembering that I had seen
her in the company
of excellent Beatrice, I could not hinder myself
from
a few tears; and weeping, I conceived to say some-
what of
her death, in guerdon of having seen her
somewhile with my lady;
which thing I spake of in
as he will discern who
understands. And I wrote
two sonnets, which are these:—
This first sonnet is divided into three parts. In
the first, I call and beseech the Faithful of Love to
weep; and I say that their Lord weeps, and that
they, hearing the reason why he weeps, shall be more
minded to listen to me. In the second, I relate this
reason. In the third, I speak of honour done by
Love to this Lady. The second part begins here:
“When now so many dames;” the
third here:
“Now hearken.”
* The commentators assert that the last two lines here do
not
allude to the dead lady, but to Beatrice. This would
make the
poem very clumsy in construction; yet there must
be some covert
allusion to Beatrice, as Dante himself inti-
mates. The only
form in which I can trace it consists in the
implied assertion
that such person as had enjoyed the dead
lady's society was worthy of heaven, and that person
was
Beatrice. Or indeed the allusion to Beatrice might be in
the
first poem, where he says that Love “
in forma vera
” (that is,
This poem is divided into four parts. In the first
I address Death by certain proper names of hers. In
the second, speaking to her, I tell the reason why I
am moved to denounce her. In the third, I rail
against her. In the fourth, I turn to speak to
a person undefined, although defined in my own
conception. The second part commences here, “Since
thou alone;” the third here, “And now
(for I
must);” the fourth here, “Whoso
deserves not.”
Some days after the death of this lady, I had
occasion to
leave the city I speak of, and to go
thitherwards where she abode
who had formerly been
my protection; albeit the end of my journey
reached
not altogether so far. And notwithstanding that I
was
visibly in the company of many, the journey was
so irksome that I
had scarcely sighing enough to
ease my heart's heaviness; seeing
that as I went, I
left my beatitude behind me. Wherefore it
came
to pass that he who ruled me by virtue of my most
gentle
lady was made visible to my mind, in the light
habit of a traveller,
coarsely fashioned. He appeared
to me troubled, and looked always on
the ground;
saving only that sometimes his eyes were turned
to-
wards a river which was clear and rapid, and which
flowed
along the path I was taking. And then I
words: “I come from that lady who
was so long
thy surety; for the matter of whose return, I
know
that it may not be. Wherefore I have taken that
heart which
I made thee leave with her, and do bear
it unto another lady, who,
as she was, shall be thy
surety;” (and when he named her,
I knew her well.)
“And of these words I have spoken, if
thou shouldst
speak any again, let it be in such sort as that
none
shall perceive thereby that thy love was feigned for
her,
which thou must now feign for another.” And
when he had
spoken thus, all my imagining was
gone suddenly, for it seemed to me
that Love be-
came a part of myself: so that, changed as it
were
in mine aspect, I rode on full of thought the whole
of that
day, and with heavy sighing. And the day
being over, I wrote this sonnet:—
This sonnet has three parts. In the first part, I
tell how I met Love, and of his aspect. In the
second, I tell what he said to me, although not in
full, through the fear I had of discovering my secret.
In the third, I say how he disappeared. The second
part commences here, “Then as I
went;” the third
here, “Wherewith so much.”
On my return, I set myself to seek out that lady
whom my
master had named to me while I jour-
neyed sighing. And because I
would be brief, I will
now narrate that in a short while I made her
my
surety, in such sort that the matter was spoken of
by many in
terms scarcely courteous; through the
which I had oftenwhiles many
troublesome hours.
And by this it happened (to wit: by this
false
and evil rumour which seemed to misfame me of
vice) that
she who was the destroyer of all evil and
the queen of all good,
coming where I was, denied
me her most sweet salutation, in the
which alone
was my blessedness.
And here it is fitting for me to depart a little from
this
present matter, that it may be rightly under-
stood of what
surpassing virtue her salutation was to
me.
peared in
any place, it seemed to me, by the hope of
her excellent salutation,
that there was no man mine
enemy any longer; and such warmth of charity
came upon me that
most certainly in that moment
I would have pardoned whosoever had
done me an
injury; and if one should then have questioned
me
concerning any matter, I could only have said unto
him
“Love,” with a countenance clothed in
humble-
ness. And what time she made ready to salute me,
the
spirit of Love, destroying all other perceptions,
thrust forth the
feeble spirits of my eyes, saying,
“Do homage unto your
mistress,” and putting itself
in their place to obey: so
that he who would, might
then have beheld Love, beholding the lids
of mine
eyes shake. And when this most gentle lady gave
her
salutation, Love, so far from being a medium
beclouding mine
intolerable beatitude, then bred in
me such an overpowering
sweetness that my body,
being all subjected thereto, remained many
times
helpless and passive. Whereby it is made manifest
that in
her salutation alone was there any beatitude
for me, which then very
often went beyond my en-
durance.
And now, resuming my discourse, I will go on to
relate that
when, for the first time, this beatitude
was denied me, I became
possessed with such grief
that parting myself from others, I went
into a lonely
place to bathe the ground with most bitter
tears:
and when, by this heat of weeping, I was
somewhat
relieved, I betook myself to my chamber, where I
could
lament unheard. And there, having prayed
to the Lady of all Mercies,
and having said also,
asleep like a beaten
sobbing child. And in my
sleep, towards the middle of it, I seemed
to see in
the room, seated at my side, a youth in very
white
raiment, who kept his eyes fixed on me in deep
thought.
thought
that he sighed and called to me in these
words: “
Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur
* “My son, it is time for us to lay aside our counterfeiting.”
† “I am as the centre of a circle, to the
which all parts of
the circumference bear an equal relation:
but with thee it is
not thus.” This phrase seems
to have remained as obscure
to commentators as Dante found
it at the moment. No one,
as far as I know, has even fairly
tried to find a meaning for
it. To me the following appears
a not unlikely one. Love
is weeping on Dante's account, and
not on his own. He says,
“I am the centre of a
circle (
Amor che muove il sole e le altre
an intimation of the death of Beatrice, accounting
for Dante
being next told not to inquire the meaning of the
speech,—
“Demand no more than may be
useful to thee.”
Whereupon, remembering me, I knew that I had
beheld this
vision during the ninth hour of the day;
and I resolved that I would
make a ditty, before I
left my chamber, according to the words my
master
had spoken. And this is the ditty that I made:—
This ditty is divided into three parts. In the
first, I tell it whither to go, and I encourage it, that it
may go the more confidently, and I tell it whose com-
pany to join if it would go with confidence and
without any danger. In the second, I say that which
it behoves the ditty to set forth. In the third, I give
it leave to start when it pleases, recommending its
course to the arms of Fortune. The second part be-
gins here, “With a sweet accent;” the
third here,
“Gentle my Song.” Some might
contradict me, and
say that they understand not whom I address in the
second person, seeing that the ditty is merely the
very words I am speaking. And therefore I say
that this doubt I intend to solve and clear up in this
little book itself, at a more difficult passage, and
then let him understand who now doubts, or would
now contradict as aforesaid.
After this vision I have recorded, and having
written those
words which Love had dictated to me,
I began to be harassed with
many and divers
thoughts, by each of which I was sorely
tempted;
and in especial, there were four among them that
left
me no rest. The first was this: “Certainly the
lordship
of Love is good; seeing that it diverts the
mind from all mean
things.” The second was this:
“Certainly the
lordship of Love is evil; seeing that
the more homage his servants
pay to him, the more
grievous and painful are the torments wherewith
he
torments them.” The third was this: “The
name of
Love is so sweet in the hearing that it would not seem
that the name must needs be like unto
the thing
named: as it is written:
Nomina sunt consequentia
And by each one of these thoughts I was so sorely
assailed
that I was like unto him who doubteth which
path to take, and
wishing to go, goeth not. And
if I bethought myself to seek out some
point at the
which all these paths might be found to meet, I
dis-
cerned but one way, and that irked me; to wit, to
call upon
Pity, and to commend myself unto her.
And it was then that, feeling
a desire to write some-
what thereof in rhyme, I wrote this sonnet:—
* “Names are the consequents of things.”
This sonnet may be divided into four parts. In
the first, I say and propound that all my thoughts
are concerning Love. In the second, I say that they
are diverse, and I relate their diversity. In the
third, I say wherein they all seem to agree. In the
fourth, I say that, wishing to speak of Love, I know
not from which of these thoughts to take my argu-
ment; and that if I would take it from all, I shall
have to call upon mine enemy, my Lady Pity.
“Lady” I say as in a scornful mode of speech.
The second begins here, “Yet have between them-
selves;” the third, “All of them
craving;” the
fourth, “And thus.”
After this battling with many thoughts, it chanced
on a day
that my most gracious lady was with a
gathering of ladies in a
certain place; to the which
I was conducted by a friend of mine; he
thinking to
do me a great pleasure by showing me the beauty
of
so many women. Then I, hardly knowing where-
unto he
conducted me, but trusting in him (who yet
was leading his friend to
the last verge of life), made
question: “To what end are
we come among these
ladies?” and he answered:
“To the end that they
may be worthily served.”
And they were assembled
around a gentlewoman who was given in
marriage
on that day; the custom of the city being that these
first time at table in the house of her
husband.
Therefore I, as was my friend's pleasure, resolved
to
stay with him and do honour to those ladies.
But as soon as I had thus resolved, I began to feel
a
faintness and a throbbing at my left side, which
soon took
possession of my whole body. Whereupon
I remember that I covertly
leaned my back unto a
painting that ran round the walls of that
house;
and being fearful lest my trembling should be dis-
cerned
of them, I lifted mine eyes to look on those
ladies, and then first
perceived among them the ex-
cellent Beatrice. And when I perceived
her, all my
senses were overpowered by the great lordship
that
Love obtained, finding himself so near unto that
most
gracious being, until nothing but the spirits of
sight
remained to me; and even these remained driven
out of
their own instruments because Love entered
in that honoured place of
theirs, that so he might
the better behold her. And although I was
other
than at first, I grieved for the spirits so expelled
which
kept up a sore lament, saying: “If he had
not in this
wise thrust us forth, we also should behold
the marvel of this
lady.” By this, many of her
friends, having discerned my
confusion, began to
wonder; and together with herself, kept
whispering
of me and mocking me. Whereupon my friend, who
knew
not what to conceive, took me by the hands,
and drawing me forth
from among them, required to
know what ailed me. Then, having first
held me at
back to me, I made answer to my friend:
surety I have now set my
feet on that point of life,
beyond the which he must not pass
who would re-
turn.”*
Afterwards, leaving him, I went back to the room
where I had
wept before; and again weeping and
ashamed, said: “If
this lady but knew of my con-
dition, I do not think that she would
thus mock at
me; nay, I am sure that she must needs feel
some
pity.” And in my weeping I bethought me to
write
certain words in the which, speaking to her, I
should
signify the occasion of my disfigurement, telling
her
also how I knew that she had no knowledge thereof:
which, if
it were known, I was certain must move
others to pity. And then,
because I hoped that
peradventure it might come into her hearing, I
wrote
this sonnet.
* It is difficult not to connect Dante's agony at this
wed-
ding-feast with our knowledge that in her
twenty-first year
Beatrice was wedded to Simone de'
Bardi. That she herself
was the bride on this occasion
might seem out of the question
from the fact of its not
being in any way so stated: but on
the other hand,
Dante's silence throughout the
This sonnet I divide not into parts, because a di-
vision is only made to open the meaning of the thing
divided: and this, as it is sufficiently manifest
through the reasons given, has no need of division.
True it is that, amid the words whereby is shown
the occasion of this sonnet, dubious words are to be
found; namely, when I say that Love kills all my
spirits, but that the visual remain in life, only out-
side of their own instruments. And this difficulty
it is impossible for any to solve who is not in equal
guise liege unto Love; and, to those who are so, that
is manifest which would clear up the dubious words.
And therefore it were not well for me to expound
this difficulty, inasmuch as my speaking would be
either fruitless or else superfluous.
A while after this strange disfigurement, I became
possessed
with a strong conception which left me but
very seldom, and then to
return quickly. And it
was this: “Seeing that thou comest
into such scorn
by the companionship of this lady, wherefore
seekest
thou to behold her? If she should ask thee this
thing,
what answer couldst thou make unto her?
yea, even though thou wert
master of all thy faculties,
and in no way hindered from
answering.” Unto the
which, another very humble thought
said in reply:
“If I were master of all my faculties, and
in no way
hindered from answering, I would tell her that
no
sooner do I image to myself her marvellous beauty
than I am
possessed with the desire to behold her, the
which is of so great
strength that it kills and destroys
in my memory all those things
which might oppose
it; and it is therefore that the great anguish I
have
endured thereby is yet not enough to restrain me
from
seeking to behold her.” And then, because of
these
thoughts, I resolved to write somewhat, wherein,
having pleaded mine
excuse, I should tell her of what
I felt in her presence. Whereupon
I wrote this
sonnet:—
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the
first, I tell the cause why I abstain not from coming
to this lady. In the second, I tell what befalls me
through coming to her; and this part begins here,
“When thou art near.” And also this
second part
divides into five distinct statements. For, in the first,
I say what Love, counselled by Reason, tells me when
I am near the lady. In the second, I set forth the
state of my heart by the example of the face. In
the third, I say how all ground of trust fails me.
In the fourth, I say that he sins who shows not pity
of me, which would give me some comfort. In the
last, I say why people should take pity; namely,
for the piteous look which comes into mine eyes;
which piteous look is destroyed, that is, appeareth
not unto others, through the jeering of this lady, who
draws to the like action those who peradventure
would see this piteousness. The second part begins
here, “My face shows;” the third,
“Till, in the
drunken terror;” the fourth, “It were
a grievous
sin;” the fifth, “For the great anguish.”
Thereafter, this sonnet bred in me desire to write
down in
verse four other things touching my con-
dition, the which things it
seemed to me that I had
not yet made manifest. The first among these
was
the grief that possessed me very often, remember-
ing the
strangeness which Love wrought in me;
the second was, how Love many
times assailed me so
suddenly and with such strength that I had no
other
life remaining except a thought which spake of my
lady:
the third was, how when Love did battle with
me in this wise, I
would rise up all colourless, if so
I might see my lady, conceiving
that the sight of her
would defend me against the assault of Love,
and
altogether forgetting that which her presence brought
unto
me; and the fourth was, how when I saw her,
the sight not only
defended me not, but took away
the little life that remained to me.
And I said these
four things in a sonnet, which is this:—
This sonnet is divided into four parts, four things
being therein narrated; and as these are set forth
above, I only proceed to distinguish the parts by
their beginnings. Wherefore I say that the second
part begins, “Love smiteth me;” the
third, “And
then if I;” the fourth, “No sooner do
I lift.”
After I had written these three last sonnets, wherein
I spake
unto my lady, telling her almost the whole
of my condition, it
seemed to me that I should be
silent, having said enough concerning
myself. But
albeit I spake not to her again, yet it behoved
me
afterward to write of another matter, more noble than
the
foregoing. And for that the occasion of what I
then wrote may be
found pleasant in the hearing, I
will relate it as briefly as I may.
Through the sore change in mine aspect, the
secret of my heart
was now understood of many.
Which thing being thus, there came a day
when
certain ladies to whom it was well known (they
having been
with me at divers times in my trouble)
were met together for the
pleasure of gentle company.
And as I was going that way by chance,
(but I think
rather by the will of fortune,) I heard one of
them
call unto me, and she that called was a lady of very
sweet
speech. And when I had come close up with
them, and perceived that
they had not among them
them, asking of their pleasure. The
ladies were
many; divers of whom were laughing one to
another,
while divers gazed at me as though I should speak
anon.
But when I still spake not, one of them, who
before had been talking
with another, addressed me
by my name, saying, “To what
end lovest thou
this lady, seeing that thou canst not support
her
presence? Now tell us this thing, that we may know
it: for
certainly the end of such a love must be worthy
of
knowledge.” And when she had spoken these
words, not she
only, but all they that were with her,
began to observe me, waiting
for my reply. Where-
upon, I said thus unto
them:—“Ladies, the end
and aim of my Love was
but the salutation of that
lady of whom I conceive that ye are
speaking;
wherein alone I found that beatitude which is the
goal
of desire. And now that it hath pleased her to
deny me this, Love,
my Master, of his great goodness,
hath placed all my beatitude there
where my hope
will not fail me.” Then those ladies began
to talk
closely together; and as I have seen snow fall among
the
rain, so was their talk mingled with sighs. But
after a little, that
lady who had been the first to
address me, addressed me again in
these words: “We
pray thee that thou wilt tell us wherein
abideth this
thy beatitude.” And answering, I said but
thus
much: “In those words that do praise my
lady.”
To the which she rejoined, “If thy
speech were
true, those words that thou didst write concerning
intent.”
Then I, being almost put to shame because of her
answer, went
out from among them; and as I walked,
I said within myself:
“Seeing that there is so much
beatitude in those words
which do praise my lady,
wherefore hath my speech of her been
different?”
And then I resolved that thenceforward I
would
choose for the theme of my writings only the praise
of
this most gracious being. But when I had thought
exceedingly, it
seemed to me that I had taken to
myself a theme which was much too
lofty, so that I
dared not begin; and I remained during
several
days in the desire of speaking, and the fear of
be-
ginning.
day along a path which lay beside a stream
of very
clear water, that there came upon me a great desire
to
say somewhat in rhyme; but when I began think-
ing how I should say
it, methought that to speak of
her were unseemly, unless I spoke to
other ladies in
the second person; which is to say, not to any other
ladies; but only to such as are so called
because they
are gentle, let alone for mere womanhood.
Where-
upon I declare that my tongue spake as though by
its own
impulse, and said, “Ladies that have in-
telligence in
love.” These words I laid up in my
mind with great
gladness, conceiving to take them
as my commencement. Wherefore,
having returned
to the city I spake of, and considered thereof
during
certain days, I began a poem with this beginning,
its division. The poem begins here:—
This poem, that it may be better understood, I
will divide more subtly than the others preceding;
and therefore I will make three parts of it. The
first part is a proem to the words following. The
second is the matter treated of. The third is, as it
were, a handmaid to the preceding words. The se-
cond begins here, “An angel;” the
third here, “Dear
Song, I know.” The first part is divided into four.
In the first, I say to whom I mean to speak of my
lady, and wherefore I will so speak. In the second, I
say what she appears to myself to be when I reflect
upon her excellence, and what I would utter if I lost
not courage. In the third, I say what it is I pur-
pose to speak, so as not to be impeded by faint-
heartedness. In the fourth, repeating to whom I
purpose speaking, I tell the reason why I speak to
them. The second begins here, “And I declare;”
the third here, “Wherefore I will not
speak;” the
fourth here, “With you alone.” Then,
when I say
“An Angel,” I begin treating of this
lady: and
this part is divided into two. In the first, I tell
what is understood of her in heaven. In the second,
I tell what is understood of her on earth: here, “My
lady is desired.” This second part is divided into
two; for, in the first, I speak of her as regards the
nobleness of her soul, relating some of her virtues
proceeding from her soul; in the second, I speak of
her as regards the nobleness of her body, narrating
some of her beauties: here, “Love saith concerning
her.” This second part is divided into two; for,
in the first, I speak of certain beauties which belong
to the whole person; in the second, I speak of certain
beauties which belong to a distinct part of the per-
son: here, “Whatever her sweet eyes.”
This second
part is divided into two; for, in the one, I speak of
the eyes, which are the beginning of love; in the
second, I speak of the mouth, which is the end of
love. And, that every vicious thought may be dis-
carded herefrom, let the reader remember that it is
above written that the greeting of this lady, which
was an act of her mouth, was the goal of my desires,
while I could receive it. Then, when I say, “Dear
Song, I know,” I add a stanza as it were hand-
maid to the others, wherein I say what I desire from
this my poem. And because this last part is easy
to understand, I trouble not myself with more divi-
sions. I say, indeed, that the further to open the
meaning of this poem, more minute divisions ought
to be used; but nevertheless he who is not of wit
enough to understand it by these which have been
already made is welcome to leave it alone; for certes
I fear I have communicated its sense to too many by
these present divisions, if it so happened that many
should hear it.
When this song was a little gone abroad, a certain
one of my
friends, hearing the same, was pleased to
question me, that I should
tell him what thing love
is; it may be, conceiving from the words
thus heard
a hope of me beyond my desert. Wherefore I,
thinking
that after such discourse it were well to say
somewhat of the nature
of Love, and also in accord-
ance with my friend's desire, proposed
to myself to
write certain words in the which I should treat
of
this argument. And the sonnet that I then made
is this:—
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the
first, I speak of him according to his power. In the
second, I speak of him according as his power trans-
lates itself into act. The second part begins here,
“Then beauty seen.” The first is
divided into two.
In the first, I say in what subject this power exists.
In the second, I say how this subject and this power
are produced together, and how the one regards the
other, as form does matter. The second begins here,
“'Tis Nature.” Afterwards when I say, “Then
beauty seen in virtuous womankind,” I say how this
power translates itself into act; and, first, how it so
translates itself in a man, then how it so translates
itself in a woman: here, “And women feel.”
* Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins,
“Within
the gentle heart Love shelters
him.” (see antè, p. 24.)
Having treated of love in the foregoing, it ap-
peared to me
that I should also say something in
praise of my lady, wherein it
might be set forth how
love manifested itself when produced by her;
and
how not only she could awaken it where it slept, but
where
it was not she could marvellously create it.
To the which end I
wrote another sonnet; and it is
this:—
This sonnet has three sections. In the first, I say
how this lady brings this power into action by those
most noble features, her eyes: and, in the third, I say
this same as to that most noble feature, her mouth.
And between these two sections is a little section, which
asks, as it were, help for the previous section and
the subsequent; and it begins here, “O women, help.”
The third begins here, “Humbleness.”
The first is
divided into three; for, in the first, I say how she
with power makes noble that which she looks upon;
and this is as much as to say that she brings Love,
in power, thither where he is not. In the second, I
say how she brings Love, in act, into the hearts of
all those whom she sees. In the third, I tell what
she afterwards, with virtue, operates upon their
hearts. The second begins, “Upon her
path;” the
third, “He whom she greeteth.” Then,
when I say,
“O women, help,” I intimate to whom
it is my in-
tention to speak, calling on women to help me to
honour her. Then, when I say,
“Humbleness,” I
say that same which is said in the first part, regard-
ing two acts of her mouth, one whereof is her most
sweet speech, and the other her marvellous smile.
Only, I say not of this last how it operates upon the
hearts of others, because memory cannot retain this
smile, nor its operation.
Not many days after this, (it being the will of the
most High
God, who also from Himself put not
away death,) the father of
wonderful Beatrice, going
out of this life, passed certainly into
glory. There-
by it happened, as of very sooth it might not
be
otherwise, that this lady was made full of the bitter-
ness
of grief: seeing that such a parting is very
grievous unto those
friends who are left, and that no
other friendship is like to that
between a good parent
and a good child; and furthermore considering that
father (as by many it hath been truly
averred) of
exceeding goodness. And because it is the usage
of
that city that men meet with men in such a grief,
and
women with women, certain ladies of her com-
panionship gathered
themselves unto Beatrice, where
she kept alone in her weeping: and
as they passed
in and out, I could hear them speak concerning
her,
how she wept. At length two of them went by me,
who said:
“Certainly she grieveth in such sort that
one might die
for pity, beholding her.” Then,
feeling the tears upon my
face, I put up my hands
to hide them: and had it not been that I
hoped to
hear more concerning her, (seeing that where I sat,
her
friends passed continually in and out,) I should
assuredly have gone
thence to be alone, when I felt
the tears come. But as I still sat
in that place,
certain ladies again passed near me, who were
say-
ing among themselves: “Which of us shall be
joy-
ful any more, who have listened to this lady in her
piteous
sorrow?” And there were others who said
as they went by
me: “He that sitteth here could
not weep more if he had
beheld her as we have be-
held her;” and again:
“He is so altered that he
seemeth not as
himself.” And still as the ladies
passed to and fro, I
could hear them speak after this
fashion of her and of me.
Wherefore afterwards, having considered and per-
ceiving that
there was herein matter for poesy, I
resolved that I would write
certain rhymes in the
said. And because I would willingly have
spoken
to them if it had not been for discreetness, I made
in my
rhymes as though I had spoken and they had
answered me. And thereof
I wrote two sonnets; in
the first of which I addressed them as I
would fain
have done; and in the second related their
answer,
using the speech that I had heard from them, as
though
it had been spoken unto myself. And the
sonnets are these:—
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the
first, I call and ask these ladies whether they come
from her, telling them that I think they do, because
they return the nobler. In the second, I pray them
to tell me of her: and the second begins here, “And
if indeed.”
This sonnet has four parts, as the ladies in whose
person I reply had four forms of answer. And,
because these are sufficiently shown above, I stay not
to explain the purport of the parts, and therefore I
only discriminate them. The second begins here,
“And wherefore is thy grief;” the
third here,
“Nay, leave our woe;” the fourth,
“Also her
look.”
A few days after this, my body became afflicted
with a painful
infirmity, whereby I suffered bitter
anguish for many days, which at
last brought me
unto such weakness that I could no longer
move.
And I remember that on the ninth day, being over-
come
with intolerable pain, a thought came into my
mind concerning my
lady: but when it had a little
nourished this thought, my mind
returned to its
brooding over mine enfeebled body. And then
per-
ceiving how frail a thing life is, even though health
keep
with it, the matter seemed to me so pitiful that
I could not choose
but weep; and weeping I said
within myself: “Certainly it
must some time come
to pass that the very gentle Beatrice will
die.” Then,
feeling bewildered, I closed mine eyes; and
my
brain began to be in travail as the brain of one frantic,
and
to have such imaginations as here follow.
And at the first, it seemed to me that I saw cer-
tain faces
of women with their hair loosened, which
called out to me,
“Thou shalt surely die;” after
the which,
other terrible and unknown appearances
said unto me,
“Thou art dead.” At length, as my
phantasy
held on in its wanderings, I came to be I
knew not where, and to
behold a throng of dishevelled
ladies wonderfully sad, who kept
going hither and
thither weeping. Then the sun went out, so
that
the stars showed themselves, and they were of such
a colour
that I knew they must be weeping: and it
seemed to me that the birds
fell dead out of the sky,
and that there were great earthquakes.
With that,
a grievous fear, I conceived that a
certain friend
came unto me and said: “Hast thou not
heard?
She that was thine excellent lady hath been taken
out of
life.” Then I began to weep very piteously;
and not only
in mine imagination, but with mine
eyes, which were wet with tears.
And I seemed to
look towards Heaven, and to behold a multitude
of
angels who were returning upwards, having before
them an
exceedingly white cloud: and these angels
were singing together
gloriously, and the words of
their song were these; “
Osanna in excelsis:”
and
And as I said these words, with a painful anguish
of sobbing
and another prayer unto Death, a young
and gentle lady, who had been
standing beside me
where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried
out
because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken
with
trembling and began to shed tears. Whereby other
ladies,
who were about the room, becoming aware of
my discomfort by reason
of the moan that she made,
(who indeed was of my very near kindred,)
led her
away from where I was, and then set themselves to
awaken
me, thinking that I dreamed, and saying:
“Sleep no
longer, and be not disquieted.”
Then, by their words, this strong imagination was
brought
suddenly to an end, at the moment that I
was about to say,
“O Beatrice! peace be with thee.”
And already
I had said, “O Beatrice!” when being
aroused,
I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had
been a deception. But
albeit I had indeed uttered
her name, yet my voice was so broken
with sobs,
that it was not understood by these ladies; so
that
in spite of the sore shame that I felt, I turned to-
wards
them by Love's counselling. And when they
beheld me, they began to
say, “He seemeth as one
dead,” and to whisper
among themselves, “Let us
spake to me many soothing
words, and ques-
tioned me moreover touching the cause of my
fear.
Then I, being somewhat reassured, and having per-
ceived
that it was a mere phantasy, said unto them,
“This thing
it was that made me afeard;” and
told them of all that I
had seen, from the beginning
even unto the end, but without once
speaking the
name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered
from
my sickness, I bethought me to write these things in
rhyme;
deeming it a lovely thing to be known.
Whereof I wrote this poem:—
This poem has two parts. In the first, speaking
to a person undefined, I tell how I was aroused from
a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and how I pro-
mised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say
how I told them. The second part begins here, “I
was a-thinking.” The first part divides into two.
In the first, I tell that which certain ladies, and
which one singly, did and said because of my phan-
tasy, before I had returned into my right senses.
In the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after
I had left off this wandering: and it begins here,
“But uttered in a voice.” Then, when
I say, “I
was a-thinking,” I say how I told them this my
imagination; and concerning this I have two parts.
In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination. In
the second, saying at what time they called me, I
covertly thank them: and this part begins here,
“Just then you woke me.”
After this empty imagining, it happened on a day,
as I sat
thoughtful, that I was taken with such a
strong trembling at the
heart, that it could not have
been otherwise in the presence of my
lady. Whereupon
I perceived that there was an appearance of
Love
beside me, and I seemed to see him coming from my
lady; and
he said, not aloud but within my heart:
“Now take heed
that thou bless the day when I
entered into thee; for it is fitting
that thou shouldst
do so.” And with that my heart was so
full of glad-
ness, that I could hardly believe it to be of very
truth
mine own heart and not another.
A short while after these words which my heart
spoke to me
with the tongue of Love, I saw coming
towards me a certain lady who
was very famous for
her beauty, and of whom that friend whom I
have
already called the first among my friends had long
been
enamoured. This lady's right name was Joan;
but because of her
comeliness (or at least it was so
imagined) she was called of many
Primavera
it with rhymes and send it unto my chief friend;
but
setting aside certain words‡ which seemed proper
to
be set aside, because I believed that his heart
still
regarded the beauty of her that was called Spring.
And I wrote this sonnet:—
* There is a play in the original upon the words
Primavera
† “I am the voice of one crying in the
wilderness: ‘Pre-
pare ye the way of the Lord.’”
‡ That is (as I understand it), suppressing, from
delicacy
towards his friend, the words in which Love describes
Joan
as merely the forerunner of Beatrice. And perhaps in
the
latter part of this sentence a reproach is gently conveyed
to
the fickle Guido Cavalcanti, who may already have
transferred
his homage (though Dante had not then learned it)
from Joan
to Mandetta. (See his Poems.)
This sonnet has many parts: whereof the first
tells how I felt awakened within my heart the ac-
customed tremor, and how it seemed that Love ap-
peared to me joyful from afar. The second says
how it appeared to me that Love spake within my
heart, and what was his aspect. The third tells
how, after he had in such wise been with me a space,
I saw and heard certain things. The second part
begins here, “Saying, ‘Be
now;’” the third here,
“Then, while it was his pleasure.”
The third part
divides into two. In the first, I say what I saw.
In the second, I say what I heard: and it begins
here, “Love spake it then.”
It might be here objected unto me, (and even by * On reading Dante's treatise
Love as though it were a thing
outward and visible:
not only a spiritual essence, but as a bodily
substance
also. The which thing, in absolute truth, is a
fallacy;
Love not being of itself a substance, but an
accident
of substance. Yet that I speak of Love as though
it
were a thing tangible and even human, appears by
three things which
I say thereof. And firstly, I say
that I perceived Love coming
towards me; whereby,
seeing that to come bespeaks
locomotion, and seeing
also how philosophy teacheth us that none but
a cor-
poreal substance hath locomotion, it seemeth that I
speak
of Love as of a corporeal substance. And
secondly, I say that Love
smiled; and thirdly, that
Love spake; faculties (and especially the
risible
faculty) which appear proper unto man: whereby
it
further seemeth that I speak of Love as of a man.
Now that
this matter may be explained, (as is fitting,)
it must first be
remembered that anciently they who
wrote poems of Love wrote not in
the vulgar tongue,
but rather certain poets in the Latin tongue.
mean, among us, although perchance the
same may
have been among others, and although likewise,
as
among the Greeks, they were not writers of
spoken
language, but men of letters, treated of these things.*
, it will
laws of literary composition, and which Dante calls
simply
“Grammar.” A great deal might
be said on the bearings of
the present passage, but it is no
part of my plan to enter on
such questions.
* i.e. the languages of Provence and Tuscany.
† It strikes me that this curious passage furnishes a
reason,
hitherto (I believe) overlooked, why Dante put such
of his
lyrical poems as relate to philosophy into the form
of love-
poems. He liked writing in Italian rhyme rather
than Latin
metre; he thought Italian rhyme ought to be
confined to
love-poems; therefore whatever he wrote (at this
age) had
to take the form of a love-poem. Thus any poem by
Dante
not concerning love is later than his twenty-seventh
year
(1291-2), when he wrote the prose of the
That the Latin poets have done thus, appears
through Virgil,
where he saith that Juno (to wit, a
goddess hostile to the Trojans)
spake unto Æolus,
master of the Winds; as it is written
in the first book
of the
Æole, namque tibi, etc.
Tuus, o regina,
quid optes—Explorare labor, mihi jussa capessere
fas est.
Dardanidæ duri
Multum, Roma, tamen
debes civilibus armis
Dic mihi, Musa, virum,etc
Bella
mihi video, bella parantur, ait
But returning to the matter of my discourse. This
excellent
lady, of whom I spake in what hath gone
before, came at last into
such favour with all men,
that when she passed anywhere folk ran to
behold
her; which thing was a deep joy to me: and when
she drew
near unto any, so much truth and simple-
lift his eyes nor to return her
salutation: and unto
this, many who have felt it can bear witness.
She
went along crowned and clothed with humility, show-
ing no
whit of pride in all that she heard and saw:
and when she had gone
by, it was said of many,
“This is not a woman, but one of
the beautiful angels
of Heaven,” and there were some that
said: “This
is surely a miracle; blessed be the Lord, who
hath
power to work thus marvellously.” I say, of
very
sooth, that she showed herself so gentle and so full
of all
perfection, that she bred in those who looked
upon her a soothing
quiet beyond any speech; neither
could any look upon her without
sighing immediately.
These things, and things yet more wonderful,
were
brought to pass through her miraculous virtue.
Wherefore I,
considering thereof and wishing to
resume the endless tale of her
praises, resolved to
write somewhat wherein I might dwell on her
sur-
passing influence; to the end that not only they who
had
beheld her, but others also, might know as much
concerning her as
words could give to the under-
standing. And it was then that I
wrote this sonnet:—
This sonnet is so easy to understand, from what
is afore
narrated, that it needs no division: and there-
fore, leaving it, I
say also that this excellent lady
came into such favour with all
men, that not only
she herself was honoured and commended;
but
through her companionship, honour and commenda-
tion came
unto others. Wherefore I, perceiving
this and wishing that it should
also be made manifest
to those that beheld it not, wrote the sonnet
here
following; wherein is signified the power which her
virtue
had upon other ladies:—
This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say
in what company this lady appeared most wondrous.
In the second, I say how gracious was her society.
In the third, I tell of the things which she, with
power, worked upon others. The second begins here,
“They that go with her;” the third
here, “So per-
fect.” This last part divides into three. In the
first, I tell what she operated upon women, that is,
by their own faculties. In the second, I tell what
she operated in them through others. In the third,
I say how she not only operated in women, but in
all people; and not only while herself present, but,
by memory of her, operated wondrously. The
second begins here, “Merely the
sight;” the third
here, “From all her acts.”
Thereafter on a day, I began to consider that
which I had said
of my lady: to wit, in these two
sonnets aforegone: and becoming
aware that I had
not spoken of her immediate effect on me at
that
especial time, it seemed to me that I had
spoken
defectively. Whereupon I resolved to write some-
what of
the manner wherein I was then subject to
her influence, and of what
her influence then was.
things in the small compass of a
sonnet, I began
therefore a poem with this beginning:—
.* Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta
est quasi vidua domina gentium
I was still occupied with this poem, (having com- *
posed
thereof only the above-written stanza,) when
the Lord God of justice
called my most gracious
lady unto Himself, that she might be
glorious underHow doth the city sit solitary, that
was full of people!
”—
how is she become as a widow,
she that was great among
the
nations!
Lamentations of Jeremiah
,
And the reasons are three. The first is, that such
matter
belongeth not of right to the present argu-
ment, if one consider
the opening of this little book.
The second is, that even though the
present argu-
ment required it, my pen doth not suffice to write
in
a fit manner of this thing. And the third is, that
were it
both possible and of absolute necessity, it
would still be unseemly
for me to speak thereof,
seeing that thereby it must behove me to
speak also
mine own praises: a thing that in whosoever doeth
it
is worthy of blame. For the which reasons, I will
leave this matter
to be treated of by some other than
myself.
Nevertheless, as the number nine, which number
hath often had
mention in what hath gone before,
(and not, as it might appear,
without reason,) seems
also to have borne a part in the manner of
her death:
it is therefore right that I should say
somewhat
thereof. And for this cause, having first said what
was
the part it bore herein, I will afterwards point
out a reason which
made that this number was so
closely allied unto my lady.
I say, then, that according to the division of time
in Italy,
her most noble spirit departed from among
and according to the division of time in
Syria, in the
ninth month of the year: seeing that Tismim,
which
with us is October, is there the first month.
she was taken from among us in that year of
our
reckoning (to wit, of the years of our Lord) in
which
the perfect number was nine times multiplied
within
that century wherein she was born into the
world:
which is to say, the thirteenth century of Christians.*
And touching the reason why this number was so * Beatrice Portinari will thus be found to have died
during
closely allied
unto her, it may peradventure be this.
According to Ptolemy, (and
also to the Christian
verity,) the revolving heavens are nine; and
accord-
ing to the common opinion among astrologers, these
nine
heavens together have influence over the earth.
Wherefore it would
appear that this number was
thus allied unto her for the purpose of
signifying
that, at her birth, all these nine heavens were
at
perfect unity with each other as to their influence.
This is
one reason that may be brought: but more
narrowly considering, and
according to the infallible
truth, this number was her own self:
that is to say
by similitude. As thus. The number three is
the
root of the number nine; seeing that without the
the first hour of the 9th of June, 1290. And from
what Dante
says at the commencement of this work, (viz. that
she was
younger than himself by eight or nine months,) it
may also
be gathered that her age, at the time of her death,
was twenty-
four years and three months. The
“perfect number” men-
tioned in the
present passage is the number ten.
merely by itself, it produceth nine,
as we manifestly
perceive that three times three are nine. Thus,
three
being of itself the efficient of nine, and the
Great
Efficient of Miracles being of Himself Three Persons
(to
wit: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit),
which, being Three,
are also One:—this lady was
accompanied by the number
nine to the end that men
might clearly perceive her to be a nine,
that is, a
miracle, whose only root is the Holy Trinity. It
may
be that a more subtile person would find for this
thing a reason of
greater subtilty: but such is the
reason that I find, and that
liketh me best.
After this most gracious creature had gone out
from among us,
the whole city came to be as it were
widowed and despoiled of all
dignity. Then I, left
mourning in this desolate city, wrote unto the
prin-
cipal persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning
its
condition; taking for my commencement those words
of
Jeremias:
And
Quomodo sedet sola civitas! etc.
When mine eyes had wept for some while, until
they were so
weary with weeping that I could no
longer through them give ease to
my sorrow, I be-
thought me that a few mournful words might
stand
me instead of tears. And therefore I proposed to
make a
poem, that weeping I might speak therein
of her for whom so much
sorrow had destroyed my
spirit; and I then began “The
eyes that weep.”
That this poem may seem to remain the more
widowed at its close, I will divide it before writing
it; and this method I will observe henceforward.
I say that this poor little poem has three parts. The
first is a prelude. In the second, I speak of her.
In the third I speak pitifully to the poem. The
second begins here, “Beatrice is gone
up;” the
third here, “Weep, pitiful Song of
mine.” The first
divides into three. In the first, I say what moves
me to speak. In the second, I say to whom I mean
to speak. In the third, I say of whom I mean to
speak. The second begins here, “And because often,
thinking;” the third here, “And I
will say.”
Then, when I say, “Beatrice is gone
up,” I speak
of her; and concerning this I have two parts. First,
I tell the cause why she was taken away from us:
afterwards, I say how one weeps her parting; and
this part commences here,
“Wonderfully.” This
part divides into three. In the first, I say who it
is that weeps her not. In the second, I say who it
is that doth weep her. In the third, I
speak of my
condition. The second begins here, “But sighing
comes, and grief;” the third, “With
sighs.” Then,
when I say, “Weep, pitiful Song of
mine,” I speak
to this my song, telling it what ladies to go to, and
stay with.
After I had written this poem, I received the visit
degrees of friendship, and who,
moreover, had been
united by the nearest kindred to that most
gracious
creature. And when we had a little spoken together,
he
began to solicit me that I would write somewhat
in memory of a lady
who had died; and he disguised
his speech, so as to seem to be
speaking of another
who was but lately dead: wherefore I,
perceiving
that his speech was of none other than that
blessed
one herself, told him that it should be done as
he
required. Then afterwards, having thought thereof,
I imagined
to give vent in a sonnet to some part of
my hidden lamentations: but
in such sort that it
might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine,
to
whom I was to give it. And the sonnet saith
thus:
“Stay now with me,” &c.
This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the
Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I re-
late my miserable condition. The second begins
here, “Mark how they force.”
But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking
me who he was
to whom I was to give it, that it
might appear to be his speech, it
seemed to me that
this was but a poor and barren gift for one of her
so
near kindred. Wherefore, before giving him this
sonnet, I
wrote two stanzas of a poem: the first be-
ing written in very sooth
as though it were spoken
by him, but the other being mine own
speech, albeit,
unto one who should not look closely, they
would
both seem to be said by the same person. Never-
theless,
looking closely, one must perceive that it is
not so, inasmuch as
one does not call this most gra-
cious creature his
lady, and the other does, as is
manifestly apparent. And I gave
the poem and the
sonnet unto my friend, saying that I had made
them
only for him.
The poem begins, “Whatever while,”
and has two
parts. In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this
my dear friend, her kinsman, laments. In the se-
cond, I lament; that is, in the other stanza, which
begins, “For ever.” And thus it
appears that in
this poem two persons lament, of whom one laments
as a brother, the other as a servant.
On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady
had been
made of the citizens of eternal life, remem-
draw the resemblance of an angel upon
certain
tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my
head,
I perceived that some were standing beside
me to whom I should have
given courteous welcome,
and that they were observing what I did:
also I
learned afterwards that they had been there a
while
before I perceived them.
for salutation, and said: “Another was with me.”*
Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself
again to mine
occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures
of angels: in doing
which, I conceived to write of
this matter in rhyme, as for her
anniversary, and to
address my rhymes unto those who had just left
me.
It was then that I wrote the sonnet which
saith,
“That lady:” and as this sonnet hath
two com-
mencements, it behoveth me to divide it with both
of
them here.
* Thus according to some texts. The majority, however,I say that, according to the first, this sonnet has
three parts. In the first, I say that this lady was
then in my memory. In the second, I tell what Love
therefore did with me. In the third, I speak of the
effects of Love. The second begins here, “Love
knowing;” the third here, “Forth went they.”
This part divides into two. In the one, I say that
all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say
how some spoke certain words different from the
add
the words, “And therefore was I in
thought;” but the
shorter speech is perhaps the
more forcible and pathetic.others. The second begins here, “And
still.” In
this same manner is it divided with the other begin-
ning, save that, in the first part, I tell when this lady
had thus come into my mind, and this I say not in
the other.
Second Commencement.
Then, having sat for some space sorely in thought
because of
the time that was now past, I was so filled
with dolorous imaginings
that it became outwardly
manifest in mine altered countenance.
Whereupon,
feeling this and being in dread lest any should
have
seen me, I lifted mine eyes to look; and then per-
ceived a
young and very beautiful lady, who was
gazing upon me from a window
with a gaze full of
pity, so that the very sum of pity appeared
gathered
together in her. And seeing that unhappy persons,
when
they beget compassion in others, are then most
moved unto weeping,
as though they also felt pity
for themselves, it came to pass that
mine eyes began
to be inclined unto tears. Wherefore,
becoming
fearful lest I should make manifest mine abject
con-
dition, I rose up, and went where I could not be seen
of
that lady; saying afterwards within myself:
“Certainly
with her also must abide most noble
Love.” And with that,
I resolved upon writing a
sonnet, wherein, speaking unto her, I
should say all
that I have just said. And as this sonnet is
very
evident, I will not divide it.
It happened after this, that whensoever I was seen
of this
lady, she became pale and of a piteous coun-
tenance, as though it
had been with love; whereby
she remembered me many times of my own
most
noble lady, who was wont to be of a like paleness.
And I
know that often, when I could not weep nor
in any way give ease unto
mine anguish, I went to
look upon this lady, who seemed to bring the
tears
into my eyes by the mere sight of her. Of the which
thing
I bethought me to speak unto her in rhyme,
and then made this
sonnet: which begins, “Love's
pallor,” and
which is plain without being divided, by
its exposition aforesaid.
At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mine
eyes began
to be gladdened overmuch with her com-
pany; through which thing
many times I had much
unrest, and rebuked myself as a base person:
also,
many times I cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes,
and
said to them inwardly: “Was not your grievous
condition
of weeping wont one while to make others
weep? And will ye now
forget this thing because
a lady looketh upon you? who so looketh
merely in
compassion of the grief ye then showed for your
own
blessed lady. But whatso ye can, that do ye, accursed
eyes!
many a time will I make you remember it!
for never, till death dry
you up, should ye make an
end of your weeping.” And when
I had spoken thus
unto mine eyes, I was taken again with extreme
and
grievous sighing. And to the end that this inward
strife
which I had undergone might not be hidden
from all saving the
miserable wretch who endured it,
I proposed to write a sonnet, and
to comprehend in
it this horrible condition. And I wrote this
which
begins, “The very bitter weeping.”
The sonnet has two parts. In the first, I speak
to my eyes, as my heart spoke within myself. In
the second, I remove a difficulty, showing who it is
that speaks thus: and this part begins here, “So
far.” It well might receive other divisions also;
but this would be useless, since it is manifest by the
preceding exposition.
The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted
a condition
that I often thought of her as of one too
dear unto me; and I began
to consider her thus:
“This lady is young, beautiful,
gentle, and wise:
perchance it was Love himself who set her in
my
path, that so my life might find peace.” And
there
were times when I thought yet more fondly, until my
so consented, my thought would often
turn round
upon me, as moved by reason, and cause me to
say
within myself: “What hope is this which
would
console me after so base a fashion, and which hath
taken
the place of all other imagining?” Also there
was another
voice within me, that said: “And wilt
thou, having
suffered so much tribulation through
Love, not escape while yet thou
mayest from so much
bitterness? Thou must surely know that this
thought
carries with it the desire of Love, and drew its
life
from the gentle eyes of that lady who vouchsafed thee
so
much pity.” Wherefore I, having striven sorely
and very
often with myself, bethought me to say some-
what thereof in rhyme.
tle of doubts,
the victory most often remained with
such as inclined towards
the lady of whom I speak,
it seemed to me that I should address
this sonnet
unto her: in the first line whereof, I call that
thought
which spake of her a gentle thought, only because
it
spoke of one who was gentle; being of itself most
vile.*
* Boccaccio tells us that Dante was married to Gemma
Donati about
a year after the death of Beatrice. Can Gemma
then be
“the lady of the window,” his love for whom
Dante so
contemns? Such a passing conjecture (when considered
to-
gether with the interpretation of this passage in Dante's
later
work, the
) would of course imply an admission of what
In this sonnet I make myself into two, according
as my thoughts were divided one from the other.
The one part I call Heart, that is, appetite; the
other, Soul, that is, reason; and I tell what one
saith to the other. And that it is fitting to call the
appetite Heart, and the reason Soul, is manifest
enough to them to whom I wish this to be open.
True it is that, in the preceding sonnet, I take the
part of the Heart against the Eyes; and that appears
contrary to what I say in the present; and there-
fore I say that, there also, by the Heart I mean
appetite, because yet greater was my desire to re-
member my most gentle lady than to see this other,
although indeed I had some appetite towards her,
but it appeared slight: wherefrom it appears that
the one statement is not contrary to the other. This
sonnet has three parts. In the first, I begin to say
to this lady how my desires turn all towards her.
In the second, I say how the Soul, that is, the reason,
speaks to the Heart, that is, to the appetite. In the
third, I say how the latter answers. The second
begins here, “And what is this?” the
third here,
“And the heart answers.”
But against this adversary of reason, there rose
up in me on a
certain day, about the ninth hour, a
strong visible phantasy,
wherein I seemed to behold
the most gracious Beatrice, habited in
that crimson
raiment which she had worn when I had first
beheld
her; also she appeared to me of the same tender
age as
then. Whereupon I fell into a deep thought
of her: and my memory ran
back according to the
order of time, unto all those matters in the
which she
had borne a part; and my heart began painfully
to
repent of the desire by which it had so basely let
itself be
possessed during so many days, contrary to
the constancy of reason.
And then, this evil desire being quite gone from
me, all my
thoughts turned again unto their excellent
Beatrice. And I say most
truly that from that hour
I thought constantly of her with the whole
humbled
and ashamed heart; the which became often manifest
in
sighs, that had among them the name of that most
gracious creature,
and how she departed from us.
Also it would come to pass very often,
through the
it, and myself, and where I
was. By this increase of
sighs, my weeping, which before had been
somewhat
lessened, increased in like manner; so that mine
eyes
seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and
came
at last to be circled about with red as though they
had suffered
martyrdom; neither were they able to
look again upon the beauty of
any face that might
again bring them to shame and evil: from
which
things it will appear that they were fitly guerdoned
for
their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I, (wishing
that mine abandonment
of all such evil desires and
vain temptations should be certified
and made mani-
fest, beyond all doubts which might have been
sug-
gested by the rhymes aforewritten,) proposed to write
a
sonnet, wherein I should express this purport.
And I then wrote,
“Woe's me!”
I said, “Woe's me!” because I was
ashamed of
the trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide,
since its purport is manifest enough.
About this time, it happened that a great number of
persons
undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they
might behold
us by our
Lord Jesus Christ as the image of his beauti-
ful
countenance,*
lady now
looketh continually.) And certain among
these pilgrims, who seemed
very thoughtful, passed
by a path which is wellnigh in the midst of
the city
where my most gracious lady was born, and abode,
and at
last died.
Then I, beholding them, said within myself: * The Veronica (
“These
pilgrims seem to be come from very far; and
I think they cannot have
heard speak of this lady, or
know anything concerning her. Their
thoughts are
Vera icon
, or true image); that is, the
“Qual è colui che forse di Croazia Viene a veder la Veronica nostra, Che per l'antica fama non si sazia Ma dice nel pensier fin che si mostra: Signor mio Gesù Cristo, Iddio verace, Or fu sì fatta la sembianza vostra?” etc.
And when the last of them had gone by me, I
bethought me to
write a sonnet, showing forth mine
inward speech; and that it might
seem the more
pitiful, I made as though I had spoken it indeed
unto
them. And I wrote this sonnet, which
beginneth:
“Ye pilgrim-folk.” I made use of
the word pilgrim
for its general signification; for “pilgrim”
may be
understood in two senses, one general, and one
special.
General, so far as any man may be called a pilgrim
who
leaveth the place of his birth; whereas, more
narrowly speaking, he
only is a pilgrim who goeth
towards or frowards the House of St.
James. For
there are three separate denominations proper
unto
those who undertake journeys to the glory of God.
They are
called Palmers who go beyond the seas
eastward, whence often they
bring palm-branches.
And Pilgrims, as I have said, are they who
journey
unto the holy House of Gallicia; seeing that no
other
apostle was buried so far from his birth-place
as was the blessed
Saint James. And there is a
whither these whom I have called
pilgrims went:
which is to say, unto Rome.
This sonnet is not divided, because its own words
sufficiently declare it.
A while after these things, two gentle ladies sent
unto me,
praying that I would bestow upon them
certain of these my rhymes.
And I, (taking into
account their worthiness and consideration,)
resolved
that I would write also a new thing, and send it
them
together with those others, to the end that their
wishes might be
more honourably fulfilled. There-
fore I made a sonnet, which
narrates my condition,
panied with the one preceding, and with
that other
which begins, “Stay now with me and listen to
my
sighs.” And the new sonnet is, “Beyond the
sphere.”
This sonnet comprises five parts. In the first, I
tell whither my thought goeth, naming the place by
the name of one of its effects. In the second, I say
wherefore it goeth up, and who makes it go thus.
In the third, I tell what it saw, namely, a lady
honoured. And I then then call it a “Pilgrim
Spirit,” because it goes up spiritually, and
like a
pilgrim who is out of his known country. In the
fourth, I say how the spirit sees her such (that is, in
such quality) that I cannot understand her; that is to
say, my thought rises into the quality of her in a degree
that my intellect cannot comprehend, seeing that our
intellect is, towards those blessed souls, like our eye
weak against the sun; and this the Philosopher says
in the Second of the Metaphysics. In the fifth, I
say that, although I cannot see there whither my
thought carries me—that is, to her admirable essence—
I at least understand this, namely, that it is a thought
of my lady, because I often hear her name therein.
And, at the end of this fifth part, I say, “Ladies
mine,” to show that they are ladies to whom I speak.
The second part begins, “A new
perception;” the
third, “When it hath reached;” the
fourth, “It
sees her such;” the fifth, “And yet I
know.” It
might be divided yet more nicely, and made yet
clearer; but this division may pass, and therefore
I stay not to divide it further.
After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to * This we may believe to have been the Vision of
Hell,
behold
things which determined me that I would say nothing
further
of this most blessed one, until such time as
I could discourse more
worthily concerning her.
And to this end I labour all I can; as she
well
Purgatory, and Paradise, which furnished the triple
argument
of the “
are almost identical with those at the close of
the
* “Who is blessed throughout all ages.”
THE END OF THE NEW LIFE.
* Probably in allusion to Albert of Cologne. Giano (Janus),
which
follows, was in use as an Italian name, as for instance
Giano
della Bella; but it seems possible that Dante is
merely
playfully advising his preceptor to avail himself of the
two-
fold insight of Janus the double-faced.
* This and the five following pieces seem so certainly to
have
been written at the same time as the poetry of the Vita
Nuova
from that work. Other poems in Dante's
refer in
* See the
, at page 263.
* This might seem to suggest that the present sonnet was
written
about the same time as the close of the
,
* That is, the pledge given at the end of the Vita
Nuova.
This may perhaps have been written in the early days
of
Dante's exile, before his resumption of the interrupted Com-
media
* I have translated this piece both on account of its
great
and peculiar beauty, and also because it affords
an example
of a form of composition which I have met
with in no Italian
writer before Dante's time, though it
is not uncommon
among the Provençal poets
(see Dante,
.). I have
* See the
, at page 227.
† This may refer to the belief that, towards morning,
dreams
go by contraries.
* The Franciscans, in profession of deeper poverty and hu-
mility
than belonged to other Orders, called themselves Fratres
minores
* The ancient church of the Daurade still exists at Thou-
louse.
It was so called from the golden effect of the mosaics
adorning it.
* That is, his list of the sixty most beautiful ladies
of
Florence, referred to in the
among whom Lapo
* I should think, from the mention of lady Lagia, that this
might
refer again to Lapo Gianni, who seems (one knows not
why) to
have fallen into disgrace with his friends. The Guido
mentioned
is probably Guido Orlandi.
* I may take this opportunity of mentioning that, in every
case
where an abrupt change of metre occurs in one of
my
translations, it is so also in the original poem.
* Death (la Morte
personified as a female. I have
endeavoured to bear this in
mind throughout my translations, but
possibly some instances
might be found in which habit has
prevailed, and I have made
Death masculine.
* From a passage in Ubaldini's Glossary (1640) to
the
“
* It is curious to find these poets perpetually rating one
another
for the want of constancy in love. Guido is rebuked,
as above, by
Dino Compagni; Cino da Pistoia by Dante
(p.
319); and Dante by Guido (p. 358),
who formerly, as we
have seen (p. 343),
had confided to him his doubts of Lapo
Gianni.
* In old representations, the unicorn is often seen with his
head
in a lady's lap.
* This interesting sonnet must refer to the same period
of
Dante's life regarding which he has made Beatrice
address
him in words of noble reproach when he meets her in
Eden,
(
Purg
. C.
* The glossary to Barberino, already mentioned, refers to
the
existence, among the Strozzi MSS., of a poem by Lapo
di
Farinata degli Uberti, written in answer to the above
ballata
of Cavalcanti. As this respondent was no other than
Guido's
brother-in-law, one feels curious to know what he said to
the
peccadilloes of his sister's husband. But I fear the poem
can-
not yet have been published, as I have sought for it in
vain
at all my printed sources of information.
* The original is very obscure. Bettina being the same
name as
Becchina, it suggests itself as possible that the person
addressed
may be Cecco Angiolieri after he inherited his father's
property.
(See his Poems further on, and the notice
of him in
the
Introduction to Part
ii
* This and the three following Canzoni are only to be found
in
the later collections of Guido Cavalcanti's poems. I
have
included them on account of their interest if really his,
and
especially for the beauty of the last among them; but
must
confess to some doubts of their authenticity.
* See antè, page 227.
* Among Dante's Epistles, there is a Latin letter to Cino,
which
I should judge was written in reply to this Sonnet.
* I have not examined Cino's poetry with special reference
to this
accusation; but there is a Canzone of his in which he
speaks of
having conceived an affection for another lady from
her resemblance
to Selvaggia. Perhaps Guido considered this
as a sort of plagiarism
de facto on his own change of love
through
Mandetta's likeness to Giovanna.
* Between this poet and Cino various friendly sonnets
were
interchanged, which may be found in the Italian
collections.
There is also one Sonnet by Onesto to Cino, with his
answer,
both of which are far from being affectionate or
respectful.
They are very obscure however, and not specially interesting.
† The Provençal poet, mentioned in C. xxvi. of the
Purgatory
.
‡ That is, sanctified the Apennines by her burial on
the
Monte della Sambuca.
* See antè, page 227.
* There exist no fewer than six answers by different
poets,
interpreting Dante da Maiano's dream. I have chosen
Guido
Orlandi's, much the most matter-of-fact of the six,
because it
is diverting to find the writer again in his
antagonistic mood.
Among the five remaining answers, in all of
which the vision
is treated as a very mysterious matter, one is
attributed to
Dante Alighieri, but seems so doubtful that I have
not trans-
lated it. Indeed it would do the greater Dante, if he
really
wrote it, little credit as a lucid interpreter of dreams;
though
it might have some interest, as giving him (when
compared
with the sonnet at page
396) a decided advantage over his
lesser namesake in point
of courtesy.
See antè, page 308.
* Perhaps the names of his father's estates.
* The year, according to the calendar of those days, began
on the
25th March. The alteration to 1st January was made
in 1582 by the
Pope, and immediately adopted by all Catholic
countries, but by
England not till 1752.
* This may be either Charles II. King of Naples and Count
of
Provence, or more probably his son Charles Martel, King of
Hungary.
We know from Dante that a friendship subsisted
between himself and
the latter prince, who visited Florence
in 1295, and died in the
same year, in his father's lifetime,
(
Paradise
, C.
* I have thought it necessary to soften one or two expres-
sions in
this sonnet.
* He means, perhaps, that he should be more than ever
tormented by
his creditors.
* It would almost seem as if Cecco, in his poverty, had at
last taken
refuge in a religious house under the name of Bro-
ther Henry (Frate Arrigo), and as if he here meant
that
Brother Henry was now decayed, so to speak, through
the
resuscitation of Cecco. (See
Introduction to Part II
. page 215 .)
† In the original words, “
becco
which I have conveyed as well as I could.
* Several other pieces by this author, addressed to Guido
Cavalcanti
and Dante da Maiano, will be found among their
poems.
† i.e. Florence.
* That is, presented at the high altar on the feast-day of
St. John
the Baptist; a ceremony attending the release of
criminals, a
certain number of whom were annually pardoned
on that day in
Florence. This was the disgraceful condition
annexed to that recall
to Florence which Dante received when
in exile at the court of
Verona; which others accepted, but
which was refused by him in a
memorable epistle still pre-
served.
What follows relates to the very filmiest of
all
the will-o'-the-wisps which have beset
me in making this book. I
should be glad to let it
lose itself in its own quagmire, but am
perhaps bound
to follow it as far as may be.
Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barberino, (published
in 1640, and
already several times referred to here,)
has a rather startling
entry under the word Vendetta.
After describing this “custom of the
country,” he
says:—
“To leave a vengeance unaccomplished was
con-
“sidered very shameful; and on this account
Forese
“de' Donati sneers at Dante, who did not
avenge
“his father Alighieri; saying to him ironically:—
“the Spirit of one of his race.”
Now there is no hint to be found anywhere that
Dante's father,
who died about 1270, in the poet's
childhood, came by his death in
any violent way.
The spirit met in Hell (C. xxix), is Geri, son of Bello
Alighieri, and Dante's
great-uncle; and he is there
silence on account of his own death
by the hand of
one of the Sacchetti, which remained till then
un-
avenged, and so continued till after Dante's death,
when
Cione Alighieri fulfilled the vendetta by
slay-
ing a Sacchetti at the door of his house. If Dante
is
really the person addressed in the sonnet quoted
by Ubaldini, I
think it probable (as I shall show
presently when I give the whole
sonnet) that the
ironical allusion is to the death of Geri
Alighieri.
But indeed the real writer, the real subject, and
the
real object of this clumsy piece of satire seem
about
equally puzzling.
Forese Donati, to whom this Sonnet and another
I shall quote
are attributed, was the brother of
Gemma Donati, Dante's wife, and
of Corso and
Piccarda Donati. Dante introduces him in the
xxiii.) as expiating the sin of gluttony.
From what
is there said, he seems to have been well
known in youth to Dante,
who speaks also of having
wept his death; but at the same time he
hints that
the life they led together was disorderly and a
subject
for regret. This can hardly account for such violence
as
is shown in these sonnets, said to have been written
from one to the
other; but it is not impossible, of
course, that a rancour, perhaps
temporary, may have
existed at some time between them, especially
as
Forese probably adhered with the rest of his family
to the
party hostile to Dante. At any rate, Ubaldini,
Crescimbeni, Quadrio,
and other writers on Italian
Poetry, seem to have derived this
impression from
the poems which they had seen in MS. attributed
to
Forese. They all combine in stigmatizing Forese's
supposed
productions as very bad poetry, and in fact
beyond a doubt. The four sonnets of which I now
proceed
to give such translations as I have found
possible, were first
published together in 1812 by
Fiacchi, who states that he had seen
two separate
ancient MSS. in both of which they were
attributed
to Dante and Forese. In rendering them, I have
no
choice but to adopt in a positive form my con-
jectures as to their
meaning; but that I view these
only as conjectures will appear afterwards.
Now all this may be pronounced little better than
scurrilous
doggrel, and I would not have introduced
any of it, had I not wished
to include everything which
could possibly belong to my subject.
Even supposing that the authorship is correctly
attributed in
each case, the insults heaped on Dante
have of course no weight, as
coming from one who
shows every sign of being both foul-mouthed and
a
fool. The two sonnets bearing Dante's name, if not
less
offensive than the others, are rather more pointed;
but seem still
very unworthy even of his least exalted
mood.
Accordingly Fraticelli (in his Minor Works of
Dante
sonnets are
not by Dante and Forese; but I do not
think his arguments conclusive
enough to set the
matter quite at rest. He first states positively
that
Sonnet I. (as above) is by Burchiello, the
Florentine
barber-poet of the fifteenth century. However it
is
only to be found in one edition of Burchiello, and
that a late one,
of 1757, where it is placed among
the pieces which are very
doubtfully his. It becomes
all the more doubtful when we find it
there followed
by Sonnet II. (as above) which would seem by
all
evidence to be at any rate written by a different per-
son
from the first, whoever the writers of both may
be. Of this sonnet
Fraticelli seems to state that he
has seen it attributed in one MS.
to a certain Bicci
Novello; and adds (but without giving any
authority)
that it was addressed to some descendant of the
great
poet, also bearing the name of Dante. Sonnet III.
is
pronounced by Fraticelli to be of uncertain author-
ship, though if
the first is by Burchiello, so must this
be. He also decides that
the designation “Bicci,
and Bicci the real name; but this is surely
quite
futile, as the way in which the name is put is to the
full
as likely to be meant in ridicule as in earnest.
Lastly, of Sonnet
IV. Fraticelli says nothing.
It is now necessary to explain that Sonnet II, as
I translate
it, is made up from two versions, the one
printed by Fiacchi and the
one given among Bur-
chiello's poems; while in one respect I have
adopted
a reading of my own. I would make the first four
lines say—
avolin
che diè cambio l'altrieri.
Of the two printed texts one says, in the fourth
line—
“Aguglino” would be
“eaglet,” and with this, the
whole sense of
the line seems quite unfathomable:
whereas at the same time
“aguglino” would not be
an unlikely corrupt
transcription, or even corrupt
version, of
“avolino,” which again (according to the
often
confused distinctions of Italian relationships,)
might well be a
modification of “avolo,” (grandfather)
meaning
great uncle. The reading would thus be,
“di lui
(i.e.) dell' avolino
che diè cambio l'altrieri;
vengeance which you took for
him,—for your great
uncle who gave change the other
day.” Geri Ali-
or “pay scores in
full” by his death, as he himself
had been the aggressor
in the first instance, having
slain one of the Sacchetti, and been
afterwards slain
himself by another.
I should add that I do not think the possibility,
however
questionable, of these sonnets being authen-
tically by Dante and
Forese, depends solely on the
admission of this word “avolino.”
The rapacity attributed to the “Bicci” of
Sonnet
I. seems a tendency somewhat akin to the
insatiable
gluttony which Forese is represented as expiating
in
Dante's Purgatory. Mention is also there made of
Forese's
wife, though certainly in a very different
strain from that of
Sonnet III; but it is not im-
possible that the poet might have
intended to make
amends to her as well as in some degree to her
hus-
band's memory. I am really more than half ashamed
of so
many “possibles” and “not
impossibles;” but
perhaps, having been led into the
subject, am a little
inclined that the reader should be worried with
it
like myself.
At any rate, considering that these Sonnets are
attributed by
various old manuscripts to Dante and
Forese Donati;—that
various writers (beginning with
Ubaldini, who seems to have
ransacked libraries more
than almost any one) have spoken of these
and other
sonnets by Forese against Dante,—that the
feud
between the Alighieri and Sacchetti, and the death
of Geri,
were certainly matters of unabated bitterness
in Dante's lifetime,
as we find the vendetta accom-
plished even after
his death,—and lastly, that the
sonnets attributed to
Forese seem to be plausibly re-
ferri
ill-natured and not very refined productions this
very
long and tiresome note.
Crescimbeni (
) gives
There is one more versifier, contemporary with
Dante, to whom
I might be expected to refer. This
is the ill-fated Francesco
Stabili, better known as
Cecco d'Ascoli, who was burnt by the
Inquisition at
Florence in 1327, as a heretic, though the
exact
nature of his offence is involved in some mystery.
He was
a narrow, discontented and self-sufficient
writer; and his
incongruous poem in
sesta rima
,
Several of the little-known sonnets of Boccaccio
have reference to Dante, but, being written in the
generation which
followed his, do not belong to the
body of my second division. I
therefore place three
of them here, together with a few more
specimens
from the same poet.
There is nothing which gives Boccaccio a greater
claim to our
regard than the enthusiastic reverence
with which he loved to dwell
on the
and
The first of the three following sonnets relates to
Boccaccio's public reading and elucidation of Dante,
which
took place at Florence, by a decree of the state,
in 1373. The
second sonnet shows how the greatest
minds of the generation which
immediately succeeded
Dante already paid unhesitating tribute to
his po-
litical as well as poetical greatness. In the third
confidence with which Boccaccio could address the
spirit of his mighty master, unknown to him in the
flesh.
I add three further examples of Boccaccio's poetry,
to
Maria d'Aquino, the lady whom, in his writings,
he calls Fiammetta.
The last has a playful charm very characteristic of
the author
of the
I have now, as far as I know, exhausted all the
materials most
available for my selections, among
those which exist in print. I
have never visited Italy
and enjoyed the opportunity of making my
own re-
searches in the libraries there for everything
which
might belong to my subject. Some day I still hope
to do
so, and then to enrich this series, especially as
regards its second
division, with an appendix of
valuable matter which is as yet beyond
my reach.
THE END
.
CHISWICK PRESS:—PRINTED BY WHITTINGHAM AND WILKINS,
Page 206, line 11, dele the
allusion to a portrait of Guido
Cavalcanti, as it is merely one of a
spurious series in the
Uffizj [sic.], painted about 1550.
Page 208, line 25, for
“first” read “again.”
Page 270, line 14, for
“Suddenly after a little while,” read
“Suddenly after such a little while.”
Page 317, line 2, for
“they” read “thy.”
Page 444, last line, for
“referrible” read “referable.”
Shortly will be published,