page: [001]
page: [002]
page: [003]
Manuscript Addition: Charles H. Forbes / from G. S. F.
Editorial Description: inscription written in cursive black ink.
page: [004]
page: [i]
THE COLLECTED WORKS
OF
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
page: [ii]
page: [iii]
THE COLLECTED WORKS
OF
DANTE GABRIEL
ROSSETTI
EDITED
WITH PREFACE AND NOTES
BY
WILLIAM M ROSSETTI
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOLUME II
TRANSLATIONS
PROSE—NOTICES OF FINE ART
ELLIS AND SCRUTTON
LONDON
1886
All rights reserved
page: [iv]
Printed by Hazell,
Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
page: [v]
Note: The word PAGE is printed at the top of each column of numbers in the table
of contents.
CONTENTS.
-
-
PROSE.
-
IV.—Notices of Fine
Art.
-
-
Notices of Painters, etc.
-
Frank Stone : Sympathy,
1850
. . . . . 490
-
J.C. Hook : The Departure
of the Chevalier Bayard
from Brescia,
1850
. . . . . . . . 490
-
Anthony : The Rival's
Wedding, 1850
. . . . 491
-
Branwhite . . . . . . . . . 492
-
Lucy, 1850 . . . . . . . . . 493
-
F.R. Pickersgill,
1850
. . . . . . . 494
-
C.H. Lear . . . . . . . . . 495
-
Kennedy . . . . . . . . . . 495
-
Cope, 1850 . . . . . . . . . 496
-
Landseer, 1850 . . . . . . . . . 497
-
Marochetti, 1850 . . . . . . . . 498
-
Madox Brown, 1851 . . . . . . . 499
-
Poole, 1851 . . . . . . . . . 501
-
Holman Hunt, 1851 . . . . . . . 503
-
Samuel Palmer,
1875-81
. . . . . . . 504
-
The Return of Tibullus to
Delia
. . . . . . 505
-
Maclise's
Character-Portraits
. . . . . . . 506
-
Subjects for Pictures . . . . . . . .512
-
Notes by William M. Rossetti . . . . . . . 517
page: [vii]
page: [viii]
page: [ix]
Note: All of the signatures in this edition are prefixed with “
VOL. II.”
page: [x]
TO MY MOTHER
I DEDICATE THIS NEW EDITION
OF A
BOOK PRIZED BY HER LOVE.
page: [xi]
In re-entitling and re-arranging this book
(originally
published in 1861 as
The Early Italian Poets
,) my
object has been to make more evident at a first
glance
its important relation to Dante. The
Vita Nuova,
together with the many among Dante's lyrics and
those
of his contemporaries which elucidate their
personal
intercourse, are here assembled, and brought to my
best
ability into clear connection, in a manner not
elsewhere attempted
even by Italian or German
editors.
Note: In the 2nd line of this page, the punctuation appears inappropriately
within, rather than without, the close paranthesis bracket, a practice that
is consistent throughout the 1874 edition but was corrected only
inconsistently in the 1886.
Note: In the 6th line of this page "elucidate" appears with the letters c and d
transposed.
page: [xii]
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 un-
approached 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
inexperienced, 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 first division),
would
have inclined me to bestow the time and trouble
which have resulted
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
page: xiii
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
coup-de-grâce has almost been
dealt them by clumsy transcription and
pedantic super-
structure. At this stage the task of talking much
more
about them in any language is hardly to be entered
upon;
and a translation (involving as it does the
necessity of settling
many points without discussion,)
remains perhaps the most direct
form of commentary.
The life-blood of rhythmical translation is this
com-
mandment,—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,
liter-
ality of rendering is altogether secondary to this
chief
law. I say
literality,—not fidelity, which
is by no
means the same thing. When literality can be com-
bined
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 derived
from an
effort to follow this principle; and, in some
degree, from the fact
that such painstaking in arrange-
ment 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.
page: xiv
That there are many defects in this collection,
or that the
above merit is its defect, or that it
has 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 series 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
exigencies
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 structure 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
page: xv
the matter; but no,— he must deal to each alike. Some-
times
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
consideration 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
page: xvi
traffic, the ships which have been long outstripped and
the
ensigns which are grown strange.
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. An array of
modern editions hardly looks so imposing
as might a
reference to Allacci, Crescimbeni, etc.; but these
older
collections would be found less accessible, and all
they
contain has been reprinted.
I. Poeti del primo secolo della Lingua
Italiana.
2 vol. (Firenze.
1816.)
II. Raccolta di Rime antiche
Toscane. 4 vol.
(Palermo.
1817.)
III. Manuale della Letteratura del primo
Secolo,
del Prof. V. Nannucci. 3
vol. (Firenze. 1843.)
IV. Poesie Italiane inedite di Dugento
Autori: raccolte
da Francesco Trucchi. 4 vol.
(Prato. 1846.)
V. Opere Minori di Dante.
Edizione di P. I. Fra-
ticelli. (Firenze.
1843, etc.)
VI. Rime di Guido Cavalcanti;
raccolte da A. Cic-
ciaporci. (Firenze.
1813.)
VII. Vita e Poesie di Messer Cino da
Pistoia. Edi-
zione di S. Ciampi.
(Pisa. 1813.)
VIII. Documenti d'Amore; di
Francesco da Barbe-
rino. Annotati da F.
Ubaldini. (Roma. 1640.)
IX. Del Reggimento e dei Costumi delle
Donne; di
Francesco da Barberino. (Roma.
1815.)
X. Il Dittamondo di
Fazio degli Uberti. (Milano.
1826.)
page: [xvii]
Note: The word PAGE is printed at the top of each column of numbers in
the table of contents.
-
PART I. DANTE AND HIS CIRCLE.
-
Introduction to Part I. . . . . . . 1
-
page: xviii
-
Guido Cavalcanti.
-
Sonnet (to Dante
Alighieri).
He interprets
Dante's
Dream, related in the
first Sonnet of the Vita
Nuova
116
-
Sonnet.
To
his Lady Joan, of Florence
. . . 117
-
Sonnet.
He
compares all things with his Lady, and
finds them
wanting.
. . . . . . 118
-
Sonnet.
A
Rapture concerning his Lady
. . . 119
-
Ballata.
Of
his Lady among other Ladies
. . . 120
-
Sonnet (to Guido
Orlandi).
Of a consecrated
Image
resembling his
Lady
. . . . . . 121
-
Madrigal (Guido Orlandi to
Cavalcanti).
In
answer to the foregoing
Sonnet
(
by
Cavalcanti
)
. 122
-
Sonnet.
Of
the Eyes of a certain Mandetta, of Thou-
louse, which resemble
those of his Lady Joan, of
Florence
. . . . . . . . . 123
-
Ballata.
He
reveals, in a Dialogue, his increasing
Love
for Mandetta
. . . . . . . . 124
-
Sonnet (Dante Alighieri to
Guido Cavalcanti).
He imagines a pleasant voyage
for Guido, Lapo
Gianni, and
himself, with their three
Ladies
. 126
-
Sonnet (to Dante
Alighieri).
He answers the
fore-
going Sonnet (
by Dante)
,
speaking with shame of his
changed Love
. . . . . . . . 127
-
Sonnet (to Dante
Alighieri).
He reports, in
a
feigned Vision, the successful
issue of Lapo Gianni's
Love
. . . . . . . . . 128
-
Sonnet (to Dante
Alighieri).
He mistrusts
the Love
of Lapo Gianni
. . . . . . . 129
-
Sonnet.
On
the Detection of a false
Friend
. . . 130
-
Sonnet.
He
speaks of a third Love of his
. . . 131
-
Ballata.
Of
a continual Death in Love
. . . 132
-
Sonnet.
To a
Friend who does not pity his
Love
. . 133
-
Ballata.
He
perceives that his highest Love is gone
from him
. . . . . . . . . 134
-
Sonnet.
Of
his Pain from a new Love
. . . 136
-
Prolonged Sonnet (Guido
Orlando to Guido
Cavalcanti).
He finds fault with the Conceits of
the foregoing Sonnet
(
by Cavalcanti)
. . . 137
-
Sonnet (Gianni Alfani to Guido
Cavalcanti).
On
the part of a Lady of Pisa
. . . . . 138
page: xix
-
Sonnet (Bernardo da Bologna to
Guido Caval-
canti).
He
writes to Guido, telling him of the Love
which a certain Pinella showed
on seeing him
. . 139
-
Sonnet (to Bernardo da
Bologna).
Guido
answers,
commending Pinella, and
saying that the Love he can
offer her is already
shared by many noble Ladies
. 140
-
Sonnet (Dino Compagni to Guido
Cavalcanti).
He reproves Guido for his
Arrogance in Love
. . 141
-
Sonnet (to Guido
Orlandi).
In Praise of
Guido
Orlandi's Lady
. . . . . . . 142
-
Sonnet (Guido Orlandi to Guido
Cavalcanti).
He
answers the foregoing Sonnet
(
by Cavalcanti),
declaring himself his Lady's
Champion
. . . 143
-
Sonnet (to Dante
Alighieri).
He rebukes
Dante
for his way of Life after
the Death of Beatrice
. . 144
-
Ballata.
Concerning a Shepherd-maid
. . . 145
-
Sonnet.
Of
an ill-favoured Lady
. . . . 147
-
Sonnet (to Pope Boniface
VIII.).
After the
Pope's
Interdict, when the Great
Houses were leaving Flo-
rence
. . . . . . . . . 148
-
Ballata.
In
Exile at Sarzana
. . . . . 149
-
Canzone.
A
Song of Fortune
. . . . . 151
-
Canzone.
A
Song against Poverty
. . . . 154
-
Canzone.
He
laments the Presumption and Inconti-
nence of his Youth
. . . . . . . 156
-
Canzone.
A
Dispute with Death
. . . . 159
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
page: xxii
-
-
page: [xxvii]
Note: The word PAGE is printed at the top of each column of numbers in
the table of contents.
- A certain youthful lady in Thoulouse
Una giovine donna di Tolosa . . . . 123
- A day agone as I rode sullenly
Cavalcando l'altrier per un cammino . . . 40
- A fresh content of fresh enamouring
Novella gioia e nova innamoranza . . . 369
- A gentle thought there is will often start
Gentil pensiero che parla di vui . . . . 90
- A lady in whom love is manifest
La bella donna dove Amor si mostra . . . 142
- Alas for me who loved a falcon well
Tapina me che amava uno sparviero . . . 398
- Albeit my prayers have not so long delay'd
Avvegna ched io m'aggio più per tempo . . . 164
- A little wild bird sometimes at my ear
Augelletto selvaggio per stagione . . . . 401
- All my thoughts always speak to me of Love
Tutti li miei pensier parlan d'Amore . . . 46
- All the whole world is living without war
Tutto lo mondo vive senza guerra . . . 255
- All ye that pass along Love's trodden way
O voi che per la via d'amor passate . . . 36
- Along the road all shapes must travel by
Per quella via che l'altre forme vanno . . . 215
page: xxviii
- A man should hold in very dear esteem
Ogni uomo deve assai caro tenere . . . 324
- Among my thoughts I count it wonderful
Pure a pensar mi par gran meraviglia . . . 270
- Among the dancers I beheld her dance
Alla danza la vidi danzare . . . . 364
- Among the faults we in that book descry
Infra gli altri difetti del libello . . . . 177
- And every Wednesday as the swift days move
Ogni Mercoledì corredo grande . . . . 344
- And in September O what keen delight
Di Settembre vi do diletti tanti . . . . 339
- And now take thought my Sonnet who is he
Sonetto mio, anda o' lo divisi . . . . 341
- And on the morrow at first peep o' the day
Alla domane al parere del giorno . . . . 346
- As I walked thinking through a little grove
Passando con pensier per un boschetto . . . 396
- As thou wert loth to see before thy feet
Se non ti caggia la tua Santalena . . . 202
- A spirit of Love with Love's intelligence
Ispirito d'Amor con intelletto . . . . 367
- A thing is in my mind
Venuto m' è in talento . . . . 274
- At whiles yea oftentimes I muse over
Spesse fiate venemi alla mente . . . . 51
- A very pitiful lady very young
Donna pietosa e di novella etate . . . . 65
- Ay me alas the beautiful bright hair
Ohimè lasso quelle treccie bionde . . . . 173
- Ballad since Love himself hath fashioned thee
Ballata poi che ti compose Amore . . . . 208
- Beauty in woman the high will's decree
Beltà di donna e di saccente core . . . . 118
- Because I find not whom to speak withal
Poich' io non trovo chi meco ragioni . . . 110
page: xxix
- Because I think not ever to return
Perch' io non spero di tornar giammai . . . 149
- Because mine eyes can never have their fill
Poichè saziar non posso gli occhi miei . . . 100
- Because ye made your backs your shields it came
Guelfi per fare scudo delle reni . . . . 330
- Being in thought of love I chanced to see
Era in pensier d' amor quand' io trovai . . . 124
- Be stirring girls we ought to have a run
State su donne che debbiam noi fare . . . 394
- Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space
Oltre la spera che più larga gira . . . . 94
- By a clear well within a little field
Intorno ad una fonte in un pratello . . . 230
- By the long sojourning
Per lunga dimoranza . . . . . 319
- Canst thou indeed be he that still would sing
Sei tu colui ch' hai trattato sovente . . . 62
- Dante Alighieri a dark oracle
Dante Alighieri son Minerva oscura . . . 227
- Dante Alighieri Cecco your good friend
Dante Alighier Cecco tuo servo e amico . . . 183
- Dante Alighieri if I jest and lie
Dante Alighier s'io son buon begolardo . . . 205
- Dante Alighieri in Becchina's praise
Lassar vuol lo trovare di Becchina . . . 192
- Dante a sigh that rose from the heart's core
Dante un sospiro messagger del core . . . 128
- Dante if thou within the sphere of Love
Dante se tu nell' amorosa spera . . . . 228
- Dante since I from my own native place
Poich' io fui Dante dal mio natal sito . . . 109
- Dante whenever this thing happeneth
Dante quando per caso s'abbandona . . . 167
- Death alway cruel Pity's foe in chief
Morte villana di Pietà nemica . . . . 38
page: xxx
- Death since I find not one with whom to grieve
Morte poich' io non trovo a cui mi doglia . . 104
- Death why hast thou made life so hard to bear
Morte perchè m' hai fatto sì gran guerra . . . 303
- Do not conceive that I shall here recount
Non intendiate ch' io qui le vi dica . . . 371
- Each lover's longing leads him naturally
Naturalmente chere ogni amadore . . . 163
- Even as the day when it is yet at dawning
Come lo giorno quando è al mattino . . . 358
- Even as the moon among the stars doth shed
Come le stelle sopra la Diana . . . . 366
- Even as the others mock thou mockest me
Con l'altre donne mia vista gabbate . . . 49
- Fair sir this love of ours
Messer lo nostro amore . . . . . 308
- Flowers hast thou in thyself and foliage
Avete in voi li fiori e la verdura . . . . 117
- For a thing done repentance is no good
A cosa fatta già non val pentire . . . . 196
- For August be your dwelling thirty towers
D'Agosto sì vi do trenta castella . . . . 338
- For certain he hath seen all perfectness
Vede perfettamente ogni salute . . . . 74
- For grief I am about to sing
Di dolor mi conviene cantare . . . . 259
- For January I give you vests of skins
Io dono vai nel mese di Gennaio . . . . 335
- For July in Siena by the willow-tree
Di Luglio in Siena sulla saliciata. . . 338
- For no love borne by me
Non per ben ch' io ti voglia. . . . 400
- For Thursday be the tournament prepared
Ed ogni Giovedì torniamento . . . . 344
- Friend well I know thou knowest well to bear
Amico saccio ben che sai limare . . . . 137
page: xxxi
- Glory to God and to God's Mother chaste
Lode di Dio e della Madre pura . . . . 216
- Gramercy Death as you've my love to win
Morte mercè sì ti priego e m'è in grato . . . 200
- Guido an image of my lady dwells
Una figura della donna mia . . . . 121
- Guido I wish that Lapo thou and I
Guido vorrei che tu e Lape ed io . . . . 127
- Guido that Gianni who a day agone
Guido quel Gianni che a te fù l'altrieri . . . 138
- Hard is it for a man to please all men
Greve puot' uom piacere a tutta gente . . . 272
- He that has grown to wisdom hurries not
Uomo ch' è saggio non corre leggiero . . . 269
- Her face has made my life most proud and glad
Lo viso mi fa andare allegramente. . . 288
- I am afar but near thee is my heart
Lontan vi son ma presso v' è lo core . . . . 356
- I am all bent to glean the golden ore
Io mi son dato tutto a tragger oro . . . 168
- I am enamoured and yet not so much
Io sono innamorato ma non tanto. . . . 184
- I am so passing rich in poverty
Eo son si ricco della povertate . . . . 307
- I am so out of love through poverty
La povertà m' ha sì disamorato . . . 198
- I come to thee by daytime constantly
Io vegno il giorno a te infinite volte . . . 144
- I felt a spirit of Love begin to stir
Io mi sentii svegliar dentro dal core . . . 69
- If any his own foolishness might see
Chi conoscesse sì la sua fallanza . . . . 295
- If any man would know the very cause
Se alcun volesse la cagion savere . . . . 271
- If any one had anything to say
Chi Messer Ugolin biasma o riprende . . . 362
page: xxxii
- If as thou say'st thy love tormented thee
Se vi stringesse quanto dite amore . . . . 327
- If Dante mourns there wheresoe'er he be
Se Dante piange dove ch' el si sia . . . . 227
- If I'd a sack of florins and all new
S' io avessi un sacco di fiorini . . . . 188
- If I entreat this lady that all grace
S' io prego questa donna che pietate . . . 133
- If I were fire I'd burn the world away
S' io fossi foco arderei lo mondo . . . . 195
- If I were still that man worthy to love
S' io fossi quello che d'amor fù degno . . . 127
- If thou hadst offered friend to blessed Mary
Se avessi detto amico di Maria . . . . 122
- If you could see fair brother how dead beat
Fratel se tu vedessi questa gente . . . . 370
- I give you horses for your games in May
Di Maggio sì vi do molti cavagli . . . . 337
- I give you meadow-lands in April fair
D'Aprile vi do la gentil campagna . . . 336
- I have it in my heart to serve God so
Io m'aggio posto in core a Dio servire . . . 279
- I hold him verily of mean emprise
Tegno di folle impresa allo ver dire . . . . 267
- I know not Dante in what refuge dwells
Dante io non odo in qual albergo suoni . . . 111
- I laboured these six years
Sei anni ho travagliato . . . . . 293
- I look at the crisp golden-threaded hair
Io miro i crespi e gli biondi capegli . . . 381
- I'm caught like any thrush the nets surprise
Babbo Becchina Amore e mia madre . . . . 193
- I'm full of everything I do not want
Io ho tutte le cose ch' io non voglio . . . 189
- In February I give you gallant sport
Di Febbraio vi dono bella caccia . . . 335
page: xxxiii
- In March I give you plenteous fisheries
Di Marzo sì vi do una peschiera . . . . 336
- In June I give you a close-wooded fell
Di Giugno dovvi una montagnetta . . . 337
- I play this sweet prelude
Dolce cominciamento . . . . . 354
- I pray thee Dante shouldst thou meet with Love
Se vedi Amore assai ti prego Dante . . . 129
- I thought to be for ever separate
Io mi credea del tutto esser partito . . . 108
- I've jolliest merriment for Saturday
E il Sabato diletto ed allegranza . . . . 345
- I was upon the high and blessed mound
Io fui in sull' alto e in sul beato monte . . . 172
- I would like better in the grace to be
Io vorrei innanzi in grazia ritornare . . . 201
- Just look Manetto at that wry-mouthed minx
Guarda Manetto quella sgrignutuzza . . . 147
- Ladies that have intelligence in Love
Donne che avete intelletto d'Amore . . . 54
- Lady my wedded thought
La mia amorosa mente . . . . . 312
- Lady of Heaven the Mother glorified
Donna del cielo gloriosa madre . . . . 306
- Lady with all the pains that I can take
Donna io forzeraggio lo podere . . . . 352
- Last All-Saints' holy-day even now gone by
Di donne io vidi una gentile schiera . . . 97
- Last for December houses on the plain
E di Dicembre una città in piano . . . 340
- Let baths and wine-butts be November's due
E di Novembre petriuolo e il bagno . . . 340
- Let Friday be your highest hunting-tide
Ed ogni Venerdì gran caccia e forte . . . 345
- Let not the inhabitants of hell despair
Non si disperin quelli dello Inferno . . . 203
page: xxxiv
- Lo I am she who makes the wheel to turn
Io son la donna che volgo la rota . . . . 151
- Love and the gentle heart are one same thing
Amore e cor gentil son una cosa . . . . 58
- Love and the Lady Lagia Guido and I
Amore e Monna Lagia e Guido ed io . . . 130
- Love hath so long possessed me for his own
Sì lungamente m' ha tenuto Amore . . . 75
- Love I demand to have my lady in fee
Amore io chero mia donna in domino . . . 207
- Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth
Color d'amore e di pietà sembianti . . . 87
- Love since it is thy will that I return
Perchè to piace Amore ch' io ritorni . . . 101
- Love steered my course while yet the Sun rode high
Guidommi Amor ardendo ancora il Sole . . . 229
- Love taking leave my heart then leaveth me
Amor s'eo parto il cor si parte e dole . . . 328
- Love will not have me cry
Amor non vuol ch' io clami . . . . 284
- Many there are praisers of poverty
Molti son quei che lodan povertade . . . 212
- Marvellously elate
Maravigliosamente . . . . . 280
- Master Bertuccio you are called to account
Messer Bertuccio a dritto uom vi cagiona . . . 361
- Master Brunetto this my little maid
Messer Brunetto questa pulzelletta . . . 96
- Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring
Videro gli occhi miei quanta pietate . . . 86
- My body resting in a haunt of mine
Poso il corpo in un loco mio pigliando . . . 320
- My curse be on the day when first I saw
Io maladico il dì ch' io vidi imprima . . . 115
- My heart's so heavy with a hundred things
Io ho sì tristo il cor di cose cento . . . . 190
page: xxxv
- My lady carries love within her eyes
Negli occhi porta la mia donna amore . . . 59
- My lady looks so gentle and so pure
Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare . . . . 74
- My lady mine I send
Madonna mia a voi mando . . . . 286
- My lady thy delightful high command
Madonna vostro altero piacimento . . . 296
- Nero thus much for tidings in thine ear
Novella ti so dire odi Nerone . . . . 148
- Never so bare and naked was church-stone
Nel tempio santo non vid' io mai pietra . . . 199
- Never was joy or good that did not soothe
Gioia nè ben non è senza conforto . . . . 310
- Next for October to some sheltered coign
Di Ottobre nel cantà ch' ha buono stallo. . . 339
- No man may mount upon a golden stair
Non vi si monta per iscala d' oro . . . . 141
- Now of the hue of ashes are the Whites
Color di cener fatti son li Bianchi . . . 206
- Now these four things, if thou
Quattro cose chi vuole . . . . . 375
- Now to Great Britain we must make our way
Ora si passa nella Gran Bretagna . . . 384
- Now when it flowereth
Oramai quando flore . . . . . 277
- Now with the moon the day-star Lucifer
Quando la luna e la stella diana . . . . 343
- O Bicci pretty son of who knows whom
Bicci novel figliuol di non so cui . . . . 220
- Often the day had a most joyful morn
Spesso di gioia nasce ed incomenza . . . 321
- Of that wherein thou art a questioner
Di ciò che stato sei dimandatore . . . . 178
- O Lady amorous
Donna amorosa . . . . . . 349
page: xxxvi
- O Love O thou that for my fealty
O tu Amore che m' hai fatto martire . . . 169
- O Love who all this while hast urged me on
Amor che lungamente m' hai menato . . . 347
- On the last words of what you write to me
Al motto diredan prima ragione . . . . 180
- O Poverty by thee the soul is wrapped
O Povertà come tu sei un manto . . . . 154
- O sluggish hard ingrate what doest thou
O lento pigro ingrato ignar che fai . . . 159
- O thou that often hast within thine eyes
O tu che porti negli occhi sovente . . . . 131
- Pass and let pass this counsel I would give
Per consiglio ti do dè passa passa . . . . 363
- Prohibiting all hope
Levandomi speranza . . . . . 329
- Remembering this how Love
Membrando ciò che Amore . . . . 289
- Right well I know thou'rt Alighieri's son
Ben so che fosti figliuol d'Alighieri . . . 220
- Round her red garland and her golden hair
Sovra li fior vermigli e i capei d' oro . . . 229
- Sapphire nor diamond nor emerald
Diamante nè smeraldo nè zaffino . . . . 283
- Say wouldst thou guard thy son
Vuoi guardar tuo figliuolo . . . . 380
- Set Love in order thou that lovest me
Ordina quest' Amore o tu che m' ami . . . 258
- So greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured me
Si m'abbellìo la vostra gran piacenza. . . 181
- Song 'tis my will that thou do seek out Love
Ballata io vo che tu ritruovi Amore . . . 44
- Stay now with me and listen to my sighs
Venite a intender li sospiri miei . . . . 82
- Such wisdom as a little child displays
Saver che sente un picciolo fantino . . . 314
page: xxxvii
- That lady of all gentle memories
Era venuta nella mente mia . . . . 85
- That star the highest seen in heaven's expanse
Quest' altissima stella che si vede . . . . 211
- The devastating flame of that fierce plague
L' ardente fiamma della fiera peste. . . 156
- The dreadful and the desperate hate I bear
Il pessimo e il crudel odio che' io porto . . . 194
- The eyes that weep for pity of the heart
Gli occhi dolenti per pietà del core . . . 79
- The flower of virtue is the heart's content
Fior di virtù si è gentil coraggio . . . . 332
- The fountain-head that is so bright to see
Ciascuna fresca e dolce fontanella . . . . 140
- The King by whose rich grace His servants be
Lo Re che merta i suoi servi a ristoro . . . 217
- The lofty worth and lovely excellence
Lo gran valore e lo pregio amoroso . . . 291
- The man who feels not more or less somewhat
Chi non sente d' Amore o tanto o quanto . . 186
- The other night I had a dreadful cough
L' altra notte mi venne una gran tosse . . . 222
- The sweetly-favoured face
La dolce ciera piacente . . . . . 299
- The thoughts are broken in my memory
Ciò che m'incontra nella mente more . . . 50
- The very bitter weeping that ye made
L' amaro lagrimar che voi faceste . . . 88
- There is a time to mount to humble thee
Tempo vien di salire e di scendere . . . 262
- There is a vice prevails
Par che un vizio pur regni . . . . 377
- There is a vice which oft
Un vizio è che laudato . . . . . 373
- There is among my thoughts the joyous plan
Io ho pensato di fare un gioiello . . . . 342
page: xxxviii
- Think a brief while on the most marvellous arts
Sè 'l subietto preclaro O Cittadini . . . 257
- This book of Dante's very sooth to say
In verità questo libel di Dante . . . . 176
- This fairest lady who as well I wot
Questa leggiadra donna ched io sento . . . 170
- This fairest one of all the stars whose flame
La bella stella che sua fiamma tiene . . . 399
- This is the damsel by whom Love is brought
Questa è la giovinetta ch' amor guida . . . 210
- Thou sweetly-smelling fresh red rose
Rosa fresca aulentissima . . . . . 245
- Thou that art wise let wisdom minister
Provvedi saggio ad esta visione . . . . 179
- Thou well hast heard that Rollo had two sons
Come udit' hai due figliuoli ebbe Rollo . . . 388
- Though thou indeed hast quite forgotten ruth
Se m'hai del tutto obliato mercede . . . 132
- Through this my strong and new misaventure
La forte e nova mia disavventura . . . . 134
- To a new world on Tuesday shifts my song
E il Martedì li do un nuovo mondo . . . 343
- To every heart which the sweet pain doth move
A ciascun' alma presa e gentil core . . . 33
- To hear the unlucky wife of Bicci cough
Chi udisse tossir la mal fatata . . . . 221
- To see the green returning
Quando veggio rinverdire . . . . . 301
- To sound of trumpet rather than of horn
A suon di tromba innanzi che di corno . . . 143
- To the dim light and the large circle of shade
Al poco giorno ed al gran cerchio d'ombra . . . 113
- Two ladies to the summit of my mind
Due donne in cima della mente mia . . . 112
- Unto my thinking thou beheld'st all worth
Vedesti al mio parere ogni valore . . . . 116
page: xxxix
- Unto that lowly lovely maid I wis
A quella amorosetta forosella . . . . 139
- Unto the blithe and lordly fellowship
Alla brigata nobile e cortese . . . . 333
- Upon a day came Sorrow in to me
Un dì si venne a me Melancolìa . . . . 107
- Upon that cruel season when our Lord
Quella crudel stagion che a giudicare . . . 325
- Vanquished and weary was my soul in me
Vinta e lassa era già l' anima mia . . . 171
- Weep Lovers sith Love's very self doth weep
Piangete amanti poi che piange Amore . . . 37
- Were ye but constant Guelfs in war or peace
Così faceste voi o guerra o pace . . . . . 333
- Wert thou as prone to yield unto my prayer
Così fossi tu acconcia di donarmi . . . . 368
- Whatever good is naturally done
Qualunque ben si fa naturalmente . . . 186
- Whatever while the thought comes over me
Quantunque volte lasso mi rimembra . . . 83
- What rhymes are thine which I have ta'en from thee
Quai son le cose vostre ch' io vi tolgo . . . 175
- Whence come you all of you so sorrowful
Onde venite voi così pensose . . . . 98
- When God had finished Master Messerin
Quando Iddio Messer Messerin fece . . . 360
- When I behold Becchina in a rage
Quando veggio Becchina corrucciata . . . 191
- When Lucy draws her mantle round her face
Chi vedesse a Lucia un var cappuzzo . . . 263
- When the last greyness dwells throughout the air
Quando l' aria comincia a farsi bruna . . . 399
- Whether all grace have failed I scarce may scan
Non so s' è mercè che mo veno a meno . . . 326
- Whoever without money is in love
Chi è senza denari innamorato . . . . 197
page: xl
- Who is she coming whom all gaze upon
Chi è questa che vien ch' ogn' uom la mira . . 119
- Whoso abandons peace for war-seeking
Chi va cherendo guerra e lassa pace . . . 315
- Who utters of his father aught but praise
Chi dice di suo padre altro che onore . . . 204
- Why from the danger did not mine eyes start
Perchè non furo a me gli occhi dispenti . . . 136
- Why if Becchina's heart were diamond
Se di Becchina il cor fosse diamante . . . 187
- Within a copse I met a shepherd-maid
In un boschetto trovai pastorella . . . . 145
- Within the gentle heart Love shelters him
Al cor gentil ripara sempre Amore . . . 264
- With other women I beheld my love
Io vidi donne con la donna mia . . . . 120
- Woe's me by dint of all these sighs that come
Lasso per forza de' molti sospiri . . . . 91
- Wonderful countenance and royal neck
Viso mirabil gola morganata . . . . 182
- Yea let me praise my lady whom I love
Io vo del ver la mia donna lodare . . . 266
- Ye graceful peasant-girls and mountain-maids
Vaghe le montanine e pastorelle . . . . 392
- Ye ladies walking past me piteous-eyed
Voi donne che pietoso atto mostrate . . . 99
- Ye pilgrim-folk advancing pensively
Deh peregrini che pensosi andate . . . . 93
- You that thus wear a modest countenance
Voi che portate la sembianza umile . . . 61
- Your joyful understanding lady mine
Madonna vostra altera canoscenza . . . 316
page: [1]
Note: ”Appealing” in line 16 appears to be a typo; in all likelihood, the
“l” should be an “r.”
In the first 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
dishearten-
ing form, by which they can serve little purpose
except
as
testi di lingua—dead stock by whose help the makers
of dictionaries may
smother the language with decayed
words. Appealing now I
believe for the first time in
print, though in a new idiom,
from their once living
writers to such living readers as they
may find, they
require some preliminary notice.
The
Vita Nuova (the Autobiography or Autopsycho-
logy of Dante's youth
till about his twenty-seventh year)
is already well known to
many in the original, or by
means of essays and of English
versions partial or entire.
It is, therefore, and on all
accounts, unnecessary to say
page: 2
much more of the
work here than it says for itself.
Wedded to its exquisite and
intimate beauties are per-
sonal peculiarities which excite
wonder and conjecture,
best replied to in the words which
Beatrice herself is
made to utter in the
Commedia: “Questi
fù tal nella
sua
vita nuova.”* Thus then young
Dante
was. All that
seemed possible to be
done here for the work was to
translate it in as free and
clear a form as was consistent
with fidelity to its meaning;
to ease it, as far as possible,
from notes and encumbrances;
and to accompany it for
the first time with those poems from
Dante's own lyrical
series which have reference to its events,
as well as with
such native commentary (so to speak) as might
be
afforded by the writings of those with whom its author
was at that time in familiar intercourse. Not chiefly to
Dante, then, of whom so much is known to all or may
readily be
found written, but to the various other mem-
bers of his
circle, these few pages should be devoted.
It may be noted here, however, how necessary a
knowledge of the
Vita Nuova is to the full comprehen-
sion of the part borne by
Beatrice in the
Commedia.
Moreover, it is only from the perusal of its earliest
and
then undivulged self-communings that we can divine the
whole bitterness of wrong to such a soul as Dante's, its
poignant sense of abandonment, or its deep and jealous
refuge
in memory. Above all, it is here that we find the
first
manifestations of that wisdom of obedience, that
natural
breath of duty, which afterwards, in the
Com-
media
, lifted up a mighty voice for warning and testi-
mony.
Throughout the
Vita Nuova there is a strain like
the first falling murmur which
reaches the ear in some
remote meadow, and prepares us to look
upon the sea.
Boccaccio, in his Life of Dante, tells us that the great
poet, in later life, was
ashamed of this work of his
youth. Such a statement hardly
seems reconcilable with
the allusions to it made or implied in
the
Commedia;
Transcribed Footnote (page 2):
* Purgatorio, C. xxx.
page: 3
but it is true
that the
Vita Nuova is a book which only
youth could have produced, and
which must chiefly
remain sacred to the young; to each of whom
the figure
of Beatrice, less lifelike than lovelike, will seem
the
friend of his own heart. Nor is this, perhaps, its least
praise. To tax its author with effeminacy on account of
the extreme sensitiveness evinced by this narrative of
his
love, would be manifestly unjust, when we find that,
though
love alone is the theme of the
Vita Nuova, war
already ranked among its author's experiences at
the
period to which it relates. In the year 1289, the one
preceding the death of Beatrice, Dante served with the
foremost cavalry in the great battle of Campaldino, on
the
eleventh of June, when the Florentines defeated the
people of
Arezzo. In the autumn of the next year,
1290, when for him, by
the death of Beatrice, the city as
he says “sat
solitary,” such refuge as he might find from
his
grief was sought in action and danger: for we learn
from the
Commedia (Hell, C. xxi.) that he served in the
war then waged by
Florence upon Pisa, and was present
at the surrender of
Caprona. He says, using the reminis-
cence to give life to a
description, in his great way:—
- “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.”
(Cayley's
Translation.)
A word should be said here of the title of Dante's
autobiography. The adjective
Nuovo,
nuova, or
Novello,
novella, literally
New, is often used by Dante and
other
early writers in the sense of
young.
This has induced
some editors of the
Vita Nuova to explain the title as
meaning
Early
Life
. I should be glad on some accounts
to adopt this
supposition, as everything is a gain which
increases clearness
to the modern reader; but on con
sideration I think the more
mystical interpretation of
the words, as
New
Life
(in reference to that revulsion
of his being which
Dante so minutely describes as
Note: The hyphen is missing after “con” in the fourth-to-last line
above.
page: 4
having occurred
simultaneously with his first sight of
Beatrice), appears the
primary one, and therefore the
most necessary to be given in a
translation. The pro-
bability may be that
both were meant, but this I cannot
convey.*
Transcribed Footnote (page 4):
* 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
Vita Nuova,—that sentence just at
the outset which says,
“La gloriosa donna della mia mente, la
quale fù
chiamata da molti Beatrice, i quali non sapeano che
si
chiamare.” On this passage all the
commentators seem helpless,
turning it about and sometimes
adopting alterations not to be
found in any ancient
manuscript of the work. The words mean
literally,
“The glorious lady of my mind who was called
Beatrice
by many who knew not how she was
called.” This presents the
obvious difficulty that
the lady's name really
was Beatrice,
and
that Dante throughout uses that name himself. In the
text of my
version I have adopted, as a rendering, the one
of the various
compromises which seemed to give the most
beauty to the mean-
ing. But it occurs to me that a less
irrational escape out of the
difficulty than any I have seen
suggested may possibly be found by
linking this passage with
the close of the
sonnet at page 69
of the
Vita Nuova, beginning, “I felt a spirit of Love begin to
stir,” in the
last line of which sonnet Love is made
to assert that the name of
Beatrice is
Love. Dante appears to have dwelt on this fancy
with
some pleasure, from what is said in an earlier
sonnet (page 38)
about “Love in his proper form” (by which
Beatrice seems to be
meant) bending over a dead lady. And it
is in connection with
the sonnet where the name of Beatrice
is said to be Love, that
Dante, as if to show us that the
Love he speaks of is only his own
emotion, enters into an
argument as to Love being merely an acci-
dent in
substance,—in other words, “Amore e il cor gentil son
una
cosa.” This conjecture may be
pronounced extravagant; but the
Vita Nuova, when examined, proves so full of intricate and
fan-
tastic analogies, even in the mere arrangement of its
parts (much
more than appears on any but the closest
scrutiny), that it seems
admissible to suggest even a
whimsical solution of a difficulty
which remains
unconquered. Or to have recourse to the much
more welcome
means of solution afforded by simple inherent
beauty: may
not the meaning be merely that any person looking
on so
noble and lovely a creation, without knowledge of her
name,
must have spontaneously called her Beatrice,—
i.e., the giver of
blessing? This would be
analogous by antithesis to the transla-
tion I have adopted
in my text.
page: 5
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' Cavalcanti”
appears as one
of the sureties offered by the 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 unbelievers. That
Guido shared this heresy was 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 trans-
lated on that account (at page
156) 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
ex-
ploits as a soldier frequently abortive through the
head-
strong ardour of partisanship, and causing the
perversity
of a logician to prevail in much of his amorous poetry.
page: 6
The writings of
his contemporaries, as well as his own,
tend to show him rash
in war, fickle in love, and pre-
sumptuous in belief; but also,
by the same concurrent
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 factions; 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 interven-
tion 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 occurred, is probably not ascertainable;
but about that
time Dante tells us that Guido was ena-
moured of a lady named
Giovanna or Joan, and whose
Christian name
is absolutely all that we know of her.
However, on the occasion
of his pilgrimage to Thoulouse,
recorded by Dino Compagni, he
seems to have conceived
a fresh passion for a lady of that
city named Mandetta,
who first attracted him by a striking
resemblance 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 St. James the Greater;
though the same supposed distinction had already made
the
shrine of Compostella in Galicia one of the most
page: 7
famous throughout
all Christendom. That this devout
journey of Guido's had other
results besides a new love
will be seen by the passage from
Compagni's Chronicle.
He says:—
“A young and noble knight named Guido, son of Messer
Caval-
cante Cavalcanti,—full of courage and courtesy,
but 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 assassinate 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, thinking to be
fol-
lowed 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; be-
cause, 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 dis-
parage
him; and Guido he called
Cavicchia.* And thus it was
spread abroad of
the
jongleurs; and
especially one named Scam-
polino reported worse things
than were said, that so the Cerchi
might be provoked
to engage the Donati.”
Transcribed Footnote (page 7):
* A nickname chiefly chosen, no doubt, for its resemblance to
Cavalcanti. The word
cavicchia, cavicchio, or
caviglia, means
a
wooden peg or pin. A passage in Boccaccio says, “He
had tied
his ass to a strong wooden pin” (
caviglia). Thus Guido, from his
mental superiority, might be
said to be the Pin to which the
Ass, Messer Vieri, was
tethered at the Gate, (that is, the gate of
San Pietro,
near which he lived). However, it seems quite as
likely
that the nickname was founded on a popular phrase by
which
one who fails in any undertaking is said “to run his rear on
a peg” (
dare del culo in un
cavicchio
). The haughty Corso Donati
page: 8
The praise which Compagni, his contemporary, awards
to
Guido at the commencement of the foregoing extract,
receives
additional value when viewed in connection
with the
sonnet addressed to him by the same
writer
(see page 141), 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 representatives of
the various arts and companies.
These proposals, how-
ever, were so ill received, that the
legate, who arrived in
Florence in the month of June 1300,
departed shortly
afterwards greatly incensed, leaving the city
under a
papal interdict. In the ill-considered tumults which
en-
sued we again hear of Guido Cavalcanti.
“It happened (says Giovanni Villani in his History of Florence)
that in the month of December (1300) Messer 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
the one
the other; whereby all those who were at the funeral
having risen up tumultuously 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 Caval-
canti, 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
of
Transcribed Footnote (page 8):
himself went by the name of
Malefammi or “Do-me-harm.” For
an account of his death in
1307, which proved in keeping with his
turbulent life,
see Dino Compagni's
Chronicle, or the
Pecorone of
Giovanni Fiorentino (Gior.
xxiv. Nov. 2.)
page: 9
Florence
devolved, had resigned for far other cares the
sweet
intercourse of thought and poetry which he once
held with that
first friend of his who had now become
so factious a citizen.
Yet it is impossible to say how
much of the old feeling may
still have survived in Dante's
mind when, at the close of the
year 1300 or beginning
of 1301, it became his duty, as a
faithful magistrate of
the republic, to add his voice to those
of his colleagues
in pronouncing a sentence of banishment on
the heads
of both the Black and White factions, Guido
Cavalcanti
being included among the latter. The Florentines
had
been at last provoked almost to demand this course
from
their governors, by the discovery of a conspiracy, at
the
head of which was Corso Donati (while among its
leading
members was Simone de' Bardi, once the husband
of
Beatrice Portinari), for the purpose of inducing the
Pope
to subject the republic to a French peace-maker (
Paciere),
and so shamefully free it from its intestine broils.
It
appears therefore that the immediate cause of the exile
to which both sides were subjected lay entirely with the
“Black”
party, the leaders of which were banished to the
Castello della
Pieve in the wild district of Massa Tra-
beria, while those of
the “White” faction were sent to
Sarzana, probably (for more
than one place bears the
name) in the Genovesato. “But
this party” (writes
Villani) “remained a
less time in exile, being recalled on
account of the
unhealthiness of the place, which made
that Guido Cavalcanti
returned with a sickness, whereof
he died. And of him was a
great loss; seeing that he
was a man, as in philosophy, so
in many things deeply
versed; but therewithal too fastidious
and prone to take
offence.”* His death apparently took place in 1301.
When the discords of Florence ceased, for Guido, in
death,
Dante also had seen their native city for the last
Transcribed Footnote (page 9):
* “Troppo tenero e
stizzoso.” I judge that “tenero” here is
rather to be interpreted as above than meaning
“impression-
able” in love affairs, but cannot be
certain.
page: 10
time. Before
Guido's return he had undertaken that
embassy to Rome which
bore him the bitter fruit of un-
just 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
Vita Nuova, Dante has unmistakeably referred to
him in at least two
passages of the
Commedia. One of
these references is to be found in those famous
lines of
the Purgatory (C.
xi.) where he awards him the palm
of
poetry over Guido Guinicelli (though also of the latter he
speaks elsewhere with high praise), and implies at the
same time, it would seem, a consciousness of his own
supremacy
over both.
- “Against all painters Cimabue thought
- To keep the field. Now Giotto has the
cry,
- And so the fame o' the first wanes nigh to nought.
- Thus one from other Guido took the high
- Glory of language; and perhaps is born
- He who from both shall bear it
by-and-bye.”
The other mention of Guido is in that pathetic passage
of
the Hell (C.
x.) where Dante meets among the
lost
souls Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti:—
- “All roundabout he looked, 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
- Didst say
He had? Is he not living
still?
Transcribed Footnote (page 10):
* 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.
page: 11
- 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 appeared no more.”
Dante, however, conveys his answer afterwards to the
spirit of Guido's father, through another of the con-
demned
also related to Guido, Farinata degli Uberti,
with whom he has
been speaking meanwhile:—
- “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.’”
- (W. M. Rossetti's
Translation.)
The date which Dante fixes for his vision is Good Friday
of the year 1300. A year later, his answer must have
been
different. The love and friendship of his
Vita
Nuova
had then both left him. For ten years Beatrice
Portinari
had been dead, or (as Dante says in the
Con-
vito
) “lived in heaven with the angels and on earth
with
his soul.” And now, distant and probably
estranged
from him, Guido Cavalcanti was gone too.
Among the Tales of Franco Sacchetti, and in the De-
cameron of Boccaccio, are two anecdotes relating 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 in
Florence”) was
disturbed by a child playing about,
and threatened pun-
ishment if the noise continued. 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 afterwards 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 cun-
ning of a
child.”
page: 12
The ninth Tale of the sixth Day of the Decameron
relates a repartee of Guido's, which has all the
profound
platitude of mediæval wit. As the anecdote,
however,
is interesting on other grounds, I translate it here.
“You must know that in past times there were in our
city cer-
tain 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 throughout 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 in-
trigued 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
philo-
sopher (for the which things the fellowship cared
little), but
also he exceeded 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 ex-
ceeding rich
and knew well to solicit with honourable
words
whomsoever he deemed worthy. But Messer Betto had
never
been able to succeed in enlisting 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 oftentimes
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 Reparata, and seeing
Guido among the sepul-
page: 13
chres,
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
re-
plied, ‘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 bewildered, 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,
see-
ing 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 Caval-
canti'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 154 (where the author speaks of his poverty)
can
really be Guido's work, though I have included it as
being
interesting if rightly attributed 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
neigh-
bourhood (as Dino Compagni records) gaining rapidly
page: 14
in consequence
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 121). After
this, their enemies succeeded in finally
expelling 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,
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 the
best
of his pieces being those which relate to himself,
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?” On this canzone of
Guido's there are known to exist
no fewer than eight
commentaries, some of them very elaborate,
and written
by prominent learned men of the middle ages and
re-
naissance;
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
suspi-
Transcribed Footnote (page 14):
* With them were expelled the still more powerful
Gherardini,
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 reappear now and
then in later European
history; and especially we hear of a
second Guido
Cavalcanti, who also cultivated 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.
page: 15
cious; and
accordingly, on examination, it proves to be
a poem beside the
purpose of poetry, filled with meta-
physical 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. I have not
translated it, as being
of little true interest; but was
pleased lately, neverthe-
less, to meet with a remarkably
complete translation of
it by the Rev. Charles T. Brooks, of
Cambridge, United
States.* The stiffness and cold
conceits which prevail
in this poem may be found disfiguring
much of what
Guido Cavalcanti has left, while much besides is
blunt,
obscure, and abrupt: nevertheless, if it need hardly
be
said how far he falls short of Dante in variety and
per-
sonal directness, it may be admitted that he
worked
worthily at his side, and perhaps before him, in
adding
those qualities to Italian poetry. That Guido's
poems
dwelt in the mind of Dante is evident by his
having
appropriated lines from them (as well as from those
of
Guinicelli) with little alteration, more than once, in the
Commedia.
Towards the close of his life, Dante, in his
Latin
treatise
De Vulgari
Eloquio
, again speaks of himself as
the friend of a poet,—this
time of Cino da Pistoia. In
an early passage
of that work he says that “those who
have most sweetly
and subtly written poems in modern
Italian are Cino da
Pistoia and a friend of his.” This
friend we
afterwards find to be Dante himself; as among
the various
poetical examples quoted are several by
Cino followed in three
instances by lines from
Dante's
Transcribed Footnote (page 15):
* This translation occurs in the Appendix to an Essay on the
Vita
Nuova
of Dante, including extracts, by my friend Mr.
Charles
E. Norton, of Cambridge, U.S.,—a work of high
delicacy and ap-
preciation, which originally appeared
by portions in the
Atlantic
Monthly
, but has since been augmented by the author and
pri-
vately printed in a volume which is a beautiful
specimen of
American typography.
page: 16
own lyrics, the author of the latter being again
described
merely as “Amicus ejus.” In immediate proximity
to
these, or coupled in two instances with examples
from
Dante alone, are various quotations taken from
Guido
Cavalcanti; but in none of these cases is anything
said
to connect Dante with him who was once “the
first of
his friends.”* As commonly
between old and new, the
change of Guido's friendship for Cino's
seems doubtful
gain. Cino's poetry, like his career, is for the
most part
smoother than that of Guido, and in some instances
it
rises into truth and warmth of expression: but it
con-
veys no idea of such powers, for life or for work,
as
seem to have distinguished the “Cavicchia” of Messer
Corso Donati. However, his
one talent (reversing the
parable) appears generally to be made
the most of,
while Guido's two or three remain uncertain through
the
manner of their use.
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
Transcribed Footnote (page 16):
* 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 Purgatory. It
has been sometimes surmised (perhaps for
this reason) that the
two Guidos there spoken of may be
Guittone d'Arezzo and Guido
Guinicelli, the latter being
said to surpass the former, of whom
Dante elsewhere in
the Purgatory has expressed a low opinion.
But I should think
it doubtful whether the name Guittone, which
(if not a
nickname, as some say) is substantially the same as
Guido,
could be so absolutely identified with it: at
that rate Cino da
Pistoia even might be classed as one
Guido, his full name, Guitton-
cino, being the
diminutive of Guittone. I believe it more probable
that
Guinicelli and Cavalcanti were then really meant, and
that
Dante afterwards either altered his opinion, or may
(conjecturably)
have chosen to imply a change of
preference in order to gratify
Cino da Pistoia, whom he
so markedly distinguishes as his friend
throughout the
treatise, and between whom and Cavalcanti some
jealousy
appears to have existed, as we may gather from one
of
Cino's
sonnets (at page
176); nor is Guido mentioned anywhere
with praise by
Cino, as other poets are.
page: 17
acquainted in youth, though there is no earlier mention
of
Cino in Dante's writings than those which occur in
his treatise on the Vulgar
Tongue. It might perhaps be
inferred with some plausibility that
their acquaintance
was revived after an interruption by the
sonnet and
answer at pages 110-111, and that they
afterwards cor-
responded as friends till the period of Dante's
death,
when Cino wrote his elegy. Of the two sonnets
in
which Cino expresses disapprobation of what he thinks
the
partial judgments of Dante's
Commedia, the
first seems
written
before the great poet's death, but I should think
that the
second dated after that event, as the
Paradise, to
which it refers, cannot have become fully known in
its
author's lifetime. Another sonnet sent to Dante
elicited
a Latin epistle in reply, where we find Cino
addressed
as “frater carissime.” Among Cino's lyrical poems are
a few more written
in correspondence with Dante, which
I have not translated as
being of little personal interest.
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, first cradle of
the “Black” and “White”
factions, their endless contest
again 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 directed his course
towards Lombardy, on whose
confines 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
page: 18
on account of
political sympathy alone; as Selvaggia
Vergiolesi, his daughter,
is the lady celebrated through-
out the poet's compositions.
Three years later, the
Vergiolesi and their followers, finding
Pitecchio unten-
able, fortified themselves on the Monte della
Sambuca,
a lofty peak of the Apennines; 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,
- “Cast out upon the steep path of the mountains,
- Where Death had shut her in between hard
stones.”
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 Selvaggia's family
at the time of her death; and it is
probable that, on his
return to the Sambuca, the fortress was
already sur-
rendered, 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
pre-
ceded 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, caused almost
surely by poison. This death
Cino has lamented in a
canzone. It probably determined him to
abandon a
cause which seemed dead, and return, when possible,
to
his native 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,
page: 19
Beatrice, Giovanna, and Lombarduccia. 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 Antelminelli 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
afterwards became
celebrated, among whom rumour has placed
Petrarch,
though on examination this seems very doubtful.
A
sonnet by Petrarch exists, however, commencing “Pian-
gete donne e con voi pianga Amore,” written as a lament
on Cino's death, and bestowing
the highest praise on
him. He and his Selvaggia are also coupled
with Dante
and Beatrice in the same poet's
Trionfi
d'Amore
(cap. 4).
Though established again in Pistoia, Cino resided
there
but little till about the time of his death, which
occurred in
1336-7. His monument, where he is repre-
sented 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;
never-
theless there are some, and especially the
sonnet on her
tomb (at page 172),
which display feeling and power.
The finest, as well as the most
interesting, of all his
page: 20
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
pro-
duced legal writings also, of which the chief one
that
has survived is a Commentary on the Statutes of
Pistoia,
said to have great merit, and whose production in
the
short space of two years was accounted an
extraordinary
achievement.
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 Alighieri,
the
short of Durante, and Maiano in the neighbourhood
of
Fiesole) had attained some reputation as a poet
before
the career of his great namesake began; his Sicilian
lady
Nina (herself, it is said, a poetess, and not
personally
known to him) going by the then unequivocal title
of
“La Nina di Dante.” This priority may also be
inferred
from the contemptuous
answer sent by him to Dante
Alighieri's dream sonnet in
the
Vita Nuova (see page
178). All the writers on early Italian poetry
seem to
agree in specially censuring this poet's rhymes as
coarse
and trivial in manner; nevertheless, they are
sometimes
distinguished by a careless force not to be despised,
and
even by snatches of real beauty. Of Dante da
Maiano's
life no record whatever has come down to us.
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
after-
wards, and we may surmise that his rancour against
his
father may have been partly dependent, in the first
page: 21
instance, on
the disagreements arising from such a con-
nection. However,
from an amusing and lifelike story
in the Decameron (Gior. ix. Nov. 4) we learn that on
one
occasion Cecco's father paid him six months' allowance
in
advance, in order that he might proceed to the
Marca
d'Ancona, and join the suite of a Papal Legate who
was
his patron; which looks, after all, as if the father
had
some care of his graceless son. The story goes on
to
relate how Cecco (whom Boccaccio describes as a
hand-
some and well-bred man) was induced to take with
him
as his servant a fellow-gamester with whom he had
formed
an intimacy purely on account of the hatred
which each of the
two bore his own father, though in
other respects they had
little in common. The result
was that this fellow, during the
journey, while Cecco was
asleep at Buonconvento, took all his
money and lost it at
the gaming-table, and afterwards managed by
an adroit
trick to get possession of his horse and clothes,
leaving
him nothing but his shirt. Cecco then, ashamed to
return
to Siena, made his way, in a borrowed suit and
mounted
on his servant's sorry hack, to Corsignano, where he
had
relations; and there he stayed till his father once
more
(surely much to his credit) made him a remittance
of
money. Boccaccio seems to say in conclusion that
Cecco
ultimately had his revenge on the thief.
In reading many both of Cecco's love-sonnets
and
hate-sonnets, it is impossible not to feel some pity
for
the indications they contain of self-sought poverty,
un-
happiness, and natural bent to ruin. Altogether
they
have too much curious individuality to allow of
their
being omitted here: especially as they afford the
earliest
prominent example of a naturalism without
afterthought
in the whole of Italian poetry. Their humour is
some-
times strong, if not well chosen; their passion
always
forcible from its evident reality: nor indeed are
several
among them 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
page: 22
be confessed that for the most part the sentiments
ex-
pressed in Cecco's poetry are either impious or
licentious.
Most of the sonnets of his which
are in print are here
given;* the selections
concluding 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
intercourse
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
Vita Nuova relates, is evident from a date
given in
one of his sonnets,—the 20th June 1291,
and
from his sonnet raising objections to the one at the
close
of Dante's autobiography. When the latter was
written
he was probably on good terms with the young
Alighieri;
but within no great while afterwards they had
discovered
that they could not agree, as is shown by a
sonnet in
which
Cecco can find no words bad enough for Dante,
who has
remonstrated with him about Becchina.†
Much
Transcribed Footnote (page 22):
* 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 grammatical examples no
fewer than
twenty-three 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.
Transcribed Footnote (page 22):
† Of this sonnet I have seen two printed
versions, in both of
which the text is so corrupt as to
make them very contradictory in
important points; but I
believe that by comparing the two I have
given its
meaning correctly. (See
page
192
.)
page: 23
later, as we
may judge, he again addresses Dante in an
insulting tone,
apparently while the latter was living in
exile at the court of
Can Grande della Scala. No other
reason can well be assigned for
saying that he had
“turned Lombard”; while some of the insolent
allusions
seem also to point to the time when Dante learnt
by
experience “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, accompanied
probably with more
fleshly penance.
Though nothing indicates the time of Cecco
Angiolieri's
death, I will venture to surmise that he outlived
the
writing and revision of Dante's
Inferno, if only by the
token that he is not found lodged in one
of its meaner
circles. It is easy to feel sure that no sympathy
can
ever have existed for long between Dante and a man
like
Cecco; however arrogantly the latter, in his verses,
might
attempt to establish a likeness and even an
equality. We may
accept the testimony of so reverent
a biographer as Boccaccio,
that the Dante of later years
was far other than the silent and
awe-struck lover of the
Vita Nuova; but he was still (as he proudly called
him-
self) “the singer of Rectitude,” and his
that “indignant
page: 24
soul” which made blessed the mother who had
born
him.*
Leaving to his fate (whatever that may have been) the
Scamp of
Dante's Circle, I must risk the charge of a con-
firmed 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. In one of these,† he rails against his
political
adversaries; in three,‡
falls foul of his brother poets;
and in the
remaining one,§ seems somewhat appeased
(I think)
by a judicious morsel of flattery. I have already
referred to a
sonnet of his which is said to have led to
the composition of
Guido Cavalcanti's Canzone on the
Nature of Love. He has another sonnet beginning,
“Per
troppa sottiglianza il fil si
rompe,” ǁ in which he is cer-
tainly
enjoying a fling at somebody, and I suspect at
Cavalcanti in
rejoinder to the very poem which he him-
self had instigated. If
so, this stamps him a master-
critic of the deepest initiation.
Of his life nothing is
recorded; but no wish perhaps need be
felt to know
much of him, as one would probably have dropped
his
acquaintance. We may be obliged to him, however, for
his
character of Guido Cavalcanti (at
page 137), which is
boldly and vividly drawn.
Next follow three poets of whom I have given one
specimen
apiece. By Bernardo da Bologna (
page 139)
no other is known to
exist, nor can anything 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 138), which
belongs rather to the school of Sir
Pandarus of Troy.
Dino Compagni, the chronicler of Florence, is
repre-
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):
- * “Alma sdegnosa,
- Benedetta colei che in te s'
incinse!”
(
Inferno, C.viii.)
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):
† Page
206.
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):
† Pages
122,
137,
180.
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):
§ Page
143.
Transcribed Footnote (page 24):
‖ This sonnet, as printed, has a gap in the
middle; let us hope
(in so immaculate a censor) from
unfitness for publication.
page: 25
sented here by a
sonnet addressed to Guido Cavalcanti,*
which is all the more interesting, as the same writer's
historical work furnishes so much of the little known
about
Guido. Dino, though one 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 could not be held by a younger
man.
He died at Florence in 1323. Dino has rather
lately
assumed for the modern reader a much more
important
position than he occupied before among the early
Italian
poets. I allude to the valuable discovery, in the
Ma-
gliabecchian Library at Florence, of a poem by him
in
nona rima, containing 309 stanzas. It is
entitled
“L'Intelligenza,” and is of an allegorical nature inter-
spersed
with historical and legendary abstracts.†
I have placed Lapo Gianni in this my first
division on
account of the
sonnet by
Dante
(page 126), in which he
seems undoubtedly to be
the Lapo referred 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 25):
* Crescimbeni (
Ist. d. Volg.
Poes.
) gives this sonnet from 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.
Transcribed Footnote (page 25):
† See
Documents
inédits pour servir à l'histoire littéraire
de l'Italie,
&c. par
A.F. Ozanam (
Paris,
1850), where the poem is
printed
entire.
page: 26
that he was a
notary by profession. I have also seen it
somewhere asserted
(though where 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 treatise on the
Vulgar
Tongue, as 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 Hell were
restored
to him in exile, after the Casa 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 with-
out Dante would almost be a poorer planet.
Meanwhile, beyond
this great fact of Dino's life, which perhaps
hardly
occupied 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 commentator on the
Commedia), of
Vasari, and others, it is said that Dante visited
Giotto
while he was painting at Padua; that the great poet
furnished the great painter with the conceptions of a
series of
subjects from the Apocalypse, which he painted
at Naples; and
that Giotto, finally, passed some time
with Dante in the exile's
last refuge at Ravenna. There
is a tradition that Dante also
studied drawing with
Giotto's master Cimabue; and that he
practised it in
some degree is evident from the passage in the
Vita
Nuova
, where he speaks of his drawing an angel. The
reader will
not need to be reminded of Giotto's portrait
of the youthful
Dante, painted in the Bargello at Florence,
page: 27
then the
chapel of the Podestà. This is the author of
the
Vita Nuova. That other portrait shown us in
the
posthumous mask,—a face dead in exile after the
death
of hope,—should front the first page of the Sacred
Poem
to which heaven and earth had set their hands,
but
which might never bring him back to Florence,
though
it had made him haggard for many years.*
Giotto's
Canzone on the doctrine
of voluntary poverty,
—the only poem we have of his,—is a
protest against a
perversion of gospel teaching which had gained
ground
in his day to the extent of becoming a popular
frenzy.
People went literally mad upon it; and to the
reaction
against this madness may also be assigned (at any
rate
partly) Cavalcanti's
poem on
Poverty
, which, as we have
seen, is otherwise not easily
explained, if authentic.
Giotto's canzone is all the more curious when we
remem-
ber his noble fresco at Assisi, of Saint Francis
wedded
to Poverty.† It would really almost seem as
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 deathblow 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 27):
- * “Se mai continga che il poema
sacro
- Al quale ha posto mano
e cielo e terra,
- Sì che m' ha fatto per più anni
macro,
- Vinca la crudeltà che
fuor mi serra,” etc.
(
Parad. C. xxv.)
Transcribed Footnote (page 27):
† See Dante's reverential treatment of this subject, (
Parad.
C. xi.)
page: 28
forlorn of any
personal history. Fraticelli (in his well-
known and valuable
edition of
Dante's Minor Works)
says that there lived about 1250 a bishop of that
name,
belonging to a Venetian family. It is true that 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 pro-
bably 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.
For me Quirino's sonnet has great value; as
Dante's
answer* to it enables me to wind up this
series with the
name of its great chief; and, indeed, with what
would
almost seem to have been his last utterance in poetry,
at
that supreme juncture when he
- “Slaked in his heart the fervour of desire,”
as at last he neared the very home
- “Of Love which sways the sun and all the
stars.Ӡ
I am sorry to see that this necessary introduction to
my
first division is longer than I could have wished.
Among the
severely-edited books which had to be con-
sulted 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 28):
* In the case of the above two sonnets, and of all others
inter-
changed 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
biographical value; and the
same with several
epistolary sonnets which have no answer.
Transcribed Footnote (page 28):
† The last line of the
Paradise (Cayley's
Translation).
page: 29
slough of
verbal analysis. It would seem unpardonable
to make a book which
should be even as these; and I
have thus found myself led on to
what I fear forms, by
its length, an awkward
intermezzo to the volume, in the
hope of saying at once the most of
what was to say;
that so the reader may not find himself
perpetually
worried with footnotes during the consideration of
some-
thing which may require a little peace. The glare of
too
many tapers is apt to render the altar-picture
confused
and inharmonious, even when their smoke does
not
obscure or deface it.
page: [30]
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
.* Under such rubric I
find
written many things; and among them the words
which
I purpose to copy into this little book; if not all of
them,
at the least their substance.
Nine times already since my birth had the
heaven 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.†
She had already been in 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
Transcribed Footnote (page [30]):
* “Here beginneth the new life.”
Transcribed Footnote (page [30]):
† In reference to the meaning of the name, “She who
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 accompanied his
father, Alighiero
Alighieri.
page: 31
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 dominabitur mihi
.* At that moment the animate
spirit,
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
.† At that moment the natural spirit,
which
dwelleth there where our nourishment is
administered,
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
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 praise-
worthy that certainly of her might have
been said those
words of the poet Homer,
“She seemed not to be the
daughter of a
mortal man, but of God.”§ And albeit
her
image, that was with me always, was an exultation
of
Love to subdue me, it was yet of so perfect a
quality
Transcribed Footnote (page 31):
* “Here is a deity stronger than I; who, coming, shall
rule
over me.”
Transcribed Footnote (page 31):
† “Your beatitude hath now been made manifest unto
you.”
Transcribed Footnote (page 31):
‡ “Woe is me! for that often I shall be disturbed from
this time
forth!”
Transcribed Footnote (page 31):
- § Οὐδὲ ἐῴκει
- Ἀνδρός γε θνητοϋ παϊς
ἔμμεναι, ἀλλὰ θεοϊο.
(
Iliad, xxiv. 258.)
page: 32
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 appear-
ance of this
most gracious being, on the last of those
days it happened
that the same wonderful lady ap-
peared to me dressed all in
pure white, between two
gentle ladies elder than she. And
passing through a
street, she turned her eyes thither where
I stood sorely
abashed: and by her unspeakable courtesy,
which is
now guerdoned in the Great Cycle, she saluted me
with
so virtuous a bearing that I seemed then and there
to
behold the very limits of blessedness. The hour of
her
most sweet salutation was certainly the ninth of that
day;
and because it was the first time that any words
from
her reached mine ears, I came into such sweetness
that
I parted thence as one intoxicated. And betaking
me
to the loneliness of mine own room, I fell to thinking
of
this most courteous lady, thinking of whom I was
over-
taken by a pleasant slumber, wherein a marvellous
vision
was presented to me: for there appeared to be in
my
room a mist of the colour of fire, within the which I
dis-
cerned the figure of a lord of terrible aspect to such
as
should gaze upon him, but who seemed therewithal
to
rejoice inwardly that it was a marvel to see.
Speaking
he said many things, among the which I could
under-
stand but few; and of these, this:
Ego dominus tuus.*
In his arms it seemed to me that a person was
sleeping,
covered only with a blood-coloured cloth; upon
whom
Transcribed Footnote (page 32):
* “I am thy master.”
page: 33
looking very attentively, I knew that it was the lady
of
the salutation who had deigned the day before to
salute
me. And he who held her held also in his hand a
thing
that was burning in flames; and he said to me,
Vide cor
tuum
.* But when he had remained with me a
little
while, I thought that he set himself to awaken her
that
slept; after the which he made her to eat that
thing
which flamed in his hand; and she ate as one
fearing.
Then, having waited again a space, all his joy was
turned
into most bitter weeping; and as he wept he
gathered
the lady into his arms, and it seemed to me that he
went
with her up towards heaven: whereby such a
great
anguish came upon me that my light slumber could
not
endure through it, but was suddenly broken.
And
immediately having considered, I knew that the
hour
wherein this vision had been made manifest to
me
was the fourth hour (which is to say, the first of
the
nine last hours) of the night.
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:—
- To every heart which the sweet pain doth move,
- And unto which these words may now be
brought
- For true interpretation and kind
thought,
- Be greeting in our Lord's name, which is Love.
- Of those long hours wherein the stars, above,
- Wake and keep watch, the third was
almost nought,
- When Love was shown me with such
terrors fraught
- As may not carelessly be spoken of.
Transcribed Footnote (page 33):
* “Behold thy heart.”
page: 34
- He seemed like one who is full of joy, and had
-
10 My heart within his hand, and on his
arm
- My lady, with a mantle round her,
slept;
- Whom (having wakened her) anon he made
- To eat that heart; she ate, as fearing
harm.
- Then he went out; and as he went, he
wept.
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 com-
mences here: “Of those long hours.”
To this sonnet I received many answers, conveying
many
different opinions; of the which, one was sent by
him whom I now call the first among my
friends, and
it began thus, “Unto my thinking thou
beheld'st all
worth.”* And indeed, it was when
he 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.
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 reduced
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 con-
cealed. Wherefore I (perceiving the drift of
their
unkindly questions), by Love's will, who directed
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
Transcribed Footnote (page 34):
* The friend of whom Dante here speaks was Guido
Cavalcanti.
For his answer, and those of Cino da
Pistoia and Dante da Maiano,
see their poems further
on.
page: 35
by whose help hath Love done this?” I looked in
their
faces smiling, and spake no word in return.
Now it fell on a day, that this most
gracious 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. And
many perceived that 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
most gentle Beatrice and mine
eyes. Therefore I was
reassured, and knew that for
that day my secret had not
become manifest. Then
immediately it came into my mind that
I might make
use of this lady as a screen to the truth: and
so well
did I play my part that the most of those who
had
hitherto watched and wondered at me, now
imagined
they had found me out. By her means I kept my
secret
concealed till some years were gone over; and for
my
better security, I even made divers rhymes in
her
honour; whereof I shall here write only as much
as
concerneth the most gentle Beatrice, which is but a
very
little. Moreover,
about the same time while this lady
was a screen for so much
love on my part, I took the
resolution to set down the name
of this most gracious
creature accompanied with many other
women's names,
and especially with hers whom I spake of. And
to this
end I put together the names of sixty the most
beautiful
ladies in that city where God had placed mine
own
lady; and these names I introduced in an epistle in
the
form of a
sirvent, which it is not my intention to tran-
scribe here.
Neither should I have said anything of
this matter, did I
not wish to take note of a
certain
Transcribed Footnote (page 35):
*
I.e., in a church.
page: 36
strange thing, to wit: that having written the list,
I
found my lady's name would not stand otherwise
than
ninth in order among the names of these ladies.
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: where-
fore I,
being sorely perplexed at the loss of so 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, I
determined that I would make a grievous
sonnet*
thereof; the which I will write here,
because it hath
certain words in it whereof my lady was the
immediate
cause, as will be plain to him that understands.
And
the sonnet was this:—
- All ye that pass along Love's trodden
way,
- Pause ye awhile and say
- If there be any grief like unto mine:
- I pray you that you hearken a short space
- Patiently, if my case
- Be not a piteous marvel and a sign.
- Love (never, certes, for my worthless part,
- But of his own great heart,)
- Vouchsafed to me a life so calm and
sweet
-
10That oft I heard folk question as I went
- What such great gladness meant:—
- They spoke of it behind me in the
street.
Transcribed Footnote (page 36):
* 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 quatrains, instead of two
quatrains followed
by two triplets. Dante applies the term
sonnet to
both these forms of composition, and to no other.
page: 37
- But now that fearless bearing is all gone
- Which with Love's hoarded wealth was
given me;
- Till I am grown to be
- So poor that I have dread to think thereon.
- And thus it is that I, being like as one
- Who is ashamed and hides his poverty,
- Without seem full of glee,
-
20And let my heart within travail and moan.
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, “O vos omnes qui transitis per
viam, attendite et
videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus,”
and 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 somewhat of her death, in guerdon
of
having seen her somewhile with my lady; which thing
I
spake of in the latter end of the verses that I writ in
this
matter, as he will discern who understands. And
I
wrote two sonnets, which are these:—
- Weep, Lovers, sith Love's very
self doth weep,
- And sith the cause for weeping is
so great;
page: 38
- When now so many dames, of such
estate
- In worth, show with their eyes a grief so deep:
- For Death the churl has laid his leaden sleep
- Upon a damsel who was fair of late,
- Defacing all our earth should
celebrate,—
- Yea all save virtue, which the soul doth keep.
- Now hearken how much Love did honour her.
-
10 I myself saw him in his proper
form
- Bending above the motionless sweet
dead,
- And often gazing into Heaven; for there
- The soul now sits which when her
life was warm
- Dwelt with the joyful beauty that
is fled.
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.”
- Death, alway cruel, Pity's foe in
chief,
- Mother who brought forth grief,
- Merciless judgment and without
appeal!
- Since thou alone hast made my heart
to feel
- This sadness and unweal,
- My tongue upbraideth thee without relief.
- And now (for I must rid thy name of ruth)
- Behoves me speak the truth
- Touching thy cruelty and
wickedness:
-
10 Not that they be not known; but
ne'ertheless
- I would give hate more stress
- With them that feed on love in very sooth.
page: 39
- Out of this world thou hast driven courtesy,
- And virtue, dearly prized in
womanhood;
- And out of youth's gay mood
- The lovely lightness is quite gone through
thee
- Whom now I mourn, no man shall learn from me
- Save by the measures of these
praises given.
- Whoso deserves not Heaven
-
20May never hope to have her
company.*
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
Transcribed Footnote (page 39):
* 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 intimates. 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, Beatrice,) mourned over the corpse: as
he after-
wards says of Beatrice, “
Quella ha nome Amor.” Most probably
both allusions are intended.
page: 40
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 towards a river which was
clear and rapid, and
which flowed along the path I was
taking. And then
I thought that Love called me and said to
me these
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 became 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:—
- A day agone, as I rode sullenly
- Upon a certain path that liked me not,
- I met Love midway while the air was
hot,
- Clothed lightly as a wayfarer might be.
- And for the cheer he showed, he seemed to me
- As one who hath lost lordship he had
got;
- Advancing tow'rds me full of sorrowful
thought,
- Bowing his forehead so that none should see.
- Then as I went, he called me by my name,
-
10 Saying: “I journey since the morn was
dim
- Thence where I made thy heart to be:
which now
- I needs must bear unto another dame.”
- Wherewith so much passed into me of
him
- That he was gone, and I discerned not
how.
page: 41
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 dis-
appeared. 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 journeyed
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 understood
of
what surpassing virtue her salutation was to me.
To the
which end I say
that when she appeared 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
ques-
tioned me concerning any matter, I could only
have
said unto him “Love,” with a countenance clothed
in
humbleness. 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 my 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 sweet-
page: 42
ness 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 endurance.
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, “O Love, aid thou thy
servant”; I
went suddenly 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.
And when he had gazed some time, I thought
that he
sighed and called to me in these words: “
Fili mi, tempus
est ut prætermittantur simulata
nostra
.”* And thereupon
I seemed to know him;
for the voice was the same
wherewith he had spoken at other
times in my sleep.
Then looking at him, I perceived that he
was weeping
piteously, and that he seemed to be waiting for
me to
speak. Wherefore, taking heart, I began thus:
“Why
weepest thou, Master of all honour?” And he made
answer to me: “
Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui
simili
modo se habent circumferentiæ
partes: tu autem non sic
.Ӡ
Transcribed Footnote (page 42):
* “My son, it is time for us to lay aside our
counterfeiting.”
Transcribed Footnote (page 42):
† “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 l' altre
stelle):
therefore all lovable objects,
whether in
heaven or earth, or any part of the circle's circum-
page: 43
And thinking upon his words, they seemed to me
obscure;
so that again compelling myself unto speech, I
asked of him:
“What thing is this, Master, that thou
hast spoken thus
darkly?” To the which he made
answer in the vulgar tongue:
“Demand no more than may
be useful to thee.” Whereupon I
began to discourse
with him concerning her salutation which
she had denied
me; and when I had questioned him of the
cause, he
said these words: “Our Beatrice hath heard from
certain
persons, that the lady whom I named to thee while
thou
journeyedst full of sighs is sorely disquieted by
thy
solicitations: and therefore this most gracious
creature,
who is the enemy of all disquiet, being fearful of
such
disquiet, refused to salute thee. For the which
reason
(albeit, in very sooth, thy secret must needs have
become
known to her by familiar observation) it is my will
that
thou compose certain things in rhyme, in the which
thou
shalt set forth how strong a mastership I have
obtained
over thee, through her; and how thou wast hers
even
from thy childhood. Also do thou call upon him
that
knoweth these things to bear witness to them,
bidding
him to speak with her thereof; the which I, who am
he,
will do willingly. And thus she shall be made to
know
thy desire; knowing which, she shall know likewise
that
they were deceived who spake of thee to her. And
so
write these things, that they shall seem rather to
be
spoken by a third person; and not directly by thee
to
her, which is scarce fitting. After the which, send
them,
not without me, where she may chance to hear
them;
but have fitted them with a pleasant music, into
the
which I will pass whensoever it needeth.” With
this
speech he was away, and my sleep was broken up.
Whereupon, remembering me, I knew that I
had
Transcribed Footnote (page 43):
ference, are equally near to me. Not so thou, who wilt
one day
lose Beatrice when she goes to heaven.” The
phrase would thus
contain 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.”
page: 44
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:—
- Song, 'tis my will that thou do seek
out Love,
- And go with him where my dear lady is;
- That so my cause, the which thy
harmonies
- Do plead, his better speech may clearly prove.
- Thou goest, my Song, in such a courteous kind,
- That even companionless
- Thou mayst rely on thyself anywhere.
- And yet, an thou wouldst get thee a safe mind,
- First unto Love address
-
10Thy steps; whose aid, mayhap, 'twere
ill to spare,
- Seeing that she to whom thou mak'st
thy prayer
- Is, as I think, ill-minded unto me,
- And that if Love do not companion thee,
- Thou'lt have perchance small cheer to
tell me of.
- With a sweet accent, when thou com'st to her,
- Begin thou in these words,
- First having craved a gracious
audience:
- “He who hath sent me as his messenger,
- Lady, thus much records,
-
20 An thou but suffer him, in his
defence.
- Love, who comes with me, by thine
influence
- Can make this man do as it liketh him:
- Wherefore, if this fault
is or
doth but
seem
- Do thou conceive: for his heart cannot
move.”
- Say to her also: “Lady, his poor heart
- Is so confirmed in faith
- That all its thoughts are but of
serving thee
page: 45
- 'Twas early thine, and could not swerve apart.”
- Then, if she wavereth,
-
30 Bid her ask Love, who knows if these
things be.
- And in the end, beg of her modestly
- To pardon so much boldness: saying too:—
- “If thou declare his death to be thy due,
- The thing shall come to pass, as doth behove.”
Note: In the 1874 and 1861 editions, the 31st line
of the poem is incorrectly indented. In the 1886
edition, as in the 1911, the 6th and 7th lines
of this stanza are aligned, as they are in the
other stanzas.
- Then pray thou of the Master of all ruth,
- Before thou leave her there,
- That he befriend my cause and plead it
well.
- “In guerdon of my sweet rhymes and my truth”
- (Entreat him) “stay with her;
-
40 Let not the hope of thy poor servant
fail;
- And if with her thy pleading should
prevail,
- Let her look on him and give peace to him.”
- Gentle my Song, if good to thee it seem,
- Do this: so worship shall be thine and
love.
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 company 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
begins
here, “With a sweet accent”; the third here,
“Gentle my
Song.” Some might contradict me, and say that they
under-
stand 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
contra-
dict 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
page: 46
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 possible for its effects to be other
than
sweet; seeing that the name must needs be like
unto
the thing named: as it is written:
Nomina sunt con-
sequentia
rerum
.”* And the fourth was this: “The
lady
whom Love hath chosen out to govern thee is not
as other
ladies, whose hearts are easily moved.”
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 discerned 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 somewhat thereof in rhyme,
I
wrote this sonnet:—
This sonnet may be divided into four parts. In the
first, I say and propound that all my thoughts are
concern-
ing 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 argument; 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 themselves”; 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 whereunto 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 should bear her company when she sat
down
for the 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 discerned of them, I lifted mine eyes
page: 48
to look on those ladies, and then first perceived
among
them the excellent 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
whis-
pering 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
quiet for a space until my perceptions were come
back
to me, I made answer to my friend: “Of a surety I have
now set my feet on that point of
life, beyond the which
he must not pass who would
return.”*
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 condition,
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
Transcribed Footnote (page 48):
* It is difficult not to connect Dante's agony at this
wedding-
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
Vita
Nuova
as regards her marriage (which
must have
brought deep sorrow even to his ideal love) is
so
startling, that we might almost be led to
conceive in this passage
the only intimation of it
which he thought fit to give.
page: 49
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:—
- Even as the others mock, thou mockest
me;
- Not dreaming, noble lady, whence it is
- That I am taken with strange
semblances,
- Seeing thy face which is so fair to see:
- For else, compassion would not suffer thee
- To grieve my heart with such harsh
scoffs as these.
- Lo! Love, when thou art present, sits
at ease,
- And bears his mastership so mightily,
- That all my troubled senses he thrusts out,
-
10 Sorely tormenting some, and slaying
some,
- Till none but he is left and has free
range
- To gaze on thee. This makes my face to
change
- Into another's; while I stand all
dumb,
- And hear my senses clamour in their rout.
This sonnet I divide not into parts, because a
division 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 fills
all my
spirits, but that the visual remain in life, only
outside 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
page: 50
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
an-
swering, 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:—
- The thoughts are broken in my memory,
- Thou lovely Joy, whene'er I see thy
face;
- When thou art near me, Love fills up
the space,
- Often repeating, “If death irk thee, fly.”
- My face shows my heart's colour, verily,
- Which, fainting, seeks for any
leaning-place
- Till, in the drunken terror of
disgrace,
- The very stones seem to be shrieking, “Die!”
- It were a grievous sin, if one should not
-
10 Strive then to comfort my bewildered
mind
- (Though merely with a simple pitying)
- For the great anguish which thy scorn has wrought
- In the dead sight o' the eyes grown
nearly blind,
- Which look for death as for a blessed
thing.
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the
first, I
tell the cause why I abstain not from coming to
this lady.
page: 51
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
condition,
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, remembering the
strange-
ness 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:—
- At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse
over
- The quality of anguish that is mine
- Through Love: then pity makes my voice
to pine,
page: 52
- Saying, “Is any else thus, anywhere?”
- Love smiteth me, whose strength is ill to bear;
- So that of all my life is left no sign
- Except one thought; and that, because
'tis thine,
- Leaves not the body but abideth there.
- And then if I, whom other aid forsook,
-
10 Would aid myself, and innocent of art
- Would fain have sight of thee as a
last hope,
- No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look
- Than the blood seems as shaken from my
heart,
- And all my pulses beat at once and
stop.
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. Where-
fore 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
page: 53
not among them mine excellent lady, I was
reassured;
and saluted 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. Whereupon 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
answer-
ing, 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 thy condition would have been written
with
another 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,
page: 54
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 beginning. After which it
happened, as I passed one
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 thinking 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.
Whereupon I declare that my tongue spake as
though
by its own impulse, and said, “Ladies that have
intel-
ligence 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, constructed in
the
mode which will be seen below in its division.
The
poem begins here:—
- Ladies that have intelligence in
love,
- Of mine own lady I would speak with
you;
- Not that I hope to count her praises
through,
- But telling what I may, to ease my
mind.
- And I declare that when I speak thereof,
- Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me
- That if my courage failed not, certainly
- To him my listeners must be all
resign'd.
- Wherefore I will not speak in such
large kind
-
10That mine own speech should foil me, which were
base;
- But only will discourse of her high grace
- In these poor words, the best that I
can find,
- With you alone, dear dames and damozels:
- 'Twere ill to speak thereof with any else.
page: 55
- An Angel, of his blessed knowledge, saith
- To God: “Lord, in the world that Thou
hast made,
- A miracle in action is display'd,
- By reason of a soul whose splendours
fare
- Even hither: and since Heaven requireth
-
20 Nought saving her, for her it prayeth
Thee,
- Thy Saints crying aloud continually.”
- Yet Pity still defends our earthly
share
- In that sweet soul; God answering thus
the prayer.
- “My well-belovèd, suffer that in peace
- Your hope remain, while so My pleasure is,
- There where one dwells who dreads the
loss of her:
- And who in Hell unto the doomed shall say,
- ‘I have looked on that for which God's chosen
pray.’”
- My lady is desired in the high Heaven:
-
30
Wherefore, it now behoveth me to tell,
- Saying: Let any maid that would be
well
- Esteemed keep with her: for as she
goes by,
- Into foul hearts a deathly chill is driven
- By Love, that makes ill thought to perish there:
- While any who endures to gaze on her
- Must either be ennobled, or else die.
- When one deserving to be raised so
high
- Is found, 'tis then her power attains its proof,
- Making his heart strong for his soul's behoof
-
40 With the full strength of meek
humility.
- Also this virtue owns she, by God's will:
- Who speaks with her can never come to ill.
- Love saith concerning her: “How chanceth it
- That flesh, which is of dust, should
be thus pure?
- Then, gazing always, he makes oath:
“Forsure,
- This is a creature of God till now
unknown.”
- She hath that paleness of the pearl that's fit
- In a fair woman, so much and not more;
- She is as high as Nature's skill can soar;
-
50 Beauty is tried by her comparison.
page: 56
- Whatever her sweet eyes are turned
upon,
- Spirits of love do issue thence in flame,
- Which through their eyes who then may look on
them
- Pierce to the heart's deep chamber
every one.
- And in her smile Love's image you may see;
- Whence none can gaze upon her steadfastly.
- Dear Song, I know thou wilt hold gentle speech
- With many ladies, when I send thee
forth:
- Wherefore (being mindful that thou
hadst thy birth
-
60 From Love, and art a modest, simple
child,)
- Whomso thou meetest, say thou this to each:
- “Give me good speed! To her I wend along
- In whose much strength my weakness is made
strong.”
- And if, i' the end, thou wouldst not
be beguiled
- Of all thy labour, seek not the
defiled
- And common sort; but rather choose to be
- Where man and woman dwell in courtesy.
- So to the road thou shalt be
reconciled,
- And find the lady, and with the lady, Love.
-
70Commend thou me to each, as doth behove.
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 second 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 purpose to speak so as not to be
impeded
by faintheartedness. 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,
page: 57
“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 person: 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 handmaid 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
divisions. I say, indeed, that the further to open
the mean-
ing 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
page: 58
nature of Love, and also in accordance 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:—
- Love and the gentle heart are one
same thing,
- Even as the wise man* in
his ditty saith:
- Each, of itself, would be such life in
death
- As rational soul bereft of reasoning.
- 'Tis Nature makes them when she loves: a king
- Love is, whose palace where he
sojourneth
- Is called the Heart; there draws he
quiet breath
- At first, with brief or longer slumbering.
- Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind
-
10 Will make the eyes desire, and through
the heart
- Send the desiring of the eyes again;
- Where often it abides so long enshrin'd
- That Love at length out of his sleep
will start.
- And women feel the same for worthy
men.
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 translates 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.”
Having treated of love in the foregoing, it appeared
to
Transcribed Footnote (page 58):
* Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins,
“Within the
gentle heart Love shelters
him.” (See
Part II.
page 264.)
page: 59
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:—
- My lady carries love within her eyes;
- All that she looks on is made
pleasanter;
- Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;
- He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,
- And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs,
- And of his evil heart is then aware:
- Hate loves, and pride becomes a
worshipper.
- O women, help to praise her in somewise.
- Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
-
10 By speech of hers into the mind are
brought,
- And who beholds is blessèd
oftenwhiles.
- The look she hath when she a little
smiles
- Cannot be said, nor holden in the
thought;
- 'Tis such a new and gracious miracle.
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,
page: 60
help,” I intimate to whom it is my intention 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, regarding 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. Thereby it happened, as
of
very sooth it might not be otherwise, that this lady
was
made full of the bitterness 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
con-
sidering that this lady was good in the supreme
degree,
and her 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 companionship
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,
behold-
ing 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 saying among
them-
selves: “Which of us shall be joyful 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
page: 61
as we have beheld 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 which
should be
contained all that those ladies had 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:—
- You that thus wear a modest
countenance
- With lids weigh'd down by the
heart's heaviness,
- Whence come you, that among you
every face
- Appears the same, for its pale troubled glance?
- Have you beheld my lady's face, perchance,
- Bow'd with the grief that Love
makes full of grace?
- Say now, “This thing is thus”; as
my heart says,
- Marking your grave and sorrowful advance.
- And if indeed you come from where she sighs
-
10 And mourns, may it please you (for
his heart's relief)
- To tell how it fares with her unto
him
- Who knows that you have wept, seeing your
eyes,
- And is so grieved with looking on
your grief
- That his heart trembles and his
sight grows dim.
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.
page: 62
In the second, I pray them to tell me of her;
and the second
begins here, “And if indeed.”
- Canst thou indeed be he that
still would sing
- Of our dear lady unto none but us?
- For though thy voice confirms that
it is thus,
- Thy visage might another witness bring.
- And wherefore is thy grief so sore a thing
- That grieving thou mak'st others
dolorous?
- Hast thou too seen her weep, that
thou from us
- Canst not conceal thine inward sorrowing?
- Nay, leave our woe to us: let us alone:
-
10 'Twere sin if one should strive to
soothe our woe,
- For in her weeping we have heard
her speak:
- Also her look's so full of her heart's moan
- That they who should behold her,
looking so,
- Must fall aswoon, feeling all life
grow weak.
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 overcome 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 perceiving
how frail a thing life is, even though
health keep with it,
the matter seemed to me so pitiful
page: 63
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,
feel-
ing 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
certain
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, while I wondered in my trance, and
was filled
with 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 there was no more that I
heard. Then my heart that was
so full of love said unto
me: “It is true that our lady
lieth dead;” and it seemed
to me that I went to look upon
the body wherein that
blessed and most noble spirit had had
its abiding-place.
And so strong was this idle imagining,
that it made me
to behold my lady in death; whose head
certain ladies
seemed to be covering with a white veil; and
who was
so humble of her aspect that it was as though she had
page: 64
said, “I have attained to look on the beginning of
peace.”
And therewithal I came unto such humility by the
sight
of her, that I cried out upon Death, saying: “Now
come
unto me, and be not bitter against me any longer:
surely,
there where thou hast been, thou hast learned
gentleness.
Wherefore come now unto me who do greatly
desire
thee: seest thou not that I wear thy colour
already?”
And when I had seen all those offices performed
that
are fitting to be done unto the dead, it seemed to
me
that I went back unto mine own chamber, and looked
up
towards Heaven. And so strong was my phantasy
that I wept
again in very truth, and said with my true
voice: “O
excellent soul! how blessed is he that now
looketh upon
thee!”
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 towards 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 strive if we may not
page: 65
comfort him.” Whereupon they spake to me many
soothing
words, and questioned me moreover touching
the cause of my
fear. Then I, being somewhat reassured,
and having perceived
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 sick-
ness, I bethought me to write these things in
rhyme;
deeming it a lovely thing to be known. Whereof I
wrote
this poem:
- A very pitiful lady, very young,
- Exceeding rich in human sympathies,
- Stood by, what time I clamour'd upon
Death;
- And at the wild words wandering on my tongue
- And at the piteous look within mine
eyes
- She was affrighted, that sobs choked
her breath.
- So by her weeping where I lay beneath,
- Some other gentle ladies came to know
- My state, and made her go:
-
10 Afterward, bending themselves over me,
- One said, “Awaken thee!”
- And one, “What thing thy sleep
disquieteth?”
- With that, my soul woke up from its eclipse,
- The while my lady's name rose to my lips:
- But utter'd in a voice so sob-broken,
- So feeble with the agony of tears,
- That I alone might hear it in my
heart;
- And though that look was on my visage then
- Which he who is ashamed so plainly
wears,
-
20 Love made that I through shame held
not apart,
- But gazed upon them. And my hue was
such
- That they look'd at each other and thought of
death;
- Saying under their breath
- Most tenderly, “O let us comfort him:”
page: 66
- Then unto me: “What dream
- Was thine, that it hath shaken thee so
much?”
- And when I was a little comforted,
- “This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,” I
said.
- “I was a-thinking how life fails with us
-
30 Suddenly after such a little while;
- When Love sobb'd in my heart, which is
his home.
- Whereby my spirit wax'd so dolorous
- That in myself I said, with sick
recoil:
- ‘Yea, to my lady too this Death must
come.’
- And therewithal such a bewilderment
- Possess'd me, that I shut mine eyes for peace;
- And in my brain did cease
- Order of thought, and every healthful thing.
- Afterwards, wandering
-
40 Amid a swarm of doubts that came and
went,
- Some certain women's faces hurried by,
- And shriek'd to me, ‘Thou too shalt die, shalt
die!’
- “Then saw I many broken hinted sights
- In the uncertain state I stepp'd into.
- Meseem'd to be I know not in what
place,
- Where ladies through the street, like mournful
lights,
- Ran with loose hair, and eyes that
frighten'd you
- By their own terror, and a pale amaze:
- The while, little by little, as I
thought,
-
50The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather,
- And each wept at the other;
- And birds dropp'd in mid-flight out of the sky;
- And earth shook suddenly;
- And I was 'ware of one, hoarse and
tired out,
- Who ask'd of me: ‘Hast thou not heard it said? . .
- Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.’
- “Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came,
- I saw the Angels, like a rain of
manna,
page: 67
- In a long flight flying back
Heavenward;
-
60Having a little cloud in front of them,
- After the which they went and said,
‘Hosanna’;
- And if they had said more, you should
have heard.
- Then Love said, ‘Now shall all things
be made clear:
- Come and behold our lady where she lies.’
- These 'wildering phantasies
- Then carried me to see my lady dead.
- Even as I there was led,
- Her ladies with a veil were covering
her;
- And with her was such very humbleness
-
70That she appeared to say, ‘I am at peace.’
- “And I became so humble in my grief,
- Seeing in her such deep humility,
- That I said: ‘Death, I hold thee
passing good
- Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,
- Since my dear love has chosen to dwell
with thee:
- Pity, not hate, is thine, well
understood.
- Lo! I do so desire to see thy face
- That I am like as one who nears the tomb;
- My soul entreats thee, Come.’
-
80 Then I departed, having made my moan;
- And when I was alone
- I said, and cast my eyes to the High
Place:
- ‘Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!’
- . . . Just then you woke me, of your complai-
- saùnce.”
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 promised 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
phantasy, before I had returned into my right
senses. In
page: 68
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
other-
wise in the presence of my lady. Whereupon I
per-
ceived 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 gladness, 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
comeli-
ness (or at least it was so imagined) she was called
of
many
Primavera (Spring), and went by that name among
them. Then
looking again, I perceived that the most
noble Beatrice
followed after her. And when both these
ladies had passed by
me, it seemed to me that Love
spake again in my heart,
saying: “She that came first
was called Spring, only because
of that which was to
happen on this day. And it was I myself who caused
that name to be given
her; seeing that as the Spring
cometh first in the year,
so should she come first on this
day,* when Beatrice was
to show herself after the
vision
Transcribed Footnote (page 68):
* There is a play in the original upon the words
Primavera
page: 69
of her
servant. And even if thou go about to consider
her right
name, it is also as one should say, ‘She shall
come first’;
inasmuch as her name, Joan, is taken from
that John who went
before the True Light, saying:
‘
Ego vox clamantis in deserto:
‘Parate viam Domini
.’”*
And also it seemed to me that he added other words,
to
wit: “He who should inquire delicately touching
this
matter, could not but call Beatrice by mine own
name,
which is to say, Love; beholding her so like
unto
me.”
Then I, having thought of this, imagined to
write 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:—
- I felt a spirit of love begin to stir
- Within my heart, long time unfelt till
then;
- And saw Love coming towards me fair and
fain,
- (That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer),
- Saying, “Be now indeed my worshipper!”
- And in his speech he laugh'd and
laugh'd again.
- Then, while it was his pleasure to
remain,
- I chanced to look the way he had drawn near,
- And saw the Ladies Joan and Beatrice
-
10 Approach me, this the other following,
- One and a second marvel instantly.
Transcribed Footnote (page 69):
(Spring) and
prima verrà (she shall come first), to which I
have
given as near an equivalent as I could.
Transcribed Footnote (page 69):
* “I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness:
‘Prepare ye
the way of the Lord.’”
Transcribed Footnote (page 69):
† That is (as I understand it), suppressing, from
delicacy to-
wards 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.)
page: 70
- And even as now my memory speaketh this,
- Love spake it then: “The first is
christen'd Spring;
- The second Love, she is so like to
me.”
This sonnet has many parts: whereof the first tells
how
I felt awakened within my heart the accustomed
tremor, and
how it seemed that Love appeared 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
one
worthy of controversy,) that I have spoken of 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
be-
speaks locomotion, and seeing also how
philosophy
teacheth us that none but a corporeal substance
hath
locomotion, it seemeth that I speak of Love as of a
cor-
poreal 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.
I mean,
among us, although perchance
the same may have been
among others, and although
likewise, as among the
page: 71
Greeks, they were not writers of spoken language,
but
men of letters, treated of these things.*
And indeed it
is not a great number of years since poetry
began to be
made in the vulgar tongue; the writing of rhymes
in
spoken language corresponding to the writing in metre
of
Latin verse, by a certain analogy. And I say that it is
but
a little while, because if we examine the language of
oco
and the language of
sì,† we shall not find in those tongues
any
written thing of an earlier date than the last hundred
and
fifty years. Also the reason why certain of a very
mean sort
obtained at the first some fame as poets is,
that before
them no man had written verses in the
language of
sì: and of these, the
first was moved to
the writing of such verses by the wish to
make himself
understood of a certain lady, unto whom Latin
poetry
was difficult. This thing is
against such as rhyme con-
cerning other matters than
love; that mode of speech
having been first used for the
expression of love alone.‡
Wherefore, seeing
that poets have a license allowed
them that is not allowed
unto the writers of prose,
and
Transcribed Footnote (page 71):
* On reading Dante's treatise
De
Vulgari Eloquio
, it will be
found that the distinction which
he intends here is not between
one language, or
dialect, and another; but between “vulgar
speech”
(that is, the language handed down from mother to
son
without any conscious use of grammar or syntax),
and language
as regulated by grammarians and the
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.
Transcribed Footnote (page 71):
†
i.e. the languages of Provence and
Tuscany.
Transcribed Footnote (page 71):
‡ 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 what-
ever 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
Vita
Nuova;
the poetry having been written
earlier, at the time of the
events referred to.
page: 72
seeing
also that they who write in rhyme are simply
poets in the
vulgar tongue, it becomes fitting and reason-
able that a
larger license should be given to these than
to other modern
writers; and that any metaphor or
rhetorical similitude
which is permitted unto poets, should
also be counted not
unseemly in the rhymers of the
vulgar tongue. Thus, if we
perceive that the former
have caused inanimate things to
speak as though they
had sense and reason, and to discourse
one with another;
yea, and not only actual things, but such
also as have
no real existence (seeing that they have made
things
which are not, to speak; and oftentimes written of
those
which are merely accidents as though they were
sub-
stances and things human); it should therefore
be
permitted to the latter to do the like; which is to
say,
not inconsiderately, but with such sufficient motive
as
may afterwards be set forth in prose.
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 Æneid,
Æole,
namque tibi, etc.;
and that this master of the Winds
made
reply:
Tuus, o regina, quid optes—Explorare
labor,
mihi jussa capessere fas est.
And through the same poet,
the inanimate thing
speaketh unto the animate, in the
third book of the Æneid, where it is written:
Dardanidæ
duri
,
etc. With Lucan, the animate thing
speaketh to the
inanimate; as thus:
Multum, Roma, tamen debes
civilibus
armis
. In Horace, man is made to speak to his
own
intelligence as unto another person; (and not only
hath
Horace done this, but herein he followeth the
excellent
Homer,) as thus in his Poetics:
Dic mihi, Musa, virum,
etc
. Through Ovid, Love speaketh as a human creature,
in
the beginning of his discourse
De Remediis
Amoris:
as thus:
Bella mihi, video, bella parantur, ait. By which
ensamples this thing shall be made manifest
unto such
as may be offended at any part of this my book.
And
lest some of the common sort should be moved to jeering
page: 73
hereat, I will here add, that neither did these
ancient
poets speak thus without consideration, nor should
they
who are makers of rhyme in our day write after
the
same fashion, having no reason in what they
write;
for it were a shameful thing if one should rhyme
under
the semblance of metaphor or rhetorical similitude,
and
afterwards, being questioned thereof, should be
unable
to rid his words of such semblance, unto their
right
understanding. Of whom, (to wit, of such as
rhyme
thus foolishly,) myself and the first among my
friends
do know many.
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 simpleness
entered
into his heart, that he dared neither to 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, showing 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,
con-
sidering thereof and wishing to resume the endless tale
of
her praises, resolved to write somewhat wherein I
might
dwell on her surpassing 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:—
page: 74
- My lady looks so gentle and so pure
- When yielding salutation by the way,
- That the tongue trembles and has nought
to say,
- And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure.
- And still, amid the praise she hears secure,
- She walks with humbleness for her
array;
- Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to
stay
- On earth, and show a miracle made sure.
- She is so pleasant in the eyes of men
-
10That through the sight the inmost heart doth gain
- A sweetness which needs proof to know
it by:
- And from between her lips there seems to move
- A soothing essence that is full of love,
- Saying for ever to the spirit,
“Sigh!”
This sonnet is so easy to understand, from what
is
afore narrated, that it needs no division; and
therefore,
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
companion-
ship, honour and commendation 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:—
- For certain he hath seen all
perfectness
- Who among other ladies hath seen mine:
- They that go with her humbly should
combine
- To thank their God for such peculiar grace.
- So perfect is the beauty of her face
- That it begets in no wise any sign
- Of envy, but draws round her a clear
line
- Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.
- Merely the sight of her makes all things bow:
-
10 Not she herself alone is holier
- Than all; but hers, through her, are
raised above.
page: 75
- From all her acts such lovely graces flow
- That truly one may never think of her
- Without a passion of exceeding
love.
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 perfect.” 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 won-
drously. 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
afore-
gone: 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 somewhat of the manner wherein I
was
then subject to her influence, and of what her
influence
then was. And conceiving that I should not be able
to
say these things in the small compass of a sonnet,
I
began therefore a poem with this beginning:—
- Love hath so long possessed me for
his own
- And made his lordship so familiar
- That he, who at first irked me, is now grown
- Unto my heart as its best secrets are.
- And thus, when he in such sore wise
doth mar
- My life that all its strength seems gone from it,
- Mine inmost being then feels throughly quit
- Of anguish, and all evil keeps afar.
page: 76
- Love also gathers to such power in me
-
10 That my sighs speak, each one a
grievous thing,
- Always soliciting
- My lady's salutation piteously.
- Whenever she beholds me, it is so,
- Who is more sweet than any words can show.
Quomodo sedet sola civitas
plena populo! facta est quasi
vidua
domina gentium!
*
I was still occupied with this poem, (having
composed
thereof only the above-written stanza,) when the
Lord
God of justice called my most gracious lady unto
Him-
self, that she might be glorious under the banner of
that
blessed Queen Mary, whose name had always a
deep
reverence in the words of holy Beatrice. And
because
haply it might be found good that I should say
some-
what concerning her departure, I will herein
declare
what are the reasons which make that I shall not do
so.
And the reasons are three. The first is, that
such
matter belongeth not of right to the present argument,
if
one consider the opening of this little book. The
second
is, that even though the present argument 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
who-
soever 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 76):
* “How 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
, i, I.
page: 77
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 us
in
the first hour of the ninth day of the month;
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. Also 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
closely
allied unto her, it may peradventure be this.
According to
Ptolemy, (and also to the Christian verity,)
the revolving
heavens are nine; and according 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 77):
* Beatrice Portinari will thus be found to have died
during 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”
mentioned in the present passage
is the number
ten.
page: 78
root of the number nine; seeing that without the
inter-
position of any other number, being multiplied
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 principal
persons
thereof, in an epistle, concerning its condition;
taking
for my commencement those words of Jeremias:
Quo-
modo sedet sola civitas! etc.
And I make mention of this,
that none may marvel
wherefore I set down these words
before, in beginning to
treat of her death. Also if any
should blame me, in that I
do not transcribe that epistle
whereof I have spoken, I will
make it mine excuse that
I began this little book with the
intent that it should
be written altogether in the vulgar
tongue; wherefore,
seeing that the epistle I speak of is in
Latin, it belongeth
not to mine undertaking: more especially
as I know that
my chief friend, for whom I write this book,
wished also
that the whole of it should be in the vulgar
tongue.
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 bethought
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.”
page: 79
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.
- The eyes that weep for pity of the
heart
- Have wept so long that their grief
languisheth
- And they have no more tears to weep
withal:
- And now, if I would ease me of a part
- Of what, little by little, leads to
death,
- It must be done by speech, or not at
all.
- And because often, thinking, I recall
- How it was pleasant, ere she went afar,
- To talk of her with you, kind damozels,
-
10 I talk with no one else,
- But only with such hearts as women's are.
- And I will say,—still sobbing as
speech fails,—
- That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly,
- And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.
page: 80
- Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven,
- The kingdom where the angels are at
peace;
- And lives with them: and to her
friends is dead.
- Not by the frost of winter was she driven
- Away, like others; nor by
summer-heats;
-
20 But through a perfect gentleness,
instead.
- For from the lamp of her meek
lowlihead
- Such an exceeding glory went up hence
- That it woke wonder in the Eternal
Sire,
- Until a sweet desire
- Entered Him for that lovely excellence,
- So that He bade her to Himself aspire;
- Counting this weary and most evil place
- Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.
- Wonderfully out of the beautiful form
-
30 Soared her clear spirit, waxing glad
the while;
- And is in its first home, there where
it is.
- Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm
- Upon his face, must have become so
vile
- As to be dead to all sweet sympathies.
- Out upon him! an abject wretch like
this
- May not imagine anything of her,—
- He needs no bitter tears for his
relief.
- But sighing comes, and grief,
- And the desire to find no comforter,
-
40 (Save only Death, who makes all sorrow
brief,)
- To him who for a while turns in his thought
- How she hath been among us, and is not.
- Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs,
- Come to me now whene'er I am alone;
- So that I think the sight of me gives
pain.
-
60And what my life hath been, that living dies,
- Since for my lady the New Birth's
begun,
- I have not any language to explain.
- And so, dear ladies, though my heart
were fain,
- scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.
- All joy is with my bitter life at war;
- Yea, I am fallen so far
- That all men seem to say, “Go out from us,”
- Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead
they are.
- But she, though I be bowed unto the dust,
-
70Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.
- Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,
- To the dames going and the damozels
- For whom and for none else
- Thy sisters have made music many a day.
- Thou, that art very sad and not as they
- Go dwell thou with them as a mourner
dwells.
After I had written this poem, I received the visit
of
a friend whom I counted as second unto me in
the
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
page: 82
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 son-
net saith thus: “Stay now with
me,” etc.
This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the
Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I
relate my
miserable condition. The second begins here, “Mark
how
they force.”
- Stay now with me, and listen to my
sighs,
- Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do.
- Mark how they force their way out and
press through;
- If they be once pent up, the whole life dies.
- Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes
- Oftener refuse than I can tell to you
- (Even though my endless grief is ever
new,)
- To weep and let the smothered anguish rise.
- Also in sighing ye shall hear me call
-
10 On her whose blessèd presence doth
enrich
- The only home that well befitteth her:
- And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all
- Sent from the inmost of my spirit in
speech
- That mourns its joy and its joy's
minister.
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 being written in very sooth
as though it
were spoken by him, but the other being
page: 83
mine own speech, albeit, unto one who should not
look
closely, they would both seem to be said by the
same
person. Nevertheless, looking closely, one must
perceive
that it is not so, inasmuch as one does not call
this
most gracious 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 second, 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.
- Whatever while the thought comes over
me
- That I may not again
- Behold that lady whom I mourn for now,
- About my heart my mind brings constantly
- So much of extreme pain
- That I say, Soul of mine, why stayest
thou?
- Truly the anguish, soul, that we must
bow
- Beneath, until we win out of this life,
- Gives me full oft a fear that
trembleth:
-
10 So that I call on Death
- Even as on Sleep one calleth after strife,
- Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grim
- And bare; and if one dies, I envy him.
- For ever, among all my sighs which burn,
- There is a piteous speech
- That clamours upon death continually:
- Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turn
- Since first his hand did reach
- My lady's life with most foul cruelty.
-
20 But from the height of woman's
fairness, she,
- Going up from us with the joy we had,
page: 84
- Grew perfectly and spiritually fair;
- That so she spreads even there
- A light of Love which makes the Angels glad,
- And even unto their subtle minds can bring
- A certain awe of profound marvelling.
Note: The preceding two works are not "sonnets" per se,
consisting of thirteen-line stanzas.
On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady
had
been made of the citizens of eternal life, remem-
bering me
of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to
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. Perceiving
whom, I arose 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 commencements, it be-
hoveth me to divide it with both
of them here.
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
others. The second begins here, “And still.” In
this
Transcribed Footnote (page 84):
* Thus according to some texts. The majority, however,
add
the words, “And therefore was I in thought:” but
the shorter
speech is perhaps the more forcible and
pathetic.
page: 85
same manner is it divided with the other beginning,
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.
- That lady of all gentle memories
- Had lighted on my soul;—whose new abode
- Lies now, as it was well ordained of
God,
- Among the poor in heart, where Mary is.
- Love, knowing that dear image to be his,
- Woke up within the sick heart
sorrow-bow'd,
- Unto the sighs which are its weary
load,
- Saying, “Go forth.” And they went forth, I wis;
- Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and
ached;
-
10 With such a pang as oftentimes will
bathe
- Mine eyes with tears when I am left
alone.
- And still those sighs which drew the
heaviest breath
- Came whispering thus: “O noble
intellect!
- It is a year today that thou art
gone.”
Second Commencement.
- That lady of all gentle memories
- Had lighted on my soul;—for whose sake
flowed
- The tears of Love; in whom the power
abode
- Which led you to observe while I did this.
- Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc.
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
mani-
fest 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 perceived 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
page: 86
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 condition, 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:—
- Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity
spring
- Into thy countenance immediately
- A while agone, when thou beheldst in me
- The sickness only hidden grief can bring;
- And then I knew thou wast considering
- How abject and forlorn my life must be;
- And I became afraid that thou shouldst
see
- My weeping, and account it a base thing.
- Therefore I went out from thee; feeling how
-
10 The tears were straightway loosened at
my heart
- Beneath thine eyes' compassionate
control.
- And afterwards I said within my soul:
- “Lo! with this lady dwells the
counterpart
- Of the same Love who holds me weeping now.”
It happened after this that whensoever I was seen
of
this lady, she became pale and of a piteous
countenance,
as though it had been with love; whereby she
remem-
bered 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:—
page: 87
- Love's pallor and the semblance of
deep ruth
- Were never yet shown forth so perfectly
- In any lady's face, chancing to see
- Grief's miserable countenance uncouth,
- As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe,
- When in mine anguish thou hast looked
on me;
- Until sometimes it seems as if, through
thee,
- My heart might almost wander from its truth.
- Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyes
-
10 From gazing very often upon thine
- In the sore hope to shed those tears
they keep;
- And at such time, thou mak'st the pent tears rise
- Even to the brim, till the eyes waste
and pine;
- Yet cannot they, while thou art
present, weep.
At length, by the constant sight of this lady,
mine
eyes began to be gladdened overmuch with her company;
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
com-
prehend 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
page: 88
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 very bitter weeping that ye
made
- So long a time together, eyes of mine,
- Was wont to make the tears of pity
shine
- In other eyes full oft, as I have said.
- But now this thing were scarce rememberèd
- If I, on my part, foully would combine
- With you, and not recall each ancient
sign
- Of grief, and her for whom your tears were shed.
- It is your fickleness that doth betray
-
10 My mind to fears, and makes me tremble
thus
- What while a lady greets me with her
eyes.
- Except by death, we must not any way
- Forget our lady who is gone from us.”
- So far doth my heart utter, and then
sighs.
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 heart consented
unto
its reasoning. But when it had 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 mayst
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
page: 89
thee so
much pity.” Wherefore I, having striven sorely
and very
often with myself, bethought me to say some-
what thereof in
rhyme. And seeing that in the battle
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.*
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 therefore I say that, there
also, by the
Heart I mean appetite, because yet greater was my
desire to
remember 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.”
Transcribed Footnote (page 89):
* 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 together with the inter-
pretation of this
passage in Dante's later work, the
Convito) would
of course imply an admission of what I
believe to lie at the heart
of all true Dantesque
commentary; that is, the existence always
of the actual
events even where the allegorical superstructure
has
been raised by Dante himself.
page: 90
- A gentle thought there is will often
start,
- Within my secret self, to speech of
thee:
- Also of Love it speaks so tenderly
- That much in me consents and takes its part.
- “And what is this,” the soul saith to the heart,
- “That cometh thus to comfort thee and
me,
- And thence where it would dwell, thus
potently
- Can drive all other thoughts by its strange art?”
- And the heart answers: “Be no more at strife
-
10 'Twixt doubt and doubt: this is Love's
messenger
- And speaketh but his words, from him
received;
- And all the strength it owns and all the life
- It draweth from the gentle eyes of her
- Who, looking on our grief, hath often
grieved.”
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. Where-
upon 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
con-
stantly 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 bitter anguish of some
one
thought, that I forgot both it, and myself, and where
I
was. By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which
before
had been somewhat lessened, increased in like manner;
page: 91
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
guer-
doned for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I
(wishing
that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and
vain
temptations should be certified and made
manifest,
beyond all doubts which might have been suggested
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.
- Woe's me! by dint of all these sighs
that come
- Forth of my heart, its endless grief to
prove,
- Mine eyes are conquered, so that even
to move
- Their lids for greeting is grown troublesome.
- They wept so long that now they are grief's home,
- And count their tears all laughter far
above;
- They wept till they are circled now by
Love
- With a red circle in sign of martyrdom.
- These musings, and the sighs they bring from me,
-
10 Are grown at last so constant and so
sore
- That love swoons in my spirit with
faint breath;
- Hearing in those sad sounds continually
- The most sweet name that my dead lady
bore,
- With many grievous words touching her
death.
About this time, it happened that a great number
of
persons undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that
they
might behold that blessed
portraiture bequeathed unto us
by our Lord Jesus Christ
as the image of His beautiful
countenance*
(upon which countenance my dear
lady
Transcribed Footnote (page 91):
* The Veronica (
Vera icon, or true image); that is, the napkin
page: 92
now looketh continually). And certain among
these
pilgrims, who seemed very thoughtful, passed by a
path
which is well-nigh 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:
“These
pilgrims seem to be come from very far; and I
think
they cannot have heard speak of this lady, or know
any-
thing concerning her. Their thoughts are not of
her,
but of other things; it may be, of their friends who
are
far distant, and whom we, in our turn, know not.”
And
I went on to say: “I know that if they were of a
country
near unto us, they would in some wise seem
disturbed,
passing through this city which is so full of
grief.” And
I said also: “If I could speak with them a
space, I am
certain that I should make them weep before they
went
forth of this city; for those things that they would
hear
from me must needs beget weeping in any.”
And when the last of them had gone by me, I
be-
thought 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 significa-
tion; 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
Transcribed Footnote (page 92):
with which a woman was said to have wiped our Saviour's
face on
His way to the cross, and which miraculously
retained its likeness.
Dante makes mention of it
also in the
Commedia (Parad.
xxi. 103),
where he says:—
- “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.
page: 93
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 third sort who are
called
Romers; in that they go whither these whom I
have
called pilgrims went: which is to say, unto Rome.
This sonnet is not divided, because its own words
suffi-
ciently declare it.
- Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensively
- As if in thought of distant things, I
pray,
- Is your own land indeed so far away—
- As by your aspect it would seem to be—
- That this our heavy sorrow leaves you free
- Though passing through the mournful
town mid-way;
- Like unto men that understand to-day
- Nothing at all of her great misery?
- Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost,
-
10 And listen to my words a little space,
- At going ye shall mourn with a loud
voice.
- It is her Beatrice that she hath lost;
- Of whom the least word spoken holds
such grace
- That men weep hearing it, and have no
choice.
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. Therefore I made a sonnet,
which
narrates my condition, and which I caused to be
con-
veyed to them, accompanied with the one preceding, and
page: 94
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 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.
- Beyond the sphere which spreads to
widest space
- Now soars the sigh that my heart sends
above;
- A new perception born of grieving Love
- Guideth it upward the untrodden ways.
- When it hath reached unto the end, and stays,
- It sees a lady round whom splendours
move
- In homage; till, by the great light
thereof
- Abashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.
- It sees her such, that when it tells me this
page: 95
-
10 Which it hath seen, I understand it
not,
- It hath a speech so subtile and so
fine.
- And yet I know its voice within my
thought
- Often remembereth me of Beatrice:
- So that I understand it, ladies
mine.
After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me
to
behold a very wonderful
vision:* wherein I saw things
which determined me
that I would say nothing further of
this most blessed one,
until such time as I could dis-
course more worthily
concerning her. And to this end
I labour all I can; as she
well knoweth. Wherefore if
it be His pleasure through whom
is the life of all things,
that my life continue with me a
few years, it is my hope
that I shall yet write concerning
her what hath not
before been written of any woman. After
the which,
may it seem good unto Him who is the Master of
Grace,
that my spirit should go hence to behold the glory of
its
lady: to wit, of that blessed Beatrice who now
gazeth
continually on His countenance
qui est per omnia
sæcula
benedictus
.†
Laus Deo.
Transcribed Footnote (page 95):
* This we may believe to have been the Vision of Hell,
Purga-
tory, and Paradise, which furnished the triple
argument of the
Divina
Commedia
. The Latin words ending the
Vita
Nuova
are almost identical with those at the close of the
letter in which
Dante, on concluding the
Paradise, and accomplishing the hope
here expressed,
dedicates his great work to Can Grande della
Scala.
Transcribed Footnote (page 95):
† “Who is blessed throughout all ages.”
THE END OF THE NEW LIFE.
page: 96
- Master Brunetto, this my little
maid
- Is come to spend her
Easter-tide with you;
- Not that she reckons feasting as
her due,—
- Whose need is hardly to be fed, but read.
- Not in a hurry can her sense be weigh'd,
- Nor mid the jests of any noisy
crew:
- Ah! and she wants a little coaxing
too
- Before she'll get into another's head.
- But if you do not find her meaning clear,
-
10 You've many Brother
Alberts* hard at hand,
- Whose wisdom will respond to any
call.
- Consult with them and do not laugh at her;
- And if she still is hard to
understand,
- Apply to Master Janus last of
all.
Transcribed Footnote (page 96):
* 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 twofold insight of
Janus the
double-faced.
page: 97
- Last All Saints' holy-day, even
now gone by,
- I met a gathering of damozels:
- She that came first, as one doth
who excels,
- Had Love with her, bearing her company:
- A flame burned forward through her steadfast
eye,
- As when in living fire a spirit
dwells:
- So, gazing with the boldness which
prevails
- O'er doubt, I knew an angel visibly.
- As she passed on, she bowed her mild approof
-
10 And salutation to all men of
worth,
- Lifting the soul to solemn thoughts aloof.
- In Heaven itself that lady had her
birth,
- I think, and is with us for our behoof:
- Blessed are they who meet her on
the earth.
Transcribed Footnote (page 97):
* This and the six following pieces (with the possible
exception
of the canzone at page 101) seem so
certainly to have been written
at the same time as
the poetry of the
Vita
Nuova
, that it becomes
difficult to guess why they
were omitted from that work. Other
poems in Dante's
Canzoniere refer in a more general manner to his
love for
Beatrice, but each among those I allude to bears
the
impress of some special occasion.
page: 98
- Whence come you, all of you so
sorrowful?
- An it may please you, speak for
courtesy.
- I fear for my dear lady's sake,
lest she
- Have made you to return thus filled with dule.
- O gentle ladies, be not hard to school
- In gentleness, but to some pause
agree,
- And something of my lady say to me,
- For with a little my desire is full.
- Howbeit it be a heavy thing to hear:
-
10 For Love now utterly has thrust me
forth,
- With hand for ever lifted, striking fear.
- See if I be not worn unto the
earth;
- Yea, and my spirit must fail from me here,
- If, when you speak, your words are
of no worth.
Transcribed Footnote (page 98):
* See the
Vita
Nuova
, at page 60.
page: 99
- Ye ladies, walking past me
piteous-eyed,
- Who is the lady that lies prostrate
here?
- Can this be even she my heart holds
dear?
- Nay, if it be so, speak, and nothing hide.
- Her very aspect seems itself beside,
- And all her features of such
altered cheer
- That to my thinking they do not
appear
- Hers who makes others seem beatified.
- “If thou forget to know our lady thus,
-
10 Whom grief o'ercomes, we wonder in
no wise,
- For also the same thing befalleth us.
- Yet if thou watch the movement of
her eyes,
- Of her thou shalt be straightway conscious.
- O weep no more; thou art all wan
with sighs.”
page: 100
- Because mine eyes can never have
their fill
- Of looking at my lady's lovely face,
- I will so fix my gaze
- That I may become blessed, beholding her.
- Even as an angel, up at his great height
- Standing amid the light,
- Becometh blessed by only seeing
God:—
- So, though I be a simple earthly wight,
- Yet none the less I might,
-
10 Beholding her who is my heart's
dear load,
- Be blessed, and in the spirit soar
abroad.
- Such power abideth in that gracious one;
- Albeit felt of none
- Save of him who, desiring, honours
her.
page: 101
- Love, since it is thy will that I
return
- 'Neath her usurped control
- Who is thou know'st how beautiful
and proud;
- Enlighten thou her heart, so bidding burn
- Thy flame within her soul
- That she rejoice not when my cry is
loud.
- Be thou but once endowed
- With sense of the new peace, and of this fire,
- And of the scorn wherewith I am
despised,
-
10And wherefore death is my most fierce desire;
- And then thou'lt be apprised
- Of all. So if thou slay me afterward,
- Anguish unburthened shall make death less
hard.
- Then I (for I could hear how they complained,)
- As sympathy impelled,
- Full oft to seek her presence did
arise.
-
30And mine own soul (which better had refrained)
- So much my strength upheld
- That I could steadily behold her
eyes.
- This in thy knowledge lies,
- Who then didst call me with so mild a face
- That I hoped solace from my
greater load:
- And when she turned the key on my dark place,
- Such ruth thy grace bestowed
- Upon my grief, and in such piteous kind,
- That I had strength to bear, and was
resign'd.
-
40For love of the sweet favour's comforting
- Did I become her thrall;
- And still her every movement
gladdened me
- With triumph that I served so sweet a thing:
- Pleasures and blessings all
- I set aside, my perfect hope to
see:
- Till her proud contumely—
- That so mine aim might rest unsatisfied—
- Covered the beauty of her
countenance.
- So straightway fell into my living side,
-
50 To slay me, the swift lance:
- While she rejoiced and watched my bitter end,
- Only to prove what succour thou wouldst
send.
- I therefore, weary with my love's constraint,
- To death's deliverance ran,
- That out of terrible grief I might
be brought:
- For tears had broken me and left me faint
- Beyond the lot of man,
page: 103
- Until each sigh must be my last, I
thought.
- Yet still this longing wrought
-
60So much of torment for my soul to bear,
- That with the pang I swooned and
fell to earth.
- Then, as in trance, 'twas whispered at mine
ear,
- How in this constant girth
- Of anguish, I indeed at length must die:
- So that I dreaded Love continually.
- Master, thou knowest now
- The life which in thy service I have borne:
- Not that I tell it thee to
disallow
- Control, who still to thy behest am sworn.
-
70 Yet if through this my vow
- I remain dead, nor help they will confer,
- Do thou at least, for God's sake, pardon
her.
page: 104
- Death, since I find not one with
whom to grieve,
- Nor whom this grief of mine may
move to tears,
- Whereso I be or whitherso I turn:
- Since it is thou who in my soul wilt leave
- No single joy, but chill'st it with
just fears
- And makest it in fruitless hopes to
burn:
- Since thou, Death, and thou only,
canst decern
- Wealth to my life, or want, at thy free
choice:—
- It is to thee that I lift up my voice,
-
10 Bowing my face that's like a face
just dead.
- I come to thee, as to one pitying,
- In grief for that sweet rest which nought can
bring
- Again, if thou but once be entered
- Into her life whom my heart cherishes
- Even as the only portal of its peace.
- Death, how most sweet the peace is that thy
grace
- Can grant to me, and that I pray
thee for,
- Thou easily mayst know by a sure
sign,
- If in mine eyes thou look a little space
-
20 And read in them the hidden dread
they store,—
- If upon all thou look which proves
me thine.
- Since the fear only maketh me to
pine
- After this sort,—what will mine anguish be
- When her eyes close, of dreadful verity,
- In whose light is the light of
mine own eyes?
page: 105
- But now I know that thou wouldst have my life
- As hers, and joy'st thee in my fruitless
strife.
- Yet I do think this which I feel
implies
- That soon, when I would die to flee from pain,
-
30I shall find none by whom I may be slain.
- Death, if indeed thou smite this gentle one
- Whose outward worth but tells the
intellect
- How wondrous is the miracle
within,—
- Thou biddest Virtue rise up and begone,
- Thou dost away with Mercy's best
effect,
- Thou spoil'st the mansion of God's
sojourning
- Yea, unto nought her beauty thou
dost bring
- Which is above all other beauties, even
- In so much as befitteth one whom Heaven
-
40 Sent upon earth in token of its
own.
- Thou dost break through the perfect trust
which hath
- Been alway her companion in Love's path:
- The light once darkened which was
hers alone,
- Love needs must say to them he ruleth o'er,
- “I have lost the noble banner that I
bore.”
- Death, have some pity then for all the ill
- Which cannot choose but happen if
she die,
- And which will be the sorest ever
known.
- Slacken the string, if so it be thy will,
-
50 That the sharp arrow leave it
not,—thereby
- Sparing her life, which if it
flies is flown.
- O Death, for God's sake, be some
pity shown!
- Restrain within thyself, even at its height,
- The cruel wrath which moveth thee to smite
- Her in whom God hath set so much
of grace.
- Show now some ruth if 'tis a thing thou hast!
- I seem to see Heaven's gate, that is shut
fast,
- Open, and angels filling all the
space
- About me,—come to fetch her soul whose laud
-
60Is sung by saints and angels before God.
page: 106
- Song, thou must surely see how fine a thread
- This is that my last hope is
holden by,
- And what I should be brought to
without her.
- Therefore for thy plain speech and lowlihead
- Make thou no pause: but go
immediately,
- (Knowing thyself for my heart's
minister,)
- And with that very meek and
piteous air
- Thou hast, stand up before the face
of Death,
- To wrench away the bar that
prisoneth
-
70 And win unto the place of the good
fruit.
- And if indeed thou shake by thy soft voice
- Death's mortal purpose,—haste thee and rejoice
- Our lady with the issue of thy
suit.
- So yet awhile our earthly nights and days
- Shall keep the blessed spirit that I
praise.
page: 107
- Upon a day, came Sorrow in to me,
- Saying, “I've come to stay
with thee a while;”
- And I perceived that she had
ushered Bile
- And Pain into my house for company.
- Wherefore I said, “Go forth—away with thee!’
- But like a Greek she answered, full
of guile,
- And went on arguing in an easy
style.
- Then, looking, I saw Love come silently,
- Habited in black raiment, smooth and new,
-
10 Having a black hat set upon his
hair;
- And certainly the tears he shed were true.
- So that I asked, “What ails thee,
trifler?”
- Answering he said: “A grief to be gone
through;
- For our own lady's dying, brother
dear.”
page: 108
- I thought to be for ever
separate,
- Fair Master Cino, from these rhymes
of yours;
- Since further from the coast,
another course,
- My vessel now must journey with her
freight.*
- Yet still, because I hear men name your state
- As his whom every lure doth
straight beguile,
- I pray you lend a very little while
- Unto my voice your ear grown obdurate.
- The man after this measure amorous,
-
10 Who still at his own will is bound
and loosed,
- How slightly Love him wounds is
lightly known.
- If on this wise your heart in homage bows,
- I pray you for God's sake it be
disused,
- So that the deed and the sweet
words be one.
Transcribed Footnote (page 108):
* This might seem to suggest that the present sonnet
was
written about the same time as the close of
the
Vita
Nuova
, and
that an allusion may also here be
intended to the first conception
of Dante's
great work.
page: 109
- Dante, since I from my own native
place
- In heavy exile have turned
wanderer,
- Far distant from the purest joy
which e'er
- Had issued from the Fount of joy and grace,
- I have gone weeping through the world's dull
space,
- And me proud Death, as one too
mean, doth spare;
- Yet meeting Love, Death's
neighbour, I declare
- That still his arrows hold my heart in chase.
- Nor from his pitiless aim can I get free,
-
10 Nor from the hope which comforts
my weak will,
- Though no true aid exists which I
could share.
- One pleasure ever binds and looses me;
- That so, by one same Beauty lured,
I still
- Delight in many women here and
there.
page: 110
- Because I find not whom to speak
withal
- Anent that lord whose I am as thou
art,
- Behoves that in thine ear I tell
some part
- Of this whereof I gladly would say all.
- And deem thou nothing else occasional
- Of my long silence while I kept
apart,
- Except this place, so guilty at the
heart
- That the right has not who will give it stall.
- Love comes not here to any woman's face,
-
10 Nor any man here for his sake will
sigh,
- For unto such, “Thou
fool!” were straightway said.
- Ah! Master Cino, how the time turns base,
- And mocks at us, and on our rhymes
says “Fie!”
- Since truth has been thus thinly
harvested.
page: 111
- I know not, Dante, in what refuge
dwells
- The truth, which with all men is
out of mind;
- For long ago it left this place
behind,
- Till in its stead at last God's thunder swells.
- Yet if our shifting life too clearly tells
- That here the truth has no reward
assign'd,—
- 'Twas God, remember, taught it to
mankind,
- And even among the fiends preached nothing
else.
- Then, though the kingdoms of the earth be torn,
-
10 Where'er thou set thy feet, from
Truth's control,
- Yet unto me thy friend this prayer
accord:—
- Beloved, O my brother, sorrow-worn,
- Even in that lady's name who is
thy goal,
- Sing on till thou
redeem thy plighted word!*
Transcribed Footnote (page 111):
* 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
Commedia.
page: 112
- Two ladies to the summit of my mind
- Have clomb, to hold an argument of
love.
- The one has wisdom with her from above,
- For every noblest virtue well designed:
- The other, beauty's tempting power refined
- And the high charm of perfect grace
approve:
- And I, as my sweet Master's will doth
move,
- At feet of both their favours am reclined.
- Beauty and Duty in my soul keep strife,
-
10 At question if the heart such course
can take
- And 'twixt two ladies hold its love
complete.
- The fount of gentle speech yields
answer meet,
- That Beauty may be loved for gladness'
sake,
- And Duty in the lofty ends of life.
page: 113
- To the dim light and the large circle
of shade
- I have clomb, and to the whitening of the hills,
- There where we see no colour in the grass.
- Nathless my longing loses not its green,
- It has so taken root in the hard stone
- Which talks and hears as though it were a lady.
- Utterly frozen is this youthful lady,
- Even as the snow that lies within the shade;
- For she is no more moved than is the stone
-
10By the sweet season which makes warm the hills
- And alters them afresh from white to green,
- Covering their sides again with flowers and
grass.
- When on her hair she sets a crown of grass
- The thought has no more room for other lady;
Transcribed Footnote (page 113):
* 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,
De Vulg.
Eloq
.). I have headed it with the name
of a
Paduan lady, to whom it is surmised by some to have
been
addressed during Dante's exile; but this
must be looked upon as
a rather doubtful
conjecture, and I have adopted the name
chiefly
to mark it at once as not referring to
Beatrice.
page: 114
- Because she weaves the yellow with the green
- So well that Love sits down there in the shade,—
- Love who has shut me in among low hills
- Faster than between walls of granite-stone.
- She is more bright than is a precious stone;
-
20The wound she gives may not be healed with grass:
- I therefore have fled far o'er plains and hills
- For refuge from so dangerous a lady;
- But from her sunshine nothing can give shade,—
- Not any hill, nor wall, nor summer-green.
- A while ago, I saw her dressed in green,—
- So fair, she might have wakened in a stone
- This love which I do feel even for her shade;
- And therefore, as one woos a graceful lady,
- I wooed her in a field that was all grass
-
30Girdled about with very lofty hills.
- Yet shall the streams turn back and climb the
hills
- Before Love's flame in this damp wood and green
- Burn, as it burns within a youthful lady,
- For my sake, who would sleep away in stone
- My life, or feed like beasts upon the grass,
- Only to see her garments cast a shade.
- How dark soe'er the hills throw out their shade,
- Under her summer-green the beautiful lady
- Covers it, like a stone covered in grass.
page: 115
- My curse be on the day when first I
saw
- The brightness in those
treacherous eyes of thine,—
- The hour when from my heart thou cam'st to draw
- My soul away, that both might fail and
pine:
- My curse be on the skill that smooth'd
each line
- Of my vain songs,—the music and just law
- Of art, by which it was my dear design
- That the whole world should yield thee love and
awe.
- Yea, let me curse mine own obduracy,
-
10 Which firmly holds what doth itself
confound—
- To wit, thy fair perverted face of
scorn:
- For whose sake Love is oftentimes
forsworn
- So that men mock at him: but most at me
- Who would hold fortune's wheel and
turn it round.
Transcribed Footnote (page 115):
* I have separated this sonnet from the pieces bearing on the
Vita
Nuova
, as it is naturally repugnant to connect it
with
Beatrice. I cannot, however, but think it
possible that it may
have been the bitter fruit of
some bitterest moment in those hours
when Dante
endured her scorn.
page: [116]
- Unto my thinking, thou beheld'st all
worth,
- All joy, as much of good as man may know,
- If thou wert in his power who here below
- Is honour's righteous lord throughout this earth.
- Where evil dies, even there he has his birth,
- Whose justice out of pity's self doth grow.
- Softly to sleeping persons he will go,
- And, with no pain to them, their hearts draw forth.
- Thy heart he took, as knowing well, alas!
-
10 That Death had claimed thy lady for a
prey:
- In fear whereof, he fed her with thy
heart.
- But when he seemed in sorrow to depart,
- Sweet was thy dream; for by that sign, I
say,
- Surely the opposite shall come to
pass.†
Transcribed Footnote (page [116]):
* See the
Vita
Nuova
, at
page 33.
Transcribed Footnote (page [116]):
† This may refer to the belief that, towards morning, dreams
go
by contraries.
page: 117
- Flowers hast thou in thyself, and
foliage,
- And what is good, and what is glad to see;
- The sun is not so bright as thy visàge;
- All is stark naught when one hath looked on
thee;
- There is not such a beautiful personage
- Anywhere on the green earth verily;
- If one fear love, thy bearing sweet and sage
- Comforteth him, and no more fear hath he.
- Thy lady friends and maidens ministering
-
10 Are all, for love of thee, much to my
taste:
- And much I pray them that in everything
- They honour thee even as thou meritest,
- And have thee in their gentle harbouring:
- Because among them all thou art the
best.
page: 118
- Beauty in woman; the high will's decree;
- Fair knighthood armed for manly exercise;
- The pleasant song of birds; love's soft
replies;
- The strength of rapid ships upon the sea;
- The serene air when light begins to be;
- The white snow, without wind that falls and
lies;
- Fields of all flower; the place where
waters rise;
- Silver and gold; azure in jewellery:—
- Weighed against these, the sweet and quiet worth
-
10 Which my dear lady cherishes at heart
- Might seem a little matter to be shown;
- Being truly, over these, as much apart
- As the whole heaven is greater than this earth.
- All good to kindred natures cleaveth
soon.
page: 119
- Who is she coming, whom all gaze upon,
- Who makes the air all tremulous with light,
- And at whose side is Love himself? that none
- Dare speak, but each man's sighs are
infinite.
- Ah me! how she looks round from left to
right,
- Let Love discourse: I may not speak thereon.
- Lady she seems of such high benison
- As makes all others graceless in men's
sight.
- The honour which is hers cannot be said;
-
10 To whom are subject all things virtuous,
- While all things beauteous own her deity.
- Ne'er was the mind of man so nobly led,
- Nor yet was such redemption granted us
- That we should ever know her
perfectly.
page: 120
- With other women I beheld my love;—
- Not that the rest were women to mine eyes,
- Who only as her shadows seemed to move.
- I do not praise her more than with the truth,
- Nor blame I these if it be rightly
read.
- But while I speak, a thought I may not soothe
- Says to my senses: “Soon shall ye be dead,
- If for my sake your tears ye will not
shed.”
- And then the eyes yield passage, at that thought,
-
10To the heart's weeping, which forgets her not.
page: 121
- Guido, an image of my lady dwells
- At San Michele in Orto, consecrate
- And duly worshiped. Fair in holy state
- She listens to the tale each sinner tells:
- And among them that come to her, who ails
- The most, on him the most doth blessing
wait.
- She bids the fiend men's bodies
abdicate;
- Over the curse of blindness she prevails,
- And heals sick languors in the public squares.
-
10 A multitude adores her reverently:
- Before her face two burning tapers
are;
- Her voice is uttered upon paths afar.
- Yet through the Lesser
Brethren's* jealousy
- She is named idol; not being one of theirs.
Transcribed Footnote (page 121):
* The Franciscans, in profession of deeper poverty and
humility
than belonged to other Orders, called
themselves
Fratres minores.
page: 122
- If thou hadst offered, friend, to
blessed Mary
- A pious voluntary,
- As thus: “Fair rose, in holy garden
set”:
- Thou then hadst found a true similitude:
- Because all truth and good
- Are hers, who was the mansion and the
gate
- Wherein abode our High Salvation,
- Conceived in her, a Son,
- Even by the angel's greeting whom she
met.
-
10Be thou assured that if one cry to her,
- Confessing, “I did err,”
- For death she gives him life; for she
is great.
- Ah! how mayst thou be counselled to implead
- With God thine own misdeed,
- And not another's? Ponder what thou
art;
- And humbly lay to heart
- That Publican who wept his proper need.
- The Lesser Brethren cherish the divine
- Scripture and church-doctrine;
-
20Being appointed keepers of the faith
- Whose preaching succoureth:
- For what they preach is our best medicine.
page: 123
- A certain youthful lady in Thoulouse,
- Gentle and fair, of cheerful modesty,
- Is in her eyes, with such exact degree,
- Of likeness unto mine own lady, whose
- I am, that through the heart she doth abuse
- The soul to sweet desire. It goes from me
- To her; yet, fearing, saith not who is she
- That of a truth its essence thus subdues.
- This lady looks on it with the sweet eyes
-
10 Whose glance did erst the wounds of Love
anoint
- Through its true lady's eyes which are as
they.
- Then to the heart returns it, full of sighs,
- Wounded to death by a sharp arrow's point
- Wherewith this lady speeds it on its
way.
page: 124
- Being in thought of love, I chanced to
see
- Two youthful damozels.
- One sang: “Our life inhales
- All love continually.”
- Their aspect was so utterly serene,
- So courteous, of such quiet nobleness,
- That I said to them: “Yours, I may well ween,
- 'Tis of all virtue to unlock the place.
- Ah! damozels, do not account him base
-
10 Whom thus his wound subdues:
- Since I was at Thoulouse,
- My heart is dead in me.”
- They turned their eyes upon me in so much
- As to perceive how wounded was my heart;
- While, of the spirits born of tears, one such
- Had been begotten through the constant
smart.
- Then seeing me, abashed, to turn
apart,
- One of them said, and laugh'd:
- “Love, look you, by his craft
-
20 Holds this man thoroughly.”
page: 125
- But with grave sweetness, after a brief while,
- She who at first had laughed on me
replied,
- Saying: “This lady, who by Love's great guile
- Her countenance in thy heart has
glorified,
- Look'd thee so deep within the eyes, Love
sigh'd
- And was awakened there.
- If it seem ill to bear,
- In him thy hope must be.”
- The second piteous maiden, of all ruth,
-
30 Fashioned for sport in Love's own image,
said:
- “This stroke, whereof thy heart bears trace in sooth,
- From eyes of too much puïssance was shed,
- Whence in thy heart such brightness
enterèd,
- Thou mayst not look thereon.
- Say, of those eyes that shone
- Canst thou remember thee?”
- Then said I, yielding answer therewithal
- Unto this virgin's difficult behest:
- “A lady of Thoulouse, whom Love doth call
-
40 Mandetta, sweetly kirtled and enlac'd,
- I do remember to my sore unrest.
- Yea, by her eyes indeed
- My life has been decreed
- To death inevitably.”
- Go, Ballad, to the city, even Thoulouse,
- And softly entering the
Dauràde,* look round
- And softly call, that so there may be
found
- Some lady who for compleasaunce may choose
- To show thee her who can my life confuse.
-
50 And if she yield thee way,
- Lift thou thy voice and say:
- “For grace I come to thee.”
Transcribed Footnote (page 125):
* The ancient church of the Dauràde still exists at
Thoulouse.
It was so called from the golden effect of
the mosaics adorning it.
page: 126
Note: In line 6, the final letter of the word “slip” and a
semicolon are not printed.
- Guido, I wish that Lapo, thou, and I,
- Could be by spells conveyed, as it were
now,
- Upon a barque, with all the winds that
blow
- Across all seas at our good will to hie.
- So no mischance nor temper of the sky
- Should mar our course with spite or
cruel sli
- But we, observing old companionship,
- To be companions still should long thereby.
- And Lady Joan, and Lady Beatrice,
-
10 And her the thirtieth on
my roll,* with us
- Should our good wizard set, o'er seas
to move
- And not to talk of anything but love:
- And they three ever to be well at ease,
- As we should be, I think, if this were
thus.
Transcribed Footnote (page 126):
* That is, his list of the sixty most beautiful ladies of
Florence,
referred to in the
Vita
Nuova;
among whom Lapo Gianni's
lady,
Lagia, would seem to have stood thirtieth.
page: 127
- If I were still that man, worthy to
love,
- Of whom I have but the remembrance now,
- Or if the lady bore another brow,
- To hear this thing might bring me joy thereof.
- But thou, who in Love's proper court dost move,
- Even there where hope is born of
grace,—see how
- My very soul within me is brought low:
- For a swift archer, whom his feats approve,
- Now bends the bow, which Love to him did yield,
-
10 In such mere sport against me, it
would seem
- As though he held his lordship for a
jest,
- Then hear the marvel which is
sorriest:—
- My sorely wounded soul forgiveth him,
- Yet knows that in his act her strength is
kill'd.
page: 128
- Dante, a sigh that rose from the
heart's core
- Assailed me, while I slumbered,
suddenly:
- So that I woke o' the instant, fearing sore
- Lest it came thither in Love's company:
- Till, turning, I beheld the servitor
- Of Lady Lagia: “Help me,” so said he,
- “O help me, Pity.” Though he said no more,
- So much of Pity's essence entered me,
- That I was ware of Love, those shafts he wields
-
10 A-whetting, and preferred the
mourner's quest
- To him, who straightway answered on
this wise:
- “Go tell my servant that the lady yields,
- And that I hold her now at his behest:
- If he believe not, let him note her
eyes.”
page: 129
- I pray thee, Dante, shouldst thou
meet with Love
- In any place where Lapo then may be,
- That there thou fail not to mark
heedfully
- If Love with lover's name that man approve;
- If to our Master's will his lady move
- Aright, and if himself show fealty:
- For ofttimes, by ill custom, ye may see
- This sort profess the semblance of true love.
- Thou know'st that in the court where Love holds
sway
-
10 A law subsists, that no man who is
vile
- Can service yield to a lost woman
there.
- If suffering aught avail the sufferer,
- Thou straightway shalt discern our
lofty style,
- Which needs the badge of honour must display.
page: 130
- Love and the Lady Lagia, Guido and I,
- Unto a certain lord are bounden all,
- Who has released us—know ye from whose
thrall?
- Yet I'll not speak, but let the matter die:
- Since now these three no more are held thereby,
- Who in such homage at his feet did fall
- That I myself was not more whimsical,
- In him conceiving godship from on high.
- Let Love be thanked the first, who first discern'd
-
10 The truth; and that wise lady afterward,
- Who in fit time took back her heart again;
- And Guido next, from worship wholly turn'd;
- And I, as he. But if ye have not heard,
- I shall not tell how much I loved him
then.
Transcribed Footnote (page 130):
* 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.
page: 131
- O thou that often hast within thine eyes
- A Love who holds three shafts,—know thou
from me
- That this my sonnet would commend to thee
- (Come from afar) a soul in heavy sighs,
- Which even by Love's sharp arrow wounded lies.
- Twice did the Syrian archer shoot, and he
- Now bends his bow the third time,
cunningly,
- That, thou being here, he wound me in no wise.
- Because the soul would quicken at the core
-
10 Thereby, which now is near to utter death,
- From those two shafts, a triple wound that
yield.
- The first gives pleasure, yet disquieteth;
- And with the second is the longing for
- The mighty gladness by the third
fulfill'd.
page: 132
- Though thou, indeed, hast quite forgotten
ruth,
- Its steadfast truth my heart abandons not;
- But still its thought yields service in good part
- To that hard heart in thee.
- Alas! who hears believes not I am so.
- Yet who can know? of very surety, none.
- From Love is won a spirit, in some wise,
- Which dies perpetually:
- And, when at length in that strange ecstasy
-
10 The heavy sigh will start,
- There rains upon my heart
- A love so pure and fine,
- That I say: “Lady, I am wholly
thine.”*
Transcribed Footnote (page 132):
* 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.
page: 133
- If I entreat this lady that all grace
- Seem not unto her heart an enemy,
- Foolish and evil thou declarest me,
- And desperate in idle stubbornness.
- Whence is such cruel judgment thine, whose face,
- To him that looks thereon, professeth thee
- Faithful, and wise, and of all courtesy,
- And made after the way of gentleness?
- Alas! my soul within my heart doth find
-
10 Sighs, and its grief by weeping doth
enhance,
- That, drowned in bitter tears, those sighs
depart:
- And then there seems a presence in the mind,
- As of a lady's thoughtful countenance
- Come to behold the death of the poor
heart.
page: 134
- Through this my strong and new
misaventure,
- All now is lost to me
- Which most was sweet in Love's supremacy.
- So much of life is dead in its control,
- That she, my pleasant lady of all grace,
- Is gone out of the devastated soul:
- I see her not, nor do I know her place;
- Nor even enough of virtue with me stays
- To understand, ah me!
-
10The flower of her exceeding purity.
- Because there comes—to kill that gentle thought
- With saying that I shall not see her more—
- This constant pain wherewith I am distraught,
- Which is a burning torment very sore,
- Wherein I know not whom I should implore.
- Thrice thanked the Master be
- Who turns the grinding wheel of misery!
- Full of great anguish in a place of fear
- The spirit of my heart lies sorrowing,
-
20Through Fortune's bitter craft. She lured it here,
- And gave it o'er to Death, and barbed the
sting;
- She wrought that hope which was a
treacherous thing;
- In Time, which dies from me,
- She made me lose mine hour of ecstasy.
page: 135
- For you, perturbed and fearful words of mine,
- Whither yourselves may please, even
thither go;
- But always burthened with shame's troublous sign,
- And on my lady's name still calling low.
- For me, I must abide in such deep woe
-
30 That all who look shall see
- Death's shadow on my face assuredly.
page: 136
- Why from the danger did not mine eyes
start,—
- Why not become even blind,—ere through
my sight
- Within my soul thou ever couldst alight
- To say: “Dost thou not hear me in thy heart?”
- New torment then, the old torment's counterpart,
- Filled me at once with such a sore
affright,
- That, Lady, lady, (I said,) destroy not
quite
- Mine eyes and me! O help us where thou art!
- Thou hast so left mine eyes, that love is fain—
-
10 Even Love himself—with pity
uncontroll'd
- To bend above them, weeping for their
loss:
- Saying: “If any man feel heavy pain,
- This man's more painful heart let him
behold:
- Death has it in her hand,
cut like a cross.”
page: 137
Note: The following poem is not, in the strict sense, a
"sonnet," and is designated by Rossetti a "prolonged
sonnet," consisting as it does of a fourteen-line stanza
and a couplet.
- Friend, well I know thou knowest well
to bear
- Thy sword's-point, that it pierce the
close-locked mail:
- And like a bird to flit from perch to
pale:
- And out of difficult ways to find the air:
- Largely to take and generously to share:
- Thrice to secure advantage: to regale
- Greatly the great, and over lands
prevail.
- In all thou art, one only fault is there:
- For still among the wise of wit thou say'st
-
10 That Love himself doth weep for thine
estate;
- And yet, no eyes no tears: lo now, thy
whim!
- Soft, rather say: This is not held in haste;
- But bitter are the hours and
passionate,
- To him that loves, and love is not for
him.
- For me, (by usage strengthened to forbear
- From carnal love,) I fall not in such snare.
page: 138
- Guido, that Gianni who, a day agone,
- Sought thee, now greets thee (ay
and thou mayst
- laugh!)
- On that same Pisan beauty's sweet behalf
- Who can deal love-wounds even as thou hast done.
- She asked me whether thy good will were prone
- For service unto Love who troubles her,
- If she to thee in suchwise should repair
- That, save by him and Gualtier, 'twere not known:—
- For thus her kindred of ill augury
-
10 Should lack the means wherefrom
there might be
- plann'd
- Worse harm than lying speech that smites
afar.
- I told her that thou hast continually
- A goodly sheaf of arrows to thy hand,
- Which well should stead her in such gentle
war.
Transcribed Footnote (page 138):
* From a passage in Ubaldini's Glossary (1640) to the “Docu-
menti
d'Amore” of Francesco Barberino (1300), I judge that
Guido
answered the above sonnet, and that Alfani made a
rejoinder, from
which a scrap there printed appears to be
taken. The whole piece
existed, in Ubaldini's time, among
the Strozzi MSS.
page: 139
- Unto that lowly lovely maid, I wis,
- So poignant in the heart was thy
salute,
- That she changed countenance, remaining
mute.
- Wherefore I asked: “Pinella, how is this?
- Hast heard of Guido? know'st thou who he is?”
- She answered, “Yea;” then paused,
irresolute;
- But I saw well how the love-wounds
acute
- Were widened, and the star which Love calls his
- Filled her with gentle brightness perfectly.
-
10 “But, friend, an't please thee, I
would have it told,”
- She said, “how I am known to him through thee.
- Yet since, scarce seen, I knew his
name of old,—
- Even as the riddle is read, so must it be.
- Oh! send him love of mine a
thousand-fold!”
page: 140
- The fountain-head that is so bright
to see
- Gains as it runs in virtue and in
sheen,
- Friend Bernard; and for her who spoke with thee,
- Even such the flow of her young life
has been:
- So that when Love discourses secretly
- Of things the fairest he has ever seen,
- He says there is no fairer thing than she,
- A lowly maid as lovely as a queen.
- And for that I am troubled, thinking of
-
10 That sigh wherein I burn upon the
waves
- Which drift her heart,—poor
barque, so ill bested!—
- Unto Pinella a great river of love
- I send, that's full of sirens, and
whose slaves
- Are beautiful and richly habited.
page: 141
- No man may mount upon a golden stair,
- Guido my master, to Love's palace-sill:
- No key of gold will fit the lock that's there,
- Nor heart there enter without pure
goodwill.
- Not if he miss one courteous duty, dare
- A lover hope he should his love fulfil;
- But to his lady must make meek repair,
- Reaping with husbandry her favours still.
- And thou but know'st of Love (I think) his name:
-
10 Youth holds thy reason in extremities:
- Only on thine own face thou turn'st thine
eyes;
- Fairer than Absalom's account'st the same;
- And think'st, as rosy moths are drawn by flame,
- To draw the women from their
balconies.*
Transcribed Footnote (page 141):
* 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. 108); and Dante
by Guido
(
p. 144), who formerly, as we
have seen (
p. 129),
had
confided to him his doubts of Lapo Gianni.
page: 142
- A lady in whom love is manifest—
- That love which perfect honour doth
adorn—
- Hath ta'en the living heart out of thy breast,
- Which in her keeping to new life is
born:
- For there by such sweet power it is possest
- As even is felt of Indian
unicorn:*
- And all its virtue now, with fierce unrest,
- Unto thy soul makes difficult return.
- For this thy lady is virtue's minister
-
10 In suchwise that no fault there is to
show,
- Save that God made her mortal on this
ground.
- And even herein His wisdom shall be
found:
- For only thus our intellect could know
- That heavenly beauty which resembles her.
Transcribed Footnote (page 142):
* In old representations, the unicorn is often seen with
his
head in a virgin's lap.
page: 143
- To sound of trumpet rather than of
horn,
- I in Love's name would hold a
battle-play
- Of gentlemen in arms on Easter Day;
- And, sailing without oar or wind, be borne
- Unto my joyful beauty; all that morn
- To ride round her, in her cause seeking
fray
- Of arms with all but thee, friend, who
dost say
- The truth of her, and whom all truths adorn.
- And still I pray Our Lady's grace above,
-
10 Most reverently, that she whom my
thoughts bear
- In sweet remembrance own her Lord
supreme.
- Holding her honour dear, as doth behove,—
- In God who therewithal sustaineth her
- Let her abide, and not depart from
Him.
page: 144
- I come to thee by daytime constantly,
- But in thy thoughts too much of baseness
find:
- Greatly it grieves me for thy gentle mind,
- And for thy many virtues gone from thee.
- It was thy wont to shun much company,
- Unto all sorry concourse ill inclin'd:
- And still thy speech of me, heartfelt and
kind,
- Had made me treasure up thy poetry.
- But now I dare not, for thine abject life,
-
10 Make manifest that I approve thy rhymes;
- Nor come I in such sort that thou mayst
know.
- Ah! prythee read this sonnet many times:
- So shall that evil one who bred this strife
- Be thrust from thy dishonoured soul and
go.
Transcribed Footnote (page 144):
* 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.
xxx.)
page: 145
- Within a copse I met a shepherd-maid,
- More fair, I said, than any star to see.
- She came with waving tresses pale and bright,
- With rosy cheer, and loving eyes of flame,
- Guiding the lambs beneath her wand aright.
- Her naked feet still had the dews on them,
- As, singing like a lover, so she came;
- Joyful, and fashioned for all ecstasy.
- I greeted her at once, and question made
-
10 What escort had she through the woods in
spring?
- But with soft accents she replied and said
- That she was all alone there, wandering;
- Moreover: “Do you know, when the birds
sing,
- My heart's desire is for a mate,” said she.
- While she was telling me this wish of hers,
- The birds were all in song throughout the
wood.
- “Even now then,” said my thought, “the time recurs,
- With mine own longing to assuage her
mood.”
- And so, in her sweet favour's name, I sued
-
20That she would kiss there and embrace with me.
page: 146
- She took my hand to her with amorous will,
- And answered that she gave me all her
heart,
- And drew me where the leaf is fresh and still,
- Where spring the wood-flowers in the shade
apart.
- And on that day, by Joy's enchanted art,
- There Love in very presence seemed to
be.*
Transcribed Footnote (page 146):
* 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 cannot yet have been
published, as I have sought
for it in vain at all my printed sources
of information.
page: 147
- Just look, Manetto, at that wry-mouthed
minx;
- Merely take notice what a wretch it is;
- How well contrived in her deformities,
- How beastly favoured when she scowls and blinks.
- Why, with a hood on (if one only thinks)
- Or muffle of prim veils and scapularies,—
- And set together, on a day like this,
- Some pretty lady with the odious sphinx;—
- Why, then thy sins could hardly have such weight,
-
10 Nor thou be so subdued from Love's attack,
- Nor so possessed in Melancholy's sway,
- But that perforce thy peril must be great
- Of laughing till the very heart-strings
crack:
- Either thou'dst die, or thou must run
away.
page: 148
- Nero, thus much for tidings in thine ear.
- They of the Buondelmonti quake with dread,
- Nor by all Florence may be comforted,
- Noting in thee the lion's ravenous cheer;
- Who more than any dragon giv'st them fear,
- In ancient evil stubbornly array'd;
- Neither by bridge nor bulwark to be stay'd,
- But only by King Pharaoh's sepulchre.
- O in what monstrous sin dost thou engage,—
-
10 All these which are of loftiest blood to
drive
- Away, that none dare pause but all take
wing!
- Yet sooth it is, thou might'st redeem the pledge
- Even yet, and save thy naked soul alive,
- Wert thou but patient in the
bargaining.
page: 149
- Because I think not ever to return,
- Ballad, to Tuscany,—
- Go therefore thou for me
- Straight to my lady's face,
- Who, of her noble grace,
- Shall show thee courtesy.
- Thou seekest her in charge of many sighs,
- Full of much grief and of exceeding fear.
- But have good heed thou come not to the eyes
-
10 Of such as are sworn foes to gentle cheer:
- For, certes, if this thing should
chance,—from her
- Thou then couldst only look
- For scorn, and such rebuke
- As needs must bring me pain;—
- Yea, after death again
- Tears and fresh agony.
- Surely thou knowest, Ballad, how that Death
- Assails me, till my life is almost sped:
- Thou knowest how my heart still travaileth
-
20 Through the sore pangs which in
my soul are bred:—
- My body being now so nearly dead,
- It cannot suffer more.
page: 150
- Then, going, I implore
- That this my soul thou take
- (Nay, do so for my sake,)
- When my heart sets it free.
- Ah! Ballad, unto thy dear offices
- I do commend my soul, thus trembling;
- That thou mayst lead it, for pure piteousness,
-
30 Even to that lady's presence whom I sing.
- Ah! Ballad, say thou to her, sorrowing,
- Whereso thou meet her then:—
- “This thy poor handmaiden
- Is come, nor will be gone,
- Being parted now from one
- Who served Love painfully.”
- Thou also, thou bewildered voice and weak,
- That goest forth in tears from my grieved
heart,
- Shalt, with my soul and with this ballad, speak
-
40 Of my dead mind, when thou dost hence
depart,
- Unto that lady (piteous as thou art!)
- Who is so calm and bright,
- It shall be deep delight
- To feel her presence there.
- And thou, Soul, worship her
- Still in her purity.
page: 151
- Lo! I am she who makes the wheel to turn;
- Lo! I am she who gives and takes away;
- Blamed idly, day by day,
- In all mine acts by you, ye humankind.
- For whoso smites his visage and doth mourn,
- What time he renders back my gifts to me,
- Learns then that I decree
- No state which mine own arrows may not
find.
- Who clomb must fall:—this bear ye well in
mind,
-
10Nor say, because he fell, I did him wrong.
- Yet mine is a vain song:
- For truly ye may find out wisdom when
- King Arthur's resting-place is found of men.
- Ye make great marvel and astonishment
- What time ye see the sluggard lifted up
- And the just man to drop,
- And ye complain on God and on my sway.
- O humankind, ye sin in your complaint:
Transcribed Footnote (page 151):
* 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.
page: 152
- For He, that Lord who made the world to
live,
-
20 Lets me not take or give
- By mine own act, but as He wills I may.
- Yet is the mind of man so castaway,
- That it discerns not the supreme behest.
- Alas! ye wretchedest,
- And chide ye at God also? Shall not He
- Judge between good and evil righteously?
- Ah! had ye knowledge how God evermore,
- With agonies of soul and grievous heats,
- As on an anvil beats
-
30 On them that in this earth hold high
estate,—
- Ye would choose little rather than much store,
- And solitude than spacious palaces;
- Such is the sore disease
- Of anguish that on all their days doth
wait.
- Behold if they be not unfortunate,
- When oft the father dares not trust the son!
- O wealth, with thee is won
- A worm to gnaw for ever on his soul
- Whose abject life is laid in thy control!
-
40If also ye take note what piteous death
- They ofttimes make, whose hoards were
manifold,
- Who cities had and gold
- And multitudes of men beneath their hand;
- Then he among you that most angereth
- Shall bless me, saying, “Lo! I worship
thee
- That I was not as he
- Whose death is thus accurst throughout the
land.”
- But now your living souls are held in band
- Of avarice, shutting you from the true light
-
50 Which shows how sad and slight
- Are this world's treasured riches and array
- That still change hands a hundred times a-day.
page: 153
- For me,—could envy enter in my sphere,
- Which of all human taint is clean and
quit,—
- I well might harbour it
- When I behold the peasant at his toil.
- Guiding his team, untroubled, free from fear,
- He leaves his perfect furrow as he goes,
- And gives his field repose
-
60 From thorns and tares and weeds that vex
the soil:
- Thereto he labours, and without turmoil
- Entrusts his work to God, content if so
- Such guerdon from it grow
- That in that year his family shall live:
- Nor care nor thought to other things will give.
- But now ye may no more have speech of me,
- For this mine office craves continual use:
- Ye therefore deeply muse
- Upon those things which ye have heard the
while:
-
70Yea, and even yet remember heedfully
- How this my wheel a motion hath so fleet,
- That in an eyelid's beat
- Him whom it raised it maketh low and vile.
- None was, nor is, nor shall be of such
guile,
- Who could, or can, or shall, I say, at length
- Prevail against my strength.
- But still those men that are my questioners
- In bitter torment own their hearts perverse.
- Song, that wast made to carry high intent
-
80 Dissembled in the garb of humbleness,—
- With fair and open face
- To Master Thomas let thy course be bent.
- Say that a great thing scarcely may be pent
- In little room: yet always pray that he
- Commend us, thee and me,
- To them that are more apt in lofty speech:
- For truly one must learn ere he can teach.
page: 154
- O poverty, by thee the soul is wrapp'd
- With hate, with envy, dolefulness, and
doubt.
- Even so be thou cast out,
- And even so he that speaks thee otherwise.
- I name thee now, because my mood is apt
- To curse thee, bride of every lost estate,
- Through whom are desolate
- On earth all honourable things and wise.
- Within thy power each blessed condition
dies:
-
10By thee, men's minds with sore mistrust are made
- Fantastic and afraid:—
- Thou, hated worse than Death, by just accord,
- And with the loathing of all hearts abhorr'd.
- Yea, rightly art thou hated worse than Death,
- For he at length is longed for in the
breast.
- But not with thee, wild beast,
- Was ever aught found beautiful or good.
- For life is all that man can lose by death,
- Not fame and the fair summits of applause;
-
20 His glory shall not pause,
- But live in men's perpetual gratitude.
- While he who on thy naked sill has stood,
- Though of great heart and worthy everso,
- He shall be counted low.
- Then let the man thou troublest never hope
- To spread his wings in any lofty scope.
page: 155
- Hereby my mind is laden with a fear,
- And I will take some thought to shelter
me.
- For this I plainly see:—
-
30 Through thee, to fraud the honest man is
led;
- To tyranny the just lord turneth here,
- And the magnanimous soul to avarice.
- Of every bitter vice
- Thou, to my thinking, art the fount and
head;
- From thee no light in any wise is shed,
- Who bringest to the paths of dusky hell.
- I therefore see full well,
- That death, the dungeon, sickness, and old age,
- Weighed against thee, are blessèd heritage.
-
40And what though many a goodly hypocrite,
- Lifting to thee his veritable prayer,
- Call God to witness there
- How this thy burden moved not Him to
wrath.
- Why, who may call (of them that muse aright)
- Him poor, who of the whole can say, 'Tis Mine?
- Methinks I well divine
- That want, to such, should seem an easy
path.
- God, who made all things, all things had
and hath;
- Nor any tongue may say that He was poor,
-
50 What while He did endure
- For man's best succour among men to dwell:
- Since to have all, with Him, was possible.
- Song, thou shalt wend upon thy journey now:
- And, if thou meet with folk who rail at
thee,
- Saying that poverty
- Is not even sharper than thy words allow,—
- Unto such brawlers briefly answer thou,
- To tell them they are hypocrites; and then
- Say mildly, once again,
-
60That I, who am nearly in a beggar's case,
- Might not presume to sing my proper praise.
page: 156
- The devastating flame of that fierce
plague,
- The foe of virtue, fed with others' peace
- More than itself foresees,
- Being still shut in to gnaw its own desire;
- Its strength not weakened, nor its hues more vague,
- For all the benison that virtue sheds,
- But which for ever spreads
- To be a living curse that shall not tire:
- Or yet again, that other idle fire
-
10Which flickers with all change as winds may please:
- One whichsoe'er of these
- At length has hidden the true path from me
- Which twice man may not see,
- And quenched the intelligence of joy, till now
- All solace but abides in perfect woe.
- Alas! the more my painful spirit grieves,
- The more confused with miserable strife
- Is that delicious life
- Which sighing it recalls perpetually:
-
20But its worst anguish, whence it still receives
- More pain than death, is sent, to yield
the sting
- Of perfect suffering,
- By him who is my lord and governs me;
- Who holds all gracious truth in fealty,
- Being nursed in those four sisters' fond caress
- Through whom comes happiness.
page: 157
- He now has left me; and I draw my breath
- Wound in the arms of Death,
- Desirous of her: she is cried upon
-
30In all the prayers my heart puts up alone.
- How fierce aforetime and how absolute
- That wheel of flame which turned within my
head,
- May never quite be said,
- Because there are not words to speak the
whole.
- It slew my hope whereof I lack the fruit,
- And stung the blood within my living flesh
- To be an intricate mesh
- Of pain beyond endurance or control;
- Withdrawing me from God, who gave my soul
-
40To know the sign where honour has its seat
- From honour's counterfeit.
- So in its longing my heart finds not hope,
- Nor knows what door to ope;
- Since, parting me from God, this foe took thought
- To shut those paths wherein He may be sought.
- My second enemy, thrice armed in guile,
- As wise and cunning to mine overthrow
- As her smooth face doth show,
- With yet more shameless strength holds
mastery.
-
50My spirit, naked of its light and vile,
- Is lit by her with her own deadly gleam,
- Which makes all anguish seem
- As nothing to her scourges that I see.
- O thou the body of grace, abide with me
- As thou wast once in the once joyful time;
- And though thou hate my crime,
- Fill not my life with torture to the end;
- But in thy mercy, bend
- My steps, and for thine honour, back again;
-
60Till, finding joy through thee, I bless my pain.
page: 158
- Since that first frantic devil without faith
- Fell, in thy name, upon the stairs that
mount
- Unto the limpid fount
- Of thine intelligence,—withhold not now
- Thy grace, nor spare my second foe from death.
- For lo! on this my soul has set her trust;
- And failing this, thou must
- Prove false to truth and honour, seest
thou!
- Then, saving light and throne of strength,
allow
-
70My prayer, and vanquish both my foes at last;
- That so I be not cast
- Into that woe wherein I fear to end.
- Yet if it is ordain'd
- That I must die ere this be perfected,—
- Ah! yield me comfort after I am dead.
- Ye unadornèd words obscure of sense,
- With weeping and with sighing go from me,
- And bear mine agony
- (Not to be told by words, being too intense,)
-
80 To His intelligence
- Who moved by virtue shall fulfil my breath
- In human life or compensating death.
page: 159
- “O sluggish, hard, ingrate, what
doest thou?
- Poor sinner, folded round with heavy sin,
- Whose life to find out joy alone is bent.
- I call thee, and thou fall'st to deafness now;
- And, deeming that my path whereby to win
- Thy seat is lost, there sitt'st thee down
content,
- And hold'st me to thy will subservient.
- But I into thy heart have crept disguised:
- Among thy senses and thy sins I went,
-
10By roads thou didst not guess, unrecognised.
- Tears will not now suffice to bid me go,
- Nor countenance abased, nor words of woe.”
- Now, when I heard the sudden dreadful voice
- Wake thus within to cruel utterance,
- Whereby the very heart of hearts did fail,
- My spirit might not any more rejoice,
- But fell from its courageous pride at
once,
- And turned to fly, where flight may not
avail.
- Then slowly 'gan some strength to
re-inhale
-
20The trembling life which heard that whisper speak,
- And had conceived the sense with sore
travail;
- Till in the mouth it murmured, very weak,
- Saying: “Youth, wealth, and beauty, these have I:
- O Death! remit thy claim,—I would not die.”
page: 160
- Small sign of pity in that aspect dwells
- Which then had scattered all my life
abroad
- Till there was comfort with no single
sense:
- And yet almost in piteous syllables,
- When I had ceased to speak, this answer
flow'd:
-
30 “Behold what path is spread before thee
hence;
- Thy life has all but a day's permanence.
- And is it for the sake of youth there seems
- In loss of human years such sore offence?
- Nay, look unto the end of youthful dreams.
- What present glory does thy hope possess,
- That shall not yield ashes and bitterness?”
- But, when I looked on Death made visible,
- From my heart's sojourn brought before
mine eyes,
- And holding in her hand my grievous sin,
-
40I seemed to see my countenance, that fell,
- Shake like a shadow: my heart uttered
cries,
- And my soul wept the curse that lay
therein.
- Then Death: “Thus much thine
urgent prayer
- shall win:—
- I grant thee the brief interval of youth
- At natural pity's strong soliciting.”
- And I (because I knew that moment's ruth
- But left my life to groan for a frail space)
- Fell in the dust upon my weeping face.
- So, when she saw me thus abashed and dumb,
-
50 In loftier words she weighed her argument,
- That new and strange it was to hear her
speak
- Saying: “The path thy fears withhold thee from
- Is thy best path. To folly be not shent,
- Nor shrink from me because thy flesh is
weak.
- Thou seest how man is sore confused, and
eke
- How ruinous Chance makes havoc of his life,
- And grief is in the joys that he doth
seek;
page: 161
- Nor ever pauses the perpetual strife
- 'Twixt fear and rage; until beneath the sun
-
60His perfect anguish be fulfilled and done.”
- “O Death! thou art so dark and difficult,
- That never human creature might attain
- By his own will to pierce thy secret
sense;
- Because, foreshadowing thy dread result,
- He may not put his trust in heart or brain,
- Nor power avails him, nor intelligence.
- Behold how cruelly thou takest hence
- These forms so beautiful and dignified,
- And chain'st them in thy shadow chill and
dense,
-
70And forcest them in narrow graves to hide;
- With pitiless hate subduing still to thee
- The strength of man and woman's delicacy.”
- “Not for thy fear the less I come at last,
- For this thy tremor, for thy painful
sweat.
- Take therefore thought to leave (for lo! I
call)
- Kinsfolk and comrades, all thou didst hold fast,—
- Thy father and thy mother,—to forget
- All these thy brethren, sisters, children,
all.
- Cast sight and hearing from thee; let hope
fall;
-
80Leave every sense and thy whole intellect,
- These things wherein thy life made
festival:
- For I have wrought thee to such strange effect
- That thou hast no more power to dwell with these
- As living man. Let pass thy soul in peace.”
- Yea, Lord. O thou, the Builder of the spheres,
- Who, making me, didst shape me, of thy
grace,
- In thine own image and high counterpart;
- Do thou subdue my spirit, long perverse,
- To weep within thy will a certain space,
-
90 Ere yet thy thunder come to rive my heart.
- Set in my hand some sign of what thou art,
page: 162
- Lord God, and suffer me to seek out Christ,—
- Weeping, to seek Him in thy ways apart;
- Until my sorrow have at length suffic'd
- In some accepted instant to atone
- For sins of thought, for stubborn evil done.
- Dishevelled and in tears, go, song of mine,
- To break the hardness of the heart of man:
- Say how his life began
-
100From dust, and in that dust doth sink supine:
- Yet, say, the unerring spirit of grief
shall guide
- His soul, being purified,
- To seek its Maker at the heavenly shrine.
page: [163]
- Each lover's longing leads him naturally
- Unto his lady's heart his heart to show;
- And this it is that Love would have thee
know
- By the strange vision which he sent to thee.
- With thy heart therefore, flaming outwardly,
- In humble guise he fed thy lady so,
- Who long had lain in slumber, from all woe
- Folded within a mantle silently.
- Also, in coming, Love might not repress
-
10 His joy, to yield thee thy desire
achieved,
- Whence heart should unto heart
true service bring.
- But understanding the great love-sickness
- Which in thy lady's bosom was conceived,
- He pitied her, and wept in vanishing.
Transcribed Footnote (page [163]):
* See
ante,
page 33.
page: 164
- Albeit my prayers have not so long
delay'd,
- But craved for thee, ere this,
that Pity and Love
- Which only bring our heavy life some rest;
- Yet is not now the time so much o'erstay'd
- But that these words of mine which
tow'rds thee move
- Must find thee still with spirit
dispossess'd,
- And say to thee: “In Heaven she now is
bless'd,
- Even as the blessèd name men called her
by;”
- While thou dost ever cry,
-
10 “Alas! the blessing of mine eyes is
flown!”
- Behold, these words set down
- Are needed still, for still thou
sorrowest.
- Then hearken; I would yield advisedly
- Some comfort: Stay these sighs; give ear to me.
- We know for certain that in this blind world
- Each man's subsistence is of grief and
pain,
- Still trailed by fortune through all
bitterness:
- Blessèd the soul which, when its flesh is furl'd
- Within a shroud, rejoicing doth attain
-
20 To Heaven itself, made free of earthly
stress.
- Then wherefore sighs thy heart in
abjectness,
- Which for her triumph should exult aloud?
- For He the Lord our God
page: 165
- Hath called her, hearkening what her Angel said,
- To have Heaven perfected.
- Each saint for a new thing beholds her
face,
- And she the face of our Redemption sees,
- Conversing with immortal substances.
- Why now do pangs of torment clutch thy heart
-
30 Which with thy love should make thee
overjoy'd,
- As him whose intellect hath passed the
skies?
- Behold, the spirits of thy life depart
- Daily to Heaven with her, they so are
buoy'd
- With their desire, and Love so bids them
rise.
- O God! and thou, a man whom God made wise,
- To nurse a charge of care, and love the same!
- I bid thee in His Name
- From sin of sighing grief to hold thy breath,
- Nor let thy heart to death,
-
40 Nor harbour death's resemblance in thine
eyes.
- God hath her with Himself eternally,
- Yet she inhabits every hour with thee.
- Be comforted, Love cries, be comforted!
- Devotion pleads, Peace, for the love of
God!
- O yield thyself to prayers so full of
grace;
- And make thee naked now of this dull weed
- Which 'neath thy foot were better to be
trod;
- For man through grief despairs and ends
his days.
- How ever shouldst thou see the lovely face
-
50If any desperate death should once be thine?
- From justice so condign
- Withdraw thyself even now; that in the end
- Thy heart may not offend
- Against thy soul, which in the holy place,
- In Heaven, still hopes to see her and to be
- Within her arms. Let this hope comfort thee.
- Look thou into the pleasure wherein dwells
- Thy lovely lady who is in Heaven crown'd,
page: 166
- Who is herself thy hope in Heaven, the
while
-
60To make thy memory hallowed she avails;
- Being a soul within the deep Heaven bound,
- A face on thy heart painted, to beguile
- Thy heart of grief which else should turn
it vile.
- Even as she seemed a wonder here below,
- On high she seemeth so,—
- Yea, better known, is there more wondrous yet.
- And even as she was met
- First by the angels with sweet song and
smile,
- Thy spirit bears her back upon the wing,
-
70Which often in those ways is journeying.
- Of thee she entertains the blessèd throngs,
- And says to them: “While yet my body
thrave
- On earth, I gat much honour which he gave,
- Commending me in his commended songs.”
- Also she asks alway of God our Lord
- To give thee peace according to His
word.
page: 167
- Dante, whenever this thing happeneth,—
- That Love's desire is quite bereft of Hope,
- (Seeking in vain at ladies' eyes some scope
- Of joy, through what the heart for ever saith,)—
- I ask thee, can amends be made by Death?
- Is such sad pass the last extremity?—
- Or may the Soul that never feared to die
- Then in another body draw new breath?
- Lo! thus it is through her who governs all
-
10 Below,—that I, who entered at her door,
- Now at her dreadful window must fare
forth.
- Yea, and I think through her it doth befall
- That even ere yet the road is travelled
o'er
- My bones are weary and life is nothing
worth.
Transcribed Footnote (page 167):
* Among Dante's Epistles there is a Latin letter to Cino,
which
I should judge was written in reply to this
Sonnet.
page: 168
- I am all bent to glean the golden ore
- Little by little from the river-bed;
- Hoping the day to see
- When Crœsus shall be conquered in my store.
- Therefore, still sifting where the sands
are spread,
- I labour patiently:
- Till, thus intent on this thing and no more,—
- If to a vein of silver I were led,
- It scarce could gladden me.
-
10And, seeing that no joy's so warm i' the core
- As this whereby the heart is comforted
- And the desire set free,—
- Therefore thy bitter love is still my scope,
- Lady, from whom it is my life's sore theme
- More painfully to sift the grains of hope
- Than gold out of that stream.
page: 169
- O Love, O thou that, for my fealty,
- Only in torment dost thy power employ,
- Give me, for God's sake, something of thy
joy,
- That I may learn what good there is in thee.
- Yea, for, if thou art glad with grieving me,
- Surely my very life thou shalt destroy
- When thou renew'st my pain, because the joy
- Must then be wept for with the misery.
- He that had never sense of good, nor sight,
-
10 Esteems his ill estate but natural,
- Which so is lightlier borne: his case is
mine.
- But, if thou wouldst uplift me for a sign,
- Bidding me drain the curse and know it
all,
- I must a little taste its opposite.
page: 170
- This fairest lady, who, as well I wot,
- Found entrance by her beauty to my soul,
- Pierced through mine eyes my
heart, which erst was
- whole,
- Sorely, yet makes as though she knew it not;
- Nay turns upon me now, to anger wrought,
- Dealing me harshness for my pain's best
dole,
- And is so changed by her own wrath's
control,
- That I go thence, in my distracted thought
- Content to die; and, mourning, cry abroad
-
10 On Death, as upon one afar from me;
- But Death makes answer from within my
heart.
- Then, hearing her so hard at hand to be,
- I do commend my spirit unto God;
- Saying to her too, “Ease and peace thou
art.”
page: 171
- Vanquished and weary was my soul in me,
- And my heart gasped after its much lament,
- When sleep at length the painful languor
sent.
- And, as I slept (and wept incessantly),—
- Through the keen fixedness of memory
- Which I had cherished ere my tears were
spent,
- I passed to a new trance of wonderment;
- Wherein a visible spirit I could see,
- Which caught me up, and bore me to a place
-
10 Where my most gentle lady was alone;
- And still before us a fire seemed to move,
- Out of the which methought there came a
moan,
- Uttering, “Grace, a little season, grace!
- I am of one that hath the wings of
Love.”
page: 172
- I was upon the high and blessed mound,
- And kissed, long worshiping, the stones and
grass,
- There on the hard stones prostrate, where,
alas!
- That pure one laid her forehead in the ground.
- Then were the springs of gladness sealed and bound,
- The day that unto Death's most bitter pass
- My sick heart's lady turned her feet, who
was
- Already in her gracious life renown'd.
- So in that place I spake to Love, and cried:
-
10“O sweet my god, I am one whom
Death may claim
- Hence to be his; for lo! my heart lies
here.”
- Anon, because my Master lent no ear,
- Departing, still I called Selvaggia's
name.
- So with my moan I left the mountain-side.
page: 173
- Ay me, alas! the beautiful bright hair
- That shed reflected gold
- O'er the green growths on either side the
way:
- Ay me! the lovely look, open and fair,
- Which my heart's core doth hold
- With all else of that best-remembered day;
- Ay me! the face made gay
- With joy that Love confers;
- Ay me! that smile of hers
-
10 Where whiteness as of snow was visible
- Among the roses at all seasons red!
- Ay me! and was this well,
- O Death, to let me live when she is dead?
- Ay me! the calm, erect, dignified walk;
- Ay me! the sweet salute,—
- The thoughtful mind,—the wit discreetly
worn;
- Ay me! the clearness of her noble talk,
- Which made the good take root
- In me, and for the evil woke my scorn;
-
20 Ay me! the longing born
- Of so much loveliness,—
- The hope, whose eager stress
- Made other hopes fall back to let it pass,
- Even till my load of love grew light thereby!
- These thou hast broken, as glass,
- O Death, who makest me, alive, to die!
page: 174
- Ay me! Lady, the lady of all worth;—
- Saint, for whose single shrine
- All other shrines I left, even as Love
will'd;—
-
30Ay me! what precious stone in the whole earth,
- For that pure fame of thine
- Worthy the marble statue's base to yield?
- Ay me! fair vase fullfill'd
- With more than this world's good,—
- By cruel chance and rude
- Cast out upon the steep path of the
mountains
- Where Death has shut thee in between hard stones!
- Ay me! two languid fountains
- Of weeping are these eyes, which joy disowns.
-
40Ay me, sharp Death! till what I ask is done
- And my whole life is ended utterly,—
- Answer—must I weep on
- Even thus, and never cease to moan Ay
me?
page: 175
- What rhymes are thine which I have ta'en
from thee,
- Thou Guido, that thou ever
say'st I thieve?*
- 'Tis true, fine fancies gladly I receive,
- But when was aught found beautiful in thee?
- Nay, I have searched my pages diligently,
- And tell the truth, and lie not, by your
leave.
- From whose rich store my web of songs I
weave
- Love knoweth well, well knowing them and me.
- No artist I,—all men may gather it;
-
10 Nor do I work in ignorance of pride,
- (Though the world reach alone the coarser
sense;)
- But am a certain man of humble wit
- Who journeys with his sorrow at his side,
- For a heart's sake, alas! that is gone
hence.
Transcribed Footnote (page 175):
* 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 resem-
blance 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.
page: 176
- This book of Dante's, very sooth to say,
- Is just a poet's lovely heresy,
- Which by a lure as sweet as sweet can be
- Draws other men's concerns beneath its sway;
- While, among stars' and comets' dazzling play,
- It beats the right down, lets the wrong go
free,
- Shows some abased, and others in great
glee,
- Much as with lovers is Love's ancient way.
- Therefore his vain decrees, wherein he lied,
-
10 Fixing folks' nearness to the Fiend their
foe,
- Must be like empty nutshells flung aside.
- Yet through the rash false witness set to
grow,
- French and Italian vengeance on such pride
- May fall, like Antony's on Cicero.
page: 177
- Among the faults we in that book descry
- Which has crowned Dante lord of
rhyme and thought,
- Are two so grave that some attaint is
brought
- Unto the greatness of his soul thereby.
- One is, that, holding with Sordello high
- Discourse, and with the rest who sang and
taught,
- He of Onesto di Boncima* nought
- Has said, who was to Arnauld Daniel† nigh.
- The other is, that when he says he came
-
10 To see, at summit of the sacred stair,
- His Beatrice among the heavenly signs,—
- He, looking in the bosom of Abraham,
- Saw not that highest of all women there
- Who joined Mount Sion to the
Apennines.‡
Transcribed Footnote (page 177):
* 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.
Transcribed Footnote (page 177):
† The Provençal poet, mentioned in C. xxvi. of
the
Purgatory.
Transcribed Footnote (page 177):
‡ That is, sanctified the Apennines by her burial on the
Monte
della Sambuca.
page: [178]
- Of that wherein thou art a questioner
- Considering, I make answer briefly thus,
- Good friend, in wit but little prosperous:
- And from my words the truth thou shalt infer,—
- So hearken to thy dream's interpreter.
- If, sound of frame, thou soundly canst
discuss
- In reason,—then, to expel this overplus
- Of vapours which hath made thy speech to err,
- See that thou lave and purge thy stomach soon.
-
10 But if thou art afflicted with disease,
- Know that I count it mere delirium.
- Thus of my thought I write thee back the
sum:
- Nor my conclusions can be changed from
these
- Till to the leech thy water I have shown.
Transcribed Footnote (page [178]):
* See
ante,
page
33
.
page: 179
- Thou that art wise, let wisdom
minister
- Unto my dream, that it be understood.
- To wit: A lady, of her body fair,
- And whom my heart approves in
womanhood,
- Bestowed on me a wreath of flowers,
fair-hued
- And green in leaf, with gentle loving air;
- After the which, meseemed I was stark
nude
- Save for a smock of hers that I did wear.
- Whereat, good friend, my courage gat such growth
-
10 That to mine arms I took her tenderly:
- With no rebuke the beauty laughed unloth,
- And as she laughed I kissed
continually.
- I say no more, for that I pledged mine oath,
- And that my mother, who is dead, was
by.
page: 180
- On the last words of what you write
to me
- I give you my opinion at the first.
- To see the dead must prove corruption
nursed
- Within you, by your heart's own vanity.
- The soul should bend the flesh to its decree:
- Then rule it, friend, as fish by line
amerced.
- As to the smock, your lady's gift, the
worst
- Of words were not too bad for speech so free.
- It is a thing unseemly to declare
-
10 The love of gracious dame or damozel,
- And therewith for excuse to say, I
dream'd.
- Tell us no more of this, but think who
seem'd
- To call you: mother came to whip you
well.
- Love close, and of Love's joy you'll have
your share.
Transcribed Footnote (page 180):
* 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 translated 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
178
) a decided advantage
over his lesser namesake in point of
courtesy.
page: 181
- So greatly thy great pleasaunce pleasured
me,
- Gentle my lady, from the first of all,
- That counting every other blessing small
- I gave myself up wholly to know thee:
- And since I was made thine, thy courtesy
- And worth, more than of earth, celestial,
- I learned, and from its freedom did
enthrall
- My heart, the servant of thy grace to be.
- Wherefore I pray thee, joyful countenance,
-
10 Humbly, that it incense or irk thee not,
- If I, being thine, do wait upon thy glance.
- More to solicit, I am all afraid:
- Yet, lady, twofold is the gift, we wot,
- Given to the needy unsolicited.
page: 182
- Wonderful countenance and royal neck,
- I have not found your beauty's parallel!
- Nor at her birth might any yet prevail
- The likeness of these features to partake.
- Wisdom is theirs, and mildness: for whose sake
- All grace seems stol'n, such perfect grace
to swell;
- Fashioned of God beyond delight to dwell
- Exalted. And herein my pride I take
- Who of this garden have possession,
-
10 So that all worth subsists for my behoof
- And bears itself according to my will.
- Lady, in thee such pleasaunce hath its
fill
- That whoso is content to rest thereon
- Knows not of grief, and holds all pain
aloof.
page: [183]
- Dante Alighieri, Cecco, your good friend
- And servant, gives you greeting as his
lord,
- And prays you for the sake of Love's
accord,
- (Love being the Master before whom you bend,)
- That you will pardon him if he offend,
- Even as your gentle heart can well afford.
- All that he wants to say is just one word
- Which partly chides your sonnet at the end.
- For where the measure changes, first you say
-
10 You do not understand the gentle speech
- A spirit made touching your Beatrice:
- And next you tell your ladies how, straightway,
- You understand it. Wherefore (look you)
each
- Of these your words the other's sense
denies.
Transcribed Footnote (page [183]):
See
ante,
page
94
.
page: 184
- I am enamoured, and yet not so much
- But that I'd do without it easily;
- And my own mind thinks all the more of me
- That Love has not quite penned me in his hutch.
- Enough if for his sake I dance and touch
- The lute, and serve his servants
cheerfully:
- An overdose is worse than none would be:
- Love is no lord of mine, I'm proud to vouch.
- So let no woman who is born conceive
-
10 That I'll be her liege slave, as I see
some,
- Be she as fair and dainty as she will.
- Too much of love makes idiots, I believe:
- I like not any fashion that turns glum
- The heart, and makes the visage sick and
ill.
page: 185
- The man who feels not, more or less,
somewhat
- Of love in all the years his life goes
round
- Should be denied a grave in holy ground
- Except with usurers who will bate no groat:
- Nor he himself should count himself a jot
- Less wretched than the meanest beggar
found.
- Also the man who in Love's robe is gown'd
- May say that Fortune smiles upon his lot.
- Seeing how love has such nobility
-
10 That if it entered in the lord of Hell
- 'Twould rule him more than his
fire's ancient sting;
- He should be glorified to eternity,
- And all his life be always glad and well
- As is a wanton woman in the spring.
page: 186
- Whatever good is naturally done
- Is born of Love as fruit is born of flower:
- By Love all good is brought to its full
power:
- Yea, Love does more than this; for he finds none
- So coarse but from his touch some grace is won,
- And the poor wretch is altered in an hour.
- So let it be decreed that Death devour
- The beast who says that Love's a thing to shun.
- A man's just worth the good that he can hold,
-
10 And where no love is found, no good is
there;
- On that there's nothing that I would not
stake.
- So now, my Sonnet, go as you are told
- To lovers and their sweethearts
everywhere,
- And say I made you for Becchina's
sake.
page: 187
- Why, if Becchina's heart were diamond,
- And all the other parts of her were steel,
- As cold to love as snows when they congeal
- In lands to which the sun may not get round;
- And if her father were a giant crown'd
- And not a donkey born to stitching shoes,
- Or I were but an ass myself;—to use
- Such harshness, scarce could to her praise redound.
- Yet if she'd only for a minute hear,
-
10 And I could speak if only pretty well,
- I'd let her know that I'm her happiness;
- That I'm her life should also be made clear,
- With other things that I've no need to
tell;
- And then I feel quite sure she'd answer
Yes.
page: 188
- If I'd a sack of florins, and all new,
- (Packed tight together, freshly coined and
fine,)
- And Arcidosso and Montegiovi
mine,*
- And quite a glut of eagle-pieces too,—
- It were but as three farthings to my view
- Without Becchina. Why then all these plots
- To whip me, daddy? Nay, but tell me,—what's
- My sin, or all the sin of Turks, to you?
- For I protest (or may I be struck dead!)
-
10 My love's so firmly planted in its place,
- Whipping nor hanging now could
change the grain.
- And if you want my reason on this head,
- It is that whoso looks her in the face,
- Though he were old, gets back his youth
again.
Transcribed Footnote (page 188):
* Perhaps the names of his father's
estates.
page: 189
- I'm full of everything I do not want
- And have not that wherein I should find
ease;
- For alway till Becchina brings me peace
- The heavy heart I bear must toil and pant;
- That so all written paper would prove scant
- (Though in its space the Bible you might
squeeze,)
- To say how like the flames of furnaces
- I burn, remembering what she used to grant.
- Because the stars are fewer in heaven's span
-
10 Than all those kisses wherewith I kept
tune
- All in an instant (I who now have none!)
- Upon her mouth (I and no other man!)
- So sweetly on the twentieth day of June
- In the new year* twelve
hundred ninety-one.
Transcribed Footnote (page 189):
* 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. There is some added
vividness in
remembering that Cecco's unplatonic
love-encounter dates eleven
days after the first
death-anniversary of Beatrice (9th of June 1291),
when
Dante tells us that he “drew the resemblance of an angel
upon certain tablets.” (See
ante, p. 84.)
page: 190
- My heart's so heavy with a hundred things
- That I feel dead a hundred times a-day;
- Yet death would be the least of sufferings,
- For life's all suffering save what's slept
away;
- Though even in sleep there is no dream but brings
- From dream-land such dull torture as it
may.
- And yet one moment would pluck out these stings,
- If for one moment she were mine to-day
- Who gives my heart the anguish that it has.
-
10 Each thought that seeks my heart for its
abode
- Becomes a wan and sorrow-stricken guest:
- Sorrow has brought me to so sad a pass
- That men look sad to meet me on the road;
- Nor any road is mine that leads to
rest.
page: 191
- When I behold Becchina in a rage,
- Just like a little lad I trembling stand
- Whose master tells him to hold out his
hand;
- Had I a lion's heart, the sight would wage
- Such war against it, that in that sad stage
- I'd wish my birth might never have been
plann'd,
- And curse the day and hour that I was
bann'd
- With such a plague for my life's heritage.
- Yet even if I should sell me to the Fiend,
-
10 I must so manage matters in some way
- That for her rage I may not care a fig;
- Or else from death I cannot long be screen'd.
- So I'll not blink the fact, but plainly
say