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