LONDON:
Printed by John Strangeways,
Castle St. Leicester Sq.
TO MY MOTHER
I DEDICATE THIS NEW EDITION
OF A BOOK PRIZED BY HER LOVE.
In re-entitling and re-arranging this book
(originally
published in 1861 as
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
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-grace
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 rhymed 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
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.
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
weakened to adopt some rhyme which will tally, and
he sees the poet
revelling in abundance of language
where himself is scantily supplied. Now
he would
slight the matter for the music, and now the music for
the
matter; but no, he must deal to each alike. 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
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
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, Crescimbini, &c.; but these older
collections would be
found less accessible, and all they
contain has been reprinted.
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.
Appearing 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
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
(the Autobiography or Autopsychology
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 much
exquisite and intimate beauties are personal
peculiarities
which excite wonder and conjecture, best replied to in
words which Beatrice herself is made to utter in the
<xref doc="a.dante002.rad" link="dead">Com-<lb/>media</xref>
: ‘Questi
’*fù tal nella sua
vita nuova.
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 members of his circle,
these few pages
should be devoted.
It may be noted here, however, how necessary a know-
ledge of the
Boccaccio, in his
* Purgatorio, C. xxx.
sat solitary,’ such
‘I've seen the troops out of Caprona go On terms, affrighted thus, when on the spot They found themselves with foemen compass'd so.’
A word should be said here of the title of Dante's autobio-
graphy.
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
Among the poets of Dante's circle, the first in order, the * I must hazard here (to relieve the first page of my
translation
first in
power, and the one whom Dante has styled his
‘first
,’ is
friendGuido Cavalcanti,
born about 1250, and thus
Dante's senior by some fifteen years. It is
therefore pro-
bable 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
’ appears as one
of the sureties offered by the
de' Cavalcanti
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,
from a long note) a suggestion as to the meaning of
the most puzzling
passage in the whole
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
,—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
’ This presents the obvious difficulty that
the
lady of my mind who was
called Beatrice by many who knew not
how she was
called.
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 meaning.
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 77 of the I felt a spirit of
,’ in the last line of which sonnet Love is made
to
Love begin to
stir
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 accident in substance,—in other words, ‘
’ This conjecture may be pronounced
extravagant;
son una
cosa
but the
fantastic 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 translation I have adopted
in my
text.
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
intervention solicited by the
Guelfs) following almost immediately. In
the subdivision,
which afterwards took place, of the victorious Guelfs
into so-
called ‘Blacks’ and ‘Whites,’ Guido embraced the
White
party, which tended strongly to Ghibellinism, and whose
chief
was Vieri de' Cerchi, while Corso Donati headed the
opposite
faction. Whether his wife was still living at the time
when
the events of the Vita Nuova occurred, is probably not
ascer-
tainable; but about that time Dante tells us that Guido
was
enamoured of a lady named Giovanna or Joan, and
whose
Christian name is absolutely all that we know of her.
How-
ever, on the occasion of his pilgrimage to Thoulouse,
recorded
by Dino Compagni, he seems to have 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 Saint James the Greater; though the same
supposed
distinction had already made the shrine of Compostella
in
Gallicia one of the most famous throughout all Christendom.
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 followed by the Cerchi
that so their companies
might engage each other; and he running in
on his horse cast the
javelin, which missed its aim. And with
Messer Corso were Simon,
his son, a strong and daring youth, and
Cecchino de' Bardi, who
with many others pursued Guido with
drawn swords; but not
overtaking him they threw stones after him,
and also others were
thrown at him from the windows, whereby he
was wounded in the
hand. And by this matter hate was increased.
And Messer Corso
spoke great scorn of Messer Vieri, calling him
the Ass of the
Gate; because, albeit a very handsome man, he was but
of blunt
wit and no great speaker. And therefore Messer Corso would
say
often, ‘To-day the Ass of the Gate has brayed,’ and so
greatly
disparage him;
Cavicchia
.*
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.
* 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.) The haughty Corso Donati himself went by the
in un cavicchio
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
<xref doc="a.compagni001.rad" link="dead">Chronicle</xref>
, or the
<xref doc="a.fiorentino001.rad" link="dead">Pecorone</xref>
of
(Gior. xxiv. Nov. 2.)
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
158), 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, however, 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 ensued we again hear of
Guido
Cavalcanti.
‘It happened (says
’
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 Cavalcanti, Baldinuccio
and Corso Adimari,
Baschiero della Tosa and Naldo Gherardini,
with their comrades
and adherents on horse and on foot, hastened to
St. Peter's Gate
to the house of the Donati. Not finding them
there they went on
to San Pier Maggiore, where Messer Corso was
with his friends
and followers; by whom they were encountered and
put to flight,
with many wounds and with much shame to the party
of the Cerchi
and to their adherents.
By this time we may conjecture as probable that Dante,
in the
arduous position which he then filled as chief of the
nine
Priori
on whom the government of 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 Caval-
canti 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 Trabœria, while those of the
‘White’ faction
were sent to Sarzana, probably (for more
than one place bears the name)
in the Genovesato. ‘But
’ (writes Villani)
‘
this partyremained a less time in exile,
’ His death apparently took place in 1301.
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
offence.*
When the discords of Florence ceased, for Guido, in * ‘
death, Dante
also had seen their native city for the last time.
Before Guido's return
he had undertaken that embassy to
to be interpreted as above
than meaning ‘impressionable’ in love
affairs, but cannot be
certain.
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
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
, Dante has unmistakeably referred to him in at
least two passages
of the
ences is to be found in those famous lines
of the
‘Against all painters Cimabue thought To keep the field. Now Giotto has the cry, And so the fame o' the first wanes night 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.’
‘All roundabout he look'd, as though he had Desire to see if one was with me else. But after his surmise was all extinct, He weeping said: “If through this dungeon blind Thou goest by loftiness of intellect,— Where is my son, and wherefore not with thee?” And I to him: “Of myself come I not: He who there waiteth leads me thoro' here, Whom haply in disdain your Guido had.”* * * * * Raised upright of a sudden, cried he: “How Did'st say He had?Is he not living still?Doth not the sweet light strike upon his eyes?” * 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.When he perceived a certain hesitance Which I was making ere I should reply, He fell supine, and forth appear'd no more.’
‘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.”’
lived in’ And
heaven with the angels and on earth with his soul.
Among the
Guido. Sacchetti tells us how,
one day that he was intent
on a game at chess, Guido (who is described
as ‘one who
’) was
disturbed by a
perhaps had not his equal in Florence
child playing about, and threatened punishment 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
Ca-
.’
valcanti, being a man of great valour and a philosopher,
is
defeated by the cunning of a child
The ninth Tale of the sixth Day of the
‘You must know that in past times there were in our city
certain
’
goodly and praiseworthy customs no one of which is now
left,
thanks to avarice which has so increased with riches that
it has
driven them all away. Among the which was one whereby
the
gentlemen of the outskirts were wont to assemble together in
divers
places 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 an-
other, and so all in turn, laid tables each on
his own day for all the
fellowship. And in such wise often they
did honour to strangers of
worship and also to citizens. They
all dressed alike at least once in
the year, and the most
notable among them rode together through the
city; also at
seasons they held passages of arms, and specially on
the
principal feast-days, or whenever any news of victory or
other glad
tidings had reached the city. And among these
fellowships was one
headed by Messer Betto Brunelleschi, into
the which Messer Betto
and his companions had often intrigued to
draw Guido di Messer
Cavalcante de' Cavalcanti; and this not
without cause, seeing that
not only he was one of the best
logicians that the world held, and a
surpassing natural
philosopher, (for the which things the fellowship
cared little),
but also he 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 exceeding 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
sepulchres, said,
‘Let us go and engage him.’ Whereupon,
spurring their horses in
the fashion of a pleasant assault, they
were on him almost before he
was aware, and began to say to him,
‘Thou, Guido, wilt none
of our fellowship; but lo now! when thou
shalt have found that
there is no God, what wilt thou have
done?’ To whom Guido,
seeing himself hemmed in among then,
readily replied, ‘Gentlemen,
ye are at home here, and may say
what ye please to me.’ Where-
with, 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,
seeing that in them the dead are set to dwell; and here
he says
that we are at home; giving us to know that we and all
other
simple unlettered men, in comparison of him and the learned,
are
even as dead men; wherefore, being here, we are at
home.’
Thereupon each of them understood what Guido had meant,
and
was ashamed; nor ever again did they set themselves to
engage
him. Also from that day forth they held Messer Betto to
be a subtle
and understanding knight.
In the above story mention is made of Guido Cavalcanti's
wealth,
and there seems no doubt that at that time the
family was very rich and
powerful. On this account I am
disposed to question whether the Canzone at page 172 (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 confla-
gration
the houses and possessions of the Cavalcanti were
almost entirely
destroyed; the flames in that neighbourhood
(as Dino Compagni records)
gaining rapidly 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 136.)
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, * With them were expelled the still more powerful
Gherardini,
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
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?
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 renaissance; the earliest
being that by Egidio Colonna, a
beatified churchman who
died in 1316; while most of the too numerous
Academic
writers on Italian literature speak of this performance
with
also great sufferers by the conflagration; who, on
being driven from
their own country, became the founders of the
ancient Geraldine
family in Ireland. The Cavalcanti re-appear
now and then in later
European history; and especially we hear
of a second Guido Caval-
canti, 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.
great admiration as Guido's crowning work. A love-song
which acts
as such a fly-catcher for priests and pedants looks
very suspicious; and
accordingly, on examination, it proves
to be a poem beside the purpose
of poetry, filled with meta-
physical jargon, and perhaps the very worst
of Guido's pro-
ductions. 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.
interest; but was pleased lately, nevertheless, to meet
with a
remarkably complete translation of it by the Rev. Charles
T.
Brooks of Cambridge, United States.*
cold conceits which prevail in this poem may be found
dis-
figuring 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
personal 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
Towards the close of his life, Dante, in his Latin treatise * This translation occurs in the Appendix to an Essay on the
<xref doc="a.dante006.rad" link="dead">De Vulgari Eloquio</xref>
, 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
.’
This friend we afterwards find to be
subtly written poems
in modern Italian are Cino da Pistoia
and a friend of his
Dante himself; as among the various
poetical examples
quoted are several by Cino followed in three instances
by
E. Norton, of Cambridge, U.S.,—a work of high delicacy
and
appreciation which originally appeared by portions in the
Atlantic<lb/>Monthly
, but has since been augmented by the author and
privately
printed in a volume which is a beautiful specimen of
American
typography.
Amicus ejus
the first of his.’*
friends
Cino's Canzone addressed to Dante on the
death of * 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
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
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, Guittoncino,
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 196); nor is Guido mentioned anywhere with praise
by
Cino, as other poets are.
frater carissime
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 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 on account of political
sympathy alone; as Selvaggia
Vergiolesi, his daughter, is
the lady celebrated throughout the poet's
compositions.
Three years later, the Vergiolesi and their followers,
finding
Pitecchio untenable, fortified themselves on the Monte
della
Sambuca, a lofty peak of the 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 Sel-
vaggia, who remained
buried there, or, as Cino expresses it
in one of his poems,
Over her cheerless tomb Cino bent and mourned, as he
has told us,
when, after a prolonged absence spent partly in
France, he returned
through Tuscany on his way to Rome.
He had not been with Selvaggia's
family at the time of her
death; and it is probable that, on his return
to the Sambuca,
the fortress was already surrendered, and her grave
almost
the only record left there of the Vergiolesi.
Cino's journey to Rome was on account of his having
received a
high office under Louis of Savoy, who preceded
the Emperor Henry VII.
when he went thither to be crowned
in 1310. In another three years the
last blow was dealt to
the hopes of the exiled and persecuted
Ghibellines, by the
death of the Emperor, 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, 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 ob-
tained 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 pur-
suits 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, how-
ever, commencing
‘Piangete 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
<xref doc="a.petrarch007.rad" link="dead">Trionfi d'Amore</xref>
,
(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 represented as a pro-
fessor 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 success.
Most of his poems in honour
of Selvaggia are full of an elaborate and
mechanical tone of
complaint which hardly reads like the expression of a
real
love; nevertheless there are some, and especially the son-
net
on her tomb (at page 192), which display feeling and
power. The finest,
as well as the most interesting, of all
his pieces, is the very
beautiful canzone in which he attempts
to console Dante for the death of Beatrice. Though I have
found
much fewer among Cino's poems than among Guido's
which seemed to call
for translation, the collection of the
former is a larger one. Cino
produced legal writings also,
of which the chief one that has survived
is a Commentary
on the Statutes of Pistoia, said to have great merit,
and
whose production in the short space of two years was ac-
counted
an extraordinary achievement.
Having now spoken of the chief poets of this di-
vision, 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
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
(see page 198). 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 afterwards, and we may sur-
mise
that his rancour against his father may have been partly
dependent, in
the first instance, on the disagreements arising
from such a connection. However, from an amusing and
lifelike story
in the
In reading many both of Cecco's love-sonnets and hate-
sonnets, it
is impossible not to feel some pity for the indica-
tions they contain
of self-sought poverty, unhappiness, and
natural bent to ruin.
Altogether they have too much curious
individuality to allow of their
being omitted here: especially
as they afford the earliest prominent
example of a naturalism
without afterthought in the whole of Italian
poetry. Their
humour is sometimes 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
be
confessed that for the most part the sentiments expressed
in Cecco's
poetry are either impious or licentious. Most of
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
impu-
dence alone, unless perhaps of hypocrisy.
Cecco Angiolieri seems to have had poetical intercourse * It may be mentioned (as proving how much of the
poetry of † Of this sonnet I have seen two printed versions, in
both of
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
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita <lb/>Nuova</xref>
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
bad enough for Dante, who has remonstrated with him
about
Becchina.†
addresses
Dante in an insulting tone, apparently while the
latter was living in
exile at the court of Can Grande della
this period still remains in MS.) that Ubaldini, in
his Glossary to
Barberino, published in 1640, cites as
grammatical examples no
fewer than twenty-two short fragments
from Cecco Angiolieri, one
of which alone is to be found among
the sonnets which I have seen,
and which I believe are the
only ones in print. Ubaldini quotes
them from the Strozzi
MSS.
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 213.)
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 pro-
bably 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
<xref doc="a.dante002.1.rad" link="dead">Inferno</xref>
, 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
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
; but he was still (as he proudly called
himself)
‘the singer of Rectitude
,’ and his indignant
’ which made blessed the mother
who had born him.*
soul
* ‘Alma sdegnosa, Benedetta colei che in te s'incinse!’
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.
these,*
falls foul of his brother poets; and
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.
beginning, ‘Per troppa sottiglianza il fil si
rompe
,’§
he is certainly enjoying a fling
at somebody, and I suspect at
Cavalcanti in rejoinder to the very poem
which he himself
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 154) which is boldly and vividly drawn.
Next follow three poets of whom I have given one speci-
men
apiece. By Bernardo da Bologna (page 156) 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
155), which belongs
rather to the school of Sir Pandarus of Troy.
* Page 227. ‡ Page 160. § This sonnet, as printed, has a gap in the middle; let
us hope || Dino Compagni, the chronicler of Florence, is
repre-
sented here by
which is all the more interesting, as the same writer's his-
(in so immaculate a censor) from unfitness for
publication.Ist. d. Volg.
Poes.)
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.
torical 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 Magliabecchian Library at Florence, of a poem
by
him in
nona rima
containing 309 stanzas.
‘
with
historical and legendary abstracts.*
I have placed Lapo Gianni in this my first division
on
account of the sonnet by Dante (page
143) in which he seems
undoubtedly to be the Lapo referred to. It has
been sup-
posed 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 Ghibel-
lines were expelled; the Uberti family (as I have
mentioned
elsewhere) being the one of all others which was
most
jealously kept afar and excluded from every amnesty. The
only
information which I can find respecting Lapo Gianni is
the statement
that he was a notary by profession. I have
also seen it somewhere
asserted (though 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
Tongue
written verses in pure Italian.
* See
A.F. Ozanam
Paris,
entire.
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
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 without 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
Giotto's Canzone on the doctrine of
voluntary poverty,—
the only poem we have of his,—is a protest against a
per-
version 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 mad-
ness 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.
more curious when we remember his noble
fresco at
Assisi, of Saint Francis wedded to Poverty.*
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 death-
blow to the Ghibelline hopes which Dante so deeply
shared.
This one sonnet is all we know of its author, besides
his
name.
* See Dante's reverential treatment of this subject, (Giovanni Quirino is another name which stands
for-
lorn of any personal history. Fraticelli (in his well-known
and
valuable edition of
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 probably dates from Ravenna, and that
his
correspondent writes from some distance; while the poet
<xref doc="a.dante002.2.rad" link="dead">Parad.</xref>
C. xi.)
might well have formed a friendship with a Venetian bishop
at the
court of Verona.
answer*
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
as at last he neared the very home
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 consulted in form-
ing this collection, I have
often suffered keenly from the
buttonholders of learned Italy who will
not let one go on
one's way; and have contracted a horror of those
editions
where the text, hampered with numerals for
reference,
struggles through a few lines at the top of the page, only
to
stick fast at the bottom in a slough of verbal analysis. It
would
seem unpardonable to make a book which should be
even as these; and I
have thus found 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
something
which may require a little peace. The glare of too many
tapers
is apt to render a picture confused and inharmonious,
even
when their smoke does not obscure or deface it.
* 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 to-
gether 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.
† The last line of the
Paradise
(Cayley's
Translation
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
.*
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.
* ‘Here beginneth the new life.’ † In reference to the meaning of the name, ‘She who
confers
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
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.
the Eastern quarter one of the twelve parts of a degree;
so
that she appeared to me at the beginning of her
ninth year almost,
and I saw her almost at the end of
my ninth year. Her dress, on that
day, was of a most
noble colour, a subdued and goodly crimson,
girdled
and adorned in such sort as best suited with her
very
tender age. At that moment, I say most truly that
the
spirit of life, which hath its dwelling in the
secretest
chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently
that
the least pulses of my body shook therewith; and
in
trembling it said these words: Ecce deus fortior me, quiveniens dominabitur
mihi.*
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.†
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 go- * ‘Here is a deity stronger than I; who, coming, shall
rule † ‘Your beatitude hath now been made manifest unto you.’ ‡ ‘Woe is me! how often shall I be disturbed from this
time
verned 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
over me.’
forth!’
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
words of the poet
Homer, ‘She seemed not to be the
daughter of a mortal man, but
of God.’*
image, that was with me
always, was an exultation of
Love to subdue me, it was yet of so
perfect a quality
that it never allowed me to be overruled by Love
with-
out the faithful counsel of reason, whensoever
such
counsel was useful to be heard. But seeing that were
I to
dwell overmuch on the passions and doings of such
early youth, my
words might be counted something
fabulous, I will therefore put them
aside; and passing
many things that may be conceived by the pattern
of
these, I will come to such as are writ in my memory
with a
better distinctness.
After the lapse of so many days that nine years * ‘I am thy master.’ † ‘Behold thy heart.’
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;
<xref doc="a.homer1.rad" link="dead">Iliad</xref>
, xxiv. 258.)
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 discerned
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 understand but few;
and of
these, this: Ego dominus tuus.*
seemed to me that a person was sleeping, covered only
with a
blood-coloured cloth; upon whom 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 burn-
ing in flames; and he said to me, Vide cor tuum.†
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:—
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first
partI 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
it began thus, ‘Unto my thinking thou beheld'st
all
worth.’*
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 re-
duced that it was irksome to many of my friends to
look
upon me; while others, being moved by spite, went
about to
discover what it was my wish should be con-
cealed. Wherefore
I, (perceiving the drift of their un-
kindly 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
by whose help hath Love done this?’ I
looked in their
faces smiling, and spake no word in return.
* 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.
*
ture 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.
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.
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 beau-i.e. in a church.
tiful 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
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
some-
what mournfully of her departure, my former
counter-
feiting would be the more quickly perceived,
mined 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:—
* It will be observed that this poem is not what we now
call a
sonnet. Its structure, however, is analogous
to that of the sonnet,
being two sextetts followed by
two quattrains, instead of two quat-
trains followed
by two triplets. Dante applies the term sonnet to
both
these forms of composition, and to no
other.
This poem has two principal parts; for, in the first,
I mean to call the Faithful of Love in those words of
Jeremias the Prophet, ‘
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 con-
ceived 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:—
This first sonnet is divided into three parts. In the
first,
I call and beseech the Faithful of Love to weep; and I
say
that their Lord weeps, and that they, hearing the
reason
why he weeps, shall be more minded to listen to me. In
the
second, I relate this reason. In the third, I speak of
honour
done by Love to this Lady. The second part begins here,
‘When now so many dames;’ the third here, ‘Now
hearken.’
* The commentators assert that the last two lines here do
not
allude to the dead lady, but to Beatrice. This would make
the
poem very clumsy in construction; yet there must be some
covert
allusion to Beatrice, as Dante himself 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
afterwards says of
Beatrice, ‘
Quella ha nome Amor
.’ Most probably both allusions
are
intended.
This poem is divided into four parts. In the first I
address Death by certain proper names of hers. In the
second, speaking to her, I tell the reason why I am moved
to
denounce her. In the third, I rail against her. In the
fourth, I turn to speak to a person undefined, although
defined
in my own conception. The second part commences here,
‘Since thou alone;’ the third here, ‘And now (for I must);’
the fourth here, ‘Whoso deserves not.’
Some days after the death of this lady, I had occasion
to
leave the city I speak of, and to go thitherwards where
she abode
who had formerly been my protection; albeit
the end of my journey
reached not altogether so far.
And notwithstanding that I was
visibly in the company
of many, the journey was so irksome that I
had scarcely
sighing enough to ease my heart's heaviness; seeing
that
as I went, I left my beatitude behind me. Wherefore
it came
to pass that he who ruled me by virtue of my
most gentle lady was
made visible to my mind, in the
light habit of a traveller, coarsely fashioned. He ap-
peared
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:—
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 mis-
fame 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.
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
humble-
ness. And what time she made ready to salute me,
the
spirit of Love, destroying all other perceptions, thrust
forth
the feeble spirits of my eyes, saying, ‘Do homage
unto
your mistress,’ and putting itself in their place to
obey:
so that he who would, might then have beheld
Love,
beholding the lids of mine eyes shake. And when this
most
gentle lady gave her salutation, Love, so far from
being a medium
beclouding mine intolerable beatitude,
then bred in me such an
overpowering sweetness that my
body, being all subjected thereto,
remained many times
helpless and passive. Whereby it is made
manifest that
in her salutation alone was there any beatitude for
me,
which then very often went beyond my endurance.
And now, resuming my discourse, I will go on to * ‘My son, it is time for us to lay aside our
counterfeiting.’ † ‘I am as the centre of a circle, to the which all parts
of
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 rai-
ment, who kept his eyes fixed on me in deep thought.
sighed and called to me in these words: ‘
Fili mi, tempus
est ut prætermittantur simulata
nostra
.’*
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?’
answer
to me: ‘
Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui
simili
modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu
autem non sic
.’†
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
the circumference bear an equal relation: but with thee
it is not
thus.’ This phrase seems to have remained as
obscure to commen-
tators as Dante found it at the moment.
No one, as far as I know,
has even fairly tried to find a
meaning for it. To me the following
appears a not unlikely
one. Love is weeping on Dante's account,
and not on his own.
He says, ‘I am the centre of a circle (
Amor
che muove il sole e le altre
stelle):
therefore all loveable objects,
whether in heaven or
earth, or any part of the circle's circumference,
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 inti-
mation 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.’
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
beheld this
vision during the ninth hour of the day; and
I resolved that I would
make a ditty, before I left my
chamber, according to the words my master had spoken.
And this
is the ditty that I made:—
This ditty is divided into three parts. In the first, I
tell
it whither to go, and I encourage it, that it may go the
more
confidently, and I tell it whose 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
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 consequentia
rerum
.’*
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 * ‘Names are the consequents of things.’
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
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:
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 * It is difficult not to connect Dante's agony at this
wedding-
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 of
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
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
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.
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.
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 kills 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
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 re-
strain me from seeking to behold
her.’ And then, because
of these thoughts, I resolved to write
somewhat, wherein,
having pleaded mine excuse, I should tell her of
what I
felt in her presence. Whereupon I wrote this sonnet:—
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I
tell the cause why I abstain not from coming to this lady.
In the second, I tell what befalls me through coming to
her;
and this part begins here, ‘When thou art near.’ And
also this second part divides into five distinct
statements.
For, in the first, I say what Love, counselled by Reason,
tells me when I am near the lady. In the second, I set
forth
the state of my heart by the example of the face. In the
third, I say how all ground of trust fails me. In the
fourth, I say that he sins who shows not pity of me, which
would give me some comfort. In the last, I say why
people should take pity; namely, for the piteous look which
comes into mine eyes; which piteous look is destroyed, that
is, appeareth not unto others, through the jeering of this
lady, who draws to the like action those who perad-
venture 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
pre-
sence brought unto me; and the fourth was, how, when
I saw
her, the sight not only defended me not, but took
away the little
life that remained to me. And I said
these four things in a sonnet,
which is this:—
This sonnet is divided into four parts, four things being
therein narrated; and as these are set forth above, I only
proceed to distinguish the parts by their beginnings.
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
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 an-
other, 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
salu-
tation 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,
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.
pened, 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 com-
mencement.
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:—
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,
‘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
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:—
* Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins, ‘Within theThis sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I
speak of him according to his power. In the second, I speak
gentle heart Love shelters him.’ (See
Part II. page 291.)
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
me
that I should also say something in praise of my lady,
wherein it
might be set forth how love manifested itself
when produced by her;
and how not only she could
awaken it where it slept, but where it
was not she could
marvellously create it. To the which end I wrote
another
sonnet; and it is this:—
This sonnet has three sections. In the first, I say how
this lady brings this power into action by those most noble
features, her eyes; and, in the third, I say this same as
to
that most noble feature, her mouth. And between these two
sections is a little section, which asks, as it were, help
for the
previous section and the subsequent; and it begins here, ‘O
women, help.’ The third begins here, ‘Humbleness.’ The
first is divided into three: for, in the first, I say how
she
with power makes noble that which she looks upon; and this
is as much as to say that she brings Love, in power,
thither
where he is not. In the second, I say how she brings Love,
in act, into the hearts of all those whom she sees. In the
third, I tell what she afterwards, with virtue, operates
upon
their hearts. The second begins, ‘Upon her path;’ the
third,
‘He whom she greeteth.’ Then, when I say, ‘O women,
help,’ I intimate to whom it is my 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, beholding
her.’ Then, feeling the tears upon my face,
I put up my
hands to hide them: and had it not been that I
hoped
to hear more concerning her, (seeing that where I sat,
her
friends passed continually in and out), I should
assuredly have gone
thence to be alone, when I felt the
tears come. But as I still sat
in that place, certain ladies
again passed near me, who were 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
as we have beheld
her;’ and again: ‘He is so altered
that he seemeth not as himself.’
And still as the ladies
passed to and fro, I could hear them speak after this
fashion
of her and of me.
Wherefore afterwards, having considered and per-
ceiving that
there was herein matter for poesy, I resolved
that I would write
certain rhymes in the which should be
contained all that those
ladies had said. And because I
would willingly have spoken to them
if it had not been
for discreetness, I made in my rhymes as though I
had
spoken and they had answered me. And thereof I wrote
two
sonnets; in the first of which I addressed them as I
would fain have
done; and in the second related their
answer, using the speech that
I had heard from them, as
though it had been spoken unto myself. And
the sonnets
are these:—
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I
call and ask these ladies whether they come from her,
telling
them that I think they do, because they return the
nobler.
In the second, I pray them to tell me of her; and the
second
begins here, ‘And if indeed.’
This sonnet has four parts, as the ladies in whose
person I reply had four forms of answer. And, because
these are sufficiently shown above, I stay not to explain
the
purport of the parts, and therefore I only discriminate
them.
The second begins here, ‘And wherefore is thy grief;’ the
third here, ‘Nay, leave our woe;’ the fourth, ‘Also her
look.’
A few days after this, my body became afflicted with
a painful
infirmity, whereby I suffered bitter anguish for
many days, which at
last brought me unto such weakness
that I could no longer move. And
I remember that on
the ninth day, being overcome with intolerable
pain, a
thought came into my mind concerning my lady: but
when
it had a little nourished this thought, my mind
returned to its
brooding over mine enfeebled body. And
then perceiving how frail a
thing life is, even though
health keep with it, the matter seemed to
me so pitiful
that I could not choose but weep; and weeping I
said
within myself: ‘Certainly it must some time come to
pass
that the very gentle Beatrice will die.’ Then, feel-
ing bewildered,
I closed mine eyes; and my brain began
to be in travail as the brain
of one frantic, and to have
such imaginations as here follow.
And at the first, it seemed to me that I saw certain
faces of
women with their hair loosened, which called
out to me, ‘Thou shalt
surely die;’ after the which,
other terrible and unknown appearances
said unto me,
‘Thou art dead.’ At length, as my phantasy held on
in
its wanderings, I came to be I knew not where, and to
behold
a throng of dishevelled ladies wonderfully sad,
who kept going
hither and thither weeping. Then the
sun went out, so that the stars
showed themselves, and
they were of such a colour that I knew they
must be
weeping: and it seemed to me that the birds fell
dead
out of the sky, and that there were great earthquakes.
With
that, while I wondered in my trance, and was filled
with a grievous
fear, I conceived that a certain friend
came unto me and said: ‘Hast thou not heard? She
that was thine
excellent lady hath been taken out of
life.’ Then I began to weep
very piteously; and not
only in mine imagination, but with mine
eyes, which
were wet with tears. And I seemed to look
towards
Heaven, and to behold a multitude of angels who
were
returning upwards, having before them an exceedingly
white
cloud: and these angels were singing together
gloriously, and the
words of their song were these:
‘
Osanna in excelsis:’ and there
was no more that I
heard. Then my heart that was so full of love
said unto
me: ‘It is true that our lady lieth dead;’ and it
seemed
to me that I went to look upon the body wherein
that
blessed and most noble spirit had had its
abiding-place.
And so strong was this idle imagining, that it made
me
to behold my lady in death; whose head certain ladies
seemed
to be covering with a white veil; and who was
so humble of her
aspect that it was as though she had
said, ‘I have attained to look
on the beginning of peace.’
And therewithal I came unto such
humility by the sight
of her, that I cried out upon Death, saying:
‘Now come
unto me, and be not bitter against me any longer:
surely,
there where thou hast been, thou hast learned
gentleness.
Wherefore come now unto me who do greatly
desire
thee: seest thou not that I wear thy colour already?’
And
when I had seen all those offices performed that
are fitting to be
done unto the dead, it seemed to me
that I went back unto mine own
chamber, and looked
up towards Heaven. And so strong was my
phantasy,
that I wept again in very truth, and said with my true
voice: ‘O excellent soul! how blessed is he that now
looketh
upon thee!’
And as I said these words, with a painful anguish of
sobbing
and another prayer unto Death, a young and
gentle lady, who had been
standing beside me where
I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out
because of
the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with
trembling
and began to shed tears. Whereby other ladies,
who
were about the room, becoming aware of my discomfort
by
reason of the moan that she made, (who indeed was
of my very near
kindred,) led her away from where I
was, and then set themselves to
awaken me, thinking
that I dreamed, and saying: ‘Sleep no longer,
and be
not disquieted.’
Then, by their words, this strong imagination was
brought
suddenly to an end, at the moment that I was
about to say, ‘O
Beatrice! peace be with thee.’ And
already I had said, ‘O Beatrice!’
when being aroused, I
opened mine eyes, and knew that it had been
a
deception. But albeit I had indeed uttered her name,
yet my
voice was so broken with sobs, that it was not
understood by these
ladies; so that in spite of the
sore shame that I felt, I turned
towards them by
Love's counselling. And when they beheld me,
they
began to say, ‘He seemeth as one dead,’ and to
whisper
among themselves, ‘Let us strive if we may not
comfort him.’
Whereupon they spake to me many
soothing words, and questioned me
moreover touching
the cause of my fear. Then I, being somewhat
reassured,
and having perceived that it was a mere phantasy, said
unto them, ‘This thing it was that made me afeard;’
and told
them of all that I had seen, from the beginning
even unto the end,
but without once speaking the name
of my lady. Also, after I had
recovered from my sick-
ness, I bethought me to write these things
in rhyme;
deeming it a lovely thing to be known. Whereof I
wrote
this poem:—
This poem has two parts. In the first, speaking to a
person undefined, I tell how I was aroused from a vain
phantasy by certain ladies, and how I promised them to tell
what it was. In the second, I say how I told them. The
second part begins here, ‘I was a-thinking.’ The first part
divides into two. In the first, I tell that which certain
ladies, and which one singly, did and said because of my
phantasy, before I had returned into my right senses. In
the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after I had
left off this wandering: and it begins here, ‘But uttered
in
a voice.’ Then, when I say, ‘I was a-thinking,’ I say how
I told them this my imagination; and concerning this I have
two parts. In the first, I tell, in order, this
imagination.
In the second, saying at what time they called me, I
covertly
thank them: and this part begins here, ‘Just then you woke
me.’
After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, as
I sat
thoughtful, that I was taken with such a strong
trembling at the
heart, that it could not have been other-
wise in the presence of my
lady. Whereupon I per-
ceived that there was an appearance of Love
beside me,
and I seemed to see him coming from my lady; and he
said, not
aloud but within my heart: ‘Now take heed
that thou bless the day
when I entered into thee; for it
is fitting that thou shouldst do
so.’ And with that my
heart was so full of gladness, that I could
hardly believe
it to be of very truth mine own heart and not
another.
A short while after these words which my heart spoke * There is a play in the original upon the words
to me
with the tongue of Love, I saw coming towards me
a certain lady who
was very famous for her beauty, and
of whom that friend whom I have
already called the first
among my friends had long been enamoured.
This
lady's right name was Joan; but because of her comeli-
ness
(or at least it was so imagined) she was called of
many
Primavera
(Spring), and went by that name among
them. Then looking
again, I perceived that the most
noble Beatrice followed after her.
And when both these
ladies had passed by me, it seemed to me that
Love
spake again in my heart, saying: ‘She that came first
was
called Spring, only because of that which was to hap-
pen on this
day.
name to
be given her; seeing that as the Spring cometh
first in the
year, so should she come first on this day,*
when Beatrice was
to show herself after the vision of her
servant.
right name, it is also as one
should say, ‘She shall come
first;’ inasmuch as her name, Joan, is
taken from that
John who went before the True Light, saying: Ego vox
Primavera
(Spring) and
prima verrà
(she shall come first), to which I
have
given as near an equivalent as I could.clamantis in deserto: “Parate viam Domini
it seemed to me that he added other
words, to wit: ‘He
who should inquire delicately touching this
matter, could
not but call Beatrice by mine own name, which is to
say,
Love; beholding her so like unto me.’
with rhymes and send it unto my chief friend; but
set-
ting aside certain words† which seemed proper to be
set
aside, because I believed that his heart still regarded
the
beauty of her that was called Spring.
sonnet:—
* ‘I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness:
“Prepare ye
the way of the Lord.”’
† That is (as I understand it), suppressing, from
delicacy towards
his friend, the words in which Love
describes Joan as merely the
forerunner of Beatrice.
And perhaps in the latter part of this sen-
tence a
reproach is gently conveyed to the fickle Guido
Cavalcanti,
who may already have transferred his
homage (though Dante had
not then learned it) from
Joan to Mandetta. (See his Poems.)
This sonnet has many parts: whereof the first tells how
I felt awakened within my heart the accustomed tremor, and
how it seemed that Love appeared to me joyful from afar.
The second says how it appeared to me that Love spake
within my heart, and what was his aspect. The third
tells how, after he had in such wise been with me a space,
I
saw and heard certain things. The second part begins here,
‘Saying, “Be now;”’ the third here, ‘Then, while it was
his pleasure.’ The third part divides into two. In the
first, I say what I saw. In the second, I say what I
heard; and it begins here, ‘Love spake it then.’
It might be here objected unto me, (and even by one * On reading Dante's treatise †
worthy of
controversy,) that I have spoken of Love as
though it were a thing
outward and visible: not only a
spiritual essence, but as a bodily
substance also. The
which thing, in absolute truth, is a fallacy;
Love not
being of itself a substance, but an accident of
substance.
Yet that I speak of Love as though it were a
thing
tangible and even human, appears by three things which
I
say thereof. And firstly, I say that I perceived Love
coming towards
me; whereby, seeing that to come be-
speaks
locomotion, and seeing also how philosophy
teacheth us that none but
a corporeal substance hath
locomotion, it seemeth that I speak of
Love as of a cor-
poreal substance. And secondly, I say that Love
smiled;
and thirdly, that Love spake; faculties (and especially
the risible faculty) which appear proper unto man:
whereby it
further seemeth that I speak of Love as of a
man. Now that this
matter may be explained, (as is fit-
ting,) it must first be
remembered that anciently they who
wrote poems of Love wrote not in
the vulgar tongue, but
rather certain poets in the Latin tongue.
us, although perchance the
same may have been among
others, and although likewise, as among
the Greeks,
they were not writers of spoken language, but men of
let-
ters, treated of these things.*
great number of years since poetry began to be made in
the
vulgar tongue; the writing of rhymes in spoken lan-
guage
corresponding to the writing in metre of Latin
verse, by a certain
analogy. And I say that it is but a
little while, because if we
examine
oco
and
the language of
sì
†
written
thing of an earlier date than the last hundred and
fifty years. Also
the reason why certain of a very mean
sort obtained at the first
some fame as poets is, that
before them no man had written verses in
the language
of
sì: and of these, the first
was moved to the writing of
such verses by the wish to make himself
understood of a
<xref doc="a.dante006.rad" link="dead">De Vulgari
Eloquio</xref>
, it will be
found that the distinction which he
intends here is not between one
language, or dialect, and
another; but between ‘vulgar speech’
(that is, the language
handed down from mother to son without any
conscious use of
grammar or syntax,) and language as regulated by
grammarians
and the laws of literary composition, and which Dante
calls
simply ‘Grammar.’ A great deal might be said on the
bearings
of the present passage, but it is no part of my
plan to enter on such
questions.i.e. the languages of Provence and
Tuscany.
certain lady, unto whom Latin poetry was difficult.
thing is against such as rhyme concerning other
matters
than love; that mode of speech having been first
used
for the expression of love alone.*
that poets have a license allowed them that is not allowed
unto
the writers of prose, and seeing also that they who
write in rhyme
are simply poets in the vulgar tongue, it
becomes fitting and
reasonable that a larger license
should be given to these than to
other modern writers;
and that any metaphor or rhetorical similitude
which is
permitted unto poets, should also be counted not
un-
seemly in the rhymers of the vulgar tongue. Thus, if
we
perceive that the former have caused inanimate things
to
speak as though they had sense and reason, and to dis-
course
one with another; yea, and not only actual things,
but such also as
have no real existence, (seeing that they
have made things which are
not, to speak; and often-
times written of those which are merely
accidents as
though they were substances and things human;)
it
should therefore be permitted to the latter to do the
like;
which is to say, not inconsiderately, but with such
suffi-
cient motive as may afterwards be set forth in prose.
* It strikes me that this curious passage furnishes a
reason,
hitherto (I believe) overlooked, why Dante put such
of his lyrical
poems as relate to philosophy into the form
of love-poems. He
liked writing in Italian rhyme rather than
Latin metre; he thought
Italian rhyme ought to be confined
to love-poems: therefore what-
ever he wrote (at this age)
had to take the form of a love-poem.
Thus any poem by Dante
not concerning love is later than his
twenty-seventh year
(1291-2), when he wrote the prose of the
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita<lb/>Nuova</xref>
; the poetry having been written earlier, at the time of
the
events referred to.
That the Latin poets have done thus, appears through
Virgil,
where he saith that Juno (to wit, a goddess hostile
to the Trojans)
spake unto Æolus, master of the Winds;
as it is written in the first
book of the
Æole,
namque tibi, etc.
Tuus, o regina, quid optes—Explorare labor, mihi
jussa capessere fas est.
Dardanidæ duri
Multum, Roma, tamen debes civilibus
armis
Dic mihi, Musa, virum,
etc
Bella mihi video, bella parantur, ait
But returning to the matter of my discourse. This
excellent
lady, of whom I spake in what hath gone
before, came at last into
such favour with all men, that
when she passed anywhere folk ran to
behold her; which
thing was a deep joy to me: and when she drew
near
unto any, so much truth and simpleness entered into
his
heart, that he dared neither to lift his eyes nor to
return
her salutation: and unto this, many who have felt it
can
bear witness. She went along crowned and clothed
with
humility, showing no whit of pride in all that she
heard
and saw: and when she had gone by, it was said of
many,
‘This is not a woman, but one of the beautiful angels
of
Heaven:’ and there were some that said: ‘This is surely
a
miracle; blessed be the Lord, who hath power to work
thus
marvellously.’ I say, of very sooth, that she showed
herself so
gentle and so full of all perfection, that she
bred in those who
looked upon her a soothing quiet
beyond any speech; neither could
any look upon her
without sighing immediately. These things, and
things
yet more wonderful, were brought to pass through
her
miraculous virtue. Wherefore I, considering thereof
and
wishing to resume the endless tale of her praises,
resolved
to write somewhat wherein I might dwell on her
sur-
passing influence; to the end that not only they who
had
beheld her, but others also, might know as much con-
cerning
her as words could give to the understanding.
And it was then that I
wrote this sonnet:—
This sonnet is so easy to understand, from what is
afore
narrated, that it needs no division; and therefore,
leaving it, I
say also that this excellent lady came into
such favour with all
men, that not only she herself was
honoured and commended; but
through her companion-
ship, honour and commendation came unto
others.
Wherefore I, perceiving this and wishing that it
should
also be made manifest to those that beheld it not,
wrote
the sonnet here following; wherein is signified the
power
which her virtue had upon other ladies:—
This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say in what
company this lady appeared most wondrous. In the second,
I say how gracious was her society. In the third, I tell of
the things which she, with power, worked upon others.
The second begins here, ‘They that go with her;’ the third
here, ‘So perfect.’ This last part divides into three. In
the first, I tell what she operated upon women, that is, by
their own faculties. In the second, I tell what she
operated
in them through others. In the third, I say how she not
only operated in women, but in all people; and not only
while herself present, but, by memory of her, operated won-
drously. The second begins here, ‘Merely the sight;’ the
third here, ‘From all her acts.’
Thereafter on a day, I began to consider that which I
had said
of my lady: to wit, in these two sonnets afore-
gone: and becoming
aware that I had not spoken of her
immediate effect on me at that
especial time, it seemed
to me that I had spoken defectively.
Whereupon I
resolved to write somewhat of the manner wherein I was
then subject to her influence, and of what her influence
then
was. And conceiving that I should not be able to
say these things in
the small compass of a sonnet, I began
therefore a poem with this
beginning:—
*Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi !
vidua domina gentium
I was still occupied with this poem, (having composed *
thereof
only the above-written stanza,) when the Lord
God of justice called
my most gracious lady unto Him-How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of
people! how
’—
is she become as a widow, she that was
great among the nations!
Lamentations of
Jeremiah
, i, I.
self, that she might be glorious under the banner of
that
blessed Queen Mary, whose name had always a deep
reverence
in the words of holy Beatrice. And because
haply it might be found
good that I should say some-
what concerning her departure, I will
herein declare what
are the reasons which make that I shall not do
so.
And the reasons are three. The first is, that such
matter
belongeth not of right to the present argument, if
one consider the
opening of this little book. The second
is, that even though the
present argument required it, my
pen doth not suffice to write in a
fit manner of this thing.
And the third is, that were it both
possible and of
absolute necessity, it would still be unseemly for
me to
speak thereof, seeing that thereby it must behove me
to
speak also mine own praises: a thing that in whosoever
doeth
it is worthy of blame. For the which reasons, I
will leave this
matter to be treated of by some other than
myself.
Nevertheless, as the number nine, which number hath
often had
mention in what hath gone before, (and not, as
it might appear,
without reason), seems also to have
borne a part in the manner of
her death: it is therefore
right that I should say somewhat thereof.
And for this
cause, having first said what was the part it bore
herein,
I will afterwards point out a reason which made that
this
number was so closely allied unto my lady.
I say, then, that according to the division of time in
Italy,
her most noble spirit departed from among us in
the first hour of
the ninth day of the month; and according
to the division of time in
Syria, in the ninth month of
the year: seeing that Tismim, which with us is October,
is
there the first month.
among us in that year of our reckoning (to wit, of
the
years of our Lord) in which the perfect number was
nine
times multiplied within that century wherein she was
born
into the world: which is to say, the thirteenth
century
of Christians.*
And touching the reason why this number was so * Beatrice Portinari will thus be found to have died during
the
closely allied
unto her, it may peradventure be this.
According to Ptolemy, (and
also to the Christian verity,)
the revolving heavens are nine; and
according to the
common opinion among astrologers, these nine
heavens
together have influence over the earth. Wherefore
it
would appear that this number was thus allied unto her
for
the purpose of signifying that, at her birth, all these
nine heavens
were at perfect unity with each other as to
their influence. This is
one reason that may be brought:
but more narrowly considering, and
according to the
infallible truth, this number was her own self:
that is to
say by similitude. As thus. The number three is
the
root of the number nine; seeing that without the
inter-
position of any other number, being multiplied merely
by
itself, it produceth nine, as we manifestly perceive
that
three times three are nine. Thus, three being of itself
the
first hour of the 9th of June, 1290. And from what Dante
says at
the commencement of this work, (viz. that she was
younger than
himself by eight or nine months,) it may also
be gathered that her
age, at the time of her death, was
twenty-four years and three
months. The ‘perfect number’
mentioned in the present passage is
the number ten.
efficient of nine, and the Great Efficient of Miracles
being of
Himself Three Persons (to wit: the Father, the
Son, and the Holy
Spirit), which, being Three, are also
One:—this lady was accompanied
by the number nine to
the end that men might clearly perceive her to
be a nine,
that is, a miracle, whose only root is the Holy
Trinity.
It may be that a more subtile person would find for
this
thing a reason of greater subtilty: but such is the
reason
that I find, and that liketh me best.
After this most gracious creature had gone out from
among us,
the whole city came to be as it were widowed
and despoiled of all
dignity. Then I, left mourning in
this desolate city, wrote unto the
principal persons
thereof, in an epistle, concerning its condition;
taking
for my commencement those words of Jeremias:
And I make mention of this,Quo-
modo sedet sola civitas! etc.
that none may marvel wherefore I
set down these words
before, in beginning to treat of her death.
Also if any
should blame me, in that I do not transcribe that
epistle
whereof I have spoken, I will make it mine excuse that
I
began this little book with the intent that it should
be
written altogether in the vulgar tongue; wherefore,
seeing
that the epistle I speak of is in Latin, it belongeth
not to mine
undertaking: more especially as I know that
my chief friend, for
whom I write this book, wished also
that the whole of it should be
in the vulgar tongue.
When mine eyes had wept for some while, until they
were so
weary with weeping that I could no longer
through them give ease to
my sorrow, I bethought me
that a few mournful words might stand me
instead of
tears. And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that
weeping I
might speak therein of her for whom so much
sorrow had destroyed my
spirit; and I then began ‘The
eyes that weep.’
That this poem may seem to remain the more widowed
at its close, I will divide it before writing it; and this
method I will observe henceforward. I say that this poor
little poem has three parts. The first is a prelude. In the
second, I speak of her. In the third, I speak pitifully to
the
poem. The second begins here, ‘Beatrice is gone up;’ the
third here, ‘Weep, pitiful Song of mine.’ The first divides
into three. In the first, I say what moves me to speak. In
the second, I say to whom I mean to speak. In the third,
I say of whom I mean to speak. The second begins here,
‘And because often, thinking;’ the third here, ‘And I will
say.’ Then, when I say, ‘Beatrice is gone up,’ I speak of
her; and concerning this I have two parts. First, I tell
the cause why she was taken away from us: afterwards, I
say how one weeps her parting; and this part commences
here, ‘Wonderfully.’ This part divides into three. In the
first, I say who it is that weeps her not. In the second, I
say who it is that doth weep her. In the
third, I speak of
my condition. The second begins here, ‘But sighing comes,
and grief;’ the third, ‘With sighs.’ Then, when I say,
‘Weep, pitiful Song of mine,’ I speak to this my song,
telling
it what ladies to go to, and stay with.
After I had written this poem, I received the visit of
a
friend whom I counted as second unto me in the
degrees of
friendship, and who, moreover, had been
united by the nearest
kindred to that most gracious
creature. And when we had a little
spoken together,
he began to solicit me that I would write
somewhat
in memory of a lady who had died; and he disguised
his
speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another who
was but lately
dead: wherefore I, perceiving that his
speech was of none other than
that blessed one herself,
told him that it should be done as he
required. Then
afterwards, having thought thereof, I imagined to give
vent in
a sonnet to some part of my hidden lamentations;
but in such sort
that it might seem to be spoken by this
friend of mine, to whom I
was to give it. And the son-
net saith thus: ‘Stay now with me,’
&c.
This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the
Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I relate my
miserable condition. The second begins here, ‘Mark how
they force.’
But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me
who he was
to whom I was to give it, that it might
appear to be his speech, it
seemed to me that this was
but a poor and barren gift for one of her
so near kindred.
Wherefore, before giving him this sonnet, I wrote two
stanzas of a poem: the first being written in very
sooth as
though it were spoken by him, but the other
being mine own speech,
albeit, unto one who should not
look closely, they would both seem
to be said by the
same person. Nevertheless, looking closely, one
must
perceive that it is not so, inasmuch as one does not
call
this most gracious creature his lady, and the
other does,
as is manifestly apparent. And I gave the poem
and
the sonnet unto my friend, saying that I had made them
only
for him.
The poem begins, ‘Whatever while,’ and has two parts.
In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this my dear
friend,
her kinsman, laments. In the second, I lament; that is, in
the other stanza, which begins, ‘For ever.’ And thus it
appears that in this poem two persons lament, of whom one
laments as a brother, the other as a servant.
On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady
had been
made of the citizens of eternal life, remem-
bering me of her as I
sat alone, I betook myself to
draw the resemblance of an angel upon
certain tablets.
And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head,
I
perceived that some were standing beside me to whom
I should
have given courteous welcome, and that they
were observing what I
did: also I learned afterwards
that they had been there a while
before I perceived
them.
said: ‘Another was with me.’*
Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself * Thus according to some texts. The majority, however,
add
again to mine
occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures
the words, ‘And therefore was I in thought:’ but the
shorter speech
is perhaps the more forcible and
pathetic.
of angels: in doing which, I conceived to write of this
matter
in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and to address
my rhymes unto
those who had just left me. It was
then that I wrote the sonnet
which saith, ‘That lady:’
and as this sonnet hath two commencements,
it be-
hoveth me to divide it with both of them here.
I say that, according to the first, this sonnet has three
parts. In the first, I say that this lady was then in my
memory. In the second, I tell what Love therefore did
with me. In the third, I speak of the effects of Love. The
second begins here, ‘Love knowing;’ the third here, ‘Forth
went they.’ This part divides into two. In the one, I say
that all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say how
some spoke certain words different from the others. The
second begins here, ‘And still.’ In this same manner is it
divided with the other beginning, save that, in the first
part,
I tell when this lady had thus come into my mind, and this
I say not in the other.
Second Commencement.
Then, having sat for some space sorely in thought
because of
the time that was now past, I was so filled
with dolorous imaginings
that it became outwardly mani-
fest in mine altered countenance.
Whereupon, feeling
this and being in dread lest any should have seen
me,
I lifted mine eyes to look; and then perceived a young
and
very beautiful lady, who was gazing upon me from
a window with a
gaze full of pity, so that the very sum
of pity appeared gathered
together in her. And seeing
that unhappy persons, when they beget
compassion in
others, are then most moved unto weeping, as
though
they also felt pity for themselves, it came to pass
that
mine eyes began to be inclined unto tears.
Wherefore,
becoming fearful lest I should make manifest
mine
abject condition, I rose up, and went where I could not
be
seen of that lady; saying afterwards within myself:
‘Certainly with
her also must abide most noble Love.’
And with that, I resolved upon
writing a sonnet, wherein,
speaking unto her, I should say all that I have just said.
And
as this sonnet is very evident, I will not divide it:—
It happened after this, that whensoever I was seen of
this
lady, she became pale and of a piteous countenance,
as though it had
been with love; whereby she remem-
bered me many times of my own
most noble lady, who
was wont to be of a like paleness. And I know
that
often, when I could not weep nor in any way give ease
unto
mine anguish, I went to look upon this lady, who
seemed to bring the
tears into my eyes by the mere sight
of her. Of the which thing I
bethought me to speak
unto her in rhyme, and then made this sonnet:
which
begins, ‘Love's pallor,’ and which is plain without
being
divided, by its exposition aforesaid:—
At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mine
eyes began
to be gladdened overmuch with her company;
through which thing many
times I had much unrest, and
rebuked myself as a base person: also,
many times I
cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes, and said to
them
inwardly: ‘Was not your grievous condition of weeping
wont
one while to make others weep? And will ye
now forget this thing
because a lady looketh upon you?
who so looketh merely in compassion
of the grief ye
then showed for your own blessed lady. But whatso
ye
can, that do ye, accursed eyes! many a time will
I make you
remember it! for never, till death dry
you up, should ye make an end
of your weeping.’
And when I had spoken thus unto mine eyes, I
was
taken again with extreme and grievous sighing. And
to the end that this inward strife which I had under-
gone
might not be hidden from all saving the miserable
wretch who endured
it, I proposed to write a sonnet,
and to comprehend in it this
horrible condition. And
I wrote this which begins, ‘The very bitter
weeping.’
The sonnet has two parts. In the first, I speak to
my eyes, as my heart spoke within myself. In the second, I
re-
move a difficulty, showing who it is that speaks thus: and
this part begins here, ‘So far.’ It well might receive
other
divisions also; but this would be useless, since it is
manifest
by the preceding exposition.
The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted a
condition
that I often thought of her as of one too dear
unto me; and I began
to consider her thus: ‘This lady
is young, beautiful, gentle, and wise: perchance it was
Love
himself who set her in my path, that so my life
might find peace.’
And there were times when I thought
yet more fondly, until my heart
consented unto its rea-
soning. But when it had so consented, my
thought would
often turn round upon me, as moved by reason,
and
cause me to say within myself: ‘What hope is this
which
would console me after so base a fashion, and which
hath
taken the place of all other imagining?’ Also there
was
another voice within me, that said: ‘And wilt thou,
having
suffered so much tribulation through Love, not
escape while yet thou
mayest from so much bitterness?
Thou must surely know that this
thought carries with it
the desire of Love, and drew its life from
the gentle eyes
of that lady who vouchsafed thee so much pity.’
Where-
fore I, having striven sorely and very often with
myself,
bethought me to say somewhat thereof in rhyme.
seeing that in the battle of doubts, the victory
most often
remained with such as inclined towards the lady of
whom
I speak, it seemed to me that I should address
this
sonnet unto her: in the first line whereof, I call
that
thought which spake of her a gentle thought,
only
because it spoke of one who was gentle; being of
itself
most vile.*
* Boccaccio tells us that Dante was married to Gemma
Donati ation of this passage in Dante's later work, the In this sonnet I make myself into two, according as my
thoughts were divided one from the other. The one part I
about a year after the death of Beatrice. Can Gemma
then be ‘the
lady of the window,’ his love for whom Dante so
contemns? Such
a passing conjecture (when considered
together with the interpret-
<xref doc="a.dante001.rad" link="dead">Convito</xref>
) would of
course imply an admission of what I believe
to lie at the heart of all
true Dantesque commentary; that
is, the existence always of the
actual events even where the
allegorical superstructure has been
raised by Dante
himself.
call Heart, that is, appetite; the other, Soul, that is,
reason;
and I tell what one saith to the other. And that it is
fitting
to call the appetite Heart, and the reason Soul, is
manifest
enough to them to whom I wish this to be open. True it is
that, in the preceding sonnet, I take the part of the Heart
against the Eyes; and that appears contrary to what I say
in the present; and therefore I say that, there also, by
the
Heart I mean appetite, because yet greater was my desire to
remember my most gentle lady than to see this other,
although
indeed I had some appetite towards her, but it appeared
slight: wherefrom it appears that the one statement is not
contrary to the other. This sonnet has three parts. In the
first, I begin to say to this lady how my desires turn all
towards her. In the second, I say how the Soul, that is,
the
reason, speaks to the Heart, that is, to the appetite. In
the
third, I say how the latter answers. The second begins
here, ‘And what is this?’ the third here, ‘And the heart
answers.’
But against this adversary of reason, there rose up in
me on a
certain day, about the ninth hour, a strong
visible phantasy,
wherein I seemed to behold the most
gracious Beatrice, habited in
that crimson raiment which
she had worn when I had first beheld her;
also she
appeared to me of the same tender age as then.
Where-
upon I fell into a deep thought of her: and my
memory ran
back, according to the order of time, unto all
those matters in the
which she had borne a part; and my
heart began painfully to repent
of the desire by which it
had so basely let itself be possessed
during so many days,
contrary to the constancy of reason.
And then, this evil desire being quite gone from me,
all my
thoughts turned again unto their excellent Beatrice.
And I say most
truly that from that hour I thought con-
stantly of her with the
whole humbled and ashamed
heart; the which became often manifest in
sighs, that
had among them the name of that most gracious
creature,
and how she departed from us. Also it would come
to
pass very often, through the bitter anguish of some
one
thought, that I forgot both it, and myself, and where I
was.
By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which before
had been somewhat lessened, increased in like manner;
so that
mine eyes seemed to long only for tears and to
cherish them, and
came at last to be circled about with
red as though they had
suffered martyrdom: neither
were they able to look again upon the
beauty of any face
that might again bring them to shame and evil:
from
which things it will appear that they were fitly
guerdoned
for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I, (wishing that
mine
abandonment of all such evil desires and vain tempta-
tions
should be certified and made manifest, beyond all
doubts which might
have been suggested by the rhymes
aforewritten) proposed to write a
sonnet, wherein I should
express this purport. And I then wrote,
‘Woe's me!’
I said, ‘Woe's me!’ because I was ashamed of the
trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide, since
its
purport is manifest enough.
About this time, it happened that a great number of
persons
undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they
might behold
by our
Lord Jesus Christ as the image of His
beautiful
countenance,*
now looketh continually.) And certain among these
pilgrims,
who seemed very thoughtful, passed by a path
which is well-nigh in
the midst of the city where
my most gracious lady was born, and
abode, and at last
died.
Then I, beholding them, said within myself: ‘These * The Veronica (
pilgrims
seem to be come from very far; and I think
they cannot have heard
speak of this lady, or know any-
thing concerning her. Their
thoughts are not of her,
but of other things; it may be, of their
friends who are
far distant, and whom we, in our turn, know not.’
And
I went on to say: ‘I know that if they were of a
country
near unto us, they would in some wise seem
disturbed,
passing through this city which is so full of grief.’ And
I
said also: ‘If I could speak with them a space, I am
certain
that I should make them weep before they went
Vera icon
, or true image); that is, the napkin
with which a
woman was said to have wiped our Saviour's face on
His way
to the cross, and which miraculously retained its
likeness.
Dante makes mention of it also in the
<xref doc="a.dante002.rad" link="dead">Commedia</xref>
(xxi. 103),
where he says:—
And when the last of them had gone by me, I be-
thought me to
write a sonnet, showing forth mine inward
speech; and that it might
seem the more pitiful, I made
as though I had spoken it indeed unto
them. And I
wrote this sonnet, which beginneth: ‘Ye
pilgrim-folk.’
I made use of the word pilgrim for
its general significa-
tion; for ‘pilgrim’ may be understood in two
senses,
one general, and one special. General, so far as any
man
may be called a pilgrim who leaveth the place of his
birth; whereas,
more narrowly speaking, he only is a
pilgrim who goeth towards or
frowards the House of St.
James. For there are three separate
denominations
proper unto those who undertake journeys to the glory
of
God. They are called Palmers who go beyond the seas
eastward,
whence often they bring palm-branches. And
Pilgrims, as I have said,
are they who journey unto the
holy House of Gallicia; seeing that no
other apostle was
buried so far from his birth-place as was the
blessed
Saint James. And there is a third sort who are
called
Romers; in that they go whither these whom I have
called
pilgrims went: which is to say, unto Rome.
This sonnet is not divided, because its own words suffi-
ciently declare it.
A while after these things, two gentle ladies sent unto
me,
praying that I would bestow upon them certain of
these my rhymes.
And I (taking into account their
worthiness and consideration,)
resolved that I would
write also a new thing, and send it them
together with
those others, to the end that their wishes might be
more
honourably fulfilled. Therefore I made a sonnet,
which
narrates my condition, and which I caused to be
conveyed
to them, accompanied with the one preceding, and
with
that other which begins, ‘Stay now with me and listen to
my
sighs.’ And the new sonnet is, ‘Beyond the sphere.’
This sonnet comprises five parts. In the first, I tell
whither my thought goeth, naming the place by the name of
one of its effects. In the second, I say wherefore it goeth
up,
and who makes it go thus. In the third, I tell what it saw,
namely, a lady honoured. And I then call it a ‘Pilgrim
Spirit,’ because it goes up spiritually, and like a pilgrim
who
is out of his known country. In the fourth, I say how the
spirit sees her such (that is, in such quality) that I
cannot
understand her; that is to say, my thought rises into the
quality of her in a degree that my intellect cannot compre-
hend, seeing that our intellect is, towards those blessed
souls,
like our eye weak against the sun; and this the Philosopher
says in the Second of the Metaphysics. In the fifth, I say
that, although I cannot see there whither my thought
carries
me—that is, to her admirable essence—I at least understand
this, namely, that it is a thought of my lady, because I
often
hear her name therein. And, at the end of this fifth part,
I
say, ‘Ladies mine,’ to show that they are ladies to whom I
speak. The second part begins, ‘A new perception;’ the
third, ‘When it hath reached;’ the fourth, ‘It sees her
such;’ the fifth, ‘And yet I know.’ It might be divided yet
more nicely, and made yet clearer; but this division may
pass,
and therefore I stay not to divide it further.
After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to
behold
which determined me that I would say nothing further
of
this most blessed one, until such time as I could dis-
course
more worthily concerning her. And to this end
I labour all I can; as
she well knoweth. Wherefore if
it be His pleasure through whom is the life of all things,
that
my life continue with me a few years, it is my hope
that I shall yet
write concerning her what hath not before
been written of any woman.
After the which, may it
seem good unto Him who is the Master of
Grace, that
my spirit should go hence to behold the glory of
its
lady: to wit, of that blessed Beatrice who now
gazeth
continually on His countenance
qui est per omnia
sæcula.†
benedictus
Laus Deo.
* This we may believe to have been the Vision of Hell,
Purga-
tory, and Paradise, which furnished the triple
argument of the
‘
† ‘Who is blessed throughout all ages.’
THE END OF THE NEW LIFE.
* Probably in allusion to Albert of Cologne. Giano (Janus),
which
follows, was in use as an Italian name, as for instance
Giano
della Bella; but it seems possible that Dante is merely
playfully
advising his preceptor to avail himself of the twofold
insight of
Janus the double-faced.
* This and the six following pieces (with the possible
exception
of the canzone at page 115) seem so certainly to have
been written at
the same time as the poetry of the
, that it becomes diffi-
cult to guess why they were
omitted from that work. Other poems
in Dante's
<xref doc="a.dante008.rad" link="dead">Canzoniere</xref>
refer in a more general manner to his love for
Beatrice,
but each among those I allude to bears the impress of
some
special occasion.
* See the
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
, at page 66.
* This poem seems probably referable to the time during
which
Beatrice denied her salutation to Dante. (See the
* This might seem to suggest that the present sonnet was
written
about the same time as the close of the
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
, and that an
allusion may also here be intended to the
first conception of Dante's
* That is, the pledge given at the end of the Vita
Nuova. This
may perhaps have been written in the early days
of Dante's exile,
before his resumption of the interrupted
* I have translated this piece both on account of its great
and
peculiar beauty, and also because it affords an
example of a form of
composition which I have met with
in no Italian writer before
Dante's time, though it is
not uncommon among the Provençal poets
(see Dante,
.). I have headed it with the name of a
Paduan
lady, to whom it is surmised by some to have been
addressed
during Dante's exile; but this must be looked
upon as a rather
doubtful conjecture, and I have adopted the
name chiefly to mark it
at once as not referring to
Beatrice.
* I have separated this sonnet from the pieces bearing on the
* See the
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
, at page 33.
† This may refer to the belief that, towards morning, dreams
go
by contraries.
* The Franciscans, in profession of deeper poverty and
humility
than belonged to other Orders, called themselves
Fratres minores
* The ancient church of the Daurade still exists at Thoulouse.
It
was so called from the golden effect of the mosaics adorning
it.
* That is, his list of the sixty most beautiful ladies of
Florence,
referred to in the
<xref doc="a.dante005.rad" link="dead">Vita Nuova</xref>
; among whom Lapo Gianni's lady,
Lagia, would
seem to have stood thirtieth.
* I should think, from the mention of Lady Lagia, that this
might
refer again to Lapo Gianni, who seems (one knows not why)
to have
fallen into disgrace with his friends. The Guido
mentioned is pro-
bably Guido Orlandi.
* I may take this opportunity of mentioning that, in every
case
where an abrupt change of metre occurs in one of my
translations, it
is so also in the original poem.
* From a passage in Ubaldini's Glossary (1640) to the ‘
* It is curious to find these poets perpetually rating one
another
for the want of constancy in love. Guido is rebuked, as
above, by
Dino Compagni; Cino da Pistoia by Dante (p. 122); and Dante by
Guido (p. 161), who formerly, as we have seen (p. 146), had confided
to him his doubts
of Lapo Gianni.
* In old representations, the unicorn is often seen with his
head
in a virgin's lap.
* This interesting sonnet must refer to the same period of
Dante's
life regarding which he has made Beatrice address him in
words of
noble reproach when he meets her in Eden. (
Purg
. C. xxx.)
* The glossary to Barberino, already mentioned, refers to
the
existence, among the Strozzi MSS., of a poem by Lapo di
Farinata
degli Uberti, written in answer to the above ballata of
Cavalcanti.
As this respondent was no other than Guido's
brother-in-law, one
feels curious to know what he said to the
peccadilloes of his sister's
husband. But I fear the poem cannot yet
have been published, as I
have sought for it in vain at all my
printed sources of information.
* This and the three following Canzoni are only to be found
in
the later collections of Guido Cavalcanti's poems. I have
included
them on account of their interest if really his, and
especially for the
beauty of the last among them; but must
confess to some doubts of
their authenticity.
* See ante, page
33.
* Among Dante's Epistles there is a Latin letter to Cino,
which
I should judge was written in reply to this Sonnet.
* I have not examined Cino's poetry with special reference to
this
accusation; but there is a Canzone of his in which he speaks
of
having conceived an affection for another lady from her
resemblance
to Selvaggia. Perhaps Guido considered this as a sort of plagiarism
de facto on his own change of love through Mandetta's
likeness to
Giovanna.
* Between this poet and Cino various friendly sonnets
were
interchanged, which may be found in the Italian collections.
There
is also one Sonnet by Onesto to Cino, with his answer, both of
which
are far from being affectionate or respectful. They are very
obscure
however, and not specially interesting.
† The Provençal poet, mentioned in C. xxvi. of the
Purgatory
.
‡ That is, sanctified the Apennines by her burial on the Monte
della
Sambuca.
* See ante, page
33.
* There exist no fewer than six answers by different poets,
inter-
preting Dante da Maiano's dream. I have chosen Guido
Orlandi's,
much the most matter-of-fact of the six, because it
is diverting to find
the writer again in his antagonistic mood.
Among the five remaining
answers, in all of which the vision is
treated as a very mysterious
matter, one is attributed to Dante
Alighieri, but seems so doubtful
that I have not translated it.
Indeed it would do the greater Dante,
if he really wrote it,
little credit as a lucid interpreter of dreams;
though it might
have some interest, as giving him (when compared
with the sonnet at page 198) a decided
advantage over his lesser
namesake in point of courtesy.
See ante, page
108.
* Perhaps the names of his father's estates.
* The year, according to the calendar of those days, began on
the
25th March. The alteration to 1st January was made in 1582
by the
Pope, and immediately adopted by all Catholic countries,
but by
England not till 1752. There is some added vividness in
remembering that
Cecco's unplatonic love-encounter dates twelve
days after the first
death-anniversary of Beatrice (9th of June, 1291),
when Dante tells us
that he ‘drew the resemblance of an angel upon
certain tablets.’ (See
ante, page 95.)
* This may be either Charles II. King of Naples and Count
of
Provence, or more probably his son Charles Martel, King of
Hungary.
We know from Dante that a friendship subsisted between
himself
and the latter prince, who visited Florence in 1295, and
died in the
same year, in his father's lifetime, (
Paradise
, C. viii.)
* I have thought it necessary to soften one or two expressions
in
this sonnet.
prolonged sonnet,” consisting as it does of a seventeen-line stanza.
* He means, possibly, that he should be more than ever tor-
mented by
his creditors, on account of their knowing his ability to
pay them:
but the meaning seems very uncertain.
* This puzzling sonnet is printed in Italian collections with
the
name of Guido Cavalcanti. It must evidently belong to
Angiolieri,
and it has certain fine points which make me unwilling
to omit it;
thought partly as to rendering, and wholly as to
application, I have
been driven on conjecture.
* It would almost seem as if Cecco, in his poverty, had at last
taken
refuge in a religious house under the name of Brother Henry
(Frate Arrigo), and as if he here meant that Brother
Henry was now
decayed, so to speak, through the resuscitation of
Cecco. (See
Introduction to Part I
. page 23.)
† In the original words, ‘
a play upon the name of
Becchina seems intended, which I have
conveyed as well as I
could.
* Several other pieces by this author, addressed to Guido
Caval-
canti and Dante da Maiano, will be found among their
poems.
† i.e. Florence.
* That is, presented at the high altar on the feast-day of St.
John
the Baptist; a ceremony attending the release of criminals, a
certain
number of whom were annually pardoned on that day in
Florence.
This was the disgraceful condition annexed to that recall
to Florence
which Dante received when in exile at the court of
Verona; which
others accepted, but which was refused by him in a
memorable
epistle still preserved.
What follows relates to the very filmiest of all
the
will-o'-the-wisps which have beset me in making
this book. I
should be glad to let it lose itself in its own
quagmire, but am
perhaps bound to follow it as far as may
be.
Ubaldini, in his Glossary to Barberino, (published in
1640, and
already several times referred to here,) has a rather
startling
entry under the word Vendetta.
After describing this ‘custom of the country,’ he says:—
‘To leave a vengeance unaccomplished was considered
‘very
shameful; and on this account Forese de' Donati sneers
‘at Dante,
who did not avenge his father Alighieri; saying to
‘him ironically,—
‘and hence perhaps Dante is menaced in Hell by the Spirit
‘of
one of his race.’
Now there is no hint to be found anywhere that Dante's
father,
who died about 1270, in the poet's childhood, came
by his death in
any violent way. The spirit met in Hell
(C. xxix), is Geri, son of Bello Alighieri, and Dante's
great-
uncle; and he is there represented as passing his kinsman
in
contemptuous silence on account of his own
death by the
hand of one of the Sacchetti, which remained till
then
unavenged, and so continued till after Dante's death,
when
Cione Alighieri fulfilled the vendetta by
slaying a Sacchett
at the door of his house. If Dante is really the
person
addressed in the sonnet quoted by Ubaldini, I think
it
probable (as I shall show presently when I give the
whole
sonnet) that the ironical allusion is to the death of
Geri
Alighieri. But indeed the real writer, the real subject,
and
the real object of this clumsy piece of satire seem
about
equally puzzling.
Forese Donati, to whom this Sonnet and another I shall
quote
are attributed, was the brother of Gemma Donati,
Dante's wife, and
of Corso and Piccarda Donati. Dante
introduces him in the xxiii.) as expiating the
sin of gluttony. From what is
there said, he seems to have
been well known in youth to Dante, who
speaks also of
having wept his death; but at the same time he hints
that
the life they led together was disorderly and a subject
for
regret. This can hardly account for such violence as
is
shown in these sonnets, said to have been written from one
to
the other; but it is not impossible, of course, that a ran-
cour,
perhaps temporary, may have existed at some time
between them,
especially as Forese probably adhered with
the rest of his family to
the party hostile to Dante. At any
rate, Ubaldini, Crescimbeni,
Quadrio, and other writers on
Italian Poetry, seem to have derived
this impression from
the poems which they had seen in MS. attributed
to Forese.
They all combine in stigmatizing Forese's supposed
pro-
ductions as very bad poetry, and in fact this seems the
only
point concerning them which is beyond a doubt. The
four
sonnets of which I now proceed to give such translations
as
I have found possible, were first published together in
1812
by Fiacchi, who states that he had seen two separate
ancient
MSS. in both of which they were attributed to Dante
and
Forese. In rendering them, I have no choice but to adopt
in
a positive form my conjectures as to their meaning; but
that I view
these only as conjectures will appear afterwards.
Now all this may be pronounced little better than
scurrilous
doggrel, and I would not have introduced any of
it, had I not wished
to include everything which could pos-
sibly belong to my subject.
Even supposing that the authorship is correctly attributed
in
each case, the insults heaped on Dante have of course no
weight, as
coming from one who shows every sign of being
both foul-mouthed and
a fool. That then even the obser-
vance of the vendetta had its opponents among the laity, is evi-
dent from
a passage in Barberino's
. The
two sonnets bearing Dante's name, if not less offensive
than
the others, are rather more pointed; but seem still
very
unworthy even of his least exalted mood.
Accordingly Fraticelli (in his
)
settles to his own satisfaction that these four sonnets are
not
by Dante and Forese; but I do not think his
arguments
conclusive enough to set the matter quite at rest. He
first
states positively that Sonnet I. (as above) is by
Burchiello,
the Florentine barber-poet of the fifteenth century.
However
it is only to be found in one edition of Burchiello, and
that a
late one, of 1757, where it is placed among the pieces
which
are very doubtfully his. It becomes all the more
doubtful
when we find it there followed by Sonnet II. (as
above),
which would seem by all evidence to be at any rate
written
by a different person from the first, whoever the writers
of
both may be. Of this sonnet Fraticelli seems to state that
he
has seen it attributed in one MS. to a certain Bicci
Novello; and
adds (but without giving any authority) that it
was addressed to
some descendant of the great poet, also
bearing the name of Dante.
Sonnet III. is pronounced by
Fraticelli to be of uncertain
authorship, though if the first is
by Burchiello, so must this be.
He also decides that the
designation ‘Bicci, vocato Forese,’ shows
that Forese was the
nickname and Bicci the real name; but this is
surely quite
futile, as the way in which the name is put is to the
full
as likely to be meant in ridicule as in earnest. Lastly,
of
Sonnet IV. Fraticelli says nothing.
It is now necessary to explain that Sonnet II., as I
trans-
late it, is made up from two versions, the one printed
by
Fiacchi and the one given among Burchiello's poems; while
in
one respect I have adopted a reading of my own. I
would make the
first four lines say—
avolin che diè
cambio l'altrieri.
Of the two printed texts one says, in the fourth line—
‘Aguglino’ would be ‘eaglet,’ and with this, the whole
sense
of the line seems quite unfathomable: whereas at the
same time
‘aguglino’ would not be an unlikely corrupt
transcription, or even
corrupt version, of ‘avolino,’ which
again (according to the often
confused distinctions of Italian
relationships,) might well be a
modification of ‘avolo,’
(grandfather) meaning great uncle. The
reading would thus
be, ‘di lui (i.e.) dell'
avolino che
diè cambio l'altrieri;
which you took for him,—for your great
uncle who gave
change the other day.’ Geri Alighieri might indeed
have
been said to ‘give change’ or ‘pay scores in full’ by
his
death, as he himself had been the aggressor in the
first
instance, having slain one of the Sacchetti, and been
after
wards slain himself by another.
I should add that I do not think the possibility,
however
questionable, of these sonnets being authentically by
Dante
and Forese, depends solely on the admission of this
word
‘avolino.’
The rapacity attributed to the ‘Bicci’ of Sonnet I. seems
a
tendency somewhat akin to the insatiable gluttony which
Forese is
represented as expiating in Dante's Purgatory.
Mention is also there
made of Forese's wife, though certainly
in a very different strain
from that of Sonnet III.; but it is not
impossible that the poet
might have intended to make
amends to her as well as in some degree
to her husband's
memory. I am really more than half ashamed of so
many
‘possibles’ and ‘not impossibles;’ but perhaps, having
been
led into the subject, am a little inclined that the reader
should be
worried with it like myself.
At any rate, considering that these Sonnets are attributed
by various old manuscripts to Dante and Forese Donati;—
that
various writers (beginning with Ubaldini, who seems to
have
ransacked libraries more than almost any one) have
spoken of these
and other sonnets by Forese against Dante,
—that the feud between
the Alighieri and Sacchetti, and the
death of Geri, were certainly
matters of unabated bitterness
in Dante's lifetime, as we find the
vendetta accomplished
even after his
death,—and lastly, that the sonnets attributed
to Forese seem to be
plausibly referable to this subject,—I
have thought it pardonable
towards myself and my readers
to devote to these ill-natured and not
very refined produc-
tions this very long and tiresome note.
Crescimbeni (
<xref doc="a.crescimbeni001.rad" link="dead">Storia della
Volgar Poesia</xref>
) gives another
sonnet against Dante as being written by Forese
Donati,
and it certainly resembles these in style. I should add
that
their obscurity of mere language is excessive, and that
my
translations therefore are necessarily guesswork here
and
there; though as to this I may spare particulars except
in
what affects the question at issue. In conclusion, I hope
I
need hardly protest against the inference that my
transla-
tions and statements might be shown to abound in
dubious
makeshifts and whimsical conjectures; though it would
be
admitted, on going over the ground I have traversed, that
it
presents a difficulty of some kind at almost every step.
There is one more versifier, contemporary with Dante,
to
whom I might be expected to refer. This is the
ill-fated
Francesco Stabili, better known as Cecco d' Ascoli, who
was
burnt by the Inquisition at Florence in 1327, as a
heretic,
though the exact nature of his offence is involved in some
mystery. He was a narrow, discontented and
self-sufficient
writer; and his incongruous poem in
sesta rima
, called
<xref doc="a.stabili001.rad" link="dead">L'Acerba</xref>
, contains various references to the poetry of Dante
(whom he
knew personally) as well as to that of Guido
Cavalcanti, made
chiefly in a supercilious spirit. These
allusions have no poetical
or biographical value whatever, so
I need say no more of them or
their author. And indeed
perhaps the ‘Bicci’ sonnets are quite
enough of themselves
in the way of absolute trash.
Several of the little-known sonnets of Boccaccio
have
reference to Dante, but, being written in the
generation
which followed his, do not belong to the body of my
first
division. I therefore place three of them here, together
with
a few more specimens from the same poet.
There is nothing which gives Boccaccio a greater claim
to our
regard than the enthusiastic reverence with which he
loved to dwell
on the
<xref doc="a.dante002.rad" link="dead">Commedia</xref>
and on the memory of
Dante, who died when he was seven years
old. This is
amply proved by his
I add three further examples of Boccaccio's poetry,
chosen for
their beauty alone. Two of these relate to Maria
d'Aquino, if she indeed be the lady
whom, in his writings, he
calls Fiammetta. The third has a playful
charm very cha-
of colour (to our modern minds, privileged to
review the
whole pageant of Italian Art,) might recall the painted
pas-
torals of Giorgione.
End of Part I.
Ciullo is a popular form of the name Vincenzo, and
Alcamo
an Arab fortress some miles from Palermo. The
Dialogue which is
the only known production of this poet,
holds here the place
generally accorded to it as the earliest
Italian poem (exclusive
of one or two dubious inscriptions)
which has been preserved to
our day. Arguments have
sometimes been brought to prove that it
must be assigned
to a later date than the poem by Folcachiero,
which follows
it in this volume; thus ascribing the first
honours of Italian
poetry to Tuscany, and not to Sicily, as is
commonly sup-
posed. Trucchi, however, (in the preface to his
valuable
collection,) states his belief that the two poems are
about
contemporaneous, fixing the date of that by Ciullo
between
1172 and 1178,—chiefly from the fact that the fame
of
Saladin, to whom this poet alludes, was most in
men's
mouths during that interval. At first sight, any
casual
reader of the original would suppose that this poem
must
be unquestionably the earliest of all, as its language is
far
the most unformed and difficult; but much of this
might,
of course, be dependent on the inferior dialect of
Sicily,
mixed however in this instance (as far as I can judge)
with
mere nondescript patois.
The above date has been assigned with probability to
whole world is said to be ‘living without
war;’ an assertion
which seems to refer its production to the
period of the
celebrated peace concluded at Venice between
Frederick
Barbarossa and Pope Alexander III.
His baptismal name was Giovanni, and his father
was
Bernardone Moriconi, whose mercantile pursuits he
shared
till the age of twenty-five; after which his life
underwent
the extraordinary change which resulted in his
canonisation,
by Gregory IX., three years after his death, and
in the
formation of the Religious Order called Franciscans.
The life of Frederick II., and his excommunication
and
deposition from the Empire by Innocent IV., to
whom,
however, he did not succumb, are matters of history
which
need no repetition. Intellectually, he was in all ways
a
highly-gifted and accomplished prince; and lovingly
culti-
vated the Italian language, in preference to the many
others
with which he was familiar. The poem of his which I
give
has great passionate beauty; yet I believe that an
allegorical
interpretation may here probably be admissible; and
that
the lady of the poem may be the Empire, or perhaps
the
Church herself, held in bondage by the Pope.
The unfortunate Enzo was a natural son of Frederick
II.,
and was born at Palermo. By his own warlike
enterprise,
at an early age (it is said at fifteen!) he
subjugated the
Island of Sardinia, and was made King of it by
his father.
Afterwards he joined Frederick in his war against
the
Church, and displayed the highest promise as a leader;
but
at the age of twenty-five was taken prisoner by the
Bolo-
gnese, whom no threats or promises from the Emperor could
after a confinement of nearly twenty-three years. A
hard fate
indeed for one who, while moving among men, excited
their
hopes and homage, still on record, by his great
military
genius and brilliant gifts of mind and person.
This poet, certainly the greatest of his time, belonged
to
a noble and even princely Bolognese family. Nothing
seems
known of his life, except that he was married to a
lady
named Beatrice, and that in 1274, having adhered to
the
imperial cause, he was sent into exile, but whither cannot
be
learned. He died two years afterwards. The highest
praise
has been bestowed by Dante on Guinicelli, in the
<xref doc="a.dante002.rad" link="dead">Commedia</xref>
,
(Purg. C. xxvi) in the
<xref doc="a.dante001.rad" link="dead">Convito</xref>
, and in the
I have placed this poet, belonging to a Neapolitan
family,
under the date usually assigned to him; but Trucchi
states
his belief that he flourished much earlier, and was a
con-
temporary of Folcachiero; partly on account of two lines
in
one of his poems which say,—
If so, the mistake would be easily accounted for, as
there
seem to have been various members of the family
named
Rinaldo, at different dates.
This Sicilian poet is generally called ‘the Notary of
Lentino.’ The low estimate expressed of him, as well as
of
Bonaggiunta and Guittone, by Dante (
‘Io mi son un che quando Amor mi spira, noto, ed in quel modo Ch' ei detta dentro, vo significando.’
Of this poet there seems nothing to be learnt; but
he
deserves special notice as possessing rather more
poetic
individuality than usual, and also as furnishing the
only
instance, among Dante's predecessors, of a poem (and a
very
beautiful one) written on a lady's death.
Guittone was not a monk, but derived the prefix to
his
name from the fact of his belonging to the religious and
mili-
tary order of Cavalieri di Santa Maria
enjoyed a greater literary
reputation than almost any writer
of his day; but certainly his
poems, of which many have
been preserved, cannot be said to
possess merit of a pro-
minent kind; and Dante shows by various
allusions that he
considered them much over-rated. The sonnet I have given
is
somewhat remarkable, from Petrarch's having transplanted
its
last line into his
Onesto was a doctor of laws, and an early friend of
Cino
da Pistoia. He was living as late as 1301, though his
career
as a poet may be fixed somewhat further back.
This Sicilian poet has few equals among his
contempo-
raries, and is ranked high by Dante in his treatise
<xref doc="a.dante006.rad" link="dead">De Vul-<lb/>gari
Eloquio</xref>
. He visited England and wrote in Latin a
Prinzivalle commenced by writing Italian poetry,
but
afterwards composed verses entirely in Provençal, for
the
love of Beatrice, Countess of Provence. He wrote also,
in
Provençal prose, a treatise ‘
The writings of this Tuscan poet (called also
Rustico
Barbuto) show signs of more vigour and versatility than
was
common in his day, and he probably began writing in
Italian
verse even before many of those already mentioned. In
his
old age, he, though a Ghibelline, received the dedication
of
the
<xref doc="a.latini001.rad" link="dead">Tesoretto</xref>
from the Guelf Brunetto Latini, who there pays
him
unqualified homage for surpassing worth in peace and
war. It is
strange that more should not be known regarding
this doubtless
remarkable man. His compositions have
sometimes much humour, and
on the whole convey the
impression of an active and energetic
nature. Moreover,
Trucchi pronounces some of them to be as pure
in language
as the poems of Dante or Guido Cavalcanti, though
written
thirty or forty years earlier.
The noble Florentine family of Albizzi produced writers
of
poetry in more than one generation. The vivid and
admirable
sonnet which I have translated is the only one I
have met with
by Niccolò. I must confess my inability to
trace the
circumstances which gave rise to it.
With the exception of Brunetto Latini, (whose poems
are
neither very poetical nor well adapted for extract,)
Francesco
da Barberino shows by far the most sustained
productiveness
among the poets who preceded Dante, or
were contemporaries of
his youth. Though born only
one year in advance of Dante,
Barberino seems to have
undertaken, if not completed, his two
long poetic trea-
tises, some years before the commencement of the
<xref doc="a.dante002.rad" link="dead">Com-</xref>
<xref doc="a.dante002.rad" link="dead">media</xref>
.
This poet was born at Barberino di Valdelsa, of a
noble
family, his father being Neri di Rinuccio da Barberino. Up
to
the year of his father's death, 1296, he pursued the study of
law
chiefly in Bologna and Padua; but afterwards removed
to
Florence for the same purpose, and seems to have been
there,
even earlier, one of the many distinguished disciples of
Bru-
netto Latini, who probably had more influence than any
other
one man in forming the youth of his time to the great
things
they accomplished. After this he travelled in France and
else-
where; and on his return to Italy in 1313, was the first
who,
by special favour of Pope Clement V., received the
grade
of Doctor of Laws in Florence. Both as lawyer and
as
citizen, he held great trusts and discharged them
honourably.
He was twice married, the name of his second wife
being
Barna di Tano, and had several children. At the age
of
eighty-four he died in the great Plague of Florence. Of
the
two works which Barberino has left, one bears the title
of
Documenti d'Amore
, literally ‘Documents of Love,’ but
perhaps more properly
rendered as ‘Laws of Courtesy;’
Barberino never appears to have taken a very active
part
in politics, but he inclined to the Imperial and
Ghibelline
party. This contributes with other things to render
it rather
singular that we find no poetic correspondence or
apparent
communication of any kind between him and his
many
great countrymen, contemporaries of his long life, and
with
whom he had more than one bond of sympathy. His
career
stretched from Dante, Guido Cavalcanti, and Cino
da
Pistoia, to Petrarca and Boccaccio; yet only in one
respectful
but not enthusiastic notice of him by the last-named writer
<xref doc="a.boccaccio005.rad" link="dead">Genealogia degli
Dei</xref>
), do we ever meet with an allusion to
him by any of the
greatest men of his time. Nor in his
own writings, as far as I
remember, are they ever referred
to. His epitaph is said to have
been written by Boccaccio,
but this is doubtful.
For some interesting notices of, and translations
from,
Barberino, I may refer the reader to the tract on ‘
The dates of this poet's birth and death are not
ascertain-
able, but I have set against his name two dates
which
result from his writings as belonging to his lifetime. He
was
a member of that great house of the Uberti, which
was
driven from Florence on the expulsion of the Ghibellines
in
1267, and which was ever afterwards specially excluded
by
name from the various amnesties offered from time to
time
to the exiled Florentines. His grandfather was
Farinata
degli Uberti, whose stern nature, unyielding even amid
penal
fires, has been recorded by Dante in the tenth canto of the
<xref doc="a.dante002.1.rad" link="dead">Inferno</xref>
. Farinata's son Lapo, himself a poet, was the
father of
Fazio (i.e. Bonifazio), who was no doubt born
in
the lifetime of Dante, and in some place of exile, but
where
is not known. In his youth he was enamoured of a
certain
Veronese lady named Angiola, and was afterwards
married,
but whether to her or not is again among the
uncertainties.
Certain it is that he had a son named Leopardo,
who, after
his father's death at Verona, settled in Venice,
where his
descendants maintained an honourable rank for the
space
of two succeeding centuries. Though Fazio appears to
have
suffered sometimes from poverty, he enjoyed high
reputation
as a poet, and is even said, on the authority of
various early
writers, to have publicly received the laurel
crown; but in
what city of Italy this took place, we do not
learn.
There is much beauty in several of Fazio's lyrical
poems,
of which, however, no great number have been preserved.
whose excellence is such as to have procured it
the high
honour of being attributed to Dante, so that it is to
be found
in most editions of the
<xref doc="a.dante008.rad" link="dead">Canzoniere</xref>
; and as far as poetic
beauty is concerned, it
must be allowed to hold even there
an eminent place. Its style,
however, (as Monti was the
first to point out in our own day,
though Ubaldini, in
his Glossary to Barberino, had already
quoted it as the
work of Fazio) is more particularizing than
accords with
the practice of Dante; while, though certainly more
perfect
than any other poem by Fazio, its manner is quite
his;
bearing especially a strong resemblance throughout in
struc-
ture to one canzone, where he speaks of his love
with
minute reference to the seasons of the year.
Moreover,
Fraticelli tells us that it is not attributed to Dante
in any one
of the many ancient MSS. he had seen, but has
been
fathered on him solely on the authority of a printed
collec-
tion of 1518. This contested Canzone is well worth
fighting
for; and the victor would deserve to receive his prize
at the
hands of a peerless Queen of Beauty, for never was
beauty
better described. I believe we may decide that the
triumph
belongs by right to Fazio.
An exile by inheritance, Fazio seems to have
acquired
restless tastes; and in the latter years of his life
(which
was prolonged to old age), he travelled over a great part
of
Europe, and composed his long poem entitled
Il Ditta-<lb/>mondo
,—‘The Song of the World.’ This work, though by
no means
contemptible in point of execution, certainly falls
far short of
its conception, which is a grand one; the
topics of which it
treats in great measure,—geography and
natural
history,—rendering it in those days the native home
of all
credulities and monstrosities. In scheme it was
intended as an
earthly parallel to Dante's Sacred Poem,
doing for this world
what he did for the other. At Fazio's
death it remained
unfinished, but I should think by very
little; the plan of the
work seeming in the main accom-
plished. The whole earth (or
rather all that was then
known of it) is traversed,—its surface and its
history,—
ending with the Holy Land, and thus bringing Man's
world
as near as may be to God's; that is, to the point at
which
Dante's office begins. No conception could well be
nobler,
or worthier even now of being dealt with by a great
master.
To the work of such a man, Fazio's work might afford
such
first materials as have usually been furnished
beforehand
to the greatest poets by some unconscious
steward.
This excellent writer is the only member of my
gathering
who was born after the death of Dante, which event
(in
1321) preceded Franco's birth by some fourteen years.
I
have introduced a few specimens of his poetry,
partly
because their attraction was irresistible, but also
because
he is the earliest Italian poet with whom playfulness is
the
chief characteristic; for even with Boccaccio, in his
poetry,
this is hardly the case, and we can but ill accept as
play-
fulness the cynical humour of Ceco Angiolieri:
perhaps
Rustico di Filippo alone might put in claims to priority
in
this respect. However, Franco Sacchetti wrote poems
also
on political subjects; and had he belonged more strictly
to
the period of which I treat, there is no one who would
better
have deserved abundant selection. Besides his poetry,
he
is the author of a well-known series of three hundred
stories;
and Trucchi gives a list of prose works by him which
are
still in MS., and whose subjects are genealogical,
historical,
natural-historical, and even theological. He was a
prolific
writer, and one who well merits complete and careful
publi-
cation. The pieces which I have translated, like
many
others of his, are written for music.
Franco Sacchetti was a Florentine noble by birth, and
was
the son of Benci di Uguccione Sacchetti. Between
this family and
the Alighieri there had been a vendetta
of
long standing (spoken of here in the
Appendix to Part I
.),
but which was probably set at rest before Franco's
time, by
some years passed in study, Franco devoted
himself to
commerce, like many nobles of the republic, and for
that
purpose spent some time in Sclavonia, whose
uncongenial
influences he has recorded in an amusing poem.
As
his literary fame increased, he was called to many
im-
portant offices; was one of the Priori
some time was deputed to the
government of Faenza, in the
absence of its lord, Astorre
Manfredi. He was three times
married; to Felice degli Strozzi,
to Ghita Gherardini, and
to Nannina di Santi Bruni.
* This speech occurs in a long poem on Divine Love,
half
ecstatic, half scholastic, and hardly appreciable now. The
passage
stands well by itself, and is the only one spoken by our
Lord.
* Madonna mia.
* The lady was probably called Diamante, Margherita, or
some
similar name. (Note to Flor. Ed. 1816.)
* See what is said in allusion to his government of Florence
by
Dante, (
<xref doc="a.dante002.2.rad" link="dead">Parad</xref>
. C. viii.)
* The battle of Monte Catini was fought and won by the
Ghi-
belline leader, Uguccione della Faggiola, against the
Florentines,
August 29, 1315. This would seem to date Folgore's
career further
on than the period usually assigned to him (about
1260), and the
question arises whether the above sonnet be
really his.
* This fellowship or club (Brigata), so
highly approved and en-
couraged by our Folgore, is
the same to which, and to some of its
members by
name, scornful allusion is made by Dante (
<xref doc="a.dante002.1.rad" link="dead">Inferno</xref>
,
C. xxix. l. 130), where he
speaks of the hare-brained character of
the Sienese.
Mr. Cayley, in his valuable notes on Dante, says
of
it: ‘A dozen extravagant youths of Siena had put
together by equal
contributions 216,000 florins to
spend in pleasuring; they were
reduced in about a
twelvemonth to the extremes of poverty. It was
their
practice to give mutual entertainments twice a-month; at
each
of which, three tables having been sumptuously
covered, they would
feast at one, wash their hands
on another, and throw the last out of
window.’
There exists a second curious series of sonnets for the
months,
addressed also to this club, by Cene della
Chitarra d'Arezzo. Here,
however, all sorts of
disasters and discomforts, in the same pursuits
of
which Folgore treats, are imagined for the prodigals;
each sonnet,
too, being composed with the same terminations
in its rhymes as the
corresponding one among his.
They would seem to have been written
after the ruin
of the club, as a satirical prophecy of the year to
suc-
ceed the golden one. But this second series,
though sometimes
laughable, not having the poetical
merit of the first, I have not
included it.
* That is, according to early Tuscan nomenclature, Carlo, the
son of Messer Guerra Cavicciuoli.
* Alluding to the Syrian tribe of Assassins, whose chief was
the
Old Man of the Mountain.
* I have not been able to trace the Fazio to whom this
sonnet
refers.
* The character here drawn certainly suggests Count
Ugolino
de' Gherardeschi, though it would seem that Rustico died
nearly
twenty years before the tragedy of the Tower of
Famine.
* Extracted from his long treatise, in unrhymed verse and
in
prose, ‘
* This and the three following pieces are extracted from
his
‘
* I am quite sorry (after the foregoing love-song, the
original of
which is not perhaps surpassed by any poem of
its class in existence)
to endanger the English reader's
respect for Fazio by these extracts
from the
Dittamondo
, or ‘Song of the World,’ in which he will find
his own
country endowed with some astounding properties. How-
ever,
there are a few fine characteristic sentences, and the rest
is no
more absurd than other travellers' tales of that day;
while the table
of our Norman line of kings is not without
some historical interest.
It must be remembered that the
love-song was the work of Fazio's
youth, and the
Dittamondo
that of his old age, when we may
suppose his powers to
have been no longer at their best. Besides
what I have given relating to Great Britain,
there is a table of the
Saxon dynasty, and some surprising
facts about Scotland and Ire-
land; as well as a curious
passage written in French, and purporting
to be an account,
given by a royal courier, of Edward the Third's
invasion of
France. I felt half disposed to include these, but was
afraid of overloading with such matter a selection made
chiefly for
the sake of poetic beauty. I should mention that
the
Dittamondo
,
like Dante's great poem, is written in terza rima; but as perfect
literality was of
primary importance in the above extracts, I have
departed
for once from my rule of fidelity to the original metre.
* Mediæval Britons would seem really to have been credited
with
this slight peculiarity. At the siege of Damietta,
Cœur-de-
Lion's bastard brother is said to have pointed out the
prudence of
deferring the assault, and to have received for
rejoinder from the
French crusaders, ‘See now these
faint-hearted English with the
tails!’ To which the Englishman
replied, ‘You will need stout
hearts to keep near our tails when
the assault is made.’
† This is the Barnacle-tree, often described in old books of travels
and natural history, and which Sir Thomas Browne classes gravely
among his ‘Vulgar Errors.’
* What follows relates to the Romances of the Round
Table.
The only allusion here which I cannot trace to
the
<xref doc="a.malory001.rad" link="dead">Mort
d' Arthur</xref>
is one where ‘Rech’ and ‘Nida’ are spoken of: it seems
however
that, by a perversion hardly too corrupt for
Fazio, these might be
the Geraint and Enid whose story
occurs in the
<xref doc="a.anon006.rad" link="dead">Mabinogion</xref>
, and has
been used by Tennyson in his
<xref doc="a.tennyson002.rad" link="dead">Idylls of
the King</xref>
. Why Fazio should
have ‘joyed to see’ Merlin's
stone ‘for another's love’ seems in-
scrutable; unless
indeed the words ‘
idiom, and Merlin himself
is meant; and even then Merlin, in his
compulsory niche
under the stone, may hardly have been grateful for
such
friendly interest.
I should not omit, in this second edition, to acknowledge
several
obligations, as regards the above extract from
the Dittamondo, to the
unknown author
of an acute and kindly article in the
Spectator
for
January 18th, 1862.
* The speaker here is the poet's guide Solinus (a historical
and
geographical writer of the third century,) who bears
the same relation
to him which Virgil bears to Dante in
the
<xref doc="a.dante002.rad" link="dead">Commedia</xref>
.
* This may either refer to some special incident or merely
mean
generally that he would not suffer lying even in a
jester.
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