The
Concordance
to
the Divine Comedy,' by Dr.
the Divine Comedy,' by Dr.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v08 - Dah to Dra
.
will enter on the present
contest; and by the arm of Him who by his blood delivered us from the
power of darkness, I will drive out from the lists the impious and the liar.
Wherefore should I fear? since the Spirit, co-eternal with the Father and the
Son, says through the mouth of David, The righteous shall be had in ever-
lasting remembrance, he shall not be afraid of evil tidings. › »
These words perhaps justify the inference that the treatise was
written before his exile, since after it his experience of calamity
would have freed him from the anticipation of further evil from the
hostility of those to whom his doctrine might be unacceptable.
But whether or not this be a correct inference, there can be no
doubt that the years between the compilation of the 'New Life' and
his banishment were years of rapid maturity of his powers, and
largely devoted to the studies which made him a master in the field
of learning. Keenly observant of the aspects of contemporary life,
fascinated by the "immense and magic spectacle of human affairs,”
questioning deeply its significance, engaged actively in practical con-
cerns, he ardently sought for the solution of the mysteries and the
reconcilement of the confusions of human existence. The way to this
solution seemed to lie through philosophy and learning, and in acquir-
ing them he lifted himself above the turmoil of earth. All observa-
tion, experience, and acquisition served as material for his poetic and
idealizing imagination, wherewith to construct an orderly scheme of
the universe; all served for the defining and confirming of his moral
judgments, all worked together for the harmonious development of
his intellectual powers; all served to prepare him for the work
which, already beginning to shape itself in his mind, was to become
the main occupation of the remainder of his life, and to prove one
of the abiding monuments of the highest achievements of mankind.
The 'De Monarchia' is written in Latin, and so also is a brief
unfinished treatise, the work of some period during his exile, on the
## p. 4339 (#105) ###########################################
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4339
Common Speech, 'De Vulgari Eloquio. '
It has intrinsic interest as
the first critical study of language and of literature in modern times,
as well as from the acute and sound judgments with which it
abounds, and from its discussion of the various forms and topics of
poetry, but still more from its numerous illustrations of Dante's per-
sonal experience and sentiment. Its object is to teach the right use
of the common speech; instruction required by all, since all make use
of the speech, it being that which all learn from birth, "by imita-
tion and without rule. The other speech, which the Romans called
Grammatica, is learned by study and according to rule.
Of
these two the Common is the more noble, because it was the first
used by the human race, and also because it is in use over all the
world, though in different tongues; and again because it is natural to
us, while the other is artificial. " Speech, Dante declares, is the pre-
rogative of man alone, not required by the angels and not possible
for brutes; there was originally but one language, the Hebrew. In
treating of this latter topic Dante introduces a personal reference of
extraordinary interest in its bearing on his feeling in respect to his
exile:-
"It is for those of such debased intelligence that they believe the place
of their birth to be the most delightful under the sun, to prefer their own
peculiar tongue, and to believe that it was that of Adam. But we whose
country is the world, as the sea is for fishes, although we drank of the Arno
before we were weaned, and so love Florence that because we loved it we
suffer exile unjustly, support our judgment by reason rather than feeling.
And though in respect to our pleasure and the repose of our senses, no
sweeter place exists on earth than Florence, . . . yet we hold it for cer-
tain that there are many more delightful regions and cities than Tuscany and
Florence, where I was born and of which I am a citizen, and that many
nations and people use a more pleasing and serviceable speech than the
Italians. »
The conclusion of this speculation is, that the Hebrew, which was
the original language spoken by Adam, was preserved by the Hebrew
people after the confusion of tongues at the building of the Tower
of Babel, and thus became the language used by our Redeemer,-
the language not of confusion but of grace.
But the purpose of the present treatise is not to consider all the
divers languages even of Europe, but only that of Italy. Yet in Italy.
alone there is an immense variety of speech, and no one of the
varieties is the true Italian language. That true, illustrious, courtly
tongue is to be found nowhere in common use, but everywhere in
select usage.
It is the common speech "freed from rude words,
involved constructions, defective pronunciation, and rustic accent;
excellent, clear, perfect, urbane, and elect, as it may be seen in the
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DANTE
---
poems of Cino da Pistoia and his friend,'». - that friend being Dante
himself. They have attained to the glory of the tongue, and "how
glorious truly it renders its servants we ourselves know, who to the
sweetness of its glory hold our exile as naught. "* This illustrious
language, then, is the select Italian tongue, the tongue of the
excellent poets in every part of Italy; and how and by whom it is
to be used it is the purpose of this treatise to show.
The second book begins with the doctrine that the best speech is
appropriate to the best conceptions; but the best conceptions exist
only where there is learning and genius, and the best speech is con-
sequently that only of those who possess them, and only the best
subjects are worthy of being treated in it. These subjects fall under
three heads: that of utility, or safety, which it is the object of arms
to secure; that of delight, which is the end of love; that of worthi-
ness, which is attained by virtue. These are the topics of the illus-
trious poets in the vulgar tongue; and of these, among the Italians,
Cino da Pistoia has treated of love, and his friend (Dante) of rec-
titude.
The remainder of the second book is given to the various forms
of poetry, the canzone, the ballata, the sonnet,- and to the rules of
versification. The work breaks off unfinished, in the middle of a
sentence. There were to have been at least two books more; but,
fragment as it is, the treatise is an invaluable document in the illus-
tration of Dante's study of his own art, in its exhibition of his
breadth of view, and in its testimony to his own consciousness of his
position as the master of his native tongue, and as the poet of
righteousness. He failed in his estimate of himself only as it fell
short of the truth. He found the common tongue of Italy unformed,
unstable, limited in powers of expression. He shaped it not only for
his own needs, but for the needs of the Italian race. He developed
its latent powers, enlarged its resources, and determined its form.
The language as he used it is essentially the language of to-day,-
not less so than the language of Shakespeare is the English of our
use. In his poetic diction there is little that is not in accord with
later usage; and while in prose the language has become more flexi-
ble, its constructions more varied and complex, its rhythm more
perfected, his prose style at its best still remains unsurpassed in
vigor, in directness, and in simplicity. Changeful from generation
to generation as language is, and as Dante recognized it to be,
it has not so changed in six hundred years that his tongue has
become strange. There is no similar example in any other modern
* Literally, "who by the sweetness of its glory put exile behind our
back. "
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DANTE
4341
literature The force of his genius, which thus gave to the form
of his work a perpetual contemporaneousness, gave it also to the sub-
stance; and though the intellectual convictions of men have changed
far more than their language, yet Dante's position as the poet of
righteousness remains supreme.
It is surprising that with such a vast and difficult work as the
'Divine Comedy' engaging him, Dante should have found time and
strength during his exile for the writing of treatises in prose so con-
siderable as that on the Common Tongue, and the much longer and
more important book which he called 'Il Convivio' or 'Il Convito'
(The Banquet). It is apparent from various references in the course
of the work that it was at least mainly written between 1307 and
1310. Its design was of large scope. It was to be composed of
fifteen parts or treatises; but of these only four were completed, and
such is their character both as regards their exhibition of the poet's
nature and their exposition of the multifarious topics of philosophy,
of science, and of morals treated in them, that the student of Dante
and of medieval thought cannot but feel a deep regret at the failure
of the poet to carry his undertaking to its intended close. But
though the work is imperfect as a whole, each of its four parts is
complete and practically independent in itself.
Dante's object in the book was twofold. His opening words are a
translation of what Matthew Arnold calls "that buoyant and immortal
sentence with which Aristotle begins his Metaphysics,”. "All mankind
naturally desire knowledge. " But few can attain to what is desired
by all, and innumerable are they who live always famished for want
of this food. "Oh, blessed are the few who sit at that table where
the bread of the angels is eaten, and wretched they who have food
in common with the herds. " "I, therefore, who do not sit at the
blessed table, but having fled from the pasture of the crowd, gather
up at the feet of those who sit at it what falls from them, and
through the sweetness I taste in that which little by little I pick up,
know the wretched life of those whom I have left behind me, and
moved with pity for them, not forgetting myself, have reserved
something for these wretched ones. " These crumbs were the sub-
stance of the banquet which he proposed to spread for them.
It was
to have fourteen courses, and each of these courses was to have for
its principal viand a canzone of which the subject should be Love
and Virtue, and the bread served with each course was to be the
exposition of these poems,- poems which for want of this exposition
lay under the shadow of obscurity, so that by many their beauty was
more esteemed than their goodness. They were in appearance mere
poems of love, but under this aspect they concealed their true mean-
ing, for the lady of his love was none other than Philosophy herself,
-
-
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DANTE
and not sensual passion but virtue was their moving cause. The fear
of reproach to which this misinterpretation might give occasion, and
the desire to impart teaching which others could not give, were the
two motives of his work.
There is much in the method and style of the 'Convito' which in
its cumbrous artificiality exhibits an early stage in the exposition of
thought in literary form, but Dante's earnestness of purpose is appar-
ent in many passages of manly simplicity, and inspires life into the
dry bones of his formal scholasticism. The book is a mingling of
biographical narrative, shaped largely by the ideals of the imagina-
tion, with expositions of philosophical doctrine, disquisitions on mat-
ters of science, and discussion of moral truths. But one controlling
purpose runs through all, to help men to attain that knowledge
which shall lead them into the paths of righteousness.
For his theory of knowledge is, that it is the natural and innate
desire of the soul, as essential to its own perfection in its ultimate
union with God. The use of the reason, through which he partakes
of the Divine nature, is the true life of man. Its right use in the
pursuit of knowledge leads to philosophy, which is, as its name sig-
nifies, the love of wisdom, and its end is the attainment of virtue.
It is because of imperfect knowledge that the love of man is turned
to fallacious objects of desire, and his reason is perverted. Knowl-
edge, then, is the prime source of good; ignorance, of evil. Through
knowledge to wisdom is the true path of the soul in this life on her
return to her Maker, to know whom is her native desire, and her
perfect beatitude.
In the exposition of these truths in their various relations a multi-
tude of topics of interest are touched upon, and a multitude of opin-
ions expressed which exhibit the character of Dante's mind and the
vast extent of the acquisitions by which his studies had enriched it.
The intensity of his moral convictions and the firmness of his moral
principles are no less striking in the discourse than the nobility of
his genius and the breadth of his intellectual view. Limited and
erroneous as are many of his scientific conceptions, there is little
trace of superstition or bigotry in his opinions; and though his spec-
ulations rest on a false conception of the universe, the revolting
dogmas of the common mediæval theology in respect to the human
and the Divine nature find no place in them. The mingling of fancy
with fact, the unsoundness of the premises from which conclusions
are drawn, the errors in belief and in argument, do not affect the
main object of his writing, and the 'Convito' may still be read with
sympathy and with profit, as a treatise of moral doctrine by a man
the loftiness of whose intelligence rose superior to the hampering
limitations of his age.
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DANTE
4343
In its general character and in its biographical revelations the
'Banquet' forms a connecting link between the 'New Life' and the
'Divine Comedy. ' It is not possible to frame a complete reconcilia-
tion between all the statements of the 'Banquet' in respect to
Dante's experience after the death of Beatrice, and the narrative of
them in the New Life'; nor is it necessary, if we allow due place
to the poetic and allegoric interpretation of events natural to Dante's
genius. In the last part of the New Life' he tells of his infidelity
to Beatrice in yielding himself to the attraction of a compassionate
lady, in whose sight he found consolation. But the infidelity was of
short duration, and, repenting it, he returned with renewed devotion
to his only love. In the 'Convito' he tells us that the compassionate
lady was no living person, but was the image of Philosophy, in whose
teaching he had found comfort; and the poems which he then wrote
and which had the form, and were in the terms of, poems of Love,
were properly to be understood as addressed-not to any earthly
lady, but to the lady of the understanding, the most noble and
beautiful Philosophy, the daughter of God. And as this image of
Philosophy, as the fairest of women, whose eyes and whose smile
reveal the joys of Paradise, gradually took clear form, it coalesced
with the image of Beatrice herself, she who on earth had been the
type to her lover of the beauty of eternal things, and who had
revealed to him the Creator in his creature. But now having become
one of the blessed in heaven, with a spiritual beauty transcending
all earthly charm, she was no longer merely a type of heavenly
things, but herself the guide to the knowledge of them, and the
divinely commissioned revealer of the wisdom of God. She looking
on the face of God reflected its light upon him who loved her. She
was one with Divine Philosophy, and as such she appears, in living
form, in the 'Divine Comedy,' and discloses to her lover the truth
which is the native desire of the soul, and in the attainment of
which is beatitude.
It is this conception which forms the bond of union between the
'New Life,' the 'Banquet,' and the 'Divine Comedy,' and not merely
as literary compositions but as autobiographical records. Dante's life
and his work are not to be regarded apart; they form a single whole,
and they possess a dramatic development of unparalleled consist-
ency and unity. The course of the events of his life shaped itself
in accordance with an ideal of the imagination, and to this ideal his
works correspond. His first writing, in his poems of love and in
the story of the New Life,' forms as it were the first act of a
drama which proceeds from act to act in its presentation of his life,
with just proportion and due sequence, to its climax and final scene
in the last words of the 'Divine Comedy. ' It is as if Fate had
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DANTE
4344
foreordained the dramatic unity of his life and work, and impress-
ing her decree upon his imagination, had made him her more or less
conscious instrument in its fulfillment.
Had Dante written only his prose treatises and his minor poems,
he would still have come down to us as the most commanding liter-
ary figure of the Middle Ages, the first modern with a true literary
sense, the writer of love verses whose imagination was at once more
delicate and more profound than that of any among the long train of
his successors, save Shakespeare alone, and more free from sensual
stain than that of Shakespeare; the poet of sweetest strain and full-
est control of the resources of his art, the scholar of largest acquisi-
tion and of completest mastery over his acquisitions, and the moralist
with higher ideals of conduct and more enlightened conceptions of
duty than any other of the period to which he belonged. All this
he would have been, and this would have secured for him a place
among the immortals. But all this has but a comparatively small
part in raising him to the station which he actually occupies, and in
giving to him the influence which he still exerts. It was in the
'Divine Comedy' that his genius found its full expression, and it is
to this supreme poem that all his other work serves as substructure.
The general scheme of this poem seems to have been early
formed by him; and its actual composition was the main occupation
of his years of exile, and must have been its main, one might say
its sufficient, consolation. Never was a book of wider scope devised
by man; and never was one more elaborate in detail, more varied in
substance, or more complete in execution. It is unique in the con-
sistency of its form with its spirit. It possesses such organic unity
and proportion as to resemble a work of the creative spirit of Nature
herself.
The motive which inspired Dante in the 'Divine Comedy' had its
source in his sense of the wretchedness of man in this mortal life,
owing to the false direction of his desires, through his ignorance and
his misuse of his free will, the chief gift of God to him. The only
means of rescue from this wretchedness was the exercise by man of
his reason, enlightened by the divine grace, in the guidance of his
life. To convince man of this truth, to bring home to him the con-
viction of the eternal consequences of his conduct in this world, to
show him the path of salvation, was Dante's aim. As poet he had
received a Divine commission to perform this work. To him the ten
talents had been given, and it was for him to put them to the use
for which they had been bestowed. It was a consecrated task to
which both heaven and earth set their hand, and a loftier task was
never undertaken. It was to be accomplished by expounding the
design of God in the creation, by setting forth the material and
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DANTE
4345
moral order of the universe and the share of man in that order, and
his consequent duty and destiny. This was not to be done in the
form of abstract propositions addressed to the understanding, but in
a poetic narrative which should appeal to the heart and arouse the
imagination; a narrative in which human life should be portrayed as
an unbroken spiritual existence, prefiguring in its mortal aspects and
experience its immortal destiny. The poem was not to be a mere
criticism of life, but a solution of its mystery, an explanation of its
meaning, and a guide of its course.
To give force and effect to such a design the narrative must be
one of personal experience, so conceived as to be a type of the uni-
versal experience of man. The poem was to be an allegory, and in
making himself its protagonist Dante assumed a double part. He
represents both the individual Dante, the actual man, and that man
as the symbol of man in general. His description of his journey
through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise has a literal veracity; and un-
der the letter is the allegory of the conduct and consequences of all
human life. The literal meaning and the allegorical are the web and
woof of the fabric, in which the separate incidents are interwoven,
with twofold thread, in designs of infinite variety, complexity, and
beauty.
In the journey through Hell, Dante represents himself as guided
by Virgil, who has been sent to his aid on the perilous way by Bea-
trice, incited by the Holy Virgin herself, in her infinite compassion
for one who has strayed from the true way in the dark forest of the
world. Virgil is the type of the right reason, that reason whose
guidance, if followed, leads man to the attainment of the moral vir-
tues, by the practice of which sin may be avoided, but which by
themselves are not enough for salvation. These were the virtues of
the virtuous heathen, unenlightened by divine revelation. Through
the world, of whose evil Hell is the type and fulfillment, reason is
the sufficient guide and guard along the perilous paths which man
must traverse, exposed to the assaults of sin, subject to temptation,
and compelled to face the very Devil himself. And when at last,
worn and wearied by long-continued effort, and repentant of his fre-
quent errors, he has overcome temptation, and entered on a course
of purification through suffering and penitence, whereby he may
obtain forgiveness and struggle upward to the height of moral virtue,
reason still suffices to lead him on the difficult ascent, until he reaches
the security and the joy of having overcome the world. But now
reason no longer is sufficient. Another guide is needed to lead the
soul through heavenly paths to the attainment of the divine virtues
of faith, hope, and charity, by which the soul is made fit for Paradise.
And here Beatrice, the type of theology, or knowledge of the things
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DANTE
of God, takes the place of Virgil, and conducts the purified and
redeemed soul on its return to its divine source, to the consumma-
tion of its desires and its bliss in the vision of God himself.
Such is the general scheme of the poem, in which the order of
the universe is displayed and the life of man depicted, in scenes of
immense dramatic variety and of unsurpassed imaginative reality. It
embraces the whole field of human experience. Nature, art, the
past, the present, learning, philosophy, all contribute to it. The
mastery of the poet over all material which can serve him is com-
plete; the force of his controlling imagination corresponds with the
depth and intensity of his moral purpose. And herein lies the
exceptional character of the poem, as at once a work of art of
supreme beauty and a work of didactic morals of supreme signifi-
cance. Art indeed cannot, if it would, divorce itself from morals.
Into every work of art, whether the artist intend it or not, enters a
moral element. But in art, beauty does not submit to be subor-
dinated to any other end, and it is the marvel in Dante that while
his main intent is didactic, he attains it by a means of art so per-
fect that only in a few rare passages does beauty fall a sacrifice to
doctrine. The 'Divine Comedy' is indeed not less incomparable in
its beauty than in its vast compass, the variety of its interest, and in
the harmony of its form with its spirit. In his lectures On Trans-
lating Homer' Mr. Arnold, speaking of the metre of 'Paradise Lost,'
says: "To this metre, as used in the Paradise Lost,' our country
owes the glory of having produced one of the only two poetical
works in the grand style which are to be found in the modern lan-
guages; the Divine Comedy' of Dante is the other. " But Mr. Arnold
does not point out the extraordinary fact, in regard to the style of
the Divine Comedy,' that this poem stands at the beginning of
modern literature, that there was no previous modern standard of style,
that the language was molded and the verse invented by Dante; that
he did not borrow his style from the ancients, and that when he
says to Virgil, «Thou art he from whom I took the fair style that
has done me honor," he meant only that he had learned from him
the principles of noble and adequate poetic expression. The style of
the 'Divine Comedy' is as different from that of the Æneid as it is
from that of Paradise Lost. '
(
There are few other works of man, perhaps there is no other,
which afford such evidence as the Divine Comedy' of uninterrupted
consistency of purpose, of sustained vigor of imagination, and of
steady force of character controlling alike the vagaries of the poetic
temperament, the wavering of human purpose, the fluctuation of
human powers, and the untowardness of circumstance.
From begin-
ning to end of this work of many years there is no flagging of
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energy, no indication of weakness. The shoulders, burdened by a
task almost too great for mortal strength, never tremble under their
load.
The contrast between the inner and the outer life of Dante is one
of the most impressive pictures of human experience; the pain, the
privation, the humiliation of outward circumstance so bitter, so pro-
longed; the joy, the fullness, the exaltation of inward condition so
complete, the achievement so great. Above all other poetry the
'Divine Comedy is the expression of high character, and of a manly
nature of surpassing breadth and tenderness of sympathy, of intensity
of moral earnestness, and elevation of purpose. One closes the nar-
rative of Dante's life and the study of his works with the conviction
that he was not only one of the greatest among poets, but a man
whose character gives to his poetry its highest and its most enduring
interest.
C. E. Morton.
NOTES
For the student of Italian, the following books may be recom-
mended as opening the way to the study of Dante's life and works:
1. Tutte le Opere di Dante Alighieri. Nuovamente rivedute nel
testo da Dr. E. Moore. Oxford, 1894, I vol. ; sm. 8vo; pp. x, 490.
[The best text of Dante's works, and the only edition of them in
one volume. Invaluable to the student. ]
e
2. La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri. Riveduta
commentata da G. A. Scartazzini. 2d ediz. , Milano, 1896, 1 vol. ; sm.
3vo; pp. xx, 1034; col Rimario ed Indice, pp. 122. On the whole the
most useful edition for the beginner. The historical and biographi-
cal notes and the references to the sources of Dante's allusions are
abundant and good; but interpretations of difficult passages or words
are not always unquestionable.
Scartazzini's edition of the Divina Commedia in three volumes,
with his volume of Prolegomeni,' may be commended to the more
advanced student, who will find it, especially the volume of the
'Paradise,' a rich storehouse of information.
For the English reader the following books and essays will be
useful:- Cary's translation of the Divine Comedy,' in blank verse.
## p. 4348 (#114) ###########################################
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DANTE
modeled on Milton's verse, and remote from the tone of the original.
This is the version of a refined scholar; it has been much admired
and is generally quoted in England. It is furnished with good notes.
Longfellow's verse-for-verse unrhymed translation is far the most
accurate of the English translations in verse, and is distinguished
also for the verbal felicity of its renderings. The comment accom-
panying it is extensive and of great value, by far the best in English.
Of literal prose translations, there are among others that of the
'Inferno by Dr. John Carlyle, which is of very great merit; that of
the whole poem, with a comment of interest, by Mr. A. J. Butler; and
that also of the whole poem and of he New Life' by C. E. Norton.
The various works on Dante by the Rev. Dr. Edward Moore, of
Oxford, are all of the highest worth, and quite indispensable to the
thorough student. Their titles are-Contributions to the Textual
Criticism of the Divina Commedia,' 'Time References in the Divina
Commedia,' 'Dante and his Early Biographers,' and 'Studies in
Dante. '
Lowell's essay on 'Dante' (prose works of James Russell Lowell,
Riverside edition, Vol. iv. ), and 'Dante,' an essay by the Rev. R. W.
Church, late Dean of St. Paul's, should be read by every student.
They will open the way to further reading.
The Concordance to
the Divine Comedy,' by Dr. E. A. Fay, published by Ginn and Com-
pany, Boston, for the Dante Society, is a book which the student
should have always at hand.
C. E. N.
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추
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圈
Y
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FARM R
DANTE'S HOUSE
FLORENCE, ITALY
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DANTE
SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS OF DANTE
IN
N MAKING the following translations from Dante's chief works, my
attempt has been to choose passages which should each have
interest in itself, but which, taken together, should have a natu-
ral sequence and should illustrate the development of the ruling ideas
and controlling sentiment of Dante's life. But they lose much of their
power and beauty in being separated from their context, and the
reader should bear in mind that such is the closeness of texture of
Dante's work, and so complete its unity, that extracts, however
numerous and extended, fail to give an adequate impression of its
character as a whole. Moreover, no poems suffer greater loss in
translation than Dante's, for in no others is there so intimate a rela-
tion between the expression and the feeling, between the rhythmical
form and the poetic substance.
C. E. N.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
I.
I.
2.
3.
FROM THE NEW LIFE)
The beginning of love.
The first salutation of his Lady.
The praise of his Lady.
Her loveliness.
Her death.
The anniversary of her death.
The hope to speak more worthily of her.
FROM THE (BANQUET ›
The consolation of Philosophy.
The desire of the Soul.
The noble Soul at the end of Life.
4349
FROM THE DIVINE COMEDY>
Hell, Cantos i. and ii. The entrance on the journey through the
eternal world.
2.
Hell, Canto v. The punishment of carnal sinners.
3. Purgatory, Canto xxvii. The final purgation.
4. Purgatory, Cantos xxx, xxxi. The meeting with his Lady in the
Earthly Paradise.
5. Paradise, Canto xxxiii. The final vision.
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4350
The selections from the New Life' are from Professor Norton's translation,
copyrighted 1867, 1892, 1895, and reprinted by permission of Professor
Norton and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston, Mass.
THE NEW LIFE
I
THE BEGINNING OF LOVE
NT
JINE times now, since my birth, the heaven of light had
turned almost to the same point in its own gyration, when
the glorious Lady of my mind, who was called Beatrice by
many who knew not why she was so called, first appeared before
my eyes. She had already been in this life so long that in its
course the starry heaven had moved toward the region of the
East one of the twelve parts of a degree; so that at about the
beginning of her ninth year she appeared to me, and I near the
end of my ninth year saw her. She appeared to me clothed in
a most noble color, a modest and becoming crimson, and she
was girt and adorned in such wise as befitted her very youthful
age.
over
From that time forward Love lorded it over my soul, which
had been so speedily wedded to him: and he began to exercise
me such control and such lordship, through the power
which my imagination gave to him, that it behoved me to do
completely all his pleasure. He commanded me ofttimes that I
should seek to see this youthful angel; so that I in my boyhood
often went seeking her, and saw her of such noble and praise-
worthy deportment, that truly of her might be said that word of
the poet Homer, "She seems not the daughter of mortal man,
but of God. " And though her image, which stayed constantly
with me, gave assurance to Love to hold lordship over me, yet
it was of such noble virtue that it never suffered Love to rule
me without the faithful counsel of the reason in those matters in
which it was useful to hear such counsel. And since to dwell
upon the passions and actions of such early youth seems like
telling an idle tale, I will leave them, and, passing over many
things which might be drawn from the original where these lie
hidden, I will come to those words which are written in my
memory under larger paragraphs.
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II
THE FIRST SALUTATION OF HIS LADY
When so many days had passed that nine years were exactly
complete since the above-described apparition of this most gentle
lady, on the last of these days it happened that this admirable
lady appeared to me, clothed in purest white, between two gentle
ladies, who were of greater age; and, passing along a street, she
turned her eyes toward that place where I stood very timidly,
and by her ineffable courtesy, which is to-day rewarded in the
eternal world, saluted me with such virtue that it seemed to me
then that I saw all the bounds of bliss. . . . And since it
was the first time that her words came to my ears, I took in
such sweetness that, as it were intoxicated, I turned away from
the folk, and betaking myself to the solitude of my own chamber,
I sat myself down to think of this most courteous lady.
And thinking of her, a sweet slumber overcame me, in which
a marvelous vision appeared to
. And [when I
awoke] thinking on what had appeared to me, I resolved to
make it known to many who were famous poets at that time;
and since I had already seen in myself the art of discoursing in
rhyme, I resolved to make a sonnet, in which I would salute all
the liegemen of Love, and would write to them that which I had
seen in my slumber.
III
THE PRAISE OF HIS LADY
Inasmuch as through my looks many persons had learned the
secret of my heart, certain ladies who were met together, taking
pleasure in one another's company, were well acquainted with my
heart, because each of them had witnessed many of my discom-
fitures. And I, passing near them, as chance led me, was called
by one of these gentle ladies; and she who had called me was a
lady of very pleasing speech; so that when I drew nigh to them
and saw plainly that my most gentle lady was not among them,
reassuring myself, I saluted them and asked what might be
their pleasure. The ladies were many, and certain of them were
laughing together. There were others who were looking at me,
awaiting what I might say. There were others who were talking
together, one of whom, turning her eyes toward me, and calling
me by name, said these words: -"To what end lovest thou this
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thy lady, since thou canst not sustain her presence? Tell it to
us, for surely the end of such a love must be most strange. »
And when she had said these words to me, not only she, but all
the others, began to await with their look my reply. Then I
said to them these words: -"My ladies, the end of my love was
formerly the salutation of this lady of whom you perchance are
thinking, and in that dwelt the beatitude which was the end of
all my desires. But since it has pleased her to deny it to me,
my lord Love, through his grace, has placed all my beatitude
in that which cannot fail me. "
Then these ladies began to speak together: and as sometimes
we see rain falling mingled with beautiful snow, so it seemed to
me I saw their words issue mingled with sighs. And after they
had somewhat spoken among themselves, this lady who had first
spoken to me said to me yet these words:- "We pray thee that
thou tell us wherein consists this beatitude of thine. " And I,
replying to her, said thus:-"In those words which praise my
lady. " And she replied: "If thou hast told us the truth, those
words which thou hadst said to her, setting forth thine own con-
dition, must have been composed with other intent. ”
Then I, thinking on these words, as if ashamed, departed
from them, and went saying within myself:-"Since there is
such beatitude in those words which praise my lady, why has
my speech been of aught else? " And therefore I resolved
always henceforth to take for theme of my speech that which
should be the praise of this most gentle one. And thinking
much on this, I seemed to myself to have undertaken a theme
too lofty for me, so that I dared not to begin; and thus I tar-
ried some days with desire to speak, and with fear of beginning.
Then it came to pass that, walking on a road alongside of
which was flowing a very clear stream, so great a desire to say
somewhat in verse came upon me, that I began to consider the
method I should observe; and I thought that to speak of her
would not be becoming unless I were to speak to ladies in the
second person; and not to every lady, but only to those who are
gentle, and are not women merely. Then I say that my tongue
spoke as if moved of its own accord, and said, Ladies that have
intelligence of Love. These words I laid up in my mind with
great joy, thinking to take them for my beginning; wherefore
then, having returned to the above-mentioned city, after some
days of thought, I began a canzone with this beginning.
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IV
VIII-273
THE LOVELINESS OF HIS LADY
This most gentle lady, of whom there has been discourse in
the preceding words, came into such favor among the people,
that when she passed along the way, persons ran to see her;
which gave me wonderful joy. And when she was near any one,
such modesty came into his heart that he dared not raise his
eyes, or return her salutation; and of this many, as having
experienced it, could bear witness for me to whoso might not
believe it. She, crowned and clothed with humility, took her
way, showing no pride in that which she saw and heard. Many
said, when she had passed: "This is not a woman; rather she is
one of the most beautiful angels of heaven. " And others said:
"She is a marvel. Blessed be the Lord who can work thus
admirably! " I say that she showed herself so gentle and so full
of all pleasantness, that those who looked on her comprehended
in themselves a pure and sweet delight, such as they could not
after tell in words; nor was there any who might look upon her
but that at first he needs must sigh. These and more admirable
things proceeded from her admirably and with power. Where-
fore I, thinking upon this, desiring to resume the style of her
praise, resolved to say words in which I would set forth her
admirable and excellent influences, to the end that not only those
who might actually behold her, but also others, should know of
her whatever words could tell. Then I devised this sonnet:
So gentle and so gracious doth appear
My lady when she giveth her salute,
That every tongue becometh, trembling, mute;
Nor do the eyes to look upon her dare.
Although she hears her praises, she doth go
Benignly vested with humility;
And like a thing come down she seems to be
From heaven to earth, a miracle to show.
So pleaseth she whoever cometh nigh,
She gives the heart a sweetness through the eyes,
Which none can understand who doth not prove.
And from her countenance there seems to move
A spirit sweet and in Love's very guise,
Who to the soul, in going, sayeth: Sigh!
—
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V
THE DEATH OF HIS LADY
After that I began to think one day upon what I had said of
my lady, that is, in these two preceding sonnets; and seeing in
my thought that I had not spoken of that which at the present
time she wrought in me, it seemed to me that I had spoken
defectively; and therefore I resolved to say words in which I
would tell how I seemed to myself to be disposed to her influ-
ence, and how her virtue wrought in me. And not believing
that I could relate this in the brevity of a sonnet, I began then
a canzone.
Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi vidua domina
gentium. [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. ]
I was yet full of the design of this canzone, and had com-
pleted [one] stanza thereof, when the Lord of Justice called this
most gentle one to glory, under the banner of that holy Queen
Mary, whose name was ever spoken with greatest reverence by
this blessed Beatrice.
VI
THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF HIS LADY
On that day on which the year was complete since this lady
was made one of the denizens of life eternal, I was seated in a
place where, having her in mind, I was drawing an angel upon
certain tablets. And while I was drawing it, I turned my eyes
and saw at my side men to whom it was meet to do honor. They
were looking on what I did, and, as was afterwards told me, they
had been there already some time before I became aware of it.
When I saw them I rose, and saluting them, said, "Another was
just now with me, and on that account I was in thought. " And
when they had gone away, I returned to my work, namely, that
of drawing figures of angels; and while doing this, a thought
came to me of saying words in rhyme, as if for an anniversary
poem of her, and of addressing those persons who had come to
me.
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4355
After this, two gentle ladies sent to ask me to send them
some of these rhymed words of mine; wherefore I, thinking on
their nobleness, resolved to send to them and to make a new
thing which I would send to them with these, in order that I
might fulfill their prayers with the more honor. And I devised
then a sonnet which relates my condition, and I sent it to them.
Beyond the sphere that widest orbit hath
Passes the sigh which issues from my heart:
A new Intelligence doth Love impart
In tears to him, which guides his upward path.
When at the place desired, his course he stays,
A lady he beholds in honor dight,
Who so doth shine that through her splendid light,
The pilgrim spirit upon her doth gaze.
He sees her such, that dark his words I find-
—
When he reports, his speech so subtle is
Unto the grieving heart which makes him tell;
But of that gentle one he speaks, I wis,
Since oft he bringeth Beatrice to mind,
So that, O ladies dear, I understand him well.
VII
THE HOPE TO SPEAK MORE WORTHILY OF HIS LADY
After this, a wonderful vision appeared to me, in which I
saw things which made me resolve to speak no more of the
blessed one, until I could more worthily treat of her. And to
attain to this, I study to the utmost of my power, as she truly
knows. So that, if it shall please Him through whom all things.
live that my life be prolonged for some years, I hope to say of
her what was never said of any woman.
And then may it please him who is the Lord of Grace, that
my soul may go to behold the glory of its lady, namely of that
blessed Beatrice, who in glory looks upon the face of Him qui
est per omnia sæcula benedictus [who is blessed forever].
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The translations from the
Convito' are made for A Library of the World's
Best Literature by Professor Norton
THE CONVITO
I
THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY
"WHE
HEN the first delight of my soul was lost, of which men-
tion has already been made, I remained pierced with
such affliction that no comfort availed me. Nevertheless,
after some time, my mind, which was endeavoring to heal itself,
undertook, since neither my own nor others' consoling availed,
to turn to the mode which other comfortless ones had adopted
for their consolation. And I set myself to reading that book of
Boëthius, not known to many, in which he, a prisoner and an
exile, had consoled himself. And hearing, moreover, that Tully
had written a book in which, treating of friendship, he had
introduced words of consolation for Lælius, a most excellent
man, on the death of Scipio his friend, I set myself to read
that. And although it was difficult for me at first to enter into
their meaning, I finally entered into it, so far as my knowledge
of Latin and a little of my own genius permitted; through
which genius I already, as if in a dream, saw many things, as
may be seen in the New Life. ' And as it sometimes happens
that a man goes seeking silver, and beyond his expectation finds.
gold, which a hidden occasion affords, not perchance without
Divine guidance, so I, who was seeking to console myself, found
not only relief for my tears, but the substance of authors, and of
knowledge, and of books; reflecting upon which, I came to the
conclusion that Philosophy, who was the Lady of these authors,
this knowledge, and these books, was a supreme thing. And I
imagined her as having the features of a gentle lady; and I
could not imagine her in any but a compassionate act; wherefore
my sense so willingly admired her in truth, that I could hardly
turn it from her. And after this imagination I began to go
there where she displayed herself truly, that is to say, to the
school of the religious, and to the disputations of the philoso-
phers, so that in a short time, perhaps in thirty months, I began
to feel so much of her sweetness that the love of her chased
away and destroyed every other thought. "
The Banquet,' ii. 13.
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II
THE DESIRE OF THE SOUL
The supreme desire of everything, and that first given by
Nature, is to return to its source; and since God is the source of
our souls and Maker of them in his own likeness, as is written,
"Let us make man in our image, after our likeness," to him
this soul desires above all to return. And as a pilgrim, who
goes along a road on which he never was before, thinks every
house he sees afa off to be his inn, and not finding it so, directs
his trust to the next, and thus from house to house till he comes
to the inn, so our soul at once, on entering the new and untrav-
eled road of this life, turns her eyes to the goal of her supreme
good, and therefore whatever thing she sees which seems to have
in it some good, she believes to be that. And because her knowl-
edge at first is imperfect, not being experienced or instructed,
small goods seem to her great, therefore she begins with desiring
them. Wherefore we see children desire exceedingly an apple;
and then proceeding further, desire a little bird; and further still
a beautiful dress; and then a horse, and then a woman, and then
riches not great, and then greater, and then as great as can be.
And this happens because in none of these does she find that
which she is seeking, and she trusts to find it further on.
Truly this way is lost by error as the roads of earth are; for
as from one city to another there is of necessity one best and
straightest way, and another that always leads away from it, that
is, one which goes in another direction, and many others, some
less diverging, and some approaching less near, so in human life
are divers roads, of which one is the truest, and another the
most deceitful, and certain ones less deceitful, and certain less
true. And as we see that that which goes straightest to the city
fulfills desire, and gives repose after weariness, and that which
goes contrary never fulfills it, and can never give repose, so it
falls out in our life: the good traveler arrives at the goal and
repose, the mistaken never arrives there, but with much weari-
ness of his mind always looks forward with greedy eyes.
'The Banquet,' iv. 12.
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III
THE NOBLE SOUL AT THE END OF LIFE
The noble Soul in old age returns to God as to that port
whence she set forth on the sea of this life. And as the good
mariner, when he approaches port, furls his sails, and with slow
course gently enters it, so should we furl the sails of our worldly
affairs and turn to God with our whole mind and heart, so that
we may arrive at that port with all sweetness and peace. And
in regard to this we have from our own nature a great lesson of
sweetness, that in such a death as this there is no pain nor any
bitterness, but as a ripe fruit is easily and without violence de-
tached from its twig, so our soul without affliction is parted
from the body in which it has been. And just as to him who
comes from a long journey, before he enters into the gate of his
city, the citizens thereof go forth to meet him, so the citizens of
the eternal life come to meet the noble Soul; and they do so
through her good deeds and contemplations: for having now
rendered herself to God, and withdrawn herself from worldly
affairs and thoughts, she seems to see those whom she believes
to be nigh unto God. Hear what Tully says in the person of
the good Cato:-"With ardent zeal I lifted myself up to see your
fathers whom I had loved, and not them only, but also those of
whom I had heard speak. " The noble Soul then at this age
renders herself to God and awaits the end of life with great
desire; and it seems to her that she is leaving the inn and
returning to her own house, it seems to her that she is leaving
the road and returning to the city, it seems to her that she is
leaving the sea and returning to port.
And also the
noble Soul at this age blesses the past times; and well may she
bless them, because revolving them through her memory she
recalls her right deeds, without which she could not arrive with.
such great riches or so great gain at the port to which she is
approaching. And she does like the good merchant, who when
he draws near his port, examines his getting, and says: « Had
I not passed along such a way, I should not have this treasure,
nor have gained that which I may enjoy in my city to which I
am drawing near;" and therefore he blesses the way which he
has come.
(The Banquet,' iv. 28.
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The selections from the Divina Commedia are from Professor Norton's
translation: copyrighted 1891 and 1892, and reprinted by permission
of Professor Norton and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Publish-
ers, Boston, Mass.
HELL
CANTO I
THE ENTRANCE ON THE JOURNEY THROUGH THE ETERNAL WORLD
[Dante, astray in a wood, reaches the foot of a hill which he begins to
ascend; he is hindered by three beasts; he turns back and is met by Virgil,
who proposes to guide him into the eternal world. ]
M
IDWAY upon the road of our life I found myself within a
dark wood, for the right way had been missed. Ah! how
hard a thing it is to tell what this wild and rough and
dense wood was, which in thought renews the fear! So bitter is
it that death is little more. But in order to treat of the good
that I found, I will tell of the other things that I saw there. I
cannot well recount how I entered it, so full was I of slumber
at that point where I abandoned the true way. But after I had
arrived at the foot of a hill, where that valley ended which had
pierced my heart with fear, I looked on high and saw its
shoulders clothed already with the rays of the planet* that
leads men aright along every path. Then was the fear a little
quieted which in the lake of my heart had lasted through the
night that I passed so piteously. And even as one who, with
spent breath, issued out of the sea upon the shore, turns to the
perilous water and gazes, so did my soul, which still was flying,
turn back to look again upon the pass which never had a living
person left.
After I had rested a little my weary body, I took my way
again along the desert slope, so that the firm foot was always
the lower. And lo! almost at the beginning of the steep a she-
leopard, light and very nimble, which was covered with a spotted
coat. And she did not move from before my face, nay, rather
hindered so my road that to return I oftentimes had turned.
The time was at the beginning of the morning, and the Sun
was mounting upward with those stars that were with him when
Love Divine first set in motion those beautiful things; † so that
*The sun,—a planet according to the Ptolemaic astronomy.
It was a common belief that the spring was the season of the creation.
## p. 4360 (#130) ###########################################
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the hour of the time and the sweet season were occasion of good
hope to me concerning that wild beast with the dappled skin.
But not so that the sight which appeared to me of a lion did
not give me fear. He seemed to be coming against me, with
head high and with ravening hunger, so that it seemed that the
air was affrighted at him. And a she-wolf, who with all cravings
seemed laden in her meagreness, and already had made folk to
live forlorn, she caused me so much heaviness, with the fear
that came from sight of her, that I lost hope of the height. *
And such as he is who gains willingly, and the time arrives that
makes him lose, who in all his thoughts weeps and is sad,— such
made me the beast without repose that, coming on against me,
little by little was pushing me back thither where the Sun is
silent.
-
-
While I was falling back to the low place, before mine eyes
appeared one who through long silence seemed faint-voiced.
When I saw him in the great desert, "Have pity on me! " I cried
to him, « whatso thou art, or shade or real man. " He answered
me: "Not man; man once I was, and my parents were Lom-
bards, and Mantuans by country both. I was born sub Julio,
though late, and I lived at Rome under the good Augustus, in
the time of the false and lying gods. Poet was I, and sang of
that just son of Anchises who came from Troy after proud Ilion
had been burned. But thou, why returnest thou to so great
annoy? Why dost thou not ascend the delectable mountain which
is the source and cause of every joy? " "Art thou then that
Virgil and that fount which poureth forth so large a stream of
speech? " replied I to him with bashful front: "O honor and
light of the other poets! may the long study avail me, and the
great love, which have made me search thy volume! Thou art
my master and my author; thou alone art he from whom I took
the fair style that has done me honor. Behold the beast because
of which I turned; help me against her, famous sage, for she
makes my veins and pulses tremble.
contest; and by the arm of Him who by his blood delivered us from the
power of darkness, I will drive out from the lists the impious and the liar.
Wherefore should I fear? since the Spirit, co-eternal with the Father and the
Son, says through the mouth of David, The righteous shall be had in ever-
lasting remembrance, he shall not be afraid of evil tidings. › »
These words perhaps justify the inference that the treatise was
written before his exile, since after it his experience of calamity
would have freed him from the anticipation of further evil from the
hostility of those to whom his doctrine might be unacceptable.
But whether or not this be a correct inference, there can be no
doubt that the years between the compilation of the 'New Life' and
his banishment were years of rapid maturity of his powers, and
largely devoted to the studies which made him a master in the field
of learning. Keenly observant of the aspects of contemporary life,
fascinated by the "immense and magic spectacle of human affairs,”
questioning deeply its significance, engaged actively in practical con-
cerns, he ardently sought for the solution of the mysteries and the
reconcilement of the confusions of human existence. The way to this
solution seemed to lie through philosophy and learning, and in acquir-
ing them he lifted himself above the turmoil of earth. All observa-
tion, experience, and acquisition served as material for his poetic and
idealizing imagination, wherewith to construct an orderly scheme of
the universe; all served for the defining and confirming of his moral
judgments, all worked together for the harmonious development of
his intellectual powers; all served to prepare him for the work
which, already beginning to shape itself in his mind, was to become
the main occupation of the remainder of his life, and to prove one
of the abiding monuments of the highest achievements of mankind.
The 'De Monarchia' is written in Latin, and so also is a brief
unfinished treatise, the work of some period during his exile, on the
## p. 4339 (#105) ###########################################
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4339
Common Speech, 'De Vulgari Eloquio. '
It has intrinsic interest as
the first critical study of language and of literature in modern times,
as well as from the acute and sound judgments with which it
abounds, and from its discussion of the various forms and topics of
poetry, but still more from its numerous illustrations of Dante's per-
sonal experience and sentiment. Its object is to teach the right use
of the common speech; instruction required by all, since all make use
of the speech, it being that which all learn from birth, "by imita-
tion and without rule. The other speech, which the Romans called
Grammatica, is learned by study and according to rule.
Of
these two the Common is the more noble, because it was the first
used by the human race, and also because it is in use over all the
world, though in different tongues; and again because it is natural to
us, while the other is artificial. " Speech, Dante declares, is the pre-
rogative of man alone, not required by the angels and not possible
for brutes; there was originally but one language, the Hebrew. In
treating of this latter topic Dante introduces a personal reference of
extraordinary interest in its bearing on his feeling in respect to his
exile:-
"It is for those of such debased intelligence that they believe the place
of their birth to be the most delightful under the sun, to prefer their own
peculiar tongue, and to believe that it was that of Adam. But we whose
country is the world, as the sea is for fishes, although we drank of the Arno
before we were weaned, and so love Florence that because we loved it we
suffer exile unjustly, support our judgment by reason rather than feeling.
And though in respect to our pleasure and the repose of our senses, no
sweeter place exists on earth than Florence, . . . yet we hold it for cer-
tain that there are many more delightful regions and cities than Tuscany and
Florence, where I was born and of which I am a citizen, and that many
nations and people use a more pleasing and serviceable speech than the
Italians. »
The conclusion of this speculation is, that the Hebrew, which was
the original language spoken by Adam, was preserved by the Hebrew
people after the confusion of tongues at the building of the Tower
of Babel, and thus became the language used by our Redeemer,-
the language not of confusion but of grace.
But the purpose of the present treatise is not to consider all the
divers languages even of Europe, but only that of Italy. Yet in Italy.
alone there is an immense variety of speech, and no one of the
varieties is the true Italian language. That true, illustrious, courtly
tongue is to be found nowhere in common use, but everywhere in
select usage.
It is the common speech "freed from rude words,
involved constructions, defective pronunciation, and rustic accent;
excellent, clear, perfect, urbane, and elect, as it may be seen in the
## p. 4340 (#106) ###########################################
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---
poems of Cino da Pistoia and his friend,'». - that friend being Dante
himself. They have attained to the glory of the tongue, and "how
glorious truly it renders its servants we ourselves know, who to the
sweetness of its glory hold our exile as naught. "* This illustrious
language, then, is the select Italian tongue, the tongue of the
excellent poets in every part of Italy; and how and by whom it is
to be used it is the purpose of this treatise to show.
The second book begins with the doctrine that the best speech is
appropriate to the best conceptions; but the best conceptions exist
only where there is learning and genius, and the best speech is con-
sequently that only of those who possess them, and only the best
subjects are worthy of being treated in it. These subjects fall under
three heads: that of utility, or safety, which it is the object of arms
to secure; that of delight, which is the end of love; that of worthi-
ness, which is attained by virtue. These are the topics of the illus-
trious poets in the vulgar tongue; and of these, among the Italians,
Cino da Pistoia has treated of love, and his friend (Dante) of rec-
titude.
The remainder of the second book is given to the various forms
of poetry, the canzone, the ballata, the sonnet,- and to the rules of
versification. The work breaks off unfinished, in the middle of a
sentence. There were to have been at least two books more; but,
fragment as it is, the treatise is an invaluable document in the illus-
tration of Dante's study of his own art, in its exhibition of his
breadth of view, and in its testimony to his own consciousness of his
position as the master of his native tongue, and as the poet of
righteousness. He failed in his estimate of himself only as it fell
short of the truth. He found the common tongue of Italy unformed,
unstable, limited in powers of expression. He shaped it not only for
his own needs, but for the needs of the Italian race. He developed
its latent powers, enlarged its resources, and determined its form.
The language as he used it is essentially the language of to-day,-
not less so than the language of Shakespeare is the English of our
use. In his poetic diction there is little that is not in accord with
later usage; and while in prose the language has become more flexi-
ble, its constructions more varied and complex, its rhythm more
perfected, his prose style at its best still remains unsurpassed in
vigor, in directness, and in simplicity. Changeful from generation
to generation as language is, and as Dante recognized it to be,
it has not so changed in six hundred years that his tongue has
become strange. There is no similar example in any other modern
* Literally, "who by the sweetness of its glory put exile behind our
back. "
## p. 4341 (#107) ###########################################
DANTE
4341
literature The force of his genius, which thus gave to the form
of his work a perpetual contemporaneousness, gave it also to the sub-
stance; and though the intellectual convictions of men have changed
far more than their language, yet Dante's position as the poet of
righteousness remains supreme.
It is surprising that with such a vast and difficult work as the
'Divine Comedy' engaging him, Dante should have found time and
strength during his exile for the writing of treatises in prose so con-
siderable as that on the Common Tongue, and the much longer and
more important book which he called 'Il Convivio' or 'Il Convito'
(The Banquet). It is apparent from various references in the course
of the work that it was at least mainly written between 1307 and
1310. Its design was of large scope. It was to be composed of
fifteen parts or treatises; but of these only four were completed, and
such is their character both as regards their exhibition of the poet's
nature and their exposition of the multifarious topics of philosophy,
of science, and of morals treated in them, that the student of Dante
and of medieval thought cannot but feel a deep regret at the failure
of the poet to carry his undertaking to its intended close. But
though the work is imperfect as a whole, each of its four parts is
complete and practically independent in itself.
Dante's object in the book was twofold. His opening words are a
translation of what Matthew Arnold calls "that buoyant and immortal
sentence with which Aristotle begins his Metaphysics,”. "All mankind
naturally desire knowledge. " But few can attain to what is desired
by all, and innumerable are they who live always famished for want
of this food. "Oh, blessed are the few who sit at that table where
the bread of the angels is eaten, and wretched they who have food
in common with the herds. " "I, therefore, who do not sit at the
blessed table, but having fled from the pasture of the crowd, gather
up at the feet of those who sit at it what falls from them, and
through the sweetness I taste in that which little by little I pick up,
know the wretched life of those whom I have left behind me, and
moved with pity for them, not forgetting myself, have reserved
something for these wretched ones. " These crumbs were the sub-
stance of the banquet which he proposed to spread for them.
It was
to have fourteen courses, and each of these courses was to have for
its principal viand a canzone of which the subject should be Love
and Virtue, and the bread served with each course was to be the
exposition of these poems,- poems which for want of this exposition
lay under the shadow of obscurity, so that by many their beauty was
more esteemed than their goodness. They were in appearance mere
poems of love, but under this aspect they concealed their true mean-
ing, for the lady of his love was none other than Philosophy herself,
-
-
## p. 4342 (#108) ###########################################
4342
DANTE
and not sensual passion but virtue was their moving cause. The fear
of reproach to which this misinterpretation might give occasion, and
the desire to impart teaching which others could not give, were the
two motives of his work.
There is much in the method and style of the 'Convito' which in
its cumbrous artificiality exhibits an early stage in the exposition of
thought in literary form, but Dante's earnestness of purpose is appar-
ent in many passages of manly simplicity, and inspires life into the
dry bones of his formal scholasticism. The book is a mingling of
biographical narrative, shaped largely by the ideals of the imagina-
tion, with expositions of philosophical doctrine, disquisitions on mat-
ters of science, and discussion of moral truths. But one controlling
purpose runs through all, to help men to attain that knowledge
which shall lead them into the paths of righteousness.
For his theory of knowledge is, that it is the natural and innate
desire of the soul, as essential to its own perfection in its ultimate
union with God. The use of the reason, through which he partakes
of the Divine nature, is the true life of man. Its right use in the
pursuit of knowledge leads to philosophy, which is, as its name sig-
nifies, the love of wisdom, and its end is the attainment of virtue.
It is because of imperfect knowledge that the love of man is turned
to fallacious objects of desire, and his reason is perverted. Knowl-
edge, then, is the prime source of good; ignorance, of evil. Through
knowledge to wisdom is the true path of the soul in this life on her
return to her Maker, to know whom is her native desire, and her
perfect beatitude.
In the exposition of these truths in their various relations a multi-
tude of topics of interest are touched upon, and a multitude of opin-
ions expressed which exhibit the character of Dante's mind and the
vast extent of the acquisitions by which his studies had enriched it.
The intensity of his moral convictions and the firmness of his moral
principles are no less striking in the discourse than the nobility of
his genius and the breadth of his intellectual view. Limited and
erroneous as are many of his scientific conceptions, there is little
trace of superstition or bigotry in his opinions; and though his spec-
ulations rest on a false conception of the universe, the revolting
dogmas of the common mediæval theology in respect to the human
and the Divine nature find no place in them. The mingling of fancy
with fact, the unsoundness of the premises from which conclusions
are drawn, the errors in belief and in argument, do not affect the
main object of his writing, and the 'Convito' may still be read with
sympathy and with profit, as a treatise of moral doctrine by a man
the loftiness of whose intelligence rose superior to the hampering
limitations of his age.
## p. 4343 (#109) ###########################################
DANTE
4343
In its general character and in its biographical revelations the
'Banquet' forms a connecting link between the 'New Life' and the
'Divine Comedy. ' It is not possible to frame a complete reconcilia-
tion between all the statements of the 'Banquet' in respect to
Dante's experience after the death of Beatrice, and the narrative of
them in the New Life'; nor is it necessary, if we allow due place
to the poetic and allegoric interpretation of events natural to Dante's
genius. In the last part of the New Life' he tells of his infidelity
to Beatrice in yielding himself to the attraction of a compassionate
lady, in whose sight he found consolation. But the infidelity was of
short duration, and, repenting it, he returned with renewed devotion
to his only love. In the 'Convito' he tells us that the compassionate
lady was no living person, but was the image of Philosophy, in whose
teaching he had found comfort; and the poems which he then wrote
and which had the form, and were in the terms of, poems of Love,
were properly to be understood as addressed-not to any earthly
lady, but to the lady of the understanding, the most noble and
beautiful Philosophy, the daughter of God. And as this image of
Philosophy, as the fairest of women, whose eyes and whose smile
reveal the joys of Paradise, gradually took clear form, it coalesced
with the image of Beatrice herself, she who on earth had been the
type to her lover of the beauty of eternal things, and who had
revealed to him the Creator in his creature. But now having become
one of the blessed in heaven, with a spiritual beauty transcending
all earthly charm, she was no longer merely a type of heavenly
things, but herself the guide to the knowledge of them, and the
divinely commissioned revealer of the wisdom of God. She looking
on the face of God reflected its light upon him who loved her. She
was one with Divine Philosophy, and as such she appears, in living
form, in the 'Divine Comedy,' and discloses to her lover the truth
which is the native desire of the soul, and in the attainment of
which is beatitude.
It is this conception which forms the bond of union between the
'New Life,' the 'Banquet,' and the 'Divine Comedy,' and not merely
as literary compositions but as autobiographical records. Dante's life
and his work are not to be regarded apart; they form a single whole,
and they possess a dramatic development of unparalleled consist-
ency and unity. The course of the events of his life shaped itself
in accordance with an ideal of the imagination, and to this ideal his
works correspond. His first writing, in his poems of love and in
the story of the New Life,' forms as it were the first act of a
drama which proceeds from act to act in its presentation of his life,
with just proportion and due sequence, to its climax and final scene
in the last words of the 'Divine Comedy. ' It is as if Fate had
## p. 4344 (#110) ###########################################
DANTE
4344
foreordained the dramatic unity of his life and work, and impress-
ing her decree upon his imagination, had made him her more or less
conscious instrument in its fulfillment.
Had Dante written only his prose treatises and his minor poems,
he would still have come down to us as the most commanding liter-
ary figure of the Middle Ages, the first modern with a true literary
sense, the writer of love verses whose imagination was at once more
delicate and more profound than that of any among the long train of
his successors, save Shakespeare alone, and more free from sensual
stain than that of Shakespeare; the poet of sweetest strain and full-
est control of the resources of his art, the scholar of largest acquisi-
tion and of completest mastery over his acquisitions, and the moralist
with higher ideals of conduct and more enlightened conceptions of
duty than any other of the period to which he belonged. All this
he would have been, and this would have secured for him a place
among the immortals. But all this has but a comparatively small
part in raising him to the station which he actually occupies, and in
giving to him the influence which he still exerts. It was in the
'Divine Comedy' that his genius found its full expression, and it is
to this supreme poem that all his other work serves as substructure.
The general scheme of this poem seems to have been early
formed by him; and its actual composition was the main occupation
of his years of exile, and must have been its main, one might say
its sufficient, consolation. Never was a book of wider scope devised
by man; and never was one more elaborate in detail, more varied in
substance, or more complete in execution. It is unique in the con-
sistency of its form with its spirit. It possesses such organic unity
and proportion as to resemble a work of the creative spirit of Nature
herself.
The motive which inspired Dante in the 'Divine Comedy' had its
source in his sense of the wretchedness of man in this mortal life,
owing to the false direction of his desires, through his ignorance and
his misuse of his free will, the chief gift of God to him. The only
means of rescue from this wretchedness was the exercise by man of
his reason, enlightened by the divine grace, in the guidance of his
life. To convince man of this truth, to bring home to him the con-
viction of the eternal consequences of his conduct in this world, to
show him the path of salvation, was Dante's aim. As poet he had
received a Divine commission to perform this work. To him the ten
talents had been given, and it was for him to put them to the use
for which they had been bestowed. It was a consecrated task to
which both heaven and earth set their hand, and a loftier task was
never undertaken. It was to be accomplished by expounding the
design of God in the creation, by setting forth the material and
## p. 4345 (#111) ###########################################
DANTE
4345
moral order of the universe and the share of man in that order, and
his consequent duty and destiny. This was not to be done in the
form of abstract propositions addressed to the understanding, but in
a poetic narrative which should appeal to the heart and arouse the
imagination; a narrative in which human life should be portrayed as
an unbroken spiritual existence, prefiguring in its mortal aspects and
experience its immortal destiny. The poem was not to be a mere
criticism of life, but a solution of its mystery, an explanation of its
meaning, and a guide of its course.
To give force and effect to such a design the narrative must be
one of personal experience, so conceived as to be a type of the uni-
versal experience of man. The poem was to be an allegory, and in
making himself its protagonist Dante assumed a double part. He
represents both the individual Dante, the actual man, and that man
as the symbol of man in general. His description of his journey
through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise has a literal veracity; and un-
der the letter is the allegory of the conduct and consequences of all
human life. The literal meaning and the allegorical are the web and
woof of the fabric, in which the separate incidents are interwoven,
with twofold thread, in designs of infinite variety, complexity, and
beauty.
In the journey through Hell, Dante represents himself as guided
by Virgil, who has been sent to his aid on the perilous way by Bea-
trice, incited by the Holy Virgin herself, in her infinite compassion
for one who has strayed from the true way in the dark forest of the
world. Virgil is the type of the right reason, that reason whose
guidance, if followed, leads man to the attainment of the moral vir-
tues, by the practice of which sin may be avoided, but which by
themselves are not enough for salvation. These were the virtues of
the virtuous heathen, unenlightened by divine revelation. Through
the world, of whose evil Hell is the type and fulfillment, reason is
the sufficient guide and guard along the perilous paths which man
must traverse, exposed to the assaults of sin, subject to temptation,
and compelled to face the very Devil himself. And when at last,
worn and wearied by long-continued effort, and repentant of his fre-
quent errors, he has overcome temptation, and entered on a course
of purification through suffering and penitence, whereby he may
obtain forgiveness and struggle upward to the height of moral virtue,
reason still suffices to lead him on the difficult ascent, until he reaches
the security and the joy of having overcome the world. But now
reason no longer is sufficient. Another guide is needed to lead the
soul through heavenly paths to the attainment of the divine virtues
of faith, hope, and charity, by which the soul is made fit for Paradise.
And here Beatrice, the type of theology, or knowledge of the things
## p. 4346 (#112) ###########################################
4346
DANTE
of God, takes the place of Virgil, and conducts the purified and
redeemed soul on its return to its divine source, to the consumma-
tion of its desires and its bliss in the vision of God himself.
Such is the general scheme of the poem, in which the order of
the universe is displayed and the life of man depicted, in scenes of
immense dramatic variety and of unsurpassed imaginative reality. It
embraces the whole field of human experience. Nature, art, the
past, the present, learning, philosophy, all contribute to it. The
mastery of the poet over all material which can serve him is com-
plete; the force of his controlling imagination corresponds with the
depth and intensity of his moral purpose. And herein lies the
exceptional character of the poem, as at once a work of art of
supreme beauty and a work of didactic morals of supreme signifi-
cance. Art indeed cannot, if it would, divorce itself from morals.
Into every work of art, whether the artist intend it or not, enters a
moral element. But in art, beauty does not submit to be subor-
dinated to any other end, and it is the marvel in Dante that while
his main intent is didactic, he attains it by a means of art so per-
fect that only in a few rare passages does beauty fall a sacrifice to
doctrine. The 'Divine Comedy' is indeed not less incomparable in
its beauty than in its vast compass, the variety of its interest, and in
the harmony of its form with its spirit. In his lectures On Trans-
lating Homer' Mr. Arnold, speaking of the metre of 'Paradise Lost,'
says: "To this metre, as used in the Paradise Lost,' our country
owes the glory of having produced one of the only two poetical
works in the grand style which are to be found in the modern lan-
guages; the Divine Comedy' of Dante is the other. " But Mr. Arnold
does not point out the extraordinary fact, in regard to the style of
the Divine Comedy,' that this poem stands at the beginning of
modern literature, that there was no previous modern standard of style,
that the language was molded and the verse invented by Dante; that
he did not borrow his style from the ancients, and that when he
says to Virgil, «Thou art he from whom I took the fair style that
has done me honor," he meant only that he had learned from him
the principles of noble and adequate poetic expression. The style of
the 'Divine Comedy' is as different from that of the Æneid as it is
from that of Paradise Lost. '
(
There are few other works of man, perhaps there is no other,
which afford such evidence as the Divine Comedy' of uninterrupted
consistency of purpose, of sustained vigor of imagination, and of
steady force of character controlling alike the vagaries of the poetic
temperament, the wavering of human purpose, the fluctuation of
human powers, and the untowardness of circumstance.
From begin-
ning to end of this work of many years there is no flagging of
## p. 4347 (#113) ###########################################
DANTE
4347
energy, no indication of weakness. The shoulders, burdened by a
task almost too great for mortal strength, never tremble under their
load.
The contrast between the inner and the outer life of Dante is one
of the most impressive pictures of human experience; the pain, the
privation, the humiliation of outward circumstance so bitter, so pro-
longed; the joy, the fullness, the exaltation of inward condition so
complete, the achievement so great. Above all other poetry the
'Divine Comedy is the expression of high character, and of a manly
nature of surpassing breadth and tenderness of sympathy, of intensity
of moral earnestness, and elevation of purpose. One closes the nar-
rative of Dante's life and the study of his works with the conviction
that he was not only one of the greatest among poets, but a man
whose character gives to his poetry its highest and its most enduring
interest.
C. E. Morton.
NOTES
For the student of Italian, the following books may be recom-
mended as opening the way to the study of Dante's life and works:
1. Tutte le Opere di Dante Alighieri. Nuovamente rivedute nel
testo da Dr. E. Moore. Oxford, 1894, I vol. ; sm. 8vo; pp. x, 490.
[The best text of Dante's works, and the only edition of them in
one volume. Invaluable to the student. ]
e
2. La Divina Commedia di Dante Alighieri. Riveduta
commentata da G. A. Scartazzini. 2d ediz. , Milano, 1896, 1 vol. ; sm.
3vo; pp. xx, 1034; col Rimario ed Indice, pp. 122. On the whole the
most useful edition for the beginner. The historical and biographi-
cal notes and the references to the sources of Dante's allusions are
abundant and good; but interpretations of difficult passages or words
are not always unquestionable.
Scartazzini's edition of the Divina Commedia in three volumes,
with his volume of Prolegomeni,' may be commended to the more
advanced student, who will find it, especially the volume of the
'Paradise,' a rich storehouse of information.
For the English reader the following books and essays will be
useful:- Cary's translation of the Divine Comedy,' in blank verse.
## p. 4348 (#114) ###########################################
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DANTE
modeled on Milton's verse, and remote from the tone of the original.
This is the version of a refined scholar; it has been much admired
and is generally quoted in England. It is furnished with good notes.
Longfellow's verse-for-verse unrhymed translation is far the most
accurate of the English translations in verse, and is distinguished
also for the verbal felicity of its renderings. The comment accom-
panying it is extensive and of great value, by far the best in English.
Of literal prose translations, there are among others that of the
'Inferno by Dr. John Carlyle, which is of very great merit; that of
the whole poem, with a comment of interest, by Mr. A. J. Butler; and
that also of the whole poem and of he New Life' by C. E. Norton.
The various works on Dante by the Rev. Dr. Edward Moore, of
Oxford, are all of the highest worth, and quite indispensable to the
thorough student. Their titles are-Contributions to the Textual
Criticism of the Divina Commedia,' 'Time References in the Divina
Commedia,' 'Dante and his Early Biographers,' and 'Studies in
Dante. '
Lowell's essay on 'Dante' (prose works of James Russell Lowell,
Riverside edition, Vol. iv. ), and 'Dante,' an essay by the Rev. R. W.
Church, late Dean of St. Paul's, should be read by every student.
They will open the way to further reading.
The Concordance to
the Divine Comedy,' by Dr. E. A. Fay, published by Ginn and Com-
pany, Boston, for the Dante Society, is a book which the student
should have always at hand.
C. E. N.
## p. 4348 (#115) ###########################################
추
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圈
Y
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FARM R
DANTE'S HOUSE
FLORENCE, ITALY
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DANTE
SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS OF DANTE
IN
N MAKING the following translations from Dante's chief works, my
attempt has been to choose passages which should each have
interest in itself, but which, taken together, should have a natu-
ral sequence and should illustrate the development of the ruling ideas
and controlling sentiment of Dante's life. But they lose much of their
power and beauty in being separated from their context, and the
reader should bear in mind that such is the closeness of texture of
Dante's work, and so complete its unity, that extracts, however
numerous and extended, fail to give an adequate impression of its
character as a whole. Moreover, no poems suffer greater loss in
translation than Dante's, for in no others is there so intimate a rela-
tion between the expression and the feeling, between the rhythmical
form and the poetic substance.
C. E. N.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
I.
I.
2.
3.
FROM THE NEW LIFE)
The beginning of love.
The first salutation of his Lady.
The praise of his Lady.
Her loveliness.
Her death.
The anniversary of her death.
The hope to speak more worthily of her.
FROM THE (BANQUET ›
The consolation of Philosophy.
The desire of the Soul.
The noble Soul at the end of Life.
4349
FROM THE DIVINE COMEDY>
Hell, Cantos i. and ii. The entrance on the journey through the
eternal world.
2.
Hell, Canto v. The punishment of carnal sinners.
3. Purgatory, Canto xxvii. The final purgation.
4. Purgatory, Cantos xxx, xxxi. The meeting with his Lady in the
Earthly Paradise.
5. Paradise, Canto xxxiii. The final vision.
## p. 4350 (#120) ###########################################
DANTE
4350
The selections from the New Life' are from Professor Norton's translation,
copyrighted 1867, 1892, 1895, and reprinted by permission of Professor
Norton and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston, Mass.
THE NEW LIFE
I
THE BEGINNING OF LOVE
NT
JINE times now, since my birth, the heaven of light had
turned almost to the same point in its own gyration, when
the glorious Lady of my mind, who was called Beatrice by
many who knew not why she was so called, first appeared before
my eyes. She had already been in this life so long that in its
course the starry heaven had moved toward the region of the
East one of the twelve parts of a degree; so that at about the
beginning of her ninth year she appeared to me, and I near the
end of my ninth year saw her. She appeared to me clothed in
a most noble color, a modest and becoming crimson, and she
was girt and adorned in such wise as befitted her very youthful
age.
over
From that time forward Love lorded it over my soul, which
had been so speedily wedded to him: and he began to exercise
me such control and such lordship, through the power
which my imagination gave to him, that it behoved me to do
completely all his pleasure. He commanded me ofttimes that I
should seek to see this youthful angel; so that I in my boyhood
often went seeking her, and saw her of such noble and praise-
worthy deportment, that truly of her might be said that word of
the poet Homer, "She seems not the daughter of mortal man,
but of God. " And though her image, which stayed constantly
with me, gave assurance to Love to hold lordship over me, yet
it was of such noble virtue that it never suffered Love to rule
me without the faithful counsel of the reason in those matters in
which it was useful to hear such counsel. And since to dwell
upon the passions and actions of such early youth seems like
telling an idle tale, I will leave them, and, passing over many
things which might be drawn from the original where these lie
hidden, I will come to those words which are written in my
memory under larger paragraphs.
## p. 4351 (#121) ###########################################
DANTE
I
H
L
J
1
e
4351
II
THE FIRST SALUTATION OF HIS LADY
When so many days had passed that nine years were exactly
complete since the above-described apparition of this most gentle
lady, on the last of these days it happened that this admirable
lady appeared to me, clothed in purest white, between two gentle
ladies, who were of greater age; and, passing along a street, she
turned her eyes toward that place where I stood very timidly,
and by her ineffable courtesy, which is to-day rewarded in the
eternal world, saluted me with such virtue that it seemed to me
then that I saw all the bounds of bliss. . . . And since it
was the first time that her words came to my ears, I took in
such sweetness that, as it were intoxicated, I turned away from
the folk, and betaking myself to the solitude of my own chamber,
I sat myself down to think of this most courteous lady.
And thinking of her, a sweet slumber overcame me, in which
a marvelous vision appeared to
. And [when I
awoke] thinking on what had appeared to me, I resolved to
make it known to many who were famous poets at that time;
and since I had already seen in myself the art of discoursing in
rhyme, I resolved to make a sonnet, in which I would salute all
the liegemen of Love, and would write to them that which I had
seen in my slumber.
III
THE PRAISE OF HIS LADY
Inasmuch as through my looks many persons had learned the
secret of my heart, certain ladies who were met together, taking
pleasure in one another's company, were well acquainted with my
heart, because each of them had witnessed many of my discom-
fitures. And I, passing near them, as chance led me, was called
by one of these gentle ladies; and she who had called me was a
lady of very pleasing speech; so that when I drew nigh to them
and saw plainly that my most gentle lady was not among them,
reassuring myself, I saluted them and asked what might be
their pleasure. The ladies were many, and certain of them were
laughing together. There were others who were looking at me,
awaiting what I might say. There were others who were talking
together, one of whom, turning her eyes toward me, and calling
me by name, said these words: -"To what end lovest thou this
## p. 4352 (#122) ###########################################
4352
DANTE
thy lady, since thou canst not sustain her presence? Tell it to
us, for surely the end of such a love must be most strange. »
And when she had said these words to me, not only she, but all
the others, began to await with their look my reply. Then I
said to them these words: -"My ladies, the end of my love was
formerly the salutation of this lady of whom you perchance are
thinking, and in that dwelt the beatitude which was the end of
all my desires. But since it has pleased her to deny it to me,
my lord Love, through his grace, has placed all my beatitude
in that which cannot fail me. "
Then these ladies began to speak together: and as sometimes
we see rain falling mingled with beautiful snow, so it seemed to
me I saw their words issue mingled with sighs. And after they
had somewhat spoken among themselves, this lady who had first
spoken to me said to me yet these words:- "We pray thee that
thou tell us wherein consists this beatitude of thine. " And I,
replying to her, said thus:-"In those words which praise my
lady. " And she replied: "If thou hast told us the truth, those
words which thou hadst said to her, setting forth thine own con-
dition, must have been composed with other intent. ”
Then I, thinking on these words, as if ashamed, departed
from them, and went saying within myself:-"Since there is
such beatitude in those words which praise my lady, why has
my speech been of aught else? " And therefore I resolved
always henceforth to take for theme of my speech that which
should be the praise of this most gentle one. And thinking
much on this, I seemed to myself to have undertaken a theme
too lofty for me, so that I dared not to begin; and thus I tar-
ried some days with desire to speak, and with fear of beginning.
Then it came to pass that, walking on a road alongside of
which was flowing a very clear stream, so great a desire to say
somewhat in verse came upon me, that I began to consider the
method I should observe; and I thought that to speak of her
would not be becoming unless I were to speak to ladies in the
second person; and not to every lady, but only to those who are
gentle, and are not women merely. Then I say that my tongue
spoke as if moved of its own accord, and said, Ladies that have
intelligence of Love. These words I laid up in my mind with
great joy, thinking to take them for my beginning; wherefore
then, having returned to the above-mentioned city, after some
days of thought, I began a canzone with this beginning.
## p. 4353 (#123) ###########################################
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4353
IV
VIII-273
THE LOVELINESS OF HIS LADY
This most gentle lady, of whom there has been discourse in
the preceding words, came into such favor among the people,
that when she passed along the way, persons ran to see her;
which gave me wonderful joy. And when she was near any one,
such modesty came into his heart that he dared not raise his
eyes, or return her salutation; and of this many, as having
experienced it, could bear witness for me to whoso might not
believe it. She, crowned and clothed with humility, took her
way, showing no pride in that which she saw and heard. Many
said, when she had passed: "This is not a woman; rather she is
one of the most beautiful angels of heaven. " And others said:
"She is a marvel. Blessed be the Lord who can work thus
admirably! " I say that she showed herself so gentle and so full
of all pleasantness, that those who looked on her comprehended
in themselves a pure and sweet delight, such as they could not
after tell in words; nor was there any who might look upon her
but that at first he needs must sigh. These and more admirable
things proceeded from her admirably and with power. Where-
fore I, thinking upon this, desiring to resume the style of her
praise, resolved to say words in which I would set forth her
admirable and excellent influences, to the end that not only those
who might actually behold her, but also others, should know of
her whatever words could tell. Then I devised this sonnet:
So gentle and so gracious doth appear
My lady when she giveth her salute,
That every tongue becometh, trembling, mute;
Nor do the eyes to look upon her dare.
Although she hears her praises, she doth go
Benignly vested with humility;
And like a thing come down she seems to be
From heaven to earth, a miracle to show.
So pleaseth she whoever cometh nigh,
She gives the heart a sweetness through the eyes,
Which none can understand who doth not prove.
And from her countenance there seems to move
A spirit sweet and in Love's very guise,
Who to the soul, in going, sayeth: Sigh!
—
## p. 4354 (#124) ###########################################
DANTE
4354
V
THE DEATH OF HIS LADY
After that I began to think one day upon what I had said of
my lady, that is, in these two preceding sonnets; and seeing in
my thought that I had not spoken of that which at the present
time she wrought in me, it seemed to me that I had spoken
defectively; and therefore I resolved to say words in which I
would tell how I seemed to myself to be disposed to her influ-
ence, and how her virtue wrought in me. And not believing
that I could relate this in the brevity of a sonnet, I began then
a canzone.
Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi vidua domina
gentium. [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. ]
I was yet full of the design of this canzone, and had com-
pleted [one] stanza thereof, when the Lord of Justice called this
most gentle one to glory, under the banner of that holy Queen
Mary, whose name was ever spoken with greatest reverence by
this blessed Beatrice.
VI
THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH OF HIS LADY
On that day on which the year was complete since this lady
was made one of the denizens of life eternal, I was seated in a
place where, having her in mind, I was drawing an angel upon
certain tablets. And while I was drawing it, I turned my eyes
and saw at my side men to whom it was meet to do honor. They
were looking on what I did, and, as was afterwards told me, they
had been there already some time before I became aware of it.
When I saw them I rose, and saluting them, said, "Another was
just now with me, and on that account I was in thought. " And
when they had gone away, I returned to my work, namely, that
of drawing figures of angels; and while doing this, a thought
came to me of saying words in rhyme, as if for an anniversary
poem of her, and of addressing those persons who had come to
me.
## p. 4355 (#125) ###########################################
DANTE
4355
After this, two gentle ladies sent to ask me to send them
some of these rhymed words of mine; wherefore I, thinking on
their nobleness, resolved to send to them and to make a new
thing which I would send to them with these, in order that I
might fulfill their prayers with the more honor. And I devised
then a sonnet which relates my condition, and I sent it to them.
Beyond the sphere that widest orbit hath
Passes the sigh which issues from my heart:
A new Intelligence doth Love impart
In tears to him, which guides his upward path.
When at the place desired, his course he stays,
A lady he beholds in honor dight,
Who so doth shine that through her splendid light,
The pilgrim spirit upon her doth gaze.
He sees her such, that dark his words I find-
—
When he reports, his speech so subtle is
Unto the grieving heart which makes him tell;
But of that gentle one he speaks, I wis,
Since oft he bringeth Beatrice to mind,
So that, O ladies dear, I understand him well.
VII
THE HOPE TO SPEAK MORE WORTHILY OF HIS LADY
After this, a wonderful vision appeared to me, in which I
saw things which made me resolve to speak no more of the
blessed one, until I could more worthily treat of her. And to
attain to this, I study to the utmost of my power, as she truly
knows. So that, if it shall please Him through whom all things.
live that my life be prolonged for some years, I hope to say of
her what was never said of any woman.
And then may it please him who is the Lord of Grace, that
my soul may go to behold the glory of its lady, namely of that
blessed Beatrice, who in glory looks upon the face of Him qui
est per omnia sæcula benedictus [who is blessed forever].
## p. 4356 (#126) ###########################################
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DANTE
The translations from the
Convito' are made for A Library of the World's
Best Literature by Professor Norton
THE CONVITO
I
THE CONSOLATION OF PHILOSOPHY
"WHE
HEN the first delight of my soul was lost, of which men-
tion has already been made, I remained pierced with
such affliction that no comfort availed me. Nevertheless,
after some time, my mind, which was endeavoring to heal itself,
undertook, since neither my own nor others' consoling availed,
to turn to the mode which other comfortless ones had adopted
for their consolation. And I set myself to reading that book of
Boëthius, not known to many, in which he, a prisoner and an
exile, had consoled himself. And hearing, moreover, that Tully
had written a book in which, treating of friendship, he had
introduced words of consolation for Lælius, a most excellent
man, on the death of Scipio his friend, I set myself to read
that. And although it was difficult for me at first to enter into
their meaning, I finally entered into it, so far as my knowledge
of Latin and a little of my own genius permitted; through
which genius I already, as if in a dream, saw many things, as
may be seen in the New Life. ' And as it sometimes happens
that a man goes seeking silver, and beyond his expectation finds.
gold, which a hidden occasion affords, not perchance without
Divine guidance, so I, who was seeking to console myself, found
not only relief for my tears, but the substance of authors, and of
knowledge, and of books; reflecting upon which, I came to the
conclusion that Philosophy, who was the Lady of these authors,
this knowledge, and these books, was a supreme thing. And I
imagined her as having the features of a gentle lady; and I
could not imagine her in any but a compassionate act; wherefore
my sense so willingly admired her in truth, that I could hardly
turn it from her. And after this imagination I began to go
there where she displayed herself truly, that is to say, to the
school of the religious, and to the disputations of the philoso-
phers, so that in a short time, perhaps in thirty months, I began
to feel so much of her sweetness that the love of her chased
away and destroyed every other thought. "
The Banquet,' ii. 13.
## p. 4357 (#127) ###########################################
DANTE
4357
II
THE DESIRE OF THE SOUL
The supreme desire of everything, and that first given by
Nature, is to return to its source; and since God is the source of
our souls and Maker of them in his own likeness, as is written,
"Let us make man in our image, after our likeness," to him
this soul desires above all to return. And as a pilgrim, who
goes along a road on which he never was before, thinks every
house he sees afa off to be his inn, and not finding it so, directs
his trust to the next, and thus from house to house till he comes
to the inn, so our soul at once, on entering the new and untrav-
eled road of this life, turns her eyes to the goal of her supreme
good, and therefore whatever thing she sees which seems to have
in it some good, she believes to be that. And because her knowl-
edge at first is imperfect, not being experienced or instructed,
small goods seem to her great, therefore she begins with desiring
them. Wherefore we see children desire exceedingly an apple;
and then proceeding further, desire a little bird; and further still
a beautiful dress; and then a horse, and then a woman, and then
riches not great, and then greater, and then as great as can be.
And this happens because in none of these does she find that
which she is seeking, and she trusts to find it further on.
Truly this way is lost by error as the roads of earth are; for
as from one city to another there is of necessity one best and
straightest way, and another that always leads away from it, that
is, one which goes in another direction, and many others, some
less diverging, and some approaching less near, so in human life
are divers roads, of which one is the truest, and another the
most deceitful, and certain ones less deceitful, and certain less
true. And as we see that that which goes straightest to the city
fulfills desire, and gives repose after weariness, and that which
goes contrary never fulfills it, and can never give repose, so it
falls out in our life: the good traveler arrives at the goal and
repose, the mistaken never arrives there, but with much weari-
ness of his mind always looks forward with greedy eyes.
'The Banquet,' iv. 12.
## p. 4358 (#128) ###########################################
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DANTE
III
THE NOBLE SOUL AT THE END OF LIFE
The noble Soul in old age returns to God as to that port
whence she set forth on the sea of this life. And as the good
mariner, when he approaches port, furls his sails, and with slow
course gently enters it, so should we furl the sails of our worldly
affairs and turn to God with our whole mind and heart, so that
we may arrive at that port with all sweetness and peace. And
in regard to this we have from our own nature a great lesson of
sweetness, that in such a death as this there is no pain nor any
bitterness, but as a ripe fruit is easily and without violence de-
tached from its twig, so our soul without affliction is parted
from the body in which it has been. And just as to him who
comes from a long journey, before he enters into the gate of his
city, the citizens thereof go forth to meet him, so the citizens of
the eternal life come to meet the noble Soul; and they do so
through her good deeds and contemplations: for having now
rendered herself to God, and withdrawn herself from worldly
affairs and thoughts, she seems to see those whom she believes
to be nigh unto God. Hear what Tully says in the person of
the good Cato:-"With ardent zeal I lifted myself up to see your
fathers whom I had loved, and not them only, but also those of
whom I had heard speak. " The noble Soul then at this age
renders herself to God and awaits the end of life with great
desire; and it seems to her that she is leaving the inn and
returning to her own house, it seems to her that she is leaving
the road and returning to the city, it seems to her that she is
leaving the sea and returning to port.
And also the
noble Soul at this age blesses the past times; and well may she
bless them, because revolving them through her memory she
recalls her right deeds, without which she could not arrive with.
such great riches or so great gain at the port to which she is
approaching. And she does like the good merchant, who when
he draws near his port, examines his getting, and says: « Had
I not passed along such a way, I should not have this treasure,
nor have gained that which I may enjoy in my city to which I
am drawing near;" and therefore he blesses the way which he
has come.
(The Banquet,' iv. 28.
## p. 4359 (#129) ###########################################
DANTE
4359
The selections from the Divina Commedia are from Professor Norton's
translation: copyrighted 1891 and 1892, and reprinted by permission
of Professor Norton and of Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Publish-
ers, Boston, Mass.
HELL
CANTO I
THE ENTRANCE ON THE JOURNEY THROUGH THE ETERNAL WORLD
[Dante, astray in a wood, reaches the foot of a hill which he begins to
ascend; he is hindered by three beasts; he turns back and is met by Virgil,
who proposes to guide him into the eternal world. ]
M
IDWAY upon the road of our life I found myself within a
dark wood, for the right way had been missed. Ah! how
hard a thing it is to tell what this wild and rough and
dense wood was, which in thought renews the fear! So bitter is
it that death is little more. But in order to treat of the good
that I found, I will tell of the other things that I saw there. I
cannot well recount how I entered it, so full was I of slumber
at that point where I abandoned the true way. But after I had
arrived at the foot of a hill, where that valley ended which had
pierced my heart with fear, I looked on high and saw its
shoulders clothed already with the rays of the planet* that
leads men aright along every path. Then was the fear a little
quieted which in the lake of my heart had lasted through the
night that I passed so piteously. And even as one who, with
spent breath, issued out of the sea upon the shore, turns to the
perilous water and gazes, so did my soul, which still was flying,
turn back to look again upon the pass which never had a living
person left.
After I had rested a little my weary body, I took my way
again along the desert slope, so that the firm foot was always
the lower. And lo! almost at the beginning of the steep a she-
leopard, light and very nimble, which was covered with a spotted
coat. And she did not move from before my face, nay, rather
hindered so my road that to return I oftentimes had turned.
The time was at the beginning of the morning, and the Sun
was mounting upward with those stars that were with him when
Love Divine first set in motion those beautiful things; † so that
*The sun,—a planet according to the Ptolemaic astronomy.
It was a common belief that the spring was the season of the creation.
## p. 4360 (#130) ###########################################
4360
DANTE
the hour of the time and the sweet season were occasion of good
hope to me concerning that wild beast with the dappled skin.
But not so that the sight which appeared to me of a lion did
not give me fear. He seemed to be coming against me, with
head high and with ravening hunger, so that it seemed that the
air was affrighted at him. And a she-wolf, who with all cravings
seemed laden in her meagreness, and already had made folk to
live forlorn, she caused me so much heaviness, with the fear
that came from sight of her, that I lost hope of the height. *
And such as he is who gains willingly, and the time arrives that
makes him lose, who in all his thoughts weeps and is sad,— such
made me the beast without repose that, coming on against me,
little by little was pushing me back thither where the Sun is
silent.
-
-
While I was falling back to the low place, before mine eyes
appeared one who through long silence seemed faint-voiced.
When I saw him in the great desert, "Have pity on me! " I cried
to him, « whatso thou art, or shade or real man. " He answered
me: "Not man; man once I was, and my parents were Lom-
bards, and Mantuans by country both. I was born sub Julio,
though late, and I lived at Rome under the good Augustus, in
the time of the false and lying gods. Poet was I, and sang of
that just son of Anchises who came from Troy after proud Ilion
had been burned. But thou, why returnest thou to so great
annoy? Why dost thou not ascend the delectable mountain which
is the source and cause of every joy? " "Art thou then that
Virgil and that fount which poureth forth so large a stream of
speech? " replied I to him with bashful front: "O honor and
light of the other poets! may the long study avail me, and the
great love, which have made me search thy volume! Thou art
my master and my author; thou alone art he from whom I took
the fair style that has done me honor. Behold the beast because
of which I turned; help me against her, famous sage, for she
makes my veins and pulses tremble.
