O sacred Emperor Charles! O well-lived old man! Defender of the Faith! light and glory of the old time! thou hast cut off the other ear of Malchus, and shown how rightly thou wert born into the world, to save it a second time from the abyss.
Again fled the Saracens, never to come to Christendom more: but Charles went after them into Spain, he and Rinaldo and Ricciardetto and the good Turpin; and they took and fired Saragossa; and Marsilius was hung to the carob-tree under which he had planned his villany with Gan; and Gan was hung, and drawn and quartered, in Roncesvalles, amidst the execrations of the country.
And if you ask, how it happened that Charles ever put faith in such a wretch, I shall tell you that it was because the good old emperor, with all his faults, was a divine man, and believed in others out of the excellence of his own heart and truth. And such was the case with Orlando himself.
No. I.
Poscia ch' i' ebbi il mio dottore uditoNomar le donne antiche e i cavalieri,Pietà mi vinse, e fui quasi smarrito.
I' cominciai: Poeta, volentieriParlerei a que' duo the 'nsieme vanno,E pajon sì al vento esser leggieri.
Ed egli a me: Vedrai, quando sarannoPiù presso a noi: e tu allor gli piega,Per quell' amor ch' ei mena; e quei verranno.
Si tosto come 'l vento a noi gli piega,Mossi la voce: O anime affannate,Venite a not parlar, s' altri nol niega.
Quali colombe dal disio chiamate,Con l' ali aperte e ferme, al dolce nidoVolan per l' aer dal voter portate:
Cotali uscir de la schiera ov' è Dido,A noi venendo per l' aer maligno,Si forte fu l' affettuoso grido.
O animal grazioso e benigno,Che visitando vai per l' aer persoNoi che tignemmo it mondo di sanguigno;Se fosse amico il Re de l'Universo,Noi pregheremmo lui per la tua pace,Poich' hai pietà del nostro mal perverso.
Di quel ch'udire e che parlar ti piace,Noi udiremo, e parleremo a vui,Mentre che 'l vento, come fa, si tace.
Siede la terra, dove nata fui,Su la marina, dove 'l Pò discende,Per aver pace co' seguaci sui.
Amor ch'al cor gentil ratto s'apprende,Prese costui de la bella personaChe mi fu tolta, e 'l modo ancor m'offende
Amer ch'a null'amato amar perdona,Mi prese del costui piacer si forte,Che come vedi ancor non m'abbandona
Amor condusse noi ad una morteCaina attende chi 'n vita ci spense.Queste parole da lor ci fur porte.
Da ch'io 'ntesi quell'anime offense,Chinai 'l viso, e tanto 'l tenni basso,Finchè 'l poeta mi disse: Che pense?
Quando risposi, cominciai: O lasso,Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disioMenò costoro al doloroso passo!
Po' mi rivolsi a loro, e parla' io,E cominciai: Francesca, i tuoi martiriA lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pie.
Ma dimmi: al tempo de' dolci sospiri,A che, e come concedette amoreChe conosceste i dubbiosi desiri?
Ed ella a me: Nessun maggior dolore,Che ricordarsi del tempo feliceNe la miseria; e ciò sa 'l tuo dottore.Ma s'a conoscer la prima radiceDel nostro amor to hai cotanto affetto,Farò come colui the piange e dice.
Noi leggiavamo tin giorno per dilettoDi Lancilotto, come amor to strinseSoli eravamo, e senza alcun sospetto.
Per più fiate gli occhi ci sospinseQuella lettura, e scolorocci 'l visoMa solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.
Quando leggemmo il disiato risoEsser baciato da cotanto amante,Questi che mai da me non sia diviso,
La bocca mi baciò tutto tremante:Galeotto fu il libro, e chi to scrisse:Quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.
Mentre the l'uno spirto questo disse,L'altro piangeva si, che di pietadeI' venni men cosi com' io morisse,
E caddi come corpo morto cade.
* * * * *
Translation in the terza rima of the original.
Scarce had I learnt the names of all that pressOf knights and dames, than I beheld a sightNigh reft my wits for very tenderness.
"O guide!" I said, "fain would I, if I might,Have speech with yonder pair, that hand in handSeem borne before the dreadful wind so light."
"Wait," said my guide, "until then seest their bandSweep round. Then beg them, by that lose, to stay;And they will come, and hover where we stand."
Anon the whirlwind flung them round that way;And then I cried, "Oh, if I ask nought ill,Poor weary souls, have speech with me, I pray."
As doves, that leave some bevy circling still,Set firm their open wings, and through the airSweep homewards, wafted by their pure good will;
So broke from Dido's flock that gentle pair,Cleaving, to where we stood, the air malign;Such strength to bring them had a loving prayer.
The female spoke. "O living soul benign!"She said, "thus, in this lost air, visitingUs who with blood stain'd the sweet earth divine;
Had we a friend in heaven's eternal King,We would beseech him keep thy conscience clear,Since to our anguish thou dost pity bring.
Of what it pleaseth thee to speak and hear,To that we also, till this lull be o'erThat falleth now, will speak and will give ear.
The place where I was born is on the shore,Where Po brings all his rivers to departIn peace, and fuse them with the ocean floor.
Love, that soon kindleth in a gentle heart,Seized him thou look'st on for the form and face,Whose end still haunts me like a rankling dart.
Love, which by love will be denied no grace,Gave me a transport in my turn so true,That to! 'tis with me, even in this place.
Love brought us to one grave. The hand that slewIs doom'd to mourn us in the pit of Cain."Such were the words that told me of those two.
Downcast I stood, looking so full of painTo think how hard and sad a case it was,That my guide ask'd what held me in that vein.
His voiced aroused me; and I said, "AlasAll their sweet thoughts then, all the steps that ledTo love, but brought them to this dolorous pass."
Then turning my sad eyes to theirs, I said,"Francesca, see—these human cheeks are wet—Truer and sadder tears were never shed.
But tell me. At the time when sighs were sweet,What made thee strive no longer?—hurried theeTo the last step where bliss and sorrow meet?"
"There is no greater sorrow," answered she,"And this thy teacher here knoweth full well,Than calling to mind joy in misery.
But since thy wish be great to hear us tellHow we lost all but love, tell it I will,As well as tears will let me. It befel,
One day, we read how Lancelot gazed his fillAt her he loved, and what his lady said.We were alone, thinking of nothing ill.
Oft were our eyes suspended as we read,And in our cheeks the colour went and came;Yet one sole passage struck resistance dead.
'Twas where the lover, moth-like in his flame,Drawn by her sweet smile, kiss'd it. O then, heWhose lot and mine are now for aye the same,
All in a tremble, on the mouth kiss'dme.The book did all. Our hearts within us burn'dThrough that alone. That day no more read we."
While thus one spoke, the other spirit mourn'dWith wail so woful, that at his remorseI felt as though I should have died. I turned
Stone-stiff; and to the ground fell like a corse.]
No. II.
Translated from his Commentary on the Passage.
"You must know, that this lady, Madonna Francesca, was daughter of Messer Guido the Elder, lord of Ravenna and of Cervia, and that a long and grievous war having been waged between him and the lords Malatesta of Rimini, a treaty of peace by certain mediators was at length concluded between them; the which, to the end that it might be the more firmly established, it pleased both parties to desire to fortify by relationship; and the matter of this relationship was so discoursed, that the said Messer Guido agreed to give his young and fair daughter in marriage to Gianciotto, the son of Messer Malatesta. Now, this being made known to certain of the friends of Messer Guido, one of them said to him, 'Take care what you do; for if you contrive not matters discreetly, such relationship will beget scandal. You know what manner of person your daughter is, and of how lofty a spirit; and if she see Gianciotto before the bond is tied, neither you nor any one else will have power to persuade her to marry him; therefore, if it so please you, it seems to me that it would be good to conduct the matter thus: namely, that Gianciotto should not come hither himself to marry her, but that a brother of his should come and espouse her in his name.'
"Gianciotto was a man of great spirit, and hoped, after his father's death, to become lord of Rimini; in the contemplation of which event, albeit he was rude in appearance and a cripple, Messer Guido desired him for a son-in-law above any one of his brothers. Discerning, therefore, the reasonableness of what his friend counselled, he secretly disposed matters according to his device; and a day being appointed, Polo, a brother of Gianciotto, came to Ravenna with full authority to espouse Madonna Francesca. Polo was a handsome man, very pleasant, and of a courteous breeding; and passing with other gentlemen over the court-yard of the palace of Messer Guido, a damsel who knew him pointed him out to Madonna Francesca through an opening in the casement, saying, 'That is he that is to be your husband;' and so indeed the poor lady believed, and incontinently placed in him her whole affection; and the ceremony of the marriage having been thus brought about, and the lady conveyed to Rimini, she became not aware of the deceit till the morning ensuing the marriage, when she beheld Gianciotto rise from her side; the which discovery moved her to such disdain, that she became not a whit the less rooted in her love for Polo. Nevertheless, that it grew to be unlawful I never heard, except in what is written by this author (Dante), and possibly it might so have become; albeit I take what he says to have been an invention framed on the possibility, rather than any thing which he knew of his own knowledge. Be this as it may, Polo and Madonna Francesca living in the same house, and Gianciotto being gone into a certain neighbouring district as governor, they fell into great companionship with one another, suspecting nothing; but a servant of Gianciotto's noting it, went to his master and told him how matters looked; with the which Gianciotto being fiercely moved, secretly returned to Rimini; and seeing Polo enter the room of Madonna Francesca the while he himself was arriving, went straight to the door, and finding it locked inside, called to his lady to come out; for, Madonna Francesca and Polo having descried him, Polo thought to escape suddenly through an opening in the wall, by means of which there was a descent into another room; and therefore, thinking to conceal his fault either wholly or in part, he threw himself into the opening, telling the lady to go and open the door. But his hope did not turn out as he expected; for the hem of a mantle which he had on caught upon a nail, and the lady opening the door meantime, in the belief that all would be well by reason of Polo's not being there, Gianciotto caught sight of Polo as he was detained by the hem of the mantle, and straightway ran with his dagger in his hand to kill him; whereupon the lady, to prevent it, ran between them; but Gianciotto having lifted the dagger, and put the whole force of his arm into the blow, there came to pass what he had not desired—namely, that he struck the dagger into the bosom of the lady before it could reach Polo; by which accident, being as one who had loved the lady better than himself, he withdrew the dagger, and again struck at Polo, and slew him; and so leaving them both dead, he hastily went his way and betook him to his wonted affairs; and the next morning the two lovers, with many tears, were buried together in the same grave."
The reader of this account will have observed, that while Dante assumes the guilt of all parties, and puts them into the infernal regions, the good-natured Boccaccio is for doubting it, and consequently for sending them all to heaven. He will ignore as much of the business as a gentleman can; boldly doubts any guilt in the case; says nothing of the circumstance of the book; and affirms that the husband loved his wife, and was miserable at having slain her. There is, however, one negative point in common between the two narrators; they both say nothing of certain particulars connected with the date of Francesca's marriage, and not a little qualifying the first romantic look of the story.
Now, it is the absence of these particulars, combined with the tradition of the father's artifice (omitted perhaps by Dante out of personal favour), and with that of the husband's ferocity of character (the belief in which Boccaccio did not succeed in displacing), that has left the prevailing impression on the minds of posterity, which is this:—that Francesca was beguiled by her father into the marriage with the deformed and unamiable Giovanni, and that the unconscious medium of the artifice was the amiable and handsome Paulo; that one or both of the victims of the artifice fell in love with the other; that their intercourse, whatever it was, took place not long after the marriage; and that when Paulo and Francesca were slain in consequence, they were young lovers, with no other ties to the world.
It is not pleasant in general to dispel the illusions of romance, though Dante's will bear the operation with less hurt to a reader's feelings than most; and I suspect, that if nine out of ten of all the implied conclusions of other narratives in his poem could be compared with the facts, he would be found to be one of the greatest of romancers in a new and not very desirable sense, however excusable he may have been in his party-prejudice. But a romance may be displaced, only to substitute perhaps matters of fact more really touching, by reason of their greater probability. The following is the whole of what modern inquirers have ascertained respecting Paulo and Francesca. Future enlargers on the story may suppress what they please, as Dante did; but if any one of them, like the writer of the present remarks, is anxious to speak nothing but the truth, I advise him (especially if he is for troubling himself with making changes in his story) not to think that he has seen all the authorities on the subject, or even remembered all he has seen, until he has searched every corner of his library and his memory. All the poems hitherto written upon this popular subject are indeed only to be regarded as so many probable pieces of fancy, that of Dante himself included.
* * * * *
Francesca was daughter of Guido Novello da Polenta, lord of Ravenna.
She was married to Giovanni, surnamed the Lame, one of the sons ofMalatesta da Verrucchio, lord of Rimini.
Giovanni the Lame had a brother named Paulo the Handsome, who was a widower, and left a son.
Twelve years after Francesca's marriage, by which time she had become mother of a son who died, and of a daughter who survived her, she and her brother-in-law Paulo were slain together by the husband, and buried in one grave.
Two hundred years afterwards, the grave was opened, and the bodies found lying together in silken garments, the silk itself being entire.
Now, a far more touching history may have lurked under these facts than in the half-concealed and misleading circumstances of the received story—long patience, long duty, struggling conscience, exhausted hope.
On the other hand, it may have been a mere heartless case of intrigue and folly.
But tradition is to be allowed its reasonable weight; and the probability is, that the marriage was an affair of state, the lady unhappy, and the brothers too different from one another.
The event took place in Dante's twenty-fourth year; so that he, who looks so much older to our imaginations than his heroine, was younger; and this renders more than probable what the latest biographers have asserted—namely, that the lord of Ravenna, at whose house he finished his days, was not her father, Guido da Polenta, the third of that name, but her nephew, Guido the Fifth.
* * * * *
No. IIII
Non eravam partiti già da ello,Ch' i' vidi duo ghiacciati in una bucaSi, che l'un capo a l'altro era capello:
E come 'l pan per fame si manduca,Così 'l sovran li denti a l'altro poseLà've 'l cervel s'aggiunge con la nuca.
Non altrimenti Tideo sì roseLe tempie a Menalippo per disdegno,Che quei faceva 'l teschio e l'altre cose.
O tu che mostri per sì bestial segnoOdio sovra colui che tu ti mangiDimmi 'l perchè, diss' io, per tal convegno,
Che se tu a ragion di lui ti piangi,Sappiendo chi voi siete, e la sua pecca,Nel mondo suso ancor io te ne cangi,
Se quella con ch' i' parlo non si secca.
La bocca sollevò dal fiero pastoQuel peccator, forbendola a' capelliDel capo ch' egli avea diretro guasto:
Poi cominciò: tu vuoi ch' i' rinnovelliDisperato dolor the 'l cuor mi premeGià pur pensando, pria ch' i' ne favelli.
Ma se le mie parole esser den seme,Che frutti infamia al traditor ch' i' rodo,Parlare e lagrimar vedrai insieme.
I' non so chi tu sei, nè per che modoVenuto se' qua giù: ma FiorentinoMi sembri veramente, quand' i' t' odo.
Tu de' saper ch' i' fu 'l Conte Ugolino,E questi l' Arcivescovo Ruggieri:Or ti dirò perch' i' son tal vicino.
Che per l' effetto de' suo' ma' pensieri,Fidandomi di lui, io fossi preso,E poscia morto, dir non è mestieri.
Però quel che non puoi avere inteso,Cioè, come la morte mia fu cruda,Udirai e saprai se m' ha offeso.
Breve pertugio dentro da la muda,La qual per me ha 'l titol da la fame,E 'n che conviene ancor ch' altrui si chiuda,
M' avea mostrato per lo suo foramePiù lone già, quand' i' feci 'l mal sonno,Che del futuro mi squarciò 'l velame.
Questi pareva a me maestro e donno,Cacciando 'l lupo e i lupicirui al monte,Perchè i Pisan veder Lucca non ponno.
Con cagne magre studiose e conteGualandi con Sismondi e con LanfranchiS' avea messi dinanzi da la fronte.
In picciol corso mi pareano stanchiLo padre e i figli, e con l' agute scaneMi parea lor veder fender li fianchi.
Quando fui desto innanzi la dimane,Pianger senti' fra 'l sonno miei figliuoliCh' eran con meco, e dimandar del pane.
Ben se' crudel, se uo già non ti duoliPensando ciò ch' al mio cuor s' annunziavaE se non piangi, di che pianger suoli?
Già eram desti, e l'ora s'appressavaChe 'l cibo ne soleva essere addotto,E per suo sogno ciascun dubitava,
Ed io senti' chiavar l'uscio di sottoA l'orribile torre: ond' io guardaiNel viso a miei figliuoi senza far motto:
I' non piangeva, sì dentro impietrai:Piangevan' elli; ed Anselmuccio mioDisse, Tu guardi sì, padre: che hai?
Però non lagrimai nè rispos' ioTutto quel giorno nè la notte appresso,Infin che l'altro sol nel mondo uscío.
Com' un poco di raggio si fu messoNel doloroso carcere, ed io scorsiPer quattro visi il mio aspetto stesso,
Ambo le mani per dolor mi morsi:E quei pensando ch' i 'l fessi per vogliaDi manicar, di subito levorsi
E disser: Padre, assai ci sia men doglia,Se tu mangi di noi: tu ne vestistiQueste misere carni, e tu le spoglia.
Quetàmi allor per non fargli più tristi:Quel dì e l'altro stemmo tutti muti:Ahi dura terra, perchè non t'apristi?
Posciachè fummo al quarto di venuti,Gaddo mi si gittò disteso a' piedi,Dicendo: Padre mio, che non m' ajuti?
Quivi morì: e come tu mi vedi,Vid' io cascar li tre ad uno ad unoTra 'l quinto di, e 'l sesto: ond' i' mi diedi
Già cieco a brancolar sovra ciascuno,E tre di gli chiamai poich' e 'fur morti:Poscia, più che 'l dolor, pote 'l digiuno.
Quand' ebbe detto ciò, con gli occhj tortiRiprese 'l teschio misero co' denti,Che furo a l'osso come d' un can forti.
Ahi Pisa, vituperio de le genti,Del bel paese là dove 'l sì suona;Poiche i vicini a te punir son lenti,
Muovasi la Capraja e la Gorgona,E faccian siepe ad Arno in su la foce,Si ch' egli annieghi in te ogni persona:
Che se 'l Conte Ugolino aveva voceD'aver tradita te de le castella,Non dovei tu i figliuoi porre a tal croce.
Innocenti facea 'l eta novella;Novella Tebe, Uguccione, e 'l Brigata,E gli altri duo che 'l canto suso appella.
* * * * *
Translation in the heroic couplet.
Quitting the traitor Bocca's barking soul,We saw two more, so iced up in one hole,That the one's visage capp'd the other's head;And as a famish'd man devoureth bread,So rent the top one's teeth the skull below'Twixt nape and brain. Tydeus, as stories show,Thus to the brain of Menalippus ate:—"O thou!" I cried, "showing such bestial hateTo him thou tearest, read us whence it rose;That, if thy cause be juster than thy foe's,The world, when I return, knowing the truth,May of thy story have the greater ruth."
His mouth he lifted from his dreadful fare,That sinner, wiping it with the grey hairWhose roots he had laid waste; and thus he said:—"A desperate thing thou askest; what I dreadEven to think of. Yet, to sow a seedOf infamy to him on whom I feed,Tell it I will:—ay, and thine eyes shall seeMine own weep all the while for misery.Who thou may'st be, I know not; nor can dreamHow thou cam'st hither; but thy tongue doth seemTo skew thee, of a surety, Florentine.Know then, that I was once Count Ugoline,And this man was Ruggieri, the archpriest.Still thou may'st wonder at my raging feast;For though his snares be known, and how his keyHe turn'd upon my trust, and murder'd me,Yet what the murder was, of what strange sortAnd cruel, few have had the true report.Hear then, and judge.—In the tower, called since thenThe Tower of Famine, I had lain and seenFull many a moon fade through the narrow bars.When, in a dream one night, mine evil starsShew'd me the future with its dreadful face.Methought this man led a great lordly chaseAgainst a wolf and cubs, across the heightWhich barreth Lucca from the Pisan's sight.Lean were the hounds, high-bred, and sharp for blood;And foremost in the press Gualandi rode,Lanfranchi, and Sismondi. Soon were seenThe father and his sons, those wolves I mean,Limping, and by the hounds all crush'd and tornAnd as the cry awoke me in the morn,I heard my boys, the while they dozed in bed(For they were with me), wail, and ask for bread.Full cruel, if it move thee not, thou art,To think what thoughts then rush'd into my heart.What wouldst thou weep at, weeping not at this?All had now waked, and something seem'd amiss,For 'twas the time they used to bring us bread,And from our dreams had grown a horrid dread.I listen'd; and a key, down stairs, I heardLock up the dreadful turret. Not a wordI spoke, but look'd my children in the faceNo tear I shed, so firmly did I braceMy soul; buttheydid; and my Anselm said,'Father, you look so!—Won't they bring us bread?'E'en then I wept not, nor did answer wordAll day, nor the next night. And now was stirr'd,Upon the world without, another day;And of its light there came a little ray,Which mingled with the gloom of our sad jail;And looking to my children's bed, full pale,In four small faces mine own face I saw.Oh, then both hands for misery did I gnaw;And they, thinking I did it, being madFor food, said, 'Father, we should be less sadIf you would feed on us. Children, they say,Are their own father's flesh. Starve not to-day.'Thenceforth they saw me shake not, hand nor foot.That day, and next, we all continued mute.O thou hard Earth!—why opened'st thou not?Next day (it was the fourth in our sad lot)My Gaddo stretched him at my feet, and cried,'Dear father, won't you help me?' and he died.And surely as thou seest me here undone,I saw my whole three children, one by one,Between the fifth day and the sixth, all die.I became blind; and in my miseryWent groping for them, as I knelt and crawl'dAbout the room; and for three days I call'dUpon their names, as though they could speak too,Till famine did what grief had fail'd to do."
Having spoke thus, he seiz'd with fiery eyesThat wretch again, his feast and sacrifice,And fasten'd on the skull, over a groan,With teeth as strong as mastiff's on a bone.Ah, Pisa! thou that shame and scandal beTo the sweet land that speaks the tongue of Sì.[1]
Since Florence spareth thy vile neck the yoke,Would that the very isles would rise, and chokeThy river, and drown every soul withinThy loathsome walls. What if this UgolinDid play the traitor, and give up (for soThe rumour runs) thy castles to the foe,Thou hadst no right to put to rack like thisHis children. Childhood innocency is.But that same innocence, and that man's name,Have damn'd thee, Pisa, to a Theban fame?[2]
* * * * *
Chaucer has told the greater part of this story beautifully in his "Canterbury Tales;" but he had not the heart to finish it. He refers for the conclusion to his original, hight "Dant," the "grete poete of Itaille;" adding, that Dante will not fail his readers a single word—that is to say, not an atom of the cruelty.
Our great gentle-hearted countryman, who tells Fortune that it was
"great crueltySuch birdes for to put in such a cage,"
adds a touch of pathos in the behaviour of one of the children, which Dante does not seem to have thought of:
"There day by day this child began to cry,Till in his father's barme (lap) adown he lay;And said, 'Farewell, father, I muste die,'Andkiss'd his father, and died the same day."
It will be a relief, perhaps, instead of a disappointment, to the readers of this appalling story, to hear that Dante's particulars of it are as little to be relied on as those of the Paulo and Francesca. The only facts known of Ugolino are, that he was an ambitious traitor, who did actually deliver up the fortified places, as Dante acknowledges; and that his rivals, infamous as he, or more infamous, prevailed against him, and did shut him up and starve him and some of his family. But the "little" children are an invention of the poet's, or probably his belief, when he was a young man, and first heard the story; for some of Ugolino's fellow-prisoners may have been youths, but others were grown up—none so childish as he intimates; and they were not all his own sons; some were his nephews.
And as to Archbishop Ruggieri, there is no proof whatever of his having had any share in the business—hardly a ground of suspicion; so that historians look upon him as an "ill-used gentleman." Dante, in all probability, must have learnt the real circumstances of the case, as he advanced in years; but if charity is bound to hope that he would have altered the passage accordingly, had he revised his poem, it is forced to admit that he left it unaltered, and that his "will and pleasure" might have found means of reconciling the retention to his conscience. Pride, unfortunately, includes the power to do things which it pretends to be very foreign to its nature; and in proportion as detraction is easy to it, retraction becomes insupportable.[3]
Rabelais, to shew his contempt for the knights of chivalry, has made them galley-slaves in the next world, their business being to help Charon row his boat over the river Styx, and their payment a piece of mouldy bread and a fillip on the nose. Somebody should write a burlesque of the enormities in Dante's poem, and invent some Rabelaesque punishment for a great poet's pride and presumption. What should it be?
* * * * *
No. IV.
Fiorenza dentro da la cerchia antica,Ond' ella toglie ancora e Terza e Nona,Si stava in pace sobria e pudica.
Non avea catenella, non corona,Non donne contigiate, non cinturaChe fosse a veder più che la persona.
Non faceva nascendo ancor pauraLa figlia al padre, che 'l tempo e la dotteNon fuggian quindi e quindi la misura.
Non avea case di famiglia voteNon v'era giunto ancor SardanapaloA mostrar ciò che 'n camera si puote.
Non era vinto ancora MontemaloDal vostro Uccellatojo, che com' è vintoNel montar su, così sarà nel calo.
Bellincion Berti vid' io andar cintoDi cuojo e d'osso, e venir da lo specchioLa donna sua sanza 'l viso dipinto:
E vidi quel de' Nerli e quel del VecchioEsser contenti a la pelle scoverta,E le sue donne al fuso ed al pennecchio.
O fortunate! e ciascuna era certaDe la sua sepoltura, ed ancor nullaEra per Francia nel lotto deserta.
L'una vegghiava a studio de la culla,E consolando usava l'idiomaChe pria li padri e le madri trastulla:
L'altra traendo a la rocca la chiomaFavoleggiava con la sua famigliaDi Trojani e di Fiesole e di Roma.
Saria tenuta allor tal maravigliaUna Cianghella, un Lapo Salterello,Qual or saria Cincinnato e Corniglia.
* * * * *
Translation in blank verse.
Florence, before she broke the good old bounds,Whence yet are heard the chimes of eve and morn.Abided well in modesty and peace.No coronets had she—no chains of gold—No gaudy sandals—no rich girdles rareThat caught the eye more than the person did.Fathers then feared no daughter's birth, for dreadOf wantons courting wealth; nor were their homesEmptied with exile. Chamberers had not shownWhat they could dare, to prove their scorn of shame.Your neighbouring uplands then beheld no towersProuder than Rome's, only to know worse fall.I saw Bellincion Berti walk abroadGirt with a thong of leather; and his wifeCome from the glass without a painted face.Nerlis I saw, and Vecchios, and the like,In doublets without cloaks; and their good damesContented while they spun. Blest women thoseThey know the place where they should lie when dead;Nor were their beds deserted while they liv'd.They nurs'd their babies; lull'd them with the songsAnd household words of their own infancy;And while they drew the distaff's hair away,In the sweet bosoms of their families,Told tales of Troy, and Fiesole, and Rome.It had been then as marvellous to seeA man of Lapo Salterello's sort,Or woman like Cianghella, as to findA Cincinnatus or Cornelia now.
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No. V.
L'abate si chiamava Chiaramonte,Era del sangue disceso d'Angrante:Di sopra a la badia v'era un gran monte,Dove abitava alcun fiero gigante,De' quali uno avea nome Passamonte,L'altro Alabastro, e 'l terzo era Morgante:Con certe frombe gittavan da alto,Ed ogni di facevan qualche assalto.
I monachetti non potieno uscireDel monistero, o per legne, o per acque.Orlando picchia, e non volieno aprire,Fin che a l'abate a la fine pur piacque:Entrato drento cominciava a dire,Come colui che di Maria già nacque,Adora, ed era cristian battezzato,E com' egli era a la badia arrivato.
Disse l' abate: Il ben venuto sia:Di quel ch' io ho, volentier ti daremo,Poi the tu credi al figliuol di Maria;E la cagion, cavalier, ti diremo,Acciò che non l'imputi a villania,Perchè a l'entrar resistenza facemo,E non ti volle aprir quel monachetto;Così intervien chi vive con sospetto.
Quando ci venni al principio abitareQueste montagne, benchè sieno oscureCome tu vedi, pur si potea stareSanza sospetto, ch' ell' eran sicure:Sol da le fiere t'avevi a guardare:Fernoci spesso di brutte paure;Or ci bisogna, se vogliamo starci,Da le bestie dimestiche guardarci.
Queste ci fan piutosto stare a segno:Sonci appariti tre fiere giganti,Non so di qual paese o di qual regno,Ma molto son feroci tutti quanti:La forza e 'l malvoler giunt' a lo 'ngegnoSai che può 'l tutto; e noi non siam bastanti:Questi perturban si l'orazion nostra,Che non so più che far, s'altri nol mostra.
Gli antichi padri nostri nel deserto,Se le lor opre sante erano e giuste,Del ben servir da Dio n'avean buon merto:Nè creder sol vivessin di locuste:Piovea dal ciel la manna, guesto è certo;Ma qui convien che spesso assaggi e gustSassi, che piovon di sopra quel monte,Che gettano Alabastro e Passamonte.
E 'l terzo ch' è Morgante, assai più fiero,Isveglie e pini e faggi e cerri e gli oppi,E gettagli infin quì; questo è pur vero:Non posso far che d'ira non iscoppi.Mentre che parlan così in cimitero,Un sasso par che Rondel quasi sgroppi;Che da' giganti giù venne da altroTanto, ch' e' prese sotto il tetto un salto.
Tirati drento, cavalier, per Dio,Disse l'abate, che la manna casca.Rispose Orlando: Caro abate mio,Costui non vuol che 'l mio caval più pasca:Veggo che lo guarebbe del restio:Quel sasso par che di buon braccio nasca.Rispose il santo padre: Io non t' inganno;Credo che 'l monte un giorno gitteranno.
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No. VI.
Orlando and Bujaforte.
La battaglia veniva rinforzando,E in ogni parte apparisce la morte:E mentre in quà e in là, combatte Orlando,Un tratto a caso trovò Bujaforte,E in su la testa gli dette col brando:E perchè l'elmo è temperato e forte,O forse incantato era, al colpo ha retto:Ma de la testa gli balzò di netto.
Orlando prese costui per le chiome,E disse: Dimmi, se non ch' io t'uccido.Di questo tradimento appunto e come:E se tu il di', de la morte ti fido,E vo' che tu mi dica presto il nome.Onde il pagan rispose con gran grido,Aspetta: Bujaforte io te lo dico,De la montagna del Veglio tuo amico.
Orlando, quando intese il giovinetto,Subito al padre suo raffigurollo:Lasciò la chioma, e poi l'abbracciò strettoPer tenerezza, e con l'elmo baciollo;E disse: O Bujaforte, il vero hai dettoIl Veglio mio: e da canto tirollo:Di questo tradimento dimmi appunto,Poi the così la fortuna m' ha giunto.
Ma ben ti dico per la fede mia,Che di combatter con mie genti hai torto;E so che 'l padre tuo, dovunque e' sia,Non ti perdona questo, così morto.Bujaforte piangeva tuttavia;Poi disse: Orlando mio, datti conforto;Il mio signore a forza quà mi manda;E obbedir convien quel che comanda.
Io son de la mia patria sbandeggiato:Marsilio in corte sua m' ha ritenuto,E promesso rimettermi in istato:Io vo cercando consiglio ed ajuto,Poi ch' io son da ognuno abbandonato:E per questa cagion quà son venuto:E bench' i mostri far grande schermaglia.Non ho morto nessun ne la battaglia.
Io t' ho tanto per fama ricordareSentito a tutto il mondo, che nel coreSempre poi t' ebbi: e mi puoi comandare:E so del padre mio l'antico amore:Del tradimento tu tel puoi pensare:Sai che Gano e Marsilio è traditore:E so per discrezion tu intendi bene,Che tanta gente per tua morte viene.
E Baldovin di Marsilio ha la vesta;Che così il vostro Gano ba ordinato:Vedi che ignun non gli pon lancia in resta:Che 'l signor nostro ce l'ha comandato.Disse Orlando: Rimetti l'elmo in testa,E torna a la battaglia al modo usato:Vedrem che segnirà: tanto ti dico,Ch' io t'arò sempre come il Veglio amico.
Poi disse: Aspetta un poco, intendi saldo,Che non ti punga qualche strana ortica:Sappi ch' egli è ne la zuffa Rinaldo:Guarda che il nome per nulla non dica:Che non dicesse in quella furia caldo,Dunque tu se' da la parte nimica:Si che tu giuochi netto, destro e largo:Che ti bisogua aver quì gli occhi d'Argo.
Rispose Bujaforte: Bene hai detto:Se la battaglia passerà a tuo modo,Ti mostrerò che amico son perfetto,Come fu il padre mio, ch' ancor ne godo.
The poor youth takes his way through the fight, and unfortunately meets with Rinaldo.
Rinaldo ritrovò quel Bujaforte,Al mio parer, che sarebbe scoppiato,Se non avesse trovato la morte:E come egli ebbe a parlar cominciatoDel re Marsilio, e di stare in suo corte.Rinaldo gli rispose infuriato:Chi non è ineco, avverso me sia detto;E cominciogli a trassinar l'elmetto.E trasse un mandiretto e due e treCon tanta furia, e quattro e cinque e sei,Che non ebbe agio a domandar merzè,E morto cadde sanza dire omei.
Orlando and Baldwin.
Orlando, poi che lasciò Bujaforte,Pargli mill'anni trovar Baldovino,Che cerca pure e non truova la morte:E ricognobbe il caval VegliantinoPer la battaglia, e va correndo forteDov' era Orlando, e diceva il meschino:Sappi ch' io ho fatto oggi il mio dovuto;E contra me nessun mai e venuto.
Molti pagani ho pur fatti morire;Però quel che ciò sia pensar non posso,Se non ch' io veggo la gente fuggire.Rispose Orlando: Tu ti fai ben grosso;Di questo fatto stu ti vuoi chiarire,La soppravvesta ti cava di dosso:Vedrai che Gan, come tu te la cavi,Ci ha venduti a Marsilio per ischiavi.
Rispose Baldwin: Se il padre mioCi ha qui condotti come traditore,S' i' posso oggi campar, pel nostro IddioCon questa spada passerogli il core:Ma traditore, Orlando, non so io,Ch' io t' ho seguito con perfetto amore:Non mi potresti dir maggiore ingiuria.—Poi si stracciò la vesta con gran furia,
E disse: Io tornerò ne la battaglia,Poi che tu m' hai per traditore scorto:Io non son traditor, se Dio mi vaglia:Non mi vedrai più oggi se non morto.E in verso l'oste de' pagan si scagliaDicendo sempre: Tu m' hai fatto torto.Orlando si pentea d'aver cio detto,Che disperato vide il giovinetto.
Per la battaglia cornea Baldovino,E riscontrò quel crudel Mazzarigi,E disse: Tu se' qui, can Saracino,Per distrugger la gente di Parigi?O marran rinnegato paterino,Tu sarai presto giù ne' bassi Stigi:E trasse con la spada in modo a questo,Che lo mandò dov' egli disse presto.
Orlando meets again with Baldwin, who has kept his word.
Orlando corse a le grida e 'l romore,E trovò Baldovino il poverettoCh' era gia presso a l'ultime sue ore,E da due lance avea passato il petto;E disse. Or non son io più traditore—E cadde in terra morto così detto:De la qual cosa duolsi Orlando forte,E pianse esser cagion de la sua morte.
[Footnote 1: Sì, the Italianyes. A similar territorial designation is familiar to the reader in the word "Languedoc," meaninglangue d'oc, or tongue of Oc, which was the pronunciation of theouioryesof the French in that quarter.]
[Footnote 2: Alluding to the cruel stories in the mythology of Boeotia.]
[Footnote 3: The controversial character of Dante's genius, and the discordant estimate formed of it in so many respects by different writers, have already carried the author of this book so far beyond his intended limits, that he is obliged to refer for evidence in the cases of Ugolino and Francesca to Balbo,Vita di Dante(Napoli, 1840), p. 33; and to Troya,Del Vettro Allegorico di Dante(Firenze, _1826), pp. 28, 32, and 176.]