Like our Spenser, Dante took many freedoms with the extant Italian, which no later writer could have used. For the sake of euphony, emphasis, or rhyme, he occasionally modified words and terminations to serve a present purpose only, and which he himself rejected elsewhere. In this he was justified: he ran through the whole compass of his native vocabulary, he tried every note of the diapason, and all that were most pure, harmonious, or energetic, he sanctioned, by employing them in his song, which gave them a voice through after ages, so that few, comparatively very few, have been entirely rejected by his most fastidious successors. It was well for the poetry of his country that he wrote his immortal work in its language; for neither Petrarch nor Boccaccio could have gone so far as they did in perfecting it, if they had not had so great a model, not to equal only but to excel. They, indeed, affected to think little of their vernacular writings, and pretended merely to amuse themselves with such compositions as every body could read. Dante himself began his poem in Latin; and if he had gone forward, the finishing stroke of the last line would have been a coup-de-grace, which it could never have survived.[20]
Of the origin of the "Divina Commedia" it would be in vain to speculate here; the author himself, probably, could not have traced the first idea. Such conceptions neither come by inspiration nor by chance:—who can recollect the moment when he began to think, yet all his thoughts have been consecutively allied to that? Many visions and allegories had appeared before Dante's; and in several of these were gross representations of the spiritual world, especially of purgatory, the reality of which, during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, was urged upon credulity with extraordinary zeal and perseverance by a corrupt hierarchy. By all these rather than by one his mind might have been prepared for the work.
Seven cantos of the "Inferno" are understood to have been written before the author's banishment; it is manifest, however, that if this were the case they must have been considerably altered afterwards; indeed the whole character of the poem, however the original outline may have been followed, must have undergone a very remarkable, and (afflictive as the occasion may have been for himself) a very auspicious change, from his misfortunes. To the latter, his poem owes many of its most splendid passages, and almost all its personal interest; an interest wherein consists, if not its principal, its prevailing and preserving charm. Had the whole been composed in prosperity, amidst honours, and affluence, and learned ease, in his native city, it would no doubt have been a mighty achievement of genius; but much that enhances and endears both its moral and its fable could never have been suggested, indeed would not have existed, under happier circumstances. That moral, indeed, is often as mistaken as that fable is monstrous; but the one and the other should be judged according to the times. The poet's romantic and unearthly love to Beatrice would have wanted that sombre and terrible relief which is now given to it by the gloom of his own character, the expression of his feelings under the sense of unmerited wrongs, invectives thundered out against his persecutors, and exposures of atrocities which were every-day deeds of every-day men, in those distracted countries, of which his poem has left such fearful records.
Much unsatisfactory discussion has arisen upon the title "Divina Commedia," which Dante gave to his poem; it being presumed that he had never seen a regular drama either in letter or exhibition, as the Greek and Latin authors of that class were scarcely known in Italy till after his time. The religious spectacles, however, common in the darkest of the middle ages, consisting not of pantomime only, but of dialogue and song, may have suggested to him the designation as well as the subject of his strange adventure. Be this as it may, the character of the work is dramatic throughout, consisting of a series of scenes, which conduct to one catastrophe; for however miscellaneous or insulated they may seem in respect to each other,—in respect to the author (who is his own hero, and for whose warning, instruction, and final recovery from an evil course of life, the whole are collocated,) they all bear directly upon him, and accomplish by just gradations the purpose for which they were intended. Dante is a changed man when he emerges, from the infernal regions in the centre of the globe, upon the shore of the island of Purgatory at the Antipodes; and is further so refined by his ascent up that perilous mount, that when he reaches the terrestrial paradise at the top, he is prepared for translation from thence through the nine spheres of the celestial universe. Many of the interviews between the visiters of the invisible worlds which they explore, and the inhabitants of these, are scenes which involve all the peculiarities of stage-exhibitions,—dialogue, action, passion,—secrecy, surprise, interruption. Examples may be named. The meeting and conversations with Sordello, in the sixth and seventh cantos of the "Purgatorio," in which there are two instances of unexpected discoveries which bring out the whole beauty and grandeur of that mysterious personage's character; as a patriot, when at the mere sound of the word "Mantua" he embraces Virgil with transport, not yet knowing, nor even enquiring, any thing further about him, except that he is his countryman; and afterwards as a poet, when, Virgil disclosing his name, Sordello is overpowered with delightful astonishment, like one who suddenly beholds something wonderful before him, and, scarcely believing his own eyes for joy, exclaims, in a breath, "It is! it is not!" (Ell' è, non è.) The parties are thus introduced to each other. Dante and Virgil are considering which road they shall take, when the latter observes:—
"Yonder I see a spirit, fix'd in thought,
Alone and gazing earnestly upon us,
He will point out the readier way to take.
Tow'rds him we went—Soul of a Longobardian!
How didst thou stand aloof with haughty bearing,
And lordly eyes, slow-moving as we moved!
—He utter'd not a word, but let us pass,
On-looking like a lion from his lair:
But Virgil, drawing near, entreated him
To show the easiest path for our ascent:
Still to that meek request he answer'd not,
But of our country and our way of life
Enquired;—my courteous guide began then, 'Mantua';
Straight at the word, that spirit, erewhile so wrapt
Within himself, sprang from his place, and cried,
'O Mantuan! I'm thy countryman, Sordello;'
And one the other instantly embraced."[21]
The reserve of Sordello is generally attributed to stubbornness or pride; but is it not manifest that, on the first sight of the strangers, he had a misgiving hope (if the phrase be allowable) which he feared might deceive him, that they were countrymen of his, wherefore, absorbed in that sole idea, he disregards their question concerning the road, and directly comes to the point which he was anxious to ascertain; and this being resolved by the single word "Mantua," his soul flies forth at once to embrace the speaker?
In the tenth canto of the "Inferno," where heretics are described as being tormented in tombs of fire, the lids of which are suspended over them till the day of judgment, Dante finds Farinata d'Uberti, an illustrious commander of the Ghibellines, who, at the battle of Monte Aperto, in 1260, had so utterly defeated the Guelfs of Florence, that the city lay at the mercy of its enemies, by whom counsel was taken to raze it to the ground: but Farinata, because his bowels yearned towards his native city, stood up alone to oppose the barbarous design; and partly by menace—having drawn his sword in the midst of the assembly—and partly by persuasion, preserved the city from destruction. The interview is thus painted; but to prepare the reader for well understanding the nature of the by-play which intervenes, it is necessary to state that Cavalcante Cavalcanti, whose head appears out of an adjacent sepulchre, was the father of Guido Cavalcanti, a poet, the particular friend of Dante, and chief of the Bianchi party banished during his priorship.
"'O Tuscan! Thou, who, through this realm of fire,
Alive dost walk, thus courteously conversing
Pause, if it please thee, here. Thy dialect
Proclaims thy lineage from that noble land,
Which I, perhaps, too much have wrong'd.'
"Such sounds
Suddenly issued forth from one of those
Sepulchral caverns.—Tremblingly I crept
A little nearer to my guide, but he
Cried, 'Turn again! What would'st thou do? Behold,
'Tis Farinata that hath raised himself:
There may'st thou see him, upward from the loins.'
Already had I fix'd mine eyes on his,
Who stood, with bust and visage so erect,
As though he look'd on hell itself with scorn.
My master then, with prompt and resolute hands,
Thrust me among the charnel-vaults towards him,
Saying,—'Thy words be plain.' When I had reach'd
His tombstone-foot, he look'd at me a while
As in disdain, then loftily demanded—
'Who were thine ancestors?'
——"Eager to tell,
Nought I conceal'd, but utter'd all the truth.
Arching his brow a little, he return'd;—
'Bitter antagonists of mine, of me,
And of my party, were thy sires; but twice
I scatter'd them.'
"'If scatter'd twice,' said I,
'Once and again they came from all sides back,—
A lesson which thy friends have not well learn'd.'
"Just then a second figure, at his side,
Emerged to view; unveil'd above the chin,
And kneeling, as methought.—It look'd around
So wistfully, as though it hoped to find
Some other with me; but, that hope dispell'd,
Weeping it spake:—'If through this dungeon-gloom,
Grandeur of genius guide thy venturous way,
My son!—where is he?—and why not with thee?'
Then I to him:—"Not of myself I came;
He who awaits me yonder brought me hither,—
One whom perhaps thy Guido held in scorn.[22]
His speech and form of penance had already
Taught me his name; my words were therefore pointed.
Upstarting he exclaim'd:—"How?—said'st thou held?
Lives he not then? and doth not heaven's sweet light
Fall on his eyes?'—When I w as slow to answer,
Backward he sunk, and re-appear'd no more.
"Meanw'hile that other most majestic form,
Near which I stood, neither changed countenance,
Nor turn'd his neck, nor lean'd to either side:
'And if,' quoth he, our first debate resuming,
'They have not well that lesson learn'd, the thought
Torments me more than this infernal bed:
And yet, not fifty times her changing face,
Who here reigns sovereign, shall be re-illumined,
Ere thou shalt know how hard that lesson is.[23]
—But tell me,—so may'st thou return in peace
To the dear world above!—why are thy people
In all their acts so mad against my race?'
—'The slaughter and discomfiture,' said I,
'That turn'd the river red at Mont-Aperto,
Have caused such dire proscriptions in our temples.'
"He shook his head, deep-sighing, then rejoin'd,—
'I was not there alone; nor without cause
Engaged with others; but I was alone,
And stood in her defence with open brow,
When all our council, with one voice, decreed
That Florence should be razed from her foundation.'
"'So may thy kindred find repose, as thou
Shalt loose a knot which hath entangled me!'
Thus I adjured him:—'ye foresee what time
(If rightly I have heard) will bring to pass,
But to the present, otherwise, are blind.'
"'We see, like him who hath an evil eye,
Far distant things,' said he; 'so highest God
Enlightens us: but yet, when they approach,
Or when they are, our intellect falls short;
Nor can we know, save by report from others,
Aught of the state of man beneath the sun.
Hence may'st thou comprehend how all our knowledge
Shall cease for ever from the point that shuts
The portal of the future.'[24]
"At that moment
Compunction smote me for my recent fault,
And I cried out—'Oh! tell that fallen one,
His son is yet among the living.—Say,
That if I falter'd to reply at first
With that assurance, 'twas because my thoughts
Were harass'd by the doubt which thou hast solved.'"[25]
The reader of these lines (however inferior the translation may be), cannot have failed to perceive by what natural action and speech the paternal anxiety of Cavalcante respecting his son is indicated. On his bed of torture he hears a voice which he knows to be that of his son's friend; he starts up, looks eagerly about, as expecting to see that son; but observing the friend only, he at once interrupts the dialogue with Farinata, and in broken exclamations enquires concerning him. Dante happening to employ the past tense of a verb in reference to what his "Guido" might have done, the miserable parent instantly lays hold of that minute circumstance as an intimation of his death, and asks questions of which he dreads the answers, precisely in the manner of Macduff when he learns that his wife and children had been murdered by Macbeth. The poet hesitating to reply. Cavalcante takes the worst for granted, falls back in despair, and appears not again. Thus,