Stories from the Italian Poets: with Lives of the Writers Volume I Part 28

Methought this man led a great lordly chase Against a wolf and cubs, across the height Which 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 seen The father and his sons, those wolves I mean, Limping, and by the hounds all crush'd and torn And 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 heard Lock up the dreadful turret. Not a word I spoke, but look'd my children in the face No tear I shed, so firmly did I brace My soul; but _they_ did; and my Anselm said, 'Father, you look so!--Won't they bring us bread?'

E'en then I wept not, nor did answer word All 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 mad For food, said, 'Father, we should be less sad If 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 misery Went groping for them, as I knelt and crawl'd About the room; and for three days I call'd Upon 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 eyes That 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 be To the sweet land that speaks the tongue of S.[1]

Since Florence spareth thy vile neck the yoke, Would that the very isles would rise, and choke Thy river, and drown every soul within Thy loathsome walls. What if this Ugolin Did play the traitor, and give up (for so The rumour runs) thy castles to the foe, Thou hadst no right to put to rack like this His children. Childhood innocency is.

But that same innocence, and that man's name, Have d.a.m.n'd thee, Pisa, to a Theban fame?[2]

REAL STORY OF UGOLINO,

AND CHAUCER'S FEELING RESPECTING THE POEM.

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 cruelty Such 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,'

And _kiss'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 circ.u.mstances of the case, as he advanced in years; but if charity is bound to hope that he would have altered the pa.s.sage 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.

PICTURE OF FLORENCE IN THE TIME OF DANTE'S ANCESTORS.

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 cintura Che fosse a veder piu che la persona.

Non faceva nascendo ancor paura La figlia al padre, che 'l tempo e la dotte Non fuggian quindi e quindi la misura.

Non avea case di famiglia vote Non v'era giunto ancor Sardanapalo A mostrar ci che 'n camera si puote.

Non era vinto ancora Montemalo Dal vostro Uccellatojo, che com' e vinto Nel montar su, cos sara nel calo.

Bellincion Berti vid' io andar cinto Di cuojo e d'osso, e venir da lo specchio La donna sua sanza 'l viso dipinto:

E vidi quel de' Nerli e quel del Vecchio Esser contenti a la pelle scoverta, E le sue donne al fuso ed al pennecchio.

O fortunate! e ciascuna era certa De la sua sepoltura, ed ancor nulla Era per Francia nel lotto deserta.

L'una vegghiava a studio de la culla, E consolando usava l'idioma Che pria li padri e le madri trastulla:

L'altra traendo a la rocca la chioma Favoleggiava con la sua famiglia Di Trojani e di Fiesole e di Roma.

Saria tenuta allor tal maraviglia Una Ciangh.e.l.la, 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 rare That caught the eye more than the person did.

Fathers then feared no daughter's birth, for dread Of wantons courting wealth; nor were their homes Emptied with exile. Chamberers had not shown What they could dare, to prove their scorn of shame.

Your neighbouring uplands then beheld no towers Prouder than Rome's, only to know worse fall.

I saw Bellincion Berti walk abroad Girt with a thong of leather; and his wife Come from the gla.s.s without a painted face.

Nerlis I saw, and Vecchios, and the like, In doublets without cloaks; and their good dames Contented while they spun. Blest women those They 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 songs And 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 see A man of Lapo Salterello's sort, Or woman like Ciangh.e.l.la, as to find A Cincinnatus or Cornelia now.

No. V.

THE MONKS AND THE GIANTS.

PULCI.

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 Pa.s.samonte, L'altro Alabastro, e 'l terzo era Morgante: Con certe frombe gittavan da alto, Ed ogni di facevan qualche a.s.salto.

I monachetti non potieno uscire Del 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 gia nacque, Adora, ed era cristian battezzato, E com' egli era a la badia arrivato.