Chapter XII

And now, resuming my discourse, I will go on to relate that when, for the first time, this beatitude was denied me, I became possessed with such grief that, parting myself from others, I went into a lonely place to bathe the ground with most bitter tears: and when, by this heat of weeping, I was somewhat relieved, I betook myself to my chamber, where I could lament unheard. And there, having prayed to the Lady of all Mercies, and having said also, “O Love, aid thou thy servant,” I went suddenly asleep like a beaten sobbing child. And in my sleep, towards the middle of it, I seemed to see in the room, seated at my side, a youth in very white raiment, who kept his eyes fixed on me in deep thought. And when he had gazed some time, I thought that he sighed and called to me in these words: “Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra.”¹ And thereupon I seemed to know him; for the voice was the same wherewith he had spoken at other times in my sleep. Then looking at him, I perceived that he was weeping piteously, and that he seemed to be waiting for me to speak. Wherefore, taking heart, I began thus: “Why weepest thou, Master of all honour?” And he made answer to me: “Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic.”² And thinking upon his words, they seemed to me obscure; so that again compelling myself unto speech, I asked of him: “What thing is this, Master, that thou hast spoken thus darkly?” To the which he made answer in the vulgar tongue: “Demand no more than may be useful to thee.” Whereupon I began to discourse with him concerning her salutation which she had denied me; and when I had questioned him of the cause, he said these words: “Our Beatrice hath heard from certain persons, that the lady whom I named to thee while thou journeyedst full of sighs is sorely disquieted by thy solicitations: and therefore this most gracious creature, who is the enemy of all disquiet, being fearful of such disquiet, refused to salute thee. For the which reason (albeit, in very sooth, thy secret must needs have become known to her by familiar observation) it is my will that thou compose certain things in rhyme, in the which thou shalt set forth how strong a mastership I have obtained over thee, through her; and how thou wast hers even from thy childhood. Also do thou call upon him that knoweth these things to bear witness to them, bidding him to speak with her thereof; the which I, who am he, will do willingly. And thus she shall be made to know thy desire; knowing which, she shall know likewise that they were deceived who spake of thee to her. And so write these things, that they shall seem rather to be spoken by a third person; and not directly by thee to her, which is scarce fitting. After the which, send them, not without me, where she may chance to hear them; but have them fitted with a pleasant music, into the which I will pass whensoever it needeth.” With this speech he was away, and my sleep was broken up.

Whereupon, remembering me, I knew that I had beheld this vision during the ninth hour of the day; and I resolved that I would make a ditty, before I left my chamber, according to the words my master had spoken. And this is the ditty that I made:—

Song, ’tis my will that thou do seek out Love, And go with him where my dear lady is; That so my cause, the which thy harmonies Do plead, his better speech may clearly prove. Thou goest, my Song, in such a courteous kind, That even companionless Thou mayst rely on thyself anywhere. And yet, an thou wouldst get thee a safe mind, First unto Love address Thy steps; whose aid, mayhap, ’twere ill to spare, Seeing that she to whom thou mak’st thy prayer Is, as I think, ill-minded unto me, And that if Love do not companion thee, Thou’lt have perchance small cheer to tell me of.

With a sweet accent, when thou com’st to her, Begin thou in these words, First having craved a gracious audience: “He who hath sent me as his messenger, Lady, thus much records, An thou but suffer him, in his defence. Love, who comes with me, by thine influence Can make this man do as it liketh him: Wherefore, if this fault is or doth but seem Do thou conceive: for his heart cannot move.”

Say to her also: “Lady, his poor heart Is so confirmed in faith That all its thoughts are but of serving thee: ’Twas early thine, and could not swerve apart.” Then, if she wavereth, Bid her ask Love, who knows if these things be. And in the end, beg of her modestly To pardon so much boldness: saying too:— “If thou declare his death to be thy due, The thing shall come to pass, as doth behove.”

Then pray thou of the Master of all ruth, Before thou leave her there, That he befriend my cause and plead it well. “In guerdon of my sweet rhymes and my truth” (Entreat him) “stay with her; Let not the hope of thy poor servant fail; And if with her thy pleading should prevail, Let her look on him and give peace to him.” Gentle my Song, if good to thee it seem, Do this: so worship shall be thine and love.

This ditty is divided into three parts. In the first, I tell it whither to go, and I encourage it, that it may go the more confidently, and I tell it whose company to join if it would go with confidence and without any danger. In the second, I say that which it behoves the ditty to set forth. In the third, I give it leave to start when it pleases, recommending its course to the arms of Fortune. The second part begins here, “With a sweet accent;” the third here, “Gentle my Song.” Some might contradict me, and say that they understand not whom I address in the second person, seeing that the ditty is merely the very words I am speaking. And therefore I say that this doubt I intend to solve and clear up in this little book itself, at a more difficult passage, and then let him understand who now doubts, or would now contradict as aforesaid.

Footnotes

1. “My son, it is time for us to lay aside our counterfeiting.” ↩

2. “I am as the centre of a circle, to the which all parts of the circumference bear an equal relation: but with thee it is not thus.” This phrase seems to have remained as obscure to commentators as Dante found it at the moment. No one, as far as I know, has even fairly tried to find a meaning for it. To me the following appears a not unlikely one. Love is weeping on Dante’s account, and not on his own. He says, “I am the centre of a circle (Amor che muove il sole e l’altre stelle): therefore all lovable objects, whether in heaven or earth, or any part of the circle’s circumference, are equally near to me. Not so thou, who wilt one day lose Beatrice when she goes to heaven.” The phrase would thus contain an intimation of the death of Beatrice, accounting for Dante being next told not to inquire the meaning of the speech,—”Demand no more than may be useful to thee.” ↩