The _Commedia_, at the first glance, shows the traces of its author's life. It is the work of a wanderer. The very form in which it is cast is that of a journey, difficult, toilsome, perilous, and full of change. It is more than a working out of that touching phraseology of the middle ages, in which "the way" was the technical theological expression for this mortal life; and "_viator_" meant man in his state of trial, as "_comprehensor_" meant man made perfect, having attained to his heavenly country. It is more than merely this. The writer's mind is full of the recollections and definite images of his various journeys. The permanent scenery of the _Inferno_ and _Purgatorio_, very variously and distinctly marked, is that of travel.

The descent down the sides of the Pit, and the ascent of the Sacred Mountain, show one familiar with such scenes--one who had climbed painfully in perilous pa.s.ses, and grown dizzy on the brink of narrow ledges over sea or torrent. It is scenery from the gorges of the Alps and Apennines, or the terraces and precipices of the Riviera. Local reminiscences abound:--the severed rocks of the Adige Valley--the waterfall of S. Benedetto--the crags of Pietra-pana and S. Leo, which overlook the plains of Lucca and Ravenna--the "fair river" that flows among the poplars between Chiaveri and Sestri--the marble quarries of Carrara--the "rough and desert ways between Lerici and Turbia," and those towery cliffs, going sheer into the deep sea at Noli, which travellers on the Corniche road some thirty years ago may yet remember with fear. Mountain experience furnished that picture of the traveller caught in an Alpine mist and gradually climbing above it; seeing the vapours grow thin, and the sun's...o...b..appear faintly through them; and issuing at last into sunshine on the mountain top, while the light of sunset was lost already on the sh.o.r.es below:

Ai raggi, morti gia nei ba.s.si lidi:--_Purg._ 17.

or that image of the cold dull shadow over the torrent, beneath the Alpine fir--

Un'ombra smorta Qual sotto foglie verdi e rami nigri Sovra suoi freddi rivi, l'Alpe porta:--_Purg._ 33.[38]

or of the large snow-flakes falling without wind, among the mountains--

d'un cader lento Piovean di fuoco dilatate falde Come di neve in Alpe senza vento.--_Inferno_, 14.[39]

[Footnote 38:

A death-like shade-- Like that beneath black boughs and foliage green O'er the cool streams in Alpine glens display'd.--WRIGHT.]

[Footnote 39:

O'er all the sandy desert falling slow, Were shower'd dilated flakes of fire, like snow On Alpine summits, when the wind is low.--IBID.]

He delights in a local name and local image--the boiling pitch, and the clang of the shipwrights in the a.r.s.enal of Venice--the sepulchral fields of Arles and Pola--the hot-spring of Viterbo--the hooded monks of Cologne--the d.y.k.es of Flanders and Padua--the Maremma, with its rough brushwood, its wild boars, its snakes, and fevers. He had listened to the south wind among the pine tops, in the forest by the sea, at Ravenna. He had watched under the Carisenda tower at Bologna, and seen the driving clouds "give away their motion" to it, and make it seem to be falling; and had noticed how at Rome the October sun sets between Corsica and Sardinia.[40] His images of the sea are numerous and definite--the ship backing out of the tier in harbour, the diver plunging after the fouled anchor, the mast rising, the ship going fast before the wind, the water closing in its wake, the arched backs of the porpoises the forerunners of a gale, the admiral watching everything from p.o.o.p to prow, the oars stopping altogether at the sound of the whistle, the swelling sails becoming slack when the mast snaps and falls.[41] Nowhere could we find so many of the most characteristic and strange sensations of the traveller touched with such truth. Everyone knows the lines which speak of the voyager's sinking of heart on the first evening at sea, and of the longings wakened in the traveller at the beginning of his journey by the distant evening bell[42]; the traveller's _morning_ feelings are not less delicately noted--the strangeness on first waking in the open air with the sun high; morning thoughts, as day by day he wakes nearer home; the morning sight of the sea-beach quivering in the early light; the tarrying and lingering, before setting out in the morning[43]--

Noi eravam lunghesso 'l mare ancora, Come gente che pensa al suo cammino, Che va col cuore, e col corpo dimora.[44]

[Footnote 40: _Inf._ 31, 18.]

[Footnote 41: _Ibid._ 17, 16, 31; _Purg._ 24; _Par._ 2; _Inf._ 22; _Purg._ 30; _Par._ 25; _Inf._ 7.]

[Footnote 42: _Purg._ 8. "Era gia l'ora," &c.]

[Footnote 43: _Purg._ 19, 27, 1, 2.]

[Footnote 44:

By ocean's sh.o.r.e we still prolonged our stay Like men, who, thinking of a journey near, Advance in thought, while yet their limbs delay.--WRIGHT.]

He has recorded equally the anxiety, the curiosity, the suspicion with which, in those times, stranger met and eyed stranger on the road; and a still more characteristic trait is to be found in those lines where he describes the pilgrim gazing around in the church of his vow, and thinking how he shall tell of it:

E quasi peregrin che si ricrea Nel tempio del suo voto riguardando, E spera gia ridir com'ello stea:--_Parad._ 31.[45]

or again, in that description, so simple and touching, of his thoughts while waiting to see the relic for which he left his home:

Quale e colui che forse di Croazia Viene a veder la Veronica nostra, Che per l'antica fama non si sazia, Ma dice nel pensier, fin che si mostra; Signor mio Gesu Cristo, Dio verace, Or fu s fatta la sembianza vostra?--_Parad._ 31.[46]

[Footnote 45:

And like a pilgrim who with fond delight Surveys the temple he has vow'd to see, And hopes one day its wonders to recite.--IBID.]

[Footnote 46:

Like one who, from Croatia come to see Our Veronica (image long adored), Gazes, as though content he ne'er could be-- Thus musing, while the relic is pourtray'd-- "Jesus my G.o.d, my Saviour and my Lord, O were thy features these I see display'd?"--WRIGHT.

Quella imagine benedetta la quale Gesu Cristo lasci a noi per esempio della sua bellissima figura.--_Vita Nuova_, p.

353.

He speaks of the pilgrims going to Rome to see it; compare also the sonnet to the pilgrims, p. 355:

Deh peregrini, che pensosi andate Forse di cosa, che non v'e presente, Venite voi di s lontana gente, Com'alla vista voi ne dimostrate.]

Of these years then of disappointment and exile the _Divina Commedia_ was the labour and fruit. A story in Boccaccio's life of Dante, told with some detail, implies indeed that it was begun, and some progress made in it, while Dante was yet in Florence--begun in Latin, and he quotes three lines of it--continued afterwards in Italian. This is not impossible; indeed the germ and presage of it may be traced in the _Vita Nuova_. The idealised saint is there, in all the grace of her pure and n.o.ble humbleness, the guide and safeguard of the poet's soul. She is already in glory with Mary the queen of angels. She already beholds the face of the Everblessed. And the _envoye_ of the _Vita Nuova_ is the promise of the _Commedia_. "After this sonnet,"

(in which he describes how beyond the widest sphere of heaven his love had beheld a lady receiving honour, and dazzling by her glory the unaccustomed spirit)--"After this sonnet there appeared to me a marvellous vision, in which I saw things which made me resolve not to speak more of this blessed one, until such time as I should be able to indite more worthily of her. And to attain to this, I study to the utmost of my power, as she truly knows. So that, if it shall be the pleasure of Him, by whom all things live, that my life continue for some years, I hope to say of her that which never hath been said of any woman. And afterwards, may it please Him, who is the Lord of kindness, that my soul may go to behold the glory of her lady, that is, of that blessed Beatrice, who gloriously gazes on the countenance of Him, _qui est per omnia secula benedictus_."[47] It would be wantonly violating probability and the unity of a great life, to suppose that this purpose, though transformed, was ever forgotten or laid aside. The poet knew not indeed what he was promising, what he was pledging himself to--through what years of toil and anguish he would have to seek the light and the power he had asked; in what form his high venture should be realised. But the _Commedia_ is the work of no light resolve, and we need not be surprised at finding the resolve and the purpose at the outset of the poet's life. We may freely accept the key supplied by the words of the _Vita Nuova_. The spell of boyhood is never broken, through the ups and downs of life. His course of thought advances, alters, deepens, but is continuous. From youth to age, from the first glimpse to the perfect work, the same idea abides with him, "even from the flower till the grape was ripe." It may a.s.sume various changes--an image of beauty, a figure of philosophy, a voice from the other world, a type of heavenly wisdom and joy--but still it holds, in self-imposed and willing thraldom, that creative and versatile and tenacious spirit. It was the dream and hope of too deep and strong a mind to fade and come to naught--to be other than the seed of the achievement and crown of life. But with all faith in the star and the freedom of genius, we may doubt whether the prosperous citizen would have done that which was done by the man without a home. Beatrice's glory might have been sung in grand though barbarous Latin to the literati of the fourteenth century; or a poem of new beauty might have fixed the language and opened the literature of modern Italy; but it could hardly have been the _Commedia_. That belongs, in its date and its greatness, to the time when sorrow had become the poet's daily portion, and the condition of his life.

[Footnote 47: _Vita Nuova_, last paragraph. See _Purg._ 30; _Parad._ 30, 6, 28-33.]

The _Commedia_ is a novel and startling apparition in literature.

Probably it has been felt by some, who have approached it with the reverence due to a work of such renown, that the world has been generous in placing it so high. It seems so abnormal, so lawless, so reckless of all ordinary proprieties and canons of feeling, taste, and composition. It is rough and abrupt; obscure in phrase and allusion, doubly obscure in purpose. It is a medley of all subjects usually kept distinct: scandal of the day and transcendental science, politics and confessions, coa.r.s.e satire and angelic joy, private wrongs, with the mysteries of the faith, local names and habitations of earth, with visions of h.e.l.l and heaven. It is hard to keep up with the ever-changing current of feeling, to pa.s.s as the poet pa.s.ses, without effort or scruple, from tenderness to ridicule, from hope to bitter scorn or querulous complaint, from high-raised devotion to the calmness of prosaic subtleties or grotesque detail. Each separate element and vein of thought has its precedent, but not their amalgamation. Many had written visions of the unseen world, but they had not blended with them their personal fortunes. S. Augustine had taught the soul to contemplate its own history, and had traced its progress from darkness to light;[48] but he had not interwoven with it the history of Italy, and the consummation of all earthly destinies.

Satire was no new thing; Juvenal had given it a moral, some of the Provencal poets a political turn; S. Jerome had kindled into it fiercely and bitterly even while expounding the Prophets; but here it streams forth in all its violence, within the precincts of the eternal world, and alternates with the hymns of the blessed. Lucretius had drawn forth the poetry of nature and its laws; Virgil and Livy had unfolded the poetry of the Roman empire; S. Augustine, the still grander poetry of the history of the City of G.o.d; but none had yet ventured to weave into one the three wonderful threads. And yet the scope of the Italian poet, vast and comprehensive as the issue of all things, universal as the government which directs nature and intelligence, forbids him not to stoop to the lowest caitiff he has ever despised, the minutest fact in nature that has ever struck his eye, the merest personal a.s.sociation which hangs pleasantly in his memory. Writing for all time, he scruples not to mix with all that is august and permanent in history and prophecy, incidents the most transient, and names the most obscure; to waste an immortality of shame or praise on those about whom his own generation were to inquire in vain. Scripture history runs into profane; Pagan legends teach their lesson side by side with Scripture scenes and miracles; heroes and poets of heathenism, separated from their old cla.s.sic world, have their place in the world of faith, discourse with Christians of Christian dogmas, and even mingle with the Saints; Virgil guides the poet through his fear and his penitence to the gates of Paradise.

[Footnote 48: See _Convito_, 1, 2.]

This feeling of harsh and extravagant incongruity, of causeless and unpardonable darkness, is perhaps the first impression of many readers of the _Commedia_. But probably as they read on, there will mingle with this a sense of strange and unusual grandeur, arising not alone from the hardihood of the attempt, and the mystery of the subject, but from the power and the character of the poet. It will strike them that words cut deeper than is their wont; that from that wild uncongenial imagery, thoughts emerge of singular truth and beauty. Their dissatisfaction will be chequered, even disturbed--for we can often bring ourselves to sacrifice much for the sake of a clear and consistent view--by the appearance, amid much that repels them, of proofs undeniable and acc.u.mulating of genius as mighty as it is strange. Their perplexity and disappointment may grow into distinct condemnation, or it may pa.s.s into admiration and delight; but no one has ever come to the end of the _Commedia_ without feeling that if it has given him a new view and specimen of the wildness and unaccountable waywardness of the human mind, it has also added, as few other books have, to his knowledge of its feelings, its capabilities, and its grasp, and suggested larger and more serious thoughts, for which he may be grateful, concerning that unseen world of which he is even here a member.

Dante would not have thanked his admirers for becoming apologists.

Those in whom the sense of imperfection and strangeness overpowers sympathy for grandeur, and enthusiasm for n.o.bleness, and joy in beauty, he certainly would have left to themselves. But neither would he teach any that he was leading them along a smooth and easy road.

The _Commedia_ will always be a hard and trying book; nor did the writer much care that it should be otherwise. Much of this is no doubt to be set down to its age; much of its roughness and extravagance, as well as of its beauty--its allegorical spirit, its frame and scenery.

The idea of a visionary voyage through the worlds of pain and bliss is no invention of the poet--it was one of the commonest and most familiar medieval vehicles of censure or warning; and those who love to trace the growth and often strange fortunes of popular ideas, or whose taste leads them to disbelieve in genius, and track the parentage of great inventions to the foolish and obscure, may find abundant materials in the literature of legends.[49] But his own age--the age which received the _Commedia_ with mingled enthusiasm and wonder, and called it the Divine, was as much perplexed as we are, though probably rather pleased thereby than offended. That within a century after its composition, in the more famous cities and universities of Italy, Florence, Venice, Bologna, and Pisa, chairs should have been founded, and ill.u.s.trious men engaged to lecture on it, is a strange homage to its power, even in that time of quick feeling; but as strange and great a proof of its obscurity. What is dark and forbidding in it was scarcely more clear to the poet's contemporaries. And he, whose last object was amus.e.m.e.nt, invites no audience but a patient and confiding one.

O voi che siete in piccioletta barca, Desiderosi di ascoltar, seguiti Dietro al mio legno che cantando varca,

Tornate a riveder li vostri liti: Non vi mettete in pelago, che forse Perdendo me rimarreste smarriti.

L'acqua ch'io prendo giammai non si corse: Minerva spira, e conducemi Apollo, E nuove muse mi dimostran l'Orse.

Voi altri pochi, che drizzaste 'l collo Per tempo al pan degli angeli, del quale Vivesi qui, ma non si vien satollo,

Metter potete ben per l'alto sale Vostro navigio, servando mio solco Dinanzi all'acqua che ritorna eguale.

Que gloriosi che pa.s.saro a Colco, Non s'ammiraron, come voi farete, Quando Jason vider fatto bifolco.--_Parad._ 2.[50]

[Footnote 49: _Vide_ Ozanam, _Dante_, pp. 535, _sqq._ Ed.]

[Footnote 50:

O ye who fain would listen to my song, Following in little bark full eagerly My venturous ship, that chanting hies along,

Turn back unto your native sh.o.r.es again; Tempt not the deep, lest haply losing me, In unknown paths bewildered ye remain.

I am the first this voyage to essay; Minerva breathes--Apollo is my guide; And new-born muses do the Bears display.