The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 118, August, 1867

"In questa altezza che tutta è disciolta        Nell'aer vivo, tal moto percuote,        E fa sonar la selva perch' è folta."

Literally,

In this height which is all detached        In the living air, such motion strikes,        And makes the wood resound because it is thick.

Such are the words of Dante line by line. Let us now see how Cary renders them:—

"Upon the summit, which on every sideTo visitation of the impassive airIs open, doth that motion strike, and makesBeneath its sway the umbrageous wood resound."

The fundamental idea of this passage is the explanation of the sound of the forest, and this idea Cary has preserved. But has he preserved it in its force and simplicity and Dantesque directness? We will not dwell upon the rendering of altezza by summit, although a little more care would have preserved the exact word of the original. But we may with good reason object to the expansion of Dante's three lines into four. We may with equal reason object to

                                                        "which on every sideTo visitation of the impassive airIs open,"

as a correct rendering of

                                                        "che tutta è discioltaNell'aer vivo,"—                                                        which is all detachedIn the living air."To visitation of the impassive air,"

is a sonorous verse; but it is not Dante's verse, unless all detached means on every side is open to visitation, and impassive air means living air. Beneath its sway, also, is not Dante's; nor can we accept umbrageous wood, with its unmeaning epithet, for the wood because it is thick, an explanation of the phenomenon which had excited Dante's wonder.

Here, then, we have Cary's theory, the preservation of the fundamental idea, but the free introduction of such accessory ideas as convenience may suggest, whether in the form of epithet or of paraphrase.

Mr. Longfellow's translation of this passage may also be accepted as the exposition of his theory:—

"Upon this height that all is disengaged        In living ether, doth this motion strike,        And make the forest sound, for it is dense."

We have here the three lines of the original, and in the order of the original; we have the exact words of the original, disciolta meaning disengaged as well as detached, and therefore the ideas of the original without modification or change. The passage is not a remarkable one in form, although a very important one in the description of which it forms a part. The sonorous second line of Mr. Cary's version is singularly false to the movement, as well as to the thought, of the original. Mr. Longfellow's lines have the metric character of Dante's precise and direct description.

The next triplet brings out the difference between the two theories even more distinctly:—

"E la percossa pianta tanto puote        Che della sua virtute l'aura impregna,        E quella poi girando intorno scuote."And the stricken plant has so much power        That with its virtue it impregnates the air,        And that then revolving shakes around.

Thus far Dante.

"And in the shaken plant such power resides,That it impregnates with its efficacyThe voyaging breeze, upon whose subtle plumeThat, wafted, flies abroad."

Thus far Cary.

Cary's first line is a tolerably near approach to the original, although a distinction might be made between the force of power resides in, and power possessed by. The second line falls short of the conciseness of the original by transposing the object of impregnates into the third. This, however, though a blemish, might also be passed over. But what shall we say to the expansion of aura into a full line, and that line so Elizabethan and un-Dantesque as

"The voyaging breeze upon whose subtle plume"?

In this, too, Mr. Cary is faithful to his theory. Mr. Longfellow is equally faithful to his:—

"And so much power the stricken plant possesses,        That with its virtue it impregns the air,        And this, revolving, scatters it around."

We have seen how Cary's theory permits the insertion of a new line, or, more correctly speaking, the expansion of a single word into a full line. But it admits also of the opposite extreme,—the suppression of an entire line.

"Ch'io vidi, e anche udi'parlar lo rostro,        E sonar nella voce ed io e mio,        Quand'era nel concetto noi e nostro."For I saw and also heard speak the beak,        And sound in its voice and I and my,        When it was in the conception we and our. Paradiso, XIX. 10.

There is doubtless something quaint and peculiar in these lines, but it is the quaintness and peculiarity of Dante. The I and my, the we and our, are traits of that direct and positive mode of expression which is one of the distinctive characteristics of his style. Do we find it in Cary?

                                                                        "For I beheld and heardThe beak discourse; and what intention formedOf many, singly as of one express."

Do we not find it in Longfellow?

"For speak I saw, and likewise heard, the beak,        And utter with its voice both I and My,        When in conception it was We and Our."

It is not surprising that the two translators, starting with theories essentially so different, should have produced such different results. Which of these results is most in harmony with the legitimate object of translation can hardly admit of a doubt. For the object of translation is to convey an accurate idea of the original, or, in other words, to render the words and idioms of the language from which the translation is made by their exact equivalents in the language into which it is made. The translator is bound by the words of the original. He is bound, so far as the difference between languages admits of it, by the idioms of the original. And as the effect of words and idioms depends in a great measure upon the skill with which they are arranged, he is bound also by the rhythm of the original. If you would copy Raphael, you must not give him the coloring of Titian. The calm dignity of the "School of Athens" conveys a very imperfect idea of the sublime energy of the sibyls and prophets of the Sistine Chapel.

But can this exactitude be achieved without forcing language into such uncongenial forms as to produce an artificial effect, painfully reminding you, at every step, of the labor it cost? And here we come to the question of fact; for if Mr. Longfellow has succeeded, the answer is evident. We purpose, therefore, to take a few test-passages, and, placing the two translations side by side with the original, give our readers an opportunity of making the comparison for themselves.

First, however, let us remind the reader that, if it were possible to convey an accurate idea of Dante's style by a single word, that word would be power. Whatever he undertakes to say, he says in the form best suited to convey his thought to the reader's mind as it existed in his own mind. If it be a metaphysical idea, he finds words for it which give it the distinctness and reality of a physical substance. If it be a landscape, he brings it before you, either in outline or in detail, either by form or by color, as the occasion requires, but always with equal force. That landscape of his ideal world ever after takes its place in your memory by the side of the landscapes of your real world. Even the sounds which he has described linger in the ear as the types of harshness, or loudness, or sweetness, instantly coming back to you whenever you listen to the roaring of the sea, or the howling of the wind, or the carol of birds. He calls things by their names, never shrinking from a homely phrase where the occasion demands it, nor substituting circumlocution for direct expression. Words with him seem to be things, real and tangible; not hovering like shadows over an idea, but standing out in the clear light, bold and firm, as the distinct representatives of an idea. In his verse every word has its appropriate place, and something to do in that place which no other word could do there. Change it, and you feel at once that something has been lost.

Next to power, infinite variety is the characteristic of Dante's style, as it is of his invention. With a stronger individuality than any poet of any age or country, there is not a trace of mannerism in all his poem. The stern, the tender, the grand, simple exposition, fierce satire, and passionate appeal have each their appropriate words and their appropriate cadence. This Cary did not perceive, and has told the stories of Francesca and of Ugolino with the same Miltonian modulation. Longfellow, by keeping his original constantly before him, has both seen and reproduced it.

We begin our quotations with the celebrated inscription over the gate of hell, and the entrance of the two poets into "the secret things." The reader will remember that the last three triplets contain a remarkable example of the correspondence of sound with sense.

"Per me si va nella città dolente;        Per me si va nell'eterno dolore;        Per me si va tra la perduta gente;Giustizia mosse'l mio alto fattore;        Fecemi la divina potestate,        La somma sapienza e'l primo amore.Dinanzi a me non fur cose create        Se non eterne, ed io eterno duro:        Lasciate ogni speranza voi che'ntrate.Queste parole di colore oscuro        Vid'io scritte al sommo d'una porta;        Perch'io: maestro, il senso lor m'è duro.Ed egli a me, come persona accorta:        Qui si convien lasciare ogni sospetto,        Ogni viltà convien che qui sia morta.Noi sem venuti al luogo ov'io t'ho detto        Che vederai le genti dolorose        Ch' hanno perduto il ben dello'ntelletto.E poichè la sua mano alla mia pose        Con lieto volto, ond'io mi confortai,        Mi mise dentro alle secrete cose.Quivi sospiri, pianti ed alti guai        Risonavan per l'aer senza stelle,        Perch'io al cominciar ne lagrimai.Diverse lingue, orribili favelle,        Parole di dolore, accenti d'ira,        Voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle,Facevano un tumulto il qual s'aggira        Sempre'n quell'aria senza tempo tinta,        Come la rena quando'l turbo spira." Inferno, III. 1-30."'Through me the way is to the city dolent;        Through me the way is to eternal dole;        Through me the way among the people lost.Justice incited my sublime Creator;        Created me divine Omnipotence,        The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.Before me there were no created things,        Only eterne, and I eternal last.        All hope abandon, ye who enter in!'These words in sombre color I beheld        Written upon the summit of a gate;        Whence I: 'Their sense is, Master, hard to me!'And he to me, as one experienced:        'Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,        All cowardice must needs be here extinct.We to the place have come, where I have told thee        Thou shalt behold the people dolorous        Who have foregone the good of intellect.'And after he had laid his hand on mine        With joyful mien, whence I was comforted,        He led me in among the secret things.There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud        Resounded through the air without a star,        Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.Languages diverse, horrible dialects,        Accents of anger, words of agony,        And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,Made up a tumult that goes whirling on        Forever in that air forever black,        Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes."—Longfellow.        "'Through me you pass into the city of woe:Through me you pass into eternal pain:Through me among the people lost for aye.Justice the founder of my fabric moved:To rear me was the task of power divine,Supremest wisdom, and primeval love.Before me things create were none, save thingsEternal, and eternal I endure.All hope abandon, ye who enter here.'S        uch characters, in color dim, I markedOver a portal's lofty arch inscribed.Whereat I thus: 'Master, these words importHard meaning.' He as one prepared replied:'Here thou must all distrust behind thee leave;Here be vile fear extinguished. We are comeWhere I have told thee we shall see the soulsTo misery doomed, who intellectual goodHave lost.' And when his hand he had stretched forthTo mine, with pleasant looks, whence I was cheered.Into that secret place he led me on.        Here sighs, with lamentations and loud moans,Resounded through the air pierced by no star,That e'en I wept at entering. Various tongues,Horrible languages, outcries of woe,Accents of anger, voices deep and hoarse,With hands together smote that swelled the sounds,Made up a tumult, that forever whirlsRound through that air with solid darkness stained,Like to the sand that in the whirlwind flies."Cary.

The following, though less remarkable for its poetry than many others which we might select, is very difficult for the translator. We cite it as an illustration of the boldness with which Mr. Longfellow meets difficulties.

"E quale è quei che suo dannaggio sogna,        Che sognando disidera sognare,        Si che quel ch'è, come non fosse, agogna;Tal mi fec'io non potendo parlare:        Che disiava scusarmi e scusava        Me tuttavia e not mi credea fareMaggior difetto men vergogna lava,        Disse'l maestro, che'l tuo non è stato:        Però d'ogni tristizia ti disgrava;E fa ragion ch'io ti sempre allato,        Se più avvien che fortuna t'accoglia        Dove sien genti in simigliante piato:Che voler ciò udire è bassa voglia." Inferno, XXX. 136-148."And as he is who dreams of his own harm.        Who dreaming wishes it may be a dream,        So that he craves what is, as if it were not;Such I became, not having power to speak,        For to excuse myself I wished, and still        Excused myself, and did not think I did it.'Less shame doth wash away a greater fault,'        The Master said, 'than this of thine has been;        Therefore thyself disburden of all sadness,And make account that I am aye beside thee,        If e'er it come to pass that fortune bring thee        Where there are people in a like dispute;For a base wish it is to wish to hear it.'"Longfellow.                                                        "As a man that dreams of harmBefallen him, dreaming wishes it a dream,And that which is, desires as if it were not;Such then was I, who, wanting power to speak,Wished to excuse myself, and all the whileExcused me, though unweeting that I did.        'More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,'My master cried, 'might expiate. Therefore castAll sorrow from thy soul; and if againChance bring thee where like conference is held,Think I am ever at thy side. To hearSuch wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.'"Cary.

The following passage from the Purgatorio is not only strikingly difficult, but strikingly beautiful.

        "Ed un di lor, non questi che parlava,        Si torse sotto'l peso che lo 'mpaccia,E videmi e conobbemi, e chiamava        Tenendo gli occhi con fatica fisi        A me che tutto chin con loro andava.Oh, diss'io lui, non se'tu Oderisi,        L'onor d'Agobbio e l'onor di quell'arte        Ch'alluminare è chiamata in Parisi?Frate, diss' egli, più ridon le carte        Che pennelleggia Franco Bolognese:        L'onore è tutto or suo, e mio in parte.Ben non sare'io stato sì cortese        Mentre ch'io vissi, per lo gran disio        Dell'eccellenza ove mio core intese.Di tal superbia qui si paga il fio:        Ed ancor non sarei qui, se non fosse        Che, possendo peccar, mi volsi a Dio.Oh vana gloria dell'umane posse,        Com' poco verde in su la cima dura        Se non è giunta dall'etadi grosse!Credette Cimabue nella pintura        Tenor lo campo; ed ora ha Giotto il grido,        Sì che la fama di colui s' oscura.Così ha tolto l'uno all'altro Guido        La gloria della lingua; e forse è nato        Chi l'uno e l'altro caccerà di nido.Non è il mondan romore altro ch' un fiato        Di vento ch' or vien quinci ed or vien quindi,        E muta nome perchè muta lato.Che fama avrai tu più se vecchia scindi        Da te la carne, che se fossi morto        Innanzi che lasciassi il pappo e'l dindi,Pria che passin mill'anni? ch'è più corto        Spazio all' eterno ch'un muover di ciglia        Al cerchio che più tardi in cielo è torto.Colui che del cammin sì poco piglia        Diranzi a te, Toscana sonò tutta,        Ed ora appena in Siena sen pispiglia,Ond'era sire, quando fu distrutta        La rabbia Fiorentina, che superba        Fu a quel tempo sì com'ora è putta.La vostra nominanza è color d'erba        Che viene e va, e quei la discolora        Per cui ell'esce della terra acerba." Purgatorio, XI. 74-117.        "And one of them, not this one who was speaking,        Twisted himself beneath the weight that cramps him,And looked at me, and knew me, and called out,        Keeping his eyes laboriously fixed        On me, who all bowed down was going with them.'O,' asked I him, 'art thou not Oderisi,        Agobbio's honor, and honor of that art        Which is in Paris called illuminating?''Brother,' said he, 'more laughing are the leaves        Touched by the brush of Franco Bolognese;        All his the honor now, and mine in part.In sooth I had not been so courteous        While I was living, for the great desire        Of excellence, on which my heart was bent.Here of such pride is payed the forfeiture:        And yet I should not be here, were it not        That, having power to sin, I turned to God.O thou vain glory of the human powers,        How little green upon thy summit lingers,        If 't be not followed by an age of grossness!In painting Cimabue thought that he        Should hold the field, now Giotto has the cry,        So that the other's fame is growing dim.So has one Guido from the other taken        The glory of our tongue, and he perchance        Is born, who from the nest shall chase them both.Naught is this mundane rumor but a breath        Of wind, that comes now this way and now that,        And changes name, because it changes side.What fame shalt thou have more, if old peel off        From thee thy flesh, than if thou hadst been dead        Before thou left the pappo and the dindi,Ere pass a thousand years? which is a shorter        Space to the eterne, than twinkling of an eye        Unto the circle that in heaven wheels slowest.With him, who takes so little of the road        In front of me, all Tuscany resounded;        And now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,Where he was lord, what time was overthrown        The Florentine delirium, that superb        Was at that day as now 'tis prostitute.Your reputation is the color of grass        Which comes and goes, and that discolors it        By which it issues green from out the earth.'"Longfellow.        "Listening I bent my visage down: and one(Not he who spake) twisted beneath the weightThat urged him, saw me, knew me straight, and called;Holding his eyes with difficulty fixedIntent upon me, stooping as I wentCompanion of their way. 'Oh!' I exclaimed,'Art thou not Oderigi? art not thouAgobbio's glory, glory of that artWhich they of Paris call the limner's skill?'        'Brother!' said he, 'with tints that gayer smile,Bolognian Franco's pencil lines the leaves.His all the honor now; my light obscured.In truth, I had not been thus courteous to himThe while I lived, through eagerness of zealFor that pre-eminence my heart was bent on.Here, of such pride, the forfeiture is paid.Nor were I even here, if, able stillTo sin, I had not turned me unto God.O powers of man! how vain your glory, nippedE'en in its height of verdure, if an ageLess bright succeed not. Cimabue thoughtTo lord it over painting's field; and nowThe cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed.Thus hath one Guido from the other snatchedThe lettered prize; and he, perhaps, is born,Who shall drive either from their nest. The noiseOf worldly fame is but a blast of wind,That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name,Shifting the point it blows from. Shalt thou moreLive in the mouths of mankind, if thy fleshPart shrivelled from thee, than if thou hadst diedBefore the coral and the pap were left,Or e'er some thousand years have passed? and thatIs, to eternity compared, a spaceBriefer than is the twinkling of an eyeTo the heaven's slowest orb. He there, who treadsSo leisurely before me, far and wideThrough Tuscany resounded once; and nowIs in Sienna scarce with whispers named:There was he sovereign, when destruction caughtThe maddening rage of Florence, in that dayProud as she now is loathsome. Your renownIs as the herb, whose hue doth come and go;And his might withers it, by whom it sprangCrude from the lap of earth.'"—Cary.

For much the same reason as that already stated, we give the following beautiful passage, a touching story in itself, but how deeply touching in the energetic directness and simplicity of Dante's verse!

"Io mossi i piè del luogo dov'io stava        Per avvisar da presso un'altra storia        Che diretro a Micol mi biancheggiava.Quivi era storiata l'alta gloria        Del roman prence lo cui gran valore        Mosse Gregorio alla sua gran vittoria:I' dico di Trajano imperadore;        Ed una vedovella gli era al freno        Di lagrime atteggiata e di dolore.Dintorno a lui parea calcato e pieno        Di cavalieri, e l'aguglie nell'oro        Sovr' essi in vista al vento si movieno.La miserella intra tutti costoro        Parea dicer: signor, fammi vendetta        Del mio figliuol ch'è morto, ond'io m'accoro;Ed egli a lei rispondere: ora aspetta        Tanto ch'io torni; e quella: signor mio        (Come persona in cui dolor s'affretta)Se tu non torni? ed ei: chi fia dov'io,        La ti farà; ed ella: l'altrui bene        A te che fia, se'l tuo metti in oblio?Ond'elli: or ti conforta, che conviene        Ch'io solva il mio dovere anzi ch'io muova:        Giustizia vuole e pietà mi ritiene.Colui che mai non vide cosa nuova        Produsse esto visibile parlare,        Novello a noi perchè qui non si truova." Purgatorio, X. 70-96."I moved my feet from where I had been standing,        To examine near at hand another story,        Which after Michal glimmered white upon me.There the high glory of the Roman Prince        Was chronicled, whose great beneficence        Moved Gregory to his great victory;'Tis of the Emperor Trajan I am speaking;        And a poor widow at his bridle stood,        In attitude of weeping and of grief.Around about him seemed it thronged and full        Of cavaliers, and the eagles in the gold        Above them visibly in the wind were moving.The wretched woman in the midst of these        Seemed to be saying: 'Give me vengeance, Lord,        For my dead son, for whom my heart is breaking.'And he to answer her: 'Now wait until        I shall return.' And she: 'My Lord,' like one        In whom grief is impatient, 'shouldst thou notReturn?' And he: 'Who shall be where I am        Will give it thee.' And she: 'Good deed of others        What boots it thee, if thou neglect thine own?Whence he: 'Now comfort thee, for it behoves me        That I discharge my duty ere I move;        Justice so wills, and pity doth retain me.'He who on no new thing has ever looked        Was the creator of this visible language,        Novel to us, for here it is not found."Longfellow."To behold the tablet next,Which, at the back of Michol, whitely shone,I moved me. There was storied on the rockThe exalted glory of the Roman prince,Whose mighty worth moved Gregory to earnHis mighty conquest, Trajan the Emperor.A widow at his bridle stood, attiredIn tears and mourning. Round about them troopedFull throng of knights; and overhead in goldThe eagles floated, struggling with the wind.The wretch appeared amid all these to say:'Grant vengeance, Sire! for, woe beshrew this heart,My son is murdered.' He replying seemed:'Wait now till I return.' And she, as oneMade hasty by her grief: 'O Sire! if thouDost not return?'—'Where I am, who then is,May right thee.'—'What to thee is other's good,If thou neglect thy own?'—'Now comfort thee,'At length he answers. 'It beseemeth wellMy duty be performed, ere I move hence:So justice wills; and pity bids me stay.'He, whose ken nothing new surveys, producedThat visible speaking, new to us and strange,The like not found on earth."—Cary.

How different is the character of the following description, which fills the ear with its grand and varied harmony, as it fills the mind with a rapid succession of pictures!