No privateers ever came, though I once had notice from Turin that the Florida had been sighted off Ancona; and I had nearly four years of nearly uninterrupted leisure at Venice, which I meant to employ in reading all Italian literature, and writing a history of the republic. The history, of course, I expected would be a long affair, and I did not quite suppose that I could despatch3 the literature in any short time; besides, I had several considerable poems on hand that occupied me a good deal, and worked at these as well as advanced myself in Italian, preparatory to the efforts before me.
I had already a slight general notion of Italian letters from Leigh Hunt, and from other agreeable English Italianates; and I knew that I wanted to read not only the four great poets, Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso, but that whole group of burlesque4 poets, Pulci, Berni, and the rest, who, from what I knew of them, I thought would be even more to my mind. As a matter of fact, and in the process of time, I did read somewhat of all these, but rather in the minor5 than the major way; and I soon went off from them to the study of the modern poets, novelists, and playwrights6 who interested me so much more. After my wonted fashion I read half a dozen of these authors together, so that it would be hard to say which I began with, but I had really a devotion to Dante, though not at that time, or ever for the whole of Dante. During my first year in Venice I met an ingenious priest, who had been a tutor in a patrician7 family, and who was willing to lead my faltering8 steps through the “Inferno.” This part of the “Divine Comedy” I read with a beginner’s carefulness, and with a rapture9 in its beauties, which I will whisper the reader do not appear in every line.
Again I say it is a great pity that criticism is not honest about the masterpieces of literature, and does not confess that they are not every moment masterly, that they are often dull and tough and dry, as is certainly the case with Dante’s. Some day, perhaps, we shall have this way of treating literature, and then the lover of it will not feel obliged to browbeat10 himself into the belief that if he is not always enjoying himself it is his own fault. At any rate I will permit myself the luxury of frankly11 saying that while I had a deep sense of the majesty12 and grandeur13 of Dante’s design, many points of its execution bored me, and that I found the intermixture of small local fact and neighborhood history in the fabric14 of his lofty creation no part of its noblest effect. What is marvellous in it is its expression of Dante’s personality, and I can never think that his personalities15 enhance its greatness as a work of art. I enjoyed them, however, and I enjoyed them the more, as the innumerable perspectives of Italian history began to open all about me. Then, indeed, I understood the origins if I did not understand the aims of Dante, which there is still much dispute about among those who profess16 to know them clearly. What I finally perceived was that his poem came through him from the heart of Italian life, such as it was in his time, and that whatever it teaches, his poem expresses that life, in all its splendor17 and squalor, its beauty and deformity, its love and its hate.
Criticism may torment18 this sense or that sense out of it, but at the end of the ends the “Divine Comedy” will stand for the patriotism19 of medieval Italy, as far as its ethics20 is concerned, and for a profound and lofty ideal of beauty, as far as its aesthetics21 is concerned. This is vague enough and slight enough, I must confess, but I must confess also that I had not even a conception of so much when I first read the “Inferno.” I went at it very simply, and my enjoyment22 of it was that sort which finds its account in the fine passages, the brilliant episodes, the striking pictures. This was the effect with me of all the criticism which I had hitherto read, and I am not sure yet that the criticism which tries to be of a larger scope, and to see things “whole,” is of any definite effect. As a matter of fact we see nothing whole, neither life nor art. We are so made, in soul and in sense, that we can deal only with parts, with points, with degrees; and the endeavor to compass any entirety must involve a discomfort23 and a danger very threatening to our intellectual integrity.
Or if this postulate24 is as untenable as all the others, still I am very glad that I did not then lose any fact of the majesty, and beauty, and pathos25 of the great certain measures for the sake of that fourth dimension of the poem which is not yet made palpable or visible. I took my sad heart’s fill of the sad story of “Paolo and Francesca,” which I already knew in Leigh Hunt’s adorable dilution26, and most of the lines read themselves into my memory, where they linger yet. I supped on the horrors of Ugolino’s fate with the strong gust27 of youth, which finds every exercise of sympathy a pleasure. My good priest sat beside me in these rich moments, knotting in his lap the calico handkerchief of the snuff-taker, and entering with tremulous eagerness into my joy in things that he had often before enjoyed. No doubt he had an inexhaustible pleasure in them apart from mine, for I have found my pleasure in them perennial28, and have not failed to taste it as often as I have read or repeated any of the great passages of the poem to myself. This pleasure came often from some vital phrase, or merely the inspired music of a phrase quite apart from its meaning. I did not get then, and I have not got since, a distinct conception of the journey through Hell, and as often as I have tried to understand the topography of the poem I have fatigued30 myself to no purpose, but I do not think the essential meaning was lost upon me.
I dare say my priest had his notion of the general shape and purport31, the gross material body of the thing, but he did not trouble me with it, while we sat tranced together in the presence of its soul. He seemed, at times, so lost in the beatific32 vision, that he forgot my stumblings in the philological33 darkness, till I appealed to him for help. Then he would read aloud with that magnificent rhythm the Italians have in reading their verse, and the obscured meaning would seem to shine out of the mere29 music of the poem, like the color the blind feel in sound.
I do not know what has become of him, but if he is like the rest of the strange group of my guides, philosophers, and friends in literature — the printer, the organ-builder, the machinist, the drug-clerk, and the bookbinder — I am afraid he is dead. In fact, I who was then I, might be said to be dead too, so little is my past self like my present self in anything but the “increasing purpose” which has kept me one in my love of literature. He was a gentle and kindly34 man, with a life and a longing35, quite apart from his vocation36, which were never lived or fulfilled. I did not see him after he ceased to read Dante with me, and in fact I was instructed by the suspicions of my Italian friends to be careful how I consorted37 with a priest, who might very well be an Austrian spy. I parted with him for no such picturesque38 reason, for I never believed him other than the truest and faithfulest of friends, but because I was then giving myself more entirely39 to work in which he could not help me.
Naturally enough this was a long poem in the terza rima of the “Divina Commedia,” and dealing40 with a story of our civil war in a fashion so remote that no editor would print it. This was the first fruits and the last of my reading of Dante, in verse, and it was not so like Dante as I would have liked to make it; but Dante is not easy to imitate; he is too unconscious, and too single, too bent41 upon saying the thing that is in him, with whatever beauty inheres in it, to put on the graces that others may catch.
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1 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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2 consulate | |
n.领事馆 | |
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3 despatch | |
n./v.(dispatch)派遣;发送;n.急件;新闻报道 | |
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4 burlesque | |
v.嘲弄,戏仿;n.嘲弄,取笑,滑稽模仿 | |
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5 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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6 playwrights | |
n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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7 patrician | |
adj.贵族的,显贵的;n.贵族;有教养的人;罗马帝国的地方官 | |
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8 faltering | |
犹豫的,支吾的,蹒跚的 | |
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9 rapture | |
n.狂喜;全神贯注;着迷;v.使狂喜 | |
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10 browbeat | |
v.欺侮;吓唬 | |
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11 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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12 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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13 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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14 fabric | |
n.织物,织品,布;构造,结构,组织 | |
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15 personalities | |
n. 诽谤,(对某人容貌、性格等所进行的)人身攻击; 人身攻击;人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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16 profess | |
v.声称,冒称,以...为业,正式接受入教,表明信仰 | |
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17 splendor | |
n.光彩;壮丽,华丽;显赫,辉煌 | |
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18 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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19 patriotism | |
n.爱国精神,爱国心,爱国主义 | |
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20 ethics | |
n.伦理学;伦理观,道德标准 | |
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21 aesthetics | |
n.(尤指艺术方面之)美学,审美学 | |
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22 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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23 discomfort | |
n.不舒服,不安,难过,困难,不方便 | |
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24 postulate | |
n.假定,基本条件;vt.要求,假定 | |
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25 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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26 dilution | |
n.稀释,淡化 | |
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27 gust | |
n.阵风,突然一阵(雨、烟等),(感情的)迸发 | |
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28 perennial | |
adj.终年的;长久的 | |
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29 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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30 fatigued | |
adj. 疲乏的 | |
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31 purport | |
n.意义,要旨,大要;v.意味著,做为...要旨,要领是... | |
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32 beatific | |
adj.快乐的,有福的 | |
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33 philological | |
adj.语言学的,文献学的 | |
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34 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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35 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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36 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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37 consorted | |
v.结伴( consort的过去式和过去分词 );交往;相称;调和 | |
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38 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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39 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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40 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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41 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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