XII.
Now returning to my subject, I say that, after my bliss was denied to me, such grief came to me that, withdrawing from folk, I went into a solitary place to bathe the earth with most bitter tears. And when this weeping was a little assuaged, I betook myself to my chamber, where I could lament without being heard. And here, calling upon the lady of courtesy for pity, and saying, “Love, help thy liegeman!” I fell asleep, like a beaten child, in tears.
It happened, about the middle of my sleep, that I seemed to see in my chamber a youth sitting at my side, clothed in whitest raiment, and very thoughtful in his aspect. He was looking upon me where I lay; and when he had looked upon me for some time, it seemed to me that, sighing, he called me and said to me these words: Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra [My son, it is time that our feignings be given up]. Then it seemed to me that I recognized him, since he called me even as he had many times before called me in my slumbers.
And, looking at him, it seemed to me that he wept piteously, and it seemed that he waited for some word from me. Wherefore, taking heart, I began to speak thus with him: “Lord of nobleness, why dost thou weep?” And he said to me these words: Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes; tu autem non sic [I am as the centre of a circle to which the parts of the circumference bear an equal relation; but thou art not so.] Then, thinking on his words, it seemed to me that he had spoken to me very obscurely, so that I forced myself to speak, and said to him these words: “What is this, Lord, which thou sayest to me with such obscurity?” And he said to me in the common tongue: “Ask no more than may be useful to thee.”
And therefore I began to discourse with him of the salutation which had been denied me, and I asked of him the reason; whereupon in this wise he replied to me: “This our Beatrice heard from certain persons who talked of thee, that the lady whom I named to thee on the road of sighs was receiving from thee some harm. And therefore this most gentle lady, who is adverse to every harm, did not deign to salute thy person, fearing lest it should be harmful. Wherefore, to the end that the truth of thy long-kept secret may be somewhat known to her, I will that thou say certain words in rhyme, in which thou shalt set forth the power that I hold over thee through her, and how thou wert straightway hers even from thy boyhood; and for this, call as a witness him who knows it, and also do thou pray him that he should tell it to her. And I, who am he, willingly will speak to her of it; and through this she shall understand thy will, and, understanding it, shall interpret aright the words of the deceived. Make, as it were, a mediator of these words, so that thou speak not to her directly, for this is not befitting. And without me send them nowhere where they might be heard by her; but take care to adorn them with sweet harmony, wherein I shall be whenever there be need.”
And having said these words he disappeared, and my sleep was broken. Then I, remembering myself, found that this vision had appeared to me in the ninth hour of the day; and before I went out from that chamber I resolved to make a ballad in which I would execute that which my Lord had laid upon me, and I made this ballad: —
Ballad, I send thee forth upon Love’s trace,
For thou must him before my Lady bring,
So that of my excuse, which thou dost sing,
My Lord may then with her speak face to face.
Such courteous aspect, Ballad, thou dost show,
That all alone, indeed,
Thou oughtest not in any place to fear;
But if securely thou dost wish to go,
First to find Love is need,
For ill it were without Him to appear;
Seeing that she who ought thy words to hear,
If she be angry, as I think, with me,
And thou with Him companioned should not be,
Might lightly make thee fall into disgrace.
With dulcet sound, when with Him thou mayst be,
Begin with words like these,
First begging her that she would pity take: —
”Lady, he who to you now sendeth me
Wills, when to you it please,
That his excuse you deign to hear me make.
Love is that one who, for thy beauty’s sake,
Makes him, as He doth will, his looks to change;
Then why He made his eyes on others range.
Think you, since in his heart no change hath place.”
Tell her: “O Lady, this his heart is stayed
With faith so firmly just,
Save to serve you, it hath no other care.
Early ‘t was yours, and never hath it strayed.”
But if she thee distrust,
Say, “Ask of Love, who will the truth declare.”
And at the end, beg her, with humble prayer,
That if it trouble her to pardon give,
She then should bid that I no longer live,
Nor shall she see her servant sue for grace.
And say to Him who is compassion’s key,
Ere from her thou depart,
That He may tell her of my reason fair, —
”Through favor unto my sweet melody,
Stay with her where thou art,
And of thy servant, what thou wilt, declare,
And if she grant forgiveness through they prayer,
Make peace on her fair countenance to shine.”
When it may please thee, gentle Ballad mine,
Honor to win, go forth upon thy race.
This ballad is divided into three parts. In the first, I tell it whither it is to go, and encourage it that it may go the more assured; and I tell whose company it is to seek, if it wishes to go securely, and without any danger. In the second, I tell that which it is beholden to make known. In the third, I give it leave to go when it will, commending its going to the arms of fortune. The second part begins, “With dulcet sound;” the third, “When it may please thee.” Some man may object against me and say, that he understands not to whom my speech in the second part is addressed, since the ballad is naught else but these words which I am speaking; and therefore I say that I intend to solve and clear up this doubt in this little book, even in a more difficult passage; and then he who may here be in doubt, or who may choose to object after that fashion, will understand.