151

    Non ha l’ottimo artista alcun concetto
ch’un marmo solo in sé non circonscriva
col suo superchio, e solo a quello arriva
la man che ubbidisce all’intelletto.
     Il mal ch’io fuggo, e ’l ben ch’io mi prometto,
in te, donna leggiadra, altera e diva,
tal si nasconde; e perch’io più non viva,
contraria ho l’arte al disiato effetto.
     Amor dunque non ha, né tua beltate
o durezza o fortuna o gran disdegno
del mio mal colpa, o mio destino o sorte;
     se dentro del tuo cor morte e pietate
porti in un tempo, e che ’l mio basso ingegno
non sappia, ardendo, trarne altro che morte.

151

    Nothing the best of artists can conceive
but lies, potential, in a block of stone,
superfluous matter round it. The hand alone
can free it that has intelligence for guide.
     The peril I’m running from, the good descried
in you, proud lovely lady—yes, heaven’s own!—
are virtual in yourself. I’m doomed, I groan:
art thwarting the very end it longs to have.
     Not love, then, and not your beauty, your famous name,
disdain or marble mien, fate high or low,
is the cause I languish long here, hold my breath.
     If mercy and doom in your heart attend, then blame

my feeble wit: though the two affect me so,
it can realize the one only. And that’s death

236

    Se ben concietto halla divina parte
il volto e gli acti d’alcun, po’ di quello
doppio valor con breve e vil modello
dà vita a’ sassi, e non è forza d’arte.
     Né altrimenti in più rustiche carte,
anz’una pronta man prenda ’l pennello,
fra ’ docti ingegni il più acorto e bello
pruova e rivede, e suo storie comparte.
     Simil di me model di poca istima
mie parto fu, per cosa alta e prefecta
da voi rinascer po’, donna alta e degnia.
     Se ’l poco acresce, e ’l mie superchio lima
vostra mercé, qual penitenzia aspecta
mie fiero ardor, se mi gastiga e ’nsegnia?

236

    If by its heaven-sent power the mind conceives
a true version of face and form, then roughs in clay
a crude model, the workman’s hand and heart in play
confer on cold stone a life, and not just by skill.
     The same with paint: not a brush is raised until
mind sifts, from its cunning cues, the apt and best
—this even with rough designs—rejects the rest
as it culls, deploys, thinks better of, retrieves.
     I’m like that model, as crude as you’d come across,
exalted lady, till born again through you,
elate, pristine, as your cleansing auras reach me.
     Where I lack, you add; where I’m rough, you file and gloss
in your kindly care for me. What amends are due
for my furores past, as your ways rebuke and teach me?

239

    Com’esser, donna, può quel ch’alcun vede
per lunga sperienza, che più dura
l’inmagin viva im pietra alpestra e dura
che ’l suo factor, che negli anni in cener riede?
     La causa a l’efecto inclina e cede,
onde dall’arte è vinta la natura.
I’ ’l so, che ’l pruovo in la bella scultura,
ch’all’opra il tempo e morte non tien fede.
     Dunche, posso ambo noi dar lunga vita
in qual sie modo, o di colore o sasso,
di noi sembrando l’uno e l’altro volto;
     sì che mill’anni dopo la partita,
quante voi bella fusti e quant’io lasso
si veggia, e com’amarvi i’ non fu’ stolto.

239

    My lady, how comes it about—what all can see
from long experience—that rough mountain stone
carved to a living form, survives its own
creator, who’ll end as ashes in an urn?
     Cause lesser than its effect. From which we learn
how nature is less than art, as well I know
whose many a lively statue proves it so,
which time and the tomb exempt, grant amnesty.
    Mine then, the power to give us, you and me,
a long survival in—choose it—stone or color,
faces just like our own, exact and true.
     Though we’re dead a thousand years, still men can see
how beautiful you were; I, how much duller,
and yet how far from a fool in loving you.

241

    Negli anni molti e nelle molte pruove,
cercando, il saggio al buon concecto arriva
d’un’immagine viva,
vicino a morte, im pietra alpestra e dura;
ch’all’alte cose nuove
tardi si viene, e poco poi si dura.
Similmente natura,
di tempo in tempo, d’uno in altro volto,
s’al sommo, errando, di bellezza è giunta
nel tuo divino, è vechia, e de’ perire:
onde la tema, molto
con la beltà congiunta,
di stranio cibo pasce il gran desire;
né so pensar né dire
qual nuoca o giovi più, visto ’l tuo ’specto,
o ’l fin dell’universo o ’l gran dilecto.

241

    Through many a year and many a vain assay
exploring, the cunning artist from his thought
a living image wrought
—as death drew near—by chipping at mountain stone.
Things grand in a new way
come to one slowly, and they dwindle soon.
So earth has shown
this face and that as various ages vied,
till trial and error brought beauty its divine
zenith in you. Earth’s old then; soon to die:
that’s why the terror, tied
to beauty as both entwine,
banquets my hungry soul perversely; I
can’t answer which, or why,
most pleases or most plagues, with your face in sight:
great nature’s doomsday, or my love’s delight.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 16 Number 8, on page 38
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