The Cybersybils Unroll Scroll Six ~ Francesca da Rimini

FRANCESCA

Durante Alighieri had known much strife during the twenty years passed since his dear muse Bice’s death, harsh years filled with the time-consuming duties demanded of husband, father and aspiring political leader. Unfortunately, he had failed at each job, in turn, until the ruling Italian party of the Black Guelfs had forced him and a resentful family into exile. Now, the only occupation left to him in Verona was poetry. Yet, oh how he missed his beloved Florence and, likewise, the exquisite Madonna Portinari.

Too old and of the wrong social class to pay lovely Bice court while she lived, Durante had married another in 1285, Gemma, of the influential house Donati. And although the good woman had given him four children and a certain degree of loyalty during ensuing political upheavals, when Bice died in the year 1290, a piece of Durante died, too. Nothing had affected him as greatly since the death of the fair Francesca da Rimini, murdered by a jealous husband five years earlier on the eve of Durante and Gemma’s nuptial feast. And nothing would touch him quite as profoundly again as either lady’s untimely passing.

Now he was staring full-faced at the year 1310, forty-five years old, tired and on the run from noble court to noble court, writing verse for various dukes and patrones, bowing and scraping to pay his bills. Somehow, Durante had envisioned a far better life for himself than the one he had been handed by Fate; still, if he might begin and finish a great work, a piece of splendid rhyme whose subtlety would incorporate all the arcane knowledge he had amassed over time, then, perhaps then, he would die a happy man.

So, when a knock came at the door of his modest villa at Lucca, Durante was quite surprised to be receiving a visitor, and thus assumed an enemy at his gate. Approaching the summons with trepidation, the wordsmith peered beyond half-opened shutter to view a messenger of the regular sort, outfitted in no particular livery. "Perhaps Bartolomeo della Scala of Verona is summoning me back to his palazzo," he laughed before cracking the portal, allowing speech to pass.

"A letter for Durante Alighieri from his devoted brethren, those fine gentlemen of a confraternity to which he himself is an august subscriber."

The Kadosh. A secret Order with whom he had not been in contact since leaving Florence in 1300. Why were they writing to him? Thinking it best to say nothing, Durante held out a hand, was duly delivered of a sealed scroll, then slammed the door securely shut, making certain to slide a bolt into its hasp.

Unnerved, the poet made for a cubbyhole study, ignoring his wife’s form in the kitchen, breaking white, stamped wax with agitated fingers. When he saw what looked to be the product of a female script, elongated and flowery, his mouth opened; when he read the salutation, Caro mio Dante, he dropped the missive, for only Bice had ever addressed him in such a manner.

Regaining his calm, the Signore of the Kadosh stooped down to retrieve the prize, then sat with closed eyes, crushing parchment to his breast. His beloved had not gone to the grave forgetting his name, for he held the proof of Bice’s affection in his hands, and the scent of redolent, tuberose perfume took hold of his senses, still lingering on the keepsake two decades later.

Madonna mia, Durante whispered, then dared open his lids to read, to drink in, to drown precious recollection in what was certain to be a treasure of inestimable worth.

Caro mio Dante~

Because I am quite certain of the affection you have allowed residency in the mansion of your person since that day you espied a young girl at prayer before Mother Mary, and because I am also most confident that you would not betray a deathbed confidence, I must confess to you this truth ‘ere the hour of my earthly departure.

I have seen behind your secretive, dark eyes the intensity of an Inferno, the pain of Purgatorio, when you dare to venture a glance in my direction. I have also been a witness to the grief you suffered when that evil Rimini, Gianciotto Malatesta, took my childhood friend, Francesca da Polenta, in an act of base and cowardly murder. And while many have been the dispersions cast and heaped upon that poor lady’s name, sweet daughter of our Holy Mary, I must reveal to you the fact of the outrage and rely upon your skilled talent to right a grave error.

Dearest Dante, I know of what I speak, for the Madonna Francesca and I were alike in one habit, a fierce passion we discovered in our youth spent together at the Charterhouse. Why do you think I seemingly held your devotion in disdain, why did the silence of an eternity reply to your numerous advances? Because, carissimo cicisbèo, I hoped you might discover my true nature, might happen upon the cause behind my stilled tongue and come to me yourself, begging admittance to my world, but alas, I understand too late that this happy circumstance was not meant for two such as ourselves to share.

Since you are by inclination a poet, accept this verse and make it your own, tell those who will read and listen the true story of Francesca, and together, she and I may watch over you from Above, two blessed damosels, and I shall, in the knowledge of your last service to me, consider myself the most exalted of women - a Bice made Beatrice, at last.

Francesca

Now I have ascended from the first Plateau of mortal sphere,
up to that second plain, that which constitutes
less terrain, yet pleasures great.

There Medusa stands, gnashing teeth,
examining the virtues of those who dare enter,
assigning them mistresses as her snakes writhe.

I mean to say that when the spirit born to bondage,
appears before the Wraith, it confesses its true nature,
and she, the connoisseur of Paradise, can tell

The height in Heaven appropriate to it;
and as many of her serpents wrap their bodies
round her brow, that sign marks the angel’s level.

Pausing in her judicious task, Medusa,
as soon as catching sight of me, explained,
"O, thou who hast come upon this place of suffering

Be wary, Lady, how you enter, whom you select,
My gate is wide, yet do not be misled."
To which dear Dante did reply, "But why protest?

Do not attempt to block my mistress’ fated path
for our passage has been willed on High, where one
can do but what She wills, and ask no more."

The strains, the notes of desperation have been plucked,
and overtake our hearing; now I come
to mighty lamentations which arouse me.

We reached a spot where every ray is mute,
which bellows as a sea beneath a tempest,
when battered by opposing tides.

An angry storm, which ne’er abates,
drives on the breezes with its force,
wheeling and pounding, harassing all the penitents.

I learned that those subjected to such trials
are blessed because of saintly acts made flesh,
subjecting lust to fair obedience.

And as, in winter months, the starlings’ wings
bear them along in formed and crowded ranks,
so does that blast bear down upon the slaves.

First here, then there, now down, then up, it drives them,
there is no hope that ever comforts them -
no hope for rest and none for lessened pain.

By that assailing breeze, repine and gasp,
so that I queried, "Dear sir, who are those
who suffer punishment in this dark air?"

"The first of those about whose history
you want to know," my poet did reveal,
"once ruled as Empress over many men.

She is Semiramis, of whom we read
was Queen of Ninus and his better;
she held the land the sultan now commands.

There see Paris, Tristan," and he pointed out
and named to me a thousand shades
departed from our life because of Love.

No sooner had I heard my vassal name
the ancient ladies and their knights, when great joy
seized me and I was transported by a dream.

My first words were, "Poet, I should gladly
speak with yonder pair who go together, there,
and seem so lightly carried by the wind."

The servant then decreed, “When they draw closer,
Mistress, then you may speak to them by that
same Love which impels them - they will come."

Even as doves when summoned by desire,
borne upwards by their will, move gracefully through space,
with wingspan wide, still, to their sweet nest,

Those spirits left the ranks where Hippolyta rules,
approaching me though dank, malignant air,
so powerful had been my secret wish.

"O, living Lady, gracious and benign,
who lifted on the vapours pays
to our souls understanding, heed us now:

You know the land of dear Francesca’s birth,
that shore to which the Po, together with
attendant waters go, the spot the pilgrims call Ravenna.

Love, that might quickly seize the hardest heart,
took hold of Malatesta because of honour
taken from me - how that was done still wounds.

Love, which releases no prey from its trap,
took hold of me through Paolo’s form,
and bond was tied which never will release.

Love led the two of us unto one death,
and Tartarus awaits Rimini, who
cruelly took his wife’s and brother’s breath."

These were Francesca’s words, borne on zephyrs’ wings.
I bowed my head and held it low until
sweet Dante asked, "What does my Lady think?"

When I replied, my answer was, "Alas,
how many forceful thoughts, how deep a longing
has led them to this Immortal place?”

Then I addressed my speech again to them and said,
"Francesca, your story moves my heart to tears,
my envy of you genuine, my admiration great.

Pray tell me, in the time of breathless sighs,
with what and in which way did Love allow
you to recognize your unfulfilled desire?"

And she replied, "There is no greater happiness
than to be mindful of the painful time in Paradise.
Now I shall talk to you as one who smiles, then speaks.

One day, to pass the time, we read of Lancelot and
Winlogé, how her great skill had overcome him.
We were alone and we suspected nothing strange.

Yet time and time again, that reading led,
our eyes to meet, our faces shades of pale,
and yet, one point enraptured us.

When we learned how desired foot,
was kissed by one so true a prince,
did Paolo, who shares this realm with me,

His body trembling, did embrace my shoe;
that slipper Gallehault, indeed; that book
and she who wrote it, too - that day we read no more."

And while Francesca’s spirit said these words to me,
I thought of poet Dante and wept, because of heartache
and wished him mine to free.

Then, I watched proud poet fall;
No more Inferno, yet Paradise aflame.

Durante’s protracted shout of misery caused him from his perch. How had he been capable of such a blatant stupidity? Why had he not divined the exalted nature of his muse? Tears escaped their dam, and the sorry Florentine would not have been consoled even had dear Beatrice appeared before him dressed in heavenly raiment.

When Dante at last became still, his subsequent shame was abysmal. Wasting no further time, he took up paper and pen and wrote for a title page Commedia. He then placed quill to forehead and thought many daring thoughts. Above all else, no matter his love of Bice, he could not allow the secret society to discover the folly of his youth. What to do, he pondered, how best to proceed?

‘Twas then the errant scribe found his answer: he must place himself in the Inferno and be subjected to endless horrors, then allow Beatrice, Queen of Heaven, to play celestial guide and redemptrix.

Exhaling a sigh of regret inspired by a more refined sentiment, Dante scratched out the original designation and ink began to trace the outline Divine. The brothers of the Kadosh were awaiting his response and he would give them their goddess, Beatrice. He would share his Madonna with the Initiates, and create for them a model of feminine virtue.

Would that he could write the truth about Francesca the Sublime, a woman far wiser than any Adept might suppose. Dante shook his head, wiped eyes anew, and began to scrawl with a feverish resolve. He hoped his departed ladies would understand, although deep within a recess of his most intimate being, he recognized he was now unworthy of their superlative regard.

Purgatorio, indeed, was his for the asking.

Sincere thanks to John Winslow for the use of his exquisite painting, Paolo and Francesca, found at the beginning of this scroll. Please visit www.johnwinslow.com to view more of Mr. Winslow's work.