In that part of the book of my memory before the which is little that can be read, there is a rubric, saying, Incipit Vita Nova. Nine times already since my birth had the heaven of light returned to the selfsame point almost, as concerns its own revolution, when first the glorious Lady of my mind was made manifest to mine eyes; even she who was called Beatrice by many who knew I say that, from that time forward, Love quite governed my soul; which was immediately espoused to him, and with so safe and undisputed a lordship (by virtue of strong imagination) that I had nothing left for it but to do all his bidding continually. He After the lapse of so many days that nine years exactly were completed since the above-written appearance of this most gracious being, on the last of those days it happened that the same wonderful lady appeared to me dressed all in pure white, between two gentle ladies elder than she. And passing through a street, she turned her eyes thither where I stood sorely abashed: and by her unspeakable courtesy, which is now guerdoned in the Great Cycle, she saluted me with so virtuous a bearing that I seemed then and there to behold the very limits of blessedness. The hour of her most sweet salutation was exactly the ninth of that day; and because it was the first time that any words from her reached mine ears, I came into such sweetness that I parted thence as one intoxicated. And betaking me to the loneliness of mine own room, I fell to thinking of Then, musing on what I had seen, I proposed to relate the same to many poets who were famous in that day: and for that I had myself in some sort the art of discoursing with rhyme, I resolved on making a sonnet, in the which, having saluted all To every heart which the sweet pain doth move, And unto which these words may now be brought For true interpretation and kind thought, Be greeting in our Lord’s name, which is Love. Of those long hours wherein the stars, above, Wake and keep watch, the third was almost nought, When Love was shown me with such terrors fraught As may not carelessly be spoken of. He seemed like one who is full of joy, and had My heart within his hand, and on his arm My lady, with a mantle round her, slept; Whom (having wakened her) anon he made To eat that heart; she ate, as fearing harm. Then he went out; and as he went, he wept. To this sonnet I received many answers, conveying many different opinions; of the which one was sent by him whom I now call the first among my friends, and it began thus, “Unto my thinking thou beheld’st all worth.” From that night forth, the natural functions of my Now it fell on a day, that this most gracious creature was sitting where words were to be heard Now it so chanced with her by whose means I had thus long time concealed my desire, that it behoved her to leave the city I speak of, and to journey afar: wherefore I, being sorely perplexed at the loss of so excellent a defence, had more trouble than even I could before have supposed. And thinking that if I spoke not somewhat mournfully of her departure, my former counterfeiting would be the more quickly perceived, I determined that I would make a grievous sonnet And the sonnet was this:— All ye that pass along Love’s trodden way, Pause ye awhile and say If there be any grief like unto mine: I pray you that you hearken a short space Patiently, if my case Be not a piteous marvel and a sign. Love (never, certes, for my worthless part, But of his own great heart,) Vouchsafed to me a life so calm and sweet That oft I heard folk question as I went What such great gladness meant:— They spoke of it behind me in the street. But now that fearless bearing is all gone Which with Love’s hoarded wealth was given me; Till I am grown to be So poor that I have dread to think thereon. Who is ashamed and hides his poverty, Without seem full of glee, And let my heart within travail and moan. This poem has two principal parts; for, in the first, I mean to call the Faithful of Love in those words of Jeremias the Prophet, “O vos omnes qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus,” and to pray them to stay and hear me. In the second I tell where Love had placed me, with a meaning other than that which the last part of the poem shows, and I say what I have lost. The second part begins here, “Love, (never, certes).” A certain while after the departure of that lady, it pleased the Master of the Angels to call into His glory a damsel, young and of a gentle presence, who had been very lovely in the city I. Weep, Lovers, sith Love’s very self doth weep, And sith the cause for weeping is so great; When now so many dames, of such estate In worth, show with their eyes a grief so deep: For Death the churl has laid his leaden sleep Upon a damsel who was fair of late, Yea all save virtue, which the soul doth keep. Now hearken how much Love did honour her. I myself saw him in his proper form Bending above the motionless sweet dead, And often gazing into Heaven; for there The soul now sits which when her life was warm Dwelt with the joyful beauty that is fled. This first sonnet is divided into three parts. In the first, I call and beseech the Faithful of Love to weep; and I say that their Lord weeps, and that they, hearing the reason why he weeps, shall be more minded to listen to me. In the second, I relate this reason. In the third, I speak of honour done by Love to this Lady. The second part begins here, “When now so many dames;” the third here, “Now hearken.” II. Death, alway cruel, Pity’s foe in chief, Mother who brought forth grief, Merciless judgment and without appeal! Since thou alone hast made my heart to feel This sadness and unweal, My tongue upbraideth thee without relief. And now (for I must rid thy name of ruth) Behoves me speak the truth Touching thy cruelty and wickedness: Not that they be not known; but ne’ertheless I would give hate more stress With them that feed on love in very sooth. Out of this world thou hast driven courtesy, And virtue, dearly prized in womanhood; And out of youth’s gay mood The lovely lightness is quite gone through thee. Whom now I mourn, no man shall learn from me Save by the measure of these praises given. Whoso deserves not Heaven May never hope to have her company. This poem is divided into four parts. In the first I address Death by certain proper names of hers. In the second, speaking to her, I tell the reason why I am moved to denounce her. In the third, I rail against her. In the fourth, I turn to speak to a person undefined, although defined in my own conception. The second part commences here, “Since thou alone;” the third here, “And now (for I must);” the fourth here, “Whoso deserves not.” A day agone, as I rode sullenly Upon a certain path that liked me not, I met Love midway while the air was hot, Clothed lightly as a wayfarer might be. And for the cheer he showed, he seemed to me As one who hath lost lordship he had got; Advancing tow’rds me full of sorrowful thought, Bowing his forehead so that none should see. Then as I went, he called me by my name, Saying: “I journey since the morn was dim Thence where I made thy heart to be: which now I needs must bear unto another dame.” Wherewith so much passed into me of him That he was gone, and I discerned not how. This sonnet has three parts. In the first part, On my return, I set myself to seek out that lady whom my master had named to me while I journeyed sighing. And because I would be brief, I will now narrate that in a short while I made her my surety, in such sort that the matter was spoken of by many in terms scarcely courteous; through the which I had oftenwhiles many troublesome hours. And by this it happened (to wit: by this false and evil rumour which seemed to misfame me of vice) that she who was the destroyer of all evil and the queen of all good, coming where I was, denied me her most sweet salutation, in the which alone was my blessedness. And now, resuming my discourse, I will go on to relate that when, for the first time, this beatitude was denied me, I became possessed with such grief that, parting myself from others, I went into a lonely place to bathe the ground with most bitter tears: and when, by this heat of weeping, I was somewhat relieved, I betook myself to my chamber, where I could lament unheard. And there, having prayed to the Lady of all Mercies, and having said also, “O Love, aid thou thy servant,” I went suddenly asleep like a beaten sobbing child. And in my sleep, Whereupon, remembering me, I knew that I had beheld this vision during the ninth hour of the day; and I resolved that I would make a ditty, before I left my chamber, according to the words my master had spoken. And this is the ditty that I made:— Song, ’tis my will that thou do seek out Love, And go with him where my dear lady is; That so my cause, the which thy harmonies Do plead, his better speech may clearly prove. Thou goest, my Song, in such a courteous kind, That even companionless Thou mayst rely on thyself anywhere. And yet, an thou wouldst get thee a safe mind, First unto Love address Thy steps; whose aid, mayhap, ’twere ill to spare, Seeing that she to whom thou mak’st thy prayer Is, as I think, ill-minded unto me, And that if Love do not companion thee, Thou’lt have perchance small cheer to tell me of. With a sweet accent, when thou com’st to her, Begin thou in these words, First having craved a gracious audience: “He who hath sent me as his messenger, Lady, thus much records, An thou but suffer him, in his defence. Love, who comes with me, by thine influence Can make this man do as it liketh him: Do thou conceive: for his heart cannot move.” Say to her also: “Lady, his poor heart Is so confirmed in faith That all its thoughts are but of serving thee: ’Twas early thine, and could not swerve apart.” Then, if she wavereth, Bid her ask Love, who knows if these things be. And in the end, beg of her modestly To pardon so much boldness: saying too:— “If thou declare his death to be thy due, The thing shall come to pass, as doth behove.” Then pray thou of the Master of all ruth, Before thou leave her there, That he befriend my cause and plead it well. “In guerdon of my sweet rhymes and my truth” (Entreat him) “stay with her; Let not the hope of thy poor servant fail; And if with her thy pleading should prevail, Let her look on him and give peace to him.” Gentle my Song, if good to thee it seem, Do this: so worship shall be thine and love. This ditty is divided into three parts. In the first, I tell it whither to go, and I encourage it, that it may go the more confidently, and I tell it whose company to join if it would go with confidence and without any danger. In the second, I say that which it behoves the ditty to set forth. In the third, I give it leave to start when it pleases, recommending its course to the arms of Fortune. The second part begins here, “With a sweet accent;” the third here, “Gentle my Song.” Some might contradict me, and say that they understand not whom I address in the second person, seeing that the ditty is merely the very words I am speaking. And therefore I say that this doubt I intend to solve and clear up in After this vision I have recorded, and having written those words which Love had dictated to me, I began to be harassed with many and divers thoughts, by each of which I was sorely tempted; and in especial, there were four among them that left me no rest. The first was this: “Certainly the lordship of Love is good; seeing that it diverts the mind from all mean things.” The second was this: “Certainly the lordship of Love is evil; seeing that the more homage his servants pay to him, the more grievous and painful are the torments wherewith he torments them.” The third was this: “The name of Love is so sweet in the hearing that it would not seem possible for its effects to be other than sweet; seeing that the name must needs be like unto the thing named; as it is And by each one of these thoughts I was so sorely assailed that I was like unto him who doubteth which path to take, and wishing to go, goeth not. And if I bethought myself to seek out some point at the which all these paths might be found to meet, I discerned but one way, and that irked me; to wit, to call upon Pity, and to commend myself unto her. And it was then that, feeling a desire to write somewhat thereof in rhyme, I wrote this sonnet:— All my thoughts always speak to me of Love, Yet have between themselves such difference That while one bids me bow with mind and sense, A second saith, “Go to: look thou above;” And with the last come tears, I scarce know whence: All of them craving pity in sore suspense, Trembling with fears that the heart knoweth of. And thus, being all unsure which path to take, Wishing to speak I know not what to say, And lose myself in amorous wanderings: Until, (my peace with all of them to make,) Unto mine enemy I needs must pray, My Lady Pity, for the help she brings. This sonnet may be divided into four parts. In the first, I say and propound that all my thoughts are concerning Love. In the second, I say that they are diverse, and I relate their diversity. In the third, I say wherein they all seem to agree. In the fourth, I say that, wishing to speak of Love, I know not from which of these thoughts to take my argument; and that if I would take it from all, I After this battling with many thoughts, it chanced on a day that my most gracious lady was with a gathering of ladies in a certain place; to the which I was conducted by a friend of mine; he thinking to do me a great pleasure by showing me the beauty of so many women. Then I, hardly knowing whereunto he conducted me, but trusting in him (who yet was leading his friend to the last verge of life), made question: “To what end are we come among these ladies?” and he answered: “To the end that they may be worthily served.” And they were assembled around a gentlewoman who was given in marriage on that day; the custom of the city being that these should But as soon as I had thus resolved, I began to feel a faintness and a throbbing at my left side, which soon took possession of my whole body. Whereupon I remember that I covertly leaned my back unto a painting that ran round the walls of that house; and being fearful lest my trembling should be discerned of them, I lifted mine eyes to look on those ladies, and then first perceived among them the excellent Beatrice. And when I perceived her, all my senses were overpowered by the great lordship that Love obtained, finding himself so near unto that most gracious being, until nothing but the spirits of sight remained to me; and even these remained driven out of their own instruments because Love entered in that honoured Even as the others mock, thou mockest me; Not dreaming, noble lady, whence it is That I am taken with strange semblances, Seeing thy face which is so fair to see: For else, compassion would not suffer thee To grieve my heart with such harsh scoffs as these. Lo! Love, when thou art present, sits at ease, And bears his mastership so mightily, That all my troubled senses he thrusts out, Sorely tormenting some, and slaying some, Till none but he is left and has free range To gaze on thee. This makes my face to change Into another’s; while I stand all dumb, And hear my senses clamour in their rout. A while after this strange disfigurement, I became possessed with a strong conception which left me but very seldom, and then to return quickly. And it was this: “Seeing that thou comest into such The thoughts are broken in my memory, Thou lovely Joy, whene’er I see thy face; When thou art near me, Love fills up the space, Often repeating, “If death irk thee, fly.” My face shows my heart’s colour, verily, Which, fainting, seeks for any leaning-place; Till, in the drunken terror of disgrace, The very stones seem to be shrieking, “Die!” It were a grievous sin, if one should not Strive then to comfort my bewildered mind (Though merely with a simple pitying) For the great anguish which thy scorn has wrought In the dead sight o’ the eyes grown nearly blind, Which look for death as for a blessed thing. This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I tell the cause why I abstain not from coming to this lady. In the second, I tell what befalls me through coming to her; and this part begins here Thereafter, this sonnet bred in me desire to write down in verse four other things touching my condition, At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over The quality of anguish that is mine Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine, Love smiteth me, whose strength is ill to bear; So that of all my life is left no sign Except one thought; and that, because ’tis thine, Leaves not the body but abideth there. And then if I, whom other aid forsook, Would aid myself, and innocent of art Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope, No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart, And all my pulses beat at once and stop. This sonnet is divided into four parts, four things being therein narrated; and as these are set forth above, I only proceed to distinguish the parts by their beginnings. Wherefore I say that the second part begins, “Love smiteth me;” the third, “And then if I;” the fourth, “No sooner do I lift.” After I had written these three last sonnets, Through the sore change in mine aspect, the secret of my heart was now understood of many. Which thing being thus, there came a day when certain ladies to whom it was well known (they having been with me at divers times in my trouble) were met together for the pleasure of gentle company. And as I was going that way by chance, (but I think rather by the will of fortune,) I heard one of them call unto me, and she that called was a lady of very sweet speech. And when I had come close up with them, and perceived that they Then I, being almost put to shame because of her answer, went out from among them; and as I walked, I said within myself: “Seeing that there is so much beatitude in those words which do praise my lady, wherefore hath my speech of her been Ladies that have intelligence in love, Of mine own lady I would speak with you; Not that I hope to count her praises through, But telling what I may, to ease my mind. And I declare that when I speak thereof, Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me That if my courage failed not, certainly To him my listeners must be all resign’d. Wherefore I will not speak in such large kind That mine own speech should foil me, which were base; But only will discourse of her high grace In these poor words, the best that I can find, ’Twere ill to speak thereof with any else. An Angel, of his blessed knowledge, saith To God: “Lord, in the world that Thou hast made, A miracle in action is display’d, By reason of a soul whose splendours fare Even hither: and since Heaven requireth Nought saving her, for her it prayeth Thee, Thy Saints crying aloud continually.” Yet Pity still defends our earthly share In that sweet soul; God answering thus the prayer: “My well-belovÈd, suffer that in peace Your hope remain, while so My pleasure is, There where one dwells who dreads the loss of her: And who in Hell unto the doomed shall say, ‘I have looked on that for which God’s chosen pray.’” My lady is desired in the high Heaven: Wherefore, it now behoveth me to tell, Esteemed keep with her: for as she goes by, Into foul hearts a deathly chill is driven By Love, that makes ill thought to perish there: While any who endures to gaze on her Must either be ennobled, or else die. When one deserving to be raised so high Is found, ’tis then her power attains its proof, Making his heart strong for his soul’s behoof With the full strength of meek humility. Also this virtue owns she, by God’s will: Who speaks with her can never come to ill. Love saith concerning her: “How chanceth it That flesh, which is of dust, should be thus pure?” Then, gazing always, he makes oath: “Forsure, This is a creature of God till now unknown.” She hath that paleness of the pearl that’s fit In a fair woman, so much and not more; Beauty is tried by her comparison. Whatever her sweet eyes are turned upon, Spirits of love do issue thence in flame, Which through their eyes who then may look on them Pierce to the heart’s deep chamber every one. And in her smile Love’s image you may see; Whence none can gaze upon her steadfastly. Dear Song, I know thou wilt hold gentle speech With many ladies, when I send thee forth: Wherefore (being mindful that thou hadst thy birth From Love, and art a modest, simple child), Whomso thou meetest, say thou this to each: “Give me good speed! To her I wend along In whose much strength my weakness is made strong.” And if, i’ the end, thou wouldst not be beguiled Of all thy labour, seek not the defiled Where man and woman dwell in courtesy. So to the road thou shalt be reconciled, And find the lady, and with the lady, Love. Commend thou me to each, as doth behove. This poem, that it may be better understood, I will divide more subtly than the others preceding; and therefore I will make three parts of it. The first part is a proem to the words following. The second is the matter treated of. The third is, as it were, a handmaid to the preceding words. The second begins here, “An Angel;” the third here, “Dear Song, I know.” The first part is divided into four. In the first, I say to whom I mean to speak of my lady, and wherefore I will so speak. In the second, I say what she appears to myself to be when I reflect upon her excellence, and what I would utter if I lost not courage. In the third, I say what it is When this song was a little gone abroad, a certain one of my friends, hearing the same, was pleased to question me, that I should tell him what thing love is; it may be, conceiving from the words thus heard a hope of me beyond my desert. Wherefore I, thinking that after such discourse it were well to say somewhat of the nature of Love, and also in accordance with my friend’s desire, proposed to myself to write certain words in the which I should treat of this argument. And the sonnet that I then made is this:— Love and the gentle heart are one same thing, Even as the wise man Each, of itself, would be such life in death As rational soul bereft of reasoning. Love is, whose palace where he sojourneth Is called the Heart; there draws he quiet breath At first, with brief or longer slumbering. Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind Will make the eyes desire, and through the heart Send the desiring of the eyes again; Where often it abides so long enshrin’d That Love at length out of his sleep will start. And women feel the same for worthy men. This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I speak of him according to his power. In the second, I speak of him according as his power translates itself into act. The second part begins here, “Then beauty seen.” The first is divided into two. In the first, I say in what subject this power exists. In the second, I say how this subject and this power are produced together, and how the Having treated of love in the foregoing, it appeared to me that I should also say something in praise of my lady, wherein it might be set forth how love manifested itself when produced by her; and how not only she could awaken it where it slept, but where it was not she could marvellously create it. To the which end I wrote another sonnet; and it is this:— My lady carries love within her eyes; All that she looks on is made pleasanter; Upon her path men turn to gaze at her; He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise, And of his evil heart is then aware: Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper. O women, help to praise her in somewise. Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well, By speech of hers into the mind are brought, And who beholds is blessÈd oftenwhiles. The look she hath when she a little smiles Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought; ’Tis such a new and gracious miracle. This sonnet has three sections. In the first, I say how this lady brings this power into action by those most noble features, her eyes; and, in the third, I say this same as to that most noble feature, her mouth. And between these two sections is a little section, which asks, as it were, help for the previous section and the subsequent; and it begins here, “O women, help.” The third begins Wherefore afterwards, having considered and perceiving I. You that thus wear a modest countenance With lids weigh’d down by the heart’s heaviness, Whence come you, that among you every face Appears the same, for its pale troubled glance? Have you beheld my lady’s face, perchance, Say now, “This thing is thus;” as my heart says, Marking your grave and sorrowful advance. And if indeed you come from where she sighs And mourns, may it please you (for his heart’s relief) To tell how it fares with her unto him Who knows that you have wept, seeing your eyes, And is so grieved with looking on your grief That his heart trembles and his sight grows dim. This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I call and ask these ladies whether they come from her, telling them that I think they do, because they return the nobler. In the second, I pray them to tell me of her; and the second begins here, “And if indeed.” II. Canst thou indeed be he that still would sing Of our dear lady unto none but us? Thy visage might another witness bring. And wherefore is thy grief so sore a thing That grieving thou mak’st others dolorous? Hast thou too seen her weep, that thou from us Canst not conceal thine inward sorrowing? Nay, leave our woe to us: let us alone: ’Twere sin if one should strive to soothe our woe, For in her weeping we have heard her speak: Also her look’s so full of her heart’s moan That they who should behold her, looking so, Must fall aswoon, feeling all life grow weak. This sonnet has four parts, as the ladies in whose person I reply had four forms of answer. And, because these are sufficiently shown above, I stay not to explain the purport of the parts, and therefore I only discriminate them. The second begins here, “And wherefore is thy grief;” the third here, A few days after this, my body became afflicted with a painful infirmity, whereby I suffered bitter anguish for many days, which at last brought me unto such weakness that I could no longer move. And I remember that on the ninth day, being overcome with intolerable pain, a thought came into my mind concerning my lady: but when it had a little nourished this thought, my mind returned to its brooding over mine enfeebled body. And then perceiving how frail a thing life is, even though health keep with it, the matter seemed to me so pitiful that I could not choose but weep; and weeping I said within myself: “Certainly it must some time come to pass that the very gentle Beatrice will die.” Then, feeling bewildered, I closed mine eyes; and my brain began to be in travail as the brain of one frantic, and to have such imaginations as here follow. And as I said these words, with a painful anguish of sobbing and another prayer unto Death, a young and gentle lady, who had been standing beside me where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with trembling and began to shed tears. Whereby other ladies, who were about the room, becoming aware of my discomfort by reason of the moan that Then, by their words, this strong imagination was brought suddenly to an end, at the moment that I was about to say, “O Beatrice! peace be with thee.” And already I had said, “O Beatrice!” when being aroused, I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had been a deception. But albeit I had indeed uttered her name, yet my voice was so broken with sobs, that it was not understood by these ladies; so that in spite of the sore shame that I felt, I turned towards them by Love’s counselling. And when they beheld me, they began to say, “He seemeth as one dead,” and to whisper among themselves, “Let us strive if we may not comfort him.” Whereupon they spake to me many soothing words, and questioned me moreover touching the cause of my A very pitiful lady, very young, Exceeding rich in human sympathies, Stood by, what time I clamour’d upon Death; And at the wild words wandering on my tongue And at the piteous look within mine eyes She was affrighted, that sobs choked her breath. So by her weeping where I lay beneath, Some other gentle ladies came to know My state, and made her go: One said, “Awaken thee!” And one, “What thing thy sleep disquieteth?” With that, my soul woke up from its eclipse, The while my lady’s name rose to my lips: But utter’d in a voice so sob-broken, So feeble with the agony of tears, That I alone might hear it in my heart; And though that look was on my visage then Which he who is ashamed so plainly wears, Love made that I through shame held not apart, But gazed upon them. And my hue was such That they look’d at each other and thought of death; Saying under their breath Most tenderly, “O let us comfort him:” Then unto me: “What dream Was thine, that it hath shaken thee so much?” And when I was a little comforted, “This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,” I said. “I was a-thinking how life fails with us Suddenly after such a little while; When Love sobb’d in my heart, which is his home. Whereby my spirit wax’d so dolorous That in myself I said, with sick recoil: ‘Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.’ And therewithal such a bewilderment Possess’d me, that I shut mine eyes for peace; And in my brain did cease Order of thought, and every healthful thing. Afterwards, wandering Amid a swarm of doubts that came and went, Some certain women’s faces hurried by, And shriek’d to me, ‘Thou too shalt die, shalt die!’ “Then saw I many broken hinted sights In the uncertain state I stepp’d into. Meseem’d to be I know not in what place, Where ladies through the street, like mournful lights, By their own terror, and a pale amaze: The while, little by little, as I thought, The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather, And each wept at the other; And birds dropp’d in mid-flight out of the sky; And earth shook suddenly; And I was ’ware of one, hoarse and tired out, Who ask’d of me: ‘Hast thou not heard it said?... Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.’ “Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came, I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna, In a long flight flying back Heavenward; Having a little cloud in front of them, After the which they went and said, ‘Hosanna;’ And if they had said more, you should have heard. Then Love said, ‘Now shall all things be made clear: These ’wildering phantasies Then carried me to see my lady dead. Even as I there was led, Her ladies with a veil were covering her; And with her was such very humbleness That she appeared to say, ‘I am at peace.’ “And I became so humble in my grief, Seeing in her such deep humility, That I said: ‘Death, I hold thee passing good Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief, Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee: Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood. Lo! I do so desire to see thy face That I am like as one who nears the tomb; My soul entreats thee, Come.’ Then I departed, having made my moan; I said, and cast my eyes to the High Place: ‘Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!’ ... Just then you woke me, of your complaisaÙnce.” This poem has two parts. In the first, speaking to a person undefined, I tell how I was aroused from a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and how I promised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say how I told them. The second part begins here, “I was a-thinking.” The first part divides into two. In the first, I tell that which certain ladies, and which one singly, did and said because of my phantasy, before I had returned into my right senses. In the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after I had left off this wandering: and it begins here, “But uttered in a voice.” Then, when I say, “I was a-thinking,” I say how I told them this After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, as I sat thoughtful, that I was taken with such a strong trembling at the heart, that it could not have been otherwise in the presence of my lady. Whereupon I perceived that there was an appearance of Love beside me, and I seemed to see him coming from my lady; and he said, not aloud but within my heart: “Now take heed that thou bless the day when I entered into thee; for it is fitting that thou shouldst do so.” And with that my heart was so full of gladness, that I could hardly believe it to be of very truth mine own heart and not another. A short while after these words which my heart spoke to me with the tongue of Love, I saw coming Then I, having thought of this, imagined to write it with rhymes and send it unto my chief friend; but setting aside certain words And I wrote this sonnet:— I felt a spirit of love begin to stir Within my heart, long time unfelt till then; And saw Love coming towards me, fair and fain (That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer), Saying, “Be now indeed my worshipper!” And in his speech he laugh’d and laugh’d again. Then, while it was his pleasure to remain, I chanced to look the way he had drawn near, And saw the Ladies Joan and Beatrice Approach me, this the other following, One and a second marvel instantly. Love spake it then: “The first is christen’d Spring; The second Love, she is so like to me.” This sonnet has many parts: whereof the first tells how I felt awakened within my heart the accustomed tremor, and how it seemed that Love appeared to me joyful from afar. The second says how it appeared to me that Love spake within my heart, and what was his aspect. The third tells how, after he had in such wise been with me a space, I saw and heard certain things. The second part begins here, “Saying, ‘Be now;’” the third here, “Then, while it was his pleasure.” The third part divides into two. In the first, I say what I saw. In the second, I say what I heard; and it begins here, “Love spake it then.” It might be here objected unto me, (and even That the Latin poets have done thus, appears through Virgil, where he saith that Juno (to wit, a goddess hostile to the Trojans) spake unto Æolus, master of the Winds; as it is written in the first book of the Æneid, Æole, namque tibi, etc.; and that this master of the Winds made But returning to the matter of my discourse. This excellent lady, of whom I spake in what hath gone before, came at last into such favour with all men, that when she passed anywhere folk ran to behold her; which thing was a deep joy to me: and when she drew near unto any, so much truth and simpleness entered into his heart, that he dared neither to lift his eyes nor to return her salutation: My lady looks so gentle and so pure When yielding salutation by the way, That the tongue trembles and has nought to say, And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure. And still, amid the praise she hears secure, She walks with humbleness for her array; Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to stay On earth, and show a miracle made sure. She is so pleasant in the eyes of men That through the sight the inmost heart doth gain A sweetness which needs proof to know it by: And from between her lips there seems to move A soothing essence that is full of love, Saying for ever to the spirit, “Sigh!” For certain he hath seen all perfectness Who among other ladies hath seen mine: They that go with her humbly should combine To thank their God for such peculiar grace. So perfect is the beauty of her face That it begets in no wise any sign Of envy, but draws round her a clear line Merely the sight of her makes all things bow: Not she herself alone is holier Than all; but hers, through her, are raised above. From all her acts such lovely graces flow That truly one may never think of her Without a passion of exceeding love. This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say in what company this lady appeared most wondrous. In the second, I say how gracious was her society. In the third, I tell of the things which she, with power, worked upon others. The second begins here, “They that go with her;” the third here, “So perfect.” This last part divides into three. In the first, I tell what she operated upon women, that is, by their own faculties. In the second, I tell what she operated in them through others. In the third, I say how she not only operated in women, but in Thereafter on a day, I began to consider that which I had said of my lady: to wit, in these two sonnets aforegone: and becoming aware that I had not spoken of her immediate effect on me at that especial time, it seemed to me that I had spoken defectively. Whereupon I resolved to write somewhat of the manner wherein I was then subject to her influence, and of what her influence then was. And conceiving that I should not be able to say these things in the small compass of a sonnet, I began therefore a poem with this beginning:— Love hath so long possessed me for his own And made his lordship so familiar That he, who at first irked me, is now grown Unto my heart as its best secrets are. And thus, when he in such sore wise doth mar My life that all its strength seems gone from it, Mine inmost being then feels throughly quit Of anguish, and all evil keeps afar. Love also gathers to such power in me That my sighs speak, each one a grievous thing, Always soliciting My lady’s salutation piteously. Whenever she beholds me, it is so, Who is more sweet than any words can show. ****** ****** Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi vidua domina gentium! I was still occupied with this poem, (having And the reasons are three. The first is, that such matter belongeth not of right to the present argument, if one consider the opening of this little book. The second is, that even though the present argument required it, my pen doth not suffice to write in a fit manner of this thing. And the third is, that were it both possible and of absolute necessity, it would still be unseemly for me to speak thereof, seeing that thereby it must behove Nevertheless, as the number nine, which number hath often had mention in what hath gone before, (and not, as it might appear, without reason,) seems also to have borne a part in the manner of her death: it is therefore right that I should say somewhat thereof. And for this cause, having first said what was the part it bore herein, I will afterwards point out a reason which made that this number was so closely allied unto my lady. I say, then, that according to the division of time in Italy, her most noble spirit departed from among us in the first hour of the ninth day of the month; and according to the division of time in Syria, in the ninth month of the year: seeing that Tismim, which with us is October, is there the first month. And touching the reason why this number was so closely allied unto her, it may peradventure be this. According to Ptolemy (and also to the Christian verity), the revolving heavens are nine; and according to the common opinion among astrologers, these nine heavens together have influence over the After this most gracious creature had gone out from among us, the whole city came to be as it were widowed and despoiled of all dignity. Then I, left mourning in this desolate city, wrote unto the principal persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning its condition; taking for my commencement those words of Jeremias: Quomodo sedet sola civitas! etc. And I make mention of this, that none may marvel wherefore I set down these words before, in beginning to treat of her death. Also if any should blame me, in that I do not transcribe that epistle whereof I have spoken, I will make it mine excuse that I began this little book with the intent that it should be written altogether in the vulgar tongue; wherefore, seeing that the When mine eyes had wept for some while, until they were so weary with weeping that I could no longer through them give ease to my sorrow, I bethought me that a few mournful words might stand me instead of tears. And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein of her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my spirit; and I then began “The eyes that weep.” That this poem may seem to remain the more widowed at its close, I will divide it before writing it; and this method I will observe henceforward. I say that this poor little poem has three parts. The first is a prelude. In the second, I speak of her. In the third, I speak pitifully to the poem. The second begins here, “Beatrice is gone up;” the third The eyes that weep for pity of the heart Have wept so long that their grief languisheth, And they have no more tears to weep withal: And now, if I would ease me of a part Of what, little by little, leads to death, It must be done by speech, or not at all. And because often, thinking, I recall How it was pleasant, ere she went afar, To talk of her with you, kind damozels, I talk with no one else, But only with such hearts as women’s are. And I will say,—still sobbing as speech fails,— That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly, And hath left Love below, to mourn with me. Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven, The kingdom where the angels are at peace; And lives with them; and to her friends is dead. Away, like others; nor by summer-heats; But through a perfect gentleness, instead. For from the lamp of her meek lowlihead Such an exceeding glory went up hence That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire, Until a sweet desire Entered Him for that lovely excellence, So that He bade her to Himself aspire; Counting this weary and most evil place Unworthy of a thing so full of grace. Wonderfully out of the beautiful form Soared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while; And is in its first home, there where it is. Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm Upon his face, must have become so vile As to be dead to all sweet sympathies. Out upon him! an abject wretch like this He needs no bitter tears for his relief. But sighing comes, and grief, And the desire to find no comforter, (Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief), To him who for a while turns in his thought How she hath been among us, and is not. With sighs my bosom always laboureth In thinking, as I do continually, Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace; And very often when I think of death, Such a great inward longing comes to me That it will change the colour of my face; And, if the idea settles in its place, All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit: Till, starting up in wild bewilderment, I do become so shent Afterward, calling with a sore lament On Beatrice, I ask, “Canst thou be dead?” And calling on her, I am comforted. Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs, Come to me now whene’er I am alone; So that I think the sight of me gives pain. And what my life hath been, that living dies, Since for my lady the New Birth’s begun, I have not any language to explain. And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain, I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus. All joy is with my bitter life at war; Yea, I am fallen so far That all men seem to say, “Go out from us,” Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are. But she, though I be bowed unto the dust, Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust. To the dames going and the damozels For whom and for none else Thy sisters have made music many a day. Thou, that art very sad and not as they, Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells. After I had written this poem, I received the visit of a friend whom I counted as second unto me in the degrees of friendship, and who, moreover, had been united by the nearest kindred to that most gracious creature. And when we had a little spoken together, he began to solicit me that I would write somewhat in memory of a lady who had died; and he disguised his speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another who was but lately dead: wherefore I, perceiving that his speech was of none other than that blessed one herself, told him that it should be done as he This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I relate my miserable condition. The second begins here, “Mark how they force.” Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs, Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do. Mark how they force their way out and press through; If they be once pent up, the whole life dies. Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes Oftener refuse than I can tell to you (Even though my endless grief is ever new), Also in sighing ye shall hear me call On her whose blessÈd presence doth enrich The only home that well befitteth her: And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech That mourns its joy and its joy’s minister. But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me who he was to whom I was to give it, that it might appear to be his speech, it seemed to me that this was but a poor and barren gift for one of her so near kindred. Wherefore, before giving him this sonnet, I wrote two stanzas of a poem: the first being written in very sooth as though it were spoken by him, but the other being mine own speech, albeit, unto one who should not look closely, they would both seem to be said by the same person. Nevertheless, The poem begins, “Whatever while,” and has two parts. In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this my dear friend, her kinsman, laments. In the second, I lament; that is, in the other stanza, which begins, “For ever.” And thus it appears that in this poem two persons lament, of whom one laments as a brother, the other as a servant. Whatever while the thought comes over me That I may not again Behold that lady whom I mourn for now, About my heart my mind brings constantly So much of extreme pain Truly the anguish, Soul, that we must bow Beneath, until we win out of this life, Gives me full oft a fear that trembleth: So that I call on Death Even as on Sleep one calleth after strife, Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grim And bare; and if one dies, I envy him. For ever, among all my sighs which burn, There is a piteous speech That clamours upon death continually: Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turn Since first his hand did reach My lady’s life with most foul cruelty. But from the height of woman’s fairness, she, Going up from us with the joy we had, Grew perfectly and spiritually fair; A light of Love which makes the Angels glad, And even unto their subtle minds can bring A certain awe of profound marvelling. On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome, and that they were observing what I did: also I learned afterwards that they had been there a while before I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation, and said: “Another was with me.” I say that, according to the first, this sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say that this lady was then in my memory. In the second, I tell what Love therefore did with me. In the third, I speak of the effects of Love. The second begins here, “Love knowing;” the third here, “Forth went they.” This part divides into two. In the one, I say that all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say how some spoke certain words different from the others. The second begins here, “And still.” In this same That lady of all gentle memories Had lighted on my soul;—whose new abode Lies now, as it was well ordained of God, Among the poor in heart, where Mary is. Love, knowing that dear image to be his, Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow’d, Unto the sighs which are its weary load Saying, “Go forth.” And they went forth, I wis; Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached; With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone. And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath Came whispering thus: “O noble intellect! It is a year to-day that thou art gone.” Second Commencement. That lady of all gentle memories Had lighted on my soul;—for whose sake flow’d The tears of Love; in whom the power abode Which led you to observe while I did this. Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc. Then, having sat for some space sorely in thought because of the time that was now past, I was so filled with dolorous imaginings that it became outwardly manifest in mine altered countenance. Whereupon, feeling this and being in dread lest any should have seen me, I lifted mine eyes to look; and then perceived a young and very beautiful lady, who was gazing upon me from a window with a gaze full of pity, so that the very sum of pity appeared gathered together in her. And seeing that unhappy persons, when they beget compassion in others, are then most moved unto weeping, as Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring Into thy countenance immediately A while agone, when thou beheldst in me The sickness only hidden grief can bring; And then I knew thou wast considering How abject and forlorn my life must be; And I became afraid that thou shouldst see My weeping, and account it a base thing. The tears were straightway loosened at my heart Beneath thine eyes’ compassionate control. And afterwards I said within my soul: “Lo! with this lady dwells the counterpart Of the same Love who holds me weeping now.” It happened after this, that whensoever I was seen of this lady, she became pale and of a piteous countenance, as though it had been with love; whereby she remembered me many times of my own most noble lady, who was wont to be of a like paleness. And I know that often, when I could not weep nor in any way give ease unto mine anguish, I went to look upon this lady, who seemed to bring the tears into my eyes by the mere sight of her. Of the which thing I bethought me to speak unto her in rhyme, and then made this sonnet: which Love’s pallor and the semblance of deep ruth Were never yet shown forth so perfectly In any lady’s face, chancing to see Grief’s miserable countenance uncouth, As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe, When in mine anguish thou hast looked on me; Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee, My heart might almost wander from its truth. Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyes From gazing very often upon thine In the sore hope to shed those tears they keep; And at such time, thou mak’st the pent tears rise Even to the brim, till the eyes waste and pine; Yet cannot they, while thou art present, weep. At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mine The sonnet has two parts. In the first, I speak to my eyes, as my heart spoke within myself. In the second, I remove a difficulty, showing who it is that speaks thus: and this part begins here, “So far.” It well might receive other divisions also; but this would be useless, since it is manifest by the preceding exposition. “The very bitter weeping that ye made So long a time together, eyes of mine, Was wont to make the tears of pity shine In other eyes full oft, as I have said. But now this thing were scarce rememberÈd If I, on my part, foully would combine With you, and not recall each ancient sign Of grief, and her for whom your tears were shed It is your fickleness that doth betray What while a lady greets me with her eyes. Except by death, we must not any way Forget our lady who is gone from us.” So far doth my heart utter, and then sighs. The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted a condition that I often thought of her as of one too dear unto me; and I began to consider her thus: “This lady is young, beautiful, gentle, and wise; perchance it was Love himself who set her in my path, that so my life might find peace.” And there were times when I thought yet more fondly, until my heart consented unto its reasoning. But when it had so consented, my thought would often turn round upon me, as moved by reason, and cause me to say within myself: “What hope is this which would console me after so base a fashion, and which hath taken the place of all other A gentle thought there is will often start, Within my secret self, to speech of thee: Also of Love it speaks so tenderly That much in me consents and takes its part. “And what is this,” the soul saith to the heart, “That cometh thus to comfort thee and me, And thence where it would dwell, thus potently And the heart answers: “Be no more at strife ’Twixt doubt and doubt: this is Love’s messenger And speaketh but his words, from him received; And all the strength it owns and all the life It draweth from the gentle eyes of her Who, looking on our grief, hath often grieved.” But against this adversary of reason, there rose up in me on a certain day, about the ninth hour, a strong visible phantasy, wherein I seemed to behold the most gracious Beatrice, habited in that crimson raiment which she had worn when I had first beheld her; also she appeared to me of the same tender age as then. Whereupon I fell into a deep thought of her: and my memory ran back, according to the order of time, unto all those matters in the which she had borne a part; and my heart began painfully to repent of the desire by which it had so basely And then, this evil desire being quite gone from me, all my thoughts turned again unto their excellent Beatrice. And I say most truly that from that hour I thought constantly of her with the whole humbled and ashamed heart; the which became often manifest in sighs, that had among them the name of that most gracious creature, and how she departed from us. Also it would come to pass very often, through the bitter anguish of some one thought, that I forgot both it, and myself, and where I was. By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which before had been somewhat lessened, increased in like manner; so that mine eyes seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and came at last to be circled about with red as though they had suffered martyrdom: neither were they able to look again upon the beauty of any face that might again bring them I said, “Woe’s me!” because I was ashamed of the trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide, since its purport is manifest enough. Woe’s me! by dint of all these sighs that come Forth of my heart, its endless grief to prove, Mine eyes are conquered, so that even to move Their lids for greeting is grown troublesome. They wept so long that now they are grief’s home, And count their tears all laughter far above: With a red circle in sign of martyrdom. These musings, and the sighs they bring from me, Are grown at last so constant and so sore That love swoons in my spirit with faint breath; Hearing in those sad sounds continually The most sweet name that my dead lady bore, With many grievous words touching her death. About this time, it happened that a great number of persons undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they might behold that blessed portraiture bequeathed unto us by our Lord Jesus Christ as the image of His beautiful countenance, Then I, beholding them, said within myself: “These pilgrims seem to be come from very far; and I think they cannot have heard speak of this lady, or know anything concerning her. Their thoughts are not of her, but of other things; it may be, of their friends who are far distant, and whom we, in our turn, know not.” And I went on to say: “I know that if they were of a country near unto And when the last of them had gone by me, I bethought me to write a sonnet, showing forth mine inward speech; and that it might seem the more pitiful, I made as though I had spoken it indeed unto them. And I wrote this sonnet, which beginneth: “Ye pilgrim-folk.” I made use of the word pilgrim for its general signification; for “pilgrim” may be understood in two senses, one general, and one special. General, so far as any man may be called a pilgrim who leaveth the place of his birth; whereas, more narrowly speaking, he only is a pilgrim who goeth towards or frowards This sonnet is not divided, because its own words sufficiently declare it. Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensively As if in thought of distant things, I pray, Is your own land indeed so far away— As by your aspect it would seem to be— Though passing through the mournful town midway; Like unto men that understand to-day Nothing at all of her great misery? Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost, And listen to my words a little space, At going ye shall mourn with a loud voice. It is her Beatrice that she hath lost; Of whom the least word spoken holds such grace That men weep hearing it, and have no choice. A while after these things, two gentle ladies sent unto me, praying that I would bestow upon them certain of these my rhymes. And I (taking into account their worthiness and consideration) resolved that I would write also a new thing, and send it them together with those others, to the end that their wishes might be more honourably fulfilled. This sonnet comprises five parts. In the first, I tell whither my thought goeth, naming the place by the name of one of its effects. In the second, I say wherefore it goeth up, and who makes it go thus. In the third, I tell what it saw, namely, a lady honoured. And I then call it a “Pilgrim Spirit,” because it goes up spiritually, and like a pilgrim who is out of his known country. In the fourth, I say how the spirit sees her such (that is, in such quality) that I cannot understand her; that is to say, my thought rises into the quality of her in a degree that my intellect cannot comprehend, seeing that our intellect is, towards those blessed souls, like our eye Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above: A new perception born of grieving Love Guideth it upward the untrodden ways. It sees a lady round whom splendours move In homage; till, by the great light thereof Abashed, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze. It sees her such, that when it tells me this Which it hath seen, I understand it not, It hath a speech so subtile and so fine. And yet I know its voice within my thought Often remembereth me of Beatrice: So that I understand it, ladies mine. After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very wonderful vision: THE END. NOTES 1. Gentile. The word means “noble” rather than (in its modern shade of meaning) “gentle.” “Genteel” would sometimes apply, but has ceased to be admissible in serious writing. 2. “Purgatorio,” C. xxx. 3. I must hazard here (to relieve the first page of my translation from a long note) a suggestion as to the meaning of the most puzzling passage in the whole Vita Nuova,—that sentence just at the outset which says, “La gloriosa donna della mia mente, la quale fÙ chiamata da molti Beatrice, i quali non sapeano che si chiamare.” On this passage all the commentators seem helpless, turning it about and sometimes adopting alterations not to be found in any ancient manuscript of the work. The words mean literally, “The glorious lady of my mind who was called Beatrice by many who knew not how she was called.” This presents the obvious difficulty that the lady’s name really was Beatrice, and that Dante throughout uses that name himself. In the text of my version I have adopted, as a rendering, the one of the various compromises which seemed to give the most beauty to the meaning. But it occurs to me that a less irrational escape out of the difficulty than any I have seen suggested may possibly be found by linking this passage with the close of the sonnet at page 104 of the Vita Nuova, beginning, “I felt a spirit of love begin to stir,” in the last line of which sonnet Love is made to assert that the name of Beatrice is Love. Dante appears to have dwelt on this fancy with some pleasure, from what is said in an earlier sonnet (page 39) about “Love in his proper form” (by which Beatrice seems to be meant) bending over a dead lady. And it is in connection with the sonnet where the name of Beatrice is said to be Love, that Dante, as if to show us that the Love he speaks of is only his own emotion, enters into an argument as to Love being merely an accident in substance,—in other words, “Amore e il cor gentil son una cosa.” This conjecture may be pronounced extravagant; but the Vita Nuova, when examined, proves so full of intricate and fantastic analogies, even in the mere arrangement of its parts, (much more than appears on any but the closest scrutiny,) that it seems admissible to suggest even a whimsical solution of a difficulty which remains unconquered. Or to have recourse to the much more welcome means of solution afforded by simple inherent beauty: may not the meaning be merely that any person looking on so noble and lovely a creation, without knowledge of her name, must have spontaneously called her Beatrice,—i.e., the giver of blessing? This would be analogous by antithesis to the translation I have adopted in my text. 4. “Here beginneth the new life.” 5. In reference to the meaning of the name, “She who confers blessing.” We learn from Boccaccio that this first meeting took place at a May Feast, given in the year 1274 by Folco Portinari, father of Beatrice, who ranked among the principal citizens of Florence: to which feast Dante accompanied his father, Alighiero Alighieri. 6. “Here is a deity stronger than I; who, coming, shall rule over me.” 7. “Your beatitude hath now been made manifest unto you.” 8. “Woe is me! for that often I shall be disturbed from this time forth!” ??d? ???e? ??d??? ?e ???t?? pa?? ?e?a?, ???? ?e???. (Iliad, xxiv. 258.) 10. “I am thy master.” 11. “Behold thy heart.” 12. The friend of whom Dante here speaks was Guido Cavalcanti. 13. i.e., in a church. 14. It will be observed that this poem is not what we now call a sonnet. Its structure, however, is analogous to that of the sonnet, being two sextetts followed by two quatrains, instead of two quatrains followed by two triplets. Dante applies the term sonnet to both these forms of composition, and to no other. 15. The commentators assert that the last two lines here do not allude to the dead lady, but to Beatrice. This would make the poem very clumsy in construction; yet there must be some covert allusion to Beatrice, as Dante himself intimates. The only form in which I can trace it consists in the implied assertion that such person as had enjoyed the dead lady’s society was worthy of heaven, and that person was Beatrice. Or indeed the allusion to Beatrice might be in the first poem, where he says that Love “in forma vera” (that is, Beatrice), mourned over the corpse: as he afterwards says of Beatrice, “Quella ha nome Amor.” Most probably both allusions are intended. 16. “My son, it is time for us to lay aside our counterfeiting.” 17. “I am as the centre of a circle, to the which all parts of the circumference bear an equal relation: but with thee it is not thus.” This phrase seems to have remained as obscure to commentators as Dante found it at the moment. No one, as far as I know, has even fairly tried to find a meaning for it. To me the following appears a not unlikely one. Love is weeping on Dante’s account, and not on his own. He says, “I am the centre of a circle (Amor che muove il sole e l’altre stelle): therefore all lovable objects, whether in heaven or earth, or any part of the circle’s circumference, are equally near to me. Not so thou, who wilt one day lose Beatrice when she goes to heaven.” The phrase would thus contain an intimation of the death of Beatrice, accounting for Dante being next told not to inquire the meaning of the speech,—”Demand no more than may be useful to thee.” 18. “Names are the consequents of things.” 19. It is difficult not to connect Dante’s agony at this wedding-feast with our knowledge that in her twenty-first year Beatrice was wedded to Simone de’ Bardi. That she herself was the bride on this occasion might seem out of the question, from the fact of its not being in any way so stated: but on the other hand, Dante’s silence throughout the Vita Nuova as regards her marriage (which must have brought deep sorrow even to his ideal love) is so startling, that we might almost be led to conceive in this passage the only intimation of it which he thought fit to give. 20. Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins, “Within the gentle heart Love shelters him.” 21. There is a play in the original upon the words Primavera (Spring) and prima verrÀ (she shall come first), to which I have given as near an equivalent as I could. 22. “I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare ye the way of the Lord.’” 23. That is (as I understand it), suppressing, from delicacy towards his friend, the words in which Love describes Joan as merely the forerunner of Beatrice. And perhaps in the latter part of this sentence a reproach is gently conveyed to the fickle Guido Cavalcanti, who may already have transferred his homage (though Dante had not then learned it) from Joan to Mandetta. 24. On reading Dante’s treatise De Vulgari Eloquio, it will be found that the distinction which he intends here is not between one language, or dialect, and another; but between “vulgar speech” (that is, the language handed down from mother to son without any conscious use of grammar or syntax), and language as regulated by grammarians and the laws of literary composition, and which Dante calls simply “Grammar.” A great deal might be said on the bearings of the present passage, but it is no part of my plan to enter on such questions. 25. i.e., the languages of Provence and Tuscany. 26. It strikes me that this curious passage furnishes a reason, hitherto (I believe) overlooked, why Dante put such of his lyrical poems as relate to philosophy into the form of love-poems. He liked writing in Italian rhyme rather than Latin metre; he thought Italian rhyme ought to be confined to love-poems: therefore whatever he wrote (at this age) had to take the form of a love-poem. Thus any poem by Dante not concerning love is later than his twenty-seventh year (1291-2), when he wrote the prose of the Vita Nuova; the poetry having been written earlier, at the time of the events referred to. 27. “How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people! how is she become as a widow, she that was great among the nations!”—Lamentations of Jeremiah, i. I. 28. Beatrice Portinari will thus be found to have died during the first hour of the 9th of June, 1290. And from what Dante says at the commencement of this work, (viz., that she was younger than himself by eight or nine months,) it may also be gathered that her age, at the time of her death, was twenty-four years and three months. The “perfect number” mentioned in the present passage is the number ten. 29. Thus according to some texts. The majority, however, add the words, “And therefore was I in thought:” but the shorter speech is perhaps the more forcible and pathetic. 30. Boccaccio tells us that Dante was married to Gemma Donati about a year after the death of Beatrice. Can Gemma then be “the lady of the window,” his love for whom Dante so contemns? Such a passing conjecture (when considered together with the interpretation of this passage in Dante’s later work, the Convito) would of course imply an admission of what I believe to lie at the heart of all true Dantesque commentary; that is, the existence always of the actual events even where the allegorical superstructure has been raised by Dante himself. 31. The Veronica (Vera icon, or true image); that is, the napkin with which a woman was said to have wiped our Saviour’s face on His way to the cross, and which miraculously retained its likeness. Dante makes mention of it also in the Commedia (Parad. xxxi. 103" (Paradiso, Canto 31, line 103))., where he says:— “Qual È colui che forse di Croazia Viene a veder la Veronica nostra, Che per l’antica fama non si sazia Ma dice nel pensier fin che si mostra: Signor mio GesÙ Cristo, Iddio verace, Or fu sÌ fatta la sembianza vostra?” etc. 32. This we may believe to have been the Vision of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, which furnished the triple argument of the Divina Commedia. The Latin words ending the Vita Nuova are almost identical with those at the close of the letter in which Dante, on concluding the Paradise, and accomplishing the hope here expressed, dedicates his great work to Can Grande della Scala. 33. “Who is blessed throughout all ages.” THE SIDDAL EDITION Volumes now Ready. THE HOUSE OF LIFE: BALLADS: THE NEW LIFE (La Vita Nuova) Small 8vo, with Photogravure Frontispieces, cloth extra, gilt edges, price 2s. 6d. per vol., net. Other Volumes are in Preparation. ELLIS AND ELVEY Transcriber's Note: Original spelling and punctuation have been preserved. Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. ******* This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 1.F. 1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem. 1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. 1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate. International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org |