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The Siddal Edition

THE NEW LIFE

(LA VITA NUOVA)

of

DANTE ALIGHIERI

Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti







Ellis and Elvey
London
1899

Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.




_PREFATORY NOTE_


Dante Gabriel Rossetti, being the son of an Italian who was greatly
immersed in the study of Dante Alighieri, and who produced a Comment on
the _Inferno_, and other books relating to Dantesque literature, was
from his earliest childhood familiar with the name of the stupendous
Florentine, and to some extent aware of the range and quality of his
writings. Nevertheless--or perhaps indeed it may have been partly on
that very account--he did not in those opening years read Dante to
any degree worth mentioning: he was well versed in Shakespeare, Walter
Scott, Byron, and some other writers, years before he applied himself
to Dante. He may have been fourteen years of age, or even fifteen (May
1843), before he took seriously to the author of the _Divina Commedia_.
He then read him eagerly, and with the profoundest admiration and
delight; and from the _Commedia_ he proceeded to the lyrical poems and
the _Vita Nuova_. I question whether he ever read--unless in the most
cursory way--other and less fascinating writings of Alighieri, such as
the _Convito_ and the _De Monarchia_.

From reading, Rossetti went on to translating. He translated at an
early age, chiefly between 1845 and 1849, a great number of poems by
the Italians contemporary with Dante, or preceding him; and, among
other things, he made a version of the whole _Vita Nuova_, prose
and verse. This may possibly have been the first important thing
that he translated from the Italian: if not the first, still less
was it the last, and it may well be that his rendering of the book
was completed within the year 1846, or early in 1847. He did not, of
course, leave his version exactly as it had come at first: on the
contrary, he took counsel with friends (Alfred Tennyson among the
number), toned down crudities and juvenilities, and worked to make the
whole thing impressive and artistic--for in such matters he was much
more chargeable with over-fastidiousness than with laxity. Still, the
work, as we now have it, is essentially the work of those adolescent
years--from time to time reconsidered and improved, but not transmuted.

Some few years after producing his translation of the _Vita Nuova_,
Rossetti was desirous of publishing it, and of illustrating the volume
with etchings from various designs, which he had meanwhile done, of
incidents in the story. This project, however, had to be laid aside,
owing to want of means, and the etchings were never undertaken. It was
only in 1861 that the volume named _The Early Italian Poets_, including
the translated _Vita Nuova_, was brought out: the same volume, with
a change in the arrangement of its contents, was reissued in 1874,
entitled _Dante and his Circle_. This book, in its original form, was
received with favour, and settled the claim of Rossetti to rank as a
poetic translator, or indeed as a poet in his own right.

For _The Early Italian Poets_ he wrote a Preface, from which a passage,
immediately relating to the _Vita Nuova_, is extracted in the present
edition. There are some other passages, affecting the whole of the
translations in that volume, which deserve to be borne in mind, as
showing the spirit in which he undertook the translating work, and I
give them here:--

"The life-blood of rhythmical translation is this commandment--that a
good poem shall not be turned into a bad one. The only true motive for
putting poetry into a fresh language must be to endow a fresh nation,
as far as possible, with one more possession of beauty. Poetry not
being an exact science, literality of rendering is altogether secondary
to this chief law. I say _literality_,--not fidelity, which is by no
means the same thing. When literality can be combined with what is thus
the primary condition of success, the translator is fortunate, and must
strive his utmost to unite them; when such object can only be obtained
by paraphrase, that is his only path. Any merit possessed by these
translations is derived from an effort to follow this principle.... The
task of the translator (and with all humility be it spoken) is one of
some self-denial. Often would he avail himself of any special grace of
his own idiom and epoch, if only his will belonged to him: often would
some cadence serve him but for his author's structure--some structure
but for his author's cadence: often the beautiful turn of a stanza must
be weakened to adopt some rhyme which will tally, and he sees the poet
revelling in abundance of language where himself is scantily supplied.
Now he would slight the matter for the music, and now the music for the
matter; but no, he must deal to each alike. Sometimes too a flaw in the
work galls him, and he would fain remove it, doing for the poet that
which his age denied him; but no, it is not in the bond."

It may be as well to explain here a very small share which I myself
took in the _Vita Nuova_ translation. When the volume _The Early
Italian Poets_ was in preparation, my brother asked me (January
1861) to aid by "collating my _Vita Nuova_ with the original, and
amending inaccuracies." He defined the work further as follows: "What
I want is that you should correct my translation throughout, removing
inaccuracies and mannerisms. And, if you have time, it would be a great
service to translate the analyses of the poems (which I omitted).
This, however, if you think it desirable to include them. I did not
at the time (on ground of readableness), but since think they may be
desirable: only have become so unfamiliar with the book that I have
no distinct opinion." On January 25th he wrote: "Many and many thanks
for a most essential service most thoroughly performed. I have not yet
verified the whole of the notes, but I see they are just what I needed,
and will save me a vast amount of trouble. I should very much wish that
the translation were more literal, but cannot do it all again. _My_
notes, which you have taken the trouble of revising, are, of course,
quite paltry and useless."

In order that the reader may judge as to this question of literality, I
will give here the literal Englishing of the Sonnet at p. 38, and the
paragraph which precedes it (I take the passage quite at random), and
the reader can, if he likes, compare this rendering with that which
appears in Dante Rossetti's text:--

"After the departure of this gentlewoman it was the pleasure of the
Lord of the Angels to call to His glory a lady young and much of
noble[1] aspect, who was very graceful in this aforesaid city: whose
body I saw lying without the soul amid many ladies, who were weeping
very piteously. Then, remembering that erewhile I had seen her keeping
company with that most noble one, I could not withhold some tears.
Indeed, weeping, I purposed to speak certain words about her death,
in guerdon of my having at some whiles seen her with my lady. And
somewhat of this I referred to in the last part of the words which I
spoke of her, as manifestly appears to him who understands them: and
then I composed these two Sonnets--of which the first begins, 'Weep,
lovers'--the second, 'Villain Death.'

  [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.

"Weep, lovers, since Love weeps,--hearkening what cause makes him
wail: Love hears ladies invoking pity, showing bitter grief outwardly
by the eyes; because villain Death has set his cruel working upon a
noble heart, ruining that which in a noble lady is to be praised in the
world, apart from honour. Hear how much Love did her honouring; for I
saw him lamenting in very person over the dead seemly image: and often
he gazed towards heaven, wherein was already settled the noble soul who
had been a lady of such gladsome semblance."

It would be out of place to enter here into any detailed observations
upon the _Vita Nuova_, its meaning, and the literature which has grown
out of it. I will merely name, as obvious things for the English reader
to consult, the translation which was made by Sir Theodore Martin; the
essay by Professor C. Eliot Norton; the translations published by Dr.
Garnett in his book entitled _Dante, Petrarch, Camoens, 124 Sonnets_,
along with the remarks in his valuable _History of Italian Literature_;
Scartazzini's _Companion to Dante_; and the publications of the Rev.
Dr. Moore, the foremost of our living Dante scholars.

                                                     W. M. ROSSETTI.

    _August 1899._




_INTRODUCTION._


The _Vita Nuova_ (the Autobiography or Autopsychology of Dante's youth
till about his twenty-seventh year) is already well known to many in
the original, or by means of essays and of English versions partial or
entire. It is therefore, and on all accounts, unnecessary to say much
more of the work here than it says for itself. Wedded to its exquisite
and intimate beauties are personal peculiarities which excite wonder
and conjecture, best replied to in the words which Beatrice herself
is made to utter in the _Commedia_: "Questi _fu tal_ nella sua vita
nuova."[2] Thus then young Dante _was_. All that seemed possible to be
done here for the work was to translate it in as free and clear a form
as was consistent with fidelity to its meaning; and to ease it, as far
as possible, from notes and encumbrances.

  [2] "Purgatorio," C. xxx.

It may be noted here how necessary a knowledge of the _Vita Nuova_
is to the full comprehension of the part borne by Beatrice in the
_Commedia_. Moreover, it is only from the perusal of its earliest and
then undivulged self-communings that we can divine the whole bitterness
of wrong to such a soul as Dante's, its poignant sense of abandonment,
or its deep and jealous refuge in memory. Above all, it is here that we
find the first manifestations of that wisdom of obedience, that natural
breath of duty, which afterwards, in the _Commedia_, lifted up a mighty
voice for warning and testimony. Throughout the _Vita Nuova_ there is
a strain like the first falling murmur which reaches the ear in some
remote meadow, and prepares us to look upon the sea.

Boccaccio, in his Life of Dante, tells us that the great poet, in later
life, was ashamed of this work of his youth. Such a statement hardly
seems reconcilable with the allusions to it made or implied in the
_Commedia_; but it is true that the _Vita Nuova_ is a book which only
youth could have produced, and which must chiefly remain sacred to
the young; to each of whom the figure of Beatrice, less lifelike than
lovelike, will seem the friend of his own heart. Nor is this, perhaps,
its least praise. To tax its author with effeminacy on account of the
extreme sensitiveness evinced by this narrative of his love, would be
manifestly unjust, when we find that, though love alone is the theme of
the _Vita Nuova_, war already ranked among its author's experiences at
the period to which it relates. In the year 1289, the one preceding the
death of Beatrice, Dante served with the foremost cavalry in the great
battle of Campaldino, on the eleventh of June, when the Florentines
defeated the people of Arezzo. In the autumn of the next year, 1290,
when for him, by the death of Beatrice, the city as he says "sat
solitary," such refuge as he might find from his grief was sought in
action and danger: for we learn from the _Commedia_ (Hell, C. xxi.)
that he served in the war then waged by Florence upon Pisa, and was
present at the surrender of Caprona. He says, using the reminiscence to
give life to a description, in his great way:--

    "I've seen the troops out of Caprona go
      On terms, affrighted thus, when on the spot
    They found themselves with foemen compass'd so."

                                         (CAYLEY'S _Translation_.)

A word should be said here of the title of Dante's autobiography.
The adjective _Nuovo_, _nuova_, or _Novello_, _novella_, literally
_New_, is often used by Dante and other early writers in the sense of
_young_. This has induced some editors of the _Vita Nuova_ to explain
the title as meaning _Early Life_. I should be glad on some accounts
to adopt this supposition, as everything is a gain which increases
clearness to the modern reader; but on consideration I think the more
mystical interpretation of the words, as _New Life_ (in reference to
that revulsion of his being which Dante so minutely describes as having
occurred simultaneously with his first sight of Beatrice), appears
the primary one, and therefore the most necessary to be given in a
translation. The probability may be that both were meant, but this I
cannot convey.[3]

  [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 fu 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.




DANTE ALIGHIERI




THE NEW LIFE.

(LA VITA NUOVA.)


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_.[4] Under
such rubric I find written many things; and among them the words which
I purpose to copy into this little book; if not all of them, at the
least their substance.

  [4] "Here beginneth the new life."

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 not wherefore.[5] She had
already been in this life for so long as that, within her time, the
starry heaven had moved towards the Eastern quarter one of the twelve
parts of a degree; so that she appeared to me at the beginning of her
ninth year almost, and I saw her almost at the end of my ninth year.
Her dress, on that day, was of a most noble colour, a subdued and
goodly crimson, girdled and adorned in such sort as best suited with
her very tender age. At that moment, I say most truly that the spirit
of life, which hath its dwelling in the secretest chamber of the heart,
began to tremble so violently that the least pulses of my body shook
therewith; and in trembling it said these words: _Ecce deus fortior
me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi._[6] At that moment the animate
spirit, which dwelleth in the lofty chamber whither all the senses
carry their perceptions, was filled with wonder, and speaking more
especially unto the spirits of the eyes, said these words: _Apparuit
jam beatitudo vestra._[7] At that moment the natural spirit, which
dwelleth there where our nourishment is administered, began to weep,
and in weeping said these words: _Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus
ero deinceps._[8]

  [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!"

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 oftentimes commanded
me to seek if I might see this youngest of the Angels: wherefore I in
my boyhood often went in search of her, and found her so noble and
praiseworthy that certainly of her might have been said those words
of the poet Homer, "She seemed not to be the daughter of a mortal man,
but of God."[9] And albeit her image, that was with me always, was an
exultation of Love to subdue me, it was yet of so perfect a quality
that it never allowed me to be overruled by Love without the faithful
counsel of reason, whensoever such counsel was useful to be heard.
But seeing that were I to dwell overmuch on the passions and doings of
such early youth, my words might be counted something fabulous, I will
therefore put them aside; and passing many things that may be conceived
by the pattern of these, I will come to such as are writ in my memory
with a better distinctness.

  [9]

                               Oude eokei
      Andros ge thnetou pais emmenai alla theoio.

                                           (_Iliad_, xxiv. 258.)

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 this most courteous lady, thinking
of whom I was overtaken by a pleasant slumber, wherein a marvellous
vision was presented to me: for there appeared to be in my room a mist
of the colour of fire, within the which I discerned the figure of a
lord of terrible aspect to such as should gaze upon him, but who seemed
therewithal to rejoice inwardly that it was a marvel to see. Speaking
he said many things, among the which I could understand but few; and
of these, this: _Ego dominus tuus._[10] In his arms it seemed to me
that a person was sleeping, covered only with a blood-coloured cloth;
upon whom looking very attentively, I knew that it was the lady of the
salutation who had deigned the day before to salute me. And he who held
her held also in his hand a thing that was burning in flames; and he
said to me, _Vide cor tuum_.[11] But when he had remained with me a
little while, I thought that he set himself to awaken her that slept;
after the which he made her to eat that thing which flamed in his hand;
and she ate as one fearing. Then, having waited again a space, all his
joy was turned into most bitter weeping; and as he wept he gathered
the lady into his arms, and it seemed to me that he went with her
up towards heaven: whereby such a great anguish came upon me that my
light slumber could not endure through it, but was suddenly broken. And
immediately having considered, I knew that the hour wherein this vision
had been made manifest to me was the fourth hour (which is to say, the
first of the nine last hours) of the night.

  [10] "I am thy master."

  [11] "Behold thy heart."

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 such as are subject unto Love, and
entreated them to expound my vision, I should write unto them those
things which I had seen in my sleep. And the sonnet I made was this:--

    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.

_This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first part I give
greeting, and ask an answer; in the second, I signify what thing has to
be answered to. The second part commences here: "Of those long hours."_

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."[12] And indeed, it was when he learned that I was he who
had sent those rhymes to him, that our friendship commenced. But the
true meaning of that vision was not then perceived by any one, though
it be now evident to the least skilful.

  [12] The friend of whom Dante here speaks was Guido Cavalcanti.

From that night forth, the natural functions of my body began to be
vexed and impeded, for I was given up wholly to thinking of this most
gracious creature: whereby in short space I became so weak and so
reduced that it was irksome to many of my friends to look upon me;
while others, being moved by spite, went about to discover what it
was my wish should be concealed. Wherefore I (perceiving the drift of
their unkindly questions), by Love's will, who directed me according
to the counsels of reason, told them how it was Love himself who had
thus dealt with me: and I said so, because the thing was so plainly to
be discerned in my countenance that there was no longer any means of
concealing it. But when they went on to ask, "And by whose help hath
Love done this?" I looked in their faces smiling, and spake no word in
return.

Now it fell on a day, that this most gracious creature was sitting
where words were to be heard of the Queen of Glory;[13] and I was in
a place whence mine eyes could behold their beatitude: and betwixt
her and me, in a direct line, there sat another lady of a pleasant
favour; who looked round at me many times, marvelling at my continued
gaze which seemed to have _her_ for its object. And many perceived
that she thus looked; so that departing thence, I heard it whispered
after me, "Look you to what a pass _such a lady_ hath brought him;"
and in saying this they named her who had been midway between the most
gentle Beatrice and mine eyes. Therefore I was reassured, and knew
that for that day my secret had not become manifest. Then immediately
it came into my mind that I might make use of this lady as a screen to
the truth: and so well did I play my part that the most of those who
had hitherto watched and wondered at me, now imagined they had found
me out. By her means I kept my secret concealed till some years were
gone over; and for my better security, I even made divers rhymes in
her honour; whereof I shall here write only as much as concerneth the
most gentle Beatrice, which is but a very little. Moreover, about the
same time while this lady was a screen for so much love on my part, I
took the resolution to set down the name of this most gracious creature
accompanied with many other women's names, and especially with hers
whom I spake of. And to this end I put together the names of sixty
of the most beautiful ladies in that city where God had placed mine
own lady; and these names I introduced in an epistle in the form of a
_sirvent_, which it is not my intention to transcribe here. Neither
should I have said anything of this matter, did I not wish to take
note of a certain strange thing, to wit: that having written the list,
I found my lady's name would not stand otherwise than ninth in order
among the names of these ladies.

  [13] _i.e._, in a church.

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[14]
thereof; the which I will write here, because it hath certain words
in it whereof my lady was the immediate cause, as will be plain to him
that understands.

  [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.

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.
    And thus it is that I, being like as one
      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 speak of: and I saw
her body lying without its soul among many ladies, who held a pitiful
weeping. Whereupon, remembering that I had seen her in the company of
excellent Beatrice, I could not hinder myself from a few tears; and
weeping, I conceived to say somewhat of her death, in guerdon of having
seen her somewhile with my lady; which thing I spake of in the latter
end of the verses that I writ in this matter, as he will discern who
understands. And I wrote two sonnets, which are these:--


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,
      Defacing all our earth should celebrate,--
    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.[15]

  [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.

_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."_

Some days after the death of this lady, I had occasion to leave
the city I speak of, and to go thitherwards where she abode who had
formerly been my protection; albeit the end of my journey reached
not altogether so far. And notwithstanding that I was visibly in the
company of many, the journey was so irksome that I had scarcely sighing
enough to ease my heart's heaviness; seeing that as I went, I left
my beatitude behind me. Wherefore it came to pass that he who ruled
me by virtue of my most gentle lady was made visible to my mind, in
the light habit of a traveller, coarsely fashioned. He appeared to me
troubled, and looked always on the ground; saving only that sometimes
his eyes were turned towards a river which was clear and rapid, and
which flowed along the path I was taking. And then I thought that Love
called me and said to me these words: "I come from that lady who was
so long thy surety; for the matter of whose return, I know that it may
not be. Wherefore I have taken that heart which I made thee leave with
her, and do bear it unto another lady, who, as she was, shall be thy
surety;" (and when he named her I knew her well). "And of these words
I have spoken, if thou shouldst speak any again, let it be in such
sort as that none shall perceive thereby that thy love was feigned for
her, which thou must now feign for another." And when he had spoken
thus, all my imagining was gone suddenly, for it seemed to me that Love
became a part of myself: so that, changed as it were in mine aspect, I
rode on full of thought the whole of that day, and with heavy sighing.
And the day being over, I wrote this sonnet:--

    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, I tell how I met Love,
and of his aspect. In the second, I tell what he said to me, although
not in full, through the fear I had of discovering my secret. In the
third, I say how he disappeared. The second part commences here, "Then
as I went;" the third here, "Wherewith so much."_

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 here it is fitting for me to depart a little from this present
matter, that it may be rightly understood of what surpassing virtue her
salutation was to me. To the which end I say that when she appeared in
any place, it seemed to me, by the hope of her excellent salutation,
that there was no man mine enemy any longer; and such warmth of charity
came upon me that most certainly in that moment I would have pardoned
whosoever had done me an injury; and if one should then have questioned
me concerning any matter, I could only have said unto him "Love," with
a countenance clothed in humbleness. And what time she made ready to
salute me, the spirit of Love, destroying all other perceptions, thrust
forth the feeble spirits of my eyes, saying, "Do homage unto your
mistress," and putting itself in their place to obey: so that he who
would, might then have beheld Love, beholding the lids of mine eyes
shake. And when this most gentle lady gave her salutation, Love, so far
from being a medium beclouding mine intolerable beatitude, then bred
in me such an overpowering sweetness that my body, being all subjected
thereto, remained many times helpless and passive. Whereby it is made
manifest that in her salutation alone was there any beatitude for me,
which then very often went beyond my endurance.

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, towards
the middle of it, I seemed to see in the room, seated at my side, a
youth in very white raiment, who kept his eyes fixed on me in deep
thought. And when he had gazed some time, I thought that he sighed and
called to me in these words: "_Fili mi, tempus est ut praetermittantur
simulata nostra._"[16] And thereupon I seemed to know him; for the
voice was the same wherewith he had spoken at other times in my sleep.
Then looking at him, I perceived that he was weeping piteously, and
that he seemed to be waiting for me to speak. Wherefore, taking heart,
I began thus: "Why weepest thou, Master of all honour?" And he made
answer to me: "_Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent
circumferentiae partes: tu autem non sic._"[17] And thinking upon his
words, they seemed to me obscure; so that again compelling myself unto
speech, I asked of him: "What thing is this, Master, that thou hast
spoken thus darkly?" To the which he made answer in the vulgar tongue:
"Demand no more than may be useful to thee." Whereupon I began to
discourse with him concerning her salutation which she had denied me;
and when I had questioned him of the cause, he said these words: "Our
Beatrice hath heard from certain persons, that the lady whom I named
to thee while thou journeyedst full of sighs is sorely disquieted by
thy solicitations: and therefore this most gracious creature, who is
the enemy of all disquiet, being fearful of such disquiet, refused to
salute thee. For the which reason (albeit, in very sooth, thy secret
must needs have become known to her by familiar observation) it is my
will that thou compose certain things in rhyme, in the which thou shalt
set forth how strong a mastership I have obtained over thee, through
her; and how thou wast hers even from thy childhood. Also do thou call
upon him that knoweth these things to bear witness to them, bidding him
to speak with her thereof; the which I, who am he, will do willingly.
And thus she shall be made to know thy desire; knowing which, she shall
know likewise that they were deceived who spake of thee to her. And so
write these things, that they shall seem rather to be spoken by a third
person; and not directly by thee to her, which is scarce fitting. After
the which, send them, not without me, where she may chance to hear
them; but have them fitted with a pleasant music, into the which I will
pass whensoever it needeth." With this speech he was away, and my sleep
was broken up.

  [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."

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:
    Wherefore, if this fault _is_ or doth but _seem_
      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 this little book itself, at a more difficult
passage, and then let him understand who now doubts, or would now
contradict as aforesaid._

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 written: _Nomina sunt consequentia rerum._"[18] And the
fourth was this: "The lady whom Love hath chosen out to govern thee is
not as other ladies, whose hearts are easily moved."

  [18] "Names are the consequents of things."

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;"
    The third one, hoping, yields me joy enough;
      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 shall have to call
upon mine enemy, my Lady Pity. "Lady" I say, as in a scornful mode
of speech. The second begins here, "Yet have between themselves;" the
third, "All of them craving;" the fourth, "And thus."_

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 bear her company when she sat down for the
first time at table in the house of her husband. Therefore I, as was
my friend's pleasure, resolved to stay with him and do honour to those
ladies.

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 place of theirs,
that so he might the better behold her. And although I was other than
at first, I grieved for the spirits so expelled, which kept up a sore
lament, saying: "If he had not in this wise thrust us forth, we also
should behold the marvel of this lady." By this, many of her friends,
having discerned my confusion, began to wonder; and together with
herself, kept whispering of me and mocking me. Whereupon my friend, who
knew not what to conceive, took me by the hands, and drawing me forth
from among them, required to know what ailed me. Then, having first
held me at quiet for a space until my perceptions were come back to me,
I made answer to my friend: "Of a surety I have now set my feet on that
point of life, beyond the which he must not pass who would return."[19]

  [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.

Afterwards, leaving him, I went back to the room where I had wept
before; and again weeping and ashamed, said: "If this lady but knew
of my condition, I do not think that she would thus mock at me; nay,
I am sure that she must needs feel some pity." And in my weeping I
bethought me to write certain words, in the which, speaking to her, I
should signify the occasion of my disfigurement, telling her also how
I knew that she had no knowledge thereof: which, if it were known, I
was certain must move others to pity. And then, because I hoped that
peradventure it might come into her hearing, I wrote this sonnet:--

    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.

_This sonnet I divide not into parts, because a division is only
made to open the meaning of the thing divided: and this, as it is
sufficiently manifest through the reasons given, has no need of
division. True it is that, amid the words whereby is shown the occasion
of this sonnet, dubious words are to be found; namely, when I say
that Love kills all my spirits, but that the visual remain in life,
only outside of their own instruments. And this difficulty it is
impossible for any to solve who is not in equal guise liege unto Love;
and, to those who are so, that is manifest which would clear up the
dubious words. And therefore it were not well for me to expound this
difficulty, inasmuch as my speaking would be either fruitless or else
superfluous._

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 scorn by
the companionship of this lady, wherefore seekest thou to behold her?
If she should ask thee this thing, what answer couldst thou make unto
her? yea, even though thou wert master of all thy faculties, and in
no way hindered from answering." Unto the which, another very humble
thought said in reply: "If I were master of all my faculties, and in
no way hindered from answering, I would tell her that no sooner do I
image to myself her marvellous beauty than I am possessed with a desire
to behold her, the which is of so great strength that it kills and
destroys in my memory all those things which might oppose it; and it
is therefore that the great anguish I have endured thereby is yet not
enough to restrain me from seeking to behold her." And then, because
of these thoughts, I resolved to write somewhat, wherein, having
pleaded mine excuse, I should tell her of what I felt in her presence.
Whereupon I wrote this sonnet:--

    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 "When
thou art near." And also this second part divides into five distinct
statements. For, in the first, I say what Love, counselled by Reason,
tells me when I am near the lady. In the second, I set forth the state
of my heart by the example of the face. In the third, I say how all
ground of trust fails me. In the fourth, I say that he sins who shows
not pity of me, which would give me some comfort. In the last, I say
why people should take pity: namely, for the piteous look which comes
into mine eyes; which piteous look is destroyed, that is, appeareth not
unto others, through the jeering of this lady, who draws to the like
action those who peradventure would see this piteousness. The second
part begins here, "My face shows;" the third, "Till, in the drunken
terror;" the fourth, "It were a grievous sin;" the fifth, "For the
great anguish."_

Thereafter, this sonnet bred in me desire to write down in verse four
other things touching my condition, the which things it seemed to me
that I had not yet made manifest. The first among these was the grief
that possessed me very often, remembering the strangeness which Love
wrought in me; the second was, how Love many times assailed me so
suddenly and with such strength that I had no other life remaining
except a thought which spake of my lady; the third was, how, when Love
did battle with me in this wise, I would rise up all colourless, if
so I might see my lady, conceiving that the sight of her would defend
me against the assault of Love, and altogether forgetting that which
her presence brought unto me; and the fourth was, how, when I saw her,
the sight not only defended me not, but took away the little life that
remained to me. And I said these four things in a sonnet, which is
this:--

    At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over
      The quality of anguish that is mine
      Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine,
    Saying, "Is any else thus, anywhere?"
    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, wherein I spake unto
my lady, telling her almost the whole of my condition, it seemed to
me that I should be silent, having said enough concerning myself. But
albeit I spake not to her again, yet it behoved me afterward to write
of another matter, more noble than the foregoing. And for that the
occasion of what I then wrote may be found pleasant in the hearing, I
will relate it as briefly as I may.

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 had not among them mine
excellent lady, I was reassured; and saluted them, asking of their
pleasure. The ladies were many; divers of whom were laughing one to
another, while divers gazed at me as though I should speak anon. But
when I still spake not, one of them, who before had been talking with
another, addressed me by my name, saying, "To what end lovest thou this
lady, seeing that thou canst not support her presence? Now tell us this
thing, that we may know it: for certainly the end of such a love must
be worthy of knowledge." And when she had spoken these words, not she
only, but all they that were with her, began to observe me, waiting
for my reply. Whereupon I said thus unto them:--"Ladies, the end and
aim of my Love was but the salutation of that lady of whom I conceive
that ye are speaking; wherein alone I found that beatitude which is
the goal of desire. And now that it hath pleased her to deny me this,
Love, my Master, of his great goodness, hath placed all my beatitude
there where my hope will not fail me." Then those ladies began to talk
closely together; and as I have seen snow fall among the rain, so was
their talk mingled with sighs. But after a little, that lady who had
been the first to address me, addressed me again in these words: "We
pray thee that thou wilt tell us wherein abideth this thy beatitude."
And answering, I said but thus much: "In those words that do praise my
lady." To the which she rejoined: "If thy speech were true, those words
that thou didst write concerning thy condition would have been written
with another intent."

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 different?" And then I resolved
that thenceforward I would choose for the theme of my writings only the
praise of this most gracious being. But when I had thought exceedingly,
it seemed to me that I had taken to myself a theme which was much
too lofty, so that I dared not begin; and I remained during several
days in the desire of speaking, and the fear of beginning. After
which it happened, as I passed one day along a path which lay beside
a stream of very clear water, that there came upon me a great desire
to say somewhat in rhyme: but when I began thinking how I should say
it, methought that to speak of her were unseemly, unless I spoke to
other ladies in the second person; which is to say, not to _any_ other
ladies, but only to such as are so called because they are gentle, let
alone for mere womanhood. Whereupon I declare that my tongue spake as
though by its own impulse, and said, "Ladies that have intelligence in
love." These words I laid up in my mind with great gladness, conceiving
to take them as my commencement. Wherefore, having returned to the city
I spake of, and considered thereof during certain days, I began a poem
with this beginning, constructed in the mode which will be seen below
in its division. The poem begins here:--

    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,
    With you alone, dear dames and damozels:
    '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-beloved, 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,
      Saying: Let any maid that would be well
        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;
    She is as high as Nature's skill can soar;
        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
    And common sort; but rather choose to be
    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 I purpose to speak so as
not to be impeded by faintheartedness. In the fourth, repeating to
whom I purpose speaking, I tell the reason why I speak to them. The
second begins here, "And I declare;" the third here, "Wherefore I will
not speak;" the fourth here, "With you alone." Then, when I say "An
Angel," I begin treating of this lady: and this part is divided into
two. In the first, I tell what is understood of her in heaven. In the
second, I tell what is understood of her on earth: here, "My lady is
desired." This second part is divided into two; for, in the first, I
speak of her as regards the nobleness of her soul, relating some of
her virtues proceeding from her soul; in the second, I speak of her
as regards the nobleness of her body, narrating some of her beauties:
here, "Love saith concerning her." This second part is divided into
two, for, in the first, I speak of certain beauties which belong to
the whole person; in the second, I speak of certain beauties which
belong to a distinct part of the person: here, "Whatever her sweet
eyes." This second part is divided into two; for, in the one, I speak
of the eyes, which are the beginning of love; in the second, I speak
of the mouth, which is the end of love. And that every vicious thought
may be discarded herefrom, let the reader remember that it is above
written that the greeting of this lady, which was an act of her mouth,
was the goal of my desires, while I could receive it. Then, when I say,
"Dear Song, I know," I add a stanza as it were handmaid to the others,
wherein I say what I desire from this my poem. And because this last
part is easy to understand, I trouble not myself with more divisions.
I say, indeed, that the further to open the meaning of this poem, more
minute divisions ought to be used; but nevertheless he who is not of
wit enough to understand it by these which have been already made is
welcome to leave it alone; for certes, I fear I have communicated its
sense to too many by these present divisions, if it so happened that
many should hear it._

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[20] in his ditty saith:
      Each, of itself, would be such life in death
    As rational soul bereft of reasoning.
    'Tis Nature makes them when she loves: a king
      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.

  [20] Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins, "Within the
       gentle heart Love shelters him."

_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 one regards
the other, as form does matter. The second begins here, "'Tis Nature."
Afterwards when I say, "Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind," I
say how this power translates itself into act; and, first, how it
so translates itself in a man, then how it so translates itself in a
woman: here, "And women feel."_

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 droops his troubled visage, full of sighs,
      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 blessed 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 here, "Humbleness." The
first is divided into three; for, in the first, I say how she with
power makes noble that which she looks upon; and this is as much as
to say that she brings Love, in power, thither where he is not. In the
second, I say how she brings Love, in act, into the hearts of all those
whom she sees. In the third, I tell what she afterwards, with virtue,
operates upon their hearts. The second begins, "Upon her path;" the
third, "He whom she greeteth." Then, when I say, "O women, help," I
intimate to whom it is my intention to speak, calling on women to help
me to honour her. Then, when I say, "Humbleness," I say that same which
is said in the first part, regarding two acts of her mouth, one whereof
is her most sweet speech, and the other her marvellous smile. Only, I
say not of this last how it operates upon the hearts of others, because
memory cannot retain this smile, nor its operation._

Not many days after this (it being the will of the most High God,
who also from Himself put not away death), the father of wonderful
Beatrice, going out of this life, passed certainly into glory. Thereby
it happened, as of very sooth it might not be otherwise, that this lady
was made full of the bitterness of grief: seeing that such a parting
is very grievous unto those friends who are left, and that no other
friendship is like to that between a good parent and a good child;
and furthermore considering that this lady was good in the supreme
degree, and her father (as by many it hath been truly averred) of
exceeding goodness. And because it is the usage of that city that men
meet with men in such a grief, and women with women, certain ladies
of her companionship gathered themselves unto Beatrice, where she kept
alone in her weeping: and as they passed in and out, I could hear them
speak concerning her, how she wept. At length two of them went by me,
who said: "Certainly she grieveth in such sort that one might die for
pity, beholding her." Then, feeling the tears upon my face, I put up
my hands to hide them: and had it not been that I hoped to hear more
concerning her (seeing that where I sat, her friends passed continually
in and out), I should assuredly have gone thence to be alone, when I
felt the tears come. But as I still sat in that place, certain ladies
again passed near me, who were saying among themselves: "Which of us
shall be joyful any more, who have listened to this lady in her piteous
sorrow?" And there were others who said as they went by me: "He that
sitteth here could not weep more if he had beheld her as we have beheld
her;" and again: "He is so altered that he seemeth not as himself." And
still as the ladies passed to and fro, I could hear them speak after
this fashion of her and of me.

Wherefore afterwards, having considered and perceiving that there was
herein matter for poesy, I resolved that I would write certain rhymes
in the which should be contained all that those ladies had said. And
because I would willingly have spoken to them if it had not been for
discreetness, I made in my rhymes as though I had spoken and they had
answered me. And thereof I wrote two sonnets; in the first of which
I addressed them as I would fain have done; and in the second related
their answer, using the speech that I had heard from them, as though it
had been spoken unto myself. And the sonnets are these:--


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,
      Bow'd with the grief that Love makes full of grace?
      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?
      For though thy voice confirms that it is thus,
    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, "Nay, leave our woe;" the fourth, "Also her
look."_

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 at the first, it seemed to me that I saw certain faces of women
with their hair loosened, which called out to me, "Thou shalt surely
die;" after the which, other terrible and unknown appearances said
unto me, "Thou art dead." At length, as my phantasy held on in its
wanderings, I came to be I knew not where, and to behold a throng of
dishevelled ladies wonderfully sad, who kept going hither and thither
weeping. Then the sun went out, so that the stars showed themselves,
and they were of such a colour that I knew they must be weeping:
and it seemed to me that the birds fell dead out of the sky, and
that there were great earthquakes. With that, while I wondered in
my trance, and was filled with a grievous fear, I conceived that a
certain friend came unto me and said: "Hast thou not heard? She that
was thine excellent lady hath been taken out of life." Then I began to
weep very piteously; and not only in mine imagination, but with mine
eyes, which were wet with tears. And I seemed to look towards Heaven,
and to behold a multitude of angels who were returning upwards, having
before them an exceedingly white cloud: and these angels were singing
together gloriously, and the words of their song were these: "_Osanna
in excelsis_;" and there was no more that I heard. Then my heart that
was so full of love said unto me: "It is true that our lady lieth
dead;" and it seemed to me that I went to look upon the body wherein
that blessed and most noble spirit had had its abiding-place. And so
strong was this idle imagining, that it made me to behold my lady in
death; whose head certain ladies seemed to be covering with a white
veil; and who was so humble of her aspect that it was as though she
had said, "I have attained to look on the beginning of peace." And
therewithal I came unto such humility by the sight of her, that I cried
out upon Death, saying: "Now come unto me, and be not bitter against
me any longer: surely, there where thou hast been, thou hast learned
gentleness. Wherefore come now unto me who do greatly desire thee:
seest thou not that I wear thy colour already?" And when I had seen
all those offices performed that are fitting to be done unto the dead,
it seemed to me that I went back unto mine own chamber, and looked up
towards Heaven. And so strong was my phantasy, that I wept again in
very truth, and said with my true voice: "O excellent soul! how blessed
is he that now looketh upon thee!"

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 she made,
(who indeed was of my very near kindred,) led her away from where I
was, and then set themselves to awaken me, thinking that I dreamed, and
saying: "Sleep no longer, and be not disquieted."

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 fear. Then I, being somewhat
reassured, and having perceived that it was a mere phantasy, said unto
them, "This thing it was that made me afeard;" and told them of all
that I had seen, from the beginning even unto the end, but without
once speaking the name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered from my
sickness, I bethought me to write these things in rhyme; deeming it a
lovely thing to be known. Whereof I wrote this poem:--

    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:
      Afterward, bending themselves over me,
      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,
      Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten'd you
        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:
    Come and behold our lady where she lies.'
    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;
      And when I was alone
        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 complaisaunce."

_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 my imagination; and concerning this I have two
parts. In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination. In the second,
saying at what time they called me, I covertly thank them: and this
part begins here, "Just then you woke me."_

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 towards me a certain lady who was very
famous for her beauty, and of whom that friend whom I have already
called the first among my friends had long been enamoured. This lady's
right name was Joan; but because of her comeliness (or at least it
was so imagined) she was called of many _Primavera_ (Spring), and
went by that name among them. Then looking again, I perceived that
the most noble Beatrice followed after her. And when both these ladies
had passed by me, it seemed to me that Love spake again in my heart,
saying: "She that came first was called Spring, only because of that
which was to happen on this day. And it was I myself who caused that
name to be given her; seeing that as the Spring cometh first in the
year, so should she come first on this day,[21] when Beatrice was to
show herself after the vision of her servant. And even if thou go about
to consider her right name, it is also as one should say, 'She shall
come first;' inasmuch as her name, Joan, is taken from that John who
went before the True Light, saying: '_Ego vox clamantis in deserto:
Parate viam Domini._'"[22] And also it seemed to me that he added other
words, to wit: "He who should inquire delicately touching this matter,
could not but call Beatrice by mine own name, which is to say, Love;
beholding her so like unto me."

  [21] There is a play in the original upon the words _Primavera_
       (Spring) and _prima verra_ (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.'"

Then I, having thought of this, imagined to write it with rhymes and
send it unto my chief friend; but setting aside certain words[23] which
seemed proper to be set aside, because I believed that his heart still
regarded the beauty of her that was called Spring.

  [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.

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.
    And even as now my memory speaketh this,
      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 by one worthy of
controversy,) that I have spoken of Love as though it were a thing
outward and visible: not only a spiritual essence, but as a bodily
substance also. The which thing, in absolute truth, is a fallacy;
Love not being of itself a substance, but an accident of substance.
Yet that I speak of Love as though it were a thing tangible and even
human, appears by three things which I say thereof. And firstly, I
say that I perceived Love coming towards me; whereby, seeing that _to
come_ bespeaks locomotion, and seeing also how philosophy teacheth us
that none but a corporeal substance hath locomotion, it seemeth that
I speak of Love as of a corporeal substance. And secondly, I say that
Love smiled: and thirdly, that Love spake; faculties (and especially
the risible faculty) which appear proper unto man: whereby it further
seemeth that I speak of Love as of a man. Now that this matter may be
explained (as is fitting), it must first be remembered that anciently
they who wrote poems of Love wrote not in the vulgar tongue, but
rather certain poets in the Latin tongue. I mean, among us, although
perchance the same may have been among others, and although likewise,
as among the Greeks, they were not writers of spoken language, but
men of letters, treated of these things.[24] And indeed it is not a
great number of years since poetry began to be made in the vulgar
tongue; the writing of rhymes in spoken language corresponding to
the writing in metre of Latin verse, by a certain analogy. And I say
that it is but a little while, because if we examine the language of
_oco_ and the language of _si_,[25] we shall not find in those tongues
any written thing of an earlier date than the last hundred and fifty
years. Also the reason why certain of a very mean sort obtained at
the first some fame as poets is, that before them no man had written
verses in the language of _si_: and of these, the first was moved to
the writing of such verses by the wish to make himself understood of
a certain lady, unto whom Latin poetry was difficult. This thing is
against such as rhyme concerning other matters than love; that mode of
speech having been first used for the expression of love alone.[26]
Wherefore, seeing that poets have a license allowed them that is not
allowed unto the writers of prose, and seeing also that they who write
in rhyme are simply poets in the vulgar tongue, it becomes fitting and
reasonable that a larger license should be given to these than to other
modern writers; and that any metaphor or rhetorical similitude which
is permitted unto poets, should also be counted not unseemly in the
rhymers of the vulgar tongue. Thus, if we perceive that the former have
caused inanimate things to speak as though they had sense and reason,
and to discourse one with another; yea, and not only actual things,
but such also as have no real existence, (seeing that they have made
things which are not, to speak; and oftentimes written of those which
are merely accidents as though they were substances and things human);
it should therefore be permitted to the latter to do the like; which
is to say, not inconsiderately, but with such sufficient motive as may
afterwards be set forth in prose.

  [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.

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
Aeolus, master of the Winds; as it is written in the first book of the
Aeneid, _Aeole, namque tibi, etc._; and that this master of the Winds
made reply: _Tuus, o regina, quid optes--Explorare labor, mihi jussa
capessere fas est._ And through the same poet, the inanimate thing
speaketh unto the animate, in the third book of the Aeneid, where it is
written: _Dardanidae duri, etc._ With Lucan, the animate thing speaketh
to the inanimate; as thus: _Multum, Roma, tamen debes civilibus armis._
In Horace, man is made to speak to his own intelligence as unto another
person; (and not only hath Horace done this, but herein he followeth
the excellent Homer), as thus in his Poetics: _Dic mihi, Musa, virum,
etc._ Through Ovid, Love speaketh as a human creature, in the beginning
of his discourse _De Remediis Amoris_: as thus: _Bella mihi, video,
bella parantur, ait._ By which ensamples this thing shall be made
manifest unto such as may be offended at any part of this my book.
And lest some of the common sort should be moved to jeering hereat, I
will here add, that neither did these ancient poets speak thus without
consideration, nor should they who are makers of rhyme in our day
write after the same fashion, having no reason in what they write; for
it were a shameful thing if one should rhyme under the semblance of
metaphor or rhetorical similitude, and afterwards, being questioned
thereof, should be unable to rid his words of such semblance, unto
their right understanding. Of whom, (to wit, of such as rhyme thus
foolishly,) myself and the first among my friends do know many.

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: and unto this, many who
have felt it can bear witness. She went along crowned and clothed with
humility, showing no whit of pride in all that she heard and saw: and
when she had gone by, it was said of many, "This is not a woman, but
one of the beautiful angels of Heaven:" and there were some that said:
"This is surely a miracle; blessed be the Lord, who hath power to work
thus marvellously." I say, of very sooth, that she showed herself so
gentle and so full of all perfection, that she bred in those who looked
upon her a soothing quiet beyond any speech; neither could any look
upon her without sighing immediately. These things, and things yet
more wonderful, were brought to pass through her miraculous virtue.
Wherefore I, considering thereof and wishing to resume the endless tale
of her praises, resolved to write somewhat wherein I might dwell on her
surpassing influence; to the end that not only they who had beheld her,
but others also, might know as much concerning her as words could give
to the understanding. And it was then that I wrote this sonnet:--

    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!"

This sonnet is so easy to understand, from what is afore narrated,
that it needs no division; and therefore, leaving it, I say also that
this excellent lady came into such favour with all men, that not only
she herself was honoured and commended, but through her companionship,
honour and commendation came unto others. Wherefore I, perceiving this,
and wishing that it should also be made manifest to those that beheld
it not, wrote the sonnet here following; wherein is signified the power
which her virtue had upon other ladies:--

    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
    Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.
    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
all people; and not only while herself present, but, by memory of her,
operated wondrously. The second begins here, "Merely the sight;" the
third here, "From all her acts."_

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!_[27]

  [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.

I was still occupied with this poem, (having composed thereof only
the above-written stanza,) when the Lord God of justice called my most
gracious lady unto Himself, that she might be glorious under the banner
of that blessed Queen Mary, whose name had always a deep reverence in
the words of holy Beatrice. And because haply it might be found good
that I should say somewhat concerning her departure, I will herein
declare what are the reasons which make that I shall not do so.

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 me to speak also mine own praises: a thing
that in whosoever doeth it is worthy of blame. For the which reasons,
I will leave this matter to be treated of by some other than myself.

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. Also she was taken from among us in that
year of our reckoning (to wit, of the years of our Lord) in which the
perfect number was nine times multiplied within that century wherein
she was born into the world: which is to say, the thirteenth century of
Christians.[28]

  [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.

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 earth. Wherefore it would appear that this number
was thus allied unto her for the purpose of signifying that, at her
birth, all these nine heavens were at perfect unity with each other
as to their influence. This is one reason that may be brought: but
more narrowly considering, and according to the infallible truth, this
number was her own self: that is to say, by similitude. As thus. The
number three is the root of the number nine; seeing that without the
interposition of any other number, being multiplied merely by itself,
it produceth nine, as we manifestly perceive that three times three
are nine. Thus, three being of itself the efficient of nine, and the
Great Efficient of Miracles being of Himself Three Persons (to wit:
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit), which, being Three, are also
One:--this lady was accompanied by the number nine to the end that men
might clearly perceive her to be a nine, that is, a miracle, whose
only root is the Holy Trinity. It may be that a more subtile person
would find for this thing a reason of greater subtilty: but such is the
reason that I find, and that liketh me best.

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 epistle I speak of is in Latin, it
belongeth not to mine undertaking: more especially as I know that my
chief friend, for whom I write this book, wished also that the whole of
it should be in the vulgar tongue.

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 here, "Weep, pitiful Song of mine." The first divides
into three. In the first, I say what moves me to speak. In the second,
I say to whom I mean to speak. In the third, I say of whom I mean to
speak. The second begins here, "And because often, thinking;" the third
here, "And I will say." Then, when I say, "Beatrice is gone up," I
speak of her; and concerning this I have two parts. First, I tell the
cause why she was taken away from us: afterwards, I say how one weeps
her parting; and this part commences here, "Wonderfully." This part
divides into three. In the first, I say who it is that weeps her not.
In the second, I say who it is that doth weep her. In the third, I
speak of my condition. The second begins here, "But sighing comes, and
grief;" the third, "With sighs." Then, when I say, "Weep, pitiful Song
of mine," I speak to this my song, telling it what ladies to go to, and
stay with._

    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.
    Not by the frost of winter was she driven
      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
    May not imagine anything of her,--
      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
    That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it.
      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.
    Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way,
      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 required. Then afterwards, having thought thereof, I imagined to
give vent in a sonnet to some part of my hidden lamentations; but in
such sort that it might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine, to
whom I was to give it. And the sonnet saith thus: "Stay now with me,"
etc.

_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),
    To weep and let the smothered anguish rise.
    Also in sighing ye shall hear me call
      On her whose blessed 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, looking closely, one must perceive that it
is not so, inasmuch as one does not call this most gracious creature
_his lady_, and the other does, as is manifestly apparent. And I gave
the poem and the sonnet unto my friend, saying that I had made them
only for him.

_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
        That I say, Soul of mine, why stayest thou?
        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;
      That so she spreads even there
    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."[29]

  [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.

Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to mine
occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels: in doing which, I
conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and
to address my rhymes unto those who had just left me. It was then that
I wrote the sonnet which saith, "That lady;" and as this sonnet hath
two commencements, it behoveth me to divide it with both of them here.

_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 manner is it divided with the other beginning,
save that, in the first part, I tell when this lady had thus come into
my mind, and this I say not in the other._

    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 though they also felt pity for themselves, it
came to pass that mine eyes began to be inclined unto tears. Wherefore,
becoming fearful lest I should make manifest mine abject condition,
I rose up, and went where I could not be seen of that lady; saying
afterwards within myself: "Certainly with her also must abide most
noble Love." And with that, I resolved upon writing a sonnet, wherein,
speaking unto her, I should say all that I have just said. And as this
sonnet is very evident, I will not divide it:--

    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.
    Therefore I went out from thee; feeling how
      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 begins, "Love's pallor," and
which is plain without being divided, by its exposition aforesaid:--

    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 eyes began to be
gladdened overmuch with her company; through which thing many times
I had much unrest, and rebuked myself as a base person: also, many
times I cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes, and said to them
inwardly: "Was not your grievous condition of weeping wont one while
to make others weep? And will ye now forget this thing because a lady
looketh upon you? who so looketh merely in compassion of the grief ye
then showed for your own blessed lady. But whatso ye can, that do ye,
accursed eyes! many a time will I make you remember it! for never, till
death dry you up, should ye make an end of your weeping." And when
I had spoken thus unto mine eyes, I was taken again with extreme and
grievous sighing. And to the end that this inward strife which I had
undergone might not be hidden from all saving the miserable wretch who
endured it, I proposed to write a sonnet, and to comprehend in it this
horrible condition. And I wrote this which begins, "The very bitter
weeping."

_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 remembered
      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
      My mind to fears, and makes me tremble thus
        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 imagining?" Also there was another voice within me,
that said: "And wilt thou, having suffered so much tribulation through
Love, not escape while yet thou mayst from so much bitterness? Thou
must surely know that this thought carries with it the desire of Love,
and drew its life from the gentle eyes of that lady who vouchsafed
thee so much pity." Wherefore I, having striven sorely and very often
with myself, bethought me to say somewhat thereof in rhyme. And seeing
that in the battle of doubts, the victory most often remained with such
as inclined towards the lady of whom I speak, it seemed to me that I
should address this sonnet unto her: in the first line whereof, I call
that thought which spake of her a gentle thought, only because it spoke
of one who was gentle; being of itself most vile.[30]

  [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.

_In this sonnet I make myself into two, according as my thoughts
were divided, one from the other. The one part I call Heart, that is,
appetite; the other, Soul, that is, reason; and I tell what one saith
to the other. And that it is fitting to call the appetite Heart, and
the reason Soul, is manifest enough to them to whom I wish this to be
open. True it is that, in the preceding sonnet, I take the part of
the Heart against the Eyes; and that appears contrary to what I say
in the present; and therefore I say that, there also, by the Heart I
mean appetite, because yet greater was my desire to remember my most
gentle lady than to see this other, although indeed I had some appetite
towards her, but it appeared slight: wherefrom it appears that the one
statement is not contrary to the other. This sonnet has three parts. In
the first, I begin to say to this lady how my desires turn all towards
her. In the second, I say how the Soul, that is, the reason, speaks to
the Heart, that is, to the appetite. In the third, I say how the latter
answers. The second begins here, "And what is this?" the third here,
"And the heart answers."_

    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
    Can drive all other thoughts by its strange art?"
    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 let itself
be possessed during so many days, contrary to the constancy of reason.

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 to shame and evil: from which things it will appear
that they were fitly guerdoned for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore
I, (wishing that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and vain
temptations should be certified and made manifest, beyond all doubts
which might have been suggested by the rhymes aforewritten) proposed to
write a sonnet wherein I should express this purport. And I then wrote,
"Woe's me!"

_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:
      They wept till they are circled now by Love
    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,[31] (upon which countenance my dear lady now
looketh continually). And certain among these pilgrims, who seemed very
thoughtful, passed by a path which is well-nigh in the midst of the
city where my most gracious lady was born, and abode, and at last died.

  [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. xxi. 103), where he says:--

      "Qual e 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 Gesu Cristo, Iddio verace,
        Or fu si fatta la sembianza vostra?" etc.

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 us, they would in some wise seem
disturbed, passing through this city which is so full of grief." And
I said also: "If I could speak with them a space, I am certain that I
should make them weep before they went forth of this city; for those
things that they would hear from me must needs beget weeping in any."

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 the House of St. James. For there are three
separate denominations proper unto those who undertake journeys to the
glory of God. They are called Palmers who go beyond the seas eastward,
whence often they bring palm-branches. And Pilgrims, as I have said,
are they who journey unto the holy House of Gallicia; seeing that no
other apostle was buried so far from his birthplace as was the blessed
Saint James. And there is a third sort who are called Romers; in that
they go whither these whom I have called pilgrims went: which is to
say, unto Rome.

_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--
    That this our heavy sorrow leaves you free
      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. Therefore
I made a sonnet, which narrates my condition, and which I caused to be
conveyed to them, accompanied by the one preceding, and with that other
which begins, "Stay now with me and listen to my sighs." And the new
sonnet is, "Beyond the sphere."

_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 weak
against the sun; and this the Philosopher says in the Second of the
Metaphysics. In the fifth, I say that, although I cannot see there
whither my thought carries me--that is, to her admirable essence--I at
least understand this, namely, that it is a thought of my lady, because
I often hear her name therein. And, at the end of this fifth part,
I say, "Ladies mine," to show that they are ladies to whom I speak.
The second part begins, "A new perception;" the third, "When it hath
reached;" the fourth, "It sees her such;" the fifth, "And yet I know."
It might be divided yet more nicely, and made yet clearer; but this
division may pass, and therefore I stay not to divide it further._

    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.
    When it hath reached unto the end, and stays,
      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:[32] wherein I saw things which determined me that
I would say nothing further of this most blessed one, until such time
as I could discourse more worthily concerning her. And to this end I
labour all I can; as she well knoweth. Wherefore if it be His pleasure
through whom is the life of all things, that my life continue with me
a few years, it is my hope that I shall yet write concerning her what
hath not before been written of any woman. After the which, may it
seem good unto Him who is the Master of Grace, that my spirit should go
hence to behold the glory of its lady: to wit, of that blessed Beatrice
who now gazeth continually on His countenance _qui est per omnia saecula
benedictus_.[33] _Laus Deo._

  [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 END.




                           THE SIDDAL EDITION
                                   OF
                        D. G. ROSSETTI'S WORKS.


                           Volumes now Ready.

          THE HOUSE OF LIFE:
                   A Sonnet Sequence.

          BALLADS: Rose Mary;
                   The White Ship;
                   The King's Tragedy.

          THE NEW LIFE (La Vita Nuova)
          Of DANTE ALIGHIERI.

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Transcriber's note:

Original spelling and punctuation have been preserved.

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.



***