The New Life · Dante Alighieri
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.
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 prætermittantur 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 circumferentiæ 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._
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]
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.”
Ideas discussed in this chapter
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.