The New Life · Dante Alighieri
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!”
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 complaisaùnce.” _This poem has two parts. In the first, speaking to a person undefined, I tell how I was aroused from a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and how I promised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say how I told them. The second part begins here, “I was a-thinking.” The first part divides into two. In the first, I tell that which certain ladies, and which one singly, did and said because of my phantasy, before I had returned into my right senses. In the second, I tell what these ladies said to me after I had left off this wandering: and it begins here, “But uttered in a voice.” Then, when I say, “I was a-thinking,” I say how I told them this 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.”
_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 _sì_,[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 _sì_: 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.
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.
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]
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._
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.