The New Life (La Vita Nuova)
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 blessèd presence doth enrich
The only home that well befitteth her:
And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all
Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech
That mourns its joy and its joy’s minister.
But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me who he was to whom
I was to give it, that it might appear to be his speech, it seemed
to me that this was but a poor and barren gift for one of her so near
kindred. Wherefore, before giving him this sonnet, I wrote two stanzas
of a poem: the first being written in very sooth as though it were
spoken by him, but the other being mine own speech, albeit, unto one
who should not look closely, they would both seem to be said by the
same person. Nevertheless, 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