The New Life (La Vita Nuova)
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 rememberèd
If I, on my part, foully would combine
With you, and not recall each ancient sign
Of grief, and her for whom your tears were shed
It is your fickleness that doth betray
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