The New Life (La Vita Nuova)
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._
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