The New Life (La Vita Nuova)
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]
[19] It is difficult not to connect Dante’s agony at this
wedding-feast with our knowledge that in her twenty-first year
Beatrice was wedded to Simone de’ Bardi. That she herself was
the bride on this occasion might seem out of the question,
from the fact of its not being in any way so stated: but on
the other hand, Dante’s silence throughout the _Vita Nuova_
as regards her marriage (which must have brought deep sorrow
even to his ideal love) is so startling, that we might almost
be led to conceive in this passage the only intimation of it
which he thought fit to give.
Afterwards, leaving him, I went back to the room where I had wept
before; and again weeping and ashamed, said: “If this lady but knew
of my condition, I do not think that she would thus mock at me; nay,
I am sure that she must needs feel some pity.” And in my weeping I
bethought me to write certain words, in the which, speaking to her, I
should signify the occasion of my disfigurement, telling her also how
I knew that she had no knowledge thereof: which, if it were known, I
was certain must move others to pity. And then, because I hoped that
peradventure it might come into her hearing, I wrote this sonnet:—
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.” And when she had spoken these words, not she
only, but all they that were with her, began to observe me, waiting