The New Life (La Vita Nuova)
and, in the third, I say this same as to that most noble feature, her
mouth. And between these two sections is a little section, which asks,
as it were, help for the previous section and the subsequent; and it
begins here, “O women, help.” The third begins here, “Humbleness.” The
first is divided into three; for, in the first, I say how she with
power makes noble that which she looks upon; and this is as much as
to say that she brings Love, in power, thither where he is not. In the
second, I say how she brings Love, in act, into the hearts of all those
whom she sees. In the third, I tell what she afterwards, with virtue,
operates upon their hearts. The second begins, “Upon her path;” the
third, “He whom she greeteth.” Then, when I say, “O women, help,” I
intimate to whom it is my intention to speak, calling on women to help
me to honour her. Then, when I say, “Humbleness,” I say that same which
is said in the first part, regarding two acts of her mouth, one whereof
is her most sweet speech, and the other her marvellous smile. Only, I
say not of this last how it operates upon the hearts of others, because
memory cannot retain this smile, nor its operation._
Not many days after this (it being the will of the most High God,
who also from Himself put not away death), the father of wonderful
Beatrice, going out of this life, passed certainly into glory. Thereby
it happened, as of very sooth it might not be otherwise, that this lady
was made full of the bitterness of grief: seeing that such a parting
is very grievous unto those friends who are left, and that no other
friendship is like to that between a good parent and a good child;
and furthermore considering that this lady was good in the supreme
degree, and her father (as by many it hath been truly averred) of
exceeding goodness. And because it is the usage of that city that men
meet with men in such a grief, and women with women, certain ladies
of her companionship gathered themselves unto Beatrice, where she kept
alone in her weeping: and as they passed in and out, I could hear them
speak concerning her, how she wept. At length two of them went by me,
who said: “Certainly she grieveth in such sort that one might die for
pity, beholding her.” Then, feeling the tears upon my face, I put up
my hands to hide them: and had it not been that I hoped to hear more
concerning her (seeing that where I sat, her friends passed continually
in and out), I should assuredly have gone thence to be alone, when I
felt the tears come. But as I still sat in that place, certain ladies
again passed near me, who were saying among themselves: “Which of us
shall be joyful any more, who have listened to this lady in her piteous
sorrow?” And there were others who said as they went by me: “He that
sitteth here could not weep more if he had beheld her as we have beheld
her;” and again: “He is so altered that he seemeth not as himself.” And
still as the ladies passed to and fro, I could hear them speak after
this fashion of her and of me.
Wherefore afterwards, having considered and perceiving that there was
herein matter for poesy, I resolved that I would write certain rhymes
in the which should be contained all that those ladies had said. And
because I would willingly have spoken to them if it had not been for
discreetness, I made in my rhymes as though I had spoken and they had
answered me. And thereof I wrote two sonnets; in the first of which
I addressed them as I would fain have done; and in the second related
their answer, using the speech that I had heard from them, as though it
had been spoken unto myself. And the sonnets are these:—
I.
You that thus wear a modest countenance
With lids weigh’d down by the heart’s heaviness,
Whence come you, that among you every face
Appears the same, for its pale troubled glance?
Have you beheld my lady’s face, perchance,
Bow’d with the grief that Love makes full of grace?
Say now, “This thing is thus;” as my heart says,
Marking your grave and sorrowful advance.
And if indeed you come from where she sighs
And mourns, may it please you (for his heart’s relief)
To tell how it fares with her unto him
Who knows that you have wept, seeing your eyes,
And is so grieved with looking on your grief
That his heart trembles and his sight grows dim.
_This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I call and ask
these ladies whether they come from her, telling them that I think they
do, because they return the nobler. In the second, I pray them to tell
me of her; and the second begins here, “And if indeed.”_
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!”
And as I said these words, with a painful anguish of sobbing and
another prayer unto Death, a young and gentle lady, who had been
standing beside me where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out
because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with trembling and
began to shed tears. Whereby other ladies, who were about the room,
becoming aware of my discomfort by reason of the moan that she made,
(who indeed was of my very near kindred,) led her away from where I
was, and then set themselves to awaken me, thinking that I dreamed, and
saying: “Sleep no longer, and be not disquieted.”
Then, by their words, this strong imagination was brought suddenly to
an end, at the moment that I was about to say, “O Beatrice! peace be
with thee.” And already I had said, “O Beatrice!” when being aroused,
I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had been a deception. But albeit
I had indeed uttered her name, yet my voice was so broken with sobs,
that it was not understood by these ladies; so that in spite of the
sore shame that I felt, I turned towards them by Love’s counselling.
And when they beheld me, they began to say, “He seemeth as one dead,”
and to whisper among themselves, “Let us strive if we may not comfort
him.” Whereupon they spake to me many soothing words, and questioned
me moreover touching the cause of my fear. Then I, being somewhat
reassured, and having perceived that it was a mere phantasy, said unto
them, “This thing it was that made me afeard;” and told them of all
that I had seen, from the beginning even unto the end, but without
once speaking the name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered from my
sickness, I bethought me to write these things in rhyme; deeming it a
lovely thing to be known. Whereof I wrote this poem:—
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