The New Life (La Vita Nuova)
Most tenderly, “O let us comfort him:”
Then unto me: “What dream
Was thine, that it hath shaken thee so much?”
And when I was a little comforted,
“This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,” I said.
“I was a-thinking how life fails with us
Suddenly after such a little while;
When Love sobb’d in my heart, which is his home.
Whereby my spirit wax’d so dolorous
That in myself I said, with sick recoil:
‘Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.’
And therewithal such a bewilderment
Possess’d me, that I shut mine eyes for peace;
And in my brain did cease
Order of thought, and every healthful thing.
Afterwards, wandering
Amid a swarm of doubts that came and went,
Some certain women’s faces hurried by,
And shriek’d to me, ‘Thou too shalt die, shalt die!’
“Then saw I many broken hinted sights
In the uncertain state I stepp’d into.
Meseem’d to be I know not in what place,
Where ladies through the street, like mournful lights,
Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten’d you
By their own terror, and a pale amaze:
The while, little by little, as I thought,
The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather,
And each wept at the other;
And birds dropp’d in mid-flight out of the sky;
And earth shook suddenly;
And I was ’ware of one, hoarse and tired out,
Who ask’d of me: ‘Hast thou not heard it said?...
Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.’
“Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came,
I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna,
In a long flight flying back Heavenward;
Having a little cloud in front of them,
After the which they went and said, ‘Hosanna;’
And if they had said more, you should have heard.
Then Love said, ‘Now shall all things be made clear:
Come and behold our lady where she lies.’
These ’wildering phantasies
Then carried me to see my lady dead.
Even as I there was led,
Her ladies with a veil were covering her;
And with her was such very humbleness
That she appeared to say, ‘I am at peace.’
“And I became so humble in my grief,
Seeing in her such deep humility,
That I said: ‘Death, I hold thee passing good
Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,
Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee:
Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood.
Lo! I do so desire to see thy face
That I am like as one who nears the tomb;
My soul entreats thee, Come.’
Then I departed, having made my moan;
And when I was alone
I said, and cast my eyes to the High Place:
‘Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!’
... Just then you woke me, of your complaisaùnce.”
_This poem has two parts. In the first, speaking to a person undefined,
I tell how I was aroused from a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and
how I promised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say how I
told them. The second part begins here, “I was a-thinking.” The first
part divides into two. In the first, I tell that which certain ladies,
and which one singly, did and said because of my phantasy, before I had
returned into my right senses. In the second, I tell what these ladies
said to me after I had left off this wandering: and it begins here,
“But uttered in a voice.” Then, when I say, “I was a-thinking,” I say
how I told them this my imagination; and concerning this I have two
parts. In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination. In the second,
saying at what time they called me, I covertly thank them: and this
part begins here, “Just then you woke me.”_
After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, as I sat thoughtful,
that I was taken with such a strong trembling at the heart, that it
could not have been otherwise in the presence of my lady. Whereupon I
perceived that there was an appearance of Love beside me, and I seemed
to see him coming from my lady; and he said, not aloud but within my
heart: “Now take heed that thou bless the day when I entered into thee;
for it is fitting that thou shouldst do so.” And with that my heart was
so full of gladness, that I could hardly believe it to be of very truth
mine own heart and not another.
A short while after these words which my heart spoke to me with the
tongue of Love, I saw coming towards me a certain lady who was very
famous for her beauty, and of whom that friend whom I have already
called the first among my friends had long been enamoured. This lady’s
right name was Joan; but because of her comeliness (or at least it
was so imagined) she was called of many _Primavera_ (Spring), and
went by that name among them. Then looking again, I perceived that
the most noble Beatrice followed after her. And when both these ladies
had passed by me, it seemed to me that Love spake again in my heart,
saying: “She that came first was called Spring, only because of that
which was to happen on this day. And it was I myself who caused that
name to be given her; seeing that as the Spring cometh first in the
year, so should she come first on this day,[21] when Beatrice was to
show herself after the vision of her servant. And even if thou go about
to consider her right name, it is also as one should say, ‘She shall
come first;’ inasmuch as her name, Joan, is taken from that John who
went before the True Light, saying: ‘_Ego vox clamantis in deserto:
Parate viam Domini._’”[22] And also it seemed to me that he added other
words, to wit: “He who should inquire delicately touching this matter,
could not but call Beatrice by mine own name, which is to say, Love;
beholding her so like unto me.”
[21] There is a play in the original upon the words _Primavera_
(Spring) and _prima verrà_ (she shall come first), to which I
have given as near an equivalent as I could.
[22] “I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare ye
the way of the Lord.’”
Then I, having thought of this, imagined to write it with rhymes and
send it unto my chief friend; but setting aside certain words[23] which
seemed proper to be set aside, because I believed that his heart still
regarded the beauty of her that was called Spring.
[23] That is (as I understand it), suppressing, from delicacy
towards his friend, the words in which Love describes Joan as
merely the forerunner of Beatrice. And perhaps in the latter
part of this sentence a reproach is gently conveyed to the
fickle Guido Cavalcanti, who may already have transferred his
homage (though Dante had not then learned it) from Joan to
Mandetta.
And I wrote this sonnet:—
I felt a spirit of love begin to stir
Within my heart, long time unfelt till then;
And saw Love coming towards me, fair and fain
(That I scarce knew him for his joyful cheer),
Saying, “Be now indeed my worshipper!”
And in his speech he laugh’d and laugh’d again.
Then, while it was his pleasure to remain,
I chanced to look the way he had drawn near,
And saw the Ladies Joan and Beatrice
Approach me, this the other following,
One and a second marvel instantly.
And even as now my memory speaketh this,
Love spake it then: “The first is christen’d Spring;
The second Love, she is so like to me.”
_This sonnet has many parts: whereof the first tells how I felt
awakened within my heart the accustomed tremor, and how it seemed that
Love appeared to me joyful from afar. The second says how it appeared
to me that Love spake within my heart, and what was his aspect. The
third tells how, after he had in such wise been with me a space, I saw
and heard certain things. The second part begins here, “Saying, ‘Be
now;’” the third here, “Then, while it was his pleasure.” The third
part divides into two. In the first, I say what I saw. In the second,
I say what I heard; and it begins here, “Love spake it then.”_
It might be here objected unto me, (and even by one worthy of
controversy,) that I have spoken of Love as though it were a thing
outward and visible: not only a spiritual essence, but as a bodily
substance also. The which thing, in absolute truth, is a fallacy;
Love not being of itself a substance, but an accident of substance.
Yet that I speak of Love as though it were a thing tangible and even
human, appears by three things which I say thereof. And firstly, I
say that I perceived Love coming towards me; whereby, seeing that _to
come_ bespeaks locomotion, and seeing also how philosophy teacheth us
that none but a corporeal substance hath locomotion, it seemeth that
I speak of Love as of a corporeal substance. And secondly, I say that
Love smiled: and thirdly, that Love spake; faculties (and especially
the risible faculty) which appear proper unto man: whereby it further
seemeth that I speak of Love as of a man. Now that this matter may be
explained (as is fitting), it must first be remembered that anciently
they who wrote poems of Love wrote not in the vulgar tongue, but
rather certain poets in the Latin tongue. I mean, among us, although
perchance the same may have been among others, and although likewise,
as among the Greeks, they were not writers of spoken language, but
men of letters, treated of these things.[24] And indeed it is not a
great number of years since poetry began to be made in the vulgar
tongue; the writing of rhymes in spoken language corresponding to
the writing in metre of Latin verse, by a certain analogy. And I say
that it is but a little while, because if we examine the language of
_oco_ and the language of _sì_,[25] we shall not find in those tongues
any written thing of an earlier date than the last hundred and fifty
years. Also the reason why certain of a very mean sort obtained at
the first some fame as poets is, that before them no man had written
verses in the language of _sì_: and of these, the first was moved to
the writing of such verses by the wish to make himself understood of
a certain lady, unto whom Latin poetry was difficult. This thing is
against such as rhyme concerning other matters than love; that mode of
speech having been first used for the expression of love alone.[26]
Wherefore, seeing that poets have a license allowed them that is not
allowed unto the writers of prose, and seeing also that they who write
in rhyme are simply poets in the vulgar tongue, it becomes fitting and
reasonable that a larger license should be given to these than to other
modern writers; and that any metaphor or rhetorical similitude which
is permitted unto poets, should also be counted not unseemly in the
rhymers of the vulgar tongue. Thus, if we perceive that the former have
caused inanimate things to speak as though they had sense and reason,
and to discourse one with another; yea, and not only actual things,
but such also as have no real existence, (seeing that they have made
things which are not, to speak; and oftentimes written of those which
are merely accidents as though they were substances and things human);
it should therefore be permitted to the latter to do the like; which
is to say, not inconsiderately, but with such sufficient motive as may
afterwards be set forth in prose.
[24] On reading Dante’s treatise _De Vulgari Eloquio_, it will
be found that the distinction which he intends here is not
between one language, or dialect, and another; but between
“vulgar speech” (that is, the language handed down from mother
to son without any conscious use of grammar or syntax), and
language as regulated by grammarians and the laws of literary
composition, and which Dante calls simply “Grammar.” A great