The New Life (La Vita Nuova)
deal might be said on the bearings of the present passage, but
it is no part of my plan to enter on such questions.
[25] _i.e._, the languages of Provence and Tuscany.
[26] It strikes me that this curious passage furnishes a reason,
hitherto (I believe) overlooked, why Dante put such of
his lyrical poems as relate to philosophy into the form of
love-poems. He liked writing in Italian rhyme rather than
Latin metre; he thought Italian rhyme ought to be confined
to love-poems: therefore whatever he wrote (at this age)
had to take the form of a love-poem. Thus any poem by Dante
not concerning love is later than his twenty-seventh year
(1291-2), when he wrote the prose of the _Vita Nuova_; the
poetry having been written earlier, at the time of the events
referred to.
That the Latin poets have done thus, appears through Virgil, where he
saith that Juno (to wit, a goddess hostile to the Trojans) spake unto
Æolus, master of the Winds; as it is written in the first book of the
Æneid, _Æole, namque tibi, etc._; and that this master of the Winds
made reply: _Tuus, o regina, quid optes—Explorare labor, mihi jussa
capessere fas est._ And through the same poet, the inanimate thing
speaketh unto the animate, in the third book of the Æneid, where it is
written: _Dardanidæ duri, etc._ With Lucan, the animate thing speaketh
to the inanimate; as thus: _Multum, Roma, tamen debes civilibus armis._
In Horace, man is made to speak to his own intelligence as unto another
person; (and not only hath Horace done this, but herein he followeth
the excellent Homer), as thus in his Poetics: _Dic mihi, Musa, virum,
etc._ Through Ovid, Love speaketh as a human creature, in the beginning
of his discourse _De Remediis Amoris_: as thus: _Bella mihi, video,
bella parantur, ait._ By which ensamples this thing shall be made
manifest unto such as may be offended at any part of this my book.
And lest some of the common sort should be moved to jeering hereat, I
will here add, that neither did these ancient poets speak thus without
consideration, nor should they who are makers of rhyme in our day
write after the same fashion, having no reason in what they write; for
it were a shameful thing if one should rhyme under the semblance of
metaphor or rhetorical similitude, and afterwards, being questioned
thereof, should be unable to rid his words of such semblance, unto
their right understanding. Of whom, (to wit, of such as rhyme thus
foolishly,) myself and the first among my friends do know many.
But returning to the matter of my discourse. This excellent lady, of
whom I spake in what hath gone before, came at last into such favour
with all men, that when she passed anywhere folk ran to behold her;
which thing was a deep joy to me: and when she drew near unto any, so
much truth and simpleness entered into his heart, that he dared neither
to lift his eyes nor to return her salutation: and unto this, many who
have felt it can bear witness. She went along crowned and clothed with
humility, showing no whit of pride in all that she heard and saw: and
when she had gone by, it was said of many, “This is not a woman, but
one of the beautiful angels of Heaven:” and there were some that said:
“This is surely a miracle; blessed be the Lord, who hath power to work
thus marvellously.” I say, of very sooth, that she showed herself so
gentle and so full of all perfection, that she bred in those who looked
upon her a soothing quiet beyond any speech; neither could any look
upon her without sighing immediately. These things, and things yet
more wonderful, were brought to pass through her miraculous virtue.
Wherefore I, considering thereof and wishing to resume the endless tale
of her praises, resolved to write somewhat wherein I might dwell on her
surpassing influence; to the end that not only they who had beheld her,
but others also, might know as much concerning her as words could give
to the understanding. And it was then that I wrote this sonnet:—
My lady looks so gentle and so pure
When yielding salutation by the way,
That the tongue trembles and has nought to say,
And the eyes, which fain would see, may not endure.
And still, amid the praise she hears secure,
She walks with humbleness for her array;
Seeming a creature sent from Heaven to stay
On earth, and show a miracle made sure.
She is so pleasant in the eyes of men
That through the sight the inmost heart doth gain
A sweetness which needs proof to know it by:
And from between her lips there seems to move
A soothing essence that is full of love,
Saying for ever to the spirit, “Sigh!”
This sonnet is so easy to understand, from what is afore narrated,
that it needs no division; and therefore, leaving it, I say also that
this excellent lady came into such favour with all men, that not only
she herself was honoured and commended, but through her companionship,
honour and commendation came unto others. Wherefore I, perceiving this,
and wishing that it should also be made manifest to those that beheld
it not, wrote the sonnet here following; wherein is signified the power
which her virtue had upon other ladies:—
For certain he hath seen all perfectness
Who among other ladies hath seen mine:
They that go with her humbly should combine
To thank their God for such peculiar grace.
So perfect is the beauty of her face
That it begets in no wise any sign
Of envy, but draws round her a clear line
Of love, and blessed faith, and gentleness.
Merely the sight of her makes all things bow:
Not she herself alone is holier
Than all; but hers, through her, are raised above.
From all her acts such lovely graces flow
That truly one may never think of her
Without a passion of exceeding love.
_This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say in what company this
lady appeared most wondrous. In the second, I say how gracious was
her society. In the third, I tell of the things which she, with power,
worked upon others. The second begins here, “They that go with her;”
the third here, “So perfect.” This last part divides into three. In
the first, I tell what she operated upon women, that is, by their own
faculties. In the second, I tell what she operated in them through
others. In the third, I say how she not only operated in women, but in
all people; and not only while herself present, but, by memory of her,
operated wondrously. The second begins here, “Merely the sight;” the
third here, “From all her acts.”_
Thereafter on a day, I began to consider that which I had said of my
lady: to wit, in these two sonnets aforegone: and becoming aware that
I had not spoken of her immediate effect on me at that especial time,
it seemed to me that I had spoken defectively. Whereupon I resolved
to write somewhat of the manner wherein I was then subject to her
influence, and of what her influence then was. And conceiving that
I should not be able to say these things in the small compass of a
sonnet, I began therefore a poem with this beginning:—
Love hath so long possessed me for his own
And made his lordship so familiar
That he, who at first irked me, is now grown
Unto my heart as its best secrets are.
And thus, when he in such sore wise doth mar
My life that all its strength seems gone from it,
Mine inmost being then feels throughly quit
Of anguish, and all evil keeps afar.
Love also gathers to such power in me
That my sighs speak, each one a grievous thing,
Always soliciting
My lady’s salutation piteously.
Whenever she beholds me, it is so,
Who is more sweet than any words can show.
* * * * *
* * * * *
_Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi vidua domina
gentium!_[27]
[27] “How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people!
how is she become as a widow, she that was great among the
nations!”—_Lamentations of Jeremiah_, i. I.
I was still occupied with this poem, (having composed thereof only
the above-written stanza,) when the Lord God of justice called my most
gracious lady unto Himself, that she might be glorious under the banner
of that blessed Queen Mary, whose name had always a deep reverence in
the words of holy Beatrice. And because haply it might be found good
that I should say somewhat concerning her departure, I will herein
declare what are the reasons which make that I shall not do so.
And the reasons are three. The first is, that such matter belongeth
not of right to the present argument, if one consider the opening of
this little book. The second is, that even though the present argument
required it, my pen doth not suffice to write in a fit manner of this
thing. And the third is, that were it both possible and of absolute
necessity, it would still be unseemly for me to speak thereof, seeing
that thereby it must behove me to speak also mine own praises: a thing
that in whosoever doeth it is worthy of blame. For the which reasons,
I will leave this matter to be treated of by some other than myself.
Nevertheless, as the number nine, which number hath often had mention
in what hath gone before, (and not, as it might appear, without
reason,) seems also to have borne a part in the manner of her death:
it is therefore right that I should say somewhat thereof. And for
this cause, having first said what was the part it bore herein, I
will afterwards point out a reason which made that this number was so
closely allied unto my lady.
I say, then, that according to the division of time in Italy, her most
noble spirit departed from among us in the first hour of the ninth day
of the month; and according to the division of time in Syria, in the
ninth month of the year: seeing that Tismim, which with us is October,
is there the first month. Also she was taken from among us in that
year of our reckoning (to wit, of the years of our Lord) in which the
perfect number was nine times multiplied within that century wherein
she was born into the world: which is to say, the thirteenth century of
Christians.[28]
[28] Beatrice Portinari will thus be found to have died during the
first hour of the 9th of June, 1290. And from what Dante says
at the commencement of this work, (viz., that she was younger
than himself by eight or nine months,) it may also be gathered
that her age, at the time of her death, was twenty-four
years and three months. The “perfect number” mentioned in the
present passage is the number ten.
And touching the reason why this number was so closely allied unto
her, it may peradventure be this. According to Ptolemy (and also to
the Christian verity), the revolving heavens are nine; and according to
the common opinion among astrologers, these nine heavens together have
influence over the earth. Wherefore it would appear that this number
was thus allied unto her for the purpose of signifying that, at her
birth, all these nine heavens were at perfect unity with each other
as to their influence. This is one reason that may be brought: but
more narrowly considering, and according to the infallible truth, this
number was her own self: that is to say, by similitude. As thus. The
number three is the root of the number nine; seeing that without the
interposition of any other number, being multiplied merely by itself,
it produceth nine, as we manifestly perceive that three times three
are nine. Thus, three being of itself the efficient of nine, and the
Great Efficient of Miracles being of Himself Three Persons (to wit: