The New Life (La Vita Nuova) Part 4

_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 s.p.a.ce, 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 a.n.a.logy. And I say that it is but a little while, because if we examine the language of _oco_ and the language of _s_,[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 _s_: 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 deal might be said on the bearings of the present pa.s.sage, 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 pa.s.sage 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 G.o.ddess hostile to the Trojans) spake unto aeolus, master of the Winds; as it is written in the first book of the aeneid, _aeole, 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 aeneid, where it is written: _Dardanidae 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 surpa.s.sing 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion 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 compa.s.s 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sage 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: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit), which, being Three, are also One:-this lady was accompanied by the number nine to the end that men might clearly perceive her to be a nine, that is, a miracle, whose only root is the Holy Trinity. It may be that a more subtile person would find for this thing a reason of greater subtilty: but such is the reason that I find, and that liketh me best.

After this most gracious creature had gone out from among us, the whole city came to be as it were widowed and despoiled of all dignity.

Then I, left mourning in this desolate city, wrote unto the princ.i.p.al persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning its condition; taking for my commencement those words of Jeremias: _Quomodo sedet sola civitas!

etc._ And I make mention of this, that none may marvel wherefore I set down these words before, in beginning to treat of her death. Also if any should blame me, in that I do not transcribe that epistle whereof I have spoken, I will make it mine excuse that I began this little book with the intent that it should be written altogether in the vulgar tongue; wherefore, seeing that the epistle I speak of is in Latin, it belongeth not to mine undertaking: more especially as I know that my chief friend, for whom I write this book, wished also that the whole of it should be in the vulgar tongue.

When mine eyes had wept for some while, until they were so weary with weeping that I could no longer through them give ease to my sorrow, I bethought me that a few mournful words might stand me instead of tears.

And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein of her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my spirit; and I then began "The eyes that weep."

_That this poem may seem to remain the more widowed at its close, I will divide it before writing it; and this method I will observe henceforward. I say that this poor little poem has three parts. The first is a prelude. In the second, I speak of her. In the third, I speak pitifully to the poem. The second begins here, "Beatrice is gone up;" the third here, "Weep, pitiful Song of mine." The first divides into three. In the first, I say what moves me to speak. In the second, I say to whom I mean to speak. In the third, I say of whom I mean to speak. The second begins here, "And because often, thinking;" the third here, "And I will say." Then, when I say, "Beatrice is gone up," I speak of her; and concerning this I have two parts. First, I tell the cause why she was taken away from us: afterwards, I say how one weeps her parting; and this part commences here, "Wonderfully." This part divides into three. In the first, I say who it is that weeps her not.

In the second, I say who it is that doth weep her. In the third, I speak of my condition. The second begins here, "But sighing comes, and grief;" the third, "With sighs." Then, when I say, "Weep, pitiful Song of mine," I speak to this my song, telling it what ladies to go to, and stay with._

The eyes that weep for pity of the heart Have wept so long that their grief languisheth, And they have no more tears to weep withal: And now, if I would ease me of a part Of what, little by little, leads to death, It must be done by speech, or not at all.

And because often, thinking, I recall How it was pleasant, ere she went afar, To talk of her with you, kind damozels, I talk with no one else, But only with such hearts as women's are.

And I will say,-still sobbing as speech fails,- That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly, And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.

Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven, The kingdom where the angels are at peace; And lives with them; and to her friends is dead.

Not by the frost of winter was she driven Away, like others; nor by summer-heats; But through a perfect gentleness, instead.

For from the lamp of her meek lowlihead Such an exceeding glory went up hence That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire, Until a sweet desire Entered Him for that lovely excellence, So that He bade her to Himself aspire; Counting this weary and most evil place Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.

Wonderfully out of the beautiful form Soared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while; And is in its first home, there where it is.

Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm Upon his face, must have become so vile As to be dead to all sweet sympathies.

Out upon him! an abject wretch like this May not imagine anything of her,- He needs no bitter tears for his relief.

But sighing comes, and grief, And the desire to find no comforter, (Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief), To him who for a while turns in his thought How she hath been among us, and is not.

With sighs my bosom always laboureth In thinking, as I do continually, Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace; And very often when I think of death, Such a great inward longing comes to me That it will change the colour of my face; And, if the idea settles in its place, All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit: Till, starting up in wild bewilderment, I do become so shent That I go forth, lest folk mis...o...b.. of it.

Afterward, calling with a sore lament On Beatrice, I ask, "Canst thou be dead?"

And calling on her, I am comforted.

Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs, Come to me now whene'er I am alone; So that I think the sight of me gives pain.

And what my life hath been, that living dies, Since for my lady the New Birth's begun, I have not any language to explain.

And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain, I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus.

All joy is with my bitter life at war; Yea, I am fallen so far That all men seem to say, "Go out from us,"

Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are.

But she, though I be bowed unto the dust, Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.

Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way, To the dames going and the damozels For whom and for none else Thy sisters have made music many a day.

Thou, that art very sad and not as they, Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.

After I had written this poem, I received the visit of a friend whom I counted as second unto me in the degrees of friendship, and who, moreover, had been united by the nearest kindred to that most gracious creature. And when we had a little spoken together, he began to solicit me that I would write somewhat in memory of a lady who had died; and he disguised his speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another who was but lately dead: wherefore I, perceiving that his speech was of none other than that blessed one herself, told him that it should be done as he required. Then afterwards, having thought thereof, I imagined to give vent in a sonnet to some part of my hidden lamentations; but in such sort that it might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine, to whom I was to give it. And the sonnet saith thus: "Stay now with me,"

etc.

_This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I relate my miserable condition. The second begins here, "Mark how they force."_