The New Life (La Vita Nuova) Part 5

Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs, Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do.

Mark how they force their way out and press through; If they be once pent up, the whole life dies.

Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes Oftener refuse than I can tell to you (Even though my endless grief is ever new), To weep and let the smothered anguish rise.

Also in sighing ye shall hear me call On her whose blessed presence doth enrich The only home that well befitteth her: And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech That mourns its joy and its joy's minister.

But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me who he was to whom I was to give it, that it might appear to be his speech, it seemed to me that this was but a poor and barren gift for one of her so near kindred. Wherefore, before giving him this sonnet, I wrote two stanzas of a poem: the first being written in very sooth as though it were spoken by him, but the other being mine own speech, albeit, unto one who should not look closely, they would both seem to be said by the same person. Nevertheless, looking closely, one must perceive that it is not so, inasmuch as one does not call this most gracious creature _his lady_, and the other does, as is manifestly apparent. And I gave the poem and the sonnet unto my friend, saying that I had made them only for him.

_The poem begins, "Whatever while," and has two parts. In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this my dear friend, her kinsman, laments. In the second, I lament; that is, in the other stanza, which begins, "For ever." And thus it appears that in this poem two persons lament, of whom one laments as a brother, the other as a servant._

Whatever while the thought comes over me That I may not again Behold that lady whom I mourn for now, About my heart my mind brings constantly So much of extreme pain That I say, Soul of mine, why stayest thou?

Truly the anguish, Soul, that we must bow Beneath, until we win out of this life, Gives me full oft a fear that trembleth: So that I call on Death Even as on Sleep one calleth after strife, Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grim And bare; and if one dies, I envy him.

For ever, among all my sighs which burn, There is a piteous speech That clamours upon death continually: Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turn Since first his hand did reach My lady's life with most foul cruelty.

But from the height of woman's fairness, she, Going up from us with the joy we had, Grew perfectly and spiritually fair; That so she spreads even there A light of Love which makes the Angels glad, And even unto their subtle minds can bring A certain awe of profound marvelling.

On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets.

And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome, and that they were observing what I did: also I learned afterwards that they had been there a while before I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation, and said: "Another was with me."[29]

[29] Thus according to some texts. The majority, however, add the words, "And therefore was I in thought:" but the shorter speech is perhaps the more forcible and pathetic.

Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to mine occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels: in doing which, I conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and to address my rhymes unto those who had just left me. It was then that I wrote the sonnet which saith, "That lady;" and as this sonnet hath two commencements, it behoveth me to divide it with both of them here.

_I say that, according to the first, this sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say that this lady was then in my memory. In the second, I tell what Love therefore did with me. In the third, I speak of the effects of Love. The second begins here, "Love knowing;" the third here, "Forth went they." This part divides into two. In the one, I say that all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say how some spoke certain words different from the others. The second begins here, "And still." In this same manner is it divided with the other beginning, save that, in the first part, I tell when this lady had thus come into my mind, and this I say not in the other._

That lady of all gentle memories Had lighted on my soul;-whose new abode Lies now, as it was well ordained of G.o.d, Among the poor in heart, where Mary is.

Love, knowing that dear image to be his, Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow'd, Unto the sighs which are its weary load Saying, "Go forth." And they went forth, I wis; Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached; With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone.

And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath Came whispering thus: "O n.o.ble intellect!

It is a year to-day that thou art gone."

Second Commencement.

That lady of all gentle memories Had lighted on my soul;-for whose sake flow'd The tears of Love; in whom the power abode Which led you to observe while I did this.

Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc.

Then, having sat for some s.p.a.ce sorely in thought because of the time that was now past, I was so filled with dolorous imaginings that it became outwardly manifest in mine altered countenance. Whereupon, feeling this and being in dread lest any should have seen me, I lifted mine eyes to look; and then perceived a young and very beautiful lady, who was gazing upon me from a window with a gaze full of pity, so that the very sum of pity appeared gathered together in her. And seeing that unhappy persons, when they beget compa.s.sion in others, are then most moved unto weeping, as though they also felt pity for themselves, it came to pa.s.s that mine eyes began to be inclined unto tears. Wherefore, becoming fearful lest I should make manifest mine abject condition, I rose up, and went where I could not be seen of that lady; saying afterwards within myself: "Certainly with her also must abide most n.o.ble Love." And with that, I resolved upon writing a sonnet, wherein, speaking unto her, I should say all that I have just said. And as this sonnet is very evident, I will not divide it:-

Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring Into thy countenance immediately A while agone, when thou beheldst in me The sickness only hidden grief can bring; And then I knew thou wast considering How abject and forlorn my life must be; And I became afraid that thou shouldst see My weeping, and account it a base thing.

Therefore I went out from thee; feeling how The tears were straightway loosened at my heart Beneath thine eyes' compa.s.sionate control.

And afterwards I said within my soul: "Lo! with this lady dwells the counterpart Of the same Love who holds me weeping now."

It happened after this, that whensoever I was seen of this lady, she became pale and of a piteous countenance, as though it had been with love; whereby she remembered me many times of my own most n.o.ble lady, who was wont to be of a like paleness. And I know that often, when I could not weep nor in any way give ease unto mine anguish, I went to look upon this lady, who seemed to bring the tears into my eyes by the mere sight of her. Of the which thing I bethought me to speak unto her in rhyme, and then made this sonnet: which begins, "Love's pallor," and which is plain without being divided, by its exposition aforesaid:-

Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth Were never yet shown forth so perfectly In any lady's face, chancing to see Grief's miserable countenance uncouth, As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe, When in mine anguish thou hast looked on me; Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee, My heart might almost wander from its truth.

Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyes From gazing very often upon thine In the sore hope to shed those tears they keep; And at such time, thou mak'st the pent tears rise Even to the brim, till the eyes waste and pine; Yet cannot they, while thou art present, weep.

At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mine eyes began to be gladdened overmuch with her company; through which thing many times I had much unrest, and rebuked myself as a base person: also, many times I cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes, and said to them inwardly: "Was not your grievous condition of weeping wont one while to make others weep? And will ye now forget this thing because a lady looketh upon you? who so looketh merely in compa.s.sion of the grief ye then showed for your own blessed lady. But whatso ye can, that do ye, accursed eyes! many a time will I make you remember it! for never, till death dry you up, should ye make an end of your weeping." And when I had spoken thus unto mine eyes, I was taken again with extreme and grievous sighing. And to the end that this inward strife which I had undergone might not be hidden from all saving the miserable wretch who endured it, I proposed to write a sonnet, and to comprehend in it this horrible condition. And I wrote this which begins, "The very bitter weeping."

_The sonnet has two parts. In the first, I speak to my eyes, as my heart spoke within myself. In the second, I remove a difficulty, showing who it is that speaks thus: and this part begins here, "So far." It well might receive other divisions also; but this would be useless, since it is manifest by the preceding exposition._

"The very bitter weeping that ye made So long a time together, eyes of mine, Was wont to make the tears of pity shine In other eyes full oft, as I have said.

But now this thing were scarce remembered If I, on my part, foully would combine With you, and not recall each ancient sign Of grief, and her for whom your tears were shed It is your fickleness that doth betray My mind to fears, and makes me tremble thus What while a lady greets me with her eyes.

Except by death, we must not any way Forget our lady who is gone from us."

So far doth my heart utter, and then sighs.

The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted a condition that I often thought of her as of one too dear unto me; and I began to consider her thus: "This lady is young, beautiful, gentle, and wise; perchance it was Love himself who set her in my path, that so my life might find peace." And there were times when I thought yet more fondly, until my heart consented unto its reasoning. But when it had so consented, my thought would often turn round upon me, as moved by reason, and cause me to say within myself: "What hope is this which would console me after so base a fashion, and which hath taken the place of all other imagining?" Also there was another voice within me, that said: "And wilt thou, having suffered so much tribulation through Love, not escape while yet thou mayst from so much bitterness? Thou must surely know that this thought carries with it the desire of Love, and drew its life from the gentle eyes of that lady who vouchsafed thee so much pity." Wherefore I, having striven sorely and very often with myself, bethought me to say somewhat thereof in rhyme. And seeing that in the battle of doubts, the victory most often remained with such as inclined towards the lady of whom I speak, it seemed to me that I should address this sonnet unto her: in the first line whereof, I call that thought which spake of her a gentle thought, only because it spoke of one who was gentle; being of itself most vile.[30]

[30] Boccaccio tells us that Dante was married to Gemma Donati about a year after the death of Beatrice. Can Gemma then be "the lady of the window," his love for whom Dante so contemns?

Such a pa.s.sing conjecture (when considered together with the interpretation of this pa.s.sage in Dante's later work, the _Convito_) would of course imply an admission of what I believe to lie at the heart of all true Dantesque commentary; that is, the existence always of the actual events even where the allegorical superstructure has been raised by Dante himself.

_In this sonnet I make myself into two, according as my thoughts were divided, one from the other. The one part I call Heart, that is, appet.i.te; the other, Soul, that is, reason; and I tell what one saith to the other. And that it is fitting to call the appet.i.te Heart, and the reason Soul, is manifest enough to them to whom I wish this to be open. True it is that, in the preceding sonnet, I take the part of the Heart against the Eyes; and that appears contrary to what I say in the present; and therefore I say that, there also, by the Heart I mean appet.i.te, because yet greater was my desire to remember my most gentle lady than to see this other, although indeed I had some appet.i.te towards her, but it appeared slight: wherefrom it appears that the one statement is not contrary to the other. This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I begin to say to this lady how my desires turn all towards her. In the second, I say how the Soul, that is, the reason, speaks to the Heart, that is, to the appet.i.te. In the third, I say how the latter answers. The second begins here, "And what is this?" the third here, "And the heart answers."_

A gentle thought there is will often start, Within my secret self, to speech of thee: Also of Love it speaks so tenderly That much in me consents and takes its part.

"And what is this," the soul saith to the heart, "That cometh thus to comfort thee and me, And thence where it would dwell, thus potently Can drive all other thoughts by its strange art?"

And the heart answers: "Be no more at strife 'Twixt doubt and doubt: this is Love's messenger And speaketh but his words, from him received; And all the strength it owns and all the life It draweth from the gentle eyes of her Who, looking on our grief, hath often grieved."

But against this adversary of reason, there rose up in me on a certain day, about the ninth hour, a strong visible phantasy, wherein I seemed to behold the most gracious Beatrice, habited in that crimson raiment which she had worn when I had first beheld her; also she appeared to me of the same tender age as then. Whereupon I fell into a deep thought of her: and my memory ran back, according to the order of time, unto all those matters in the which she had borne a part; and my heart began painfully to repent of the desire by which it had so basely let itself be possessed during so many days, contrary to the constancy of reason.

And then, this evil desire being quite gone from me, all my thoughts turned again unto their excellent Beatrice. And I say most truly that from that hour I thought constantly of her with the whole humbled and ashamed heart; the which became often manifest in sighs, that had among them the name of that most gracious creature, and how she departed from us. Also it would come to pa.s.s very often, through the bitter anguish of some one thought, that I forgot both it, and myself, and where I was. By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which before had been somewhat lessened, increased in like manner; so that mine eyes seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and came at last to be circled about with red as though they had suffered martyrdom: neither were they able to look again upon the beauty of any face that might again bring them to shame and evil: from which things it will appear that they were fitly guerdoned for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I, (wishing that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and vain temptations should be certified and made manifest, beyond all doubts which might have been suggested by the rhymes aforewritten) proposed to write a sonnet wherein I should express this purport. And I then wrote, "Woe's me!"

_I said, "Woe's me!" because I was ashamed of the trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide, since its purport is manifest enough._

Woe's me! by dint of all these sighs that come Forth of my heart, its endless grief to prove, Mine eyes are conquered, so that even to move Their lids for greeting is grown troublesome.

They wept so long that now they are grief's home, And count their tears all laughter far above: They wept till they are circled now by Love With a red circle in sign of martyrdom.

These musings, and the sighs they bring from me, Are grown at last so constant and so sore That love swoons in my spirit with faint breath; Hearing in those sad sounds continually The most sweet name that my dead lady bore, With many grievous words touching her death.

About this time, it happened that a great number of persons undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they might behold that blessed portraiture bequeathed unto us by our Lord Jesus Christ as the image of His beautiful countenance,[31] (upon which countenance my dear lady now looketh continually). And certain among these pilgrims, who seemed very thoughtful, pa.s.sed by a path which is well-nigh in the midst of the city where my most gracious lady was born, and abode, and at last died.

[31] The Veronica (_Vera icon_, or true image); that is, the napkin with which a woman was said to have wiped our Saviour's face on His way to the cross, and which miraculously retained its likeness. Dante makes mention of it also in the _Commedia_ (Parad. xxi. 103), where he says:-

"Qual e colui che forse di Croazia Viene a veder la Veronica nostra, Che per l'antica fama non si sazia Ma dice nel pensier fin che si mostra: Signor mio Gesu Cristo, Iddio verace, Or fu s fatta la sembianza vostra?" etc.

Then I, beholding them, said within myself: "These pilgrims seem to be come from very far; and I think they cannot have heard speak of this lady, or know anything concerning her. Their thoughts are not of her, but of other things; it may be, of their friends who are far distant, and whom we, in our turn, know not." And I went on to say: "I know that if they were of a country near unto us, they would in some wise seem disturbed, pa.s.sing through this city which is so full of grief." And I said also: "If I could speak with them a s.p.a.ce, I am certain that I should make them weep before they went forth of this city; for those things that they would hear from me must needs beget weeping in any."

And when the last of them had gone by me, I bethought me to write a sonnet, showing forth mine inward speech; and that it might seem the more pitiful, I made as though I had spoken it indeed unto them. And I wrote this sonnet, which beginneth: "Ye pilgrim-folk." I made use of the word _pilgrim_ for its general signification; for "pilgrim" may be understood in two senses, one general, and one special. General, so far as any man may be called a pilgrim who leaveth the place of his birth; whereas, more narrowly speaking, he only is a pilgrim who goeth towards or frowards the House of St. James. For there are three separate denominations proper unto those who undertake journeys to the glory of G.o.d. They are called Palmers who go beyond the seas eastward, whence often they bring palm-branches. And Pilgrims, as I have said, are they who journey unto the holy House of Gallicia; seeing that no other apostle was buried so far from his birthplace as was the blessed Saint James. And there is a third sort who are called Romers; in that they go whither these whom I have called pilgrims went: which is to say, unto Rome.

_This sonnet is not divided, because its own words sufficiently declare it._

Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensively As if in thought of distant things, I pray, Is your own land indeed so far away- As by your aspect it would seem to be- That this our heavy sorrow leaves you free Though pa.s.sing through the mournful town midway; Like unto men that understand to-day Nothing at all of her great misery?

Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost, And listen to my words a little s.p.a.ce, At going ye shall mourn with a loud voice.

It is her Beatrice that she hath lost; Of whom the least word spoken holds such grace That men weep hearing it, and have no choice.

A while after these things, two gentle ladies sent unto me, praying that I would bestow upon them certain of these my rhymes. And I (taking into account their worthiness and consideration) resolved that I would write also a new thing, and send it them together with those others, to the end that their wishes might be more honourably fulfilled. Therefore I made a sonnet, which narrates my condition, and which I caused to be conveyed to them, accompanied by the one preceding, and with that other which begins, "Stay now with me and listen to my sighs." And the new sonnet is, "Beyond the sphere."

_This sonnet comprises five parts. In the first, I tell whither my thought goeth, naming the place by the name of one of its effects.

In the second, I say wherefore it goeth up, and who makes it go thus.

In the third, I tell what it saw, namely, a lady honoured. And I then call it a "Pilgrim Spirit," because it goes up spiritually, and like a pilgrim who is out of his known country. In the fourth, I say how the spirit sees her such (that is, in such quality) that I cannot understand her; that is to say, my thought rises into the quality of her in a degree that my intellect cannot comprehend, seeing that our intellect is, towards those blessed souls, like our eye weak against the sun; and this the Philosopher says in the Second of the Metaphysics. In the fifth, I say that, although I cannot see there whither my thought carries me-that is, to her admirable essence-I at least understand this, namely, that it is a thought of my lady, because I often hear her name therein. And, at the end of this fifth part, I say, "Ladies mine," to show that they are ladies to whom I speak.

The second part begins, "A new perception;" the third, "When it hath reached;" the fourth, "It sees her such;" the fifth, "And yet I know."

It might be divided yet more nicely, and made yet clearer; but this division may pa.s.s, and therefore I stay not to divide it further._