Death, alway cruel, Pity’s foe in chief,
Mother who brought forth grief,
Merciless judgment and without appeal!
Since thou alone hast made my heart to feel
This sadness and unweal,
My tongue upbraideth thee without relief.
And now (for I must rid thy name of ruth)
Behoves me speak the truth
Touching thy cruelty and wickedness:
Not that they be not known; but ne’ertheless
I would give hate more stress
With them that feed on love in very sooth.
Out of this world thou hast driven courtesy,
And virtue, dearly prized in womanhood;
And out of youth’s gay mood
The lovely lightness is quite gone through thee.
Whom now I mourn, no man shall learn from me
Save by the measure of these praises given.
Whoso deserves not Heaven
May never hope to have her company.[15]
[15] The commentators assert that the last two lines here do not
allude to the dead lady, but to Beatrice. This would make
the poem very clumsy in construction; yet there must be some
covert allusion to Beatrice, as Dante himself intimates. The
only form in which I can trace it consists in the implied
assertion that such person as _had_ enjoyed the dead lady’s
society was worthy of heaven, and that person was Beatrice.
Or indeed the allusion to Beatrice might be in the first poem,
where he says that Love “_in forma vera_” (that is, Beatrice),
mourned over the corpse: as he afterwards says of Beatrice,
“_Quella ha nome Amor_.” Most probably _both_ allusions are
intended.
_This poem is divided into four parts. In the first I address Death by
certain proper names of hers. In the second, speaking to her, I tell
the reason why I am moved to denounce her. In the third, I rail against
her. In the fourth, I turn to speak to a person undefined, although
defined in my own conception. The second part commences here, “Since
thou alone;” the third here, “And now (for I must);” the fourth here,
“Whoso deserves not.”_
Some days after the death of this lady, I had occasion to leave
the city I speak of, and to go thitherwards where she abode who had
formerly been my protection; albeit the end of my journey reached
not altogether so far. And notwithstanding that I was visibly in the
company of many, the journey was so irksome that I had scarcely sighing
enough to ease my heart’s heaviness; seeing that as I went, I left
my beatitude behind me. Wherefore it came to pass that he who ruled
me by virtue of my most gentle lady was made visible to my mind, in
the light habit of a traveller, coarsely fashioned. He appeared to me
troubled, and looked always on the ground; saving only that sometimes
his eyes were turned towards a river which was clear and rapid, and
which flowed along the path I was taking. And then I thought that Love
called me and said to me these words: “I come from that lady who was
so long thy surety; for the matter of whose return, I know that it may
not be. Wherefore I have taken that heart which I made thee leave with
her, and do bear it unto another lady, who, as she was, shall be thy
surety;” (and when he named her I knew her well). “And of these words
I have spoken, if thou shouldst speak any again, let it be in such
sort as that none shall perceive thereby that thy love was feigned for
her, which thou must now feign for another.” And when he had spoken
thus, all my imagining was gone suddenly, for it seemed to me that Love
became a part of myself: so that, changed as it were in mine aspect, I
rode on full of thought the whole of that day, and with heavy sighing.
And the day being over, I wrote this sonnet:—
A day agone, as I rode sullenly
Upon a certain path that liked me not,
I met Love midway while the air was hot,
Clothed lightly as a wayfarer might be.
And for the cheer he showed, he seemed to me
As one who hath lost lordship he had got;
Advancing tow’rds me full of sorrowful thought,
Bowing his forehead so that none should see.
Then as I went, he called me by my name,
Saying: “I journey since the morn was dim
Thence where I made thy heart to be: which now
I needs must bear unto another dame.”
Wherewith so much passed into me of him
That he was gone, and I discerned not how.
_This sonnet has three parts. In the first part, I tell how I met Love,
and of his aspect. In the second, I tell what he said to me, although
not in full, through the fear I had of discovering my secret. In the
third, I say how he disappeared. The second part commences here, “Then
as I went;” the third here, “Wherewith so much.”_
On my return, I set myself to seek out that lady whom my master had
named to me while I journeyed sighing. And because I would be brief,
I will now narrate that in a short while I made her my surety, in such
sort that the matter was spoken of by many in terms scarcely courteous;
through the which I had oftenwhiles many troublesome hours. And by
this it happened (to wit: by this false and evil rumour which seemed
to misfame me of vice) that she who was the destroyer of all evil and
the queen of all good, coming where I was, denied me her most sweet
salutation, in the which alone was my blessedness.
And here it is fitting for me to depart a little from this present
matter, that it may be rightly understood of what surpassing virtue her
salutation was to me. To the which end I say that when she appeared in
any place, it seemed to me, by the hope of her excellent salutation,
that there was no man mine enemy any longer; and such warmth of charity
came upon me that most certainly in that moment I would have pardoned
whosoever had done me an injury; and if one should then have questioned
me concerning any matter, I could only have said unto him “Love,” with
a countenance clothed in humbleness. And what time she made ready to
salute me, the spirit of Love, destroying all other perceptions, thrust
forth the feeble spirits of my eyes, saying, “Do homage unto your
mistress,” and putting itself in their place to obey: so that he who
would, might then have beheld Love, beholding the lids of mine eyes
shake. And when this most gentle lady gave her salutation, Love, so far
from being a medium beclouding mine intolerable beatitude, then bred
in me such an overpowering sweetness that my body, being all subjected
thereto, remained many times helpless and passive. Whereby it is made
manifest that in her salutation alone was there any beatitude for me,
which then very often went beyond my endurance.
And now, resuming my discourse, I will go on to relate that when, for
the first time, this beatitude was denied me, I became possessed with
such grief that, parting myself from others, I went into a lonely place
to bathe the ground with most bitter tears: and when, by this heat of
weeping, I was somewhat relieved, I betook myself to my chamber, where
I could lament unheard. And there, having prayed to the Lady of all
Mercies, and having said also, “O Love, aid thou thy servant,” I went
suddenly asleep like a beaten sobbing child. And in my sleep, towards
the middle of it, I seemed to see in the room, seated at my side, a
youth in very white raiment, who kept his eyes fixed on me in deep
thought. And when he had gazed some time, I thought that he sighed and
called to me in these words: “_Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur
simulata nostra._”[16] And thereupon I seemed to know him; for the
voice was the same wherewith he had spoken at other times in my sleep.
Then looking at him, I perceived that he was weeping piteously, and
that he seemed to be waiting for me to speak. Wherefore, taking heart,
I began thus: “Why weepest thou, Master of all honour?” And he made
answer to me: “_Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent
circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic._”[17] And thinking upon his
words, they seemed to me obscure; so that again compelling myself unto
speech, I asked of him: “What thing is this, Master, that thou hast
spoken thus darkly?” To the which he made answer in the vulgar tongue:
“Demand no more than may be useful to thee.” Whereupon I began to
discourse with him concerning her salutation which she had denied me;
and when I had questioned him of the cause, he said these words: “Our
Beatrice hath heard from certain persons, that the lady whom I named
to thee while thou journeyedst full of sighs is sorely disquieted by
thy solicitations: and therefore this most gracious creature, who is
the enemy of all disquiet, being fearful of such disquiet, refused to
salute thee. For the which reason (albeit, in very sooth, thy secret
must needs have become known to her by familiar observation) it is my
will that thou compose certain things in rhyme, in the which thou shalt
set forth how strong a mastership I have obtained over thee, through
her; and how thou wast hers even from thy childhood. Also do thou call
upon him that knoweth these things to bear witness to them, bidding him
to speak with her thereof; the which I, who am he, will do willingly.
And thus she shall be made to know thy desire; knowing which, she shall
know likewise that they were deceived who spake of thee to her. And so
write these things, that they shall seem rather to be spoken by a third
person; and not directly by thee to her, which is scarce fitting. After
the which, send them, not without me, where she may chance to hear
them; but have them fitted with a pleasant music, into the which I will
pass whensoever it needeth.” With this speech he was away, and my sleep
was broken up.
[16] “My son, it is time for us to lay aside our counterfeiting.”
[17] “I am as the centre of a circle, to the which all parts of
the circumference bear an equal relation: but with thee it
is not thus.” This phrase seems to have remained as obscure
to commentators as Dante found it at the moment. No one, as
far as I know, has even fairly tried to find a meaning for
it. To me the following appears a not unlikely one. Love is
weeping on Dante’s account, and not on his own. He says,
“I am the centre of a circle (_Amor che muove il sole e
l’altre stelle_): therefore all lovable objects, whether in
heaven or earth, or any part of the circle’s circumference,
are equally near to me. Not so thou, who wilt one day lose
Beatrice when she goes to heaven.” The phrase would thus
contain an intimation of the death of Beatrice, accounting
for Dante being next told not to inquire the meaning of the
speech,—”Demand no more than may be useful to thee.”
Whereupon, remembering me, I knew that I had beheld this vision during
the ninth hour of the day; and I resolved that I would make a ditty,
before I left my chamber, according to the words my master had spoken.
And this is the ditty that I made:—
Song, ’tis my will that thou do seek out Love,
And go with him where my dear lady is;
That so my cause, the which thy harmonies
Do plead, his better speech may clearly prove.
Thou goest, my Song, in such a courteous kind,
That even companionless
Thou mayst rely on thyself anywhere.
And yet, an thou wouldst get thee a safe mind,
First unto Love address
Thy steps; whose aid, mayhap, ’twere ill to spare,
Seeing that she to whom thou mak’st thy prayer
Is, as I think, ill-minded unto me,
And that if Love do not companion thee,
Thou’lt have perchance small cheer to tell me of.
With a sweet accent, when thou com’st to her,
Begin thou in these words,
First having craved a gracious audience:
“He who hath sent me as his messenger,
Lady, thus much records,
An thou but suffer him, in his defence.
Love, who comes with me, by thine influence
Can make this man do as it liketh him:
Wherefore, if this fault _is_ or doth but _seem_
Do thou conceive: for his heart cannot move.”
Say to her also: “Lady, his poor heart
Is so confirmed in faith
That all its thoughts are but of serving thee:
’Twas early thine, and could not swerve apart.”
Then, if she wavereth,
Bid her ask Love, who knows if these things be.
And in the end, beg of her modestly
To pardon so much boldness: saying too:—
“If thou declare his death to be thy due,
The thing shall come to pass, as doth behove.”
Then pray thou of the Master of all ruth,
Before thou leave her there,
That he befriend my cause and plead it well.
“In guerdon of my sweet rhymes and my truth”
(Entreat him) “stay with her;
Let not the hope of thy poor servant fail;
And if with her thy pleading should prevail,
Let her look on him and give peace to him.”
Gentle my Song, if good to thee it seem,
Do this: so worship shall be thine and love.
_This ditty is divided into three parts. In the first, I tell it
whither to go, and I encourage it, that it may go the more confidently,
and I tell it whose company to join if it would go with confidence and
without any danger. In the second, I say that which it behoves the
ditty to set forth. In the third, I give it leave to start when it
pleases, recommending its course to the arms of Fortune. The second
part begins here, “With a sweet accent;” the third here, “Gentle my
Song.” Some might contradict me, and say that they understand not whom
I address in the second person, seeing that the ditty is merely the
very words I am speaking. And therefore I say that this doubt I intend
to solve and clear up in this little book itself, at a more difficult
passage, and then let him understand who now doubts, or would now
contradict as aforesaid._
After this vision I have recorded, and having written those words which
Love had dictated to me, I began to be harassed with many and divers
thoughts, by each of which I was sorely tempted; and in especial,
there were four among them that left me no rest. The first was this:
“Certainly the lordship of Love is good; seeing that it diverts
the mind from all mean things.” The second was this: “Certainly the
lordship of Love is evil; seeing that the more homage his servants pay
to him, the more grievous and painful are the torments wherewith he
torments them.” The third was this: “The name of Love is so sweet in
the hearing that it would not seem possible for its effects to be other
than sweet; seeing that the name must needs be like unto the thing
named; as it is written: _Nomina sunt consequentia rerum._”[18] And the
fourth was this: “The lady whom Love hath chosen out to govern thee is
not as other ladies, whose hearts are easily moved.”
[18] “Names are the consequents of things.”
And by each one of these thoughts I was so sorely assailed that I was
like unto him who doubteth which path to take, and wishing to go, goeth
not. And if I bethought myself to seek out some point at the which all
these paths might be found to meet, I discerned but one way, and that
irked me; to wit, to call upon Pity, and to commend myself unto her.
And it was then that, feeling a desire to write somewhat thereof in
rhyme, I wrote this sonnet:—
All my thoughts always speak to me of Love,
Yet have between themselves such difference
That while one bids me bow with mind and sense,
A second saith, “Go to: look thou above;”
The third one, hoping, yields me joy enough;
And with the last come tears, I scarce know whence:
All of them craving pity in sore suspense,
Trembling with fears that the heart knoweth of.
And thus, being all unsure which path to take,
Wishing to speak I know not what to say,
And lose myself in amorous wanderings:
Until, (my peace with all of them to make,)
Unto mine enemy I needs must pray,
My Lady Pity, for the help she brings.
_This sonnet may be divided into four parts. In the first, I say and
propound that all my thoughts are concerning Love. In the second, I say
that they are diverse, and I relate their diversity. In the third, I
say wherein they all seem to agree. In the fourth, I say that, wishing
to speak of Love, I know not from which of these thoughts to take my
argument; and that if I would take it from all, I shall have to call
upon mine enemy, my Lady Pity. “Lady” I say, as in a scornful mode
of speech. The second begins here, “Yet have between themselves;” the
third, “All of them craving;” the fourth, “And thus.”_
After this battling with many thoughts, it chanced on a day that my
most gracious lady was with a gathering of ladies in a certain place;
to the which I was conducted by a friend of mine; he thinking to do
me a great pleasure by showing me the beauty of so many women. Then
I, hardly knowing whereunto he conducted me, but trusting in him (who
yet was leading his friend to the last verge of life), made question:
“To what end are we come among these ladies?” and he answered: “To the
end that they may be worthily served.” And they were assembled around
a gentlewoman who was given in marriage on that day; the custom of the
city being that these should bear her company when she sat down for the
first time at table in the house of her husband. Therefore I, as was
my friend’s pleasure, resolved to stay with him and do honour to those
ladies.
But as soon as I had thus resolved, I began to feel a faintness and
a throbbing at my left side, which soon took possession of my whole
body. Whereupon I remember that I covertly leaned my back unto a
painting that ran round the walls of that house; and being fearful
lest my trembling should be discerned of them, I lifted mine eyes
to look on those ladies, and then first perceived among them the
excellent Beatrice. And when I perceived her, all my senses were
overpowered by the great lordship that Love obtained, finding himself
so near unto that most gracious being, until nothing but the spirits
of sight remained to me; and even these remained driven out of their
own instruments because Love entered in that honoured place of theirs,
that so he might the better behold her. And although I was other than
at first, I grieved for the spirits so expelled, which kept up a sore
lament, saying: “If he had not in this wise thrust us forth, we also
should behold the marvel of this lady.” By this, many of her friends,
having discerned my confusion, began to wonder; and together with
herself, kept whispering of me and mocking me. Whereupon my friend, who
knew not what to conceive, took me by the hands, and drawing me forth
from among them, required to know what ailed me. Then, having first
held me at quiet for a space until my perceptions were come back to me,
I made answer to my friend: “Of a surety I have now set my feet on that
point of life, beyond the which he must not pass who would return.”[19]
[19] It is difficult not to connect Dante’s agony at this
wedding-feast with our knowledge that in her twenty-first year
Beatrice was wedded to Simone de’ Bardi. That she herself was
the bride on this occasion might seem out of the question,
from the fact of its not being in any way so stated: but on
the other hand, Dante’s silence throughout the _Vita Nuova_
as regards her marriage (which must have brought deep sorrow
even to his ideal love) is so startling, that we might almost
be led to conceive in this passage the only intimation of it
which he thought fit to give.
Afterwards, leaving him, I went back to the room where I had wept
before; and again weeping and ashamed, said: “If this lady but knew
of my condition, I do not think that she would thus mock at me; nay,
I am sure that she must needs feel some pity.” And in my weeping I
bethought me to write certain words, in the which, speaking to her, I
should signify the occasion of my disfigurement, telling her also how
I knew that she had no knowledge thereof: which, if it were known, I
was certain must move others to pity. And then, because I hoped that
peradventure it might come into her hearing, I wrote this sonnet:—
Even as the others mock, thou mockest me;
Not dreaming, noble lady, whence it is
That I am taken with strange semblances,
Seeing thy face which is so fair to see:
For else, compassion would not suffer thee
To grieve my heart with such harsh scoffs as these.
Lo! Love, when thou art present, sits at ease,
And bears his mastership so mightily,
That all my troubled senses he thrusts out,
Sorely tormenting some, and slaying some,
Till none but he is left and has free range
To gaze on thee. This makes my face to change
Into another’s; while I stand all dumb,
And hear my senses clamour in their rout.
_This sonnet I divide not into parts, because a division is only
made to open the meaning of the thing divided: and this, as it is
sufficiently manifest through the reasons given, has no need of
division. True it is that, amid the words whereby is shown the occasion
of this sonnet, dubious words are to be found; namely, when I say
that Love kills all my spirits, but that the visual remain in life,
only outside of their own instruments. And this difficulty it is
impossible for any to solve who is not in equal guise liege unto Love;
and, to those who are so, that is manifest which would clear up the
dubious words. And therefore it were not well for me to expound this
difficulty, inasmuch as my speaking would be either fruitless or else
superfluous._
A while after this strange disfigurement, I became possessed with a
strong conception which left me but very seldom, and then to return
quickly. And it was this: “Seeing that thou comest into such scorn by
the companionship of this lady, wherefore seekest thou to behold her?
If she should ask thee this thing, what answer couldst thou make unto
her? yea, even though thou wert master of all thy faculties, and in
no way hindered from answering.” Unto the which, another very humble
thought said in reply: “If I were master of all my faculties, and in
no way hindered from answering, I would tell her that no sooner do I
image to myself her marvellous beauty than I am possessed with a desire
to behold her, the which is of so great strength that it kills and
destroys in my memory all those things which might oppose it; and it
is therefore that the great anguish I have endured thereby is yet not
enough to restrain me from seeking to behold her.” And then, because
of these thoughts, I resolved to write somewhat, wherein, having
pleaded mine excuse, I should tell her of what I felt in her presence.
Whereupon I wrote this sonnet:—
The thoughts are broken in my memory,
Thou lovely Joy, whene’er I see thy face;
When thou art near me, Love fills up the space,
Often repeating, “If death irk thee, fly.”
My face shows my heart’s colour, verily,
Which, fainting, seeks for any leaning-place;
Till, in the drunken terror of disgrace,
The very stones seem to be shrieking, “Die!”
It were a grievous sin, if one should not
Strive then to comfort my bewildered mind
(Though merely with a simple pitying)
For the great anguish which thy scorn has wrought
In the dead sight o’ the eyes grown nearly blind,
Which look for death as for a blessed thing.
_This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I tell the cause
why I abstain not from coming to this lady. In the second, I tell
what befalls me through coming to her; and this part begins here “When
thou art near.” And also this second part divides into five distinct
statements. For, in the first, I say what Love, counselled by Reason,
tells me when I am near the lady. In the second, I set forth the state
of my heart by the example of the face. In the third, I say how all
ground of trust fails me. In the fourth, I say that he sins who shows
not pity of me, which would give me some comfort. In the last, I say
why people should take pity: namely, for the piteous look which comes
into mine eyes; which piteous look is destroyed, that is, appeareth not
unto others, through the jeering of this lady, who draws to the like
action those who peradventure would see this piteousness. The second
part begins here, “My face shows;” the third, “Till, in the drunken
terror;” the fourth, “It were a grievous sin;” the fifth, “For the
great anguish.”_
Thereafter, this sonnet bred in me desire to write down in verse four
other things touching my condition, the which things it seemed to me
that I had not yet made manifest. The first among these was the grief
that possessed me very often, remembering the strangeness which Love
wrought in me; the second was, how Love many times assailed me so
suddenly and with such strength that I had no other life remaining
except a thought which spake of my lady; the third was, how, when Love
did battle with me in this wise, I would rise up all colourless, if
so I might see my lady, conceiving that the sight of her would defend
me against the assault of Love, and altogether forgetting that which
her presence brought unto me; and the fourth was, how, when I saw her,
the sight not only defended me not, but took away the little life that
remained to me. And I said these four things in a sonnet, which is
this:—
At whiles (yea oftentimes) I muse over
The quality of anguish that is mine
Through Love: then pity makes my voice to pine,
Saying, “Is any else thus, anywhere?”
Love smiteth me, whose strength is ill to bear;
So that of all my life is left no sign
Except one thought; and that, because ’tis thine,
Leaves not the body but abideth there.
And then if I, whom other aid forsook,
Would aid myself, and innocent of art
Would fain have sight of thee as a last hope,
No sooner do I lift mine eyes to look
Than the blood seems as shaken from my heart,
And all my pulses beat at once and stop.
_This sonnet is divided into four parts, four things being therein
narrated; and as these are set forth above, I only proceed to
distinguish the parts by their beginnings. Wherefore I say that the
second part begins, “Love smiteth me;” the third, “And then if I;” the
fourth, “No sooner do I lift.”_
After I had written these three last sonnets, wherein I spake unto
my lady, telling her almost the whole of my condition, it seemed to
me that I should be silent, having said enough concerning myself. But
albeit I spake not to her again, yet it behoved me afterward to write
of another matter, more noble than the foregoing. And for that the
occasion of what I then wrote may be found pleasant in the hearing, I
will relate it as briefly as I may.
Through the sore change in mine aspect, the secret of my heart was
now understood of many. Which thing being thus, there came a day when
certain ladies to whom it was well known (they having been with me
at divers times in my trouble) were met together for the pleasure of
gentle company. And as I was going that way by chance, (but I think
rather by the will of fortune,) I heard one of them call unto me, and
she that called was a lady of very sweet speech. And when I had come
close up with them, and perceived that they had not among them mine
excellent lady, I was reassured; and saluted them, asking of their
pleasure. The ladies were many; divers of whom were laughing one to
another, while divers gazed at me as though I should speak anon. But
when I still spake not, one of them, who before had been talking with
another, addressed me by my name, saying, “To what end lovest thou this
lady, seeing that thou canst not support her presence? Now tell us this
thing, that we may know it: for certainly the end of such a love must
be worthy of knowledge.” And when she had spoken these words, not she
only, but all they that were with her, began to observe me, waiting
for my reply. Whereupon I said thus unto them:—”Ladies, the end and
aim of my Love was but the salutation of that lady of whom I conceive
that ye are speaking; wherein alone I found that beatitude which is
the goal of desire. And now that it hath pleased her to deny me this,
Love, my Master, of his great goodness, hath placed all my beatitude
there where my hope will not fail me.” Then those ladies began to talk
closely together; and as I have seen snow fall among the rain, so was
their talk mingled with sighs. But after a little, that lady who had
been the first to address me, addressed me again in these words: “We
pray thee that thou wilt tell us wherein abideth this thy beatitude.”
And answering, I said but thus much: “In those words that do praise my
lady.” To the which she rejoined: “If thy speech were true, those words
that thou didst write concerning thy condition would have been written
with another intent.”
Then I, being almost put to shame because of her answer, went out
from among them; and as I walked, I said within myself: “Seeing that
there is so much beatitude in those words which do praise my lady,
wherefore hath my speech of her been different?” And then I resolved
that thenceforward I would choose for the theme of my writings only the
praise of this most gracious being. But when I had thought exceedingly,
it seemed to me that I had taken to myself a theme which was much
too lofty, so that I dared not begin; and I remained during several
days in the desire of speaking, and the fear of beginning. After
which it happened, as I passed one day along a path which lay beside
a stream of very clear water, that there came upon me a great desire
to say somewhat in rhyme: but when I began thinking how I should say
it, methought that to speak of her were unseemly, unless I spoke to
other ladies in the second person; which is to say, not to _any_ other
ladies, but only to such as are so called because they are gentle, let
alone for mere womanhood. Whereupon I declare that my tongue spake as
though by its own impulse, and said, “Ladies that have intelligence in
love.” These words I laid up in my mind with great gladness, conceiving
to take them as my commencement. Wherefore, having returned to the city
I spake of, and considered thereof during certain days, I began a poem
with this beginning, constructed in the mode which will be seen below
in its division. The poem begins here:—
Ladies that have intelligence in love,
Of mine own lady I would speak with you;
Not that I hope to count her praises through,
But telling what I may, to ease my mind.
And I declare that when I speak thereof,
Love sheds such perfect sweetness over me
That if my courage failed not, certainly
To him my listeners must be all resign’d.
Wherefore I will not speak in such large kind
That mine own speech should foil me, which were base;
But only will discourse of her high grace
In these poor words, the best that I can find,
With you alone, dear dames and damozels:
’Twere ill to speak thereof with any else.
An Angel, of his blessed knowledge, saith
To God: “Lord, in the world that Thou hast made,
A miracle in action is display’d,
By reason of a soul whose splendours fare
Even hither: and since Heaven requireth
Nought saving her, for her it prayeth Thee,
Thy Saints crying aloud continually.”
Yet Pity still defends our earthly share
In that sweet soul; God answering thus the prayer:
“My well-belovèd, suffer that in peace
Your hope remain, while so My pleasure is,
There where one dwells who dreads the loss of her:
And who in Hell unto the doomed shall say,
‘I have looked on that for which God’s chosen pray.’”
My lady is desired in the high Heaven:
_Wherefore_, it now behoveth me to tell,
Saying: Let any maid that would be well
Esteemed keep with her: for as she goes by,
Into foul hearts a deathly chill is driven
By Love, that makes ill thought to perish there:
While any who endures to gaze on her
Must either be ennobled, or else die.
When one deserving to be raised so high
Is found, ’tis then her power attains its proof,
Making his heart strong for his soul’s behoof
With the full strength of meek humility.
Also this virtue owns she, by God’s will:
Who speaks with her can never come to ill.
Love saith concerning her: “How chanceth it
That flesh, which is of dust, should be thus pure?”
Then, gazing always, he makes oath: “Forsure,
This is a creature of God till now unknown.”
She hath that paleness of the pearl that’s fit
In a fair woman, so much and not more;
She is as high as Nature’s skill can soar;
Beauty is tried by her comparison.
Whatever her sweet eyes are turned upon,
Spirits of love do issue thence in flame,
Which through their eyes who then may look on them
Pierce to the heart’s deep chamber every one.
And in her smile Love’s image you may see;
Whence none can gaze upon her steadfastly.
Dear Song, I know thou wilt hold gentle speech
With many ladies, when I send thee forth:
Wherefore (being mindful that thou hadst thy birth
From Love, and art a modest, simple child),
Whomso thou meetest, say thou this to each:
“Give me good speed! To her I wend along
In whose much strength my weakness is made strong.”
And if, i’ the end, thou wouldst not be beguiled
Of all thy labour, seek not the defiled
And common sort; but rather choose to be
Where man and woman dwell in courtesy.
So to the road thou shalt be reconciled,
And find the lady, and with the lady, Love.
Commend thou me to each, as doth behove.
_This poem, that it may be better understood, I will divide more
subtly than the others preceding; and therefore I will make three
parts of it. The first part is a proem to the words following. The
second is the matter treated of. The third is, as it were, a handmaid
to the preceding words. The second begins here, “An Angel;” the third
here, “Dear Song, I know.” The first part is divided into four. In
the first, I say to whom I mean to speak of my lady, and wherefore I
will so speak. In the second, I say what she appears to myself to be
when I reflect upon her excellence, and what I would utter if I lost
not courage. In the third, I say what it is I purpose to speak so as
not to be impeded by faintheartedness. In the fourth, repeating to
whom I purpose speaking, I tell the reason why I speak to them. The
second begins here, “And I declare;” the third here, “Wherefore I will
not speak;” the fourth here, “With you alone.” Then, when I say “An
Angel,” I begin treating of this lady: and this part is divided into
two. In the first, I tell what is understood of her in heaven. In the
second, I tell what is understood of her on earth: here, “My lady is
desired.” This second part is divided into two; for, in the first, I
speak of her as regards the nobleness of her soul, relating some of
her virtues proceeding from her soul; in the second, I speak of her
as regards the nobleness of her body, narrating some of her beauties:
here, “Love saith concerning her.” This second part is divided into
two, for, in the first, I speak of certain beauties which belong to
the whole person; in the second, I speak of certain beauties which
belong to a distinct part of the person: here, “Whatever her sweet
eyes.” This second part is divided into two; for, in the one, I speak
of the eyes, which are the beginning of love; in the second, I speak
of the mouth, which is the end of love. And that every vicious thought
may be discarded herefrom, let the reader remember that it is above
written that the greeting of this lady, which was an act of her mouth,
was the goal of my desires, while I could receive it. Then, when I say,
“Dear Song, I know,” I add a stanza as it were handmaid to the others,
wherein I say what I desire from this my poem. And because this last
part is easy to understand, I trouble not myself with more divisions.
I say, indeed, that the further to open the meaning of this poem, more
minute divisions ought to be used; but nevertheless he who is not of
wit enough to understand it by these which have been already made is
welcome to leave it alone; for certes, I fear I have communicated its
sense to too many by these present divisions, if it so happened that
many should hear it._
When this song was a little gone abroad, a certain one of my friends,
hearing the same, was pleased to question me, that I should tell him
what thing love is; it may be, conceiving from the words thus heard
a hope of me beyond my desert. Wherefore I, thinking that after such
discourse it were well to say somewhat of the nature of Love, and also
in accordance with my friend’s desire, proposed to myself to write
certain words in the which I should treat of this argument. And the
sonnet that I then made is this:—
Love and the gentle heart are one same thing,
Even as the wise man[20] in his ditty saith:
Each, of itself, would be such life in death
As rational soul bereft of reasoning.
’Tis Nature makes them when she loves: a king
Love is, whose palace where he sojourneth
Is called the Heart; there draws he quiet breath
At first, with brief or longer slumbering.
Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind
Will make the eyes desire, and through the heart
Send the desiring of the eyes again;
Where often it abides so long enshrin’d
That Love at length out of his sleep will start.
And women feel the same for worthy men.
[20] Guido Guinicelli, in the canzone which begins, “Within the
gentle heart Love shelters him.”
_This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I speak of him
according to his power. In the second, I speak of him according as
his power translates itself into act. The second part begins here,
“Then beauty seen.” The first is divided into two. In the first, I
say in what subject this power exists. In the second, I say how this
subject and this power are produced together, and how the one regards
the other, as form does matter. The second begins here, “’Tis Nature.”
Afterwards when I say, “Then beauty seen in virtuous womankind,” I
say how this power translates itself into act; and, first, how it
so translates itself in a man, then how it so translates itself in a
woman: here, “And women feel.”_
Having treated of love in the foregoing, it appeared to me that I
should also say something in praise of my lady, wherein it might be
set forth how love manifested itself when produced by her; and how not
only she could awaken it where it slept, but where it was not she could
marvellously create it. To the which end I wrote another sonnet; and it
is this:—
My lady carries love within her eyes;
All that she looks on is made pleasanter;
Upon her path men turn to gaze at her;
He whom she greeteth feels his heart to rise,
And droops his troubled visage, full of sighs,
And of his evil heart is then aware:
Hate loves, and pride becomes a worshipper.
O women, help to praise her in somewise.
Humbleness, and the hope that hopeth well,
By speech of hers into the mind are brought,
And who beholds is blessèd oftenwhiles.
The look she hath when she a little smiles
Cannot be said, nor holden in the thought;
’Tis such a new and gracious miracle.
_This sonnet has three sections. In the first, I say how this lady
brings this power into action by those most noble features, her eyes;
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:—