Canst thou indeed be he that still would sing
Of our dear lady unto none but us?
For though thy voice confirms that it is thus,
Thy visage might another witness bring.
And wherefore is thy grief so sore a thing
That grieving thou mak’st others dolorous?
Hast thou too seen her weep, that thou from us
Canst not conceal thine inward sorrowing?
Nay, leave our woe to us: let us alone:
’Twere sin if one should strive to soothe our woe,
For in her weeping we have heard her speak:
Also her look’s so full of her heart’s moan
That they who should behold her, looking so,
Must fall aswoon, feeling all life grow weak.
_This sonnet has four parts, as the ladies in whose person I reply
had four forms of answer. And, because these are sufficiently shown
above, I stay not to explain the purport of the parts, and therefore I
only discriminate them. The second begins here, “And wherefore is thy
grief;” the third here, “Nay, leave our woe;” the fourth, “Also her
look.”_
A few days after this, my body became afflicted with a painful
infirmity, whereby I suffered bitter anguish for many days, which at
last brought me unto such weakness that I could no longer move. And I
remember that on the ninth day, being overcome with intolerable pain, a
thought came into my mind concerning my lady: but when it had a little
nourished this thought, my mind returned to its brooding over mine
enfeebled body. And then perceiving how frail a thing life is, even
though health keep with it, the matter seemed to me so pitiful that I
could not choose but weep; and weeping I said within myself: “Certainly
it must some time come to pass that the very gentle Beatrice will die.”
Then, feeling bewildered, I closed mine eyes; and my brain began to be
in travail as the brain of one frantic, and to have such imaginations
as here follow.
And at the first, it seemed to me that I saw certain faces of women
with their hair loosened, which called out to me, “Thou shalt surely
die;” after the which, other terrible and unknown appearances said
unto me, “Thou art dead.” At length, as my phantasy held on in its
wanderings, I came to be I knew not where, and to behold a throng of
dishevelled ladies wonderfully sad, who kept going hither and thither
weeping. Then the sun went out, so that the stars showed themselves,
and they were of such a colour that I knew they must be weeping:
and it seemed to me that the birds fell dead out of the sky, and
that there were great earthquakes. With that, while I wondered in
my trance, and was filled with a grievous fear, I conceived that a
certain friend came unto me and said: “Hast thou not heard? She that
was thine excellent lady hath been taken out of life.” Then I began to
weep very piteously; and not only in mine imagination, but with mine
eyes, which were wet with tears. And I seemed to look towards Heaven,
and to behold a multitude of angels who were returning upwards, having
before them an exceedingly white cloud: and these angels were singing
together gloriously, and the words of their song were these: “_Osanna
in excelsis_;” and there was no more that I heard. Then my heart that
was so full of love said unto me: “It is true that our lady lieth
dead;” and it seemed to me that I went to look upon the body wherein
that blessed and most noble spirit had had its abiding-place. And so
strong was this idle imagining, that it made me to behold my lady in
death; whose head certain ladies seemed to be covering with a white
veil; and who was so humble of her aspect that it was as though she
had said, “I have attained to look on the beginning of peace.” And
therewithal I came unto such humility by the sight of her, that I cried
out upon Death, saying: “Now come unto me, and be not bitter against
me any longer: surely, there where thou hast been, thou hast learned
gentleness. Wherefore come now unto me who do greatly desire thee:
seest thou not that I wear thy colour already?” And when I had seen
all those offices performed that are fitting to be done unto the dead,
it seemed to me that I went back unto mine own chamber, and looked up
towards Heaven. And so strong was my phantasy, that I wept again in
very truth, and said with my true voice: “O excellent soul! how blessed
is he that now looketh upon thee!”
And as I said these words, with a painful anguish of sobbing and
another prayer unto Death, a young and gentle lady, who had been
standing beside me where I lay, conceiving that I wept and cried out
because of the pain of mine infirmity, was taken with trembling and
began to shed tears. Whereby other ladies, who were about the room,
becoming aware of my discomfort by reason of the moan that she made,
(who indeed was of my very near kindred,) led her away from where I
was, and then set themselves to awaken me, thinking that I dreamed, and
saying: “Sleep no longer, and be not disquieted.”
Then, by their words, this strong imagination was brought suddenly to
an end, at the moment that I was about to say, “O Beatrice! peace be
with thee.” And already I had said, “O Beatrice!” when being aroused,
I opened mine eyes, and knew that it had been a deception. But albeit
I had indeed uttered her name, yet my voice was so broken with sobs,
that it was not understood by these ladies; so that in spite of the
sore shame that I felt, I turned towards them by Love’s counselling.
And when they beheld me, they began to say, “He seemeth as one dead,”
and to whisper among themselves, “Let us strive if we may not comfort
him.” Whereupon they spake to me many soothing words, and questioned
me moreover touching the cause of my fear. Then I, being somewhat
reassured, and having perceived that it was a mere phantasy, said unto
them, “This thing it was that made me afeard;” and told them of all
that I had seen, from the beginning even unto the end, but without
once speaking the name of my lady. Also, after I had recovered from my
sickness, I bethought me to write these things in rhyme; deeming it a
lovely thing to be known. Whereof I wrote this poem:—
A very pitiful lady, very young,
Exceeding rich in human sympathies,
Stood by, what time I clamour’d upon Death;
And at the wild words wandering on my tongue
And at the piteous look within mine eyes
She was affrighted, that sobs choked her breath.
So by her weeping where I lay beneath,
Some other gentle ladies came to know
My state, and made her go:
Afterward, bending themselves over me,
One said, “Awaken thee!”
And one, “What thing thy sleep disquieteth?”
With that, my soul woke up from its eclipse,
The while my lady’s name rose to my lips:
But utter’d in a voice so sob-broken,
So feeble with the agony of tears,
That I alone might hear it in my heart;
And though that look was on my visage then
Which he who is ashamed so plainly wears,
Love made that I through shame held not apart,
But gazed upon them. And my hue was such
That they look’d at each other and thought of death;
Saying under their breath
Most tenderly, “O let us comfort him:”
Then unto me: “What dream
Was thine, that it hath shaken thee so much?”
And when I was a little comforted,
“This, ladies, was the dream I dreamt,” I said.
“I was a-thinking how life fails with us
Suddenly after such a little while;
When Love sobb’d in my heart, which is his home.
Whereby my spirit wax’d so dolorous
That in myself I said, with sick recoil:
‘Yea, to my lady too this Death must come.’
And therewithal such a bewilderment
Possess’d me, that I shut mine eyes for peace;
And in my brain did cease
Order of thought, and every healthful thing.
Afterwards, wandering
Amid a swarm of doubts that came and went,
Some certain women’s faces hurried by,
And shriek’d to me, ‘Thou too shalt die, shalt die!’
“Then saw I many broken hinted sights
In the uncertain state I stepp’d into.
Meseem’d to be I know not in what place,
Where ladies through the street, like mournful lights,
Ran with loose hair, and eyes that frighten’d you
By their own terror, and a pale amaze:
The while, little by little, as I thought,
The sun ceased, and the stars began to gather,
And each wept at the other;
And birds dropp’d in mid-flight out of the sky;
And earth shook suddenly;
And I was ’ware of one, hoarse and tired out,
Who ask’d of me: ‘Hast thou not heard it said?...
Thy lady, she that was so fair, is dead.’
“Then lifting up mine eyes, as the tears came,
I saw the Angels, like a rain of manna,
In a long flight flying back Heavenward;
Having a little cloud in front of them,
After the which they went and said, ‘Hosanna;’
And if they had said more, you should have heard.
Then Love said, ‘Now shall all things be made clear:
Come and behold our lady where she lies.’
These ’wildering phantasies
Then carried me to see my lady dead.
Even as I there was led,
Her ladies with a veil were covering her;
And with her was such very humbleness
That she appeared to say, ‘I am at peace.’
“And I became so humble in my grief,
Seeing in her such deep humility,
That I said: ‘Death, I hold thee passing good
Henceforth, and a most gentle sweet relief,
Since my dear love has chosen to dwell with thee:
Pity, not hate, is thine, well understood.
Lo! I do so desire to see thy face
That I am like as one who nears the tomb;
My soul entreats thee, Come.’
Then I departed, having made my moan;
And when I was alone
I said, and cast my eyes to the High Place:
‘Blessed is he, fair soul, who meets thy glance!’
... Just then you woke me, of your complaisaùnce.”
_This poem has two parts. In the first, speaking to a person undefined,
I tell how I was aroused from a vain phantasy by certain ladies, and
how I promised them to tell what it was. In the second, I say how I
told them. The second part begins here, “I was a-thinking.” The first
part divides into two. In the first, I tell that which certain ladies,
and which one singly, did and said because of my phantasy, before I had
returned into my right senses. In the second, I tell what these ladies
said to me after I had left off this wandering: and it begins here,
“But uttered in a voice.” Then, when I say, “I was a-thinking,” I say
how I told them this my imagination; and concerning this I have two
parts. In the first, I tell, in order, this imagination. In the second,
saying at what time they called me, I covertly thank them: and this
part begins here, “Just then you woke me.”_
After this empty imagining, it happened on a day, as I sat thoughtful,
that I was taken with such a strong trembling at the heart, that it
could not have been otherwise in the presence of my lady. Whereupon I
perceived that there was an appearance of Love beside me, and I seemed
to see him coming from my lady; and he said, not aloud but within my
heart: “Now take heed that thou bless the day when I entered into thee;
for it is fitting that thou shouldst do so.” And with that my heart was
so full of gladness, that I could hardly believe it to be of very truth
mine own heart and not another.
A short while after these words which my heart spoke to me with the
tongue of Love, I saw coming towards me a certain lady who was very
famous for her beauty, and of whom that friend whom I have already
called the first among my friends had long been enamoured. This lady’s
right name was Joan; but because of her comeliness (or at least it
was so imagined) she was called of many _Primavera_ (Spring), and
went by that name among them. Then looking again, I perceived that
the most noble Beatrice followed after her. And when both these ladies
had passed by me, it seemed to me that Love spake again in my heart,
saying: “She that came first was called Spring, only because of that
which was to happen on this day. And it was I myself who caused that
name to be given her; seeing that as the Spring cometh first in the
year, so should she come first on this day,[21] when Beatrice was to
show herself after the vision of her servant. And even if thou go about
to consider her right name, it is also as one should say, ‘She shall
come first;’ inasmuch as her name, Joan, is taken from that John who
went before the True Light, saying: ‘_Ego vox clamantis in deserto:
Parate viam Domini._’”[22] And also it seemed to me that he added other
words, to wit: “He who should inquire delicately touching this matter,
could not but call Beatrice by mine own name, which is to say, Love;
beholding her so like unto me.”
[21] There is a play in the original upon the words _Primavera_
(Spring) and _prima verrà_ (she shall come first), to which I
have given as near an equivalent as I could.
[22] “I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: ‘Prepare ye
the way of the Lord.’”
Then I, having thought of this, imagined to write it with rhymes and
send it unto my chief friend; but setting aside certain words[23] which
seemed proper to be set aside, because I believed that his heart still
regarded the beauty of her that was called Spring.
[23] That is (as I understand it), suppressing, from delicacy
towards his friend, the words in which Love describes Joan as
merely the forerunner of Beatrice. And perhaps in the latter
part of this sentence a reproach is gently conveyed to the
fickle Guido Cavalcanti, who may already have transferred his
homage (though Dante had not then learned it) from Joan to
Mandetta.