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From The New Life of Dante Alighieri, translated by Charles Eliot Norton; Houghton, Mifflin and Company; Boston and New York; 1896; pp. 67-90.


[67]

THE NEW LIFE, Part IV

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XXXII.

After my eyes had wept for some time, and were so wearied that I could not give vent to my sadness, I thought to try to give vent to it with some 68 words of grief; and therefore I resolved to make a canzone, in which, lamenting, I would discourse of her for whom such grief was wasting my soul; and I began then, “The eyes that grieve,” etc.

In order that this canzone may seem to remain the more a widow after its end, I will divide it before I write it out; and this mode I shall follow henceforth. I say that this poor little canzone has three parts: the first is the proem; in the second, I discourse of her; in the third, I speak pitifully to the canzone. The second begins here: “To the high heaven;” the third, here: “Sad song of mine.” The first is divided into three: in the first, I tell wherefore I am moved to speak; in the second, I tell to whom I wish to speak; in the third, I tell of whom I wish to speak. The second begins here: “And since I do remember.” The third, here: “And then, lamenting.” Then when I say, “To the high heaven hath Beatricè gone,” I discourse of her; and of this I make two parts. First, I tell the reason wherefore she was taken from us; then I tell how others mourn her departure; and this part begins here: “Departed from.” This part is divided into three: in the first, I tell who does not mourn for her; in the second, I tell who mourns for her; in the third, I tell of my own condition. The second begins here: “But he 69 hath grief and woe;” the third, “Great anguish.” Then when I say, “Sad song of mine,” I speak to this my canzone, pointing out to it the ladies to whom it is to go, and with whom it is to stay.

The eyes that grieve with pity for the heart
     Have of their weeping borne the penalty,
     So that they now remain as if subdued.
     Wherefore if I would to the grief give vent,
     Which by degrees conducts me unto death,
     Me it behoves to tell my woe in speech.
     And since I do remember that I spoke
     Of her, my lady, while she was alive,
     Ye gentle ladies, willingly with you,
     I will not speak of her,
     Save only to a lady’s gentle heart.
     And then, lamenting, I will tell of her,
     That she to heaven suddenly hath gone,
     And hath left Love behind in grief with me.
To the high heaven hath Beatricè gone,
     Unto that realm where peace the angels have,
     And dwells with them; you, ladies, hath she left.
     No quality of cold ’t was took her there,
     Nor yet of heat, such as affecteth others,
     But ’t was her great benignity alone.
     Because the light of her humility
     Passed through the heavens with power so great,
     It made to marvel the Eternal Lord;
     So that a sweet desire
     Upon Him came to summon such salvation;
     And from below He made her come to Him,
     Because He saw that this distressful life
     Unworthy was of such a gentle thing.
70 Departed from her person beautiful,
     The gentle soul replete with every grace
     Now dwelleth glorious in a fit abode.
     Who weeps her not when he doth speak of her
     Hath heart of stone so vile and so perverse
     Spirit benign can never enter there.
     Nor is there wit so high of villain heart
     That aught concerning her it can conceive,
     Therefore to it comes not the wish to weep.
     But he hath grief and woe,
     With sighing and with weeping unto death,
     And of all comfort is his soul bereft,
     Who sometimes in his thought considereth
     What she was, and how from us she is taken.
Great anguish do my sighs give unto me,
     Whene’er my thought unto my heavy mind
     Doth bring her to me who hath cleft my heart.
     And thinking oftentimes concerning death,
     There comes to me so sweet desire therefor
     That it transmutes the color in my face.
     When this imagination holds me fixed,
     Such pain assaileth me on every side,
     That then I tremble with the woe I feel;
     And such I do become
     That from the people shame takes me away:
     Then, alone, weeping, I lamenting call
     On Beatrice, and say: “Art thou, then, dead?
     And while I call her I am comforted.
The tears of grief, and sighs of agony,
     Lay waste my heart whene’er I am alone,
     So he would sorrow for it who might see.
     And what indeed my life hath been since she,
     My lady, to the new world went away.
71      No tongue there is that could know how to tell.
     And therefore, ladies mine, e’en though I wished,
     I could not truly tell you what I am.
     To me this bitter life such travail brings,
     And it is so abased,
     That every man who sees my deathlike look
     Appears to me to say, “I cast thee off.”
     But what I am, that doth my lady see,
     And thereof I yet hope reward from her.
Sad song of mine, now weeping go thy way,
     And find again the dames and damosels
     To whom thy sisters all
     Were wont to be the bearers of delight;
     And thou who art the daughter of despair,
     Go forth disconsolate to dwell with them.

XXXIII.

After this canzone was devised, there came to me one who, according to the degrees of friendship, was my friend next in order after the first; and he was so near in blood to this lady in glory that there was none nearer. And after talking with me, he prayed me to write for him something on a lady who was dead; and he dissembled his words, so that it might seem that he was speaking of another lady who had lately died; but I, aware that he spake only of that blessed one, told him I would do that which his prayer begged of me. Wherefore, after thinking thereupon, I resolved to 72 make a sonnet in which I would somewhat bewail myself, and to give it to this my friend, that it might seem that I had made it for him; and I devised then this sonnet which begins: “To hearken now,” etc.

This sonnet has two parts: in the first, I call upon the liegemen of Love to hearken to me; in the second, I describe my wretched condition. The second begins here: “Sighs which their way.”

To hearken now unto my sighs come ye,
     O gentle hearts! for pity wills it so; —
     Sighs, which their way disconsolately go,
     And were they not, I dead of grief should be:
Because my eyes would debtors be to me
     For vastly more than they could every pay, —
     To weep, alas! my lady in such way,
     That, weeping her, my heart relieved might be.
Oft you shall hear them calling unto her,
     My gentle lady, who from us is gone
     Unto the world deserving of her worth;
And then, in scorn of this life, making moan,
     As though the grieving soul itself they were,
     Abandoned by its welfare upon earth.

XXXIV.

After I had devised this sonnet, reflecting who he was to whom I intended to give it as if made 73 for him, I saw that the service appeared to me poor and bare for a person so close akin to this lady in glory. And therefore, before I gave him the above-written sonnet, I composed two stanzas of a canzone, the one really for him, and the other for myself; although both the one and the other may appear to him who does not regard subtilely as if written for one person. But he who looks at them subtilely sees well that different persons speak; in that the one does not call her his lady, and the other does so, as is plainly apparent. This canzone and this sonnet I gave to him, saying that I had made them for him alone.

The canzone begins, “As often as,” and has two parts. In one, that is, in the first stanza, this my dear friend, her kinsman, bewails himself; in the other, I bewail myself, that is, in the second stanza, which begins “And there is intermingled.” And thus it appears that in this canzone two persons bewail themselves, one of whom bewails himself as a brother, the other as a vassal.

As often as, alas! I call to mind
     That I can nevermore
     The lady see for whom thus sad I go,
     My grieving mind doth cause so great a grief
     To gather round my heart,
     I say, “My soul, why goest thou not away,
74      Seeing the torments thou wilt have to bear,
     In this world so molestful now to thee,
     Make me foreboding with a heavy fear?”
     And therefore upon Death
     I call, as to my sweet and soft repose,
     And say, “Come thou to me,” with such desire
     That I am envious of whoever dies.
And there is intermingled with my sighs
     A sound of wofulness,
     Which evermore goes calling upon Death.
     To her were all of my desires turned
     When that the lady mine
     Was overtaken by her cruelty;
     Because the pleasure of her beauteousness,
     Taking itself away from out our sight,
     Became a spiritual beauty great,
     Which through the heaven spreads
     A light of love that doth the angels greet,
     And makes their high and keen intelligence
     To marvel, of such gentleness is she.

XXXV.

On that day on which the year was complete since this lady was made one of the denizens of life eternal, I was seated in a place where, having her in mind, I was drawing an angel upon certain tablets. And while I was drawing it, I turned my eyes and saw at my side men to whom it was meet to do honor. They were looking on what I did, and, as was afterwards told me, they had been 75 there already some time before I became aware of it. When I saw them I rose, and, saluting them, said, “Another was just now with me, and on that account I was in thought.” And when they had gone away, I returned to my work, namely, that of drawing figures of angels; and, while doing this, a thought came to me of saying words in rhyme, as if for an anniversary poem of her, and of addressing those persons who had come to me. And I devised then this sonnet that begins, “The gentle lady,” the which has two beginnings; and therefore I will divide it according to one and the other.

I say that, according to the first, this sonnet has three parts: in the first, I tell that this lady was already in my memory; in the second, I tell what Love thereupon did to me; in the third, I tell of the effects of Love. The second begins here: “Love, who;” the third, here: “Lamenting they from out.” This part is divided into two: in the one, I say that all my sighs went forth speaking; in the other, I tell how some said certain words different from the others. The second begins here: “But those.” In this same way it is divided according to the other beginning, except that in the first part I tell when this lady had so come to my mind, and this I do not tell in the other.

76

FIRST BEGINNING.

The gentle lady to my mind had come,
     Who, for the sake of her exceeding worth,
     Had by the Lord Most High been ta’en from earth
     To that calm heaven where Mary hath her home.

SECOND BEGINNING.

That gentle lady to my mind in thought
     Had come, because of whom Love’s tears are shed,
     Just at the time when, by her influence led,
     To see what I was doing ye were brought.
Love, who within my mind did her perceive,
     Was wakened up within my wasted heart,
     And said unto my sighs, “Go forth! depart!”
     Whereon each one in sorrow took its leave.
Lamenting they from out my breast did go,
     And uttering a voice that often led
     The grievous tears unto my saddened eyes;
But those which issued with the greatest woe,
     “O high intelligence!” they, going, said,
     “To-day makes up the year since thou to heaven didst
          rise.”

XXXVI.

Some time afterwards, happening to be in a place where I was reminded of the past time, I stood deep in thought, and with such doleful thoughts that they made me exhibit an appearance of terrible distress. Wherefore I, becoming aware of my woe-begone look, lifted up my eyes to see 77 if any one saw me; and I saw a gentle lady, young and very beautiful, who was looking at me from a window with a face full of compassion, so that all pity seemed gathered in it. Wherefore, since the wretched, when they see the compassion of others for them, are the more readily moved to weep, as if taking pity on themselves, I then felt my eyes begin to desire to weep; and therefore, fearing lest I might display my abject life, I departed from before the eyes of this gentle one; and I said then within me: “It cannot be but that with that compassionate lady should be a most noble love.” And therefore I resolved to devise a sonnet in which I would speak to her, and would include all that is narrated in this account. And since this account is manifest enough, I will not divide it.

Mine eyes beheld how you were wont to show
     Great pity on your face, what time your sight
     Fell on the actions and the wretched plight
     To which I ofttimes was reduced by woe.
Then was I ware that you did meditate
     Upon the nature of my darkened years,
     So that within my heart were wakened fears
     Lest that mine eyes should show my low estate.
And then I took myself from you, perceiving
     That tears from out my heart began to move,
     Which by your look had been thus deeply stirred.
Thereon in my sad soul I said this word:
78      ”Ah! surely with that lady is that love
     Which maketh me to go about thus grieving.’

XXXVII.

It came to pass afterwards that, wherever this lady saw me, she became of a compassionate aspect and of a pallid color, even as that of love; wherefore I was often reminded of my most noble lady, who had ever showed herself to me of a like color. And ofttimes, in truth, not being able to weep, nor to give vent to my sadness, I sought to see this compassionate lady, who seemed by her look to draw the tears out from my eyes. And therefore the will came to me furthermore to say certain words, speaking to her; and I devised this sonnet which begins, “Color of Love,” and which is plain without division, through the preceding account.

Color of Love and semblance of compassion
     Never so wondrously possession took
     Of lady’s face, through turning oft her look
     On gentle eyes and grievous lamentation,
As now, forsooth, of yours they do, whene’er
     You see my countenance with grief o’erwrought;
     So that through you comes something to my thought
     Which, lest it break my heart, I greatly fear.
I have no power to keep my wasted eyes
     From looking oft on you, with the desire
     That gaineth them to let their tears o’erflow.
79 And you increase their wish in such a wise
     That with the longing they are all on fire,
     But how to weep before you do not know.

XXXVIII.

I was brought to such a pass by the sight of this lady, that my eyes began to delight too much in seeing her; whereas I was often angry with myself, and esteemed myself mean enough. And many a time I cursed the vanity of my eyes, and said to them in my thought: “But late ye were wont to make those weep who saw your sad condition, and now it seems that ye wish to forget it by reason of this lady who looks upon you, and who does not look upon you save as she grieves for the lady in glory for whom ye are wont to weep. But whatever ye have power to do, do; for, accursed eyes, very often will I remind you of her; for never, except after death, ought your tears to be stayed.’ And when I had thus spoken within me to my eyes, very deep and distressful sighs assailed me. And in order that this battle which I had with myself might not remain known only to the wretched one who experienced it, I resolved to make a sonnet, and to include in it this horrible condition; and I devised this which begins, “The bitter tears.”

80

The sonnet has two parts: in the first, I speak to my eyes as my heart spoke within me; in the second, I remove a difficulty, showing who it is that thus speaks; and this part begins here: “Thus saith.” It might indeed receive still further divisions, but this would be needless, since it is clear by reason of the preceding account.

The bitter tears that shed by you have been,
     Ye eyes of mine, so long a season now,
     Have made the tears of other folk to flow,
     Out of compassion, as yourselves have seen,
That you would this forget, it now appears,
     If on my part so traitorous I should be
     As not to trouble you continually
     With thought of her to whom belong your tears.
Your vanity doth care in me beget,
     And so alarms me, that I greatly dread
     Sight of a dame who on you turns her eyes.
Never should you, until that ye be dead,
     Our gentle lady who is dead forget:
     Thus saith my heart, and thereupon it sighs.

XXXIX.

The sight of this lady brought me into so strange a condition, that many a time I thought of her as of a person who had pleased me exceeding much. And I thought of her thus: “This is a gentle, beautiful, young, and discreet lady, and she has 81 appeared perchance through the will of Love, in order that my life may find repose.” And oftentimes I thought more lovingly, so that my heart consented thereto, that is, unto its reasoning. And when it had thus consented, I took thought again, as if moved by the reason, and I said to myself; “Ah! what thought is this which in so vile a way seeks to console me, and scarcely leaves me any other thought?” Then another thought rose up and said: “Now that thou hast been in so great tribulation, why dost thou not wish to withdraw thyself from such bitterness? Thou seest that this is an inspiration which brings the desires of Love before us, and proceeds from a place no less gentle than the eyes of the lady who has shown herself so compassionate unto thee.” Wherefore I, having thus ofttimes been at strife within me, wished anew to say some words thereof; and since, in the battle of the thoughts, those had conquered that spoke on her behalf, it seemed to me befitting to address her, and I devised this sonnet which begins, “A gentle thought;” and I said gentle inasmuch as I was speaking to a gentle lady, for otherwise it was most vile.

In this sonnet I make two parts of myself, according as my thoughts had twofold division. The one part I call heart, that is, the appetite; the other, soul, that is, the reason; and I tell how 82one speaks to the other. And that it is fitting to call the appetite the heart, and the reason the soul, is sufficiently plain to those to whom it pleases me that this should be disclosed. It is true that in the preceding sonnet I take the part of the heart against the eyes, and that seems contrary to what I say in the present; and therefore I say that also there I mean by the heart the appetite, since my desire still to remember me of my most gentle lady was greater than to see this one, although I had had truly some appetite therefor, but it seemed slight; wherefore it appears that the one saying is not contrary to the other.

This sonnet has three parts: in the first, I begin with saying to this lady how my desire turns wholly toward her; in the second, I say how the soul, that is, the reason, speaks to the heart, that is, to the appetite; in the third, I say how this replies. The second begins here: “Who then is this?” the third, here: “O saddened soul!”

A gentle thought that of you holds discourse
     Cometh now frequently with me to dwell,
     And with such sweetness it of Love doth tell,
     My heart to yield unto him it doth force.
“Who then is this,” the soul saith to the heart,
     “Who cometh to bring comfort to our mind,
     And who hath virtue of so potent kind,
     That other thoughts he maketh to depart?”
83 “O saddened soul,” the heart to her replies,
     “This is a little spirit fresh from Love,
     And to my presence his desires he brings.
His very life and all his influence move
     From out of the compassionating eyes
     Of her who sorroweth for our sufferings.’

XL.

Against this adversary of the reason there arose one day, about the hour of nones, a strong imagination within me; for I seemed to see this glorified Beatrice in those crimson garments in which she had first appeared to my eyes, and she seemed to me young, of the same age as when I first saw her. Then I began to think of her; and calling her to mind according to the order of the past time, my heart began bitterly to repent of the desire by which it had so vilely allowed itself for some days to be possessed, contrary to the constancy of the reason: and this so wicked desire being expelled, all my thoughts returned to their most gentle Beatrice. And I say that thenceforth I began to think of her with my heart so all ashamed, that oftentimes my sighs manifested it; for almost all of them told, as they went forth, that which was discoursed of in my heart, to wit, the name of that most gentle one, and how she had departed 84 from us. And many times it came to pass, that some one thought had such anguish in itself that I forgot it and the place where I was. By this rekindling of sighs my tears which had been assuaged were rekindled in such wise that my eyes seemed two things which desired only to weep; and often it happened that through the long continuance of weeping there came a purple color around them, such as is wont to appear after any torment that one may endure; whence it seems that they were worthily rewarded for their vanity, so that from that time forward they could not gaze at any one who might so look at them as to have power to draw them to a like intention. Wherefore I, wishing that this wicked desire and vain temptation should be seen to be destroyed, so that the rhymed words which I had before written should give rise to no question, resolved to make a sonnet in which I would include the purport of this account. And I said then, “Alas! by force.”

I said “Alas!” inasmuch as I was ashamed that my eyes had so gone astray after vanity. I do not divide this sonnet, for its meaning is sufficiently clear.

Alas! by force of sighs that oft return,
     Springing from thoughts which are within my heart,
     Mine eyes are conquered, and have lost the art
     To look at once whose gaze on them may turn.
85 And they are such, they two desires appear,
     Only to weep, and sorrow to display;
     And ofttimes they lament in such a way
     That Love gives them the martyr’s crown to wear.
These thoughts and sighs that issue with my breath,
     Become within my heart so full of pain
     That Love, subdued by woe, falls senseless there;
For on themselves these grieving ones do bear
     That sweet name of my Lady written plain,
     And many words relating to her death.

XLI.

After this tribulation it came to pass, at that time when many people were going to see the blessed image which Jesus Christ left to us as the likeness of his most beautiful countenance, which my lady in glory now beholds, that certain pilgrims were passing through a street which is near the middle of that city where the most gentle lady was born, lived, and died; and they were going along, as it seemed to me, very pensive. Wherefore I, thinking on them, said within myself: “These seem to me pilgrims from some far-off region, and I do not believe that they have even heard speak of this lady, and they know nothing of her; nay, their thoughts are rather of other things than of these here; for perchance they are thinking of their distant friends, whom we do not know.” 86 Then I said within me: “I know that, if these were from a neighboring land, they would show some sign of trouble as they pass through the midst of the grieving city.” Then again I said within me: “If I could hold them awhile, I would indeed make them weep before they should go out from this city; since I would say words which should make whoever might hear them weep.”

Wherefore, they having passed out of my sight, I resolved to make a sonnet in which I would set forth that which I had said to myself; and in order that it might appear more piteous, I resolved to say it as if I had spoken to them, and I devised this sonnet which begins, “O pilgrims.”

I said pilgrims in the wide sense of the word: for pilgrims may be understood in two senses, in one wide and in one narrow. In the wide, forasmuch as every one is a pilgrim who is away from his native land; in the narrow sense, by pilgrim is meant only he who goes to or returns from the House of St. James. And further it is to be known that the folk who journey on the service of the Most High are distinguished by three terms. Those who go beyond the sea, whence they bring back the palm, are called palmers; those who go to the House of Galicia are called pilgrims, because the burial-place of St. James was more distant from his country than that of any 87 other of the Apostles; and those are called romers, who go to Rome, where these whom I call pilgrims were going.

This sonnet is not divided, because it sufficiently declares its own meaning.

O pilgrims, who in pensive mood move slow,
     Thinking perchance of those who absent are,
     Say, do ye come from folk away so far
     As your appearance seems to us to show?
For ye weep not the while ye forward go
     Along the middle of the mourning town;
     Seeming as persons who have nothing known
     Concerning the sad burden of her woe.
If, through your will to hear, awhile ye stay,
     Truly my heart with sighs declares to me
     That ye shall afterward depart in tears.
Alas! her Beatrice now lost hath she;
     And all the words that one of her may say
     Have virtue to make weep whoever hears.

XLII.

After this, two gentle ladies sent to ask me to send to them some of these rhymed words of mine; wherefore I, thinking on their nobleness, resolved to send to them, and to make a new thing which I would send to them with these, in order that I might fulfill their prayers with the more honor. And I devised then a sonnet which relates my 88 condition, and I sent it to them accompanied by the preceding sonnet, and by another which begins, “To hearken now.” The sonnet which I made then is, “Beyond the sphere,” etc.

This sonnet has five parts. In the first, I say whither my thought goes, naming it by the name of one of its effects. In the second, I saw wherefore it goes on high, namely, who makes it thus to go. In the third, I say what it sees, namely, a lady in honor. And I call it then a pilgrim spirit; since spiritually it goes on high, and as a pilgrim who is out of his own country. In the fourth, I say how he sees her such, namely, of such quality, that I cannot understand it; that is to say, that my thought rises into the quality of her to a degree that my understanding cannot comprehend it; since our understanding is in regard to those blessed souls as weak as our eye is before the sun; and this the Philosopher says in the second book of his Metaphysics. In the fifth, I say that, although I cannot understand there where my thought transports me, namely, to her marvellous quality, at least I understand this, namely, that this my thought is wholly of my lady, for I often hear her name in my thought. And at the end of this fifth part I say “Ladies dear,” to indicate that it is to ladies that I speak. The second part beings, :A new Intelligence;” 89 the third, “When at;” the fourth, “He sees her such;” the fifth, “But at that gentle one.” It might be divided still more subtilely, and its meaning be more fully set forth, but it can pass with this division, and therefore I do not concern myself to divide it further.

Beyond the sphere that widest orbit hath
     Passeth the sigh which issues from my heart:
     A new Intelligence doth Love impart
     In tears to him, which leads him on his path.
When at the wished-for place his flight he stays,
     A lady he beholds in honor dight,
     Who so doth shine that through her splendid light
     The pilgrim spirit upon her doth gaze.
He sees her such that his reporting words
     To me are dark, his speech so subtile is
     Unto the grieving heart which makes him tell.
But of that gentle one he speaks, I wis,
     Since of the Beatrice’s name records;
     Thus, ladies dear, I understand him well.

XLIII.

After this sonnet, a wonderful vision appeared to me, in which I saw things which made me resolve to speak no more of this blessed one, until I could more worthily treat of her. And to attain to this, I study to the utmost of my power, as she truly knows. So that, if it shall please Him 90 through whom all things live, that my life be prolonged for some years, I hope to say of her what was never said of any woman.

And then may it please Him who is the lord of Grace, that my soul may go to behold the glory of its lady, namely, of that blessed Beatrice, who in glory looks upon the face of Him qui est per omnia sæcula benedictus [who is blessed forever].






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