From The New Life of Dante Alighieri, translated by Charles Eliot Norton; Houghton, Mifflin and Company; Boston and New York; 1896; pp. 67-90.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
76Some 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.
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.
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.”
80The 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 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!”
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.
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.
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.
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].