To every captive soul and loving heart
to whom these words I have composed are sent
for your elucidation in reply,
greetings I bring for your sweet lord’s sake, Love.
The first three hours, the hours of the time
of shining stars, were coming to an end,
when suddenly Love appeared before me
(to remember how he really was appalls me).
Joyous, Love seemed to me, holding my heart
within his hand, and in his arms he had
my lady, loosely wrapped in folds, asleep.
He woke her then, and gently fed to her
the burning heart; she ate it, terrified.
And then I saw him disappear in tears.
A ciascun’ alma presa e gentil core
nel cui cospetto ven lo dir presente,
In ciò che mi rescrivan suo parvente,
salute in lor segnor, cioè Amore.
Già eran quasi che atterzate l’ore
del tempo che onne stella n’è lucente,
quando m’apparve Amor subitamente,
(cui essenza membrar mi da orrore).
Allegro mi sembrava Amor tenendo
meo core in meno, e ne le braccia avea
madonna involta in un drappo dormendo.
Poi la svegliava, e d’esto core ardendo
lei paventosa umilmente pascea.
Appresso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first part I extend greetings and ask for a response, while in the second I describe what it is that requires the response. The second part begins: The first three hours.
This sonnet was answered by many, who offered a variety of interpretations; among those who answered was the one I call my best friend, who responded with a sonnet beginning: I think that you beheld all worth. This exchange of sonnets marked the beginning of our friendship. The true meaning of the dream I described was not perceived by anyone then, but now it is completely clear even to the least sophisticated.
IV
After that vision my natural spirit was interfered with in its functioning, because my soul had become wholly absorbed in thinking about this most gracious lady; and in a short time I became so weak and frail that many of my friends were worried about the way I looked; others, full of malicious curiosity, were doing their best to discover things about me, which, above all, I wished to keep secret from everyone. I was aware of the maliciousness of their questioning and, guided by Love who commanded me according to the counsel of reason, I would answer that it was Love who had conquered me. I said that it was Love because there were so many of his signs clearly marked on my face that they were impossible to conceal. And when people would ask: “Who is the person for whom you are so destroyed by Love?” I would look at them and smile and say nothing.
V
It happened one day that this most gracious of ladies was sitting in a place where words about the Queen of Glory were being spoken, and I was where I could behold my bliss. Halfway between her and me, in a direct line of vision, sat a gentlewoman of a very pleasing appearance, who glanced at me frequently as if bewildered by my gaze, which seemed to be directed at her. And many began to notice her glances in my direction, and paid close attention to them and, as I left this place, I heard someone near me say: “See what a devastating effect that lady has had on that man.” And, when her name was mentioned, I realized that the lady referred to was the one whose place had been half-way along the direct line which extended from the most gracious Beatrice, ending in my eyes. Then I was greatly relieved, feeling sure that my glances had not revealed my secret to others that day. At once I thought of making this lovely lady a screen to hide the truth, and so well did I play my part that in a short time the many people who talked about me were sure they knew my secret. Thanks to this lady I concealed the truth about myself for several years and months, and in order to encourage people’s false belief, I wrote certain trifles for her in rhyme which I do not intend to include unless they could serve as a pretext to treat of that most gracious Beatrice; therefore, I will omit them all except for what is clearly in praise of her.
VI
Let me say that during the time that this lady acted as a screen for so great a love on my part, I was seized by a desire to record the name of my most gracious lady and to accompany it with the names of many others, and especially with the name of this gentlewoman. I chose the names of sixty of the most beautiful ladies of the city in which my lady had been placed by the Almighty, and composed a serventese in the form of an epistle which I shall not include here—in fact, I would not have mentioned it if it were not that, while I was composing it, miraculously it happened that the name of my lady appeared as the ninth among the names of those ladies, as if refusing to appear under any other number.
VII
The lady I had used for so long to conceal my true feelings found it necessary to leave the aforementioned city and to journey to a distant town; and I, bewildered by the fact that my ideal defense had failed me, became extremely dejected, more so than even I would previously have believed possible. And realizing that if I should not lament somewhat her departure, people would soon become aware of my secret, I decided to write a few grieving words in the form of a sonnet (this I shall include here because my lady was the direct cause for certain words contained in the sonnet, as will be evident to one who understands). And then I wrote this sonnet which begins: O ye who travel.
O ye who travel on the road of Love,
pause here and look about
for any man whose grief surpasses mine.
I ask this only: hear me out, then judge
if I am not indeed
the host and the abode of every torment.
Love—surely not for my slight worth, but moved
by his own nobleness—
once gave me so serene and sweet a life
that many times I heard it said of me:
“God, what great qualities
give this man’s heart the riches of such joy?”
Now all is spent of that first wealth of joy
that had its source in Love’s bright treasury;
I know Love’s destitution
and have no heart to put into my verse.
And so I try to imitate the man who covers up his poverty for shame:
I wear the clothes of joy,
but in my heart I weep and waste away.
O voi che per la via d’Amor passate,
attendete e guardate
s’elli è dolore alcun, quanto ’l mio, grave.
E prego sol ch’audir mi sofferiate,
e poi imaginate
s’io son d’ogni tormento ostale e chiave.
Amor, non già per mia poca bontate,
ma per sua nobiltate,
mi pose in vita sì dolce e soave
ch’io mi sentia dir dietro spesse fiate:
“Deo, per qual dignitate
così leggiadro questi lo core have?”
Or ho perduta tutta mia baldanza,
che si movea d’amoroso tesoro;
ond’io pover dimoro,
in guisa che di dir mi ven dottanza.
Sì che volendo far come coloro
che per vergogna celan lor mancanza,
di fuor mostro allegranza,
e dentro de lo core struggo e ploro.
This sonnet has two main parts. In the first I mean to call upon Love’s faithful with the words of the prophet Jeremiah: O vos omnes qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus,7 and to beg that they deign to hear me; in the second part I tell of the condition in which Love had placed me, with a meaning other than that contained in the beginning and the ending of the sonnet, and I tell what I have lost. The second part begins: Love—surely not.
VIII
After the departure of this gentlewoman it pleased the Lord of the angels to call to His glory a young and very beautiful lady,
who was known in the aforementioned city for her exceeding charm. I saw her body without the soul, lying in the midst of many ladies who were weeping most pitifully; then, remembering that I had seen her several times in the company of that most gracious one, I could not hold back my tears and, weeping, I resolved to say something about her death, in recognition of having seen her several times in the company of my lady. (And I suggest something of this toward the end of the words I wrote about her, as will be evident to the discerning reader.) I composed, then, these two sonnets, the first beginning: If Love himself, and the second: Villainous death.
If Love himself weep, shall not lovers weep,
learning for what sad cause he pours his tears?
Love hears his ladies crying their distress,
showing forth bitter sorrow through their eyes
because villainous Death has worked its cruel
destructive art upon a gentle heart,
and laid waste all that earth can find to praise
in a gracious lady, save her chastity.
Hear then how Love paid homage to this lady:
I saw him weeping there in human form,
observing the stilled image of her grace;
and more than once he raised his eyes toward Heaven,
where that sweet soul already had its home,
which once, on earth, had worn enchanting flesh.
Piangete, amanti, poi che piange Amore,
udendo qual cagion lui fa plorare.
Amor sente a Pietà donne chiamare,
mostrando amaro duol per li occhi fore,
perché villana Morte in gentil core
ha miso il suo crudele adoperare,
guastando ciò che al mondo è da laudare
in gentil donna, sovra de Vonore.
Audite quanto Amor le fece orranza,
ch’io ’l vidi lamentare in forma vera
sovra la morta imagine avvenente;
e riguardava ver lo ciel sovente,
ove l’alma gentil già locata era,
che donna fu di sì gaia sembianza.
This sonnet is divided into three parts. In the first part I call upon Love’s faithful, imploring them to weep, and I say that their lord himself weeps and that they, learning the reason for his tears, should be more disposed to hear me. In the second part I give the reason. In the third part I speak of a certain honor that Love bestowed upon this lady. The second part begins: learning for what, the third: Hear then how.
Villainous Death, at war with tenderness,
timeless mother of woe,
judgment severe and incontestable,
source of sick grief within my heart—a grief
I constantly must bear—
my tongue wears itself out in cursing you!
And if I want to make you beg for mercy,
I need only reveal
your felonies, your guilt of every guilt;
not that you are unknown for what you are,
but rather to enrage
whoever hopes for sustenance in love.
You have bereft the world of gentlest grace,
of all that in sweet ladies merits praise;
in youth’s gay tender years
you have destroyed all love’s lightheartedness.
There is no need to name this gracious lady,
because her qualities tell who she was.
Who merits not salvation,
let him not hope to share her company.
Morte villana, di pietà nemica,
di dolor madre antica,
giudicio incontastabile gravoso,
poi che hai data matera al cor doglioso
ond’io vado pensoso,
di te blasmar la lingua s’affatica.
E s’io di grazia ti voi far mendica,
convenesi ch’eo dica
lo tuo fallar d’onni torto tortoso,
non però ch’a la gente sia nascoso,
ma per farne cruccioso
chi d’amor per innanzi si notrica.
Dal secolo hai partita cortesia
e ciò ch’è in donna da pregiar vertute:
in gaia gioventute
distrutta hai l’amorosa leggiadria.
Più non voi discovrir qual donna sia
che per le proprietà sue canosciute.
Chi non merta salute
non speri mai d’aver sua compagnia.
This sonnet is divided into four parts. In the first part I address Death with certain names appropriate to it; in the second I tell it why I curse it; in the third I revile it; in the fourth I allude to some unspecified person who, yet, is very clear to my mind. The second part begins: source of sick grief, the third: And if I want, the fourth: Who merits not.
IX
Not long after the death of this lady something happened that made it necessary for me to leave the aforementioned city and go in the direction of (but not all the way to) the place where the lady who had formerly served as my screen was now staying. Though I was in the company of many others it was as if I were alone: the journey so irked me, because I was going farther away from my bliss, that my sighs could not relieve the anguish in my heart. Therefore his very sweet lordship, who ruled over me through the power of that most gracious lady, took the shape in my mind of a pilgrim scantily and poorly dressed. He seemed distressed; he stared continually at the ground except for the times his eyes seemed to turn toward a beautiful river, swift and very clear, flowing by the side of the road I was traveling. It seemed that Love called me and spoke these words: “I come from that lady who has been your shield for so long a time; I know that she will not return soon to your city, and so, that heart which I made you leave with her I now have with me, and I am carrying it to a lady who will now be your defense, just as the other lady was.” He named her, and she was a lady I knew well. “If you should, however, repeat any of the things I have told you, do so in a way that will not reveal the insincerity of the love you showed for the first lady, and which you must now show for another.” Having said these words, his image suddenly vanished from my mind, because Love had become so great a part of me; and as if transformed in my appearance, I rode on that day deep in thought, with my sighs for company. The next day I began writing a sonnet about all this, which begins: As I rode out.
As I rode out one day not long ago,
by narrow roads, and heavy with the thought
of what compelled my going, I met Love
in pilgrim’s rags, coming the other way.
All his appearance told the shabby story
of a once-great ruler since bereft of power;
and ever sighing, bent with thought, he moved,
his eyes averted from the passers-by.
But he saw me and called me by my name,
and said: “I come from that place far away
where I had sent your heart to serve my will;
I bring it back to court a new delight.”
Then he began to fuse with me so strangely,
he disappeared before I knew he had.
Cavalcando l’altrier per un cammino,
pensoso de l’andar che mi sgradia,
trovai Amore in mezzo de la via
in abito leggier di peregrino.
Ne la sembianza mi parea meschino,
come avesse perduto segnoria;
e sospirando pensoso venia,
per non veder la gente, a capo chino.
Quando mi vide, mi chiamò per nome,
e disse: “Io vegno di lontana parte,
ov’era lo tuo cor per mio volere;
e recolo a servir novo piacere ”
Allora presi di lui sì gran parte,
ch’elli disparve, e non m’accorsi come.
This sonnet has three parts. In the first part I tell how I encountered Love and how he looked; in the second I relate what he told me—only in part, however, for fear of revealing my secret; in the third part I tell how he disappeared from me. The second part begins: But he saw me, the th
ird: Then he began.
X
After returning from my journey I sought out that lady whom my lord had named to me on the road of sighs, and, to be brief, I shall say that in a short time I made her so completely my defense that many people commented on it more than courtesy would have permitted; this often caused me grave concern. And for this reason, that is, the exaggerated rumors which made me out to be a vicious person, my most gracious lady, scourge of all vices and queen of the virtues, passing along a certain way, denied me her most sweet greeting in which lay all my bliss. Now I should like to depart a little from the present subject in order to make clear the miraculous effect her greeting had on me.
XI
I must tell you that whenever and wherever she appeared, I, in anticipation of her miraculous greeting, could not have considered any man my enemy; on the contrary, a flame of charity was lit within me and made me forgive whoever had offended me. And if, at this moment, anyone had asked me about anything, I could only have answered, my face all kindness: “Love.” And when she was about to greet me, one of Love’s spirits, annihilating all the others of the senses, would drive out the feeble spirits of sight, saying to them, “Go and pay homage to your mistress,” and Love would take their place. And if anyone had wished to know Love, he might have done so by looking at my glistening eyes. And when this most gracious one greeted me, Love was no medium capable of tempering my unbearable bliss, but rather, as if possessed of an excess of sweetness, he became so powerful that my body, which was completely under his rule, often moved like a heavy, inanimate object. By now it should be most evident that in her salutation dwelt my bliss, a bliss which often exceeded my capacity to contain it.
XII
Now, returning to my subject, let me say that no sooner was my bliss denied me than I was so stricken with anguish that, withdrawing from all company, I went to a solitary place to bathe the earth with bitterest tears. After my sobbing had quieted down somewhat, I went to my bedroom where I could lament without being heard; and there, begging pity of the lady of courtesy, and saying, “Love, help your faithful one,” I fell asleep like a little boy crying from a spanking. About half-way through my sleep I seemed to see in my room a young man sitting near the bed dressed in the whitest of garments and, from his expression, he seemed to be deep in thought, watching me where I lay; after looking at me for some time, he seemed to sigh and to call to me, saying these words: Fill mi, tempus est ut pretermictantur simulacra nostra.8 Then I seemed to know who he was, for he was calling me in the same way that many times before in my sleep he had called me; and as I watched him, it seemed to me that he was weeping piteously, and he seemed to be waiting for me to say something to him; so, gathering courage, I began to address him, saying: “Lord of all virtues, why do you weep?” And he said these words to me: Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili mo do se habent circumferentie partes; tu autem non sic.9 Then, as I thought over his words, it seemed to me that he had spoken very obscurely, so that I decided, reluctantly, to speak, and I said these words to him: “Why is it, my Lord, that you speak so obscurely?” And this time he spoke in Italian, saying: “Do not ask more than is useful to you.” And so, I began telling him about the greeting that had been denied me, and when I asked him for the reason why, he answered me in this way: “Our Beatrice heard from certain people who were talking about you that your attentions to the lady I named to you on the road of sighs were doing her some harm; this is the reason why the most gracious one, who is the opposite of anything harmful, did not deign to greet you, fearing your person might prove harmful to her. Since she has really been more or less aware of your secret for quite some time, I want you to write a certain poem, in which you make clear the power I have over you through her, explaining that ever since you were a boy you have belonged to her; and, concerning this, call as witness him who knows, and say that you are begging him to testify on your behalf; and I, who am that witness, will gladly explain it to her, and from this she will understand your true feelings and, understanding them, she will also set the proper value on the words of those people who were mistaken. Let your words themselves be, as it were, an intermediary, whereby you will not be speaking directly to her, for this would not be fitting; and unless these words are accompanied by me, do not send them anywhere she could hear them; also be sure to adorn them with sweet music where I shall be present whenever this is necessary.” Having said these words he disappeared, and my sleep was broken. Then I, thinking back, discovered that this vision had appeared to me during the ninth hour of the day; before I left my room I decided to write a ballad following the instructions that my Lord had given me, and later on I composed this ballad which begins: I want you to go, ballad.
Dante’s Vita Nuova, New Edition: A Translation and an Essay Page 2
