Dante’s Vita Nuova, New Edition: A Translation and an Essay

by Dante Alighieri

  And then it seemed to me I saw the sun

  grow slowly darker, and a star appear,

  and sun and star did weep;

  birds flying through the air fell dead to earth;

  the earth began to quake.

  A man appeared, pale, and his voice was weak

  as he said to me: ‘You have not heard the news?

  Your lady, once so lovely, now lies dead.’

  I raised my weeping eyes to look above

  and saw what seemed to be a rain of manna:

  angels who were returning to their home;

  in front of them they had a little cloud

  and sang ‘Hosanna’ as they rose with it

  (had there been other words, I would have told you).

  Then I heard Love: ‘I shall no longer hide

  the truth from you. Come where our lady lies.’

  My wild imaginings

  led me to see my lady lying dead;

  I looked at her, and then

  ladies were drawing a veil over her face.

  She had an air of joyful resignation;

  it was as if she said: ‘I am in peace.’

  Then I became so humble in my sorrow,

  seeing, in her, humility incarnate,

  that I could say: ‘O, Death, I hold you dear;

  from now on you should put on graciousness

  and change your scorn to sympathy for me,

  since in my lady you have been at home.

  See how I yearn to be one of your own:

  I even look the way you would, alive.

  Come, for my heart implores you!’

  When the last rites were done, I left that place, and when I was alone,

  I raised my eyes toward Heaven, and declared:

  ‘Blessed is he who sees you, lovely soul!’

  You called to me just then, and I am grateful.”

  Donna pietosa e di novella etate,

  adorna assai di gentilezze umane,

  ch’era là ’v’ io chiamava spesso Morte,

  veggendo li occhi miei pien di pietate,

  e ascoltando le parole vane,

  si mosse con paura a pianger forte.

  E altre donne, che si fuoro accorte

  di me per quella che meco piangia,

  fecer lei partir via,

  e appressarsi per farmi sentire.

  Qual dicea: “Non dormire,”

  e qual dicea: “Perché sì ti sconforte?”

  Allor lassai la nova fantasia,

  chiamando il nome de la donna mia.

  Era la voce mia sì dolorosa

  e rotta sì da l’angoscia del pianto,

  ch’io solo intesi il nome nel mio core;

  e con tutta la vista vergognosa

  ch’era nel viso mio giunta cotanto,

  mi fece verso lor volgere Amore.

  Elli era tale a veder mio colore,

  che facea ragionar di morte altrui:

  “Deh, consoliam costui”

  pregava l’una l’altra umilemente;

  e dicevan sovente;

  “Che vedestù, che tu non hai valore?”

  E quando un poco confortato fui,

  io dissi: “Donne, dicerollo a vui.

  Mentr’io pensava la mia frale vita,

  e vedea ’l suo durar com’è leggiero,

  piansemi Amor nel core, ove dimora;

  per che l’anima mia fu sì smarrita,

  che sospirando dicea nel penserò:

  ‘Ben converrà che la mia donna mora.’

  Io presi tanto smarrimento allora,

  ch’io chiusi li occhi vilmente gravati,

  e furon sì smagati

  li spirti miei, che ciascun giva errando;

  e poscia imaginando,

  di caunoscenza e di verità fora,

  visi di donne m’apparver crucciati,

  che mi dicean pur: ‘Morra’ti, morra’ti’

  Poi vidi cose dubitose molte,

  nel vano imaginare ov’io entrai;

  ed esser mi parea non so in qual loco,

  e veder donne andar per via disciolte,

  qual lagrimando, e qual traendo guai,

  che di tristizia saettavan foco.

  Poi mi parve vedere a poco a poco

  turbar lo sole e apparir la stella,

  e pianger elli ed ella;

  cader li augelli volando per l’are,

  e la terra tremare;

  ed omo apparve scolorito e fioco,

  dicendomi: ‘Che fai? non sai novella?

  Morta è la donna tua, ch’era sì bella’

  Levava li occhi miei bagnati in pianti,

  e vedea, che parean pioggia di manna,

  li angeli che tornavan suso in cielo,

  e una nuvoletta avean davanti,

  dopo la qual gridavan tutti: Osanna;

  e s’altro avesser detto, a voi dire’lo.

  Allor diceva Amor: ‘Più noi ti celo;

  vieni a veder nostra donna che giace.’

  Lo imaginar fallace

  mi condusse a veder madonna morta;

  e quand’io l’ave a scorta,

  vedea che donne la covrian d’un velo;

  ed avea seco umilità verace,

  che parea che dicesse: ‘Io sono in pace.’

  Io divenia nel dolor sì umile,

  veggendo in lei tanta umiltà formata,

  ch’io dicea: ‘Morte, assai dolce ti tegno;

  tu dei omai esser cosa gentile,

  poi che tu se’ ne la mia donna stata,

  e dei aver pietate e non disdegno.

  Vedi che sì desideroso vegno

  d’esser de’ tuoi, ch’io ti somiglio in fede.

  Vieni, ché ’l cor te chiede

  Poi mi partia, consumato ogne duolo;

  e quand’io era solo,

  dicea, guardando verso l’alto regno:

  ‘Beato, anima bella, chi te vede!

  Voi mi chiamaste allor, vostra merzede.”

  This canzone has two sections. In the first, speaking to some unidentified person, I tell how I was aroused from a delirious dream by certain ladies, and how I promised to relate it to them; in the second I report what I told them. The second begins: While I was brooding. The first section divides into two parts: in the first I tell what certain ladies, and one particular lady, moved by my delirious state, said and did before I had returned to full consciousness; in the second I report what these ladies said to me after I had come out of my frenzy, and this part begins: I called to her. Then when I say: While I was brooding, I relate what I told them about my dream. And this section has two parts: in the first I describe the dream from beginning to end; in the second I tell at what point I was called by these ladies and, choosing my words discreetly, I thank them for waking me. And this part begins: You called to me.

  XXIV

  After this wild dream I happened one day to be sitting in a certain place deep in thought, when I felt a tremor begin in my heart, as if I were in the presence of my lady. Then a vision of Love came to me, and I seemed to see him coming from that place where my lady dwelt, and he seemed to say joyously from within my heart: “See that you bless the day that I took you captive; it is your duty to do so.” And it truly seemed to me that my heart was happy, so happy that it did not seem to be my heart because of this change. Shortly after my heart had said these words, speaking with the tongue of Love, I saw coming toward me a gentlewoman, noted for her beauty, who had been the much-loved lady of my best friend. Her name was Giovanna, but because of her beauty (as many believed) she had been given the name of Primavera, meaning Spring, and so she came to be called. And, looking behind her, I saw coming the miraculous Beatrice. These ladies passed close by me, one of them following the other, and it seemed that Love spoke in my heart and said: “The one in front is called Primavera only because of the way she comes today; for I inspired the giver of her name to call her Primavera, meaning ‘she will come first’ (prima verrà) on the day that Beatrice shows herself after the
dream of her faithful one. And if you will also consider her real name, you will see that this too means ‘she will come first’, since the name Joan (Giovanna) comes from the name of that John (Giovanni) who preceded the True Light, saying: Ego vox clamantis in deserto: parate viam Domini.11 After this, Love seemed to speak again and say these words: “Anyone of subtle discernment would call Beatrice Love, because she so greatly resembles me.” Later, thinking this over, I decided to write a poem to my best friend (not mentioning certain things which I thought should not be revealed), whose heart, I believed, still admired the beauty of the radiant Primavera. And I wrote this sonnet which begins: I felt a sleeping spirit.

  I felt a sleeping spirit in my heart

  awake to Love. And then from far away

  I saw the Lord of love approaching me,

  and hardly recognized him through his joy.

  “Think now of nothing but to honor me,”

  I heard him say, and each word was a smile; and as my master stayed awhile with me,

  I looked along the way that he had come

  and saw there Lady Joan and Lady Bice

  coming toward the place where I was standing:

  a miracle that led a miracle.

  And, as my memory recalls the scene,

  Love said to me: “The first to come is Spring;

  the one who is my image is called Love.”

  lo mi senti’ svegliar dentro a lo core

  un spirito amoroso che dormia:

  e poi vidi venir da lungi Amore

  allegro sì, che appena il conoscia,

  dicendo: “Or pensa pur di farmi onore,”

  e ’n ciascuna parola sua ridia.

  E poco stando meco il mio segnore,

  guardando in quella parte onde venia,

  io vidi monna Vanna e monna Bice

  venir inver lo loco là ’v’io era,

  l’una appresso de l’altra maraviglia;

  e sì come la mente mi ridice,

  Amor mi disse: “Quell’è Primavera,

  e quell’ha nome Amor, sì mi somiglia.”

  This sonnet has many parts. The first tells how I felt the familiar tremor awaken in my heart, and how it seemed that Love, joyful, coming from a far-away place, revealed himself to me in my heart; the second records what Love seemed to say to me in my heart, and how he looked; the third tells how, after he had remained awhile with me, I saw and heard certain things. The second part begins: Think now, the third: and as my master. The third part divides into two: in the first I tell what I saw, in the second I tell what I heard. The second part begins: Love said to me.

  XXV

  At this point it may be that someone worthy of having every doubt cleared up could be puzzled at my speaking of Love as if it were a thing in itself, as if it were not only an intellectual substance, but also a bodily substance. This is patently false, for Love does not exist in itself as a substance, but is an accident in a substance. And that I speak of Love as if it possessed a body, further still, as if it were a human being, is shown by three things I say about it. I say that I saw it coming; and since “to come” implies locomotion, and since, according to the Philosopher, only a body may move from place to place by its own power, it is obvious that I assume Love to be a body. I also say that it laughed and even that it spoke—acts that would seem characteristic of a human being, especially that of laughing; and so it is clear that I assume love to be human. To clarify this matter suitably for my purpose, I shall begin by saying that, formerly, there were no love poets writing in the vernacular, the only love poets were those writing in Latin: among us (and this probably happened in other nations as it still happens in the case of Greece) it was not vernacular poets but learned poets who wrote about love. It is only recently that the first poets appeared who wrote in the vernacular; I call them “poets” for to compose rhymed verse in the vernacular is more or less the same as to compose poetry in Latin using classical meters.

  And proof that it is but a short time since these poets first appeared is the fact that if we look into the Provençal and the Italian literatures, we shall not find any poems written more than a hundred and fifty years ago. The reason why a few ungifted poets acquired the fame of knowing how to compose is that they were the first who wrote poetry in the Italian language. The first poet to begin writing in the vernacular was moved to do so by a desire to make his words understandable to ladies who found Latin verses difficult to comprehend. And this is an argument against those who compose in the vernacular on a subject other than love, since composition in the vernacular was from the beginning intended for treating of love.

  Since, in Latin, greater license is conceded to the poet than to the prose writer, and since these Italian writers are simply poets writing in the vernacular, we can conclude that it is fitting and reasonable that greater license be granted them than to other writers in the vernacular; therefore, if any image or coloring of words is conceded to the Latin poet, it should be conceded to the Italian poet. So, if we find that the Latin poets addressed inanimate objects in their writings, as if these objects had sense and reason, or made them address each other, and that they did this not only with real things but also with unreal things (that is: they have said, concerning things that do not exist, that they speak, and they have said that many an accident in substance speaks as if it were a substance and human), then it is fitting that the vernacular poet do the same—not, of course, without some reason, but with a motive that later can be explained in prose. That the Latin poets have written in the way I have just described can be seen in the case of Virgil, who says that Juno, a goddess hostile to the Trojans, spoke to Aeolus, god of the winds, in the first book of the Aeneid: Eole, nanque tibi,12 and that this god answered her: Tuus, o regina, quid optes explorare labor; michi iussa capessere fas est.13 This same poet has an inanimate thing speak to animate beings in the third book of the Aeneid: Dardanide duri.14 In Lucan the animate being speaks to the inanimate object: Multum, Roma, tomen debes civilibus armis,15 In Horace a man speaks to his own inspiration as if to another person, and not only are the words those of Horace but he gives them as if quoting from the good Homer, in this passage of his Poetics: Die michi, Musa, virum.16 In Ovid, Love speaks as if it were a human being, in the beginning of the book called The Remedy of Love: Bella michi, video, bella parantur, ait.17

  From what has been said above, anyone who experiences difficulties in certain parts of this, my little book, can find a solution for them. So that some ungifted person may not be encouraged by my words to go too far, let me add that just as the Latin poets did not write in the way they did without a reason, so vernacular poets should not write in the same way without having some reason for writing as they do. For, if any one should dress his poem in images and rhetorical coloring and then, being asked to strip his poem of such dress in order to reveal its true meaning, would not be able to do so—this would be a veritable cause for shame. And my best friend and I are well acquainted with some who compose so clumsily.

  XXVI

  This most gracious lady of whom I have spoken in the preceding poems came into such widespread favor that, when she walked down the street, people ran to see her. This made me wonderfully happy. And when she passed by someone, such modesty filled his heart that he did not dare to raise his eyes or to return her greeting (many people, who have experienced this, could testify to it if anyone should not believe me). Crowned and clothed with humility, she would go her way, taking no glory from what she heard and saw. Many would say after she had passed: “This is no woman, this is one of the most beautiful angels of Heaven.” And others would say: “She is a miracle! Blessed be the Lord who can work so wondrously.” Let me say that she showed such decorum and was possessed of such charming qualities that those who looked at her experienced a pure and sweet delight, such that they were unable to describe it; and there was no one who could look at her without immediately sighing. These and still more marvelous things were the result of her powers. Thinking about this, a
nd wishing to take up again the theme of her praise, I decided to write something which would describe her magnificent and beneficent efficacy, so that not only those who could see her with their own eyes, but others, as well, might know of her whatever can be said in words. And so I wrote this sonnet which begins: Such sweet decorum.

  Such sweet decorum and such gentle grace

  attend my lady’s greeting as she moves

  that lips can only tremble into silence,

  and eyes dare not attempt to gaze at her.

  Moving, benignly clothed in humility,

  untouched by all the praise along her way,

  she seems to be a creature come from Heaven

  to earth, to manifest a miracle.

  Miraculously gracious to behold,

  her sweetness reaches, through the eyes, the heart

  (who has not felt this cannot understand),

  and from her lips it seems there moves a gracious

  spirit, so deeply loving that it glides

  into the souls of men, whispering: “Sigh!”

  Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare

  la donna mia quand’ella altrui saluta,

  ch’ogne lingua deven tremando muta,

  e li occhi no l’ardiscon di guardare.

  Ella si va, sentendosi laudare,

  benignamente d’umiltà vestuta,

  e par che sia una cosa venuta

  da cielo in terra a miracol mostrare.

  Mostrasi sì piacente a chi la mira,

  che dà per li occhi una dolcezza al core,

  che ’ntender no la può chi no la prova;

  e par che de la sua labbia si mova

  un spirito soave pien d’amore,

  che va dicendo a l’anima: “Sospira!”

  This sonnet is so easy to understand from what has preceded that it has no need of divisions. And so, leaving it aside, let me say that my lady came into such high favor that not only she was honored and praised, but also many other ladies were honored and praised because of her. Having observed this and wishing to make it evident to those who had not seen it, I decided to compose something else in which this would be brought out. I then wrote this next sonnet, which begins: He sees an affluence, telling how her virtuous power affected other ladies, as appears in the divisions.