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

by Dante Alighieri

  He sees an affluence of joy ideal

  who sees my lady, in the midst of other ladies;

  those ladies who accompany her are moved

  to thank God for this sweet gift of His grace.

  Her beauty has the power of such magic,

  it never rouses other ladies’ envy,

  instead, it makes them want to be like her:

  clothed in love and faith and graciousness.

  The sight of her creates humility;

  and not only is she splendid in her beauty,

  but every lady near her shares her praise.

  Her every act is graciousness in essence;

  there is no one can recall her to his mind

  and not sigh in an ecstasy of love.

  Vede perfettamente onne salute

  chi la mia donna tra le donne vede;

  quelle che vanno con lei son tenute

  di bella grazia a Dio render merzede.

  E sua bieltate è di tanta vertute,

  che nulla invidia a l’altre ne procede,

  anzi le face andar seco vestute

  di gentilezza, d’amore e di fede.

  La vista sua fa onne cosa umile;

  e non fa sola sé parer piacente,

  ma ciascuna per lei receve onore.

  Ed è ne li atti suoi tanto gentile,

  che nessun la si può recare a mente,

  che non sospiri in dolcezza d’amore.

  This sonnet has three parts. In the first I tell in whose company this lady seemed most admirable; in the second I tell how desirable it was to be in her company; in the third I speak of those things which she miraculously brought about in others. The second part begins: those ladies who; the third: Her beauty. This last part divides into three. In the first part I tell what she brought about in ladies, that was known only to them; in the second I tell what she did for them as seen by others; in the third I say that she miraculously affected not only ladies but all persons, and not only while they were in her presence but also when they recalled her to mind. The second begins: The sight of her; the third: Her every act.

  XXVII

  After this I began one day thinking over what I had said about my lady in these last two sonnets and, realizing that I had not said anything about the effect she had on me at the present time, it seemed to me that I had spoken insufficiently. And so I decided to write a poem telling how I seemed to be disposed to her influence, and how her miraculous power worked in me; and believing I would not be able to describe this within the limits of a sonnet, I immediately started to write a canzone which begins: So long a time.

  So long a time has Love kept me a slave

  and in his lordship fully seasoned me,

  that even though at first I felt him harsh,

  now tender is his power in my heart.

  But when he takes my strength away from me

  so that my spirits seem to wander off,

  my fainting soul is overcome with sweetness,

  and the color of my face begins to fade.

  Then Love starts working in me with such power

  he turns my spirits into ranting beggars,

  and, rushing out, they call

  upon my lady, pleading in vain for kindness.

  This happens every time she looks at me,

  yet she herself is kind beyond belief.

  Sì lungiamente m’ha tenuto Amore

  e costumato a la sua segnoria,

  che sì com’elli m’era forte in pria,

  così mi sta soave ora nel core.

  Però quando mi tolle sì ’l valore,

  che li spiriti par che fuggan via,

  allor sente la frale anima mia

  tanta dolcezza, che ’l viso ne smore.

  Poi prende Amore in me tanta vertute,

  che fa li miei spiriti gir parlando,

  ed escon for chiamando

  la donna mia, per darmi più salute.

  Questo m’avvene ovunque ella mi vede,

  e sì è cosa umil, che noi si crede.

  XXVIII

  Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi vidua domina gentium!18 I was still engaged in composing this canzone, in fact I had completed only the stanza written above, when the God of Justice called this most gracious one to glory under the banner of that blessed Queen, the Virgin Mary, whose name was always uttered with the greatest reverence by the blessed Beatrice. And even though the reader might expect me to say something now about her departure from us, it is not my intention to do so here for three reasons. The first is that such a discussion does not fit into the plan of this little book, if we consider the preface which precedes it; the second is that, even if this had been my intention, the language at my command would not yet suffice to deal with the theme as it deserves; the third is that even supposing that the first two reasons did not exist, it still would not be proper for me to treat the theme since this would entail praising myself—which is the most reprehensible thing one can do. Therefore, I leave this subject to some other commentator.

  But since the number nine has appeared many times in what I have already written (which clearly could not happen without a reason), and since in her departure this number seemed to play an important part, it is fitting that I say something here concerning this, inasmuch as it seems to fit in with my plan. And so I shall first speak of the part it played in her departure, and then I shall give some reasons why this number was so close to her.

  XXIX

  Let me begin by saying that if one counts in the Arabian way, her most noble soul departed this life during the first hour of the ninth day of the month, and if one counts the way they do in Syria, she departed in the ninth month of the year, the first month there being Tixryn the First, which for us is October. And, according to our own way of reckoning, she departed in that year of our Christian era (that is in the year of Our Lord) in which the perfect number had been completed nine times in that century in which she had been placed in this world: she was a Christian of the Thirteenth Century. One reason why this number was in such harmony with her might be this: since, according to Ptolemy and according to Christian truth, there are nine heavens that move, and since, according to widespread astrological opinion, these heavens affect the earth below according to the relations they have to one another, this number was in harmony with her to make it understood that at her birth all nine of the moving heavens were in perfect relationship to one another. But this is just one reason. If anyone thinks more subtly and according to infallible truth, it will be clear that this number was she herself—that is, by analogy. What I mean to say is this: the number three is the root of nine for, without any other number, multiplied by itself, it gives nine: it is quite clear that three times three is nine. Therefore, if three is the sole factor of nine, and the sole factor of miracles is three, that is, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, who are Three in One, then this lady was accompanied by the number nine so that it might be understood that she was a nine, or a miracle, whose root, namely that of the miracle, is the miraculous Trinity itself. Perhaps someone more subtle than I could find a still more subtle explanation, but this is the one which I see and which pleases me the most.

  XXX

  After she had departed from this world, the aforementioned city was left as if a widow, stripped of all dignity, and I, still weeping in this barren city, wrote to the princes of the land describing its condition, taking my opening words from the prophet Jeremiah where he says: Quomodo sedet sola civitas.19 And I mention this quotation now so that everyone will understand why I cited these words earlier: it was to serve as a heading for the new material that follows. And if someone should wish to reproach me for not including the rest of the letter, my excuse is this: since it was my intention from the beginning to write in the vernacular, and since the words which follow those just quoted are all in Latin, it would be contrary to my intention if I were to include them. And I know that my best friend, for whom I write this book, shares my opinion: that it be written
entirely in the vernacular.

  XXXI

  After my eyes had wept for some time and were so wept out that they could no longer relieve my sadness, I thought of trying to relieve it with some sorrowful words; and I decided to compose a canzone in which, lamenting, I would speak of her who was the cause of the grief that was destroying my soul. Then I started writing a canzone which begins: The eyes grieving. And in order that this canzone may seem to remain all the more widowed after it has come to an end, I shall divide it before I copy it. And from now on I shall follow this method.

  Let me say that this sad little song has three parts. The first is an introduction; in the second I speak of her; in the third I sadly address the canzone itself. The second part begins: Beatrice has gone, the third: Now go your way. The first part divides further into three: in the first I say why I am moved to speak; in the second I tell who it is I wish to speak to; in the third I tell who it is I wish to speak about. The second begins: Since I remember; the third: My words will be. Then when I say: Beatrice has gone, I am speaking about her, and of this I make two parts: first I tell the reason why she was taken from us; then I tell how someone laments her departure, and I begin this part with the words: And once withdrawn. This part further divides into three: in the first I tell who it is that does not mourn her; in the second I tell who it is that does mourn her; in the third I speak of my own condition. The second begins: But grief, the third: Weeping and pain. Then when I say: Now go your way, I am speaking to this canzone, designating the ladies to whom it is to go and with whom it is to stay.

  The eyes grieving out of pity for the heart,

  while weeping, have endured great suffering,

  so that they are defeated, tearless eyes.

  And now, if I should want to vent that grief,

  which gradually leads me to my death,

  I must express myself in anguished words.

  Since I remember how I loved to speak

  about my lady when she was alive,

  addressing, gracious ladies, you alone,

  I will not speak to others,

  but only to a lady’s tender heart.

  My words will be a dirge, for they tell how

  she suddenly ascended into Heaven,

  and how she left Love here to grieve with me.

  Beatrice has gone home to highest Heaven,

  into the peaceful realm where angels live;

  she is with them; she has left you, ladies, here.

  No quality of heat or cold took her

  away from us, as is the fate of others;

  it was her great unselfishness alone.

  For the pure light of her humility

  shone through the heavens with such radiance,

  it even made the Lord Eternal marvel;

  and then a sweet desire

  moved Him to summon up such blessedness;

  and from down here He had her come to Him,

  because He knew this wretched life on earth

  did not deserve to have her gracious presence.

  And once withdrawn from her enchanting form,

  the tender soul, perfectly full of grace,

  now lives with glory in her rightful place.

  Who speaks of her and does not speak in tears

  has a vile heart, insensitive as stone

  which never can be visited by love.

  No evil heart could have sufficient wit

  to conceive in any way what she was like,

  and so it has no urge to weep from grief.

  But grief comes and the wish

  to sigh and then to die a death of tears

  (and consolation is denied forever)

  to anyone who pictures in his thoughts

  that which she was and how she went from us.

  I breathe deep sighs of anguished desolation

  when memory brings to my weary mind

  the image of that one who split my heart;

  and many times, while contemplating death,

  so sweet a longing for it comes to me,

  it drains away the color from my face.

  When this imagining has hold of me,

  bitter affliction binds me on all sides,

  and I begin to tremble from the pain.

  I am not what I am,

  and so my shame drives me away from others;

  and then I weep alone in my lamenting,

  calling to Beatrice: “Can you be dead?”

  And just to call her name restores my soul.

  Weeping and pain and many anguished sighs

  torment my heart each time I am alone,

  and if some one should hear me, he would suffer;

  just what my life has been since the hour when

  my lady passed into the timeless realm,

  there is not any tongue could tell of it.

  And so, my ladies, even if I tried,

  I could not tell you what I have become;

  my bitter life is constant suffering,

  a life so much abased

  that every man who sees my deathly face

  seems to be telling me: “I cast you out!”

  But what I have become my lady knows;

  I still have hope that she will show me grace.

  Now go your way in tears, sad little song,

  and find once more the ladies and the maidens

  to whom your sister poems

  were sent as messengers of happiness;

  and you who are the daughter of despair,

  go look for them, wearing my misery.

  Li occhi dolenti per pietà del core

  hanno di lagrimar sofferta pena,

  sì che per vinti son remasi ornai.

  Ora, s’i’ voglio sfogar lo dolore,

  che a poco a poco a la morte mi mena,

  convenemi parlar traendo guai.

  E perché me ricorda ch’io parlai

  de la mia donna, mentre che vivia,

  donne gentili, volentier con vui,

  non voi parlare altrui,

  se non a cor gentil che in donna sia;

  e dicerò di lei piangendo, pui

  che si n’è gita in ciel subitamente,

  e ha lasciato Amor meco dolente.

  Ita n’è Beatrice in l’alto cielo,

  nel reame ove li angeli hanno pace,

  e sta con loro, e voi, donne, ha lassate:

  no la ci tolse qualità di gelo

  né di calore, come l’altre face,

  ma solo fue sua gran benignitate;

  ché luce de la sua umilitate

  passò li cieli con tanta vertute,

  che fè maravigliar l’etterno sire,

  sì che dolce disire

  lo giunse di chiamar tanta salute;

  e fella di qua giù a sé venire,

  perchè vedea ch’esta vita noiosa

  non era degna di sì gentil cosa.

  Partissi de la sua bella persona

  piena di grazia l’anima gentile,

  ed èssi gloriosa in loco degno.

  Chi no la piange, quando ne ragiona,

  core ha di pietra sì malvagio e vile,

  ch’entrar no i puote spirito benegno.

  Non è di cor villan sì alto ingegno,

  che possa imaginar di lei alquanto,

  e però no li ven di pianger doglia:

  ma ven tristizia e voglia

  di sospirare e di morir di pianto,

  e d’onne consolar l’anima spoglia

  chi vede nel penserò alcuna volta

  quale ella fue, e com’ella n’è tolta.

  Dannomi angoscia li sospiri forte,

  quando ’l pensero ne la mente grave

  mi reca quella che m’ha ’l cor diviso:

  e spesse fiate pensando a la morte,

  venemene un disio tanto soave,

  che mi tramuta lo color nel viso.

  E quando ’l maginar mi ven ben fiso,

  giugnemi tanta pena d’ogne parte,

  ch’io mi riscuoto
per dolor ch’i’ sento;

  e sì fatto divento,

  che da le genti vergogna mi parte.

  Poscia piangendo, sol nel mio lamento

  chiamo Beatrice, e dico: “Or se’ tu morta?”

  e mentre ch’io la chiamo, me conforta.

  Pianger di doglia e sospirar d’angoscia

  mi strugge ’l core ovunque sol mi trovo,

  sì che ne ’ncrescerebbe a chi m’audesse:

  e quale è stata la mia vita, poscia

  che la mia donna andò nel secol novo,

  lingua non è che dicer lo sapesse:

  e però, donne mie, pur ch’io volesse,

  non vi saprei io dir ben quel ch’io sono,

  sì mi fa travagliar l’acerba vita;

  la quale è sì ’nvilita,

  che ogn’om par che mi dica: “lo t’abbandono

  veggendo la mia labbia tramortita.

  Ma qual ch’io sia la mia donna il si vede,

  e io ne spero ancor da lei merzede.

  Pietosa mia canzone, or va piangendo;

  e ritruova le donne e le donzelle

  a cui le tue sorelle

  erano usate di portar letizia;

  e tu, che se’ figliuola di tristizia,

  vatten disconsolata a star con elle.

  XXXII

  After this canzone was composed, a person came to see me who, according to degrees of friendship, was second after my best friend. And he was so closely related to this glorious lady that no one else was more so. After we had talked together for a while, he begged me to write something for him about a lady who had died, disguising his motives so as to appear to be speaking of a different one who had recently died. I, being quite aware that he was speaking only about that blessed one, told him I would do as he asked. Then, thinking it over, I decided to compose a sonnet, to be sent to this friend of mine, in which I would express my sorrow in such a way that it would seem to be his.

  And so I wrote this sonnet which begins: Now come to me. It consists of two parts: in the first I call upon Love’s faithful to listen to me, in the second I speak of my wretched condition. The second part begins: the sighs that issue.

  Now come to me and listen to my sighs,

  O gracious hearts (it is the wish of Pity),

  the sighs that issue in despondency.

  But for their help I would have died of grief,