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

by Dante Alighieri

  possessing such outrageous strength that he

  will not let other thoughts remain with us?”

  The heart replies: “O reasonable soul,

  this is a spirit of Love, tender and new,

  who brings all his desires here to me;

  all his intensity, his very life,

  have come from that compassionate one’s eyes

  who was distressed about our martyrdom.”

  Gentil pensero che parla di vui

  sen vene a dimorar meco sovente,

  e ragiona d’amor sì dolcemente,

  che face consentir lo core in lui.

  L’anima dice al cor: “Chi è costui,

  che vene a consolar la nostra mente,

  ed è la sua vertù tanto possente,

  ch’altro penser non lascia star con nui?”

  Ei le risponde: “Oi anima pensosa,

  questi è uno spiritel novo d’amore,

  che reca innanzi me li suoi desiri;

  e la sua vita, e tutto ’l suo valore,

  mosse de li occhi di quella pietosa

  che si turbava de’ nostri martiri”

  XXXIX

  One day, about the ninth hour, there arose in me against this adversary of reason a powerful vision, in which I seemed to see that glorious Beatrice clothed in those crimson garments with which she first appeared to my eyes, and she seemed young, of the same age as when I first saw her. Then I began to think about her and, remembering her in the sequence of past times, my heart began to repent painfully of the desire by which it so basely let itself be possessed for some time, contrary to the constancy of reason; and once I had discarded this evil desire, all my thoughts turned back to their most gracious Beatrice.

  Let me say that, from then on, I began to think of her so deeply with my whole shameful heart that my many sighs were proof of it, for all of them on issuing forth would repeat what my heart was saying, that is, the name of that most gracious one and how she departed from us. And many times it happened that some thoughts were so filled with anguish that I would forget what I was thinking and where I was. By this rekindling of sighs, the tears which had subsided began to flow again, so that my eyes seemed to be two objects whose only desire was to weep. And often it occurred that after continuous weeping a purplish color encircled my eyes, as often appears in one who has endured affliction. In this way they were justly rewarded for their inconstancy, and from then on they could not look at any person who might look back at them in such a way as to encourage again a similar inclination. And in order for it to be known that such an evil desire and foolish temptation had been destroyed, so that the poetry I had written before would raise no question, I decided to write a sonnet which should contain the essence of what I have just related. And I wrote: Alas! By the full force, and I said “Alas!” because I was ashamed of the fact that my eyes had been so faithless.

  I do not divide this sonnet because its reason for existence makes it clear enough.

  Alas! By the full force of countless sighs

  born of the thoughts that overflow my heart,

  the eyes are vanquished, and they do not dare

  to return the glance of anyone who sees them.

  They have become twin symbols of my yearning,

  to show, by shedding tears, how much I suffer;

  and many times they mourn so much that Love

  encircles them with martyrdom’s red crown.

  These meditations and the sighs I breathe

  become so anguishing within the heart

  that Love, who dwells there, faints, he is so tortured;

  for on those thoughts and sighs of lamentation

  the sweet name of my lady is inscribed,

  with many words relating to her death.

  Lasso! per forza di molti sospiri,

  che nascon de’ penser che son nel core,

  li occhi son vinti, e non hanno valore

  di riguardar persona che li miri.

  E fatti son che paion due disiri

  di lagrimare e di mostrar dolore, e spesse volte piangon sì, ch’Amore

  li ’ncerchia di corona di martiri.

  Questi pensieri, e li sospir ch’eo gitto,

  diventan ne lo cor sì angosciosi,

  ch’Amor vi tramortisce, sì lien dole;

  però ch’elli hanno in lor li dolorosi

  quel dolce nome di madonna scritto,

  e de la morte sua molte parole.

  XL

  After this period of distress, during the season when many people go to see the blessed image that Jesus Christ left us as a visible sign of his most beautiful countenance (which my lady beholds in glory), it happened that some pilgrims were going down a street which runs through the center of the city where the most gracious lady was born, lived and died. These pilgrims, it seemed to me, were very pensive as they moved along and I, thinking about them, said to myself: “These pilgrims seem to come from distant parts, and I do not believe that they have ever heard this lady mentioned; they know nothing about her—in fact, their thoughts are centered on other things than what surrounds them; perhaps they are thinking of their friends far away whom we cannot know.” Then I said to myself: “I know that, if they were from a neighboring town, they would in some way appear distressed as they passed through the center of the desolated city.” Again I said to myself: “If I could detain them for awhile, I know I could make them weep before they left this city, for I would speak words that would make anyone weep who heard them.” After they had passed from my sight, I decided to compose a sonnet in which I would reveal what I had said to myself.

  And, to make the effect more pathetic, I decided to write it as if I were speaking to them, and I composed this sonnet which begins: Ah, pilgrims. And I used the word “pilgrims” in its general sense, for the term can be understood in two ways, one general and the other specific. In the general sense a pilgrim is one who is traveling outside of his own country; in a specific sense “pilgrim” means only one who travels to or returns from the house of St. James. And it is to be known further that there are three ways that those who travel in the service of the Most High may be accurately designated. They are called “palmers” who cross the sea to the Holy Land and often bring back palms; they are called “pilgrims” who travel to the house of Galicia, because the tomb of St. James is farther away from his own country than that of any other apostle; they are called “Romers” who travel to Rome, where those whom I call “pilgrims” were going.

  I will not divide this sonnet since its reason for existence makes it clear enough.

  Ah, pilgrims, moving pensively along,

  thinking, perhaps, of things at home you miss,

  could the land you come from be so far away

  (as anyone might guess from your appearance)

  that you show no signs of grief as you pass through

  the middle of the desolated city,

  like people who seem not to understand

  the grievous weight of woe it has to bear?

  If you would stop to listen to me speak,

  I know, from what my sighing heart tells me,

  you would be weeping when you leave this place:

  lost is the city’s source of blessedness,

  and I know words that could be said of her

  with power to humble any man to tears.

  Deh peregrini che pensosi andate,

  forse di cosa che non v’è presente,

  venite voi da sì lontana gente,

  com’a la vista voi ne dimostrate,

  che non piangete quando voi passate

  per lo suo mezzo la città dolente,

  come quelle persone che neente

  par che ’ntendesser la sua gravitate?

  Se voi restaste per volerlo audire,

  certo lo cor de’ sospiri mi dice

  che lagrimando n’uscireste pui.

  Ell’ha perduta la sua beatrice;

  e le parole ch’om di lei pò dire

 
; hanno vertù di far piangere altrui.

  XLI

  Some time afterward, two gentlewomen sent word to me requesting that I send them some of my poetry. Taking into consideration their noble station, I decided not only to let them have some of my poems but also to write something new to go along with those words—in this way doing their request more honor. So I wrote a sonnet which tells of my condition and sent it to them accompanied by the preceding sonnet and by the one which begins: Now come to me and listen to my sighs.

  The new sonnet I wrote begins: Beyond the sphere, and contains five parts. In the first I tell where my thought is going, naming it after one of its effects. In the second I tell why it goes up there, that is, who causes it to go. In the third I tell what it saw, that is, a lady being honored up there, and I call it a “pilgrim spirit” because it makes the journey upward spiritually and, once there, is like a pilgrim far from home. In the fourth I tell how it sees her to be such, that is of such a nature, that I cannot understand it: that is to say that my thought ascends into the nature of this lady to such a degree that my mind cannot grasp it, for our minds function in relation to those blessèd souls as the weak eye does in relation to the sun, and this the Philosopher tells us in the second book of the Metaphysics. In the fifth part I say that, even though I cannot understand what my thought has taken me to see, that is her miraculous nature, at least I understand this much: this thought of mine is entirely about my lady, for many times when it comes to my mind, I hear her name. At the end of this fifth part I say: “dear ladies,” so that it be understood that it is to ladies that I speak. The second part begins: a new intelligence, the third: Once arrived, the fourth: But when it tries, the fifth: This much. It could be divided and explained more subtly, but since it can pass with this analysis, I do not concern myself with further division.

  Beyond the sphere that makes the widest round,

  passes the sigh arisen from my heart;

  a new intelligence that Love in tears

  endowed it with is urging it on high.

  Once arrived at the place of its desiring

  it sees a lady held in reverence,

  splendid in light; and through her radiance

  the pilgrim spirit looks upon her being.

  But when it tries to tell me what it saw,

  I cannot understand the subtle words

  it speaks to the sad heart that makes it speak.

  I know it tells of that most gracious one,

  for I often hear the name of Beatrice.

  This much, at least, is clear to me, dear ladies.

  Oltre la spera che più larga gira

  passa ’l sospiro ch’esce del mio core:

  intelligenza nova, che l’Amore

  piangendo mette in lui, pur su lo tira.

  Quand’elli è giunto là dove disira,

  vede una donna, che riceve onore,

  e luce sì, che per lo suo splendore

  lo peregrino spirito la mira.

  Vedela tal, che quando ’l mi ridice,

  io no lo intendo, sì parla sottile

  al cor dolente, che lo fa parlare.

  So io che parla di quella gentile,

  però che spesso ricorda Beatrice,

  sì ch’io lo ’ntendo ben, donne mié care.

  XLII

  After I wrote this sonnet there came to me a miraculous vision in which I saw things that made me resolve to say no more about this blessed one until I would be capable of writing about her in a nobler way. To achieve this I am striving as hard as I can, and this she truly knows. Accordingly, if it be the pleasure of Him through whom all things live that my life continue for a few more years, I hope to write of her that which has never been written of any other woman. And then may it please the One who is the Lord of graciousness that my soul ascend to behold the glory of its lady, that is, of that blessed Beatrice, who in glory contemplates the countenance of the One qui est per omnia sécula benedictus,20

  1. “The new life beings.”

  2. “Here is a god stronger than I who comes to rule over me.”

  3. “Now your bliss has appeared.”

  4. “Oh, wretched me! for I shall be disturbed often from now on.”

  5. “I am thy master.”

  6. “Behold thy heart.”

  7. “All ye that pass by behold and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow.”

  8. “My son, it is time to do away with our false ideals.”

  9. “I am like the center of a circle, equidistant from all points on the circumference; you, however, are not.”

  10. “Hosanna in the highest.”

  11. “I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness: prepare ye the way of the Lord.”

  12. “Aeolus, for to you.”

  13. “Yours, O queen, is the task of determining your wishes; mine is the right to obey orders.”

  14. “You hardy Trojans.”

  15. “Much, Rome, do you owe, nevertheless, to the civil war.”

  16. “Tell me, Muse, of the man.”

  17. “Wars against me I see, wars are preparing, he says.”

  18. “How doth the city sit solitary that was full of people! How is she become a widow, she that was great among the nations!”

  19. “How doth the city sit solitary.”

  20. “… who is through all ages blessed.”

  An Essay

  on thè Vita Nuova

  I Patterns

  BY THE end of Chapter II of the Vita nuova, that is, by the end of the first chapter of the narrative proper (for the brief Chapter I is only a preface), all of the motifs significant for the story that is about to unfold step by step, have been introduced. The first word of the opening sentence is “Nine”:

  “Nove fiate già appresso lo mio nascimento era tornato lo cielo de la luce quasi a uno medesimo punto, quanto a la sua propia girazione, quando a li miei occhi apparve prima la gloriosa donna de la mia mente, la quale fu chiamata da molti Beatrice li quale non sapeano che si chiamare.”

  (Nine times already since my birth the heaven of light had circled back to almost the same point, when there appeared before my eyes the now glorious lady of my mind, who was called Beatrice even by those who did not know what her name was.)

  The number 9 will be repeated twice more in the next sentence and appears twenty-two times in all within the Vita nuova. And not only does the reader find in the first sentence a reference to the number 9 of symbolical significance: he also finds an emphasis on mathematical precision that shows up very frequently throughout Dante’s Nevo Life. In this same opening sentence the child Beatrice is presented as already enjoying the veneration of the citizens of Florence, including strangers who did not know her name (but who, nevertheless, were inspired to call her Beatrice: “… la quale fu chiamata da mold Beatrice li quali non sapeano che si chiamare”). And with the words “la gloriosa donna de la mia mente”—the first of two time-shifts in which the figure of the living Beatrice, at a given moment, is described in such a way as to remind us of Beatrice dead—the theme of death is delicately foreshadowed at the beginning of the story. As for the figure of Beatrice, when she is allowed to be seen for the first time, she is dressed in a garment of blood-red color—the same color as her “shroud” will be in the following chapter. In the next three sentences the three main spiriti are introduced: the “vital” (in the heart), the “natural’ (in the liver) and the “animal” (in the brain). They rule the body of the nine-year-old protagonist, and they speak in Latin, as will the god of Love in the chapter that follows (and once again later on). The words of the first spirit describing Beatrice, “Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur michi” (note the masculine form deus), anticipate the first coming of Love, that takes place in the next chapter (“Ego dominus tuus”), and suggest something of the same mood of terror. (In this relationship there is contained an implicit suggestion of the parallel between Beatrice and Love which is made explicit in Chapter XXIV.) The words of the second spirit, “Appar
uit iam beatitudo vestra,” suggest rapturous bliss to come (that bliss rhapsodically described in Chapter XI) while, in the words of the third spirit, there is the first of the many references to tears to be found in the Vita nuova. Here it is the spirit of the liver that weeps: “Heu miser, quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps!” Though this spirit will be mentioned only once again (IV), the reader may gradually come to wonder if the lover’s tears, so frequently recorded in the narrative, are not often strongly influenced physiologically.

  It is only after this reference to the organ of digestion that Love is mentioned (“D’allora dico che Amore segnoreggiò la mia anima…”). He is mentioned first of all as a ruler, but we learn immediately that much of his power is derived from the protagonist’s imagination—this faculty of which there will be so many reminders in the form of visions throughout the book. We are also told that Love’s power was restricted by reason; later in the book the relation between Love and reason will become a problem. After this summary of the nine years spent by the lover in the service of Beatrice, before she grants him her first greeting (and in this summary is contained the first suggestion of the godlike in Beatrice: “Ella non parea figliuola d’uomo mortale, ma di deo”), the chapter ends with a refusal to go into further details about his youthful behavior (“… le passioni e atti di tanta gioventudine …”). And Chapter II rings throughout with the sound of “praise of the lady,” as the protagonist’s admiration for Beatrice keeps growing during the nine years after her first appearance.

  Thus, this opening chapter prepares for the rest of the book not only in the obvious way of presenting a background situation, an established continuity out of which single events will emerge in time, but also by setting in motion certain forces that will propel the Vita nuova forward—forces with which Dante’s reader will gradually become more and more familiar.

  Of the forty-two chapters of the Vita nuova exactly two-thirds contain a poem (two of them contain two poems), a poem which we are expected to believe was inspired by the experience recounted in the prose. The relationship between the experience and the poem may be of two sorts: more than half the time it is the experience itself that is narrated in. verse as, for example, in the sonnet describing the first appearance of Love (III); in such cases the effect made by the poem on the reader of the Vita nuova is “recapitulative,” as if the poem were repeating the prose.1 The rest of the poems deal not with the experience itself but with ideas suggested and emotions inspired by the experience, as in Chapter VIII when the death of a companion of Beatrice prompts the lover to write two poems about death.