Dante’s Vita Nuova, New Edition: A Translation and an Essay
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If Dante has cut out the sensuous details of his environment, all but obliterating the physical world, it must be because this world had no significance for his story. It is also true that, by this negative approach, he has achieved something positive, a suggestion of universality: this city in which a moral drama was unfolding could be any city belonging to any time (and the lover could be any man, or Everyman). In fact, the name of the city, the beautiful evocative name, Firenze, is never mentioned.
As for people who inhabit this nowhere place, the author’s treatment of them is appropriately vague. He never mentions the members of his family with whom he must be living, except for the “donna giovane e gentile” in Chapter XXIII sitting by his bed of delirium, who must have been his sister—as we learn only after she has been sent from the room. (She goes out of the room trailing behind her a relative clause of identification: “… facendo lei partire da me, la quale era meco di propinquissima sanguinitade congiunta.”) In the case of Beatrice’s family we learn only after his death that she had a father. In Chapter XXXII her brother comes into existence in order to make a literary request of the lover, and turns out to be Dante’s closest friend after Cavalcanti.
None of these three persons is even minimally described; there is the same lack of sensory detail in the presentation of characters as in that of places. And this is extraordinary if we think of Chrétien de Troyes before Dante and of Boccaccio soon after him—and of Dante himself as author of the Divine Comedy with its richly sensuous descriptions. Never is a character presented as a figure of flesh and blood in Dante’s Vita nuova, even though by his time, and long before, the art of verbal portraiture had been extensively developed. In fact, of the five single individuals who are brought on stage at a given moment—the protagonist’s sister, the “arnica persona” who takes him to the wedding feast, Beatrice, the first screen-lady and the lady at the window—only the last three receive even minimal description. Beatrice first appears wearing a crimson robe, girdled and trimmed as it should have been (“a la guisa che a la sua giovanissima etade si convenia”); next she appears in purest white. The red of caritas, the white of purity! She is the only one whose clothing is described, and after these two appearances her garments are never again mentioned (except in the visions); in fact, according to the opening words of the first description, Beatrice is not dressed in a garment, she is dressed in a color. And Beatrice does not have a face in the prose narrative of the Vita nuova, as do the other two ladies. The one sitting in church between the young lover and Beatrice was “di molto piacevole aspetto,” and the young lady at the window is described as very beautiful and pale of color, with an expression of great compassion. That Beatrice’s garments alone are described is due to their symbolic significance, and not only the obvious significance of the two colors, red and white: she wears her virtues as a garment, as the poet will tell his reader later, in a sonnet: “Benignamente d’umiltà vestuta.” And if the two other ladies are described in terms of personal physical charm, the meaning of the difference should be obvious.
The other characters that cross the bare stage of the Vita nuova appear in groups, from the pair of older ladies walking on either side of Beatrice, to the masses of Florentine people who flock to see the lady Beatrice pass.10 As the groups appear, the narrator points to them: “molti,” “altri,” “molte donne,” “alcune donne,” “certe donne,” “uomini,” “alquanti peregrini.”
Strikingly different from these colorless, nonindividualizing phrases are those periphrases, equally abstract and nonindividualizing, which offer, however, an essence: the sister of the protagonist and the father and brother of Beatrice, brought so suddenly into existence from nowhere, are presented not by means of the normal words padre, fratello, sorella, with their overtones of warmth, but by analytical designations of relationship. Beatrice’s father is called “colui che era stato genitore di tanta maraviglia quanta si vedea ch’era questa nobilissima Beatrice”;11 Beatrice’s brother and the protagonist’s sister are presented in terms of degree of consanguinity: the former as “tanto distretto di sanguinitade con questa gloriosa, che nullo più presso Fera,” the latter as being “meco di propinquissima sanguinitade congiunta.”
The same device of significant periphrases is used of places: a minor case is that of the church in which the main event of Chapter V takes place. Not only is the church left undescribed but it is not even called a church: in the opening sentence Beatrice is presented as sitting “in parte ove s’udiano parole de la regina de la gloria.” On a larger scale this device is used, and most effectively, in connection with the city of Florence. The first reference to Dante’s birthplace occurs in Chapter VI which contains the apparently insignificant reference to the composition of a serventese including sixty names of beautiful ladies: “… e presi li nomi de sessanta le più belle donne de la cittade ove la mia donna fue posta da Valtissimo sire” In the following chapter Florence is referred to as “la sopradetta cittade”. And in the next six references the same deictic phrase is found: seven echoes, that is, of the first periphrasis that was meant to remind the reader of Beatrice and of her destiny and role in this story. In Chapter XL we read that “alquanti peregrini passavano per una via la quale è quazi mezzo de la cittade ove nacque e vivette e mono la gentilissima donna.” This city has now become the place where Beatrice also died. Thus, in Dante’s treatment of the city of Florence there are two forces at work: on the one hand, in the interest of universality, suppression of all picturesque detail, suppression even of the name itself which might evoke such detail; on the other, the formulation of a periphrasis that offers the true significance of that city for the lover (and therefore for the reader).
It seems clear that Dante’s desire to create for his reader a world in which concrete detail has been reduced to a minimum, a shadowy nameless city peopled by nameless shadows, has some connection with his predilection for mathematical forms and processes. There are times, when places are in question, that the two tendencies coincide: the street along which the pilgrims move, and which the reader is not invited to visualize, is presented as dissecting the city of Florence in two; the house of worship that cannot be seen contains a straight line intersected by three points. This extreme concern with the abstract implies an extreme concern for the spiritual, which means a concern for the essential—which is precisely what Dante was revealing in the last words of the Proemio: “… se non tutte, almeno la loro sentenzia.”
Perhaps the most effective example of such concerns is to be found in the scene describing Beatrice’s greeting. That event which occurred nine years to the day after the lover’s first sight of her, that event without which what does happen could never have happened—takes place in no particular place:
Avvenne che questa mirabile donna apparve a me vestita di colore bianchissimo … ; e passando per una via, volse li occhi verso quella parte ov’ io era molto pauroso, e per la sua ineffabile cortesia, la quale è oggi meritata nel grande secolo, mi salutoe molto virtuosamente tanto che me parve allora vedere tutti li termini de la beatitudine.
(It happened that, on the last one of those days, the miraculous lady appeared dressed in purest white … ; and passing along a certain street, she turned her eyes to where I was standing faint-hearted and, with that indescribable graciousness for which today she is rewarded in the eternal life, she greeted me so marvelously that I seemed at that moment to behold the entire range of possible bliss.)
But what does it matter exactly where Beatrice was that day? What matters is that she is now in Heaven. And the reference to her “indescribable graciousness,” which would seem to lead directly to the announcement of her greeting, is instead followed by a reminder of Beatrice in glory: in the split-second interval between the moment she turns her eyes and the moment of her greeting, we catch a glimpse of Heaven. Also in the description of Beatrice’s first appearance on stage the reader had been reminded of her death by the simple device of using an epithet applicable only to her role after dea
th; the effect was completely static. Here, however, there is movement, and interruption of movement, and movement again: Beatrice alive, Beatrice dead, Beatrice continuing to live.
As the reader will surely remember, there is much more vitality, movement, color in the narration of the visions than in that of the events of the real world of the Vita nuova.12 The most vivid of the visions are those contained in Chapters III and XXIII, both of them prophetic of Beatrice’s death, the first more touched with mystery, the second characterized by more phantasmagoric elements. Thus, the poet does not hesitate to appeal to the senses of his reader when describing a visionary world; and if Dante’s descriptions throughout the Divine Comedy show a colorful technique so at variance with the shadowy outlines of the Vita nuova as a whole, this must be because the Divine Comedy is, throughout, one continuous vision. Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise and the souls that are hopelessly damned, or suffering in hope, or enjoying the beatific vision in those three realms, respectively, are described in greater detail because, being eternal, they are more real than are this world and the souls that temporarily inhabit it. The visions, too, in the Vita nuova are more real than any one of the events in the story proper, for there, as we shall soon see, the protagonist is offered glimpses of eternity.
II Aspects
All of the characters in the Vita nuova were mentioned in the preceding chapter of this essay, with the important exception of one of the three main characters in this love-story: the god of Love, who appears on stage playing an important role in Chapters III, IX, XXI and XXIV. In most of his visits to the lover this being is presented far more vividly than any of the other characters seen by the protagonist—who, for the most part, come through to the reader as shadowy shapes indeed. The first three times Love makes his entrance onto the stage of the Vita nuova, not only are his clothes described but also his gestures and movements; and in all four of his appearances Love’s voice is heard.1 This character, on whom a spotlight is focused, is made to behave in a way that must puzzle any reader. Love speaks Italian sometimes, sometimes Latin, and sometimes he even shifts languages in the midst of a visit. The accouterments of this actor in the scenes in which he plays his different roles vary, being those of a terrifying deity, a shabby traveler or a guardian angel. And so do his moods change, not only from scene to scene but within the same scene: from the radiant happiness of majesty, or the poised tranquility of beatitude, Love will fall into bitter weeping. Or, again, in his relationship toward the lover he may shift from kindly counselor to sublimely haughty lord, to impatient monitor, to chatty conspiratorial advisor. What can be the true significance of this mysterious, protean figure of Love, who four times appears on stage at a given moment to address the lover?2
The god of Love first appears to the lover on the evening after he has received Beatrice’s first greeting and returned home, ecstatic, to fall into a sweet sleep (III). He dreams he sees Love holding a sleeping lady in his arms; the figure speaks to the lover, in Latin, words that are mainly incomprehensible, and then ascends to Heaven. In Chapter IX the protagonist sees the figure of Love walking toward him along a country road; Love offers him practical advice as to maintaining the strate-gem of the screen-lady. In Chapter XII, just as in Chapter III, Love appears to him during his sleep, a sleep into which he has fallen grieving bitterly over the loss of his lady’s greeting. In Chapter XXIV, which immediately follows the prophetic vision of Beatrice’s death, the lover is sitting thoughtful in “a certain place” when he sees Love coming from the direction “where his lady was.” Then Beatrice appears with another lady, and he listens to Love’s comments about them.
Now this last vision is followed by an “essay” (XXV) which begins with an explanation of the author’s treatment of Love; though he mentions only the scene in Chapter XXIV, his words are surely meant to apply to all of the appearances of Love. But anyone familiar with the Vita nuova, who is interested in the significance of the figure of Love, knows that in this chapter he will find no clue to the proper interpretation of this mysterious figure. The chapter treats instead the problem of poetic license, involving particularly the device of personification (a treatment promised us somewhat cryptically in Chapter XII). And it is puzzling that precisely after the last appearance of Love Dante would refer to this figure for no other reason than a rhetorical one. Perhaps there is a more important purpose underyling this chapter, whose threefold structure can be briefly summed up.
First, he admits that, while perfectly aware of Love’s being only an accident in a substance, he has treated it as if it were a substance—in fact, he has attributed to the figure of Love qualities properly human. Rather abruptly he turns to a consideration of the recent phenomenon of poets writing in the vernacular, stating that they should be allowed poetic license equal to that of the poets of antiquity: in particular, the animization or personification of abstract entities. (Curious, that of the many poetic figures recognized by medieval rhetoric, Dante specifies only the concretization of the abstract.) Finally, he illustrates the poetic license in question with quotations from the classical poets.
But he concludes the second part by allowing this poetic license to the vernacular poet only on one condition:
… degno è lo dicitore per rima di fare lo somigliante, ma non sanza ragione alcuna, ma con ragione la quale poi sia possibile d’aprire per prosa.
(… 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.)3
And he repeats this warning toward the end of the chapter:
Però che grande vergogna sarebbe a colui che rimasse cose sotto vesta di figura o di colore rettorico, e poscia, domandato, non sapesse denudare le sue parole da cotale vesta, in guisa che avessero verace intendimento.
(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.)
This warning by the author amounts to a claim that he himself would be capable of offering the “verace intendimento” of the figure of Love, if asked to do so. To the reader who cannot ask the author to do so, these words are frustrating. But I believe they were intended to serve as a challenge to the reader, to inspire in him confidence that the device exploited is not mere ornamentation (as is the case, so the author tells us, with some poets known to him and Cavalcanti): there is indeed a “verace intendimento” which could be unmysteriously explained, and knowing this, the reader of the Vita nuova must try, and hope, to find it. And perhaps the author is also suggesting—this would be most important—that because this significance can be ultimately made clear, no detail of his figurative presentation should be overlooked.4
Of the four visions the first I find the most difficult; the simplest is the last, and with this I shall begin.5 In Chapter XXIV the first words of Love are a joyful command to the lover that he bless the day he became Love’s captive, whereupon the lover, too, is filled with joy. Then he sees the “miraculous Beatrice” coming toward him, preceded by her friend Giovanna, called also Primavera. He hears Love speak portentous words comparing the Lady Giovanna, who comes before Beatrice, with John the Baptist proclaiming the approach of Christ. Love ends by saying: “E chi volesse sottilmente considerare, quella Beatrice chiamarebbe Amor per molta simiglianza che ha meco.” (“Anyone of subtle discernment would call Beatrice Love, because she so greatly resembles me.”) Thus, Love is comparing Beatrice indirectly to Christ and directly to himself.
We can surely assume, whatever the special significance we attribute to the figure of Love that, in each of the four visions in question, he always represents in some way the protagonist’s love for Beatrice. And I suggest that here he represents the lover’s total potential capacity for loving Beatrice as she should be loved: recognizing her Christlike nature which can only be unselfishly adored. This figure, which may be called by the formula “The Gr
eater Aspect” of Dante’s love for Beatrice, we shall see again as we go back to the other visions in the Vita nuova.
But if we turn next to the other imaginazione (IX) among the four scenes, we will find the sharpest of contrasts. The lover himself is in a mood of dejection since he is forced to undertake a journey away from his city and from his lady; and the figure he suddenly sees coming toward him has the form of a pilgrim lightly and poorly clad—he, too, seeming dejected, staring at the ground, occasionally turning his glance toward a beautiful stream, swift and very clear, which flows alongside the path he is traveling. He advises the lover to choose a new screen-lady since the first one has left the city, and he urges him to be as ardently adept in his dissimulation with the second lady as he has been with the first. Surely this figure can only represent the “Lesser Aspect” of the protagonist’s love, the lover’s feelings at the moment, which are untouched by the transcendental. The lover’s emotional state is reflected in the epithet “disbigottito” applied to Love—who appears dressed as a pilgrim, since the lover himself happens to be a pilgrim at the present moment. Moreover, Love is poorly dressed; with this latter detail it is as if the poet would symbolize in Love’s outward appearance the inner misery he himself is experiencing. And we learn that Love is playing the role of the lover’s accomplice in the foolish game of the screen-ladies. The advice he offers, of a practical, even cynical nature, is of the sort to appeal to the childishly scheming lover.