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

by Dante Alighieri

  There are two other indications that the Love who figures in this scene is none other than a reflection of the protagonist’s own limited feelings: one concerned with Love’s entrance on stage, the other with his disappearance. Love disappears, not as a person, not as a figure disappears, but as a substance melts. There is nothing left of Love for the lover to see, we are told, because Love has become so much a part of him. The manner of his appearance or, rather, the reason for his appearance also is connected with his being a part of the lover: after speaking of his anguish at leaving Florence and Beatrice, the lover adds, as if it were the most natural thing imaginable: “e pero lo dolcissimo segnore … ne la mia imaginazione apparve come pelle-grino….” The significance of the causal pero is obvious: it was the intensity of his feelings that caused his love to take on form and shape, reflecting his own mood, before his eyes.

  In Chapter XII Love appears to the protagonist in his sleep; he sees Love sitting near his bed dressed in the whitest of raiment, deep in thought. After looking for some time at the lover, the figure sighs and says “Fili mi, tempus est ut preter-mictantur simulacra nostra” (“My son, it is time to do away with our false ideals”). The lover notes that Love is weeping, and senses that he is waiting for him to say something. He can only ask: “Segnore della nobilitade, e perché piangi tu?” (“Lord of all virtues, why do you weep?”). He hears the answer:

  “Ego tanquam centrum circuii, cui simili modo se habent circumjerentie partes; tu autem non sic.”

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

  Finding these words obscure, the lover gathers courage to ask Love to explain them. Love answers, this time in Italian: “Non dimandare più che utile ti sia” (“Do not ask more than is useful to you”).

  The figure of the young man sitting dressed in purest white will remind any reader of the young man dressed in a long white garment sitting at the door of Christ’s sepulchre. This suggestion, together with the solemnity of his Latin words, can only mean that, of the two Aspects of Love already discussed, the figure now on the stage of the lover’s mind represents the Greater Aspect, that transcends the lover’s own feelings on this occasion. And Love’s first words of tender reproach are those of a father to a son.

  Most critics have seen in Love’s first words announcing the necessity of abandoning “simulacra nostra” a reference to the device of the screen-ladies; and to them the possessive pronoun nostra amounts to a confession of complicity on the part of Love, who had encouraged the protagonist to continue this device. But it is surely impossible to imagine that the noble figure here portrayed could ever have played this puerile role; it is not he but the shabbily dressed pilgrim figure of Chapter IX, the Lesser Aspect, who had done so. And to imagine that this aider-and-abettor of the lover’s game of screen-ladies would suddenly appear like an angel and, addressing him as “Fili mi”, confess that they had both been wrong to play this game, is absurd. As for the possessive adjective nostra I see in this not a true plural but the well-known pedagogic device (“Fili mi”) recorded from antiquity, of replacing the second person singular by the first person plural as if to include the speaker along with the person addressed, the teacher with the pupil. This is a sympathetic and a patronizing device. Thus, assuming that simulacra is an illusion to the screen-ladies, the Greater Aspect would be here reproaching the lover for his weakness (that the Lesser Aspect had encouraged).

  But I do not believe that the word simulacra refers specifically to the lover’s use of screen-ladies, though such an allusion may well be included within the referential range of this word. In classical Latin the word simulacrum, in its philosophical application, was used of an imitation as opposed to the original, of an appearance as opposed to what is real. Thus, it could apply to any of the attitudes or actions of the young lover which were only false imitations of what true love for Beatrice should be. And if Love uses the word simulacra at this moment of the lover’s development, while he is plunged in grief because of the loss of Beatrice’s greeting, he must intend it to be a condemnation, particularly, of the superficiality of a love that would seek its happiness in something transient, in a reward that could be arbitrarily bestowed or withdrawn. The greeting of Beatrice had seemed to the young lover to represent the ultimate in bliss (“mi parve allora vedere tutti li termini de la beatitudine”), but it was only a seeming, a simulacrum. Thus, Love’s first words would seek to teach the lover, mourning the destruction of his happiness, the vanity of that happiness itself.

  At this point one could hardly expect on the part of the protagonist immediate understanding of the rebuke, and immediate agreement with Love’s suggestion. It would not be unreasonable, however, to expect at least a desire to understand: the lover might have asked his lord to explain what was implied by the word simulacra so that he should know just what it was he should avoid. But if we read carefully from the beginning of the vision, it would seem as if he has not heard the words of admonition:

  Avvenne quasi nel mezzo de lo mio dormire che me parve vedere ne la mia camera lungo me sedere uno giovane vestito di bianchissime vestimenta, e pensando molto quanto a la vista sua, mi riguardava là ov’io giacea; e quando m’avea guardato alquanto, pareami che sospirando mi chiamasse, e diceami queste parole: “Fili mi, tempus est ut pretermictantur simulacra nostra.” Allora mi parea che io lo conoscesse, però che mi chiamava cosi come assai fiate ne li miei sonni irìavea già chiamato; e riguardandolo, parvemì che piangesse pietosamente, e parea che attendesse da me alcuna parola; ond’io, assicurandomi, cominciai a parlare così con esso: “Segnore de la nobiltade, e perché piangi tu?”

  (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: Fili mi, tempus est ut pretermictantur s’miulacra nostra (“My son, it is time to do away with our false ideals.”) 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?”)

  The lover has heard the first two words, of course: “Fili mi”, for they have served to make him recognize his lord. (Thus, between the vision in Chapter III and this one, there must have been other times when Love appeared to the sleeping lover, addressing him in paternal terms.) He also notes that Love, silent again, is weeping and seems to be waiting for him to speak. And thus encouraged, he speaks—but, for some strange reason, only to inquire about Love’s tears, not to comment on Love’s message, his words of admonition, as would seem to be the normal thing to do. According to what we are offered of the protagonist’s thought processes, he must have taken in only the first two words, missing the message itself: “Tempus est ut….” Once he was sure that it was Love speaking, his attention passed from Love’s words to his tears and to his waiting attitude, and he evidently believed that his puerile question was what Love was waiting to hear. But, of course, if he had understood Love’s admonition, he would not have needed to ask him why he wept.

  Love weeps because of the simulacra. Love weeps because the lover had put an exaggerated value on a mere greeting.6 He also weeps because, once this was refused, the lover collapsed utterly and childishly, instead of learning from this experience the obvious lesson—which he was to learn only later, thanks to his Muse (XVIII). If the lover did not understand the reason for Love’s tears, little wonder that he did not understand Love’s enigmatic answer, “Ego tanquam centrum circuli …’’—words which have baffled generations of critics of the Vita nuova.

  As for the interpretation of these words that the lover did not understand, surely, given the context, the comp
arison they offer between Love and the young lover is a comparison between the two kinds of Love that must be distinguished: the lover’s love, though tending toward the center is still on the circumference of the circle (where the simulacra are), while Love, the Greater Love, is, was, and always will be the irradiating center. And not only has Love, with his geometrical metaphor, set the simulacra in perspective, he has, in his self-definition, revealed his divine nature: in defining himself he uses a common Patristic definition of God.7 (And the Paradise will end with the adoration of the perfection of the circle, to the movement of the three circles that are the Trinity and therefore the One.)

  After the lover has been told not to ask more about what he obviously does not understand (“Non dimandare più che utile ti sia”) he starts talking about himself. He laments the loss of Beatrice’s greeting and asks for an explanation of it. Love tells him that Beatrice’s rejection was due to the scandalous rumors about his relationship with the second screen-lady. He then proceeds to offer the lover a means of ingratiating himself with Beatrice once more, describing in some detail the kind of poem he should write her, one which would implore her forgiveness and appeal to Love himself as a witness to his loyalty:

  Onde, con ciò sia cosa che veracemente sia conosciuto per lei alquanto lo tuo secreto per lunga consuetudine, voglio che tu dichi certe parole per rima ne le quali tu comprendi la forza che io tegno sopra te per lei, e come tu fosti suo tostamente da la tua puerizia; e di ciò chiama testimonio colui che lo sa, e come tu prieghi lui che li le dica: ed io, che son quelli, volentieri le ?ie ragionerò; e per questo sentirà ella la tua volontade, la quale sentendo, conoscerà le parole de li ingannati. Queste parole fa che siano quasi un mezzo, sì che tu non parli a lei immediatamente, che non è degno; e no le mandare in parte, sanza me ove potessero essere intese da lei, ma falle adornare di soave armonia, ne la quale io sarò tutte le volte che farà mestiere.” E dette queste parole, sì disparve, e lo mio sonno fue rotto.

  (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.)

  But how can Love speak this way? The white-robed figure, reminiscent of St. Mark’s angelic guard at the tomb of Christ, who at the beginning had been concerned only with trancen-dental values, is now interested in giving practical advice-encouraging the lover, in fact, to seek again the kind of happiness that can only fail, to concern himself again with simulacra? And the elegant speaker of sententious, epigrammatic Latin engages in this long-winded chatter? It is clear that with the introduction of this note of familiarity the atmosphere of deep seriousness, of awesome majesty that surrounded the figure of Love at the beginning has entirely disappeared.

  It is, of course, the Lesser Aspect that gives this worldly advice, so easy (alas) for the young lover to understand: in the lover’s mind the god has turned into the Amore of Chapter IX, who is on a plane no higher than that of the lover himself. The last words that we hear the Greater Aspect speak are the peremptory “Non dimandare piu che utile ti sia”— which, however, being in Italian, prepare for the shift to the Lesser Aspect, serving as a hinge on which the two parts of the vision turn. That we have to do now with the Amore of Chapter IX is shown, not only by the tone of Love’s words and the nature of his advice, but also by the fact that in his explanation of Beatrice’s decision, when speaking of the lady chosen as the second screen, he calls her “… la donna la quale io ti nominal nel cammino de li sospiri … ,” thereby identifying himself with the shabby, dejected figure of the pilgrim-Love. And if it is clear from these words that the one who abets the lover in his superficial program of wooing must be the same as the figure in Chapter IX, it should be just as clear that he cannot possibly be the one who appeared on stage saying, “Fili mi, tempus est… There has been a shift of identity. And since such a vision as this is comparable to a dream, in which one figure may easily turn into another, this shift in the lover’s mind needs no psychological justification.

  Now that we have recognized the possibility of a shift from the one to the other aspect of Love when this figure appears on stage to speak to the lover, it is only natural to wonder if this will be realized in the next appearance of Love to be considered—that is, the first of the four appearances of Love in the Vita nuova. As the lover is sleeping sweetly, after having received Beatrice’s first greeting, a marvelous vision comes to him in which he sees first a flame-colored cloud, then a figure in the cloud, whose aspect is frightening to look upon, yet expresses the deepest happiness. He speaks to the lover at length, though only a few of his words such as “Ego dominus tuus” are understandable to him. As he speaks, the lover sees that this awesome figure is holding in his arms a sleeping female figure, naked except for a crimson cloth in which she is loosely wrapped.8 Slowly the lover recognizes her as his lady; he also notes that the lordly man (who we know must be Love) holding the lady has in his hand a burning object; and he hears the words “Vide cor tuum.” After some time has passed Love awakens the lady and cunningly forces her to eat of the burning object. This she does, reluctantly. After another passage of time Love’s joy turns to bitterest grief and weeping he folds his arms about the lady and ascends with her toward Heaven. The lover’s anguish at their departure breaks his sleep.

  This figure who comes during the first of the last nine hours of the night, in the midst of a cloud the color of flame (suggesting the burning bush in which God appeared to Moses), who speaks in Latin and announces his lordship over the lover, and whose aspect is both radiant and terrifying is, obviously, the Greater Aspect of Love. At the end he ascends to Heaven; thus, the figure who appears with Beatrice and who departs with her must represent the same Aspect. And it must also be this divine being who, in the middle of the episode, says to the lover “Vide cor tuum.” But I believe that in the lines following these words, in the interval of time that elapsed between Love’s last words and the lady’s awakening, there has been a shift from the Greater to the Lesser Aspect. “Vide cor tuum” is followed by E quando elli era stato alquanto, pareami che dis-vegliasse questa che dormía.… After the lady is made to eat the heart reluctantly, there is another pause in the action before the figure of Love, now weeping, will disappear: Appresso ció poco dimorava che la sua letizia si convertía in amarissimo pianto—z pause allowing for a second shift of Aspect, back to the first again. That the author has taken pains twice to indicate a lapse of time must be significant; and that his intention has been to set off this central action, to differentiate it from what precedes and what follows, is highly likely. And these two breaks could serve not only as dividers but to allow time for something to happen during the intervals in which nothing seems to happen.

  Beatrice asleep in Love’s arms is Beatrice dead, already in glory, pure spirit. When she is awakened she becomes a woman of flesh and blood, and her nakedness takes on warmth in the imagination. Perfect Love could not desire such a return to the carnal. Perfect Love could not try to force, to seduce the Beloved into an act against her nature, as the figure of Love does here:

  E quando elli era stato alquanto, pareami che disvegliasse questa che dormia; e tanto si sforzava per suo ingegno, che le facea mangiare questa cosa che in mano li ardea, la quale ella mangiava
dubitosamente.

  (And after some time had passed, he seemed to awaken the one who slept, and he forced her cunningly to eat of that burning object in his hand; she ate of it timidly.)

  When the figure of Perfect Love returns once more to the lover’s imagination, the figure can only weep. He weeps because the lover’s heart which he had declared to be in his possession (“Vide cor tuum”) has been given over to the Lesser Love, which would make carnal the spiritual and, because of its covetousness, could envisage arousing covetousness in the miraculous Beatrice. It is difficult to understand the attitude of those critics who find sublimity in Love’s gruesome act of forcing the lady to eat the lover’s heart.

  Now that the four visions have been discussed in the order: 4-3-2-1 (for reasons which should have become rather clear), let us sum up the sequence again in its original order.9 The figure of love capable of representing either the Greater or the Lesser Aspect, appears for the first time in Chapter III at its most dynamic and paradoxical: shifting from the Greater to the Lesser, back to the Greater Aspect again. The sonnet that the lover writes describing the vision with a minimum of detail, he sends to his literary friends challenging them to discover its significance. And in the chapter immediately following we are told that for some time after his vision his digestive system was so upset that his friends were concerned about his haggard appearance. The literary maneuver may be a sign that the meaning of the vision was not clear to the poet-protagonist (not that such a sign is necessary), and the bad health which followed suggests that the memories of it must have tortured him.