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- Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Serie: Delphi Poets Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents the works of world poet Dante Alighieri, with beautiful illustrations, the original Italian texts and bonus material. (12MB Version 1)
* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Dante's life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Both verse and prose translations of THE DIVINE COMEDY, with glossed footnotes – ideal for students
* Also includes Gustave Doré’s celebrated illustrations of THE DIVINE COMEDY – over a hundred stunning images
* Easily locate the cantos you want to read with detailed contents tables
* Includes Dante’s complete works in Italian – ideal for students exploring the original texts
* Features a bonus biography - discover Dante's literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
CONTENTS:
The Poetry Collections
THE NEW LIFE
THE DIVINE COMEDY (VERSE)
THE DIVINE COMEDY (PROSE)
The Italian Texts
LIST OF WORKS
The Biography
DANTE: HIS TIMES AND HIS WORK BY ARTHUR JOHN BUTLER
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DANTE ALIGHIERI
(1265-1321)
Contents
The Poetry Collections
THE NEW LIFE
THE DIVINE COMEDY (VERSE)
THE DIVINE COMEDY (PROSE)
The Italian Texts
LIST OF WORKS
The Biography
DANTE: HIS TIMES AND HIS WORK by Arthur John Butler
©Delphi Classics 2012
Version 1
DANTE ALIGHIERI
By Delphi Classics, 2012
NOTE
When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.
The Poetry Collections
Dante’s birthplace, Florence
Medieval Florence by Giorgio Vasari
Florence today
THE NEW LIFE
Translated by Charles Eliot Norton
La Vita Nuova is a collection of verse and prose works written in 1295 by the Italian poet Dante Alighieri (1265–1321). Forming an expression of the medieval genre of courtly love, the collection was innovative for being written in Italian, instead of Latin – the favoured language of high literature at the time. As well as the poet’s other works, La Vita Nuova helped to establish the Tuscan dialect, promoting an Italian language that could be appreciated by readers of all backgrounds and not just the privileged few.
The work contains 42 short chapters, with commentaries on 25 sonnets and several other rarer forms of poems. In the prose sections, Dante constructs a narrative of sorts between the poems; recounting his encounters with Beatrice, a young Florentine maiden he meets and falls in love with at first sight. As the poet discusses the origins and context of each poem, he also explains, often in meticulous detail, his technical decisions in composition. The chapters containing poems are composed of three parts: the semi-autobiographical narrative, the lyric that resulted from those circumstances and a brief structural outline of the lyric.
La Vita Nuova was written with the purpose to elevate courtly love poetry, transposing its tropes and its language into a sacred form of love poetry. The collection is a landmark work in the development of emotional autobiography, finely delineating feelings of courtly love, as well as presenting an unprecedented insight of a poet’s workmanship.
A portrait of Dante attributed to Giotto
‘Dante meets Beatrice at the Santa Trinita bridge’, by Henry Holiday, 1883
CONTENTS
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
XXXV.
XXXVI.
XXXVII.
XXXVIII.
XXXIX.
XL.
XLI.
XLII.
XLIII.
A scene from the poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1871
I.
IN that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read is found a rubric which says: Incipit Vita Nova [The New Life begins]. Under which rubric I find the words written which it is my intention to copy into this little book, — and if not all of them, at least their meaning.
II.
Nine times now, since my birth, the heaven of light had turned almost to the same point in its own gyration, when the glorious Lady of my mind, who was called Beatrice by many who knew not what to call her, first appeared before my eyes. She had already been in this life so long that in its course the starry heaven had moved toward the region of the East one of the twelve parts of a degree; so that at about the beginning of her ninth year she appeared to me, and I near the end of my ninth year saw her. She appeared to me clothed in a most noble color, a modest and becoming crimson, and she was girt and adorned in such wise as befitted her very youthful age. At that instant, I say truly that the spirit of life, which dwells in the most secret chamber of the heart, began to tremble with such violence that it appeared fearfully in the least pulses, and, trembling, said these words: Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi [Behold a god stronger than I, who coming shall rule over me].
At that instant the spirit of the soul, which dwells in the high chamber to which all the spirits of the senses carry their perceptions, began to marvel greatly, and, speaking especially to the spirit of the sight, said these words: Apparuit jam beatitudo vestra [Now has appeared your bliss].
At that instant the natural spirit, which dwells in that part where our nourishment is supplied, began to weep, and, weeping, said these words: Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps [Woe is me, wretched! because often from this time forth shall I be hindered]. I say that from that time forward Love lorded it over my soul, which had been so speedily wedded to him: and he began to exercise over me such control and such lordship, through the power which my imagination gave to him, that it behoved me to do completely all his pleasure. He commanded me ofttimes that I should seek to see this youthful angel; so that I in my boyhood often went seeking her, and saw her of such noble and praiseworthy deportment, that truly of her might be said that word of the poet Homer, “She seems not the daughter of mortal man, but of God.” And though her image, which stayed constantly with me, gave assurance to Love to hold lordship over me, yet it was of such noble virtue that it never suffered Love to rule me without the faithful counsel of the reason in those matters in which it were useful to hear such counsel. And since to dwell upon the passions and actions of such early youth seems like telling an idle tale, I will leave them, and, passing over many things which might be drawn from the original where these lie hidden, I will come to those words which are written in my memory under larger paragraphs.
III.
When so many days had passed that nine years were exactly complete since the above-described apparition of this most gentle lady, on the last of these days it happened that this admirable lady appeared to me, clothed in purest white, between two gentle ladies who were of greater age; and, passing along a street, turned her eyes toward that place where I stood very timidly; and by her ineffable courtesy, which is to-day rewarded in the eternal world, saluted me with such virtue that it seemed to me then that I saw all the bounds of bliss. The hour when her most sweet salutation reached me was precisely the ninth of that day; and since it was the first time that her words came to my ears, I took in such sweetness, that, as it were intoxicated, I turned away from the folk; and, betaking myself to the solitude of my own chamber, I sat myself down to think of this most courteous lady.
And thinking of her, a sweet slumber overcame me, in which a marvellous vision appeared to me; for methought I saw in my chamber a cloud of the color of fire, within which I discerned a shape of a Lord of aspect fearful to whoso might look upon him; and he seemed to me so joyful within himself that a marvellous thing it was; and in his words he said many things which I understood not, save a few, among which I understood these: Ego Dominus tuus [I am thy Lord]. In his arms meseemed to see a person sleeping, naked, save that she seemed to me to be wrapped lightly in a crimson cloth; whom I, regarding very intently, recognized as the lady of the salutation, who had the day before deigned to salute me. And in one of his hands it seemed to me that he held a thing which was all on fire; and it seemed to me that he said to me these words: Vide cor tuum [Behold thy heart]. And when he had remained awhile, it seemed to me that he awoke her that slept; and he so far prevailed upon her with his craft as to make her eat that thing which was burning in his hand; and she ate it timidly. After this, it was but a short while before his joy turned into the most bitter lament; and as he wept he gathered up this lady in his arms, and with her it seemed to me that he went away toward heaven. Whereat I felt such great anguish, that my weak slumber could not endure it, but was broken, and I awoke. And straightway I began to reflect, and found that the hour in which this vision had appeared to me had been the fourth of the night; so that, it plainly appears, it was the first hour of the nine last hours of the night.
And thinking on what had appeared to me, I resolved to make it known to many who were famous poets at that time; and since I had already seen in myself the art of discoursing in rhyme, I resolved to make a sonnet in which I would salute all the liegemen of Love, and, praying them to give an interpretation of my vision, would write to them that which I had seen in my slumber. And I began then this sonnet: —
To every captive soul and gentle heart Unto whose sight may come the present word, That they thereof to me their thoughts impart, Be greeting in Love’s name, who is their Lord. Now of those hours wellnigh one third had gone What time doth every star appear most bright, When on a sudden Love before me shone, Remembrance of whose nature gives me fright. Joyful to me seemed Love, and he was keeping My heart within his hands, while on his arm He held my lady, covered o’er, and sleeping. Then waking her, he with this flaming heart Did humble feed her fearful of some harm. Thereon I saw him thence in tears depart.
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first part I offer greeting, and ask for a reply; in the second I signify to what the reply is to be made. The second part begins here: “Now of.”
To this sonnet reply was made by many, and of diverse opinions. Among those who replied to it was he whom I call first of my friends, and he then wrote a sonnet which begins, “All worth, in my opinion, thou hast seen.” And this was, as it were, the beginning of the friendship between him and me, when he knew that I was he who had sent it to him.
The true meaning of this dream was not then seen by any one, but now it is plain to the simplest.
IV.
After this vision my natural spirit began to be hindered in its operation, for my soul was wholly given over to the thought of this most gentle lady; whereby in brief time I fell into so frail and feeble a condition, that my appearance was grievous to many of my friends; and many full of envy eagerly sought to know from me that which above all I wished to conceal from others. And I, perceiving their evil questioning, through the will of Love, who commanded me according to the counsel of reason, replied to them, that it was Love who had brought me to this pass. I spoke of Love, because I bore on my face so many of his signs that this could not be concealed. And when they asked me: “For whom has Love thus wasted thee?” I, smiling, looked at them and said nothing.
V.
One day it happened that this most gentle lady was sitting apart, where words concerning the Queen of Glory were to be heard; and I was in a place from which I saw my bliss. And in the direct line between her and me sat a gentle lady of very pleasing aspect, who often looked at me, wondering at my gaze, which seemed as if it ended upon her; so that many observed her looking. And such note was taken of it, that, as I departed from this place, I heard say near me: “Behold how that lady wastes the life of this man;” and naming her, I understood that they spoke of her who had been in the path of the straight line which, parting from the most gentle Beatrice, had ended in my eyes. Then I took great comfort, being sure that my secret had not been communicated to others on that day through my eyes; and at once I thought to make of this gentle lady a screen of the truth; and in a short time I made such show of it that many persons who held discourse about me believed that they knew my secret.
With this lady I dissembled for some months and years; and in order to establish in others a firmer credence, I wrote for her certain trifles in rhyme, which it is not my intention to transcribe here, save in so far as they might serve to treat of that most gentle Beatrice; and therefore I will leave them all, save that I will write something of them which seems to be praise of her.
VI.
I say that, during the time while this lady was the screen of so great a love as possessed me, the will came to me to record the name of that most gentle one, and to accompany it with many names of ladies, and especially with the name of this gentle lady; and I took the names of sixty of the most beautiful ladies of the city where my lady had been placed by the Most High Lord, and I composed an epistle in the form of a serventese, which I will not transcribe; and of which I would not have made mention, but for the sake of telling this which fell out marvellously in its composition, namely, that in no other place did the name of my lady endure to stand, but as the ninth in number among the names of these ladies.
VII.
The lady with whom I had so long concealed my will was obliged to depart from the above-mentioned city, and go to a very distant place; whereat I, wellnigh dismayed by reason of the fair defence which had failed me, did more discomfort me than I myself would beforehand have believed. And, thinking that, if I did not speak somewhat grievingly of her departure, people would sooner become acquainted with my secret, I resolved to make some lament for it in a sonnet, which I will transcribe because my lady was the immediate occasion of certain words which are in the sonnet, as is evident to whoever understands it; and then I devised this sonnet: —
O ye who turn your steps along Love’s way, Consider, and then say, If there be any grief than mine more great; That ye to hear me deign, I only pray; Then fancy, as ye may, If I am every torment’s inn and gate. ‘T was not my little goodness to repay, But bounty to display, Love gave me such a sweet and pleasant fate, That many times I heard behind me say, ”Ah, through what merit, pray, Hath this man’s heart become so light of late?” But now is wholly lost my hardihead, Which came from out a treasure of Love’s own, And I stay poor alone, So that of speech there cometh to me dread. Thus wishing now to do like unto one Who, out of shame, concealeth his disgrace, I wear a joyful face, While in my heart I waste away and groan.
This sonnet has two principal parts; for in the first I intend to cry to the liegemen of Love with those words of Jeremy the prophet: O vos omnes qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte, si est dolor sicut dolor meus [All ye that pass by, behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow]: and to pray them to deign to listen to me. In the second I relate where Love had set me, with other intent than that which the last parts of the sonnet indicate; and I tell that which I have lost. The second part begins here: “‘T was not my.”
VIII.
After the departure of this gentle lady it pleased the Lord of the Angels to call unto His glory a lady young and of exceeding gentle aspect, who had been very lovely in the above-mentioned city; whose body I saw lying without its soul, in midst of many ladies who were weeping very pitifully. Then, remembering that formerly I had seen her in company with that most gentle one, I could not restrain some tears; nay, weeping, I resolved to say some words about her death, in guerdon for that I had seen her sometimes with my lady. And thereon I touched somewhat in the last part of the words that I said of her, as plainly appears to him who understands them. And I devised then these two sonnets; the first of which begins, Lovers, lament; the second, Discourteous death: —
Lovers, lament, since Love himself now cries, Hearing what cause ‘t is maketh him to weep. Love seëth ladies mourn in sorrow deep, Showing their bitter grieving through their eyes; Because discourteous Death, on gentle heart Working his cruel, unrelenting ways, Hath all despoiled which in the world wins praise For gentle dame, excepting honor’s part. Hear ye what honor Love to her did pay; For him in real form I saw lament Above the lovely image of the dead; And often toward the heaven he raised his head, Whereto the gentle soul had made ascent Which had been mistress of a shape so gay.
This first sonnet is divided into three parts. In the first, I call and solicit the liegemen of Love to weep; and I say that their Lord weeps, and that, hearing the cause why he weeps, they should be the more ready to listen to me. In the second, I relate the cause. In the third, I speak of certain honor that Love paid to this lady. The second part begins here: “Love seëth:” the third, here: “Hear ye.”
Discourteous Death, of clemency the foe, Mother from old of woe, Thou judgment irresistible, severe, Since sorrow to this heart thou dost not spare, Therefore in grief I go, And blaming thee my very tongue outwear. And since I wish of grace to strip thee bare, Behoves me to declare The wrong of wrongs in this thy guilty blow; Not that the folk do not already know, But to make each thy foe, Who henceforth shall be nurtured with Love’s care, From out the world thou courtesy hast ta’en, And virtue, which in woman is to praise; And in youth’s gayest days The charm of love thou hast untimely slain. Who is this lady I will not declare, Save as her qualities do make her known; Who merits heaven, alone May have the hope her company to share.
This sonnet is divided into four parts. In the first I call Death by certain names proper to her; in the second, speaking to her, I tell the reason why I am moved to reproach her; in the third, I revile her; in the fourth, I turn to speak to an indefinite person, although definite as regards my meaning. The second part begins here: “Since sorrow;” the third, here: “And since I wish;” the fourth, with “Who merits.”
IX.
Some days after the death of this lady, a thing happened wherefore it behoved me to leave the above-mentioned city, and to go toward those parts where that gentle lady was who had been my defence, though the end of my journey was not distant so far as she was. And notwithstanding I was outwardly in company with many, the journey displeased me, so that hardly could sighs relieve the anguish which the heart felt, because I was going away from my bliss. And then that most sweet Lord, who was lording it over me through virtue of the most gentle lady, appeared in my imagination like a pilgrim lightly clad and in mean raiment. He seemed disheartened, and was looking upon the ground, save that sometimes it seemed to me his eyes were turned upon a beautiful, swift and very clear stream which was flowing along by the road upon which I was.
It seemed to me that Love called me, and said to me these words: “I come from that lady who has been so long thy defence, and I know that she will not come back; and therefore that heart which I made thee keep with her I have it with me, and I carry it to a lady who will be thy defence, as this one was;” and he called her by name, so that I knew her well. “But, however, of these words which I have spoken unto thee, if thou shouldst tell any of them, tell them in such wise that the feigned love which thou hast shown for this lady, and which it will behove thee to show for another, shall not be revealed through them.” And when he had thus spoken, all this my imagination disappeared of a sudden, through the exceeding great part of himself which, it seemed to me, Love bestowed on me. And, as if changed in my aspect, I rode that day very pensive and accompanied by many sighs. The next day I began this sonnet: —
As I the other day rode far from glad Along a way it pleased me not to take, I came on Love, who did his journey make, In the light garment of a pilgrim clad. His countenance, it seemed to me, was sad, As if he grieved for his lost lordship’s sake; Pensive he came, and forth his sighs did break; Not to see folk, his head bowed down he had. When me he saw, by name he called to me, And said, “I come from that far distant part Where through my will thy heart did dwell of late. I bring it now on new delight to wait.” Thereon I took of him so great a part That quick he vanished; how, I did not see.
This sonnet has three parts. In the first part I tell how I found Love, and what he seemed to me; in the second, I tell that which he said to me, though not completely, through the fear that I had of disclosing my secret; in the third, I tell how he disappeared. The second begins here: “When me he saw;” the third, here: “Thereon I took.”
X.
After my return, I set myself to seek out that lady whom my Lord had named to me on the road of sighs. And to the end that my speech may be more brief, I say that in short time I made her my defence to such degree, that very many people spoke of it beyond the terms of courtesy; wherefore many times it weighed heavily upon me. And on this account, namely, because of this injurious talk, which seemed to impute vice to me, that most gentle lady, who was the destroyer of all the vices and the queen of the virtues, passing by a certain place, denied me her most sweet salute, in which lay all my bliss. And departing a little from the present subject, I will declare that which her salutation with its virtue wrought in me.
XI.
I say that, whenever she appeared in any place, in the hope of her marvellous salutation there no longer remained to me an enemy; nay, a flame of charity possessed me, which made me pardon every one who had done me wrong; and had any one at that time questioned me of anything, my only answer would have been “Love,” and my face would have been clothed with humility And when she was about to salute me, a spirit of Love, destroying all the other spirits of the senses, urged forth the feeble spirits of sight, and said to them, “Go and do honor to your lady,” and he remained in their place. And whoever had wished to know Love might have done so by looking at the trembling of my eyes. And when this most gentle lady saluted me, Love was no such mediator that he had power to shade for me the insupportable bliss, but he, as if through excess of sweetness, became such, that my body, which was wholly under his rule, oftentimes moved like a heavy, inanimate thing. Hereby it plainly appears that in her salutation abode my bliss, which oftentimes surpassed and overflowed my capacity.
XII.
Now returning to my subject, I say that, after my bliss was denied to me, such grief came to me that, withdrawing from folk, I went into a solitary place to bathe the earth with most bitter tears. And when this weeping was a little assuaged, I betook myself to my chamber, where I could lament without being heard. And here, calling upon the lady of courtesy for pity, and saying, “Love, help thy liegeman!” I fell asleep, like a beaten child, in tears.
It happened, about the middle of my sleep, that I seemed to see in my chamber a youth sitting at my side, clothed in whitest raiment, and very thoughtful in his aspect. He was looking upon me where I lay; and when he had looked upon me for some time, it seemed to me that, sighing, he called me and said to me these words: Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra [My son, it is time that our feignings be given up]. Then it seemed to me that I recognized him, since he called me even as he had many times before called me in my slumbers.
And, looking at him, it seemed to me that he wept piteously, and it seemed that he waited for some word from me. Wherefore, taking heart, I began to speak thus with him: “Lord of nobleness, why dost thou weep?” And he said to me these words: Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes; tu autem non sic [I am as the centre of a circle to which the parts of the circumference bear an equal relation; but thou art not so.] Then, thinking on his words, it seemed to me that he had spoken to me very obscurely, so that I forced myself to speak, and said to him these words: “What is this, Lord, which thou sayest to me with such obscurity?” And he said to me in the common tongue: “Ask no more than may be useful to thee.”
And therefore I began to discourse with him of the salutation which had been denied me, and I asked of him the reason; whereupon in this wise he replied to me: “This our Beatrice heard from certain persons who talked of thee, that the lady whom I named to thee on the road of sighs was receiving from thee some harm. And therefore this most gentle lady, who is adverse to every harm, did not deign to salute thy person, fearing lest it should be harmful. Wherefore, to the end that the truth of thy long-kept secret may be somewhat known to her, I will that thou say certain words in rhyme, in which thou shalt set forth the power that I hold over thee through her, and how thou wert straightway hers even from thy boyhood; and for this, call as a witness him who knows it, and also do thou pray him that he should tell it to her. And I, who am he, willingly will speak to her of it; and through this she shall understand thy will, and, understanding it, shall interpret aright the words of the deceived. Make, as it were, a mediator of these words, so that thou speak not to her directly, for this is not befitting. And without me send them nowhere where they might be heard by her; but take care to adorn them with sweet harmony, wherein I shall be whenever there be need.”
And having said these words he disappeared, and my sleep was broken. Then I, remembering myself, found that this vision had appeared to me in the ninth hour of the day; and before I went out from that chamber I resolved to make a ballad in which I would execute that which my Lord had laid upon me, and I made this ballad: —
Ballad, I send thee forth upon Love’s trace, For thou must him before my Lady bring, So that of my excuse, which thou dost sing, My Lord may then with her speak face to face. Such courteous aspect, Ballad, thou dost show, That all alone, indeed, Thou oughtest not in any place to fear; But if securely thou dost wish to go, First to find Love is need, For ill it were without Him to appear; Seeing that she who ought thy words to hear, If she be angry, as I think, with me, And thou with Him companioned should not be, Might lightly make thee fall into disgrace. With dulcet sound, when with Him thou mayst be, Begin with words like these, First begging her that she would pity take: — ”Lady, he who to you now sendeth me Wills, when to you it please, That his excuse you deign to hear me make. Love is that one who, for thy beauty’s sake, Makes him, as He doth will, his looks to change; Then why He made his eyes on others range. Think you, since in his heart no change hath place.” Tell her: “O Lady, this his heart is stayed With faith so firmly just, Save to serve you, it hath no other care. Early ‘t was yours, and never hath it strayed.” But if she thee distrust, Say, “Ask of Love, who will the truth declare.” And at the end, beg her, with humble prayer, That if it trouble her to pardon give, She then should bid that I no longer live, Nor shall she see her servant sue for grace. And say to Him who is compassion’s key, Ere from her thou depart, That He may tell her of my reason fair, — ”Through favor unto my sweet melody, Stay with her where thou art, And of thy servant, what thou wilt, declare, And if she grant forgiveness through they prayer, Make peace on her fair countenance to shine.” When it may please thee, gentle Ballad mine, Honor to win, go forth upon thy race.
This ballad is divided into three parts. In the first, I tell it whither it is to go, and encourage it that it may go the more assured; and I tell whose company it is to seek, if it wishes to go securely, and without any danger. In the second, I tell that which it is beholden to make known. In the third, I give it leave to go when it will, commending its going to the arms of fortune. The second part begins, “With dulcet sound;” the third, “When it may please thee.” Some man may object against me and say, that he understands not to whom my speech in the second part is addressed, since the ballad is naught else but these words which I am speaking; and therefore I say that I intend to solve and clear up this doubt in this little book, even in a more difficult passage; and then he who may here be in doubt, or who may choose to object after that fashion, will understand.
XIII.
After this above-described vision, having now spoken the words that Love had imposed on me to speak, many and diverse thoughts began to assail and to try me, and against each I was as it were without defence. Among which thoughts four chiefly hindered the repose of my life. One of them was this: “The lordship of Love is good, in that it withdraws the inclination of his liegeman from all vile things.” The next was this: “The lordship of Love is not good, because the more fidelity his liegeman bears to him, so much the heavier and more grievous trials he must needs endure.” The next was this: “The name of Love is so sweet to hear, that it seems to me impossible that his effects in most things should be other than sweet, seeing that names follow the things named, as it is written, Nomina sunt consequentia rerum” [Names are consequences of things]. The fourth was this: “The lady through whom Love thus binds thee is not as other ladies that her heart may be lightly moved.” And each thought so assailed me that it made me stand like one who knows not by which way to take his journey, and who desires to go, and knows not whither he should go. And if I thought of desiring to seek a way common to them, namely, that wherein all would accord, this way was very hostile to me, namely, to call upon and put myself in the arms of Pity. And while I abode in this condition, the will came to me to write some rhymed words thereon, and I devised then this sonnet: —
All of my thoughts concerning Love discourse, And have in them so great variety, That one to wish his sway compelleth me, Another argues evil of his force; One, hoping, sweetness doth to me impart, Another makes me oftentimes lament; Only in craving Pity they consent, Trembling with fear that is within my heart. Thus know I not from which my theme to take; I fain would speak, and know not what to say; In such perplexities of love I live: And if with all to make accord I strive, I needs unto my very foe must pray, My Lady Pity, my defence to make.
This sonnet may be divided into four parts. In the first, I say and declare that all my thoughts are concerning Love: in the second, I say that they are diverse, and I relate their diversity: in the third, I say in what they all seem to accord: in the fourth, I say that, wishing to speak of Love, I know not from which to take my theme, and if I wish to take it from them all, I needs must call upon my foe, my Lady Pity. I say “my Lady,” as it were in a scornful mode of speech. The second begins here: “And have in them:” the third, “Only in craving;” the fourth, “Thus know I.”
XIV.
After the battle of the diverse thoughts, it happened that this most gentle lady went to a place where many gentle ladies were assembled; to which place I was conducted by a friendly person, who thought to give me a great pleasure in leading me where so many ladies were displaying their beauties. Wherefore I, hardly knowing whereunto I had been led, and trusting myself to the person who had conducted his friend to the verge of life, said: “Wherefore are we come to these ladies?” Then he said to me: “To the end that they may be worthily served.”
And the truth is, that they were met together here to attend on a gentle lady who was married that day; and therefore, according to the custom of the above-mentioned city, it behoved them to bear her company at her first sitting at table in the house of her new-made husband. So that I, believing to do the pleasure of this friend, determined to stand in company with him at the service of the ladies. And as soon as I had thus resolved, I seemed to feel a wonderful tremor begin in my breast on the left side, and extend suddenly through all the parts of my body. Then I say that, dissembling, I leaned against a painting which ran around the wall of this house, and fearing lest my trembling should be observed by others, I lifted mine eyes, and, looking at the ladies, saw among them the most gentle Beatrice. Then were my spirits so destroyed by the force that Love acquired, on seeing himself in such neighborhood to this most gentle lady, that none remained alive except the spirits of the sight, and even these remained outside of their instruments, because Love wished to stand in their most noble place to look upon this marvellous lady. And although I was other than at first, I grieved much for these little spirits, who were lamenting bitterly, and saying, “If he so like a thunderbolt had not smitten us from our place, we might stand to gaze upon the marvel of this lady, as do the others our peers.”
I say that many of these ladies, perceiving my transfiguration, began to wonder; and, talking, make a mock of me with this most gentle lady. Thereupon my friend, who in good faith had been deceived, took me by the hand, and, leading me out from the sight of these ladies, asked me what ailed me. Then, having somewhat reposed, and my dead spirits having risen again, and those that were driven out having returned to their possessions, I said to this my friend these words: “I have held my feet on that part of life beyond which no man can go with intent to return.”
And leaving him, I returned to the chamber of tears, in which, weeping and ashamed, I said within myself, “if this lady knew my condition, I do not believe that she would thus have made mock of my person; nay, I believe that she would feel much pity therefor.” And being in this grief, I resolved to say some words in which, speaking to her, I would explain the cause of my transfigurement, and would say that I know well that it is not known, and that, were it known, I believe that it would move others to pity; and I resolved to say them, desiring that peradventure they might come to her hearing. And then I devised this sonnet: —
With other ladies you make mock of me, And think not, Lady, of the reason why So strange a shape I offer to your eye, Whene’er it hap that I your beauty see. If this you knew, your pity could not hold Longer against me its accustomed guise; For when so near you Love doth me surprise, He courage takes and such assurance bold, He smites among my spirits chilled with fear, And some he slays, and some he doth expel, So he alone remains to look on you; Hence I another’s form am changed into, Yet not so changed but even then full well The grievous cries of those expelled I hear.
This sonnet I do not divide into parts, because the division is made only for the sake of disclosing the meaning of the thing divided; therefore, since, through what has been said of its occasion, it has been made sufficiently plain, there is no need of division. It is true that among the words whereby the occasion of this sonnet is set forth, certain ambiguous words are found; namely, when I say that Love slays all my spirits, and only those of vision remain alive, and even they outside of their instruments. And this ambiguity it were impossible to solve to one who is not in like degree the liegeman of Love; and to such as are so, that is already plain which would solve these ambiguous words; and therefore it is not well for me to explain this ambiguousness, since my speech would be vain or superfluous.
XV.
After this strange transfiguration, a strong thought came to me which seldom left me, nay, rather continually recurred to me, and held this discourse with me: “Since thou presentest so contemptible an appearance when thou art near this lady, why then seekest thou to see her? Behold, if she were to ask thee this, what wouldst thou have to answer? supposing that all thy faculties were free, so that thou couldst answer her.” And to this another humble thought replied, and said: “if I lost not my faculties and were free so that I could answer, I should say to her, that so soon as I picture to myself her marvellous beauty, so soon a desire to see her comes to me, which is of such great virtue that it slays and destroys in my memory that which might rise against it; and therefore past sufferings hold me not back from seeking the sight of her.” Wherefore, moved by such thoughts, I resolved to say certain words, in which, excusing myself to her from blame on this account, I would also set down what befell me in her presence; and I devised this sonnet: —
That which opposeth in my mind doth die Whene’er I come to see you, beauteous Joy! And I hear Love say, when to you I ‘m nigh, ”Begone, if death be unto thee annoy.” My face the color of my heart displays, Which, fainting, nay chance support doth seek; And as I tremble in my drunken daze, ”Die! die!” the very stones appear to shriek. He who may then behold me doeth ill, If my affrighted soul he comfort not, Showing at least that me he pitieth, Through that compassion which your scorn doth kill, And which is by the lifeless look begot Of eyes which have a longing for their death.
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I tell the reason why I abstain not from seeking the presence of this lady; in the second, I tell that which befalls me when I draw nigh to her, and this part begins here: “And I hear Love.” And this second part is also divided into five, according to the five different facts related; for in the first I tell that which Love, counselled by the reason, says to me when I am near her; in the second, I set forth the state of my heart by the example of my face; in the third, I tell how every reliance fails me; in the fourth, I say that he sins who shows not pity for me, inasmuch as this would be some comfort to me; in the last, I tell why others ought to have pity, namely, because of the piteous look which comes into my eyes, which piteous look is destroyed, that is, is not apparent unto others, on account of the derision of this lady which draws to the like disposition those who perchance might see this woe. The second part begins here: “My face;” the third, “And as I tremble;” the fourth, “He who may then;” the fifth, “Through that compassion.”
XVI.
After I had devised this sonnet, a wish moved me to say also some words in which I would tell four things further in regard to my state, which it seemed to me had not yet been made manifest by me. The first of which is, that ofttimes I grieved when my memory excited my fancy to imagine what Love did to me; the second is, that ofttimes Love assailed me on a sudden with such force that naught remained alive in me save a thought which spoke of my lady; the third is, that, when this onset of Love thus attacked me, I went, almost quite without color, to look on this lady, believing that the sight of her would be my defence from this attack, forgetting that which befell me in approaching gentleness so great; the fourth is, how this sight not only defended me not, but finally discomfited my little remaining life. And therefore I devised this sonnet: —
The dark condition Love doth on me lay Many a time occurs unto my thought, And then comes pity, so that oft I say, Ah me! to such a pass was man e’er brought? For on a sudden Love with me doth strive, So that my life almost abandons me; One spirit only doth escape alive, And that remains because it speaks of thee. Then to mine aid I summon up my strength, And so, all pale, and empty of defence, I seek thy sight, thinking to be made whole; And if to look I lift mine eyes at length, Within my heart an earthquake doth commence, Which from my pulses driveth out the soul.
This sonnet is divided into four parts, inasmuch as four things are related in it; and since these are spoken of above, I concern myself only to distinguish the parts by their beginnings: wherefore I say that the second part begins here: “For on a sudden;” the third, here: “Then to mine aid;” the fourth: “And if to look.”
XVII.
After I had devised these three sonnets, in which I had spoken to this lady, since they left little of my condition untold, thinking to be silent and to say no more of this, because it seemed to me that I had sufficiently disclosed myself, although ever afterwards I should abstain from addressing her, it behoved me to take up a new theme, and one more noble than the foregoing. And because the occasion of the new theme is pleasant to hear, I will tell it as briefly as I can.
XVIII.
Inasmuch as through my looks many persons had learned the secret of my heart, certain ladies who were met together, taking pleasure in one another’s company, were well acquainted with my heart, because each of them had witnessed many of my discomfitures. And I, passing near them, as chance led me, was called by one of these gentle ladies; and she who had called me was a lady of very pleasing speech; so that, when I drew nigh to them, and saw plainly that my most gentle lady was not among them, reassuring myself, I saluted them, and asked what might be their pleasure. The ladies were many, and certain of them were laughing together. There were others who were looking at me, awaiting what I might say. There were others who were talking together, one of whom, turning her eyes toward me, and calling me by name, said these words: “To what end lovest thou this thy lady, since thou canst not sustain her presence? Tell it to us, for surely the end of such a love must be most strange.” And when she had said these words to me, not only she, but all the others, began to await with their look my reply. Then I said to them these words: “My ladies, the end of my love was formerly the salutation of this lady of whom you perchance are thinking, and in that dwelt the beatitude which was the end of all my desires. But since it has pleased her to deny it to me, my lord Love, through his grace, has placed all my beatitude in that which cannot fail me.”
Then these ladies began to speak together: and as sometimes we see rain falling mingled with beautiful snow, so it seemed to me I saw their words issue mingled with sighs. And after they had somewhat spoken among themselves, this lady who had first spoken to me said to me yet these words: “We pray thee that thou tell us wherein consists this beatitude of thine.” And I, replying to her, said thus: “In those words which praise my lady.” And she replied; “If thou hast told us the truth, those words which thou hast said to her, setting forth thine own condition, must have been composed with other intent.”
Then I, thinking on these words, as if ashamed, departed from them, and went saying within myself: “Since there is such beatitude in those words which praise my lady, why has my speech been of aught else?” And therefore I resolved always henceforth to take for theme of my speech that which should be the praise of this most gentle one. And thinking much on this, I seemed to myself to have undertaken a theme too lofty for me, so that I dared not to begin; and that I tarried some days with desire to speak, and with fear of beginning.
XIX.
Then it came to pass that, walking on a road alongside of which was flowing a very clear stream, so great a desire to say somewhat in verse came upon me, that I began to consider the method I should observe; and I thought that to speak of her would not be becoming unless I were to speak of her would not be becoming unless I were to speak to ladies in the second person; and not to every lady, but only to those who are gentle, and are not women merely. Then I say that my tongue spoke as if moved of its own accord, and said, Ladies that have intelligence of Love. These words I laid up in my mind with great joy, thinking to take them for my beginning; wherefore then, having returned to the above-mentioned city, after some days of thought I began a canzone with this beginning, arranged in the mode which will be seen below in its division.
Ladies that have intelligence of Love, I of my lady wish with you to speak; Not that I can believe to end her praise, But to discourse that I may ease my mind. I say that when I think upon her worth, So sweet doth Love make himself feel to me, That if I then should lose not hardihood, Speaking, I should enamour all mankind. And I wish not so loftily to speak As to become, through fear of failure, vile; But of her gentle nature I will treat In manner light compared with her desert, Ye loving dames and damosels, with you, For ‘t is not thing of which to speak to others. An angel crieth in the mind divine, And saith: “O Sire, on earth is to be seen A miracle in action, that proceeds From out a soul which far as here doth shine. Heaven, which hath not any other defect Save want of her, demands her of its Lord, And every Saint doth for this favor beg.” Only Compassion our part defendeth; And thus speaks God, who of my lady thinks: ”O my elect, now suffer ye in peace That, while it pleaseth me, your hope abide There, where is one who dreads the loss of her: And who shall say in hell to the foredoomed, ’I have beheld the hope of those in bliss.’” My lady is desired in highest heaven; Now will I of her virtue make you know. I say: Whoso would seem a gentle dame Should go with her; for when she goes her way Love casts a frost upon all caitiff hearts, So that their every thought doth freeze and perish. And who can bear to stay on her to look Will noble thing become, or else will die. And when one finds that he may worthy be To look on her, he doth his virtue prove; For that arrives to him which gives him health, And humbles him till he forgets all wrong. Yet hath God given her for greater grace, That who hath spoke with her cannot end ill. Love saith concerning her: “How can it be That mortal thing be thus adorned, and pure?” Then, gazing on her, to himself he swears That God in her a new thing means to make. Color of pearl so clothes her as doth best Become a lady, nowise in excess. Whate’er of good Nature can make she is, And by her pattern beauty tries itself. From out her eyes, howe’er she moveth them, Spirits inflamed of love go forth, which strike The eyes of him who then may look on them, And enter so that each doth find the heart. Love you behold depicted in her smile, Whereon no one can look with steadfast gaze. I know, Canzonè, thou wilt go to speak With many ladies, when I send thee forth. And now I bid thee, having bred thee up As young and simple daughter unto Love, That where thou comest thou shouldst praying say: ”Direct me on my way, for I am sent To her with praise of whom I am adorned.” And if thou wishest not to go in vain, Make thou no stay where villain folk may be; Endeavor, if thou mayst, to be acquaint Only with lady or with courteous man, Who thee shall guide along the quickest way. Thou wilt find Love in company with her; Commend me to him as behoveth thee.
In order that this canzone may be better understood, I shall divide it more elaborately than the other preceding things, and therefore I make of it three parts. The first part is a proem to the words which follow; the second is the subject treated of; the third is, as it were, a handmaid to the words which precede. The second begins here: “An angel crieth;” the third here: “I know, Canzonè.” The first part is divided into four; in the first, I tell to whom I wish to speak of my lady, and wherefore I wish to speak; in the second, I tell what she seems to myself, when I think upon her worth, and how I would speak if I lost not hardihood; in the third, I tell how I think to speak in order that I may not be hindered by faintheartedness; in the fourth, repeating yet once more to whom I intend to speak, I tell the reason why I speak to them. The second begins here: “I say;” the third, here: “And I wish not;” the fourth here: “Ye loving dames.”
Then when I say, “An angel crieth,” I begin to treat of this lady, and this part is divided into two; in the first, I tell what is comprehended of her in heaven; in the second, I tell what is comprehended of her on earth, — here: “My lady is desired.”
This second part is divided into two; for in the first I speak of her in respect of the nobility of her soul, recounting some of the virtues which proceed from her soul; in the second, I speak of her in respect of the nobility of her body, recounting some of her beauties, — here: “Love saith concerning her.” This second part is divided into two; for in the first I speak of some of the beauties which belong to her whole person; in the second, I speak of some of the beauties which belong to special parts of her person, — here: “From out her eyes.” This second part is divided into two; for in one I speak of the eyes which are the beginning of Love; in the second, I speak of the mouth which is the end of Love. And in order that every evil thought may be removed hence, let him who reads remember what is written above, that the salutation of this lady, which was an action of her mouth, was the end of my desires so long as I was able to receive it.
Then when I say, “I know, Canzonè,” I add a stanza, as if for a handmaid to the others, in which I tell what I desire of this my canzone. And since this last part is easy to be understood, I do not trouble myself with more divisions.
I say, indeed, that to make the meaning of this canzone more clear, it might be needful to employ more minute divisions; but nevertheless it will not displease me that he who has not wit enoughto understand it by means of those already made should let it alone; for surely I fear I have communicated its meaning to too many even through these divisions which have been made, if it should happen that many should hear it.
XX.
After this canzone had been somewhat divulged to the world, inasmuch as one of my friends had heard it, a desire moved him to beg me that I should tell him what Love is, entertaining perhaps through the words he had heard a hope of me beyond my desert. Wherefore I, thinking that after such a treatise it were beautiful to treat somewhat of Love, and thinking that my friend was to be served, resolved to speak words in which I would treat of Love, and then I devised this sonnet: —
Love is but one thing with the gentle heart, As in the saying of the sage we find; Thus one from other cannot be apart, More than the reason from the reasoning mind. When Nature amorous becomes, she makes Love then her Lord, the heart his dwelling-place, Within which, sleeping, his repose he takes, Sometimes for brief, and sometimes for long space. Beauty in lady sage doth then appear Which pleaseth so the eyes, that in the heart Desire for the pleasing thing hath birth; And sometimes it so long abideth there, It makes Love’s spirit wide awake to start: The like in lady doth a man of worth.
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first, I tell of him in respect of what he is potentially; in the second, I tell of him in respect to his potentiality being brought into act. The second begins here: “Beauty in lady sage.” The first is divided into two; in the first, I tell in what subject this potentiality exists; in the second, I tell how this subject and this potentiality are brought together into being, and how one is related to the other, as form to matter. The second begins here: “When Nature.” Then, when I say: “Beauty in lady,” I tell how this potentiality is brought into act; and first, how it is brought in man, then, how it is brought in woman, — here: “The like in lady.”
XXI.
After I had treated of Love in the above rhyme, the will came to me to speak further in praise of this most gentle lady words by which I would show how this Love is awakened by her, and how she not only awakens him there where he is sleeping, but there where he is not potentially she, marvellously working, makes him come; and I devised then this sonnet: —
Within her eyes my lady beareth Love, So that whom she regards is gentle made; All toward her turn, where’er her steps are stayed, And whom she greets, his heart doth trembling move; So that with face cast down, all pale to view,
