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

idiom.

The New Life

I

IN MY BOOK OF MEMORY, in the early part where there is little to be read, there comes a chapter with the rubric: Incipit vita nova.¹ It is my intention to copy into this little book the words I find written under that heading—if not all of them, at least the essence of their meaning.

II

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. She had been in this life long enough for the heaven of the fixed stars to be able to move a twelfth of a degree to the East in her time; that is, she appeared to me at about the beginning of her ninth year, and I first saw her near the end of my ninth year. She appeared dressed in the most patrician of colors, a subdued and decorous crimson, her robe bound round and adorned in a style suitable to her years. At that very moment, and I speak the truth, the vital spirit, the one that dwells in the most secret chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently that even the most minute veins of my body were strangely affected; and trembling, it spoke these words: Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur michi.² At that point the animal spirit, the one abiding in the high chamber to which all the senses bring their perceptions, was stricken with amazement and, speaking directly to the spirits of sight, said these words: Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra³ At that point the natural spirit, the one dwelling in that part where our food is digested, began to weep, and weeping said these words: Heu miser, quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps!⁴ Let me say that, from that time on, Love governed my soul, which became immediately devoted to him, and he reigned over me with such assurance and lordship, given him by the power of my imagination, that I could only dedicate myself to fulfilling his every pleasure. Often he commanded me to go and look for this youngest of angels; so, during those early years I often went in search of her, and I found her to be of such natural dignity and worthy of such admiration that the words of the poet Homer suited her perfectly: She seemed to be the daughter not of a mortal, but of a god. And though her image, which remained constantly with me, was Love’s assurance of holding me, it was of such a pure quality that it never allowed me to be ruled by Love without the faithful counsel of reason, in all those things where such advice might be profitable. Since to dwell on my passions and actions when I was so young might seem like recounting fantasies, I shall put them aside and, omitting many things that could be copied from the text which is the source of my present words, I shall turn to those written in my memory under more important headings.

III

After so many days had passed that precisely nine years were ending since the appearance, just described, of this most gracious lady, it happened that on the last one of those days the miraculous lady appeared, dressed in purest white, between two ladies of noble bearing both older than she was; 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 miraculously that I seemed at that moment to behold the entire range of possible bliss. It was precisely the ninth hour of that day, three o’clock in the afternoon, when her sweet greeting came to me. Since this was the first time her words had ever been directed to me, I became so ecstatic that, like a drunken man, I turned away from everyone and I sought the loneliness of my room, where I began thinking of this most gracious lady and, thinking of her, I fell into a sweet sleep, and a marvelous vision appeared to me. I seemed to see a cloud the color of fire and, in that cloud, a lordly man, frightening to behold, yet he seemed also to be wondrously filled with joy. He spoke and said many things, of which I understood only a few; one was Ego dominus tuus.⁵ I seemed to see in his arms a sleeping figure, naked but lightly wrapped in a crimson cloth; looking intently at this figure, I recognized the lady of the greeting, the lady who earlier in the day had deigned to greet me. In one hand he seemed to be holding something that was all in flames, and it seemed to me that he said these words: Vide cor tuum.⁶ 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. A short time after this, his happiness gave way to bitterest weeping, and weeping he folded his arms around this lady, and together they seemed to ascend toward the heavens. At that point my drowsy sleep could not bear the anguish that I felt; it was broken and I awoke. At once I began to reflect, and I discovered that the hour at which that vision had appeared to me was the fourth hour of the night; that is, it was exactly the first of the last nine hours of the night. Thinking about what I had seen, I decided to make it known to many of the famous poets of that time. Since just recently I had taught myself the art of writing poetry, I decided to compose a sonnet addressed to all of Love’s faithful subjects; and, requesting them to interpret my vision, I would write them what I had seen in my sleep. And then I began to write this sonnet, which begins: To every captive soul.

To every captive soul and loving heart

to whom these words I have composed are sent

for your elucidation in reply,

greetings I bring for your sweet lord’s sake, Love.

The first three hours, the hours of the time

of shining stars, were coming to an end,

when suddenly Love appeared before me

(to remember how he really was appalls me).

Joyous, Love seemed to me, holding my heart

within his hand, and in his arms he had

my lady, loosely wrapped in folds, asleep.

He woke her then, and gently fed to her

the burning heart; she ate it, terrified.

And then I saw him disappear in tears.

A ciascun’ alma presa e gentil core

nel cui cospetto ven lo dir presente,

In ciò che mi rescrivan suo parvente,

salute in lor segnor, cioè Amore.

Già eran quasi che atterzate l’ore

del tempo che onne stella n’è lucente,

quando m’apparve Amor subitamente,

(cui essenza membrar mi da orrore).

Allegro mi sembrava Amor tenendo

meo core in meno, e ne le braccia avea

madonna involta in un drappo dormendo.

Poi la svegliava, e d’esto core ardendo

lei paventosa umilmente pascea.

Appresso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.

This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first part I extend greetings and ask for a response, while in the second I describe what it is that requires the response. The second part begins: The first three hours.

This sonnet was answered by many, who offered a variety of interpretations; among those who answered was the one I call my best friend, who responded with a sonnet beginning: I think that you beheld all worth. This exchange of sonnets marked the beginning of our friendship. The true meaning of the dream I described was not perceived by anyone then, but now it is completely clear even to the least sophisticated.

IV

After that vision my natural spirit was interfered with in its functioning, because my soul had become wholly absorbed in thinking about this most gracious lady; and in a short time I became so weak and frail that many of my friends were worried about the way I looked; others, full of malicious curiosity, were doing their best to discover things about me, which, above all, I wished to keep secret from everyone. I was aware of the maliciousness of their questioning and, guided by Love who commanded me according to the counsel of reason, I would answer that it was Love who had conquered me. I said that it was Love because there were so many of his signs clearly marked on my face that they were impossible to conceal. And when people would ask: Who is the person for whom you are so destroyed by Love? I would look at them and smile and say nothing.

V

It happened one day that this most gracious of ladies was sitting in a place where words about the Queen of Glory were being spoken, and I was where I could behold my bliss. Halfway between her and me, in a direct line of vision, sat a gentlewoman of a very pleasing appearance, who glanced at me frequently as if bewildered by my gaze, which seemed to be directed at her. And many began to notice her glances in my direction, and paid close attention to them and, as I left this place, I heard someone near me say: See what a devastating effect that lady has had on that man. And, when her name was mentioned, I realized that the lady referred to was the one whose place had been half-way along the direct line which extended from the most gracious Beatrice, ending in my eyes. Then I was greatly relieved, feeling sure that my glances had not revealed my secret to others that day. At once I thought of making this lovely lady a screen to hide the truth, and so well did I play my part that in a short time the many people who talked about me were sure they knew my secret. Thanks to this lady I concealed the truth about myself for several years and months, and in order to encourage people’s false belief, I wrote certain trifles for her in rhyme which I do not intend to include unless they could serve as a pretext to treat of that most gracious Beatrice; therefore, I will omit them all except for what is clearly in praise of her.

VI

Let me say that during the time that this lady acted as a screen for so great a love on my part, I was seized by a desire to record the name of my most gracious lady and to accompany it with the names of many others, and especially with the name of this gentlewoman. I chose the names of sixty of the most beautiful ladies of the city in which my lady had been placed by the Almighty, and composed a serventese in the form of an epistle which I shall not include here—in fact, I would not have mentioned it if it were not that, while I was composing it, miraculously it happened that the name of my lady appeared as the ninth among the names of those ladies, as if refusing to appear under any other number.

VII

The lady I had used for so long to conceal my true feelings found it necessary to leave the aforementioned city and to journey to a distant town; and I, bewildered by the fact that my ideal defense had failed me, became extremely dejected, more so than even I would previously have believed possible. And realizing that if I should not lament somewhat her departure, people would soon become aware of my secret, I decided to write a few grieving words in the form of a sonnet (this I shall include here because my lady was the direct cause for certain words contained in the sonnet, as will be evident to one who understands). And then I wrote this sonnet which begins: O ye who travel.

O ye who travel on the road of Love,

pause here and look about

for any man whose grief surpasses mine.

I ask this only: hear me out, then judge

if I am not indeed

the host and the abode of every torment.

Love—surely not for my slight worth, but moved

by his own nobleness—

once gave me so serene and sweet a life

that many times I heard it said of me:

"God, what great qualities

give this man’s heart the riches of such joy?"

Now all is spent of that first wealth of joy

that had its source in Love’s bright treasury;

I know Love’s destitution

and have no heart to put into my verse.

And so I try to imitate the man who covers up his poverty for shame:

I wear the clothes of joy,

but in my heart I weep and waste away.

O voi che per la via d’Amor passate,

attendete e guardate

s’elli è dolore alcun, quanto ’l mio, grave.

E prego sol ch’audir mi sofferiate,

e poi imaginate

s’io son d’ogni tormento ostale e chiave.

Amor, non già per mia poca bontate,

ma per sua nobiltate,

mi pose in vita sì dolce e soave

ch’io mi sentia dir dietro spesse fiate:

"Deo, per qual dignitate

così leggiadro questi lo core have?"

Or ho perduta tutta mia baldanza,

che si movea d’amoroso tesoro;

ond’io pover dimoro,

in guisa che di dir mi ven dottanza.

Sì che volendo far come coloro

che per vergogna celan lor mancanza,

di fuor mostro allegranza,

e dentro de lo core struggo e ploro.

This sonnet has two main parts. In the first I mean to call upon Love’s faithful with the words of the prophet Jeremiah: O vos omnes qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus,⁷ and to beg that they deign to hear me; in the second part I tell of the condition in which Love had placed me, with a meaning other than that contained in the beginning and the ending of the sonnet, and I tell what I have lost. The second part begins: Love—surely not.

VIII

After the departure of this gentlewoman it pleased the Lord of the angels to call to His glory a young and very beautiful lady, who was known in the aforementioned city for her exceeding charm. I saw her body without the soul, lying in the midst of many ladies who were weeping most pitifully; then, remembering that I had seen her several times in the company of that most gracious one, I could not hold back my tears and, weeping, I resolved to say something about her death, in recognition of having seen her several times in the company of my lady. (And I suggest something of this toward the end of the words I wrote about her, as will be evident to the discerning reader.) I composed, then, these two sonnets, the first beginning: If Love himself, and the second: Villainous death.

If Love himself weep, shall not lovers weep,

learning for what sad cause he pours his tears?

Love hears his ladies crying their distress,

showing forth bitter sorrow through their eyes

because villainous Death has worked its cruel

destructive art upon a gentle heart,

and laid waste all that earth can find to praise

in a gracious lady, save her chastity.

Hear then how Love paid homage to this lady:

I saw him weeping there in human form,

observing the stilled image of her grace;

and more than once he raised his eyes toward Heaven,

where that sweet soul already had its home,

which once, on earth, had worn enchanting flesh.

Piangete, amanti, poi che piange Amore,

udendo qual cagion lui fa plorare.

Amor sente a Pietà donne chiamare,

mostrando amaro duol per li occhi fore,

perché villana Morte in gentil core

ha miso il suo crudele adoperare,

guastando ciò che al mondo è da laudare

in gentil donna, sovra de Vonore.

Audite quanto Amor le fece orranza,

ch’io ’l vidi lamentare in forma vera

sovra la morta imagine avvenente;

e riguardava ver lo ciel sovente,

ove l’alma gentil già locata era,

che donna fu di sì gaia sembianza.

This sonnet is divided into three parts. In the first part I call upon Love’s faithful, imploring them to weep, and I say that their lord himself weeps and that they, learning the reason for his tears, should be more disposed to hear me. In the second part I give the reason. In the third part I speak of a certain honor that Love bestowed upon this lady. The second part begins: learning for what, the third: Hear then how.

Villainous Death, at war with tenderness,

timeless mother of woe,

judgment severe and incontestable,

source of sick grief within my heart—a grief

I constantly must bear—

my tongue wears itself out in cursing you!

And if I want to make you beg for mercy,

I need only reveal

your felonies, your guilt of every guilt;

not that you are unknown for what you are,

but rather to enrage

whoever hopes for sustenance in love.

You have bereft the world of gentlest grace,

of all that in sweet ladies merits praise;

in youth’s gay tender years

you have destroyed all love’s lightheartedness.

There is no need to name this gracious lady,

because her qualities tell who she was.

Who merits not salvation,

let him not hope to share her company.

Morte villana, di pietà nemica,

di dolor madre antica,

giudicio incontastabile gravoso,

poi che hai data matera al cor doglioso

ond’io vado pensoso,

di te blasmar la lingua s’affatica.

E s’io di grazia ti voi far mendica,

convenesi ch’eo dica

lo tuo fallar d’onni torto tortoso,

non però ch’a la gente sia nascoso,

ma per farne cruccioso

chi d’amor per innanzi si notrica.

Dal secolo hai partita cortesia

e ciò ch’è in donna da pregiar vertute:

in gaia gioventute

distrutta hai l’amorosa leggiadria.

Più non voi discovrir qual donna sia

che per le proprietà sue canosciute.

Chi non merta salute

non speri mai d’aver sua compagnia.

This sonnet is divided into four parts. In the first part I address Death with certain names appropriate to it; in the second I tell it why I curse it; in the third I revile it; in the fourth I allude to some unspecified person who, yet, is very clear to my mind. The second part begins: source of sick grief, the third: And if I want, the fourth: Who merits not.

IX

Not long after the death of this lady something happened that made it necessary for me to leave the aforementioned city and go in the direction of (but not all the way to) the place where the lady who had formerly served as my screen was now staying. Though I was in the company of many others it was as if I were alone: the journey so irked me, because I was going farther away from my bliss, that my sighs could not relieve the anguish in my heart. Therefore his very sweet lordship, who ruled over me through the power of that most gracious lady, took the shape in my mind of a pilgrim scantily and poorly dressed. He seemed distressed; he stared continually at the ground except for the times his eyes seemed to turn toward a beautiful river, swift and very clear, flowing by the side of the road I was traveling. It seemed that Love called me and spoke these words: "I come from that lady who has been your shield for so long a time; I