Was wont to make the tears of pity shine
In other eyes full oft, as I have said.
But now this thing were scarce remembered
If I, on my part, foully would combine
With you, and not recall each ancient sign
Of grief, and her for whom your tears were shed.
It is your fickleness that doth betray
My mind to fears, and makes me tremble thus
What while a lady greets me with her eyes.
Except by death, we must not any way
Forget our lady who is gone from us.’
So far doth my heart utter, and then sighs.
The sight of this lady brought me into so unwonted a condition that I often thought of her as of one too dear unto me; and I began to consider her thus: ‘This lady is young, beautiful, gentle, and wise: perchance it was Love himself who set her in my path, that so my life might find peace.’ And there were times when I thought yet more fondly, until my heart consented unto its reasoning. But when it had so consented, my thought would often turn round upon me, as moved by reason, and cause me to say within myself: ‘What hope is this which would console me after so base a fashion, and which hath taken the place of all other imagining?’ Also there was another voice within me, that said: ‘And wilt thou, having suffered so much tribulation through Love, not escape while yet thou mayest from so much bitterness? Thou must surely know that this thought carries with it the desire of Love, and drew its life from the gentle eyes of that lady who vouchsafed thee so much pity.’ Wherefore I, having striven sorely and very often with myself, bethought me to say somewhat thereof in rhyme. And seeing that in the battle of doubts, the victory most often remained with such as inclined towards the lady of whom I speak, it seemed to me that I should address this sonnet unto her: in the first line whereof, I call that thought which spake of her a gentle thought, only because it spoke of one who was gentle; being of itself most vile.
In this sonnet I make myself into two, according as my thoughts were divided one from the other. The one part I call Heart, that is appetite; the other, Soul, that is, reason; and I tell what one saith to the other. And that it is fitting to call the appetite Heart, and the reason Soul, is manifest enough to them to whom I wish this to be open. True it is that, in the preceding sonnet, I take the part of the Heart against the Eyes; and that appears contrary to what I say in the present; and therefore I say that, there also, by the Heart I mean appetite, because yet greater was my desire to remember my most gentle lady than to see this other, although indeed I had some appetite towards her, but it appeared slight: wherefrom it appears that the one statement is not contrary to the other. This sonnet has three parts. In the first, I begin to say to this lady how my desires turn all towards her. In the second, I say how the Soul, that is, the reason, speaks to the Heart, that is, to the appetite. In the third, I say how the latter answers. The second begins here, ‘And what is this?’ the third here, ‘And the heart answers’.
A gentle thought there is will often start,
Within my secret self, to speech of thee; Also of Love it speaks so tenderly
That much in me consents and takes its part.
‘And what is this,’ the soul saith to the heart,
‘That cometh thus to comfort thee and me,
And thence where it would dwell, thus potently
Can drive all other thoughts by its strange art?’
And the heart answers: ‘Be no more at strife
‘Twixt doubt and doubt: this is Love’s messenger
And speaketh but his words, from him received;
And all the strength it owns and all the life
It draweth from the gentle eyes of her
Who, looking on our grief, hath often grieved.’
But against this adversary of reason, there rose up in me on a certain day, about the ninth hour, a strong visible phantasy, wherein I seemed to behold the most gracious Beatrice, habited in that crimson raiment which she had worn when I had first beheld her; also she appeared to me of the same tender age as then. Whereupon I fell into a deep thought of her: and my memory ran back according to the order of time, unto all those matters in the which she had borne a part; and my heart began painfully to repent of the desire by which it had so basely let itself be possessed during so many days, contrary to the constancy of reason.
And then, this evil desire being quite gone from me, all my thoughts turned again unto their excellent Beatrice. And I say most truly that from that hour I thought constantly of her with the whole humbled and ashamed heart; the which became often manifest in sighs, that had among them the name of that most gracious creature, and how she departed from us. Also it would come to pass very often, through the bitter anguish of some one thought, that I forgot both it, and myself, and where I was. By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which before had been somewhat lessened, increased in like manner; so that mine eyes seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and came at last to be circled about with red as though they had suffered martyrdom; neither were they able to look again upon the beauty of any face that might again bring them to shame and evil: from which things it will appear that they were fitly guerdoned for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I, (wishing that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and vain temptations should be certified and made manifest, beyond all doubts which might have been suggested by the rhymes aforewritten), proposed to write a sonnet, wherein I should express this purport. And I then wrote, ‘Woe’s me!’
I said, ‘Woe’s me!’ because I was ashamed of the trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide, since its purport is manifest enough.
Woe’s me! by dint of all these sighs that come
Forth of my heart, its endless grief to prove,
Mine eyes are conquer’d, so that even to move
Their lids for greeting is grown troublesome.
They wept so long that now they are grief’s home
And count their tears all laughter far above:
They wept till they are circled now by Love
With a red circle in sign of martyrdom.
These musings, and the sighs they bring from me,
Are grown at last so constant and so sore
That Love swoons in my spirit with faint breath;
Hearing in those sad sounds continually
The most sweet name that my dead lady bore,
With many grievous words touching her death.
About this time, it happened that a great number of persons Undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they might behold that blessed portraiture bequeathed unto us by our Lord Jesus Christ as the image of his beautiful countenance, (upon which countenance my dear lady now looketh continually). And certain among these pilgrims, who seemed very thoughtful, passed by a path which is wellnigh in the midst of the city where my most gracious lady was born, and abode, and at last died.
(The Veronica (Vera icon, or true image); that is, the napkin with which a woman was said to have wiped our Saviour’s face on his way to the cross, and which miraculously retained its likeness. Dante makes mention of it in the Commedia (Paradiso, xxi. 103), where he says: -
‘Quai è colui che forse di Croazia
Viene a veder la Veronica nostra,
Che per l’antica fama non si sazia
Ma dice nel pensier fin che si mostra:
Signor mio Gesù Cristo, Iddio verace,
Or fu si fatta la sembianza vostra?’ etc.)
Then I, beholding them, said within myself: ‘These pilgrims seem to be come from very far; and I think they cannot have heard speak of this lady, or know anything concerning her. Their thoughts are not of her, but of other things; it may be, of their friends who are far distant, and whom we, in our turn, know not.’ And I went on to say: ‘I know that if they were of a country near unto us, they would in some wise seem disturbed, passing through this city which is so full of grief.’ And I said also: ‘If I could speak with them a space, I am certain that I shoul
d make them weep before they went forth of this city; for those things that they would hear from me must needs beget weeping in any.’
And when the last of them had gone by me, I bethought me to write a sonnet, showing forth mine inward speech; and that it might seem the more pitiful, I made as though I had spoken it indeed unto them. And I wrote this sonnet, which beginneth: ‘Ye pilgrim-folk’. I made use of the word pilgrim for its general signification; for ‘pilgrim’ may be understood in two senses, one general, and one special. General, so far as any man may be called a pilgrim who leaveth the place of his birth; whereas, more narrowly speaking, he only is a pilgrim who goeth towards or frowards the House of St James. For there are three separate denominations proper unto those who undertake journeys to the glory of God. They are called Palmers who go beyond the seas eastward, whence often they bring palm-branches. And Pilgrims, as I have said, are they who journey unto the holy House of Gallicia; seeing that no other apostle was buried so far from his birth-place as was the blessed Saint James. And there is a third sort who are called Romers; in that they go whither these whom I have called pilgrims went: which is to say, unto Rome.
This sonnet is not divided, because its own words sufficiently declare it.
Ye pilgrim-folk, advancing pensively
As if in thought of distant things, I pray,
Is your own land indeed so far away
As by your aspect it would seem to be, -
That nothing of our grief comes over ye
Though passing through the mournful town mid-way;
Like unto men that understand to-day
Nothing at all of her great misery?
Yet if ye will but stay, whom I accost,
And listen to my words a little space,
At going ye shall mourn with a loud voice.
It is her Beatrice that she hath lost;
Of whom the least word spoken holds such grace
That men weep hearing it, and have no choice.
A while after these things, two gentle ladies sent unto me, praying that I would bestow upon them certain of these my rhymes. And I (taking into account their worthiness and consideration), resolved that I would write also a new thing, and send it them together with those others, to the end that their wishes might be more honourably fulfilled. Therefore I made a sonnet, which narrates my condition, and which I caused to be conveyed to them, accompanied with the one preceding, and with that other which begins, ‘Stay now with me and listen to my sighs.’ And the new sonnet is, ‘Beyond the sphere’.
This sonnet comprises five parts. In the first, I tell whither my thought goeth, naming the place by the name of one of its effects. In the second, I say wherefore it goeth up, and who makes it go thus. In the third, I tell what it saw, namely, a lady honoured. And I then call it a ‘Pilgrim Spirit’, because it goes up spiritually, and like a pilgrim who is out of his known country. In the fourth, I say how the spirit sees her such (that is, in such quality) that I cannot understand her; that is to say, my thought rises into the quality of her in a degree that my intellect cannot comprehend, seeing that our intellect is, towards those blessed souls, like our eyes weak against the sun; and this the Philosopher says in the Second of the Metaphysics. In the fifth, I say that, although I cannot see there whither my thought carries me - that is, to her admirable essence - I at least understand this, namely, that it is a thought of my lady, because I often hear her name therein. And, at the end of this fifth part, I say, ‘Ladies mine’, to show that they are ladies to whom I speak. The second part begins, ‘A new perception’; the third, ‘When it hath reached’; the fourth, ‘It sees her such’; the fifth, ‘And yet I know’. It might be divided yet more nicely, and made yet clearer; but this division may pass, and therefore I stay not to “wide it further.
Beyond the sphere which spreads to widest space
Now soars the sigh that my heart sends above:
A new perception born of grieving Love
Guideth it upward the untrodden ways.
When it hath reach’d unto the end, and stays,
It sees a lady round whom splendours move
In homage; till, by the great light thereof
Abash’d, the pilgrim spirit stands at gaze.
It sees her such, that when it tells me this
Which it hath seen, I understand it not,
It hath a speech so subtile and so fine.
And yet I know its voice within my thought
Often remembereth me of Beatrice:
So that I understand it, ladies mine.
After writing this sonnet, it was given unto me to behold a very wonderful vision; wherein I saw things which determined me that I would say nothing further of this most blessed one, until such time as I could discourse more worthily concerning her. And to this end I labour all I can; as she well knoweth. Wherefore if it be His pleasure through whom is the life of all things, that my life continue with me a few years, it is my hope that I shall yet write concerning her what hath not before been written of any woman. After the which, may it seem good unto Him who is the Master of Grace, that my spirit should go hence to behold the glory of its lady: to wit, of that blessed Beatrice who now gazeth continually on His countenance qui est per omnia sæcula benedictus. Laus Deo.
POEMS BY DANTE ALIGHIERI, GUIDO CAVALCANTI AND CINO DA PISTOIA (from Introduction to Part II)
Among the poets of Dante’s circle, the first in order, the first in power, and the one whom Dante has styled his ‘first friend’, is GUIDO CAVALCANTI, born about 1250, and thus Dante’s senior by some fifteen years. It is therefore probable that there is some inaccuracy about the statement, often repeated, that he was Dante’s fellow-pupil under Brunetto Latini; though it seems certain that they both studied, probably Guido before Dante, with the same teacher. The Cavalcanti family was among the most ancient in Florence; and its importance may be judged by the fact that in 1280, on the occasion of one of the various missions sent from Rome with the view of pacifying the Florentine factions, the name of ‘Guido the son of Messer Cavalcante de’ Cavalcanti’ appears as one of the sureties offered by the city for the quarter of San Piero Scheraggio. His father must have been notoriously a sceptic in matters of religion, since we find him placed by Dante in the sixth circle of Hell, in one of the fiery tombs of the unbelievers. That Guido shared this heresy was the popular belief, as is plain from an anecdote in Boccaccio which I shall give; and some corroboration of such reports, at any rate as applied to Guido’s youth, seems capable of being gathered from an extremely obscure poem, which I have translated on that account (at p. 170) as clearly as I — found possible. It must be admitted, however, that there is to the full as much devotional as sceptical tendency implied here and there in his writings; while the presence of either is very rare. We may also set against such a charge the fact that Dino Compagni refers, as will be seen, to his having undertaken a religious pilgrimage. But indeed he seems to have been in all things of that fitful and vehement nature which would impress others always strongly, but often in opposite Ways. Self-reliant pride gave its colour to all his moods; making his exploits as a soldier frequently abortive through the headstrong ardour of partisanship, and causing the perversity of a logician to Prevail in much of his amorous poetry. The writings of his contemporaries, as well as his own, tend to show him rash in war, fickle in love, and presumptuous in belief; but also, by the same concurrent testimony, he was distinguished by great personal beauty, high accomplishments of all kinds, and daring nobility of soul. Not unworthy, for all the weakness of his strength, to have been the object of Dante’s early emulation, the first friend of his youth, and his precursor and fellow-labourer in the creation of Italian Poetry.
In the year 1267, when Guido cannot have been much more than seventeen years of age, a last attempt was made in Florence to reconcile the Guelfs and Ghibellines. With this view several alliances were formed between the leading families of the two factions; and among others, the Guelf Cavalcante de’ Cavalcanti wedded his
son Guido to a daughter of the Ghibelline Farinata degli Uberti. The peace was of short duration; the utter expulsion of the Ghibellines (through French intervention solicited by the Guelfs) following almost immediately. In the subdivision, which afterwards took place, of the victorious Guelfs into so-called ‘Blacks’ and ‘Whites’, Guido embraced the White party, which tended strongly to Ghibellinism, and whose chief was Vieri de’ Cerchi, while Corso Donati headed the opposite faction. Whether his wife was still living at the time when the events of the Vita Nuova occurred is probably not ascertainable; but about that time Dante tells us that Guido was enamoured of a lady named Giovanna or Joan, and whose Christian name is absolutely all that we know of her. However, on the occasion of his pilgrimage to Thoulouse, recorded by Dino Compagni, he seems to have conceived a fresh passion for a lady of that city named Mandetta, who first attracted him by a striking resemblance to his Florentine mistress. Thoulouse had become a place of pilgrimage from its laying claim to the possession of the body, or part of the body, of St James the Greater; though the same supposed distinction had already made the shrine of Compostella in Galicia one of the most famous throughout all Christendom. That this devout journey of Guido’s had other results besides a new love will be seen by the passage from Compagni’s Chronicle. He says: -
‘A young and noble knight named Guido, son of Messer Cavalcante Cavalcanti, - full of courage and courtesy, but disdainful, solitary, and devoted to study, - was a foe to Messer Corso (Donati), and had many times cast about to do him hurt. Messer Corso feared him exceedingly, as knowing him to be of a great spirit, and sought to assassinate him on a pilgrimage which Guido made to the shrine of St James; but he might not compass it. Wherefore, having returned to Florence and being made aware of this, Guido incited many youths against Messer Corso, and these promised to stand by him. Who being one day on horseback with certain of the house of the Cerchi, and having a javelin in his hand, spurred his horse against Messer Corso, thinking to be followed by the Cerchi that so their companies might engage each other; and he running in on his horse cast the javelin, which missed its aim. And with Messer Corso were Simon, his son, a strong and daring youth, and Cecchino de’ Bardi, who with many others pursued Guido with drawn swords; but not overtaking him they threw stones after him, and also others were thrown at him from the windows, whereby he was wounded in the hand. And by this matter hate was increased. And Messer Corso spoke great scorn of Messer Vieri, calling him the Ass of the Gate; because, albeit a very handsome man, he was but of blunt wit and no great speaker. And therefore Messer Corso would say often, “To-day the Ass of the Gate has brayed,” and so greatly disparage him; and Guido he called Cavicchia. And thus it was spread abroad of the jongleurs; and especially one named Scampolino reported worse things than were said, that so the Cerchi might be provoked to engage the Donati.’ The praise which Compagni, his contemporary, awards to Guido at the commencement of the foregoing extract, receives additional value when viewed in connection with the sonnet addressed to him by the same writer [omitted], where we find that he could tell him of his faults.
Complete Poetical Works of Dante Gabriel Rossetti Page 40