Love and the gracious heart are a single thing,
as Guinizelli tells us in his poem:
one can no more be without the other
than can the reasoning mind without its reason.
Nature, when in a loving mood, creates them:
Love to be king, the heart to be his home,
a place for Love to rest while he is sleeping,
perhaps for just a while, or for much longer.
And then the beauty of a virtuous lady
appears, to please the eyes, and in the heart
desire for the pleasing thing is born;
and this desire may linger in the heart
until Love’s spirit is aroused from sleep.
A man of worth has the same effect on ladies.
Amore e ’l cor gentil sono una cosa,
sì come il saggio in suo dittare pone
e così esser l’una sanza l’altro osa
com’alma razionai sanza ragione.
Falli natura quand’è amorosa,
Amor per sire e ’l cor per sua magione,
dentro la qual dormendo si riposa
tal volta poca e tal lunga stagione.
Bieltate appare in saggia donna pui,
che piace a li occhi sì, che dentro al core
nasce un disio de la cosa piacente;
e tanto dura talora in costui,
che fa svegliar lo spirito d’Amore.
E simil face in donna omo valente.
This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first I speak of Love as a potential force; in the second I speak of him as potentiality realized in action. The second part begins: And then the beauty. The first part is again divided into two: first, I tell in what kind of substance this potentiality resides; secondly, I tell how this substance and this potentiality are brought into being, and how the one is related to the other as matter is to form. The second subdivision begins: Nature, when. Then when I say: And then the beauty, I explain how this potentiality is realized in action: first, how it is realized in a man, then how it is realized in a lady, beginning: A man of worth.
XXI
After having dealt with Love in the last sonnet, I felt a desire to write more, this time in praise of that most gracious lady, showing how, through her, this Love is awakened, and how she not only awakens him there where he sleeps but also, how she, miraculously working, brings him into existence there where he does not potentially exist. And so I wrote this sonnet which begins: The power of Love.
The power of Love borne in my lady’s eyes
imparts its grace to all she looks upon.
All turn to gaze at her when she walks by,
and when she greets a man his heart beats fast,
the color leaves his face, he bows his head
and sighs to think of all his imperfections.
Anger and pride are forced to flee from her.
Help me to honor her, most gracious ladies.
Humility and every sweet conception
bloom in the heart of those who hear her speak.
(Praise to the one who first saw what she was!)
The image of her when she starts to smile
dissolves within the mind and melts away,
a miracle too rich and strange to hold.
Ne li occhi porta la mia donna Amore,
per che si fa gentil ciò ch’ella mira;
ov’ella passa, ogn’om ver lei si gira,
e cui saluta fa tremar lo core,
sì che, bassando il viso, tutto smore,
e d’ogni suo difetto allor sospira:
fugge dinanzi a lei superbia ed ira.
Aiutatemi, donne, farle onore.
Ogne dolcezza, ogne pensero umile
nasce nel core a chi parlar la sente,
ond’è laudato chi prima la vide.
Quel ch’ella par quando un poco sorride,
non si pò dicer né tenere a mente,
sì è novo miracolo e gentile.
This sonnet has three parts. In the first I tell how this lady actualizes this potentiality by means of her most gracious eyes; in the third I tell how she does the same by means of her most gracious mouth; and between these two parts is a very small part, which is like a beggar asking for help from the preceding and following parts, and it begins: Help me to honor her. The third begins: Humility. The first part divides into three. In the first I tell how she miraculously makes gracious whatever she looks upon, and this is as much as to say that she brings Love into potential existence there where he does not exist; in the second I tell how she activates Love in the hearts of all those whom she sees; in the third I tell of what she miraculously effects in their hearts. The second part begins: Men turn to gaze, and the third: and when she greets. Then when I say: Help me to honor, I indicate to whom I wish to speak, calling upon ladies for their assistance in honoring my lady. Then when I say: Humility, I repeat what I said in the first part, using, this time, two actions of her mouth: the first is her sweet manner of speaking, the second is her miraculous smile. I do not mention the effect of the latter on people’s hearts, since the memory is not capable of retaining a smile like hers or its effects.
XXII
Not many days after this, according to the will of the Lord of Glory (who Himself accepted death), he who had been the father of such a miraculous being as this most gracious Beatrice clearly was, departed from this life, passing most certainly into eternal glory. Since such a departure is sorrowful to those who remain and who have been friends of the deceased; and since there is no friendship more intimate than that of a good father for a good child, or of a good child for a good father; and since this lady possessed the highest degree of goodness; and since her father, as is believed by many, and is the truth, was exceedingly good—then it is clear that this lady was filled with bitterest sorrow. And since it was the custom of this city for ladies to gather with ladies and men with men on such occasions, many ladies were assembled in that place where Beatrice wept piteously. I saw several of them returning from her house and heard them talking about this most gracious one and how she mourned; among their words I heard: “She grieves so that anyone who sees her would surely die of pity.” Then these ladies passed by me, and I was left in such a sad state that tears kept running down my face so that I often had to cover my eyes with my hands. I would have hidden myself as soon as I felt the tears coming, but I hoped to hear more about her, since I was standing where most of those ladies would pass by me after taking leave of her. And so, while I stayed in the same place, more ladies passed by me talking to each other, saying: “Who of us can ever be happy again after hearing this lady grieve so piteously?” After these, other ladies passed, saying as they came: “This man here is weeping exactly as if he had seen her, as we have.” Then came others who said: “Look at him! He is so changed, he doesn’t seem to be the same person.” And so, as the ladies passed, I heard their words about her and about me, as I have just related. After reflecting awhile, I decided, since I had such an excellent theme, to write a poem in which I would include everything I had heard these ladies say. And since I would have been glad to question them, if I had not thought it would be indiscreet, I presented my theme as if I had asked them questions and they had answered me. I composed two sonnets: in the first I ask those questions which I had wanted to ask; in the other I give the ladies’ answer, using what I had heard them say and presenting it as if they had said it in reply to me. The first sonnet begins: O you who bear, and the other: Are you the one.
O you who bear a look of resignation,
moving with eyes downcast to show your grief,
where are you coming from? Your coloring
appears to be the hue of grief itself.
Is it our gracious lady you have seen
bathing with tears Love’s image in her face?
O ladies, tell me what my heart tells me:
I see her grace in every step you take.
And if you come from so profound a grief,
may it please you to stay with me awhile
and tell me truly what you know of her.
I see your eyes, I see how they have wept,
and how you come retreating all undone;
my heart is touched and shaken at the sight.
Voi che portate la sembianza umile,
con li occhi bassi, mostrando dolore,
onde venite che ’l vostro colore
par divenuto de pietà simile?
Vedeste voi nostra donna gentile
bagnar nel viso suo di pianto Amore?
Ditelmi, donne, che ’l mi dice il core,
perch’io vi veggio andar sanz’atto vile.
E se venite da tanta pietate,
piacciavi di restar qui meco alquanto,
e qual che sia di lei, noi mi celate.
Io veggio li occhi vostri c’hanno pianto,
e veggiovi tornar sì sfigurate,
che ’l cor mi triema di vederne tanto.
This sonnet divides into two parts. In the first I address these ladies and ask them if they come from my lady, telling them that I believe they do, since they come back as if made more gracious; in the second I ask them to talk to me about her. The second part begins: And if you come.
Here follows the other sonnet, composed in the way explained previously:
Are you the one that often spoke to us
about our lady, and to us alone?
Your tone of voice, indeed, resembles his,
but in your face we find another look.
Why do you weep so bitterly? Pity
would melt the heart of anyone who sees you.
Have you seen her weep, too, and now cannot
conceal from us the sorrow in your heart?
Leave grief to us; the path of tears is ours
(to try to comfort us would be a sin),
we are the ones who heard her sobbing words.
Her face proclaims the agony she feels;
if anyone had dared look into her eyes,
he would have died, drowned in his tears of grief.
Se’ tu colui c’hai trattato sovente
di nostra donna, sol parlando a nui?
Tu risomigli a la voce ben lui,
ma la figura ne par d’altra gente.
E perché piangi tu sì coralmente,
che fai di te pietà venire altrui?
Vedestù pianger lei, che tu non pui
punto celar la dolorosa mente?
Lascia piangere noi e triste andare
(e fa peccato chi mai ne conforta),
che nel suo pianto l’udimmo parlare.
Ell’ha nel viso la pietà sì scorta,
che qual l’avesse voluta mirare
sarebbe innanzi lei piangendo morta.
This sonnet has four parts according to the four responses of the ladies for whom I speak, and since they are made evident enough in the sonnet, I do not bother to explain the meaning of the parts: I merely indicate where they occur. The second begins: Why do you weep, the third: Leave grief to us, the fourth: Her face proclaims.
XXIII
A few days after this it happened that my body was afflicted by a painful disease which made me suffer intense anguish continuously for nine days; I became so weak that I was forced to lie in bed like a person paralyzed. Now, on the ninth day, when the pain was almost unbearable, a thought came to me which was about my lady. After thinking about her awhile, I returned to thoughts of my feeble condition and, realizing how short life is, even if one is healthy, I began to weep silently about the misery of life. Then, sighing deeply, I said to myself: “It is bound to happen that one day the most gracious Beatrice will die.” At that, such a frenzy seized me that I closed my eyes and, agitated like one in delirium, began to imagine things: as my mind started wandering, there appeared to me certain faces of ladies with dishevelled hair, and they were saying to me: “You are going to die.” And then after these ladies there appeared to me other faces strange and horrible to look at, who were saying: “You are dead.” While my imagination was wandering like this, I came to the point that I no longer knew where I was. And I seemed to see ladies preternaturally sad, their hair dishevelled, weeping as they made their way down a street. And I seemed to see the sun grow dark, giving the stars a color that would have made me swear that they were weeping. And it seemed to me that the birds flying through the air fell to earth dead, and there were violent earthquakes. Bewildered as I dreamed, and terrified, I imagined that a friend of mine came to tell me: “Then you don’t know? Your miraculous lady has departed from this world.” At that I began to weep most piteously, and I wept not only in my dream, I wept with my eyes, wet with real tears. I imagined that I looked up at the sky, and I seemed to see a multitude of angels returning above, and they had before them a little pure-white cloud. It seemed to me that these angels were singing in glory, and the words of their song seemed to be: Osanna in excelsis;10 the rest I could not seem to hear. Then it seemed that my heart, which was so full of love, said to me: “It is true, our lady lies dead.” And hearing that, it seemed to me I went to see the body in which that most noble and blessed soul had dwelt, and in the intensity of my hallucination I saw this lady dead. And it seemed that ladies were covering her head with a white veil, and her face seemed to have an expression of such joyous acceptance that it said to me: “I am contemplating the fountainhead of peace.” At the sight of her in this dream I felt such a serenity that I called upon Death and said: “Sweet Death, come to me. Do not be unkind to me: you should be gracious, considering where you have just been. So, come to me, for I earnestly desire you, and you can see that I do, for I already wear your color.” And when I had witnessed the administering of the sorrowful rites customarily performed on the bodies of the dead, it seemed I returned to my room and from there looked toward Heaven, and so vivid was my dream that, weeping, I began to speak aloud: “O most beautiful soul, how blessed is he who beholds you!” As I was saying these words in a spasm of tears, calling upon Death to come to me, a young and gracious lady, who had been at my bedside, thought that my tears and words were caused by the pain of my illness, and greatly frightened began to weep. Then other ladies who were about the room became aware of my weeping because of her reaction to me. After sending away this lady, who was most closely related to me, they dreaw near to wake me, thinking that T was having a dream, and said to me: “You must wake up” and “Do not be afraid.” And with these words of theirs my wild imaginings were cut off just when I was about to say: “Oh, Beatrice, blessed art thou,” and I had already said: “Oh, Beatrice,” when I opened my eyes with a start and realized that it had been only a dream. Although I had called out this name, my voice was so broken by my sobbing that I think these ladies were not able to understand what I said. Even though I was very much ashamed, still, somehow prompted by Love, I turned my face toward them. And when they saw me, they began saying: “He looks as if he were dead!” And they said to each other: “Let us try to comfort him.” And so they said many things to comfort me, and then they asked me what it was that had frightened me. Being somewhat comforted, aware that nothing was true of what I had imagined, I answered them: “I will tell you what happened to me.” Then I began at the beginning and continued to the end, telling them what I had seen but without mentioning the name of the most gracious one.
After I had recovered from my illness, I decided to write about what had happened to me, since it seemed to me this would be something fascinating to hear about. And so I composed the canzone which begins: A lady of tender years; it is constructed in a manner made clear in the divisions that follow it.
A lady of tender years, compassionate
and richly graced with human gentleness,
was standing near and heard me call on Death;
she saw the piteous weeping of my eyes
and heard the wild confusing words I spoke;
she was so struck with fear she wept aloud.
Then other ladies, made aware of me
/>
by the weeping figure standing by my bed,
sent her away from there;
and they drew near to rouse me from my sleep.
One of them said: “Wake up!”
Another asked: “Why are you so distressed?”
With this I left my world of dreams and woke,
Calling aloud the name of my sweet lady.
I called to her in a voice so weak with pain,
so broken by my tears and anguished sobs,
that only my heart heard her name pronounced.
In spite of my deep-felt humiliation
which showed itself most plainly on my face,
Love made me turn and look up at these ladies.
The pallor of my skin amazed them so
they could not help but start to speak of death.
“Oh, let us comfort him,”
implored one lady sweetly of another;
and more than once they asked:
“What did you see that took away your strength?”
When I felt comforted somewhat, I said:
“Ladies, now you shall know what I have seen:
While I was brooding on my languid life,
and sensed how fleeting is our little day,
Love wept within my heart, which is his home;
then my bewildered soul went numb with fear,
and sighing deep within myself, I said:
‘My lady someday surely has to die.’
Then I surrendered to my anguished thoughts,
and closed my heavy wept-out tired eyes,
and all my body’s spirits
went drifting off, each fainting in despair.
And then, drifting and dreaming,
with consciousness and truth left far behind,
I saw the looks of ladies wild with wrath,
chanting together: ‘Die, you are going to die.’
Now captured by my false imaginings
and somehow in a place unknown to me,
I was the witness of unnatural things:
of ladies passing with dishevelled hair,
some weeping, others wailing their laments
that pierced the air like arrows tipped in flame.
Dante’s Vita Nuova, New Edition: A Translation and an Essay Page 5