Read The Portable Dante Online
Authors: Dante Alighieri
The Portable Dante (88 page)
vernacular, and since the words which follow those just quoted are all in Latin,
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it would be contrary to my intention if I were to include them. And I know that my best friend,
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for whom I write this book, shares my opinion: that it be written entirely in the vernacular.
After my eyes had wept for some time and were so wept out that they could no longer relieve my sadness, I thought of trying to relieve it with some sorrowful words; and I decided to compose a
canzone
in which, lamenting, I would speak of her who was the cause of the grief that was destroying my soul. Then I started writing a
canzone
which begins:
The eyes grieving.
And in order that this
canzone
may seem to remain all the more widowed after it has come to an end, I shall divide it before I copy it. And from now on I shall follow this method.
Let me say that this sad little song has three parts. The first is an introduction; in the second I speak of her; in the third I sadly address the
canzone
itself. The second part begins:
Beatrice has gone,
the third:
Now go your way.
The first part divides further into three: in the first I say why I am moved to speak; in the second I tell who it is I wish to speak to; in the third I tell who it is I wish to speak about. The second begins:
Since I remember;
the third:
My words will be.
Then when I say:
Beatrice has gone,
I am speaking about her, and of this I make two parts: first I tell the reason why she was taken from us; then I tell how someone laments her departure, and I begin this part with the words:
And once withdrawn.
This part further divides into three: in the first I tell who it is that does not mourn her; in the second I tell who it is that does mourn her; in the third I speak of my own condition. The second begins:
But grief,
the third:
Weeping and pain.
Then when I say:
Now go your way,
I am speaking to this
canzone,
designating the ladies to whom it is to go and with whom it is to stay.
The eyes grieving out of pity for the heart, while weeping, have endured great suffering, so that they are defeated, tearless eyes. And now, if I should want to vent that grief, which gradually leads me to my death, I must express myself in anguished words. Since I remember how I loved to speak about my lady when she was alive, addressing, gracious ladies, you alone, I will not speak to others, but only to a lady’s tender heart. My words will be a dirge, for they tell how she suddenly ascended into Heaven, and how she left Love here to grieve with me.
Beatrice has gone home to highest Heaven, into the peaceful realm where angels live; she is with them; she has left you, ladies, here. No quality of heat or cold took her away from us, as is the fate of others; it was her great unselfishness alone; because the light of her humility shone through the heavens with such radiance, it even made the Lord Eternal marvel; and then a sweet desire moved Him to summon up such blessedness; and from down here He had her come to Him, because He knew this wretched life on earth did not deserve to have her gracious presence.
And once withdrawn from her enchanting form, the tender soul, perfectly full of grace,
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now lives with glory in her rightful place. Who speaks of her and does not speak in tears has a vile heart, insensitive as stone which never can be visited by love. No evil heart could have sufficient wit to conceive in any way what she was like,
and so it has no urge to weep from grief. But grief comes and the wish to sigh and then to die a death of tears (and consolation is denied forever) to anyone who pictures in his thoughts that which she was and how she went from us.
I breathe deep sighs of anguished desolation when memory brings to my weary mind the image of that one who split my heart; and many times, while contemplating death, so sweet a longing for it comes to me, it drains away the color from my face. When this imagining has hold of me, bitter affliction binds me on all sides, and I begin to tremble from the pain. I am not what I am,
and so my shame drives me away from others; and then I weep alone in my lamenting, calling to Beatrice: “Can you be dead?” And just to call her name restores my soul.
Weeping and pain and many anguished sighs torment my heart each time I am alone, and if some one should hear me, he would suffer; just what my life has been like since the hour my lady passed into the timeless realm, there is not any tongue could tell of it. And so, my ladies, even if I tried, I could not tell you what I have become; my bitter life is constant suffering, a life so much abased that every man who sees my deathly face seems to be telling me: “I cast you out!” But what I have become my lady knows; I still have hope that she will show me grace.
Now go your way in tears, sad little song, and find once more the ladies and the maidens to whom your sister poems
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were sent as messengers of happiness; and you who are the daughter of despair, go look for them, wearing my misery.
After this
canzone
was composed, a person came to see me who, according to degrees of friendship, was second after my best friend.
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And he was so closely related to this glorious lady that no one else was more so. After we had talked together for a while, he begged me to write something for him about a lady who had died, disguising his motives so as to appear to be speaking of a different one who had recently died. I, being quite aware that he was speaking only about that blessed one, told him I would do as he asked. Then, thinking it over, I decided to compose a sonnet, to be sent to this friend of mine, in which I would express my sorrow in such a way that it would seem to be his.
And so I wrote this sonnet which begins:
Now come to me.
It consists of two parts: in the first I call upon Love’s faithful to listen to me, in the second I speak of my wretched condition. The second part begins:
the sighs that issue.
Now come to me and listen to my sighs, O gracious hearts (it is the wish of Pity), the sighs that issue in despondency. But for their help I would have died of grief, because my eyes would be in debt to me, owing much more than they could hope to pay by weeping so profusely for my lady that, mourning her, my heart might be relieved.
And sighs of mine shall ceaselessly be heard calling upon my lady (who is gone to dwell where worth like hers is merited), or breathing their contempt for this our life, as if they were the mournful soul itself abandoned by its hope of happiness.
After I had composed this sonnet, I realized, thinking more about the person to whom I intended to give it as an expression of his own feelings, that the poem might seem a poor and empty favor for anyone so closely related to my lady now in glory. So, before giving him the sonnet included above, I wrote two stanzas of a
canzone,
one of them truly in behalf of my friend and the other for myself, although to an unobservant reader they would both appear to speak for the same person. Anyone who examines them closely, however, sees clearly that different persons are speaking, since one does not call her his lady while the other does, as the reader may see for himself. I gave him this
canzone
and the sonnet included above, telling him that it was all written for him alone.
This
canzone
begins:
Each time,
and it has two parts. In one of them, in the first stanza, it is this good friend of mine and close relative of hers who laments; in the second I myself lament, that is, in the other stanza which begins:
Then there is blended.
And so it is clear that two people are lamenting in this
canzone,
one of whom grieves as a brother, the other as Love’s servant.
Each time the painful thought comes to my mind that I shall nevermore behold the lady I will always mourn, my grieving memory summons up such grief swelling within my heart, that I must say: “Why linger here, my soul? The torments you will be subjected to in this life which already you detest, weigh heavily upon my fearful mind. ” Then calling upon Death, as I would call on lovely, soothing Peace, I say with yearning love: “Please come to me. ” And I am jealous of whoever dies.
Then there is blended out of all my sighs a chorus of beseeching, begging continuously for Death to come. All my desires have centered on this wish since that day when my lady
was taken from me by Death’s cruelty. This is because the beauty of her grace, withdrawing from the sight of men forever, became transformed to beauty of the soul, diffusing through the heavens a light of love that greets the angels there, moving their subtle, lofty intellects to marvel at this miracle of grace.
On the day which completed a year since that lady had become a citizen of the Eternal Life, I was sitting in a place where, thinking of her, I was drawing an angel on some panels.
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And while I was drawing, I looked up and saw around me some men to whom all consideration was due. They were watching what I was doing and, as I was then told, they had already been there some time before I became aware of their presence. When I saw them, I stood up and, greeting them, I said: “Someone was with me just now; that is why I was so deep in thought. ” After they left, I returned to my work of drawing figures of angels and, while I was doing this, the idea came to me to write some poetry, in the nature of an anniversary poem, and to address it to those men who had just been with me. And so I wrote this sonnet which begins:
Into my mind,
and which has two beginnings; for this reason I divide it first according to the one, and then according to the other.
Now, according to the first beginning, this sonnet has three parts. In the first I say that this lady was already in my memory; in the second I tell what Love, therefore, did to me; in the third I speak of the effects of Love. The second begins:
Love, who perceived,
the third:
Lamenting.
This last part divides into two: in the first I say that all my sighs came forth speaking; in the second I state that some spoke different words from the others. The second begins:
but those.
According to the other beginning this sonnet divides in the same way, except that in the first part I tell when it was that this lady came into my memory, while in the first beginning I do not.
First beginning Into my mind had come the gracious image of the lady who because of her great worth was called by His most lofty Majesty to the calm realm of Heaven where Mary reigns. |
Second beginning Into my mind had come the gracious image of the lady for whom Love still sheds his tears, just when you were attracted by her power to come and see what I was doing there. Love, who perceived her presence in my mind, and was aroused within my ravaged heart, commanded all my sighs: “Go forth from here!” And each one started on his grieving way. |
Lamenting, they came pouring from my heart, together in a single voice (that often brings painful tears into my grieving eyes); but those that poured forth with the greatest pain were saying: “This day, O intellect sublime, completes a year since you rose heavenward. ” |
Sometime afterward, when I happened to be in a place which recalled past times, I was in a very pensive mood, and I was moved by such painful thoughts that I must have had a frightening expression of distress on my face. Becoming aware of my terrible condition, I looked around to see if anyone were watching me. And I saw at a window a gracious lady,
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young and exceedingly beautiful, who was looking
down at me so compassionately, to judge from her appearance, that all pity seemed to be concentrated in her. And because whenever an unhappy person sees someone take pity on him, he is all the more easily moved to tears, as if taking pity on himself, so I immediately felt the tears start to come. Fearing that I was revealing all the wretchedness in my life, I turned away from her eyes and left that place. And later I said to myself: “It must surely be true that with that compassionate lady there is present most noble Love. ”
And so I decided to write a sonnet which I would address to her and in which I would include everything that has been narrated in this account.
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And since, because of this account, its meaning is sufficiently clear, I shall not divide it. The sonnet begins:
With my own eyes.
With my own eyes I saw how much compassion there was in the expression of your face, when you saw how I looked and how I acted (it is my grief that forces me to this). Then I became aware that you had seen into the nature of my darkened life, and this aroused a fear within my heart of showing in my eyes my wretched state.
I fled, then, from your presence as I felt the tears begin to overflow my heart that was exalted at the sight of you. Later, within my anguished soul, I said: “There must dwell with that lady that same Love that makes me go about like this in tears. ”
After that, it always happened that whenever this lady saw me, her face would become compassionate and turn a pale color almost like that of love, so that many times I was reminded of my most noble lady who
always had a similar coloring. And many times when I was unable to vent my sadness by weeping, I used to go to see this compassionate lady whose expression alone was able to bring tears to my eyes. And so the urge came to me to write some other poetry addressed to her, and I composed this sonnet which begins:
Color of love.
And because of what has just been said, it is clear without analysis.
Color of love, expression of compassion, have never so miraculously come to the face of any lady when she gazed at eyes susceptible of anguished tears, as they came to your face whenever I stood in your presence with my grieving face; and something comes to mind because of you: a thought that makes me fear my heart will split.
I cannot keep my devastated eyes from looking ever and again at you because of the desire they have to weep; and you intensify their longing so that they consume themselves in helpless yearning, for, in your presence, they cannot weep tears.