The Portable Dante (89 page)
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Authors: Dante Alighieri
The sight of this lady had now brought me to the point that my eyes began to enjoy the sight of her too much; I often became angry at myself because of it, and I felt I was very contemptible. So, many times I would curse the wantonness of my eyes, and in my thoughts I would say to them: “You used to make anyone weep who saw your sad state, and now it seems you want to forget about all that because of this lady who gazes at you, who gazes at you only because of her grief for the glorious lady whom you used to mourn. Do whatever you will, but I shall remind you of her many times, damned eyes, for never, before death comes, should your tears have ceased. ” And after I had said this to myself, addressing my eyes, I was overcome by sighs, deep and anguished. I felt that this conflict which I was having with myself should not remain known solely to the wretch that experienced it, so I decided to compose a sonnet describing this terrible condition.
I wrote the sonnet which begins:
The bitter tears.
It has two parts: in the first I tell my eyes what my heart was saying to me; in the second I prevent any confusion by explaining who is speaking this way, and this part begins:
This is what my heart.
The sonnet could very well be analyzed further, but this would be superfluous, as the preceding account makes its meaning quite clear.
“The bitter tears that you once used to shed, you eyes of mine, and for so long a time, have made the tears of other persons flowfor pity’s sake, as you yourselves have seen. And now it seems to me you would forget, if for my part I could be so disloyalas to give you any chance, by not forever reminding you of her whom once you mourned.
I think about your infidelity, and I am frightened; I have come to dreadthe lady’s face that often looks at you. Until death kills your sight, never should youforget your gracious lady who is dead. ”My heart proclaims these words—and then it sighs.
When, once again, I returned to see this lady, the sight of her had such a strange effect on me that often I thought of her as someone I liked too much. I thought of her in this way: “This is a gracious, beautiful, young, and discreet lady, and perhaps through the will of Love she has appeared in order that my life may find peace. ” Often I thought in still more loving terms, so much so that the heart consented to it, that is to the loving feeling. And when I had consented to this, I reconsidered, as if moved by reason, and I said to myself: “God, what kind of thought is this that tries to console me so basely and scarcely allows mc to think about anything else?” Then another thought arose and said to me: “Since you have endured so many tribulations, why do you not try to escape further bitter suffering? You see that this is an inspiration of Love, which brings amorous desires into our presence, and it proceeds from so gracious a source as the eyes of the lady who has shown us so
much compassion. ” Finally, having battled like this within myself many times, I wished to write more poetry about it, and since in the battle of the thoughts those won which spoke in the lady’s favor, it seemed right that I address myself to her. And I wrote this sonnet which begins:
A thought, gracious;
and I say “gracious” in so far as it involved a gracious lady, for in all other respects it was most base.
In this sonnet I divide myself into two parts according to the way my thoughts were divided. One part I call
heart,
that is desire; the other,
soul,
that is reason; and I tell what one says to the other. That it is justifiable to call desire
heart
and reason
soul
is certainly clear to those persons that I wish my procedure to be clear to. It is true that in the preceding sonnet I take the part of the heart against the eyes, and this seems contrary to what I say in this sonnet. So let me state that in the preceding sonnet, too, the heart stands for desire, since my greatest desire was still that of remembering my most gracious lady rather than of gazing at this one—even though I did have some desire for her then; but it seemed slight. And so it is evident that the one interpretation is not contrary to the other.
This sonnet has three parts. In the first I tell this lady how my desire turns completely toward her; in the second I tell how the soul, that is reason, speaks to the heart, that is desire; in the third I tell how the heart replies. The second part begins:
The soul says,
the third:
The heart replies.
A thought, gracious because it speaks of you, comes frequently to dwell awhile with me, and so melodiously speaks of love, it talks the heart into surrendering. The soul says to the heart: “Who is this one that comes with consolation for our mind, possessing such outrageous strength that he will not let other thoughts remain with us?”
The heart replies: “O reasonable soul, this is a spirit of Love, tender and new, who brings all his desires here to me; all his intensity, his very life, have come from that compassionate one’s eyes who was distressed about our martyrdom. ”
One day, about the ninth hour,
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there arose in me against this adversary of reason a powerful vision, in which I seemed to see that glorious Beatrice clothed in those crimson garments with which she first appeared to my eyes, and she seemed young, of the same age as when I first saw her. Then I began to think about her and, remembering her in the sequence of past times, my heart began to repent painfully of the desire by which it so basely let itself be possessed for some time, contrary to the constancy of reason; and once I had discarded this evil desire, all my thoughts turned back to their most gracious Beatrice.
Let me say that, from then on, I began to think of her so deeply with my whole shameful heart that my many sighs were proof of it, for all of them on issuing forth would repeat what my heart was saying, that is, the name of that most gracious one and how she departed from us. And many times it happened that some thoughts were so filled with anguish that I would forget what I was thinking and where I was. By this rekindling of sighs, the tears which had subsided began to flow again, so that my eyes seemed to be two objects whose only desire was to weep. And often it occurred that after continuous weeping a purplish color encircled my eyes, as often appears in one who has endured affliction. In this way they were justly rewarded for their inconstancy, and from then on they could not look at any person who might look back at them in such a way as to encourage again a similar inclination. And in order for it to be known that such an evil desire and foolish temptation had been destroyed, so that the poetry I had written before would raise no question, I decided to write a sonnet which should contain the essence of what I have just related. And I wrote:
Alas! By the full force,
and I said “Alas!” because I was ashamed of the fact that my eyes had been so faithless.
I do not divide this sonnet because its reason for existence makes it clear enough.
Alas! By the full force of countless sighs born of the thoughts that overflow my heart, the eyes are vanquished, and they do not dare
to return the glance of anyone who sees them. They have become twin symbols of my yearning, to show, by shedding tears, how much I suffer; and many times they mourn so much that Love encircles them with martyrdom’s red crown.
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These meditations and the sighs I breathe become so anguishing within the heart that Love, who dwells there, faints, he is so tortured; for on those thoughts and sighs of lamentation the sweet name of my lady is inscribed, with many words relating to her death.
After this period of distress,
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during the season when many people go to see the blessed image that Jesus Christ left us
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as a visible sign of his most beautiful countenance (which my lady beholds in glory), it happened that some pilgrims were going down a street which runs through the center of the city where
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the most gracious lady was born, lived and died. These pilgrims, it seemed to me, were very pensive as they moved along and I, thinking about them, said to myself: “These pilgrims seem to come from distant parts, and I do not believe that they have ever heard this lady mentioned; they know nothing about her—in fact, their thoughts are centered on other things than what surrounds them; perhaps they are thinking of their friends far away whom we cannot know. ” Then I said to myself: “I know that, if they were from a neighboring town, they would in some way appear distressed as they
passed through the center of the desolated city. ” Again I said to myself: “If I could detain them for awhile, I know I could make them weep before they left this city, for I would speak words that would make anyone weep who heard them. ” After they had passed from my sight, I decided to compose a sonnet in which I would reveal what I had said to myself.
And, to make the effect more pathetic, I decided to write it as if I were speaking to them, and I composed this sonnet which begins:
Ah, pilgrims.
And I used the word “pilgrims” in its general sense, for the term can be understood in two ways, one general and the other specific. In the general sense a pilgrim is one who is traveling outside of his own country; in a specific sense “pilgrim” means only one who travels to or returns from the house of St. James.
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And it is to be known further that there are three ways that those who travel in the service of the Most High may be accurately designated. They are called “palmers” who cross the sea to the Holy Land and often bring back palms; they are called “pilgrims” who travel to the house of Galicia, because the tomb of St. James is farther away from his own country than that of any other apostle; they are called “Romers” who travel to Rome, where those whom I call “pilgrims” were going.
I will not divide this sonnet since its reason for existence makes it clear enough.
Ah, pilgrims, moving pensively along, thinking, perhaps, of things at home you miss, could the land you come from be so far away (as anyone might guess from your appearance) that you show no signs of grief as you pass through the middle of the desolated city, like people who seem not to understand the grievous weight of woe it has to bear?
If you would stop to listen to me speak, I know, from what my sighing heart tells me, you would be weeping when you leave this place:
lost is the city’s source of blessedness, and I know words that could be said of her with power to humble any man to tears.
Some time afterward, two gentlewomen sent word to me requesting that I send them some of my poetry. Taking into consideration their noble station, I decided not only to let them have some of my poems but also to write something new to go along with those words—in this way doing their request more honor. So I wrote a sonnet which tells of my condition and sent it to them accompanied by the preceding sonnet and by the one which begins:
Now come to me and listen to my sighs.
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The new sonnet I wrote begins:
Beyond the sphere,
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and contains five parts. In the first I tell where my thought is going, naming it after one of its effects. In the second I tell why it goes up there, that is, who causes it to go. In the third I tell what it saw, that is, a lady being honored up there, and I call it a “pilgrim spirit” because it makes the journey upward spiritually and, once there, is like a pilgrim far from home. In the fourth I tell how it sees her to be such, that is of such a nature, that I cannot understand it: that is to say that my thought ascends into the nature of this lady to such a degree that my mind cannot grasp it, for our minds function in relation to those blessed souls as the weak eye does in relation to the sun, and this the Philosopher tells us in the second book of the
Metaphysics.
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In the fifth part I say that, even though I cannot understand what my thought has taken me to see, that is her miraculous nature, at least I understand this much: this thought of mine is entirely about my lady, for many times when it comes to my mind, I hear her name. At the end of this fifth part I say: “dear ladies, ” so that it be understood that it is to ladies that I speak. The second part begins:
a new intelligence,
the third:
Once arrived,
the fourth:
But when it tries,
the fifth:
This much.
It could be divided and
explained more subtly, but since it can pass with this analysis, I do not concern myself with further division.
Beyond the sphere that makes the widest round, passes the sigh arisen from my heart; a new intelligence that Love in tears endowed it with is urging it on high. Once having reached the place of its desiring it sees a lady held in reverence, splendid in light; and through her radiance the pilgrim spirit looks upon her being.
But when it tries to tell me what it saw, I cannot understand the subtle words it speaks to the sad heart that makes it speak. I know it tells of that most gracious one, for I often hear the name of Beatrice. This much, at least, is clear to me, dear ladies.
After I wrote this sonnet there came to me a miraculous vision in which I saw things that made me resolve to say no more about this blessed one until I would be capable of writing about her in a nobler way. To achieve this I am striving as hard as I can, and this she truly knows. Accordingly, if it be the pleasure of Him through whom all things live that my life continue for a few more years, I hope to write of her
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that which has never been written of any other woman. And then may it please the One who is the Lord of graciousness that my soul ascend to behold the glory of its lady, that is, of that blessed Beatrice, who in glory contemplates the countenance of the One
qui est per omnia secula benedictus.
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1
. Latin for “The new life begins.”
2
. The Sun; the fourth heaven of the Universe in the Ptolemaic system. Radiating in concentric circles from the center Earth were the Moon, Mercury, Venus, Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, the Fixed Stars, the Primum Mobile, and the Empyrean.
