Chapter I: Front Matter

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The Siddal Edition

THE NEW LIFE

(LA VITA NUOVA)

of

DANTE ALIGHIERI

Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Ellis and Elvey London 1899

Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

_PREFATORY NOTE_

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, being the son of an Italian who was greatly immersed in the study of Dante Alighieri, and who produced a Comment on the _Inferno_, and other books relating to Dantesque literature, was from his earliest childhood familiar with the name of the stupendous Florentine, and to some extent aware of the range and quality of his writings. Nevertheless—or perhaps indeed it may have been partly on that very account—he did not in those opening years read Dante to any degree worth mentioning: he was well versed in Shakespeare, Walter Scott, Byron, and some other writers, years before he applied himself to Dante. He may have been fourteen years of age, or even fifteen (May 1843), before he took seriously to the author of the _Divina Commedia_. He then read him eagerly, and with the profoundest admiration and delight; and from the _Commedia_ he proceeded to the lyrical poems and the _Vita Nuova_. I question whether he ever read—unless in the most cursory way—other and less fascinating writings of Alighieri, such as the _Convito_ and the _De Monarchiâ_.

From reading, Rossetti went on to translating. He translated at an early age, chiefly between 1845 and 1849, a great number of poems by the Italians contemporary with Dante, or preceding him; and, among other things, he made a version of the whole _Vita Nuova_, prose and verse. This may possibly have been the first important thing that he translated from the Italian: if not the first, still less was it the last, and it may well be that his rendering of the book was completed within the year 1846, or early in 1847. He did not, of course, leave his version exactly as it had come at first: on the contrary, he took counsel with friends (Alfred Tennyson among the number), toned down crudities and juvenilities, and worked to make the whole thing impressive and artistic—for in such matters he was much more chargeable with over-fastidiousness than with laxity. Still, the work, as we now have it, is essentially the work of those adolescent years—from time to time reconsidered and improved, but not transmuted.

Some few years after producing his translation of the _Vita Nuova_, Rossetti was desirous of publishing it, and of illustrating the volume with etchings from various designs, which he had meanwhile done, of incidents in the story. This project, however, had to be laid aside, owing to want of means, and the etchings were never undertaken. It was only in 1861 that the volume named _The Early Italian Poets_, including the translated _Vita Nuova_, was brought out: the same volume, with a change in the arrangement of its contents, was reissued in 1874, entitled _Dante and his Circle_. This book, in its original form, was received with favour, and settled the claim of Rossetti to rank as a poetic translator, or indeed as a poet in his own right.

For _The Early Italian Poets_ he wrote a Preface, from which a passage, immediately relating to the _Vita Nuova_, is extracted in the present edition. There are some other passages, affecting the whole of the translations in that volume, which deserve to be borne in mind, as showing the spirit in which he undertook the translating work, and I give them here:—

“The life-blood of rhythmical translation is this commandment—that a good poem shall not be turned into a bad one. The only true motive for putting poetry into a fresh language must be to endow a fresh nation, as far as possible, with one more possession of beauty. Poetry not being an exact science, literality of rendering is altogether secondary to this chief law. I say _literality_,—not fidelity, which is by no means the same thing. When literality can be combined with what is thus the primary condition of success, the translator is fortunate, and must strive his utmost to unite them; when such object can only be obtained by paraphrase, that is his only path. Any merit possessed by these translations is derived from an effort to follow this principle.... The task of the translator (and with all humility be it spoken) is one of some self-denial. Often would he avail himself of any special grace of his own idiom and epoch, if only his will belonged to him: often would some cadence serve him but for his author’s structure—some structure but for his author’s cadence: often the beautiful turn of a stanza must be weakened to adopt some rhyme which will tally, and he sees the poet revelling in abundance of language where himself is scantily supplied. Now he would slight the matter for the music, and now the music for the matter; but no, he must deal to each alike. Sometimes too a flaw in the work galls him, and he would fain remove it, doing for the poet that which his age denied him; but no, it is not in the bond.”

It may be as well to explain here a very small share which I myself took in the _Vita Nuova_ translation. When the volume _The Early Italian Poets_ was in preparation, my brother asked me (January 1861) to aid by “collating my _Vita Nuova_ with the original, and amending inaccuracies.” He defined the work further as follows: “What I want is that you should correct my translation throughout, removing inaccuracies and mannerisms. And, if you have time, it would be a great service to translate the analyses of the poems (which I omitted). This, however, if you think it desirable to include them. I did not at the time (on ground of readableness), but since think they may be desirable: only have become so unfamiliar with the book that I have no distinct opinion.” On January 25th he wrote: “Many and many thanks for a most essential service most thoroughly performed. I have not yet verified the whole of the notes, but I see they are just what I needed, and will save me a vast amount of trouble. I should very much wish that the translation were more literal, but cannot do it all again. _My_ notes, which you have taken the trouble of revising, are, of course, quite paltry and useless.”

In order that the reader may judge as to this question of literality, I will give here the literal Englishing of the Sonnet at p. 38, and the paragraph which precedes it (I take the passage quite at random), and the reader can, if he likes, compare this rendering with that which appears in Dante Rossetti’s text:—

“After the departure of this gentlewoman it was the pleasure of the Lord of the Angels to call to His glory a lady young and much of noble[1] aspect, who was very graceful in this aforesaid city: whose body I saw lying without the soul amid many ladies, who were weeping very piteously. Then, remembering that erewhile I had seen her keeping company with that most noble one, I could not withhold some tears. Indeed, weeping, I purposed to speak certain words about her death, in guerdon of my having at some whiles seen her with my lady. And somewhat of this I referred to in the last part of the words which I spoke of her, as manifestly appears to him who understands them: and then I composed these two Sonnets—of which the first begins, ‘Weep, lovers’—the second, ‘Villain Death.’

[1] _Gentile._ The word means “noble” rather than (in its modern
shade of meaning) “gentle.” “Genteel” would sometimes apply,
but has ceased to be admissible in serious writing.

“Weep, lovers, since Love weeps,—hearkening what cause makes him wail: Love hears ladies invoking pity, showing bitter grief outwardly by the eyes; because villain Death has set his cruel working upon a noble heart, ruining that which in a noble lady is to be praised in the world, apart from honour. Hear how much Love did her honouring; for I saw him lamenting in very person over the dead seemly image: and often he gazed towards heaven, wherein was already settled the noble soul who had been a lady of such gladsome semblance.”

It would be out of place to enter here into any detailed observations upon the _Vita Nuova_, its meaning, and the literature which has grown out of it. I will merely name, as obvious things for the English reader to consult, the translation which was made by Sir Theodore Martin; the essay by Professor C. Eliot Norton; the translations published by Dr. Garnett in his book entitled _Dante, Petrarch, Camoens, 124 Sonnets_, along with the remarks in his valuable _History of Italian Literature_; Scartazzini’s _Companion to Dante_; and the publications of the Rev. Dr. Moore, the foremost of our living Dante scholars.

W. M. ROSSETTI.

_August 1899._

_INTRODUCTION._

The _Vita Nuova_ (the Autobiography or Autopsychology of Dante’s youth till about his twenty-seventh year) is already well known to many in the original, or by means of essays and of English versions partial or entire. It is therefore, and on all accounts, unnecessary to say much more of the work here than it says for itself. Wedded to its exquisite and intimate beauties are personal peculiarities which excite wonder and conjecture, best replied to in the words which Beatrice herself is made to utter in the _Commedia_: “Questi _fù tal_ nella sua vita nuova.”[2] Thus then young Dante _was_. All that seemed possible to be done here for the work was to translate it in as free and clear a form as was consistent with fidelity to its meaning; and to ease it, as far as possible, from notes and encumbrances.

[2] “Purgatorio,” C. xxx.

It may be noted here how necessary a knowledge of the _Vita Nuova_ is to the full comprehension of the part borne by Beatrice in the _Commedia_. Moreover, it is only from the perusal of its earliest and then undivulged self-communings that we can divine the whole bitterness of wrong to such a soul as Dante’s, its poignant sense of abandonment, or its deep and jealous refuge in memory. Above all, it is here that we find the first manifestations of that wisdom of obedience, that natural breath of duty, which afterwards, in the _Commedia_, lifted up a mighty voice for warning and testimony. Throughout the _Vita Nuova_ there is a strain like the first falling murmur which reaches the ear in some remote meadow, and prepares us to look upon the sea.

Boccaccio, in his Life of Dante, tells us that the great poet, in later life, was ashamed of this work of his youth. Such a statement hardly seems reconcilable with the allusions to it made or implied in the _Commedia_; but it is true that the _Vita Nuova_ is a book which only youth could have produced, and which must chiefly remain sacred to the young; to each of whom the figure of Beatrice, less lifelike than lovelike, will seem the friend of his own heart. Nor is this, perhaps, its least praise. To tax its author with effeminacy on account of the extreme sensitiveness evinced by this narrative of his love, would be manifestly unjust, when we find that, though love alone is the theme of the _Vita Nuova_, war already ranked among its author’s experiences at the period to which it relates. In the year 1289, the one preceding the death of Beatrice, Dante served with the foremost cavalry in the great battle of Campaldino, on the eleventh of June, when the Florentines defeated the people of Arezzo. In the autumn of the next year, 1290, when for him, by the death of Beatrice, the city as he says “sat solitary,” such refuge as he might find from his grief was sought in action and danger: for we learn from the _Commedia_ (Hell, C. xxi.) that he served in the war then waged by Florence upon Pisa, and was present at the surrender of Caprona. He says, using the reminiscence to give life to a description, in his great way:—

“I’ve seen the troops out of Caprona go
On terms, affrighted thus, when on the spot
They found themselves with foemen compass’d so.”

(CAYLEY’S _Translation_.)

A word should be said here of the title of Dante’s autobiography. The adjective _Nuovo_, _nuova_, or _Novello_, _novella_, literally _New_, is often used by Dante and other early writers in the sense of _young_. This has induced some editors of the _Vita Nuova_ to explain the title as meaning _Early Life_. I should be glad on some accounts to adopt this supposition, as everything is a gain which increases clearness to the modern reader; but on consideration I think the more mystical interpretation of the words, as _New Life_ (in reference to that revulsion of his being which Dante so minutely describes as having occurred simultaneously with his first sight of Beatrice), appears the primary one, and therefore the most necessary to be given in a translation. The probability may be that both were meant, but this I cannot convey.[3]

[3] I must hazard here (to relieve the first page of my translation
from a long note) a suggestion as to the meaning of the most
puzzling passage in the whole _Vita Nuova_,—that sentence
just at the outset which says, “La gloriosa donna della mia
mente, la quale fù chiamata da molti Beatrice, i quali non
sapeano che si chiamare.” On this passage all the commentators
seem helpless, turning it about and sometimes adopting
alterations not to be found in any ancient manuscript of the
work. The words mean literally, “The glorious lady of my
mind who was called Beatrice by many who knew not how she
was called.” This presents the obvious difficulty that the
lady’s name really _was_ Beatrice, and that Dante throughout
uses that name himself. In the text of my version I have
adopted, as a rendering, the one of the various compromises
which seemed to give the most beauty to the meaning. But
it occurs to me that a less irrational escape out of the
difficulty than any I have seen suggested may possibly be
found by linking this passage with the close of the sonnet
at page 104 of the _Vita Nuova_, beginning, “I felt a spirit
of love begin to stir,” in the last line of which sonnet
Love is made to assert that the name of Beatrice is _Love_.
Dante appears to have dwelt on this fancy with some pleasure,
from what is said in an earlier sonnet (page 39) about “Love
in his proper form” (by which Beatrice seems to be meant)
bending over a dead lady. And it is in connection with the
sonnet where the name of Beatrice is said to be Love, that
Dante, as if to show us that the Love he speaks of is only
his own emotion, enters into an argument as to Love being
merely an accident in substance,—in other words, “Amore e il
cor gentil son una cosa.” This conjecture may be pronounced
extravagant; but the _Vita Nuova_, when examined, proves so
full of intricate and fantastic analogies, even in the mere
arrangement of its parts, (much more than appears on any but
the closest scrutiny,) that it seems admissible to suggest
even a whimsical solution of a difficulty which remains
unconquered. Or to have recourse to the much more welcome
means of solution afforded by simple inherent beauty: may not
the meaning be merely that any person looking on so noble
and lovely a creation, without knowledge of her name, must
have spontaneously called her Beatrice,—_i.e._, the giver
of blessing? This would be analogous by antithesis to the
translation I have adopted in my text.

DANTE ALIGHIERI

THE NEW LIFE.

(LA VITA NUOVA.)

In that part of the book of my memory before the which is little that can be read, there is a rubric, saying, _Incipit Vita Nova_.[4] Under such rubric I find written many things; and among them the words which I purpose to copy into this little book; if not all of them, at the least their substance.

[4] “Here beginneth the new life.”

Nine times already since my birth had the heaven of light returned to the selfsame point almost, as concerns its own revolution, when first the glorious Lady of my mind was made manifest to mine eyes; even she who was called Beatrice by many who knew not wherefore.[5] She had already been in this life for so long as that, within her time, the starry heaven had moved towards the Eastern quarter one of the twelve parts of a degree; so that she appeared to me at the beginning of her ninth year almost, and I saw her almost at the end of my ninth year. Her dress, on that day, was of a most noble colour, a subdued and goodly crimson, girdled and adorned in such sort as best suited with her very tender age. At that moment, I say most truly that the spirit of life, which hath its dwelling in the secretest chamber of the heart, began to tremble so violently that the least pulses of my body shook therewith; and in trembling it said these words: _Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi._[6] At that moment the animate spirit, which dwelleth in the lofty chamber whither all the senses carry their perceptions, was filled with wonder, and speaking more especially unto the spirits of the eyes, said these words: _Apparuit jam beatitudo vestra._[7] At that moment the natural spirit, which dwelleth there where our nourishment is administered, began to weep, and in weeping said these words: _Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps._[8]

[5] In reference to the meaning of the name, “She who confers
blessing.” We learn from Boccaccio that this first meeting
took place at a May Feast, given in the year 1274 by Folco
Portinari, father of Beatrice, who ranked among the principal
citizens of Florence: to which feast Dante accompanied his
father, Alighiero Alighieri.

[6] “Here is a deity stronger than I; who, coming, shall rule over
me.”

[7] “Your beatitude hath now been made manifest unto you.”

[8] “Woe is me! for that often I shall be disturbed from this time
forth!”

I say that, from that time forward, Love quite governed my soul; which was immediately espoused to him, and with so safe and undisputed a lordship (by virtue of strong imagination) that I had nothing left for it but to do all his bidding continually. He oftentimes commanded me to seek if I might see this youngest of the Angels: wherefore I in my boyhood often went in search of her, and found her so noble and praiseworthy that certainly of her might have been said those words of the poet Homer, “She seemed not to be the daughter of a mortal man, but of God.”[9] And albeit her image, that was with me always, was an exultation of Love to subdue me, it was yet of so perfect a quality that it never allowed me to be overruled by Love without the faithful counsel of reason, whensoever such counsel was useful to be heard. But seeing that were I to dwell overmuch on the passions and doings of such early youth, my words might be counted something fabulous, I will therefore put them aside; and passing many things that may be conceived by the pattern of these, I will come to such as are writ in my memory with a better distinctness.

[9]

Οὐδὲ ἐῴκει
Ἀνδρός γε θνητοῦ παῖς ἔμμεναι, ἀλλὰ θεοῖο.

(_Iliad_, xxiv. 258.)

After the lapse of so many days that nine years exactly were completed since the above-written appearance of this most gracious being, on the last of those days it happened that the same wonderful lady appeared to me dressed all in pure white, between two gentle ladies elder than she. And passing through a street, she turned her eyes thither where I stood sorely abashed: and by her unspeakable courtesy, which is now guerdoned in the Great Cycle, she saluted me with so virtuous a bearing that I seemed then and there to behold the very limits of blessedness. The hour of her most sweet salutation was exactly the ninth of that day; and because it was the first time that any words from her reached mine ears, I came into such sweetness that I parted thence as one intoxicated. And betaking me to the loneliness of mine own room, I fell to thinking of this most courteous lady, thinking of whom I was overtaken by a pleasant slumber, wherein a marvellous vision was presented to me: for there appeared to be in my room a mist of the colour of fire, within the which I discerned the figure of a lord of terrible aspect to such as should gaze upon him, but who seemed therewithal to rejoice inwardly that it was a marvel to see. Speaking he said many things, among the which I could understand but few; and of these, this: _Ego dominus tuus._[10] In his arms it seemed to me that a person was sleeping, covered only with a blood-coloured cloth; upon whom looking very attentively, I knew that it was the lady of the salutation who had deigned the day before to salute me. And he who held her held also in his hand a thing that was burning in flames; and he said to me, _Vide cor tuum_.[11] But when he had remained with me a little while, I thought that he set himself to awaken her that slept; after the which he made her to eat that thing which flamed in his hand; and she ate as one fearing. Then, having waited again a space, all his joy was turned into most bitter weeping; and as he wept he gathered the lady into his arms, and it seemed to me that he went with her up towards heaven: whereby such a great anguish came upon me that my light slumber could not endure through it, but was suddenly broken. And immediately having considered, I knew that the hour wherein this vision had been made manifest to me was the fourth hour (which is to say, the first of the nine last hours) of the night.

[10] “I am thy master.”

[11] “Behold thy heart.”

Then, musing on what I had seen, I proposed to relate the same to many poets who were famous in that day: and for that I had myself in some sort the art of discoursing with rhyme, I resolved on making a sonnet, in the which, having saluted all such as are subject unto Love, and entreated them to expound my vision, I should write unto them those things which I had seen in my sleep. And the sonnet I made was this:—

To every heart which the sweet pain doth move,
And unto which these words may now be brought
For true interpretation and kind thought,
Be greeting in our Lord’s name, which is Love.
Of those long hours wherein the stars, above,
Wake and keep watch, the third was almost nought,
When Love was shown me with such terrors fraught
As may not carelessly be spoken of.
He seemed like one who is full of joy, and had
My heart within his hand, and on his arm
My lady, with a mantle round her, slept;
Whom (having wakened her) anon he made
To eat that heart; she ate, as fearing harm.
Then he went out; and as he went, he wept.

_This sonnet is divided into two parts. In the first part I give greeting, and ask an answer; in the second, I signify what thing has to be answered to. The second part commences here: “Of those long hours.”_

To this sonnet I received many answers, conveying many different opinions; of the which one was sent by him whom I now call the first among my friends, and it began thus, “Unto my thinking thou beheld’st all worth.”[12] And indeed, it was when he learned that I was he who had sent those rhymes to him, that our friendship commenced. But the true meaning of that vision was not then perceived by any one, though it be now evident to the least skilful.

[12] The friend of whom Dante here speaks was Guido Cavalcanti.

From that night forth, the natural functions of my body began to be vexed and impeded, for I was given up wholly to thinking of this most gracious creature: whereby in short space I became so weak and so reduced that it was irksome to many of my friends to look upon me; while others, being moved by spite, went about to discover what it was my wish should be concealed. Wherefore I (perceiving the drift of their unkindly questions), by Love’s will, who directed me according to the counsels of reason, told them how it was Love himself who had thus dealt with me: and I said so, because the thing was so plainly to be discerned in my countenance that there was no longer any means of concealing it. But when they went on to ask, “And by whose help hath Love done this?” I looked in their faces smiling, and spake no word in return.

Now it fell on a day, that this most gracious creature was sitting where words were to be heard of the Queen of Glory;[13] and I was in a place whence mine eyes could behold their beatitude: and betwixt her and me, in a direct line, there sat another lady of a pleasant favour; who looked round at me many times, marvelling at my continued gaze which seemed to have _her_ for its object. And many perceived that she thus looked; so that departing thence, I heard it whispered after me, “Look you to what a pass _such a lady_ hath brought him;” and in saying this they named her who had been midway between the most gentle Beatrice and mine eyes. Therefore I was reassured, and knew that for that day my secret had not become manifest. Then immediately it came into my mind that I might make use of this lady as a screen to the truth: and so well did I play my part that the most of those who had hitherto watched and wondered at me, now imagined they had found me out. By her means I kept my secret concealed till some years were gone over; and for my better security, I even made divers rhymes in her honour; whereof I shall here write only as much as concerneth the most gentle Beatrice, which is but a very little. Moreover, about the same time while this lady was a screen for so much love on my part, I took the resolution to set down the name of this most gracious creature accompanied with many other women’s names, and especially with hers whom I spake of. And to this end I put together the names of sixty of the most beautiful ladies in that city where God had placed mine own lady; and these names I introduced in an epistle in the form of a _sirvent_, which it is not my intention to transcribe here. Neither should I have said anything of this matter, did I not wish to take note of a certain strange thing, to wit: that having written the list, I found my lady’s name would not stand otherwise than ninth in order among the names of these ladies.

[13] _i.e._, in a church.

Now it so chanced with her by whose means I had thus long time concealed my desire, that it behoved her to leave the city I speak of, and to journey afar: wherefore I, being sorely perplexed at the loss of so excellent a defence, had more trouble than even I could before have supposed. And thinking that if I spoke not somewhat mournfully of her departure, my former counterfeiting would be the more quickly perceived, I determined that I would make a grievous sonnet[14] thereof; the which I will write here, because it hath certain words in it whereof my lady was the immediate cause, as will be plain to him that understands.

[14] It will be observed that this poem is not what we now call a
sonnet. Its structure, however, is analogous to that of the
sonnet, being two sextetts followed by two quatrains, instead
of two quatrains followed by two triplets. Dante applies the
term sonnet to both these forms of composition, and to no
other.

And the sonnet was this:—

All ye that pass along Love’s trodden way,
Pause ye awhile and say
If there be any grief like unto mine:
I pray you that you hearken a short space
Patiently, if my case
Be not a piteous marvel and a sign.

Love (never, certes, for my worthless part,
But of his own great heart,)
Vouchsafed to me a life so calm and sweet
That oft I heard folk question as I went
What such great gladness meant:—
They spoke of it behind me in the street.

But now that fearless bearing is all gone
Which with Love’s hoarded wealth was given me;
Till I am grown to be
So poor that I have dread to think thereon.
And thus it is that I, being like as one
Who is ashamed and hides his poverty,
Without seem full of glee,
And let my heart within travail and moan.

_This poem has two principal parts; for, in the first, I mean to call the Faithful of Love in those words of Jeremias the Prophet_, “O vos omnes qui transitis per viam, attendite et videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus,” _and to pray them to stay and hear me. In the second I tell where Love had placed me, with a meaning other than that which the last part of the poem shows, and I say what I have lost. The second part begins here, “Love, (never, certes).”_

A certain while after the departure of that lady, it pleased the Master of the Angels to call into His glory a damsel, young and of a gentle presence, who had been very lovely in the city I speak of: and I saw her body lying without its soul among many ladies, who held a pitiful weeping. Whereupon, remembering that I had seen her in the company of excellent Beatrice, I could not hinder myself from a few tears; and weeping, I conceived to say somewhat of her death, in guerdon of having seen her somewhile with my lady; which thing I spake of in the latter end of the verses that I writ in this matter, as he will discern who understands. And I wrote two sonnets, which are these:—