# New Life (Rossetti 1899)/Section 10

All sections in this Wikisource copy are divided arbitrarily to match the accompanying LibriVox recordings. Neither Dante's original Italian text nor the translation by Rossetti is so divided, but rather each proceeds without clear division into sections.
​On that day which fulfilled the year since my lady had been made of the citizens of eternal life, remembering me of her as I sat alone, I betook myself to draw the resemblance of an angel upon certain tablets. And while I did thus, chancing to turn my head, I perceived that some were standing beside me to whom I should have given courteous welcome, and that they were observing what I did: also I learned afterwards that they had been there a while before I perceived them. Perceiving whom, I arose for salutation, and said: "Another was with me."
​Afterwards, when they had left me, I set myself again to mine occupation, to wit, to the drawing figures of angels: in doing which, I conceived to write of this matter in rhyme, as for her anniversary, and to address my rhymes unto those who had just left me. It was then that I wrote the sonnet which saith, "That lady" and as this sonnet hath two commencements, it behoveth me to divide it with both of them here.
I say that, according to the first, this sonnet has three parts. In the first, I say that this lady was then in my memory. In the second, I tell what Love therefore did with me. In the third, I speak of the effects of Love. The second begins here, "Love knowing;" the third here, "Forth went they." This part divides into two. In the one, I say that all my sighs issued speaking. In the other, I say how some spoke certain words different from the others. The second begins here, "And still." In this same ​manner is it divided with the other beginning, save that, in the first part, I tell when this lady had thus come into my mind, and this I say not in the other.
That lady of all gentle memories Had lighted on my soul;—whose new abode Lies now, as it was well ordained of God, Among the poor in heart, where Mary is. Love, knowing that dear image to be his, Woke up within the sick heart sorrow-bow'd, Unto the sighs which are its weary load Saying, "Go forth." And they went forth, I wis; Forth went they from my breast that throbbed and ached; With such a pang as oftentimes will bathe Mine eyes with tears when I am left alone. And still those sighs which drew the heaviest breath Came whispering thus: "O noble intellect! It is a year to-day that thou art gone."
Second Commencement.
That lady of all gentle memories Had lighted on my soul;—for whose sake flow'd The tears of Love; in whom the power abode Which led you to observe while I did this. Love, knowing that dear image to be his, etc.
Then, having sat for some space sorely in thought because of the time that was now past, I was so filled with dolorous imaginings that it became outwardly manifest in mine altered countenance. Whereupon, feeling this and being in dread lest any should have seen me, I lifted mine eyes to look; and then perceived a young and very beautiful lady, who was gazing upon me from a window with a gaze full of pity, so that the very sum of pity appeared gathered together in her. And seeing that unhappy persons, when they beget compassion in others, are then most moved unto weeping, as ​though they also felt pity for themselves, it came to pass that mine eyes began to be inclined unto tears. Wherefore, becoming fearful lest I should make manifest mine abject condition, I rose up, and went where I could not be seen of that lady; saying afterwards within myself: "Certainly with her also must abide most noble Love." And with that, I resolved upon writing a sonnet, wherein, speaking unto her, I should say all that I have just said. And as this sonnet is very evident, I will not divide it:—
Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring Into thy countenance immediately A while agone, when thou beheldst in me The sickness only hidden grief can bring; And then I knew thou wast considering How abject and forlorn my life must be; And I became afraid that thou shouldst see My weeping, and account it a base thing. ​Therefore I went out from thee; feeling how The tears were straightway loosened at my heart Beneath thine eyes' compassionate control. And afterwards I said within my soul: "Lo! with this lady dwells the counterpart Of the same Love who holds me weeping now."
It happened after this, that whensoever I was seen of this lady, she became pale and of a piteous countenance, as though it had been with love; whereby she remembered me many times of my own most noble lady, who was wont to be of a like paleness. And I know that often, when I could not weep nor in any way give ease unto mine anguish, I went to look upon this lady, who seemed to bring the tears into my eyes by the mere sight of her. Of the which thing I bethought me to speak unto her in rhyme, and then made this sonnet: which ​begins, "Love's pallor," and which is plain without being divided, by its exposition aforesaid:—
Love's pallor and the semblance of deep ruth Were never yet shown forth so perfectly In any lady's face, chancing to see Griefs miserable countenance uncouth, As in thine, lady, they have sprung to soothe, When in mine anguish thou hast looked on me; Until sometimes it seems as if, through thee, My heart might almost wander from its truth. Yet so it is, I cannot hold mine eyes From gazing very often upon thine In the sore hope to shed those tears they keep; And at such time, thou mak'st the pent tears rise Even to the brim, till the eyes waste and pine; Yet cannot they, while thou art present, weep.
At length, by the constant sight of this lady, mine ​eyes began to be gladdened overmuch with her company; through which thing many times I had much unrest, and rebuked myself as a base person: also, many times I cursed the unsteadfastness of mine eyes, and said to them inwardly: "Was not your grievous condition of weeping wont one while to make others weep? And will ye now forget this thing because a lady looketh upon you? who so looketh merely in compassion of the grief ye then showed for your own blessed lady. But whatso ye can, that do ye, accursed eyes! many a time will I make you remember it! for never, till death dry you up, should ye make an end of your weeping." And when I had spoken thus unto mine eyes, I was taken again with extreme and grievous sighing. And to the end that this inward strife which I had undergone might not be hidden from all saving the miserable wretch who endured it, I proposed to write a sonnet, and to comprehend in it this horrible ​condition. And I wrote this which begins, "The very bitter weeping."
The sonnet has two parts. In the first, I speak to my eyes, as my heart spoke within myself. In the second, I remove a difficulty, showing who it is that speaks thus: and this part begins here, "So far." It well might receive other divisions also; but this would be useless, since it is manifest by the preceding exposition.
"The very bitter weeping that ye made So long a time together, eyes of mine, 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 mayst 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."
* ↑ Thus according to some texts. The majority, however, add the words, "And therefore was I in thought:" but the shorter speech is perhaps the more forcible and pathetic.
* ↑ Boccaccio tells us that Dante was married to Gemma Donati about a year after the death of Beatrice. Can Gemma then be "the lady of the window," his love for whom Dante so contemns? Such a passing conjecture (when considered together with the interpretation of this passage in Dante's later work, the Convito) would of course imply an admission of what I believe to lie at the heart of all true Dantesque commentary; that is, the existence always of the actual events even where the allegorical superstructure has been raised by Dante himself.