# New Life (Rossetti 1899)/Section 9

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.
​Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo! facta est quasi vidua domina gentium!
I was still occupied with this poem, (having ​composed thereof only the above-written stanza,) when the Lord God of justice called my most gracious lady unto Himself, that she might be glorious under the banner of that blessed Queen Mary, whose name had always a deep reverence in the words of holy Beatrice. And because haply it might be found good that I should say somewhat concerning her departure, I will herein declare what are the reasons which make that I shall not do so.
And the reasons are three. The first is, that such matter belongeth not of right to the present argument, if one consider the opening of this little book. The second is, that even though the present argument required it, my pen doth not suffice to write in a fit manner of this thing. And the third is, that were it both possible and of absolute necessity, it would still be unseemly for me to speak thereof, seeing that thereby it must behove ​me to speak also mine own praises: a thing that in whosoever doeth it is worthy of blame. For the which reasons, I will leave this matter to be treated of by some other than myself.
Nevertheless, as the number nine, which number hath often had mention in what hath gone before, (and not, as it might appear, without reason,) seems also to have borne a part in the manner of her death: it is therefore right that I should say somewhat thereof. And for this cause, having first said what was the part it bore herein, I will afterwards point out a reason which made that this number was so closely allied unto my lady.
I say, then, that according to the division of time in Italy, her most noble spirit departed from among us in the first hour of the ninth day of the month; and according to the division of time in Syria, in the ninth month of the year: seeing that Tismim, which with us is October, is there the first month. ​Also she was taken from among us in that year of our reckoning (to wit, of the years of our Lord) in which the perfect number was nine times multiplied within that century wherein she was born into the world: which is to say, the thirteenth century of Christians.
And touching the reason why this number was so closely allied unto her, it may peradventure be this. According to Ptolemy (and also to the Christian verity), the revolving heavens are nine; and according to the common opinion among astrologers, these nine heavens together have influence over the ​earth. Wherefore it would appear that this number was thus allied unto her for the purpose of signifying that, at her birth, all these nine heavens were at perfect unity with each other as to their influence. This is one reason that may be brought: but more narrowly considering, and according to the infallible truth, this number was her own self: that is to say, by similitude. As thus. The number three is the root of the number nine; seeing that without the interposition of any other number, being multiplied merely by itself, it produceth nine, as we manifestly perceive that three times three are nine. Thus, three being of itself the efficient of nine, and the Great Efficient of Miracles being of Himself Three Persons (to wit: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit), which, being Three, are also One:—this lady was accompanied by the number nine to the end that men might clearly perceive her to be a nine, that is, a miracle, whose only root is the ​Holy Trinity. It may be that a more subtile person would find for this thing a reason of greater subtilty: but such is the reason that I find, and that liketh me best.
After this most gracious creature had gone out from among us, the whole city came to be as it were widowed and despoiled of all dignity. Then I, left mourning in this desolate city, wrote unto the principal persons thereof, in an epistle, concerning its condition; taking for my commencement those words of Jeremias: Quomodo sedet sola civitas! etc. And I make mention of this, that none may marvel wherefore I set down these words before, in beginning to treat of her death. Also if any should blame me, in that I do not transcribe that epistle whereof I have spoken, I will make it mine excuse that I began this little book with the intent that it should be written altogether in the vulgar tongue; wherefore, seeing that the ​epistle I speak of is in Latin, it belongeth not to mine undertaking: more especially as I know that my chief friend, for whom I write this book, wished also that the whole of it should be in the vulgar tongue.
When mine eyes had wept for some while, until they were so weary with weeping that I could no longer through them give ease to my sorrow, I bethought me that a few mournful words might stand me instead of tears. And therefore I proposed to make a poem, that weeping I might speak therein of her for whom so much sorrow had destroyed my spirit; and I then began "The eyes that weep."
That this poem may seem to remain the more widowed at its close, I will divide it before writing it; and this method I will observe henceforward. I say that this poor little poem has three parts. The first is a prelude. In the second, I speak of her. In the third, I speak pitifully to the poem. The second begins here, "Beatrice is gone up;" the third ​here, "Weep, pitiful Song of mine." The first divides into three. In the first, I say what moves me to speak. In the second, I say to whom I mean to speak. In the third, I say of whom I mean to speak. The second begins here, "And because often, thinking;" the third here, "And I will say." Then, when I say, "Beatrice is gone up," I speak of her; and concerning this I have two parts. First, I tell the cause why she was taken away from us: afterwards, I say how one weeps her parting; and this part commences here, "Wonderfully." This part divides into three. In the first, I say who it is that weeps her not. In the second, I say who it is that doth weep her. In the third, I speak of my condition. The second begins here, "But sighing comes, and grief;" the third, "With sighs." Then, when I say, "Weep, pitiful Song of mine," I speak to this my song, telling it what ladies to go to, and stay with.
The eyes that weep for pity of the heart Have wept so long that their grief languisheth, And they have no more tears to weep withal: And now, if I would ease me of a part Of what, little by little, leads to death, It must be done by speech, or not at all. And because often, thinking, I recall How it was pleasant, ere she went afar, To talk of her with you, kind damozels, I talk with no one else, But only with such hearts as women's are. And I will say,—still sobbing as speech fails,— That she hath gone to Heaven suddenly, And hath left Love below, to mourn with me.
Beatrice is gone up into high Heaven, The kingdom where the angels are at peace; And lives with them; and to her friends is dead. ​Not by the frost of winter was she driven Away, like others; nor by summer-heats; But through a perfect gentleness, instead. For from the lamp of her meek lowlihead Such an exceeding glory went up hence That it woke wonder in the Eternal Sire, Until a sweet desire Entered Him for that lovely excellence, So that He bade her to Himself aspire; Counting this weary and most evil place Unworthy of a thing so full of grace.
Wonderfully out of the beautiful form Soared her clear spirit, waxing glad the while; And is in its first home, there where it is. Who speaks thereof, and feels not the tears warm Upon his face, must have become so vile As to be dead to all sweet sympathies. Out upon him! an abject wretch like this ​May not imagine anything of her,— He needs no bitter tears for his relief. But sighing comes, and grief, And the desire to find no comforter, (Save only Death, who makes all sorrow brief), To him who for a while turns in his thought How she hath been among us, and is not.
With sighs my bosom always laboureth In thinking, as I do continually, Of her for whom my heart now breaks apace; And very often when I think of death, Such a great inward longing comes to me That it will change the colour of my face; And, if the idea settles in its place, All my limbs shake as with an ague-fit: Till, starting up in wild bewilderment, I do become so shent ​That I go forth, lest folk misdoubt of it. Afterward, calling with a sore lament On Beatrice, I ask, "Canst thou be dead?" And calling on her, I am comforted.
Grief with its tears, and anguish with its sighs, Come to me now whene'er I am alone; So that I think the sight of me gives pain. And what my life hath been, that living dies, Since for my lady the New Birth's begun, I have not any language to explain. And so, dear ladies, though my heart were fain, I scarce could tell indeed how I am thus. All joy is with my bitter life at war; Yea, I am fallen so far That all men seem to say, "Go out from us," Eyeing my cold white lips, how dead they are. But she, though I be bowed unto the dust, Watches me; and will guerdon me, I trust.
​Weep, pitiful Song of mine, upon thy way, To the dames going and the damozels For whom and for none else Thy sisters have made music many a day. Thou, that art very sad and not as they, Go dwell thou with them as a mourner dwells.
After I had written this poem, I received the visit of a friend whom I counted as second unto me in the degrees of friendship, and who, moreover, had been united by the nearest kindred to that most gracious creature. And when we had a little spoken together, he began to solicit me that I would write somewhat in memory of a lady who had died; and he disguised his speech, so as to seem to be speaking of another who was but lately dead: wherefore, I, perceiving that his speech was of none other than that blessed one herself, told him that it should be done as he ​required. Then afterwards, having thought thereof, I imagined to give vent in a sonnet to some part of my hidden lamentations; but in such sort that it might seem to be spoken by this friend of mine, to whom I was to give it. And the sonnet saith thus: "Stay now with me," etc.
This sonnet has two parts. In the first, I call the Faithful of Love to hear me. In the second, I relate my miserable condition. The second begins here, "Mark how they force."
Stay now with me, and listen to my sighs, Ye piteous hearts, as pity bids ye do. Mark how they force their way out and press through; If they be once pent up, the whole life dies. Seeing that now indeed my weary eyes Oftener refuse than I can tell to you (Even though my endless grief is ever new), ​To weep and let the smothered anguish rise. Also in sighing ye shall hear me call On her whose blessed presence doth enrich The only home that well befitteth her: And ye shall hear a bitter scorn of all Sent from the inmost of my spirit in speech That mourns its joy and its joy's minister.
But when I had written this sonnet, bethinking me who he was to whom I was to give it, that it might appear to be his speech, it seemed to me that this was but a poor and barren gift for one of her so near kindred. Wherefore, before giving him this sonnet, I wrote two stanzas of a poem: the first being written in very sooth as though it were spoken by him, but the other being mine own speech, albeit, unto one who should not look closely, they would both seem to be said by the same person. Nevertheless, ​looking closely, one must perceive that it is not so, inasmuch as one does not call this most gracious creature his lady, and the other does, as is manifestly apparent. And I gave the poem and the sonnet unto my friend, saying that I had made them only for him.
The poem begins, "Whatever while," and has two parts. In the first, that is, in the first stanza, this my dear friend, her kinsman, laments. In the second, I lament; that is, in the other stanza, which begins, "For ever." And thus it appears that in this poem two persons lament, of whom one laments as a brother, the other as a servant.
Whatever while the thought comes over me That I may not again Behold that lady whom I mourn for now, About my heart my mind brings constantly So much of extreme pain ​That I say, Soul of mine, why stayest thou? Truly the anguish, Soul, that we must bow Beneath, until we win out of this life, Gives me full oft a fear that trembleth: So that I call on Death Even as on Sleep one calleth after strife, Saying, Come unto me. Life showeth grim And bare; and if one dies, I envy him.
For ever, among all my sighs which burn, There is a piteous speech That clamours upon death continually: Yea, unto him doth my whole spirit turn Since first his hand did reach My lady's life with most foul cruelty. But from the height of woman's fairness, she, Going up from us with the joy we had, Grew perfectly and spiritually fair; ​That so she spreads even there A light of Love which makes the Angels glad, And even unto their subtle minds can bring A certain awe of profound marvelling.
* ↑ "How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people! how is she become as a widow, she that was great among the nations!"—Lamentations of Jeremiah, i. 1.
* ↑ Beatrice Portinari will thus be found to have died during the first hour of the 9th of June, 1290. And from what Dante says at the commencement of this work, (viz., that she was younger than himself by eight or nine months,) it may also be gathered that her age, at the time of her death, was twenty-four years and three months. The "perfect number" mentioned in the present passage is the number ten.