The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri: The Inferno — Dante Alighieri — John Shaqi
The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri: The Inferno
Dante Alighieri · en
In all this there is certainly as much of reticence as of exaggeration.
When he comes to speak of her death he uses a phrase on which it would
seem as if too little value had been set. He cannot dwell on the
circumstances of her departure, he says, without being his own
panegyrist. Taken along with some other expressions in the _Vita Nuova_,
and the tone of her words to him when they meet in the Earthly Paradise,
we may gather from this that not only was she aware of his long
devotion, but that, ere she died, he had been given to understand how
highly she rated it. And on the occasion of her death, one described as
being her nearest relative by blood and, after Cavalcanti, Dante's chief
friend--her brother, no doubt--came to him and begged him to write
something concerning her. It would be strange indeed if they had never
looked frankly into one another's faces; and yet, for anything that is
directly told in the _Vita Nuova_, they never did.
The chief value of the _Vita Nuova_ is therefore psychological. It is a
mine of materials illustrative of the author's mental and emotional
development, but as regards historical details it is wanting in fulness
and precision. Yet, even in such a sketch of Dante's life as this tries
to be, it is necessary to dwell on the turning-points of the narrative
contained in the _Vita Nuova_; the reader always remembering that on one
side Dante says more than the fact that so he may glorify his love, and
less on another that he may not fail in consideration for Beatrice. She
is first a maiden whom no public breath is to disturb in her virgin
calm; and afterwards a chaste wife, whose lover is as jealous of her
reputation as any husband could be. The youthful lover had begun by
propounding the riddle of his love so obscurely that even by his
fellow-poets it had been found insoluble, adepts though they themselves
were in the art of smothering a thought. Then, though all his longing is
for Beatrice, lest she become the subject of common talk he feigns that
he is in love first with one lady and then with another.[41] He even
pushes his deceit so far that she rebukes him for his fickleness to one
of his sham loves by denying him the customary salutation when they
meet--this salutation being the only sign of friendship she has ever
shown. It is already some few years since the first sonnet was written.
Now, in a ballad containing a more direct avowal of his love than he has
yet ventured on,[42] he protests that it was always Beatrice his heart
was busy with, and that to her, though his eyes may have seemed to
wander, his affection was always true. In the very next poem we find him
as if debating with himself whether he shall persevere. He weighs the
ennobling influence of a pure love and the sweetness it gives to life,
against the pains and self-denial to which it condemns its servant.
Here, he tells us in his commentary, he was like a traveller who has
come to where the ways divide.