SOURCE: "An Essay on the Vita Nuova: Aspects," in Dante's "Vita Nuova," translated by Mark Musa, Indiana University Press, 1973, pp. 106-34.

[In this excerpt, Musa analyzes the various appearances of Love personified, in which two different forms of love present themselves.]

[In the Vita Nuova, the god of Love] is presented far more vividly than any of the other characters seen by the protagonist—who, for the most part, come through to the reader as shadowy shapes indeed. The first three times Love makes his entrance onto the stage of the Vita Nuova, not only are his clothes described but also his gestures and movements; and in all four of his appearances Love's voice is heard. This character, on whom a spotlight is focused, is made to behave in a way that must puzzle any reader. Love speaks Italian sometimes, sometimes Latin, and sometimes he even shifts languages in the midst of a visit. The accouterments of this actor in the scenes in which he plays his different roles vary, being those of a terrifying deity, a shabby traveler or a guardian angel. And so do his moods change, not only from scene to scene but within the same scene: from the radiant happiness of majesty, or the poised tranquility of beatitude, Love will fall into bitter weeping. Or, again, in his relationship toward the lover he may shift from kindly counselor to sublimely haughty lord, to impatient monitor, to chatty conspiratorial advisor. What can be the true significance of this mysterious, protean figure of Love, who four times appears on stage at a given moment to address the lover?

The god of Love first appears to the lover on the evening after he has received Beatrice's first greeting and returned home, ecstatic, to fall into a sweet sleep (III). He dreams he sees Love holding a sleeping lady in his arms; the figure speaks to the lover, in Latin, words that are mainly incomprehensible, and then ascends to Heaven. In Chapter IX the protagonist sees the figure of Love walking toward him along a country road; Love offers him practical advice as to maintaining the strategem of the screen-lady. In Chapter XII, just as in Chapter III, Love appears to him during his sleep, a sleep into which he has fallen grieving bitterly over the loss of his lady's greeting. In Chapter XXIV, which immediately follows the prophetic vision of Beatrice's death, the lover is sitting thoughtful in "a certain place" when he sees Love coming from the direction "where his lady was." Then Beatrice appears with another lady, and he listens to Love's comments about them.

Now this last vision is followed by an "essay" (xxv) which begins with an explanation of the author's treatment of Love; though he mentions only the scene in Chapter XXIV, his words are surely meant to apply to all of the appearances of Love. But anyone familiar with the Vita Nuova, who is interested in the significance of the figure of Love, knows that in this chapter he will find no clue to the proper interpretation of this mysterious figure. The chapter treats instead the problem of poetic license, involving particularly the device of personification (a treatment promised us somewhat cryptically in Chapter XII). And it is puzzling that precisely after the last appearance of Love Dante would refer to this figure for no other reason than a rhetorical one. Perhaps there is a more important purpose underyling this chapter, whose threefold structure can be briefly summed up.

First, he admits that, while perfectly aware of Love's being only an accident in a substance, he has treated it as if it were a substance—in fact, he has attributed to the figure of Love qualities properly human. Rather abruptly he turns to a consideration of the recent phenomenon of poets writing in the vernacular, stating that they should be allowed poetic license equal to that of the poets of antiquity: in particular, the animization or personification of abstract entities. (Curious, that of the many poetic figures recognized by medieval rhetoric, Dante specifies only the concretization of the abstract.) Finally, he illustrates the poetic license in question with quotations from the classical poets.

But he concludes the second part by allowing this poetic license to the vernacular poet only on one condition: …

… it is fitting that the vernacular poet do the same—not, of course, without some reason, but with a motive that later can be explained in prose.

And he repeats this warning toward the end of the chapter: …

For, if any one should dress his poem in images and rhetorical coloring and then, being asked to strip his poem of such dress in order to reveal its true meaning, would not be able to do so—this would be a veritable cause for shame.

This warning by the author amounts to a claim that he himself would be capable of offering the "verace intendimento" of the figure of Love, if asked to do so. To the reader who cannot ask the author to do so, these words are frustrating. But I believe they were intended to serve as a challenge to the reader, to inspire in him confidence that the device exploited is not mere ornamentation (as is the case, so the author tells us, with some poets known to him and Cavalcanti): there is indeed a "verace intendimento" which could be unmysteriously explained, and knowing this, the reader of the Vita Nuova must try, and hope, to find it. And perhaps the author is also suggesting—this would be most important—that because this significance can be ultimately made clear, no detail of his figurative presentation should be overlooked.

Of the four visions the first I find the most difficult; the simplest is the last, and with this I shall begin. In Chapter XXIV the first words of Love are a joyful command to the lover that he bless the day he became Love's captive, whereupon the lover, too, is filled with joy. Then he sees the "miraculous Beatrice" coming toward him, preceded by her friend Giovanna, called also Primavera. He hears Love speak portentous words comparing the Lady Giovanna, who comes before Beatrice, with John the Baptist proclaiming the approach of Christ. Love ends by saying: "E chi volesse sottilmente considerare, quella Beatrice chiamarebbe Amor per molta simiglianza che ha meco." ("Anyone of subtle discernment would call Beatrice Love, because she so greatly resembles me.") Thus, Love is comparing Beatrice indirectly to Christ and directly to himself.

We can surely assume, whatever the special significance we attribute to the figure of Love that, in each of the four visions in question, he always represents in some way the protagonist's love for Beatrice. And I suggest that here he represents the lover's total potential capacity for loving Beatrice as she should be loved: recognizing her Christlike nature which can only be unselfishly adored. This figure, which may be called by the formula "The Greater Aspect" of Dante's love for Beatrice, we shall see again as we go back to the other visions in the Vita Nuova.

But if we turn next to the other imaginazione (IX) among the four scenes, we will find the sharpest of contrasts. The lover himself is in a mood of dejection since he is forced to undertake a journey away from his city and from his lady; and the figure he suddenly sees coming toward him has the form of a pilgrim lightly and poorly clad—he, too, seeming dejected, staring at the ground, occasionally turning his glance toward a beautiful stream, swift and very clear, which flows alongside the path he is traveling. He advises the lover to choose a new screen-lady since the first one has left the city, and he urges him to be as ardently adept in his dissimulation with the second lady as he has been with the first. Surely this figure can only represent the "Lesser Aspect" of the protagonist's love, the lover's feelings at the moment, which are untouched by the transcendental. The lover's emotional state is reflected in the epithet "disbigottito" applied to Love—who appears dressed as a pilgrim, since the lover himself happens to be a pilgrim at the present moment. Moreover, Love is poorly dressed; with this latter detail it is as if the poet would symbolize in Love's outward appearance the inner misery he himself is experiencing. And we learn that Love is playing the role of the lover's accomplice in the foolish game of the screen-ladies. The advice he offers, of a practical, even cynical nature, is of the sort to appeal to the childishly scheming lover.

There are two other indications that the Love who figures in this scene is none other than a reflection of the protagonist's own limited feelings: one concerned with Love's entrance on stage, the other with his disappearance. Love disappears, not as a person, not as a figure disappears, but as a substance melts. There is nothing left of Love for the lover to see, we are told, because Love has become so much a part of him. The manner of his appearance or, rather, the reason for his appearance also is connected with his being a part of the lover: after speaking of his anguish at leaving Florence and Beatrice, the lover adds, as if it were the most natural thing imaginable: "e pero lo dolcissimo segnore … ne la mia imaginazione apparve come pellegrino.…" The significance of the causal pero is obvious: It was the intensity of his feelings that caused his love to take on form and shape, reflecting his own mood, before his eyes.

In Chapter XII Love appears to the protagonist in his sleep; he sees Love sitting near his bed dressed in the whitest of raiment, deep in thought. After looking for some time at the lover, the figure sighs and says "Fili mi, tempus est ut pretermictantur simulacra nostra" ("My son, it is time to do away with our false ideals"). The lover notes that Love is weeping, and senses that he is waiting for him to say something. He can only ask: "Segnore della nobilitade, e perche piangi tu?" ("Lord of all virtues, why do you weep?"). He hears the answer: …

I am like the center of a circle, equidistant from all points on the circumference; you, however, are not.

Finding these words obscure, the lover gathers courage to ask Love to explain them. Love answers, this time in Italian: "Non dimandare più che utile ti sia" ("Do not ask more than is useful to you").

The figure of the young man sitting dressed in purest white will remind any reader of the young man dressed in a long white garment sitting at the door of Christ's sepulchre. This suggestion, together with the solemnity of his Latin words, can only mean that, of the two Aspects of Love already discussed, the figure now on the stage of the lover's mind represents the Greater Aspect, that transcends the lover's own feelings on this occasion. And Love's first words of tender reproach are those of a father to a son.

Most critics have seen in Love's first words announcing the necessity of abandoning "simulacra nostra" a reference to the device of the screen-ladies; and to them the possessive pronoun nostra amounts to a confession of complicity on the part of Love, who had encouraged the protagonist to continue this device. But it is surely impossible to imagine that the noble figure here portrayed could ever have played this puerile role; it is not he but the shabbily dressed pilgrim figure of Chapter IX, the Lesser Aspect, who had done so. And to imagine that this aider—and abettor—of the lover's game of screen-ladies would suddenly appear like an angel and, addressing him as "Fili mi," confess that they had both been wrong to play this game, is absurd. As for the possessive adjective nostra I see in this not a true plural but the well-known pedagogic device ("Fili mi") recorded from antiquity, of replacing the second person singular by the first person plural as if to include the speaker along with the person addressed, the teacher with the pupil. This is a sympathetic and a patronizing device. Thus, assuming that simulacra is an illusion to the screen-ladies, the Greater Aspect would be here reproaching the lover for his weakness (that the Lesser Aspect had encouraged).

But I do not believe that the word simulacra refers specifically to the lover's use of screen-ladies, though such an allusion may well be included within the referential range of this word. In classical Latin the word simulacrum, in its philosophical application, was used of an imitation as opposed to the original, of an appearance as opposed to what is real. Thus, it could apply to any of the attitudes or actions of the young lover which were only false imitations of what true love for Beatrice should be. And if Love uses the word simulacra at this moment of the lover's development, while he is plunged in grief because of the loss of Beatrice's greeting, he must intend it to be a condemnation, particularly, of the superficiality of a love that would seek its happiness in something transient, in a reward that could be arbitrarily bestowed or withdrawn. The greeting of Beatrice had seemed to the young lover to represent the ultimate in bliss ("mi parve allora vedere tutti li termini de la beatitudine"), but it was only a seeming, a simulacrum. Thus, Love's first words would seek to teach the lover, mourning the destruction of his happiness, the vanity of that happiness itself.

At this point one could hardly expect on the part of the protagonist immediate understanding of the rebuke, and immediate agreement with Love's suggestion. It would not be unreasonable, however, to expect at least a desire to understand: the lover might have asked his lord to explain what was implied by the word simulacra so that he should know just what it was he should avoid. But if we read carefully from the beginning of the vision, it would seem as if he has not heard the words of admonition: …

About half-way through my sleep I seemed to see in my room a young man sitting near the bed dressed in the whitest of garments and, from his expression, he seemed to be deep in thought, watching me where I lay; after looking at me for some time, he seemed to sigh and to call to me, saying these words: Fili mi, tempus est ut pretermictantur simulacra nostra ("My son, it is time to do away with our false ideals.") Then I seemed to know who he was for he was calling me in the same way that many times before in my sleep he had called me; and as I watched him, it seemed to me that he was weeping piteously, and he seemed to be waiting for me to say something to him; so, gathering courage, I began to address him, saying: "Lord of all virtues, why do you weep?"

The lover has heard the first two words, of course: "Fili mi", for they have served to make him recognize his lord. (Thus, between the vision in Chapter III and this one, there must have been other times when Love appeared to the sleeping lover, addressing him in paternal terms.) He also notes that Love, silent again, is weeping and seems to be waiting for him to speak. And thus encouraged, he speaks—but, for some strange reason, only to inquire about Love's tears, not to comment on Love's message, his words of admonition, as would seem to be the normal thing to do. According to what we are offered of the protagonist's thought processes, he must have taken in only the first two words, missing the message itself: "Tempus est ut…" Once he was sure that it was Love speaking, his attention passed from Love's words to his tears and to his waiting attitude, and he evidently believed that his puerile question was what Love was waiting to hear. But, of course, if he had understood Love's admonition, he would not have needed to ask him why he wept.

Love weeps because of the simulacra. Love weeps because the lover had put an exaggerated value on a mere greeting. He also weeps because, once this was refused, the lover collapsed utterly and childishly, instead of learning from this experience the obvious lesson—which he was to learn only later, thanks to his Muse (xviii). If the lover did not understand the reason for Love's tears, little wonder that he did not understand Love's enigmatic answer, "Ego tanquam centrum circuli …"—words which have baffled generations of critics of the Vita Nuova.

As for the interpretation of these words that the lover did not understand, surely, given the context, the comparison they offer between Love and the young lover is a comparison between the two kinds of Love that must be distinguished: the lover's love, though tending toward the center is still on the circumference of the circle (where the simulacra are), while Love, the Greater Love, is, was, and always will be the irradiating center. And not only has Love, with his geometrical metaphor, set the simulacra in perspective, he has, in his self-definition, revealed his divine nature: in defining himself he uses a common Patristic definition of God. (And the Paradiso will end with the adoration of the perfection of the circle, to the movement of the three circles that are the Trinity and therefore the One.)

After the lover has been told not to ask more about what he obviously does not understand ("Non dimandare più che utile ti sia") he starts talking about himself. He laments the loss of Beatrice's greeting and asks for an explanation of it. Love tells him that Beatrice's rejection was due to the scandalous rumors about his relationship with the second screen-lady. He then proceeds to offer the lover a means of ingratiating himself with Beatrice once more, describing in some detail the kind of poem he should write her, one which would implore her forgiveness and appeal to Love himself as a witness to his loyalty: …

"Since she has really been more or less aware of your secret for quite some time, I want you to write a certain poem, in which you make clear the power I have over you through her, explaining that ever since you were a boy you have belonged to her; and, concerning this, call as witness him who knows, and say that you are begging him to testify on your behalf, and I, who am that witness, will gladly explain it to her, and from this she will understand your true feelings and, understanding them, she will also set the proper value on the words of those people who were mistaken. Let your words themselves be, as it were, an intermediary, whereby you will not be speaking directly to her, for this would not be fitting; and unless these words are accompanied by me, do not send them anywhere she could hear them; also be sure to adorn them with sweet music where I shall be present whenever this is necessary." Having said these words he disappeared, and my sleep was broken.

But how can Love speak this way? The white-robed figure, reminiscent of St. Mark's angelic guard at the tomb of Christ, who at the beginning had been concerned only with transcendental values, is now interested in giving practical advice—encouraging the lover, in fact, to seek again the kind of happiness that can only fail, to concern himself again with simulacra? And the elegant speaker of sententious, epigrammatic Latin engages in this long-winded chatter? It is clear that with the introduction of this note of familiarity the atmosphere of deep seriousness, of awesome majesty that surrounded the figure of Love at the beginning has entirely disappeared.

It is, of course, the Lesser Aspect that gives this worldly advice, so easy (alas) for the young lover to understand: in the lover's mind the god has turned into the Amore of Chapter IX, who is on a plane no higher than that of the lover himself. The last words that we hear the Greater Aspect speak are the peremptory "Non dimandare più che utile ti sia"—which, however, being in Italian, prepare for the shift to the Lesser Aspect, serving as a hinge on which the two parts of the vision turn. That we have to do now with the Amore of Chapter IX is shown, not only by the tone of Love's words and the nature of his advice, but also by the fact that in his explanation of Beatrice's decision, when speaking of the lady chosen as the second screen, he calls her "… la donna la quale io ti nominai nel cammino de li sospiri …," thereby identifying himself with the shabby, dejected figure of the pilgrim-Love. And if it is clear from these words that the one who abets the lover in his superficial program of wooing must be the same as the figure in Chapter IX, it should be just as clear that he cannot possibly be the one who appeared on stage saying, "Fili mi, tempus est. …" There has been a shift of identity. And since such a vision as this is comparable to a dream, in which one figure may easily turn into another, this shift in the lover's mind needs no psychological justification.

Now that we have recognized the possibility of a shift from the one to the other aspect of Love when this figure appears on stage to speak to the lover, it is only natural to wonder if this will be realized in the next appearance of Love to be considered—that is, the first of the four appearances of Love in the Vita Nuova. As the lover is sleeping sweetly, after having received Beatrice's first greeting, a marvelous vision comes to him in which he sees first a flame-colored cloud, then a figure in the cloud, whose aspect is frightening to look upon, yet expresses the deepest happiness. He speaks to the lover at length, though only a few of his words such as "Ego dominus tuus" are understandable to him. As he speaks, the lover sees that this awesome figure is holding in his arms a sleeping female figure, naked except for a crimson cloth in which she is loosely wrapped. Slowly the lover recognizes her as his lady; he also notes that the lordly man (who we know must be Love) holding the lady has in his hand a burning object; and he hears the words "Vide cor tuum." After some time has passed Love awakens the lady and cunningly forces her to eat of the burning object. This she does, reluctantly. After another passage of time Love's joy turns to bitterest grief and weeping he folds his arms about the lady and ascends with her toward Heaven. The lover's anguish at their departure breaks his sleep.

This figure who comes during the first of the last nine hours of the night, in the midst of a cloud the color of flame (suggesting the burning bush in which God appeared to Moses), who speaks in Latin and announces his lordship over the lover, and whose aspect is both radiant and terrifying is, obviously, the Greater Aspect of Love. At the end he ascends to Heaven; thus, the figure who appears with Beatrice and who departs with her must represent the same Aspect. And it must also be this divine being who, in the middle of the episode, says to the lover "Vide cor tuum." But I believe that in the lines following these words, in the interval of time that elapsed between Love's last words and the lady's awakening, there has been a shift from the Greater to the Lesser Aspect. "Vide cor tuum" is followed by "E quando elli era stato alquanto, pareami che disvegliasse questa che dormia.…" After the lady is made to eat the heart reluctantly, there is another pause in the action before the figure of Love, now weeping, will disappear: "Appresso ciò poco dimorava che la sue letizia si convertia in amarissimo pianto"—a pause allowing for a second shift of Aspect, back to the first again. That the author has taken pains twice to indicate a lapse of time must be significant; and that his intention has been to set off this central action, to differentiate it from what precedes and what follows, is highly likely. And these two breaks could serve not only as dividers but to allow time for something to happen during the intervals in which nothing seems to happen.

Beatrice asleep in Love's arms is Beatrice dead, already in glory, pure spirit. When she is awakened she becomes a woman of flesh and blood, and her nakedness takes on warmth in the imagination. Perfect Love could not desire such a return to the carnal. Perfect Love could not try to force, to seduce the Beloved into an act against her nature, as the figure of Love does here: …

And after some time had passed, he seemed to awaken the one who slept, and he forced her cunningly to eat of that burning object in his hand; she ate of it timidly.

When the figure of Perfect Love returns once more to the lover's imagination, the figure can only weep. He weeps because the lover's heart which he had declared to be in his possession ("Vide cor tuum") has been given over to the Lesser Love, which would make carnal the spiritual and, because of its covetousness, could envisage arousing covetousness in the miraculous Beatrice. It is difficult to understand the attitude of those critics who find sublimity in Love's gruesome act of forcing the lady to eat the lover's heart.

Now that the four visions have been discussed in the order: 4-3-2-1 (for reasons which should have become rather clear), let us sum up the sequence again in its original order. The figure of love capable of representing either the Greater or the Lesser Aspect, appears for the first time in Chapter III at its most dynamic and paradoxical: shifting from the Greater to the Lesser, back to the Greater Aspect again. The sonnet that the lover writes describing the vision with a minimum of detail, he sends to his literary friends challenging them to discover its significance. And in the chapter immediately following we are told that for some time after his vision his digestive system was so upset that his friends were concerned about his haggard appearance. The literary maneuver may be a sign that the meaning of the vision was not clear to the poet-protagonist (not that such a sign is necessary), and the bad health which followed suggests that the memories of it must have tortured him.

In Chapter IX Love appears in abject form as the symbol of the protagonist-lover's superficial dalliance with the screen ladies. There are two details in the description of this figure which were passed over in the first discussion of Chapter IX and which are very important for establishing a link with the preceding vision. First, the pilgrim-Love is carrying the lover's heart in his hand, taking it, he says to the new screen-lady. Now, in Chapter III it is clearly the Greater Love that comes on stage with the young lover's heart in his possession; but I suggested that in the central episode of this vision the lover had given it over to the Lesser Love—who, in Chapter IX, still has it. The second link with the vision of Chapter III is of a different sort: in the second quatrain of the sonnet ("Cavalcando l'altrier …") following the prose narrative, the figure of Love, who will advise the lover about the second screen lady, is described as having suffered a change: "Ne la sembianza mi parea meschino,/ come avesse perduto segnoria." The "segnoria" that has been lost is the majesty of the radiant figure who presented himself to the lover saying, "Ego dominus tuus," in his first appearance. In the chapter that follows, the lover earnestly puts into practice the god's advice: the first of two times he will carry out the suggestion of the Lesser Love.

Nine chapters after his first appearance the Greater Love returns to the stage of the Vita Nuova, again waking the lover, again speaking Latin. This time there is no vague reference to "molte cose" spoken by Love which the lover did not understand. Apparently he said to him only two things in Latin, then turned to Italian to rebuke him sharply. The peremptory words, with the sudden shift from Latin to Italian, serve a purpose ultimately similar to the "lapses of time" indicated in Chapter III, only that whereas the latter allow for something unexpected to happen, for something to emerge out of the interval of time, the rebuke in Italian comes as a sharp announcement of change already on its way.

The obvious connection between the Lesser Love who will come to dominate the stage in Chapter XII, and the pilgrim-Love of Chapter IX has already been pointed out—a connection insisted on by Love himself ("… la donna la quale io ti nominai nel cammino de li sospiri"). I would add that there is also a connection between this figure in Chapter XII, now giving elaborate instructions as to the means of winning back Beatrice's favor, and the one in Chapter III who, in the central episode, was intent on seducing Madonna: that Love who forced the lady with all his art to eat the lover's burning heart. And it is the influence of the Lesser Aspect that continues beyond the vision described: in the ballata, concluding the chapter, which the lover dutifully wrote at this figure's command. And it is surely in order that the influence of the Lesser Love should prolong itself beyond the vision that the poem closing the chapter represents this fulfillment of Love's worldly advice rather than sets forth a "recapitulative" version of the vision—the only vision of Love's appearance not described in verse, as was pointed out but not explained in the first part of this essay.

But it becomes clear in the following chapter that the first part of the vision, in which the Greater Love had spoken words the lover did not understand, had also made a strong impression on him. For this chapter is devoted to a "battle of the thoughts" about the nature of love: …

After this last vision, when I had already written what Love commanded me to write, many and diverse thoughts began to assail and try me, against which I was defenseless; among these thoughts were four that seemed to disturb most my peace of mind. The first was this: the lordship of Love is good since he keeps the mind of his faithful servant away from all evil things. The next was this: the lordship of Love is not good because the more fidelity his faithful one shows him, the heavier and more painful are the moments he must live through. Another was this: the name of Love is so sweet to hear that it seems impossible to me that the effect itself should be in most things other than sweet, since, as has often been said, names are the consequences of the things they name: Nomina sunt consequentia rerum. The fourth was this: the lady through whom Love makes you suffer so is not like other ladies, whose heart can be easily moved to change its attitude. And each one of these thoughts attacked me so forcefully that it made me feel like one who does not know what direction to take, who wants to start and does not know which way to go. And as for the idea of trying to find a common road for all of them, that is, one where all might come together, this was completely alien to me: namely, appealing to Pity and throwing myself into her arms. While I was in this mood, the desire to write some poetry about it came to me, and so I wrote this sonnet which begins: "All my thoughts."

The problem he is struggling with is basically the eternal theme of the paradoxical nature of love. Still, it can be no coincidence that the only time he concerns himself with this topos is after the vision which contains conflicting aspects of Love. Perhaps the first of the four thoughts that comes to him, which stresses moral values, represents an attempt to think in terms of the Greater Aspect. The second thought, obviously, can apply only to the Lesser Aspect. The third merely describes the familiar oxymoric nature of love, with a touch of scholastic coloring. Whether the last thought is simply the conventional regret that the lady is unyielding, or whether it contains the recognition of the uniqueness of his lady Beatrice, is not too clear. But at least it is undeniable that the lover has been struggling with the problem of the nature of love after a second vision opposing Love's two natures.

In my treatment of the vision in Chapter XXIV, a number of fine details were left undiscussed, since I was faced with the problem of establishing for the first time the identity of the figure of Love. To understand the full significance of this vision the reader should examine carefully the opening lines of the chapter, that set the stage for Love's appearance:.

After this wild dream I happened one day to be sitting in a certain place deep in thought, when I felt a tremor begin in my heart, as if I were in the presence of my lady. Then a vision of Love came to me, and I seemed to see him coming from that place where my lady dwelt, and he seemed to say joyously from within my heart: "See that you bless the day that I took you captive; it is your duty to do so." And it truly seemed to me that my heart was happy, so happy that it did not seem to be my heart because of this change. Shortly after my heart had said these words, speaking with the tongue of Love, I saw coming toward me a gentlewoman, noted for her beauty, who had been the much-loved lady of my best friend.

The "vana imaginazione" mentioned in the opening line is the prophetic vision of Beatrice's death. That a connection exists between that vision, described in terms suggesting the Crucifixion, and this one in which Beatrice is indirectly compared to Christ, is obvious. In fact, the lover might not have been capable of having this last vision of Love until after having experienced the one prophetic of her death; this is surely suggested by the words of Love himself that describe the significance of the name of Beatrice's companion, Primavera. He tells the lover: …

The one in front is called Primavera only because of the way she comes today; for I inspired the giver of her name to call her Primavera, meaning 'she will come first' (prima verrà) on the day that Beatrice shows herself after the dream of her faithful one. …

Thus Love had planned this vision in advance, a plan which involved his inspiring one of Giovanna's friends to give her the nickname Primavera—intending this vision to take place after the vision of Beatrice's death, after the "vane imaginazione."

We are also told, in the opening sentence of the chapter, that the lover's heart began to tremble just before the appearance of Love; the fact that this tremor was of the sort he was accustomed to have when in the presence of his lady, prepares the way for the assimilation of Beatrice to Love at the conclusion of the vision. But this assimilation had already been suggested by degrees: the figure who appears in Chapter III, enveloped in a flame-colored cloud, will reappear in Chapter XII clothed in a garment of purest white; thus, Beatrice's two colors, red and white, belong to the god of Love.

Finally, there is the remarkable fusion between the god and the lover-protagonist, a fusion that takes place almost immediately: he sees Love only briefly, coming from a certain direction; when he hears him speak, the words of Love come from the lover's heart. In the three visions preceding that of Chapter XXIV the Lesser Aspect of Love had been represented: Chapter IX was exclusively concerned with this Aspect, while Chapters IN and xii contained a shift from the Greater to the Lesser. And in all three cases this Aspect had been taken as being identical with the lover's feelings at the moment, so far below the level of the Greater Aspect that he could not understand him in the two cases when this being spoke to him. Here, in Chapter XXIV, as we have seen, there is no shift from the Greater to the Lesser; at the same time, however, there is no contrast between the mood of the god and that of the lover-at-the-moment. He has understood him completely, for now the god is speaking from within the lover's heart. For the first time the lover's feelings of the moment have been raised to the height of the Greater Aspect.

And after this high point reached in Chapter XXIV we shall not see the figure of Love again. But surely the young lover does. In that final vision which he withholds from us, which inspired him to stop writing about his love for Beatrice until he could do so more worthily, he must have seen Beatrice in glory; already in Chapter XLI he had caught a glimpse of

… a lady held in reverence,
splendid in light, and through her radiance
the pilgrim spirit looks upon her being.

And if he sees, at the end, the celestial radiance of Beatrice, how could the figure of Love be absent from his imagination—Love who had proclaimed the Christlike nature of Beatrice and her likeness to himself. And this time, too, the lover must have been raised to the level of the Greater Aspect, never again to sink below it.