The Author of the Divine Comedy: Woman, the Lamp of His Soul

The lamp of his soul was a woman.

Early May, in Florence, on a bank of our sweet blue sea, and the people scattered abroad like little stars strewn across the sky on a summer night, lifting their songs in supplication to the Giver of warmth and blossom and clear heavens, dancing and living, pouring out the nectar of their souls and bodies as a tear of gratitude to Him who grants love and spring — the houses stand empty of their owners, in the meadows and squares a flood of humanity, and the boughs of the trees glance sidelong at another sort of embrace — even the old men make merry, for the love of beauty is wisdom, and the women retrieve their memories; the young girls gather in rows like strings of necklaces and dart at the young men sidelong glances brimming with allure, as if those needed any urging; and the little ones play their wild play, and all they behold is folly —

In early May, on the feast day of love and spring, of poetry and the body, Dante came to know her: a child not yet nine, he a child a few months her elder. He saw her crimson dress, and gazed at the crimson it enclosed. They played, and looked long at one another, and little did she know of the voices ringing in his heart before ever they reached his ear: Behold, a mighty god comes to rule over you; behold, the era of your bliss has begun... And he trembled — what bliss ever came unaccompanied by the pangs of misery? With the rose come thorns, and before the honey, stings.

Long years she was absent from him — and not absent from him a single night.

Nine years passed, and he saw her a young woman: what he had known unripe in her had ripened, and she had budded into a dew-fresh flower, walking with two of her fair friends about her — friends who did not envy her a beauty that eclipsed their own, though envy would have been her due, so much as they congratulated themselves on the gift of her company.

And he recognized in her the dreams of a hundred months, and his head spun like a drunkard's; and she turned toward him, and smiled with love. It was little you did, Beatrice — but he asks nothing more than this. Smile at him, for in your smile is solace, and in it a rebirth of joy.

And she returned to him that very night, on the arm of the Lord of Love, who bore in his left hand the lover's blazing heart — and fed it to her.

And all his nights became visions in which she appeared to him in every manner of garb, and all his days became sighs and laments on which her name was stamped, and which issued forth — and brought him forth — as fragments and poems.

You were a balm to him, binding up his wounds — why then did you go and open them afresh?

He saw her one day — and how seldom he saw her — at a wedding feast, and he trembled, and the color drained from him; and her friends noticed his alteration and began to mock him. And she too began to mock him... Alas, alas — can sin be hoarded up in the pure?

She grants him nothing but a smile, and with that he is content — why then does she refuse him even this? Because he writes verses to others? By what right does she claim him all to herself — a taking without giving? If only she understood his state, she would see that he weaves another's name into his poetry out of love for her, to keep suspicions and gossip far from her; and there is not a nail-paring's room in his heart for any other creature on earth. She is all his life, his poetry, his dreams — even if she shows herself to him only rarely.

The day she died, a girl of twenty-five... had he not already died twice before his death? She appeared to him dead in a dream, and he lay ill for days; then she departed from existence, and he lay ill for months in which he nearly followed her. But what difference is there, for him, between her life and her death? Love — did his love alter with her absence? Can distance possess it? But then — had there ever been union? How merciful You are, O God: You saw that the world of pains and sighs was not fit for this angel to dwell in, and so You raised her to the lofty world of ether.

No, Beatrice: you were more to him than you reckoned, and beyond what you supposed. You were an awakening of righteousness,

for no sooner had you turned away than sin prevailed over him, and he fell into love affairs springing from lust, affairs in which love could not know itself. And he will marry — do not knit your brow, for his heart has not forgotten, and love is not marriage. Did he knit his brow the day you married, though scorpions crawled through every part of his body?

He will make Beatrice immortal; he will immortalize those smiles and that love; he will say of her what no poet has said of any woman... But wait some years, for he feels his own inadequacy — feels that whatever he says of you falls short of what you deserve. Wait: the era of the "Paradiso" is not far off.

He will plunge into the depths of the Inferno, wander the reaches of Purgatory, and climb into the fathomless heights of Paradise, making his way toward you...

How pure you are, Beatrice: you were beauty, and you became goodness — did he, one wonders, notice any difference? You went down to Virgil and set him to guide Dante through the circles of Hell; and when he reached Purgatory you dawned upon him through the rosy dusk in a cloud of sweet flowers, clothed in love the color of flame, wrapped in hope of green, veiled in faith of white, olive boughs crowning you with wisdom...

Does he still need Paradise, now that he has seen her? How cruel she is — at the very hour of meeting she begins to rebuke him? He has committed sins, yes, and looked at other women, and her visits every night did not restrain him — he confesses it, and weeps, and begs forgiveness in remorse; will she not take pity on him? He is not to blame, when she veiled her beauty from him — from what spring, then, was the impulse to righteousness to flow? Here he stands, silent, humbled; he beholds her beauty and cannot take it in, for that would require the strength of a god; and he remains, as he has spent all his days, in dreams. How shall he describe her? If only he could. Let him contemplate her, then: it is enough for him to taste what is in her, and no need to describe it... And you lead him from place to place through Purgatory and Paradise, and expound to him the mysteries of the Kingdom — do you suppose, Beatrice, that he grasps what you are saying? At what are you gazing? You look at this apostle and at that, and you tremble when you behold the Virgin Lady... but he — he looks at none but you, and gazes at none but you...

What have you done, Beatrice? Why did you forsake him the moment after coming to his aid? You sent him a saint to guide him — what has he to do with saints? It is you he wants, you... And he looks upward, and sees you upon your ethereal throne, the symbols in which you had veiled yourself now melted away, and there you are as he saw you first and always — a woman, a woman...

Listen to him: he sends up his supplications, lavish and burning, imploring your succor: take back Bernard, whom you set in your place, and return. And you answer him, Beatrice — you answer him with a smile, and he is satisfied, and falls silent. And he goes on looking: you might yet grant another; but he remembers your warning to him: keep away from my smiles, for one day they may strike you down — did not the splendor of Zeus strike down Semele?

And he walks through Paradise, bareheaded... And people wonder why Dante never described the beauty of what is in Paradise?!