al woman, has ceased to
exist; the Beatrice of his imagination only remains, a piece of his own
soul embodied in a gracious and beautiful reality, which he follows,
seeks, but never tries to approach. Of the real woman he asks nothing;
no word throughout the "Vita Nuova" of entreaty or complaint, no shadow
of desire, not a syllable of those reproaches of cruelty which Petrarch
is for ever showering upon Laura. He desires nothing of Beatrice, and
Beatrice cannot act wrongly; she is perfection, and perfection makes him
who contemplates humble at once and proud, glorifying his spirit. Once,
indeed, he would wish that she might listen to him; he has reason to
think that he has fallen in her esteem, has seemed base and uncourteous
in her eyes, and he would explain. But he does not wish to address her;
it never occurs to him that she can ever feel in any way towards him; it
is enough that he feels towards her. Let her go by and smile and
graciously salute her friends: the sight of her grave and pure
regalness, nay, rather divinity, of womanhood, suffices for his joy;
nay, later the consciousness comes upon him that it is sufficient to
know of her existence and of his love even without seeing her. And, as
must be the case in such ideal passion, where the action is wholly in
the mind of the lover, he is at first ashamed, afraid; he feels a terror
lest his love, if known to her, should excite her scorn; a horror lest
it be misunderstood and befouled by the jests of those around him, even
of those same gentle women to whom he afterwards addresses his praise of
Beatrice. He is afraid of exposing to the air of reality this ideal
flower of passion. But the moment comes when he can hide it no longer;
and, behold, the passion flower of his soul opens out more gloriously in
the sunlight of the world. He is proud of his passion, of his worship;
he feels the dignity and glory of being the priest of such a love. The
women all round, the beautiful, courteous women, of whom, only just
now, he was so dreadfully afraid, become his friends and confidants;
they are quite astonished (half in love, perhaps, with the young poet)
at this strange way of loving; they sympathize, admire, are in love with
his love for Beatrice. And to them he speaks of her rather than to men,
for the womanhood which they share with his lady consecrates them in his
eyes; and they, without jealousy towards this ideal woman, though
perhaps not without longing for this ideal