Unrequited Love...

In the pub last night, I spoke to a friend of mine about the liturgical English of the Book of Common Prayer. I then compared it's influence to the evolution of modern Italian, which was due to the published works of Dante (who wrote not only in Latin but also in Medieval Italian, which, while not entirely novel for his time, was uncommon for serious works). I adore the works of Dante, a supreme poet, (except De Monarchia, which was put into the Index Librorum Prohibitorum), especially when he writes of Beatrice Portinari, his love. I am fascinated by the phenomenon of ''unrequited love'' - to love someone without hope of reciprocation, which Dante felt. I have felt love which can be said to be ''unrequited'' twice in my life (''undeclared'' would be more accurate now that I think of the former, since we were both good friends and did Irish Dancing together - I still think of her fondly, even over a decade later). I will say naught of the latter. It is bittersweet, the feeling is as sharp as a sword - at once frustratingly bitter, to love in vain, but also incomparably sweet, to have something to love. The hardest thing to cope with is to live in the ever-evident knowledge that it will never be. This is what robs one of all joy, although there were odd moments of supreme blessedness - even perhaps the faintest glimpses of the Beatific Vision, unclouded by the mire of sin - such as a kind word, a Christmas card, or even the touch of her hand. I am very ''stiff'' and upright (good posture is imperative for Irish dancing) and perhaps my trembling wasn't evident, although I believe that the eyes reveal more of the interior sentiments of mind and heart than we would otherwise willingly reveal of our own volition. I'd like to share these beautiful words from one of Dante's most famous works, La Vita Nuova (The New Life):

''After the lapse of so many days that nine years exactly were completed since the above-written appearance of this most gracious being, on the last of those days it happened that the same wonderful lady appeared to me dressed all in pure white, between two gentle ladies elder than she. And passing through a street, she turned her eyes thither where I stood sorely abashed: and by her unspeakable courtesy, which is now guerdoned [recompensed] in the Great Cycle, she saluted me with so virtuous a bearing that I seemed then and there to behold the very limits of blessedness. The hour of her most sweet salutation was certainly the ninth of that day; and because it was the first time that any words from her reached mine ears, I came into such sweetness that I parted thence as one intoxicated. And betaking me to the loneliness of mine own room, I fell to thinking of this most courteous lady, thinking of whom I was overtaken by a pleasant slumber, wherein a marvellous vision was presented to me: for there appeared to be in my room a mist of the colour of fire, within which I discerned the figure of a lord of terrible aspect to such as should gaze upon him, but who seemed therewithal to rejoice inwardly that it was a marvel to see. Speaking he said many things, among the which I could understand but few; and of these, this: 'I am thy master.' In his arms it seemed to me that a person was sleeping, covered only with a blood-coloured cloth; upon whom looking very attentively, I knew that it was the lady of the salutation who had deigned the day before to salute me. And he who held her held also in his hand a thing that was burning in flames; and he said to me, 'Behold thy heart.'

''But when he had remained with me a little while, I thought that he set himself to awaken her that slept; after the which he made her to eat that thing which flamed in his hands; and she ate as one fearing. Then, having waited again a space, all his joy was turned into most bitter weeping; and as he wept he gathered the lady into his arms, and it seemed to me that he went with her up towards heaven: whereby such a great anguish came upon me that my light slumber could not endure through it, but was suddenly broken. And immediately having considered, I knew that the hour wherein this vision had been made manifest to me was the fourth hour (which is to say, the first of the nine last hours) of the night. Then, musing on what I had seen, I proposed to relate the same to many poets who were famous in that day: and for that I had myself in some sort the art of discoursing with rhyme, I resolved on making a sonnet, in which, having saluted all such as are subject unto Love, and entreating them to expound my vision, I should write unto them those things which I had seen in my sleep. And the sonnet I made was this:

''To every heart which the sweet pain doth move,
And unto which these words may now be brought

For true interpretation and kind thought,

Be greeting in our Lord's name, which is Love.

Of those long hours wherein the stars, above,

Wake and keep watch, the [fourth] was almost nought

When Love was shown to me with such terrors fraught

As may not carelessly be spoken of.

He seem'd like one who is full of joy, and had

My heart within his hand, and on his arm

My lady, with a mantle round her, slept;

Whom (having waken'd her) anon he made

To eat that heart; she ate, as fearing harm.

Then he went out; and as he went, he wept.''

Forgive me if this all seems incomprehensible, unduly ''solemn'' or even pompous, but it speaks volumes for me. Since actual Love (in the sense of the Greek eros) is unthinkable for me, I think that the correct orientation of all my loves ought to be towards the Blessed Sacrament, and this may, perhaps in time, assuage the pain of unrequited Love, even years afterwards. It is hardly surprising, given my social inadequacy, that most of my attention and love have been devoted to characters (even places) in works of fiction, particularly Tolkien. In his works, there are two prominent cases of ''unrequited love,'' although both cases don't quite match the description accurately - namely, the love that Maeglin had for Idril (although she was his first cousin, and this was seen as perverted by the Eldar), and the love of Gimli for the Lady Galadriel. On Gimli's departure from Lothlórien, he wept as he spoke to Legolas of his pain; saying that he had looked the last upon that which is fairest. But Legolas counted him blessed, for his loss he endured of his own free will, and it might have been otherwise. Am I then ''blessed'' for having felt unrequited Love? Perhaps such questions are unanswerable. It is, however, an ineffable mystery of the Divine Majesty that pain can bring forth good (even the interior working of Grace); I guess that just depends on how we respond to it. May the Lord open my heart to His Wisdom.

The above image is a painting by Henry Holiday, and depicts Dante looking longingly at Beatrice.