The Divine Comedy of Dante Aligheri

Translated by Charles Eliot Norton


CONTENTS


CANTO I.
Invocation to the Muses.—Dawn of Easter on the shore of Purgatory.—The
Four Stars.—Cato.—The cleansing of Dante from the stains of Hell.

CANTO II. Sunrise.—The Poets on the shore.—Coming of a boat, guided by
an angel, bearing souls to Purgatory.—Their landing.—Casella and his
song.—Cato hurries the souls to the mountain.

CANTO III.
Ante-Purgatory.—Souls of those who have died in contumacy of the
Church.—Manfred.

CANTO IV.
Ante-Purgatory.—Ascent to a shelf of the mountain.—The negligent, who
postponed repentance to the last hour—Belacqua.

CANTO V.
Ante-Purgatory.—Spirits who had delayed repentance, and met with death
by violence, but died repentant.—Jacopo del Cassero.—Buonconte da
Montefeltro.—Via de’ Tolomei.

CANTO VI.
Ante-Purgatory.—More spirits who had deferred repentance till they were
overtaken by a violent death.—Efficacy of prayer.—Sordello.—Apostrophe
to Italy.

CANTO VII.
Virgil makes himself known to Sordello.—Sordello leads the Poets to the
Valley of the Princes who have been negligent of salvation.—He points
them out by name.

CANTO VIII.
Valley of the Princes.—Two Guardian Angels.—Nino Visconti.—The
Serpent.—Corrado Malaspina.

CANTO IX.
Slumber and Dream of Dante.—The Eagle.—Lucia.—The Gate of
Purgatory.—The Angelic Gatekeeper.—Seven P’s inscribed on Dante’s
Forehead.—Entrance to the First Ledge.

CANTO X.
First Ledge the Proud.—Examples of humility sculptured on the Rock.

CANTO XI.
First Ledge: the Proud.—Prayer.—Omberto Aldobrandeschi.—Oderisi d’
Agubbio.—Provinzan Salvani.

CANTO XII.
First Ledge: the Proud.—Examples of the punishment of Pride graven on
the pavement.—Meeting with an Angel who removes one of the P’s.—Ascent
to the Second Ledge.

CANTO XIII.
Second Ledge: the Envious.—Examples of Love.—The Shades in haircloth,
and with sealed eyes.—Sapla of Siena.

CANTO XIV.
Second Ledge: the Envious.—Guido del Duca.—Rinieri de’
Calboli.—Examples of the punishment of Envy.

CANTO XV.
Second Ledge: the Envious.—An Angel removes the second P from Dante’s
forehead.—Discourse concerning the Sharing of Good.—Ascent to the Third
Ledge: the Wrathful.—Examples of Forbearance seen in Vision.

CANTO XVI.
Third Ledge: the Wrathful.—Marco Lombardo.—His discourse on Free Will,
and the Corruption of the World.

CANTO XVII.
Third Ledge: the Wrathful.—Issue from the Smoke.—Vision of examples of
Anger—Ascent to the Fourth Ledge, where Sloth is purged—Second
Nightfall—Virgil explains how Love is the root of Virtue and of Sin.

CANTO XVIII.
Fourth Ledge: the Slothful.—Discourse of Virgil on Love and Free
Will.—Throng of Spirits running in haste to redeem their Sin.—The Abbot
of San Zeno.—Dante falls asleep.

CANTO XIX.
Fourth Ledge: the Slothful.—Dante dreams of the Siren—The Angel of the
Pass.—Ascent to the Fifth Ledge.—Pope Adrian V.

CANTO XX.
Fifth Ledge: the Avaricious.—The Spirits celebrate examples of Poverty
and Bounty.—Hugh Capet.—His discourse on his descendants.—Trembling of
the Mountain.

CANTO XXI.
Fifth Ledge: the Avaricious.—Statius.—Cause of the trembling of the
Mountain.—Statius does honor to Virgil.

CANTO XXII.
Ascent to the Sixth Ledge—Discourse of Statius and Virgil.—Entrance to
the Ledge: the Gluttonous.—The Mystic Tree.—Examples of Temperance.

CANTO XXIII.
Sixth Ledge the Gluttonous.—Forese Donati.—Nella.—Rebuke of the women
of Florence.

CANTO XXIV.
Sixth Ledge: the Gluttonous.—Forese Donati.—Bonagiunta of Lucca.—Pope
Martin IV.—Ubaldin dalla Pila.—Bonifazio.—Messer Marchese.—Prophecy of
Bonagiunta concerning Gentucca, and of Forese concerning Corso de’
Donati.—Second Mystic Tree.—The Angel of the Pass.

CANTO XXV.
Ascent to the Seventh Ledge.—Discourse of Statius on generation, the
infusion of the Soul into the body, and the corporeal semblance of
Souls after death.—The Seventh Ledge:the Lustful.—The mode of their
Purification.

CANTO XXVI.
Seventh Ledge: the Lustful.—Sinners in the fire, going in opposite
directions.—Guido Guinicelli.—Arnaut Daniel.

CANTO XXVII.
Seventh Ledge: the Lustful.—Passage through the Flames.—Stairway in the
rock.—Night upon the stairs.—Dream of Dante.—Morning.—Ascent to the
Earthly Paradise.—Last words of Virgil.

CANTO XXVIII.
The Earthly Paradise.—The Forest.—A Lady gathering flowers on the bank
of a little stream.—Discourse with her concerning the nature of the
place.

CANTO XXIX.
The Earthly Paradise.—Mystic Procession or Triumph of the Church.

CANTO XXX.
The Earthly Paradise.—Beatrice appears.—Departure of Virgil.—Reproof of
Dante by Beatrice.

CANTO XXXI.
The Earthly Paradise.—Reproachful discourse of Beatrice, and confession
of Dante.—Passage of Lethe.—Appeal of the Virtues to Beatrice.—Her
Unveiling.

CANTO XXXII.
The Earthly Paradise.—Return of the Triumphal procession.—The Chariot
bound to the Mystic Tree.—Sleep of Dante.—His waking to find the
Triumph departed.—Transformation of the Chariot.—The Harlot and the
Giant.

CANTO XXXIII.
The Earthly Paradise.—Prophecy of Beatrice concerning one who shall
restore the Empire.—Her discourse with Dante.—The river Eunoe.—Dante
drinks of it, and is fit to ascend to Heaven.




PURGATORY




CANTO I.


Invocation to the Muses.—Dawn of Easter on the shore of Purgatory.—The
Four Stars.—Cato.—The cleansing of Dante from the stains of Hell.


To run over better waters the little vessel of my genius now hoists its
sails, and leaves behind itself a sea so cruel; and I will sing of that
second realm where the human spirit is purified and becomes worthy to
ascend to heaven.

But here let dead poesy rise again, O holy Muses, since yours I am, and
here let Calliope somewhat mount up, accompanying my song with that
sound of which the wretched Picae felt the stroke such that they
despaired of pardon.[1]

[1] The nine daughters of Pieros, king of Emathia, who, contending in
song with the Muses, were for their presumption changed to magpies.


A sweet color of oriental sapphire, which was gathering in the serene
aspect of the sky, pure even to the first circle,[1] renewed delight to
my eyes soon as I issued forth from the dead air that had afflicted my
eyes and my breast. The fair planet which incites to love was making
all the Orient to smile, veiling the Fishes that were in her train.[2]
I turned me to the right hand, and fixed my mind upon the other pole,
and saw four stars never seen save by the first people.[3] The heavens
appeared to rejoice in their flamelets. O widowed northern region,
since thou art deprived of beholding these!

[1] By “the first circle,” Dante seems to mean the horizon.


[2] At the spring equinox Venus is in the sign of the Pisces, which
immediately precedes that of Aries, in which is the Sun. The time
indicated is therefore an hour or more before sunrise on Easter
morning, April 10.


When I had withdrawn from regarding them, turning me a little to the
other pole, there whence the Wain had already disappeared, I saw close
to me an old man alone, worthy in look of so much reverence that no son
owes more unto his father.[1] He wore a long beard and mingled with
white hair, like his locks, of which a double list fell upon his
breast. The rays of the four holy stars so adorned his face with light,
that I saw him, as if the sun had been in front.

[1] These stars are the symbols of the four Cardinal Virtues,—Prudence,
Temperance, Fortitude, and Justice,—the virtues of active life,
sufficient to guide men in the right path, but not to bring them to
Paradise. By the first people arc probably meant Adam and Eve, who from
the terrestrial Paradise, on the summit of the Mount of Purgatory, had
seen these stars, visible only from the Southern hemisphere. According
to the geography of the time Asia and Africa lay north of the equator,
so that even to their inhabitants these stars were invisible. Possibly
the meaning is that these stars, symbolizing the cardinal virtues, had
been visible only in the golden age.


This old man, as soon appears, is the younger Cato, and the office here
given to him of warden of the souls in the outer region of Purgatory
was suggested by the position assigned to him by Virgil in the Aeneid,
viii. 670. “Secretosque pios, his dantem jura Catonem.”

It has been objected to Virgil’s thus putting him in Elysium, that as a
suicide his place was in the Mourning Fields. A similar objection may
be made to Dante’s separating him from the other suicides in the
seventh circle of Hell (Canto XIII.). “But,” says Conington, “Virgil
did not aim at perfect consistency. It was enough for him that Cato was
one who from his character in life might be justly conceived of as
lawgiver to the dead.” So Dante, using Cato as an allegoric figure,
regards him as one who, before the coming of Christ, practised the
virtues which are required to liberate the soul from sin, and who, as
be says in the De Monarchia (ii. 5), “that he might kindle the love of
liberty in the world, showed how precious it was, by preferring death
with liberty to life without it.” This liberty is the type of that
spiritual freedom which Dante is seeking, and which, being the perfect
conformity of the human will to the will of God, is the aim and
fruition of nil redeemed souls.

In the region of Purgatory outside the gate, the souls have not yet
attained this freedom; they are on the way to it, and Cato is
allegorically fit to warn and spur them on.

“Who are ye that counter to the blind stream have fled from the eternal
prison?” said he, moving those venerable plumes. “Who has guided you?
Or who was a lamp to you, issuing forth from the deep night that ever
makes the infernal valley black? Are the laws of the abyss thus broken?
or is a new design changed in heaven that, being damned, ye come unto
my rocks?”

My Leader then took hold of me, and with words, and with hands, and
with signs, made my legs and my brow reverent. Then he answered him,
“Of myself I came not; a Lady descended from Heaven, through whose
prayers I succored this man with my company. But since it is thy will
that more of our condition be unfolded to thee as it truly is, mine
cannot be that to thee this be denied. This man has not seen his last
evening, but through his folly was so near thereto that very little
time there was to turn. Even as I have said, I was sent to him to
rescue him, and there was no other way than this, along which I have
set myself. I have shown to him all the guilty people; and now I intend
to show him those spirits that purge themselves under thy ward. How I
have led him, it would be long to tell thee; from on high descends
power that aids me to conduct him to see thee and to hear thee. Now may
it please thee to approve his coming. He goes seeking liberty, which is
so dear, as he knows who for her refuses life. Thou knowest it, for
death for her sake was not hitter to thee in Utica, where thou didst
leave the garment that on the great day shall he so bright. The eternal
edicts are not violated by us, for this one is alive, and Minos does
not bind me; but I am of the circle where are the chaste eyes of thy
Marcia, who in her look still prays thee, O holy breast, that for thine
own thou hold her. For her love, then, incline thyself to us; let us go
on through thy seven realms.[1] Thanks unto thee will I carry back to
her, if to be mentioned there below thou deign.”

[1] The seven circles of Purgatory.


“Marcia so pleased my eyes while I was on earth,” said he then, “that
whatsoever grace she wished from me I did it; now, that on the other
side of the evil stream she dwells, she can no more move me, by that
law which was made when thence I issued forth.[1] But if a Lady of
heaven move and direct thee, as thou sayest, there is no need of
flattery; suffice it fully to thee that for her sake thou askest me. Go
then, and see thou gird this one with a smooth rush, and that thou wash
his face so that thou remove all sully from it, for it were not
befitting to go with eye overcast by any cloud before the first
minister that is of those of Paradise. This little island, round about
at its base, down there yonder where the wave heats it, bears rushes
upon its soft ooze. No plant of other kind, that might put forth leaf
or grow hard, can there have life, because it yields not to the shocks.
Thereafter let not your return be this way; the Sun which now is rising
will show you to take the mountain by easier ascent.”

[1] The law that the redeemed cannot be touched by other than heavenly
affections.


So he disappeared, and I rose up, without speaking, and drew me close
to my Leader, and turned my eyes to him. He began, “Son, follow my
steps; let us turn back, for this plain slopes that way to its low
limits.”

The dawn was vanquishing the matin hour which fled before it, so that
from afar I discerned the trembling of the sea. We set forth over the
solitary plain like a man who turns unto the road which he has lost,
and, till he come to it, seems to himself to go in vain. When we were
where the dew contends with the sun, and, through being in a place
where there is shade, is little dissipated, my Master softly placed
both his hands outspread upon the grass. Whereon I, who perceived his
design, stretched toward him my tear-stained cheeks. Here he wholly
uncovered that color of mine which hell had hidden on me.[1]

[1] Allegorically, when the soul has entered upon the way of
purification Reason, with the dew of repentance, washes off the stain
of sin, and girds the spirit with humility.


We came, then, to the desert shore that never saw navigate its waters
one who afterwards had experience of return. Here he girt me, even as
pleased the other. O marvel! that such as he plucked the humble plant,
it instantly sprang up again there whence he tore it.[1]

[1] The goods of the spirit are not diminished by appropriation.




CANTO II.


Sunrise.—The Poets on the shore.—Coming of a boat, guided by an angel,
bearing souls to Purgatory.—Their landing.—Casella and his song.—Cato
hurries the souls to the mountain.


Now had the sun reached the horizon whose meridian circle covers
Jerusalem with its highest point; and the night which circles opposite
to it was issuing forth from Ganges with the Scales that fall from her
hand when she exceeds;[1] so that where I was the white and red cheeks
of the beautiful Aurora by too much age were becoming orange.

[1] Purgatory and Jerusalem are antipodal, and in one direction the
Ganges or India was arbitrarily assumed to be their common horizon. The
night is here taken as the point of the Heavens opposite the sun, and
the sun being in Aries, the night is in Libra. When night exceeds, that
is, at the autumnal equinox, when the night becomes longer than the
day, the Scales may be said to drop from her hand, since the sun enters
Libra.


We were still alongside the sea, like folk who are thinking of their
road, who go in heart and linger in body; and lo! as, at approach of
the morning, through the dense vapors Mars glows ruddy, down in the
west above the ocean floor, such appeared to me,—so may I again behold
it!—a light along the sea coming so swiftly that no flight equals its
motion. From which when I had a little withdrawn my eye to ask my
Leader, again I saw it, brighter become and larger. Then on each side
of it appeared to me a something, I know not what, white, and beneath,
little by little, another came forth from it. My Master still said not
a word, until the first white things showed themselves wings; then,
When he clearly recognized the pilot, he cried out, “Mind, mind, thou
bend thy knees. Lo! the Angel of God: fold thy hands; henceforth shalt
thou see such officials. See how he scorns human means, so that he
wills not oar, or other sail than his own wings between such distant
shores. See, how he holds them straight toward heaven, stroking the air
with his eternal feathers that are not changed like mortal hair.”

Then, as nearer and nearer toward us came the Bird Divine, the brighter
he appeared; so that near by my eye endured him not, but I bent it
down: and he came on to the shore with a small vessel, very swift and
light so that the water swallowed naught of it. At the stern stood the
Celestial Pilot, such that if but described he would make blessed; and
more than a hundred spirits sat within. “In exitu Israel de Egypto”[1]
they all were singing together with one voice, with whatso of that
psalm is after written. Then he made the sign of holy cross upon them;
whereon they all threw themselves upon the strand; and he went away
swift as he had come.

1 “When Israel went out of Egypt.” Psalm cxiv.

The crowd which remained there seemed strange to the place, gazing
round about like him who of new things makes essay. On all sides the
Sun, who had with his bright arrows chased from midheaven the
Capricorn,[1] was shooting forth the day, when the new people raised
their brow toward us, saying to us, “If ye know, show us the way to go
unto the mountain.” And Virgil answered, “Ye believe, perchance, that
we are acquainted with this place, but we are pilgrims even as ye are.
Just now we came, a little before you, by another way, which was so
rough and difficult that the ascent henceforth will seem play to us.

[1] When Aries, in which the Sun was rising, is on the horizon,
Capricorn is at the zenith.


The souls who had become aware concerning me by my breathing, that I
was still alive, marvelling became deadly pale. And as to a messenger
who bears an olive branch the folk press to hear news, and no one shows
himself shy of crowding, so, at the sight of me, those fortunate souls
stopped still, all of them, as if forgetting to go to make themselves
fair.

I saw one of them drawing forward to embrace me with so great affection
that it moved me to do the like. O shades empty save in aspect! Three
times behind it I clasped my hands and as oft returned with them unto
my breast. With marvel, I believe, I painted me; wherefore the shade
smiled and drew back, and I, following it, pressed forward, Gently it
said, that I should pause; then I knew who it was, and I prayed it that
to speak with me it would stop a little. It replied to me, “So as I
loved thee in the mortal body, so loosed from it I love thee; therefore
I stop; but wherefore goest thou?”

“Casella mine, in order to return another time to this place where I
am, do I make this journey,” said I, “but from thee how has so much
time been taken?”[1]

[1] “How has thy coming hither been delayed so long since thy death?”


And he to me, “No wrong has been done me if he[1] who takes both when
and whom it pleases him ofttimes hath denied to me this passage; for of
a just will[2] his own is made. Truly for three months he has taken
with all peace whoso has wished to enter. Wherefore I who was now
turned to the seashore where the water of Tiber grows salt was
benignantly received by him.[3] To that outlet has he now turned his
wing, because always those assemble there who towards Acheron do not
descend.”

[1] The Celestial Pilot.


[2] That is, of the Divine Will; but there is no explanation of the
motive of the delay.


[3] The Tiber is the local symbol of the Church of Rome, from whose
bosom those who die at peace with her pass to Purgatory. The Jubilee,
proclaimed by Boniface VIII., had begun at Christmas, 1299, so that for
three months now the Celestial Pilot had received graciously all who
had taken advantage of it to gain remission of their sins.


And I, “If a new law take not from thee memory or practice of the song
of love which was wont to quiet in me all my longings, may it please
thee therewith somewhat to comfort my soul, which coming hither with
its body is so wearied.”

“Love which in my mind discourseth with me,”[1] began he then so
sweetly that the sweetness still within me sounds.[2] My Master, and I,
and that folk who were with him, appeared so content as if naught else
could touch the mind of any.

[1] The first verse of a canzone by Dante; the canzone is the second of
those upon which he comments in his Convito.


[2] Every English reader recalls Milton’s Sonnet to Mr. Henry Lawes:—
“Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
  Than his Casella, whom he woo’d to sing,
   Met in the milder shades of purgatory.”


Nothing is known of Casella beyond what is implied in Dante’s
affectionate record of their meeting.

We were all fixed and attentive to his notes; and lo! the venerable old
man crying, “What is this, ye laggard spirits? What negligence, what
stay is this? Run to the mountain to strip off the slough that lets not
God be manifest to you.”

As, when gathering grain or tare, the doves assembled at their feeding,
quiet, without display of their accustomed pride, if aught appear of
which they are afraid, suddenly let the food alone, because they are
assailed by a greater care, so I saw that fresh troop leave the song,
and go towards the hill-side, like one that goes but knows not where he
may come out. Nor was our departure less speedy.




CANTO III.


Ante-Purgatory.—Souls of those who have died in contumacy of the
Church.—Manfred.


Inasmuch as the sudden flight had scattered them over the plain, turned
to the mount whereto reason spurs us, I drew me close to my trusty
companion. And how should I without him have run? Who would have drawn
me up over the mountain? He seemed to me of his own self remorseful. O
conscience, upright and stainless, how bitter a sting to thee is little
fault!

When his feet left the haste that takes the seemliness from every act,
my mind, which at first had been restrained, let loose its attention,
as though eager, and I turned my face unto the hill that towards the
heaven rises highest from the sea. The sun, which behind was flaming
ruddy, was broken in front of me by the figure that the staying of its
rays upon me formed. When I saw the ground darkened only in front of
me, I turned me to my side with fear of being abandoned: and my
Comfort, wholly turning to me, began to say, “Why dost thou still
distrust? Dost thou not believe me with thee, and that I guide thee? It
is now evening there where the body is buried within which I cast a
shadow; Naples holds it, and from Brundusium it is taken; if now in
front of me there is no shadow, marvel not more than at the heavens of
which one hinders not the other’s radiance. To suffer torments, both
hot and cold, bodies like this the Power ordains, which wills not that
how it acts be revealed to us. Mad is he who hopes that our reason can
traverse the infinite way which One Substance in Three Persons holds.
Be content, human race, with the quia;[1]; for if ye had been able to
see everything, need had not been for Mary to hear child: and ye have
seen desiring fruitlessly men such [2] that their desire would have
been quieted, which is given them eternally for a grief. I speak of
Aristotle and of Plato, and of many others;” and here he bowed his
front, and said no more, and remained disturbed.

[1] Quic is used here, as often in mediaeval Latin, for quod. The
meaning is, Be content to know that the thing is, seek not to know WHY
or HOW—propter quid—it is as it is.


[2] If human knowledge sufficed.


We had come, meanwhile, to the foot of the mountain; here we found the
rock so steep, that there the legs would be agile in vain. Between
Lerici and Turbia[1] the most deserted, the most secluded way is a
stair easy and open, compared with that. “Now who knows on which hand
the hillside slopes,” said my Master, staying his step, “so that he can
ascend who goeth without wings?”

[1] Lerici on the Gulf of Spezzia, and Turbia, just above Monaco, are
at the two ends of the Riviera; between them the mountains rise steeply
from the shore, along which in Dante’s time there was no road.


And while he was holding his face low, questioning his mind about the
road, and I was looking up around the rock, on the left hand appeared
to me a company of souls who were moving their feet towards us, and
seemed not, so slowly were they coming. “Lift,” said I to the Master,
“thine eyes, lo! on this side who will give us counsel, if thou from
thyself canst not have it.” He looked at them, and with air of relief,
answered, “Let us go thither, for they come slowly, and do thou confirm
thy hope, sweet son.

That people was still as far, I mean after a thousand steps of ours, as
a good thrower would cast with his hand, when they all pressed up to
the hard masses of the high bank, and stood still and close, as one who
goes in doubt stops to look.[1] “O ye who have made good ends, O
spirits already elect,” Virgil began, “by that peace which I believe is
awaited by you all, tell us, where the mountain lies so that the going
up is possible; for to lose time is most displeasing to him who knows
most.”

[1] They stopped, surprised, at seeing Virgil and Dante advancing to
the left, against the rule in Purgatory, where the course is always to
the right, symbolizing progress in good. In Hell the contrary rule
holds.


As the sheep come forth from the fold by ones, and twos, and threes,
and the others stand timid, holding eye and muzzle to the ground; and
what the first does the others also do, huddling themselves to her if
she stop, silly and quiet, and wherefore know not; so I saw then moving
to approach, the head of that fortunate flock, modest in face and
dignified in gait.

When those in front saw the light broken on the ground at my right
side, so that the shadow fell from me on the cliff, they stopped, and
drew somewhat back; and all the rest who were coming behind, not
knowing why, did just the same. “Without your asking, I confess to you
that this is a human body which you see, whereby the light of the sun
on the ground is cleft. Marvel not thereat, but believe that not
without power that comes from heaven he seeks to surmount this wall.”
Thus the Master:and that worthy people said, “Turn, enter in advance,
then;” with the backs of their hands making sign. And one of them
began, “Whoever thou art, turn thy face as thou thus goest; consider if
in the world thou didst ever see me?” I turned me toward him, and
looked at him fixedly: blond he was, and beautiful, and of gentle
aspect, but a blow had divided one of his eyebrows.

When I had humbly disclaimed having ever seen him, he said, “Now look!”
and he showed me a wound at the top of his breast. Then he said,
smiling, “I am Manfred,[1] grandson of the Empress Constance; wherefore
I pray thee, that when thou returnest, thou go to my beautiful
daughter,[2] mother of the honor of Sicily and of Aragon, and tell to
her the truth if aught else be told. After I had my body broken by two
mortal stabs, I rendered myself, weeping, to Him who pardons willingly.
Horrible were my sins, but the Infinite Goodness has such wide arms
that it takes whatever turns to it. If the Pastor of Cosenza,[3] who
was set on the hunt of me by Clement, had then rightly read this page
in God, the bones of my body would still be at the head of the bridge
near Benevento, under the guard of the heavy cairn. Now the rain bathes
them, and the wind moves them forth from the kingdom, almost along the
Verde, whither he transferred them with extinguished light.[4] By their
[5] malediction the Eternal Love is not so lost that it cannot return,
while hope hath speck of green. True is it, that whoso dies in
contumacy of Holy Church, though he repent him at the end, needs must
stay outside[6] upon this bank thirtyfold the whole time that he has
been in his presumption,[7] if such decree become not shorter through
good prayers. See now if thou canst make me glad, revealing to my good
Constance how thou hast seen me, and also this prohibition,[8] for here
through those on earth much is gained.”

[1] The natural son of the Emperor Frederick II. He was born in 1231;
in 1258 he was crowned King of Sicily. In 1263 Charles of Anjou was
called by Pope Urban IV. to contend against him, and in 1266 Manfred
was killed at the battle of Benevento.


[2] Constance, the daughter of Manfred, was married to Peter of Aragon.
She had three sons, Alphonso, James, and Frederick. Alphonso succeeded
his father in Aragon, and James in Sicily, but after the death of
Alphonso James became King of Aragon.  and Frederick King of Sicily.
Manfred naturally speaks favorably of them, but Dante himself thought
ill of James and Frederick. See Canto VII., towards the end.


[3] The Archbishop of Cosenza, at command of the Pope, Clement IV.,
took the body of Manfred from his grave near Benevento, and threw it
unburied, as the body of one excommunicated, on the bank of the Verde.


[4] Not with candles burning as in proper funeral rites.


[5] That is, of Pope or Bishop.


[6] Outside the gate of Purgatory.


[7] This seems to be a doctrine peculiar to Dante. The value of the
prayers of the good on earth in shortening the period of suffering of
the souls in Purgatory is more than once referred to by him, as well as
the virtue of the intercession of the souls in Purgatory for the
benefit of the living.   [8] The prohibition of entering within
Purgatory.




CANTO IV.


Ante-Purgatory.—Ascent to a shelf of the mountain.—The negligent, who
postponed repentance to the last hour.—Belacqua.


When through delights, or through pains which some power of ours may
experience, the soul is all concentrated thereon, it seems that to no
other faculty it may attend; and this is counter to the error which
believes that one soul above another is kindled in us.[1] And
therefore, when a thing is heard or seen, which may hold the soul
intently turned to it, the time passes, and the man observes it not:
for one faculty is that which listens, and another is that which keeps
the soul entire; the latter is as it were bound, and the former is
loosed.

[1] Were it true that, as according to the Platonists, there were more
than one soul in man, he might give attention to two things at once.
But when one faculty is free and called into activity, the rest of the
soul is as it were bound in inaction.


Of this had I true experience, hearing that spirit and wondering; for
full fifty degrees had the sun ascended,[1] and I had not noticed it,
when we came where those souls all together cried out to us, “Here is
what you ask.”

[1] It was now about nine o’clock A. M.


A larger opening the man of the farm often hedges up with a forkful of
his thorns, when the  grape grows dark, than was the passage through
which my Leader and I behind ascended alone, when the troop departed
from us. One goes to Sanleo, and descends to Noli, one mounts up
Bismantova[1] to its peak, with only the feet; but here it behoves that
one fly, I mean with the swift wings and with the feathers of great
desire, behind that guide who gave me hope and made a light for me. We
ascended in through the broken rock, and on each side the border
pressed on us, and the ground beneath required both feet and hands.

[1] These all are places difficult of access.


When we were upon the upper edge of the high bank on the open slope,
“My Master,” said I, “what way shall we take?” And he to me, “Let no
step of thine fall back, always win up the mountain behind me, till
some sage guide appear for us.”

The summit was so high it surpassed the sight and the side steeper far
than a line from the mid quadrant to the centre.[1] I was weary, when I
began, “O sweet Father, turn and regard howl remain alone if thou dost
not stop.” “My son,” said he, “far as here drag thyself,” pointing me
to a ledge a little above, which on that side circles all the hill. His
words so spurred me, that I forced myself, scrambling after him, until
the belt was beneath my feet. There we both sat down, turning to the
east, whence we had ascended, for to look back is wont to encourage
one. I first turned my eyes to the low shores, then I raised them to
the sun, and wondered that on the left we were struck by it. The Poet
perceived clearly that I was standing all bewildered at the chariot of
the light, where between us and Aquilo,[2] it was entering. Whereupon
he to me, “If Castor and Pollux were in company with that mirror [3]
which up and down guides with its light, thou wouldst see the ruddy
Zodiac revolving still closer to the Bears, if it went not out of its
old road.[4] How that may be, if thou wishest to be able to think,
collected in thyself imagine Zion and this mountain to stand upon the
earth so that both have one sole horizon, and different hemispheres;
then thou wilt see that the road which Phaethon, to his harm, knew not
how to drive, must needs pass on the one side of this mountain, and on
the other side of that, if thy intelligence right clearly heeds.”
“Surely, my Master,” said I, “never yet saw I so clearly, as I now
discern there where my wit seemed deficient; for the mid-circle of the
supernal motion, which is called Equator in a certain art,[4] and which
always remains between the sun and the winter, for the reason that thou
tellest, from here departs toward the north, while the Hebrews saw it
toward the warm region. But, if it please thee, willingly I would know
how far we have to go, for the hill rises higher than my eyes can
rise.” And he to me, “This mountain is such, that ever at the beginning
below it is hard, and the higher one goes the less it hurts; therefore
when it shall seem so pleasant to thee that the going up will be easy
to thee as going down the current in a vessel, then wilt thou be at the
end of this path; there repose from toil await: no more I answer, and
this I know for true.”

[1] A steeper inclination than that of an angle of forty-five degrees.


[2] The North.


[3] The brightness of the sun is the reflection of the Divine light.


[4] If the sun were in the sign of the Gemini instead of being in Aries
it would make the Zodiac ruddy still farther to the north. In Purgatory
the sun being seen from south of the equator is on the left hand, while
at Jerusalem, in the northern hemisphere, it is seen on the right.


[5] Astronomy.


And when he had said his word, a voice near by sounded, “Perchance thou
wilt be first constrained to sit.” At the sound of it each of us
turned, and we saw at the left a great stone which neither he nor I
before had noticed. Thither we drew; and there were persons who were
staying in the shadow behind the rock, as one through indolence sets
himself to stay. And one of them, who seemed to me weary, was seated,
and was clasping his knees, holding his face down low between them. “O
sweet my Lord,” said I, “look at him who shows himself more indolent
than if sloth were his sister.” Then that one turned to us and gave
heed, moving his look only up along his thigh, and said, “Now go up
thou, for thou art valiant.” I recognized then who he was, and that
effort which was still quickening my breath a little hindered not my
going to him, and after I had reached him, he scarce raised his head,
saying, “Hast thou clearly seen how the sun over thy left shoulder
drives his chariot?”

His slothful acts and his short words moved my lips a little to a
smile, then I began, “Belacqua,[1] I do not grieve for thee now,[2] but
tell me why just here thou art seated? awaitest thou a guide, or has
only thy wonted mood recaptured thee?” And he, “Brother, what imports
the going up? For the bird of God that sitteth at the gate would not
let me go to the torments. It first behoves that heaven circle around
me outside the gate, as long as it did in life, because I delayed good
sighs until the end; unless the prayer first aid me which rises up from
a heart that lives in grace: what avails the other which is not heard
in heaven?”

[1] Belacqua, according to Benvenuto da Imola, was a Florentine, a
maker of citherns and other musical instruments; he carved with great
care the necks and heads of his citherns, and sometimes he played on
them. Dante, because of his love of music, had been well acquainted
with him.


[2] He had feared lest Belacqua might be in Hell.


And now the Poet in front of me was ascending, and he said, “Come on
now: thou seest that the meridian is touched by the sun, and on the
shore the night now covers with her foot Morocco.”




CANTO V.


Ante-Purgatory.—Spirits who had delayed repentance, and met with death
by violence, but died repentant.—Jacopo del Cassero.—Buonconte da
Montefeltro—Via de’ Tolomei.


I had now parted from those shades, and was following the footsteps of
my Leader, when behind me, pointing his finger, one cried out, “Look,
the ray seems not to shine on the left hand of that lower one, and as
if alive he seems to hear himself.” I turned my eyes at the sound of
these words, and I saw them watching, for marvel, only me, only me, and
the light which was broken.

“Why is thy mind so hampered,” said the Master, “that thou slackenest
thy going? What matters to thee that which here is whispered? Come
after me, and let the people talk. Stand as a tower firm, that never
wags its top for blowing of the winds; for always the man in whom
thought on thought wells up removes from himself his aim, for the force
of one weakens the other.” What could I answer, save “I come”? I said
it, overspread somewhat with the color, which, at times, makes a man
worthy of pardon.

And meanwhile across upon the mountain side, a little in front of us,
were coming people, singing “Miserere,” verse by verse. When they
observed that I gave not place for passage of the rays through my body,
they changed their song into a long and hoarse “Oh!” and two of them,
in form of messengers, ran to meet us, and asked of us, “Of your
condition make us cognizant.” And my Master, “Ye can go back, and
report to them who sent you, that the body of this one is true flesh.
If, as I suppose, they stopped because of seeing his shadow, enough is
answered them; let them do him honor and he may he dear to them.”

Never did I see enkindled vapors at early night so swiftly cleave the
clear sky, nor at set of sun the clouds of August, that these did not
return up in less time; and, arrived there, they, with the others, gave
a turn toward us, like a troop that runs without curb. “These folk that
press to us are many, and they come to pray thee,” said the Poet;
“wherefore still go on, and in going listen.” “O soul,” they came
crying, “that goest to be happy with those limbs with which thou wast
born, a little stay thy step; look if thou hast ever seen any one of
us, so that thou mayest carry news of him to earth. Ah, why dost thou
go on? Ah, why dost thou not stop? We were of old all done to death by
violence, and sinners up to the last hour; then light from Heaven made
us mindful, so that both penitent and pardoning we issued forth from
life, at peace with God, who fills our hearts with the desire to see
him.” And I, “Although I gaze upon your faces, not one I recognize; but
if aught that I can do be pleasing to you, spirits wellborn,[1] speak
ye, and I will do it by that peace which makes me, following the feet
of such a guide, seek for itself from world to world.” And one began,
“Each of us trusts in thy good turn without thy swearing it, provided
want of power cut not off the will; wherefore I, who alone before the
others speak, pray thee, if ever thou see that land that sits between
Romagna and the land of Charles,[2] that thou be courteous to me with
thy prayers in Fano, so that for me good orisons be made, whereby I may
purge away my grave offences. Thence was I; but the deep wounds,
wherefrom issued the blood in which I had my seat,[3] were given me in
the bosom of the Endoneuria,[4] there  where I thought to be most
secure; he of Este had it done, who held me in wrath far beyond what
justice willed. But if I had fled toward Mira,[5] when I was overtaken
at Oriaco, I should still be yonder where men breathe. I ran to the
marsh, and the reeds and the mire hampered me so that I fell, and there
I saw a lake made by my veins upon the ground.”

[1] Elect from birth to the joys of Paradise, in contrast with the
ill-born, the miscreants of Hell.


[2] The March of Ancona, between the Romagna and the kingdom of Naples,
then held by Charles II. of Anjou. It is Jacopo del Cassero who speaks.
He was a noted and valiant member of the leading Guelph family in Fano.
On his way to take the place of Podesta of Milan, in 1298, he was
assassinated by the minions of Azzo VIII. of Este, whom he had
offended.


[3] The life of all flesh is the blood thereof.” Levit., xvii. 14. Or,
according to the Vulgate, “Anima carnis in sanguine est.”


[4] That is to say, in the territory of the Paduans, whose city was
reputed to have been founded by Antenor.


[5] Mira is a little settlement on the bank of one of the canals of the
Brenta. Why flight thither would have been safe is mere matter of
conjecture.


Then said another, “Ah! so may that desire be fulfilled which draws
thee to the high mountain,  with good piety help thou mine. I was of
Montefeltro, and am Buonconte.[1] Joan or any other has no care for me,
wherefore I go among these with downcast front.” And I to him, “What
violence, or what chance so carried thee astray from Campaldino,[2]
that thy burial place was never known?” “Oh!” replied he, “at foot of
the Casentino crosses a stream, named the Archiano, which rises in the
Apennine above the Hermitage.[3] Where its proper name becomes vain[4]
I arrived, pierced in the throat, flying on foot, and bloodying the
plain. Here I lost my sight, and I ended my speech with the name of
Mary, and here I fell, and my flesh remained alone. I will tell the
truth, and do thou repeat it among the living. The Angel of God took
me, and he of Hell cried out, “O thou from Heaven, why dost thou rob
me?[5] Thou bearest away for thyself the eternal part of him for one
little tear which takes him from me; but of the rest I will make other
disposal.” Thou knowest well how in the air is condensed that moist
vapor which turns to water soon as it rises where the cold seizes it.
He joined that evil will, which seeketh only evil, with intelligence,
and moved the mist and the wind by the power that his own nature gave.
Then when the day was spent he covered the valley with cloud, from
Pratomagno to the great chain, and made the frost above so intense that
the pregnant air was turned to water. The rain fell, and to the gullies
came of it what the earth did not endure, and as it gathered in great
streams it rushed so swiftly towards the royal river that nothing held
it back. The robust Archiano found my frozen body near its outlet, and
pushed it into the Arno, and loosed on my breast the cross which I made
of myself when the pain overcame me. It rolled me along its banks, and
along its bottom, then with its spoil it covered and girt me.”

[1] Son of Count Guido da Montefeltro, the treacherous counsellor who
had told his story to Dante in Hell, Canto XXVII. Joan was his wife.


[2] The battle of Campaldino, in which Dante himself, perhaps, took
part, was fought on the 11th of June, 1289, between the Florentine
Guelphs and the Ghibellines of Arezzo. Buonconte was the captain of the
Aretines. Campaldino is a little plain in the upper valley of the Arno.


[3] The convent of the Calmaldoli, founded by St. Romualdo of Ravenna,
in 1012.


[4] Being lost at its junction with the Arno.


[5] St. Francis and one of the black Cherubim had had a similar
contention, as will be remembered, over the soul of Buonconte’s father.


“Ah! when thou shalt have returned unto the world, and rested from the
long journey,” the third spirit followed on the second, “be mindful of
me, who am Pia.[1] Siena made me, Maremma unmade me; he knows it who
with his gem ringed me, betrothed before.”

[1] This sad Pia is supposed to have belonged to the Sienese family of
the Tolomei, and to have been the wife of Nello or Paganello de’
Pannocchieschi, who was reported to have had her put to death in his
stronghold of Pietra in the Tuscan Maremma. Her fate seems the more
pitiable that she does not pray Dante to seek for her the prayers of
any living person. The last words of Pia are obscure, and are
interpreted variously. Possibly the “betrothed before” hints at a
source of jealousy as the motive of her murder.




CANTO VI.


Ante-Purgatory.—More spirits who had deferred repentance till they were
overtaken by a violent death.—Efficacy of prayer.—Sordello.—Apostrophe
to Italy.


When a game of dice is broken up, he who loses remains sorrowful,
repeating the throws, and, saddened, learns; with the other all the
folk go along; one goes before and one plucks him from behind, and at
his side one brings himself to mind. He does not stop; listens to one
and the other the man to whom he reaches forth his hand presses on him
no longer, and thus from the throng he defends himself. Such was I in
that dense crowd, turning my face to them this way and that; and,
promising, I loosed myself from them.

Here was the Aretine,[1] who from the fierce arms of Ghin di Tacco had
his death; and the other who was drowned when running in pursuit. Here
Federigo Novello [2] was praying with hands outstretched, and he of
Pisa, who made the good Marzucco seem strong.[3] I saw Count Orso; and
the soul divided from its body by spite and by envy, as it said, and
not for fault committed, Pierre do la Brosse,[5] I mean; and here let
the Lady of Brabant take forethought, while she is on earth, so that
for this she be not of the worse flock.

[1] The Aretine was Messer Benincasa da Laterina, a learned judge, who
had condemned to death for their crimes two relatives of Ghin di Tacco,
the most famous freebooter of the day, whose headquarters were between
Siena and Rome. Some time after, Messer Benincasa sitting as judge in
Rome, Ghino entered the city with a band of his followers, made his way
to the tribunal, slew Benincasa, and escaped unharmed.


[2] Another Aretine, of the Tarlati family, concerning whose death the
early commentators are at variance. Benvenuto da Imola says that, hotly
pursuing his enemies, his horse carried him into a marsh, from which he
could not extricate himself, so that his foes turned upon him and slew
him with their arrows.


[3] Federigo, son of the Count Guido Novello, of the circumstances of
whose death, said to have taken place in 1291, nothing certain is
known. Benvenuto says, he was multum probus, a good youth, and
therefore Dante mentions him.


[4] Of him of Pisa different stories are told. Benvenuto says, “I have
heard from the good Boccaccio, whom I trust more than the others, that
Marzucco was a good man of the city of Pisa, whose son was beheaded by
order of Count Ugolino, the tyrant, who commanded that his body should
remain unburied. In the evening his father went to the Count, as a
stranger unconcerned in the matter, and, without tears or other sign of
grief, said, ‘Surely, my lord, it would be to your honor that that poor
body should be buried, and not left cruelly as food for dogs.’ Then the
Count, recognizing him, said astonished, ‘Go, your patience overcomes
my obduracy,’ and immediately Marzucco went and buried his son.”


[5] Of Count Orso nothing is known with certainty.


[6] Pierre de is Brosse was chamberlain and confidant of Philip the
Bold of France. He lost the king’s favor, and charges of wrong-doing
being brought against him he was hung. It was reported that his death
was brought about through jealousy by Mary of Brabant, the second wife
of Philip. She lived till 1321, so that Dante’s warning may have
reached her ears.


When I was free from each and all those shades who prayed only that
some one else should pray, so that their becoming holy may be speeded,
I began, “It seems that thou deniest to me, O Light of mine, expressly,
in a certain text, that orison can bend decree of Heaven, and this folk
pray only for this,—shall then their hope be vain? or is thy saying not
rightly clear to me?[1]

[1] Virgil represents Palinurus as begging to be allowed to cross the
Styx, while his body was still unburied and without due funeral rites.
To this petition the Sibyl answers:—Desine fata Deum flecti sperare
precando:—Cease to hope that the decrees of the gods can be changed by
prayer.”—Aeneid, vi. 376.


And he to me, “My writing is plain, and the hope of these is not
fallacious, if well it is regarded with sound mind; for top of judgment
vails not itself because a fire of love may, in one instant, fulfil
that which he who is stationed here must satisfy. And there where I
affirmed this proposition, defect was not amended by a prayer, because
the prayer was disjoined from God. But truly in regard to so deep a
doubt decide thou not, unless she tell thee who shall be a light
between the truth and the understanding.[1] I know not if thou
understandest; I speak of Beatrice. Thou shalt see her above, smiling
and happy, upon the summit of this mountain.”

[1] The question, being one that relates to the Divine will, cannot be
answered with full assurance by human reason.


And I, “My lord, let us go on with greater speed, for now I mu not
weary as before; and behold now how the bill casts its shadow.” “We
will go forward with this day,” he answered, “as much further as we
shall yet be able; but the fact is of other form than thou supposest.
Before thou art there-above thou wilt see him return, who is now hidden
by the hill-side so that thou dost not make his rays to break. But see
there a soul which seated all alone is looking toward us; it will point
out to us the speediest way.” We came to it. O Lombard soul, how lofty
and scornful wast thou; and in the movement of thine eyes grave and
slow! It said not anything to us, but let us go on, looking only in
manner of a lion when he couches. Virgil, however, drew near to it,
praying that it would show to us the best ascent; and it answered not
to his request, but of our country and life it asked us. And the sweet
Leader began, “Mantua,”—and the shade, all in itself recluse, rose
toward him from the place where erst it was, saying, “O Mantuan, I am
Sordello of thy city,”[1]—and they embraced each other.

[1] Sordello, who lived early in the thirteenth century, was of the
family of the Visconti of Mantua. He left his native land and gave up
his native tongue to live and write as a troubadour in Provence, but
his fame belonged to Italy.


Ah, servile Italy, hostel of grief! ship without pilot in great
tempest! not lady of provinces, but a brothel! that gentle soul was so
ready, only at the sweet sound of his native land, to give glad welcome
here unto his fellow-citizen: and now in thee thy living men exist not
without war, and of those whom one wall and one moat shut in one doth
gnaw the other. Search, wretched one, around the shores, thy seaboard,
and then look within thy bosom, if any part in thee enjoyeth peace!
What avails it that for thee Justinian should mend the bridle, if the
saddle be empty? Without this, the shame would be less. Ah folk,[1]
that oughtest to be devout and let Caesar sit in the saddle, if thou
rightly understandest what God notes for thee! Look how fell this wild
beast has become, through not being corrected by the spurs, since thou
didst put thy hand upon the bridle. O German Albert, who abandonest her
who has become untamed and savage, and oughtest to bestride her
saddle-bows, may a just judgment from the stars fall upon thy blood,
and may it be strange and manifest, so that thy successor may have fear
of it! [2] For thou and thy father, retained up there by greed, have
suffered the garden of the empire to become desert. Come thou to see
Montecchi and Cappelletti, Monaldi and Filippeschi,[3] thou man without
care: those already wretched, and these in dread. Come, cruel one,
come, and see the distress of thy nobility, and cure their hurts; and
thou shalt see Santafiora[4] how safe it is. Come to see thy Rome, that
weeps, widowed and alone, and day and night cries, “My Caesar,
wherefore dost thou not keep me company?” Come to see the people, how
loving it is; and, if no pity for us move thee, come to be shamed by
thine own renown! And if it be lawful for me, O Supreme Jove that wast
on earth crucified for us, are thy just eyes turned aside elsewhere? Or
is it preparation, that in the abyss of thy counsel thou art making for
some good utterly cut off from our perception? For the cities of Italy
are all full of tyrants, and every churl that comes playing the
partisan becomes a Marcellus?[5]

[1] The Church-folk, the clergy, for whom God has ordained,—“Render
unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s.”


[2] Albert of Hapsburg, son of the Emperor Rudolph, was elected King of
the Romans in 1298, but like his father never went to Italy to he
crowned. He was murdered by his nephew, John, called the parricide, in
1308, at Konigsfelden. The successor of Albert was Henry VII. of
Luxemborg, who came to Italy in 1311, was crowned at Rome in 1312, and
died at Buonconvento the next year. His death ended the hopes of Dante.


[3] Famous families, the first two of Verona, the last two of Orvieto,
at enmity with each other in their respective cities,—types of a common
condition.


[4]The Counts of Santafiora were once the most powerful Ghibelline
nobles in the Sienese territory. Their power had declined since the
Hohenstaufen Emperors had been succeeded by the Hapsburgs, and they
were now subjected to the Guelphs of Siena.


[5] That is, a hitter opponent of the empire, as the Consul M. Claudius
Marcellus was of Caesar.


My Florence! surely thou mayst be content with this digression, which
toucheth thee not, thanks to thy people that for itself takes heed.
Many have justice at heart but shoot slowly, in order not to come
without counsel to the bow; but thy people has it on the edge of its
lips. Many reject the common burden, but thy people, eager, replies
without being called on, and cries, “I load myself.” Now be thou glad,
for thou hast truly wherefore: thou rich, thou in peace, thou wise. If
I speak the truth, the result hides it not. Athens and Lacedaemon, that
made the ancient laws and were so civilized, made toward living well a
little sign, compared with thee that makest such finespun provisions,
that to mid November reaches not, what thou in October spinnest. How
often in the time that thou rememberest, law, money, office, and
custom, hast thou changed, and renewed thy members! And if thou mind
thee well and see the light, thou wilt see thyself resembling a sick
woman, who cannot find repose upon the feathers, but with her tossing
seeks to relieve her pain.




CANTO VII.


Virgil makes himself known to Sordello.—Sordello leads the Poets to the
Valley of the Princes who have been negligent of salvation.—He points
them out by name.


After the becoming and glad salutations had been repeated three and
four times, Sordello drew back and said, “Ye, who are ye?” “Before the
souls worthy to ascend to God were turned unto this mountain, my bones
had been buried by Octavian; I am Virgil, and for no other sin did I
lose heaven, but for not having faith,” thus then replied my Leader.

As is he who suddenly sees a thing before him whereat he marvels, and
doth and doth not believe, saying, “It is, it is not,”—so seemed that
shade, and then he bent down his brow, and humbly turned again toward
him and embraced him where the inferior takes hold.

“O glory of the Latins,” said he, “through whom our language showed
what it could do, O honor eternal of the place wherefrom I was, what
merit or what grace shows thee to me? If I am worthy to hear thy words,
tell me if thou comest from Hell, and from what cloister.” “Through all
the circles of the realm of woe,” replied he to him, “am I come hither;
Power of Heaven moved me, and with it I come. Not by doing, but by not
doing have I lost the sight of the high Sun whom thou desirest, and who
by me was known late. A place there is below not sad with torments but
with darkness only, where the lamentations sound not as wailings, but
are sighs; there stay I with the little innocents bitten by the teeth
of death before they were exempt from human sin; there stay I with
those who were not vested with the three holy virtues, and without vice
knew the others and followed all of them.[1] But if thou knowest and
canst, give us some direction whereby we may come more speedily there
where Purgatory has its true beginning.” He replied, “A certain place
is not set for us; it is permitted me to go upward and around; so far
as I can go I join myself to thee as guide. But see how already the day
declines, and to go up by night is not possible; therefore it is well
to think of some fair sojourn. There are souls here on the right apart;
if thou consentest to me I will lead thee to them, and not without
delight will they be known to thee.” “How is this?” was answered, “he
who might wish to ascend by night, would he be hindered by another, or
would he not be able to ascend?” And the good Sordello drew his finger
on the ground, saying, “See, only this line thou couldst not pass after
set of sun; not because aught else save the nocturnal darkness would
give hindrance to going up; that hampers the will with impotence.[2]
One could, indeed, in it[3] turn downward and walk the hillside
wandering around, while the horizon holds the day shut up.” Then my
Lord, as if wondering, said, “Lead us, then, there where thou sayest
one may have delight while waiting.”

[1] The virtuous Heathen did not possess the so-called theological
virtues of Faith, Hope, and Charity; but they practiced the four
cardinal virtues of Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude and Justice.


[2] The allegory is plain: the soul can mount the steep of purification
only when illuminated by the Sun of Divine Grace.


[3] In the darkness.


Little way had we gone from that place, when I perceived that the
mountain was hollowed out in like fashion as the valleys hollow them
here on earth. “Yonder,” said that shade, “will we go, where the
hillside makes a lap of itself, and there will we await the new day.”
Between steep and level was a winding path that led us into a side of
the dale, where more than by half the edge dies away. Gold and fine
silver, and scarlet and white, Indian wood lucid and clear,[1] fresh
emerald at the instant it is split, would each be vanquished in color
by the herbage and by the flowers set within that valley, as by its
greater the less is vanquished. Nature had not only painted there, but
with sweetness of a thousand odors she made there one unknown and
blended.

[1] The blue of indigo.


Upon the green and upon the flowers I saw souls who, because of the
valley, were not visible from without, seated here singing “Salve
regina.” [1] “Before the lessening sun sinks to his nest,” began the
Mantuan who had turned us thither, “desire not that among these I guide
you. From this bank ye will better become acquainted with the acts and
countenances of all of them, than received among them on the level
below. He who sits highest and has the semblance of having neglected
what he should have done, and who moves not his mouth to the others’
songs, was Rudolph the Emperor, who might have healed the wounds that
have slain Italy, so that slowly by another she is revived.[2] The
next, who in appearance comforts him, ruled the land where the water
rises that Moldau bears to Elbe, and Elbe to the sea. Ottocar was his
name,[3] and in his swaddling clothes he was better far than bearded
Wenceslaus, his son, whom luxury and idleness feed.[4] And that
small-nosed one, who seems close in counsel with him who has so benign
an aspect, died in flight and disflowering the lily;[5]  look there how
he beats his breast. See the next who, sighing, has made a bed for his
cheek with his hand.[6] Father and father-in-law are they of the harm
of France; they know his vicious and foul life, and thence comes the
grief that so pierces them. He who looks so large-limbed,[7] and who
accords in singing with him of the masculine nose,[8] wore girt the
cord of every worth, and if the youth that is sitting behind him had
followed him as king, truly had worth gone from vase to vase, which
cannot be said of the other heirs: James and Frederick hold the realms;
[9] the better heritage no one possesses. Rarely doth human goodness
rise through the branches, and this He wills who gives it, in order
that it may be asked from Him. To the large-nosed one also my words
apply not less than to the other, Peter, who is singing with him;
wherefore Apulia and Provence are grieving now.[10] The plant is as
inferior to its seed, as, more than Beatrice and Margaret, Constance
still boasts of her husband.[11] See the King of the simple life
sitting there alone, Henry of England; he in his branches hath a better
issue.[12] That one who lowest among them sits on the ground, looking
upward, is William the marquis,[13] for whom Alessandria and her war
make Montferrat and the Canavese mourn.”

[1] The beginning of a Church hymn to the Virgin, sung after
vespers, of which the first verses are:—
 Salve, Regina, mater misericordiae!
  Vita, dulcedo et spes nostra, salve!
  Ad te clamamus exsules filii Hevae;
  Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes
  In hac lacrymarum valle.


[2] The neglect of Italy by the Emperor Rudolph (see the preceding
Canto) was not to be repaired by the vain efforts of Henry VII.


[3] Ottocar, King of Bohemia and Duke of Austria, had been slain in
battle against Rudolph, on the Marchfeld by the Donau, in 1278;
“whereby Austria fell to Rudolph.” See Carlyle’s Frederick the Great,
book ii. ch. 7.


[4] Dante repeats his harsh judgment of Wenceslaus in the nineteenth
Canto of Paradise. His first wife was the daughter of Rudolph of
Hapsburg. He died in 1305.


[5] This is Philip the Bold of France, 1270-1285. Having invaded
Catalonia, in a war with Peter the Third of Aragon, he was driven back,
and died on the retreat at Perpignan.


[6] Henry of Navarre, the brother of Thibault, the poet-king (Hell,
Canto XXII.). His daughter Joan married Philip the Fair, “the harm of
France,” the son of Philip the Bold.


[7] Peter of Aragon (died 1285), the husband of Constance, daughter of
Manfred (see Canto III.); the youth who is seated behind him is his son
Alphonso, who died in 1291.


[8] Charles of Anjou.


[9] The kingdoms of Aragon and Sicily; both James and Frederick were
living when Dante thus wrote of them. The “better heritage” was the
virtue of their father.


[10] Apulia and Provence were grieving under the rule of Charles II.,
the degenerate son of Charles of Anjou, who died in 1309.


[11] The meaning is doubtful; perhaps it is, that the children of
Charles of Anjou and of Peter of Aragon are as inferior to their
fathers, as Charles himself, the husband first of Beatrice of Provence
and then of Margaret of Nevers, was inferior to Peter, the husband of
Constance.


[12] Henry III., father of Edward I.


[13] William Spadalunga was Marquis of Montferrat and Canavese, the
Piedmontese highlands and plain north of the Po. He was Imperial vicar,
and the bead of the Ghibellines in this region. In a war with the
Guelphs, who had risen in revolt in 1290, he was taken captive at
Alessandria, and for two years, till his death, was kept in an iron
cage. Dante refers to him in the Convito, iv. 11, as “the good marquis
of Montferrat.”




CANTO VIII.


Valley of the Princes.—Two Guardian Angels.—Kino Visconti.—The
Serpent.—Corrado Malaspina.


It was now the hour that turns back desire in those that sail the sea,
and softens their hearts, the day when they have said to their sweet
friends farewell, and which pierces the new pilgrim with love, if he
hears from afar a bell that seems to deplore the dying day,—when I
began to render hearing vain, and to look at one of the souls who,
uprisen, besought attention with its hand. It joined and raised both
its palms, fixing its eyes toward the orient, as if it said to God,
“For aught else I care not.” “Te lucis ante”[1] so devoutly issued from
his mouth and with such sweet notes that it made me issue forth from my
own mind. And then the others sweetly and devoutly accompanied it
through all the hymn to the end, having their eyes upon the supernal
wheels. Here, reader, sharpen well thine eyes for the truth, for the
veil is now indeed so thin that surely passing through within is
easy.[2]

[1] The opening words of a hymn sung at Complines, the last service of
the day:


 Te locis ante terminum,
  Rerom Creator poscimus,
  Ut tus pro clementia
  Sis presul et custodia:—

“Before the close of light, we pray thee, O Creator, that through thy
clemency, thou be our watch and guard.”

[2] The allegory seems to be, that the soul which has entered upon the
way of repentance and purification, but which is not yet securely
advanced therein, is still exposed to temptation, especially when the
light of the supernal grace does not shine directly upon it. But if the
soul have steadfast purpose to resist temptation, and seek aid from
God, that aid will not be wanting. The prayer of the Church which is
recited after the hymn just cited has these words: “Visit, we pray
thee, O Lord, this abode, and drive far from it the snares of the
enemy. Let thy holy Angels bide in it, and guard us in peace.” Pallid
with self distrust, humble with the sense of need, the soul awaits the
fulfilment of its prayer. The angels are clad in green, the symbolic
color of hope. Their swords are truncated, because needed only for
defence.


I saw that army of the gentle-born silently thereafter gazing upward as
if in expectation, pallid and humble; and I saw issuing from on high
and descending two angels, with two fiery swords truncated and deprived
of their points. Green as leaflets just now born were their garments,
which, beaten and blown by their green pinions, they trailed behind.
One came to stand a little above us, and the other descended on the
opposite bank, so that the people were contained between them. I
clearly discerned in them their blond heads, but on their faces the eye
was dazzled, as a faculty which is confounded by excess. “Both come
from the bosom of Mary,” said Sordello, “for guard of the valley,
because of the serpent that will come straightway.” Whereat I, who knew
not by what path, turned me round, and all chilled drew me close to the
trusty shoulders.

And Sordello again, “Now let us go down into the valley among the great
shades, and we will speak to them; well pleasing will it be to them to
see you.” Only three steps I think I had descended and I was below; and
I saw one who was gazing only at me as if he wished to know me. It was
now the time when the air was darkening, but not so that between his
eyes and mine it did not reveal that which it locked up before.[1]
Towards me he moved, and I moved towards him. Gentle Judge Nino,[2] how
much it pleased me when I saw that thou wast not among the damned! No
fair salutation was silent between us; then he asked, “How long is it
since thou camest to the foot of the mountain across the far waters?”

[1] It was not yet so dark that recognition of one near at hand was
difficult, though at a distance it had been impossible.


[2] Nino (Ugolino) de’ Visconti of Pisa was the grandson of Count
Ugolino, and as the leader of the Pisan Guelphs became his bitter
opponent. Sardinia was under the dominion of Pisa, and was divided into
four districts, each of which was governed by one of the Pisan nobles,
under the title of Judge. Nino had held the judicature of Gallura,
where Frate Gomita (see Hell, Canto XXII.) had been his vicar. Nino
died in 1296.


“Oh,” said I to him, “from within the dismal places I came this
morning, and I am in the first life, albeit in going thus, I may gain
the other.” And when my answer was heard, Sordello[1] and he drew
themselves back like folk suddenly bewildered, the one to Virgil, and
the other turned to one who was seated there, crying, “Up, Corrado,[2]
come to see what God through grace hath willed.” Then, turning to me,
“By that singular gratitude thou owest unto Him who so hides His own
first wherefore[3] that there is no ford to it, when thou shalt be
beyond the wide waves, say to my Joan, that for me she cry there where
answer is given to the innocent. I do not think her mother[4] loves me
longer, since she changed her white wimples,[5] which she, wretched,
needs must desire again. Through her easily enough is comprehended how
long the fire of love lasts in woman, if eye or touch does not often
rekindle it. The viper[6] which leads afield the Milanese will not make
for her so fair a sepulture as the cock of Gallura would have done.”
Thus he said, marked in his aspect with the stamp of that upright zeal
which in due measure glows in the heart.

[1] The sun was already hidden behind the mountain when Virgil and
Dante came upon Sordello. Sordello had not therefore seen that Dante
cast a shadow, and being absorbed in discourse with Virgil had not
observed that Dante breathed as a living man.


[2] Corrado, of the great Guelph family of the Malaspina, lords of the
Lunigiana, a wide district between Genoa and Pisa.


[3] The reason of that which He wills.


[4] Her mother was Beatrice d’ Este, who, in 1300, married Galeazzo de’
Visconti of Milan.


[5] The white veil or wimple and black garments were worn by widows.
The prophecy that she must needs wish for her white wimple again seems
merely to rest on Nino’s disapproval of her second marriage.


[6] The viper was the cognizance of the Visconti of Milan.


My greedy eyes were going ever to the sky, ever there where the stars
are slowest, even as a wheel nearest the axle. And my Leader, “Son, at
what lookest thou up there?” And I to him, “At those three torches with
which the pole on this side is all aflame.” [1] And he to me, “The four
bright stars which thou sawest this morning are low on the other side,
and these are risen where those were.”

[1] These three stars are supposed to symbolize the theological
virtues,—faith. hope, and charity, whose light shines when the four
virtues of active life grow dim in night.


As he was speaking, lo! Sordello drew him to himself, saying, “See
there our adversary,” and pointed his finger that he should look
thither. At that part where the little valley has no barrier was a
snake, perhaps such as gave to Eve the bitter food. Through the grass
and the flowers came the evil trail, turning from time to time its head
to its  back, licking like a beast that sleeks itself. I did not see,
and therefore cannot tell how the celestial falcons moved, but I saw
well both one and the other in motion. Hearing the air cleft by their
green wings the serpent fled, and the angels wheeled about, up to their
stations flying back alike.

The shade which had drawn close to the Judge when he exclaimed, through
all that assault had not for a moment loosed its gaze from me. “So may
the light that leadeth thee on high find in thine own free-will so much
wax as is needed up to the enamelled summit,”[1] it began, “if thou
knowest true news of Valdimacra[2] or of the neighboring region, tell
it to me, for formerly I was great there. I was called Corrado
Malaspina; I am not the ancient,[3] but from him I am descended; to
mine own I bore the love which here is refined.” “Oh,” said I to him,
“through your lands I have never been, but where doth man dwell in all
Europe that they are not renowned? The fame that honoreth your house
proclaims its lords, proclaims its district, so that he knows of them
who never yet was there; and I swear to you, so may I go above, that
your honored race doth not despoil itself of the praise of the purse
and of the sword. Custom and nature so privilege it that though the
guilty head turn the world awry, alone it goes right and scorns the
evil road.”[4] And he, “Now go, for the sun shall not lie seven times
in the bed that the Ram covers and bestrides with all four feet,[5]
before this courteous opinion will be nailed in the middle of thy head
with greater nails than the speech of another, if course of judgment be
not arrested.”

[1] So may illuminating grace find the disposition in thee requisite
for the support of its light, until thou shalt arrive at the summit of
the Mountain, the earthly Paradise enamelled with perpetual flowers.


[2] A part of the Lunigiana.


[3] The old Corrado Malaspina was the husband of Constance, the sister
of King Manfred. He died about the middle of the thirteenth century.
The second Corrado was his grandson.


[4] This magnificent eulogy of the land and the family of Malaspina is
Dante’s return for the hospitality which, in 1306, he received from the
Marquis Moroello and other members of the house.


[5] Seven years shall not pass, the sun being at this time in the sign
of the Ram.




CANTO IX.


Slumber and Dream of Dante.—The Eagle.—Lucia.—The Gate of
Purgatory.—The Angelic Gatekeeper.—Seven P’s inscribed on Dante’s
Forehead.—Entrance to the First Ledge.


The concubine of old Tithonus was now gleaming white on the balcony of
the orient, forth from the arms of her sweet friend; her forehead was
lucent with gems set in the shape of the cold animal that strikes
people with its tail.[1] And in the place where we were the night had
taken two of the steps with which she ascends, and the third was
already bending down its wings, when I, who had somewhat of Adam with
me, overcome by sleep, reclined upon the grass, there where all five of
us were seated.

[1] By the concubine of old Tithonus, Dante seems to have intended the
lunar Aurora, in distinction from the proper wife of Tithonus, Aurora,
who precedes the rising Sun, and the meaning of these verses is that “
the Aurora before moonrise was lighting up the eastern sky, the
brilliant stars of the sign Scorpio were on the horizon, and, finally,
it was shortly after 8.30 P.M.” (Moore.) “The steps with which the
night ascends” are the six hours of the first half of the night, from 6
P.M. to midnight.


At the hour near the morning when the little swallow begins her sad
lays,[1] perchance in memory of her former woes, and when our mind,
more a wanderer from the flesh and less captive to the thought, is in
its visions almost divine,[2] in dream it seemed to me that I saw
poised in the sky an eagle with feathers of gold, with wings
widespread, and intent to stoop. And it seemed to me that I was
there[3] where his own people were abandoned by Ganymede, when he was
rapt to the supreme consistory. In myself I thought, “Perhaps this bird
strikes only here through wont, and perhaps from other place disdains
to carry anyone upward in his feet.” Then it seemed to me that, having
wheeled a little, it descended terrible as a thunderbolt, and snatched
me upwards far as the fire.[4] There it seemed that it and I burned,
and the imagined fire so scorched that of necessity the sleep was
broken.

[1] The allusion is to the tragic story of Progne and Philomela, turned
the one into a swallow, the other into a nightingale. Dante found the
tale in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book vi.


[2] Dante passes three nights in Purgatory, and each night his sleep is
terminated by a dream towards the hour of dawn, the time when,
according to the belief of classical antiquity, the visions of dreams
are symbolic and prophetic. (Moore.)


[3] Mt. Ida.


[4] The sphere of fire by which, according to the mediaeval
cosmography, the sphere of the air was surrounded.


Not otherwise Achilles shook himself,—turning around his awakened eyes,
and not knowing where he was, when his mother from Chiron to Scyros
stole him away, sleeping in her arms, thither whence afterwards the
Greeks withdrew him,[1]—than I started, as from my face sleep fled
away; and I became pale, even as a man frightened turns to ice. At my
side was my Comforter only, and the sun was now more than two hours
high,[2] and my face was turned toward the sea. “Have no fear,” said my
Lord; “be reassured, for we are at a good point; restrain not, but
increase all thy force. Thou art now arrived at Purgatory; see there
the cliff that closes it around; see the entrance, there where it
appears divided. A while ago in the dawn that precedes the day, when
thy soul was sleeping within thee, upon the flowers wherewith the place
down yonder is adorned, came a lady, and said, “I am Lucia; let me take
this one who is sleeping; thus will I assist him along his way.’
Sordello remained, and the other gentle forms: she took thee, and when
the day was bright, she came upward, and I along her footprints. Here
she laid thee down: and first her beautiful eyes showed me that open
entrance; then she and slumber went away together.” Like a man that in
perplexity is reassured, and that alters his fear to confidence after
the truth is disclosed to him, did I change; and when my Leader saw me
without solicitude, up along the cliff he moved on, and I behind,
toward the height.

[1] Statius, in the first book of the Achilleid, tells how Thetis, to
prevent Achilles from going to the siege of Troy, bore him sleeping
away from his instructor, the centaur Chiron, and carried him to the
court of King Lycomedes, on the Island of Scyros, where, though
concealed in women’s garments, Ulysses and Diomed discovered him.
Statius relates how wonderstruck Achilles was when on awaking he found
himself at Scyros: Quae loca? qui fluctus? ubi Pelion? onmia versa
Atque ignota videt, dubitatque agnoscere matrem—249-50.


[2] The morning of Easter Monday.


[3] Lucia seems to be here the symbol of assisting grace, the gratia
operans of the school-men. It was she who was called upon by the Virgin
(Hell, Canto II.) to aid Dante when he was astray in the wood, and who
had moved Beatrice to go to his succor.


Reader, thou seest well how I exalt my theme, and therefore marvel not
if with more art I reenforce it.[1]

[1] These words may be intended to call attention to the doctrine which
underlies the imagery of the verse.


The entrance within the gate of Purgatory is the assurance of
justification, which is the change of the soul from a state of sin to a
state of justice or righteousness. Justification itself consists,
according to St. Thomas Aquinas (Summa Theologica, Prima Secundae,
quaest. cxiii. art. 6 and 8), of four parts: first, the infusion of
grace; second, the turning of the free will to God through faith;
third, the turning of the free will against sin; fourth, the remission
of sin. It must be accompanied by the sacrament of penance, which
consists of contrition, confession, and satisfaction by works of
righteousness.

Outside the gate of Purgatory justification cannot be complete. The
souls in the Ante-Purgatory typify those who have entered on the way
towards justification, but have not yet attained it. They undergo a
period of mortification to sin, of deliberation, as St. Thomas Aquinas
says: “Contingit autem quandoque quod praecedit aliqua deliberatio quae
non est do substantia justificationis sed via in justificationem.”
Summa Theol., l. c. art. 7.

We drew near to it, and reached such place that there, where at first
there seemed to me a rift, like a cleft which divides a wall, I saw a
gate, and three steps beneath for going to it of divers colors, and a
gatekeeper who as yet said not a word. And as I opened my eye there
more and more, I saw him sitting on the upper step, such in his face
that I endured it not.[1] And he had in his hand a naked sword, which
so reflected the rays toward us that I often raised my sight in vain.
“Tell it from there, what would ye?” began he to say; “where is the
guide? Beware lest the coming up be harmful to you.” [2] “A lady from
Heaven with these things acquainted,” replied my Master to him, “only
just now said to us, ‘Go thither, here is the gate.’” “And may she
speed your progress in good,” began again the courteous gatekeeper,
“come forward then unto our steps.”

[1] The angel at the gate appears to be the type of the priest who
administers absolution.


[2] Unless grace has been infused into the heart it is a sin to present
one’s self as ready for the sacrament.


Thither we came to the first great stair; it was of white marble so
polished and smooth that I mirrored myself in it as I appear. The
second, of deeper hue than perse, was of a rough and scorched stone,
cracked lengthwise and athwart. The third, which above lies massy,
seemed to me of porphyry as flaming red as blood that spirts forth from
a vein. Upon this the Angel of God held both his feet, seated upon the
threshold that seemed to me stone of adamant.[1] Up over the three
steps my Leader drew me with good will, saying, “Beg humbly that he
undo the lock.” Devoutly I threw myself at the holy feet; I besought
for mercy’s sake that he would open for me; but first upon my breast I
struck three times.[2] Seven P’s upon my forehead he inscribed with the
point of his sword,[3] and “See that thou wash these wounds when thou
art within,” he said.

[1] The first step is the symbol of confession, the second of
contrition, the third of satisfaction; the threshold of adamant may
perhaps signify the authority of the Church.


[2] Three times, in penitence for sins in thought, in word, and in
deed.


[3] The seven P’s stand for the seven so-called mortal sins,—Peccati,
not specific acts, but the evil dispositions of the soul from which all
evil deeds spring,—pride, envy, anger, sloth (accidia), avarice,
gluttony, and lust. After justification these dispositions which
already have been overcome, must be utterly removed from the soul.


Ashes or earth dug out dry would be of one color with his vestment, and
from beneath that he drew two keys. One was of gold and the other was
of silver; first with the white and then with the yellow he so did to
the door, that I was content.[1] “Whenever one of these keys fails, and
turns not rightly in the lock,” said he to us, “this passage doth not
open. More precious is one[2] but the other requires much art and wit
before it unlocks, because it is the one that disentangles the knot.
From Peter I hold them; and he told me to err rather in opening than in
keeping shut, if but the people prostrate themselves at my feet.” Then
he pushed the valve of the sacred gate, saying, “Enter, but I give you
warning that whoso looks behind returns outside.”[3] And when the
pivots of that sacred portal, which are of metal, sonorous and strong,
were turned within their hinges, Tarpeia roared not so loud nor showed
herself so harsh, when the good Metellus was taken from her, whereby
she afterwards remained lean.[4]

[1] The golden key is typical of the power to open, and the silver of
the knowledge to whom to open.


[2] The gold, more precious because the power of absolution was
purchased by the death of the Saviour.


[3] For he who returns to his sins loses the Divine Grace.


[4] This roaring of the gate may, perhaps, be intended to enforce the
last words of the angel, and may symbolize the voices of his own sins
as the sinner turns his back on them. When Caesar forced the doors of
the temple of Saturn on the Tarpeian rock, in order to lay hands on the
sacred treasure of Rome, he was resisted by the tribune Metellus.


I turned away attentive to the first tone,[1] and it seemed to me I
heard “Te Deum laudamus”[2] in voices mingled with sweet sound. That
which I heard gave me just such an impression as we are wont to receive
when people stand singing with an organ, and the words now are, now are
not caught.

[1] The first sound within Purgatory.


[2] Words appropriate to the entrance of a sinner that repenteth.




CANTO X.


First Ledge: the Proud.—Examples of Humility sculptured on the Rock.


When we were within the threshold of the gate, which the souls’ wrong
love[1] disuses, because it makes the crooked way seem straight, I
heard by its resounding that it was closed again. And, if I had turned
my eyes to it, what excuse would have been befitting for the fault?

[1] It is Dante’s doctrine that love is the motive of every act;
rightly directed, of good deeds; perverted, of evil. See Canto XVII.


We were ascending through a cloven rock, which moved on one side and on
the other, even as the wave retreats and approaches. “Here must be used
a little art,” began my Leader, “in keeping close, now here, now there
to the side which recedes.”[1] And this made our progress so slow that
the waning disk of the moon regained its bed to go to rest, before we
had come forth from that needle’s eye. But when we were free and open
above, where the mountain backward withdraws,[2] I weary, and both
uncertain of our way, we stopped upon a level more solitary than roads
through deserts. The space from its edge, where it borders the void, to
the foot of the high bank which rises only, a human body would measure
in three lengths; and as far as my eye could stretch its wings, now on
the left and now on the right side, such did this cornice seem to me.
Thereon our feet had not yet moved when I perceived that bank round
about, which, being perpendicular, allowed no ascent, to be of white
marble and adorned with such carvings, that not Polycletus merely but
Nature would be put to shame there.

[1] The path was a narrow, steep zigzag, which, as it receded on one
side and the other, afforded the better foothold.


[2] Leaving an open space, the first ledge of Purgatory.


The Angel who came to earth with the announcement of the peace, wept
for for many years, which opened Heaven from its long interdict,
appeared before us here carved in a sweet attitude so truly that he did
not seem an image that is silent. One would have sworn that he was
saying “Ave;” for there was she imaged who turned the key to open the
exalted love. And in her action she had these words impressed, “Ecce
ancilla Dei!”[1] as exactly as a shape is sealed in wax.

[1] “Behold the handmaid of the Lord!”


“Keep not thy mind only on one place,” said the sweet Master, who had
me on that side where people have their heart. Wherefore I moved my
eyes and saw behind Mary, upon that side where he was who was moving
me, another story displayed upon the rock; whereupon I passed Virgil
and drew near so that it might be set before my eyes. There in the very
marble was carved the cart and the oxen drawing the holy ark, because
of which men fear an office not given in charge.[1] In front appeared
people; and all of them, divided in seven choirs, of two of my senses
made the one say “NO,” the other “YES, THEY ARE SINGING.”[2]  In like
manner, by the smoke of the incense that was imaged there, mine eyes
and nose were made in YES and NO discordant. There, preceding the
blessed vessel, dancing, girt up, was the humble Psalmist, and more and
less than king was he in that proceeding. Opposite, figured at a window
of a great palace, Michal was looking on even as a lady scornful and
troubled.[3]

[1] “And they set the ark of God on a new cart, and brought it out of
the house.. . and Uzzah and Ahio drave the new cart….and when they came
to Nachon’s threshing-floor, Uzzah put forth his hand to the ark of
God, and took hold of it; for the oxen shook it. And the anger of the
Lord was kindled against Uzzah, and God smote him there for his error;
and there he died by the ark of God.” 2 Samuel, vi. 4-7.


[2] The hearing said “No,” the sight said “Yes.”


[3] “So David went and brought up the ark of God… into the city of
David with gladness. And when they that bare the ark of the Lord had
gone six paces he sacrificed oxen and fatlings. And David danced before
the Lord with all his might; and David was girded with a linen ephod.
So David and all the house of Israel brought up the ark of the Lord
with shouting, and with the sound of the trumpet. And as the ark of the
Lord came into the city of David, Michal, Saul’s daughter, looked
through a window, and saw King David leaping and dancing before the
Lord; and she despised him in her heart.” 2 Samuel, vi. 12-16.


I moved my feet from the place where I was standing to look from near
at another story which behind Michal was shining white on me. Here was
storied the high glory of the Roman prince, whose worth incited Gregory
to his great victory:[1] I speak of Trajan the emperor; and a poor
widow was at his bridle in attitude of weeping and of grief. Round
about him there seemed a press and throng of knights, and the eagles in
the gold above him to the sight were moving in the wind. The wretched
woman among all these seemed to be saying, “Lord, do vengeance for me
for my son who is slain, whereat I am broken-hearted.” And he to answer
her, “Now wait till I return;” and she, “My Lord,”—like one in whom
grief is hasty,—“if thou return not?” And he, “He who shall be where I
am will do it for thee.” And she, “What will the good deed of another
be to thee if thou art mindless of thine own?” Whereon he, “Now comfort
thee; for it behoves that I discharge my own duty ere I go; justice
requires it, and pity constrains me.” He who hath never seen new thing
[2] had produced that visible speech, novel to us, since on earth it is
not found.

[1] This legend of Trajan had great vogue during the Middle Ages. It
was believed that Pope Gregory the Great interceded for him, praying
that he might be delivered from Hell; “then God because of these
prayers drew that soul from pain and put it into glory.” This was
Gregory’s great victory. See Paradise, XX., p. 131.


[2] God, to whom nothing can be new.


While I was delighting me with regarding the images of such great
humilities, and for their Maker’s sake dear to behold, “Lo, on this
side many people, but they make few steps,” murmured the Poet. “They
will put us on the way to the high stairs.” My eyes that were intent on
looking in order to see novelties whereof they are fain, in turning
toward him were not slow.

I would not, indeed, Reader, that thou be dismayed at thy good purpose,
through hearing how God wills that the debt be paid. Attend not to the
form of the suffering; think on what follows; think that at worst
beyond the Great Judgment it cannot go!

I began, “Master, that which I see moving toward us, seems to me not
persons, but what I know not, my look is so in vain.” And he to me,
“The heavy condition of their torment so presses them to earth, that
mine own eyes at first had contention with it. But look fixedly there,
and disentangle with thy sight that which cometh beneath those stones;
now thou canst discern how each is smitten.”

O proud Christians, wretched weary ones, who, diseased in vision of the
mind, have confidence in backward steps, are ye not aware that we are
worms born to form the angelic butterfly which flies unto judgment
without defence? Why doth your mind float up aloft, since ye are as it
were defective insects, even as a worm in which formation fails?

As sometimes for support of ceiling or roof, by way of corbel, a figure
is seen joining its knees to its breast, which out of its unreality
makes a real pang rise in him who sees it, thus fashioned saw I these
when I gave good heed. True it is that they were more or less
contracted according as they had more or less upon their backs; and he
who had most patience in his looks, weeping, appeared to say, “I can no
more.”




CANTO XI.


First Ledge: the Proud.—Prayer.—Omberto Aldobrandeschi.—Oderisi d’
Agubbio.—Provinzan Salvani.


“O our Father who art in Heaven, not circumscribed, but through the
greater love which to the first effects on high Thou hast,[1] praised
be Thy name and Thy power by every creature, even as it is befitting to
render thanks to Thy sweet effluence. May the peace of Thy Kingdom come
towards us, for we to it cannot of ourselves, if it come not, with all
our striving. As of their will Thine angels, singing Hosanna, make
sacrifice to Thee, so may men make of theirs. Give us this day the
daily manna, without which through this rough desert he backward goes,
who toils most to go on. And as we pardon every one for the wrong that
we have suffered, even do Thou, benignant, pardon and regard not our
desert. Our virtue which is easily overcome put not to proof with the
old adversary, but deliver from him who so spurs it. This last prayer,
dear Lord, truly is not made for ourselves, for it is not needful, but
for those who behind us have remained.”

[1] Not circumscribed by Heaven, but having Thy seat there because of
the love Thou bearest to the first effects—the angels, and the
heavens—of Thyself the First Cause.


Thus praying for themselves and us good speed, those souls were going
under the weight, like that of which one sometimes dreams, unequally in
anguish, all of them round and round, and weary, along the first
cornice, purging away the mists of the world. If good they ask for us
always there, what can here be said and done for them by those who have
a good root for their will? Truly we ought to aid them to wash away the
marks which they bore hence, so that pure and light they may go forth
unto the starry wheels.

“Ah! so may justice and pity unburden you speedily that ye may be able
to move the wing, which according to your desire may lift you, show on
which hand is the shortest way towards the stair; and if there is more
than one pass, point out to us that which least steeply slopes; for
this man who comes with me, because of the load of the flesh of Adam
wherewith he is clothed, is chary against his will of mounting up.” It
was not manifest from whom came the words which they returned to these
that he whom I was following had spoken, but it was said, “To the right
hand along the bank come ye with us, and ye will find the pass possible
for a living person to ascend. And if I were not hindered by the stone
which tames my proud neck, wherefore I needs must carry my face low, I
would look at that one who is still alive and is not named, to see if I
know him, and to make him pitiful of this burden. I was Italian, and
born of a great Tuscan; Guglielmo Aldobrandesco was my father: I know
not if his name was ever with you.[1] The ancient blood and the gallant
deeds of my ancestors made me so arrogant that, not thinking on the
common mother, I held every man in scorn to such extreme that I died
therefor, as the Sienese know, and every child in Campagnatico knows
it. I am Omberto: and not only unto me Pride doth harm, for all my
kinsfolk bath she dragged with her into calamity; and here must I heap
this weight on her account till God be satisfied,—here among the dead,
since I did it not among the living.”

[1] The Aldobrandeschi were the counts of Santa Fiore (see Canto VI.)
in the Sienese Maremma. Little is known of them, but that they were in
constant feud with Siena. The one who speaks was murdered in his own
stronghold of Campagnatico, in 1259.


Listening, I bent down my face; and one of them, not he who was
speaking, twisted himself under the weight that hampers him; and he saw
me, and recognized me and called out, keeping his eyes with effort
fixed on me, who was going along all stooping with him.[1] “Oh,” said I
to him, “art thou not Oderisi, the honor of Gubbio, and the honor of
that art which in Paris is called illumination?” “Brother,” said he,
“more smiling are the leaves that Franco of Bologna pencils; the honor
is now all his, and mine in part.[2] Truly I should not have been so
courteous while I lived, because of the great desire of excelling
whereon my heart was intent. Of such pride here is paid the fee; and
yet I should not be here, were it not that, still having power to sin,
I turned me unto God. Oh vainglory of human powers! how little lasts
the green upon the top, if it be not followed by dull ages.[3] Cimabue
thought to hold the field in painting, and now Giotto has the cry, so
that the fame of him is obscured. In like manner one Guido hath taken
from the other the glory of the language; and he perhaps is born who
shall drive both one and the other from the nest.[4] Worldly renown is
naught but a breath of wind, which now comes hence and now comes
thence, and changes name because it changes quarter. What more fame
shalt thou have, if thou strippest old flesh from thee, than if thou
hadst died ere thou hadst left the pap and the chink,[5] before a
thousand years have passed?—which is a shorter space compared to the
eternal than a movement of the eyelids to the circle that is slowest
turned in Heaven. With him who takes so little of the road in front of
me, all Tuscany resounded, and now he scarce is lisped of in Siena,
where he was lord when the Florentine rage was destroyed,[6] which at
that time was proud, as now it is prostitute. Your reputation is color
of grass that comes and goes, and he[7] discolors it through whom it
came up fresh from the earth.” And I to him, “Thy true speech brings
good humility to my heart, and thou allayest a great swelling in me;
but who is he of whom thou now wast speaking?” “He is,” he answered,
“Provinzan Salvani;[8] and he is here, because he was presumptuous in
bringing all Siena to his hands. He has gone thus—and he goes without
repose—ever since he died: such money doth he pay in satisfaction, who
is on earth too daring.” And I, “If that spirit who awaits the verge of
life ere he repents abides there below, and unless good prayer further
him ascends not hither, ere as much time pass us he lived, how has this
coining been granted unto him?” “When he was living most renowned,”
said he, “laying aside all shame, of his own accord he planted himself
in the Campo of Siena,[9] and there, to draw his friend from the
punishment he was enduring in the prison of Charles, brought himself to
tremble in every vein. More I will not say, and I know that I speak
darkly; but little time will pass, before thy neighbors will so act
that thou wilt he able to gloss it.[10] This deed released him from
those limits.”[11]

[1] This stooping is the symbol of Dante’s consciousness of pride as
his own besetting sin.


[2] Oderisi of Gubbio and Franco of Bologna were both eminent in the
art called miniare in Italian, enluminer in French.


[3] Ages in which no progress is made.


[4] The first Guido is doubtless Guido Guinicelli, whom Dante calls
(see Canto XXVI.) his master; the other probably Dante’s friend, Guido
Cavalcanti.


[5] Dante’s words are pappo and dindi, childish terms for “bread” and
“money.”


[6] The mad Florentine people were utterly cast down in 1260, at the
battle of Montaperti.


[7] The sun.


[8] Provinzano Salvani was one of the chief supporters of the
Ghibelline cause in Tuscany. He was a man of great qualities and
capacity, but proud and presumptuous. Defeated and taken prisoner at
the battle of Colle, in 1269, he was beheaded.


[9] The Campo of Siena is her chief public square and marketplace, set
round with palaces. The friend of Provinzano is said by the old
commentators to have fought for Conradin against Charles of Anjou, and,
being taken captive, to have been condemned to death. His ransom was
fixed at ten thousand florins. Provinzano, not being able to pay this
sum from his own means, took his seat in the Campo and humiliated
himself to beg of the passers-by.


[10] The meaning of the dark words seems to be: Exile and poverty will
compel thee to beg, and begging to tremble in every vein.


[11] This deed of humility and charity released him from the necessity
of tarrying outside the gate of Purgatory.




CANTO XII.


First Ledge: the Proud.—Examples of the punishment of Pride graven on
the pavement.—Meeting with an Angel who removes one of the P’s.—Ascent
to the Second Ledge.


Side by side, like oxen who go yoked, I went on with that burdened
spirit so long as the sweet Pedagogue allowed it; but when he said,
“Leave him, and come on, for here it is well that, both with sail and
oars, each as much as he can should urge his bark,” I straitened up my
body again, as is required for walking, although my thoughts remained
both bowed down and abated.

I was moving on, and following willingly the steps of my Master, and
both now were showing how light we were, when he said to me, “Turn
thine eyes downward; it will be well for thee, in order to solace the
way, to look upon the bed of thy footprints.” As above the buried, so
that there may be memory of them, their tombs in earth bear inscribed
that which they were before,—whence oftentimes is weeping for them
there, through the pricking of remembrance, which only to the pious
gives the spur,—so saw I figured there, but of better semblance in
respect of skill, all that for pathway juts out from the mountain.

I saw him who was created more noble than any other creature,[1] down
from heaven with lightning flash descending, at one side.

[1] Lucifer.


I saw Briareus[1] transfixed by the celestial bolt, lying at the other
side, heavy upon the earth in mortal chill. I saw Thymbraeus,[2] I saw
Pallas and Mars, still armed, around their father, gazing at the
scattered limbs of the giants.

[1] Examples from classic and biblical mythology alternate.


[2] Apollo, so called from his temple at Thymbra, not far from Troy,
where Achilles is said to have slain Paris. Virgil (Georgics, iv. 323)
uses this epithet.


I saw Nimrod at the foot of his great toil, as if bewildered, and
gazing at the people who in Shinar had with him been proud.

O Niobe! with what grieving eyes did I see thee portrayed upon the road
between thy seven and seven children slain!

O Saul! how on thine own sword here didst thou appear dead on Gilboa,
that after felt not rain or dew![1]

[1] I Samuel, xxxi. 4, and 2 Samuel, i. 24.


O mad Arachne,[1] so I saw thee already half spider, wretched on the
shreds of the work that to thy harm by thee was made!

[1] Changed to a spider by Athena, whom she had challenged to a trial
of skill at the loom.


O Rehoboam! here thine image seems not now to threaten, but full of
fear, a chariot bears it away before any one pursues it.[1]

[1] 1 Kings, xii. 13-18.


The hard pavement showed also how Alcmaeon made the ill-fated ornament
seem costly to his mother.[1]

[1] Amphiaraus, the soothsayer, foreseeing his own death if he went to
the Theban war, hid himself to avoid being forced to go. His wife,
Eriphyle, bribed by a golden necklace, betrayed his hiding-place, and
was killed by her son Alcmaeon, for thus bringing about his father’s
death.


It showed how his sons threw themselves upon Sennacherib within the
temple, and how they left him there dead.[1]

[1] 2 Kings, xix. 37.


It showed the ruin and the cruel slaughter that Tomyris wrought, when
she said to Cyrus, “For blood thou hast thirsted, and with blood I fill
thee.”

[1] Herodotus (i. 214) tells how Tomyris, Queen of the Massagetae,
having defeated and slain Cyrus, filled a skin full of human blood, and
plunged his head in it with words such as Dante reports, and which he
derived from Orosius, Histor. ii. 7.


It showed how the Assyrians fled in rout after Holofernes was killed,
and also the remainder of the punishment.[1]

[1] Judith, xv. 1.


I saw Troy in ashes, and in caverns. O Ilion! how cast down and abject
the image which is there discerned showed thee!

What master has there been of pencil or of style that could draw the
shadows and the lines which there would make every subtile genius
wonder? Dead the dead, and the living seemed alive. He who saw the
truth saw not better than I all that I trod on while I went bent
down.—Now be ye proud, and go with haughty look, ye sons of Eve, and
bend not down your face so that ye may see your evil path!

More of the mountain had now been circled by us, and of the sun’s
course far more spent, than my mind, not disengaged, was aware, when
he, who always in advance attent was going on, began, “Lift up thy
head; there is no more time for going thus abstracted. See there an
Angel, who is hastening to come toward us: see how from the service of
the day the sixth hand-maiden returns.[1] With reverence adorn thine
acts and thy face so that he may delight to direct us upward. Think
that this day never dawns again.”

[1] The sixth hour of the day is coming to its end, near noon.


I was well used to his admonition ever to lose no time, so that on that
theme he could not speak to me obscurely.

To us came the beautiful creature, clothed in white, and in his face
such as seems the tremulous morning star. Its arms it opened, and then
it opened its wings; it said, “Come: here at hand are the steps, and
easily henceforth one ascends. To this invitation very few come. O
human race, born to fly upward, why before a little wind dost thou so
fall?”

He led us to where the rock was cut; here he struck his wings across my
forehead,[1] then promised me secure progress.

[1] Removing the first P that the Angel of the Gate had incised on
Dante’s brow.


As on the right hand, in going up the mountain,[1] where sits the
church that dominates her the well-guided[2] city above Rubaconte,[3]
the bold flight of the ascent is broken by the stairs, which were made
in an age when the record and the stave were secure,[4] in like manner,
the bank which falls here very steeply from the next round is
slackened; but on this side and that the high rock grazes.[5] As we
turned our persons thither, voices sang “Beati pauperes spiritu”[6] in
such wise that speech could not tell it. Ah, how different are these
passes from those of Hell! for here through songs one enters, and there
below through fierce lamentings.

[1] The hill of San Miniato, above Florence.


[2] Ironical.


[3] The upper bridge at Florence across the Arno, named after Messer
Rubaconte di Mandella, podesta of Florence, who laid the first stone of
it in 1237; now called the Ponte alle Grazie, after a little chapel
built upon it in 1471, and dedicated to Our Lady of Grace.


[4] In the good old time when men were honest. In 1299 one Messer
Niccola Acciaioli, in order to conceal a fraudulent transaction, had a
leaf torn out from the public notorial record; and about the same time
an officer in charge of the revenue from salt, for the sake of private
gain, measured the salt he received with an honest measure, but that
which he sold with a measure diminished by the removal of a stave.


[5] The stairway is so narrow.


[6] “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” As Dante passes from each round
of Purgatory, an angel removes the P which denotes the special sin
there purged away. And the removal is accompanied with the words of one
of the Beatitudes.


Now we were mounting up over the holy stairs, and it seemed to me I was
far more light than I had seemed on the plain before. Whereon I,
“Master, say, what heavy thing has been lifted from me, so that almost
no weariness is felt by me as I go on?” He answered, “When the P’s that
almost extinct[1] still remain on thy countenance shall be, as one is,
quite erased, thy feet will be so conquered by good will that not only
they will not feel fatigue, but it will be delight to them to be urged
up.” Then I did like those who are going with something on their head,
unknown by them unless the signs of others make them suspect; wherefore
the hand assists to ascertain, and seeks and finds, and performs that
office which cannot be accomplished by the sight; and with the fingers
of my right hand outspread, I found only six those letters which he of
the keys had encised upon my temples: looking at which my Leader
smiled.

[1] Almost extinct, because, as St. Thomas Aquinas says, “Pride by
which we are chiefly turned from God is the first and the origin of all
sins.” He adds, “Pride is said to be the beginning of every sin, not
because every single sin has its source in pride, but because every
kind of sin is born of pride.” Summa Theol., II. 2, quaest. 162, art.
7.




CANTO XIII.


Second Ledge the Envious.—Examples of Love.—The Shades in haircloth,
and with sealed eyes.—Sapia of Siena.


We were at the top of the stairway, where the mountain, ascent of which
frees one from ill, is the second time cut back. There a cornice binds
the hill round about, in like manner as the first, except that its arc
bends more quickly. No shadow is there, nor mark which is apparent [1]
so that the bank appears smooth and so the path, with the livid color
of the stone.

[1] No sculptured or engraved scenes.


“If to enquire one waits here for people,” said the Poet, “I fear that
perhaps our choice will have too much delay.” Then he set his eyes
fixedly upon the sun, made of his right side the centre for his
movement, and turned the left part of himself. “O sweet light, with
confidence in which I enter on the new road, do thou lead us on it,” he
said, “as there is need for leading here within. Thou warmest the
world, thou shinest upon it; if other reason prompt not to the
contrary, thy rays ought ever to be guides.”

As far as here on earth is counted for a mile, so far had we now gone
there, in little time because of ready will; and towards us were heard
to fly, not however seen, spirits uttering courteous invitations to the
table of love. The first voice that passed flying, “Virum non
habent,”[1] loudly said, and went on behind us reiterating it. And
before it had become quite inaudible through distance, another passed
by, crying, “I am Orestes,” [2] and also did not stay. “O Father,” said
I, “what voices are these?” and even as I was asking, lo! the third,
saying, “Love them from whom ye have had wrong.” And the good Master:
“This circle scourges the sin of envy, and therefore from love are
drawn the cords of the scourge. The curb must be of the opposite sound;
I think that thou wilt hear it before thou arrivest at the pass of
pardon.[3] But fix thine eyes very fixedly through the air, and thou
wilt see in front of us people sitting, and each is seated against the
rock.” Then more than before I opened my eyes; I looked in front of me,
and saw shades with cloaks in color not different from the stone. And
when we were a little further forward, I heard them crying, “Mary, pray
for us!” crying, “Michael,” and “Peter,” and all the Saints.

[1] “They have no wine.”—John ii. 3. The words of Mary at the wedding
feast of Cana, symbolic of a kindness that is a rebuke of envy.


[2] The words of Pylades, before Aegisthus, when contending with
Orestes to be put to death in his stead.


[3] At the stair to the third ledge, at the foot of which stands the
angel who cancels the sin of envy.


I do not believe there goes on earth to-day a man so hard that he had
not been pricked by compassion at that which I then saw. For when I had
approached so near to them that their actions came surely to me, tears
were drawn from my eyes by heavy grief. They seemed to me covered with
coarse haircloth, and one supported the other with his shoulders, and
all were supported by the bank. Thus the blind, who lack subsistence,
stand at pardons[1] to beg for what they need, and one bows his head
upon another, so that pity may quickly be moved in others, not only by
the sound of the words, but by the sight which implores no less. And as
to the blind the sun profits not, so to the shades, there where I was
now speaking, the light of Heaven wills not to make largess of itself;
for a wire of iron pierces and sews up the eyelids of all; even as is
done to a wild sparrow-hawk, because it stays not quiet.

[1] On occasion of special indulgences the beggars gather at the door
of churches frequented by those who seek the pardons to be obtained
within.


It seemed to me I was doing outrage as I went on, seeing others, not
myself being seen, wherefore I turned me to my sage Counsel; well did
he know what the dumb wished to say, and therefore waited not my
asking, but said, “Speak, and be brief and to the point.”

Virgil was coming with me on that side of the cornice from which one
may fall, because it is encircled by no rim. On the other side of me
were the devout shades, that through the horrible stitches were
pressing out the tears so that they bathed their cheeks. I turned me to
them, and, “O folk secure,” I began, “of seeing the lofty light which
alone your desire holds in its care, may grace speedily dissolve the
scum of your consciences so that the stream of memory through them may
descend clear,[1] tell me, for it will be gracious and dear to me, if
there be a soul here among you that is Latin, and perhaps it will be
good for him if I learn it.” “O my brother, each is a citizen of one
true city,[2] but thou meanest, who lived in Italy while a pilgrim.”[3]
This it seemed to me to hear for answer somewhat further on than where
I was standing; wherefore I made myself heard still more that way.
Among the others I saw a shade that was expectant in look; and, if any
one should wish to ask, How?—like a blind man it was lifting up its
chin. “Spirit,” said I, “that humblest thyself in order to ascend, if
thou art that one which answered me, make thyself known to me either by
place or by name.” “I was a Sienese,” it answered, “and with these
others I cleanse here my guilty life, weeping to Him that He grant
Himself to us. Sapient I was not, although I was called Sapia, and I
was far more glad of others’ harm than of my own good fortune. And that
thou mayst not believe that I deceive thee, bear if I was foolish as I
tell thee. The arch of my years already descending, my fellow-citizens
were joined in battle near to Colle[4] with their adversaries, and I
prayed God for that which He willed. They were routed there, and turned
into the bitter passes of flight; and I, seeing the pursuit,
experienced a joy unmatched by any other; so much that I turned upward
my audacious face, crying out to God, ‘Now no more I fear thee;’ as the
blackbird doth because of a little fair weather. At the very end of my
life I desired peace with God; and even yet my debt would not be
lessened by penitence,[5] had it not been that Pier Pettinagno,[6] who
out of charity was sorry for me, held me in memory in his holy prayers.
But thou, who art thou that goest asking of our conditions, and bearest
thine eyes loose as I think, and breathing dost speak?” “My eyes,” said
I, “will yet be taken from me here but a little time, for small is the
offence committed through their being turned with envy. Far greater is
the fear, with which my soul is in suspense, of the torment beneath,
and already the load down there weighs upon me. And she to me, “Who
then hath led thee here up among us, if thou thinkest to return below?”
And I, “This one who is with me, and says not a word: and I am alive;
and therefore ask of me, spirit elect, if thou wouldst that I should
yet move for thee on earth my mortal feet.” “Oh, this is so strange a
thing to hear,” she replied, “that it is great sign that God loves
thee; therefore assist me sometimes with thy prayer. And I beseech
thee, by that which thou most desirest, if ever thou tread the earth of
Tuscany, that with my kindred thou restore my fame. Thou wilt see them
among that vain people which hopes in Talamone,[7] and will waste more
hope there, than in finding the Diana[8] but the admirals will stake
the most there.[9]

[1] Being purified from sin they will retain no memory of it.


[2] “Fellow-citizens with the saints, and of the household of
God.”—Ephesians, ii. 19.


[3] “For here have we no continuing city, but we seek one to
come.”—Hebrews, xiii. 14.


[4] This was the battle in 1259, in which the Florentines routed die
Sienese Ghibellines, at whose head was Provenzan Salvani. who was
slain. See Canto XI.


[5] I should not yet within Purgatory have diminished my debt of
expiation, but, because I delayed repentance till the hour of Death, I
should still be outside the gate.


[6] A poor comb-dealer, a man of kind heart, honest dealings, and good
deeds, and still remembered for them in Siena. He died in 1289.


[7] A little port on the coast of Tuscany, on which the Sienese wasted
toil and money in the vain hope that by strengthening and enlarging it
they could make themselves rivals at sea of the Pisans and Genoese.


[8] A subterranean stream supposed to flow beneath the city.


[9] Of these last words the meaning is obscure.




CANTO XIV.


Second Ledge: the Envious—Guido del Duca.—Rinieri de’ Calboli.—Examples
of the punishment of Envy.


“Who is this that circles our mountain ere death have given him flight,
and opens and shuts his eyes at his own will?”[1] “I know not who he
is, but I know that he is not alone. Do thou, who art nearer to him,
ask him; and sweetly, so that he may speak, accost him.” Thus two
spirits, leaning one to the other, discoursed of me there on the right
hand, then turned up their faces to speak to me. And one of them said,
“O soul that still fixed in thy body goest on toward heaven, for
charity console us, and tell us whence thou comest, and who thou art;
for thou makest us so marvel at this thy grace, as needs must a thing
that never was before.” And I, “Through mid Tuscany there wanders a
little stream, that has its rise on Falterona,[2] and a hundred miles
of coarse does not suffice it. From thereupon I bring this body. To
tell you who I am would be to speak in vain, for my name as yet makes
no great sound.” “If I grasp aright thy meaning with my understanding,”
then replied to me he who had spoken first, “thou speakest of the
Arno.” And the other said to him, “Why did he conceal the name of that
river, even as one does of horrible things?” And the shade of whom this
was asked, delivered itself thus, “I know not, but truly it is fit that
the name of such a valley perish, for from its source (where the rugged
mountain chain, from which Pelorus[3] is cut off, is so teeming that in
few places it passes beyond that mark), far as there where it gives
back in restoration that which heaven dries up of the sea (wherefrom
the rivers have what flows in them), virtue is driven away as an enemy
by all men, like a snake, either through misfortune of the place, or
through evil habit that incites them. Wherefore the inhabitants of the
wretched valley have so changed their nature that it seems as though
Circe had had them in her feeding. Among foul hogs,[4] more fit for
acorns than for other food made for human use, it first directs its
poor path. Then, coming down, it finds curs more snarling, than their
power warrants,[5] and at them disdainfully it twists its muzzle.[6] It
goes on falling, and the more it swells so much the more the accursed
and ill-fated ditch finds the dogs becoming wolves.[7] Descending then
through many hollow gulfs, it finds foxes[8] so full of fraud, that
they fear not that wit may entrap them. Nor will I leave to speak
though another hear me: and well it will be for this one if hereafter
he mind him of that which a true spirit discloses to me.

[1] These words are spoken by Guido del Duca, who is answered by
Rinieri de’ Calboli; both of them from the Romagna.


[2] One of the highest of the Tuscan Apennines.


[3] The north-eastern promontory of Sicily.


[4] The people of the Casentino, the upper valley of the Arno.


[5] The Aretines.


[6] Turning westward.


[7] The wolves of Florence.


[8] The Pisans.


“I see thy grandson,[1] who becomes hunter of those wolves upon the
bank of the fierce stream, and terrifies them all. He sells their
flesh,[2] it being yet alive; then he slays them, like an old wild
beast; many of life, himself of honor he deprives. Bloody he comes
forth from the dismal wood;[3] he leaves it such, that from now for a
thousand years, in its primal state it is not rewooded.” As at the
announcement of grievous ills, the face of him who listens is
disturbed, from whatsoever side the danger may assail him, so I saw the
other soul, that was turned to hear, become disturbed and sad, when it
had gathered to itself the words.

[1] Fulcieri da Calvoli, so named by Villani (viii. 69), “a fierce and
cruel man,” was made podesta of Florence in 1302. He put to death many
of the White Guelphs, and banished more of them.


[2] Bribed by the opposite party.


[3] Florence, spoiled and undone.


The speech of one and the look of the other made me wishful to know
their names, and I made request for it, mixed with prayers. Wherefore
the spirit which first had spoken to me began again, “Thou wishest that
I abase myself in doing that for thee which thou wilt not do for me;
but since God wills that such great grace of His shine through in thee,
I will not be chary to thee; therefore know that I am Guido del Duca.
My blood was so inflamed with envy, that had I seen a man becoming
joyful, thou wouldst have seen me overspread with livid hue. Of my
sowing I reap this straw. O human race, why dost thou set thy heart
there where is need of exclusion of companionship?

“This one is Rinier; this is the glory and the honor of the house of
Calboli,[1] where no one since has made himself heir of his worth. And
between the Po and the mountain,[2] and the sea[3] and the Reno,[4] not
his blood alone has become stripped of the good required for truth and
for delight; for within these limits the ground is so full of poisonous
stocks, that slowly would they now die out through cultivation. Where
is the good Lizio, and Arrigo Manardi, Pier Traversaro, and Guido di
Carpigna? O men of Romagna turned to bastards! When in Bologna will a
Fabbro take root again? When in Faenza a Bernardin di Fosco, the noble
scion of a mean plant? Marvel not, Tuscan, if I weep, when I remember
with Guido da Prata, Ugolin d’ Azzo who lived with us, Federico Tignoso
and his company, the house of Traversara, and the Anastagi, (both the
one race and the other is without heir), the ladies and the cavaliers,
the toils and the pleasures for which love and courtesy inspired our
will, there where hearts have become so wicked. O Brettinoro! why dost
thou not flee away, since thy family hath gone, and many people, in
order not to be guilty? Well doth Bagnacaval that gets no more sons;
and ill doth Castrocaro, and worse Conio that takes most trouble to
beget such counts. Well will the Pagani do when their Demon shall go
from them;[6] yet not so that a pure report of them can ever remain. O
Ugolin de’ Fantolin! thy name is secure, since one who, degenerating,
can make it dark is no longer awaited. But go thy way, Tuscan, now; for
now it pleases me far more to weep than to speak, so much hath our
discourse wrung my mind.”

[1] A noble Guelph family of Forli.


[2] The Apennines.


[3] The Adriatic.


[4] Near Bologna.


[5] These and the others named afterwards were well-born, honorable,
and courteous men in Romagna in the thirteenth century. What is known
of them may be found in Benvenuto da Imola’s comment, and in that of
Scartazzini.


[6] The Pagani were lords of Faenza and Imola (see Hell, Canto XXVII);
the Demon was Mainardo, who died in 1302.


We knew that those dear souls heard us go; therefore by silence they
made us confident of the road. After we had become alone by going on, a
voice that seemed like lightning when it cleaves the air, came counter
to us, saying, “Everyone that findeth me shall slay me,” [1] and fled
like thunder which rolls away, if suddenly the cloud is rent. Soon as
our hearing had a truce from it, lo! now another with so great a crash
that it resembled thunderings in swift succession: “I am Aglauros who
became a stone.”[2] And then to draw me close to the Poet, I backward
and not forward took a step. Now was the air quiet on every side, and
he said to me, “That was the hard curb[3] which ought to hold man
within his bound; but ye take the bait, so that the hook of the old
adversary draws you to him, and therefore little avails bridle or lure.
Heaven calls you, and around you circles, displaying to you its eternal
beauties, and your eye looks only on the ground; wherefore He who
discerns everything scourges you.

[1] The words of Cain—Genesis, iv. 14.


[2] Daughter of Cecrops, changed to stone because of envy of her
sister.


[3] These examples of the fatal consequences of the sin.




CANTO XV.


Second Ledge: the Envious.—An Angel removes the second P from Dante’s
forehead.—Discourse concerning the Sharing of Good.—Ascent to the Third
Ledge: the Wrathful.—Examples of Forbearance seen in Vision.


As much as appears, between the beginning of the day and the close of
the third hour, of the sphere that ever in manner of a child is
sporting, so much now, toward the evening, appeared to be remaining of
his course for the sun.[1] It was vespers[2] there,[3] and here
midnight; and the rays struck us across the nose,[4] because the
mountain had been so circled by us that we were now going straight
toward the sunset, when I felt my forehead weighed down by the splendor
far more than at first, and the things not known were a wonder to
me.[5] Wherefore I lifted my hands toward the top of my brows, and made
for myself the visor that lessens the excess of what is seen.

[1] The sun was still some three hours from his setting. The sphere
that ever is sportive like a child has been variously interpreted;
perhaps Dante only meant the sphere of the heavens which by its ever
varying aspect suggests the image of a playful spirit.


[2] Dante uses “vespers” as the term for the last of the four canonical
divisions of the day; that is, from three to six P.M. See Convito, iv.
23. Three o’clock in Purgatory corresponds with midnight in Italy.


[3] In Italy.


[4] Full in the face.


[5] The source of this increase of brightness being unknown, it caused
him astonishment.


As when from water, or from the mirror, the ray leaps to the opposite
quarter, and, mounting up in like manner to that in which it descends,
at equal distance departs as much from the falling of the stone,[1] as
experiment and art show; so it seemed to me that I was struck by light
reflected there in front of me, from which my sight was swift to fly.
“What is that, sweet Father, from which I cannot screen my sight so
that it avails me,” said I, “and which seems to be moving toward us?”
“Marvel not if the family of Heaven still dazzle thee,” he replied to
me; “it is a messenger that comes to invite men to ascend. Soon will it
be that to see these things will not be grievous to thee, but will be
delight to thee as great as nature fitted thee to feel.”

[1] I.e., the perpendicular, at the point of incidence.


When we had reached the blessed Angel, with a glad voice he said,
“Enter ye here to a stairway far less steep than the others.”

We were mounting, already departed thence, and “Beati misericordes”[1]
had been sung behind us, and “Rejoice thou that overcomest.” [2] My
Master and I, we two alone, were going on upward, and I was thinking to
win profit as we went from his words; and I addressed me to him, thus
enquiring, “What did the spirit from Romagna mean, mentioning exclusion
and companionship?”[3] Wherefore he to me, “Of his own greatest fault
he knows the harm, and therefore it is not to be wondered at if he
reprove it, in order that there may be less lamenting on account of it.
Because  your desires are directed there, where, through companionship,
a share is lessened, envy moves the bellows for your sighs. But if the
love of the highest sphere[4] had turned your desire on high, that fear
would not be in your breast; for the more there are who there say
‘ours,’ so much the more of good doth each possess, and the more of
charity burns in that cloister.”[5] “I am more hungering to be
contented,” said I, “than if I had at first been silent, and more of
doubt I assemble in my mind. How can it be that a good distributed
makes more possessors richer with itself, than if by few it is
possessed?”[6] And he to me, “Because thou fastenest thy mind only on
earthly things, from true light thou gatherest darkness. That infinite
and ineffable Good which is on high, runs to love even as the sunbeam
comes to a lucid body. As much of itself it gives as it finds of ardor;
so that how far soever charity extends, beyond it doth the eternal
bounty increase. And the more the people who are intent on high the
more there are for loving well, and the more love is there, and like a
mirror one reflects to the other. And if my discourse appease not thy
hunger, thou shalt see Beatrice, and she will fully take from thee this
and every other longing. Strive only that soon may be extinct, as two
already are, the five wounds that are closed up by being painful.”[7]

[1] “Blessed are the merciful.”


[2] At the passage from each round, the Angel at the foot of the stairs
repeats words from the Beatitudes adapted to those purified from the
sin punished upon the ledge which is being left.


[3] In the last canto, Guido del Duca had exclaimed, “O human race, why
dost thou set thy heart there where companionship must needs be
excluded!”


[4] The Empyrean.


[5] “Since good, the more Communicated, the more abundant grows.”
Milton, Paradise Lost, v. 73.


[6] “True love in this differs from gold and clay, That to divide is
not to take away.”—Shelley, Epipsychidion.


[7] The pain of contrition.


As I was about to say “Thou satisfiest me,” I saw myself arrived on the
next round,[1] so that my eager eyes made me silent. There it seemed to
me I was of a sudden rapt in an ecstatic vision, and saw many persons
in a temple, and a lady at the entrance, with the sweet action of a
mother, saying, “My son, why hast thou done thus toward us? Lo,
sorrowing, thy father and I were seeking thee;” and when here she was
silent, that which first appeared, disappeared.

[1] Where the sin of anger is expiated.


Then appeared to me another, with those waters down along her cheeks
which grief distils when it springs from great despite toward others,
and she was saying, “If thou art lord of the city about whose name was
such great strife among the gods, and whence every science sparkles
forth, avenge thyself on those audacious arms, that have embraced our
daughter, O Pisistratus.” And the lord appeared to me, benign and mild,
to answer her, with temperate look, “What shall we do to him who
desires ill for us, if he who loves us is by us condemned?”[1]

[1] Dante translated this story from Valerius Maximus, Facta et dicta
mem., vi. 1.


Then I saw people kindled with fire of wrath, killing a youth with
stones, loudly crying to each other only, “Slay, slay.” And I saw him
bowed by death, which now was weighing on him, toward the ground, but
in such great strife he ever made of his eyes gates for heaven, praying
to the high Lord, that He would pardon his persecutors, with that
aspect which unlocks pity.[1]

[1] See Acts, vii. 55-60.


When my mind returned outwardly to the things which outside of it are
true, I recognized my not false errors. My Leader, who could see me do
like a man who looses himself from slumber, said, “What ails thee, that
thou canst not support thyself? but art come more than a half league
veiling thine eyes, and with thy legs staggering like one whom wine or
slumber bends.” “O sweet Father mine, if thou harkenest to me I will
tell thee,” said I, “what appeared to me when my legs were thus taken
from me.” And he, “If thou hadst a hundred masks upon thy face, thy
thoughts howsoever small would not be hidden from me. That which thou
hast seen was in order that thou excuse not thyself from opening thy
heart to the waters of peace which are poured forth from the eternal
fountain. I did not ask, ‘What ails thee?’ for the reason that he does
who looks only with the eye which hath no seeing when the body lies
inanimate; but I asked, in order to give vigor to the foot; thus it
behoves to spur the sluggards, slow to use their wakefulness when it
returns.”

We were going on through the vesper time, forward intent so far as the
eyes could reach against the bright evening rays; when, lo, little by
little, a smoke came toward us, dark as night; iior was there place to
shelter ourselves from it. This took from us our eyes and the pure air.




CANTO XVI.


Third Ledge the Wrathful.—Marco Lombardo.—His discourse on Free Will,
and the Corruption of the World.


Gloom of hell, or of night deprived of every planet, under a barren
sky, obscured by clouds as much as it can be, never made so thick a
veil to my sight nor to my feeling so harsh of tissue as that smoke
which covered us there; so that my eye endured not to stay open[1]
wherefore my sage and trusty Escort drew to my side and offered me his
shoulder. Even as a blind man goes behind his guide, in order not to
stray, and not to butt against anything that may hurt or perhaps kill
him, I went along, through the bitter and foul air, listening to my
Leader, who was ever saying, “Take care that thou be not cut off from
me.”

[1] The gloom and the smoke symbolize the effects of anger on the soul.


I heard voices, and each appeared to be praying for peace and mercy to
the Lamb of God that taketh sins away. Only “Agnus Dei[1] were their
exordiums: one word there was in all, and one measure; so that among
them seemed entire concord. “Are these spirits, Master, that I hear?”
said I. And he to me, “Thou apprehendest truly; and they go loosening
the knot of anger.” “Now who art thou that cleavest our smoke, and yet
dost speak of us even as if thou didst still divide the time by
calends?” [2] Thus by one voice was said: whereon my Master said,
“Reply, and ask if by this way one goeth up.” And I, “O creature, that
cleansest thyself in order to return beautiful unto Him who made thee,
a marvel shalt thou hear if thou accompanyest me.” “I will follow thee,
so far as is permitted me,” it replied, “and if the smoke allows not
seeing, in its stead hearing shall keep us joined.” Then I began, “With
that swathing band which death unbinds I go upward, and I came hither
through the infernal anguish. And if God bath so enclosed me in His
grace that He wills that I should see His court by a mode wholly out of
modern usage, conceal not from me who thou wert before thy death, but
tell it to me, and tell me if I am going rightly to the pass; and let
thy words be our guides.” “Lombard I was, and was called Marco; the
world I knew, and that worth I loved, toward which every one hath now
unbent his bow. For mounting thou art going rightly.” Thus he replied,
and added, “I pray thee that thou pray for me when thou shalt he
above.” And I to him, “I pledge my faith to thee to do that which thou
askest of me; but I am bursting inwardly with a doubt, if I free not
myself of it; at first it was simple, and now it is made double by thy
words which make certain to me, here as elsewhere, that wherewith I
couple it.[3] The world is indeed as utterly deserted by every virtue
as thou declarest to me, and with iniquity is big and covered; but I
pray that thou point out to me the cause, so that I may see it, and
that I may show it to others; for one sets it in the heavens, and one
here below.”

[1] “The Lamb of God.”


[2] By those in the eternal world dine is not reckoned by earth
divisions.


[3] The doubt was occasioned by Guido del Duca’s words (Canto XV.), in
regard to the prevalence of evil in Tuscany, arising either from
misfortune of the place, or through the bad habits of men. The fact of
the iniquity of men was now reaffirmed by Marco Lombardo; Dante accepts
the fact as certain, and his doubt is coupled with it.


A deep sigh that grief wrung into “Ay me!” he first sent forth, and
then began, “Brother, the world is blind, and thou forsooth comest from
it. Ye who are living refer every cause upward to the heavens only, as
if they of necessity moved all things with themselves. If this were so,
free will would be destroyed in you, and there would be no justice in
having joy for good, and grief for evil. The heavens initiate your
movements: I do not say all of them; but, supposing that I said it,
light for good and for evil is given to you; and free will, which, if
it endure fatigue in the first battles with the heavens, afterwards, if
it be well nurtured, conquers everything. To a greater force, and to a
better nature, ye, free, are subjected, and that creates the mind in
you, which the heavens have not in their charge.’ Therefore if the
present world goes astray, in you is the cause, in you let it be
sought; and of this I will now be a true informant for thee.

[1] The soul of man is the direct creation of God, and is in immediate
subjection to His power; it is not in charge of the Heavens, and its
will is free to resist their mingled and imperfect influences.


“Forth from the hand of Him who delights in it ere it exist, like to a
little maid who, weeping and smiling, wantons childishly, issues the
simple little soul, which knows nothing, save that, proceeding from a
glad Maker, it willingly turns to that which allures it. Of trivial
good at first it tastes the savor; by this it is deceived and runs
after it, if guide or bridle bend not its love. Wherefore it was
needful to impose law as a bridle; needful to have a king who could
discern at least the tower of the true city. The laws exist, but who
set hand to them? Not one: because the shepherd who is in advance can
ruminate, but has not his hoofs divided?[1] Wherefore the people, who
see their guide only at that good[2] whereof they are greedy, feed upon
that, and seek no further. Well canst thou see that the evil leading is
the cause that has made the world guilty, and not nature which in you
may be corrupted. Rome, which made the world good, was wont to have two
Suns,[3] which made visible both one road and the other, that of the
world and that of God. One has extinguished the other; and the sword is
joined to the crozier; and the two together must of necessity go ill,
because, being joined, one feareth not the other. If thou believest rue
not, consider the grain,[4] for every herb is known by its seed.

[1] The shepherd who precedes the flock, and should lead it aright, is
the Pope. A mystical interpretation of the injunction upon the children
of Israel (Leviticus, xi.) in regard to clean and unclean beasts was
familiar to the schoolmen. St. Augustine expounds the cloven hoof as
symbolic of right conduct, because it does not easily slip, and the
chewing of the cud as signifying the meditation of wisdom. Dante seems
here to mean that the Pope has the true doctrine, but makes not the
true use of it for his own guidance and the government of the world.


[2] Material good.


[3] Pope and Emperor.


[4] The results that follow this forced union.


“Within the land which the Adige and the Po water, valor and courtesy
were wont to be found before Frederick had his quarrel;[1] now safely
anyone may pass there who out of shame would cease discoursing with the
good, or drawing near them. Truly three old men are still there in whom
the antique age rebukes the new, and it seems late to them ere God
restore them to the better life; Currado da Palazzo, and the good
Gherardo,[2] and Guido da Castel, who is better named, after the manner
of the French, the simple Lombard.[3]

[1] Before the Emperor Frederick II. had his quarrel with the Pope;
that is, before Emperor and Pope had failed in their respective duties
to each other.


[2] Gherardo da Camino, “who was noble in his life, and whose memory
will always be noble,” says Dante in the Convito, iv. 14.


[3] “The French,” says Benvenuto da Linda, “call all Italians Lombards,
and repute them very astute.”


“Say thou henceforth, that the Church of Rome, through confounding in
itself two modes of rule,[1] falls in the mire, and defiles itself and
its burden.”

[1] The spiritual and the temporal.


“O Marco mine,” said I, “thou reasonest well; and now I discern why the
sons of Levi were excluded from the heritage;[1] but what Gherardo is
that, who, thou sayest, remains for sample of the extinct folk, in
reproach of the barbarous age?” “Either thy speech deceives me, or it
is making trial of me,” he replied to me, “in that, speaking Tuscan to
me, it seems that of the good Gherardo thou knowest naught. By other
added name I know him not, unless I should take it from his daughter
Gaia.[2] May God be with you! for further I come not with you. Behold
the brightness which rays already glimmering through the smoke, and it
behoves me to depart—the Angel is there—ere I appear to him.”[3] So he
turned, and would not hear me more.

[1] “The Lord separated the tribe of Levi, to bear the ark of the
covenant of the Lord, to stand before the Lord to minister unto him,
and to bless in his name, unto this day. Wherefore Levi hath no part
nor inheritance with his brethren; the Lord is his
inheritance.”—Deuteronomy, x. 8-9.


[2] Famed for her virtues, says Buti; for her vices, say the Ottimo and
Benvenuto.


[3] His time of purgation is not yet finished; not yet is he ready to
meet the Angel of the Pass.




CANTO XVII.


Third Ledge the Wrathful.—Issue from the Smoke.—Vision of examples of
Anger.—Ascent to the Fourth Ledge, where Sloth is purged.—Second
Nightfall.—Virgil explains how Love is the root of Virtue and of Sin.


Recall to mind, reader, if ever on the alps a cloud closed round thee,
through which thou couldst not see otherwise than the mole through its
skin, how, when the humid and dense vapors begin to dissipate, the ball
of the sun enters feebly through them: and thy imagination will easily
come to see, how at first I saw again the sun, which was already at its
setting. So, matching mine to the trusty steps of my Master, I issued
forth from such a cloud to rays already dead on the low shores.

O power imaginative, that dost sometimes so steal us from outward
things that a man heeds it not, although around him a thousand trumpets
sound, who moveth thee if the sense afford thee naught? A light, that
in the heavens is formed, moveth thee by itself, or by a will that
downward guides it?

[1] If the imagination is not stirred by some object of sense, it is
moved by the influence of the stars, or directly by the Divine will.


In my imagination appeared the impress of the impiety of her[1] who
changed her form into the bird that most delights in singing. And here
was my mind so shut up within itself that from without came nothing
which then might he received by it. Then rained down within my high
fantasy, one crucified,[2] scornful and fierce in his look, and thus
was dying. Around him were the great Ahasuerus, Esther his wife, and
the just Mordecai, who was in speech and action so blameless. And when
this imagination burst of itself, like a bubble for which the water
fails, beneath which it was made, there rose in my vision a maiden,[3]
weeping bitterly, and she was saying, “O queen, wherefore through anger
hast thou willed to be naught? Thou hast killed thyself in order not to
lose Lavinia: now thou hast lost me: I am she who mourns, mother, at
thine, before another’s ruin.

[1] Progne or Philomela, according to one or the other version of the
tragic myth, was changed into the nightingale, after her anger had led
her to take cruel vengeance on Tereus.


[2] Haman, who, according to the English version, was hanged, but
according to the Vulgate, was crucified—Esther, vii.


[3] Lavinia, whose mother, Amata, killed herself in a rage at hearing
premature report of the death of Turnus, to whom she desired that
Lavinia should be married.—Aeneid, xii. 595-607.


As sleep is broken, when of a sudden the new light strikes the closed
eyes, and, broken, quivers ere it wholly dies, so my imagining fell
down, soon as a light, greater by far than that to which we are
accustomed, struck my face. I turned me to see where I was, when a
voice said, “Here is the ascent;” which from every other object of
attention removed me, and made my will so eager to behold who it was
that was, speaking that it never rests till it is face to face. But, as
before the sun which weighs down our sight, and by excess veils its own
shape, so here my power failed. “This is a divine spirit who directs
us, without our asking, on the way to go up, and with his own light
conceals himself. He does for us as a man doth for himself; for he who
sees the need and waits for asking, malignly sets himself already to
denial. Now let us grant our feet to such an invitation; let us hasten
to ascend ere it grows dark, for after, it would not be possible until
the day returns.” Thus said my Guide; and I and he turned our steps to
a stairway. And soon as I was on the first step, near use I felt a
motion as of wings, and a fanning on my face,[1] and I heard said,
“Beati pacifici,’[2] who are without ill anger.”

[1] By which the angel removes the third P from Dante’s brow.


[2] “Blessed are the peacemakers.”


Now were the last sunbeams on which the night follows so lifted above
us, that the stars were appearing on many sides. “O my virtue, why dost
thou so melt away?” to myself I said, for I felt the power of my legs
put in truce. We had come where the stair no farther ascends, and we
were stayed fast even as a ship that arrives at the shore. And I
listened a little, if I might hear anything in the new circle. Then I
turned to my Master, and said, “My sweet Father, say what offence is
purged here in the circle where we are: if the feet are stopped, let
not thy discourse stop.” And he to me, “The love of good, less than it
should have been, is here restored;[1] here is plied again the
ill-slackened oar. But that thou mayst still more clearly understand,
turn thy mind to me, and thou shalt gather some good fruit from our
delay.

[1] It is the round on which the sin of acedie, sloth, is purged away.


“Neither Creator nor creature,” began he, “son, ever was without love,
either natural, or of the mind,[1] and this thou knowest. The natural
is always without error; but the other may err either through an evil
object, or through too much or through too little vigor. While love is
directed on the primal goods, and on the second moderates itself, it
cannot be the cause of ill delight. But when it is bent to evil,[2] or
runs to good with more zeal, or with less, than it ought, against the
Creator works his own creature. Hence thou canst comprehend that love
needs must be the seed in you of every virtue, and of every action that
deserves punishment.

[1] Either native in the soul, as the love of God, or determined by the
choice, through free will, of some object of desire in the mind.


[2] A wrong object of desire.


“Now since love can never bend its sight from the welfare of its
subject,[1] all things are safe from hatred of themselves; and since no
being can be conceived of divided from the First,[2] and standing by
itself, from hating Him[3] every affection is cut off. It follows, if,
distinguishing, I rightly judge, that the evil which is loved is that
of one s neighbor; and in three modes is this love born within your
clay. There is he who hopes to excel through the abasement of his
neighbor, and only longs that from his greatness he may be brought
low.[4] There is he who fears loss of power, favor, honor, fame,
because another rises; whereat he is so saddened that he loves the
opposite.[5] And there is he who seems so outraged by injury that it
makes him gluttonous of vengeance, and such a one must needs coin evil
for others.[6] This triform love is lamented down below.[7]

[1] To however wrong an object love may be directed, the person always
believes it to be for his own good.


[2]The source of being.


[3] God, the First Cause.


[4] This is the nature of Pride.


[5] Envy.


[6] Anger.


[7] In the three lower rounds of Purgatory.


“Now I would that thou hear of the other,—that which runs to the good
in faulty measure. Every one confusedly apprehends a good[1] in which
the mind may be at rest, and which it desires; wherefore every one
strives to attain it. If the love be slack that draws you to see this,
or to acquire it, this cornice, after just repentance, torments you
therefor. Another good there is,[2] which doth not make man happy, is
not happiness, is not the good essence, the root of every good fruit.
The love which abandons itself too much to this[3] is lamented above us
in three circles, but how it is reckoned tripartite, I am silent, in
order that thou seek it for thyself.”

[1] The supreme Good.


[2] Sensual enjoyment.


[2] Resulting in the sins of avarice, gluttony, and lust.




CANTO XVIII.


Fourth Ledge The Slothful.—Discourse of Virgil on Love and Free
Will.—Throng of Spirits running in haste to redeem their Sin.—The Abbot
of San Zone.—Dante falls asleep.


The lofty Teacher had put an end to his discourse, and looked attentive
on my face to see if I appeared content; and I, whom a fresh thirst
already was goading, was silent outwardly, and within was saying,
“Perhaps the too much questioning I make annoys him.” But that true
Father, who perceived the timid wish which did not disclose itself, by
speaking gave me hardihood to speak. Then I, “My sight is so vivified
in thy light that I discern clearly all that thy discourse may imply or
declare: therefore I pray thee, sweet Father dear, that thou
demonstrate to me the love to which thou referrest every good action
and its contrary.” “Direct,” he said, “toward me the keen eyes of the
understanding, and the error of the blind who make themselves leaders
will be manifest to thee. The mind, which is created apt to love, is
mobile unto everything that pleases, soon as by pleasure it is roused
to action. Your faculty of apprehension draws an image from a real
existence, and within you displays it, so that it makes the mind turn
to it; and if, thus turned, the mind incline toward it, that
inclination is love, that inclination is nature which is bound anew in
you by pleasure.[1] Then, as the fire moveth upward by its own form,[2]
which is born to ascend thither where it lasts longest in its material,
so the captive mind enters into longing, which is a spiritual motion,
and never rests until the thing beloved makes it rejoice. Now it may be
apparent to thee, how far the truth is hidden from the people who aver
that every love is in itself a laudable thing; because perchance its
matter appears always to be good;[3] but not every seal is good
although the wax be good.”

[1] In his discourse in the preceding canto, Virgil has declared that
neither the Creator nor his creatures are ever without love, either
native in the soul, or proceeding from the mind. Here he explains how
the mind is disposed to love by inclination to an image within itself
of some object which gives it pleasure. This inclination is natural to
it; or in his phrase, nature is bound anew in man by the pleasure which
arouses the love. All this is a doctrine derived directly from St.
Thomas Aquinas. “It is the property of every nature to have some
inclination, which is a natural appetite, or love.”—Summa Theol., 1,
lxxvi. i.


[2] Form is here used in its scholastic meaning. “ The active power of
anything depends on its form, which is the principle of its action. Fur
the form is either the nature itself of the thing, as in those which
are pure form; or it is a constituent of the nature of the thing, as in
those which are composed of matter and form.”—Summa Theol., 3, xiii. i.
Fire by its form, or nature, seeks the sphere of fire between the ether
and the moon.


[3] The object may seem desirable to the mind, without being a fit
object of desire.


“Thy words, and my understanding which follows,” replied I to him,
“have revealed love to me; but that has made me more full of doubt. For
if love is offered to us from without, and if with other foot the soul
go not, if strait or crooked she go is not her own merit.”[1] And he to
me, “So much as reason seeth here can I tell thee; beyond that await
still for Beatrice; for it is a work of faith. Every substantial form
that is separate from matter, and is united with it,[2] has a specific
virtue residing in itself which without action is not perceived, nor
shows itself save by its effect, as by green leaves the life in a
plant. Yet, whence the intelligence of the first cognitions comes man
doth not know, nor whence the affection for the first objects of
desire, which exist in you even as zeal in the bee for making honey:
and this first will admits not desert of praise or blame. Now in order
that to this every other may be gathered,[3] the virtue that counsels
[4] is innate in you, and ought to keep the threshold of assent. This
is the principle wherefrom is derived the reason of desert in you,
according as it gathers in and winnows good and evil loves. Those who
in reasoning went to the foundation took note of this innate liberty,
wherefore they bequeathed morals[5] to the world. Assuming then that
every love which is kindled within you arises of necessity, the power
exists in you to restrain it. This noble virtue Beatrice calls the free
will, and therefore see that thou have it in mind, if she take to
speaking of it with thee.”

[1] If love be aroused in the soul by an external object, and if it be
natural to the soul to love, how does she deserve praise or blame for
loving?


[2] The substantial form is the soul, which is separate from matter but
united with it.


[3] In order that every other will may conform with the first, that is,
with the affection natural to man for the primal objects of desire.


[4] The faculty of reason, the virtue which counsels and on which free
will depends, is “the specific virtue” of the soul.


[5] The rules of that morality which would have no existence were it
not for freedom of the will.


The moon, belated[1] almost to midnight, shaped[2] like a bucket that
is all ablaze, was making the stars appear fewer to us, and was running
counter to the heavens[3] along those paths which the sun inflames,
when the man of Rome sees it between Sardinia and Corsica at its
setting;[4] and that gentle shade, for whom Pietola[5] is more famed
than the Mantuan city, had laid down the burden of my loading:[6]
wherefore I, who had harvested his open and plain discourse upon my
questions, was standing like a man who, drowsy, rambles. But this
drowsiness was taken from me suddenly by folk, who, behind our backs,
had now come round to us. And such as was the rage and throng, which of
old Ismenus and Asopus saw at night along their banks, in case the
Thebans were in need of Bacchus, so, according to what I saw of them as
they came, those who by good will and right love are ridden curve their
steps along that circle. Soon they were upon us; because, running, all
that great crowd was moving on; and two in front, weeping, were crying
out, “Mary ran with haste unto the mountain [7] and Caesar, to subdue
Ilerda, thrust at Marseilles, and then ran on to Spain.”[8] “Swift,
swift, that time be not lost by little love,” cried the others
following, “for zeal in doing well may refreshen grace.” “O people, in
whom keen fervor now perhaps redeems your negligence and delay, through
lukewarmness, in well-doing, this one who is alive (and surely I lie
not to you) wishes to go up, soon as the sun may shine again for us;
therefore tell us where is the opening near.” These words were of my
Guide; and one of those spirits said: “Come thou behind us, and thou
shalt find the gap. We are so filled with desire to move on that we
cannot stay; therefore pardon, if thou holdest our obligation for
churlishness. I was Abbot[9] of San Zeno at Verona, under the empire of
the good Barbarossa, of whom Milan, still grieving, doth discourse. And
he has one foot already in the grave,[10] who soon will lament on
account of that monastery, and will be sorry for having had power
there; because in place of its true shepherd he has put his son, ill in
his whole body and worse in mind, and who was evil-born.” I know not if
more he said, or if he were silent, so far beyond us he had already run
by; but this I heard, and to retain it pleased me.

[1] In its rising.


[2] Gibbous, like certain buckets still in use in Italy.


[3] “These words describe the daily backing of the moon through the
signs from west to east.”—Moore.


[4] These islands are invisible from Rome, but the line that runs from
Rome between them is a little south of east.


[5] The modern name of Andes, the birthplace of Virgil, and therefore
more famous than Mautua itself.


[6] With which I had laden him.


[7] Luke, i. 36.


[8] Examples of zeal.


[9] Unknown, save for this mention of him.


[10] Alberto della Scala, lord of Verona; he died in 1301. He had
forced upon the monastery for its abbot his deformed and depraved
illegitimate son.


And he who was at every need my succor said: “Turn thee this way; see
two of them coming, giving a bite to sloth.” In rear of all they were
saying: “The people for whom the sea was opened were dead before their
heirs beheld the Jordan;[1] and those who endured not the toil even to
the end with the son of Anchises,[2] offered themselves to life without
glory.”

[1] Numbers, xiv. 28.


[2] But left him, to remain with Acestes in Sicily—Aeneid, v. 751.


Then when those shades were so far parted from us that they could no
more be seen, a new thought set itself within me, from which many
others and diverse were born; and I so strayed from one unto another
that, thus wandering, I closed my eyes, and transmuted my meditation
into dream.




CANTO XIX.


Fourth Ledge: the Slothful—Dante dreams of the Siren.—The Angel of the
Pass.—Ascent to the Fifth Ledge.—Pope Adrian V.


At the hour when the diurnal heat, vanquished by the Earth or sometimes
by Saturn,[1] can warm no more the coldness of the moon,—when the
geomancers see their Greater Fortune[2] in the east, rising before the
dawn along a path which short while stays dark for it,—there came to me
in dream[3] a woman stammering, with eyes asquint, and crooked on her
feet, with hands lopped off, and pallid in her color. I gazed at her;
and as the sun comforts the cold limbs which the night bennmbs, so my
look made her tongue nimble, and then set her wholly straight in little
while, and so colored her wan face as love requires. Then, when she had
her speech thus unloosed, she began to sing, so that with difficulty
should I have turned my attention from her. “I am,” she sang, “I am the
sweet Siren, and the mariners in mid sea I bewitch, so full am I of
pleasantness to hear. I turned Ulysses from his wandering way by my
song; and whoso abides with me seldom departs, so wholly I content
him.”

[1] Toward dawn, when the warmth of the preceding day is exhausted,
Saturn was supposed to exert a frigid influence.


[2] “Geomancy is divination by points in the ground, or pebbles
arranged in certain figures, which have peculiar names. Among these is
the figure called the Fortuna Major, which by an effort of imagination
can also be formed out of some of the last stars of Aquarius and some
of the first of Pisces.” These are the signs that immediately precede
Aries, in which the Sun now was, and the stars forming the figure of
the Greater Fortune would be in the east about two hours before
sunrise.


[3] The hour when this dream comes to Dante is “post mediam noctem …
cum somnia vera,”—the hour in which it was commonly believed that
dreams have a true meaning. The woman seen by Dante is the deceitful
Siren, who symbolizes the temptation to those sins of sense from which
the spirits are purified in the three upper rounds of Purgatory.


Not yet was her mouth closed when at my side a Lady[1] appeared, holy,
and ready to make her confused. “O Virgil, Virgil, who is this?” she
sternly said; and he came with his eyes fixed only on that modest one.
She took hold of the other, and in front she opened her, rending her
garments, and showed me her belly; this waked me with the stench that
issued from it. I turned my eyes, and the good Virgil said, “At least
three calls have I given thee; arise and come; let us find the opening
through which thou mayst enter.”

[1] This lady seems to be the type of the conscience, virtus
intellectualis, that calls reason to rescue the tempted soul.


Up I rose, and now were all the circles of the sacred mountain full of
the high day, and we went on with the new sun at our backs. Following
him, I bore my forehead like one who has it laden with thought, and
makes of himself the half arch of a bridge, when I heard, “Come ye!
here is the passage,” spoken in a mode soft and benign, such as is not
heard in this mortal region. With open wings, which seemed of a swan,
he who thus had spoken to us turned us upward between the two walls of
the hard rock. He moved his feathers then, and fanned us, affirming qui
lugent[1] to be blessed, for they shall have their souls mistresses of
consolation.[2] “What ails thee that ever on the ground thou lookest?”
my Guide began to say to me, both of us having mounted up a little from
the Angel. “With such apprehension a recent vision makes me go, which
bends me to itself so that I cannot from the thought withdraw me.”
“Hast thou seen,” said he, “that ancient sorceress who above us
henceforth is alone lamented? Hast thou seen how from her man is
unbound? Let it suffice thee, and strike thy heels on the ground;[3]
turn thine eyes to the lure that the eternal King whirls with the great
circles.”

[1] “They that mourn.”


[2] The meaning seems to be, “they shall be possessed of comfort.”
Donne (i.e.”mistresses ) is a rhyme-word, and affords an instance of a
straining of the meaning compelled by the rhyme.


[3] Hasten thy steps.


Like the falcon that first looks down, then turns at the cry, and
stretches forward, through desire of the food that draws him thither;
such I became, and such, so far as the rock is cleft to afford a way to
him who goeth up, did I go on as far as where the circling[1] is begun.
When I was come forth on the fifth round, I saw people upon it who were
weeping, lying upon the earth all turned downward. “Adhoesit pavimento
anima mea,”[2] I heard them saying with such deep sighs that the words
were hardly understood. “O elect of God, whose sufferings both justice
and hope make less hard, direct us toward the high ascents.” “If ye
come secure from the lying down, and wish to find the speediest way,
let your right hands always be outside.” So prayed the Poet, and so a
little in front was replied to us by them; wherefore I, in his
speaking, marked the hidden one;[3] and then turned my eyes to my Lord,
whereon he granted me, with cheerful sign, that which the look of my
desire was asking for. Then when I could do with myself according to my
will, I drew me above that creature whose words had first made me note
him, saying, “Spirit in whom weeping matures that without which no one
can turn to God, suspend a little for me thy greater care. Tell me who
thou wast; and why ye have your backs turned upward; and if thou
wishest that I obtain aught for thee there whence I alive set forth.”
And he to me, “Thy heaven turns to itself our hinder parts thou shalt
know; but first, scias quod ego fui successor Petri.[4] Between Sestri
and Chiaveri[5] descends a beautiful stream,[6] and of its name the
title of my race makes its top.[7] One month and little more I proved
how the great mantle weighs on him who guards it from the mire, so that
all other burdens seem a feather. My conversion, ah me! was tardy; but
when I had become the Roman Shepherd, then I found out the lying life.
I saw that there the heart was not at rest; nor was it possible to,
mount higher in that life; wherefore the love of this was kindled in
me. Up to that time a wretched soul and parted from God had I been,
avaricious of everything; now, as thou seest, I am punished for it
here. That which avarice doth is displayed here in the purgation of
these converted souls, and the Mountain has no more bitter penalty.[8]
Even as our eye, fixed upon earthly things, was not lifted on high, so
justice here to earth has depressed it. As avarice, in which labor is
lost, quenched our love for every good, so justice here holds us close,
bound and captive in feet and hands; and, so long as it shall be the
pleasure of the just Lord, so long shall we stay immovable and
outstretched.”

[1] The level of the fifth round.


[2] “My soul cleaveth to the dust.”—Psalm cxix. 25.


[3] The face of the speaker, turned to the ground, was concealed.


[4] “Know that I was a successor of Peter.” This was the Pope Adrian
V., Ottobono de’ Fieschi, who died in 1276, having been Pope for
thirty-eight days.


[5] Little towns on the Genoese sea-coast.


[6] The Lavagna, from which stream the Fieschi derived their title of
Counts of Lavagna.


[7] Its chief boast.


[8] Others may be greater, but none more humiliating.


I had knelt down and wished to speak; but when I began, and he became
aware, only by listening, of my reverence, “What cause,” said he, “hath
bent thee thus downward?” And I to him, “Because of your dignity my
conscience stung me for standing.” “Straighten thy legs, and lift thee
up, brother,” he replied; “err not, fellow servant of one power am I
with thee and with the rest.[1] If ever thou hast understood that holy
gospel sound which says neque nubent,[2] thou mayst well see why I
speak thus. Now go thy way. I will not that thou longer stop; for thy
stay hinders my weeping, with which I ripen that which thou hast said.
A grandchild I have on earth who is named Alagia,[3] good in herself,
if only our house make her not wicked by example; and she alone remains
to me yonder.”[4]

[1] And I fell at His feet to worship him. And He said unto me, See
thou do it not: I am thy fellow servant.”—Revelation xix. 10.


[2] They neither marry.”—Matthew, xxii. 80. The distinctions of earths
do not exist in the spiritual world.


[3] Alagia was the wife of the Marquis Moroello Malaspina. See the
close of Canto VIII. Dante had probably seen her in 1306, when he was a
guest of the house, in the Lunigiana.


[4] Not that she was his only living relative, but the only one whose
prayers, coming from a good heart, would avail him.




CANTO XX.


Fifth Ledge: the Avaricious.—The Spirits celebrate examples of Poverty
and Bounty.—Hugh Capet.—His discourse on his descendants.—Trembling of
the Mountain.


Against a better will the will fights ill: wherefore against my own
pleasure, in order to please him, I drew from the water the sponge not
full.

I moved on, and my Leader moved on through the space vacant only
alongside of the rock, as upon a wall one goes close to the
battlements. For on the other side the people, that through their eyes
are pouring drop by drop the evil that possesses all the world,
approach too near the edge.[1]

[1]Too close to leave a space for walking.


Accursed be thou, old she-wolf, who more than all the other beasts hast
prey, because of thy hunger hollow without end! O Heaven! by whose
revolution it seems that men believe conditions here below are
transmuted, when will he come through whom she shall depart?[1] We were
going on with slow and scanty steps, and I attentive to the shades whom
I heard piteously lamenting and bewailing; and peradventure I heard in
front of us one crying out, “Sweet Mary,” in his lament, even as a
woman does who is in travail; and continuing, “So poor wast thou as may
be seen by that inn where thou didst lay down thy holy burden.” And
following this I heard, “O good Fabricius,[2] thou didst rather wish
for virtue with poverty than to possess great riches with vice.” These
words were so pleasing to me that I drew myself further on to have
acquaintance with that spirit from whom they seemed to come. He was
speaking furthermore of the largess which Nicholas[3] made to the
damsels in order to conduct their youth to honor. “O soul that
discoursest so well,” said I, “tell me who thou wast, and why thou
alone renewest these worthy praises. Not without meed will be thy
words, if I return to complete the short journey of that life which
flies towards its end.” And he, “I will tell thee, not for comfort that
I may expect from yonder,[4] but because such grace shineth on thee ere
thou art dead. I was the root of the evil plant which so overshadows
all the Christian land[5] that good fruit is rarely plucked therefrom.
But if Douai, Lille, Ghent, and Bruges had power, soon would there be
vengeance on it;[6] and I implore it from him who judges everything.
Yonder I was called Hugh Capet: of me are born the Philips and the
Louises, by whom of late times France is ruled. I was the son of a
butcher of Paris.[7] When the ancient kings had all died out, save one,
who had assumed the grey garb,[8] I found me with the bridle of the
government of the realm fast in my hands, and with so much power
recently acquired, and so full of friends, that to the widowed crown
the head of my son was promoted, from whom the consecrated bones[9] of
these began.

[1] The old she-wolf is avarice, the same who at the outset (Hell,
Canto I.) had driven Dante back and made him lose hope of the height.
The likeness of the two passages is striking.


[2] Caius Fabricius, the famous poor and incorruptible Roman consul,
who refused the bribes of Pyrrhus, King of Epirus. Dante extols his
worth also in the Convito, iv. 5.


[3] St. Nicholas, Bishop of Mira, who, according to the legend, knowing
that owing to the poverty of their father, three maidens were exposed
to the risk of leading lives of dishonor, secretly, at night, threw
into the window of their house money enough to provide each with a
dowry.


[4] The earth.


[5] In 1300 the descendants of Hugh Capet were ruling France, Spain,
and Naples.


[6] Phillip the Fair gained possession of Flanders, by force and fraud,
in 1299; but in 1802 the French were driven out of the country, after a
fatal defeat at Courtrai, here dimly prophesied.


[7] Dante here follows the incorrect popular tradition.


[8] Who had become a monk. The historical reference is obscure.


[9] An ironical reference to the ceremony of consecration at the
coronation of the kings.


“So long as the great dowry of Provence[1] took not the sense of shame
from my race, it was little worth, but still it did not ill. Then it
began its rapine with force and with falsehood; and, after, for
amends,[2] Ponthieu and Normandy it took, and Gascony; Charles[3] came
to Italy, and, for amends, made a victim of Conradin,[4] and then
thrust Thomas[5] back to heaven for amends. A time I see, not long
after this day, that draws forth another Charles[6] from France to make
both himself and his the better known. Without arms he goes forth
thence alone, but with the lance with which Judas jousted;[7] and that
he thrusts so that he makes the paunch of Florence burst. Therefrom he
will gain not land,[8] but sin and shame so much the heavier for
himself, as he the lighter reckons such harm. The other,[9] who has
already gone out a prisoner from his ship, I see selling his daughter,
and bargaining over her, as do the corsairs with other female slaves. O
Avarice, what more canst thou do with us, since thou hast so drawn my
race unto thyself that it cares not for its own flesh? In order that
the ill to come and that already done may seem the less, I see the
fleur-de-lis entering Anagna, and in his Vicar Christ made a
captive.[10] I see him being mocked a second time; I see the vinegar
and the gall renewed, and between living thieves him put to death. I
see the new Pilate so cruel that this does not sate him, but, without
decretal, he bears his covetous sails into the Temple.[11] O my Lord,
when shall I be glad in seeing thy vengeance which, concealed, makes
sweet thine anger in thy secrecy?

[1] Through the marriage in 1245 of Charles of Anjou, brother of St.
Louis (Louis IX.), with Beatrice, the heiress of the Count of Provence.


[2] The bitterness of Dante’s irony is explained by the part which
France had played in Italian affairs.


[3] Of Anjou.


[4] The youthful grandson of Frederick II., who, striving to wrest
Naples and Sicily, his hereditary possessions, from the hands of
Charles of Anjou, was defeated and taken prisoner by him in 1267, and
put to deaths by him in 1268. His fate excited great compassion.


[5] Charles was believed to have had St. Thomas Aquinas poisoned.


[6] Charles of Valois, brother of Philip the Fair, sent by Boniface
VIII., in 1301, to Florence as peacemaker. But there he wrought great
harm, and siding with the Black party, the Whites, including Dante,
were driven into exile.


[7] The lance of treachery.


[8] A reference to his nickname of Senza terra, or Lackland.


[9] Charles II., son of Charles of Anjou. In 1283 he was made captive
in a sea fight, by Ruggieri de Loria, the Admiral of Peter II. of
Aragon. In 1300, according to common report, he sold his young daughter
in marriage to the old Marquis of Este.


[10] Spite of his hostility to Boniface VIII., the worst crime of the
house of France was, in Dante’s eyes, the seizure of the Pope at
Anagni, in 1303, by the emissaries of Philip the Fair.


[11] The destruction of the Order of the Temple.


“What I was saying of that only bride of the Holy Spirit, and which
made thee turn toward me for some gloss, is ordained for all our
prayers so long as the day lasts, but when the night comes, we take up
a contrary sound instead. Then we rehearse Pygmalion,[1] whom his
gluttonous longing for gold made a traitor and thief and parricide; and
the wretchedness of the avaricious Midas which followed on his greedy
demand, at which men must always laugh. Then of the foolish Achan each
one recalls how he stole the spoils, so that the anger of Joshua seems
still to sting him, here.[2] Then we accuse Sapphira with her husband;
we praise the kicks that Heliodorus received,[3] and in infamy
Polymnestor who slew Polydorus[4] circles the Whole mountain. Finally
our cry here is, ‘Crassus, tell us, for thou knowest, what is the taste
of gold?’[5] At times one speaks loud, and another low, according to
the affection which spurs us to speak now at a greater, now at a less
pace. Therefore in the good which by day is here discoursed of, of late
I was not alone, but here near by no other person lifted up his voice.”

[1] The brother of Dido, and the murderer of her husband for the sake
of his riches—Aeneid, i. 353-4.


[2] Joshua, vii.


[3] For his attempt to plunder the treasury of the Temple.—2 Maccabees,
iii. 25.


[4] Priam had entrusted Polydorus, his youngest son, to Polymnestor,
King of Thrace, who, when the fortunes of Troy declined, slew
Polydorus, that he might take possession of the treasure sent with him.


[5] Having been slain in battle with the Parthians, their king poured
molten gold down his throat in derision, because of his fame as the
richest of men.


We had already parted from him, and were striving to advance along the
road so far as was permitted to our power, when I felt the Mountain
tremble, like a thing that is falling; whereupon a chill seized me such
as is wont to seize him who goes to death. Surely Delos shook not so
violently, before Latona made her nest therein to give birth to the two
eyes of heaven.[1] Then began on all sides such a cry that the Master
drew towards me, saying: “Distrust not, while I guide thee.” “Gloria in
excelsis Deo,”[2] all were saying, according to what I gathered from
those near at hand whose cry it was possible to understand. We stopped,
motionless and in suspense, like the shepherds who first heard that
song, until the trembling ceased, and it was ended. Then we took up
again our holy journey, looking at the shades that were lying on the
ground, returned already to their wonted plaint. No ignorance ever with
so sharp attack made me desirous of knowing—if my memory err not in
this—as it seemed to me I then experienced in thought. Nor, for our
haste, did I dare to ask, nor of myself could I see aught there. So I
went on timid and thoughtful.

[1] Apollo and Diana, the divinities of Sun and Moon.


[2] “Glory to God in the highest.”




CANTO XXI.


Fifth Ledge: the Avaricious.—Statius.—Cause of the trembling of the
Mountain.—Statius does honor to Virgil.


The natural thirst,[1] which is never satisfied save with the water[2]
whereof the poor woman of Samaria besought the grace, was tormenting
me, and haste was goading me along the encumbered way behind my Leader,
and I was grieving at the just vengeance; and lo,—as Luke writes for us
that Christ, now risen forth from the sepulchral cave, appeared to the
two who were on the way,—a shade appeared to us; and it was coming
behind us looking at the crowd that lay at its feet: nor did we
perceive it, so it spoke first saying, “My Brothers, may God give you
peace!” We turned suddenly, and Virgil gave back to it the greeting
which answers to that;[3] then he began: “In the assembly of the blest
may the true court, which relegates me into eternal exile, place thee
in peace.” “How,” said it,—and meanwhile we went on steadily,—“if ye
are shades that God deigns not on high, who hath guided you so far
along his stairs?” And my Teacher, “If thou regardest the marks which
this one bears, and which the Angel traces, thou wilt clearly see it
behoves that with the good he reign. But, because she who spinneth day
and night[4] had not for him yet drawn the distaff off, which Clotho
loads for each one and compacts, his soul, which is thy sister and
mine, coming upwards could not come alone, because it sees not after
our fashion. Wherefore I was drawn from out the ample throat of Hell to
show him, and I shall show him so far on as my teaching can lead him.
But tell us, if thou knowest, why just now the mountain gave such
shocks, and why all seemed to cry together, even down to its moist
feet.” Thus asking he shot for me through the needle’s eye of my
desire, so that only with the hope my thirst became less craving.

[1] “According to that buoyant and immortal sentence with which
Aristotle begins his Metaphysics, ‘All mankind naturally desire
knowledge.’” Matthew Arnold, God and the Bible, cli. iv. This sentence
of Aristotle is cited by Dante in the first chapter of the Convito.


[2] The living water of truth.


[3] To the salutation, “Peace be with you,” the due answer is, “And
with thy spirit.”


[4] Lachesis.


The shade began: “There is nothing which without order the religion of
the mountain can feel, or which can be outside its wont.[1] Free is
this place from every alteration; of that which heaven receives from
itself within itself there may be effect here, but of naught else;[2]
because nor rain, nor hail, nor snow, nor dew, nor frost, falls higher
up than the little stairway of the three short steps; clouds appear
not, or thick or thin; nor lightning, nor the daughter of Thaumas[3]
who yonder often changes her quarter; dry vapor[4] rises not farther up
than the top of the three steps of which I spoke, where the vicar of
Peter has his feet. It trembles perhaps lower down little or much; but
up here it never trembles because of wind that is hidden, I know not
how, in the earth. It trembles here when some soul feels itself pure,
so that it rises or moves to ascend; and such a cry seconds it. Of the
purity the will alone makes proof, which surprises the soul, wholly
free to change its company, and helps it with the will. The soul wills
at first indeed, but the inclination,—which, contrary to the will,
Divine Justice sets to the torment, as erst to the sin,—allows it
not.[5] And I who have lain in this pain five hundred years and more,
only just now felt a free volition for a better seat. Wherefore thou
didst feel the earthquake, and hear the pious spirits through the
Mountain giving praise to that Lord, who—may He speed them upward
soon!”

[1] The religion, the sacred rule, of the Mountain admits nothing that
is not ordained and customary.


[2] Whatever happens here is occasioned only by the direct influences
of the heavens.


[3] Iris = the rainbow, seen now to the west, now to the east.


[4] Dry vapor, according to Aristotle, was the source of wind and of
earthquake.


[5] Until the soul is wholly purified from its sinful disposition,it
desires the punishment through; which its purification is accomplished,
as it had originally desired the object of its sin. But when it becomes
pure, then the will possesses it to mount to Heaven, and becomes
effective.


Thus he said to us, and since one enjoys drinking in proportion as the
thirst is great, I could not say how much he did me good. And the sage
Leader, “Now I see the net which snares you here, and how it is
unmeshed; wherefore it trembles here; and for what ye rejoice together.
Now who thou wast may it please thee that I know, and that from thy
words I learn why for so many centuries thou hast lain here?” “At the
time when the good Titus, with the aid of the Most High King, avenged
the wounds wherefrom issued the blood sold by Judas, I was fatuous
enough on earth with the name which lasts longest, and honors most,”[1]
replied that spirit, “but not as yet with faith. So sweet was my vocal
spirit, that me of Toulouse Rome drew to itself, where I deserved to
adorn my temples with myrtle. Statius the people still on earth name
me. I sang of Thebes, and then of the great Achilles, but I fell on the
way with my second load.[2] Seed of my ardor were the sparks that
warmed me of the divine flame whereby more than a thousand have been
kindled; I speak of the Aeneid, which was mother to me, and was my
nurse in poesy: without it I balanced not the weight of a drachm; and
to have lived yonder, when Virgil lived, I would agree to one sun more
than I owe for my issue from ban.”[3]

[1] The name of Poet.


[2] Statius died before completing his Achilleid.


[3] A year more in Purgatory than is due for my punishment.


These words turned Virgil to me with a look which, silent, said, “Be
silent:” but the power that wills cannot do everything; for smiles and
tears are such followers on the emotion from which each springs, that
in the most truthful they least follow the will. I merely smiled, like
a man who makes a sign; whereat the shade became silent, and looked at
me in the eyes where the expression is most fixed. And it said, “So
mayst thou in good complete so great a labor, why aid thy face just now
display to me a flash of a smile?” Now am I caught on one side and the
other: one bids me be silent, the other conjures me to speak; wherefore
I sigh and am understood by my Master, and “Have no fear to speak,” he
said to me, “but speak, and tell him what he asks so earnestly.”
Whereon I, “Perhaps thou marvellest, ancient spirit, at the smile I
gave; but I would have more wonder seize thee. This one who guides my
eyes on high is that Virgil from whom thou didst derive the strength to
sing of men and of the gods. If thou didst believe other cause for my
smile, dismiss it as untrue, and believe it to be those words which
thou saidst of him.” Already he was stooping to embrace the feet of my
Leader, but he said to him, “Brother, do it not, for thou art a shade,
and thou seest a shade.” And he rising, “Now canst thou comprehend the
sum of the love that warms me to thee when I forget our vanity,
treating the shades as if a solid thing.”[1]

[1] Sordello and Virgil (Canto VI.) embraced each other. The shades
could thus express their mutual affection. Perhaps it is out of modesty
that Virgil here represses Statius, and possibly there may be the under
meaning that an act of reverence is not becoming from a soul redeemed,
to one banned in eternal exile.




CANTO XXII.


Ascent to the Sixth Ledge.—Discourse of Statius and Virgil.—Entrance to
the Ledge: the Gluttonous.—The Mystic Tree.—Examples of Temperance.


Already was the Angel left behind us,—the Angel who had turned us to
the sixth round,—having erased a stroke[1] from my face; and he had
said to us that those who have their desire set on justice are Beati,
and his words ended with sitiunt, without the rest.[2] And I, more
light than through the other passes, was going on so that without any
labor I was following upward the swift spirits, when Virgil began,
“Love kindled by virtue always kindles another, provided that its flame
appear outwardly; wherefore from the hour when amid us Juvenal
descended into the limbo of Hell, and made known to me thy affection,
my own good will toward thee was such that more never bound one to an
unseen person; so that these stairs will now seem short to me. But tell
me (and as a friend pardon me, if too great confidence let loose my
rein, and as a friend now talk with me) boxy avarice could find a place
within thy breast, amid wisdom so great as that wherewith through thy
diligence thou wast filled?”

[1] The fifth P.


[2] The Angel had not recited all the words of the Beatitude, but only,
“Blessed are they which do thirst after righteousness,” contrasting
this thirst with the thirst for riches.


These words first moved Statius a little to smiling; then he replied,
“Every word of thine is a dear sign to me of love. Truly oftentimes
things have such appearance that they give false material for
suspicion, because the true reasons lie hid. Thy question assures me of
thy belief, perhaps because of that circle where I was, that I was
avaricious in the other life; know then that avarice was too far
removed from me, and this want of measure thousands of courses of the
moon have punished. And had it not been that I set right my care, when
I understood the passage where thou dost exclaim, as if indignant with
human nature, “O cursed hunger of gold, to what dost thou not impel the
appetite of mortals?”[1] I, rolling, should share the dismal jousts.[2]
Then I perceived that the bands could spread their wings too much in
spending; and I repented as well of that as of my other sins. How many
shall rise with cropped hair[3] through ignorance, which during life
and in the last hours prevents repentance for this sin! And know, that
the vice which rebuts any sin with direct opposition,[4] together with
it here dries up its verdure. Wherefore if to purify myself I have been
among the people who lament their avarice, because of its contrary this
has befallen me.” “Now when thou wast singing[5]the cruel strife of the
twofold affliction[6] of Jocasta,” said the Singer of the Bucolic
songs, “it does not appear from that which Clio touches[7] with thee
there,[8] that the faith, without which good works suffice not, had yet
made thee faithful. If this be so, what sun, or what candles dispersed
thy darkness so that thou didst thereafter set thy sails behind the
Fisherman?”[9] And he to him, “Thou first directedst me toward
Parnassus to drink in its grots, and then, on the way to God, thou
enlightenedst me. Thou didst like him, who goes by night, and carries
the light behind him, and helps not himself, but makes the persons
following him wise, when thou saidst, ‘The ages are renewed; Justice
returns, and the primeval time of man, and a new progeny descends from
heaven.’[10] Through thee I became a poet, through thee a Christian.
But in order that thou mayst better see that which I sketch, I will
stretch out my hand to color it. Already was the whole world teeming
with the true belief, sown by the messengers of the eternal realm; and
these words of thine touched upon just now were in harmony with the new
preachers, wherefore I adopted the practice of visiting them. They came
to me then appearing so holy, that, when Domitian persecuted them, not
without my tears were their lamentings. And so long as I remained on
earth I succored them; and their upright customs made me scorn all
other sects. And before I had led the Greeks to the rivers of Thebes in
my verse, I received baptism; but out of fear I was a secret Christian,
for a long while making show of paganism: and this lukewarmness made me
circle round the fourth circle,[11] longer than to the fourth century.
Thou, therefore, that didst lift for me the covering that was hiding
from me such great good as I say, while we have remainder of ascent,
tell me where is our ancient Terence, Caecilius, Plautus, and Varro, if
thou knowest it; tell me if they are damned, and in what region?”
“They, and Persius, and I, and many others,” replied my Leader, “are
with that Greek whom the Muses suckled more than any other ever, in the
first girdle of the blind prison. Oftentimes we discourse of the
mountain[12] that hath our nurses[13] always with itself. Euripides is
there with us, and Antiphon, Simonides, Agathon, and many other Greeks
who of old adorned their brows with laurel. There of thine own
people[14] are seen Antigone, Deiphile, and Argia, and Ismene sad[15]
even as she was. There she is seen who showed Langia;[16] there is the
daughter of Tiresias and Thetis,[17] and Deidamia with her sisters.”

[1] Quid non mortalia peetora yogis,
    Auri sacra fames?
        Aeneid. iii. 56-57.


[2] I should be in Hell among the prodigals rolling heavy weights and
striking them against those rolled by the avaricious. See Hell, Canto
VII.


[3] A reference to the symbolic short hair of prodigals in Hell.


[4] As, for instance, avarice and prodigality.


[5] In the Thebaid.


[6] Eteocles and Polynices, the two sons of Jocasta. See Hell, Canto
XXVI.


[7] On her lyre.


[8] From the general course of thy poems.


[9] St. Peter.


[10] The famous prophecy of the Cumaean Sibyl, very early applied to
the coming of Christ:—
Magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo.
Jam redit et virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna:
Jam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto.—Ecloga, iv. 5-7.


[11] Where love too slack is punished.


[12] Parnassus.


[13] The Muses.


[14] The people celebrated in thy poems.


[15] Two pairs of sisters, and, of the four, Ismene, sister of
Antigone, had the hardest lot.


[16] Hypsipyle, who showed the fountain Langia to Adrastus, and the
other kings, when their army was perishing with thirst.


[17] Manto is the only daughter of Tiresias, who is mentioned by
Statius; but Manto is in the eighth circle in Hell. See Canto XX.


Now both the poets became silent, once more intent on looking around,
free from the ascent and from the walls; and four of the handmaids of
the day were now remaining behind,[1] and the fifth was at the pole,[2]
directing still upward its burning horn, when my Leader, “I think that
it behoves us to turn our right shoulders to the outer edge, circling
the Mount as we are wont to do.” Thus usage was there our guide, and we
took the way with less doubt because of the assent of that worthy soul.

[1] The first four hours of the day were spent. It was between ten and
eleven o’clock.


[2] Of the car.


They were going on in front, and I solitary behind, and I was listening
to their speech which gave me understanding in poesy. But soon the
pleasant discourse was interrupted by a tree which we found in the mid
road, with apples sweet and pleasant to the smell. And as a fir-tree
tapers upward from branch to branch, so downwardly did that, I think in
order that no one may go up. On the side on which our way was closed, a
clear water fell from the high rock and spread itself over the heaves
above. The two poets approached the tree, and a voice from within the
heaves cried: “Of this food ye shall have want.” Then it said, “Mary
thought more, how the wedding[1] should be honorable and complete, than
of her mouth,[2] which answers now for you; and the ancient Roman women
were content with water for their drink; and Daniel despised food and
gained wisdom. The primal age, which was beautiful as gold, with hunger
made acorns savory, and with thirst every streamlet nectar. Honey and
locusts were the viands that nourished the Baptist in the desert,
wherefore he is in glory, and so great as by the Gospel is revealed to
you.

[1] At Cana.


[2] Than of gratifying her appetite.




CANTO XXIII.


Sixth Ledge: the Gluttonous.—Forese Donati.—Nella.—Rebuke of the women
of Florence.


While I was fixing my eyes upon the green leafage, just as he who
wastes his life following the little bird is wont to do, my more than
Father said to me, “Son, come on now, for the time that is assigned to
us must be parcelled out more usefully.” I turned my face, and no less
quickly my step after the Sages, who were speaking so that they made
the going of no cost to me; and ho! a lament and song were heard,
“Labia mea, Domine,”[1] in such fashion that it gave birth to delight
and pain. “O sweet Father, what is that which I hear?” I began, and he,
“Shades which go, perhaps loosing the knot of their debt.”

[1] “Lord, open thou my lips.”—Psalm li. 15.


Even as do pilgrims rapt in thought, who, overtaking on the road
unknown folk, turn themselves to them, and stay not; so behind us,
moving more quickly, coming up and passing by, a crowd of souls, silent
and devout, gazed at us. Each was dark and hollow in the eyes, pallid
in the face, and so wasted that the skin took its shape from the bones.
I do not think that Erisichthon[1] was so dried up to utter rind by
hunger, when he had most fear of it. I said to myself in thought,
“Behold the people who lost Jerusalem, when Mary struck her beak into
her son.”[2] The sockets of their eyes seemed rings without gems. Whoso
in the face of men reads OMO,[3] would surely there have recognized the
M. Who would believe that the scent of an apple, begetting longing, and
that of a water, could have such mastery, if he knew not how?

[1] Punished for sacrilege by Ceres with insatiable hunger, so that at
last he turned his teeth upon himself. See Ovid, Metam.,viii. 738 sqq.


[2] The story of this wretched woman is told by Josephus in his
narrative of the siege of Jerusalem by Titus: De Bello Jud., vi. 3.


[3] Finding in each eye an O, and an M in the lines of the brows and
nose, making the word for “man.”


I was now wondering what so famished them, the cause of their
meagreness and of their wretched husk not yet being manifest, and lo!
from the depths of its head, a shade turned his eyes on me, and looked
fixedly, then cried out loudly, “What grace to me is this!” Never
should I have recognized him by his face; but in his voice that was
disclosed to me which his aspect in itself had suppressed.[1] This
spark rekindled in me all my knowledge of the altered visage, and I
recognized the face of Forese.[2]

[1] His voice revealed who he was, which his actual aspect concealed.


[2] Brother of the famous Corso Donati, and related to Dante, whose
wife was Gemma de’ Donati.


“Ah, strive not [1] with the dry scab that discolors my skin,” he
prayed, “nor with my lack of flesh, but tell me the truth about
thyself; and who are these two souls, who yonder make an escort for
thee: stay not thou from speaking to me.” “Thy face, which once I wept
for dead, now gives me for weeping no less a grief,” replied I, “seeing
it so disfigured; therefore, tell me, for God’s sake, what so despoils
you; make me not speak while I am marvelling; for ill can he speak who
is full of another wish.” And he to me, “From the eternal council falls
a power into the water and into the plant, now left behind, whereby I
become so thin. All this folk who sing weeping, because of following
their appetite beyond measure, here in hunger and in thirst make
themselves holy again. The odour which issues from the apple and from
the spray that spreads over the verdure kindles in us desire to eat and
drink. And not once only as we circle this floor is our pain renewed; I
say pain, and ought to say solace, for that will leads us to the tree
which led Christ gladly to say, ‘Eli,’[2] when with his blood he
delivered us.” And I to him, “Forese, from that day on which thou didst
change world to a better life, up to this time five years have not
rolled round. If the power of sinning further had ended in thee, ere
the hour supervened of the good grief that to God reweds us, how hast
thou come up hither?[3] I thought to find thee still down there below,
where time is made good by time.” And he to me, “My Nella with her
bursting tears has brought me thus quickly to drink of the sweet
wormwood of these torments. With her devout prayers and with sighs has
she drawn me from the shore where one waits, and has delivered me from
the other circles. So much the more dear and more beloved of God is my
little widow, whom I loved so much, as she is the more solitary in good
works; for the Barbagia[4] of Sardinia is far more modest in its women
than the Barbagia where I left her. O sweet brother, what wouldst thou
that I say? A future time is already in my sight, to which this hour
will not be very old, in which from the pulpit it shall be forbidden to
the brazen-faced dames of Florence to go displaying the bosom with the
paps. What Barbarian, what Saracen women were there ever who required
either spiritual or other discipline to make them go covered? But if
the shameless ones were aware of that which the swift heaven is
preparing for them, already would they have their mouths open for
howling. For if foresight here deceives me not, they will be sad ere he
who is now consoled with the lullaby covers his cheeks with hair. Ak
brother, now no longer conceal thyself from me; thou seest that not
only I but all these people are gazing there where thou dost veil the
sun.” Whereon I to him: “If thou bring back to mind what thou wast with
me, and what I was with thee, the present remembrance will even now be
grievous. From that life he who goes before me turned me the other day,
when the sister of him yonder,” and I pointed to the sun, “showed
herself round. Through the deep night, from the truly dead, he has led
me, with this true flesh which follows him. Thence his counsels have
drawn me up, ascending and circling the mountain that sets you straight
whom the world made crooked. So long he says that he will bear me
company till I shall be there where Beatrice will be; there it behoves
that I remain without him. Virgil is he who says thus to me,” and I
pointed to him, “and this other is that shade for whom just now your
realm, which from itself releases him, shook every slope.”

[1] Do not, for striving to see me through my changed look, delay to
speak.


[2] Willingly to accept his suffering, even when he exclaimed, “My God,
my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”—Matthew, xxvii. 46.


[3] If thou didst delay repentance until thou couldst sin no more, how
is it that so speedily thou hast arrived here?


[4] A mountainous district in Sardinia, inhabited by people of
barbarous customs.




CANTO XXIV.


Sixth Ledge: the Gluttonous.—Forese Donati.—Bonagiunta of Lucca—Pope
Martin IV—Ubaldin dalla Pila.—Bonifazio.—Messer Marchese.—Prophecy of
Bonagiunta concerning Gentucca, and of Forese concerning Corso de’
Donati.—Second Mystic Tree.—The Angel of the Pass.


Speech made not the going, nor the going made that more slow; but,
talking, we went on apace even as a ship urged by good wind. And the
shades, that seemed things doubly dead, through the pits of their eyes
drew in wonder at me, perceiving that I was alive.

And I, continuing my discourse, said, “He[1] goeth up perchance for
another’s sake more slowly than he would do. But, tell me, if thou
knowest, where is Piccarda[2] tell me if I see person of note among
this folk that so gazes at me.” “My sister, who, between fair and good,
was I know not which the most, triumphs rejoicing in her crown already
on high Olympus.” So he said first, and then, “Here it is not forbidden
to name each other, since our semblance is so milked away by the
diet.[3] This,” and he pointed with his finger, “is Bonagiunta,[4]
Bonagiunta of Lucca; and that face beyond him, more sharpened than the
others, had the Holy Church in his arms:[5]from Tours he was; and by
fasting he purges the eels of Bolsena, and the Vernaccia wine.” Many
others he named to me, one by one, and at their naming all appeared
content; so that for this I saw not one dark mien. For hunger using
their teeth on emptiness, I saw Ubaldin dalla Pila, and Boniface,[6]
who shepherded many people with his crook. I saw Messer Marchese, who
once had leisure to drink at Forum with less thirst, and even so was
such that he felt not sated. But as one does who looks, and then makes
account more of one than of another, did I of him of Lucca, who seemed
to have most cognizance of me. He was murmuring; and I know not what,
save that I heard “Gentucca” there[7] where he felt the chastisement of
the justice which so strips them. “O soul,” said I, “who seemest so
desirous to speak with me, do so that I may hear thee, and satisfy both
thyself and me by thy speech.” “A woman is born, and wears not yet the
veil,”[8] he began, “who will make my city pleasant to thee, however
men may blame it.[9] Thou shalt go on with this prevision: if from my
murmuring thou hast received error, the true things will yet clear it
up for thee. But say, if I here see him, who drew forth the new rhymes,
beginning, ‘Ladies who have intelligence of Love’?”[10] And I to him,
“I am one, who, when Love inspires me, notes, and in that measure which
he dictates within, I go revealing.” “O brother, now I see,” said he,
“the knot which held back the Notary,[11] and Guittone,[12] and me
short of the sweet new style that I hear. I see clearly how your pens
go on close following the dictator, which surely befell not with ours.
And he who most sets himself to look further sees nothing more between
one style and the other.” [13] And, as if contented, he was silent.

[1]Statius; more slowly, for the sake of remaining with Virgil.


[2] The sister of Forese, whom Dante meets in Paradise (Canto III.).


[3] Recognition by the looks being thus impossible.


[4] Bonagiunta Urbiciani; he lived and wrote in the last half of the
thirteenth century.


[5] Martin IV., Pope from 1281 to 1284.


[6] Archbishop of Ravenna.


[7] Upon his lips.


[8] Of a married woman.


[9] This honorable and delightful reference to the otherwise unknown
maiden, Gentucca of Lucca, has given occasion to much worthless and
base comment. Dante was at Lucca during his exile, in 1314. He himself
was one of those who blamed the city; see Hell, Canto XXI.


[10] The first verse of the first canzone of The New Life.


[11] The Sicilian poet, Jacopo da Lentino.


[12] Guittone d’ Arezzo, commonly called Fra Guittone, as one of the
order of the Frati Gaudenti. Dante refers to him again in Canto XXVI.


[13] He who seeks for other reason does not find it.


As the birds that winter along the Nile sometimes make a flock in the
air, then fly in greater haste, and go in file, so all the folk that
were there, light both through leanness and through will, turning away
their faces, quickened again their pace. And as the man who is weary of
running lets his companions go on, and himself walks, until he vents
the panting of his chest, so Forese let the holy flock pass on and came
along behind, with me, saying, “When shall it be that I see thee
again?” “I know not,” I replied to him, “how long I may live; but truly
my return will not be so speedy, that I shall not in desire he sooner
at the shore;[1] because the place where I was set to live, denudes
itself more of good from day to day, and seems ordained to wretched
ruin.” “Now go,” said he, “for I see him who hath most fault for
this[2] dragged at the tail of a beast, toward the valley where there
is no disculpation ever. The beast at every step goes faster,
increasing always till it strikes him, and leaves his body vilely
undone. Those wheels have not far to turn,” and he raised his eyes to
heaven, “for that to become clear to thee which my speech cannot
further declare. Now do thou stay behind, for time is so precious in
this kingdom, that I lose too much coming thus at even pace with thee.”

[1] Of Purgatory.


[2] Corso de’ Donati, the leader of the Black Guelphs and chief cause
of the evils of the city. On the 15th September, 1308, his enemies
having risen against him, he was compelled to fly from Florence. Near
the city he was thrown from his horse and dragged along, till he was
overtaken and killed by his pursuers.


As a cavalier sometimes sets forth at a gallop from a troop which
rides, and goes to win the honor of the first encounter, so he went
away from us with greater strides; and I remained on the way with only
those two who were such great marshals of the world.[1] And when he had
entered so far before us that my eyes became such followers on him as
my mind was on his words,[2] there appeared to me the laden and lusty
branches of another apple-tree, and not far distant, because only then
had I turned thitherward.[3] I saw people beneath it raising their
hands and crying, I know not what, toward the leaves, like eager and
fond little children who pray, and he they pray to answers not, hut, to
make their longing very keen, holds aloft their desire, and conceals it
not. Then they departed as if undeceived:[4] and now we came to the
great tree that rejects so many prayers and tears. “Pass further
onward, without drawing near; the tree[5] is higher up which was eaten
of by Eve, and this plant has been raised from that.” Thus among the
branches I know not who was speaking; wherefore Virgil and Statius and
I, drawing close together, went onward along the side that rises.[6]
“Be mindful,” the voice was saying, “of the accursed ones,[7] formed in
the clouds, who, when glutted, strove against Theseus with their double
breasts; and of the Hebrews, who, at the drinking, showed themselves
soft,[8] wherefore Gideon wished them not for companions, when he went
down the hills toward Midian.”

[1] “A marshal is a ruler of the court and of the army under the
emperor, and should know how to command what ought to be done, as those
two poets knew what it was befitting to do in the world in respect to
moral and civil life.”—Buti.


[2] Could no longer follow him distinctly.


[3] In the circling course around the mountain.


[4] Having found vain the hope of reaching the fruit.


[5] The tree of knowledge, in the Earthly Paradise: Canto XXXII.


[6] On the inner side, by the wall of the mountain.


[7] The centaurs.


[8] Judges, vii. 4-7.


Thus keeping close to one of the two borders, we passed by, hearing of
sins of gluttony followed, in sooth, by wretched gains. Then going at
large along the lonely road, full a thousand steps and more had borne
us onward, each of us in meditation without a word. “Why go ye thus in
thought, ye three alone?” said a sudden voice; whereat I started as do
terrified and timid beasts. I lifted up my head to see who it might be,
and never were glass or metals seen so shining and ruddy in a furnace
as one I saw who said, “If it please you to mount up, here must a turn
be taken; this way he goes who wishes to go for peace.” His aspect had
taken my sight from me, wherefore I turned me behind my teachers like
one who goes according as he hears.[1] And as, harbinger of the dawn,
the breeze of May stirs and smells sweet, all impregnate with the
herbage and with the flowers, such a wind I felt strike upon the middle
of my forehead, and clearly felt the motion of the plumes which made
mime perceive the odor of ambrosia. And I heard said, “Blessed are they
whom so much grace illumines, that the love of taste inspires not in
their breasts too great desire, hungering always so far as is just.”[2]

[1] Blinded for the instant by the dazzling brightness of the
angel,Dante drops behind his teachers, to follow them as one guided by
hearing only.


[2] “Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after
righteousness.”—Matthew, v.6.


Dante has already cited this Beatitude (Canto XXII.), applying it to
those who are purging themselves from the inordinate desire for riches;
he there omits the word “hunger,” as here he omits the “and thirst.”




CANTO XXV.


Ascent to the Seventh Ledge.—Discourse of Statius on generation, the
infusion of the Soul into the body, and the corporeal semblance of
Souls after death.—The Seventh Ledge: the Lustful.—The mode of their
Purification.


It was the hour in which the ascent allowed no delay; for the meridian
circle had been left by the Sun to the Bull, and by the Night to the
Scorpion;[1] wherefore as the man doth who, whatever may appear to him,
stops not, but goes on his way, if the goad of necessity prick him, so
did we enter through the gap, one before the other, taking the stairway
which by its narrowness unpairs the climbers.

[1] Taurus follows on Aries, so that the hour indicated is about 2 P.M.
The Night here means the part of the Heavens opposite to the Sun.


And as the little stork that lifts its wing through will to fly, and
dares not abandon the nest, and down it drops, so was I, with will to
ask, kindled and quenched, coming even to the motion that he makes who
proposes to speak. Nor, though our going was swift, did my sweet Father
forbear, but he said, Discharge the bow of speech which up to the iron
thou hast drawn.” Then I opened my mouth confidently, and began, “How
can one become thin, where the need of nourishment is not felt?” “If
thou hadst called to mind how Meleager was consumed by time consuming
of a brand this would not be,” he said, “ so difficult to thee; and if
thou hadst thought, how at your quivering your image quivers within the
mirror, that which seems hard would seem easy to thee. But that thou
mayst to thy pleasure be inwardly at ease, lo, here is Statius, and I
call on him and pray that he be now the healer of thy wounds.” “If I
explain to him the eternal view,” replied Statius, “where thou art
present, let it excuse me that to thee I cannot snake denial.”[1]

[1] Here and elsewhere Statius seems to represent allegorically human
philosophy enlightened by Christian teaching, dealing with questions of
knowledge, not of faith.


Then he began, “If, son, thy mind regards and receives my words, they
will be. for thee a light unto the ‘how,’ which thou askest.[1] The
perfect blood which is never drunk by the thirsty veins, but remains
like the food which thou removest from time table, takes in time heart
virtue informative of all the human members; even as that blood does,
which passes through the veins to become those members.[2] Digested yet
again, it descends to the part whereof it is more becoming to be silent
than to speak; and thence, afterwards, it drops upon another’s blood in
the natural vessel. There one and the other meet together; the one
ordained to be passive, and the other to be active because of the
perfect place[3] wherefrom it is pressed out; and, conjoined with the
former, the latter begins to operate, first by coagulating, and then by
quickening that to which it gives consistency for its own material. The
active virtue having become a soul, like that of a plant (in so far
different that this is on the way, and that already arrived),[4] so
worketh then, that now it moves and feels, as a sea-fungus doth; and
then it proceeds to organize the powers of which it is the germ. Now,
son, the virtue is displayed, now it is diffused, which issues from the
heart of the begetter, where nature is intent on all the members.[5]
But how from an animal it becomes a speaking being,[6] thou as yet
seest not; this is such a point that once it made one wiser than thee
to err, so that in his teaching he separated from the soul the
potential intellect, because he saw no organ assumed by it.[7] Open thy
heart unto the truth that is coming, and know that, so soon as in the
foitus the articulation of the brain is perfect, the Primal Motor turns
to it with joy over such art of nature, and inspires a new spirit
replete with virtue, which draws that which it finds active there into
its own substance, and makes one single soul which lives and feels and
circles on itself. And that thou mayst the less wonder at this
doctrine, consider the warmth of the sun which, combining with the
juice that flows from the vine, becomes wine. And when Lachesis has no
more thread, this soul is loosed from the flesh, and virtually bears
away with itself both the human and the divine; the other faculties all
of them mute,[8] but memory, understanding, and will[9] far more acute
in action than before. Without staying, it falls of itself, marvelously
to one of the banks.[10] Here it first knows its own roads. Soon as the
place there circumscribes it, the formative virtue rays out around it
in like manner, and as much as in the living members.[11] And as the
air when it is full of rain becomes adorned with divers colors by
another’s rays which are reflected in it, so here the neighboring air
shapes itself in that form which is virtually imprinted upon it by the
soul that hath stopped.[12] And then like the flamelet which follows
the fire wherever it shifts, so its new form follows the spirit. Since
thereafter from this it has its aspect, it is called a shade; and by
this it shapes the organ for every sense even to the sight; by this we
speak, and by this we laugh, by this we make the tears and the sighs,
which on the mountain thou mayst have perceived. According as the
desires and the other affections impress us the shade is shaped; and
this is the cause of that at which thou wonderest.”

[1] The doctrine set forth by Statius in the following discourse is
derived from St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theol., i. 118, 119, who, in his
turn, derived it from Aristotle. It is to be found, more briefly
stated, in the Convito, iv. 21.


[2] A portion of the blood remains after the veins are supplied; in the
heart all the blood receives the virtue by which it gives form to the
various organs of the body.


[3] The heart.


[4] The vegetative soul in the plant has attained its full development,
“has arrived;” in the animal is “on the way” to perfection.


[5] From the vegetative, the soul has become sensitive,—anima
sensitiva.


[6] A being possessed of intellect,—the last stage in the progress of
the soul, when it becomes came intellective.


[7] Averroes asserted the intellect to be impersonal and undivided in
essence; not formally, but instrumentally only, united with the
individual. Hence there was no personal immortality.


[8] The faculties of sense mute because their organs no longer exist.


[9]The spiritual faculties.


[10] Of Acheron or of Tiber, according as the soul is damned or saved.


[11] In this account of the formation of the bodily semblance in the
spiritual realms, Statius no longer follows the doctrine of Aquinas.
The conception is derived from Plato; but the form given to it is
peculiar to Dante.


[12] Stopped in the place allotted to it.


And now we had come to the last circuit,[1] and turning to the right
hand, we were intent upon another care. Here the bank shoots forth
flame, and the ledge breathes a blast upward which drives it back, and
sequesters a path from it.[2] Wherefore it was needful to go one by one
along the unenclosed side; and on the one hand I was afraid of the
fire, and on the other I was afraid of falling off. My Leader said,
“Through this place, one must keep tight the rein upon the eyes,
because for little one might go astray.” “Summae Deus clementiae,”[3]
in the bosom of the great burning then I heard singing, which made me
care not less to turn. And I saw spirits going through the flame;
wherefore I looked at them and at my own steps, apportioning to each my
sight from moment to moment. After the end of that hymn, they loudly
cried: “Virum non cognosco;”[4] then began again the hymn with low
voice; this finished, they cried anew, “To the wood Diana kept herself,
and drove therefrom Helice,[5] who had felt the poison of Venus.” Then
they turned to singing; then wives they cried out, and husbands who
were chaste, as virtue and marriage enjoin upon us. And I believe this
mode suffices them through all the time the fire burns them. With such
cure it is needful, and with such food, that the last wound of all
should be closed up.

[1] The word in the original is tortura. Benvenuto’s comment is, “nunc
incipiebant torquere et flectere viam, ideo talem deflectionem appellat
torturam.” Buti, on the contrary, says, “tortura cioe tormento.”


[2] Secures a safe pathway along the ledge.


[3] “God of clemency supreme,” the beginning of a hymn, sung at Matins,
containing a prayer for purity.


[4] “I know not a man,” the words of Mary to the angel—Luke, i. 34.


[5] Helice, or Callisto, the nymph who bore a son to Jupiter, and,
having been changed to a bear by Juno, was by Jove transferred with her
child to the heavens, where they are seen as the Great and Little Bear.




CANTO XXVI.


Seventh Ledge: the Lustful.—Sinners in the fire, going in opposite
directions.—Guido Guinicelli.—Arnaut Daniel.


While we were going on thus along the edge, one before the other, and
the good Master was often saying, “Take heed! let it avail that I warn
thee,” the sun was striking me on the right shoulder, and now, raying
out, was changing all the west from azure to a white aspect; and with
my shadow I was making the flame appear more ruddy, and only at such an
indication[1] I saw many shades, as they went on, give attention. This
was the occasion which gave them a beginning to speak of me, and they
began to say, “He seems not a fictitious body;” then toward me, so far
as they could do so, certain of them canine, always with regard not to
come out where they would not be burned.

[1] At this sign that Dante’s body was that of a living man.


“O thou! who goest, not from being slower, but perhaps from reverence,
behind the others, reply to me who in thirst and fire am burning. Nor
to me only is thy reply of need, for all these have a greater thirst
for it than Indian or Ethiop of cold water. Tell us how it is that thou
makest of thyself a wall to the sun, as if thou hadst not yet entered
within the net of death.” Thus spoke to me one of them; and I should
now have disclosed myself, if I had not been intent on another new
thing which then appeared; for through the middle of the burning road
were coming people with their faces opposite to these, who made me gaze
in suspense. There I see, on every side, all the shades making haste
and kissing each other, without stopping, content with brief greeting.
Thus within their brown band one ant touches muzzle with another,
perchance to enquire their way and their fortune.

Soon as they end the friendly salutation, before the first step runs on
beyond, each strives to outcry the other; the new-come folk: “Sodom and
Gomorrah,” and the other, “Into the cow enters Pasiphae, that the bull
may run to her lust.” Then like cranes, of whom part should fly to the
Riphaean mountains,[1] and part toward the sands,[2] these shunning the
frost and those the sun, one folk goes, the other comes on, and weeping
they return to their first chants, and to the cry which most befits
them.

[1] Mountains vaguely placed by the early geographers in the far North.


[2] The deserts of the South.


And those same who had prayed me drew near to me as before, intent in
their looks to listen. I, who twice had seen their desire, began, “O
souls secure of having, whenever it may he, a state of peace, neither
unripe nor mature have my limbs remained yonder, but they are here with
me with their blood, and with their joints. I go up in order to be no
longer blind. A Lady is on high who winneth grace for us, whereby I
bring my mortal part through your world. But so may your greater will
soon become satisfied, in such wise that the heaven may harbor you
which is full of love, and most amply spreads, tell me, in order that I
may yet rule the paper for it, who are ye, and who are that crowd which
goes its way behind your backs.”

Not otherwise stupefied, the mountaineer is confused, and gazing round
is dumb, when rough and savage he enters the town, than each shade
became in his appearance; but, after they were unburdened of their
bewilderment, which in high hearts is quickly assuaged, “Blessed thou,”
began again that one who first had asked me, “who of our regions dost
ship experience for dying better. The people who do not come with us
offended in that for which once Caesar in his triumph heard ‘Queen’
cried out against him; therefore they go off shouting ‘Sodom,’
reproving themselves as thou hast heard, and aid the burning by their
shame. Our sin was hermaphrodite; but because we observed not human
law, following our appetite like beasts, when we part from them, the
name of her who bestialized herself in the beast-shaped planks is
uttered by us, in opprobrium of ourselves. Now thou knowest our deeds,
and of what we were guilty; if, perchance, thou wishest to know by name
who we are, there is not time to tell, and I could not do it. I will
indeed make thee short of wish about myself; I am Guido Guinicelli;[1]
and now I purify myself, because I truly repented before my last hour.”

[1] Of Bologna; he was living after the middle of the thirteenth
century. Of his life little is known, but some of his verses survive
and justify Dante’s words concerning them.


Such as in the sorrow of Lycurgus her two sons became at seeing again
their mother,[1] such I became, but I rise not so far,[2] when I heard
name himself the father of me, and of my betters who ever used sweet
and gracious rhymes of love; and without hearing or speaking, full of
thought I went on, gazing a long time upon him; nor, for the fire, did
I draw nearer to him. After I was fed with looking, I offered myself
wholly ready for his service, with the affirmation that makes another
believe. And he to me, “By what I hear thou leavest such trace in me,
and so bright, that Lethe cannot take it away nor make it dim. But if
thy words have now sworn truth, tell me what is time cause why in
speech and look thou showest that thou dost hold me dear?” And I to
him, “The sweet ditties of yours, which, so long as the modern fashion
shall endure, will still make dear their ink.” “O brother,” said he,
“this one whom I distinguish for thee with my finger,” and he pointed
to a spirit in advance,[3] “was a better smith of the maternal speech.
In verses of love, and prose of romances, he excelled all, and let the
foolish talk who think that he of Limoges[4] surpasses him; to rumor
more than to truth they turn their faces, and thus confirm their own
opinion, before art or reason is listened to by them. Thus did many of
old concerning Guittone,[5] from cry to cry only to him giving the
prize, until the truth has prevailed with more persons. Now if thou
hast such ample privilege that it he permitted thee to go unto the
cloister in which Christ is abbot of the college, say for me to him one
paternoster, so far as needs for us in this world where power to sin is
no longer ours.”[6]

[1] “Lycurgus, King of Nemaea, enraged with Hypsipyle for leaving his
infant child, who was killed by a serpent, while she was showing the
river Langia to the Argives (see Canto XXII.), was about to kill her,
when she was found and rescued by her own suns.”—Statius, Thebaid, v.
721 (Pollock).


[2] I was more restrained than they.


[3] Arnaut Daniel, a famous troubadour.


[4] Gerault de Berneil.


[5] Guittone d’ Arezzo (see Canto XXIV.).


[6] The words in the Lord’s Prayer, “Deliver us from temptation,” are
not needed for the spirits in Purgatory.


Then, perhaps to give place to the other who was near behind him, he
disappeared through the fire, even as through the water a fish going to
the bottom. I moved forward a little to him who had been pointed out to
me, and said, that for his name my desire was making ready a gracious
place. He began graciously to say,[1] “So pleaseth me your courteous
demand that I cannot, and I will not, hide me from you. I am Arnaut who
weep and go singing; contrite I see my past folly, and joyful I see
before me the day I hope for. Now I pray you by that virtue which
guides you to the summit of the stair, at times be mindful of my pain.”
Then he hid himself in the fire that refines them.

[1]  The words of Daniel are in the Provencal tongue.




CANTO XXVII.


Seventh Ledge: the Lustful.—Passage through the Flames.—Stairway in the
rock.—Night upon the stairs.—Dream of Dante.—Morning.—Ascent to the
Earthly Paradise.—Last words of Virgil.


As when he darts forth his first rays there where his Maker shed His
blood (Ebro falling under the lofty Scales, and the waves in the Ganges
scorched by noon) so the sun was now standing;[1] so that the day was
departing, when the glad Angel of God appeared to us. Outside the flame
he was standing on the bank, and was singing, “Beati mundo corde,”[2]
in a voice far more living than ours: then, “No one goes further, ye
holy souls, if first the fire sting not; enter into it, and to the song
beyond be ye not deaf,” he said to us, when we were near him. Whereat I
became such, when I heard him, as is he who in the pit is put.[3] With
hands clasped upwards, I stretched forward, looking at the fire, and
imagining vividly human bodies I had once seen burnt. The good Escorts
turned toward me, and Virgil said to me, “My son, here may be torment,
but not death. Bethink thee! bethink thee! and if I even upon Geryon
guided thee safe, what shall I do now that I am nearer God? Believe for
certain that if within the belly of this flame thou shouldst stand full
a thousand years, it could not make thee bald of one hair. And if thou
perchance believest that I deceive thee, draw near to it, and make
trial for thyself with fine own hands on the hem of thy garments. Put
aside now, put aside every fear; turn hitherward, and come on secure.”

[1] It was near sunrise at Jerusalem, and consequently near sunset in
Purgatory, midnight in Spain, and midday at the Ganges.


[2] “Blessed are the pure in heart.”


[3] Who is condemned to be buried alive.


And I still motionless and against conscience!

When he saw me still stand motionless and obdurate, he said, disturbed
a little, “Now see, son, between Beatrice and thee is this wall.”

As at the name of Thisbe, Pyramus, at point of death, opened his
eyelids and looked at her, what time the mulberry became vermilion, so,
my obduracy becoming softened, I turned me to the wise Leader, hearing
the name that in my memory is ever welling up. Whereat he nodded his
head, amid said, “How! do we want to stay on this side?” then he smiled
as one doth at a child who is conquered by an apple.

Then within the fire he set himself before me, praying Statius, that he
would come behind, who previously, on the long road, had divided us.
When I was in, into boiling glass I would have thrown myself to cool
me, so without measure was the burning there. My sweet Father, to
encourage me, went talking ever of Beatrice, saying, “I seem already to
see her eyes. A voice was guiding us, which was singing on the other
side, and we, ever attentive to it, came forth there where was the
ascent. “Venite, benedicti patris mei,”[1] sounded within a light that
was there such that it overcame me, and I could not look on it. “The
sun departs,” it added, “and the evening comes; tarry not, but hasten
your steps so long as the west grows not dark.”

[1] “Come, ye blessed of my Father.”—Matthew, xxv. 34.


The way mounted straight, through the rock, in such direction[1] that I
cut off in front of me the rays of the sun which was already low. And
of few stairs had we made essay ere, by the vanishing of the shadow,
both I and my Sages perceived behind us the setting of the sun. And
before the horizon in all its immense regions had become of one aspect,
and night had all her dispensations, each of us made of a stair his
bed; for the nature of the mountain took from us the power more than
the delight of ascending.

[1] Toward the east.


As goats, who have been swift and wayward on the peaks ere they are
fed, become tranquil as they ruminate, silent in the shade while the
sun is hot, guarded by the herdsman, who on his staff is leaning and,
leaning, watches them; and as the shepherd, who lodges out of doors,
passes the night beside his quiet flock, watching that the wild beast
may not scatter it: such were we all three then, I like a goat, and
they hike shepherds, hemmed in on this side and on that by the high
rock. Little of the outside could there appear, but through that little
I saw the stars both brighter and larger than their wont. Thus
ruminating, and thus gazing upon them, sleep overcame me, sleep which
oft before a deed be done knows news thereof.

At the hour, I think, when from the east on the mountain first beamed
Cytherea, who with fire of love seems always burning, I seemed in dream
to see a lady, young and beautiful, going through a meadow gathering
flowers, and singing she was saying, “Let him know, whoso asks my name,
that I am Leah, and I go moving my fair hands around to make myself a
garland. To please me at the glass here I adorn me, but my sister
Rachel never withdraws from her mirror, and sits all day. She is as
fain to look with her fair eyes as I to adorn me with my hands. Her
seeing, and me doing, satisfies.”[1]

[1] Leah and Rachel are the types of the active and the contemplative
life.


And now before the splendors which precede the dawn, and rise the more
grateful unto pilgrims as in returning they lodge less remote,[1] the
shadows fled away on every side, and my sleep with them; whereupon I
rose, seeing my great Masters already risen. That pleasant apple which
through so many branches the care of mortals goes seeking, to-day shall
put in peace thy hungerings.” Virgil used words such as these toward
me, and never were there gifts which could be equal in pleasure to
these. Such wish upon wish came to me to be above, that at every step
thereafter I felt the feathers growing for my flight.

[1] As they come nearer home.


When beneath us all the stairway had been run, and we were on the
topmost step, Virgil fixed his eyes on me, and said, “The temporal fire
and the eternal thou hast seen, son, and art come to a place where of
myself no further onward I discern. I have brought thee here with
understanding and with art; thine own pleasure now take thou for guide:
forth art thou from the steep ways, forth art thou from the narrow. See
there the sun, which on thy front doth shine; see the young grass, the
flowers, the shrubs, which here the earth of itself alone produces.
Until rejoicing come the beautiful eyes which weeping made me come to
thee, thou canst sit down and thou canst go among them. Expect no more
or word or sign from me. Free, upright, and sane is thine own free
will, and it would be wrong not to act according to its pleasure;
wherefore thee over thyself I crown and mitre.”




CANTO XXVIII.


The Earthly Paradise.—The Forest.—A Lady gathering flowers on the bank
of a little stream.—Discourse with her concerning the nature of the
place.


Fain now to search within and round about the divine forest dense and
living, which tempered the new day to my eyes, without longer waiting I
left the bank, taking the level ground very slowly, over the soil that
everywhere breathes fragrance. A sweet breeze that had no variation in
itself struck me on the brow, not with heavier blow than a soft wind;
at which the branches, readily trembling, all of them were bending to
the quarter where the holy mountain casts its first shadow; yet not so
far parted from their straightness, that the little birds among the
tops would leave the practice of their every art; but with full joy
singing they received the early breezes among the leaves, which kept a
burden to their rhymes, such as gathers from bough to bough through the
pine forest upon the shore of Chiassi, when Aeolus lets forth
Sirocco.[1]

[1] The south-east wind.


Now had my show steps carried me within the ancient wood so far that I
could not see back to where I had entered it: and lo, a stream took
from me further progress, which toward the left with its little waves
was bending the grass that sprang upon its bank. All the waters, that
are purest on the earth, would seem to have some mixture in them,
compared with that which hides nothing, although it moves along dusky
under the perpetual shadow, which never lets the sun or moon shine
there.

With feet I stayed, and with my eyes I passed to the other side of the
streamlet, to gaze at the great variety of the fresh may; and there
appeared to me, even as a thing appears suddenly which turns aside
through wonder every other thought, a solitary lady, who was going
along, singing, and culling flower from flower, wherewith all her path
was painted. “Ah, fair Lady,[1] who warmest thyself in the rays of
love, if I may trust to looks which are wont to be witnesses of the
heart, may the will come to thee,” said I to her, “to draw forward
toward this stream, so far that I can understand what thou art singing.
Thou makest me remember where and what was Proserpine, at the time when
her mother lost her, and she the spring.”

[1] This lady is the type of the life of virtuous activity. Her name,
as appears later, is Matilda. Why this name was chosen for her, and
whether she stands for any earthly personage, has been the subject of
vast and still open debate.


As a lady who is dancing turns with feet close to the ground and to
each other, and hardly sets foot before foot, she turned herself on the
red and on the yellow flowerets toward me, not otherwise than a virgin
who lowers her modest eyes, and made my prayers content, approaching so
that the sweet sound came to me with its meaning. Soon as she was there
where the grasses are now bathed by the waves of the fair stream, she
bestowed on me the gift of lifting her eyes. I do not believe that so
great a light shone beneath the lids of Venus, transfixed by her son,
beyond all his custom. She was smiling upon the opposite right bank,
gathering with her hands more colors which that high land brings forth
without seed. The stream made us three paces apart; but the Hellespont
where Xerxes passed it—a curb still on all human pride—endured not more
hatred from Leander for swelling between Sestos and Abydos, than that
from me because it opened not then. “Ye are new come,” she began, “and,
perchance, why I smile mu this place chosen for human nature as its
nest, some doubt holds you marvelling; but the psalm ‘Delectasti’[1]
affords light which may uncloud your understanding.And thou who art in
front, and didst pray to me, say, if else thou wouldst hear, for I came
ready for every question of thine, so far as may suffice.” “The water,”
said I, “and the sound of the forest, impugn within me recent faith in
something that I heard contrary to this.” Whereon she, “I will tell,
how from its own cause proceeds that which makes thee wonder; and I
will clear away the mist which strikes thee.

[1] Psalm xcii. 4. “Delectasti me, Domine, in factura tua, et in
operibus mannuum tuarum exultabo.” “For thou, Lord, hast made me glad
through thy work; I will triumph in the works of thy hands.”


“The supreme Good, which itself alone is pleasing to itself, made man
good, and for good, and gave this place for earnest to him of eternal
peace. Through his own default he dwelt here little while; through his
own default to tears and to toil he changed honest laughter and sweet
play. In order that the disturbance, which the exhalations of the water
and of the earth (which follow so far as they can the heat) produce
below, might not make any war on man, this mountain rose so high toward
heaven, and is free from them from the point where it is locked in.[1]
Now because the whole air revolves in circuit with the primal
revolution,[2] if its circle be not broken by some projection, upon
this height, which is wholly disengaged in the living air, this motion
strikes, and makes the wood, since it is dense, resound; and the plant
being struck hath such power that with its virtue it impregnates the
breeze, and this then in its whirling scatters it around: and the rest
of the earth, according as it is fit in itself, or through its sky,
conceives and brings forth divers trees of divers virtues. It should
not seem a marvel then on earth, this being heard, when some plant,
without manifest seed, there takes hold. And thou must know that the
holy plain where thou art is full of every seed, and has fruit in it
which yonder is not gathered. The water which thou seest rises not from
a vein restored by vapor which the frost condenses, like a stream that
gains and loses breath, but it issues from a fountain constant and
sure, which by the will of God regains as much as, open on two sides,
it pours forth. On this side it descends with virtue that takes from
one the memory of sin; on the other it restores that of every good
deed. Here Lethe, so on the other side Eunoe it is called; and it works
not if first it be not tasted on this side and on that. To all other
savors this is superior.

[1] Above the level of the gate through which Purgatory is entered, as
Statius has already explained (Canto XXI), the vapors of earth do not
rise.


[2] With the movement given to it by the motions of the heavens.


“And, though thy thirst may be fully sated even if I disclose no more
to thee, I will yet give thee a corollary for grace; nor do I think my
speech  may be less dear to thee, if beyond promise it enlarge itself
with thee. Those who in ancient time told in poesy of the Age of Gold,
and of its happy state, perchance upon Parnassus dreamed of this place:
here was the root of mankind innocent; here is always spring, and every
fruit; this is the nectar of which each tells.”

I turned me back then wholly to my Poets, and saw that with a smile
they had heard the last sentence; then to the beautiful Lady I turned
my face.




CANTO XXIX.


The Earthly Paradise.—Mystic Procession or Triumph of the Church.


Singing like a lady enamored, she, at the ending of her words,
continued: “Beati, quorum tecta sunt peccata;”[1] and, like nymphs who
were wont to go solitary through the sylvan shades, this one desiring
to see and that to avoid the sun, she moved on then counter to the
stream, going up along the bank, and I at even pace with her, following
her little step with little. Of her steps and mine were not a hundred,
when the banks both like gave a turn, in such wise that toward the east
I faced again. Nor thus had our way been long, when the lady wholly
turned round to me, saying, “My brother, look and listen.” And lo! a
sudden lustre ran from all quarters through the great forest, so that
it put me in suspect of lightning. But because the lightning ceases
even as it comes, and this, hasting, became more and more resplendent,
in my thought I said, “What thing is this?” And a sweet melody ran
through the luminous air; whereupon a righteous zeal caused me to blame
the temerity of Eve, that, there, where time earth and the heavens were
obedient, the woman only, and but just now formed, did not endure to
stay under any veil; under which if she had devoutly stayed I should
have tasted those ineffable delights before, and for a longer time.
While I was going on and such first fruits of the eternal pleasure, all
enrapt, and still desirous of more joys, in front of us the air under
the green branches became like a blazing fire, and the sweet sound was
now heard as a song.

[1] “Blessed are they whose transgressions are forgiven.”—Psalm xxxii.
1.


O Virgins sacrosanct, if ever hunger, cold, or vigils I have endured
for you, time occasion spurs me that I claim reward therefor. Now it
behoves that Helicon pour forth for me, and Urania aid me with her
choir to put in verse things difficult to think.

A little further on, the long tract of space which was still between us
and them presented falsely what seemed seven trees of gold. But when I
had come so near to them that the common object, which deceives the
sense,[1] lost not through distance any of its attributes, the power
which supplies discourse to reason distinguished them as
candlesticks,[2] and in the voices of the song, “Hosanna.” From above
the fair array was flaming, brighter by far than the Moon in the serene
of midnight, in the middle of her month. I turned me round full of
wonder to the good Virgil, and he replied to me with a look charged not
less with amazement. Then I turned back my face to the high things that
were moving toward us so slowly they would have been outstripped by
new-made brides. The lady cried to me, “Why burnest thou only thus with
affection for the living lights, and lookest not at that which comes
behind them?” Then saw I folk coming behind, as if after their leaders,
clothed in white, and such purity there never was on earth. The water
was resplendent on the left flank, and reflected to me my left side, if
I looked in it, even as a mirror. When on my bank I had such position
that only the stream separated me, in order to see better, I gave halt
to my steps. And I saw the flamelets go forward heaving the air behind
them painted, and they had the semblance of streaming pennons, so that
there above it remained divided by seven stripes all in those colors
whereof the sun makes his bow, and Delia her girdle.[3] These banners
to the rear were longer than my sight, and according to my judgment the
outermost were ten paces apart. Under so fair a sky as I describe,
twenty-four elders,[4] two by two, were coming crowned with
flower-de-luce. All were singing, “Blessed thou among the daughters of
Adam, and blessed forever be thy beauties.”

[1] An object which has properties common to many things, so that at a
distance the sight cannot distinguish its specific nature.


[2] The imagery of the Triumph of the Church here described is largely
taken from this Apocalypse. “And I turned to see the voice that spake
with me. And being turned, I saw seven golden
candlesticks.”—Revelation, i. 12. “And there were seven lamps of fire
burning before the throne, which are the seven Spirits of God.”—Id.,
iv. 5. “And the Spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him, the spirit of
wisdom and understanding, the spirit of counsel and might, the spirit
of knowledge and of the fear of the Lord.”—Isiah xi. 2.


[3] Delia, the moon, and her girdle the halo.


[4] “And round about the throne were four and twenty seats: and upon
the seats I saw four and twenty elders sitting, clothed in white
raiment.”—Revelation, iv. 4. These four and twenty elders in white
raiment, and crowned with white lilies, white being the color of faith,
symbolize the books of the Old Testament.


After the flowers, and the other fresh herbage opposite to me on the
other bank, were free from those folk elect, even as light followeth
light in heaven, came behind them four living creatures, crowned each
one with green leaves. Every one was feathered with six wings, the
feathers full of eyes; and the eyes of Argus were they living would be
such. To describe their forms I scatter rhymes no more, Reader; for
other spending constrains me so that in this I cannot be liberal. But
read Ezekiel, who depicts them as he saw them coming from the cold
region with wind, with cloud, and with fire; and such as thou wilt find
them in his pages such were they here, save that as to the wings John
is with me, and differs from him.[1]

[1] These four living creatures symbolize the Gospels. Ezekiel (i.6)
describes the creatures with four wings, but in the Revelation (iv. 8)
John assigns to each of them six wings: “and they were full of eyes
within.” They are crowned with green, as the color of hope.


The space between these four contained a triumphal chariot upon two
wheels, which by the neck of a griffon[1] came drawn along. And he
stretched up one and the other of his wings between the midmost stripe,
and the three and three, so that he did harm to no one of them by
cleaving it. So far they rose that they were not seen. His members were
of gold so far as he was bird, and the rest were white mixed with red.
Not Africanus, or indeed Augustus, gladdened Rome with so beautiful a
chariot; but even that of the Sun would be poor to it,—that of the Sun
which, going astray,[2] was consumed at the prayer of the devout Earth,
when Jove in his secrecy was just. Three ladies,[3] at the right wheel,
came dancing in a circle; one so ruddy that hardly would she have been
noted in the fire; the next was as if her flesh and bones had been made
of emerald; the third seemed snow just fallen. And now they seemed led
by the white, now by the red, and from her song the others took their
step both slow and swift. On the left four[4] robed in purple made
festival, following the measure of one of them who had three eyes in
her head.

[1] The griffon, half eagle and half lion, represents Christ in his
double nature, divine and human. The car which he draws is the Church.


[2] When driven by Phaethon.


[3] The theological virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, of the colors
respectively appropriate to them.


[4] The four cardinal Virtues, in purple, the imperial color, typifying
their rule over human conduct. Prudence has three eyes, as looking at
the past, the present, and the future.


Next after all the group described, I saw two old men, unlike in dress,
but like in action, both dignified and staid. The one showed himself
one of the familiars of that supreme Hippocrates whom Nature made for
the creatures that she holds most dear[1] the other showed the contrary
care,[2] with a shining and sharp sword, such that it caused me fear on
the hither side of the stream. Then I saw four humble in appearance,
and behind all an old man solitary coming asleep with lively
countenance.[3] And these seven were robed like the first band; but
they made not a thicket of lilies round their heads, rather of roses,
and of other red flowers. The sight at little distance would have sworn
that all were aflame above their brows. And when the chariot was
opposite to me thunder was heard, and those worthy people seemed to
have further progress interdicted, stopping there with the first
ensigns.

[1] The book of Acts, represented under rho type of its author, St.
Luke, “the beloved physician.” Colossians, iv. 14. Man is the creature
whom Nature holds dearest.


[2] The Pauline Epistles, typified by their writer, whose sword is the
symbol of war and martyrdom, a contrary care to the healing of men.


[3] The four humble in appearance are personifications of the writers
of the minor Epistles, followed by St. John, as the writer of the
Revelation, asleep, and yet with lively countenance, because he was “in
the Spirit” when he beheld his vision.




CANTO XXX.


The Earthly Paradise.—Beatrice appears.—Departure of Virgil.—Reproof of
Dante by Beatrice.


When the septentrion of the first heaven[1] which never setting knew,
nor rising, nor veil of other cloud than sin,—and which was making
every one there acquainted with his duty, as the lower[2] makes whoever
turns the helm to come to port,—stopped still, the truthful people[3]
who had come first between the griffon and it,[4] turned to the chariot
as to their peace, and one of them, as if sent from heaven, singing,
cried thrice, “Veni, sponsa, de Libano,”[5] and all the others after.

[1] The seven candlesticks, symbols of the sevenfold spirit of the
Lord.


[2] The lower septentrion, or the seven stars of the Great Bear.


[3] The personifications of the truthful books of the Old Testament.


[4] The septentrion of candlesticks.


[5] “Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse.”—The Song of Solomon, iv. 8.


As time blessed at the last trump will arise swiftly, each from his
tomb, singing hallelujah with recovered voice,[1] so upon the divine
chariot, ad vocem tanti senis,[2] rose up a hundred ministers and
messengers of life eternal. All were saying, “Benedictus, qui
venis,”[3] and, scattering flowers above and around, “Manibus o date
lilia plenis.”[4]

[1] “And after these things I heard a great voice of much people in
Heaven, saying, Alleluia-”—Revelation, xix. 1.


[2] “At the voice of so great an elder;” these words are in Latin
apparently only for the sake of the rhyme.


[3] “Blessed thou that comest.”


[4] “Oh, give lilies with full hands;” words from the Aeneid, vi. 884,
sung by the angels.


I have seen ere now at the beginning of the day the eastern region all
rosy, while the rest of heaven was beautiful with fair clear sky; and
the face of the sun rise shaded, so that through the tempering of
vapors the eye sustained it a long while. Thus within a cloud of
flowers, which from the angelic hands was ascending, and falling down
again within and without, a lady, with olive wreath above a white veil,
appeared to me, robed with the color of living flame beneath a green
mantle.[1] And my spirit that now for so long a time had not been
broken down, trembling with amazement at her presence, without having
more knowledge by the eyes, through occult virtue that proceeded from
her, felt the great potency of ancient love.

[1] The olive is the symbol of wisdom and of peace the three colors are
those of Faith, Charity, and Hope.


Soon as upon my sight the lofty virtue smote, which already had
transfixed me ere I was out of boyhood, I turned me to the left with
the confidence with which the little child runs to his mother when he
is frightened, or when he is troubled, to say to Virgil, “Less than a
drachm of blood remains in me that doth not tremble; I recognize the
signals of the ancient flame,”[1]—but Virgil had left us deprived of
himself; Virgil, sweetest Father, Virgil to whom I for my salvation
gave me. Nor did all which the ancient mother lost[2] avail unto my
cheeks, cleansed with dew,[3] that they should not turn dark again with
tears.

[1] “Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae.”—Aeneid, iv. 23.


[2] All the beauty of Paradise which Eve lost.


[3] See Canto I.


“Dante, though Virgil be gone away, weep not yet, weep not yet, for it
behoves thee to weep by another sword.”

Like an admiral who, on poop or on prow, comes to see the people that
are serving on the other ships, and encourages them to do well, upon
the left border of the chariot,—when I turned me at the sound of my own
name, which of necessity is registered here,—I saw the Lady, who had
first appeared to me veiled beneath the angelic festival, directing her
eyes toward me across the stream although the veil, which descended
from her head, circled by the leaf of Minerva, did not allow her to
appear distinctly. Royally, still haughty in her mien, she went on, as
one who speaks, and keeps back his warmest speech: “Look at me well: I
am, indeed, I am, indeed, Beatrice. How hast thou deigned to approach
the mountain? Didst thou know that man is happy here?” My eyes fell
down into the clear fount; but seeing myself in it I drew them to the
grass, such great shame burdened my brow. As to the son the mother
seems proud, so she seemed to me; for somewhat bitter tasteth the savor
of stern pity. She was silent, and the angels sang of a sudden, “In te,
Domine, speravi;” but beyond “pedes meos”[1] they did not pass. Even as
the snow, among the living rafters upon the back of Italy, is
congealed, blown and packed by Sclavonian winds, then melting trickles
through itself, if only the land that loses shadow breathe,[2] so that
it seems a fire that melts the candle: so was I without tears and sighs
before the song of those who time their notes after the notes of the
eternal circles. But when I heard in their sweet accords their
compassion for me, more than if they had said, “Lady, why dost thou so
confound him?” the ice that was bound tight around my heart became
breath and water, and with anguish poured from my breast through my
mouth and eyes.

[1] “In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust; let me never be ashamed:
deliver me in thy righteousness. Bow down thine ear to me; deliver me
speedily: be thou my strong rock, for an house of defence to save me.
For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name’s sake
lead me, and guide me. Pull me out of the net that they have laid
privily for me: for thou art my strength. Into thine hand I commit my
spirit: thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth. I have hated them
that regard lying vanities: but I trust in the Lord. I will be glad and
rejoice in thy mercy: for thou hast considered my trouble; thou hast
known my soul in adversities. And hast not shut me up into the hand of
the enemy: thou hast set my feet in a large room.”—Psalm xxxi. 1-8.


[2] If the wind blow from Africa.


She, still standing motionless on the aforesaid side of the chariot,
then turned her words to those pious[1] beings thus: “Ye watch in the
eternal day, so that nor night nor slumber robs from you one step the
world may make along its ways; wherefore my reply is with greater care,
that he who is weeping yonder may understand me, so that fault and
grief may be of one measure. Not only through the working of the great
wheels,[2] which direct every seed to some end according as the stars
are its companions, but through largess of divine graces, which have
for their rain vapors so lofty that our sight goes not near
thereto,—this man was such in his new life, virtually, that every right
habit would have made admirable proof in him. But so much the more
malign and more savage becomes the land ill-sown and untilled, as it
has more of good terrestrial vigor. Some time did I sustain him with my
face; showing my youthful eyes to him I led him with me turned in right
direction. So soon as I was upon the threshold of my second age, and
had changed life, this one took himself from me, and gave himself to
others. When from flesh to spirit I had ascended, and beauty and virtue
were increased in me, I was less dear and less pleasing to him; and he
turned his steps along a way not true, following false images of good,
which pay no promise in full. Nor did it avail me to obtain[3]
inspirations with which, both in dream and otherwise, I called him
back; so little did he heed them. So low he fell that all means for his
salvation were already short, save showing him the lost people. For
this I visited the gate of the dead, and to him, who has conducted him
up hither, my prayers were borne with weeping. The high decree of God
would be broken, if Lethe should be passed, and such viands should be
tasted without any scot of repentance which may pour forth tears.”

[1] Both devout and piteous.


[2] The circling heavens.


[3] Through the grace of God.




CANTO XXXI.


The Earthly Paradise.—Reproachful discourse of Beatrice, amid
confession of Dante.—Passage of Lethe.—Appeal of the Virtues to
Beatrice.—Her Unveiling.


“O thou who art on the further side of the sacred river,” turning her
speech with the point to me, which only by the edge had seemed to me
keen, she began anew, going on without delay, “say, say, if this is
true: to so great an accusation it behoves that thine own confession be
conjoined.” My power was so confused, that the voice moved, and became
extinct before it could be released by its organs. A little she bore
it; then she said, “What thinkest thou? Reply to me; for the sad
memories in thee are not yet injured by the water.”[1] Confusion and
fear together mingled forced such a “Yes” from out my mouth, that the
eyes were needed for the understanding of it.

[1] Are still vivid, not yet obliterated by the water of Lethe.


As a cross-bow breaks its cord and its bow when it shoots with too
great tension, and with less force the shaft hits the mark, so did I
burst under that heavy load, pouring forth tears and sighs, and the
voice slackened along its passage. Whereupon she to me, “Within those
desires of mine[1] that were leading thee to love the Good beyond which
there is nothing whereto man may aspire, what trenches running
traverse, or what chains didst thou find, for which thou wert obliged
thus to abandon the hope of passing onward? And what enticements, or
what advantages on the brow of the others were displayed,[2] for which
thou wert obliged to court them?” After the drawing of a bitter sigh,
hardly had I the voice that answered, and the lips with difficulty gave
it form. Weeping, I said, “The present things with their false pleasure
turned my steps, soon as your face was hidden.” And she: “Hadst thou
been silent, or hadst thou denied that which thou dost confess, thy
fault would be not less noted, by such a Judge is it known. But when
the accusation of the sin, bursts from one’s own cheek, in our court
the wheel turns itself back against the edge. But yet, that thou mayst
now bear shame for thy error, and that another time, hearing the
Sirens, thou mayst be stronger, hay aside the seed of weeping, and
listen; so shalt thou hear how in opposite direction my buried flesh
ought to have moved thee. Never did nature or art present to thee
pleasure such as the fair limbs wherein I was enclosed; and they are
scattered in earth. And if the supreme pleasure thus failed thee
through my death, what mortal thing ought then to have drawn thee into
its desire? Forsooth thou oughtest, at the first arrow of things
deceitful, to have risen up, following me who was no longer such. Nor
should thy wings have weighed thee downward to await more blows, either
girl or other vanity of so brief a use. The young little bird awaits
two or three; but before the eyes of the full-fledged, the net is
spread in vain, the arrow shot.”

[1] Inspired by me.


[2] The false pleasures of the world.


As children, ashamed, dumb, with eyes upon the ground, stand listening
and conscience-stricken and repentant, so was I standing. And she said,
“Since through hearing thou art grieved, lift up thy beard, and thou
shalt receive more grief in seeing.” With less resistance is a sturdy
oak uprooted by a native wind, or by one from the land of Iarbas,[1]
than I raised up my chin at her command; and when by the beard she
asked for my eyes, truly I recognized the venom of the argument.[2] And
as my face stretched upward, my sight perceived that those primal
creatures were resting from their strewing, and my eyes, still little
assured, saw Beatrice turned toward the animal that is only one person
in two natures.[3] Beneath her veil and beyond the stream she seemed to
me more to surpass her ancient self, than she surpassed the others here
when she was here. So pricked me there the nettle of repentance, that
of all other things the one which most turned me aside unto its love
became most hostile to me.[4]

[1] From Numidia, of which Iarbas was king.


[2] Because indicating the lack of that wisdom which should pertain to
manhood.


[3] The griffon.


[4] That object which had most seduced me from the love of Beatrice was
now the most hateful to me.


Such contrition stung my heart that I fell overcome; and what I then
became she knows who afforded me the cause.

Then, when my heart restored my outward faculties, I saw above me the
lady whom I had found alone,[1] and she was saying, “Hold me, hold me.”
She had drawn me into the stream up to the throat, and dragging me
behind was moving upon the water light as a shuttle. When I was near
the blessed shore, “Asperges me”[2] I heard so sweetly that I cannot
remember it, far less can write it. The beautiful lady opened her arms,
clasped my head, and plunged me in where it behoved that I should
swallow the water.[3] Then she took me, and, thus bathed, brought me
within the dance of the four beautiful ones,[4] and each of them
covered me with her arm. “Here we are nymphs, and in heaven we are
stars: ere Beatrice had descended to the world we were ordained unto
her for her handmaids. We will head thee to her eyes; but in the joyous
light which is within them, the three yonder who deeper gaze shall make
keen thine own.”[5] Thus singing, they began; and then to the breast of
the griffon they led me with them, where Beatrice was standing turned
toward us. They said, “See that thou sparest not thy sight: we have
placed thee before the emeralds whence Love of old drew his arrows upon
thee.” A thousand desires hotter than flame bound my eyes to the
relucent eyes which only upon the griffon were standing fixed. As the
sun in a mirror, not otherwise the twofold animal was gleaming
therewithin, now with one, now with another mode.[6] Think, Reader, if
I marvelled when I saw the thing stand quiet in itself, while in its
image it was transmuting itself.

[1] Matilda.


[2] The first words of the seventh verse of the fifty-first Psalm:
“Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be
whiter than snow.”


[3] The drinking of the waters of Lethe which obliterate the memory of
sin.


[4] The four Cardinal Virtues.


[5] The Cardinal Virtues lead up to Theology, or the knowledge of
Divine things, but the Evangelic Virtues are needed to penetrate within
them.


[6] Mode of being,—the divine and the human.


While, full of amazement and glad, my soul was tasting that food which,
sating of itself, causes hunger for itself, the other three, showing
themselves in their bearing of loftier order, came forward dancing to
their angelic melody. “Turn, Beatrice, turn thy holy eyes,” was their
song, “upon thy faithful one, who to see thee has taken so many steps.
For grace do us the grace that thou unveil to hum thy mouth, so that he
may discern the second beauty which thou concealest.”[1]

[1] “The eyes of Wisdom are her demonstrations by which one sees the
truth most surely; and her smile is her persuasions in which the
interior light of Wisdom is displayed without any veil; and in these
two is felt that loftiest pleasure of Beatitude, which is the chief
good in Paradise.”—Convito, iii 15.


Oh splendor of living light eternal! Who hath become so pallid under
the shadow of Parnassus, or hath so drunk at its cistern, that he would
not seem to have his mind encumbered, trying to represent thee as thou
didst appear there where in harmony the heaven overshadows thee when in
the open air thou didst thyself disclose?




CANTO XXXII.


The Earthly Paradise.—Return of the Triumphal procession.—The Chariot
bound to the Mystic Tree.—Sleep of Dante.—His waking to find the
Triumph departed.—Transformation of the Chariot.—The Harlot and the
Giant.


So fixed and intent were mine eyes to relieve their ten years’ thirst,
that my other senses were all extinct: and they themselves, on one side
and the other, had a wall of disregard, so did the holy smile draw them
to itself with the old net; when perforce my sight was turned toward my
left by those goddesses,[1] because I heard from them a “Too
fixedly.”[2] And the condition which exists for seeing in eyes but just
now smitten by the sun caused me to be some time without sight. But
when the sight reshaped itself to the little (I say to the little, in
respect to the great object of the sense wherefrom by force I had
removed myself), I saw that the glorious army had wheeled upon its
right flank, and was returning with the sun and with the seven flames
in its face.

[1] The three heavenly Virtues.


[2] “Thou lookest too fixedly; thou hast yet other duties than
contemplation.”


As under its shields to save itself a troop turns and wheels with its
banner, before it all can change about, that soldiery of the celestial
realm which was in advance had wholly gone past us before its front
beam[1] had bent the chariot round. Then to the wheels the ladies
returned, and the griffon moved his blessed burden, in such wise
however that no feather of him shook. The beautiful lady who had drawn
me at the ford, and Statius and I were following the wheel which made
its orbit with the smaller arc. So walking through the lofty wood,
empty through fault of her who trusted to the serpent, an angelic song
set the time to our steps. Perhaps an arrow loosed from the bow had in
three flights reached such a distance as we had advanced, when Beatrice
descended. I heard “Adam!” murmured by all:[2] then they circled a
plant despoiled of flowers and of other leafage on every bough.[3] Its
branches, which so much the wider spread the higher up they are,[4]
would be wondered at for height by the Indians in their woods.

[1] Its pole.


[2] In reproach of him who had in disobedience tasted of the fruit of
this tree.


[3] After the sin of Adam the plant was despoiled of virtue till the
coming of Christ.


[4] The branches of the tree of knowledge spread widest as they are
nearest to the Divine Source of truth.


“Blessed art thou, Griffon, that thou dost not break off with thy beak
of this wood sweet to the taste, since the belly is ill racked
thereby.”[1] Thus around the sturdy tree the others cried; and the
animal of two natures: “So is preserved the seed of all
righteousness.”[2] And turning to the pole that he had drawn, he
dragged it to the foot of the widowed trunk, and that which was of
it[3] he left bound to it.

[1] “For as by one man’s disobedience many were made sinners, so by the
obedience of one shall many be made righteous.”—Romans, v. 19.


[2] “That as sin had reigned unto deaths, even so might grace reign
through righteousness unto eternal life, by Jesus Christ, our
Lord.”—Id., v. 21.


[3] This pole, the mystic type of the cross of Christ, supposed to have
been made of the wood of this tree.


As our plants, when the great light falls downward mingled with that
which shines behind the celestial Carp,[1] become swollen, and then
renew themselves, each in its own color, ere the sun yoke his coursers
under another star, so disclosing a color less than of roses and more
than of violets, the plant renewed itself, which first had its boughs
so bare.[2] I did not understand the hymn, and it is not sung here,[3]
which that folk then sang, nor did I hear the melody to the end.

[1] In this spring, when the Sun is in Aries, the sign which follows
that of the Pisces here termed the Carp.


[2] This tree, after the death of Christ, still remains this symbol of
the knowledge of good and of evil, as well as this sign of obedience to
the Divine Will. Its renewal with flowers and foliage seems to he the
image at once of the revelation of Divine truth through Christ, and of
his obedience unto death.


[3] On earth.


If I could portray how the pitiless eyes[1] sank to slumber, while
hearing of Syrinx, the eyes to which too much watching cost so dear,
hike a painter who paints from a model I would depict how I fell
asleep; but whoso would, let him be one who can picture slumber
well.[2] Therefore I pass on to when I awoke, and say that a splendor
rent for me the veil of sleep, and a call, “Arise, what doest thou?”

[1] The hundred eyes of Argus, who, when watching Io, fell asleep while
listening to the tale of the loves of Pan and Syrinx, and was then
slain by Mercury.


[2] The sleep of Dante may signify the impotency of human reason to
explain the mysteries of redemption.


As, to see some of the flowerets of the apple-tree[1] which makes the
Angels greedy of its fruit,[2] and makes perpetual bridal feasts in
Heaven,[3] Peter and John and James were led,[4] and being overcome,
came to themselves at the word by which greater slumbers[5] were
broken, and saw their band diminished alike by Moses and Elias, and the
raiment of their Master changed, so I came to myself, and saw that
compassionate one standing above me, who first had been conductress of
my steps along the stream; and all in doubt I said, “Where is
Beatrice?” And she, “Behold her under the new leafage sitting upon its
root. Behold the company that surrounds her; the rest are going on high
behind the griffon, with sweeter song and more profound.”[6] And if her
speech was more diffuse I know not, because already in my eyes was she
who from attending to aught else had closed me in. Alone she was
sitting upon the bare ground, like a guard left there of the chariot
which I had seen bound by the biform animal. In a circle the seven
Nymphs were making of themselves an enclosure for her, with those
lights in their hands that are secure from Aquilo and from Auster.[7]

[1] “As the apple-tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved
among the suns.”—The Song of Solomon, ii. 3.


[2] The full glory of Christ in Heaven.


[3] The marriage supper of the Lamb—Revelation, xix. 9.


[4] The transfiguration—Matthew, xvii. 1-8.


[5] Those of the dead called back to life by Jesus.


[6] Christ having ascended, Beatrice, this type of Theology, is left by
the chariot, the type of the Church on earth.


[7] From the north wind or the south; that is, from any earthly blast.


“Here shalt thou be short time a forester; and thou shalt be with me
without end a citizen of that Rome whereof Christ is a Roman. Therefore
for profit of the world that lives ill, keep now thine eyes upon the
chariot; amid what thou seest, having returned to earth, mind that thou
write.” Thus Beatrice; and I, who at the feet of her commands was all
devout, gave my mind and my eyes where she willed.

Never with so swift a motion did fire descend from a dense cloud, when
it is raining from that region which stretches most remote, as I saw
the bird of Jove stoop downward through the tree, breaking the bark, as
well as the flowers and new leaves; and he struck the chariot with all
his force, whereat it reeled, like a ship in a tempest beaten by the
waves now to starboard, now to larboard.[1] Then I saw leap into the
body of the triumphal vehicle a she fox,[2] which seemed fasting from
all good food; but rebuking her for her foul sins my Lady turned her to
such flight as her fleshless bones allowed. Then, from there whence he
had first come, I saw the eagle descend down into the ark of the
chariot and leave it feathered from himself.[3] And a voice such as
issues from a heart that is afflicted issued from Heaven, and thus
spake, “O little bark of mine, how ill art thou laden!” Then it seemed
to me that the earth opened between the two wheels, and I saw a dragon
issue from it, which through the chariot upward fixed his tail: and,
like a wasp that retracts its sting, drawing to himself his malign
tail, drew out part of the bottom, and went wandering away.[4] That
which remained covered itself again, as lively soil with grass, with
the plumage, offered perhaps with sane and benign intention; and both
one and the other wheel and the pole were again covered with it in such
time that a sigh holds the mouth open longer.[5] Thus transformed, the
holy structure put forth heads upon its parts, three upon the pole, and
one on each corner. The first were horned like oxen, but the four had a
single horn upon the forehead.[6] A like prodigy was never seen before.
Secure, as fortress on a high mountain, there appeared to me a loose
harlot sitting upon it, with eyes roving around. And, as if in order
that she should not be taken from him, I saw standing at her side a
giant, and some while they kissed each other. But because she turned
her lustful and wandering eye on me that fierce paramour scourged her
from head to foot. Then full of jealousy, and cruel with anger, he
loosed the monster, and drew it through the wood so far that only of
that he made a shield from me for the harlot and for the strange
beast.[7]

[1] The descent and the attack of the eagle symbolize the rejection of
Christianity and the persecution of the Church by the emperors.


[2] The fox denotes the early heresies.


[3] The feathering of the car is the type of the donation of
Constantine,—the temporal endowment of the Church.


[4] The dragging off by the dragon of a part of the car probably
figures the schism of the Greek Church in the 9th century.


[5] This new feathering signifies the fresh and growing endowments of
the Church.


[6] The seven heads have been interpreted as the seven mortal sins,
which grew up in the transformed church, the result of its wealth and
temporal power.


[7] The harlot and the giant stand respectively for the Pope (both
Boniface VIII. and him successor Clement V.) and the kings of France,
especially Philip the Fair. The turning of the eyes of the harlot upon
Dante seems to signify the dealings of Boniface with the Italians,
which awakened the jealousy of Philip; and the dragging of the car,
transformed into a monster, through the wood, so far as to hide it from
the poet, may be taken as typifying the removal of the seat of the
Papacy from Rome to Avignon, in 1305.




CANTO XXXIII.


The Earthly Paradise.—Prophecy of Beatrice concerning one who shall
restore the Empire.—Her discourse with Dante.—The river Eunoe.—Dante
drinks of it, and is fit to ascend to Heaven.


“Deus, venerunt gentes,”[1] the ladies began, alternating, now three
now four, a sweet psalmody, and weeping. And Beatrice, sighing and
compassionate, was listening to them so moved that scarce more changed
was Mary at the cross. But when the other virgins gave place to her to
speak, risen upright upon her feet, she answered, colored like fire:
“Modicum, et non videbitis me, et iterum, my beloved Sisters, Modicum,
et vos videbitis me.”[2] Then she set all the seven in front of her;
and behind her, by a sign only, she placed me, and the Lady, and the
Sage who had stayed.[3] So she moved on; and I do not think her tenth
step had been set upon the ground, when with her eyes my eyes she
smote, and with tranquil aspect said to me, “Come more quickly, so that
if I speak with thee, to listen to me thou mayst be well placed.” So
soon as I was with her as I should be, she said to me, “Brother, why
dost thou not venture to ask of me, now thou art coming with me?”

[1] Thus first words of the seventy-ninth Psalm: “O God, the heathen
are come into thine inheritance; thy holy temple have they defiled;
they have laid Jerusalem on heaps.” The whole Psalm, picturing the
actual desolation of the Church, but closing with confident prayer to
the Lord to restore his people, is sung by the holy ladies.


[2] “A little while and ye shall not see me: and again, A little while
and ye shall see me.”—John, xvi. 16. An answer and promise
corresponding to the complaint and petition of the Psalm.


[3] The lady, Matilda, and the sage, Statius.


Even as befalls those who with excess of reverence are speaking in
presence of their superiors, and drag not their voice living to the
teeth,[1] it befell me that without perfect sound I began, “My Lady,
you know my need, and that which is good for it.” And site to me, “From
fear and from shame I wish that thou henceforth divest thyself, so that
thou speak no more like a man who dreams. Know thou, that the vessel
which the serpent[2] broke was, and is not;[3] but let him who is to
blame therefor believe that the vengeance of God fears not sops.[4] Not
for all time shall be without an heir the eagle that left its feathers
on the car, whereby it became a monster, and then a prey.[5] For I see
surely, and therefore I tell it, stars already close at hand, secure
from every obstacle and from every hindrance, to give to us a time in
which a Five hundred, Ten, and Five sent by God[6] shall slay the
thievish woman[7] and that giant who with her is delinquent. And
perchance my narration, dark as Themis and the Sphinx,[8] less
persuades thee, because after their fashion it clouds the
understanding. But soon the facts will be the Naiades[9] that shall
solve this difficult enigma, without harm of flocks or of harvest. Do
thou note; and even as they are borne from me, do thou so report these
words to those alive with that life which is a running unto death; and
have in mind when thou writest them, not to conceal what thou hast seen
the plant, which now has been twice plundered here. Whoso robs that, or
breaks it,[10] with blasphemy in act offends God, who only for His own
use created it holy. For biting that, the first soul, in pain and in
desire, five thousand years and more, longed for Him who punished on
Himself the bite. Thy wit sleeps, if it deem not that for a special
reason it is so high and so inverted at its top. And if thy vain
thoughts had not been as water of Elsa[11] round about thy mind, and
their pleasantness as Pyramus to the mulberry,[12] by so many
circumstances only thou hadst recognized morally the justice of God in
the interdict upon the tree. But since I see thee in thy understanding
made of stone, and thus stony, dark, so that the light of my speech
dazzles thee, I would yet that thou bear it hence within thee,—and if
not written, at least depicted,—for the reason that the pilgrim’s staff
is carried wreathed with palm.”[13] And I, “Even as by a seal wax which
alters not the imprinted figure, is my brain now stamped by you. But
why does your desired word fly so far above my sight, that the more it
strives the more it loses it?” “In order that thou mayst know,” she
said, “that school which thou hast followed, and mayst see how its
doctrine can follow my word [14] and mayst see your path distant so far
from the divine, as the heaven which highest hastens is remote from
earth.” Whereon I replied to her, “I do not remember that I ever
estranged myself from you, nor have I conscience of it that may sting
me.” “And if thou canst not remember it,” smiling she replied, “now
bethink thee how this day thou hast drunk of Lethe. And if from smoke
fire be inferred, such oblivion clearly proves fault in thy will
elsewhere intent.[15] Truly my words shall henceforth be naked so far
as it shall be befitting to uncover them to thy rude sight.”

[1] Are unable to speak with distinct words.


[2] The dragon.


[3] “The beast that thou sawest was, and is not.”—Revelation, xvii. 8.


[4] According to a belief, which the old commentators report as
commonly held by the Florentines, if a murderer could contrive within
nine days of the murder to eat a sop of bread dipped in wine, above the
grave of his victim, he would escape from the vengeance of the family
of the murdered man.


[5] The meaning is that an Emperor shall come, who shall restore the
Church from its captivity, and reestablish the Divine order upon earth,
in rise mutually dependent and severally independent authority of
Church and Empire.


[6] This prophecy is too obscure to admit of a sure interpretation.
Five hundred, ten, and five, in Roman numerals, give the letters D X V;
which by transposition form the word Dux, a leader.


[7] The harlot, who had no right in the car, but had stolen her place
there, or, in plain words, the Popes who by corruption had secured this
papal throne.


[8] Obscure as the oracles of Thiemis or the enigmas of the Sphinx.


[9] According to a misreading of a verse in Ovid’s Metam., vii. 759,
the Naiades solved the riddles of the oracles, at which Themis,
offended, sent forth a wild beast to ravage the flocks and fields.


[10] Robs it as Adam did, splinters it as the Emperors did.


[11] A river of Tuscany, whose waters have a petrifying quality.


[12] Darkening thy mind as the blood of Pyramus dyed the mulberry.


[13] If not clearly inscribed, at least so imprinted on the mind, that,
like the palm on the pilgrim’s staff, it may be a sign of where thou
hast been and of what thou hast seen.


[14] How far its doctrine is from my teaching.


[15] The having been obliged to drink of Lethe is the proof that thou
hadst sin to he forgotten, and that thy will had turned thee to other
things than me.


And more coruscant, and with slower steps, the sun was holding the
circle of the meridian, which is set here or there according to the
aspect,[1] when even as he, who goes before a troop as guide, stops if
he find some strange thing on his track, the seven ladies stopped at
the edge of a pale shade, such as beneath green leaves and black boughs
the Alp casts over its cold streams. In front of them, it seemed to me
I saw Euphrates and Tigris issue from one fountain, and, like friends,
part slow from one another.

[1] Which shifts as seen from one place or another.


“O light, O glory of the human race, what water is this which here
spreads from one source, and from itself withdraws itself?” To this
prayer it was said to me, “Pray Matilda[1] that she tell it to thee;”
and here the beautiful Lady answered, as one does who frees himself
from blame, “This and other things have been told him by me; and I am
sure that the water of Lethe has not hidden them from him.” And
Beatrice, “Perhaps a greater care which oftentimes deprives the memory
has darkened the eyes of his mind. But see Eunoe,[2] which flows forth
yonder, lead him to it, and, as thou art accustomed, revive his extinct
power.” As a gentle soul which makes not excuse, but makes its own will
of another’s will, soon as by a sign it is outwardly disclosed, even
so, when I was taken by her, the beautiful Lady moved on, and to
Statius said, with manner of a lady, “Come with him.”

[1] Here for the first and only time is the beautiful Lady called by
name.


[2] Eunoe, “the memory of good,” which its waters restore to the
purified soul. The poetic conception of this fair stream is exclusively
Dante’s own.


If I had, Reader, longer space for writing I would yet partly sing the
sweet draught which never would have sated me. But, because all the
leaves destined for this second canticle are full, the curb of my art
lets me go no further. I returned from the most holy wave, renovated as
new plants renewed with new foliage, pure and disposed to mount unto
the stars.